Black Room Quin-Plo Koon
Title: Black Room
author: helgaleena
Fandom: Star Wars: Quinlan Vos
Characters: Quin/Plo Koon, Obi-Wan, Mace
Prompt: 018: black
Word Count:
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: This is a retelling of the events of my story Following You, from Quinlan's point of view. And I am grateful to Monchy for writing about Mace/Quin at the challenge community sw_mythology, helping me get my hero in the mood.
References also to The Stark Hyperspace War, by Jon Ostrander, and Monchy's fic, "Comfort".
It was Mace Windu's birthday. He'd hoped for a private celebration with the man, but the man wasn't ready. Not that Quin hadn't given him plenty of time, mind you. So now his mood had gone black.
It had all started nearly a year ago, when Quin had been sitting at the bar, holding the drink that Obi-Wan had barely touched while he'd explained, ever so reasonably, to Quin why he couldn't be 'there for him' any longer, and left. Quin had always expected that his passion for Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon's for him, would someday be deep enough to pull Obi away. Their sex had seemed a little one-sided lately. His hands had let him know-- Obi-Wan was wishing he were with Qui-Gon the whole time. Hells, Quin wouldn't mind being with Qui-Gon either, but when he was with someone, he didn't moon after someone else like that. It rendered everything they were doing pointless.
Yeah, he'd be expected to move on anyway, being a knight now, to other knights, which Obi-Wan was not, as yet. In the evolution of things, he was supposed to tend toward steadiness, and his new padawan's needs, and away from the club scene. And this night, Obi-Wan had let him know that he wasn't going along anymore. He preferred to spend his evenings at home-- all of them. Well, it was about time. But it rather rendered going on to the club pointless, too.
And while he was still absorbing that news, Windu had walked into the bar in a daze, muttering something about Qui-Gon and his padawan. Immediately Quin had known he was in the same situation-- he with the padawan, Mace with the master. Windu had sat there and gotten drunk like someone who didn't know how. And every succeeding drink had led those big, shell-shocked brown eyes to focus on him, Quinlan Vos, with the yellow stripe accross his face, ever more frequently.
With a certain forbearance, he'd decided not to take advantage of the big man. For all his deadly prowess in combat, Windu was vulnerable just then. But he had wanted to-- oh yes, very much. He had taken Mace by the hand, stroked his wrist, kissed it. His own hands had warned him-- too much, too soon. Though he would have loved to continue pressing his lips to that smooth brown skin, anywhere on it at all--
One did not ravish members of the Jedi Council when they were at a disadvantage. Hey, he was a knight now. He possessed a bit of self-restraint, after twenty-odd years of training. He could wait.
And he had, until now. He knew exactly what he'd like to give Mace for his birthday. And Mace still didn't want it-- the overly disciplined, repressed idiot. It was harder than ever to pull himself away from the man-- it had hurt-- but he'd managed. He was pacing the Temple corridors, now, with no particular destination in mind, trying to calm himself. He who felt more than he should about a colleague--
No, he assured himself, Mace was the one who didn't recognize a good thing. He still wasn't ready yet; that was all. Beings got over losses differently. So he was a perfect, exquisitely formed sabre-master and a bigshot; that didn't mean he knew how to take being dumped. All was not lost. The seed had to incubate a bit longer.
The party rum was still fizzing through his system, making the world around him slightly hazy, and his pulse go coursing extra hot through his veins. Even so, he could feel the eyes on him-- the same ones, again.
There were always people who found his Kiffar looks-- terra-cotta skin, woolly midnight hair, yellow tattoos-- exotic. Here in the Temple, though, the gazes of individuals could become familiar sensations. This particular watcher was a regular. Plo Koon.
Usually he just let those enigmatic eyes, hidden behind the polarizing filters, take in whatever they wished, even if he was following, discreetly it was true, too often for it to be merely a coincidental joining of their routes. When he overtly noticed what the tall Kel Dor master was doing, invariably Plo would veer away, melt into the background, or similarly halt his scrutiny of the younger knight.
A very skittish admirer, was Master Plo Koon.
There had been rumors, lately, of this master's private idiosyncracies. It was said that he had a personal collection of surveillance footage from the notorious "black back room", at the dance club favored by older padawans. Not so long ago, Quin had been one of those who made frequent use of that room, for semi-private sex. That was where he'd really learned how to control his drinking. Unlike Mace Windu, the notorious prude...
He thought to himself now, I'll bet I'm one of the padawans in Plo's collection. And he's still watching me, now that I'm a knight. That makes it less of a kink, and more of a crush. Hmmmm.
Enough pussyfooting, though. This time he didn't turn around. He reached out with his mind instead, when the other's gaze was at its heaviest.
//You're following me. Again.//
Kel Dor are a highly telepathic race, and Quin's spy training had stressed telepathy. They didn't need to say a word out loud to deal with each other. The elder Jedi's embarrassment, flooding over their mental connection, was mixed with a diffident hope. For the first time, when Quin turned, Master Plo Koon came closer.
//Yes, I have been following you, Knight Vos. For years.//
He'd often wished that Master Koon would stand still for a return scrutiny. The incredible complexity of the everted ears ending in lekku equivalents, the multiple barbels, protected from the atmosphere that reddened his skin by the antioxidant masking device, had intrigued Quin at once. It looked as if he'd finally get his wish.
One of Master Koon's large, long-fingered hands rested against his own chest. A Kel Dor's hands had five fingers like his, but the digits were each as long as one of Quin's feet, with the index finger by far the longest. Plo was retiring, for all his high Council status, and all his legendary decisiveness in battle. He preferred the telepathic communication with Quin, as it came so naturally to him anyway, even now that they were face to face. For years, he had said. That would mean--
// Ever since we served together on Thyferra, and left some of our party behind.//
Force, that was the Stark Hyperspace campaign! He and Obi had only just met on that mission, and Plo Koon's former master, the great Wookiiee Tyvokka, had joined the Light. Yeah, he'd learned to think in euphemisms about getting killed, since that time on Troiken, just afterward. That had been one of his lessons from the mission-- in some ways, those who are remembered do not die...
Could it be that Plo Koon, just like Mace, had gaps in his personality that held him back, despite Master status, and that could benefit from the Vos touch? He hadn't done as much mind-healing as his old master, Tholme, but from childhood he'd certainly undergone enough of it. Is that what Plo sensed in him, an ability to cope with losses, that he needed himself, and could learn from a lowly knight who happened to have been there too? He had to know if that was it or not.
//Why?// You stalker, what are you really after, was Quin's meaning. Plo's answer surprised him. It didn't have to do with Tyvokka at all.
//You touched her. I held your hands as she called out to me through the Force. You and Kenobi.//
It was true. With communication relays destroyed by the opposition, they had sat together and used the Force. The five Jedi had arranged themselves in a ring and contacted Coruscant through Kel Dor minds, spanning light-years. That the two Kel Dor Jedi, Plo Koon and his padawan niece, were sufficiently close in neural structure, made it work despite all odds. Still, it had been a surprise to them both when necessity and the Force opened their link. And yes, Plo had been seated between Obi-Wan and himself in the circle, when that link was formed.
//Sha Koon? Your niece?// He had heard that she had become one of the casualties of the recent Yinchorri conflict. Not that he knew much about Kel Dor family ties, but-- //She was more to you, wasn't she?//
Plo inhaled deeply. His chest rose, but conversely his face seemed to crumple in along the edges of his black rebreather. His hands dropped to his sides, rendered nearly invisible by the full sleeves of his Jedi robes. His mind was a whisper within Quin's.
//Yes. We had a life-bond.//
Quin could tell that he was among the very few that had any inkling of this. They would have had to keep it secret, as it violated the Jedi code in any number of ways. Yet it had won a war-- and now Plo had nobody to grieve with, nobody who could have any idea of the actual depth of his loss. No wonder he'd been doing eccentric things.
Tears began to prick at the edges of Quin's eyes. He knew what it was like to be devastated by grief. To the depths of his soul he knew. He had felt his parents die.
And dammit, he needed to be needed, and to do something with his own desires as well. He had to touch somebody, keep himself going for the good of his innocent padawan, leaving their bond pure and uncomplicated. He'd thought Mace would be that somebody. But here and now, the Force was steering him to someone else in even greater need.
Plo's scent wafted at him from somewhere, like some industrial coating drying out, but not unpleasant. It hit a whole different part of the inside of his nose. His skin, where it wasn't protected by the seals of his special undergarment, or the breathing equipment of shining black, seemed to glow with the redness of oxygenation. Quin wanted to touch him, feel the texture of that flesh, hide it from the light and air somehow with his own.
He held out his hand. Plo took it in his. He parted his lips, ready to whisper, "Let it go--", but he didn't have to. The grief inundated them both.
Maybe it was the rum, but Quin was completely willing to cry for Sha Koon, and for Plo, her other half, left behind in this world. The tears ran down his face, though he didn't make a sound, just sighed deeply now and then and let them run. Pain shared was pain halved-- it was one of the first things he had learned, in dealing with his own healing from loss so deep it had nearly killed him.
Eventually, they had cried enough. The immediacy of loss receded from them both, and Quin could see out his wet eyes again.
//Thank you, Quinlan Vos.//
//You're welcome.// He smiled softly at Plo, who had begun to empty the tears carefully out of his flooded eyepieces, one at a time. His other hand remained folded around Quin's. Its texture was pleasant, tender and spongy, despite its size and strength.
The tears acquired an orange tint as they reacted with the oxygen in the air, where they ran among the folds of Plo's face. They had an aroma that Quin had never smelled before. Not that he wanted Plo to cry more, but he was curious--
He spoke again into Plo's mind. //There is little we can do for Sha now, except care for you as she would have wished. What will help you, my friend, who were left behind?//
Plo finished blotting the corrosive tears from his face with one sleeve. His diffidence had returned. //I have gotten myself into a bad situation with my infrared recordings. The Senate will be investigating me for possible ethics violations. It was not a good way to handle my grief. It could damage the standing of the Order.//
Quin's mouth twitched, but he continued the mind-to-mind contact. //I'm quite familiar with that black room. Who are the potential litigants, those supposedly wronged?// He tightened his two hands around Plo's, trying to set him at ease.
//Only two. You and Kenobi.// At that, Quin's dark eyes widened, over that yellow stripe no tears would dissolve.
//Me and Kenobi? You have good taste.//
// I don't know if you would still think that if you viewed them yourself. Perhaps you don't remember it all.// Plo was trying to belittle himself for having made the recordings, make himself out to be what the Senate committee would be glad to prove, for the tabloids to exploit. Quin was annoyed. He didn't want to be a cause of another being's pain unless they kriffin' well deserved to be in pain.
//Perhaps I should judge my own performance.// The younger man's smile broadened into a smirk. He pulled on Plo's hand. //Let's go see them.//
Incredibly, Plo hesitated, and it took some moments for him to overcome his trepidation. Then he set off decisively, never releasing Quin's hand, and setting a brisk pace through the nearly deserted corridors. There was nobody to see Quin's teeth flashing into a broad grin in his dark face, as he was pulled along.
There was something about the touch of Plo's skin to his, more than the usual psychometric information being passed along-- Plo had excellent mental shields, and it was gratifying how quickly he took Quin's suggestions-- but more was entering his skin from Plo's, some kind of intoxicant. He could feel it making him drunk, pushing away the fading effect of the rum with a new sensation, that included a craving for more. It was better than a stim-patch-- and what's more, Plo didn't seem to know the effect he was having on a humanoid with his body chemistry.
The videos didn't show much. To Quin, they were mostly blackness; the spybot Plo had used had been programmed to activate upon receiving Obi's or his vocal patterns. Each fragment started with one of them saying something aloud. Some incidents Quin could remember, some he couldn't, and most of them, he couldn't see. That didn't mean he didn't get a kick out of spying on himself.
//You can see something in all this blackness?//
//Yes, I see infrared. If you like, I can have the visuals enhanced with false color in your visible spectrum.//
//No, don't bother.// Quin was feeling extraordinarily fine, turned on not only by the muffled soundtrack from that black room he knew too well, but by the being at his side. This was someone who knew him as few others did, perceived what nobody else could, and valued him for simply being alive, and expressing his basic nature. And now that they were alone in Plo's atmosphere-tight chambers, whose low light soothed the eyes, he was ever more aware of Plo's scent. He breathed it in like a healing vapor. He wanted to bathe in essence of Plo Koon. He wanted the two on that black screen, in the black room, to be Plo and himself.
The recordings were finished, and he was panting, but trying to keep his lips closed, and his mind on Plo's problem. What would the investigating committee think when they found that only two padawans had been recorded, both of Coruscant's legal age? They wouldn't be flattered, the way he was--
//You are not disgusted.//
//Force, no...// He took Plo's hand again, trying to content himself with only the hand... //You were reassuring yourself that life continued on in us, that there were beings who remembered the touch of her mind, as you did.//
//It was more than physical, but it was physical, also. Quinlan, she was splendid on every plane.//
//Can you show me what you did to please each other?// He could not suppress his own desire any longer; it was blindingly evident over their telepathic link. Plo's hand was getting moist in his, and his shields were lowering and unleashing a flood of desire for Quin--
//Never mind-- I will show you what you can do to please me.//
Beneath their differing chemistry, their divergent exteriors, they were both humanoid males. Now Quin truly felt like a voyeur as intimate details of Kel Dor arousal and how it was achieved unfolded in his mind. And his hands redoubled the message of what Plo would like to do to him, for him... His clothes, especially his pants, were suddenly feeling much too tight. An audible groan escaped him, parting his lips into undisguised panting. He nearly wrung Plo's hand like a sponge between his own.
"May I-- see you?" He'd slipped, and said it aloud instead of mentally. Hells, he was ready to beg. He so wanted to see Plo from the outside, now that he'd glimpsed living in his skin.
The answer came as audible speech, from a false distance created by the black rebreather. "Yes."
Quin couldn't wait. He tore off his own clothes as if they were on fire. Dimly he remembered that nobody was ever fully naked in the black room-- but that was some historical record, and this was reality. Plo went more slowly, with some semblance of modesty, but at last they were facing each other, Kiffar and Kel Dor, aroused males. They kept their minds open as well, part of their policy of full disclosure.
Quin's hand was extended again, this time to run his fingers wonderingly down the droplets now springing abundantly from Plo's collarbone. A cloud of whatever chemical it was that evaporated so swiftly, and affected him so deeply, flowed like a soothing mist into Quin's lungs, sharing his oxygen. He felt certain that he was grinning like an idiot. Why was Plo feeling ashamed?
There was a blatant falsehood stuck in Plo's brain, like a clot, that he simply had to dislodge. For emphasis, he spoke it aloud.
"You are NOT ugly..." And with that made perfectly clear, he loosened his self-control and rubbed himself with the entirety of Master Plo Koon. He pressed their bodies together, penis to penis, chest to chest, his hands reveling in the muscular slickness of Plo's back, his cheek pressed into Plo's neck. He bent the taller being over himself, to coat himself thoroughly with his essence.
Already he was feeling the tension and turmoil in his gut that signaled his readiness to come all over the place, at the slightest encouragment. Force, he had to slow down, but he didn't want to! His dark eyes lifted to Plo's, seeing nothing but the expressionless goggles. His ardor cooled a crucial amount, putting him in control of himself again. But he just had to know what those goggles hid.
The huge, soft hands wrapping around his backside, clothing it, gave him a feeling of safety for what he did next-- they remained where they were, didn't try to stop him as he eased the goggles away from Plo's face. He braced their foreheads together and let his hair fall forward, as if they were in a dark tent-- their own black room.
There were tears in Plo's eyes again, oozing around the darkening lids held tightly shut. Their aroma was like a bitter fruit. It drew him so strongly-- he began to lick them away, bathing those vulnerable lids with his more chemically stable saliva. And Plo Koon's breathing sped up; his great hands twitched around Quin's ass.
//Open your eyes-- please.//
Inside the shelter of his black locks, the eyes of Plo Koon sprang open, blinking, engaging his own for a splendid moment. They were large, and silver. The orb of each eye was a rust color, from continual exposure to his own tears. They were wise eyes, and very beautiful. The next moment, Quin sensed a telekinetic command to the room's lighting, and everything went dark.
Quin didn't mind. He was drunk on the taste of Plo's tears, the smell of Plo's body. He kissed the mask. He kissed Plo's slick brow, making his mouth tingle. He let his hands wander freely over the amazing skin laid bare to them. A moist finger was sneaking into him from behind, but it felt just fine. The long heavy rod of Plo's arousal was beginning to vibrate against his already tense belly.
The only thing missing was-- and then Plo-- somehow, he was making him feel as if he were inside, when he wasn't-- the pleasure was flooding into him from all directions, and he let himself dissolve in it, with a shout. He fell back onto that finger, then forward onto that slickness, then back again, and Plo's release was hot over them both.
Somehow they remained upright. Somehow Plo steered them into the fresher. The lights didn't come back on. Plo didn't need them, and Quin was used to doing without them. He was getting a little unsteady on his feet.
//Plo, you are intoxicating.//
//Perhaps, but if we don't wash, the fluids will begin to chafe.// Sure enough, he revived a bit in the fresher,and was gratfied by sharing the visceral comfort the Kel Dor was receiving from the water that came between his skin and the air.
//When you leave, I will exclude the oxygen completely from the chamber and replace it with atmosphere from home.//
//When I leave?// Quin was nibbling at his shoulder, under the spray. He really didn't want to leave.
//If you don't leave at some point, you will be ill from anoxia. Leave so you can return.//
//Please, not yet.// Plo's answer was a bone-bending hug.
//You are being greedy.//
//Perhaps. But I was starved for this, more than I knew.// Plo turned off the fresher, but Quin was only barely aware of being led back to his clothing-- he'd missed something.
//Go now. Come back in two nights, Quin.// He needed help to dress, a bad sign, he supposed, but he was just too content to care. When his boots were on, his belt and sash in place, Plo touched his cheek in the darkness.
//You give me hope, Quinlan Vos.// Dimly he heard the fresher running again, so he let himself out, with a goofy grin stuck on his face.
The air of the corridor was amazingly delicious. He had been low on oxygen after all. So what? he thought. Only two more nights until he could be in the dark with Plo again.
http://hlglne.livejournal.com/16843.html has more Quin-Plo love
author: helgaleena
Fandom: Star Wars: Quinlan Vos
Characters: Quin/Plo Koon, Obi-Wan, Mace
Prompt: 018: black
Word Count:
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: This is a retelling of the events of my story Following You, from Quinlan's point of view. And I am grateful to Monchy for writing about Mace/Quin at the challenge community sw_mythology, helping me get my hero in the mood.
References also to The Stark Hyperspace War, by Jon Ostrander, and Monchy's fic, "Comfort".
It was Mace Windu's birthday. He'd hoped for a private celebration with the man, but the man wasn't ready. Not that Quin hadn't given him plenty of time, mind you. So now his mood had gone black.
It had all started nearly a year ago, when Quin had been sitting at the bar, holding the drink that Obi-Wan had barely touched while he'd explained, ever so reasonably, to Quin why he couldn't be 'there for him' any longer, and left. Quin had always expected that his passion for Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon's for him, would someday be deep enough to pull Obi away. Their sex had seemed a little one-sided lately. His hands had let him know-- Obi-Wan was wishing he were with Qui-Gon the whole time. Hells, Quin wouldn't mind being with Qui-Gon either, but when he was with someone, he didn't moon after someone else like that. It rendered everything they were doing pointless.
Yeah, he'd be expected to move on anyway, being a knight now, to other knights, which Obi-Wan was not, as yet. In the evolution of things, he was supposed to tend toward steadiness, and his new padawan's needs, and away from the club scene. And this night, Obi-Wan had let him know that he wasn't going along anymore. He preferred to spend his evenings at home-- all of them. Well, it was about time. But it rather rendered going on to the club pointless, too.
And while he was still absorbing that news, Windu had walked into the bar in a daze, muttering something about Qui-Gon and his padawan. Immediately Quin had known he was in the same situation-- he with the padawan, Mace with the master. Windu had sat there and gotten drunk like someone who didn't know how. And every succeeding drink had led those big, shell-shocked brown eyes to focus on him, Quinlan Vos, with the yellow stripe accross his face, ever more frequently.
With a certain forbearance, he'd decided not to take advantage of the big man. For all his deadly prowess in combat, Windu was vulnerable just then. But he had wanted to-- oh yes, very much. He had taken Mace by the hand, stroked his wrist, kissed it. His own hands had warned him-- too much, too soon. Though he would have loved to continue pressing his lips to that smooth brown skin, anywhere on it at all--
One did not ravish members of the Jedi Council when they were at a disadvantage. Hey, he was a knight now. He possessed a bit of self-restraint, after twenty-odd years of training. He could wait.
And he had, until now. He knew exactly what he'd like to give Mace for his birthday. And Mace still didn't want it-- the overly disciplined, repressed idiot. It was harder than ever to pull himself away from the man-- it had hurt-- but he'd managed. He was pacing the Temple corridors, now, with no particular destination in mind, trying to calm himself. He who felt more than he should about a colleague--
No, he assured himself, Mace was the one who didn't recognize a good thing. He still wasn't ready yet; that was all. Beings got over losses differently. So he was a perfect, exquisitely formed sabre-master and a bigshot; that didn't mean he knew how to take being dumped. All was not lost. The seed had to incubate a bit longer.
The party rum was still fizzing through his system, making the world around him slightly hazy, and his pulse go coursing extra hot through his veins. Even so, he could feel the eyes on him-- the same ones, again.
There were always people who found his Kiffar looks-- terra-cotta skin, woolly midnight hair, yellow tattoos-- exotic. Here in the Temple, though, the gazes of individuals could become familiar sensations. This particular watcher was a regular. Plo Koon.
Usually he just let those enigmatic eyes, hidden behind the polarizing filters, take in whatever they wished, even if he was following, discreetly it was true, too often for it to be merely a coincidental joining of their routes. When he overtly noticed what the tall Kel Dor master was doing, invariably Plo would veer away, melt into the background, or similarly halt his scrutiny of the younger knight.
A very skittish admirer, was Master Plo Koon.
There had been rumors, lately, of this master's private idiosyncracies. It was said that he had a personal collection of surveillance footage from the notorious "black back room", at the dance club favored by older padawans. Not so long ago, Quin had been one of those who made frequent use of that room, for semi-private sex. That was where he'd really learned how to control his drinking. Unlike Mace Windu, the notorious prude...
He thought to himself now, I'll bet I'm one of the padawans in Plo's collection. And he's still watching me, now that I'm a knight. That makes it less of a kink, and more of a crush. Hmmmm.
Enough pussyfooting, though. This time he didn't turn around. He reached out with his mind instead, when the other's gaze was at its heaviest.
//You're following me. Again.//
Kel Dor are a highly telepathic race, and Quin's spy training had stressed telepathy. They didn't need to say a word out loud to deal with each other. The elder Jedi's embarrassment, flooding over their mental connection, was mixed with a diffident hope. For the first time, when Quin turned, Master Plo Koon came closer.
//Yes, I have been following you, Knight Vos. For years.//
He'd often wished that Master Koon would stand still for a return scrutiny. The incredible complexity of the everted ears ending in lekku equivalents, the multiple barbels, protected from the atmosphere that reddened his skin by the antioxidant masking device, had intrigued Quin at once. It looked as if he'd finally get his wish.
One of Master Koon's large, long-fingered hands rested against his own chest. A Kel Dor's hands had five fingers like his, but the digits were each as long as one of Quin's feet, with the index finger by far the longest. Plo was retiring, for all his high Council status, and all his legendary decisiveness in battle. He preferred the telepathic communication with Quin, as it came so naturally to him anyway, even now that they were face to face. For years, he had said. That would mean--
// Ever since we served together on Thyferra, and left some of our party behind.//
Force, that was the Stark Hyperspace campaign! He and Obi had only just met on that mission, and Plo Koon's former master, the great Wookiiee Tyvokka, had joined the Light. Yeah, he'd learned to think in euphemisms about getting killed, since that time on Troiken, just afterward. That had been one of his lessons from the mission-- in some ways, those who are remembered do not die...
Could it be that Plo Koon, just like Mace, had gaps in his personality that held him back, despite Master status, and that could benefit from the Vos touch? He hadn't done as much mind-healing as his old master, Tholme, but from childhood he'd certainly undergone enough of it. Is that what Plo sensed in him, an ability to cope with losses, that he needed himself, and could learn from a lowly knight who happened to have been there too? He had to know if that was it or not.
//Why?// You stalker, what are you really after, was Quin's meaning. Plo's answer surprised him. It didn't have to do with Tyvokka at all.
//You touched her. I held your hands as she called out to me through the Force. You and Kenobi.//
It was true. With communication relays destroyed by the opposition, they had sat together and used the Force. The five Jedi had arranged themselves in a ring and contacted Coruscant through Kel Dor minds, spanning light-years. That the two Kel Dor Jedi, Plo Koon and his padawan niece, were sufficiently close in neural structure, made it work despite all odds. Still, it had been a surprise to them both when necessity and the Force opened their link. And yes, Plo had been seated between Obi-Wan and himself in the circle, when that link was formed.
//Sha Koon? Your niece?// He had heard that she had become one of the casualties of the recent Yinchorri conflict. Not that he knew much about Kel Dor family ties, but-- //She was more to you, wasn't she?//
Plo inhaled deeply. His chest rose, but conversely his face seemed to crumple in along the edges of his black rebreather. His hands dropped to his sides, rendered nearly invisible by the full sleeves of his Jedi robes. His mind was a whisper within Quin's.
//Yes. We had a life-bond.//
Quin could tell that he was among the very few that had any inkling of this. They would have had to keep it secret, as it violated the Jedi code in any number of ways. Yet it had won a war-- and now Plo had nobody to grieve with, nobody who could have any idea of the actual depth of his loss. No wonder he'd been doing eccentric things.
Tears began to prick at the edges of Quin's eyes. He knew what it was like to be devastated by grief. To the depths of his soul he knew. He had felt his parents die.
And dammit, he needed to be needed, and to do something with his own desires as well. He had to touch somebody, keep himself going for the good of his innocent padawan, leaving their bond pure and uncomplicated. He'd thought Mace would be that somebody. But here and now, the Force was steering him to someone else in even greater need.
Plo's scent wafted at him from somewhere, like some industrial coating drying out, but not unpleasant. It hit a whole different part of the inside of his nose. His skin, where it wasn't protected by the seals of his special undergarment, or the breathing equipment of shining black, seemed to glow with the redness of oxygenation. Quin wanted to touch him, feel the texture of that flesh, hide it from the light and air somehow with his own.
He held out his hand. Plo took it in his. He parted his lips, ready to whisper, "Let it go--", but he didn't have to. The grief inundated them both.
Maybe it was the rum, but Quin was completely willing to cry for Sha Koon, and for Plo, her other half, left behind in this world. The tears ran down his face, though he didn't make a sound, just sighed deeply now and then and let them run. Pain shared was pain halved-- it was one of the first things he had learned, in dealing with his own healing from loss so deep it had nearly killed him.
Eventually, they had cried enough. The immediacy of loss receded from them both, and Quin could see out his wet eyes again.
//Thank you, Quinlan Vos.//
//You're welcome.// He smiled softly at Plo, who had begun to empty the tears carefully out of his flooded eyepieces, one at a time. His other hand remained folded around Quin's. Its texture was pleasant, tender and spongy, despite its size and strength.
The tears acquired an orange tint as they reacted with the oxygen in the air, where they ran among the folds of Plo's face. They had an aroma that Quin had never smelled before. Not that he wanted Plo to cry more, but he was curious--
He spoke again into Plo's mind. //There is little we can do for Sha now, except care for you as she would have wished. What will help you, my friend, who were left behind?//
Plo finished blotting the corrosive tears from his face with one sleeve. His diffidence had returned. //I have gotten myself into a bad situation with my infrared recordings. The Senate will be investigating me for possible ethics violations. It was not a good way to handle my grief. It could damage the standing of the Order.//
Quin's mouth twitched, but he continued the mind-to-mind contact. //I'm quite familiar with that black room. Who are the potential litigants, those supposedly wronged?// He tightened his two hands around Plo's, trying to set him at ease.
//Only two. You and Kenobi.// At that, Quin's dark eyes widened, over that yellow stripe no tears would dissolve.
//Me and Kenobi? You have good taste.//
// I don't know if you would still think that if you viewed them yourself. Perhaps you don't remember it all.// Plo was trying to belittle himself for having made the recordings, make himself out to be what the Senate committee would be glad to prove, for the tabloids to exploit. Quin was annoyed. He didn't want to be a cause of another being's pain unless they kriffin' well deserved to be in pain.
//Perhaps I should judge my own performance.// The younger man's smile broadened into a smirk. He pulled on Plo's hand. //Let's go see them.//
Incredibly, Plo hesitated, and it took some moments for him to overcome his trepidation. Then he set off decisively, never releasing Quin's hand, and setting a brisk pace through the nearly deserted corridors. There was nobody to see Quin's teeth flashing into a broad grin in his dark face, as he was pulled along.
There was something about the touch of Plo's skin to his, more than the usual psychometric information being passed along-- Plo had excellent mental shields, and it was gratifying how quickly he took Quin's suggestions-- but more was entering his skin from Plo's, some kind of intoxicant. He could feel it making him drunk, pushing away the fading effect of the rum with a new sensation, that included a craving for more. It was better than a stim-patch-- and what's more, Plo didn't seem to know the effect he was having on a humanoid with his body chemistry.
The videos didn't show much. To Quin, they were mostly blackness; the spybot Plo had used had been programmed to activate upon receiving Obi's or his vocal patterns. Each fragment started with one of them saying something aloud. Some incidents Quin could remember, some he couldn't, and most of them, he couldn't see. That didn't mean he didn't get a kick out of spying on himself.
//You can see something in all this blackness?//
//Yes, I see infrared. If you like, I can have the visuals enhanced with false color in your visible spectrum.//
//No, don't bother.// Quin was feeling extraordinarily fine, turned on not only by the muffled soundtrack from that black room he knew too well, but by the being at his side. This was someone who knew him as few others did, perceived what nobody else could, and valued him for simply being alive, and expressing his basic nature. And now that they were alone in Plo's atmosphere-tight chambers, whose low light soothed the eyes, he was ever more aware of Plo's scent. He breathed it in like a healing vapor. He wanted to bathe in essence of Plo Koon. He wanted the two on that black screen, in the black room, to be Plo and himself.
The recordings were finished, and he was panting, but trying to keep his lips closed, and his mind on Plo's problem. What would the investigating committee think when they found that only two padawans had been recorded, both of Coruscant's legal age? They wouldn't be flattered, the way he was--
//You are not disgusted.//
//Force, no...// He took Plo's hand again, trying to content himself with only the hand... //You were reassuring yourself that life continued on in us, that there were beings who remembered the touch of her mind, as you did.//
//It was more than physical, but it was physical, also. Quinlan, she was splendid on every plane.//
//Can you show me what you did to please each other?// He could not suppress his own desire any longer; it was blindingly evident over their telepathic link. Plo's hand was getting moist in his, and his shields were lowering and unleashing a flood of desire for Quin--
//Never mind-- I will show you what you can do to please me.//
Beneath their differing chemistry, their divergent exteriors, they were both humanoid males. Now Quin truly felt like a voyeur as intimate details of Kel Dor arousal and how it was achieved unfolded in his mind. And his hands redoubled the message of what Plo would like to do to him, for him... His clothes, especially his pants, were suddenly feeling much too tight. An audible groan escaped him, parting his lips into undisguised panting. He nearly wrung Plo's hand like a sponge between his own.
"May I-- see you?" He'd slipped, and said it aloud instead of mentally. Hells, he was ready to beg. He so wanted to see Plo from the outside, now that he'd glimpsed living in his skin.
The answer came as audible speech, from a false distance created by the black rebreather. "Yes."
Quin couldn't wait. He tore off his own clothes as if they were on fire. Dimly he remembered that nobody was ever fully naked in the black room-- but that was some historical record, and this was reality. Plo went more slowly, with some semblance of modesty, but at last they were facing each other, Kiffar and Kel Dor, aroused males. They kept their minds open as well, part of their policy of full disclosure.
Quin's hand was extended again, this time to run his fingers wonderingly down the droplets now springing abundantly from Plo's collarbone. A cloud of whatever chemical it was that evaporated so swiftly, and affected him so deeply, flowed like a soothing mist into Quin's lungs, sharing his oxygen. He felt certain that he was grinning like an idiot. Why was Plo feeling ashamed?
There was a blatant falsehood stuck in Plo's brain, like a clot, that he simply had to dislodge. For emphasis, he spoke it aloud.
"You are NOT ugly..." And with that made perfectly clear, he loosened his self-control and rubbed himself with the entirety of Master Plo Koon. He pressed their bodies together, penis to penis, chest to chest, his hands reveling in the muscular slickness of Plo's back, his cheek pressed into Plo's neck. He bent the taller being over himself, to coat himself thoroughly with his essence.
Already he was feeling the tension and turmoil in his gut that signaled his readiness to come all over the place, at the slightest encouragment. Force, he had to slow down, but he didn't want to! His dark eyes lifted to Plo's, seeing nothing but the expressionless goggles. His ardor cooled a crucial amount, putting him in control of himself again. But he just had to know what those goggles hid.
The huge, soft hands wrapping around his backside, clothing it, gave him a feeling of safety for what he did next-- they remained where they were, didn't try to stop him as he eased the goggles away from Plo's face. He braced their foreheads together and let his hair fall forward, as if they were in a dark tent-- their own black room.
There were tears in Plo's eyes again, oozing around the darkening lids held tightly shut. Their aroma was like a bitter fruit. It drew him so strongly-- he began to lick them away, bathing those vulnerable lids with his more chemically stable saliva. And Plo Koon's breathing sped up; his great hands twitched around Quin's ass.
//Open your eyes-- please.//
Inside the shelter of his black locks, the eyes of Plo Koon sprang open, blinking, engaging his own for a splendid moment. They were large, and silver. The orb of each eye was a rust color, from continual exposure to his own tears. They were wise eyes, and very beautiful. The next moment, Quin sensed a telekinetic command to the room's lighting, and everything went dark.
Quin didn't mind. He was drunk on the taste of Plo's tears, the smell of Plo's body. He kissed the mask. He kissed Plo's slick brow, making his mouth tingle. He let his hands wander freely over the amazing skin laid bare to them. A moist finger was sneaking into him from behind, but it felt just fine. The long heavy rod of Plo's arousal was beginning to vibrate against his already tense belly.
The only thing missing was-- and then Plo-- somehow, he was making him feel as if he were inside, when he wasn't-- the pleasure was flooding into him from all directions, and he let himself dissolve in it, with a shout. He fell back onto that finger, then forward onto that slickness, then back again, and Plo's release was hot over them both.
Somehow they remained upright. Somehow Plo steered them into the fresher. The lights didn't come back on. Plo didn't need them, and Quin was used to doing without them. He was getting a little unsteady on his feet.
//Plo, you are intoxicating.//
//Perhaps, but if we don't wash, the fluids will begin to chafe.// Sure enough, he revived a bit in the fresher,and was gratfied by sharing the visceral comfort the Kel Dor was receiving from the water that came between his skin and the air.
//When you leave, I will exclude the oxygen completely from the chamber and replace it with atmosphere from home.//
//When I leave?// Quin was nibbling at his shoulder, under the spray. He really didn't want to leave.
//If you don't leave at some point, you will be ill from anoxia. Leave so you can return.//
//Please, not yet.// Plo's answer was a bone-bending hug.
//You are being greedy.//
//Perhaps. But I was starved for this, more than I knew.// Plo turned off the fresher, but Quin was only barely aware of being led back to his clothing-- he'd missed something.
//Go now. Come back in two nights, Quin.// He needed help to dress, a bad sign, he supposed, but he was just too content to care. When his boots were on, his belt and sash in place, Plo touched his cheek in the darkness.
//You give me hope, Quinlan Vos.// Dimly he heard the fresher running again, so he let himself out, with a goofy grin stuck on his face.
The air of the corridor was amazingly delicious. He had been low on oxygen after all. So what? he thought. Only two more nights until he could be in the dark with Plo again.
http://hlglne.livejournal.com/16843.html has more Quin-Plo love