I Lay in the Darkness

by Elektra Pendragon

Homepage: http://Ms_Elektra.tripod.com/fanfiction.html

Archive: Yes on MA. Other places ask first.

Category: Non Q/O, Q/O, point of view, BDSM, angst, PWP

Rating: NC-17, Explicit, dangerous Qui/Maul, implied Q/O

Warning: A very strange fic written in an "I-you-he" format after the style of a poem. Qui-Gon Abuse--explicit whipping, knifework, blood, angst. I played freely with the characters.

Summary: In his heart, Qui-Gon explains why he is with another when he loves Obi-Wan.

Disclaimer: People and places belong to GL, the words are mine. I borrowed the restraints from Kyle and the poem from Bo Setterlind.

Feedback: Talk dirty to me: ms_elektra@hotmail.com

Author's Note: Inspired by a manipulated picture and a poem by Bo Setterlind (text as follows in part 1).

Special thanks to Linda for the quick preview beta!

*~*

I lay in the darkness by you,
there I have peace.
There is no man,
that is so good.
I am attached to the darkness.
I am attached to you.
Would I be separated from the darkness,
I would be separated from you.
I lay in the darkness by you,
as the bird in his nest.
And the wind sings my song.
--"Lovesong" by Bo Setterlind

*~*

You are so beautiful today, my most precious one, my heart shatters in my chest at the mere sight of you. This kata is beyond your training level, but you will not give up on it until you conquer its complexities. Always pushing yourself that one step beyond. I fear your feet will bleed from your missteps before you will admit defeat with that final, crucial Forcemove. I move to step in to stop you, but your bright, colorful eyes meet mine. You smile that special smile I imagine is reserved for my eyes alone. Then you leap in the air, and execute the kata perfectly. Spinning, curving, flying with speed, agility, grace, like a bird in flight. So, so special.

You land cat-like and noble. I congratulate you, embrace you as a proud father to his son. I stop myself before I could kiss your exuberant lips though you turn your face up so temptingly. You are too young, too pure and kind. So...innocent. I can see the hurt in your eyes at the silent rejection of your veiled offering. I don't mean to hurt you my love. It is just that I would never make you give me what I need. It would destroy the delicate elegance in your compassionate soul to touch that darkness inside me. I could never do that which would harm you, my Obi-Wan.

Because I need you to love me, my Padawan. To love me and to hate me. To comfort me and to torment me.

I need what you can't give me.

I run from your light and throw myself into the darkness. The crowded streets of the lower levels beckon me with their dangerous call. My aching heart drives me away from your arms and brings me to his room.

I had first chosen him out of the sub-level crowd because he reminded me of you. Compact body, powerful in the Force. Headstrong. Beautiful, though his is an unconventional, exotic sort. He looks nothing like you, my dearest Obi-Wan, but if I close my eyes, I can imagine it is really you with me. I have gotten quite good at that.

"Let me be your Obi-Wan," he had said to me all those months ago, after I called out your name during my first orgasm. It is that phrase that has kept me coming back, his willingness to play to my desires. He does not mind my pretending. In fact, he encourages it.

Tonight, he knew I was coming before I did. He anticipates everything about me. He embraces all that I have to give, and then squeezes me for more. I barely am in the door before I am stripped and bound by fast moving, invisible hands, ordered to stay still by a short, low-toned command.

"Let me be him for you," he whispers. "Close your eyes." He speaks no more, for his deep, purring voice cannot capture your unique inflection, and the incongruity would ruin the moment. My gentle spirit, he could never match your serenity.

I am naked, suspended by my wrists from the ceiling so that my feet bare a smaller portion of my weight. I am relaxed, waiting. Imagining. My wrists begin to ache, pleading to writhe, to move, to disobey. He told me not to move, and so I shall not. This is an exercise in discipline. Control.

A cold braid brushes against my back. My arm. My cheek. I imagine it is your Padawan mark and kiss its soft-hard creases. My eyes do not open for I do not want to see and break the spell I am under.

The air is split by the leather thong, and it screams. Deadly, he is, in ways you could never be, but gentle. The lash cracks centimeters from my naked back, but the braid curls mildly around my ribs like a snake. It pulls away, leaving my skin sensitized and craving a harsher touch.

Another SNAP and my bicep is encircled by the braid. It is long, and he is close. It circles the bulging muscle twice, holding it tight as I clench my fists on the chain above me. A living thing it unwinds, glides, slides over the sweat just beginning to escape from my pores in the hot room.

CRACK! Around my thigh, too close to my balls. I draw in a startled breath though he didn't hurt me. The braid loosens and falls.

A small hand presses against my back just above the swell of my buttocks. He is waiting; I can feel his anticipation. He knows my boundaries as well as you. Better. Will I tell him to stop?

Could I ever say no to you, my Obi-Wan?

"More, please," I whisper, my voice not permitted to rise to a louder register. "Harder," I implore, my throat closing with the desperation of my need. I need this. I need you.

CRACK! This time the braid burns like an icy fire across my left shoulder. Bright flash of pain causes breath to stop, then resume at a quicker pace. He gives me a heartbeat to relax my breathing before he strikes again. CRACK!

"More."

CRACK CRACK CRACK! They come too quick for me to count. A torrent of bruising lashes. The air sings with the power of his arm.

I swallow my cries as I absorb his strokes. My skin doesn't break under the assault. Not yet. The long braid finds every sensitive corner of my flesh that cries out to be touched so roughly, curling possessively around my torso to nip at my stomach and chest. He doesn't stay in one place but moves with care and grace to randomly attack the whole of my being. The leather straps supporting my wrists bite into my skin as the whip changes the muscles of my legs into gel. My mind overloads with sensation.

Before I can pass out, he stops. The snake withdrawals its bruising fang to coil harmlessly upon the floor at my feet. A sob of relief and grief escapes from my throat. I need more. I want to fall into your arms and have you soothe the hurt away. I want you to hurt me, Obi-Wan.

It is not over yet.

I hear him moving behind me. I do not need my eyes to know what he is doing. To call upon the Force to ease my pain would put an end to our...game, but my keen senses remain ultra-sharp--sharper all the more for the criss-crossing of pain and pleasure burning through my nerves and synapses. My tight-shut eyes are the only sensing organs cut off from the feast of sensation. I can feel his moves as easily as I can feel you through our training bond. We, he and I, share a bond of a different kind.

The knife. I sigh in rapture. He knows my needs all too well. Or are they his needs? At this point, I can no longer tell the difference. I whimper at the memory of his skill with the weapon. He is an artist working in blood and pain. In his arms I become a masterpiece of exquisite suffering and shattering ecstasy.

It has been a long time since we've gone to this level, so he begins slowly. Cool, smooth metal lies flat against my lips, a shushing finger. I quiet my helpless noises and concentrate on making my body stay completely motionless for him. A whisper of a breath, and he softly kisses my neck.

His lips are like velvet wrapped in silk as he presses them predatorily to my skin. Would you feel as soft as him? Would you mark my skin with your teeth then grate the sharp blade against the imprint? His claiming mouth and rasping knife nibbles on my collarbone, my nipples, my stomach. Bite, and scrape. Bite, and scrape. A powerful Master, his touch transforms me like magic, and I am no longer human. I am a canvas for his art, a toy for his play. Worthless and priceless at the same time. Despised and cherished.

The first cut is quick and shallow, bisecting my navel with a negligent flick of his wrist. So sharp the blade, I don't feel the incision right away. Thin, oily fluid tickles down my stomach, dribbles onto my hungry erection and falls to the floor in quiet, wet splashes edging the threshold of hearing. Only then does the pain filter through the endorphin-high like a sweet flute amidst a raucous symphony.

"More...deeper...please..." You wouldn't recognize my voice, Obi-Wan, if you could hear it now. If my throat didn't sting with every gasped word, I myself would not believe I had spoken.

The flat of the blade follows the line of blood, sending jolts of apprehension up my spine. I breathe shallowly to keep from disturbing his work. The second cut is deeper, longer, carving into my upper thigh as he slowly traces the delicate vein and hard muscle with unerring precision. Too deep, and my life would be spilt upon the floor. I am no longer bothered by this fine line we dance. It is a strange comfort to be nothing to him at this golden moment of the game; he knows what he wants to take from my body, and I know that concern for my life will not cause his bladehand to nervously slip. A good man, a better, kinder man would be afraid of hurting me, would stay his hand at the wrong moment, would hesitate and be clumsy, and in that unintentional carelessness would probably kill me.

In this hot, dark room miles away from you, there is no man that is so good. I can lay my existence fully in his grasp and be confident that not a single wound would be unintentional, not a one that was not carefully planned and executed with expert precision, because to him, I am nothing but a body. It doesn't matter if I cry, it doesn't matter if I bleed. He will give me what I want. Relief.

Slowly, slowly, much too slow. I can feel every languorous movement of the knife as it swiftly saws through the layers of my thigh. Skin parts like a wanton whore to the penetration of the lover blade. It shudders against the thin layer of adult fat. Flows like water through striated muscle. Steals like a thief past the pulsing vein. Spills like water my blood.

The excruciatingly long torture ends at my knee before it reaches bone. The knife leaves the warm sheathe of my body with a reluctant, slick smack. Wrapping his strong arms around my knees, he presses his face to the wound and decorates the mark with long swipes of his rough tongue. Low, blissful noises vibrate in his chest. A cat happily lapping at spilt milk. His skin is suddenly warm against mine as he crushes closer, and I shiver as though chilled. I feel his smile burn like ice on my wounded thigh.

The knife is still in his hand. Like a razor, the deadly edge glides up the back of my leg, sheering off the course hairs that get in its way. He moves up my body, never loosing the contact of teeth or blade, tormenting a wide throbbing swath of pure stinging agony over my ass, my stomach, my spine, my chest, my shoulders until he reaches my head. Warm metal pressing to my nape, coppery breath panting against my mouth, hard flesh slithering against my erection. He is as hard as I am. Waiting.

"Please. More," I beg.

The knife tenses against the back of my neck, almost but not quite breaching the thin surface. It moves downwards, tracing the tender arch of my spine, moving minutely deeper with every vertebrae. I fight to stay still, to not lean into the blade as the ripping pain explodes in my mind. My mouth falls open in a wordless scream, and he latches to it like a leech. His tongue leaves traces of metallic blood in my mouth, and suddenly I am chasing it, searching out for more of the sweet liquid in the coarse corners of his lips and teeth.

Deeper, my tongue. Deeper, his blade. Closer, our bodies. Pleasured tension coils in my groin as I teeter on the edge. So close, I ready myself to jump. His sculptor's hand moulds against the opened flesh, pressing inside, kneading and reshaping my senses until my entire soul is on fire. Something inside my mind snaps, and I scream your name with the intense power of my devastating release. The world is painted black and red as my body turns inside out.

I pass out. How long? I'm not sure. I frankly don't care. My mind is blissfully hazy, riding on extreme levels of endorphins coursing through my arteries. Absently, the tiny section of my mind still partially functioning notes the sensation of being released from the bonds and lain upon a soft bed. My wounds are tended to quickly and efficiently, treated with clean-healing bacta and fresh soft bandages. Disconnected from the world, I hover above these tiny cares.

The bed dips. Strong arms turn me on my side, taking the weight off the bandages on my back and thigh so that I am resting, nestled into a smooth, hard, hairless chest. I waft pleasantly on the wind of sweet satiety, and run my lips over the nipple beneath them. "Obi-Wan," I sigh happily, and I use what strength I have left in my tired arms to hold the warm body closer to mine. Hands, those beautiful hands which hurt me so well, tenderly card through my hair to cradle my head and caress my back, soothing away any last troubling thoughts. Whispers of nonsense syllables weave a tapestry of tender love around my battered body. I am at peace.

I sleep for a few hours and wake to weak artificial light in my peripheral vision. My face is pressed into a man's neck; his slow pulse beats against my forehead, and his smooth cheek rests against my head in his sleep. For the first time since entering the room, I open my eyes completely.

The world is still black and red.

Gathering what strength I can call to my lethargic limbs, I push myself off his body and look down at him. No, he looks nothing like you, my precious Obi-Wan. Bright stripes of color glisten in the low light of his room, as though he were skinned of all but bare muscle. He is exotic and frightening, dark and radiant. A soft smile curls up his bloodied lip.

Ghost-quiet I escape his unconscious embrace and gather my clothes. The white bandages at my thigh are stained red with my blood, but as I peel them away from the wound I see it healed with only a tiny line of a scar. In time it will fade and become another battlemark among countless others upon my body. The bruises will remain with me for days, reminding me of his unrestrained touch as I return to your side, my flawless Padawan. You will see me shift uncomfortable and think it is my aging body protesting the rigors of the Jedi life. I will feel the twitching pangs of remembered fire and think that I shall never give into my desires this way again. Lies.

The rough fabric of my pants and tunics grates against my still overly sensitive skin. Reacting to my pained call, he awakens with the speed of an assassin or a whore. He is both to me.

Guilt in my eyes, I turn to face him as I ease the tunic over my aching shoulders. He sits up on his elbows, his tiger eyes sleep-soft and wounded. Nothing like you, yet still beautiful to me. "Please stay," he asks. Through our strange bond I feel his sadness and longing.

I do not mean to hurt him, but I must. My only comfort is that you will never know what this desire is like, and at least one person in this disturbing triangle will remain untouched by the darkness that claims the other two. "I can't."

Is this the same man that pierced my flesh and lapped my blood not three hours ago? Is this young boy whose amber eyes shatter like crystal at my leaving the same boy that laughed at my pain? "Please," his purring voice soft with emotion, "I can try harder. I'll do better. I can be him for you." His compact body curls in on itself as he sits up to wrap his powerful arms around his tattooed knees. "I can be Obi-Wan for you."

His sadness is my own. "No, you can't."

I leave a generous amount of Republic credits on floor next to the door as I walk away.

THE END