Work Text:
Qui-Gon Jinn is nothing if not flexible.
It comes with the territory really, of growing up Jedi. Of growing up in the hive that is the Temple at Coruscant, literally buzzing with the presence of a bewildering array of beings. If it comes in Force-sensitive, the saying goes, chances are we’ve got one. Or several.
He’s learned early on that there were more genders and variants and desires out there than he could have possibly imagined. The Archive was, surprisingly, useful in that respect, to fill in the gaps in his knowledge that the wild molecule of fellow Padawans was unable to obliterate with their own brand of adventurousness. And Master Dooku, naturally, had a preference for his Padawan spending his unstructured time in the Archive rather than in the arms or other appendages of other junior Jedi in the interest of sexual exploration.
He’s found that, an abiding fondness for tentacles aside, he is really quite ordinary, preferring the human body over other species. He’s not too fussed about whether his willing partner is male or female; he’s read his biology and knows that the smooth sensitive tissues are actually kind of the same and just sit on differently-shaped organs. He draws the line at anything to do with the anus though, and no amount of wheedling has convinced him otherwise. It’s a smell thing, he says, and since he usually follows it up by sticking his nose in places that smell considerably better, the protestations have never really lasted.
He loves the scent of heat in an aroused human. For a few blessed months, the cycles of hormones in Padawan Tahl’s lithe body had him tethered to her by an invisible leash, all but begging her to let him sink his face in the softness between her legs, and then sink his helplessly leaking cock there and be held, enveloped, obliterated.
He hasn’t seen her in a while, and not known her in that way for even longer; such is the way of Knighthood. He shakes his head - thinking of himself as a Master still feels awkward and odd, even though Feemor is right there, an upstanding young Knight, finished and polished and ready to represent the Order.
Feemor’s also as near asexual as Qui-Gon can figure, and so he has been toning down his own carnal escapades. Not that it’s easy anyway, with his agemates scattered all over the galaxy on missions, their own apprentices in tow, or professing to having lost interest in Such Things.
Qui-Gon figures it’s his connection to the Living Force that makes him still want it on a regular basis, but he makes do, of course he does. There are rather nice toys to be had these days, and his internal library of memories and fantasies is nothing to be scoffed at either.
Qui-Gon Jinn is nothing if not flexible.
And so, a Stewjoni Padawan. He honestly hadn’t even considered the implications; besides the obvious supernova-level intensity and ambition and tenacity that radiated from Obi-Wan, he’s also always presented completely male. To the point of growing a shockingly dense beard that one time they were stuck on Araball with no way to get back to civilization until the local equivalent of the postal service took pity on them and picked them up.
Obi-Wan is meticulous, and clean to the point of obsession; that beard never made a reappearance, and no matter how sweaty he gets in the course of his duties, he will actually prioritize getting clean over getting fed, at least unless he’s actively starving.
Which is why Qui-Gon is shocked to find, one afternoon many years into their partnership, that he can smell Obi-Wan.
And it’s not the smell of teenage boy either. Well, shouldn’t be given that Obi-Wan is nearly twenty, but he’s always suspected his Padawan of being a late bloomer sexually.
So, between that and the fact that the scent is overwhelmingly reminiscent of Tahl, Qui-Gon finds himself in the Archives once again.
And no, he has no idea how he missed that bit of information first time around. Probably because he’s never known any Stewjoni personally, and he’s never made Obi-Wan’s plumbing his business. Reproductive matters were between his Padawan and the Healers to deal with; after the disaster of trying to give Feemor The Talk, he’d stayed well away from that business and left it to more qualified individuals.
It also hasn’t helped that Obi-Wan has been exceedingly slow to outgrow his Padawan crush, of course.
Qui-Gon blinks at the diagrams and fact sheets and all he can think of is how am I going to get this one to Knighthood without combusting because the thought of Obi-Wan in heat as it were, and of the source of that sweet earthy scent… definitely enough to drive a Jedi Master to distraction.
He spends some cooling-off time in the Gardens. Literally. Takes his boots off and sits down in one of the ponds, immersed up to his shoulders, relishing the gentle pressure of the water plastering his tunics to his skin.
Obi-Wan makes a face when he comes home carrying his boots in one hand and dripping water on the floor. Of course, Obi-Wan makes a face not because Qui-Gon is wet, but because Qui-Gon has managed to come home just the moment Obi-Wan has decided it’s safe to take a shower, so Obi-Wan is wet too. With a towel slung hastily around his hips. Hiding the evidence.
Qui-Gon can smell it anyway, and it drives him mad. He tries to duck into the fresher, mumbling something about wet clothes, and Obi-Wan stops him with a firm hand on his arm.
“Master.”
Qui-Gon turns around, blinking owlishly.
“I sense you are… agitated.” A tiny frown flits across Obi-Wan’s face, and the urge to lick that tiny place between the man’s eyebrows consumes Qui-Gon.
“Nothing to worry about, Padawan, I assure you.” He doesn’t like how hollow his voice sounds, and he can tell Obi-Wan’s not buying it either. “I am just a little… chemically affected. Body chemistry,” he hastens to add, because Force knows his stimulant days are long gone.
“My body chemistry.” It’s not a question. And Obi-Wan is smiling.
“Y-yes.” Qui-Gon shakes his head, tries in vain to extricate himself from Obi-Wan’s grip. “Forgive me, I - “
“I was beginning to wonder if you were nonreceptive… or just avoiding me.” A soft snort. “It’s not forbidden, Master. As you well know.”
“With my own Padawan? I would rather die than corrupt you.”
“Corrupt me?” The laugh is too metallic, too bright, and yeah, Qui-Gon wants to eat it off the young man’s lips. “Listen to the Force, Master. Listen to your body. And besides,” and he whips the towel off to reveal a hairless but obviously interested cock, “this is what happens on my peak days, at least when I’m around you these days. This and, well… this.” And he reaches between his legs and sweet Force but Qui-Gon can hear the slickness there, and tries to recoil when Obi-Wan offers him a glistening finger for inspection when really all of his body wants to sink himself in that and bathe in Obi-Wan’s moans.
“I am not… I cannot, Obi-Wan.” He closes his eyes, which doesn’t help at all with the scent. “Not without meditating on it.”
“Then,” Obi-Wan says matter-of-factly, like the diplomat he is, “you are invited to watch. I would love that, actually,” he adds, more quietly. “After you’re done in the fresher, of course.”
Qui-Gon shivers, and exhales, and opts to leave his damp clothes on, because he’s going to need all the chill he can get. Because there is no way he can be in the same room, the same building, the same city as Obi-Wan when he’s like this, and not get helplessly aroused.
The Force sings as Obi-Wan reclines on his narrow bed, Qui-Gon sitting cross-legged at its foot. And then Obi-Wan spreads his legs, and runs a finger along his slick folds, and spreads them, glistening and scented and impossibly tender. Sighs softly as he sinks a fingertip inside, easily, like it belongs there. Qui-Gon knows what belongs there, and he knows Obi-Wan knows what belongs there, and it’s only because he promised Obi-Wan he’d only be watching that he manages to find the strength to not lunge up on the bed and bury his whole face between Obi-Wan’s legs and feed until Obi-Wan curls up in a screaming orgasm, and then slowly slide his cock inside the tight slick cunt and take Obi-Wan’s breath away again, crushing the boy’s own cock between them and rutting until they’re both a mess -
Obi-Wan’s breathless moan informs him that he’s very much broadcasting.
Still, a Master’s word holds true, and so Qui-Gon adjusts his clinging wet tunic to cover the very real hard-on nestled in his lap, and meditates.
And if he happens to manifest a rather realistic set of thick Force tendrils that bear remarkable resemblance to his fingers, who’s to say that’s wrong? Obi-Wan is vocally enjoying being filled and pumped full of sensation… and Qui-Gon Jinn is nothing if not flexible.