Vicissitudes of Days

by micehell

Title: Vicissitudes of Days
Author: micehell (micehell at rodentinferno dot com)
Archive: any list archive
Category: Well, the pairings are kind of not really pairings, much like the plot isn't really either, so let's just say PWP-ish
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dubious consent
Summary: Being a padawan means facing many tests.
Feedback: As you will.
Disclaimer: The only thing that belongs to me is a little effort and a lot of debt. Everything else belongs to not me.
A/N: The title is from a song by Bush. It's not in any way a song fic besides that, though.

No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected. Julius Caesar.

When the first touch came, a faint brush across a chest, he was startled, but he didn't let it show. He'd been expecting this after all.

Well, not this exactly. Not the ribbon of Force that was wrapped around a nipple now - pulling, hard, tight, sharp -so very intimate. He wondered why now, why in this place, why this exactly, and the questions were so loud in his head that it almost drowned out the sound of Master Storet's perhaps somewhat less than scintillating comparison of the advantages of gravity settling versus chemical oxidation in the Temple's treatment tanks.

His other nipple was being touched now, a tongue of Force that licked across the tip, and he couldn't help the little gasp that escaped him, because even though he knew this was a test, it felt good. He tried to stifle the sound, looking surreptitiously at Qui-Gon to see if he'd heard, but his master was still looking at Master Storet, giving no sign that he'd noticed his padawan's lapse. Of course he was also giving no sign that he was bored out of his skull, which after an hour of listening to Master Storet wasn't possible, not even for Qui-Gon, so it wasn't exactly a sure sign either way.

The faint brush against his cock let him know that the test wasn't over, that he hadn't failed. At least not yet. More determined than ever, he did his best to ignore the invisible fingers that played across him, paying close attention to Master Storet in an attempt to quell the growing hardness between his legs.

There was a tug on his balls, a little too firm, but the pain only made the stroke around the head of his cock, the strong pull down the shaft, all the more intense, and he had to bite down hard on his lip to keep anyone from knowing exactly how good it was.

He had to bite harder when the first push inside him came, the pleasure he was feeling smothering in that moment, an ember rather than a flame. He'd heard that anal sex could hurt, but he'd never really thought too much about it, figuring that no one would engage in it if it hurt too badly.

Of course the book that Master Dooku had given him had mentioned that sex was sometimes used as a punishment -which he could certainly now understand - but he'd never thought that Qui-Gon would use it that way. He especially couldn't figure why his normally compassionate, if somewhat reserved, master would use this test on him now, when the Jedi that filled the hall around them made it impossible for him to question or object.

But then this was tradition, the age of the book Master Dooku had given him speaking of just how old the tradition was, and Qui-Gon had always been at least mindful of that, even with his lectures on living in the now.

The thin shaft of Force that was inside him stilled, giving him time to adjust, and he was thankful for it. He just hoped it wouldn't count against him when the test was over. The book hadn't been particularly clear on the details of the tests, just that they could come at any time and any place; meant to test how a padawan would react to the unexpected, and if they could keep their Jedi-taught composure even when surprised or in pain.

The movement inside him was subtle at first, almost not there. Then there was a ripple of Force - stretching, lengthening, stroking just there - and it was all he could do not to move to its rhythm. Like the too-sharp tug on his balls, being spread like this stung, but made him all the more aware of the pleasure of being filled. The book hadn't really talked about testing his composure in the face of unexpected pleasure, but leave it to Qui-Gon to be a rebel, even in this.

He looked at his master again, but nothing had changed. Qui-Gon still appeared to be paying rapt attention to Master Storet and his waste. He felt a sliver of anger flit through him that Qui-Gon was so unaffected by what he was doing, but he pushed it away. Qui-Gon was a Jedi master after all. He'd have learned how to shrug off things like this when he was a padawan. And now he was passing that knowledge on to his apprentice, who told himself that he should be damn happy to be so well trained.

In an effort to ignore what was going on inside him, he tried to imagine what Qui-Gon had been like as a padawan. Had his master let him read the book ahead of time? Master Dooku had said that it was against the rules to let a padawan read the training manual. He'd said that since it negated some of the techniques used to train padawans to deal with the unexpected with grace, that he was perhaps doing him a disservice to let him read it at all. But then he'd smiled and said that he couldn't help but give his favorite that extra edge to shine in front of his master.

And shine he would, even if he had to hold himself tight to his seat to keep from rocking into the building thrusts inside him - thick and hard and fast - and it was actually too much, the pain more than an edge now, and, Sith, he wanted it to be over, but every time he thought he would scream at Qui-Gon to stop, there came that scrape inside that sent flares off behind the eyes he couldn't hold open any longer. He knew he was breathing too fast, and that anyone watching him could tell that something was going on, and maybe it meant he was failing the test, but he couldn't help the moan that made it past his bit lip, past the self-inflicted pain of fingernails buried deep in his palms, past the self-directed disgust that this test, this fucking painful test, was making him come.

He was thankful that the thrusts continued after he came, that there was pain without pleasure now. He could hold that pain tightly, let it be a reminder that if he wanted to be a Jedi, he needed to learn how to deal with -painshockdissapointmentanger- the unexpected. With what was expected of him.

His breathing slowed even as the pain continued, and he was glad that he'd chosen to wear his brown cloak today, the blood from his palms invisible in the dark weave, the smell of his come mostly hidden by its weight. He stared straight ahead, nothing showing, until Master Storet stopped talking, the pressure in him disappearing at the same time the polite applause started. He smiled to himself, keeping that hidden too, taking the applause as his due for having passed.

He was going to be a Jedi, the best one ever. Between his own talent and the edge that Master Dooku had given him, there was nothing he couldn't do. Let Master Yoda shake his head at him, with his ~hmms~ and his ~see we wills~. Let Master Windu give him that appraising stare that always seemed to find him wanting. Let Qui-Gon question him sometimes, asking him what was wrong, as if the man didn't know, as if it weren't his tests that sometimes left his apprentice confused and shattered and wondering if being a Jedi was what he really wanted out of life.

No, he'd keep his secrets, keep his edge, and he'd show all of them exactly who they were dealing with.

So he politely bowed when Master Dooku approached Qui-Gon. He modestly smiled when Master Dooku complimented Qui-Gon on his apprentice. He preened -taking care not to let it show - when Qui-Gon said that he might very well be ready for his trials early, just a few more years.

And he felt an inexplicable - unexpected - shiver run up his spine when Maser Dooku said, "Oh, yes, I agree. Xanatos will definitely be ready soon."

Obi-Wan kicked his bag into his room, wanting to scream out his frustration, but taking it out on his luggage instead. Qui-Gon was unpacking in his own room, just one thin wall away from Obi-Wan, and while the shouting might make Obi-Wan feel better in the short-run, getting another lecture on controlling his emotions - and hearing the disappointment in Qui-Gon's voice - would definitely be worse overall.

It was just so hard. Since he'd come back from Melida/Daan, since he and Qui-Gon had come back from Telos, it felt like the entire Temple was watching him. Always looking for some sign that he wasn't really fit to be a Jedi. He wanted to yell at them to give him a chance, to just give him some peace, but that would certainly be a sign, so he just bit his lip, holding it in, instead.

But this last mission, so obnoxiously boring and simple that even a lone initiate could have handled it, made it blatantly obvious just how little he was trusted. How much he'd screwed up. And the fact that Qui-Gon was having to bear some of the blame for his actions wasn't making things any easier for Obi-Wan to deal with. He wanted so much for Qui-Gon to be proud of him. Wanted so desperately to be able to show the others that Qui-Gon had been right to take him back.

Easy missions weren't going to do that, though, and he'd been bored and restless the entire time, getting little rest considering how much free time he had. So he was tired and cranky, and he just wanted to sleep the whole frustrating day away, just forget for a while. Throwing his things haphazardly in his dresser, he was ready to fall onto the bed when he saw the package lying there instead.

The lid pulled back to reveal a book. An actual book, rather than a datapad. He smiled as he held it - its cover was old and ratty, its title long worn away, the pages yellowed with age and use - because he knew how precious books were, how rare, the only ones he'd ever actually seen before being the ones that were on display in the main room. There were only about ten of them in Qui-Gon's collection, but he'd smiled when he'd shown them to Obi-Wan, touched them with reverent fingers and laughed as he said they were his only vice.

Wondering what his master had given him, and why, he opened the book and started to read.