Fic: Stormy Knights
Author: Antigone
Category: ABH
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Qui/Obi/You
Summary: Your smut-fest is interrupted by a storm. Can 
Qui and Obi make it up to you?
Status: Complete
Archive: Sith Chicks
Feedback: No thanks. <kidding> Of course! I'll beg for it!
Disclaimer: <whine> George won’t let me have them! I 
promise to take really good care of them and make sure 
they get lots of exercise... but until he sees the light, the boys 
are still his, and I’m making no money off of this.
Note: Someone who shall remain nameless <coughZiggycough> 
sicced a sammich bunny on me, and since it’s raining here for 
the first time in months, this is what it morphed into.


‘Obi’s eyes smoldered as he reached for the trembling young 
maiden. Her head tilted back as his lips pressed against hers...’
*ZAP!*

"Oh, SITHSPIT!" You glare at the computer screen, willing it to 
flare back to life. It sits like a lump on your desk, mocking you. 
"Perfect end to a perfect day," you grumble. You haven’t read 
any smut in forever, and just as you get to the good part, a
thunderstorm has to spoil your fun. You lean down to unplug 
the CPU from the wall just in case every circuit hasn’t been fried 
yet.

"What else could go wrong?"

You have to ask... and fate answers. Fate *always* answers.

The last word isn’t yet out of your mouth when the lights go out. 

"Wonderful. OK, well, there should be a flashlight around here 
somewhere." You stand and start to feel your way around the 
room.

*Bang*

"Ouch!" Well, there’s the bookshelf. Next should be the cabinet 
with the junk drawer...

"Aha!" You grab the cylinder and feel for the switch, then sigh as 
you realize that you’ve grabbed your toy lightsaber by mistake.

‘Saber in hand, you feel your way out of the office and into your 
living room. At least there you have some candles. A particularly 
bright flash of lightning illuminates the room. Shuddering at the 
loud crack of thunder, you find the candles and matches, lighting 
one of the large red columns.

With the electricity out, there’s really nothing you can do except 
go on to bed and hope that everything gets back to normal by 
morning. Holding your candle aloft like a girl in a Vincent Price 
movie, you head off to your bedroom.

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

You stiffen. Who on Earth could that be? You certainly weren’t 
expecting any company in the middle of the night. The porch is 
dark and you can’t see anything through the peephole. Common 
sense tells you to call the police-- better to have a false alarm than 
to get robbed, or killed, or...

You’re concentrating so hard on the door that you jump, spilling 
wax on yourself when your unwelcome visitor knocks again. 
Swearing, you set the candle down and rub your sore hand, 
unwillingly curious.

//I know better. I know better. I’m not unlocking the door. I’m not 
reaching for the knob. I’m not opening the door.//

But you are, indeed; and to complete the mounting sense of 
unreality, standing on your porch is a wet, bedraggled clone 
of Liam Neeson.

"Can... can I help you?" You gape.

Liam smiles gently. "I hope so, miss. One of my transport’s 
wheels has apparently deflated. I was hoping to use your 
communication device to call a sevicebeing."

Wow. This guy even sounds like Liam using his Qui-Gon voice, 
complete with other- worldly phrases. You struggle to answer.

"Car?"

//Good girl. Maybe next time you can squeeze out *two* words.//

He looks over his shoulder. "My padawan hasn’t been able to repair 
it. I know it’s late, but I’d certainly appreciate your help."

You blink. "Pada... pada... paddlewan?"

"Do you speak Basic?" Liam peers closely at you, finally 
noticing your sleep attire: a long white tee shirt and nothing 
else. "I’m sorry, I've obviously woken you. I’ll let you get back 
to sleep."

Before you can gather your thoughts and answer, another figure 
emerges from the darkness. Ewan McGregor. In robes. Walking 
up your porch. He starts to speak--

*THUD*

"Mastuh, shouldn’t we call a healer for her?"

"No, Obi-Wan. She’s only bumped her head a bit."

Those voices. Ahh... you know those voices; they haunt your 
dreams. You sigh and snuggle against them warm body holding 
you.

The warm, hard, *male* body holding you. You squeak and try 
to sit up. Large, strong hands hold you down.

"You see? She’s better already. Now, now," the deep voice 
croons in your ear, "you’ve had a nasty fall. Don’t move about 
too much, little one."

Oh, gods, he said the magic words. Your eyes pop open and 
you stare into the blue-gray eyes of the padawan kneeling before 
you. You’re reclining on the couch, leaning against a broad, 
strong chest. And if Obi is in front of you, then the man holding 
you is... oh gods.

"Yes," the sonorous voice responds. "I am Qui-Gon Jinn. How 
did you know?"

You squirm and look up at the bearded face, the crooked nose, 
the lovely blue eyes. 

"You have eyes," you murmur incoherently, suppressing //I could 
drown in those eyes.// The corners of the master’s mouth tilt up 
as he hears the thought anyway.

Blushing, you collect yourself and sit up. "You needed a phone, 
right?" Obi-Wan nods. "You can use the one in the kitchen. 
There’s the number for an honest tow service on the fridge." Obi 
nods, then rises to his feet and saunters into the kitchen area. 

You can’t help but admire the way he moves. Apparently he 
catches the wave of desire flowing from you, because he turns 
and raises an eyebrow, then grins that endearing Yes-I’m-hot-stuff 
grin. 

Thunder booms again, and you sit petrified on the edge of the 
couch. Your Jedi guest lounges against the arm of the sofa, 
silently watching you, then reaches out to toy with a lock of 
your hair. A shudder runs down your spine, and you begin to 
turn toward him when Obi-Wan pokes his head out of the kitchen.

"It’s not working."

Hell. You stalk over and snatch the phone out of the apprentice’s 
hand. Sure enough, you get no dial tone. Heaving a deep sigh, 
you replace the receiver on its wall mount.

"I’ll see if the other one is out, too." You take your candle and 
find your cordless phone tangled in the sheets of your bed where 
you dropped it this morning. Clicking it on, you discover that it, 
too, has no power. You turn around and jump when you see Qui
standing in the doorway. 

"I guess the lines are down," you say apologetically. Lightning 
flashes and you brace yourself for the imminent thunder crash. 
To your surprise, the Master crosses the floor and wraps his 
arms around you, pressing your head to his chest.

"Listen to my heartbeat," he rumbles. "You won’t hear the 
thunder." You obey, relaxing your body, matching your breath 
to his and listening to the slow, steady pulse under his skin. It’s 
so safe and warm that you feel you could fall asleep right there.

A large hand strokes your hair, then cups your cheek and lifts 
your face. You see only a glimpse of deep blue eyes before 
Qui’s mouth softly presses against yours, his tongue teasing 
your lips until you open to him. Your tongues twine, then he 
retreats and lets you explore his mouth. Your arms snake 
around his neck, firmly drawing him down to you. 

Qui’s hands move down your back, cupping your backside and 
pulling you against him. Something hard presses into your 
stomach. Suddenly your brain latches onto the ludicrous nature 
of the situation and you start to laugh.

To your relief, Qui laughs with you. "I didn’t expect this when I 
knocked on your door," he admits. "I just thought I’d use the 
phone and wait at the transport."

You smile and trail your fingers down his cheek. "I couldn’t let 
you sit out there in this storm. It’s much nicer in here."

"You’re right," Qui murmurs, nipping at your ear. "I’d much rather 
be with you." You melt into his embrace, feeling his large hands 
knead your backside, and your shoulders, and...

Wait a minute. Nobody’s *that* dexterous. You start to break 
away when another voice purrs into your ear. "Relax, love. Let 
us give you what you want."

Your mind reels, and you think of a thousand reasons why you 
shouldn’t, but they all melt away as Obi begins kissing your 
neck, trapping you between two hard Jedi bodies. The apprentice 
is bare-chested; you can feel the heat rolling off him in sheets. 
Your hands move of their own accord, pushing Qui’s robe off his 
shoulders and moving down his chest to work on his belt.

The fastenings are unfamiliar, and you whimper in frustration. 
Your tall lover chuckles, then steps back and removes the belt 
himself, dropping it to the floor. His tunics fall slightly open and 
you take the bait, pushing at the cloth until Qui’s toned chest is 
exposed and he shrugs out of the cumbersome garments.

Obi’s hands are under your shirt, setting your skin on fire. His 
teeth lightly bite your shoulder blade as he cups your breasts, 
rolling your nipples to rigidity between his thumb and forefinger. 
You feel his hips undulate against you, stroking you with an 
undeniable hardness that weakens your knees. You moan and 
lean back against the padawan, reaching out to draw Qui to you.

The master is hungry now, and you are his meal of choice. He 
lifts your shirt over your head, leaving you exposed and suddenly 
chilled, then sweeps you into his arms and strides to the bed. 
You sink into the mattress, momentarily helpless, and the men 
are on you before you can regain your bearings.

Qui looms over you, brushing your hair from your face, covering 
you in hot, needy kisses. A pair of hands lift your right leg, the 
fingers skillfully massaging your feet, your ankles, your calves, 
then moving to your other leg and lavishing the same treatment 
on it. You open your eyes to see Obi kneeling at the foot of 
your bed, his face serious as he deliberately turns you into a 
puddle of goo. You whisper his name, and he looks up, the
solemn expression dissolving into a mischievous grin. 

He exchanges a Look with Qui, then, moving as one, the Jedi 
descend on you. Your back arches as Qui’s lips close around 
your nipple, his tongue darting out to tease the tip until you sob 
incoherently, your hands tangling in his hair. Obi moves slowly 
between your legs, brushing his barely-stubbled cheek against 
the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Your eyes clamp shut 
when you feel his breath warming your secret spot and he laughs.

"Oh, gods!" The padawan doesn’t waste any time when he finds 
what he’s after. His tongue cleaves you in two, tasting your 
nectar, then swirling around your nub. You buck against him, 
trying to increase the contact, and he obliges, burying his face 
in you, his moans vibrating around your core. 

You open your mouth to shout and feel the friction abruptly end. 
Frustrated tears spill from your eyes.

"Please. Obi, gods, please!"

You look up to see him undoing his leggings, freeing his erect 
member. Your knees are pushed up, parted further, and you feel 
the smooth skin of Obi’s hips moving between them. The tip of 
his arousal presses into you, causing you to writhe against him 
in a vain effort to force him deeper. Slowly, too slowly, he enters 
you, his breath coming in gasps and moans as he fills you. He 
covers you, kissing your eyelids as he begins to move. You grasps 
Qui’s hands, squeezing them as his padawan thrusts deeper.

Obi’s rhythm is steady and slow, intended to drive you mad before 
finally granting release. Your walls tighten around him, causing 
him to shudder and groan. He moves faster, striking your sweet 
spot with every plunge. Your body begins to shudder, your skin 
tightening over your bones as you arch and writhe, begging 
breathlessly, dissolving into sobs of need as he spills into you.

The padawan is a warm weight on top of you, sighing contentedly, 
almost ready to fall asleep. The master, on the other hand, has 
only begun. As Obi moves beside you, Qui’s hands begin to roam, 
re-awakening your body, chasing away the fog of pleasure that
coats your brain and honing it until you reach for him wantonly. 

You raise up and Obi sits behind you, pulling you into his lap. 
Qui-Gon kneels before you, stroking your thighs and the moist 
down between your legs. He leans forward, capturing your lips 
with his, moaning softy into your mouth. He grips your legs, 
raising you as he moves closer, his weeping organ poised, 
insatiable. You cry out as he thrusts, not in pain, but in the 
most exquisite pleasure you have ever known.

His voice is hoarse as he calls out your name, and his skin 
is covered with a light sheen of sweat. Your breath catches as 
your eyes meet his and you recognize the tenderness, the 
longing, the passion. He moves faster, harder, holding your 
hips steady in a vise-strong grip.

A coil of fire builds in the pit of your stomach, spreading slowly 
through your veins, licking at the edge of your sanity until 
coherent thought dissolves. Your fingernails dig into Obi’s 
triceps as you use him for leverage, meeting Qui with your own
powerful thrusts. You are suddenly, acutely aware of sound: 
combined breaths, the steady creaking of the bed, the light 
slapping of flesh on flesh, Qui’s rhythmic grunts. Then the
fire consumes you, razing your consciousness as you shudder 
and moan, triggering Qui’s liquid heat. 

You aren’t sure how long the three of you lay in a heap, limbs 
entwined, breath mingling. When you at last come to your 
senses, you’re curled up against Obi’s back, your cheek resting 
against his shoulderblade. Qui is spooned behind you, his arm 
around your waist. Both are sleeping soundly, snoring quietly 
as the rain continues to fall.

Finis