by MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona)

Fandom: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

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

Series: Although I said no the last time, apparently it now is. Companion piece to "Blue". Let's call this the "Colours" series, okay?

Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:

Rating: NC-17.

Warning: Somewhat explicit slash (m/m) content. Violence/gore warning. *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 explains *his* nightly ritual.

{This is saraid's fault; she asked me for Qui-Gon's point of view of the story "Blue", and I didn't think saying "I have *no* idea" would be a good enough answer. :)}


by MonaR.

It became quickly apparent that the beatings were not enough.

My Master had taken me to see an ascetic when I was a youth, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old. He was a blind hermit who lived alone on a desert planet for years, seeking enlightenment and a higher spirituality through sacrifice and deprivation. When I saw the scars on his back and asked about them, I was appalled when I found out that they were self-inflicted. It was the most barbaric thing that I had seen that far in my young life, and I touched the raised welts - both fresh and tough, older scars - with reverent fascination.

My Master explained to me that while we trusted in the Force to make all things knowable clear, there were others for whom the way was not so simple. This holy man had found that the way towards the light was to beat himself morning and night to dispel some of the darkness inside of him. It drove away his cravings, need, and desire for anything but the spiritual knowledge which he sought, but only for a few hours; it was a ritual that had to be repeated, day after day. I am sure that he ended his life with the whip of his own making still in his hand.

I never forgot him.


I knew within an hour of meeting him that allowing him in my life would be the worst decision I'd ever make.

I said no.

He was fiercely intelligent, strong, agile, passionate, intuitive, and I could *see* the kind of Knight that he would make; even at that tender age, it was readily apparent to me that he would be extraordinary. I knew that he would make any Master proud to have him as an Apprentice.

I said no again.

Master Yoda maneuvered us together, pressing gently at my vulnerable places - and there were many, where he was concerned - and the hand of fate tempted me, again and again.

I held fast to my reserve.

I watched this boy risk his life, not only for me, but to sacrifice himself for people he did not know, and still I resisted.

I was immovable.

He was beautiful. I could see in his boyish awkwardness the man that he would become: the litheness of his body, the clear pale sheen of his skin, the changeable beauty of his eyes.

I was afraid.

I could not resist forever.


At first I meditated for relief, and held myself aloof from him. He was a little afraid both of me and of being away from the comfort of the Temple, a little frustrated at what I did not tell him, and puzzled at the reason I would not let him close to me. I taught him what I thought that he needed to know, instructed him in the ways of the Jedi, and gave him no indication of my growing desire for him. I never allowed myself to become entirely comfortable around him, but became instead convinced that our relationship could stay the way that it must.

We went on for years like this, and then it happened.

I could not hide my anger the first time I smelled sex on his body, and, because I had shown him no love in the past, my distance had made him insecure, and he thought I was angry with *him*. Although the words came easily to my lips, I said nothing that night to dispel this belief in him, needing in some way to share my own pain with the one person in the world who could have relieved it. I knew that no meditation could relieve my own sense of self-loathing. His now-ravished body was driving me slowly insane.

I would lay in bed at night and imagine him upon me, imagine his hands as they travelled the length and breadth of me, pushing past temptation and insanity. I *felt* the way that his lips would devour me whole, and bring me shaking and sobbing to the edge of climax, and then over, and I would awaken sweating and covered with my own seed, like a much younger man. If only I could have pretended that much I might have had him, but it was not to be. I awoke and faced myself in the mirror, time after time, faced an old, lined face and an older body, and hair that was streaked with more silver every day. Beside him, I felt hideous and depraved. I knew that there would be no relief for me; were I to take a hundred other lovers, none of them could ever touch his beauty.

It was not to be.


I remember braiding the thin leather cord over and over, until it was tight enough and thick enough to use. I had to try several times before I got it just right; it had to be supple, to move easily in my hands, and yet tough, to withstand the punishment meted out. I remember the ecstasy the first time I used it on myself: the hot, searing kiss of pain that flared over my back and shoulders, distracting me in the way that no meditation could. My erection flagged under the assault of my own hand, and still I was relentless, whipping myself over and over again, until I could raise my hand no longer.

I was exhausted and aching by the time I finished, and had to sleep on my stomach, waking myself whenever I moved the littlest bit. Even so, my tunic was stuck to the dried blood on my back when I awoke the next morning. But I convinced myself that finally I was in control.

And then I saw him. He came into my room for breakfast that morning - young and fresh and alive. I ached, everywhere - my arm, my back, my groin, my heart. I felt the tears come into my eyes and had to turn away from him quickly, to calm myself. The hour's meditation that I performed served only to calm my mind enough to withstand his company for the day; that night and all the nights yet to come were something different.

I allowed myself a set number of touches every day - keeping my hands on his shoulder, his arm, chanting the number silently to myself - and lived for the evenings, when we would separate, and I would be free to beat my body once again into a numb submission. What I hadn't anticipated, and should have, was that eventually my body would come to equate this pain I inflicted upon it with the pleasure I was trying to erase. The first time I came without touching myself, the braided leather strap still in my hands as the front of my thin trousers stained with my own seed, I wept myself dry. It was my lowest ebb, and the first time I seriously considered taking my own life.

I did not have the resolve to do it; I could not conceive of having another take over his training. My weakness - my failure - was complete.


I know now that I should have gone into his room that night and taken him, whether willingly or by force. I'm sure that he would have been willing; he probably would have confused my overtures with the love that he was so desperate for. I should have impaled myself on his body and torn him apart with my bare hands. I should have handed him my weapon and bade him to tear out my heart with it - he would have done so, I know, for I am his Master, and my word is his law.

Those are all the things that I *should* have done. Instead, when he came to me, pleading and frightened, smelling of sweat and sex and fear, I ordered him away. I heard him beat against my door that entire night, begging my forgiveness. It wasn't until the third time that he vowed to do anything that I asked - *anything* - that I broke down, and allowed him into my rooms again. I extracted his promise as I dried his tears, and smiled as the horror of the situation I described came clear to him. It did not take me long to convince him of what he needed to do to please me. I knew that my pleasure was then, and always would be, his command.

I have sent him out, night after night; sent him to the dregs of the city, to find the men who will pleasure him in my stead, the men with the bright blue eyes - always blue, to remind him of who his Master is - those privileged men who may touch his body and come. I wonder when it will be that he will allow himself to be taken by these strangers, one after the other; perhaps I shall order him to do it. I would like to see him being fucked by them. These blow-jobs are not enough for either of us, anymore. They aren't enough for us to pretend.

Now, when the sharp cuts streak across my back, I take myself in one hand, and I groan out my pleasure for the one I know to be listening, every night. I wake every morning, the sheets streaked with bright red and crusted white, refreshed, alive.

Now, I wait for the night.

The End