Wet Dreams, a Phantom Menace PWP rated NC17 for unadulterated sex. For L, and Thanks to M, for the enthusiasm and the inspiration, in
that order. The red looks incredible on Obi Wan, M, and the blue matches
Qui Gon's eyes ...
It had been the mission from Hell. If the Jedi believed in hell, and if hell was a water world.
Obi Wan Kenobi was used to politicians, used to negotiations that took
forever, used to frustration. Used to cramped
quarters, used to sharing a bed with his Master in said cramped quarters, even
used to occasionally donning native dress when Jedi robes were considered
impractical or culturally unacceptable.
He wasn't used to being so damned seasick that all his concentration and
shielding had to be diverted to keeping his stomach under control.
The ambassadors had taken one look at their Jedi robes and refused to
have anything to do with them. Something about ancient religions, and wizards,
and gremlins, or perhaps they'd meant grim men. It was hard to translate the
dialects, at times. Determined to do what had to be done to push the
negotiations ahead, Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi put aside their
superstition-inducing robes and did their best to blend in. The ambassadors
were very happy to provide what they considered appropriate clothing, dumping a
double arm-load of fabric on the single bunk in the Jedis'
cabin. Qui Gon sighed and stripped off. Obi Wan glanced up at his master, and
froze.
Qui Gon looked at Obi Wan.
Obi Wan looked down, quickly, at the clothing.
"Lace?" he asked weakly.
"Lace." Qui Gon rose and moved to inspect the costumes. Obi Wan sank back onto
the bunk, and stared.
Not at the clothes.
His skin flushed, and he took a deep breath. Ignoring the
roil of his stomach, he concentrated on the heat below it, and chanted
mantras denying passion under his breath. With passion.
"And brocade. And metalwork." Qui Gon held up a doublet of sky
blue, embroidered with sweeping leaves, delicate knotwork
and eye-dizzying zig-zags of gold. In his other hand,
he held a sheer lawn shirt with full sleeves caught at the wrist, wide lace
falling from the bindings.
"Put it on." Obi Wan looked around for an instant before
realizing the words had come from him. Hurriedly, he tried to muster a logical
argument. "We must expedite the peace talks, Master. We can't do it in our
own clothes. We certainly can't do it nude, which is what we'll be if we don't
wear what they give us. So, uhm, perhaps it would be
best for the moment if you put them on?"
Qui Gon stared at him for a moment. "Are you feeling well, Padawan?
You appear to be suffering from a fever." And you're babbling, Obi Wan
heard without it being said.
Not wanting to argue, and needing to camouflage the affects his Master's
naked form was having on his own body, Obi Wan climbed off the bunk and determinedly
reached for the second set of clothing. "It seems the sensible thing to
do, Mas-"
Yikes. Bright. The heavy fabric dragging at his
hand caught his complete attention, as it was no doubt intended to do, given its pattern. It was deep crimson, woven in an Imperial
pattern of emerald, sapphire and pure saffron, accent threads of gold running
over and around the striking design. Black braid edged the sides and front,
framing the vivid pattern and contrasting sharply with the pure white of the
shirt given to wear under it. Refusing to admit that he felt completely
ridiculous, he squeezed into the white leggings, stamped his feet into the
heavy black boots, and shrugged into the sheer white shirt.
Very sheer.
With no buttons.
Just lace, even wider and more ornate than that
edging his Master's shirt. It fell around his
neck and down to his waist, and fell again from his wrists over his hands, a
complicated array of threads that should have looked utterly feminine around
his hands.
Oddly enough, it didn't.
Refusing to think about that, either, he jerked the doublet around his
torso, cinching the wide black belt around his waist, ignoring the flowing
metalwork of the buckle, yanking the pointed ends of the doublet down to pull
it flat, trying his best to ignore the naked feeling where the buttonless shirt left him bare from the base of his throat
to the belt at his waist. Half defiant, half embarrassed, he whipped his braid
over his shoulder, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath.
Turning to face Qui Gon, his glare challenged his Master to laugh, or
lecture him, or do anything other than put his own damned pirate outfit on and
join his apprentice in the charade.
Qui Gon stood there and stared at him.
Dark blue eyes widened, then narrowed, and seemed to go black. Large
hands clenched into the blue fabric they still held, kneading it, then freezing. Obi Wan watched in fascination as his Master swallowed, then swallowed again. After what felt like
several years of being stared at like a bug under glass, he got a little testy.
He just knew Qui Gon was trying not to laugh at him, and while he
appreciated the effort, standing here staring at one another would not get them
off this blasted water-ball any faster.
"Well?" he finally demanded when his Master continued to stand
there, silent, watching, completely still. His voice seemed to break the odd
paralysis holding Qui Gon in its grip, and his Master swallowed once more
before turning away to dress himself.
It was Obi Wan's turn to stand, spellbound. Qui Gon pulled deep brown
leggings over legs Obi Wan had never before realized were quite so long. Then
even darker brown boots, followed by the billowing shirt that was just as buttonless as Obi Wan's had been. The lace on it was
thinner, less ornate, only around his neck and wrists. As Qui Gon shouldered
into the sky blue doublet, the gold seemed to dance in the sunlight, drawing
attention to the skin bared between the gold-edged material.
A wide brown belt clasped the narrow waist, setting off the slender hips and
wide shoulders, and Obi Wan found himself swallowing.
His throat was the only thing that could have moved at that moment, even
to save his life. Well, his throat, and his crotch. He ever-so-casually draped
his clasped hands in front of the bulge in the clinging material and wished
fervidly for his enveloping robes. Qui Gon raked him from scalp to sole once,
opened his mouth, closed it without saying a word, and turned to lead the way
to the top deck.
Obi Wan stared after the vision in tight brown fabric in front of him
and wondered how he could have gotten to this stage in his life without ever
realizing what incredible hind quarters his Master had. Qui Gon glared over his
shoulder for an instant. Obi Wan's own eyes widened, and he clamped the thought
as far down into his subconscious as he could and followed his Master up
topside.
He had several long, painstakingly boring hours of fruitless
negotiations ahead of him. There was plenty of time for hammering down lustful
thoughts, helped along by rounds of seasickness that sent him to the railing at
the side of the ship more than once. He was absolutely miserable.
It set the pattern for their mission. Mornings were bursts of lust
followed by ruthless denial. Days teetered between listening to useless
bickering and wanting to die, when not actually hanging over the side of the
ship. Nights were a torment of swimming out from groggy-headed Force-induced
naps only to lie there for hours staring at his naked Master, just to get up in
the morning and stare at him again, in those leggings and that doublet
and all that lace and those boots.
The seasickness was almost a relief. At least it conquered the lust.
Sometimes.
After fifteen days of fighting to control himself
on deck, retain his dignity and not disgrace himself hanging over the side, and
fifteen nights of torturing himself watching the moonlight gleam off Qui Gon
Jinn's skin, Obi Wan was at the breaking point.
On the sixteenth night, he cracked.
Qui Gon waved his hand over Obi Wan's face, watching the heavy eyes fall
shut under his Forceful suggestion. Shadows under those eyes made the thick
lashes seem even darker than usual. His Padawan was not bearing up well under
the physical strain of the mission. He knew the young man wasn't getting nearly
enough rest, even with his own Force orders reinforcing his sleep. He'd not
realized Obi Wan would fall prey to such debilitating seasickness. Of course,
they'd never been so long on a water-world before, so it hadn't ever been an
issue.
He, himself, wasn't doing nearly as well as he should. He kept finding
himself ... distracted. He was concerned about his Padawan, of course. That was
why, every time he looked over to see Obi Wan bent over the side of the ship,
he lost track of whatever he was saying. Concern. Yes,
that was it.
It couldn't be the leggings. He swallowed. Well, perhaps, in a concerned
sort of way, it might be the outfit. There was something about those leggings,
on those strong, sturdy legs, that deep red and gold of the doublet
highlighting Obi Wan's skin, painting his eyes a deeper blue, bringing a flush
to his cheeks. A flush they'd needed of late. The protective thought triggered
an idea.
Closing his eyes and working delicately, he manipulated the Force within
Obi Wan, reaching through the bonds between them to re-order Obi Wan's
shielding. Qui Gon buttressed his Padawan's strength
against the motion of the ship, weaving the natural defenses within Obi Wan to
buffer his physical systems against the disruptive motion of their
surroundings. When he was finished, he breathed a sigh of relief. Why they
hadn't thought of this before, he didn't know, but his Padawan would not suffer
from the sea this night.
"Sweet dreams," he whispered, and lay down to his own slumber.
Deep in the grips of Force-induced sleep, Obi Wan felt something shift.
The heavy lid of repression he kept on his deepest desires was unbolted, and
those bolts were moved, taken from his heart and put in place around his
stomach. For the first time in weeks, his system settled down completely, and
he relaxed into the first real sleep he'd had since planetfall.
In the depths of his subconscious, all the urges he'd been tamping down
took a running lunge at the lid. Without the bolts to hold it, it flew off.
Feelings, needs, seeped to the surface of his mind, and in the sleepers, found
fertile ground.
His dreams were sweet, indeed.
Qui Gon Jinn seldom dreamed. His strength was in the moment, in
connection to reality on all its levels. When he did dream, they were thin
phantoms, with no substance, no color, no grip on his
mind.
He had absolutely no defense against what this particular dream did to
him.
On the deck of a godforsaken ship on a waterlogged world he stood, alone
in a crowd. Obi Wan stood before him, resplendent in white and crimson, black
at his waist and on his feet, soft lace falling at his hands and his throat, a
trail of fine thread drawing a complicated pattern along the sides of his bared
chest. His neck rose long and slim from the drape of lace and heavy fabric, his
head thrown back, eyes closed against the sun. His feet were planted far apart,
his fists on his hips, tight white trousers clinging lovingly to every line of
his legs. The wide inverted vees of the heavy crimson
doublet below the belt framed an impressive erection, flaunted by the thin
white material. He laughed, and the sound surrounded Qui Gon, drew him in, pulled him close.
Close enough to share a breath, then Obi Wan stared up at him, cocked
his head to one side, and chuckled softly. Turned. Threw a glance over his shoulder that was both invitation and
challenge. Walked to the handrail at the side of the
deck.
Bent over the rail.
This time, it wasn't to be sick. This time, that ginger head didn't bow.
The knuckles weren't clamped white, they were relaxed,
fingers caressing the rail, not hanging on for dear life.
Not yet.
The high, tight buttocks he'd been unconsciously staring at for the last
two weeks thrust back in the tight pants, an unmistakable invitation. Bright
blue eyes winked at him over one crimson-clad shoulder.
"You know you want it." Deep, growling laughter under the calm
tones. Long fingers slid back and over the straining muscles of his hips and
ass, a blatant signal of precisely what Obi Wan himself wanted.
Yes. Qui Gon did want it. Had been wanting it
for years. How had he managed to ignore it all this time? It felt like he was
drunk, all his inhibitions flowing away with the water surrounding them.
Ignoring the ambassadors still bickering behind him at the table, the
sailors moving about the deck, everyone and everything other than the man
draped across the railing, he moved forward.
His right hand went to the small of Obi Wan's back, fingertips brushing
across the heavy worked fabric of the doublet, tracing the lower edge of the
wide belt. The slight flare of hips was exaggerated by Obi Wan's posture, feet
planted widely apart, thighs spread, inviting his touch. Wide shoulders shook,
infinitesimally, a shudder of anticipation. Long fingers stopped caressing the
wooden railing and gripped tightly, prepared for whatever Qui Gon would offer.
Or take.
His left hand slid gently around Obi Wan's waist, tracing the belt along
the top edge until his fingertips tangled in the lace at the edge of the shirt.
A push further, and his hand slid inside the fabric
along stomach and ribs, tracing the hard muscles under the warm skin. Moving
closer, luxuriating in the heat rising from the smaller body trapped between
his own bulk and the ship's railing, he dropped his head forward and bit
lightly into the side of Obi Wan's neck at the same time that his fingers
reached up to tweak sharply at one nipple.
He was rewarded with a gasp that melted into a moan, and an urgent
thrust backward of those buttocks into his pelvis. The erection he hadn't been
aware he had enjoyed the movement, and he rocked forward to heighten the
sensation. Obi Wan arched back into his arms, short hair bristling softly
against his shoulder.
"More." The command sounded like it came from his Padawan's boot-soles. He could do nothing but obey.
His right hand moved to join his left, unbuckling the wide belt and
dropping it to the deck behind them. The leggings followed, peeled down over
muscular thighs to pool around the tops of the shining black boots. Obi Wan
preened for him, the starched edging of the crimson doublet an exciting
contrast to the creamy skin below it, the pretense of binding caused by the
boots trapped in the leggings adding spice to the pose. One hand continued to
roam Obi Wan's chest as the other hastily undid his own leggings, freeing his
angry erection, cooling the heat against the flesh awaiting him.
"Now." A demanding wriggle made it quite clear that Obi Wan wanted to be
fucked, and was tired of waiting for it. Qui Gon moved to the command again,
bending his knees and leaning closer over Obi Wan's back, thrusting his knees
between his Padawan's, lining himself up for entry.
Being a dream, there was no need or thought for such petty considerations as
preparation, and he slid home as slickly as if Obi Wan had been spreading his
legs for years.
For some reason, that thought was almost unbearably
exciting. He straightened, ramming home, lifting Obi Wan
completely off his feet with the force of his thrust. A garbled cry greeted the
move, and he clamped his hands on the slim hips, withdrawing almost completely
but holding Obi Wan against the rail so he couldn't move, couldn't regain his
feet. Then he slammed into him again, jolting a sound closer to a scream than a
moan from Obi Wan. Out again, leaving only the tip of his cock in the grasping
hole, then back in, hard, deep, rocking them both, over and over.
It had never been this sweet. Never been this good. Even in his dreams,
it had never been this incredible.
Especially in his dreams.
Obi Wan was bent nearly double, his only anchor Qui Gon's
hands, pulling him back on that greedy cock, ramming him against the railing,
then pulling him back again, and his own hands, gripping the railing until his
fingers cramped. He felt like he was flying, drowning, being pounded into
oblivion, then drawn back for more. Qui Gon felt huge inside him, thrusting so
deeply he could feel it in his throat, splitting him apart, then whipping back
out, leaving him empty, aching. Back in, so hard he couldn't help but howl at
the ecstatic spike of pleasure pounding in his ass, his brain, shaking him to
his fingertips. Out, and unbearably empty, then in, and too full to believe,
over and over and over until nothing existed but the vice-grip on his hips, the
slam of flesh ripping into him, the sucking sound of withdrawal and return, the
slap of skin and muscle between sweat-slicked bodies.
He couldn't move, didn't dare let go of the railing to grip his own
cock, full to bursting, scraping painfully against the railing with every
thrust. It hurt unlike anything he'd ever felt and felt so incredibly good he
never wanted it to end. Every deep thrust crushed his cock on one side and
pummeled his prostate on the other, and all he could do was scream
along for the ride.
Even in dreams, it couldn't last. Without a touch other than the
bruising of the railing, his balls drew up and his cock convulsed,
his ass clamping down as Qui Gon went deep within him and froze. Whipped into him, one spasm, a second, a third. All strength
gone, Obi Wan folded over the railing. Qui Gon's
hands slid up from his hips under his shirt again, brushing against tight
nipples, a last flare of arousal before sliding up to his shoulders and easing
him off the railings.
Strong hands turned him, and he looked up into deep blue eyes, pupils
inky and expanded nearly to the rim of the irises. Eyes that
swallowed the sky. Swallowed him. Yes.
Please.
Again.
He tangled his hands in the soft fall of hair above him and pulled his
Master's face down to his. Crushing their lips together he devoured the man,
pouring years of devotion and months of desire into the act. One leg slid along
the bed, ankle hooking around Qui Gon's, then sliding up to catch him behind the knee, drawing their
bodies tightly together. His erection, resurgent at the contact, slid against
Qui Gon's, sparking an avalanche of need in him.
It felt incredibly good. So hot, so needy. So real.
"Padawan." Muttered against his mouth, it was almost impossible to understand. But
he did, anyway, feeling it more than hearing it. Feeling, as well, the shock
and arousal moving between them, lighting up the Force around them like
lightning on a dry night.
Obi Wan froze.
When had he woken up? And why hadn't he noticed?
Then Qui Gon moved, and he knew why.
His Master wasn't fighting him. His Master was making love to him.
Struggling to the surface of his dream, knowing from the sweet taste of
sweat on his lips and the heavy weight of a warm body in his arms that it
wasn't his dream he was feeling, Qui Gon opened himself to the Force and did
what he did best -- lived in the moment. Seeing past the surface sensuality to
the yearning behind the dream, he realized he'd unwittingly stripped his
Padawan of his last defenses against what felt like an overwhelming love.
For him.
Sensations flooded over him, overwhelming him, nearly drowning him in
need. Desire. Affection. Respect. Devotion. Passion.
Love.
He was in motion almost before he realized it, reacting to the reality
buried within the fantasy. Obi Wan not only wanted him, he lived for him.
As Qui Gon lived for Obi Wan.
Determined to go where the Force was leading him, or in this case
dragging him, and deciding to let the consequences wait for the light of day
for once, Qui Gon rolled their entwined bodies over until he was atop his
Padawan, shifting them both to keep them from rolling right off the bunk.
Lowering his face until their mouths met, he took Obi Wan's mouth in their first
kiss.
Obi Wan woke up. Kissed him back. Froze in place. And stared at him like a Sith
had slithered in and taken over his body when no one was looking.
Following his instincts, Qui Gon kissed him again. Mouth,
eyes, cheeks, jaw, temple, throat. Nips along his
collarbone, over his chest, at his nipples, along his ribs. His hands
weren't idle, either. Stroking, rubbing, patting over Obi Wan's shoulders, along
his hips, spreading his thighs gently and settling between them. A startled
moan broke his concentration and he looked up to see huge dilated blue eyes
staring down at him. He smiled slightly then, not breaking eye contact, he
leaned down and swallowed Obi Wan whole.
The moaning started again. Every exhalation was a moan, a prayer, an
encouragement. Qui Gon took them all, and responded with a steady rhythm,
pulling back then pushing forward, taking the length of cock down his throat
then swallowing around it before pulling back up to begin the cycle again. It
didn't take long before Obi Wan was writhing uncontrollably, only the iron bar
of Qui Gon's arm over his stomach keeping him in the
bunk. With a strangled scream he stiffened, and Qui Gon pulled back one final
time. With one hand cradling the tensed balls and the other wrapped around the
spasming cock, he milked it firmly, gentling his strokes as Obi Wan finally
relaxed, utterly spent.
Gathering the slick fluid in his left hand, Qui Gon rose to his knees
over Obi Wan's splayed body. "Watch," he commanded quietly, and Obi
Wan fought to raise his eyelids. When he knew he had his Padawan's
attention, he spread Obi Wan's semen over his erection and pumped into his
fist. Dazed blue eyes followed the motion avidly, and it didn't take long
before he was coming himself, spraying creamy liquid over Obi Wan's belly and
chest. With a low groan, he crumpled forward.
Obi Wan caught him.
They curled up together, breathing gradually returning to normal. Obi
Wan ran one hand lazily through the mess on his chest, drawing abstract
patterns in it, rubbing it into his skin. Qui Gon extended a finger and traced
through one of the patterns, and Obi Wan reached out. Captured
the hand. Sucked their mingled cream from it.
Qui Gon took a deep breath. Before he could say a word, Obi Wan said
softly, "Sweetest dream I've ever had."
He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Not the standard
cure for seasickness, but I suppose it will do until something better
comes along."
Obi Wan grinned up at him wickedly. "Anything
better than this will kill me."
"That which does not kill you makes you stronger." Qui Gon
twisted his hand in Obi Wan's grip, capturing the smaller hand in his own and
licking at the palm. Obi Wan shivered. "And you, my Padawan, are going to
be very strong indeed."
The ship rocked under them, and Obi Wan paled. "If I ever get off
this ball of water, that is."
Qui Gon leaned down and kissed him, thoroughly, until all thoughts of
his stomach had completely disappeared.
FIN