[WIP] Being an artist feels so fucking ridiculous sometimes like "what did you do for Easter?" "oh, you know, i just stared at Liam Neeson's forehead for like a lonnnnnng time" hfkfjgkfk
Long time no Qui-Gon! I realised I've still got a bunch to edit from this shoot, and honestly who woulda thunk you could find a 'desert' location in New England?
For variety, I drew another wonderful master-padawan duo, with Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Like the duo of Kanan and Ezra, it is quite unique and filled with an amazing combination of strong friendship and a touch of parental affection. I know that the beginning of their friendship (and family bond) was challenging and emotional, but they eventually learned to trust each other. It was this new phase of trust and warmth that I wanted to capture in this art.
A sketch for a role-playing game. As a game master, I had to bring the character of Qui-Gon into the game. According to the plot, Jar Jar sometimes visits the place where Jinn was cremated and talks to the ashes, because in essence, no one really needs him, not even his "friends". And one of those days, Qui-Gon answers...
Pairing: Qui-Gon Jinn x Reader - relationship undefined
Word Count: 3,151
Warnings: ambiguous/undefined relationship dynamics, age gap (Qui-Gon and Reader aren't specifically in a romantic relationship, but I'm including this just to be safe) and minor innuendo (I guess?)
Summary: Padawan Reader helps Master Qui-Gon with his hair, making them curious about the true depth and nature of the relationship they share. // "There were many mornings you’d found yourself in the bed of your master, but not every time was it for the same reason."
Author's Note: This definitely wasn't what I had in mind for my very first full-length Star Wars fanfic! The idea just popped into my head, so I sat down and started writing. Before we dive in, a couple of quick notes: First, the Reader is a Padawan in this fic, but they’re of age (obviously)—I personally imagine them to be around 22 to 26. Second, not only is this my very first Star Wars fanfic, it’s also the first thing I’ve written in 2025! Time really got away from me. I hope you enjoy the fic! I’ll aim to improve a bit more with the next one. This was just a warm-up—a little practice to get back into the rhythm of putting words on the page.
Edited.
divider created by @/saradika-graphics on Tumblr.
The silvery veil of first light was still draped over Coruscant when you and Qui-Gon found yourselves in each other’s company the same as you so often did, the silence an implicit agreement that no hour was too early for either of you, so long as you spent it in the presence of someone comforted by your particular brand of quiet.
Out of the countless hours you spent together, these were the most precious.
You crept to his room, right under the noses of the other masters and padawans still snoozing in their beds; the rest of the Temple would awaken soon and training, studies, missions and meetings would commence, but for now, you were content to slip through the halls undetected, the vaulted ceilings catching the subtle echo of your muted steps upon the polished floors.
Sleep still clung to you even as you reached your Master’s door.
You didn’t need to knock—you were always welcome, no questions asked.
As a youngling, before you became a padawan learner, you had been moderately concerned over who would shoulder the responsibility of your training, which Jedi master or knight would see promise in you and decide to make you their apprentice.
At the time, that day could not have come fast enough.
Your desire for a great teacher, and to be deemed truly worthy of becoming a Jedi, all but consumed you.
Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn selecting you as his padawan seemed more of a fortuitous circumstance, but rather than being chosen by chance, this was beyond pure happenstance; the honor bestowed upon you of being chosen by this man, an older Jedi revered for his knowledge and wisdom as well as his seat on the Jedi Council, had to have been a quiet selection of the Force itself.
Master Qui-Gon was the level-headed counter to your somewhat scattered self, however, there was a rebellious streak in him, the smallest sliver of something defiant that twinkled in his eyes like the stars that shined, luminous with intrigue and mischief of a much younger soul underneath lines creased into the corners of his eyes and the silver-tinged hair atop his head and of his beard that you imagined would tickle your skin if he so dared to get as close to you as you sometimes hoped he would.
From the time that you had come under his care and mentorship, you had grown close, your training bond a testament to the emotion that lingered unspoken, the very ache you longed to suppress and that he never acknowledged, though whether it was from lack of reciprocation or mere respect were you uncertain.
That bond tugged on your heart, threads tangled within your soul and sometimes you wanted to free yourself from it, shed your restraints and flit about untethered, but like butterflies need time to dry their wings after they’ve broken free of their cocoons, you needed time to rest and bask in the light from his eyes, till you were warm enough to fly again.
Qui-Gon believed in the Jedi way and its teachings and vowed to pass on that very same comprehension and devotion to you. He hoped you would forge the same relationship with the Force that he had spent the greater part of his life nurturing, but within every bit of wisdom he shared, and every opportunity imparting new information upon you that arose, there was the overarching motif Qui-Gon lived by: what was right and what was the Jedi code, were occasionally not the same thing.
But above all else, he believed in choosing goodness, not for the sake of improving his own standing, within the Order or in society, or imposing his moral high ground and superiority, but because it was the right thing to do.
He had sworn his oath to the light, because it was his choice to do so, and to choose for oneself was what was right and what was wrong was the very essence of being, at least, in his opinion.
He was committed to the light side of the Force, even if that meant challenging the constructs of the Jedi Order a bit from time to time.
You entered his quarters and padded towards his bed where he was already waiting for you, propped up against the headboard with muscular torso bared, the sheets pooling in his lap around his hips.
His relaxed posture and the easy smile he offered you melted the tension in your shoulders now that the risk of being caught was past; you were safe here, with him, and if you knew that and you felt it too, then he was certain he’d done his job of mentor to the very best of his ability.
“The sun’s just come up,” his voice still held the whispers of exhaustion and he cleared his throat to remove some of the gruffness laced within it, “I thought you might not be coming.”
You let out an aggrieved scoff as you clambered into his bed and sat down cross-legged, maintaining a bit of respectful distance, “you didn’t really think that.”
While he considered your words, one of his hands stroked his beard in contemplation, his smirk still intact, then he finally he responded, “No, I didn’t. I know better than that.”
“Good.”
Pleased as you were, Qui-Gon wasn’t going to give you much room to stretch it out or warm up to it, the pleasure, that is. His insistent gaze and almost overbearing eye contact rattled your nerves and made you want to look away, but something within that frozen steel gaze was unyielding; you were slipping, plunged down into icy waters, the jolt of piercing frigidity shot through you and your adrenaline spiked, like a shockwave.
Nothing in his expression echoed any unkindness or anything but open honesty and encouragement.
“What were you thinking today, Padawan?” his gentle tone was the outstretched hand you reached for that pulled you out of the waters of uncertainty, “Was there something you came to request from me, specifically?”
Even though he had asked, the true question was in the silences in between, the pauses between words and the way his chest heaved, breath caught on the edge of the word ‘request’.
There were many mornings you’d found yourself in the bed of your master, but not every time was it for the same reason.
It was difficult, almost painful, to define the relationship you shared and so you didn’t, not wanting to jeopardize any of it just for the sake of trying to understand it enough to put words to the feeling. ‘Feel, don’t think’. There was more to it than the crash of emotion you had sworn not to dive into, too compelling to ignore, save for the fact that you were his padawan and he was your master; there wasn’t enough space for the love you wanted to give to him to join the two of you in this bed, but this would always suffice.
He was your security and your comfort, the unchanging, ever-constant presence in your life that you sought when you felt insecure.
Perhaps it was unbecoming of a Jedi to question their place, but after all, you were young, and you still had much to learn.
“Thought I might help you with your hair,” you suggested, “If you’ll allow me?”
It felt like space and time expanded to swallow you both up.
Qui-Gon’s eyes slipped closed and a look of bliss crossed his features, elation spun from the threads of promise, and when he opened them again his expression was soft as fresh green grass, full of life and, yet, oh so delicate.
“Of course, young one,” his voice contained a hint of rawness as he gestured towards the bureau on the far wall, “help yourself. You’ll find my brush, comb and any ties you might need.”
Wordlessly, you got up and went to retrieve the hairbrush and comb, easing into the same pattern you’d followed so many mornings before—this was not the first time you’d done this for him.
With both brushes in your hand and a tie around your wrist, you turned back to his bed and went to sit down again, making yourself comfortable near the foot of the mattress.
While you had made your selections and returned to the bed, he’d gotten up to change into his Jedi robes, the sandy beige, earth-toned grain and bark-colored hues highlighted the color of his eyes, but you felt uncomfortable mentioning it.
He dropped heavily onto the mattress to tug on his boots while you leant over him and a soft giggle was pulled from your lips as you attempted to get started on his hair before he’d agreed to sit still for you yet.
Your insistence amused him, the huff of air that left him the equivalent of laughter, “patience, starlight,” the nickname left his lips tenderly, like a profession, but you dared not hope for something so deliberate, “let me get comfortable first.”
You backed off and let him finish pulling on his boots before he planted his feet solidly on the floor and turned his back to you, one long leg bent and poised on the edge of the mattress while the other remained braced on the floor to stabilize the position he was in.
“Alright, young one,” once he was in a position that was conducive to having your hands in his hair, Qui-Gon finally gave you permission and creative license over his hairstyle for the day, “you may begin.”
Ah, his hair.
Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was not vainly obsessed, but he prided himself on his hair and considered it a physical manifestation of his discipline. It took tedious care to maintain the length he had grown and every time his fingers carded through the graying tresses, it was akin to touching the Force itself, his grasp tightened lovingly the invisible string that tied him to the Jedi Order and all else fell into place. He could run his fingers through his hair, but he could not ever cradle the energy it possessed. The very fact that he even wanted to was perhaps dangerous, but his hair had been with him for many years now and if there was ever any connection between who he was and had been, then it was this.
He made a mental note to mediate on that thought later.
It took a long time for hair length to grow, but through patience he had learnt from training and meditation, he’d tended to and grown it to where he was proud of and it was as much a part of him as any aspect of his very being.
He considered it a sign of respect to allow anyone to touch it and for that were you touched, the act of letting you groom and style his hair an act of trust on his part.
With a petal-soft reverence you saved solely for him, your fingers trailed through the richly dark cascade, his hair the color of soil after a drenching rain, and the sigh you drew from his lips made you hesitate, the initial thought that you’d somehow hurt him spread concern across your face.
As if he could somehow read your thoughts, his fond murmur reached your ears, “that’s very nice, young one,” he reassured, “continue, won’t you?”
Encouraged by his expression, you continued, your fingers curled around the tendrils of his hair, stroking through from root to tip as you finger-combed to remove any tangles before you even thought of touching the comb or brush.
Your careful, devoted ministrations pulled soft sighs and gentle sounds of pleasure from him and you were honored that he trusted you to see him in such a state of vulnerability, a tender expression on your face as your fingers worked diligently, yet with a feathered softness through his hair, clearing it of tangles that you carefully picked apart instead of yanking through, to spare him the tugging pain or loss of any unnecessary strands.
He was appreciative of your care and attention to detail, the consideration you had for him showed through the tenderness with which you touched him and his hair, taking it upon yourself to release him from the duty of grooming it himself, the strokes of your hands creating an undulation in him like foamy waves crashing upon sandy beaches—you were so resolute, so rhythmic, with the certainty of breath.
Qui-Gon lost himself in your considerate touch.
When your fingertips sank deeply into his roots, the tender graze of your nails against his scalp and nearly made him moan, but he caught himself just in time.
His dignity remained intact for now, but his heartbeat practically leapt through his clothes. No one ever touched him like this, measured and meaningful, a sacred offering of peace, a touch that spoke before you did.
Your fingertips listened as your touch lingered, drawing several more appreciative sounds from deep within him.
You read him like the words were written across his skin and you could touch each of them, bold and bare, finally confessing all the things you hoped he’d say to you because of how he would say it and the dulcet cadence of his voice he only used when he truly meant the words he was saying, beyond the shadow of a doubt, whole-heartedly eternal and bold.
His boldness was perhaps amongst the qualities of his you admired most.
“I think that, the next time I do this, I ought to bring something…perhaps there’s a cream I can get to enhance the softness and overall health of the growth,” you spoke your thoughts aloud as you appraised the thickness of his hair, caressing his forest-dark mane, careful not to pull or snag on any fully-formed knots, which he was more than grateful for.
“Hm, I’m certain if there’s something like that available, you’ll find it,” his appreciative hum encouraged your movements and you found yourself not wanting to let go of him, now or ever, “I have to say, I’m intrigued by the idea.”
The cascade of cocoa-hued tresses tumbled down into your hands, cusped like the pointed horns of a crescent moon, as you reached for his comb at your side. You started with the ends and worked the teeth through gently, mindful not to snag or yank through any tangles, taking your time as you made your way toward the roots.
The newest growth was kissed with smoke and thundercloud; greying strands that threaded into shining mahogany.
The comb’s teeth scraped along his scalp and it was all he could do to stifle the moans he wanted to release, to snuff out the flame of growing desire to just be, but the Jedi way was built on teachings of restraint and discipline, to show reservation and be unexpressive in the face of great emotion.
This did not mean that Jedi did not feel, and for Qui-Gon Jinn, especially in this moment, the surge of emotions coursing through him now made it nearly impossible to remain steadfast and to not let sensation overwhelm him.
He tipped his head back into your waiting hands, long tresses reaching down almost to the sheets as they bunched beneath your shifting bodies.
Once you had finished combing, you took his brush and began to pull it through, starting at his roots to carry the natural oils from his scalp down into the aged ends, making them softer and healthier to the touch.
You were a bit rougher with this step, if only because you’d cleared him of any tangles or knots beforehand and so that the bristles on the brush could penetrate down through the thick locks and gather the oils and deposit them along the strands.
“Your hair is very healthy,” you commented, “I don’t see you needing a trim anytime soon.”
A small chuckle fell from his lips as he nodded, “I do my best to look after it when I have the time. Although, with you around, I don’t have to put as much effort into finding the opportunity to do it myself.”
You set his hairbrush aside and removed the tie from around your wrist, “half up, half down today?”
Your question took him slightly aback, not expecting you to ask his preference, but he responded as though he had been waiting for the question to be posed, “yes, that’s perfectly fine.”
With his explicit permission, you began to gather the top layer of hair into your hands as you carefully drew your fingers through it to smooth it down. You grabbed the brush again and pulled it through for several more swipes, securing the fly aways and stray threads that tried to escape.
You gently secured the tie, looping it snugly around the ponytail before you loosened it a bit, not wanting the style to be too tight and pull painfully on his roots.
A long day of wearing your own hair up reminded you of how painful it could be if the style was too tight and your own scalp would ache at the end of the day when you finally let your hair loose.
The very last thing you wanted was to imagine your master in any amount of pain, no matter how insignificant.
He was a fully-trained, sturdy, resilient Jedi master and the amount of pain that he could endure might frighten you to know, but that didn’t stop you from doing him this curtesy, to save him any hint of pain that you could.
He was grateful that you styled him just right and were considerate of his comfort, yet even so, he kept his thoughts to himself.
When you were done, he shook his hair out to test the style’s stability or if anything needed adjustment. As always, you’d done an immaculate job, having learnt precision and how to follow proper instruction from the first time he’d taught you.
Who knew you were learning applicable skills for your Jedi training by helping your master with his hair, but you were pleased nonetheless that he allowed you to care for him.
On top of learning how to maintain a proper hair-care routine, you were also learning what your master liked, how much pressure to apply, how gentle or how rough you could be with him and before your thoughts could wander any further, though you knew not which path they had yet descended, he turned and was looking at you with the same direct eye contact as before, sending your thoughts spiraling out of control, a tornado of words spinning up within you until your mind emptied completely and all that was left were you and him.
His eyes were storm-cloud blue, swirling with quiet power and wisdom as he spoke in a deep, sonorous rumble, like a roll of distant thunder, “Now, let’s see about your hair, then.”
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