Chapter Text
“I asked for a Mediator for my annulment, not a Magistrate,” is the first thing Baron Lorian Nod says when Qui-Gon arrives.
It’s not at all what a vassal should say to his liege lord. It’s not even what a lord should say to another member of the nobility. Then again, Lorian Nod has always been a trouble maker, so Qui-Gon just raises an eyebrow and says nothing.
Nod flushes a dull red. Begrudgingly, he bows and mutters, “Be welcome, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Baron Nod,” Qui-Gon says. Despite the insult, he still inclines his head because it’s the polite thing to do. “I come in answer to your annulment request. As your lord and duke, I will serve as Magistrate.”
Through gritted teeth, Nod says, “I thank you for your . . . attention, my lord, but again I say: I asked for a Mediator.”
Qui-Gon holds back a sigh. It’s hardly surprising that Nod is causing a fuss. He was one of the first lords to reject the Old Ways and begin practicing the Modern. And under the Modern, he is correct; any such requests would see a Mediator to preside over the affairs and negotiate settlements. But Qui-Gon is of the Old Ways, as his uncle was before him, and his father before that, and his father before that. And under the Old Ways, there is no mediation; there is only a Magistrate, and a Magistrate’s word is law.
“Be that as it may,” Qui-Gon says calmly, “and with full respect to your choice to practice the Modern, I must remind you that as your liege lord, your affairs come to me to settle – and I am of the Old Ways. Therefore, I shall settle it as all the Dukes before me have for ages: as a Magistrate.”
Nod’s face twists as though he’s bitten into a sour lemon. However, he is at least wise enough not to challenge Qui-Gon openly. Qui-Gon is the Duke of Serenno, of the ancient and noble House of Jinn, a High General of the Stark Conflict and the Yinchorri Uprising; Nod is a mere baron and House Nod was raised to the title only two generations ago.
“Then I ask for your judgement in the matter of my annulment, Magistrate,” Nod says, apparently resigning himself to not getting a Mediator. “But the road is long and the night is upon us; you must be tired. Be welcome in my home. Let us eat and drink before we discuss such matters.”
“Thank you, Baron Nod. Let us eat and drink.”
Nod has his servants prepare a suite for Qui-Gon. It is a fine suite, if a bit small, but Qui-Gon finds it suits him well enough to wash the dust from his face and put up his feet for a little bit. Nod’s estate is indeed far from Serenno. Qui-Gon had not looked forward to traveling to it when he’d been notified of Nod’s annulment request, and his body definitely hadn’t been pleased.
But he’s had worse. At least this time, no one was pursuing him or trying to shoot at him. And he’s guaranteed a warm dinner, once the Baroness is properly notified of his arrival.
His thoughts turn to the Baroness, then. Unfortunately, even though he is quite familiar with Nod, he is far less familiar with the omega Nod chose to mate. Protocol had dictated only that Qui-Gon receive notification of his vassal’s mating and send an appropriate gift; he had never attended the ceremony or even laid eyes upon the omega. All he knows is a name: Obi-Wan, formerly of House Kenobi.
Well, that and the fact that apparently, after less than a year of being mated, Nod wishes to annul the mating entirely.
It’s not a promising sign. Annulments are rare; Qui-Gon has perhaps received only two requests in the entirety of him being Duke. The first had been due to infidelity; the second, incompatibility. Those reasons had meant that his duty as Magistrate had been extremely clear: he had levied a large fine as well as a year of banishment for the alpha who had cheated on his wife, and he had allowed the incompatible alpha and omega to separate with equal division of their wealth and no shame to either of them.
He is in the middle of wondering for what reason Nod wants an annulment when a servant knocks on the door to announce that dinner is ready. Qui-Gon certainly is hungry enough; he rises and follows the servant down to the dining room, where he finds Nod, a few servants –
And no one else.
“My lord,” Nod says, bowing just as much as is appropriate – and not an inch more. “Be welcome at my table.”
“I thank you. Let us eat and be merry, and dispense with the formalities,” Qui-Gon replies, completing the traditional exchange.
Nod, of course, is not at all merry, but he does begin eating and drinking. Qui-Gon turns his attention to his meal and finds the meat succulent, the sauce fine, and the accompaniments well chosen.
“My compliments to your wife for this meal,” Qui-Gon says. “It is well done.”
“I thank you on behalf of my wife,” Nod says.
“Will the good Baroness not join us?”
Nod’s lips thin. “No,” he says shortly.
When he doesn’t say anything else, Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. It’s not quite an insult for the omega of the house to be absent with a guest is present, but generally, it’s not a good sign either. Most alphas would at least go through the show of giving an excuse, saying that their wife was indisposed or such.
“Is he unwell?”
“He’s quite well, thank you for your concern.”
“Then . . .?”
Nod heaves an irritated sigh. “With full respect to your choice to practice the Old Ways, my lord,” he says with a barely concerned sneer, “I am a Modern alpha. We do not eat with omegas.”
Qui-Gon pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. He may not practice the Modern, but he had thought himself familiar enough with its rules and protocols; it’s something one must learn when one is a Duke and has vassals who practice both the Modern and the Old Ways. Yet he must admit, he has never heard of such a thing. Nor would he ever have dreamed it; in the Old Ways, as the omega prepares the meal, they are therefore fully entitled to eat it at their alpha’s side.
Perhaps, he reflects, he has been away from court too long.
“Forgive me,” Qui-Gon says, “I was not aware of that.”
“Clearly,” Nod says.
Just as clearly, Qui-Gon thinks wryly, Nod has little intention of playing nice. His disdain for Qui-Gon couldn’t be more apparent. It’s a sentiment Qui-Gon isn’t unfamiliar with; he had received many such disdainful looks in the army before he proved that he had earned his title by merit and not just by his blood. But in time, he had won them over.
He applies one of his tried-and-true strategies now.
“I must admit, I have not been to court in some time,” Qui-Gon says mildly. “I fear that my understanding of the Modern is, perhaps, outdated. If you would not mind explaining it a little more to me, Baron Nod?”
Nod gives him a look. On one hand, he still clearly thinks Qui-Gon a backwards savage for following the Old Ways. But on the other hand, if there’s one thing Qui-Gon has learned, it is that those who follow the Modern leap at the chance the boast about it and how wonderful and Modern it is.
“The Modern holds that alphas and omegas are separate,” Baron Nod says. “So too must their lives.”
“That is not so different from the Old Ways,” Qui-Gon notes. “The alphas have the fields; the omegas mind the hearth.”
“Yes, yes, but you allow mingling,” Nod says, with clear distaste. “It causes omegas to think themselves above their station. No, the Modern is clear: omegas must know their place. Their place is the home, the kitchen, and the birthing chamber. And they remain in their place.”
“So, then, the Baroness would eat elsewhere?”
“Indeed. As it should be.”
“Interesting,” Qui-Gon comments. “So if you do not encourage mingling, I wonder how is it that you expect alphas and omegas to court?”
“Simple,” Baron Nod says. “The alphas attend the presentation ball, note those they favor, and then make a request of the omega’s lord and guardian. If the request is granted, then the mating may go forward.”
Qui-Gon blinks. It is true that in the Old Ways, an alpha must request permission of the omega’s lord and guardian. But this is done only after the courting – after the alpha and omega have taken a few turns in the garden and exchanged letters and danced in balls, after the alpha has done their part to woo the omega, after the couple knows that they will be compatible.
“But the courting – ”
“All of that letter-writing and gift-buying? No, no, that’s pure nonsense. A waste of time.”
“How do you determine that the omega and alpha are compatible then?”
Nod shrugs. “If the omega’s features and carriage are pleasing to the alpha, then they are compatible.”
“I notice you don’t say anything about the omega finding the alpha pleasing.”
“Omegas are so silly and fickle,” Nod scoffs. “What would be the point? They go as the wind blows; it is far better for their lord and guardian to determine to whom they should be mated. No, the Modern is quite clear that omegas should be grateful that all of that decision-making is left to the alphas. Besides, an omega who knows their place will be grateful that an alpha requested them, and as such will be eager to prove their submission and obedience.”
A pit forms at the bottom of Qui-Gon’s stomach. It has nothing to do with the excellent food he’s been eating and everything to do with Baron Nod’s words.
The Old Ways are not fair, of course. An alpha can control almost anything in their omega’s life, once they are mated. Obedience and submission are expected. If they wanted their omega chained to the bed, they could do it; if they forbade their omega from wearing clothing in public, the omega would have to obey.
But an omega always has a choice in that mating. They decide whether the alpha that courts them is the one they will allow such control – is the one worthy of it. An omega needs a firm hand and a strong alpha; if they find the alpha courting them lacking, they refuse them. It is how it is ensured that future generations come only from the best of the alphas.
Apparently, by the rules of the Modern, alphas decide which among them are the best, and not omegas. Which is so baffling that Qui-Gon can hardly wrap his mind around it.
Also: “Forgive me for the impudence, but by that logic,” Qui-Gon says, “were the good Baroness to bear you an omega, due to the Modern’s insistence on, ah, separation, do you mean to tell me that you would simply . . . not see your child?”
“For the important events,” Nod allows. “The naming, the christening, the presenting. In all else, though, they would be confined to the sitting rooms.”
“And should he bear you an alpha – ”
“Then they would be given over to a wet nurse and raised by my side, of course. As a proper, Modern alpha.”
Qui-Gon twitches. The idea of taking a child from their mother is stunning; no alpha of the Old Ways would ever dare to even suggest such a thing. Nor would they refuse to see one of their children. Not that Qui-Gon has children, but if he did, the Old Ways would dictate that he raise them at his mate’s side, and should he ever falter in that, his omega would be well within rights to demand a price for his faltering.
“But,” Nod says, not seeming to notice Qui-Gon’s shock, “I have no alpha to raise, as my wife is barren.”
Qui-Gon blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
Nod puts down his fork. He wipes his mouth and leans back in his chair. In a careful, deliberate voice, he says, “I called you here, Magistrate, to grant my annulment, on grounds that my wife is infertile.”
Qui-Gon goes very still. There are only three reasons to request an annulment: incompatibility, infidelity, or infertility. Of them, infertility is indisputably the worst. In both the Old Ways and the Modern, an infertile omega is considered lesser, inferior – damaged. Most of them are relegated to asylums or shut in attics; they can’t even work as governesses, as most will fear that the infertility might be contagious. And a family that agreed to a mating with an omega of their blood they knew was infertile would suffer heavy penalties; it wouldn’t just be Obi-Wan who would suffer, it would be House Kenobi.
Equally carefully and deliberately, Qui-Gon sets down his utensils. He meets Baron Nod’s eyes.
“Then, as Magistrate, I ask for your proof.”
“That’s clear as day, isn’t it?” Nod scoffs. “He hasn’t gotten pregnant.”
“You’ve been mated for less than a year,” Qui-Gon points out. “Some omegas simply need a little more time.”
What he does not say is that that is the reason why the Old Ways encourage courting. An omega who is courted properly has time to become attached to their alpha and bond to them; it means that by the time the alpha does claim them, the omega’s body is well and truly primed for breeding. Most are spreading their legs eagerly as soon as they depart the wedding banquet, and are bred shortly after.
But he suspects Baron Nod will not like that argument.
“All the time in the world won’t mean anything if he’s barren, which he is,” Nod fires back.
Qui-Gon holds back a sigh. “Has he been examined by a Healer?”
“The Healer says he’s healthy. Which means he should be bred by now. But he isn’t.”
“Hmm. And have you been examined by a Healer?”
Nod blinks. “Why in the name of the Creator would I need to be examined?” he demands indignantly.
“I surely do not need to educate you on this matter,” Qui-Gon says, amused. And then, at Nod’s glare, he adds, “It requires both a fertile omega and a fertile alpha to cause breeding, Baron Nod. Have you been examined by a Healer to ensure that you are not barren?”
Nod splutters. “How could you – how dare – of course I’m not barren!”
“Have you conclusive proof?”
“What, like you expect me to have rolled in the hay with a servant and sired a child out of wedlock?”
“Well, have you?” Qui-Gon asks, because, well, it would be conclusive proof. It wouldn’t do much for Nod’s reputation, of course – Qui-Gon might not know much about the Modern, but he’s fairly certain it frowns upon the siring of children out of wedlock, just as the Old Ways do – but it would give his annulment request more weight.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I am a Modern alpha!”
Qui-Gon sighs. He rubs at his forehead. “Be that as it may, have you or have you not been examined by a Healer, Baron Nod?”
“I – I am a perfectly healthy Modern alpha, there is no need to – ”
“Very well. Then since you have not the proof and the Baroness is not here to speak for himself, I have no choice but to declare – ”
“Wait, why would the Baroness need to speak? You are the Magistrate, you decide things.”
“I am,” Qui-Gon says. “But as it seems you require some explanation of the Old Ways, I should tell you that a Magistrate speaks to both alpha and omega before making a decision. I have respected your following of the Modern and not insisted on your wife being present, but that is as far as I will allow the bending of rules. I have no choice but to declare the need for a Trial.”
Nod blanches. It’s truly amazing how pale he gets, especially against the rich colors of his clothing.
“You – ” His voice cracks. He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “You – You would invoke a Trial?”
Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “You seem surprised, Baron Nod. A Magistrate, as you well know, requires proof or a Trial. As you bring me insufficient proof, and furthermore have not permitted me to speak to one of the two parties in this mating you seek to annul, I must declare a Trial.”
“You would dare to lay with my wife?” Nod hisses.
“But a few minutes ago, you were ardently insisting upon an annulment to be parted from him,” Qui-Gon observes. “Strange that you care so much about him now. But: yes. This is a Trial of fertility, so I will lay with your wife, and if he fails to carry, then we shall have our proof, shall we not? In the meantime, you may lay with – ”
“No one!” Nod snaps. “I am a Modern alpha! I do not lay with – with wantons!”
“As you say. But then the entirety of my judgement shall rest upon what happens with your wife. Do you agree to that?”
Nod’s throat bobs as he swallows. Hard. He clearly does not wish to agree. But Qui-Gon finds he has little sympathy. Before Nod had turned to the Modern, he had followed the Old Ways; he and Qui-Gon’s uncle had once attended the same ceremonies. He of all people should have known that requesting an annulment without proof would lead to a Trial.
“And what,” Nod says quietly, “if I appeal to His Majesty?”
Qui-Gon barely contains a snort. “You are welcome to write to His Majesty, if you wish. But I shall remind you that you are my vassal; you are bound to my judgment.”
“I might claim bias,” Nod says. “Your uncle never forgave me for turning to the Modern, and he was your mentor.”
“You could make that claim. But I must point out that I am not my uncle, and I have not been under his mentorship since I came of age. Furthermore, I think you’ll find His Majesty trusts my judgement. It is up to you, Baron Nod.”
Nod’s jaw works. Finally, he spits, “Get on with your – your Trial, then.”
“Very well. But first,” Qui-Gon says, turning his attention back to his plate, “let’s finish our meal. It wouldn’t do to spit in the face of your wife’s hard work, would it?”
In the end, it is rather for naught; the servants bear away Qui-Gon’s empty plate and Nod’s rather full one, as Nod had chosen to glower during the rest of dinner instead of eat. Well, glower and mutter angrily at his servants. Qui-Gon had chosen to pretend not to notice rather than try to parse out what other aspersions Nod might be saying about him. It had made the meal much more enjoyable.
“My servant will show you to my wife’s chamber,” Nod says, once they have finished their after-dinner coffee and nightcap.
“I am much obliged.”
To Qui-Gon’s surprise, though, the servant does not lead him to the main family rooms. Instead, he takes Qui-Gon on a winding route, down dimly lit corridors with closed doors. It is a strange place indeed to house a Baroness.
“Does this estate not have a Baroness suite?” Qui-Gon asks curiously.
“It does, Your Grace,” the servant answers. “But the Baroness does not live there.”
“Dare I inquire as to why?”
“Ah – the Modern holds that the Baroness cannot come to dwell there until after they have, um, borne an heir,” the servant says delicately, with many a nervous glance at Qui-Gon.
“I see,” Qui-Gon says, barely holding back a sigh.
Once again, it is a strange thing to realize how different the Modern and the Old Ways are. It is true that the Old Ways would require a wife to bear a child to be fully installed and accepted as lady of the estate, but no alpha would dare bar their wife from the proper suite. Qui-Gon’s estate has a Duchess suite, and it is right next to his own Duke suite; in fact, it is connected by a shared bathroom, to ensure that the Duke has easy access to the Duchess. Qui-Gon is sure he would feel quite uncomfortable with having his wife so far away. Especially a wife not yet tied to him by a child of their blood.
The servant finally comes to a stop at the end of a long hallway; the only thing that sets the door they stop at apart from all the other ones is that this one has the lamp lit.
“Here you are, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Qui-Gon says. “See to it that we are not disturbed, please.”
“Your Grace?”
“I am the Magistrate. See to it that we are not disturbed,” Qui-Gon repeats, putting just a little bit of power into his voice.
The servant blanches. “Y – Yes, of course, Your Grace, as you wish.”
That done, Qui-Gon finally, at long last, steps into the suite and lays eyes upon the Baroness.
Who is lying on the bed and quite asleep.
Despite everything, Qui-Gon feels his lips twitch into a reluctant smile. Generally, as both Duke and Magistrate, he is greeted with a great deal of bowing and fear by omegas. He doesn’t much mind the bowing, but fear is such a bitter scent, and it generally takes so long for his reassurances to finally set any omega’s mind at ease enough that the bitterness begins to fade.
He finds himself quite relieved that the Baroness shall not be one of those cases. Even if it is only because the poor thing is slumbering.
He firmly closes the door behind him. And then for good measure, he locks it. After that he sets down his cloak, pulls off his boots, and casts off his heavy tunics. He does not wish to scare the Baroness by coming to him already without clothes, of course, but there is little reason to wake the Baroness just to watch Qui-Gon undress.
Once he is down to his inner tunics and leggings, he approaches the bed. It is a small bed, he notes, and although he can see the fastenings for drapes, there are none. The fireplace also looks quite empty, as though it has not been lit in some time. Neither makes Qui-Gon happy to see.
He pads quietly to the bed. The Baroness is sleeping on the right side, as is proper for a mated omega. And he hardly takes up much space on the bed, he has curled himself up so small. But that does not stop Qui-Gon’s breath being taken away from how lovely he is.
His hair is red-gold, like the sunset of an autumn day. It lays about his head like a halo; it makes Qui-Gon’s fingers itch to pet. His face is angelic – a cleft chin, smooth cheeks, full lips. Its perfection is only marred by a single beauty mark, but if anything, having a singular flaw makes him even more beautiful. The rest of his body is hidden underneath a blanket, but the hint of curves is more than enough to assure Qui-Gon that he is just as lovely below his neck as he is above.
He lowers himself to one knee. Gently, in his softest voice, he says, “Baroness Nod.”
The Baroness does not wake.
Qui-Gon doesn’t think anything of it, at first. It is possible that the Baroness is simply a heavy sleeper. He says again, a little louder, “Baroness Nod.”
This time, when the Baroness does not wake, Qui-Gon frowns a little. Omegas have heightened senses, just as alphas do – a better sense of smell, a keener sense of hearing. They are generally wary when unfamiliar alphas enter their territory. Qui-Gon opening the door might not have roused him, but Qui-Gon’s scent and voice should have made him awaken, if only because Qui-Gon is a stranger to him.
Qui-Gon leans a little closer. As he does so, he catches a whiff of a scent: bitterness and honey.
His eyes narrow. He has oft refused to take the sleeping draughts that his Healer and butler pressed upon him when he returned from the war, in pain from both wounds and nightmares, but he knows what they smelled like.
Testing his theory is as simple as leaning over and bestowing a gentle kiss to the Baroness. Upon his lips, Qui-Gon tastes the faint tang of honey, the mild sweetness of chamomile – and the expected bitterness of hops.
“Oh, little Baroness,” Qui-Gon murmurs. Now he understands what Baron Nod was muttering to his servants about. He shakes his head. “So I invoked a Trial and your husband commanded you to drink a sleeping draught. It seems he does not wish you to speak to me. I wonder what you would have to say, if I asked you about your husband’s request for annulment.”
The Baroness does not answer, of course. He continues to slumber peacefully under Qui-Gon’s eye, blissfully unaware.
Qui-Gon pets one smooth cheek. The skin is petal-soft under his fingers. Even more delightfully, the omega actually shifts into his touch, pressing instinctively into his hand with a formless little sound.
“Responsive, are you?” Qui-Gon murmurs. “Well. This should make things a little easier. It would have been far better had you been awake, but . . . duty calls.”
After all, Qui-Gon must carry on. If he were to refuse to lay with the Baroness tonight on account of him being drugged to sleep, he is quite sure Baron Nod would simply keep drugging him until Qui-Gon was forced to make a judgement. And given his suspicions about Baron Nod’s mistreatment of his wife, he has little desire to give Baron Nod any more ammunition on his claims of infertility.
So Qui-Gon straightens. He licks the taste of honey and chamomile and hops from his lips as he peels back the blanket – which is thin between his fingers, far too thin, given that omegas generally run cold and like a warm nest – from the Baroness.
To his quiet delight, he finds the Baroness wears neither nightgown nor shift beneath the blanket. His entire body is bared to Qui-Gon’s gaze, like a pearl gleaming under an oyster’s shell. The moonlight makes his pale skin almost glow; the cold air makes his nipples harden; his scent, released from the cage of the blanket, drifts into Qui-Gon’s lungs, sweet and alluring as any fertile omega.
Qui-Gon is no young upstart alpha. He has long since mastered himself and his urge to rut, and furthermore has smelt a great deal many omegas.
But this Baroness puts them all to shame. Obi-Wan smells of muja fruit, that rare delicacy, just on the edge of perfect ripeness and lush with the sweetest of juices.
Abruptly, Qui-Gon is seized with the desire to bite. His fangs ache; his jaw twinges.
He is quite suddenly very thankful that Obi-Wan lays in a drugged stupor. He is sure he could have controlled himself, had Obi-Wan been awake and spread his legs, but he is equally sure that he might have frightened the poor thing with the spike in his own scent. Doubtless Obi-Wan could have smelled his sudden desire.
Qui-Gon closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, as he learned to do in the war. He forces himself to take his time standing and disrobing, focusing intently on not pouncing on Obi-Wan like a savage, rutdrunk alpha.
Only when his heartbeat is calm and his fangs no longer ache does he allow himself to climb on the bed.
“Forgive my trespass, little Baroness,” Qui-Gon murmurs, pressing another kiss to those sweet, lax lips. “Your husband has leveled a charge of infertility; as he is without proof, I have invoked a Trial. I must see whether seed is capable of taking root within you.”
Obi-Wan’s only answer is another little formless sound. It is such a sweet sound; Qui-Gon finds himself bewildered that Baron Nod could ever stand to be so far from his wife. If it were his wife making such sounds, Qui-Gon is sure he would be hard-pressed to be torn from his wife’s side. His alpha instincts would demand that he remain close to offer comfort, safety, affection. To hold his wife close and keep him warm throughout the night.
For one night, perhaps, Qui-Gon can show Obi-Wan how he ought to be treated.
His decision made, Qui-Gon delays no further. “Let’s see you then,” he says, and moves down to part Obi-Wan’s legs.
Obi-Wan’s legs are as petal-soft to the touch as his cheek. Under the moonlight, they are the creaminess of that skin that rarely sees the sun – and absolutely begging to be marked. Were Qui-Gon his alpha, he knows he could not have stopped himself from leaving a bite. Alas, as his Magistrate, he cannot do such things.
He likely cannot avoid leaving a bruise or two, though, and he finds he takes rather too much comfort in the idea of Obi-Wan’s skin bearing his mark.
Obi-Wan offers no resistance when Qui-Gon settles between his thighs. He shifts a little, rubbing his cheek against the pillow, but otherwise stays sleeping. It makes Qui-Gon marvel at just how strong of a draught he must have drank.
Qui-Gon turns his attention to where it matters most. To his surprise, he finds Obi-Wan’s folds are dry to his touch. He frowns; even asleep, Obi-Wan should have breathed enough of his alpha scent in that his body should be welcoming an alpha by growing slick and wet. It’s not a good sign that he remains dry, as it indicates that Obi-Wan’s body does not associate an alpha being close with becoming wet.
There are only two reasons for that: either Baron Nod rarely lays with Obi-Wan, so his body does not know it needs to prepare for such a thing . . . or Obi-Wan is afraid of his husband, and so his body keeps his reactions contained, so as not to attract attention.
Neither are good reasons.
Qui-Gon carefully sets that thought aside. There will be time later, he assures himself, for a full inquiry as to how exactly Baron Nod treats his wife. For now, he must focus on his duty: laying with Obi-Wan.
Only he cannot do so if Obi-Wan remains dry. Or rather, he could, but Obi-Wan would likely come away from such an experience hurting and bleeding, and Qui-Gon would never allow that. Even for an eager and slick omega, he is a lot to take; Qui-Gon doesn’t dare to try his luck with a dry, unprepared one.
Fortunately, there are other ways to encourage slick besides just touch.
Qui-Gon strokes those delicate folds with his fingers. Obi-Wan does not get slick, but he does begin to move; restless little shifts of his head, fingers twitching against the bed, a slight arch of his back. It’s overwhelming how alluring such little movements are to Qui-Gon.
“You are responsive,” Qui-Gon says. “What a delightful little thing you are. Well, then. Let’s see how you take this.”
And then he lowers his mouth and licks.
Obi-Wan’s entire body trembles. His hips arch; Qui-Gon catches them and presses them firmly to the bed. It’s purely an instinctive movement. Obi-Wan tastes absolutely divine, sweet and ripe, the perfect taste of fertile young omega, and Qui-Gon wants nothing more than to drink from him until he’s full to bursting. He does not think he could stop, not even if the king himself ordered him to.
There isn’t any other word for it: Qui-Gon feasts. He licks and laps and sucks, drinking up the slick almost as fast as Obi-Wan can produce it. He teases Obi-Wan’s clit, drawing forth a satisfyingly sharp whimper; he presses his tongue inside, and is rewarded by Obi-Wan pressing urgently against his mouth.
Finally, at long last, Obi-Wan is leaking slick faster than Qui-Gon can lick it away, and Qui-Gon knows he is ready.
“Good omega,” Qui-Gon rumbles. “Good, sweet omega, well done.”
He raises his head – not a lot, for he is loathe to be parted from Obi-Wan’s slick, but just enough to surveil his prize. Obi-Wan is shifting restlessly now, his head tossing back and forth, his legs trembling in Qui-Gon’s grip. His back is arched to offer his breasts to his alpha.
The sight calls to Qui-Gon. He lifts himself upwards and takes one breast in his palm. It’s small, fitting for a slight omega like Obi-Wan, but Qui-Gon isn’t bothered. On the contrary, he thinks it would be all the more rewarding to see such a thing swell with milk when Obi-Wan is heavy with child.
“In hopes of a child,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss first to one breast and then the other. For the second, he gives into temptation and scrapes his teeth against the nipple. He is rewarded by a delicious little shudder. “Responsive and sensitive. You are a delight, little Baroness.”
For a moment, he wishes that Obi-Wan could be awake for this. That he could take genuine pleasure in Qui-Gon’s hands and tongue upon him. That he could tell Qui-Gon what pleased him, instead of Qui-Gon having to guess by his body’s reactions. That he could cry Qui-Gon’s name when Qui-Gon took him.
But then he shakes himself. There is no point in wishing. He cannot delay the Trial. And now Obi-Wan is slick and eager; there is no need for further delay.
He takes himself in hand. He presses against that slick entrance and begins to push. He means to go slowly, so that he can watch Obi-Wan’s face for any hint of pain and be aware of any change, however minute, in his scent.
But the second he is inside that tight, slick heat, he forgets himself. All thoughts of being careful scatter; all worries about the annulment and the Trial vanish.
He is alpha, and the sweet creature before him is omega, and he must have.
One moment he is slowly pushing inside; the next, he is breathless and fully sheathed. The heat is overwhelming, like nothing he’s ever felt. Instinct drives him to thrust, and thrust hard – to lay his claim before anyone else can disturb him. He digs his fingers into Obi-Wan’s hips and pounds into the omega beneath him. The rabid, feral urge to breed overtakes him; he chases the knot as a loosed hunting hound pursues the scent of a stag or fox.
If Obi-Wan were awake, the small, still coherent part of Qui-Gon is sure he would be eagerly moaning and clutching at Qui-Gon. But asleep, his face lax and his arms still, the larger, desperate part of Qui-Gon can only assume that his omega is bored and unimpressed by his performance.
He pushes himself to work even harder, faster, deeper.
Sweat beads on his forehead. His breath comes in short, sharp pants. He grips even harder at Obi-Wan’s hips. Distantly, he is aware that the bedframe is hitting the wall with a dull thud, but that only drives him more, setting him alight with the fear that someone is knocking, that someone is coming, that someone might try to tear this sweet prize from him.
Red clouds his vision. He is aware of nothing and no one but Obi-Wan – his red-gold hair, his fluttering eyelashes, his full lips. Obi-Wan’s lips part, ever so slightly, and he moans, and –
Climax hits Qui-Gon like a lightning strike, like freezing cold water, like a sword to the chest. He curls over Obi-Wan with a helpless groan as his knot swells, locking them together. Even then, as he comes, he cannot stop himself from grinding against Obi-Wan’s hips, trying desperately to get his seed even deeper, to ensure breeding.
To prove, indisputably, that Obi-Wan is in fact very fertile.
Later, once his senses have returned, Qui-Gon catches his breath. He spares a moment to be grateful that he retained enough of his mind not to crush Obi-Wan beneath him. Carefully and gently, he gathers Obi-Wan in his arms so that he can ease them into a new, better position.
“There we are,” he says, once he has Obi-Wan settled atop his chest. He strokes Obi-Wan’s back, and delight sparks in him again of the feel that smooth, petal-soft skin against his hand. Even more delightful is the way Obi-Wan, despite being still asleep, clenches around him, milking his knot like a dream.
“Responsive, sweet, and utterly perfect upon the knot,” Qui-Gon murmurs. “You really are a treasure, aren’t you, little Baroness? And yet your husband wants to cast you aside.”
Once again, Qui-Gon finds himself absolutely baffled that Baron Nod could stand being so far from his wife, let alone being parted from him. He knows with perfect clarity that were Obi-Wan his wife, he would have Obi-Wan in his bed and on his knot every night. And possibly every morning too.
“There’s a thought, hmm? We can speak in the morning, you and I. But for now,” Qui-Gon kisses that beautiful red-gold hair. “Sleep, little Baroness. Sleep and let my seed take root.”