by MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona)

Fandom: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

Pairing: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Series: Sixth in the "Colours" series, after "Blue", "Red", "Green", "Yellow", and "Purple".

Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:

Rating: NC-17.

Warning: Explicit slash (m/m) content, violence/ pain warning. Borderline S/M. Very *dark*.

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: Qui-Gon discovers what his Padawan has done, and reacts.

{Ooh, I resisted this - it's too late to start something, especially since I'll have to stay up and finish it in a chunk - but the call of this romance was too strong. . .}


by MonaR.

He's heavier than I remembered.

I haven't carried him since he was a child, and he hasn't been a child for a long time. Sometimes, I have to wonder if he was *ever* a child. He just looks so young, lying on my bed; eyes closed and body limp, he presents a different picture than the sexual creature I know him to be.

He still hasn't opened his eyes. I didn't expect to find him unconscious, although I could feel the rising panic in him long before I reached his room. I must wake him, soon, and calm him, let him know that he's safe. He's with me.

Finally, I stroke my hands over his forehead, over the soft brush of his hair, and he opens his eyes. He looks terrified; perhaps he's still disoriented and doesn't realize that it's me.

Or perhaps he does.

Instantly, he's off the bed and on his knees before me, head bowed, giving me my due as his Master. I lay my palm on his head, giving him a small benediction; I can feel the tremors in his body as I do so, but he turns towards my caress. I raise him up, my hand under his chin, and lay one finger over his lips. I speak before he can say a word of explanation.

"Show me."

His eyes never leave mine as he disrobes. His cloak falls in a dark puddle of cloth at his feet, and he tugs off his boots, one at a time. Then the trousers fall, and I see it. He takes little time or care unwrapping the bandage, just tears at it wildly, so that I may bear witness to his freshly-formed wound.

I am taken aback by the sight of it; although I felt what he was doing as surely as if he had applied the rush of heat to my own body, to *see* it is something else: a bright, broken, radiant mark on that clean thigh. It stand out like a beacon, and draws me in like the flame that is my Padawan.

Before I know what is happening, I am on my knees in front of him, as if our actual positions are reversed and he is *my* god. How have I pretended up to this point that it is not true? I unclench my hands and touch him, clutch his thighs so hard that I will leave bruises - fleeting, transitory marks of my hold on to him, nothing like what he has done to himself. I should be furious; he has defied me with this act, denied my possession of him and his body completely. I should throw him out, renounce him, betray him.

I press my mouth to the wound, rubbing my dry lips over it, then the edge of my teeth. He moans over me, the pain palpable in his laboured breaths; I ignore him, and continue to make love to this beauty-mark, lapping at it over and over with my tongue, cleaning and laving and tasting the scorched flesh. His cock lengthens and hardens as I perform my ministrations, heat striking against the side of my face and my ear, but I ignore that, too. When he finally dares to touch *me*, his hands tangle in my hair. I don't know if he's pulling me to him or pushing me away, warning me or urging me on, but when he comes I can feel the wet heat in my hair and on my neck, soaking into my tunic. My hands on his thighs are no longer enough to hold him up, and he falls back on the bed, boneless, still shaking from his climax. I crawl up after him, and lie on my side, just watching him breathe. He has finally pushed me too far.

I *will* have him.


I am still fully dressed, wearing my boots and even my cloak. He removes his tunic and when I open the folds of my cloak before him, he presses his body full-length against mine; the heat of him is scorching, as if he has swallowed the flame from the brand, and it is leeching out of his skin. He cleans his body on my clothing, rubbing sweat and come into the cloth, letting me feel him. He's still hard; he has years of wanting me pent up in that organ, and isn't about to let go until he's had all he can bear, or at least all that he *thinks* he can bear.

I rub one finger over his lips and am pleased when he opens wide to my touch, but when I remove my hand and thrust my tongue down his throat I think he may die. He struggles against me, taken off-guard and desperate for air, but I have to remind him of who we are: he may be my god, but I am his Master. I twist his arms around his chilled, naked back, and continue to kiss him until he stops fighting me and goes limp in my arms. He gasps for air when I allow him to breathe again, but I don't let him catch his breath before I am on top of him, pressing him into the bed. I out-weigh him by enough that I could lie still and crush him like this, and *still* I can feel his hardness digging into my belly. I kiss him again and he submits willingly, this time. He is beginning to learn what all of this means.

I slide my body down the length of his, returning once again to his wound. My beard tickles his cock as I pass, and he twitches, his hips thrusting up involuntarily. I want to laugh at the obviousness of his need, but I am too distracted by the beauty of the damage that is before my eyes. I cover the mark with my palm, close my eyes, and allow myself to once again experience the heat of it. I draw the memories of his ritual from his body, picking him clean of them, taking them for myself, making them mine. He is watching me; I can feel his eyes on me, and for once I allow him what he wants: to know me.

When I open my eyes, he is leaning on his elbows, a faint smile on his lips. I kneel up on the bed, between his thighs, and he moves once again into my arms. I sink my teeth into his neck, biting him, and when he laughs I know that I am lost. The vibrations echo from his throat into my mouth.

He does not attempt to undress me, nor to touch my skin; my need is secondary to his own and he knows it. He thrusts up against me, again and again, determined to come again or die trying. He wraps his legs around my waist and pulls me down on top of him, and suddenly I am serving his need: my weight on him is his reward. He rubs his cock against my tunic, over and over, and once again comes without touching himself. I wonder how long this can last, how many times I may be able to have him this night. I wonder if we will see daylight together, if his ever-hard cock will be raw and bleeding by sunrise, if the light will shatter us into dust, like two demons of the night.

The only thing I know for sure is that I want to find out.


The room reeks of come and sweat - all his - when the first light of dawn breaks into the room. I am still dressed, now hard inside my clothes; he lies in my arms, his back to my chest. He has pulled my robe around himself and sleeps fitfully, moaning softly in his dreams. I am wet with him, everywhere; the bed is ruined around us.

I cannot close my eyes until the sunlight from the window touches us, and I know that we are still alive. I reach between his thighs and pinch his wound to distract myself from this waiting; he shivers but doesn't awaken. When the sun floods my room, I undo my robe and extract myself from it; some sentimentality makes me cover his nakedness when I leave the bed. It is the same feeling that draws my hand to his face, and I touch him, caress him briefly, careful not to wake him up.

I am able to close the bathroom door behind me and lock it from the inside without making a sound. I undress in front of the mirror, watching myself; when my clothing is off and thrown down into the trash I can still smell him on me. Even my beard is sticky with his come.

I turn the shower onto its hottest setting and stand underneath it for a very long time, letting the water beat onto my back and my thighs; then I scrub at my skin with a brush until it is red and almost broken, and then once again with soap. I clean my hair several times, letting the water sluice through it, always so much hot water that never runs cold. It is one of the small privileges of being a Jedi Master, and I have enjoyed it so much all of these years.

It is only when I am thoroughly clean that I take my cock in my hands, turn to face the shower spray, and jerk myself off, quickly, methodically. I know just how much pressure it will take to bring myself to climax; I know what images to bring to mind - the thought of the red-hot brand touching my young Padawan's thigh excites me so much that almost before I realize it my come is dripping down into the drain. I scrub myself once more and turn the shower off.

I am glad I have had the foresight to keep clean clothing in here, for I do not trust myself to face him naked; I do not even trust myself to go without a robe. I am clean and dry when I unlock the bathroom door; what I don't expect to see is my Padawan on the floor in front of me, slumped down in the doorway, head resting on his knees, which are drawn up against his chest. He looks up at me; when I kneel down, I can see that his thigh is bleeding where the wound has opened from my caresses. I swirl one fingertip in the blood and bring it to my lips, tasting him for the first time, then take him in my arms and carry him back to bed.

It has been a long night, and a long lesson. Today, he can sleep in my arms while I tell him how good he has been.

The End