by MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona)

Fandom: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

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

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

Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:

Rating: NC-17.

Warning: Explicit slash (m/m) content. *Dark*. Seriously, this is *not* pretty.

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.

{I love posting as I write, even a series, because the reaction that the stories create generally points me in the correct path to take, of all the winding roads that any particular fic might wander. . .}


by MonaR.

The heat doesn't rise here. We're too far down in the bowels of this place, where you can't see the sky, where the buildings rise so far that you need an airship to take you out into something that feels real, and not man- or machine-made.

Here, everything is cold. The chill mocks me, pretending to be pain, but I know the difference between true pain and mere emptiness. Pain is never cold, it demands heat: sweat, blood. Love. Passion. *That* is pain.

There is nothing that I can do but pull myself deeper into my cloak and wait. These walls, this cement pavement beneath me, even these huddling masses of men, all of them are leeching my heat, stealing away the very warmth of my breath in the night air. Parasites. The cold frightens them, but not enough to drive them away from what they need.

I knew that they would come. They are all waiting, like I am, for him.



I have to remind myself, when I see him; I never expect the shattering beauty of him. He is all fire, every inch of him, fire that is painful to touch. I don't know how they can bear it; I couldn't.

He doesn't dress for us. He must know that he needs nothing extra to mark his beauty - the cloak is the same, the clothing so plain that he might pass unnoticed. But that is not his intent; he knows, even before the others, that he is what they have been waiting for, some their entire lives. He is the one who will change them, burn them, brand them, if only they will give themselves over.

He doesn't know that I am here. I believe it would offend him to have me watch him so close, throw him away from his nocturnal self and bring him back, startlingly, to who he is supposed to be when we see each other. It isn't difficult for me to hide from him, even in plain sight. He does not want to see me, and I know, better than most, that it is far too easy to be blinded to that which we do not want to see.

I want it to begin; I want to see which me he will choose tonight. There is no way to be warm down here, except to give in to the fear. If he touches me, I will take him. I could draw him closer to me, pull my hood back, bare myself to him -


He looks into my eyes, hesitates.

My creation.

My torment.

He doesn't see. Not me, not anyone here. It does not matter to him which of us it should be. He might have chosen me; I might have fucked him. The fire has blinded him to all of us; we are his toys, to be used and discarded.

I hate him. I hate his power, and his glory, forever.

I should have told him to beg. Get down on his knees and beg to be fucked, used. Wet that cock with his lips - wet all of them before he begged them to fuck him, one after another. One will not be enough tonight.

Choose well, my love. Choose for both of us.


I am not like me. It startles me to watch myself across the space of this alley, to watch my thrusts into that body I know better than my own. I am filled with pain - so much pain that it frightens me to think of what I might do with it. I think I have found the solution to my pain: I will fuck it away, pound it into the lithe body I am possessing. Perhaps if I am right, then he will finally know what I have tried to teach him, but failed -

I am brought out of my reverie by a warm mouth on my neck. A touch. The spell is broken. I suddenly know that I am watching not myself, but my second, forced into battle under my own command. The leather strap I have wound around my hand is cutting into the flesh, but it - it and the vision of this pretender in front of me - is not enough. I need something far more real.

I move forward, cutting through the gasping men all around us. The alley is warmer, now, heated by exposed flesh and these desperate men, with their grasping hands and their mouths gaping open. I want none of them, only myself. I am wet already and I do not ease into the body of my stead; I take him as he is taking my heart and my soul. I want him to know how it feels, what he is doing. I want him to embrace the pain, and let it soar away from him, into the body he tears into.

I want him to have chosen right.

He stills when he feels me, and none of us breathes for a second. Two. Three. When he moves again, I am shattered. I have not freed his pain to escape; I have gentled him. We were both wrong. I do not need to continue this charade - I want to leave, but I am fucking him - my body is fucking him - and to stop would be to draw attention to myself, and to the boy.

I must pretend that I am fucking you, Padawan. If I do not, I cannot go on.

Forgive me.


I disappear before myself. Oh, I can feel your heartbeat around my cock, Padawan. I know you are there. I can feel how tired you are of tonight's game, but you must bear it for both of us. You must be strong.

Shall I tell you how I love you? Will I explain pain to you, my Padawan? Could you understand that to touch you is to become fire? Should I tell you that I know you are thinking of my death, even now? Would you allow me to soothe you like a babe?

I am doing all of this, Padawan. Feel me inside you. *Know* me.

That is all that I have ever wanted; for you to know me. You, who have never known love in your life. The others learned it alone, grew up alone and still learned it, came to their Masters with the knowledge that they needed. You came to me bare, hollow. Empty. It was up to me to fill you, and this is what I have chosen for you:


I could have given you the cold. Would you have preferred that, I wonder? There are so many around us who understand the ice - the frozen souls, the emptiness. They fear the fire that is my mark, and yours - you moreso than I, my love. You are smarter than I am, Padawan; you do not show them what they do not wish to see. It amuses me to watch their blindness to my fire; there is a small satisfaction, you see, in taunting them, but they will never understand. They think that they have tamed me.

Only you will understand, my beloved.

Only you.


I am confused when he pulls away from me, but it is over. You seem so small to me. I want to hold you. I want to give you something so that you will remember this night. Something that you can share with me, when you come home.

Thoughtlessly, I have brought nothing with me; my pockets are empty. I am desperate, now; I need a marker, a token, a keepsake. I *need* you to have it. I need you to know how I love you.

There is nothing. I search for it, but it isn't there. It isn't until I lift my cloak from where it has fallen in the darkness that I see the glow. When I pick it up, I know that it is perfect.

You will know what it means, my love.

You *have* earned it.


I brush my lips against your hood; it is as close as I dare come while you are still half unclothed. Even that small gesture scorches me, and you pull away. You must feel your fire abate as it strikes against mine.

I smile from deep inside the folds of my cloak and hand you the coin. You stare into my eyes without seeing me, my love. I would give you a blessing if I could, but I can offer you nothing but payment for services so beautifully rendered.

You *are* my love.

My whore.

The End