by MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona)

Fandom: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

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

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

Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at: http://www.geocities.com/soho/studios/1126/

Rating: NC-17.

Warning: I'm running out of descriptors for this. Implied slash (m/m) content, violence/pain warning. 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: Obi-Wan takes the true measure of his reward.

{Should I confess how delighted I am when writing these stories, or would that only confuse things more? I'm using "Purple" instead of "Violet" because purple *feels* more to me, you know?}


by MonaR.


It's still warm.

I've kept it with me ever since I received it, always somewhere on my body. It's in my pocket right now; I can feel it through the thin cloth of my trousers. There must be something of the Force in that tiny credit - I wish I could ask Master Yoda about it, but I have to bite my tongue very hard not to blurt out my many truths around him, and I cannot tell him this one. It is mine, my own; I have not even told my own Master of my success, and my reward.

I went to his room instead of my own that night, and told him a hurried tale of lust and my own desperate fucking, leaving out the part of my payment. I do not know if I pleased him; all of my thoughts were centered around the coin I held tight in my fist. He asked me nothing, just dismissed me, and I happily returned to my room. The door barely closed behind me before I stripped myself naked, and then I rubbed my body all over with my achievement, pressing the little bit of alien metal into my skin, rubbing it over my cock until it hardened, spilling my come over it and licking it clean, sucking it between my teeth. So warm. It still glows like a beacon. I woke up the next morning naked and freezing on top of my bed-clothes, exhausted and sated and desperately, painfully hard yet again. I thought of seeking out a partner within the Temple - there are many who watch me with hungry eyes, who would give their place in this world for the touch of my body - but I was unwilling to share myself for anything less than I had received the previous night, and I knew no-one with the money to afford me. I fucked my own hand in the shower, the credit clenched between my teeth.

Since then, I could not bear to be parted from that coin; I carried it with me in my fist for the entire first day, until I had a round, red welt in the palm of my hand from holding it. It was only then, wincing at the pain, that I saw the true beauty of my payment - that it could be both punishment and reward. I can carry it with me, now, tucked in a pocket or sewn in my sleeve, for I have pressed it against different parts of my body, making a series of lovely, perfectly round bruises in my skin. They are all different ages and colours - the one on my upper arm is green, the one over my heart yellow, and the one on my thigh is dark purple. I think that one is my favourite; I press my fingers against it, gently, just to re-experience the sharp flicker of pain that skips through my body. I cannot decide where to bruise next - perhaps my back, although I'd hate to put it somewhere I cannot see. My loose tunics and robes are meant to keep the secrets of my body safe from the others, not myself.

The only thing about these bruises is that they are so transitory - I know that they will fade, eventually, and I'll have to start anew. I wish for something that would last - some mark on my body that would be there forever, that I could always look at and be reminded of my triumph. Oh, Master, I wish I could ask you - I know you would help me. But it is too late for me to admit my lie. I must do this on my own.


There will be hell to pay if anyone finds me before I finish.

I remember, when I was eight or nine, one of the boys two years older was caught in his room with his 'saber lit. He wasn't doing anything extreme - just demonstrating some newly-mastered technique to his friends, showing off, I guess - but he received the maximum punishment that can be given, the only time I can ever remember it being handed down at all since I've been here. I asked him how it had been when it was over, and he told me he'd nearly gone insane after a week of silent treatment; two weeks was more than enough to push him over the edge. Although he tried to stick it out, he was never the same after that; he left the Temple six months later. He told me that it wasn't the silence itself that hurt - it was the crushing wave of disappointment he felt, from the oldest Master to the youngest babe. That small transgression had crushed his spirit; he had never been made to believe that he was anything but precious and gifted, before that.

I'll deal with the silence if this works. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner; the answer is so obvious that I'm ashamed of myself for ignoring it.

One of the girls got hurt today, in the gymnasium; her partner's 'saber was on the training setting, so she won't scar, but she had to go to the healers immediately to have the wound looked after. I've been hit before, myself - it hurts like hell for about a minute, and then the welt raises. Bacta takes care of the wound, and the memory of the pain is supposed to help with your concentration the next time.

I wonder if this pain will be enough.

It's just before evening meal, and the hallways are pretty full; no-one should hear me before I'm done. I've brought all the towels from my bath and knotted one to stuff in my mouth, in case I've miscalculated my own threshold and the pain is too much for me; I'm not about to bring anyone running by screaming aloud. I've got the other towels wetted in a bowl of cool water, and I'm ready. I strip my clothing off and sit on the bed, my legs spread out in front of me, my soft cock limp in the chill air. My nipples peak when I shiver, and I long to touch myself. I wish there could be someone else here, so I could come while I am doing this, but I will have to wait until after.

It has to be full setting; I can't chance a lower level not being strong enough the first time. There are no second chances, with this. It *has* to be right. I switch my 'saber on and watch the blue glow with a sort of naive fascination - this is the weapon of my own making, patterned after my Master's. I pick up the credit with the tongs I borrowed from the mechanics lab; it doesn't take long for the blue glow to strike the green, and from this jarring clash the coin soon glows red from the heat. I was right about the metal - it's hot, but not hot enough to melt. Whatever this credit is made of, it's strong. How appropriate.

I stop and listen, satisfied that no-one's heard me yet; I switch off my 'saber and let it fall, and then stuff the knotted towel in my mouth, and quickly bring the brand I have fashioned down to my thigh. It has to be there, you see - somewhere it will be seen only by those I wish to see it, only by my intimates and no others. It hurts, it burns, and I can smell the stench of burning hair and skin, but I swallow the pain like gasping air, and release it again, sending it away from me. I have been taught by my Masters how to deal with pain very, very well. While I am doing this, my cock hardens and lengthens down my other thigh, and I grasp myself with my free hand, stroking myself once, twice. This pleasure distracts me, though, and I have to let my cock go. I have to focus purely on the pain; the ecstasy of it can wait.

It takes only seconds for the mark to burn into my skin; the time feels both shorter to me and much, much longer. I pry the heated metal away from my thigh and drop the coin into the cool water, where it sizzles and the glow shifts from red back to its native green. I take a deep breath before I look at my handiwork, and gasp with relief that my hand has been steady - the burn is perfectly round and blistered a dark, angry purple, but while the skin is swelling it has not broken. It's perfect; I could have hoped for nothing more. Satisfied and already half-mad with pleasure, I can finally give my attention back to my still-hard cock, my wet hand flying over the warm skin. My come when it shoots strikes the very edge of my wound and the heat burns me anew. I still have the towel stuffed in my mouth; I scream into it with complete abandon, tears rolling down my cheeks, thrusting my cock into my hand.

I cover and re-cover the wound with fresh, wet towels, until I can bear to move off the bed; then I put a layer of gauze over it and dress again, making myself walk around my room until I can do so with no limp in my gait, betraying none of the pain that is still burning in my thigh. No-one must guess by looking at me what I have done.

I adjust my clothing in the mirror, pleased by my appearance of normalcy, when suddenly, I am struck by a wave of panic: what if my Master suspects what I have done? My body is his; perhaps I should have gone to him and asked him to mark it for me. Will he be angry that I have scarred myself without his permission? It isn't too late for him to leave me, to reject me, to push me at another Master, one who would not understand this bond that we share, this hunger that drives us.

I cannot breathe, and fall to my knees, gasping. The panic is so strong that I am suffocating myself, drowning in my own sudden despair. I am deafened to my own meditations and assurances and I am unable to quiet my keening, wounded cries, even though I know my state will surely bring one of the Masters to me. They must hear my desperation; everyone must hear it.

The last thing I am aware of before I black out is the soft swish of my door opening.

Then, nothingness.

The End