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Title: The Trouble with Ew-Wan
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: Star Wars, Qui-Gon Jinn/Ew-Wan Kenobi, a cast of many.
Rating: R
Warning: If you’re not a Ewan McGregor fan, this will seem even more crack!ficcish than it already is.
Disclaimer: Please, I beg of you, never let George Lucas know I did this. I live in terror of a horde of ill-behaved storm troopers showing up on my door step demanding that honour be satisfied. But only the Star Wars bits belong to him. The rest belong to a host of other writers, producers, studios and whatever.
Summary: Qui-Gon discovers that his Padawan is not quite himself and endeavours to discover a cure for this strange malady.
The Trouble With Ew-Wan
Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn woke to a seemingly ordinary dawn on the planet-city of Coruscant. After his return, the day before, from a series of challenging missions on outer-rim planets, all completed successfully, he was looking forward to a period of quiet meditation, invigorating physical exercise without risk to life or limb, and some time spent instructing his faithful Padawan in the ways of the Force – without interruption by armed conflict, irritatingly undiplomatic diplomats, or those nasty lizard creatures from the last planet, the ones who had disrupted a moon’s cycle worth of negotiations when they flicked their tongues into the defenceless ears of said Padawan.
The Padawan about whom he was somewhat concerned, now that he was awake and aware of a vague disturbance in the Force.
Obi-Wan had been thoroughly examined by the Temple Healers, and while they had not found anything specifically wrong with the young man, they had muttered about ‘vile secretions” and “not sure of the long-term effects on humanoids.” (Jedi Healers hated not having the entire answer to any medical question, and tended to mumble when confronted with an unknown quantity or quality.)
“Do keep a close eye on the boy,” the most forthright of the lot had advised him. “We’re almost certain there will be no permanent harm, but there could be some mildly erratic behaviour.”
Qui-Gon had promised to keep Obi-Wan close at his side. The lad had been jumpy on the flight home, not as sure of himself as he normally was, but Qui-Gon was pleased that he’d noticed nothing out of the ordinary the night before. Obi-Wan had been, as always, helpful, solicitous, polite, efficient and…
Come to think of it, Obi-Wan had been a little more formal than usual. Perhaps there had been something disturbing him, something he felt he must keep hidden behind decorum. Qui-Gon hoped that whatever it was had passed. He hated to think of his young Padawan in any discomfort.
There was a rich, enticing aroma wafting throughout the apartment. Exotic, Qui-Gon thought it. He entered the kitchen to find Obi-Wan fussing over the cooking pot from which the odour rose.
“ ‘Morning, Master,” Obi-Wan said in a tone not at all like his usual aristocratic lilt. His voice sounded flat and harsh. “Fixed this up just for you.”
The informal syntax was almost as jarring as the accent. Obi-Wan’s Force signature, something Qui-Gon knew well and had learned to detect over great distances, seemed… muddled.
“Not too coarse, not too fine; it’s all in the grind,” Obi-Wan said as he handed a steaming mug to Qui-Gon. “I believed all the myths, you know, about defending the galaxy and serving the people. But here I am, making coffee.” Obi-Wan offered a fake-looking smile.
Qui-Gon accepted the mug, deciding to behave as naturally as possible until this mildly erratic behaviour passed. He would further observe Obi-Wan for any signs of adverse reaction to the lizards’ saliva.
“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he said, and took a sip of the hot beverage. The flavour was much stronger than the herbal tea to which he was accustomed. “Oh, my,” he said, placing the coffee on the counter. “That is not my usual morning tea.”
Obi-Wan blinked at him. A childish scowl crossed his face. “Every morning we have tea,” he all but pouted. “Herbal tea every morning. Why? Who says we have to drink tea in the morning? And what are the herbs in the tea, anyway?”
“I beg your pardon?” Qui-Gon asked.
“And why we always have to wear brown? Every morning I get up and there are the same brown Jedi robes. They’re folded neatly and laid at the end of the bed. Who puts them there?”
“Uh, you do, Obi-Wan. It’s part of your training.”
“Well, what if I don’t like brown? What if I’d like a different colour? I want a different colour! There has to be something more!”
Qui-Gon was determined to take this outburst in stride. After all, it was still only mildly erratic behaviour. “No one says we must drink tea, Padawan. It is merely a habit. If you would prefer it, you may have coffee.”
“I don’t even know what I prefer; all my decisions are made for me!” Obi-Wan huffed childishly.
Hmm. Most Padawans went through a brief rebellious phase, during which they questioned the rules, their place in the universe, even the Jedi Order itself. It was perfectly natural, if taking on this bizarre form due to lingering side effects from Obi-Wan’s exposure to the lizards’ secretions. Nothing to worry about. Qui-Gon would see Obi-Wan through this with his usual wisdom and patience.
“It is difficult for one as young as you to understand the need for rules and regulations. In time, my Padawan, the need for certain traditions will become more apparent to you. After all, the Jedi Order has existed for thousands—”
“That’s bollocks and you know it!” Obi-Wan burst out. “It’s shite being a Jedi. We don’t even get to choose whom we fight because we have to serve the Senate. I don’t mind the Senate; they’re just a bunch of wankers.
“We, on the other hand, take orders from wankers. We can’t even find a decent authoritarian body to take our orders from!”
“Padawan! That is quite enough! I know I may have set a poor example by defying the Jedi Council on occasion, but my independent nature does not give you the right to speak in such a manner!”
Obi-Wan looked shocked. Then contrite. Then miserable. “I’m sorry, master. I don’t know what came over me. It almost feels as if someone else said those words through me.”
Qui-Gon attempted to isolate Obi-Wan’s Force signature. He could sense its presence, but it was as if Obi-Wan were in the next room, not in front of him. He could sense someone else, some alien presence, angry and uncouth, in its place. Another side effect?
The poor lad was so distraught. Qui-Gon reached out with one long arm and pulled Obi-Wan close. “Hush, Obi-Wan. It is understandable. You’re having a reaction to the lizards. The Healers feared there might be some lingering symptoms. It will pass, in time. We’ll stay close to quarters until you’re feeling yourself again.”
Obi-Wan snuggled close to his Master and sighed. “I’m doing my best under difficult circumstances.” Obi-Wan’s words were muffled against Qui-Gon’s tunic.
Qui-Gon held Obi-Wan firmly, hoping to reassure the lad that he would not be punished for something that was not his fault. “You’re coping as well as anyone could be expected,” he said, and rubbed soothing little circles on Obi-Wan’s back.
“Thank you, Master. I can always count on your compassion.”
The angry Force signature had faded away completed, and had been replaced by one confused and distraught, soon to be supplanted by yet another unfamiliar one, one that felt like sincere hope and warmth, mixed with angst, but above all else radiating love. Romantic love.
Obi-Wan pressed against him. “Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place,” he said. “Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace.”
Qui-Gon chuckled. “I don’t know that your symptoms are that powerful,” he said.
“Suddenly my life doesn’t seem such a waste,” Obi-Wan said with alarming earnestness. “It all revolves around you.”
Qui-Gon cleared his throat and pushed Obi-Wan off his chest. “Well, uh, yes, I am, as always, happy to be of whatever help I can,” he said. “Perhaps we should finish breakfast.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “That’s an excellent idea, master. I made you a special treat.”
“Really?” Qui-Gon could not imagine when Obi-Wan could have found time to prepare anything more than the coffee. It was just dawn now, and they had retired quite late the night before.
Obi-Wan opened the cooling unit and retrieved a large bowl. “I made custard,” he announced.
“Custard?” Qui-Gon mused. That must have taken a fair amount of time. He did not like the idea of Obi-Wan losing sleep over such a trivial luxury. “Obi-Wan, that was unnecessary. You should have been sleeping, not making custard.”
Obi-Wan glared at Qui-Gon. “You have no idea how difficult it is to sleep when your ears have been licked by lizards.”
“No, but I do want you to rest more. I don’t even want custard.”
Obi-Wan lifted the bowl higher. “Well, I put a lot of effort into this custard, and you’re going to appreciate it!” He hefted the bowl as if to hurl the contents across the room, but was stopped by Qui-Gon’s quick thinking and judicious use of the Force.
“You don’t want to do that,” Qui-Gon said softly.
“I don’t want to do this,” Obi-Wan repeated.
Qui-Gon hated to use a Force suggestion on his own Padawan, but he saw no other option. Besides, Obi-Wan was clearly not himself. “You don’t want to throw the custard at your Master. You want to put the bowl on the counter.”
Obi-Wan put the bowl on the counter. “I don’t want to throw the custard at my Master,” Obi-Wan said robotically. “I don’t want to toss my Master to the floor, smear the custard all over him and use his naked body for my own carnal pleasure.”
Qui-Gon, for the briefest moment, regretted having applied the force suggestion.
Then he regained his Jedi calm.
“You will go to your room and meditate,” he instructed.
Obi-Wan bowed politely and went to his room.
Qui-Gon took a moment to pull himself together. His Padawan’s behaviour had gone beyond mildly erratic into the realm of truly bizarre. If Obi-wan did not return to his usual self immediately, Qui-Gon would have to deliver him to the Healers for further examination.
He waited a suitable period of time before approaching Obi-Wan’s room, so Obi-Wan would have time to consider his behaviour and get over some of the inevitable embarrassment. This also gave Qui-Gon the opportunity to repeat a selection from the Jedi Code in his mind a few times.
‘There is no passion; there is serenity. There is no passion; there is serenity.’
When he opened the door, he saw Obi-Wan kneeling in the centre of the floor.
Half-naked.
So much for serenity.
Obi-Wan wore only his boots and a pair of low-slung, silvery leggings, a pair of sleep pants he had grown out of years before. Qui-Gon recognised them immediately. It was slightly unnerving to realize that he held such detailed knowledge of his Padawan’s intimate clothing over the years, but he was able to dismiss that concern with the rationalization that Jedi are trained to be extraordinarily observant under all circumstances.
At the moment, Qui-Gon was observing his Padawan’s meditating form, and the way the pants were glued to that form.
Obi-Wan had outgrown the pants when he reached puberty, at which point the lad’s tiny, almost scrawny frame had filled out to the size and shape it was now – still slender, especially around the hips, but with broader shoulders and a nicely defined chest, not massive but well-toned. Back rippled with muscle. Legs and buttocks solid and strong from years of training.
Not a lad at all.
The pants had never fit him like that before.
Obi-Wan raised his head, looked up at Qui-Gon and licked his lips.
Dear gods. This was not his innocent, calm, decent Padawan; this was some jaded, feral debauched creature.
There was black liner smeared under hooded eyes.
Perhaps Obi-Wan had been possessed by some Sith demon.
Obi-Wan raised up on his knees and raked his short nails over his torso.
Or demons.
“Padawan?” Even to his own ears, Qui-Gon’s voice sounded unsteady.
Obi-Wan ran his fingertips across the faint red traces on his pale skin, then held out a hand to his Master. “Come closer. Don’t be frightened. What’s your name? Your favourite colour? Song. Movie. Don’t be nervous. Are you high?”
Qui-Gon shook his head, unable to follow what Obi-Wan was saying.
“Make a wish,” Obi-Wan said.
“I wish you were yourself,” Qui-Gon said. “I wish you were back to being Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan let out a low laugh and slid forward until he knelt at Qui-Gon’s feet, cheek rubbing against the embarrassingly growing ridge in Qui-Gon’s leggings. “Obi want,” he purred.
Qui-Gon swallowed hard. Surely his young apprentice had never had a voice that low or rough, that laced with temptation. Surely his hips had never moved that fluidly, and his manner had never been that languorous. And his fingers had definitely never presumed to touch their Master in such a manner.
One hand darted up under Qui-Gon’s tunic and closed on a nipple with gut-wrenching precision. Qui-Gon took a step back, hoping to preserve some dignity.
“Obi-Wan,” he said in a commanding tone, “I must ask you to stop this at once.”
The order had no effect at all. Probably because Qui-Gon had been commanding himself to tell Obi-Wan to stop, and not actually commanding Obi-Wan to stop. Qui-Gon, it appeared, was not following orders. And Obi-Wan seemed to be following a script of his own.
Obi-Wan slithered up his Master's body to rest his lips on Qui-Gon’s throat. “See yourself, on-stage, inside-out.” His breath was hot and moist. “A tangle of garlands in your hair.”
“Honestly, Obi-Wan. This is quite… shocking.”
“Of course you were pleasantly surprised,” Obi-Wan growled.
Qui-Gon tried to push Obi-Wan away, but his traitorous hands flickered over the warm, smooth skin of naked back.
Obi-Wan pressed against him. Softly he said, “I will mangle your mind.”
Qui-Gon already considered it well and fully mangled.
He fought the urge to pull Obi-Wan even closer, fought the desire to take his Padawan right then and there, to touch those sinuous hips and tug those pants down further, feared he would lose the battle as soon as Obi-Wan’s lips sucked at the skin of his throat.
“Perhaps you should go back to bed,” he suggested, meaning, of course, that Obi-Wan would benefit from some additional sleep, and not that Qui-Gon should in any way, shape or form accompany him.
“Far out,” Obi-Wan said and turned toward the bed.
Qui-Gon gasped.
Obi-Wan’s back was entirely covered in black marks, swirling patterns and deft brush strokes, in some obscure language Qui-Gon could grasp only enough of to recognize the words as some of the filthiest sensual poetry he’d read since that party his agemates had thrown for him on the occasion of his knighting, all those years ago.
He could not fathom when Obi-Wan had found the time, or the flexibility, to place the writing so precisely in such an awkward location. Qui-Gon lifted the corner of his tunic and tried to wipe the suggestive words off the small of Obi-Wan’s back.
Obi-Wan stretched sumptuously, but the writing did not smear in the slightest. “Lower,” Obi-Wan suggested. Suggestively.
Qui-Gon tripped over Obi-Wan’s discarded tunic and landed with his knees on the edge of the bed.
“Smooth,” Obi-Wan whispered and slid his body in front of Qui-Gon’s, back to chest, writhing. He pulled Qui-Gon’s arms around his body. Not that they’d had far to go, since they’d automatically moved in that direction as soon as the heat of Obi-Wan’s skin penetrated Qui-Gon’s tunic.
“We shouldn’t,” Qui-Gon protested feebly. “I’ll be taking advantage; you’re ill.”
“Heal me,” Obi-Wan purred. He lowered his hands to his waist and opened his pants, dropped hands to the mattress and presented his backside enticingly. “You know you want it,” he teased and wriggled.
Qui-Gon’s hands looked massive when they touched Obi-Wan’s behind. They were only meant to stop him from wiggling like that, of course. Qui-Gon's intent was to reduce the temptation. But silky skin and undulating buttocks were not to be resisted. Qui-Gon flexed his fingers and hissed. It was too much for a mere Jedi Master to withstand.
Obi-Wan arched like a cat and made his own hisses as Qui-Gon’s beard scraped across his delicate skin, tongue teased his lower back, lips crept down, hands spread Obi-Wan wide and held him steady. Qui-Gon did not know what had compelled him to do such a shocking thing, but he considered himself to be following the will of the Force.
It must have been the will of the Force; it felt so very right.
Qui-Gon tasted sweat and a slight bitterness as he licked down the dark furrow. Obi-Wan’s force signature spiked when Qui-Gon’s tongue swept across the tight ridges of his opening. Curious.
Qui-Gon withdrew from the delicious little hole, and felt Obi-Wan drift away, a more decadent persona surging to the forefront. He quickly resumed licking his Padawan’s most intimate spot and was rewarded with a sharp cry of “Master!” and the distinct tang of Obi-Wan, both on his tongue and in his mind.
That was enough of an experiment for Qui-Gon, who had always held the scientific method in the highest regard. He skewered his Padawan and let his hands wander freely.
Then he experienced the full taste of Obi-Wan. And the full sound of Obi-Wan, howling like some possessed demon. And the feel of Obi-Wan’s under his hands, Obi-Wan’s cock in his fingers, Obi-Wan’s thighs under his arms.
Obi-Wan opening under his tongue. Obi-Wan pleading for more. Obi-Wan begging for cock.
His cock, in particular.
Qui-Gon raised his head and noticed the black markings had begun to fade. Obi-Wan’s Force signature was growing stronger.
The Force had guided him correctly, as usual; this was the most effective way to bring Obi-Wan back.
The curves of Obi-Wan’s extraordinary backside all but demanded constant caresses. Qui-Gon stroked the firm flesh and straining muscles. He let his fingers flit around the wet, hot opening.
Obi-Wan pushed against them desperately. “Please, Master. Heal my disease.”
Qui-Gon could not be sure who was speaking the words. He could sense a multitude of swirling personas, but the voice was beginning to sound closer to Obi-Wan’s, and his fingers ached to comply. The slide up to the first joint caused a flickering of the black marks at the very base of Obi-Wan’s spine. By two fingers, the marks had faded up to the middle of Obi-Wan’s back.
By the time Qui-Gon was licking around the stretched hole as he inserted a third finger, the Master was in no condition to check the state of the writing on Obi-Wan’s skin. He wanted only to hear more of those moans and feel the velvet embrace of Obi-Wan’s interior around his cock.
“Yes, Master, your cock!” Obi-Wan keened.
Qui-Gon took that as a definite sign of progress; Obi-Wan could sense his thoughts.
He wrenched his mouth away from Obi-Wan and made himself slide his fingers out. It was difficult but necessary. He needed all his concentration to search the bathroom next door with his mind. He located a quantity of healing salve and called the container to him. Once the tin was safely in his hand, he dared to look at his Padawan.
The black marks had almost vanished from Obi-Wan’s skin, and the sight of his delicious Padawan spread out before him should have not only been improper but depraved, except Qui-Gon now knew it was the only path to true recovery. He coated himself liberally with the salve and guided his cock carefully.
“Yes!” Obi-Wan surged beneath him and attempting to impale himself. It was no easy task to resist. Obi-Wan was unbearably ready for the experience.
The experience, of course, did not last long. Once fully sheathed, it was impossible to avoid enthusiastic and deeply enjoyable movements. Every thrust was accompanied by a strong sense that what he was doing was not only correct but also required. Obi-Wan’s presence grew stronger as his cries mounted, and soon he was twitching in Qui-Gon’s hand and spilling on the sheets. His Force signature became a blinding light.
Or maybe that was Qui-Gon’s own orgasm.
It mattered not. Master and Padawan were reunited. And united in all possible ways. So very united that Qui-Gon wished they might never have to part.
But he had to move away to examine Obi-Wan’s back. It was, thankfully, smooth and unmarred, but for a couple of faint scars, which Qui-Gon remembered the origins of, and traced lovingly with his fingertips, and then his lips.
Obi-Wan shuddered and sighed in a most Obi-Wan-like manner. Not that Qui-Gon had ever felt his Padawan shudder, at least not in a post-coital fashion, nor had he ever heard him sigh with such contentment, but he certainly seemed to be one hundred percent Padawan once more.
“Are you alright, Obi-Wan?”
“Mmmmm, wonderful,” Obi-Wan mumbled.
Qui-Gon ran his hand up Obi-Wan's lean side and cupped his palm over Obi-Wan's forehead to check if his Padawan was running a temperature.
“Um, Master, I don’t think I had a temperature before. And even if I did, you didn’t check, so—”
“One can never be too careful, Padawan.”
“I see.”
“And I do love any opportunity to touch your face,” Qui-Gon added truthfully.
“Oh.”
Qui-Gon removed his hand. “You’re not angry with me, are you?”
“Angry for what?”
“For me taking advantage of your condition.”
“Not a bit, Master. On the contrary, I am quite grateful. You saved me from all those strange men. And I quite enjoyed the act for itself, as well.”
Obi-Wan was mildly flustered, and a flustered Padawan was an irresistible Padawan. Qui-Gon pulled him close to his chest, and kissed the bristly reddish hair.
“I’m not sure this should be reported to the Healers,” Qui-Gon said. “We have already included ample warning against contact with the lizard spit in our mission report, and I fear that any revelation of this activity might not be taken in the spirit of cooperation and healing with which it occurred.”
Obi-Wan nodded and snuggled back against his Mater’s chest. “I think it can stay between us.”
Qui-Gon stroked Obi-Wan’s arm. “Are you sure you are well? No lingering side effects?”
Obi-Wan chuckled. “A bit of soreness, perhaps… but it’s most delightful soreness I’ve ever felt. I’m fine, Master. Really. Except…”
“Except what?” Qui-Gon searched frantically for any anomalies. Obi-Wan seemed to be himself, except for a tiny little spark of something not entirely honest, yet not at all malicious.
“I feel a small, strange compulsion to tell a story about a very large fish, for some reason.”
“Perhaps it will pass.”
“Perhaps we should repeat the treatment.”
“Do you think it would help?”
“We can only find out by trying.”
“An experiment,” Qui-Gon suggested.
“To be repeated at least daily,” Obi-Wan purred, “maybe more often. If it pleases you, Master.”
“Indeed, it would be a terrible sacrifice to make,” Qui-Gon teased, kissing Obi-Wan’s shoulder and caressing his chest. “But the health of one’s Padawan matters above all else.”
Obi-Wan lifted his Master’s hand to his lips and kissed it with reverence. “I think I am the most fortunate Padawan in the Temple, to have such a dedicated and devastatingly handsome Master.”
Qui-Gon was suitably flattered.
“Except I have a nagging desire to kiss a pigeon.”
Qui-Gon grasped Obi-Wan firmly and rolled him onto his back. Another treatment was indeed required. And this time, he would be sure to look into Obi-Wan’s eyes to make sure he’d chased away all the demons.
End
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