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“How bad could it be, Padawan?”
Those had been his exact words, uttered what felt like eons ago, in a more innocent age. As Jedi diplomats, it was their duty to be respectful of the local traditions of the worlds they were sent to; and they had, in their years as Master and Padawan, had many an opportunity to chuckle at the rituals and garb that had landed them in.
Generally, a Jedi’s bearing was more than apt to defuse the worst sartorial atrocities of the Mid-Rim. Especially when one had the distinct advantage of being descended from the ruling family of Serenno with their whip-sharp posture and elegant demeanor.
Qui-Gon was coming around to that; rather more slowly than Dooku would have liked, but with a panache that permeated everything young Jinn did. Lately, much of that energy had been devoted to growing, and Dooku had to admit he still wasn’t accustomed to having Qui-Gon’s clear blue eyes almost level with his own. It made sense, of course: the boy - the young man was well past his teenage years although not yet twenty. And fast approaching knighthood, his long-legged lope increasingly hard to keep up with.
Some days, Dooku found it in himself to regret the fact that Jinn was lamentably good at doing what he did; he would soon have to release him into the world, and that thought sent an odd pang of melancholy through him.
Qui-Gon had accepted the assignment with one of his enigmatic smiles that seemed to hint at depths unrevealed, somewhere behind the puppyish grins and the clear blue eyes. Dooku had no doubt Qui-Gon would succeed, even though it had felt, to him, like an affront.
Still, they were Jedi, sworn to their duties, and if said duties involved dressing the junior member of the team in the livery of the local servant class in order to properly participate in the scheduled summit, then so be it. How bad could it be, Padawan? he had said, and Qui-Gon had responded with a smirk and a remark about the local climate and how he was certain he would at least wind up wearing actual clothing because the local culture did not appear to believe in making their servants, or indeed any of their citizens, deliberately uncomfortable.
Now, as Master Dooku took his seat at the low negotiating table, he seriously doubted his original assessment about making people uncomfortable. Or about things not being bad. Very bad.
He swept his gaze across the room, if only to give himself a touch of respite from what had been placed directly in front of him, slightly off to the side as was evidently proper for the attendants of this world; the central table was low and set so far away from the cuhioned seats as to make it impossible to reach papers or documents without struggling upright from the comfortable seats. That, Dooku suspected, would be considered an affront; that was what the attendants were for, the floor space between the seats and the table more than ample enough to allow free passage for the servants.
Ah, yes. The servants. Most of them seemed perfectly happy where they were; some stood quietly and decorously by their masters’ side, others were engaged in murmured conversations or sorting through documents, their brightly colored liveries flitting from seats to table and back like jewel bugs.
“Master?”
Dooku reined in a groan at the soft voice of his apprentice. He would have to look at him now, and he did not relish the amount of self-control that would require. It would detract significantly from the amount of focus available to him for the negotiations.
Perhaps that was the point, Dooku thought grimly. Though they couldn’t have known… could they? More likely, they were having an extended laugh at the Jedi’s expense, seeing as the one thing that all the other attendants in the room had in common was that they were rather petite… and, to varying degrees, female.
And that Qui-Gon’s livery, while making concessions to his coloring, absolutely did not make concessions to his height or general body shape.
It was a dress, for a start. A pert little dress that on the local servants looked perfectly proper, skirt swinging just above the knee, unobtrusively met by matching leggings… designed for legs that were roughly thirty centimeters shorter than Qui-Gon’s.
The skirt ended just below his buttocks, revealing the intriguing strap construction that held the leggings up. Something like garters, Dooku suspected, wide and electric blue and connected to the darker blue opaque hosiery that covered Qui-Gon’s legs to devastating effect, at least down to where they disappeared in boots that were so aggressively blue they seemed to glow.
They were also, Dooku noticed with a jolt, utterly the right size for Qui-Gon’s large feet.
This was not an oversight. This was deliberate. This was meant to distract him.
And it damn well worked.
Dooku held on to his serenity with white-knuckled fingers, willing himself to look past the way that skirt enticingly played about the curve of his Padawan’s backside, never quite revealing enough but certainly not concealing enough either. Willing himself to look at the way the dress’s back closure was intricately double-laced… and not look at the way it gapped across Qui-Gon’s broad back, revealing more of the wide electric blue straps underneath. One lay snugly around the base of Qui-Gon’s throat, like a collar, and no, he could not see any closures or snaps. It was as if Qui-Gon had been sewn into this maddening travesty of an undergarment, and that thought was entirely too tenacious to banish.
“Master? You seem uncomfortable…”
“I am fine, Padawan. Find me a cup of tea, please?” The sound of his own voice helped a little, and it certainly got the attention of the others around the table. The Jedi had spoken, and that seemed to be the cue for the negotiations to begin. And the fact that Qui-Gon had obeyed quietly and actually walked out of his field of vision helped a great deal with his focus.
He’d lost track of how many neatly organized debates and votes there had been, or how many cups of strong tea he had ingested over time. There had been bathroom breaks, and delicious cold snack foods, and time set aside for physical movement and fresh air, and it had all been quite civilized, and, all told, quite successful. They would have something to ceremoniously sign and present to the populace of the various nation-states by tomorrow.
“Quite a good day, no, Master?” Qui-Gon’s soft smile assaulted him at eye level. Those boots had heels, and Qui-Gon had absolutely no right to be so competent walking in heels as he evidently was. Well, he was a Jedi, but… what that did to the sway of his slim hips as they were walking to their assigned quarters for the night was altogether un-Jedi-like.
“I am pleased to hear,” Dooku essayed, “that you do not appear to have taken offence with the… attire you were forced to spend it in.”
Qui-Gon laughed. “On the contrary, Master. While I’ll freely admit I probably look a tad ridiculous, it’s actually quite comfortable.” He grinned. “The quartermistress made certain it would be.”
“What I fail to understand,” Dooku said, carefully not looking at Qui-Gon and hoping he would make it to their rooms before combusting, “is how they were able to source boots in your size but not a… dress that adequately covered you.”
Was that a chuckle? Dooku once again carefully avoided looking, choosing instead to unlock their door and duck inside, to safety. Well, safety from prying eyes. There was still the matter of his Padawan dressed in entirely inappropriate and entirely too appealing garments. And that was no small matter.
Qui-Gon closed the door behind them and stretched luxuriantly, which made the tiny skirt ride even higher, exposing not only his buttocks but the extent of the strappy… construction underneath. Dooku swallowed hard.
“That took a while to get fitted,” Qui-Gon said huskily. “They weren’t used to having to deal with, well… man parts.” He lifted the skirt, shamelessly showing off where the soft blue straps had been sewn into an elegant casing that all but burst with Qui-Gon’s flesh. “I fear if I were to get fully aroused I might fall out of it actually.”
The glitter of amusement in Qui-Gon’s eyes drew a groan from Dooku. “You were party to this, Padawan.”
A smirk. “Partly. A certain Master of mine tends to make sure I read every bit of the mission briefing. Including the links and ancillary media.” He smiled and shrugged. “I knew what to expect.” He twirled unnecessarily, making the little skirt fly up. “And I must say that while it’s probably not something I’d be comfortable fighting in, there’s a certain… playful quality to it that I appreciate. I’ve been restraining myself all day from saying things like ‘would you like some tea, Master? Or some caf? Or a piece of me?’”
This was it. Officially. Dooku’s mouth dropped open. His eyes overflowed with the sensual assault that was Qui-Gon Jinn in a ridiculous maid outfit, tall and lanky and deliciously muscled and stripping the little dress off over his head to come away all tousle-haired and grinning. “This better?” he said, thrusting out one hip, clad in heeled boots and gartered leggings and a webwork of blue straps that… yes, Dooku’s suspicion had been correct.
“These are… sewn in place?” He hated how his voice sounded all hoarse and raspy, thick with unseemly desire.
Qui-Gon nodded. “Made to measure. Although…” He ran one thick finger along a strap that traced down his chest towards his groin, “they have some give to them. Makes them comfortable. I’m fairly certain that they could be taken off without structural damage to either them or me, if one were to be patient and diligent.” He winked, a slight blush on his cheeks that made him irresistible. “As I know my Master to be.”
The next cocky thing he would have said was rudely shoved aside by a choked moan as a determined, elegant-fingered hand closed around his blue-encased cock and squeezed, hard. Qui-Gon stumbled backwards against the wall and connected with it with a satisfying thud, shoulders solid against the stonework while his hips ground into Dooku’s hand.
Dooku watched with a degree of satisfaction as Qui-Gon’s eyes rolled back, mouth falling open on a delighted gasp. “Oh,” he sighed happily. “Yes. More. Please, Master.”
“On one condition, Padawan,” Dooku growled, holding on to his own sanity by a thread. “None of this makes it into the mission report.”
A breathless laugh, and then one of Jinn’s big paws found the back of Dooku’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. A kiss to Jinn’s delicious, hard nipples while his mouth struggled to put together a verbal response. Eventually, he did. He was, after all, a Jedi diplomat on the verge of Knighthood.
“I don’t believe… for a minute, Master… ah… that the locals would find anything unusual… gggh… in the way we are enjoying each other’s company.”
The rest of Jinn’s pronouncement, if there was one, drowned utterly in Dooku’s insistent kiss.