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At first, he sees Anakin gnawing at his lip.
It’s the smallest thing. A habit that Anakin hadn’t been weaned from his younger years. It’s not out of place for Anakin to fidget. Whenever he felt agitated Anakin would pick at his nails, or suck at his padawan braid until Obi-Wan snapped at him. Anakin loudly fixing an otherwise perfectly functioning droid was almost always a way to tell that the boy wanted peace of mind.
And Anakin’s doing it now, sitting across the room. His teeth worrying his lower lip, biting then releasing it.
It bounces, reddens with indents of teeth.
Obi-Wan’s fingers twitch.
It tears. He sees a welling of blood at the corner of his mouth like a drop of coral before Anakin wipes it off with the back of his hand.
Then a week later he sees bruises around Anakin’s wrists. Not the kind you can get from sparring, or any kind of battle during their mission.
Anakin is blinking very slowly during their briefing, like the smallest movement of his eyelids is overbearing. Obi-Wan knows that he hasn’t slept for over days, from the way his eyes has that glaze, the way his hair is longer and is in more of a disarray that it usually is. The way even Rex evade him, the way he’s pale and gauntly looking. Anakin reaches up to rub at his eyes. The long sleeve of Anakin’s tunic slithers down to his elbow. That’s when Obi-Wan sees it.
Reddish bursts of blood vessels from under his skin, like pressed flowers. Some saffron-yellow with age. They’re almost luridly looking on the tan of his skin. The purpling marks circle his wrist then meanders over his forearm.
Obi-Wan then thinks he sees bruises around Anakin’s throat, where his curls hide the most.
At first he thinks they're shadows from the lighting, the way Anakin is standing. Then he becomes sure of it throughout the day, that the bruises are fingerprints.
He shifts in his feet. There is no reason for Anakin to be injured there. Then Obi-Wan hesitates.
Anakin…now talks to him. He doesn’t know since when, but Anakin does like nothing has happened. Throws in an inane observation during space jump. Chuckles when Obi-Wan comments drily, though in his shoulders Obi-Wan can still see the tension. He’d say…it’s now something close to amicable now. Back to how things were before.
Except he’d be lying. Nothing is like how things were before. He remembers how Anakin used to look up at him with awe. His attention felt like the eyes of the sun itself boring down on Obi-Wan’s very mortal bones. Every padawan does eventually graduate from that, but with Anakin it’s different. It’s not that Obi-Wan wants that kind of address but he wants...
Obi-Wan stares at Anakin who is animatedly talking with his commander, the slope of his back, a slight inward hunch to his shoulders, the tangle of unruly curls and the collar of his dark tunic.
It’s unbecoming for a Jedi to feel regret.
So he doesn’t.
—
But Obi-Wan does feel the queasiness in his insides like grip of a cold hand.
Anakin doesn’t sleep.
In this gods-forsaken war everyone didn’t get enough sleep. Obi-Wan can hardly be the critic here.
But it’s as if Anakin doesn’t want to sleep. He's thriving in it, more than gleefully. Obi-Wan’s seen more than a fair share of those stim sticks as Anakin knocked them back before jumping in to the cockpit.
He sees Anakin restless, his fingers drumming incessantly against his knee, under the table. He’s sucking on his lower lip distractingly. His Force thrums along with it and it’s giving Obi-Wan a headache. He sees Anakin’s mechno hand curl into a fist, then release, with the leather groaning quietly, in Obi-Wan’s line of sight.
His eyes are wide and vacant, looking at nothing in particular, among the chatting of men stripped down to their blacks.
“Well, then I’ll get going,” Anakin unnecessarily clears his throat standing up abruptly. Everybody looks up. He’s not smiling. “I have a Padawan to care for.”
“And where would you be going?” Obi-Wan asks mildly. “Ahsoka’s gone out with her friends.”
Anakin stops, half-turned. Anakin looks at him with a tilt to his head. His hair is a wild cloud behind him, his eyes bright in a way that Obi-Wan never liked. It’s the way Anakin would be before jumping out of their speeder, hurtling down the stream of neon below, or giving him lip before cutting off their comms and doing whatever Obi-Wan advised him against. It’s the way Anakin would shrug and say, what is it to you, I’ve gotten the job done, haven’t I? Isn’t that what matters? We’re at war, Master. Just like you said. Like Obi-Wan doesn't own a heart that lurches into his throat whenever he thinks of losing someone, again.
He’s studying Obi-Wan as if he’s a stranger, looking him up and down. Like he doesn’t register who Obi-Wan is. It takes a while for his eyes to come into focus. His upper lip curls.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
And that’s that.
The next day Anakin doesn’t come down to the canteen, nor does he answer his comm, and when he does appear in the salles later he’s soaked in peppery smoke and ash.
—
Anakin plummets down so fast he’s laughing. It’s not from when they met Senator Amidala, bright and bubbling. But much darker, a sound that is like a chilled blade down Obi-Wan’s spine.
Anakin being reckless is nothing new.
But this is careless. They are different. The way Anakin yanks at the brakes and releases them, the speeder soaring through the lights and Obi-Wan is dizzy, the tips of his fingers numb from when he gripped the sides of the speeder.
Wind blows in his watering eyes and the lights flit under them. Obi-Wan wants to press fingers to his temple. Nausea cuts into the quick of him.
The one thing Obi-Wan never was worried about was intoxication, when it came to Anakin. He was hooked on thrill and adrenalin, which, arguably, can be far more dangerous, especially for a solider in war. Even in his teens he’s never shown interest in substances—that was more of Obi-Wan’s specialty.
Which would mean he isn’t drunk, he isn’t intoxicated. Which would mean the time Anakin went into the lower levels, he went racing. These are signifiers. Anakin is not at all good at discretion. It’s only that Obi-Wan decides to pretend, with certain amount of determination of course, he doesn’t notice them.
The speeder slides in between the others parked there, abruptly jerked into silence and Obi-Wan can still feel the dying heat of it thrumming under his fingers, like a gutted animal. Anakin’s landing was never careless.
His voice is very quiet. “If you wanted this badly to get killed, maybe we should reconsider you being in the frontlines.”
“Oh come on, Master,” Anakin retorts, his dulled eyes unsmiling against the cut of his lips. His mouth isn’t made to form harsher shapes like that, Obi-Wan thinks. “I’ve just gotten us where we need to be faster.”
“This is not a game. You could have hurt yourself.”
“And why do you care if I do?”
He breathes in through his nose. Anakin’s voice takes on a note that just tugs at the most base sinuses of what Obi-Wan is made of. He always were more than artful when it comes to provoking Obi-Wan, with that dark glint in his eyes. Getting better at it year after a year. Anakin doesn’t say anything for the rest of the evening.
It was his life’s work to make Anakin a Jedi—a mandate Obi-Wan didn’t take for himself, but as with everything that had to do with duty it has taken over his life. Obi-Wan always thought autonomy was what Anakin wanted, all those years through his teenage years accusing Obi-Wan of holding him back and seemingly incapable of following the simplest of orders.
Without Qui-gon or without anyone else’s guidance it was up to Obi-Wan to have Anakin made into a reputable Jedi Knight. It had been even more difficult, since the dead couldn’t impose expectations. Obi-Wan only had to do what he knew, that Anakin had to be better. Better than him, better than Qui-gon, better than any one of them.
Now Anakin is his own man. Obi-Wan lost the authority he had on Anakin as a Master. All he had now was trust. Which Obi-Wan wasn’t even sure he had much of.
Afterall, hadn’t it been the reason why he never told—
Obi-Wan rubs at his eyes. What he needs, badly, is a drink.
He knows when Anakin hides things from him. While he’s not good at lying, Anakin can turn to omissions.
Obi-Wan is not entitled to every one of them. He still takes offense though.
Obi-Wan wonders when Anakin has been wearing that thinly waxen mask, his laughs hollow, his eyes with that cut-glass glint. When Anakin looks at them he sees through them, like they’re not there, like they’re mere whispers in one throbbing vein of the Force.
When he’s back in his quarters, Obi-Wan remembers Vanquor.
Anakin had been made docile, against his will with that drug while held prisoner. It’s been a week after he’s been released and Anakin was acting like nothing happened, being impatient and disobedient as usual. Obi-Wan thought nothing of it, their assessments having been clean much to his relief, even when that substance to induce submissiveness was not something any of their healers were familiar with.
One day when he came back from meditation he heard the shower running. He waited for Anakin to finish. He waited some more.
Obi-Wan found him curled up at the corner of the shower booth slim arms hugging his knees. He was shivering, even with the water turned scalding hot. Obi-Wan had hurriedly turned the shower off.
He crouched down, his robe darkening in the water. Anakin only curled inward.
Please, take it away, take it all away, it hurts.
What hurts? His hands hover, over the misty-skin of Anakin’s naked back, though Obi-Wan wanted nothing to take him into his arms. Anakin, what hurts?
Anakin looks up at him from the small triangle between his knobby knees and arms. His eyes were huge.
I don’t want to feel.
Anakin…
Please, take it from me. It's too loud in the Force...I don’t want it.
Obi-Wan was at loss. How would he teach a boy that begs to be ripped from the fabric of what this world is made of, how would he teach the boy who feels too much and who sees too much? How would he teach a boy that doesn’t like himself? However would he be a Jedi, a boy who knew fear first and foremost, a fear of himself?
The world has given him this boy but without the means to perceive him.
Anakin grips his darkened gold head, then covering his own eyes with one palm and the other his mouth. Like he’s trying to stop his own inky anguish from spilling over the drain.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The boy had wept, Obi-Wan not being able to help Anakin but watched him, gripping the porcelain edge of the tub until the heaving of his curved back eventually stopped.
Obi-Wan ponders over this memory until he tires and falls into a restless sleep.
—
Anakin gets shot at, and that’s when it needs to stop.
At times they communicate better only when they are in movement. Even after Obi-Wan came back to the Temple, his beard and hair still growing back, Anakin never backed down from his duel offers. He surmised back then it was only because Anakin could swing his saber at him with his open permission.
They are out in the open, fighting to push back the swarm of battle droids becoming a lull that his eyes don’t follow movement anymore, it’s only in the Force they move and deflect blaster shots. If Obi-Wan closed his eyes and cracked them open again he’d see that he’s still moving, like a cut-off tail of a monkey-lizard still squirming with firing nerves.
At his back there is this Force signature that feels like his own limb branched out of him. If his limb can be that bright of a presence. Sometimes, it makes Obi-Wan think, I must have done some good, if that came from me.
But most times he thinks it couldn't be. His former padawan, here, now, as golden as he is in the Force, is better than anything his meager imagination could conjure. Anakin is most enticing with his saber. He moves with a grace Obi-Wan cannot hope to match. Here, his Force quietens into a low hum, if only for a while.
“Anakin.”
His head whips back. For a terrible moment Obi-Wan can only see the jut of his throat. The blaster bolt has grazed Anakin’s forehead. A thin stream of blood rips down his angular face. He doesn’t even groan in pain. His eyes only lights up and it’s terrifying in those that Obi-Wan can only hopelessly stand there and watch.
“Anakin!”
Pupils blown wide with adrenalin, Anakin whips back. Looks at him unblinkingly across the battlefield. His hair falls over his face. Obi-Wan feels the grip over his heart.
A whistle of an incoming transmission breaks their eyes and they’re off again, slicing through droids and deflecting blaster shots with arcs of light in azure.
Obi-Wan can barely restrain the thrums of his own Force as they make their way to the pod bays. He halts Anakin on his way almost leaping into the cockpit.
Anakin only looks at him through his bloodied lashes, and Obi-Wan stops pretending.
“Anakin.”
He grabs Anakin by the lapels of his robe and pulls him forward, that makes him stumble. Obi-Wan keeps his grip on his flesh wrist then tugs at his collar until they loosen.
Anakin takes a step back, as Obi-Wan reaches for him again.
“Who did this to you? Who hurt you?”
He stops trying to tug out of Obi-Wan’s grip, and he only curls them tighter. Anakin looks at him. He is holding himself sideways from Obi-Wan, like he’s trying to curl in himself.
A horrible thought occurs to him.
“Have you asked someone to hurt you?”
It was one other thing that concerned Obi-Wan less. Anakin never sought company of his agemates. He snuck out to the lower levels for podracing unlike Obi-Wan’s own younger days of fumbling in the darker alleys or a hand sliding down his thigh under the table. It wasn’t as though Anakin did not seek out people because he did, but he preferred the odd company of much older superiors, namely the Chancellor himself. His propensity of keeping to himself sometimes confused Obi-Wan but also relieved him, it wasn’t if Anakin did not already have unwanted attention at all times. To think Anakin wouldn’t thrive in it, unlike any other boy his age would, was one of the few comforts Obi-Wan had.
But it could be all too easy, wouldn’t it? He can see Anakin’s tall frame cornered against a gritty wall, an unworthy hand stroking his slender waist as a much older stranger wraps another around this long neck.
Anakin purses his lips then turns away. Obi-Wan grips his chin, exposing him. Along the tendon of his neck there are finger-shaped bruises a thorny collar. Obi-Wan runs his knuckles along the skin. Anakin swallows, the tendon tensing with the movement.
“Answer me, Anakin.”
“No,” Anakin spits, closing his eyes. When he does start breathing again, they come hectic. “No. I wanted to, but I didn’t trust them.”
“Do not lie to me.”
“I’m telling you there is no one.”
Anakin worries at the cut at the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, under his scrutiny. His eyes flicker up, meeting finally Obi-Wan’s eyes.
“I did this to myself.”
Then he is raked with an image of Anakin within the Force, naked, because that’s how he sleeps—golden skin glistening with sweat as he slowly jerks himself, writhing, and a thick ribbon of the Force wrapping around his own throat. A long line of throat bared, Anakin gasps at the ceiling, bowed into an arch, balancing only on his toes and the back of his head, nipples peaked, a choking, desperate sound, as precome wets his fingers in rivulets.
Obi-Wan tears himself away from the Force. Heavy-lidded, Anakin looks at him, or through him. Obi-Wan can only let him go, as Anakin steps away from him.
“I just want to sleep,” he mutters.
When Obi-Wan doesn’t immediately respond, Anakin groans and pushes his fingers into his own matted curls, gripping them tight then sliding down to bury his face. It’s as though Obi-Wan can hear the crack of his Force, along the hairline fractures that he so struggled to hold together.
“I just…” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to think.”
“And you resort to these measures? Hurting yourself? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Come to you?”
Anakin echoes, turning and he takes a step forward, into Obi-Wan’s personal space. He and his Force immediately rears up.
“Fuck off. You want me to talk about my feelings, show you how much I feel, so you can use them against me again?” Obi-Wan puts a hand out, not knowing why. Like anything he does at the moment could stop this.
“Because next time you worry about my reaction, you can just as well put me in the fucking casket!” Anakin snarls, eyes wild.
Silence. Obi-Wan purses his mouth and says nothing. Anakin deflates until he’s a dark coil of agony again. They stand there, for a moment, breathing.
It’s Anakin that breaks the pause.
“I spent all my life failing you. I know that. No need to fucking rub it in my face.”
“No, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, very softly. “You can never fail me.”
“No. You have no idea what it is to be me.” There is a gleam in his eyes and equal amounts helplessness. “You have no idea what—it is—to live in someone like me. I need this. I need this. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I don’t—It’s too loud—the Force, my dreams—I can’t stop.”
Anakin claws at his face. Stale blood is smeared dark like rouge over his cheek.
“I don’t want to dream. I want to sleep…I can’t. Ever since you…”
In the Force he’s frothing like sparks from a cut wire.
“I don’t want to feel anything.”
Obi-Wan breathes out from his mouth. In the Force he calls for strength.
He closes the distance then. Gripping his wrist, pulling Anakin into his circle. Anakin shrinks away at the touch.
“Let go of me.”
“Anakin.”
He reaches forward, fingers around Anakin’s throat. His thumb just on the jut of the adam’s apple, not pressing. Forefinger curled just to cup the length. Anakin’s eyes widen at that, a hitch in his breath and his fluttering pulse jump under the pad of his fingers.
“You come to me.”
Anakin stands very still. Obi-Wan studies him unblinkingly. He tightens his grip, just slightly for Anakin to feel his fingers close.
“You come to me.”
He shudders, in Obi-Wan’s grip. Looking at his face now, looking at the small subtle movements of his eyelids, the way his mouth parts, he is at the periphery of understanding this labyrinth of a man.
Anakin is looking at him, eyes wide with equal measures of trepidation and fear. And Obi-Wan looks back. His pulse stutters in Obi-Wan’s chokehold. His breaths are shallow, and he’s quickly slipping. It’s as if Anakin’s almost collapsing on him, only held up by Obi-Wan’s hold on his throat.
He wants to feel nothing.
He wants—this taken away.
“I would take it, only if you would give it to me.” Obi-Wan tells him. His thumb traces the side of Anakin’s trembling throat. “Come to me tonight in my quarters.”
Anakin breathes out at that, finally, sagging in his hold like air has drained out of him. It’s barely a nod, but Obi-Wan takes it.
—
Obi-Wan is going to be what Anakin needs. It’s all he’s been doing through his life.
Now he has clarity at last.
He finishes his light latemeal and puts it aside, occupying his hands with chores while his thought simmers. He thinks about how if he didn’t step in, Anakin would have gone eventually to someone else. In Obi-Wan's absence, there always were people that took him furtherer from the Order.
Cold water from the tap sharpens the corner of his thoughts. Obi-Wan’s never met anyone like Anakin who could be so unaware of his own allure. Not of how he looked, that was plain for anyone to see. But Anakin always struggled with subtleties of social cues and interaction especially with his agemates, that isolated and frustrated him—and Anakin had no idea how vulnerable he seems in that regard, in how it invites exploitation.
Obi-Wan had no qualms about Anakin being able to fend for himself. But it wasn’t about being a capable duelist, or wielding the Force. And it was ironic, how Anakin being so strong in the Force could feel every tremor of minds surrounding him but also be clueless in how to tap into them. Anakin was agonizingly earnest, and desperate enough that left him splayed open easy for manipulation. To Obi-Wan, it was only Anakin’s title as a General and a Jedi knight that anyone hadn’t looked for such weakness in particular of him.
Pretty, isolated, young and desperate is an intoxicating mix.
Obi-Wan thinks that without him, Anakin could so easily be led astray. As a matter of fact he had been, in his first solo mission without Obi-Wan’s guidance. In his desperation to be seen. There had been a reason why Obi-Wan hesitated to put him forward for the trials. He wanted to kept Anakin in his care. If only for a little while longer.
He thinks of how Anakin would be driven to desperation that he’d pick up anyone from the underbelly of Coruscant. He thinks of how unaware he might be, a young prideful thing begging to be defiled. How no one would turn away from wrapping their hands around that long line of throat until pretty branches of veins burst from under their fingers.
No, Obi-Wan refuses. Anakin needed him to play a certain role.
So that’s what he becomes.
An hour in and someone punches in codes with briskness he knows all too well. Obi-Wan only waits in his bedroom.
When he appears in the doorway, Anakin seems nervous. Hunched the way he is, almost swallowed up by his cloak and tunics. Obi-Wan wordlessly invites him to sit beside him on the bed.
Anakin doesn’t smell like sweetened smoke and ash of the lower levels no longer. Obi-Wan notices. His hair is also slightly wet, smelling blad powdery scent of the temple-issued soap. He’s fiddling with the servors of his mechno hand, the longer the silence stretches on.
Obi-Wan eventually breaks it first. “Show me.”
Anakin’s eyes dart towards him, his pupils huge. He wets his lips. There’s a moment Obi-Wan thinks he wouldn’t follow through.
Anakin slowly shakes off his inner tunic, baring himself. Obi-Wan gets to see the floral markings of bruises around his neck, crushed petals of violet against his skin.
They adorn Anakin’s throat, and his wrists, standing out from under the lighting of his quarters. There is more than a certain appeal to it, and Obi-Wan wants to ladle that thought immediately.
But if he could see it—the others inevidently would’ve.
Then the golden tips of a mechno hand comes up at the column of his own throat. Pressing down at the purpling bruise. Anakin tips his head backwards, his eyes hooded, fixed on Obi-Wan. A challenge. Or a confession.
His full mouth parts, and his grip tightens. He’s already hard.
Obi-Wan then puts his hand over Anakin’s, replacing it with his own.
“This is not the way to do it. It leaves bruises and would hurt you. Here…you have to press here.”
The moment his palm wraps around Anakin’s throat, Anakin trembles, a sharp hitch in his breath. Every flutter of his cartilage Obi-Wan breathes through all of them. Obi-Wan’s palm slowly warms with his heat. Anakin always ran warmer than he.
Obi-Wan drags their hands lower, where their fingers press below the jawline. Their fingers close, wrists lowered.
“Have—” Anakin struggles. The strum of his voice kisses Obi-Wan’s palm. He's flushed up to his forehead. “Have you done this before?”
There is already moisture gathering at the corner of his eyes. Obi-Wan hums. It’s as if he’s holding Anakin’s beating, blood-hot heart in his hand.
He’s looming above Anakin on his back. Obi-Wan can feel Anakin’s warm breath against his face. His voice is soft. “Is this enough for you?”
Anakin chokes, then shakes his head. Obi-Wan watches the blood-flush spread from under his hand. “I also fuck myself during it,” he says hurriedly, like he’ll lose momentum if he hesitates now.
“You put fingers in yourself?”
“Yes. But it’s never enough, I wanted to find…” Anakin struggles to swallow, and in his light hold Obi-Wan feels it shudder through him. Through his palm, arms, his elbow, the entirety of his body. “I want…I want it to hurt.”
Obi-Wan thinks he understands. He looks down at the long line of this body, supine before him, lips gleaming wet. The power he held over it. The privilege. Not many would know the weight of it, would cherish it.
But he would.
Obi-Wan shifts up, readjusting his grip. Digs in, enough to feel pressure but not pressing down with his weight on the jugular. With his other hand he slips them under Anakin, between his cheeks over the cloth of his undergarments.
“Here?”
Anakin jerks in his grip, choking on spit. “Yes.”
He slowly undresses the rest of him with one hand. Anakin’s cock slap up to his stomach with a hiss. It’s already leaking. He looks perfect in every way, as should a first-born of the living Force itself. One could say that they couldn't fathom why he would want to be debased, in the most crude way possible, looking the way he does.
With one hand Obi-Wan wets his fingers with bacta. He did plan ahead. His fingers circle over the opening, spreading the slickness. The tip of his finger dips in.
Anakin tenses then makes a grab at his wrist, the hand that holds his own neck. Then his hand rips off, like he doesn’t know if he can touch Obi-Wan. His breaths are short and shallow, every intake having to course through Obi-Wan's palm leashed over his throat, with his permission.
“Harder. Please…”
Obi-Wan denies him. “No. I alone decide how much you can take.”
His face crumples. Anakin jerks, and the rippling movement of his larynx makes Obi-Wan grit his teeth. His cock is already pearling and Anakin comes, only from having Obi-Wan’s hand wrapped around his neck.
It didn’t take much, Obi-Wan looks in reverence. He, looking like the way he does, can have almost anything. But with just this nugget of reassurance Anakin falls apart.
“Pl—please,” Anakin stutters, unseeing eyes glassy. His abdomen clenches, whites of his come all over his stomach. “Please, Master.”
“Do you need more?”
“Master…”
Anakin writhes, his Force a red tangle.
“Please, take it away. Take it away from me, so it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Obi-Wan would ask, who else would know his Padawan better? Who, if not Obi-Wan, would have more of a claim over him? He keeps his pressure light, tugging at Anakin’s leaking cock. “Stay,” he says, then releases him, running his palms over the sleek lines of his thighs until Obi-Wan swallows his cock down.
If he were the Force, he would have not made his creation this way.
Anakin shouts, arching up but he pins the jut of his hip. Obi-Wan hums again. He runs his lips over the wet shaft. He still has his fingers in the hot clutch of Anakin’s body, who pants and tries to curl his knees.
He's not callous. Obi-Wan wouldn't have made Anakin need the things he does. Even if he did break beautifully.
“I am not going to give you want you want.”
“Obi-Wan—”
‘I will not give you pain, Padawan,” he says, pushing his fingers deeper in and crooking them, feeling Anakin tremble, a reedy whine. That is not what you need. That is not what you deserve. “Instead, I will give you pleasure.”
“I—”
“Those two are not so different,” Obi-Wan tells him. If doled out the right amount.
He tongues Anakin’s cock again, sucking in his hot, supple length. He feels Anakin clench, sucking on Obi-Wan's two fingers. Hearing the scatter of Anakin's keens over his head Obi-Wan continues milking his prostate, with his lips locked around the base.
It’s hurried, more so than Obi-Wan usually would like it, but he now has purpose. He adds another finger, twisting them in and gripping Anakin’s bony hip, hollowing his cheeks and feeling the cockhead nudge at the back of his throat.
Another day, he’d have Anakin and take him apart layer after layer. He would open Anakin so slowly that he forgets what it likes to be empty, learn the ache of being not filled. Learn that he has been a half of a whole all this time. With Anakin on his bed Obi-Wan will worship his body with his lips and tongue until he pleaded and begged, when Obi-Wan should be the one on his knees.
His hand slowly caresses Anakin’s trembling calf. Throating him, Obi-Wan thought Anakin thrived on power. That he wanted to possess it, and Force knows there has been a terrible part of the boy’s past that he was ripped away from it and exploited. While the Jedi do not allow the pasts to govern who they are, it does leave scars and Anakin is someone that has more than a tender heart. Obi-Wan thought he needed to step away, to give the trust that Anakin needs, to give him agency that he so seemed to want.
Obi-Wan thinks of Anakin’s eyes. I don’t want to feel, he had pleaded, dewy-cheeked.
He can do that for Anakin. He can take it all from Anakin.
“Master,” Anakin moans, voice pitched high. He sounds even younger in throes of pleasure. “Master, I’m—”
Anakin comes in spurts down his throat, and Obi-Wan drinks the salt of it down until he’s whimpering in over-stimulation, throbbing in his mouth. Obi-Wan releases him then, stroking his length and knocking his thighs open. He thumbs at Anakin’s cheek and spreads him, and Anakin makes a small noise. Obi-Wan can see where he is pink and twitching. He’s soft around Obi-Wan’s fingers, just the way he should be.
Obi-Wan pushes up. Unlaces his front, gripping himself at the base. He thinks about how this is Anakin’s first time. How Anakin trusts no one other than he to give him this, to teach him this.
Anakin reaches for him and Obi-Wan takes his hand, lacing their fingers. He looks into those eyes, watery and blue, roll up as he slowly pushes in.
Anakin’s leg kick out, once, then settles, as Obi-Wan slowly bottoms out. He is warm and tight, and as Anakin flails Obi-Wan wraps a hand around his throat.
No pressure. No pain. A mere suggestion of it.
Anakin’s hummingbird pulse is such a frail little thing thrust into his hands, his clumsy, human hands, that Obi-Wan finds himself soon rolling his hips. He feels Anakin open up around him and his shape. And by that alone Obi-Wan feels already so close.
He’d take, only because Anakin would give it. He would teach it, because Anakin would learn it.
He is ever so pliant under Obi-Wan. His head lolls, loose-limbed, face etched only in ecstatic emptiness. Obi-Wan with his hand over Anakin’s throat can feel every fragment of breath, his whimper, pull and push of the intricately locked sinews as he struggles to swallow under two paper-thin layers of skin. He fucks in deeper, like he can plant himself in Anakin’s force-made body.
To think this could have been so easily given away to someone else.
Instead of choking himself, or clawing at his own scabs Anakin desperately wraps a hand around his leaking cock, stripping it furiously. Obi-Wan can feel his walls tighten with the anticipation around his own length, more so can feel in the Force the mounting orgasm, the violent swirl of it.
Anakin mouths something that resembles his title. “’aster, I’m coming—oh—”
Obi-Wan grinds even deeper, hardly pulling out now. Constant pressure on prostate, watching lashes darkening with wetness. “Then come.”
Anakin does, keening high in his throat, knees jerking, in his own hand and splattering on his tight stomach. Obi-Wan wants to taste them all over again. He fucks Anakin through his orgasm, watching his toes curl.
Anakin is crying, openly now, tears down his face. His body is taut, shaking his head, the balls of his feet pushing at the sheets making them a ripple beneath them, not quite so coming down from the high. Obi-Wan pushes into his body again and again, breaking Anakin's body around him, in deep until there isn't more of him left. With every press in he sees come bubbling over Anakin's softening cock. Anakin struggles and Obi-Wan cups his nape. Caught between his two hands, spine curved, Anakin has to take every thrust spearing through his body.
Obi-Wan angles forward, and Anakin twists in his grip, arching, head tipped back. For a while Obi-Wan can only see the tip of his pink tongue.
He’s rubbing his cheeks against Obi-Wan’s pillow, tears smearing them dotted dark. Shaking his head but his free hands stay where they are. “I can’t…Master, I can’t again…”
“Yes you can.” Obi-Wan murmurs, lips ghosting over the jut of his adam’s apple. “Just once more. I know your limits better.”
He sees, feels, Anakin struggling a bit. His lovely mouth opens then closes shut. Then, in Obi-Wan’s hand wrapped around his throat, he becomes completely limp.
This was it. Anakin’s starry-wet eyes are gazing at nothing in particular, mouth open around a gasp, rapture across his features. Only that Anakin did not know it. He wants even this wrestled out of him. To not want, and not ask. To be a recipient of it, simply being taken.
Being loved.
That, he already had more than excess of.
Obi-Wan kisses him.
Anakin takes it, his tongue licking into his mouth, every jostle of his body moving upwards with Obi-Wan’s thrusts unlocking their mouths. He lets go of his throat. Instead, Obi-Wan grips Anakin’s other hand, lacing the fingers and pinning them to the mattress, and Anakin writhes under him, unmoving, until he arches up mouth open with a silent scream. He comes untouched, his now purpling cock jerking, and it’s the most obscene thing Obi-Wan had ever seen.
He fucks Anakin through his dry orgasm, again, his spasming body hot and tight and even Obi-Wan delights in how Anakin can give him more. Against his palm Obi-Wan can feel every strum of his entralling body, every flit of movement and pleasure coursing through. It’s the closest thing Obi-Wan can feel to crawling inside this very golden skin of his. Please, please, ah, ah, ah, please! He moans, even more beautiful in mind-numbing pleasure as he jerks, back arched, and he squeezes down on Obi-Wan as he comes dry. Obi-Wan hooks his thumb in Anakin’s gaping mouth as he licks in, feeling the fissures of his studded Force all around them. Eyes rolling back and barely twitching, Obi-Wan thinks he’d pass out. There are no more bruises added to the blackened whispers of them against his throat. Obi-Wan would recompose his affection, on this skin. He would let Anakin know what it is to be loved better. He doesn’t have to offer other than his surrender. Anakin tightens their hands, and that's when Obi-Wan comes.
—
Anakin doesn’t talk. That alone should raise a few eyebrows but Anakin’s humming. At the end of it, people stop walking around him like he's a mass of explosives and matches. They're in a meeting with the Council. He's reaching up, intermittently to prod at his throat. A constant reminder resting on his skin.
Crossing his legs, Obi-Wan gently reaches through the Force. Feels along the seams of where the lips of Anakin's shields are closed.
It’s quiet.
He feels, in the Force, finally content.