Series: Fourth in the "Colours" series, after "Blue", "Red",
and "Green".
Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:
http://www.geocities.com/soho/studios/1126/
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. . .}
"Yellow"
by MonaR.
monaram@yahoo.com
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.
**********
Breathe.
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 -
See.
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:
Fire.
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.
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