Chapter Text
The inside of the facility reminds Obi-Wan of the Halls of Healing, walls bright white, floors pristine, and staff moving about with purpose. Obi-Wan's bare feet are cold on the metal floor, and his heartbeat is loud in his ears.
Hala leads him into a small room. There's a bed with a thin sheet, a few cabinets, a stool, and a med droid in the corner. An examination room.
"Up on the bed."
Obi-Wan does as instructed, the thin paper crinkling as he sits.
"And lay back," she pushes on his shoulder, guiding him down, his legs hanging off the end. She grabs his right wrist with a loose grip and pulls it up level with his head, off to the side and straps it down. She does the same to his left.
She's pulled stirrups out from the end of the bed and manipulates his legs and feet into them, spreading him open. Straps are secured around his ankles, knees, thighs, waist, and chest.
Hala tugs on the straps, making sure they're secure. She picks up a strap and loops it around Obi-Wan's neck, tightening it until he can't move, his throat pressed tight to the table. Another goes around his forehead. "That's a good boy."
She activates the med droid and starts it on data collection, drawing blood and doing general scans. It's simple and quick, and Hala is silent. When the droid beeps, indicating its tasks are complete, Hala picks up a clipboard, reading through the results.
"Alright," she says, stepping back. "You hang tight, and the doctor will be around eventually."
"Doctor?"
Hala doesn't answer his question, her heels clicking against the floor as she leaves.
Obi-Wan is left alone, strapped down and waiting. He can't move his head much without the strap digging into his neck worse than it already is, but his eyes dart around the room, taking in the details. There's not much to see. It really isn't all that different than every other examination room he's been to in his life.
The medical droid beeps idly in the corner for a few minutes before it goes dark. Obi-Wan closes his eyes to block out the overhead lights.
He just has to wait. To endure. That's all he has to do. So he's tied down. Big deal. He can handle a standard medical exam.
Footsteps in the hallway catch his attention, and he tries to focus on them, but he can't make out anything distinct. But they recede, walking past his room.
Obi-Wan isn't sure how long he's been there, but eventually, he hears footsteps again, and this time, they stop outside the room.
The door opens, and a man enters, dressed in a white coat. He's human, balding, with a short beard. His eyes are dark and cold.
He doesn't talk to Obi-Wan as he sets down his datapad on the counter, washes his hands, and snaps on a pair of rubber gloves. Some bedside manner.
"Please," Obi-Wan says. "Let me go."
There is no answer as the doctor begins intently combing through Obi-Wan's hair, studying his scalp, Obi-Wan thinks.
When he's satisfied, he pulls out a small light and shines it into each of Obi-Wan's eyes, his thumbs pulling at Obi-Wan's eyelids.
Obi-Wan blinks away the stars. "What are you looking for?"
No response.
A tongue depressor prods at Obi-Wan's lips and he opens his mouth at the wordless request. The doctor shines the light in and pokes around a bit. Obi-Wan pulls in a breath and tries to steady himself.
It doesn't work very well.
The man grabs something metal with curved, gleaming arms and eases it toward his face. It slips past his lips with a cold scrape, the hooked ends catching the inside of his cheeks. A moment later, it begins to spread, slowly, relentlessly, pulling his mouth open wider than feels natural, until the corners sting and his jaw throbs under the unbending weight of durasteel.
Obi-Wan reflexively tries to clamp his jaws shut. Ow, kriff. Mistake.
The metal doesn’t budge. Tears of pain prick at his eyes. His mouth has become a gaping hole, and it aches, and he can't close it no matter how hard he tries. Drool is beginning to pool in the back of his throat and the device is making it too hard to swallow.
The doctor shines his light back in, looking down Obi-Wan's throat, probing a little with his finger, pushing Obi-Wan's tongue around. Seemingly satisfied, he puts the light down and comes back with a thin tube with a clear tip.
He threads the thing into Obi-Wan's mouth, inching it past the back and down his esophagus. Obi-Wan gags, tears welling up and slipping down his cheeks. The drool in his mouth is beginning to spill over his lips. He wants to scream, to beg, to plead, but he can't make a sound beyond an aggrieved whine.
It moves deeper, tracing the curve of his throat with slow, mechanical persistence, not brutal, not rushed. Clinical. The doctor keeps gazing down at the datapad he set on the edge of the bed.
A camera, Obi-Wan thinks. It must have a camera on the end.
Obi-Wan's throat spasms around the tube, trying and failing to push it back out. Saliva dribbles down his chin. He tries to breathe through his nose, shallow and ragged, but his chest fights the rhythm.
The doctor tilts the thing ever so slightly, adjusting the angle. The movement inside is excruciatingly distinct, like being touched where nothing should ever touch, as if a cold fingertip were trailing the inside of his windpipe. He can feel the camera turning, looking.
Obi-Wan's heart is pounding so hard he feels it in his teeth. He watches, helpless, as the scope is slowly dragged outwards, inch by inch. It should bring relief, but it doesn’t. The movement feels worse in reverse: a tugging sensation like something being unthreaded from the inside, every curve scraping softly against raw tissue, too slow to be merciful.
The cable stirs against the back of Obi-Wan's throat, and he gags violently. His body convulses, the muscles in his neck tightening in a desperate spasm. But the retractor holds his mouth wide, cold metal biting into cracked lips, and the straps bite into his arms and legs when he tries to jerk free.
“Breathe through your nose,” the doctor says, finally speaking.
The scope makes a faint sucking sound as it clears his esophagus. He can feel it now, coiled partway out of him, still warm with his own body heat. The tip slides across his tongue with a slick, nauseating drag. The taste it leaves behind is bitter, chemical, metallic.
The doctor finishes the retraction in one smooth pull. He places it carefully back on the tray and wipes it down with a cloth without ceremony.
Obi-Wan is left breathing in short, frantic gasps, jaw locked open, drool hanging in strings from his chin.
He wants to vomit.
He's not sure he's not going to vomit.
He's going to vomit.
Obi-Wan gags and tries to twist his head and is thwarted by the straps. He can't turn to the side and he's going to choke. He swallows. It hurts, and it's difficult, but he swallows and swallows, and he manages to keep his stomach.
He's still breathing hard, and tears are streaming down his face. He tries to speak, but the metal prying his mouth open makes it impossible to form words.
The doctor moves away to the cabinets, slowly exchanging the equipment on his cart. He can't see what's being pulled out, he's not even sure he wants to know.
Obi-Wan looks to the ceiling, eying the tiles laid out above him. There's nothing distinct about them. Nothing sufficiently distracting.
The man comes back, taking up position between Obi-Wan's spread legs. He sits on his stool, putting his face level with Obi-Wan's groin. In one hand, he takes Obi-Wan's penis, thumb drawing at the tip.
There is a scrape, brief and methodical, in and out of his tip before the doctor sets him back down.
A long thin one slides inside his vagina, scraping along the walls, then retracted. Another follows, from a different angle.
Obi-Wan twitches in his bonds. That one pinches slightly, brief, sharp contact on tender skin.
The same is done against his ass and Obi-Wan squirms in his restraints as a gloved finger tugs his already aching hole open enough to swab inside.
The doctor rolls away and there's a rubbery snap as he changes his gloves.
He picks up Obi-Wan’s dick again.
The doctor presses something to the tip, the opening of his urethra and depresses the plunger. The gel is cold, shockingly so, invading without force, but also without pause. It sits heavily in the urethra, thick and unyielding.
Obi-Wan lets out a high, muffled sound through the metal locked across his mouth. It’s not pain. Not yet. Just wrongness. Deep, creeping discomfort.
The man doesn’t speak.
Why would he? Obi-Wan's just a thing to him.
Obi-Wan does and does not want to look, but the straps around his head and neck deprive him of any choice.
The whatever-it-is presses against the opening. The resistance is immediate, but it presses forward with steady, practiced pressure, the slow, calculated advance of something that knows it will not be stopped.
Obi-Wan’s hips try to jerk, but the restraints hold.
It slips in.
The sensation builds, not sharp, not searing. But a cold ache spreading inward, intimate and inescapable. The urge to urinate flares violently, but there's nothing he can do.
The doctor is looking down at his datapad, no doubt watching a vid feed Obi-Wan can't see.
Why the kriff do they need to do this?
Then the steady advance stops. It must have reached his bladder. There’s a momentary pause, then a slow, internal bloom, fluid flooding in through the tube.
Obi-Wan gasps against the gag. His back arches.
His bladder fills. Expands. Pressure growing, full and unnatural.
The doctor watches his screen, turning a dial. A faint click as he adjusts the light. No emotion on his face. Just interest. Precision.
A gloved hand steadies the base of the scope. The other maneuvers it gently, as though tuning a delicate instrument.
There’s a pause. Not a break in the procedure, just a moment where the scope stops moving, suspended in the full, unnatural stillness of his body. Obi-Wan’s bladder is overfull, pulsing faintly against the pressure of the fluid inside it. His skin feels tight across his ribs, every breath shallow.
Then the withdrawal begins.
It’s slow, deliberate. The tube begins to slide back along the path it entered, slick with gel and internal moisture, drawing itself out one smooth centimeter at a time.
Obi-Wan feels everything in high detail.
The scope drags lightly against the inner lining of his urethra. His eyes roll up briefly, a reflex of pressure and resistance. His legs twitch, instinct trying again to pull away. But the restraints remain firm, the cheek retractor holding his mouth open in a silent, wet scream.
The doctor says nothing.
The scope exits fully.
A thin sound escapes Obi-Wan’s throat, high and animal.
His bladder remains painfully full. It throbs against the tight walls of his abdomen, a deep, pulsing pressure that overtakes all other sensation.
Obi-Wan squirms in the restraints, barely, just enough to portray desperation.
The doctor returns to the foot of the bed with something in hand, and he takes Obi-Wan’s cock and places it at the ledge. With his free hand, he presses down on Obi-Wan’s lower abdomen.
Obi-Wan’s body resists at first, humiliation stalling instinct. The ache builds to a sharp cramp. His eyes squeeze shut. And then, finally, he lets go.
The warm rush of urine splashes into the basin, loud against the durasteel, echoing in the sterile hush of the room. The relief is immediate, but it comes knotted with shame, his face flushed, lips parted around the metal.
The stream slows. Stops.
The doctor sets the basin aside with care, as if it were just another sample, just another step in a checklist.
Obi-Wan is still trembling.
The man is back between his legs. A new pair of gloves snapping on with a soft sound. He still doesn’t look at Obi-Wan’s face.
Obi-Wan’s body flinches when a slick touch glides past his perineum. Then the pressure begins: steady, downward, patient.
A single finger enters him.
Is this really going to be the rest of his life? Being violated over and over again until he dies? Is this who he is now? What he is? A toy to be used, passed around, examined and discarded?
The finger rotates slightly inside him, pressing along the interior walls. A second hand rests on his abdomen, flattening downward.
It hurts, as it drags against his sore insides, scraped raw by the bottle and Zerf's ungentle fucking. But the doctor doesn't seem to care about the state of his rectum, or his discomfort, and the finger continues its probing, curling up, searching.
Then the finger shifts lower. Angles. Pushes in deeper.
A firmer pressure begins now, rhythmic and targeted, palpating his prostate.
Obi-Wan’s eyes squeeze shut.
It’s not pain. Not really. It's…
He tries not to react, but his breath catches, body clenching involuntarily. He wishes this would stop happening. It's bad enough being violated, but to have his body respond like he's enjoying it is a humiliation beyond words.
The exam continues for a few more seconds. Then the pressure eases. The finger slips out. A cool absence replaces the slow stretch.
The gloves are discarded and replaced with a practiced snap.
Obi-Wan couldn’t see them, not from the angle he was strapped in, but he could hear it, soft, sterile, inevitable.
He lies still, staring at the ceiling lights, their brightness a dull burn behind his eyes.
A gloved hand touches him on his folds, parting skin with practiced care. Not rough. Metal comes next.
The speculum. He can’t see it, but he knows.
It wasn't his first time undergoing an examination like this. He'd been old enough by the time his master had abandoned him, sold him off into slavery, that'd he'd already had his first in the Halls of Healing at the Temple. But that exam had been conducted by a med droid under the supervision of Master Che. She supervised everyone's first times, explained the process as it went, soothed them through the Force, held their hands.
The metal slides in, slow and deliberate.
There is no Force here.
It doesn't hurt. That makes it worse, somehow. There is no pain to hide behind. Just the slow internal spread as the blades open inside him.
The pressure settles deep in his pelvis, dull, insistent, mechanical. The creak of the speculum locking open echoes in his hips.
The light above him shifts as the doctor leans forward. There is no commentary. No questions.
Just silence. And the taping of a stylus on a datapad.
Then the click of the speculum loosening. A slow, slick withdrawal. Relief should have followed, but it didn’t. He already knows what was next.
Obi-Wan felt the pressure again, two fingers this time, coated in gel, entering the same path. They move with quiet precision, filling him. Another hand comes down on his abdomen, firm and searching.
The fingers move inside him, testing depth, pressure, consistency. It’s clinical, standard. It makes him feel like nothing.
They withdraw just as silently.
The doctor turns away, changes his gloves.
Obi-Wan has barely drawn a full breath before there is a cold touch again, smoothing deliberately between his cheeks and across the opening of his ass.
His body twitches. He can’t help it. There is no pain, just the quiet dread of anticipation.
He feels it next, the tip of a probe. It presses against him, firm and slick. He feels his rim give. The stretch is sudden. Deep.
He grunts, quiet, tight, behind the retractor still locking his jaw. A line of saliva slips from his lip and down his chin.
It isn’t anything like the bottle Zerf had shoved up there, or the man's cock. But that didn't make it comfortable.
The probe settles into place, then rotates inside him, smooth, clinical arcs.
The probe moves again, angling. Pressure shifting toward the front of his pelvis, as if the instrument were looking up at his insides.
He feels it, when the probe passes near the prostate again, not pain, but a bright awareness.
The doctor adjusts something. The probe turns, then gradually, the probe withdrew.
Obi-Wan doesn’t move. He doesn’t wonder if it is over.
He knows better than to hope at this point.
He hears the gloves again. Another pair. Another snap.
Obi-Wan feels the cold gel again, slick against the sensitive skin between his legs, spread with gloved fingers in deliberate, steady motions.
Something long and thin, presses at his rectum. It isn’t as thick as the probe. It feels like tubing. Something softer, flexible, but still foreign.
The object slides in with ease. His ass is still gaping from the bottle.
Despite the looseness, he feels the bulge at its tip pass the threshold. Feels the shift when it settled deeper. His breathing hitches.
Then, air, a small puff. Not painful. But pressure blooms instantly. A balloon inflating inside him.
He grunts softly around the retractor, the sound strangled.
The doctor is watching a screen now.
“Try to hold,” he instructs.
Obi-Wan does. Or tries to. He doesn’t want to do this again.
Another pause.
“Now push.”
Obi-Wan hesitates.
The word came again, same tone. “Push.”
He bears down. He felt it shift. The machine chirped softly. The numbers changed.
Another round. Another inflation. More discomfort.
“Don’t push this time.”
Obi-Wan swallows hard, unable to nod. His body obeys out of fear.
Another measurement. Another adjustment.
Finally, it deflates and slides free.
His body sags. Only slightly. Still restrained. Still silent.
The doctor makes a note on his pad.
Obi-Wan doesn’t ask if it is over. He doesn’t dare hope. He just lays there, open and breathing, waiting to be told what else his body would be made to give.
"We'll have to repeat that test after your rest day. Seems like you've been too much of a slut recently." The man walks away and Obi-Wan can hear the sink activate.
Obi-Wan stares up, waits. He expects another sound. Another touch. Another order. But nothing comes.
The man returns to his side and begins wiping him down, methodical strokes across his thighs, between his legs, down the curve of his hip. The gel, the sweat, the residual traces of everything that had been done to him. Cleared away.
The cloth moves up, dabbing at his lips, his chin, removing the trail of spit that had dried there.
The doctor turns, opens the door, and walks out.
Leaving Obi-Wan strapped to the table, mouth pried wide, body clean but still trembling, jaw still aching from the long silence he’d never had the chance to break.
Obi-Wan stares at the ceiling.