Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan, Memory Loss
(Qui-Gon has lost his memory and he and Obi-Wan have been captured during a mission.)
Obi-Wan was sat cross-legged with his eyes closed. He could sense Qui-Gon was close. They were in one of the meditation rooms at the Temple. Obi-Wan could feel warm light through the window, as if he were sat directly in the warm long rectangle.
“Do you feel this?” Qui-Gon said quietly.
His eyes still closed, he had only touch to go by. Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon’s fingers stroke his lips.
“Yes, Master,” he murmured.
“Bring your attention here.”
Obi-Wan did so. His Master’s fingers were warm. He was touching him very gently.
“Mind your breathing.” Qui-Gon now brushed his thumb across Obi-Wan’s lips. “Allow yourself to feel everything.”
That light touch felt like the center of the world.
Obi-Wan parted his lips. Qui-Gon’s fingers touched that open parting, and slid into his mouth.
He woke to his own unsettled breathing and his penis twitching, pulsing, he was beginning to orgasm as he woke, and he pressed his head back into the bedroll with a swallowed-down huff of astonishment. The muscles of his buttocks and thighs bunched tight, his hips jerked as his pleasure beat through him, pulse after pulse. He felt the wetness of his clothes clinging to him.
He lay breathless.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon’s voice came quiet in the darkness.
Obi-Wan felt doused in icy mortification.
“I’m—I’m sorry—” he panted, rolling onto his side. “Master—”
“Shh–sh.”
There was only the light through the window from one of the planet’s moons, which was only a half moon tonight.
“Obi-Wan,” he said again. His breathing was unsettled.
He was a dark, indistinct shape. Qui-Gon sighed through his nose. Then he leaned up on his elbow and he put his hand through the bars.
“Sayam,” Qui-Gon said. (Mouth)
Obi-Wan reached out in confusion and his hand bumped into Qui-Gon’s hand. He took hold of Qui-Gon’s wrist, and puzzled, he leaned forward. He could tell by the smell that something had happened. He kept hold of Qui-Gon’s wrist and feeling with his mouth, he found the man’s fingers, they were wet against his lips. He tasted Qui-Gon’s fingers with his tongue. The taste on the man’s fingers was so unexpected, it made Obi-Wan pull back.
“Sayam, thura,” Qui-Gon said in a low breathless voice.
The recollection of Obi-Wan’s dream, so fresh, sprang shamefully vivid in his mind. It was confusing, it made his stomach squirm.
Obi-Wan licked Qui-Gon’s fingers cautiously. Qui-Gon did not move his hand. He allowed him to lick. Obi-Wan moved a little nearer, and licked the backs of Qui-Gon’s fingers, his knuckles, and then he tilted Qui-Gon’s hand and tasted the pads of his fingers. Qui-Gon allowed it, he turned his hand. He slid his fingers between Obi-Wan’s lips. The similarity to his dream made Obi-Wan’s face burn. Obi-Wan closed his lips on the fingers. He sucked his fingers like that, tasted with his tongue.
After some seconds of this, Qui-Gon drew his fingers out, wet with saliva, and then he cupped the palm of his hand to Obi-Wan’s mouth. The scent was potent. Obi-Wan licked his palm, it too was wet, and what it was wet with, Obi-Wan knew, but he could not rationally think of it. He tasted it, it was rich on his tongue. He licked Qui-Gon’s hand until his palm too was clean. He pressed his mouth and nose to the man’s hand and breathed there clammy hot.
“Thýra,” Qui-Gon said finally. He took his hand back through the bars. This was a word which Obi-Wan thought of as meaning good. It was difficult to be certain.
Obi-Wan lay propped on his elbow, and staring through the bars at the dark shape of his Master.
Obi-Wan’s insides were held tense.
“Dúther,” Qui-Gon said, sighing with his own easy sigh of wishing to sleep as he resettled himself. (Sleep)
Obi-Wan stared a moment longer. Then slowly, he rested back. He curled his arm around his head. His breath was still a little shaky, his heart had not yet stopped thumping. His chest rose and fell, and he pressed his lips shut and swallowed, and tried to quiet his breathing in the silence.
He touched Qui-Gon’s presence in the Force shyly, only touching lightly to reassure himself. The man’s breathing had grown slow and even.
Obi-Wan’s thoughts were racing. He could not sleep.
When first dawn light began to creep into the cell, he rose and crossed silently to the toilet grate in the corner. His penis was erect—he did not think it had gone soft since his dream, and it twitched shamelessly as he pushed his trousers down.
He examined, in the thin gray light, the mess he had made in his trousers. He took his penis in hand and pointed it downwards, and urinated onto the grate. There was nothing to be done about the mess of ejaculate he’d made on his trousers. At least the stain was hidden under his shirts and tunic when he pulled them down.
The cell was so frigidly cold, he huddled himself in his cloak as he walked back to his bedroll. Qui-Gon was lying on his side turned away from Obi-Wan, asleep, Obi-Wan knew, from another light testing brush in the Force. Obi-Wan sat down with his back to the bars.
Stop, he commanded his male member, which cared not at all that the cell was so cold Obi-Wan’s breath was misting on the air.
Qui-Gon did not have his memory, could not even remember he was a Jedi Master, and the mission had fallen to Obi-Wan to manage. He had the information, he had knowledge of Qui-Gon and their situation that Qui-Gon did not currently possess—his Master was in a vulnerable position, and Obi-Wan could only wonder what the man would have said were he to wake up suddenly, remembering everything.
The doctor had said that Obi-Wan should offer the man his mouth.
He’d licked ejaculate from his Master’s hand in the dark. Obi-Wan knew it. He recognized the man’s scent. He had licked the wetness from Qui-Gon’s fingers and his large palm, rough with callouses.
Obi-Wan shuddered, and his penis twitched in the confines of his trousers.
You… Obi-Wan shook his head, set his jaw. This had nothing to do with you. Qui-Gon needs help, to prevent his rut, and you…you…
He screwed up his face and rubbed his hand roughly over it, then rubbed at his eyes.
He was talking to his own penis. The absurd urge to laugh bubbled up in his throat, and he pressed his fist to his mouth. As soon as the queasy amusement came, it died away, replaced with a blank sort of disbelief at their predicament.
They had been, by his estimate, imprisoned fourteen or so days, so far. That was many days to come to terms with the situation, yet somehow or other it seemed to him now that he’d been treating it all as not entirely real.
It did not seem possible that he and he alone was to manage the situation, to somehow figure a way through their mission now, without Qui-Gon’s aid.
He sat with his elbow on his knee, his hand on his chin, and stared blindly at the far wall as the winter light grew from thin to a more solid gray-white at the window.
He thought of the Temple.
He thought of the Padawans in his cohort. His contemporaries. He tried to imagine one of them in this situation.
He saw his fellows in his mind’s eye, they were standing in one of the large combat halls. A line of stoic, serious faces, turned towards him, a group of Padawans whose talents and strengths he knew well. A capable group. They understood their duty to the Order like one understood breathing. Every Padawan dutiful and fiercely loyal to their Master.
Obi-Wan tried to summon up the ideal Padawan—a Padawan he measured himself against. He found himself thinking of Uzek, who had two years’ seniority over Obi-Wan. His Master was Bedap-Coh Sarbul.
Impossible to imagine Uzek sat here on this sleeproll, in this cell, chiding his own penis.
But what would Uzek do?
When he'd last been at the Temple, Obi-Wan and Uzek had had a duel in the salles.
At the end, Uzek had seized Obi-Wan’s wrist, twisting it sharply into a weak angle, then slammed his own blade against Obi-Wan’s, destroying Obi-Wan’s grip on his hilt, sending the ’saber hilt clattering to the floor.
Uzek hadn’t had much to say to him afterwards. He was unemotional about duelling, and he was very good at it.
That was the sort of person this situation needed—someone with real self-control.
But…it wasn’t quite right, Obi-Wan realized, as he consulted this mental image of Uzek.
Uzek was an alpha. That had never before really mattered. Obi-Wan only knew this as a neutral detail of Uzek’s scent that on rare occasion Uzek let slip, say during a duel. He had given more thought to Uzek’s height and the breadth of his shoulders than he’d ever thought about his second sex.
It would not be a significant fact about Uzek under any other circumstances—in fact, it felt rather improper to linger over thinking about it now. But perhaps Obi-Wan should rather think of an omega from among his cohort, someone like himself.
An omega might be differently effected by the removal of the implant, for all Obi-Wan knew. * Part of this fic.