Never Thirst Again.

[quigonejinn]

There might, of course, be the issue of consent.

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan knew what sort of man his master was. The overall question of consent would never be a genuine question, not to either of the parties involved, but Obi-Wan knew very clearly how tightly Qui-Gon had to keep himself in check. He knew how intense his Master was underneath Jedi calm; he wondered, occaisionally, too, what Qui-Gon would have been like if he hadn't been given up to the Order. It was flaw that Qui-Gon knew and had acknowledged in as many words, and thus, Obi-Wan would find himself sitting in dirty, criminal nightlife locations next to his Master.

He would watch Qui-Gon wave his hand and convince the rather large bartender to let them sit in the shadowy corner and continue waiting for the informant. Persuade the waitress not to remember their name, then settle back into the shadows of the booth and continue watching the door, and Obi-Wan would find himself wondering whether Qui-Gon ever used the mind-trick during sex.

What would Qui-Gon want badly enough so that his control would slip, so that he would use the mindtrick on someone he liked enough to sleep with and in a situation where there was no real need for it? What things would you do to make him want you that much, to be that impatient?

It was a puzzle, really, to be thought and pondered and figured out. It was easy to imagine Qui-Gon saying the words, though. He would look at you. Fix you with his eyes.

Take your tunic off.

Obi-Wan paused to have a little sip of his drink. Small, because he didn't entirely trust the alcohol in this place, but he could imagine how intense Qui-Gon would be. Perhaps Qui-Gon wouldn't even need to use the hand gesture.

Let me touch you.

...

There was also the way that he touched people when he was touching them for their sake, when he was reassuring them.

And then, there was the way that he touched things when he wanted to investigate them. After so many years in the field, so many years holding a lightsaber that constantly hummed and vibrated under the hands, the tips of Qui-Gon's fingers were less sensitive than they had been. There were breaks and calluses and acid burns, and thus, these days, when he wanted to tell the texture of something, Qui-Gon would press it to the center of his palm, where the skin was still thin and was held away from the humming power unit of the lightsaber.

Consequently, Obi-Wan imagined that Qui-Gon would touch his lovers that way, too. He would use has fingers to help them into place, to pull them closer for the act, but when he wanted to know what they felt like, he would hold you still. He would spread one of those enormous hands flat and rub that palm, as large by itself as another man's entire hand. Slide it across the hip and the belly. The slope of the back and the back of their legs.

There had been a man on Alderaan that Obi-Wan had tried this with. The effect was somewhat different, no doubt, because Obi-Wan's hands were smaller and still smoother than Qui-Gon's, but Obi-Wan remembers how the man had gone stock-still, then eventually started to gasp and moan and arch as Obi-Wan continued to touch him only with the palm of his hand.

...

"And what will you have, sir?"

Silence. Qui-Gon's eyes on Obi-Wan, a little flick of the hand, and Obi-Wan cleared his throat to initiate the recognition protocol for the droid who was, in all truth, only half visible. The hanging lamp for their booth only lit a circle in the very center of the table.

"He'll have Sahrian ale. I'll take a Hindar. And two glasses of water, too."

The droid chittered and moved away. Qui-Gon said nothing, but his eyes followed what, in the shadows, looked like a good-looking Shan woman or, perhaps, even the man dressed in the height of Corsucant fashion entering with her.

...

Something that Obi-Wan had never tried, though, was the bit on the knees -- for a large man, Qui-Gon was surprisingly amenable to getting down on his knees. He did it quite frequently to talk to children; he would kneel down in the dirt and dust to look at some track or bit of evidence that he had caught, and he was graceful enough, straightened back up easily enough that Obi-Wan thought that if his Master gave blowjobs, there was an eminent possibility that he might give the occaisional one on his knees.

As Obi-Wan thought of it, Qui-Gon would sink down on his knees, slowly, smiling like a king. He would work the leggings down to the knees, push the tunic up or perhaps tuck into to the sash. He would stop smiling for a while, maybe, but only because he'd just taken the tip of your cock into his mouth.

No doubt, beforehand, he would lift his hair out of the way and put it over one shoulder, and Obi-Wan didn't have the hair. He would give blowjobs on his knees sometimes, yes, but he didn't smile as he went down -- he had watched Qui-Gon do it in front of princes and dignitaries and even the Council, and Obi-Wan suspected that he, himself, wouldn't quite be able to match the effect.

Instead, he gave most of his with legs over his shoulders, bent over in bed, with breaks in the middle for kissing, and Obi-Wan had considered a few times what he would do if he ever had the chance to have sex with Qui-Gon.

A few things popped into his mind -- a handjob from one of those hands, giving a blowjob, kissing Qui-Gon for hours and hours -- but even as he thought about it nothing clarified. Even after running through all of the possibilities, there wasn't a single one that jumped out at him that he wanted to do more than any other or that Qui-Gon would likely enjoy, either. Eventually, Obi-Wan realized that he really had no idea of what he would ever do if Qui-Gon gave a sign that he wanted to have his Padawan any sign as a lover.

This disturbed him until he considered it some more, realized that Qui-Gon would approve, if he knew. It would be living in the moment, after all.

And he was quite sure that Qui-Gon did, in fact, know.

...

"Do you think the contact will actually meet us tonight?"

Obi-Wan was mostly done his Hindar, and Qui-Gon had drunk both of the glasses of water. The Sahrian ale looked like it had been half-drunk, but that was only because the stuff evaporated at room temperature -- it was always impossible to tell with that stuff how much had been drunk and how much had gone off into air; that was why Qui-Gon preferred the stuff on wait-and-sit missions like this. He had no taste for methanol, ethanol, or any of that family, and the fact that the Sahrian ale evaporated meaned that it wasn't a suspicious full glass sitting on a table. The first time that Obi-Wan had been given the duty of ordering drinks for this sort of thing, Qui-Gon hadn't known that it evaporated, and he'd been more than a little surprised and pleased when he saw that it did, in fact, disappear of its own accord.

Letting Obi-Wan order had been a bit of a test. A way of seeing whether he prepared thoroughly, and ever since, Obi-Wan had ordered their drinks even though Qui-Gon could have done it just as easily.

"Patience, Obi-Wan."

Qui-Gon's eyes were blue even in the yellowish light of the booth lamp.

...

There had been a particular time outside the Jhebal nebula when they had been dogged into an asteroid field by space pirates, and when they made docking with the Jhebal station, the danger was not over. The sector was a hive for pirate activity; they had been sent precisely to ferret out its sources as best they could and report back to the Senate, and if the pirates had tracked them to the station, there was no security force that could stand against them. There was no time; the rental bacta tanks on the station could not be trusted, so Obi-Wan injected a concentrated solution of bacta directly into Qui-Gon's back -- Obi-Wan had to measure out the concentration from stock himself with shaking hands and load it into the gun while Qui-Gon undid his tunic up as best he could.

It had been terrifying leaving the shuttle to barter for the elements he would need. Worse trying to appear casual while he mind-tricked a reluctant medical supplies clerk into giving him what he needed -- concentrated bacta solution, black market and still with the Republic seal across the top. A large-gauge biomedical injection gun. Cold packs for use during the process should the midichlorians show signs of overheating even though though cold sweat soaked Qui-Gon's skin and hair.

He had put himself in a half-trance to stay alive until the station, but once there, he brought himself out of it so that he he would at least be awake if the pirates arrived while Obi-Wan was out.

Obi-Wan had put Qui-Gon's lightsaber close enough at hand before he left, had tried to make Qui-Gon as comfortable as he could while he was out. Qui-Gon had been the one to suggest that Obi-Wan turn out the lights -- that might delay them for an extra second or two, and Qui-Gon had been able to rasp out something of a quarter-joke in the worst black humor about how he might be able to trip one or two of them -- and later, still in the half-darkness, Obi-Wan reached over and gave his hand to Qui-Gon to clutch at while the bacta worked. There had been no time to figure out what sort of anesthetic would be necessary for this; Qui-Gon's head lay on the bare deck of the shuttle because the bacta was as much for his spine as anything else, and Obi-Wan could hear the bone fragments moving to reform a proper spinal column.

The skin rippled as muscles regrew. It flushed as new blood vessels cleared the bruising and swelling. Qui-Gon's breath was coming in shallow pants, so Obi-Wan reached over the bare back and gave Qui-Gon his hand to hold onto. It was all he had to offer, and Qui-Gon clutched at it convulsively.

Later, when they were shoulder-deep in pirate blaster fire and fighting back to back, Qui-Gon dipped his head down and said, quite simply, without any other words, his beard brushing the side of Obi-Wan's cheek and his lips against Obi-Wan's ear, breath warm and soft, talking as calmly as if he were telling his Padawan what tactic they ought to take next and not even breathing hard because this was nothing, this was simple compared to having your spine regrown on the floor of a shuttle with an engine shot out and no anesthetic but your Padawan's hand and his voice -- Thank you.

...

The shower. The water turned up to high. His cheek pressed flat against the hot tile and one hand pressed flat to his stomach, pressing hard. Water was running down his legs; he could feel the hair from the Padawan braid plastered to his back, and the hair from the senior Padawan dock was plastered to the back of his neck, and Obi-Wan was running one hand down his stomach. Still flat. Still on the belly, in circles, and there was soap on his skin, and he was starting to flush from the heat of the water, and still, he wouldn't touch his cock. He tried to hold himself as still as he could, and he moved his hand in widening circles, up to his chest, around to his sides, across his ribs.

The other hand was gripping the top of the shower stall so that he wouldn't give in to temptation.

Also, so that he wouldn't fall down. He wasn't sure he could keep his footing in the water and the heat and how badly he wanted to just get on with it.

The flat of his palm. A glimpse of his knees when he looked down. The way the water was turned on so hot that it was almost scalding. He was inside his own skin, and he was inside his Master's at the same time. The bar. How close he had been sitting to Qui-Gon. How Qui-Gon was sitting outside now, sitting in a chair.

Take your tunic off.

Let me touch you.

Thank you.

A girl that he had seen on the street as they were boarding the airshuttle back to the Temple. Another Padawan that he had glimpsed for just a moment while they were coming back through the darkened halls. The couple they had seen in the shadows of that bar. Qui-Gon, a few feet outside, reading the documents that the informant had passed to them, head bent and quiet. Not a dozen feet away, past a door that wasn't even entirely shut. Incredibly close, and yet enormously far, and when Obi-Wan finally let his hand drop down, he had to turn his face out of the spray and into the tile to keep himself from shouting.

It had surprised Obi-Wan, really, that a part of a sound had made it out before he clamped down. It surprised him, too, once he had turned the water off and was wiping himself dry, to find there were, in fact, tears on his cheeks.


Song for this: Hem - Hollow.