Chapter Text
Obi-Wan sits on the hard, grated floor with his eyes downcast and his meager bowl of scraps tucked close to his chest. He tears at a tuber with his teeth, chewing slowly despite the gritty taste. The trembling Togruta colonists around him shovel their rations into their mouths in a desperate attempt to sate that gnawing, inescapable hunger.
Obi-Wan swallows down another bite, nearly choking on the dryness in his throat. The metal floor clangs as an overseer stalks closer. Obi-Wan folds in on himself, eyes anywhere but facing his captor, and risks another bite of food.
The cruel kick of a boot collides with his bowl, flinging the bowl and its contents across the floor. As he watches those precious few calories slip between floor grates, Obi-Wan becomes a creature of instinct. With a deep, borderline animalistic rage, he rises to his knees and raises his fists as if to fight. He snarls at the whip-wielding Zygerrian, chest heaving lungfuls of that sweltering air.
The fight slowly leaves Obi-Wan’s body, leaving him despairing and exhausted. He reaches for his bowl, and the Zygerrian kicks it away again.
“You think you can raise a fist to me, skug?"
Obi-Wan shakes his head quickly, falling to his hands and knees. “Forgive me, Master.”
The Zygerrian guard crouches down, grabbing Obi-Wan’s jaw in a bruising grip. He forces Obi-Wan’s face upward, straining his neck.
“What are you, Jedi?”
“A slave, Master,” Obi-Wan croaks.
“And slaves take what they are given!”
The whip cracks.
Obi-Wan screams through clenched teeth as burning bolts of electricity shoot through his body. He collapses onto his side, muscles seizing.
“Pathetic,” the Zygerrian snarls from above. “Who knew a Jedi Master would break so easily? You’re no better than the rest of us.”
Another strike.
And another.
Obi-Wan’s screams fade into the cacophonous horror that is Kadavo. With every nerve alight in pain, it takes a few moments to register that the onslaught has ended.
Panting, Obi-Wan pries one eye open, then the other. Those bleary eyes blink detail back into the world. He stares at lekku-framed faces until the worst of the pain recedes.
Through the dust-thick air, he meets Governor Roshti’s eyes. Those orange eyes burn steadily, like the blazing sun through a hazy sky. Despite the pain and the fear and the distrust, Obi-Wan finds compassion.
In the darkest of moments, there is Light. There is the Force. Obi-Wan breathes out, accepting the pain in his weary body. He says nothing, just slowly gathers himself from the floor. The Zygerrian towers over him, radiating a deep, roiling rage. For once, he has nothing to say. There’s nothing he can say to change this man’s mind. They are both living, breathing beings capable of choice. He stares up at his captor, mustering compassion for this person who revels in doing harm. This man who has been taught to hate him, to hate the Jedi. To hate those who are other.
Obi-Wan finds Governor Roshti as the Force swirls in danger. He sneaks a smile, promising hope.
“You don’t learn, do you?”
The shadow descends, clawed hands digging into Obi-Wan’s tender flesh and forcing him to his stomach. A sharp knee to his back pins him in place as his trousers and underclothes are yanked down to his thighs. A weight settles over him, crushing him against the heated metal floor. Moist breath hits his ear, sending a shiver through his body.
“You are nothing but the grime beneath my feet,” the Zygerrian growls in Obi-Wan’s ear, ungentle hands groping at Obi-Wan’s exposed arse. “Her Majesty said to break you—” He spits on his hand, bringing it down to stroke himself. He spits again, a wet finger coming to prod at Obi-Wan’s hole.
“You’ll learn your place soon enough, skug,” the slaver gloats. “And if that means I get to enjoy your worthless body, well… I’m not complaining.”
A clawed finger creeps between his arse cheeks, searching harshly for his entrance. His sharp fingernail finds it first, earning a wince from the trembling man below. Obi-Wan swallows down his pained moan as that finger breaches him dry, his sensitive skin resisting the intrusion. A few more seconds of wasted effort and the Zygerrian moves his finger with a growl.
“Too kriffing dry,” the Zygerrian grumbles to himself. He spits in his hand, letting his saliva trail down his fingers. “Not even a good hole to fuck.”
The spit helps—barely. It’s all he gets, and it’s better than nothing, but the push-and-pull of the Zygerrian’s fingers is far from comfortable.
Obi-Wan goes limp. He rests his cheek against the floor and consciously relaxes his muscles.
Don’t fight
The Zygerrian thrusts his fingers fast and rough. He’s not preparing Obi-Wan so much as paving the way for his cock.
Don’t beg
It hurts. Force, it hurts. It’s not supposed to hurt like this. The Zygerrian is impatient. He rips his fingers out, coating them with a fresh layer of saliva. He shifts. Fabric rustles, and then there’s the slick sound of—
The Zygerrian moans behind his ear. A moist tongue flicks his sensitive flesh, then bites down. Firm flesh prods between his legs, putting pressure on his sore hole.
Don’t scream
Obi-Wan’s vision whites out as the man penetrates him. His rapist plows his hips forward as much as he can before he meets resistance. He pushes forward again, letting out a frustrated groan at the lack of depth.
“Let me in, whore,” the slaver hisses. In one quick motion, he drags himself out, then slams his hips against Obi-Wan’s.
Obi-Wan cries out. Something inside him gives way, and the Zygerrian slides deeper, not stopping until their hips meet flush and Obi-Wan is certain he’s torn.
As blood slicks the way, the chafe is less, replaced by a terrible stinging pain radiating up his spine. Those hands pull his hips up for a better angle. Obi-Wan’s face slides against the ground as the man above chases his pleasure. He’s been reduced to breathless whimpers now, despite just lying there like a corpse and taking it.
“You love this, don’t you, whore?” the Zygerrian pants between thrusts. “Is this why you’ve been so disobedient? You were waiting for someone to fuck you back into your place?"
A stinging slap to his arse, and Obi-Wan yelps.
“Answer me, skug,” the Zygerrian orders with a brutal thrust of his hips. “Tell me you love it or the Togs suffer.”
“I love it,” Obi-Wan croaks.
A harsh hand grabs a fistful of Obi-Wan’s hair and yanks his head back.
“Show me proper respect!”
“I love it, Master,” Obi-Wan sobs, every inch of his body aching horribly. He needs this to end. Please, just let this end. He can feel the man above him coming close, his pace staggering and his breath coming quicker.
“You want this to end, whore?”
Obi-Wan nods his head weakly, not trusting his voice to make any dignified sound.
“Then ask for it. You know what to do.”
“Please, Master,” Obi-Wan begs like the obedient slave he’s meant to be. A tear trickles down his cheek, and even now a part of him mourns that loss of precious water.
“Please. Come in—ah! Come inside me.”
Impossibly, the man ruts faster, chasing the high of his pleasure. He slams into Obi-Wan’s abused body once, twice, three times until he comes with a loud snarl. He rocks his hips forward a few more times, though not nearly as hard. Warm, stinging liquid marks Obi-Wan’s insides. He stares, eyes wide and uncomprehending, as the man unceremoniously pulls out.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next few hours are grueling. It takes every ounce of Obi-Wan’s being to remain upright, let alone labor in the mines. Sharp pain accompanies every step, every exertion of muscle, every breath. Sticky fluids dampen his thighs, but he’s almost certain the bleeding has stopped. If it hasn’t, well…
There’s not much he can do about that here.
Obi-Wan’s legs tremble as he and another slave push forward a cart heavily loaded with rubble. In this, Obi-Wan is less than useless, his injury forcing the gaunt man beside him to heave both Obi-Wan and the cart. The man shoots him resentful looks, precious moisture dripping down his face.
The cart hits a fallen rock, and Obi-Wan loses his footing. He falls to his knees on the dirty floor, vision blurring. The cart gets smaller and smaller, and it takes him far too long to realize his partner is going forward without him. On feeble knees, he pushes off from the floor, only to fall further. His face brushes the floor roughly, and he just…
He can’t…
Obi-Wan can’t get up. His body won’t move, consequences be damned.
“Get up, skug! You won’t be the one who suffers for your disobedience!”
A voice snarls from far away. Above him. He stares at their feet, eyes hovering in and out of focus. His eyes blink closed and become too heavy to open. A shout of pain echoes nearby—not his—and then another.
The world goes dark.
✦ ✦ ✦
Obi-Wan’s body recoils before his mind is conscious enough to register the sharp, stabbing pain radiating up his spine. His legs and fists flail wildly, blindly attacking the solid weight above him. No matter how fiercely he fights, the weight won’t budge. His breaths come hard and fast, panic taking hold.
“Enough, skug! Continue to fight me and the Togruta will suffer.”
Obi-Wan freezes. His brain catches on the words and awareness creeps in. Kiros. Zygerria. The captive Togruta. For better or for worse, he remembers where he is and who he must protect. His limbs fall languidly back to his sides, earning him a derisive snort.
Obi-Wan’s eyes crack open. He lies flat on a thin mattress with metal coils digging into his back. A snarled face hovers above him, hands planted on either side of his head like a cage. Even then, as Obi-Wan tamps down his body’s barest instinct to protect itself, the nameless Zygerrian rocks into him.
Rusty metal creaks with a steady rhythm. Obi-Wan stares unblinking over the Zygerrian’s shoulder at the stone ceiling. A large fan whirs somewhere nearby. Obi-Wan’s bare skin prickles in the chilled air, having lost his soiled robes at some point when he was unconscious.
The man above pauses, but only to shift his angle, brushing up against a particularly painful tear. Obi-Wan’s back arches and he digs his heels in. His next breath comes out as a sob.
“That’s it, whore,” the Zygerrian purrs. “Take my cock.”
Fuck you, Obi-Wan wants to say, but he holds his tongue. There is nothing he can say to make this better. Nothing he can say to stop this. No witty retort or clever insult will ever exact this pain. He’s not sure anything could. That face twists in ecstasy, breathing a filthy moan inches from Obi-Wan’s ear. The man’s breath is hot and wet and hitched. It seeps into Obi-Wan’s skin and collects in his blood like poison.
Faster. The thrusts come faster. They carve into him with the ruthlessness of a butcher. He aches so terribly, but his cries only seem to spur them on. The Zygerrian finishes with little more than a thin exhale. He stops his movements, just lingering inside Obi-Wan.
It’s over. Obi-Wan closes his eyes. The man pulls out, the evidence of his corruption trickling down Obi-Wan’s thighs. At last, it’s over.
“Are you finally done?”
Obi-Wan jolts. No. No no no no.
“It took you long enough.”
Obi-Wan turns his head slowly. No less than eleven beings are scattered about the room. A few of them sit around a circular table playing Sabacc. Others watch Obi-Wan intently, trousers opened so they can stroke themselves to his suffering.
Another being makes their way to the mattress. Standing at the edge, they free their cock from their trousers, not bothering to remove them all the way. They stroke their erection at a leisurely pace, far too close for Obi-Wan’s liking.
“Are you ready for me, skug?” they ask cruelly. “Do you want this?”
Obi-Wan swallows, his throat as dry as the Zygerrian desert. “Yes, Master.”
They pat his cheek. “Good boy.”
A hydration pack is brought to his lips. He sucks eagerly, moaning as the cool liquid meets his tongue and soothes his throat. He drains the pack quickly, biting back an undignified whimper when it is finally pulled away.
The Zygerrian pulls out another surprise from his trousers; a bottle of bacta lubricant. He drops it beside Obi-Wan’s head.
“If you’re smart, you’ll prepare yourself for us.”
Obi-Wan nods, climbing to his knees with his front half facing toward the guard. The cap comes off with a pop and he smears a generous amount of lubricant on his fingers. Straining his shoulder, he cranes backward, gently smearing the cool gel over his torn hole. It stings, but he pushes through it. He penetrates himself carefully, spreading the bacta as deep as he can reach. As he works, a firm hand in his hair not so subtly directs his mouth onto the turgid cock.
Obi-Wan takes the slaver's cock in his mouth, bobbing carefully so as not to choke. Distracted, he drops the bottle on the mattress and out of reach. It hardly matters anyway, when another slaver steps up behind him.
Firm flesh prods between his arse cheeks. They rub themself against him until their cock is slick enough to comfortably stick inside him. Comfortable for them, at least.
Obi-Wan’s body rocks back and forth as both beings take their pleasure. They don’t care when they brush a sore spot or penetrate his throat so deeply that he cannot breathe. He is a worthless, thoughtless vessel. Not a partner. Never an equal.
All Obi-Wan can do is take it. Endure. He closes his eyes and focuses only on what breaths of air he can steal. The pain in his arse is secondary. His jaw, stretched open, is practically numb. This must end, and he will feel it all then, when survival is guaranteed.
The being in Obi-Wan’s ass comes first. He doesn’t realize it until they are pulling out, a fresh layer of filth to cover his thighs. Another guard steps up behind him. A hysterical laugh bubbles inside him as he realizes this next one won’t be the last.
Another groan sounds in front of him. Salty spend shoots down Obi-Wan’s throat. At the Zygerrian’s gruff order, he swallows it down, trying not to vomit at the thought of that spend sitting in his stomach.
Again and again, he is forced onto cock after cock, far too many to count.
When it ends—suddenly, with a burst-open door—Obi-Wan is too far gone to realize it.