by MonaR. (

Fandom: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/OMC, [Qui-Gon Jinn/ Obi-Wan Kenobi]

Author: MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona)

Series: No. This is just a whim.

Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:

Rating: NC-17.

Warning: Explicit slash (m/m) content. Pretty PWP-y.

Archive: Yes to StarWarsfic, M_A, or anyone else who might want it.

Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted down and killed.

Spoilers: No.

Summary: Obi-Wan's nightly ritual.

{This was inspired by, of all things, the dedication on another completely unrelated story that I was reading recently. Box tops, people. It's a good thing I don't eat breakfast. . .}

His eyes are blue.

Not the man in front of me; his eyes are brown with green flecks. I can see that clearly even in the semi-darkness of this alley that we are in. My eyes are sharp enough to see the gray ring around the iris, the puzzled look in the eyes when I don't speak. My silence doesn't really matter, however, because we both know what I am here for. The unnamed man shrugs and drops to his knees in front of me, and I close my eyes tightly, until the only thing I can see are the flashes of coloured light that always signify this act to me. If I was still wearing my robe, I might cover him with it and pretend to be someone who slumped against this wall in exhaustion; but I am not wearing my robe, and my tunic is bunched up around my nipples, exposing the pale flesh of my belly, and my groin. To anyone who might pass in this alley, I'm simply a young man being pleasured by a stranger; if they choose to look closely enough, they will see the braided tail of hair that marks my status, although my 'saber is hidden deep in the folds of my discarded cloak. My abandon proves that I do not care what any passers-by might think; I am concentrated only on this act that I am so passively involved in. I look down at the head of the man who has taken me in his mouth, and wonder if I will remember *this* one, out of the hundreds who have previously been in his place. Whenever his head moves away and leaves me wet and exposed to the night air, I shiver. He takes those shivers to mean that he's pleasing me. I say nothing.

I cannot *think* nothing. Night after night I have sought to turn off my mind, to surrender myself fully to the sensations around me - the cool air on my cock, the warmth of the mouth that captures me, the tight muscles of the throat I am being forced into, the velvet-softness of a tongue that seeks my release. I know others would find this role of mine bliss, but I fear that I am growing too used to it. I still come, of course; that is a reaction that I cannot contain, even if I wanted to, but my mind wanders away from my body sometimes, and when it is over I must hastily piece together a reaction that I have not fully experienced. Luckily, I have had plenty of experience - more than enough to make every encounter live in my mind, whether real or imagined.

I dread the night when I cannot do it. When I cannot experience complete pleasure from this tiny act of violation, it will be time to move on to one of the more active transgressions in my catalogue of sins. The fear of that sends another shiver through my body, and my unnamed partner takes that as a signal that I am nearly finished. I decide not to disappoint him; the air is cool, and although his attentions towards me have not flagged, I know his jaw must be sore.

I lick my fingers and tweak one nipple, signalling to my body that it is time to come. Touching myself has become an automatic response, like a hypnotic suggestion. I wonder sometimes if I could go from a dormant state to full arousal and ejaculation without even touching my cock, just by pinching my nipples, but I have never had the opportunity to try. Some part of me wants to demonstrate my abilities to an audience of one alone - just to see if he would be shocked or proud of such a special skill.

I banish that thought from my mind. Such things only make this harder than it has to be.

The sucking has continued unabated, and I bite my lip and start to moan, not because it is an indication of what I am feeling, but because it is my part to play, and because he expects it from me. I am able to milk every sensation from my body to the fullest without seeming insincere; I simply focus on it the way I have been taught to focus on everything in my life. I give my nipple one last pinch and then flood this stranger's mouth with my seed; I feel the heat of his come on my leg even through my thick boots, and smother my laugh. I did not even realize that he was pleasuring himself, as well, all this time. Or maybe he wasn't; maybe there is another somewhere down there in the darkness, handling this stranger as he handles me, in a daisy-chain of illicit pleasure. Or maybe my orgasm was strong enough to go right through his body, and exit his cock. I try to imagine that, but only laughter comes to my mind, so I shut it off. I have stopped shaking, and peel my hands away from the wall they are clenching when I feel I can trust my legs to hold myself up. I do not want to fall and end up in this man's arms; I know how difficult it can be to extract myself from a stranger's embrace, and now that we are finished I must quickly leave, before my absence is noticed.

I pull up my trousers and pull down my tunic, and use the hood of my cloak to shield my face and my too-bright eyes. I drop a few coins at the stranger's feet and wonder if he is one of the ones who will be surprised by my generosity, or if he will think I am merely happy with his work. I don't care. I must return to the Temple and make my way to my room before he gets there. Within seconds I am inside an aircar and on my way, surrounded by more strangers I easily ignore.

It is as if nothing has happened.

I am careful to wash myself thoroughly under the hottest water possible, to scrub myself with the soap and remove all traces of my own seed and especially the touch of my partner. I do not want that scent on me, for I know how sensitive *his* nose is, and how much a foreign scent on my body would disturb him. I complete my ablutions inside of five minutes, including a quick scrub of my sweat-soaked hair, and re-dress for bed. I know that there isn't much time left.

My head has only just touched the pillow when the chime rings. I do not answer it. It is easier to pretend that I have been asleep all this time if I do not, and I know that my silence will not prevent his entry into my room. It is his right, as is everything in my life. I own nothing within these walls, not even my body.

When the door slides open, he does not enter. He stops in my doorway and calls out, "Obi-Wan?" softly, to see if I am asleep. We both know that I am wide awake, although my eyes are shut tight; the real question is whether or not I will answer him. I am allowed to defer this time, and only this, but every night I answer.


No 'Master' dogs my words; I cannot bear to say it to him in the darkness that surrounds us.

"Are you all right?"

I hesitate, just a second, and then nod. I know that his eyes - his blue eyes - can cut through the darkness as well as or better than mine, and the moonlight is shining in on my bed, anyway, making it as bright as a Corellian day.

"Do you want to talk?"

He is so tentative, so hesitant, as if he thinks he is bothering me. As if he supposes his words can hurt me any more than what I have been through tonight. I almost hate him for that hesitance, but I cannot, not really. If I could hate him -

I motion him over and he perches on the edge of my bed. In soft, plain words, I tell him everything that I can remember of this evening, from the description of the alley to the aircar which returned me to the temple; every motion, every smell, every gesture, every feeling. I weave a tale that fascinates even myself, and by the end I almost believe it to be true. The only thing that I omit tonight - and that I have omitted every night since these lessons started - is my description of the eyes.

My Master has given me strict instructions, and I do not want to disobey him, and although I betray him night after night, he must never know. I am to choose only ones with blue eyes, you see - the height does not matter, nor the colour of the skin; they can be bald or hairy, human or not, Jedi Master or street urchin, but they *must* have blue eyes. He asks me every night if I have done his bidding, and I nod; it is always his last question, and I lie to him so beautifully that it does not alter his pleasure one bit. He takes my description and rises slowly, as if he is carrying the words gently in his hands. He does not speak before he leaves my room for his, nor does he touch me. I must not speak, for fear of breaking the spell that he is under. I did that once, and found myself sent out into the chill night once again. It was the only time that I was sent out twice in one night; if I have my way, it will remain the only time.

I have never asked him why it must be this way between us; I do not know why I may defile myself with so many faceless men and be denied the one who has solely defined desire in my young life. I do not wholly believe that it is a Jedi rule that we are following; I have a growing suspicion that it may be my Master's rule alone, but there is no-one I can ask without betraying myself, and him, and although I do not care about myself, I would not betray him for the world.

He is my Master, and I do as he bids me. I cannot even pretend that I do not feel pleasure from what I am asked to do, for I do, every night - when he goes to bed and I can feel him through the walls, feel his hands milking the cock that my words have hardened but I may never touch, feel the shudders that I have caused but may never witness. It, and my deception about the men I allow to touch me night after night - my small deception about those men and their eyes - is my pleasure.

His eyes are blue.

The End