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In the main hold, he sees Qui-Gon crouching down to talk quietly with the boy, instructing him to keep out of the way of the crew, to sit and observe.
The thought strikes Obi-Wan, as he watches them—he was once a boy, just beginning his journey with Qui-Gon as his Master, and he must have looked up at the man with that same look.
The boy did not have the appearance of a Padawan, still dressed as he was in the clothes of his home planet, and slightly stiff in the way he held himself. It was not the posture and look of a Jedi child raised at the Temple.
Qui-Gon speaks a final quiet word to the boy, then he straightens. Obi-Wan quickly looks away, returning his attention to the wall console, checking the functioning of the secondary generator that had been installed on Coruscant. He senses Qui-Gon's glance, and in another moment he would have lifted his eyes to meet it, but then Captain Panaka approaches him.
"The queen asks that the quarters of her handmaidens be searched for a stowaway."
Obi-wan glances at him in surprise. "Stowaway?"
The man favors him with an ironical look. "While we were docked, a man snuck aboard the ship. Seems he was trying to access the handmaidens' quarters. We apprehended him and handed him over to Coruscant Security. Most likely just a thief looking for valuables, but some of the handmaidens are still anxious."
"Very well." Obi-Wan closes up the panel on the wall console. "I'll take a look."
Obi-Wan had found Panaka easy to work with during their time in the desert on Tatooine. It was no hardship to accompany him, to have some work to occupy himself with.
He glances Qui-Gon's way as he goes, but the man had left the main hold already. The boy remained, seated at the table, fiddling with a datapad, the droid R2-D2 softly beeping and trilling close by.
Obi-Wan finds no stowaway.
They make the jump to hyperspace without incident.
Intrigued by the unease among the handmaidens, and still wishing to distract himself, Obi-Wan runs a thermal scan on both decks of the ship. If they had a stowaway, the creature's body temperature was not registering on the ship's censors. Obi-Wan could detect nothing irregular through the Force either.
There was a more obvious explanation for the anxiety he had sensed among the handmaidens.
He feels sweat run down the back of his neck. His own body temperature is uncomfortably hot.
He studies the readings on the screen. The numbers blur for a moment and he feels suddenly dizzy. He grips the bulkhead and leans into his arm. In another moment the feeling has passed.
He frowns. Odd.
He closes the interface and sinks into a meditative pose, breathing slowly, his eyes closed, turning inward to try to assess the problem.
The chirp of his comlink interrupts him. He hastily unclips it from his belt.
"Yes?"
"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice makes him sit up straighter. "The queen is calling a meeting."
"I'll be right there."
Obi-Wan can feel himself in a strange state while listening to the meeting. He is placing heavy energy into his shields, inwardly centering himself, holding very still. He can feel the thing inside him biting. The blockers should have been working by now.
If they were flying into a war, he had to meditate. He needed to be rested and ready for what was to come.
"There are too few of us, Your Highness," Captain Panaka is saying. "We have no army."
"And I can only protect you," Qui-Gon adds. "I can't fight a war for you."
Queen Amidala's eyes flicker to Jar Jar, who is standing behind Obi-Wan.
"Jar Jar Binks," she says, addressing the Gungan in ringing tones.
Captain Panaka falls into step with them as they exit the queen's throne room.
"I will be assessing the arsenal of weapons my men were able to gather on Coruscant," the captain says. "Should you Jedi require any blasters or armour..."
"That won't be necessary, Captain," Qui-Gon says. "But thank you."
Panaka inclines his head, then he strides off down the corridor, two of his officers in tow.
Qui-Gon steps away to speak with Jar Jar.
Obi-Wan waits. When Qui-Gon has finished with the Gungan, a pilot comes and hands Qui-Gon a datapad. The Jedi Master stands for a moment studying it. They are alone in the passage then, and there are no other demands on Qui-Gon's attention for the moment.
Obi-Wan steels himself. He approaches his Master, his shields in careful order.
"Master." He clasps his hands in front of him, in all humility, saying softly, "May I speak with you?"
Qui-Gon thumbs the datapad off. His Force presence betrays no emotion as he turns, nothing to indicate he is holding onto their argument. His mind is on the mission. He is calm, removed.
"I must first send a transmission to Naboo's nearest ally in the event that the blockade is still in place and we have no other choice but to divert," Qui-Gon says. "After I have done that, then yes."
"Thank you, Master." Obi-Wan inclines his head in a small bow, with proper formality. "I'll wait in the cabin."
Qui-Gon moves off in the direction of the cockpit.
Obi-Wan heads for their cabin, feeling a pang of shame to recall again how bluntly he had addressed the man on the landing platform: "The boy is dangerous. They all sense it, why can't you?"
He lets himself into their cabin, which they had shared since Tatooine.
Gladly he removes his cloak and sits down on the mat to meditate. He adopts the seated sayzar pose and recedes into himself. Assessing. It is strange—it is very strange. His body feels almost feverish. He can't settle.
He breathes. He has managed his heats effectively for years. His last one which he did not repress had been only six months prior, and he'd spent that in a Temple heat cell, riding out the discomfort with the usual aid of a pinner-droid and stimulator.
He should not be having this trouble kicking out the preliminary embers of a heat, so soon after getting the last one out of his system.
He tries to reassure himself. He tries to let go the war between anxiety and his wish to quash his anxiety. He observes the emotions as he breathes, and tries to sink deeper. The gnawing discomfort has calmed somewhat by the time the cabin door hisses softly open.
To feel Qui-Gon enter the cabin is a strange sensation, as if time slows down. Obi-Wan feels his master's Force energy come, like a warm light coming into a dark place.
The door hisses shut behind Qui-Gon. Concerned to show proper respect after their disagreement, Obi-Wan pushes quickly to his feet. His head momentarily swims.
"Master. Were you able to send the transmission?"
"It's sent. And the secondary generator is working well." Qui-Gon hangs up his cloak next to Obi-Wan's.
"Do you think the queen's idea will work?" Obi-Wan says, searching for a way into deeper conversation.
"The Gungans will not be easily swayed. And we cannot use our power to help her."
A pause follows. The feeling between them rises.
Obi-Wan gathers himself for what he wants to say.
"I...I'm sorry for my behaviour, Master."
Qui-Gon looks at him.
"It's not my place to disagree with you about the boy." Obi-Wan looks at the man tentatively from under his brows. "And I am grateful you think I'm ready to take the trials."
Qui-Gon comes towards him.
"You've been a good apprentice, Obi-Wan." He places a hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "And you're a much wiser man than I am."
The heaviness of Qui-Gon's hand on his shoulder takes Obi-Wan slightly off-balance, so that he has to shift his weight between his feet, a small adjustment, like someone having to steady themselves on the deck of a rocking ship.
Qui-Gon frowns faintly, studying Obi-Wan. "What is it?"
Obi-Wan gives a small shake of his head. "I don't know." He hesitates. "Master, I didn't know whether to tell you. I'm sure it's nothing..."
He falters again. He had hoped that his meditation would speed the effect of the blockers, and obviate the need to tell Qui-Gon about the strange symptoms he had been experiencing.
Qui-Gon is assessing him closely now, a piercing, steady look, a look the Jedi master has not directed at Obi-Wan in some days. They had been so occupied with getting the queen to safety, and then the matter of the boy. There had been little time to speak of personal matters, and Obi-Wan was all too aware that this moment was equally as inconvenient. It was why he had hoped the problem would resolve itself.
"At the Temple," Obi-Wan says, forcing himself to state the facts plainly. "The day we got back to Coruscant, I went in for a heat test." He fixes his eyes on a point beyond Qui-Gon's shoulder. "It shouldn't be my time. But I've been feeling—well. Strange. The test was inconclusive. They gave me a dose of blockers just to be safe. I'm sure it must be something else, but..."
"You took the blockers two days ago?"
"Yes."
As he'd been speaking, Obi-Wan felt the stir of the Force, the subtle assessing touch of Qui-Gon, like a warm pleasant breeze moving over him. The gently searching touch makes Obi-Wan self-conscious of his shields. He worries he has not secured them properly, though rationally he knows he has. He had diligently checked and re-checked his guard since they'd left Coruscant to be sure that nothing of his rude inner state would bleed out.
"Your last heat was only six months ago," Qui-Gon murmurs.
Obi-Wan nods, still avoiding Qui-Gon's gaze. One heat every other year, since his first heat. The Temple cycled the human omegas that way, using blockers in combination with the Jedi omega practice of sayzar, a form of meditation an omega would engage in during the week of the suppressed heat to assist the efficacy of the blockers.
"I've never come on twice in one year," Obi-Wan says. "I don't know why I'd start now. It must be something else—"
"Do you feel as if you're coming on?" Qui-Gon says.
Obi-Wan looks at him then. "No." He must correct himself, "I'm not sure."
He briefly describes his symptoms. Prickling hot-cold, an overall fatigue as if he were fighting off a flu, moments of vertigo, disrupted sleep for the last two nights. A mild fog over his thoughts. He feels foolish as he says it all aloud, bothering Qui-Gon with what is most likely to be a virus that will clear up shortly. It sounds like worry over nothing, laid out this way, as he'd thought it would. It was why he'd held off telling his Master until now.
One thing he does avoid mentioning. The strange spikes of arousal he has been experiencing. They had started since they'd left Tatooine, coming at inopportune moments, when his mind would wander.
Since Tatooine, he had been stroking himself off in the mornings, during his shower, working it out of his system. Was it a little unusual that it had been every day? He had attributed that to the combined tension and tedium that had marked their time on the desert planet. Restlessness, perhaps a low-level frustration as each day had crawled by in that oppressive heat. Guarding the ship, keeping watch over the queen, with little in the way of physical exercise or variety of scenery to distract him. He'd been glad to leave Tatooine finally. With the break in tension, he experienced a thrill of sexual energy, and pleasured himself as a means to relieve it. It was only when they reached Coruscant that he'd begun to have misgivings. That first morning he'd woken in his room in the Temple quarters he shared with Qui-Gon, and he had penetrated himself with his fingers as he lay in bed. He'd brought himself off that way, penetrating himself with two fingers, barely needing to touch himself otherwise, his whole body shaking as he orgasmed. He did not feel compelled to use his fingers outside of his heats.
He did not want to confide these details to Qui-Gon, but he hoped that his very elision of anything sexual would lead his Master to intuit some of what he was unwilling to say. He had been prompted to visit the Temple Healers and take a heat test for a reason.
"But even if it is a heat," Obi-Wan says, "the blockers will take care of it. Healer Inaba instructed me to do the sayzar. That usually brings relief."
"But not this time?" Qui-Gon surmises.
"I don't think it's anything to worry about, Master, I just... I thought I ought to tell you."
"You did the right thing." Qui-Gon lays both his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders. "When did you last eat?"
The question surprises Obi-Wan. He demurs—he had not intended to take up more of his Master's time.
"The ship can't get us there any faster," Qui-Gon says. "We have nothing to do now but wait. Let's eat. Then we'll meditate."
Qui-Gon was still his Master. For all these years they had been partners, Qui-Gon had led them, decided what they did. But...after Naboo. If the Council agreed that Obi-Wan was to face the trials—then Qui-Gon would no longer be his Master. It's a strange thing to think of. Up until now, the prospect of undertaking the trials and becoming a Knight had been exciting, yes, but Obi-Wan had thought they would have more time together. Another two years at least.
Obi-Wan folds down the small table and two seats in the corner of the cabin. He watches Qui-Gon, the man's broad back in the cramped space, slightly stooped as he works at the tiny kitchenette, his movements nevertheless economical and fluid, as he makes up their capsule meals.
The man's tall frame is so very familiar, more familiar to Obi-Wan than the form of any other being. Qui-Gon's Force signature was likewise as dear and as familiar to Obi-Wan as the idea of 'home' would have been to a non-Jedi. It was hard to imagine what separation from Qui-Gon would feel like in practice.
The present situation gave rise to a puzzling tangle of emotions. Of course Obi-Wan was eager to take the trials. It was only... Perhaps it was only that Qui-Gon's decision to announce he was taking the boy on as his Padawan had come as such a surprise to Obi-Wan. To learn of Qui-Gon's intentions for the first time, in front of the Council, had been a surprise indeed.
But then it seemed Qui-Gon himself was surprised. He had been expecting the Council to see things his way. The boy would be trained. It was fixed in Qui-Gon's mind already. During their time apart on Naboo, Qui-Gon had become convinced. It had only lately become clear to Obi-Wan just how set in his view about the boy Qui-Gon was.
Watching him move around the small food preparation hatch, Obi-Wan perceives the man's certainty. There is an inner stillness. Deeply, inwardly, the man is already decided. In that sense, Qui-Gon is untroubled.
Obi-Wan knew his master well enough by now. He could recognise this single-minded pursuit, unwavering intent. When the mission was over, when they returned to Coruscant, Qui-Gon would not bow to the decision handed down by the Council. He would petition again to be the boy's Master. And if they refused Qui-Gon again?
Qui-Gon believed in the boy. Qui-Gon did not often attach with such certainty to a revelation from the Force, but those times in the past when he did, nothing—not even the Council—could sway him. And really, though his Master's single-mindedness at such times had a habit of damaging his career advancement—could Obi-Wan really say Qui-Gon had ever been wrong on those instances?
Qui-Gon turns with the two meal pots in hand. He sets one pot of steaming food in front of Obi-Wan, sets the other at his own place. He brings them each a cup of water, then he settles himself opposite Obi-Wan at the cramped table, which is little more than a fold-away shelf. The two men's knees bump together. Qui-Gon's mouth quirks in a wry smile. How many meals had they shared in circumstances similar to this?
They were well accustomed to sharing cramped quarters. It had been easier when Obi-Wan was a boy. Qui-Gon was a large man. As Obi-Wan grew, the two of them had had to learn to fit around each other in such small spaces as their missions placed them in. They made do. Each took the other's bulk into consideration, each moved with awareness of the other. They were two men now, it had been some years since they were a man and a boy.
They give their thanks for the food.
Qui-Gon slides a spoon to Obi-Wan.
"Let's eat."
Obi-Wan dutifully does as instructed. It is only as he tastes the food that he becomes aware of how ravenous he is. He reviews the last 24 hours and realizes he has neglected to eat anything in that time.
When they are finished, Obi-Wan rises and clears the table.
Qui-Gon leans back against the bulkhead, drinking from his cup of water.
"Will you allow me to inspect your Force energy?" he says.
At the kitchenette, Obi-Wan looks over his shoulder at the man, embarrassed.
"Really, Master, I don't think there's any reason to worry."
"That may be so. I'd still like to take a look."
Obi-Wan turns away, watching his own hands cleaning down the work surface.
A confusing clash of feelings rises up—a kind of injured pride on the one hand. Did he require his Master's intervention? Could he not manage this personal problem himself? Evidently something was amiss, but could he not go on with his private meditation and attempt to solve the issue on his own? If he was to be a Padawan no longer, if he was to take the trials, and ultimately leave the protection of Qui-Gon's tutelage...he ought to be able to keep track of and manage his own heats.
But he had chosen to bring the problem to Qui-Gon. The idea that the blockers might not be working was an idea he did not like to entertain. But his sense of prudence had won out. He was sickening with something, and if it was his heat, improbable though that seemed—then his Master needed to know.
Qui-Gon had seen him fed. He had made the meal himself. Now came this request to intimately inspect Obi-Wan's Force energy. A Master checking on his apprentice. It ran thoroughly counter to the view of the future so recently presented to Obi-Wan and the Jedi Council. In his own way, Obi-Wan had been trying to adjust his thinking since Qui-Gon's announcement. They had made up following their disagreement, and Obi-Wan's mind should have felt clearer.
The future was no longer abstract, but very real, and coming towards them very quickly. It would do no good for Obi-Wan to shrink from it. He would face what was coming. Look ahead to the trials.
A Knight was what he aspired to be. And yet now he was to submit to Qui-Gon's ministrations in this way, as if he were still a boy?
"It won't take long," Qui-Gon says mildly, standing from his seat.
Obi-Wan glances again over his shoulder. "Yes, Master."
He wipes off his damp hands on a cloth and turns, laying the cloth aside with strange slowness, reluctance. He looks at Qui-Gon without moving towards him and there is a strange moment of silence.
Qui-Gon's comlink chimes.
"We've received a communication from Pardar Station," says the voice of one of the pilots.
Qui-Gon tells the man he will come. He thumbs the comlink off and tucks it into his belt.
"I will be back," he says.
Obi-Wan nods, shifting aside to let Qui-Gon move past him. The door sighs closed and Obi-Wan is again alone.
He is grateful to have this time.
He goes and sits down on the lower bunk, breathing out slowly.
Calm, he tells himself. For goodness sake, calm. What is the matter with you?
It is a tremendous effort to re-fortify his shields. Eyes closed, one hand gripping the bunk ladder, he frowns, sitting motionless, as inwardly he works, weaving the Force carefully through his guards. He does his best to settle the unhappy, choppy waters of his mind.
When Qui-Gon returns, Obi-Wan has prepared what he will say.
He rises to his feet. He projects the firm walls. Stability. Constancy.
"Master, I think it will be fine. I just need to meditate a little longer. I needn't have bothered you with this."
"The sooner I've checked, the sooner you can meditate," Qui-Gon says mildly.
Qui-Gon comes a step closer, and in unconscious reaction, Obi-Wan retreats a step back.
It brings Qui-Gon up short. He pauses, studying Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan stands motionless as well, surprised by his own impulse to shy away from the man.
"Forgive me, Master." Obi-Wan frowns, puzzled and embarrassed at his own behaviour. He sets his shoulders and moves purposefully closer to Qui-Gon, showing he is biddable. Lifting his face in offering. "Of course you may."
It was Qui-Gon's due as his Master to inspect him, any time he wished.
Qui-Gon reaches out for him with the Force.
Obi-Wan represses a shudder of reaction at the touch to his defenses. He feels hot all over.
"You're shielding tightly," Qui-Gon murmurs. "You'll exhaust yourself."
"I feel alright. I thought—just to be safe..."
"I can't even catch your scent. Will you lower your shield?"
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan says, and he means to obey, he means to let Qui-Gon in as he has done so many times before. Such a mundane thing, between Master and apprentice.
But as he tries to take his shields down, he finds he can't. He has woven the Force so tightly, it is like a knot.
"I'm sorry, I don't know why..." He shakes his head slightly and tries again, and again he is bewildered to feel resistance, a death-grip some primal part of him has over his own defenses.
"Don't be troubled," Qui-Gon says. He withdraws his touch carefully. Something in Obi-Wan is hyper-conscious of the man's energy and Qui-Gon's touch feels like the lightest touch along tiny hairs on the skin, a touch that raises goose flesh, a touch that makes Obi-Wan shiver.
Qui-Gon moves away. "Meditate with me. We'll try it this way."
They remove their boots. Qui-Gon orders the lights lower. They sit cross-legged on the mats, facing one another.
Obi-Wan follows the man. Qui-Gon shows him the path, holding out his hand to Obi-Wan in the Force, and Obi-Wan takes that firm hand with great relief. He matches his breathing to Qui-Gon's. Then he can be like a smaller ship following in the slipstream of a larger vessel, as they sink deeper into meditation.
Obi-Wan feels the man's Force presence so near. His Master.
He is safe.
In this non-being of the meditative state, he feels Qui-Gon's touch in the Force. It is very gentle, careful. Qui-Gon lightly tests at the edges of Obi-Wan's defenses. Qui-Gon knows him very well, he knows precisely how to approach him. Obi-Wan's desperate grip on his shields wavers. He can feel the man waiting for him, just beyond his shield, patient and gentle.
With a long shaky exhale, Obi-Wan lets his defenses drop. In his mind, it is like he stumbles and Qui-Gon is there immediately, catching him in his arms. Obi-Wan had not fully realized how much of his psychic energy he had been pouring into the effort of keeping up such strong defenses.
The older man has him. So many times, as Qui-Gon's apprentice, they had touched with the Force, in their minds. It had never been quite like this.
"Obi-Wan."
It's quiet in the small cabin.
Time has passed—Obi-Wan is not sure how much, but as he opens his eyes he finds Qui-Gon is kneeling in front of him. Qui-Gon's hand rests on Obi-Wan's shoulder. He had shaken him gently awake.
Obi-Wan comes back to his body. He finds his hands are still resting in their meditation pose, curled over his knees.
He is drenched in sweat. He is shivering. His shield is gone. It feels like being naked. He tries to gather some of his shields about himself again. He finds he cannot. It is as if he had been holding up something tremendously heavy, and now that he's set it down, his arms are too exhausted to lift it again.
His Force sense is bleeding out of him freely.
Qui-Gon's hand cups him round the nape of the neck, an alpha's touch, a comforting squeeze.
"It's alright."
"I don't—understand—" Obi-Wan says haltingly, trying to marshal his thoughts.
Qui-Gon gazes at him. Troubled, but not fearful. "You're in heat."
"It's impossible."
"There are stronger blockers here on the ship. Emergency Jianzhe. I can inject you with some now. I believe the blockers you took at the Temple only slowed the heat down, they didn't halt it. There might still be time for the Jianzhe to work... But it will deplete you if you stop this heat now when it has already advanced so far." Qui-Gon's hand kneads the nape of Obi-Wan's neck. "This is my fault. I should have been monitoring your cycle more closely. I should have seen the signs that you were coming on."
"How many hours? Until—we reach Naboo?"
"Five."
Five hours. That meant only two options. If he took the Jianzhe, there was a chance the heat could be arrested, but such drugs would leave him weakened and exhausted for at least the next 24 hours. He would be of no use in the battle they were heading into.
Option two would be...
"Or we can let it run," Qui-Gon says.
"Let it run," Obi-Wan repeats. "Here? On the ship?"
Qui-Gon strokes his fingers gently through Obi-Wan's hair. "I would tend to you."
Obi-Wan shivers at the man's touch, his words.
"I can't ask that of you," Obi-Wan says.
Qui-Gon helps him to the lower bunk. Obi-Wan lays flat on his back, shivering.
"I'm sorry," he says, dimly amazed by how rapidly the situation has slid out of his control.
"You have nothing to apologise for." Qui-Gon pulls the blanket over him. He sits on the bed, stroking Obi-Wan's head, his jaw, the alpha touch of a Master to their Padawan, a touch Qui-Gon has not used so much since Obi-Wan had left boyhood, since he had become a young man. Obi-Wan fights his eyes falling shut with each gentle caress of Qui-Gon's hand. How soothing these touches are.
"Master." His jaw is trembling, his teeth clacking together with shivering. He realizes all his inside is bleeding out through the Force. He cannot filter it. For every previous heat he had endured, all of this had taken place in a Temple cell. Now, he is going through it in front of Qui-Gon. Now, when they can least afford such a disruption to their mission.
"I'm—sorry," Obi-Wan says again. This is my wretched nature. Why did I have to be an omega—?
"Shh. My Padawan." Qui-Gon strokes his face tenderly, frowning as he gazes at him. He speaks low, "I should have sensed what was happening. You've been guarding yourself. Your shield was irregular, I should have noticed."
Obi-Wan jerks his chin minutely in protest. His thoughts run faster than speech: Not your fault, Master. I must have made some error with the blockers—must have neglected my process. Two heats in a year—my fault—I might have triggered this?
And in his mind he's stood watching as Qui-Gon steps forward, places his hands on the boy's shoulders, announces before the Jedi Council that he will take Anakin as his Padawan.
Shouldn't have reacted as I did about the boy—I don't know why— When I come on it doesn't usually feel like this, I didn't realize— Why didn't I realize—?
"Shh-sh." Qui-Gon strokes the side of Obi-Wan's face. His thumb smooths Obi-Wan's eyebrow.
This smeary rush of thoughts, churning up from his mind, bubbling up for Qui-Gon to see. Obi-Wan would never ordinarily have allowed his thoughts to bleed at the man in this way, with no restraint, but he can't stop it.
It can't be now, he thinks. Master—this can't be now— The mission— If I am sick I will be useless— I need to fight at your side—
"Find your center. Leave the future." The man's large hands are so gentle. Kind eyes gaze down at him. "Be here with me now, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon murmurs.
Through the Force, he sends Obi-Wan a soothing wave.
Obi-Wan's eyes fall closed at the feeling of it. He turns his face blindly towards Qui-Gon's hand. His nose and lips press the palm of Qui-Gon's hand reverently.
Master... My Master.
I am here, Padawan. He feels Qui-Gon's touch through the Force.
A recollection comes to Obi-Wan, of a time when he was younger, it was during a mission, when he'd been sick with a fever, and delirious. In the darkness, the flickering light of a fire, Qui-Gon had sat with him like this, and stroked his hair, and spoke gentle words to him. He'd taken care of him like this.
The primal rightness of it. This ancient touch through the Force between Master and Padawan. A touch that seemed to echo down through countless generations, and it was incarnate in them both, here and now.
But Obi-Wan is no longer a boy. It is an alpha who is touching him in the Force, and the alpha's touch is frustratingly surface.
Obi-Wan reaches for Qui-Gon in the Force. He rubs against him in a slow arch. It is an opening gesture, signalling to the alpha.
Obi-Wan feels Qui-Gon's hand withdraw from where it had been cradling his face.
"Qui-Gon..." Obi-Wan blinks his eyes open dazedly. Why did the man draw away?
"I dare not touch you, Padawan," Qui-Gon says. "If you mean to take the emergency blocker, we must do it soon. If I touch you...when you are like this..."
Obi-Wan's fevered mind can't understand why the alpha still holds back from him. He reaches for Qui-Gon again in the Force, and again the alpha draws away.
Was this a test? Obi-Wan wondered, his thoughts like a rowboat battered in a storm. Beating wind and rain, tossed on tall waves. A test? The tests a Jedi must endure...how cruel these tests could be...
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says sharply, in the commanding tone he used when a situation was dangerous. Obi-Wan's eyes fly to him at once, a bolt of adrenaline going through him.
"Do you want to take the blocker? Do you want to stop your heat?"
Obi-Wan gazes up at the man's handsome face. Qui-Gon's Force presence was radiating from him, glorious and golden. The alpha scent of him, that he was restraining. How still and centered Qui-Gon was, seated motionless above him.
I love you, Obi-Wan thinks, and all that is him is in this thought, all he knows, all truth of the Force, all truth of their bond, years of loving the man as a father figure, yearning to make him proud, to win his affection, and then as he outgrew his boyhood, there had come powerfully, embarrassingly, the realization of gut-melting attraction.
Obi-Wan had done all in his power to keep it contained.
They had never spoken of it, either because Obi-Wan had successfully managed to conceal his attraction, or because Qui-Gon knew of it and tactfully chose to ignore it.
Obi-Wan had always known that to address his attraction towards Qui-Gon overtly would have been an indecency. He was Qui-Gon's Padawan. His sexual interest in the man was inappropriate. So he had done his best to maintain propriety, wishing never to disrespect his Master. He would show to Qui-Gon only what was proper for a Padawan to show. The rest he had done his best to keep concealed inside.
Now, his feeling wells up, bright, painfully sharp, with such intensity in his breast that it steals his breath away and brings tears to his eyes. He has lost his shields. He can't pull this back, he can't hold onto it. It flies out from his breast to meet the man, pleading to press itself close to that which it loves.
Qui-Gon shuts his eyes for a moment, his brows drawing together frowning, his mouth downturned. But Obi-Wan knows it is not anger. It is not censure. He can read the currents of the Force that are rippling over Qui-gon like currents of a racing river. Obi-wan reads the motion of the Force with a strange preternatural clarity. Every detail seems to spring out at him. He can see Qui-Gon's rippling inner effort, the dancing interaction between Qui-Gon's shining white living inner being, and the Force. The interplay is beautiful. But there is struggle. Why? Such futile struggle. When it is all so plain and clear to Obi-Wan. How plainly he had spoken his heart. Without words, but his chosen word to signify love might as well have been the name Qui-Gon.
So then...? The man did not desire him.
Obi-Wan falters at that. Of course. Of course—in his delirium, he had forgotten. In some distant part of his mind, he knows he will pay dearly for revealing himself in this manner. His shame will scorch him. He has thrown aside all decorum of rank, all decency, and said to his Master the very thing he should never have said—
"No," Qui-Gon murmurs.
He was gazing down at Obi-Wan.
"Obi-Wan," he breathes. His fierce blue gaze pierces Obi-Wan, and something is loosening in his gaze, something helpless and yielding. His thumb strokes Obi-Wan's lips. His fingers trace along his jawbone.
"We will not have much time," Qui-Gon says.
Qui-Gon's Force touch brushes tentatively inside Obi-Wan's sphere of being. Qui-Gon reaches for him inwardly.
A barrier that had been in place between them has fallen.
Qui-Gon's touch is unambiguous. Undisguised. It is the touch of an alpha—and it is not familial. It is a sexually interested alpha, touching an omega. In his touch, and his scent, and his look, is desire for carnal knowledge of Obi-Wan.
It is so frank between them then, all at once, a veil torn away.
Qui-Gon eases the blanket aside and slides his large warm hand into the part of Obi-Wan's tunic. Obi-Wan fumbles with clumsy hands at his belt, unfastening it, his eyes locked with Qui-Gon's.
Qui-Gon takes the belt and pulls it out from under Obi-Wan and drops it to the floor.
The heat cells at the Temple. The scene leaps into Obi-Wan's mind unbidden. How it had been, during one of his worst heats. He was sixteen. Shut in a cell, he was naked, with the heavy weight of a pinner-droid on his back, the padded weight crushing him down, keeping him pinned and helpless along with the Force dampeners in the walls of the cell. He was burning with the fever, the stimulator was inside him, buzzing ceaselessly—
"Master—Master—please, I want—n-no—please—" at the peak of his sickness, his madness, he had cried out in a slurred hoarse voice, with no one to hear, he had said No, no! to the droid, to the Temple, to the Force and to the universe.
That had been his first heat where the reality of his attraction to his Master had landed on him like a rockslide. In the padded heat cell, he had cried out for the man until his voice was ragged.
The stimulator buried in his arse had provided pleasurable vibration, it had brought him to his peak rhythmically, repeatedly, in machine-regular torturous waves, it had seen him safely through his heat—but it was not the man. He tried in vain to contact Qui-Gon through their bond. He needed Qui-Gon's scent. He needed Qui-Gon's touch in the Force, he needed the man's large hands touching him, pinning him down, soothing him—he needed—he needed—
The small lamp on the bedside table clatters to the floor—Qui-Gon knocking it down in his haste as he tosses away his belt and quickly unwinds the sash from round his middle. He is breathing faster, staring down at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan knows with blistering certainty that Qui-Gon has read his memory through the Force. Without his shields, the memory had transmitted directly. Obi-Wan's sixteen year old self, in the worst of his heat, in the cells, crying for the man.
Qui-Gon's hands move swiftly, unwinding Obi-Wan's sash, spreading Obi-Wan's tunic open, baring his naked torso. Obi-Wan's leggings are all that cover him, and he almost wants to hide his erection under his hands.
Qui-Gon's eyes move over him. Then his hand moves to Obi-Wan's neck, slowly, and Obi-Wan tips his head back against the pillow just enough to indicate he knows what is about to happen, and he wants it. With the back of his hand, with gentle fingers and knuckles, Qui-Gon caresses Obi-Wan's scent glands, stimulating him. This touch to the glands is a lover's touch, one Obi-Wan has not known before. The slow brush of Qui-Gon's fingers on his glands makes his scent come thickly.
Through the Force, a vivid scene presses itself into Obi-Wan's mind. It is an answering memory from Qui-Gon—of that same time. Obi-Wan, sixteen years old. The night when he had returned from the heat cells, his first night with Qui-Gon again in their quarters after two days spent apart. It was evening, and Obi-Wan was clearing away after their meal. Qui-Gon sees on Obi-Wan's forearm, the bite mark, the place where Obi-Wan had bitten himself in his distress.
They had meditated together that night. That bite mark had been much on Qui-Gon's mind.
Obi-Wan's thoughts are automatic—his recollection of how that bite happened. His body was pinned to the floor of the cell under the weight of the droid. Weak with heat sickness and weak with the Force dampeners, moaning raggedly with the relentless vibrating stimulator in his arse, he'd finally wept with frustration. During one climax, with a surge of the Force, he'd managed to tear his wrist free of the bindings and sink his teeth into the soft flesh of his forearm.
He'd done it with each climax for hours after that, clamping his teeth onto the same spot, tasting the metallic taste of his blood as the stimulator brought him to crisis again and again, and in his mind he called for Qui-Gon...
Qui-Gon groans. He lowers his face to Obi-Wan's neck, Obi-Wan can feel his hot moist breath, then the prickle of his beard, then his open mouth ghosting over Obi-Wan's thumping pulse. Qui-Gon's nose and lips nuzzle gently at his scent gland before his mouth presses a slow kiss there and Obi-Wan shivers. Qui-Gon breathes the private scent of him.
Qui-Gon has climbed over Obi-Wan on the narrow cot. His tunic is hanging open. His palm strokes slowly over Obi-Wan's belly—the touch of an alpha showing his omega that he is dominant.
Qui-Gon lifts his face from Obi-Wan's neck. He considers the younger man. The heat in his look makes Obi-Wan quail inwardly. His Master's eyes move over Obi-Wan's face, such a private look, the look of many years' intimacy, of knowing Obi-Wan more deeply than any other. And a wondering look. He strokes Obi-Wan's face softly.
"I had not intended to have you until you were a Knight," Qui-Gon murmurs. "If you had wanted it..."
"If I had wanted it?" Obi-Wan echoes, incredulous, half-delirious with fever. His brows draw together faintly, disbelieving. How could he not have wanted Qui-Gon? Did the man suppose he would outgrow it?
His fever has stripped away all possible artifice. After so long holding himself carefully in check, how easily it is all torn away now, like flimsy structures swept off in the storm.
They study one another. The truth is plain between them. They know one another.
"I had not intended this...now..." Qui-Gon bends to press his forehead against Obi-Wan's.
Obi-Wan shudders at the feeling of Qui-Gon's Force presence reaching into him, like a hand caressing him inwardly.
The man kisses his mouth slowly, tasting him, teaching him his kiss.
In the Force, Qui-Gon's mind touches what they will do. He touches sex between their minds. He is experienced. He wants knowledge of Obi-Wan. He wants him in the way of men—alphas and omegas.
They work together to undress Obi-Wan, freeing his arms from his tunic. Qui-Gon leans up and with his hand he starts to pull Obi-Wan's leggings down his thighs.
"Master," Obi-Wan whispers, arching under him trying to help, but his face flushes in a blaze as his private body is exposed, his prick lying swollen fat on the line of his hip. He has made the seat of the leggings wet, the material drags a streak of wetness down his inner thigh as Qui-Gon's hands pull the leggings slowly down. The leggings are not fully down his legs and Obi-Wan hides his nakedness under his hands and he turns towards Qui-Gon to hide. He can feel the cool air in the cabin against his skin where he is wet, down his inner thighs, between his buttocks, with his body's lubricant.
"Sh-sh." Qui-Gon lies down again. Obi-Wan tucks his face against the man's chest. He can smell the scent of his lubricant strongly now that the leggings have been removed.
"Let me see," Qui-Gon murmurs. His large hand rests warm on Obi-Wan's ribs, pausing there a moment until Obi-Wan nods against his chest.
Obi-Wan keeps a hand protectively over his prick as he lies there with his eyes closed, and Qui-Gon's hand moves lightly to his buttocks.
Obi-Wan barely swallows a groan as Qui-Gon's fingers spread his buttock, spread the soft flesh, and then Qui-Gon's finger tips stroke gently there, where he is all exposed. The lubricant here is a slippery mucus. Qui-Gon touches the furl of him gently. Obi-Wan's prick, painfully hard, twitches under his hand in response to Qui-Gon's finger touching him.
"Good," Qui-Gon says.
He guides Obi-Wan to lie on his back. He withdraws only long enough to shrug his own tunic down his shoulders. He is naked from the waist up. He moves with masculine beauty, efficiency. All the physical grace of his warrior's body.
Qui-Gon strips Obi-Wan's leggings the rest of the way off his legs and he drops them to the floor with the rest of their clothes. Then the man's hot eyes travel over Obi-Wan's naked body again.
Unshielded by his hand now, Obi-Wan's prick lifts and falls on his belly, releasing a dribble of precome. He makes a confused, clumsy grab at the bedsheet, as if he might cover himself again.
Qui-Gon gently catches Obi-Wan's hand and guides it away, so Obi-Wan cannot hide his penis, and it lifts and falls on his belly as Qui-Gon's eyes travel over him, like it is shamelessly displaying itself, asking to be looked at.
Obi-Wan's hips move in a subtle undulation, he cannot control it. His face is blazing hot. Qui-Gon kneels above him, looking down at his body. Obi-Wan's legs are half drawn up. Qui-Gon places a hand on his knee, gently guides him to draw his legs up further. It means he is showing himself to Qui-Gon. He is exposing himself.
His penis lifts and falls, drooling more precome. Qui-Gon looks at him where he is wet and hot, and Obi-Wan's body there tenses up anxiously to be looked at.
"Good boy," Qui-Gon murmurs, his hands resting on Obi-Wan's thighs, holding his legs spread like that.
Qui-Gon slides his hand slowly down Obi-Wan's thigh. He touches with his thumb, gently, directly stroking Obi-Wan's hole, and Obi-Wan's furl twitches under Qui-Gon's thumb. Qui-Gon caresses him with the gentle stroke of his thumb. Obi-Wan is shivering. The tight muscle flutters under his Master's thumb, then produces a fresh pulse of warm lubricant. Obi-Wan shuts his eyes, mortified. He can feel the wet patch he is making on the covers underneath him.
Qui-Gon releases him with a low soothing noise, and he lays down again on his elbow along Obi-Wan's side and he gathers Obi-Wan to him. Obi-Wan curls against the man's chest with relief. Qui-Gon's hand on his jaw guides Obi-Wan to lift his face. Qui-Gon bends and nuzzles his lips against Obi-Wan's stunned mouth.
His hand then reaches between them. He touches Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan goes perfectly still, taut as Qui-Gon gently begins to stroke him. The man is unhurried. He wets his palm on the slippery tip of Obi-Wan's penis. The precome makes Qui-Gon's hand slippery. He strokes the slickness down Obi-Wan's shaft, gliding his fist with slow assurance. Obi-Wan's belly muscles quiver. He tries to return Qui-Gon's kiss, his mouth loose and panting, his hips twitching. He is frightened he will orgasm in a moment.
Qui-Gon lets go Obi-Wan's prick when Obi-Wan drops his head back, gasping. Qui-Gon holds Obi-Wan's hip as he noses at his neck, breathing his scent again for a moment. He opens his mouth on Obi-Wan's scent glands and rolls his hot tongue against it. He holds Obi-Wan's hip with his large hand as Obi-Wan tries again, artlessly, to rock, his twitching prick begging to be touched. Obi-Wan knows himself to be drunk with arousal. He feels every year of his junior status as he tries to rut, like a clumsy teenager, but in the fever he cannot stop.
Obi-Wan follows Qui-Gon's mouth as the man kisses him again. He returns each kiss shakily, panting and shaky, trying to keep his composure, trying to use what experience he has—a couple of trysts with other Padawans. He has known sex with a young woman. Another Padawan. Sex with her—she a young alpha, a Padawan two years his senior, and neither of them in the synch of their cycle, for that would have been forbidden. Qui-gon knew it was the only experience Obi-Wan had. Qui-Gon had known the next morning after it happened, he had known with just one glance at Obi-Wan. A small smile they had shared, and Obi-Wan's pleased blush.
What experience did he have of alphas? Truly?
Still kissing him, Qui-Gon encourages Obi-Wan with gentle hands to lie on his back once more. He kisses Obi-Wan's mouth as he insinuates his hand between Obi-Wan's thighs again. His fingers touch Obi-Wan's tight furl, finding him fever-hot and slippery.
Qui-Gon's finger presses in. His mind touches Obi-Wan's mind at the same time. Obi-Wan trembles at such a direct touch in the Force.
You are beautiful, Qui-Gon tells him.
Obi-Wan turns his mouth away from Qui-Gon's kisses, breathing roughly as the man caresses his mind.
Qui-Gon's finger works slowly in and out, and Obi-Wan's arsehole clutches tight on it, the penetration so different to his own touch.
Master. I—I will come to my crisis if you—if you— The rush of embarrassed hot confession spills from Obi-Wan.
There is no wrong way. We will have sex again, Padawan. Again and again. Qui-Gon shows him a flickering series of thoughts—speaks in his mind of his prick buried in Obi-Wan's body, speaks with an alpha's inner language of the tight grip of omega cunt—and the two of them clinched together—and pinning Obi-Wan on his belly—they will take their pleasure in each other—as his alpha, Qui-Gon will look after him, give him what he needs, as many times as he needs it—no one will stop this, what is right and natural—
Obi-Wan is shaking. His prick jumps on his belly, jumps and drools precome, and jumps again, his pulse frantic, as he starts to orgasm.
"Oh," Qui-Gon groans, low in his throat, easing his finger out of Obi-Wan's body, curling his hand quickly around Obi-Wan's prick and tugging—Obi-Wan huffs a shout of pleasure—as the man strokes him through his climax.
The Force is beating between them, throbbing in waves between them.
It was embarrassing, wasn't it? To come that way, to come apart like a boy, untouched, when Qui-Gon had not yet even mounted on him—
And yet even as this shame arises, Obi-Wan feels it taken from his hands, as Qui-Gon speaks through the Force, telling him to feel no shame. There is even some apology in Qui-Gon's thinking, for provoking Obi-Wan with such sex in mind as Qui-Gon had sent into the younger man in such an onslaught.
Obi-Wan's hand slides up Qui-Gon's arm, clasping his shoulder for a moment, then in a daze he strokes his hand up the nape of Qui-Gon's neck, daring to touch, he sinks his fingers into the man's heavy hair at the back of his skull, feeling his scalp sweaty.
Two fingers stroke gently around the tight furl of Obi-Wan's arsehole, and press slowly into him. Obi-Wan's mouth falls open, his eyes blinking heavy. He tries to relax for it. The man's fingers are large.
"Good boy," Qui-Gon murmurs.
Obi-Wan's body squirms slightly underneath Qui-Gon's, seeking purchase, his legs drawing up, his hand gripping Qui-Gon's upper arm. His body struggles slightly under the larger man, as if they were wrestling. Qui-Gon keeps his fingers buried deep. Obi-Wan undulates his hips. He winces on the plunging slow working of the man's fingers. He winces and huffs out in hoarse sound of pleasure as the man touches the place inside him, and massages it, finds it again, again, touching him deeply.
I want you, Obi-Wan sends to Qui-Gon in delirium.
The man just gazes down at him. There is sweat on Qui-Gon's forehead, some hair stuck to his sweaty face.
Obi-Wan frowns, faintly wincing, as the two thick fingers plunge slowly, determined and impossible to deny. He is wet. This is nothing like the sterile environment of the heat cell, the press of the stimulator into his arse.
Master... Obi-Wan sends out, pleading. His mind produces, sudden and obscene, impossible to stop, the image of Qui-Gon's penis. So many times, consciously and unconsciously, Obi-Wan had stolen looks. Qui-Gon's manhood—Obi-Wan had thought of it when he should not have, he had thought of his Master as a man in ways he should not have.
The earlier impression Qui-Gon had sent to him through the Force, of being buried inside Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan now sends it back, showing against his will what he wants, showing him the stolen glances he's had of the man's large penis, the thoughts he's guiltily indulged in, knowing it was wrong. Thoughts of Qui-Gon's erect penis. Thoughts of the man pinning him, penetrating him.
I'm sorry, Obi-Wan's thoughts try to say, stumbling over himself, as at the same time he thinks, Please, alpha—please, I want— Qui-Gon's penis—Obi-Wan's desire to be penetrated. How he has thought of that penis. How he had fingered himself in his bed and thought of Qui-Gon inside of him—
"Do not try to provoke me, Padawan," Qui-Gon murmurs, breathing rough, not without a thread of humor in his voice.
He puts Obi-Wan on his front. Pins Obi-Wan with an alpha's hold clamped on the nape of his neck. Obi-Wan spreads his thighs in reaction. Three fingers press at his tight resisting arsehole. He is so wet, he yields. He tries to stifle his cries in the crook of his arm. Pain—but those fingers are finding that secret place inside him.
The man is then heavy and strong on top of him. He is rubbing the large bulb of his prick against Obi-Wan's furl. He is squeezing and kneading the nape of Obi-Wan's neck, speaking quietly to him, trying to calm him.
Then the man is pressing into his body. Pressing and holding still until Obi-Wan's body gives and yields, and the man is sinking slowly into him, inch by inch.
Obi-Wan's mouth stretches open, to feel it sinking in, in.
The man's heavy body is undulating slow on top of him, the large alpha prick staking claim to him, burying deep inside him, touching him, sheathing itself in him, while he is more and more wet, the way all slick, Obi-Wan's whole body shaking, squirming only slightly under his Master, inviting the mating, breathing in open-mouthed shock as Qui-Gon's rhythm locks into place. The steady battering of his prostate is stunning. He struggles and spasms as he spills his seed again, their sweaty limbs locked together, the man's sweaty chest to his back, the man's prick exquisite inside him, the best thing he has felt.
No one has had you— To be your first— Qui-Gon's whispered fragment of thought reaches Obi-Wan, the heat in it making Obi-Wan groan. He can feel his Master's lapse of control in it. The intoxication is not only his. Qui-Gon's hand strokes the naked sweat-slick length of Obi-Wan's back, ending at the nape of his neck, holding him there.
In time, Qui-Gon pulls out. He rolls Obi-Wan onto his back, hauling him from the edge of the cot as he does so, so that he will not fall off. He guides Obi-Wan's legs how he wants them. He is between Obi-Wan's spread thighs and he is sinking his large prick back inside. He watches Obi-Wan's face as he starts to rock into him. He slides his large hands down Obi-Wan's tensing thighs, kneading the meat of his muscle.
Obi-Wan is saying the man's name, wounded and overpowered, overwhelmed by how it feels to be claimed like this, overwhelmed that the alpha is more experienced, so assured, and Obi-Wan feels split open with nowhere to hide. Qui-Gon soothes him with low noises, leaning down to lick the sweat on Obi-Wan's collarbone. He is braced over Obi-Wan on his elbows, rocking into Obi-Wan. Obi-wan's legs are curled up either side of Qui-Gon, holding on tightly, the two of them locked in a sweaty rocking clinch, as Qui-Gon's prick is sheathed again and again inside, slippery with Obi-Wan's slick, painfully large, but so good, touching Obi-Wan deep, burying deep inside him mercilessly.
Qui-Gon controls the motion, really like they are wrestling. He gives the penetration without pause, and Obi-Wan is starting to struggle, as if resisting, but it is his next orgasm that is trying to close over him. Qui-Gon pins his arm and does not slow.
The strength of their Force connection is rolling between them, a wrestling struggle and dance like two snakes twined together, rolling over and over—at times it lifts their torsos or hips a couple of inches off the bed.
"Let go," Qui-Gon pants.
Obi-Wan tosses his head, his hands gripping Qui-Gon's arms.
"Yes, show me," Qui-Gon commands.
Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing trying to fight it, trying to hold back his primal instinct, this most fundamental desire, but he wants to show the man. Qui-Gon's body, the full power of the Jedi's Force energy twined with his own, the feeling of being mated by such a one—Obi-Wan cries out helplessly, yeilding to Qui-Gon, showing him—his omega's instinctual plea, calling the alpha to bite him with the mating bite, asking the man claim him and mark him, and bind them together until death.
To be mates. It was forbidden to the Jedi. Obi-Wan's rational mind has fallen away, and all is the fever, all is delirium. It is his omega's cry, in the thick of heat, made to the one it wants, its beloved one.
I would abandon my vows. Obi-Wan turns his head, pressing his cheek to Qui-Gon's. Master—I would abandon them for you. I would.
The Force around Qui-Gon swirls, like a tempest, his energy like the energy he has sometimes in the heat of heavy battle, he sits back on his heels and holds Obi-Wan's legs under the knees, his pace quickening, his chest hair matted down wet with sweat, strands of his hair stuck to his face and neck—he gazes down at Obi-Wan piercingly.
Then he lets go one of Obi-Wan's legs, he reaches with his hand and captures Obi-Wan's prick. Obi-Wan's leg falls over Qui-Gon's thigh in a tight knot as Qui-Gon's fist works jiggling fast, tugging Obi-Wan all wet, so sudden, a killing counterpoint to his prick nailing deep into Obi-Wan at this angle—and Obi-Wan is broken by it. He tenses, his leg locking tight over Qui-Gon's thigh, he twists and writhes, his hands grasping helplessly at Qui-Gon's knees, as the man's hand tugs his prick and Obi-Wan shakes and orgasms, spitting seed all up his chest, rope after rope of come, his omega inwardly crying out to the alpha.
Qui-Gon lays on top of Obi-Wan again, rubbing his bearded face into Obi-Wan's neck.
"There." Kissing, rolling his tongue over flesh, tasting Obi-Wan's neck, in the place where an alpha would bite with the mating bite, but he does not bite him.
Obi-Wan's legs are spread open and limply rocking with the fast-paced penetration, Obi-Wan's hands grasping dazedly at Qui-Gon's arms, his back and shoulders, and then Qui-Gon groans and shudders, and the Force kicks through Obi-Wan in waves of heat with the man's climax.
There's a clatter of things falling over in the cabin, the compartment doors rattling in their frames. Obi-Wan registers the noise with a Jedi's awareness, fragmented impressions like glimpses in a broken up mirror, the information immediately sinking away.
They lay face-to-face afterwards, naked and sheened with sweat, their unsettled breathing taking time to slow. Obi-Wan can't look away from the man. He studies his face as if he is seeing this dear, very familiar face for the first time. He looks down the length of Qui-Gon's body, a slow, reverent study, wondering. Still amazed.
They both are breathing roughly. Qui-Gon breathes through his nose, swallows in the midst of his breathing. He is gazing at Obi-Wan with hooded eyes, calm, replete, his Force energy as unfathomable as an ocean each time Obi-Wan touches him. Obi-Wan touches him wonderingly. Has his Master's energy ever been more beautiful than this? Obi-Wan had always thought it beautiful. This ocean, however, this inky darkness that Obi-Wan would like to sink into...
Obi-Wan leans slowly up on his elbow, as one in a dream.
He can feel the man's ejaculate running out of him, wet between his buttocks. Warm. The masculine life energy of the man.
Qui-Gon reaches his hand out and touches Obi-Wan's braid, twining it through his fingers. The hair at the end of the braid brushes ticklishly over Obi-Wan's nipple, making him shiver, and his prick which is still hard, twitches on his thigh.
"Do you know, you are quite unpredictable, Master," Obi-Wan murmurs finally, in dour understatement. He is not so delilrious now. He can manage this bit of bravado.
Qui-Gon's eyes glint with amusement. His rich mouth curves in a smile.
"Am I indeed?" he says, raising an eyebrow with seeming innocence.
"Yes," Obi-Wan says, leaning down. "Whereas I must resign myself...to being very predictable."
"I wouldn't be so sure, my Padawan." Qui-Gon curls his hand behind Obi-Wan's neck as Obi-Wan leans down, his mouth soft and hot as Obi-Wan kisses it. They kiss slowly. Their tongues touch. Obi-Wan dares to brush his fingers lightly along Qui-Gon's jaw, touching his beard, amazed at his own boldness.
In short order Obi-Wan's thigh has eased over Qui-Gon's thigh, and he is half on top of the older man. They seperate from their kiss when Qui-Gon cups a handful of Obi-Wan's buttock.
"You did say...as many times as was needed?" Obi-Wan says.
"I did."
Obi-Wan's eyes blink heavy as Qui-Gon's fingers tease lightly into the cleft of his buttocks, stroking through his own seed. Qui-Gon holds his gaze.
"Your Force energy is formidable when you are in heat," Qui-Gon murmurs. "I nearly gave you the bite just now."
Obi-Wan lowers his gaze, bashful, thinking Qui-Gon jested with him.
"A very tempting invitation," Qui-Gon goes on. He is referring to Obi-Wan's omega, and its plea to Qui-Gon's alpha, to make them mates.
"If I am formidable at present," Obi-Wan says quietly, ruefully, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile, "then perhaps you ought not to tease me, Master."
His joking tone belies the strange pang of hurt in his breast.
"I am not," Qui-Gon says plainly.
Obi-Wan's eyes flash up in surprise.
It had been a plea made in the throes of heat. An impossible plea—to call out to Qui-Gon, to proposition him to be his mate. It would have been madness. Unimaginable. It would have meant the end of their lives as Jedi Knights, if Qui-Gon had given in. Their years together, Qui-Gon's training of him, passing down his knowledge. All between Master and Padawan, all they strived for as Jedi, to be members of their Order, would have been undone.
"Does it surprise you so very much, Padawan?" Qui-Gon's eyes roam over Obi-Wan's face. "I'm only a man. And the bloom of you is...intense. It can be this way, sometimes, when there is a bond."
"Then you are in danger, Master?" Obi-Wan teases.
"We will not be in danger now. The greatest danger has passed."
"Has it?" Obi-Wan hardly knows what he is saying. He is looking from Qui-Gon's ocean eyes, to his full lips.
They begin to kiss again.
The heat haze is rising in Obi-Wan again soon. Qui-Gon's two fingers are plunging slow in and out of his hole as they kiss, and Obi-Wan is aflame again. He asks for it between their minds, drunkenly, as he rubs his hard prick impudently against Qui-Gon's hip, spreads his thighs subtly for the fingers buried in him. Qui-Gon's fingers are larger than his, his touch utterly different to what Obi-Wan has done with his own fingers in the past.
Obi-Wan dares to reach his hand down between them, and he pauses the kiss to look down there. He watches in a daze as his own hand touches Qui-Gon's large penis. He lifts his fingers to his lips and wets his fingers with saliva before reaching down again and taking the penis in hand, stroking it slowly, feeling it fatten as he caresses it. This had been inside him just now, this large alpha penis, which was his Master's. They'd had sex. His arsehole was aching with Qui-Gon's fingers because he had been penetrated with this, with something so beautiful, so masculine. Obi-Wan looks at it in his hand, his full reverent attention on it as he feels its hard silken heat, admires it all glistening wet with his saliva in his slow stroking fist.
As he lifts his eyes to Qui-Gon's, in some part of his mind he is stunned at his own boldness—but he can't take his hand away.
To dare to do this to his Master...
Highly insubordinate, Qui-Gon agrees. But both his hands are cupping Obi-Wan's buttocks. He cups and kneads the soft flesh. He strokes his fingers repeatedly into Obi-Wan's cleft, teasing at his furl.
Obi-Wan is sliding deeper into intoxication, leaning up on his hands and possessively, impudently rubbing his own penis against Qui-Gon's. Putting his body's scent on the man. Rubbing his prick against Qui-Gon's prick, a challenge in his gaze as he looks down at the man.
It's mine, he tells Qui-Gon.
There is warmth, great tenderness in Qui-Gon's expression as he returns Obi-Wan's look.
Yes, omega, Qui-Gon answers. Now on your belly for me.
Obi-Wan obeys him, climbing off, both of them making room, and then Obi-Wan is lying flat, rutting restlessly into the wet patch he has made, uncaring, spreading his legs and arching his back, showing Qui-Gon his buttocks as he rolls his hips, showing him he is ready for mounting.
Qui-Gon lies over him and pins him with his heavy body. He squeezes the nape of Obi-Wan's neck with his hand.
"I will have you twice again," Qui-Gon says breathlessly, as he is pushing the tip of his prick into Obi-Wan. "Padawan. Before we arrive. I think I must have you twice again."
"Yes," Obi-Wan agrees, his voice sliding up in pitch as more and more of his master's manhood sinks into him. "Please—Master—"
I only want you, Obi-Wan thinks in feverish love-sick need.
Qui-Gon exhales thickly. He rubs his nose and his lips against the side of Obi-Wan's neck. Then all of his prick is buried in Obi-Wan, and he pauses, his large powerful body held still and quivering.