Time to go back to the Outlander! A very, very special thanks (that's not even the word for it) to my co-writer for these final two chapters, snootiegirl99, without whom, none of this would have happened. Seriously. Thank you SO MUCH for finding Quinlan for me and bringing him back where he belongs. 3

Disclaimer: Only Knights Out belongs to me. Everything else belongs to GL & Disney. The song, 'Circus' belongs to Britney Spears.

There's only two types of people in the world, the ones that entertain, and the ones that observe...I'm like the ringleader, I call the shots...I'm like a firecracker, I make it hot when I put on a show...All the eyes on me in the center of the ring, just like a circus...

~ 'Circus', Britney Spears

Having regrettably come into far too close contact with the sweaty, sticky, and/or slimy appendages of his Jedi brethren, Obi-Wan's brow furrowed as he finally caught sight of Quinlan, only to have the Kiffar disappear into the bobbing throng of party-goers continuing to push their way towards whatever disturbance his friend had been dispatched to resolve. It would be so much easier if we could use the Force in this Sith-forsaken place. Quin projects his lust almost as loudly as Anakin does his petulance. Obi-Wan frowned deeper. I am not thinking about Anakin and his petulance. Or the way his lip pouts. Or what it must taste like. Distracted completely by the idea of running his tongue across his Padawan's jutting lower lip, Obi-Wan barreled right into what he belatedly recognized as some kind of queue for bar service.

A tray of slender tubes filled with a deep metallic green liquor launched dangerously into the air, quickly snatched by a dark hand that slapped them back to the tray angrily. "Hey, watch it, motherfucker! Don't make me kick your sorry drunken ass."

Mortified, Obi-Wan's hands flailed helplessly at the tray, nearly upending the beverages once more. "Oh, I am sorry, I—blast!" Cursing Anakin, Anakin's lips, and any further ruminations about the flavor of said flesh for his oafish blundering, he started to offer further apologies, praying that that the Force might finally be on his side and he'd be able to slip away without further incident. Lowering his useless hands, Obi-Wan glanced up into the narrowed eyes of Mace Windu and sighed resignedly. So...still not on my side. "Oh. Um...hello."

"Hey, Kenobi? You're still here?" Mace gawked, his threatening glower replaced by puzzled surprise. "I can't believe you've even lasted this long. Did you make nice with Tachi? Hell, for that, I'd beg, bark, and roll over!" he chortled with a hard clap of camaraderie to Obi-Wan's back, forcing Obi-Wan to stagger forward with a startled grunt. "Or did you finally go running to Skywalker and confess your everlasting love? What you see in that boy, well, other than the obvious, I'll never know."

And you had better never. The bitter thought was so immediate, it brought Obi-Wan up short. Padmé, Siri, Quinlan, and now Mace? Was he seriously threatened by Mace? Well, it is Knights Out, and stranger things have happened... He had learned long ago not to underestimate in any way the twisted humor of the Force when it came to humiliating and humbling her servant Jedi. He only had to look at how his evening had progressed thus far; a fight with Anakin, a quick and desperate indiscretion with Quin, the infuriating sight of Siri seducing his very willing Padawan, another fight with Anakin, and dancing. He'd been dancing. With Quinlan! Oh, yes, he most certainly had become the Force's plaything, and she was having a grand time this night.

Obi-Wan was dismayed at how out of control his behavior—his life—had become. It would be far too easy to blame the Force, or Quinlan—well, a lot of this evening was definitely his fault, first and foremost dragging him here, second for being such a good friend that Obi-Wan had felt obliged to stay and help him out—but Obi-Wan was the one with the tragically preposterous unrequited love for his own Padawan. He might be the Master, but he had no right to make claims on Anakin, no authority to engage a security perimeter around his Padawan or growl menacingly at potential rivals like some kind of territorial pack beast. Really, this is what I've become? A slobbering vornskr? Wonderful.

Obi-Wan swayed and checked his balance, managing a half-hearted smile and deferential dip of his head—he might be a drooling canine, but he would be a drooling canine with manners. "Master Windu. I apologize for my clumsiness. I'd heard you cleaned up in your game with Master Yoda. Do tell me you're not in line to make him pay up?"

"'Master Windu'? Whatever, Master Kenobi," Mace laughed again, looking almost angelic as the lights reflected off his head, though the words that followed were anything but. "Yeah, I beat the old troll all right—the little green dude passed out not long after the last round—I think he's still under the table. Damn good thing, too. You know how Yoda talks when he's sauced—actually makes sense. So seriously, why are you still here?" He made a show of checking around Obi-Wan and shook his head mockingly. "Still alone, huh? Looking for a little action to bring home for the night?"

Closing his eyes for a moment, Obi-Wan swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his chin to hide his impatience for Mace's needling. "Thank you, yes, I'm still alone, as you said, and no, I'm not looking for any sort of...of...action that Knights Out might provide at this point." He craned his neck past the other Master in the direction where he'd last seen Quin. "I'm actually looking to help Quinlan with some security issue. Have you seen him?"

"Nah, though that fucker owes me for sending Fisto off-planet for him. I just came over to pick up a tray of Selonian Shooters for me, Mundi, and Luminara, which you nearly spilled all over the damn place—stang, Kenobi, what is with you tonight? You show up here of all places, which really deserves some kind of investigation of Sith influence right there, you turn down Tachi, you're seen macking on Vos..."

He regarded Obi-Wan with a mix of pity and wonderment. "Skywalker's worth all that desperation, huh? The boy's got it where it counts, I'll give you, but man, you turned down Tachi. Haven't you wanted to hit that for years? You had better get to 'Nara in the morning for a head scan."

"A head scan?" Astounded, Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and impulsively grabbed one of the shots, tossing it back immediately. The liquor burned all the way down, causing his eyes to water. "That? Was awful," he coughed, reaching for another. He waved it erratically in Mace's shocked face.

"Nevertheless, w-while your concern for my health is touching, Mace, my choices for companionship, or lack thereof this evening, are not a matter for Luminara's scrutiny...or anyone else's!" he huffed indignantly, throwing back the second one and tossing both tubes back on the tray. He gasped for air, wishing for anything, even Nubian Ass Tea, to wash down the vile assault on his throat. "I am here simply," he rasped, blinking repeatedly to clear his watery eyes, "as a favor to Quinlan, nothing more!"

Mace chuckled to himself, impressed by the hangover Kenobi would undoubtedly be nursing for the next three days at this rate. "Looks more like he's been doing you the favor, Obi-Wan. For a couple of years now, and I know you know what I mean." He waved and hollered across the room, pointing down at Obi-Wan and making an exaggerated sad face, followed by a crude gesture that made Obi-Wan look away in distaste.

"Listen." Mace walloped Obi-Wan on the arm to get his attention, which was still occupied with thoughts of swallowing the entirety of Hoth to extinguish the fire burning its way down his esophagus. "When you're done sniffing around Vos' ass and pining for Skywalker, you should join us," he invited, nodding his head encouragingly. "A little adult company might help."

"For the love of—" Obi-Wan stumbled again, wincing as he rubbed at his throbbing arm. "Please do let me know if you see any this evening, Mace. Adults, that is," he countered icily, slanting his gaze over at the spectacular example Masters Billaba and Ti were currently setting involving a stage, some unidentifiable props, and...feathers? Obi-Wan averted his eyes back to Mace—he really didn't want to know, he decided.

The Korun let out a loud guffaw, tucking the tray in close as he backed away into the crowd. "Only the good die young, Obi-Wan," he advised, beaming mischievously. "And sinners have a helluva lot more fun."

Scowling, Obi-Wan began his trek through the undulating crowd once more, his throat still burning, but not as much as his inflamed frustration and scorched pride. "Then Anakin surely will surpass Yoda," he muttered bitterly, willing himself to notthink of what kinds of sins Anakin had already engaged in that evening.

And I must have died a long time ago.


Anakin stretched out languorously on the now-slick surface of the bar, casually propping up a boot against the ale tap on the inside rail. He wriggled his body and arched his hips to the beat of the music pounding in his ears, seeing the swirl and strobe of the lights even through his closed lids. He'd been skeptical about this whole body shots thing, but after seeing Aayla perched on Siri, working her tongue all the way up the other woman's body... Anakin just knew it was the distraction he'd spent the entire night looking for. Now the party was coming to him; Anakin Fucking Skywalker was the center of attention and loving it, and fuck anyone who tried to get in his way. Damn right, no one's gonna stop me now. Not even Obi-Wanker Kenobi.

Above the music, he heard the appreciative roar of his audience, and cracked open an eye, figuring it was for whoever was next in line. He didn't care who it was, as long as they kept coming, and by the looks of the line, he wouldn't have long to wait. He settled back, grinning when long nails raked through his short curls and Siri's familiar voice purred "Are you enjoying yourself, darling?" With the juicy wedge of fruit pushed between his lips, Anakin could only nod and relax, groaning as Siri shimmied and settled herself once again across his hips for another turn. Fuck yeah, this is a Knights Out to remember. Obi-Wan is always saying I should be mindful of the moment, and I plan on making many moments to be mindful of tonight!

His commitment to mindfulness was almost instantly derailed when some Ithorian bellowing 'Oh, you can blow me!', sounded to Anakin a hell of a lot like 'Obi-Wan Kenobi'. Betrayed once more by his out-of-control preoccupation with Obi-Wan, Anakin chastised himself, irritated that once again he'd allowed thoughts of his Master to disrupt his very deliberate attempts—hello, Siri's mouth currently near my delta quadrant— at forgetting the man altogether. Or at least forget for five fucking minutes, was that so much to ask?

Apparently, he thought hopelessly, the lights, the music, the clamor of the club melting away as Fantasy-Wan appeared to him once again, not for a casual strip tease in their quarters this time, not a dirty, needy hookup in the 'fresher, but forcefully pushing his way to the front of the line, eager to claim his turn...

Obi-Wan vaulted up to the top of the bar, his boots clicking sharply on the smooth surface. The crowd cheered, initially for this bold, sexy stranger's commanding swagger, then louder when surprised cries of recognition quickly spread word of his identity. Now the center of rapt attention, visible to a wide swath of the club, tongues and other appendages wagged in anticipation for what they were about to witness. Obi-Wan brushed aside those bangs that drove both him and Anakin crazy—though for very different reasons, Anakin knew—and with a broad smile, held out a hand for quiet. "I do believe—"

Anakin's eyes shot open, blinded by the flash of a passing strobe light. Was that...Obi-Wan? He tried to blink away the glare, his eyes sluggishly coming into focus...and then saw him. Oh... Force. Standing between Anakin's calves, face flushed, shirt half open and wet, hair tossing about rakishly as he swayed just a little bit on the heels of his boots. Anakin sucked in a breath and held it, not daring to breathe.

"—it is my turn with this Padawan!" Obi-Wan finished with a flourish of his hand, to furious cheering and applause.

Obi-Wan placed his hands on his hips and turned toward Anakin, who hadn't moved an inch since he had heard those first words in that voice, that damnable unintentionally seductive tenor that had fed Anakin's raging libido for years. He regarded his Master warily now, his mind reeling... His turn? What was he going to do? Lecture me in front of everyone? Here, at Knights Out? Oh, hells no... Then, Anakin caught the look in his Master's eyes, and he swallowed. Hard.

Obi-Wan was staring intently at Anakin. Past the point of control or propriety, he reached up and released one button on his shirt. Then, slowly and deliberately, he unbuttoned the next. Slowly, slowly. He finally reached the last one, and slid the shirt off of one shoulder, and then the other, in a teasing motion that left Anakin's mouth dry.

The crowd roared, but Anakin's full attention was on the nearly unrecognizable man hovering half-naked above him. Feeling himself heating from within, Anakin wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, encouraged by the way his Master's pupils grew darker with each lazy, suggestive swipe. Obi-Wan balled up the shirt and threw it casually over his shoulder, raising his eyebrow at Anakin, as if he was daring Anakin to challenge him.

Squatting down, but not touching Anakin yet, Obi-Wan grabbed the bottle, measuring out two more shots. With a disparaging shake of his head, he stood up, gazing down at Anakin's torso. "Just look at you. You're filthy, Padawan, ravaged and defiled by countless others who have had their mouths on you, a disgrace that you not only allowed, but wantonly encouraged." Obi-Wan suddenly tossed both drinks across Anakin, the cool liquor splattering over his abdomen, up to his chest, some even splashing his chin before sliding off his skin in ticklish, wet rivulets.

"A Jedi must always keep himself tidy. You never know when you might be called on for servicing—I mean, in service of—your Master," Obi-Wan lectured disdainfully. Anakin bucked and shuddered from the sensation and pulled his arms down from under his head, giving his Master an insolent smirk from under his lashes. Propping himself up, he began licking at the drops of alcohol on his chin. His Master shook his head disapprovingly, pushing Anakin back down with the tip of his boot. Squatting once more over Anakin, Obi-Wan dragged two fingers over the mess on Anakin's chest, then painted Anakin's lips with the silky liquid...

"Oh, baby, if only you could see how delectable you are tonight." Siri's smoky voice, so distinctly not like Obi-Wan's at all, startled Anakin back to a reality that disappointingly did not have his Master straddled over him, offering alcohol-sweetened fingers for Anakin to lave clean with his tongue. "Look, Anakin. Just look at them, all hungry and waiting to taste you," she cooed invitingly, tracing a line over his collarbone to his braid, twirling it playfully around her fingers.

Anakin lazily opened one eye and craned his head toward Siri, nodding and smiling dazedly, but only gave the crowd a cursory glance. He didn't bother searching for the one face he wanted to see, the only one he was waiting for. Oh, if only, Anakin thought fleetingly, sighing and resuming his position as this year's big attraction at Knights Out. Which admittedly, considering the alternative—being alone, or Force forbid, watching Master Vos sucking on Obi-Wan's face, or sucking on his—fuck, don't even go there!—wasn't so bad.

Dammit. Desperate to wash away the sickening thought, he blindly grabbed at a bottle on the bartop, took a huge, sloshing gulp, and winced when the bottle slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor next to him. He snapped his fingers impatiently. "Next!"


Wading his way through the tight crowd pressing towards the action at the far end of the bar, Quinlan watched with grudging appreciation as Siri slid off Anakin and selected a lanky dark-furred humanoid Padawan from the line, handing him the spice shaker and a shot. With his height and distinctive tattoo, Siri spotted Quin immediately, and with the hungry look of a nexu ready to pounce, she pointed first at Skywalker, then crooked an inviting finger at the Kiffar, mouthing, "Your turn?"

Don't I wish, Quin thought, responding to her generous 'offer' with his most insincere smile and an exaggerated salute. Tachi's just eating this all up as a way to screw over Obi-Wan. While he could argue with her intentions—Obi-Wan was his best friend and was clearly besotted with that shit-for-brains Padawan of his, and according to Aayla it went both ways—Quinlan sure as hell couldn't fault her methods. Damn, if it were anyone but Chosen Boy and Kenobi, I'd be over there leading the kriffing line. And she knows it.

With an equally flippant wave, Siri blew him a kiss, tossed her hair back with a laugh, and returned her attention to the spectacle she'd so proudly created. Quinlan Vos might be the ringmaster of this circus, but she held the reins of the star attraction and planned to make the most of it.

Slowed in his progress to Siri and Skywalker by a passing conga line headed up by Mundi, Quin whistled his loud approval at the gyrating procession. When Windu cha-cha'd past him with a deliberate check to his hip, Quin returned it with a good-natured smack to the Korun's ass. Wait, Windu? Without much hope, he quickly scanned the raucous parade of revelers... Koon...Yaddle...'Nara...Olin and Veld... but knew it was useless—he'd seen a lot of strange things at Knights Out over the years, but Surly-Wan participating in such frivolity? Not a chance.

Quin sighed and dashed between a couple of stragglers, making a straight line for Skywalker's boots, which at this point was about all he could see of the kid. With any luck, he figured Obi-Wan had finally fallen into a taxi and was on his way home to his ugly-assed robe and, if Quinlan had anything to do with it, his Padawan's bed.

But you gotta get that boy out of here first. Quin scratched at his chin as he glanced around the club, assessing his options and mulling over some way to work Tachi's game to his advantage. C'mon, Vos. You've infiltrated the Sith, Hutt cartels, and Kenobi's pants—you're the expert at the impossible. There's gotta be something that'll push those final buttons...and make us all very happy Jedi tonight.

As one young Padawan awkwardly mumbled something that was intended to pass as a seduction line in her ear, Siri affected an encouraging smile even though her attention was clearly not with this boy—whose species was not readily identifiable but pleasing nevertheless—must be some potent pheromones, mmm...but no, my sweet, you aren't my focus just now. Just a little distraction from the impossibly-pompous Master Obi-Wan Kenobi's precious Padawan, who lay sprawled indecently across the bartop, grinning drunkenly as fellow Padawans, Knights, and even a few Masters, queued up to take their turn tasting the Chosen One. She had to admit it was a unique taste. Like just desserts.

Patting the young pup on the antennae, Siri strolled along the lineup, perusing beings of all ages, species, and sexual identifications, and tapped a finger thoughtfully against her lips, smirking with satisfaction. Pity you already left, Obi-Wan. You really would have enjoyed the show—or perhaps not. I guess word of mouth—and all the little bite marks and scratches—will have to do. All those hands, all those lips, all over your precious Anakin. Humiliating, really. And positively devastating, which you have more than earned, darling.

"I hear you and the kid put on quite the show, Tachi. What you need now is a man," Quin drawled, swaggering confidently up to her near the end of the line and giving the blonde a lewd once-over, his knowing grin widening further as his eyes lifted to meet her icy glare.

Siri choked with contempt, folding her arms across her chest. "Right, Vos. Do you happen to see any around, because all I see are little boys with, ahem, little toys," she lifted her chin haughtily, challenging the clearly overstated claims of the wanna-be lothario's virility.

Quinlan beamed and spread his arms wide. "Hey, baby, all the boys like my toys. The girls, too. 'Bout time you found that out, sweetheart. What do you say?" he winked encouragingly. "No need to get nasty with me, just because Kenobi didn't want to buy what you were selling. So, what, you already done with the Golden Boy there?" he asked nonchalantly, nodding over towards Anakin.

Siri followed his gaze, smiling triumphantly. "Oh, I've hardly begun. The night, like my sweet kitten, is young, and unlike some others, I am willing to share my rewards." Siri purred and ran her hands coyly down Quin's chest. "As you were kind enough to do for me earlier, with your surprisingly talented ex-Padawan. Aayla's delightfully...now what is the word for it? Nimble? No... Lithe?...that's not it, either... Oh, yes." She raised a provocative eyebrow, relishing Vos' rapt attention and hitch in his breath, and leaned close to his ear. "Flexible," she whispered hotly, weaving her arms up and around his shoulders.

She'd always found Vos to be well beneath her and revoltingly simple, both in taste and intellect, but at the moment, with his impressively muscled stature pressed up against her, and that mangy hair of his, dangling from his head like a dead animal, lightly scratching and tickling the sensitive skin under her arms, she could not quite remember why. "Perhaps we should consider sharing...together, hmm?"

Quin's eyes widened at the unexpected proposition, not to mention the very inconvenient, traitorous, and extremely urgent jump of a member of his personal party that had gone hours without coming out to play at Knights Out. Me, Aayla...and Tachi? Oh, kriff, Aayla's lekku and Tachi's legs, all wrapped around me...now that's some kind of Quinny sandwich!

Quin cleared his throat gruffly, desperately working to keep that party in his pants—for now, anyway. "Better be careful, honey. Someone might take you up on it," he replied with a leer down Siri's barely-there blouse, which had apparently—and fortunately—not been re-buttoned quite right. Damn Kenobi, you've always been a better man than me. How in the hell did you pass this over?

Siri ran a finger over the rough stubble on the Kiffar's chin, then over her own parted lips and down to the cleft in her chest, enjoying the prowl of Vos' hungry eyes over her. "That would be the idea, Master Vos. Unless you think it would be too much...for you..."

Quinlan groaned, letting his hands roam freely beneath the loosened hem of Siri's blouse, skimming his fingers against the outside curves of her thank-the-Force stripper-quality sentries of splendor standing at attention, ready to be inspected and conquered by General Vos of the GAR. "Oh, I'm definitely up to the challenge, Master Tachi," he growled in her ear, dragging his thumbs brazenly over the thin lacy film of her...whatever she had on under there, because in all his travels to various establishments across this galaxy, he was sure he'd never come across one of these, because Sith damn, he would have remembered.

Siri bit back the moan, unwilling to give the bastard any satisfaction—at least for now—but couldn't control the involuntary arch into Vos' surprisingly skilled hands. Anakin, while pretty, could certainly learn a few things from this lout...hmm...now there's a lesson I wouldn't mind supervising.

Trying to wrest back some control of the situation, she peered up at the Kiffar, tracing a fingernail over one of the intricate tattoos on the man's sculpted bicep. "And so just where do you think your little Twi'lek has wandered off to? The fresher? A brothel?" She gasped, feigning concern. "Oh, dear...Kit Fisto?"

"What?" Quinlan flinched, a look of alarm passing over his face. Growling, he yanked her closer, his dark expression melting into a confident smirk. "Now, why in the galaxy would she need that Nautolan, when she's got this already? Quinny's got everything she needs tonight, so don't you worry, Tachi. She'll be back."

Blowing ineffectively at the blonde strands that had inexplicably become entangled with his dreads and obscured his view, Quin urgently scanned the crowd over Siri's head for any sign of Aayla. Or hells, even Fisto. At this rate, he was going to need all the luck the Force had to give him in order to get Skywalker into Kenobi's bed, and Aayla into his. He wouldn't argue if the Force wanted to reward his selfless efforts with a side-order of Siri Tachi, either.

Aayla, sweetheart, don't you make a liar out of me.


After touring the Outlander for any sign of Barriss, Kit, or anyone worth wasting her valuable time with while waiting for Quinny to get the job done, Aayla stalked up to the bar, alternatively smiling and flipping off the line of Jedi waiting to get their 30-second thrill with the hottest thing, next to her, of course, that the Order had to offer. "Losers," she murmured with a broad smile. She reached Anakin's boot first, hooking her nails into the flesh behind his knee and digging in. "Sexy-Kin," she growled through gritted teeth.

Pouting, Anakin reluctantly sat up and blinked open his eyes. He smiled quickly to cover his disappointment at yet again losing the image of his Master sprawled all over him on the very public bar, instructing a wayward Anakin in some very uncivilized, un-Obi-Wan-like lessons. "Aaaaayla," he sighed blithely, raking a hand through his hair and flicking his braid over his shoulder. "How's it going? Find Master Fisto yet? He's not been in line here," Anakin frowned, crinkling up his brow thoughtfully. "Well, not that I remember," he laughed drunkenly, giving up trying to count them off on his fingers. "There's been, um, a few here."

Baby-Kin needs to get out of here and go home, before he does something really stupid. Aayla rolled her eyes, digging her nails in yet again. "Yeah, yeah, you're so popular, everyone wants you, I get it," she said exasperatedly. "But what about Obi-Wan, huh? That's who you really want to see this, isn't it? Listen up, stupid: your Master went home already. So if you're putting on your little show for him, it's too late, okay?"

It was a lie, a tiny little white lie, but for all Aayla knew, Master Kenobi had gone back to the Temple; she'd not seen him since she spotted him with Master Windu, and that had been a while now. She had to admit that, despite her personal aversion to any kind of exclusivity—the galaxy was an endless buffet with an infinite supply of cuisine to be sampled—she was very fond of the hopelessly romantic dumbass fucking up his existence—along with her night—on the bar in front of her, and did want to help him. Even if getting Anakin out of here would also help Quinny get that much closer to getting her. Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing; she just relished the chase and had no intention of being a one-night wonder for Quinlan Vos. He could be her one-night wonder. Maybe two. Definitely not more than three.

Scowling, Anakin rubbed the back of a hand over his eyes. "Prolly went home with your Masser," he muttered jealously, recalling the way Master Vos' hands were all over Obi-Wan's...everything.

"Hmm..." Aayla hummed with a noncommittal shrug of her slim shoulders, giving the impression that Quinny had indeed slunk out of here with Anakin's Master in tow. Giving her friend as much of a sympathetic smile as she could under the circumstances—fondness aside, Anakin had definitely been a pain in her very comely ass that night, and it was high time he stopped harshing her buzz at her first Knights Out as a full-fledged Jedi Knight. "Come on, you know this game of 'Who's Who of the Temple' isn't what you really want, even if right now Quinny's back in your quarters, drilling your Master into your mattress."

Anakin choked. "My mattress?" A totally unwelcome image invaded his already overactive imagination, one swirling with dark dreadlocks, guttural thrusts, and cultured, mannered cursing amid his model starships, techno-fusion posters, and broken droid components. He felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. "Force, Aayla. Shut up, would you?"

Aayla reached out and yanked hard on his braid. "Hey, I'm not that thrilled about it either—remember, that's my Master, too, you know. But I'm not the one making an ass out of myself with the entire Jedi Order, trying to hurt him." She frowned, smoothing her hand down his braid, using the tip to brush affectionately at his cheek. "Come on, haven't you done enough damage for one night? It's like you guys are sparring with blindfolds on, eventually someone's going to get hurt."

With a naughty wink, she ran her blue-pink tongue over her top lip while brushing her hand up Anakin's thigh, giving it a firm, encouraging squeeze. "Maybe you should think about putting those blindfolds to better use...and with different lightsabers...?"

Anakin squirmed, sighing dreamily at idea of his Master in a blindfold, offering to spar...no, demanding to spar, only...yes, yes, blindfolded and naked...no, forget sparring...blindfolded, naked, sweaty combat training on the mat...rolling around, pressed chest to chest...yes...

He gave a little shake to his head, trying to focus on the gorgeous Twi'lek in front of him, wishing to all hells for her, for anything, to make him forget Obi-Wan. Acting on thoughtless impulse, he boldly reached over and drew one of her lekku into his palm, expertly manipulating the tip just as she'd taught him last year in the 'fresher. "Could show you my 'saber, Aayla. Wanna s-spar?"

Lightning fast, Aayla's fingers were around his wrist. She bared her teeth, giving him a look that was anything but inviting as she pried away his presumptive hand. "Hey, sleemo, hands off. These?" She took a step back and tossed the pleasingly plump appendages over her shoulders, preening and posing as the attentive crowd behind her whistled, honked, and tweetled their appreciation. "Are so not for you tonight. What you want is cock, and honey, that's about the one thing this Twi'lek doesn't have. Get out of here. Go home, find that kriffing-hot repressed mess of a Master of yours who, incidentally, has a cock."

I want more than that, Aayla. Just can't have it, that's all. So I gotta take whatever I can get. Anakin tilted his head to the side, quirking his lips. "Plenty of cock here tonight, Aayla. Other stuff, too. Why leave now, when I can get all I want here, huh?" He patted her on the shoulder reassuringly and tried to look serious, but the copious amounts of alcohol made his face too lax, resulting in something not too unlike an expression the Twi'lek had observed on many a lascivious Hutt. "S'ok, Aayla," he slurred, swaying close and bumping his forehead against hers unintentionally. "Ow. T-tonight's all about me having fun. And I am, really. Just look around, who wouldn't have fun?"

He broke into laughter as Aayla scowled and roughly shoved him out of her face. "Hey! Anyone here not having fun?" he hollered to his captive audience, grabbing another shot and downing it to their roaring approval.

"Whatever, I am so done here," Aayla huffed, jabbing Anakin squarely in the thigh, only mildly satisfied when he cried out in protest. "Good luck," was all she offered as she moved aside for the next patron. Can't help the helpless, and Sexy, you are beyond help. Now, where's Kit? Quinny? Charity work's over, this girl's earned a good time tonight.


A growing, rumbling murmur in the crowd behind her and Quin annoyingly pulled Siri away from delectable thoughts of dominating both this beast of a man and her skittish kitten. Curious now, her eyes slid over to the erratic weaving and jostling of the beings surrounding them, catching strains of offended protests and drunken threats in a remarkable number of languages.

When she recognized the inimitably polished voice that had haunted her for years—even when it was professing awkwardly sweet endearments in her naïve teenage ears—she bit her lip gleefully, thanking the Force for this very unexpected and timely gift. Oh, you really are a glutton for punishment, Obi-Wan. And I am far too pleased to be the one to deliver it. Pity; had I known, perhaps things would have turned out differently for us years ago.

"'Scuse me, pardon me, please...no really, I'm looking for Master Vos...excuse me, 'm sorry, no, I most certainly am not interested in that...oh,my apologies, I assumed you meant me... Can anyone point me toward Quinlan Vos? I really must find—" Obi-Wan burst out of the crowd, tripping over the undulating tail of a Thisspiasian to fall hard against the backside of a tall, dark, unyielding frame. Boots slipping in the indignant being's slime trail, Obi-Wan pulled himself into an upright position and attempted to straighten his shirt in what he thought was a dignified manner.

Perhaps those Selonian Shooters were not the most prudent choice, he considered idly, putting his hand over his mouth to cover an unwieldy belch, followed immediately by a disturbingly loud hiccup. "Completely uncivilized," he murmured with a disdainful frown, as he carefully maneuvered his way around the black wall of leather and muscle that he knew could only be Quinlan Vos. And that vest, who else would go bare-chested in a leather fringe vest? Obi-Wan hiccuped again, pushing his disheveled hair out of his eyes as he looked up at the Kiffar, smiling with obvious relief.

"Master Vos! At last!"

Quinlan took one look at Obi-Wan, forcing himself to flash his most charming smile even as he was muttering some choice Huttese through gritted teeth. Obi-Wan was smashed. No, Obi-Wan wasn't just smashed, he was actually falling-down piss drunk. And after years of frequenting innumerable cantinas across the galaxy with Obi-Wan Kenobi, experience warned Quin that Tipsy-Wan was entertaining for exactly five short minutes, until he got some buzz droid up his exhaust port over something or other, and Pissy-Wan took over. "Stang," Quin sighed under his breath; this whole scene with Siri was just begging for an appearance by Pissy-Wan.

"Uh...yeah...here I am, wow, you found me!" Quin agreed hastily, all while trying to peel Siri off him, but she was clinging to him worse than any case of Intergalactic Clap he'd ever picked up. He shot her a pleading look, which she returned with feigned wide-eyed innocence, snuggling up to him even more. When she ran a single clandestine finger down the length of his half-hard cock, he could only manage to choke out a garbled, "Hey, uh! Um...I thought you'd gone on?"

Accustomed to finding his philandering friend in any number of indecent situations, Obi-Wan paid little more than polite regard to Quinlan's latest conquest and continued on, taking no notice of the man's odd behavior—Quin and odd were virtually indistinguishable even outside of Knights Out. "Not when...there's...trouble..." he panted helpfully, ready to aid Quinlan in any way he needed, and definitely eager to postpone the lonely evening promised to him later.

Another night alone...the model of chastity personified...without Anakin, or anyone else, for that matter. He struggled to return his focus away from his mind's seditious thoughts of whatever vulgar, inappropriate, and most assuredly carnal activities the young man was undoubtedly, and probably currently, engaged in. With that harlot Siri, or perhaps he's gone on to his Nubian Nightmare? Hells, he's probably with her and her entire entourage of lookalikes—a Padmé for every night of the kriffing week. He scowled in revulsion at the invasive image of a harem of identical women in disturbingly complex hair arrangements and matching tasteless lingerie, all with the same eerie robotic voice promising various acts of depravity to an eager and agreeable Anakin. Just help Quinlan, and then get the hell out of here. You don't belong here, you never did.

Obi-Wan shoved down the powerful wave of self-pity, returning his attention to the scene at hand, trying to assess whatever problem or situation Quinlan had been called away to tend. Holding back another threatening hiccup, he looked around...and blinked, hard. And blinked again, not trusting the information his admittedly impaired senses were providing. No apparent brawling between any of the more combative species...no illicit activities—which would have to be beyond the pale to be outlawed at Knights Out...no sign of Kit Fisto...nothing to warrant a security call. Just Quinlan, standing here seemingly in one piece, with his arms full of...

No. Obi-Wan squinted, tilting his head in confused disbelief, unable to process what he was supposedly seeing. No. This is...no. He blinked again, cursing the alcohol still waging war on his normally acute senses, then stood back stiffly when the scene in front of him finally came into terrifying focus. Quinlan...is with Siri. Siri! The bloody degenerate's emergency is her?

He fixed Quin with what he hoped was his most formidable 'General Kenobi of the Republic' glare, though if his blurred vision was any indication, it was probably more akin to 'Glassy-Eyed Spice Addict'. "Yes...well, I gather that would have been in...finitely more convenient for you, wouldn't it, my old friend? But you see, my conscience got the better of me, and if you can imagine, I thought you might actually...need my help." He pursed his lips, gesturing scornfully at the lamentable affliction draped all over the other man. "Though it seems you...indeed...have the situation in hand."

Siri trilled with delight, thoroughly amused by the addled emotional state the normally insufferably responsible and balanced Jedi Master Kenobi was in. "You know, Obi-Wan, your jealousy this evening is truly remarkable. While I understand your...disappointment...with being cast aside by not only your Padawan, but now your...what did you call him?...date?...and finding them both preferring my company...well..."

She curved her lips into a seemingly sympathetic frown. "I suppose it's a natural reaction to so much rejection in such a short amount of time, darling." Cuddling against Quinlan's shoulder, she dropped the sympathetic pretence. "Trust me, my dear Obi-Wan, I'm taking very good care of them. As you pointed out, they've both been in my very good hands."

Quin flinched with growing discomfort, surreptitiously trying to separate the blonde hellion from him in a manner that did not in any way constitute rejection or disinterest on his part. Quinlan Vos was no fool—he'd had a front row seat all night to Siri's vengeance against Obi-Wan for snubbing her in front of all the other Masters. Between hosting Knights Out, trying to seal the deal with Aayla, and now playing matchmaker/referee/fucking soul healer to Kenobi and Skywalker, he didn't need the added complication of a hell-bent maneater like Tachi turning on him. Not when he was this close to partaking in the woman's rumored mastery of some Force skills that Quin figured were not only against the Code, but probably a criminal offense in several star systems. Steeling himself, Quin pulled back from Siri and turned to face the Wrath of Kenobi. Still, he couldn't resist letting his hand fall low to discreetly palm over the kriffing marvelous curve of her backside.

"Listen, Obi-Wan. Me and Tachi...we were just..." he shrugged sheepishly, withering a little when the other man just folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrow expectantly. Quinlan began to fidget, literally caught between the two people who had the power to eviscerate him, if only to get in a shot at each other.

"Man, come on. It's Knights Out," he whined, as though he needed no other excuse or explanation for getting caught feeling up his best friend's ex and nemesis. "And-and-and besides, I thought we agreed you'd go home, to wait for...you know..." he hinted suggestively, waggling his eyebrows. "Remember, Horny Healer? Pet the Padawan? Mind the Master—"

"Quinlan!" Obi-Wan hissed in warning, not in any way wanting to discuss his...relationship—you mean non-relationship, you old fool—with Anakin, certainly not in front of Siri, not when she'd had more of a relationship with his Padawan tonight than he could ever hope to have, outside of his increasingly frequent and disturbingly inappropriate hallucinations.

Undaunted and fortified by the potent cocktail of bitterness, jealousy, and embarrassment swirling through him, he turned his building acrimony on the one person because of whom he'd suffered the most this wretched evening. Next to yourself, Kenobi. Never underestimate your gift for self-inflicted pain and humiliation.

"Trust you, Siri? Oh, I don't think so. I trust you about as much as I trust this one," he jabbed an accusing finger at Quinlan, "to refrain from leering at your chest like he's about to dive right in and devour them. Honestly, Quinlan, they're just breasts. Your maternal-replacement fixation is rather disturbing, you do realize?"

Quin grinned wickedly and nodded, stealing another appreciative look. "Hey, man, I know you're not much of a connoisseur these days, what with your boy, you know, not having them, but let me tell you, these are really—"

"Quinlan." Obi-Wan put a hand out, trying to ward off any further commentary about Siri Tachi's...anything. Quin was right about one thing—Obi-Wan had no interest in anything having to do with Siri. Or anyone else, for that matter. All he wanted, what he'd wanted for so long, what he came here tonight to forget, was what he couldn't have. Anakin.

Pulling away from Quin, Siri narrowed her eyes dangerously. "You know, Obi-Wan, just because you're too...impotent...to indulge in your feelings, doesn't mean others are similarly impaired."

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, refusing to let her see how close the remark had hit. "My immunity to your...charms...does not reflect an impotency on my part, Siri. More like...indifference. Or revulsion." He smiled coyly, gesturing toward her companion. "You may ask Quinlan, if you like, as to how impotent I was earlier this evening. I assure you, I was anything but impaired."

Siri's lips flattened in distaste. "As if it takes any skill getting Quinlan Vos to fuck you," she laughed, waving him off dismissively.

"Oh, honey, please. As if it takes any skill getting Siri Tachi to fuck you." A shrill laugh pierced the air as Aayla strolled up, twirling the stick of the hard confectionery in her mouth. With a wet pop, she let it slip from her pursed lips, turning a disapproving frown at her former Master. "Really, Quinny? Now you're slumming it with this schutta? There is no way you're getting anywhere near me without a full tox screen—Force knows what she's carrying."

Her face contorting into a mask of anger, Siri took a step forward and raised her hand, ready to strike, only to find it suddenly restrained. "Don't even think about it," Quin's deep voice growled into her ear. Startled, she twisted around and matched the Kiffar's dark warning look with one of her own.

Trying somewhat to diffuse the situation—at this point, he really didn't need anything else kriffing up his plans with Aayla, plans that if he was lucky, would also include Tachi—Quin positioned himself between the two women, looking from Aayla to Siri, a lopsided grin quirking his lips. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, ladies. If you wanted to wrestle, you know, to work off all this sexual tension, all you needed to do was ask. I can have the mud pit set up in minutes," he offered eagerly, reaching with his free hand for his comm. "Clothing is optional, of course. What do you say?"

Aayla choked out a derisive laugh, reaching up and patting Quin patronizingly on the shoulder. "Dream on, Quinny," she sighed. Out of the others' line of sight, she gave her former Master a threatening look and a nod toward the bar. "Do something. NOW." she mouthed, popping the confectionery back in her mouth.

Siri yanked her hand free and smoothed her hands down over her blouse and skirt, reminded that her previous assessment of the man had been far too generous. "More unfulfilled fantasies? Grow up, Vos. Isn't it about time you started acting your age?"

"One could say the same for you, Siri," Obi-Wan cut in disparagingly, indicating the group lingering nearby, all with dermal afflictions, gangly limbs, and preciously short Padawan braids betraying their youth. During Aayla's arrival and magnificently disrespectful commentary—no surer indication she really was Quinlan Vos' Padawan—Obi-Wan had been anxiously scanning the area for any sign of Anakin.

"Do tell, not that I am surprised in the least that you have solicited yet another client this evening, but what have you done with my Padawan? Finished with him so soon?" Obi-Wan inquired, hoping his attempt at nonchalance veiled the apprehension underlying his curiosity.

"Well, now that you mention it, I do seem to have misplaced my darling Anakin," Siri remarked drolly, sighing and looking beyond Obi-Wan toward the black boot currently stomping in time to the relentless beat of the music. "Though I'm sure he's being thoroughly entertained," she added distractedly, watching that boot suddenly jerk and flail as a pretty little Mon Cal's plump fishy lips went to work.

Quin shot Siri another warning look, stepping between the two. "H-hey, now, Obi-Wan. You know Skywalker—he's probably off getting a drink, or maybe out dancing, hey, you know, I bet he's in the 'fresher." He winced at the annoyed alarm on Obi-Wan's face. "No. I mean, you know, to actually use the fresher," he clarified quickly with a nervous grin.

Quin's eyes slid toward the bar, then back to Aayla, giving her a skeptical shrug. Tuning out the obvious arrival of Pissy-Wan—he almost felt a little sorry for Tachi—Quin looked around for anything that might give him a plan, before Obi-Wan saw that dumbass boytoy on the bar and things got completely out of hand. Unless...

His eyes landed on an inspired solution, one with a distinctive streak of gold in an otherwise unremarkable, if not perfectly combed, brown head of hair. Maybe things need to get out of hand. Quin couldn't stop the devilish smirk. Of course. Vos, you're a genius.

Quin fished his comm out of his vest, improvising an emergency call. "Yeah? Okay, be right there." With a helpless gesture, he mumbled something about being right back, giving Aayla a conspiratorial wink. Slinking away from the brewing melee, he pulled aside his would-be savior and leaned in close, whispering animatedly while shoving a handful of drink credits in the front pocket of the young Knight's trousers, and clapped him gratefully on the back. Well, here goes everything. If this works, everyone wins. If it doesn't... He didn't bother finishing the thought.

He returned to the group just in time to hear Obi-Wan fire off another zinger, something about Tachi's boots, felony solicitation, and the District's pleasure workers lined up just around the corner from the Outlander. So her boots happened to be thigh-high. So they might look like something he'd seen once or twice while 'reconnoitering' some of the lower levels. Quin really didn't understand what the problem was.

"Everything okay, Quinny?" Aayla asked loudly, cutting off another round of sniping by the two Jedi Masters she'd been left to babysit; apparently she had nothing better to do this night than act as a crecheling master for the romantically dysfunctional. She placed her hands on her hips, eyes wide and expectant as her former Master reappeared at her side wearing an extremely smug grin.

Obi-Wan noticed the strange look that passed between Quin and Aayla, realizing belatedly that while he'd been suffering Siri's laser-precise cuts at seemingly every insecurity Obi-Wan had ever had about himself, Quin had stepped away on a call. "Quin? Is there a problem?" he inquired almost too eagerly, feeling a twinge of guilt that he was actually hoping for some kind of trouble, anything to provide a distraction and excuse to relieve himself of this entire nightmarish affair.

Quin chewed at the inside of his cheek, glancing over the crowd to the bar and then back to his best friend. His drunk, lovesick, really-in-need-of-a-fuck-not-provided-by-me best friend. No time like the present. "Not...exactly? Just something that needs some...attention." With a smirk over his shoulder at Aayla, he grabbed Obi-Wan by the arm and started dragging him around party-goers toward the bar where the cheering was getting louder by the second.

"What's going on?" Obi-Wan asked suspiciously, straining to see over the rest of the crowd in the direction the commotion. He might be more intoxicated than he could recall in recent memory, but he still could spot Quinlan Vos' attempt at discretion, which generally meant none at all. He could never add up how Quin had become so skilled at espionage when the man was almost always the first to lose at strip poker. Obi-Wan frowned; given Quin's comfort with his own nudity, perhaps he was an accomplished bluffer, after all.

Judging by the increasingly agitated mood of the crowd, it seemed Quin was guiding them toward the disturbance, whatever it was. "It must be serious, if you're worried about it," Obi-Wan quipped, grimacing as they slid between two topless females sharing an enthusiastic embrace, one of whom he recognized with a shudder as Quin's redheaded groupie from earlier in the evening.

Quin nodded his hello, stealing a quick kiss from the young woman and then encouraging the pair to make sure to look him up later, even as he kept moving. "Oh, someone's on the bar, letting all comers take body shots," he replied casually. "It's nothing serious, I just don't want a stampede because this asshat's got everyone worked into a lather. It's enough work keeping things semi-legal at Knights Out," he laughed ruefully, turning back to Obi-Wan. "Remember the year they served that 'discount' ale, and it was spiked with ryll? Kriff, that was a good night. And the old story about why pyrotechnics were banned years back? I still think that's when Windu lost his hair, I'm just saying."

"Oh, and I wonder just why I stopped coming to Knights Out," Obi-Wan remarked sarcastically, scanning the bar area for the delinquent attendee. "Well, that explains the fervor of this crowd," he shouted over another roar and surge of the bodies pressed close all around them. "What's the plan? I assume you do have one?"

Quin gave him a lopsided grin. "You know, they didn't put me in charge of this gig just because I'm a pretty face, Sassy-Wan. Since I'm obviously the better, stronger, and taller of us—what? You know it's true—I'll perform crowd control, and you can get the asshat off the bar. You can handle just one drunk with a god-complex, right?" Quin baited his friend, knowing there was no way Obi-Wan's epic sense of duty, along with his injured pride, would deter Master General Jedi Kenobi from completing his mission.

"Yes," Obi-Wan replied testily, affronted by yet another jibe about his deficit in size and strength compared to the hulking Kiffar. "While I have given up trying to procure any kind of proper companionship this evening," he eyed Quinlan meaningfully, "I do believe I'm capable—as my ever-caring Master once described me—of removing one overindulgent hooligan, thank you very much."

Groaning and stopping in his tracks, Quin turned and regarded Obi-Wan with a sad shake of his head. Aww, seriously? Now he's bitching about Qui-Gon and the 'capable' thing? This whole thing's running on vapors if Pity-Wan's worked himself up to that already. "Kriff, you're never going to let that one go, are you?" Quin appealed to Obi-Wan's lurking sense of humor to try to banish Pissy-Wan from the party. "You know Qui-Gon and Tholme were high as fucking skyhooks on those Felucian mushrooms Dex cooked up for them when he said that."

Obi-Wan snorted and stumbled right into Quin, clumsily snapping his fingers on the third try. "Oh, that's right! And you...Tholme chased you around with his lightsaber, insisting your head was covered with venomous Kashyykian vine snakes!" He doubled over, chortling at the memory of a couple of seared-off ends of dreadlock being stomped to death under the bare feet of their two normally reserved Masters.

"Yeah, yeah. See, 'capable' doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" Quin retorted, petting lovingly over a handful of his distinctive hair. He hauled Obi-Wan up with a pat on the back. "Now, come on. Let's get this done, and then you, my friend, can go home. Alrighty?"

Even though Quin sounded frighteningly logical to Obi-Wan, considering most of his requests of Obi-Wan this evening—dancing...an orgy...a striptease...coming here in the first place—Obi-Wan knew the other man would not have asked for help unless he really needed it. With a chivalrous lift of his chin, his sense of duty kicked in as always, even when this inebriated, and Obi-Wan Kenobi was ready for service. "Proceed," he ordered in as low and serious a voice as he could manage, choking back the bubble of laughter that followed his officious pronouncement. Anakin thinks I can't be fun? Oh, I can be fun!

Though they were but a short distance from the bar, their progress was slow, given the density of the throng, and following the tall Kiffar meant Obi-Wan's view was blocked until they were right in the heart of the action. Looking around the boisterous, cheering masses, Obi-Wan saw an amazing cross-section of the Jedi population. Padawans, Knights, Masters, humans, humanoids, and non-humanoids, in all states of dress and inebriation, all transfixed on a point Obi-Wan had yet to make out.

Raising an eyebrow over at Quin, Obi-Wan was surprised he could feel, even through his strong shields, the waves of titillating excitement radiating from each one of them. It was apparently the highlight of the evening so far, though he wondered what it said about his fellow Jedi that they were so entranced by the performance of a lone deviant on some disgustingly tacky bar, when Knights Out offered so many other dubious distractions and entertainments.

With Obi-Wan distracted, Quin sent a not-exactly-inconspicuous signal over to his unwitting accomplice, tracing his finger along his tattoo and over his nose, tapping twice on the side. He'd not even had to explain why he needed this particular favor, only that he'd be helping out a Master, and the damn ass-kisser fell all over himself to help. The extra drink credits had been, of course, to help his accomplice forget just which Master had asked for the favor in the first place...just in case.

Taking a deep breath, Quin turned around suddenly, putting both hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders, and leaned in to the shorter man's face. "Ready?" he asked seriously, staring deep into his friend's bleary green eyes. I hope you are, my friend. And if not, I hope you won't hold a grudge for too long.

"Of course, Master Vos," Obi-Wan replied just as seriously, though his lips rebelliously curved into a drunken smirk and he laughed again. It was like old times, back when they were younger and he often-willingly followed Quinlan into some kind of misguided adventure. Doing his best to embrace those warm memories, Obi-Wan let himself sink into the comfortable, familiar mantle of Jedi Master, ready to restore law, order, and justice to the Republic.

Or to Knights Out, anyway.

"Lead the way."


Catching Master Vos' signal, and armed with enough drink credits to knock out a bantha, Ferus Olin bribed his way to the front of the line, proud to be of service when called upon by a Master. He poured out his shot, not wasting a single drop—Ferus was never careless— and hopped up on the bar. "Yo, Skywalker. Think you can meet up later in the alpha 'fresher?"

Anakin smirked and squinted open an eye. "Olin. Figured you'd be back around sometime. Looking for a repeat of last year?" he gasped defiantly, as Ferus' tongue moved wet and warm up his abdomen.

Ferus peered up and smirked in return. "You know it." He took the shaker, raining spice down the painstakingly drawn line he'd made with his tongue. As in all things, Ferus took his time, proud of his precision and dedication to doing things the right way.

"Yeah, well, this time, it's gonna be you on your knees, got it? And make it the beta 'fresher—I heard Madame Nu's in the alpha—unless you're into that sort of thing now?" Anakin demanded, sucking in his breath as Ferus' tongue diligently lapped at his navel, taking care to remove all traces of spice from the indentation.

"You wish, asshole." Ferus continued his trek upward, pausing to conscientiously lick at the hollow of Anakin's neck.

"Y-you're the one here, Olin. Besides, you owe me," Anakin insisted, sinking his fingers into that stupid gold ribbon of hair that Olin insisted was genetic. Anakin always figured it was some lame-ass attempt at rebellion. Only someone like Olin would think messing with his hair was an act of defiance. Or someone like my Master, he imagined, recalling the different lengths and styles his Master had gone through, not to mention the sudden appearance of that fuzzy gingery thing on his face. Not that I mind it, so much, anymore...fuck, how it would feel, down there, against my—

Anakin swore loudly, enjoying Olin's mouth a kriffing lot more when it wasn't talking.


With a rough shove, Quinlan switched places with Obi-Wan so that the shorter man's view of the bar was unimpeded. Obi-Wan swayed a little, steadied himself yet again, and admiringly took in the black leather-clad legs of the person on the bar. Hmm, leather certainly does work on some people, he observed, deliberately not thinking of anyone in particular. Enough. Let's get this over with.

Obi-Wan tilted his head, and squinted, slowly taking a step forward toward the two bodies, feeling himself as mesmerized as the crowd around him by the nearly voyeuristic experience of witnessing something so patently salacious. One body had the other pinned down, the spice he was shaking over the other sparkling in the play of lights as it fell.

When the young man on top sat back to set aside the spice, Obi-Wan gaped in shock. There was Ferus Olin, whose fidelity to the Code and the Jedi Order made Obi-Wan look irreverent and spontaneous in comparison, dragging his tongue around the naked undulating torso of—

Obi-Wan's hand slowly drew up to cover his mouth, his breath stolen from him completely. There in a shimmering pool of light, covered in spice and Force-knew what else, lying with his hands behind his head while lifting his hips to sway to the music, was Anakin. Anakin. Prostituting himself in public for nothing more than the illicit thrill. Engaging in behavior that Obi-Wan had never even imagined. And it looked like it might just be the happiest he had ever seen Anakin outside of his blasted ship. Well, you wanted to know where he was. Congratulations.

Quin watched Obi-Wan's reaction curiously, and waited. When the other man continued to just stand there and stare, Quin rolled his eyes, leaning down next to his ear and nudging him, prepared to give his best speech yet. "So, you gonna do something about that? Are you gonna discipline him? Make him regret coming here tonight and lying to you about it? Make him wish he had stayed home? With you, where he belongs?"

Quin had moved behind him, trailing his hands up and down Obi-Wan's arms and shoulders, emphasizing the words "discipline," "lying," "belongs," and "home," trying to finally push Obi-Stuck Kenobi past his own barriers and into something completely impulsive and completely necessary. And you will thank me for it with lots, and lots, and lots of details, Kenobi.

He winked at Aayla, who frowned sullenly, clearly unimpressed with his efforts so far. But Quin figured Obi-Wan was pretty damn wound up by now, if the clenched fists and terse jaw grinding were anything to go by. Scrubbing a hand over his chin to disguise his amusement, Quin inclined his head toward the ongoing fiasco playing out in front of them. "I wouldn't let my Padawan sell himself on the bar like that. All those mouths..." He shuddered theatrically, clearing his throat to cover his bubbling laughter, knowing that one would definitely get at Fussy-Wan's distaste for the unsanitary. "Betcha Siri put him up to it, you think? I mean, isn't that Olin up there, too, having a taste of your boy? You'd better put a stop to that shavit, man."

Quin shuffled Obi-Wan toward the bar, figuring nature would take care of things from here. If the alcohol, the jealousy, the friendly prodding, and the incredibly sexy sight of Skywalker working it on the bar didn't do it, nothing would.

"Enjoying the show, are we, gentlemen?" Siri, with Aayla's white stilettos clicking right behind her, intercepted the two men, craning her neck to follow their line of sight. "My, it does seem that you've finally located your astray Padawan, Obi-Wan. And oh, is that my Ferus?" she asked with a kind of wicked innocence, slanting her gaze over at Obi-Wan and the stunned shock on Kenobi's normally impassive features. "I know you were concerned about his whereabouts, so you must be thrilled to find Ferus taking such good care of Anakin, yes?"

Aayla pushed her way past the other woman, stomping up to her ex-Master and punching him solidly in the gut. "You have no idea how much I hate you right now," she growled, taking a handful of dreadlocks and yanking Quin's ear down near her mouth. "This disaster of a Knights Out is all your fault, so you better damn well fix it," she threatened under her breath, taking in the maglev train wreck all around them. "Or the entire deal is off, and I'm heading out for Muunilinst at dawn to find Kit. Got it?"

Grunting, Quin rubbed his abdomen, glancing over at the mess of Skywalker still draped all over the bar, still wearing that same stupid punch-drunk grin, oblivious to all this Galactic Opera that had been going on all damn night because of his pretty Chosen ass. "Alright, sweetheart, alright."

Obi-Wan, man...I hate to do this, but you need a kick in that Sith-damn stubborn ass of yours. Time to haul out the heavy artillery. Leaning close, Quin pursed his lips comically, smacking them in Aayla's face. "Give your Quinny a kiss for luck?" He chuckled at the look of pure derision the Twi'lek gave him along with a saucy flounce of her lekku. "No? Well, watch this. You'll change your tune," he promised, stepping back with a bow and disappearing into the crowd unnoticed.

Nodding mutely, Obi-Wan turned slowly, his mind barely able to function coherently through the haze of disbelief and fury. He glared daggers at the blonde, struggling to form the words. "Y-you. You did this."

Siri regarded him with genuine surprise. "Actually...no, I didn't," she admitted, eyeing Vos slipping away, wondering just what he was up to, since this little scene he'd so obviously engineered—Ferus excelled at many things, but lacked the spontaneity and ruthless guile for something like this, Force bless him—was doing nothing but benefitting her vendetta against Vos' supposed best friend. "Well, not by myself, at least. Though it was delicious fun, Obi-Wan, and Anakin was such an eager student. Mmm...as you can see for yourself, he's a natural...talent."

Without conscious permission on his part, Obi-Wan's eyes were drawn back to the lurid spectacle, watching Anakin writhe under the movement of Ferus' tongue, the lights reflecting the sheen of the line Ferus was marking up Anakin's chest. "F-Ferus is your Padawan, Siri." It was too much, far too much, and yet Obi-Wan couldn't look away—even if he closed his eyes, he knew he'd see it forever.

"Was, Obi-Wan. And I don't control him. Just as you, apparently, cannot control your Padawan," Siri pointed out, her tone one of cold mirth and satisfaction in a job well done. I will definitely have to properly thank that imbecile Vos later.

Nothing could have prepared Obi-Wan to witness Anakin performing this kind of overtly sensual, sexual display in front of the entire Jedi Order. This was raw...shameless...erotic...hypnotic... This was Anakin, his Padawan, up there, doing that. And obviously enjoying it, he thought, as Anakin readily accepted both a piece of fruit and Ferus' mouth against his. Obi-Wan's face flushed hot with arousal and embarrassment in equal measure, and his hand shot up as though physically pushing away the sight.

"Indeed. Nothing could be more apparent," he muttered angrily, dipping his chin as he turned away from both Anakin's indecency and Siri's gloating. Did it really matter who was up there with Anakin? It wasn't Obi-Wan. It would never be Obi-Wan. I can't see any more of this, I refuse to watch another take their fill of Anakin like that. I have to—

"—Leave. Quin, I'm sorry, but—" Stumbling backward, Obi-Wan blindly reached for Quinlan, spinning around to where the man had just been standing. "Quin?" Irritated now, he scowled as he scanned the nearby area, fully expecting the impetuous rogue to be groping Siri, Ayala, hells, probably both of them, but found both women surprisingly unmolested. "Blast it all, where did he—?"

Siri's eyes widened as she looked beyond Obi-Wan, while Aayla gave him a look of pure pity. "What now? Where is he?" he demanded impatiently, desperate to make his leave from this hideous scene once and for all, to run home and hide and sulk and rage and hopefully pass out for days. "I swear, if he ran off to chase some pretty little twink—" he huffed, turning around.

Through the veil of red descending across his vision, Obi-Wan beheld both Quinlan and his pretty little twink, bitterly recognizing that the Force had decided she was not quite done pissing on Obi-Wan Kenobi just yet.


"So...0100 hours? Think that'll give you enough time to finish up here, Chosen One?" Ferus downed his shot and shoved the bit of fruit in Anakin's mouth, causing him to mumble his response. Lowering his mouth to Anakin's, he sucked the juice gently, neatly from the fruit; it wouldn't be proper to leave a mess behind. "What was that? I didn't copy."

Anakin rolled his eyes, turning to spit out the fruit. "Asshole. I said, make it 0130. And remember, it's my turn this time."

Ferus placed a finger against Anakin's bottom lip, dragging it through the shiny wetness. "But Skywalker, you're so very, very good at it. And besides," he took hold of Anakin's braid, giving it a tug, "I don't have one of these anymore."

Anakin bucked up, trying to dislodge Ferus. "Oh, fine," he sighed, shoving at the bossy prick, annoyed at how easily he'd capitulated to the older Knight. Probably because he's almost as pompous and irritating and repressed as Obi-Wan. Anakin made a face, finding this comparison between the two disturbing. Still... I wonder if I could convince Olin to use an accent next time... "Get off me, asshole. Later," he said dismissively, closing his eyes and settling back into position.

"Later," Ferus agreed, sliding off his sometime-rival/'fresher buddy just as Master Vos approached. "'Evening, Master," he intoned with a deferential bow as they traded spots, satisfied by the completion of his mission, not to mention the appointment he'd been able to arrange for later. Skywalker was undoubtedly the most cocky, arrogant, undisciplined member of the Jedi Order, but Ferus benevolently chose to overlook those shortcomings in favor of allowing the Chosen One to practice and hone some of his other skills.

Checking his chrono, Ferus set his alarm for 0130. Heading out to find Tru, he passed by Master Siri and waved, wondering idly who the staggering mess of a guy was pointing a finger in her face. He chuckled and kept moving, knowing Siri Tachi could definitely take care of herself.


Quin quickly poured out two shots, downing one immediately—one way or the other, he was going to need it. Figuring he was on borrowed time, he skipped mounting the bar, opting instead to ambush Skywalker. "You don't know it yet, kid, but I'm about to change your life."

Anakin snorted, not opening his eyes as he waved off his latest patron's wishful boast. "Riiiight. Y'know how many times I've heard that tonight? Got anything better than that?" he slurred distractedly, still caught up in some kind of endless loop of fantasies that had degenerated into something involving a blindfolded, bearded Olin sucking him off in a training salle while Madame Nu and Windu rated them on scorecards. Of course, fucking Olin scored a perfect 10. Asshole.

Quin snorted in return, almost wistfully gazing over what he was about to have, but what would definitely never be his. Kenobi, you're one lucky bastard. He smirked proudly. To have me for a friend, that is.

"As a matter of fact, you little cock-tease, I do." With a quick glance back to make sure his efforts did not go unnoticed by all the relevant parties, Quin pulled his dreads to the side and leaned over, blowing a slow teasing breath over the now well-traveled path, watching the little bumps rise in response to the cool air. He then tossed back the second shot, and in twist he once saw in a seedy club on Zeltros, allowed some of the liquor to drizzle out from between his lips, enough to pool in Anakin's navel and spill over. Closing his lips around the recess, he sucked and swirled his tongue in the hole, and with broad swipes, worked his way up Anakin's belly, using the flat of his tongue to lap up as much of the remaining liquor as possible.

Anakin groaned and threw back his head, hips bucking upward as Quin's tongue tickled down his ribcage, flicking over any drops that had tried to escape. "Cock-tease? You're the kriffing cock-tease," Anakin gasped in pleasure, opening his eyes to see whose turn it was. "You have got to meet me later in the 'fresh—"

The first thing that came into focus was Quinlan Vos hovering over him with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Then, almost in slow motion, out of the corner of his eye, Anakin saw someone throw a hell of a punch, knocking all the grin off of Vos' face and sending the Kiffar reeling to the floor.

Anakin's eyes widened, and he started to convulse with laughter at the comically shocked look on Master Vos' face just before he fell. What the fuck was that? Someone just laid out Master Vos? Stang! Anakin threw an arm over his eyes and just lay there, continuing to shake with laughter. Fuck, yeah, Knights Out, this is definitely more like it!

"Sith damn you, Quinlan Vos, I fucking warned you never to touch him!"