This story contains dark themes including rape, torture, forced addiction, suicidal thoughts/attempts, and other potentially triggering things. It's any of my other fics ramped up 100%. Please keep this in mind.

Over 20k words have been written so far so expect fairly regular updates.

Comments are greatly appreciated.

"I saw you die."

The words come out slightly strangled, without the bluster and bravado he has become known for over the course of the War. If this were Grievous, or Dooku, he would know what to expect. He knows what to expect from this foe, too, and the knowledge makes Anakin's skin crawl.

Granta Omega chuckles ruefully, circling him. The man remains unremarkable in the Force, but his physical visage is now marred by a starburst scar that radiates out from his left cheek, across his face, bisecting his left eye and turning it a milky white. Evidence of Obi-Wan's attempt to subdue their enemy. "Did you, really?" Omega asks, voice silky, reaching out to caress a strand of Anakin's hair. "Knight Skywalker," the enigma chuckles. "Master Skywalker, even." Omega positions himself directly within Anakin's admittedly limited range of vision. "You've done well for yourself, haven't you?" This time, the caress is down Anakin's face, the lightsaber burn scar, the place on his neck where his braid used to hang.

"And how is Obi-Wan?" he asks, and Anakin bares his teeth. Always the end game, revenge against his Master, achieved by bringing Anakin low. "Will he come to your rescue now that you are no longer his responsibility? Or will it be your own Padawan?"

The thought that Omega might bring Ahsoka into this sick game sends a jolt of fury down Anakin's spine. The inhibitor around his neck keeps him from manifesting the rage, but he still snarls, "Keep your filthy hands off of her."

Omega rolls his one good eye. "Tsk, tsk, Anakin," he scolds lightly. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Anakin doesn't like the sound of that one bit, but he knows the more he reacts to the idea of Omega doing anything to Ahsoka, the more tempting the prospect will become, so against every screaming fiber of his being, Anakin stays his tongue on the subject.

He isn't sure what is going to happen. He has an idea, of course, based on experiences he would much rather forget, but familiarity rips through him, a sense of anticipation - a near-excitement, sings through his veins. He'd thought, after Omega's apparent death, he'd gotten over that, but it's back again, crawling under his skin, aching to be satiated. "You're not going to accomplish anything," he snaps. Except Omega already has: Anakin is quietly, privately, coming undone, and though he would never admit it, to Omega or anyone else, he knows it means Omega has already started to weave his web of destruction once more.

His captor chuckles again, drawing a finger down the side of Anakin's face. "I think we both know exactly what I will accomplish," he says, perceptive even without the Force. "And I think I'm tired of this small talk." He gives a predatory smile, made even more sinister by the taut pull of scar tissue. "I suspect you are as well." He reaches up with both hands and unfastens Anakin's belt. Chained as he is, Anakin can merely pull on his bonds while Omega tears away his tabbards and tunic, leaving him bare-chested and feeling exposed. "Well," Omega murmurs. "Our time apart has certainly been kind to you."

He doesn't know what to say to that, to the obvious, appreciative leering. As a Padawan, he would have had a smart comeback, an immediate retort. Now, he has other things to consider: protecting Ahsoka, escape. He's not an impudent teenager any more, but the promise of what Omega has always offered brings back unpleasant sense memories. Instead of speaking, he scowls.

Omega takes his silence as an invitation to reach down the front of his pants, stroking his cock, smirking when, despite himself, Anakin half-hardens. "So you do remember," Omega purrs. "I was afraid you outgrew our little games." He tightens his grip, and Anakin bites back a moan. He can't count on anyone coming to his rescue now; a Knight and Master, he alone is responsible for getting himself out of this mess, which means he needs to keep his mind clear.

With Omega, though, that is never an option, and even as the thought crosses his mind, Omega has withdrawn his hand, wiping it across Anakin's bare chest. He remains silent, crossing the room, and Anakin has to make a conscious effort to tamp down on the sudden rush of craving that courses through his veins. No, he has to fight back, he can't let this happen again because if he does, he might never get away.

A shiver runs down his spine as Omega returns to his side, the familiar and almost-welcome hypo-spray in his hand. It has been years, but something inside Anakin aches yearningly, which jolts him into action, pulling violently against his chains, kicking and pulling and using every ounce of strength he possesses. "No!" he shouts, because he doesn't want this. He never has. This is a physical reaction to a memory of dependence, not true desire, and he needs to get away. He manages to pull one manacle loose from the wall, then the other, but the collar around his neck is making things difficult, his grasp on the Force slippery. He pushes Omega up against the far wall, but it is a mistake: a hiss and a cold burst against his flesh wrist are his only warnings before he and reality part ways.

Wrists bound behind his back, knees aching from kneeling for so long, Anakin comes back to life with the freezing-cold splash of his head being forcibly dunked in a barrel of water. For a brief moment he is sure he is going to drown, but just as he registers what has happened, he's yanked out again by his hair. "Awake yet?" Omega asks. Anakin shivers, but isn't sure how to form words just yet. Everything feels sluggish, disoriented, the room's angles too sharp, the colors too bright, garish. It hurts his eyes. He blinks. "Good boy," Omega says, stroking back his wet hair. The man's touch feels good, soothing, though Anakin knows he needs to fight again now that he's starting to regain his ability to think. He thrashes weakly, only to have his head and upper shoulders shoved back into the icy water. He almost makes the mistake of breathing in, but manages to remember himself just in time, gasping and coughing when he's unceremoniously pulled out again.

"S-stop," he stammers, teeth chattering, blinking rapidly and trying to clear his blurred, distorted vision. Omega's hands send warm pulses through his body wherever they meet his bare skin - completely naked now, he recognizes vaguely - and he arches towards the touch in spite of himself. "Please." The fact he is begging makes him sick to his stomach. Anakin Skywalker does not beg. He does not grovel. He does not throw himself prostrate before a captor to plead for some kind of reprieve. He is a General in the Grand Army of the Republic, and he does not show weakness.

But Omega isn't a Separatist, isn't an insurgent or bounty hunter. He does not hold to the same rules of engagement, and Anakin knows that while his chances of escaping a Separatist trap are excellent, his chances of wrenching away from Omega's clutches unscathed are far more tenuous. He has no idea how long he has been here already; this is the first time he's been wrenched from semi-consciousness in such a matter, but it's the fifth - maybe sixth - time he's been able to start thinking through the fog. The in-between times are a complete blur of desire and pain and vivid, horrifying hallucinations. He remembers screaming, remembers the sensation of being full - everywhere. Now that his body is no longer completely numb, he can feel bruises, bone-deep. He needs to get away, while he still can. He has the thought each time he comes back to himself - but right now all he can do is beg for a rest. A real one, not drug-induced, though physical craving has him shaking and sweating already.

"Please." He's not sure what he's asking for anymore.

Granta Omega complies anyway, pressing the hypo against his wrist and making his pain disappear.

Being the apprentice of the Hero With No Fear, panic isn't really part of Ahsoka Tano's training. She understands urgency and worry, but panic has been wiped clean from her consciousness. Still, she feels an unfamiliar and unpleasant fluttering in her chest whenever she thinks about the fact her Master has been missing for over a month, now. She's still not sure how it happened; one minute he was there, and the next he was gone. That's what it had seemed like, at least. The Council has luckily allowed her and Master Obi-Wan to look for him, but she's starting to be afraid that they might never find him. She can't even sense him in the Force, and she knows Master Obi-Wan can't either. "Where are you, Skyguy?" she asks the black vaccuum beyond the cockpit viewport.

Space, of course, doesn't answer.

"Again."

Anakin shifts into his knees, tilting forward, hands and forearms braced against the cold floor, presenting himself for entry. He grunts slightly as Granta Omega fills him, but he doesn't mind. It's not real, none of this is, really. Just like the snowflakes falling in the periphery of his vision, just like the serpents slithering around his bare arms, the violation isn't real. He goes along with it, because it's easier that way. If he doesn't, the world gets scary.

"Good," he murmurs, tongue thick in his mouth. He's tried to bite it off more than once; it takes up too much space. His mouth tastes like blood. It is good, the taste of blood and the sensation of Omega inside of him, thrusting against his prostate, fingers twined in Anakin's hair. He knows, sometimes, that this isn't right. That he is more than whatever he is now. But memory is a slippery thing, and he's not sure anymore. Omega thrusts deeper, and Anakin moans, guttural and pained. Some things even his medicine can't take away.

In however long he has been here (days and nights blur together and he can never tell anymore), he has learned how to be obedient. He's sure the Masters on the Council would be shocked to see him taking orders, subservient and deferential, but the Council has never whipped him until he bled, has never sprayed him with a high-pressure hose of icy water, for the slightest transgression. They never withheld food and water for days because of his attitude. Most of all, though, they have never held the threat of withdrawal over his head like a guillotine of agony, the unspoken knowledge that Omega can - and will - cut off the supply of drugs that have become Anakin's only salvation in this place if he stepped out of line making him far more docile than mere physical pain.

It makes him sick to his stomach, the idea he has sunk to such an extreme, but this is about survival. He just needs to survive long enough to escape, and he can't think about escape unless his head is clear. At the beginning, that meant in between the doses. Now he finds clear thinking is hard to come by regardless of time or circumstance. Everything twists together, forming new realities, and all there is beyond the veil is pain and mortification.

Even though he knows he is Anakin Skywalker, and knows he is better than this, he gives in at the sound of Omega's voice.