Chapter Text
At first, the changes were subtle enough that Obi-Wan didn’t notice them.
Many things in his life had changed, after all. Things that he could have never imagined had come to pass. The fall of the immortal Jedi Order. The betrayal of the clones. The death of the only friends and family he’d ever known. The death of democracy. The rise of the Sith.
The fall of his Padawan.
Obi-Wan shook his head, focusing on his duty—cleaning one of self-proclaimed Emperor Palpatine’s many bookshelves. The Emperor’s private Imperial Library was immense. Now that he was unmasked as a Sith Lord, he’d decided to put his favorites on display; lovely books like The Ancient Art of Transmutation and Sith Magicks: Alchemizing the Living Body. Obi-Wan’s rag passed over the titles, priceless organic paper and embossed gold glittering under his gentle care. Even though he worked hard—Palpatine’s list of domestic duties was never-ending—the skin on his hands seemed to do nothing but get more fragile instead of more calloused. As he finished dusting the bookshelf, the skin on his knuckles split from the lye he’d used earlier.
“Kriff,” he cursed under his breath. In the past, he’d hesitated to use such foul language, but Emperor Palpatine’s Imperial Palace held things far filthier than a mere word.
Dusting complete, he went down to the servant’s quarters to grab a fresh bandage to cover his wound. The servant’s quarters was on the second-lowest level of the Imperial Palace—the only windows were high on the walls, nearly touching the ceiling. It was a far cry from the Temple’s abundance of natural light. Even Palpatine’s office was shadowed with heavy curtains, the air thick with dust and rot no matter how many servants cleaned it.
Lowly workers like him weren’t allowed bacta bandages, but Obi-Wan had made-do with poor medical supplies before, and he wrapped his knuckles the way Cody had always done. It wasn’t so bad, the wound he’d gained. Down in the servant’s quarters he was away from the stifling scents of Imperial Alphas running around, their knothead self-importance boosting their every step. Obi-Wan wasn’t one to believe in dynamic stereotyping, especially considering he was an Alpha himself, but the Imperial Guards that Palpatine employed seemed determined to prove him wrong.
But here, it was quiet, and he was alone. He breathed slowly as he finished cleaning himself up, the fabric of his simple bodysuit whispering as he moved. His moment of peace was broken by his comm alerting him to a meeting in Palpatine’s office.
“Kriff,” he said again, not bothering to speak quietly. There were no guards in the servant’s quarters who would care that he spoke.
Obi-Wan made his way back up to Palpatine’s office, black marble reflecting his own face back at him a thousand times. He’d been there many times since the Fall—since Order 66, since all of it. It was where Palpatine met with Darth Vader. Even though he couldn’t feel the Force—the cuffs around his wrists had made sure of that for the past six months—it didn’t take a Force-wielder to smell how the air grew more heated around the office. How the vying of two Alphas for ultimate power poisoned the atmosphere around them. Before the Fall, Obi-Wan had always thought Palpatine smelled faintly repellent. But now, mingled with the depressing, dry scent of Darth Vader, the Emperor was thoroughly repugnant. It was always a challenge to not gag when he entered the sumptuous study.
“My Lord,” Obi-Wan said as he bowed and quickly shuffled to the other side of the room. The tea tray Palpatine always demanded he bring clattered. It used to hurt his pride to say those words—it still did—but the few times he’d refused, Palpatine had tortured Vader, and Obi-Wan’s pride wasn’t worth the price of Vader’s mechanized screams.
Nothing was, not after what Obi-Wan had done on Mustafar. How he’d failed his—his—him so completely.
Darth Vader himself was standing opposite of Palpatine, the massive desk between them so black and highly polished that it appeared to be a bottomless pit. Vader always stood during these meetings. Obi-Wan often wondered if sitting now hurt Vader, locked in his suit. He wondered about a great many things that hurt Vader.
“Pet,” Palpatine called out, his creaky voice snapping across the cavernous room. “Bring us our tea.”
Dutifully, Obi-Wan kept his head bowed and walked towards Palpatine as demurely as he could. This was one of the changes he’d finally noticed. For the past few months, he’d chalked it up to trauma response, but combined with the other changes, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He was finding it easier—far easier than it should have been—to obey two Alphas, especially two Alphas he had a personal history with. For Force’s sake, Vader used to be his—
Obi-Wan strangled that thought.
Tea tray placed onto the desk, Obi-Wan made to return to his spot against the wall.
“Not so fast,” Palpatine said, a slimy grin on his face. “Kneel.”
For a moment, Obi-Wan merely stood there. He’d never been told to kneel before. Not during one of these meetings, at least. Vader’s eyes were on him, as were the guards’, as were Palpatine’s, all of them pressing against his skin as he set one knee on the marble floor, then another, crouching in between Vader and the Emperor. All he could see was the side of the desk.
“Good,” Palpatine purred. It was obscene to hear such a primal, Alpha sound come from such a withered, evil man. Obi-Wan shivered. As Palpatine purred, he stuck a hand in Obi-Wan’s hair, and Obi-Wan wanted to shrivel up and disappear.
“Such luscious hair,” he said as he scratched Obi-Wan’s scalp hard enough to hurt. “So…beautiful.” Rubbing a lock of Obi-Wan’s hair between his fingers, he looked at Vader and laughed. Vader said nothing—he was a man of few words. A far cry from the man he used to be.
Obi-Wan didn’t know how long he knelt there. At some point, Vader and Palpatine began discussing plans for Imperial expansion, and though he tried to pay attention, the moist sweetness of the room’s scent forced him to focus more on not vomiting. No doubt if he did, Palpatine would make him clean it up in…unpleasant ways.
As he focused on his breathing, trying desperately to remember an old meditation trick Qui-Gon taught him, two fingers were shoved underneath his nose.
“Eat,” Palpatine ordered. Some kind of creamy stew dripped from his fingers, fragrant and inviting. Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment. This wasn’t the first time Palpatine had demanded such a humiliation from him, although it wasn’t common. Most of the servants just ate whatever slop came down through the food tubes in their cots, and Obi-Wan was no exception. But he was tired, and he felt sick, and the idea of sticking Palpatine’s dried-up nasty fingers in his mouth really would make him hurl.
So he kept his lips sealed.
“Eat,” Palpatine ordered again, a distinct Alpha timbre to his ragged voice. It shouldn’t have worked on Obi-Wan. It should have raised his hackles and had him biting Palpatine’s hand off. (Obi-Wan had used that exact tone on—on—before, when his—when a young person in his charge was being unruly. Even after his—his presentation as a fellow Alpha, Obi-Wan’s commanding tone never truly lost its effectiveness.) Yet kneeling on the floor as he was, a jolt of electricity shot up Obi-Wan’s spine and he leaned forward, a man possessed, and licked all of the disgustingly delicious stew from Palpatine’s fingers as Vader watched.
It was another change, and it wasn’t a change Obi-Wan was happy with.
_______________________________
There were a great many reasons Obi-Wan wished he was back at the Temple. One of them was the rigorous exercise routine.
Evidently, Palpatine didn’t care much for his servant’s physical health, as Obi-Wan didn’t have access to a gym, or the “outside,” or “fresh air,” or any of those things. The only evidence that Palpatine even thought of them as living beings at all was the food in their tubes—Obi-Wan suspected it contained scent blockers and suppressants, and high-quality ones at that. Either that, or he and all the other servants had spontaneously become Betas.
But given his new routine of domestic duties, the only exercise he got was walking around the Imperial Palace. This restrictive routine had led to him putting on a few pounds, mostly around his middle and thighs. It was highly embarrassing, especially considering the modest but clingy bodysuits he was given to wear. But he couldn’t do much about it besides eat less—and even though he wasn’t as physically active as he used to be, he was constantly hungry.
Obi-Wan was more ravenous than usual today. The slop in his tube, as gray and uninviting as it was, couldn’t be shoved down his throat fast enough. And he was even sad when it was gone. How depressing. The Temple’s refectory had far superior (and far healthier) options than nutrient paste. However, it was good he was hungry. He’d woken up feeling like his skin was too tight, which was often the precursor to a bout of illness. He’d always felt like that before contracting the Bogan flu, anyway. And he doubted Palpatine gave his servants sick leave, so it was important that he eat what he could for strength.
His first duty of the day was mopping the floors in the halls. All the halls. No doubt it would take much, much longer than the schedule allowed, but Palpatine’s work schedule never adhered to reality. He just punished those who couldn’t measure up. As Obi-Wan pushed the mop around on the cold marble floor, he was faced with his reflection—pale, trembling, and utterly defeated. He was a shadow of his former self. Cody would be ashamed.
Obi-Wan stopped looking at himself and continued to mop. He could feel his failure—the softness of his muscles, the tightness of his skin—shifting as he did his work. And he could feel the eyes of the Alpha guards on him, raking up and down his vulnerable body, and he wished he was anywhere else.
Through twisted fate, he was saved by his comm. He was needed in Palpatine’s office.
When he entered the study, the scent of Alphas was stronger than it had ever been before. It nearly knocked him out, the sheer strength of it—and the sheer foulness of it. It was ripened to an unhealthy degree, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but tremble and gag as he stumbled towards his usual spot on the wall (though he managed not to spill any tea). To his surprise, Palpatine didn’t comment on his lack of proper etiquette. He simply began speaking to Vader, who stood before his desk as usual.
“How is the occupation of Corellia progressing?” Palpatine asked, organizing some flimsi on his desk.
“Well,” Vader said, his voice deep and electric. It made Obi-Wan’s heart ache, his entire body ache. His muscles ached. He must really be coming down with the Bogan flu. “I suspect it will fall within the next ten-day. The people are passionate, but disorganized.”
Palpatine hummed, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Passion is only as good as the sharpness of one’s mind. Yes, I have found Corellia to be full of dull blades. Your next mission will be more challenging, Apprentice.”
At the Emperor’s words—at apprentice—Obi-Wan’s knees buckled. He just barely managed to keep himself off the floor, his muscles steadying at the last minute. The tea, however, was a lost cause, and the boiling water splashed on his feet and burned. He didn’t scream. He’d been through much, much worse.
“Apprentice,” Palpatine said again, and this time Obi-Wan’s knees really did give out, and he fell to the floor before managing to pick himself up, face flaming with humiliation. His kneecaps vibrated with pain, yet he managed to right himself, because he would not let the former Chancellor Palpatine have this much power over him. He—he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“Look at your former Master, Apprentice,” Palpatine said, and as Vader’s helmeted gaze blistered against Obi-Wan’s skin, he felt his entire body begin to tremble. Heat flushed through his blood. “Look how soft and delicate he is,” Palpatine crooned, spitting out the words ‘soft’ and ‘delicate’ as the insults they were. “See how he’s so lost and alone. So confused. A beautiful Omega, ripe for your pups.”
As Palpatine talked, flames slowly flooded Obi-Wan’s brain until he could hardly think anymore. He had enough self-awareness left to be confused and offended at Palpatine’s words, but those thoughts were overridden by his more immediate concerns. Namely, how deeply he was trembling and how empty he felt.
“Yes, go to your Alpha,” Palpatine encouraged, and Obi-Wan hadn’t even noticed he was moving until he realized he was halfway towards Vader. “Feel how much you need him. You cannot deny him. It is not within your power; you must have him.” Palaptine paused. “Vader, look at his pants.”
Obi-Wan shambled towards Vader, sweaty and shaking and confused. What was possibly interesting about his pants? Nearly subconsciously, he pawed at his groin, an involuntary whine escaping him. He wanted to die of shame at the sound.
Oh.
Oh.
His hand came away soaking wet with slick. Obi-Wan stared at his glistening fingertips, his world changing. As he stood there, mesmerized by his own fluids, he became very, very aware of his cock. His admittedly quite large Alpha cock, which he’d never had much cause to use and was endlessly teased about by Quinlan. Now, it was shrunken, not even properly tenting his stretchy bodysuit—despite his instincts screaming at him that he should be harder than he’d ever been in his life. Instead, he felt a deep, yawning ache inside of him, and the nearly irresistible urge to put his hand back where it had been. Back on his cunt.
There was an annoying, needy keening sound coming from somewhere in the room. It was pitiful. With horror, Obi-Wan realized it was him. With even more horror, he realized that he was on his knees, groping himself, rubbing his neck against Vader’s legs to mark him. What a base, uncivilized action. To mark him with his own dainty Omega scent—how had he not noticed his very scent changing? How had he not noticed—well, he’d taken anatomical classes in the Temple. Alphas did not have cunts. Obi-Wan was no exception. How had he not noticed beyond a few stray thoughts about his weight? Aghast, he tried to stop himself from groping, from rubbing at his burgeoning folds. He’d never been interested in…those sorts of things before, and he would continue to be uninterested. He would.
He was only partially successful.
“Master,” Vader rumbled. He didn’t sound affected by what was happening. It was beyond Obi-Wan’s comprehension. “We need privacy.”
Palpatine’s answering smile was a cruel thing. “Of course. You know where to go.”
Vader picked Obi-Wan up, his leather gloves scorchingly cold against Obi-Wan’s tight, overheated skin. Against his own desires, he whined and squirmed, reduced to pathetic noises. No. Surely he could still speak. He was not one to tolerate sexist stereotypes. He’d never believed that Omegas were brainless sex toys in their heats—because that had to be what was happening. He was having his first heat.
“No,” he managed to gasp out, pelvis clenching and bodysuit dampening with the word. He could feel the wet cloth rub against Vader’s glove. Impossibly, it aroused him more, his skin becoming more sensitive than it had ever been during one of his mild ruts—made so by the Temple’s suppressors. He felt like a teenager presenting. Sternly, he reminded himself that he was nearly forty years old and that he had commanded armies.
That thought did nothing to quell the fire in his body. He nearly burned to ash when he saw where Vader had taken him. They had to be in the lowest level of the Palace—there weren’t even narrow slits against the ceiling masquerading as windows. No, it was dark and freezing. An artificial breeze scoured Obi-Wan’s skin. None of that was as important as the single object in the center of the large, empty room.
A breeding bench.
The sight of it—black leather and durasteel, no doubt designed to be uncomfortable—shocked Obi-Wan to his core, and for a moment, the heat in his pelvis abated. He realized that he was in Darth Vader’s arms. Vainly, he began to move, to try to do something, even if all he could do was remove the Force-suppressing cuffs around his wrists. But he’d tried that before, countless times over endless months, and of course nothing came of it. Instead, Vader held his wrists together and carried him over to the bench.
As perverse as it was, the sight of his thin, pale wrists locked in Vader’s gloves quickened Obi-Wan’s breath. Obi-Wan’s hands were no longer the strong, capable hands they used to be. Without him noticing, they had turned distinctly Omegan, delicate and plump, just like the rest of him. Even the cuts he’d gotten from his work had healed prettily, as shiny silver scars.
“Be still,” Vader ordered gruffly as he began to lock Obi-Wan into the breeding bench. The echo of the Alpha he used to be roared in protest, but his new Omegan instincts leapt at the chance to obey his new Al—Vader, and he sat as still as he possibly could, quavering as his sweaty body and wet cunt dirtied the pristine leather of the bench.
Until he realized, yet again, that he was not a slave to his hormones, no matter how delicious Vader smelled now that Palpatine was gone.
“Vader,” he tried to command with his old Alpha tone, and all that came out was an embarrassingly breathy moan. “Vader,” he tried again, and this time, it was even needier than the first. He had to persevere. “Vader, untie me,” he said as loudly as he could, his stomach clenching in anticipation as his cunt began to weep through the fabric of his clothes. Vader’s powerful arms finally finished locking him into the breeding bench.
Vader did not untie him. Obi-Wan could hardly blame him. Even if Vader wasn’t intent on putting him in the breeding bench, Obi-Wan did not sound like he wanted to be untied. His voice had heightened considerably, and as he spoke, he subconsciously rubbed his chin against the bench, trying to mark it with his scent. Even so, he thought he should try to free himself, but the bonds were more complicated than any he’d encountered before. If they were simple bonds, it still wouldn’t matter. The heat was making it nearly impossible to think.
For a few minutes, Obi-Wan was lost in a haze as he thrusted pointlessly against the bench, his limbs locked in place and his needy cunt pressing against empty air. Every brush of his bodysuit against his tender folds sent shocks throughout his body. He could feel his budding breasts begin to swell, and to his complete mortification, they began to ache and leak milk. He could feel the liquid begin to stain his clothes. Right as the warm, musky scent of milk hit the air, he heard a mechanized growl from Vader and the ripping of fabric.
All of a sudden, Obi-Wan’s bodysuit was in tatters, a large rip exposing his private region—the place he’d neglected for most of his life. He’d never cared much for secondary-sex designations, and when he’d presented as an Alpha, he’d been all too happy to go on the Temple’s offered suppressants. The Jedi’s mandate of “no attachment” had never been an issue for him; at least in the physical sense. Even with Satine, the suppressants made it so he wasn’t particularly curious about exploring that aspect of their relationship. He loved her for other things.
But here, trapped in the darkness with nothing but his failures and a body that was foreign to him, trapped in the throes of his first heat, he was aware of nothing but the painful tightness of his newly-blossomed cunt, of his stunted Omegan cock and his empty asshole. He grunted, stomach cramping, and a veritable wave of slick poured down his thighs from his cunt and his hole, wetting his now-bare skin. He could nearly yell from the pain. The incessant drip of thin, hot slick and the constant breeze against his blazing, damp flesh did nothing but remind him of how completely, awfully empty he was.
Then he felt something hard press tantalizingly tightly up against his folds. Gasping, Obi-Wan tried to crane his neck to see what it was, but he could hardly move his head. After the shock wore off, he realized it was leather. Vader’s finger.
“You are a disgrace to my old Master,” Vader rumbled from behind him, just as monotone as when he delivered mission reports to Palpatine. “Only a few short months of my seed and you have become a mewling Omega. It is a shame.”
Vader withdrew his hand, which had quickly been made warm and wet with Obi-Wan’s heat, and Obi-Wan involuntarily whined at the loss. Well. At least that explained how he could have possibly gone from an Alpha to an Omega—he’d been taking in Vader’s seed, likely through his food. And he’d been taking it over a long enough period that any incremental changes would pass by mostly unnoticed. Vaguely, he knew that the thought should disgust him; should horrify and frighten him, and it did.
But Vader’s intoxicating scent was so strong, and he was right—in this moment, Obi-Wan was a mewling Omega, and he could do nothing but thrust his ass back and wordlessly beg for Vader’s presence.
“Master wishes us to breed,” Vader intoned. “To create the next heirs for the Empire. I will fill you with pups, Omega, and you will take care of them.”
Every word was both a promise and a threat. Unlike most Alphas, Obi-Wan had never wanted children of his own. Taking a Padawan was child enough. Vader’s words managed to cut through the haze his heat had created and fill him with bone-deep fear. Obi-Wan wasn’t an Alpha anymore—he was an Omega, and that meant he could get pregnant. Obi-Wan had nothing against pregnant Omegas, but never in his wildest dreams had he ever considered the possibility that he could become pregnant. (Or be in such a mind-numbing heat. His ruts had certainly never, ever been like this. Even when he’d first presented.)
The idea of pregnancy was terrifying. It was impossible. Yet even as he had the thought, his painfully swollen little breasts began to leak with even more milk.
Obi-Wan’s Omegan hormones and his terror began to warp his thoughts down a dark path. He was good for nothing else, now. He was soft. He was undisciplined. He had failed. And he would be filled with Vader’s come and bear pups for the Emperor. Those visions of his future left him cold and barren, yet his traitorous body groaned louder and presented its hot, glistening, and fertile cunt to Vader. If that was to be his future—if he was to succeed—then he needed to be filled.
“Not so fast, needy Omega,” Vader said, and Obi-Wan wanted to cry with anticipation. Even without external stimulation, he could feel his cunt begin to clench around nothing, his folds fluttering and releasing musky, flowery Omegan pheromones into the air, begging any nearby Alpha to ravish him and fill him up. It was so different from his old Alpha scent. Where he’d used to smell spicy and sharp, he now smelled pleasant and inviting. Pleading, and unable to stop pleading. How was Vader able to resist? Suppressed as he’d been, even Obi-Wan’s old Alpha self would find it difficult to deny that kind of mating call.
Suddenly, Vader’s hands were grasping his tiny breasts, clumsily pawing at the slight buds. Obi-Wan shuddered and moaned low as a thin stream of milk trickled from them, their soreness abating with the release of pressure. Absently, he thought that he’d be rather annoyed if part of being an Omega meant that he’d have to regularly express milk from his breasts. But then Vader twisted his nipple, the areola pebbling up, and Obi-Wan was lost in another wave of heat.
Once the milk had stopped flowing, Vader’s hands left his chest. The milk was left unused, partly absorbed into Obi-Wan’s clothes, and partly left on the ground. It was a waste, but clearly Vader had no interest. He resumed his ministrations to Obi-Wan’s cunt, sticking one finger against it tight enough for Obi-Wan’s folds to flutter, then releasing it, leaving him aching for more.
“Wha—” Obi-Wan gasped out as he tried to thrust backwards, the breeding bench’s restraints inhibiting his movement. “What are you doing?” he eventually managed. “Just get on with it.” Quietly, Obi-Wan was proud of how disinterested he managed to sound this time, even as his entire Omegan body said otherwise.
“Were you never with an Omega, my old Master?” Vader asked, and damn if he didn’t sound a little like Ana—no. Obi-Wan shook his head and hid the motion by pretending he was continuing to mark his scent against the bench. “They—you—need to be catered to before intercourse,” Vader continued. “You are high-maintenance now. You crave attachment. You need,” Vader said, slamming one finger right up Obi-Wan’s asshole.
Obi-Wan groaned, louder than before. For a few seconds, it felt so good to be filled. Then Obi-Wan’s high-maintenance body realized that it wasn’t enough, and his cunt doubled its efforts, yet another wave of slick gushing from his body. His inner thighs were now thoroughly dampened. The shadow of Obi-Wan’s self thought that he should be ashamed, humiliated, and embarrassed, which he was. But the need was stronger than all of those.
“Please,” he croaked, his throat dry. This was worse than even the most grueling exercise routines he’d done. “Please.”
“Please what?” Vader asked, yet another finger pressed tantalizingly close to his cunt. His thighs shivered with sensation.
“Don’t—don’t make me say it,” Obi-Wan gasped out, his humiliation complete with his reedy, breathy tone. He didn’t sound like he was asking. He sounded like he was pouting.
“Say it,” Vader inevitably ordered.
“Please put your cock in me,” Obi-Wan said with his eyes shut, cheeks burning not with arousal, but with embarrassment.
Instead of saying anything, Vader slid his cock into Obi-Wan’s cunt. It was long, thick, and hard, a perfect Alpha specimen—evidently, the fire on Mustafar hadn’t done much to it. Obi-Wan’s slick had created a perfect slit for Vader’s cock, and he moved quickly and easily out of Obi-Wan, slamming into him with a mechanical rhythm. Obi-Wan found his eyes tearing up—with pleasure or pain, he wasn’t sure. But his body was cramping, and mouthwatering Alpha scent was everywhere, and his muscles seemed to have been struck by lightning.
His cunt wrapped greedily around Vader’s cock every time it was in him, trying desperately to latch on and not let go. Even his hips jerked back in an attempt to keep Vader on him. Obi-Wan’s own thrusting caused the delicate skin of his wrists to burn against the breeding bench’s restraints, and he wished he could stop thrusting, but he couldn’t. He was a slave to his body’s desires, rutting mindlessly up against Vader’s cock as his own cunt fought against him by creating even more slick—slick which made it easier for Vader to slide out of him. To use him as he pleased.
“Please,” Obi-Wan mumbled. “Please.” He didn’t even know what he was asking for anymore. He had been given so much, his little Omegan cunt, and he still needed more. More. It was the complete opposite of what a Jedi should be.
Finally, Vader slammed into him with his knot and emptied into him, his come filling up all those spaces in Obi-Wan that were still empty. At the same time, Obi-Wan came, his slight Omegan cock producing not come, but even more slick, wetting the front of his clothes. As Vader’s cock settled inside of him, Obi-Wan moaned with relief. He was finally, finally full. He could feel Vader still emptying inside him, Alpha seed filling his womb with the potential for pups.
Cold descended quickly and harshly. He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, a Jedi Master and High General. He could not allow himself to become some—some brainless Omegan broodmare for the Sith Lord. Yet here he was, strapped to a breeding bench filled with a Sith’s seed, all in service of another Sith. Suddenly, Obi-Wan wanted nothing more than to leave that bench, even with Vader’s cock satisfying him in ways he’d never dreamed possible.
“Vader,” he said, and it was the first thing he’d said since his heat had begun that didn’t have a tinge of want to it. He sounded stern, commanding. Vader did not respond.
_______________________________
Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he’d ever go back to the servant’s quarters.
After Vader had…done what he’d done, he’d left Obi-Wan strapped to the breeding bench. Given that Obi-Wan was in heat, barely any time passed before he was once again keening for an Alpha to fill him. After a tortuous time spent alone thrusting cold air, Vader would return, he would fill Obi-Wan, he would leave, and the cycle would continue. Obi-Wan wasn’t even sure if Vader was in rut—his dispassion was, in a word, alarming. At some point, Vader brought him water and nutrient paste, although it wasn’t enough to properly hydrate him.
“Am I to assume this has your come in it?” Obi-Wan had asked as he’d looked at the nutrient paste. In a rare moment of lucidity, he’d realized he was thoroughly disgusted by the concept. Vader hadn’t confirmed or denied his question, and Obi-Wan chose to believe that the nutrient paste was just nutrient paste. After all, the Sith Lords had already won. They’d successfully bitched him from an Alpha into an Omega, and one didn’t become pregnant by eating come.
After a few more cycles on the breeding bench, Vader finally unstrapped him.
“Done already, Vader? All spent?” Obi-Wan slurred, his entire body relaxed to an uncomfortable degree. He was in a dangerous, compromising situation. He should not allow himself to be so relaxed. “I could go another round.”
He absolutely could not go another round. He was so dehydrated that he could feel his lips cracking, and he could hardly stand. Shaking, he fell onto a thin cot—a servant must have delivered it at some point during their rutting. With how exhausted he was, Obi-Wan couldn’t find it in himself to care.
“Eat,” Vader ordered, shoving a ration bar in Obi-Wan’s face. “Drink.”
Raising an eyebrow, Obi-Wan snatched the bar and water bottle. He began to drain it, liquid pouring down his throat. He’d never been so thirsty; not since the Geonosis campaign.
“My, Vader,” Obi-Wan panted once his thirst had been slaked, “how good of you to give me water. Might I even get clothes next?” He gestured to his ruined bodysuit. “I can hardly clean Palpatine’s office like this.”
A flash of terror lit in his heart as he realized that, theoretically, Palpatine could, in fact, make him clean his office like this. To his great relief, Vader stepped backwards.
“You must stay here to be filled. Master will know what to do when the task has been completed.”
At least he wasn’t going to be forced to prance around the Imperial Palace naked. Little victories mattered. Yet at Vader’s lost tone, his heart ached. Even though Vader was the one ordering him to stay in the cell, his complete reliance on Palpatine was—pitiful.
“Vader,” Obi-Wan said, and it was not the breathy whimper of an Omega. It was the low, sad tone of a failed teacher. A failed brother, a failed friend, and a failed fath—no. Absolutely not.
“Do not speak to me that way,” Vader snapped. “You will stay here until I return.”
“What? I didn’t say anything!”
Obi-Wan was shocked at himself. At the very least, he expected Vader to slap him. But the Sith Lord simply turned and left the cell, cape fluttering behind him. A lock echoed, and Obi-Wan was alone.
The only things in his cell were the breeding bench, the cot, and the food and drink Vader had left him with. Laboriously, he pushed the cot as far as possible from the breeding bench. Then he settled into the corner of the room, eating and drinking because he must. He placed a hand against his belly—his strange, foreign belly, something that might be filled with a misbegotten child even at this very moment. He could feel how full he was. There was an unpleasant hardness under his fingertips, just above his, ah—his newly Omegan parts, and just below his stomach. It was his new womb, no doubt. Experimentally, he pressed on the hardness, and he nearly gagged as fluid trickled from his folds. He didn’t lean over to investigate whether it was even more slick (How could he possibly have produced so much? Clearly, he didn’t know as much about Omegan biology as he’d thought) or something else. Disgusted, he resolved to never do that again.
Yet even as he settled into his unending exhaustion, the wretched heat began to descend upon him once more. Its flames began to lick at his blood, and he could feel his muscles below tightening in response. He was so tired, and his body didn’t care.
“No, please,” he whimpered into the empty cell—he couldn’t possibly go through this again. Especially without an Alpha. No-one responded. Only the lingering scent of Vader remained, suspended in the air around the breeding bench. He smelled so different from how he used to smell. Obi-Wan breathed deep, and a flutter of miserable anticipation began to take root in his pelvis. Without him fully realizing what he was doing, he began to thrust against the cot, scraping his back up and down the smooth walls of the cell. His small breasts shifted with the motion, tissue sore with even more unreleased milk. Kriff—he didn’t have enough hands. His breasts were left neglected, aching.
Obi-Wan could hear how labored and shallow his breath had become now that Vader was not present to mask the sound. He sounded so sweetly vulnerable, so ready for any red-blooded Alpha to take him and grind him into dust. Bizarrely, what remained of his Alpha instincts roared at the sound of an Omega’s whimper, and he could do nothing but grind harder, thrusting into his hand, the food and drink forgotten. Once more, his folds wettened, making his pliant, soft hand feel much, much more like a cock than it should have. Wildly, Obi-Wan wondered if that was a natural part of Omegan biology. They certainly hadn’t taught him any of this in the Temple.
He made more mindless sounds as he explored his own cunt, desperate to understand what was happening to him, and desperate to stop the neverending wave of need that consumed his very being. As he rubbed, his little cock laying flat against his stomach, he slipped his hand into himself and nearly saw stars. For just a moment, he was full, and he sighed contentedly. Then the heat began again. His cunt began to weep again. And he was back where he’d begun, trapped in himself, rubbing and shoving and trying hopelessly to feed a hunger that he knew he could not satiate by himself. He needed someone else. It was like Vader said. On a biological level, down to his very bones, he was now a creature of attachment.
With his fingers shoved up his cunt, thrusting awkwardly against the ground in instinctual movements he didn’t understand, Obi-Wan began to cry.