AN INVITATION TO TEA
(09/13/1999)

BY BRENSGRRL (marajade@looknlearn.com)

Category: ABH (Anywhere-But-Here), Romance, AU

Series: 1/1

Pairing: Qui/F;

Rating: NC-17 (Romantic Smut!)

Summary: Qui-Gon wrecks your Tea Ceremony . . .no furniture broken
though!

Archiving: Anywhere with my emailed permission—but you must tell me
where.

Feedback: marajade@looknlearn.com. Very welcome, but flames will be
used to light the "Fire on Ice" at the rink where my daughter skates...
This piece hasn't been betaed,
so feel free to do so and forward comments to me.

Disclaimer: Qui-Gon belongs to George Lucas. I wish he were mine,
literally, but he is part of the wonderful world of make believe created
by Lucasfilm, Ltd. The special appearance of You is courtesy of "You,
Unlimited, Inc." . I'm broke and only writing this for fun, so please
don't sue me.

NOTES:
Roji—Garden of a formal Tea House
Chaji—Tea Ceremony, including the meal

Chashitsu—The Tea House itself
Chabana—Flower arrangement

Tatami—Reed mats used for flooring in the Tea House

Koicha—Thick, souplike green tea served as the highlight
of an authentic Tea Ceremony

Usucha—Thin green tea served at the end of the Ceremony

Mizuya—Small anteroom to the tea room of the Tea House
(like a kitchen) used for preparation and storage

Mimosa--A breakfast drink made with champagne and orange juice.

// // Denotes thoughts
~ ~ Denotes telepathy . . .

And—all of the Haiku is mine, except for the one marked with (*), which
is by the poet Ryoko




*************************


Violet .. High red clouds. Gray sky above the leaves.
Light streams over the horizon, and you lean against the bamboo gate and
watch your roji garden dismiss the night. Eagerly, the garden turns
her
face to the faithful sun, yet darkness clings to her private arbors like
a secret lover. Breathing deeply, you inhale the mingled perfumes of
the honeysuckle vines and the pines that shade the gate, and look
about. The voice of the cricket is dying,
shouted down by morning and the water cascading into the freeform pond
sprawled a few feet away. Stone temple lanterns stand sentry at the
entrance of an arched wooden bridge that spans the pond's width; on the
other side, a curving path disappears into the garden beyond. It's a
matter of pride for you that you had taken a hand in the placement of
every stone, every bench, every bush, and every flower. Your choices
reflected your desire that the roji be a place of beauty and peace.
Nonetheless, Mother Nature hadn't cooperated in providing the veil of
dew that you hoped for. So you decide to cheat a little.

You turn the sprinklers on and watch mist anoint the trunks of the young
maple and oak trees, the clumps of pampas grass, the random patches of
bellflowers and peonies, the scattered pots of tropical palms and
monstera, the fragrant evergreens and the moss-covered stones leading up
to the chashitsu that is the roji's centerpiece. You sigh a little,
thinking once again that you should have trimmed away all of the flower
blossoms in the garden to harmonize with the way of the chaji. But you
just don't have the heart to get rid of the flowers--not yet. Besides,
he might enjoy seeing them. And their scent is intoxicating and
romantic.

As is customary for the summer season, you invited your guest to join
you for tea at dawn, before heat and humidity conquer the day. Despite
the round of festivities that both of you had attended the previous
night, and fatigue, you knew that he would keep his word and arrive with
the sun. All the more reason for this to be a contrast from the hectic

round of media and diplomatic hubbub. Now that all of the agreements
were signed, there would be time enough later to work out all of the
details of "Earth System of the Republic". What was needed now was a
place to leave the world behind.

You shut the water off, looking with satisfaction as the vapor settles,
leaving the air fresh and everything glistening with a haze of
moisture. "It may as well be as traditional as possible. . ." you say
to yourself, knowing that aside from the setting of the chashitsu and
the roji , little else about the tea ceremony would or could be
traditional. You hope that
he will be sufficiently impressed to return for another visit.

White Peony. Sprig of honeysuckle. Bare, twisted maple branch.

At the garden shed you lift the pan of water containing the chabana and
turn to select a bamboo vase from a nearby shelf. Of all the cuttings
you gathered, three seemed most
appropriate. You gather the arrangement between your palms and drop it
into the vase
all at once, in a single breath. //Perfect. //

"Yes. A beautiful morning in a beautiful place. . ."

You look around and see the Jedi Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, standing beneath
the overhang of the covered waiting place, sipping water from a pottery
cup. How long had he been waiting there? Was he watching as you
arranged the flowers? //Yes. . . perfect. // you say to yourself as you
watch his fluid movement through the gate. His smile warms you as you
approach.

"You honor me with your presence. This way. . ." you gesture.

"The honor is indeed mine."

Ever since your first meeting, you have been entranced with him,
captivated by his graceful beauty, his unselfconscious charm, the timbre
of his voice as he spoke-- all Earth languages equally embraced by his
mesmerizing accent. But most of all, it is his calm that enchants
you. He exudes a deep and abiding serenity that is as comforting as
an embrace. In his presence your soul seems to grow as fathomless as
the sea.

And now he was here with you, following you down the daybreak paths of
your garden and your heart was singing.

Cool moss. Fingers of dawn. Secluded hut overgrown with tall
grasses.

You breathe in the moist earth smell as you make your way to the tea
house.
The stepping stones shine in the early morning light, moist and
refreshing, like a path through a forest. There is a sense of
bridging, crossing over, as you proceed deeper into the garden and leave
the cares and dust of the world behind.

On the steps of the tea house, you assist him in removing his outer robe
and
boots, and you remove your sandals. You squat and ladle water from a
low stone basin next to the steps and rinse your hands. You gesture for
him to hold out his hands and you pour water over them. When he
stands, you hand him a small linen towel for drying and gently place
your palm on his chest, gathering his attention. Your eyes meet.

"There is one rule for the tea. No troubles of the outside world may be
discussed. Or we may discuss nothing at all and keep silence. For a
while, this is the whole cosmos." He nods assent.

You kneel at the low entrance, slide the door open and scoot into the
room while still on your knees. He follows, crawling in.

In the sunken stone hearth at the center of the room, water simmers
gently in an iron kettle on a small brazier. Opposite from the hearth, a
low black lacquer table stands, laden with trays containing the light
meal for summer tea. A few cushions are neatly stacked next to the
table, a concession to your guest's comfort. A scroll hangs in an
alcove directly facing the door. Below the scroll, water sheets across
the flat stone face of a fountain, and gently splashes into a catchment
basin at floor level.

Your ankle bracelets tinkle softly as you rise and cross the tatami to
raise the reed blind. A breath of the early morning breeze enters,
swelling the sleeves of your kimono.
You glance away from the window and smile as you watch him walk over to
the alcove to study the fountain and the scroll. It's almost as if he
knows the guest's role for the tea ceremony. // He, of all people,
would. // Moving back to the center of the room, you retrieve the
dampened pottery tray containing the first course, jicama and orange
slices, rice and gazpacho, and sit it down in front of his place on the
tatami. You arrange yourself on your knees across from his place. He
is still looking at the scroll and so you sit back on your heels and
wait. The silence doesn't bother you; in fact, you welcome it. There
is no hurry. You lean into the quiet, hearing only the yin of bubbling
water and the yang of birdsong.

Little sparks float skyward as you add charcoal and sandalwood to the
brazier, and he moves to his place and gracefully folds himself into a
cross-legged position across from you.

"The doorway is interesting."

"It's traditional for a tea house to have a low door. It's an equalizer
of sorts. Everyone
entering must bow down to get in. No matter how rich or how poor or
how powerful,
you've got to crawl in if you want to get in. It helps people to
remember that everyone is
the same." you reply.

"What is the significance of the artwork?"

"It's called a scroll painting and it holds the theme for our tea
ceremony."

"The theme may vary?"

"Yes. The theme depends on the host's feelings, who the guest is, what
the season may be, any number of things. But it's always a reminder of
the importance of spiritual things, and it provides a focus for the
setting of the tea ceremony. For today, I chose MU, the
'nothingness.' Simply put, it means 'less is more.' It encourages
quietness, closing out outside distractions. "

"It sounds very similar to a Jedi philosophy. We call it emptiness
attribute. One must empty the mind of everything except the task at
hand in order to fall completely into the Force, to feel the Force move
within. 'Power in brevity', that sort of thing. "

"Yes. It is something like that. Here on Earth it is frequently said
that cleansing the mind of thought will help one to gain clearer
insight. An ancient philosopher once said 'from the mind that abides
nowhere comes forth the essence of enlightenment.' That's the meaning
of MU."

"But you don't fully agree with it. "

You are surprised at his insight. "Of course not. To tell you the
truth, I chose MU mostly
because of its beauty. Can you imagine the danger of a totally blank
mind? There's no telling what kind of thoughts and God knows what else
would fill up the space. Nature abhors a vacuum."

He smiles, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands
clasped beneath his chin.
"Hence the philosophy engraved on the fountain?"

"Yes. Instead of filling up with nothingness, one should consider what
is good and look
for the best in all things.

'Whatever is true,
whatever is worthy of reverence
and is honorable and seemly ,
whatever is just,
whatever is pure,
whatever is lovely and lovable,
whatever is kind and winsome and gracious,
if there is any virtue and excellence,
if there is anything worthy of praise,
think on and fix your mind on these things. . .' you recite as you
offer the tray containing the first course.

"Are you the author of the fountain philosophy?" he asks, taking a bite
of jicama.

"I wish. No. It's ancient as well. It comes from a very important
book. All of what we've
talked about can be found in books."

"I should like to read these books."

"It would be my pleasure to show them to you sometime." you offer the
rice and soup and
pour mimosa into a small pottery cup.

"You aren't eating?"

"I have a tray back in the kitchen. That's the traditional way."

"I came here to spend time with you. Surely we can dispense with
tradition just this
once. Won't you join me? It looks like more than enough for two. "
He places a cushion and motions for you to sit next to him.

"Of course." You cross to his side and seat yourself, curious to know
how you'll manage with only one spoon and a single pair of cedar
chopsticks.

Answering your unspoken query, he begins to feed you from his dish as if
you are a child, skillfully using the chopsticks, first taking a bite
for himself and then bringing morsels of food to your lips. You wonder
if he realizes how suggestive this is. He does. The crescent of his
smile is soft as he places a piece of orange in your mouth. And
suddenly
fruit has never been sweeter. . .

As you share each course, he tells you of his life as a Jedi, his bond
with his Padawan, and the mission that brought both of them to Earth.
You raise questions, and
harvest answers. To clear the palate, hot water flavored with sage
blossoms is served.
Then you reach over and place the fifth course of 'mountain' and 'sea'
foods, in front of him.

"I have told you of our code. But you have told me nothing of yours."

"Terrans don't have a single unifying philosophy. Surely you have
learned this in your
travels here thus far. Many people go through life 'making it up as
they go'. Others live according to their own religious belief. Some
view any rules as tyranny. . . "

"I mean your code. "

He arranges the remaining cushions and lounges on his side behind you,
reclining up on one elbow, his knees bent, catching you in the curve of
his body. You are surrounded, retreat cut off by a wall of man.
Serenity flees, replaced by nervous anticipation. Butterflies
flutter in your stomach, yet you are seized by an impulse to lean back
against him and snuggle into the crook of his hips.

"My philosophy of life? It's nothing complicated, really. One part is
'first,do no harm'. That doesn't mean that I believe that people
shouldn't defend themselves. A person shouldn't be an aggressor.
Another part is to 'walk modestly, do justice and love kindness.' And
the third part is to treat others as I want to be treated. " You fidget
on your cushion as the words leave you in a rush.

"And how do you want to be treated right now?"

//Does that mean what I think it means? //

There was no mistaking his implication. An implication made
provocative by his nearness, the bracketing of your body with his, and
the smoky tone of his voice. You steal a glance at his face, and meet a
gaze that is primal, sultry. His lapis eyes search yours, reading the
deepest parts of you, waiting for your answer. A deep thrill runs
through you, stealing your breath. This is seduction. //I think
that I will skip the koicha under the circumstances.// You swallow to
moisten a dry throat and decide to ignore his question.

You lift an empty tray and rise quickly to your feet, turning aside to
hide your blush. "I have to clean up and prepare the room for the tea
service. It's the custom for guests to go out and enjoy the garden for
a bit. I'll let you know when tea is ready. " Despite hearing the
command in your voice he smiles boyishly as he rises and leaves.

Sighing, you try to calm yourself and gather the rest of the spent
trays and take them into the mizuya room. As you remove the MU from
the alcove wall and enclose it in its case, a sudden strong breeze lifts
the reed blind at the window, making it rattle. You are 'rattled'
too, shaken by a wind more powerful than any gale. So many things to
consider—including
the fact that he is from somewhere very far away and is leaving soon.
You really didn't know if you wanted to get yourself so deeply involved
in something that couldn't last.

Yet. . .

Your hands tremble a bit as you arrange the tray with the tea items.
Another breeze mingles the aroma of charred sandalwood with the scent of
the junipers. You tend the brazier and leave the tea house to get the
flower arrangement.

Lark song. Morning light. Floating leaves in the pond.

Your thoughts meander along the path to the garden shed where the
chabana waits. That wasn't the correct way to address a guest. Your
manners seem to have fled. You hadn't even offered the tray of
sweets. This tea was turning out to be anything but relaxing for you.
Yes, you do want to get closer to him. He is gorgeous and fascinating
and you enjoy being alone with him. This was much too fast, though.
It is almost as if he knows.

//Yes, he knows.//

He knows how much you want him. And he wants you.

He is as calm and straightforward in seduction as he is in
negotiation. No games here. He'll probably wait all day, patiently,
for an answer to his question. And if you don't give him the answer
soon, he'll probably telephone to get it later. What would have
happened if you responded right away, telling him the first thing on
your mind?

// Truth is, Qui-Gon Jinn I want to be treated like your lover. I
want you in my bed; I want you pillowed next to me every night. . .//

And how would he treat a lover?

You visualize his hands on you, your bodies twined on the tatami.

//Was that a wish or a prophecy?//

The very notion sets your heart pounding, your imagination racing. Your
pace slows as you allow yourself to wonder what sort of caresses he
might like and you both might enjoy. You retrieve the vase of
flowers and turn back to the path.

Then you catch sight of him, sitting cross-legged on the grass in the
dappled shade of an oak tree, lost in meditation. His eyes closed, his
face serene, his lips slightly parted;
a large hand resting palm up on each knee. He is stunning. A swirl
of energy, a power, is radiating from him, breaking against your
consciousness like a wave. A zephyr caresses his long brown-silver
hair, setting it floating about his head like a shadow, and you are
transfixed. //An angel, a seraphim// your thought spills. A desire
to touch his face consumes you. Temptation bids you to kneel and kiss
those lips. He remains motionless, seemingly unaware of you. Blue
light gathers in his hands, dancing on his fingertips. Suddenly, you
feel like an intruder. You turn to hurry back to the tea house with
your vase.

"Wait. I'll go with you."

You freeze without turning, hearing the slight rustle of his clothes as
he rises and comes to your side. And slips his arm around your
waist. Your hands tighten around the vase in a death-grip as you walk
together in silence.

No one spoke. The host, the guest, the white chrysanthemums. *

You place the vase of flowers directly on the table-like face of the
fountain. Momentarily,
you dip your fingers into the water swirling about the base of the
vase, and longing claims you as your mind replays the vision of him in
the garden, the feel of his hand on your body
as you walked together. Oh, yes. He will have his answer before the
morning passes. Your reverie breaks with the realization that he is
watching you with knowing eyes. Wordlessly, you pass each other by as
he moves into the alcove to admire the flowers and you cross to the
mizuya to get the tea utensils for usucha.

You swallow hard when you return and see that he has taken a seat next
to your
place. You bow once to him and take your seat, placing the tray in
front of you. Then you sit back for a few minutes and try to compose
yourself. Meditation is so very important
to the ceremony, but you are so aroused that contemplating anything but
his kiss is almost impossible. . .

Your movements are rhythmic and smooth as you, wipe the tea scoop and
the outside of the tea container with a silk cloth and place them in
position. You then carefully fold the silk cloth and set it back on
the tray. Some of the hot water from the kettle is ladled into the tea
bowl, and then you place the tea whisk in the bowl, rinsing it and then
holding it up for the ceremonial inspection of its tines. You discard
the water into another container and wipe the whisk and tea bowl with a
linen cloth. You place these next to the tea container and lift a
small black lacquer tray of light and dark chocolate truffles.

"Please partake of the sweets. . ." you turn toward him and bow,
offering the tray in the traditional manner. After a moment has
passed, he still hasn't taken the tray and you raise your eyes to see
what's wrong. His gaze locks with yours, immobilizing you. He takes
the tray from you, places it aside on the mat and pulls you into his
lap.

He turns your body so that you are sitting on his thighs, slightly
reclined, wrapped in his arms. Moments fade into eternity as his eyes
hold yours, and you begin to feel warm and boneless. Then he kisses
you.

At first, there is only the warmth of his breath, his lips just grazing
yours, a feathery
touch. His mouth is cool and firm. You feel a hint of his beard, yet
everything is gentleness. So sweetly gentle that you are barely sure
it's happening. He pulls away, just a little, and kisses the bow of
your lips, then the corners of your mouth, then your lower lip.
Then his tongue, warm and moist, takes its circuit of your lips,
beginning with where the
kisses started. Your lips part and your breath catches. Your body
arches toward him, and you desperately want to hold him. But your
arms are locked to your sides in his embrace. He wants you to
receive, not give. Not yet.

Now he wants to give himself to you.

His lips claim yours totally now, hungrily, his tongue thrusting deeply
into your mouth, penetrating and exploring, foretelling what he wants to
do to your body. Without hesitation you return his ardor, touching
your tongue caressingly to his, tasting him,
inhaling his breath, delirious with the sensual pleasure of his kiss.
As he continues to make love to your mouth, his arms press you closer,
exploring the hollow of your back, the
swell of your hips. You can feel his growing hardness. And
something else. A tender yet
insistent flickering against your awareness, his plea for entry into
your mind. You let
yourself yield completely, and his radiant presence fills you,
heightening your perception
and the sensation of the kiss. You are lost in wonder as you
experience both kissing and
being kissed at the same time.

~ I want you. . .~ echoes hotly in your mind as one of his hands travels
to cradle your neck while the other moves down to your breast, covering
it. He swallows your moans as he fills his hand with you, squeezing
softly, massaging. His thumb caresses your peaked nipple, and your
body slams urgently against his. He breaks the kiss and holds you
tightly, tenderly, swaying gently. He murmurs aloud, softly, love
words in a language your ears have never heard before, but that your
heart understands perfectly. Gently he releases you, letting you rest
on the tatami, your head on a cushion.

His hands find the sash of your kimono, undoing it. And then he unworks
the sash of your inner shift, and draws your body out of both garments
as if you are a doll.
He hooks his fingers under the waistline of your silk panties and skims
them down, and off.
He studies you for a while, his indigo eyes hot on your body.
~Beautiful, you are so beautiful.~ his thought sounds inside your head
with a reverence bordering on prayer.
For a split second, you can see yourself, through his eyes, your hair
fanned out on the
tatami, your chest heaving, a look of wide-eyed astonishment on your
face.

Your eyes slide shut as he strokes the underside of your breasts with
his fingers. ~So soft.~ His hands are hot against your bare skin as
he grasps the fullness of both of your breasts, lightly stroking and
lifting them, coaxing your nipples to full attention. When your
nipples are pebbled, hardened, he lowers his head, taking first one
and then the other between his lips, and you are lost in the sorcery of
his mouth. First the shattering kisses, now these incredible
caresses. Heat swirls through your center, moistening you. Your body
reels against him, and you clasp his head with your hands as you cry out
his name.

He kneels between your legs as his mouth travels lower, lovingly
covering your waist and then your belly with little kisses and bites.
He takes his time, mindful of your pleasure.
He lifts your legs over his shoulders and spreads his hands wide over
your derriere as he draws you to him. His mouth descends yet again,
and he kisses and licks the cleft of your womanhood with gentle
fervency. Your cries of pleasure drive him to tongue you deeper . .
.. and the two of you moan in unison as your release uncoils within you,
swirling outward, growing like the ripples on a pond, breaking as you
climax.

Releasing you, he rises to his feet, catlike, and begins to undress
slowly, letting his
garments settle into a pool at his feet, his eyes never leaving yours.
You slowly come to
your knees to study him, want burning brightly within you. You want to
learn everything,
all the smooth places and the rough places and the secret places. You
want to
archive him in your memory.

Finally, he is naked.

You can only think that, despite the scars that arc over one of his
shoulders, he looks
magnificent, like a thing of natural splendor, something that belongs in
the untamed beauty of a deep forest or a jungle. You marvel at the flow
of muscles beneath the skin, the power shown in the broad shoulders and
muscular legs, the vulnerability of the little V at
the small of his back before it flares into firm buttocks, the dusting
of fine brown body
hair peppering his chest and clustering darker and thicker about his
erect sex.

~You're gorgeous.~

He smiles at your wordless compliment as he moves toward you with easy
grace. And you
reach out to him. . .

Your breath stops for a moment as you take him in your hand and rub your
palm against
the head of his hardness. It moves and swells under your hand,
stretching higher,
the crown of it rising proudly, steel and velvet. You slide your
fingertips down its length, and his body tenses with need, his breath
hissing between his teeth. You begin to stroke him with both hands,
fingers wrapped around him, and he moves against you, finding a rhythm.

His eyes are closed as he fully opens himself to the pleasure of your
touch. You bend your head and touch the silken tip with your tongue.
Wanting more, you slide your tongue around the ridge and then draw as
much as you can of the length of him into your mouth, sucking gently,
your lips advancing and retreating. You can almost hear his control
breaking as his hips begin to rock. Knowing that he is so close to his
release ignites your lust, and you take him deeper.

~Gods!~ You hear his groan inside your head, as his fingers tangle in
your hair.

He withdraws from you and drops to his knees, sweeping you into his arms
and cradling you against his broad chest. Your arms encircle him and
your lips meet his in a kiss so sweet that tears spring from your eyes.
You bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, inhaling his scent,
imprinting him on your mind. He lays you down on the tatami once more,
places a cushion under your hips and stretches out his body over yours,
slipping between your thighs. You sigh and raise your hips to him as
he enters you, filling you perfectly, sliding slowly inside your wet
warmth.

The white heat of passion grows, and your body begins to move, little
pulses at first, searching for the answer to a timeless question. And
his body responds,
matching your rhythm, thrusting, joining the two of you in an ecstasy
beyond your
wildest dreams as the sensation of his pleasure fills you body and soul.

You are lost to reality, completely caught up in the storm of emotions
flooding you. There is
a tensing of every cell of your being as you surge toward completion.
Your hands fist in the mane of his hair, drawing his head down to lay
against your own. Your legs lift
to wrap around his waist. Sensing the nearness of your release, he
increases the
rhythm of his thrusts, each stroke drawing a little sob from you, until
he gives one final
stroke, sheathing himself fully as he joins you in orgasm.

**********
You awaken to find yourself in his arms, your head pillowed on his
chest. The kettle had long since ceased its boil, the fire in the
brazier being nearly out. For a while, you simply lie there, listening
to his breathing, watching dust motes dance in the late morning
sunbeams. His hand grazes your cheek, letting you know that he is
also awake.

"I hope you realize that you ruined the Tea Ceremony . . ." you say
languidly as you stretch
in his arms.

"How so?" he whispered. " I was a proper guest; I obeyed all the
forms. I didn't talk about problems. I shared the meal with you. . .
and how could I ruin it when it isn't finished yet?"

"What?" You raise yourself up against his chest and look into his eyes.

His hands begin to caress your back as he looks up at you.

"You seduced me." you continue.

"No. You offered the sweets and I partook. . ." his embrace
tightened. "you can serve the tea later."

His laughter peals in your head as you kiss his smiling mouth.