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Disclaimers: George owns it all. I am a penniless sitar player and play for the fun of it. No money changes hands, and the boys are intact.

Pairing: Q/O (implied)

Rating: NC-17

Spoiler: YES, for Episode II teaser trailer (I don't know anything in particular but I want a good strong warning for those who are averse to spoiling anything about Ep. 2)

Category: Angst, non-con, violence, PWP

Notes: [at end of story]

Summary: Obi-Wan endures.

He knew that so much of his agony was illusion but it didn't help. Held immobile by the steady lightbeams, his body was frozen. He couldn't scream. He couldn't flinch. He couldn't even cry, although he felt as though he had been cringing, sobbing, shrieking for an eternity. Every time the monster shrouded in the dim arena struck, his mind was ripped open, his anguish a delicacy to be savoured by the feasting multitude behind the stone walls.

Blinded, he felt the caress of pain from shoulder to knee, a tearing flame that scorched and shamed him. Within the slow, vicious burn that made his skin crawl was a caress that wound into his helplessness, forcing his arousal and contemptuous of his suffering. He could not tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began, and his crumbling shields lay in ruins. Had his face been able to reflect his horror and misery, it would have been twisted into an unrecognisable mask. Only his eyes, luminous pools reflecting the amber light and the flickering St. Elmo's fire of his agony, could speak.

They were oceans of guilt and fear and soul-numbing grief.

He felt his mind being used, felt the cruel and merciless fingers that pried open his every dark thought, every angry word, every forbidden desire and worked them into the tapestry of torture. Anakin's horror-stricken eyes burned into his own, an imaginary morass of guilty failure. Qui-Gon's big hands were rough on a body that shuddered in its hushed, humiliated need. Another bolt of pure pain and the stars of space exploded into dust, littering the wasteland of his soul.

The physical had ceased to exist. This was far worse. The Sith tortured his heart, his soul, his very last bastions of self dissolving in an endless sea of pain. This was an eternal hell. He would exist here, forever dangling in a world of frozen terror and intimate, shameful agony. His every fear, every desire and fantasy was unearthed, every fantasy studied and used.

His thirteen year old self screamed in terror as he was dragged to the "Monument," kicking and protesting. Master Yoda himself reached a clawed hand to silence his struggles, leaving him a motionless lump to be tossed into the hold, another piece of Temple garbage.

He was on a mission with Qui-Gon, watching in helpless horror as his Master gave him away. The blue eyes were impassive and unemotional as he was stripped, groped, fondled by alien hands to forced completion, then turned over. Strange fingers touched his flesh, the deepest, innermost part of him. His shame and terror was choking. He saw himself losing control, first of his fear, then of his body. He heard the raucous laughter at the piss streaming down his legs, at the sound of his retching. He felt the rough yank that pulled his legs far apart and touched him in places that made him scream and writhe. His head was held up, neck straining, and he was staring into his Master's unfathomable eyes as digits never humanoid, forced their way into his anus, stroking and caressing until he moaned with need, his cock impossibly stiff before him. His Master's hand reached out to run a finger along its rigid length, lips curling with scorn.

He saw himself thrown down in the Council chamber, heard his Master's measured, icy words as he knelt in a Padawan's protestation. His breath caught in his throat, acid burning in his eyes as he heard the list of his failures, the pity and thinly-veiled contempt in Qui-Gon's low voice clear. He felt himself yanked up by the collar, his braid and tail shorn, the cloak torn from his shoulders as he was dismissed, a failure to his Master and the Temple.

He felt Qui-Gon's hands, burning hot between his legs, his head dropping to rest on his Master's shoulder, gasping in pleasure, his hips grinding back into the red-hot pole that pushed between the cheeks of his buttocks. Qui-Gon's fingers, under his tunic, were calloused and rough against his nipples and he moaned, then sobbed, watching the door open and seeing Anakin's horror-stricken gaze.

He was aching with cold, burning up with heat, pain etching a monument to his love.

Somehow, deep inside, he knew he would survive, but he would never be the same. The monster who was feasting on his agony would always be a part of him.

And that was the worst failure of all.

FIN

Notes: This is based entirely on the "suspended Obi" in the teaser for Ep 2. I simply HAD to write it. Blame George. Blame Obi. Blame the Force.