Chapter Text
Obi-Wan doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. The lingering stares, the wandering hands - this was all avoidable had Obi-Wan just chosen to read the goddamn signs. Signs that he’d willfully ignored in spite of them being essentially the size of giant walking billboards; the staying after class, the constant need of attention, the stares, the invading of personal space and always standing, so, so close to him; it’s humiliating to think that at one time the attention had flattered him. Even endeared him to the boy, his show of attachment guiltily invigorating. Thinking that maybe in the distant future, the child would regale him with stories of how he had been saved by Obi-Wan’s guidance, grateful for the firm guiding hand that cultivated his maturity. What a joke now, to see where such blind faith had gotten him.
“Wider.” The soft, youthful voice whispered, breath washing over his naked skin with a faux gentleness. His muscles burned, skin aflame with his blush of embarrassment, one that only deepened as his body heeded the command.
It made his bottom lip tremble, fingers grasping desperately at the bonds that held his forearms together, rope tugging them up and above his head, how easily his body responded. Where before in the beginning he was as stiff as marble, tense enough to strain muscles, now they relaxed and became pliant at a touch. Weeks of training had made his body a traitor, eager to please the boy that had claimed it as his own, leaving Obi-Wan to helplessly watch as it happened, a bystander in his own body.
This must be how Ceaser felt, the hot knife sinking into his back as he keeled over before his own senators. Betrayal seared like a burning blade wedged in between his ribs as everything sacred was plundered, pillaged , by this sixteen year old boy.
There is a mirror below him. It has been plastered clumsily to the low table which jostles with every rough thrust. It is high enough for his thighs to smush up against the edge, but low enough to reflect his red, hanging dick without obstruction. The mirror is unbearably clear, revealing his chest so littered in marks of all colors that it is hard to spot his nipples. He considers this a good thing, as they have become so bitten and swollen, it looks as if someone had been trying to bite them off rather than adore them. Held like this, up by his arms and low enough to bend and swing, he can see the rope marks beneath his armpits, the indents so clear one could make out the faint pattern of twisting twine.
In the beginning of this scenario, he had tried to keep his head up, to look away from the picture of debauchery it painted. What he had been met with was another mirror, showing without mercy how he swung, so easily pulled back and forth on the swing of his arms that it almost made him sick. His captor must think himself so clever, so thoughtful, to continue to this obsessive game of torture even when Obi-Wan is contorted in such ways. Even when he stands away from the bed, away from the mirrors there, where it refuses to let him forget.
The clothing adds to the humiliation. The dainty straps of the dress have been jostled off his broad shoulders to expose his chest, and the juxtaposition of the innate femininity that lie within t’s tight seams, and his body, all hard edges and sharp lines, further adds to the debauchery of the act. In place of a smooth supple skin, coarse hair studs his weathered body, his aging face. Where a women's pillow soft curves should be, his own blocky waist lies, jutting out on the edges of the confines of the dress offensively. The silk like skirts of the simple sheer dress are hiked up his hips, as if he were a wife seeing to the needs of her spouse.
He looks into the mirror that is propped in front of them, and eyes the make up that’s been smudged all across his face. Unwanted arousal pours into him, flooding his veins with liquid heat that spreads a fiery red to his cheeks and ears. In another, consented to , situation, this would be a welcome sight.
Sweat rolls off his forehead, dripping down and staining the mirror below, and his eyes slide shut. For a moment he escapes, shielded from the reality of what is happening by the blissfulness of the dark.
It does not last longer than a minute, his captor so devoutly conscious of every move he makes.
A rough yank opens his eyes, his mouth falling open to gasp a helpless grunt as pain spreads across his scalp.
“I didn’t tell you to close them,” Anakin says, pelvic resting against his ass as his thrusts come to a stop. They grind in slowly, his cock speared in like a knife, nestled in between the folds of flesh. It comes to hit there, and Obi-Wan is forced to let out quiet, desperate, whimpers that are wet and pleading. “Open them.”
Obi-Wan obeys, and sees himself on the precipice of lust incarnate. His face has fully flushed now, blotchy with his blush, cheeks inflamed and his lips bitten to a shiny cherry red. The pretty lipstick from earlier has been almost wiped off, its lingering traces smeared across his chin and cheeks. He looks lost, defeated, left adrift in this act as much as any whore would be.
“There you go,” Anakin gentles, hands sliding across skin, “now what do you say?”
“‘m sorry,” Obi-Wan pants, response coming in delayed gasps as his chest heaving with effort, the waves of painful pleasure shifting through him.
“Sorry what?”
There is a pinch by his balls, cruel and twisting. He flinches, shuddering in the sparks of shock it sends through him. His arms ache, and their throbbing begins to overpower the rolling pleasure. Anakin seems to notice, and pulls all the way out to the tip. It stills, then begins to rub along his backside, teasingly swiping at his puffy rim as the boy rocks minutely.
“Fuck,” Anakin hissed when the tip catches, “your hole is such a slut now, it’s like it doesn’t want me to leave. Still so tight after all this time, I can't get enough of it.”
“Don’t,” Obi-Wan says breathlessly, sucking in greedy gasps now that nothing is in him constantly pushing it out. “Stop talking like that.”
“It’s true though.” Palms caress his ass, kneading and spreading them. “Fuck, it’s so red. It’s twitching, you know? It wants more, I know it does.”
He goes to say no, you stupid child, you’ve just ruined it, but the protest is pushed out of him when Anakin hammers in, no word in warning.
Obi-Wan chokes, strangled by the act and the pleasing thrum it echoes in him. A hand grasps around his throat squeezing threateningly.
“You forgot to say it,” Anakin hisses in his ear as he leans back over him, holding Obi-Wan to his chest as his rabbiting pace continues. The boy must be mad if he thinks Obi-Wan has enough wits to -
“ Say it,” the command is delivered with a spank so harsh it makes Obi-Wan yelp, high pitched and girly, and the words tumble out of him so quickly that he hardly even thinks about it.
“I’m, mhm , I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Sorry for what?”
Obi-Wan is almost tempted to roll his eyes, but withholds because he knows it will only elongate this session. He is already tired as it is, ready for this to be over and to go to bed and though it grates him to have to still stroke the boys ego, he’ll do it if it means they can be done. (he should be troubled, Obi-Wan knows, by how casual he has become about this all).
“I’m sorry for looking a- ah -away,” Obi-Wan recites, stumbling around his gasping.
Anakin arm tightening their hold around his waist, nose digging into his shoulder as his eyes peek over to him through the reflection of the table. Like this his blue eyes narrow, all-consuming in their gaze as he holds Obi-Wan closer still.
“So agreeable today,” Anakin pants out, and Obi-Wan can feel the smirk along his shoulder blades. “Do you, hah, want this to be over already?”
Obi-Wan shakes his head fervently, denying it with all his being even as he chants yes in his head. Saying it out loud will only prolong this - this marathon , and it has already gone on for what feels like hours. His arms are tired, his shoulders are smarting in pain, and his ass has been thoroughly, and exhaustingly, sodomized.
“I think you're lying.” The hand latched onto his neck moved up to cradle his jaw, thumb digging into his sweaty cheek. “I’ve told you before, haven’t I? Not to lie to me.”
Obi-Wan has to bite his tongue, not wanting to snap at the boy, because that’s what he is, a boy. A boy with an absurd amount of stamina and due to the cruelty of hormones, an unfortunately small refractory period, all of which boils down to the immutable truth that Obi-Wan just can’t keep up.
Of course he’s lying.
Anakin’s made his point, staked his claim, done whatever primitive instincts that burn within him had demanded and now Obi-Wan just wants to sleep. He was already nearing the expiration date when it came to ravenous sex before all of this, and now these past few weeks have put him far, far past that line than he’d ever intended to go. Not even in his youth had he had this much activity, and certainly not now.
No matter how much the boy doesn’t want to admit it, Obi-Wan has his limits and going three round’s is one of them. It is a miracle he is even awake, let alone feeling an ounce of pleasure. It must be the food, the water, something; it isn’t natural to be this virile at his age. It’d make more sense if he’d had some additives, a helping hand to get through these sessions, and besides, it isn’t like Anakin is above it.
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, and it’s a plea as much as it’s a command. As Obi-Wan holds his silence longer, stubbornly trying to get lost in the building pleasure, to ignore him, the worse the needling gets. Horrifyingly, the thrusts that bounce off his ass slow, the drag of his cock becoming maddening, rubbing incessantly against his sore and oversensitive channel.
Obi-Wan squirms, uncomfortable in the now soft rhythm. There is no noise to fall adrift to, no sounds of their ceaseless fucking to hide behind.
“What’s wrong princess,” Anakin whispers behind his ear, deceptively kind. “Tell me.”
The grip on his chin relaxes, and it lets him turn away to hide his face into his shoulder, escaping Anakin’s gaze. It will never not unnerve him how intense his stare is, how utterly shameless in its coveting now that no one is watching. No societal taboo to stop him from staring, to stop him from salivating as if his dick isn’t already buried hilt deep within him.
Others had seen it when he had not, warning him how wrong and unsettling Anakin’s attention was, and all he had to say to it then was, ‘it’s probably nothing, don’t worry about it. He’s young, you know how they are. He just doesn’t know how to express himself.’
“Obi-Wan?”
And there, sounding so young and lost, is how Obi-Wan knows he’s lost. As he does every time Anakin chooses to play vulnerable. He must be a special kind of stupid, to continuously fall for the same trick over and over again, this farce. It does what it’s intended though, mercilessly burying Obi-Wan’s stubborn resolve and luring out his weak, soft-hearted, empathy.
“I can’t, Anakin, please,” Obi-Wan breaks, begging now that he no longer has the headspace to be embarrassed. To his dismay his voice comes out shaky. Weepy. Nothing like the strong cadence he had meant for. “We’ve gone on for so long. Can’t - can’t we take a break?”
“A break?” Anakin asks, “but why?”
Obi-Wan disbelieving laugh is devoured by his exhaustion, his moans. “I - it hurts, Anakin, please. Can’t you - you can, ah , you can use my mouth, my hands, anything, just- ” Obi-Wan’s feet slide across the concrete floor as Anakin pushes forward swiftly, jackhammering his dick in suddenly and causing Obi-Wan to lose his sentence in a sob, an ugly gasp as pleasure pulls at his guts.
“I don’t want to though,” Anakin says, pulling back and resuming the lagging pace, “you're so warm and tight, why would I leave? Look how your hole is hugging me, how much it wants me.”
“No,” Obi-Wan gasps, twisting as if he could pull himself away, “no, that’s not, it’s - it’s not…” the words fall away then, when Anakin’s hand gently massages his throat. For a moment, he loses track of his thought, overwhelmed by his sensitivity, by the punishing firework of lust that ricocheting off the walls of his ribs.
“Please,” Obi-Wan begs, the building of pleasure filling him with fear. He can’t stay like this, he can’t go again, he can’t. “Please, no more.” The whispers fall like snow from his lips, the words soft and temporary, melting against the heat of their bodies.
“But you're doing so well princess,” he pulls out almost all the way, then pushes it back in with a grunt, “look how your taking Daddy’s cock, like you're made for it. Don’t you want to be good for me? I know you can do it.”
Obi-Wan won’t focus on how the words make him feel, how the praise blows wind into the fire in his stomach, the climbing flickers of it’s devastating touch expanding, it’s hot and heady flames expanding out from his groin to his toes and to the very tips of of his fingertips. It consumes him and he shudders, crumbling like the broken man he is.
“I can’t,” Obi-Wan sobs when Anakin’s dick slides up against his spot, spongy head brushing cruel along the sore and swelling bump of his prostate, “I can’t, fuck ,” he stumbles over his words, embarrassed about what he's about to say, a slimmer of his pride still miraculously intact. Then Anakin’s fingers sweep over his nipples and tweak them, pulling at the nubs and he breaks. “Please, don’t, I’m- I’m scared , Anakin, it hurts.” Obi-Wan groans, spasming as Anakin’s shaft burns his insides. “It hurts. You’re hurting me.”
He doesn’t know what’s different about the way
Anakin’s hands begin to wander from their stations, away from his waist and face and all across his chest and abdomen, where his stomach periodically convulses with Anakin slow and painfully accurate thrusts. A quiet moment erupts, and its sudden descent startles Obi-Wan out of his pleading. Anakin remains quiet, and Obi-Wan’s heart, as if it had not been flayed by betrayal and hurt, worries. What if Anakin was hurt by his words? For all his bravado, boy has always had an alarming low self-esteem. Whatever’s left of his sensibility, rages. That isn’t the question he should be asking. What if he’s made it worse? So far, Anakin has been somewhat reasonable, and now that he thinks on it other than hanging from his arms, the boy’s been perfectly restrained. No slaps, or bites, or cruel, outlandish, tests of pleasure. It’s just been a pure, unaltered, fucking.
His sadism has suspiciously been dormant.
(a shameful and uncontrollable part of him fears he’s been ungrateful)
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan can’t help but feel dazed, the tables so abruptly turning that now it is he who calls out in vulnerability.
“Okay,” Anakin pulls back, and smiles when Obi-Wan turns to him in surprise.
“R-Really?” Obi-Wan asks, soft in his surprise. He’s suspicious of course, and Anakin’s smile does nothing to disarm it but he is very tired and would willingly believe the moon was cheese if he were told at this point.
Anakin unties his hands, gentle in his unwrapping. Anakin had always been gentle through this. The boy wasn’t inhumane, and aside from his dick led sadism, often torturous with its tests of endurance, he was never outright cruel. He wasn’t - he wasn’t holding him down and brutally raping him. Anakin was - he was misguided, not a monster. Their coupling was taboo, wrong, and exhausting, and it wasn’t exactly Obi-Wan’s dream to get kidnapped, unwilling dolled up and accosted, but it wasn’t as if he hated it. Anakin never beat him, or cut him, never descended upon him in uncontrolled rage; sex aside, he was treated rather courteously. Considerate of Obi-Wan’s pleasure and comfort, even when he didn’t need to be, even when sometimes it didn’t work to get him up. (Considerate like now, stopping when Obi-Wan asked, when he was serious and not just saying empty words)
And yes, perhaps it was the Stockholm setting in but Obi-Wan couldn’t help thinking it. When after their sessions, which left him exhausted and wrung out, the boy would spend time cleaning him, holding him, whispering praises as they fell into slumber - it made it hard to hate him. To see him as anything other than misguided.
The terrible truth was that Obi-Wan had never had such aftercare - in his youth, there hadn’t been much information about such things, and now almost in his forties, single, and caught in a cycle of hookups when the mood suited, it left little room for manners. Why spend the effort on a stranger?
Now he was in the comfort of his kidnapper, an adolescent through and through, but still thoughtful and oddly chivalrous underneath all his brash and crude edges. Anakin’s life wasn’t easy; absent dad, murdered mother, and negligent greedy foster parents that threw him out more often than not. It was a miracle he wasn’t some sort of psychopath; just a damaged, lonely teen. One who had reacted very badly to the news of his favorite teacher moving.
Anakin loved him in his own disturbed way, Obi-Wan knew that for certain, it’s just that he was afraid. Afraid of losing another person and being left alone again. In a way, Obi-Wan could understand. It’s not like there was anyone left in his life either. Estranged father, estranged children, no current friends to keep up with or talk to; sure he knew people, but they were mostly old friends, the kind meant for weddings and reunions. Friends you keep up with from a far and say the occasional hello. His ex-wife had been the social one and when she left, taking the kids and her friends with her, his social circle began its steady but sure decline.
Funny enough, the only one he could confidently call a friend had been Anakin.
“Here,” Anakin said, and set him down on the bed. Obi-Wan rolled onto his back, groaning at the velvet touch of the sheets. It felt soft and cradling on his bruised skin, something his own cotton sheets would have abused, and with Anakin’s dedicated upkeep, they were pleasantly clean, always smelling of perfumed flowers.
Regretfully, though lying on the bed did wonders for his joints, the mirror nailed to the ceiling assaulted his vision. He was sprawled sinfully open, skirt hiked up around his hips, sticking to his sweaty skin, and the marks on his everywhere was painfully disturbing to see. Partly because most of them had been placed without his permission or wanting, and partly because it wasn’t such a bad sight. If this were a normal situation, in which he wasn’t trapped in the basement of some random unknown house, Obi-Wan would say he looked rather loved. Adored. Such sentiments were dangerous though, and he kept them locked in the back of his mind so it wouldn’t poison the rest of his silly, fucked out, head.
“You’re so beautiful,” Anakin whispered, crawling up beside him. The boy crawled between his legs, hands picking up one of his shoulder straps, before letting it go and watched it snap against his skin, “wish I could always have you like this. Ruined just for me, because of me.”
Oni-Wan could only loll his head, and turn his eyes to his captor. The teenager, who’s shoulders had been narrower than his just a few short months ago, boxed him in as he lifted his legs. Obi-Wan let out a tight groan, biting his lips as he tried to keep his limbs from quaking.
“I - I thought you said we were taking a break,” a bit of fear hedges in his tone because this wouldn’t be the first time Anakin’s lied to him. Sure he’s earnest when he makes his promises, but sometimes the lust can overwhelm him, tunnel his vision even as Obi-Wan is crying out for him to stop.
“ You are.” Anakin says as he closes Obi-Wan’s legs together, shifting them both to one shoulder. “Here, squeeze.”
Obi-Wan purses his lips and does as he’s told, because Anakin could have easily shoved his dick back in him, regardless of how he felt, but he didn’t and perhaps it's the teacher in him or the Stockholm, but good behavior should get rewarded. It builds trust and opens communication, and maybe, just maybe, Obi-Wan will get to be free one day if he accumulates enough of it. Maybe Anakin will turn his back long enough for Obi-Wan to make a run for it, or maybe Anakin will let him out himself. Either way, there’s no downside to his obedience, not this time, especially if it means his ass will be left alone for the rest of the night.
Alright, perhaps that’s the most appealing part of it.
Anakin slides his hand along his own cock, still wet with lube and semen, then goes to swipe at Obi-Wan’s ass. Two fingers slip in, a few quick pumps that punches a quiet, surprised, mewl out of him, before it pulls back to wet the in between of his thighs.
Then, like the teenager he is, Anakin impatiently slides in his cock almost as soon as it’s done. He grunts, bending over Obi-Wan, hips smacking the backs of his thighs with obscene slaps, leaving Obi-Wan a front row seat to his red member sliding across pale skin. Perhaps he’s relieved it’s no longer his sore hole that’s taking that monstrous length, or maybe this is a twisted, fucked up, Pavlov reaction, but against his control, he lets out a longing sigh. Whatever reason it is, Obi-Wan’s reaction prompts Anakin to lean forward, putting more weight on Obi-Wan’s old hips, and kiss messily along his throat, all while thrusting relentlessly.
“See? You miss it already,” Anakin chuckles, and Obi-Wan can’t help but let out a quiet moan when their cocks touch. Anakin lowers his angle to purposely rub them together, ears perked as it listens almost reverently to Obi-Wan’s shameless groans, the sensitivity in his limp dick sending sharp, painful sparks all along his skin.
“Look at you princess, such a slut for my cock.” Anakin’s panting now, plowing in faster, “say it, say you love this, love what I do to you.”
Obi-Wan would, really, if he could think past the painful pleasure of having his spent dick be caressed and assaulted by Anakin’s thrusting member, but he can’t. Can hardly form words, mouth puffy from all the kissing, throat sore from his screaming, and worse of, the overwhelming ache in his spine that's all been turned into liquid now.
Finally, Anakin comes, a bold spurt of white dripping out with all the force of an overzealous youth. It drips from his cock, to Obi-Wan stomach, and even a few drops slip into his beard. It’s disgusting on all physical levels that Obi-Wan is currently floating above, his own relief that the session is now over so powerful it could almost be considered a climax itself. Anakin lets his legs fall away, leaving them to bounce on the bed, before he dives forward to lick up the mess he’s made.
As dutiful as a hound, he laps up all the creamy stains, spending an unseemly amount of time on Obi-Wan’s nipples, pulling down the dress as he caresses the swollen nubs. Obi-Wan has enough strength to reach up and tug his head.
“Enough,” he says, with enough gentleness that it doesn’t sound like a command. Just a plea.
“Sorry Mr. Kenobi,” Anakin says, lifting his head to smile playfully, as if he’s apologizing for interrupting class again. “Your tit’s are distracting. They’re so red. ”
Obi-Wan sighs, “whose fault is that?”
Anakin has enough gall to look cheeky, “mine.”
Obi-Wan closes his eyes so as to roll them, though he knows there's no escaping Anakin’s stare. There is no escaping his attention. Guiltily, something in him twists, pleased at the devotion in a way no sane person should ever be.
Anakin thankfully doesn’t take his exasperation as a challenge, and gingerly rolls Obi-Wan to his side. He leaves the bed to fetch the wipes and begins wiping him down. They leave damp skin behind as they erase the traces of spit, lube, and cum that drip between his legs. His sweat is stripped away gently, and it lulls Obi-Wan into a soft haze, floating above his soreness and disappearing into the gentle touches of Anakin Skywalker.
“Do you want to take a bath?” Anakin asks, peeling off the dress that’s undoubtedly ruined beyond repair.
Obi-Wan shakes his head, and to his own surprise, he finds himself fighting back tears. His breathing begins to get heavier, wetter as if there's a knot in his chest that he’s trying to push out. He’s starting to fall out of his haze, as this soothing ritual comes to an end. When Anakin finishes, standing up and throwing the wipes and ruined dress away, depriving Obi-Wan of his reluctantly comforting warmth, Obi-Wan finds himself letting go.
The will to fight withers, and shame crawls up his neck. He is truly, utterly, exhausted, perhaps more than he’s ever been since he’s arrived, even including that time Anakin had forced that sounding stick in him, torturing him for what felt like days as he pulled desperately against rope and cuffs. A sense of hopelessness arises in him, and it’s like draining a sink, a powerful vortex of water spinning him out of control, pulling him deeper into the unknown abyss in his heart.
Obi-Wan turns his face into the pillow, tries to stay quiet even though his shoulders are trembling so obviously that the comforter slips off. As soon as his tears escape, they become uncontrollable, and he’s stifling gasps with the silken sheet. It’s embarrassing, sobbing at his age, but he can't help it. He didn’t even cry when Anakin had shoved him in this hovel, but here he is, curling into his arms as he’s choking on his own sobs.
“What’s wrong princess?” Anakin soothes, his voice carrying over the ringing in his ears, “it’s okay, you can tell me.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, burying it further into the sheets. Anakin slipping into the warm sheets in front of him to pull him into a hug. It’s humiliating to see the youth of his face, knowing that his own is weathered and wrinkled and beaten. The thought of it makes him cry harder, makes him give in to the embrace and hug him back.
“It was too much, wasn’t it?” To the boys credit, Anakin sounds sorry and it comforts him, even if beneath it lies his nauseating pride and sense of accomplishment. “I’m sorry, you did so well last night, I thought you could take it.”
Obi-Wan can’t even laugh at that. All he can do is shudder under the hands that run down his ribs, that run in the divots of his marks and bruises. Obi-Wan’s closed eyes enhances the touches, breathes a life into them the way it does when he’s blindfolded, except this time it’s one of his own volition.
They sit there for a while, and as he comes down from his weeping, he pays more attention to the frisking, feels his sore skin smart with every rough brush, every deliberately press of fingers.
“Anakin?”
“Mhm?” Anakin murmurs into his skin distractedly.
“Can - can we just go to bed?”
“Sorry princess, I said you could have a break, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to get distracted, you're just so pretty when you cry.” Anakin’s condescending like this, but there's enough faux gentleness to buffer the burn of it. “Go to sleep Mr. Kenobi. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.”
Weeks ago, Obi-Wan might have told him that if he was going to persist with his debauchery, the least he could do was leave him alone afterward, instead of staying and cuddling as if they were a couple. As if Anakin hadn’t abducted him from his car, as if he hadn’t caged in a bare, windowless basement, with no way to tell how much time had passed. Cruelly forcing him to see just how empty his life was because Obi-Wan doubted very much that there was anyone searching for him. That anyone even knew he was gone.
Obi-Wan fell asleep to that thought, disgusted with himself and helpless to stop how much he’d come to enjoy Anakin’s care. Craving his touch in a hauntingly addictive way. Perhaps that was his plan all along, to take this poor, lonely teacher and keep him until he loves you. Until he can’t imagine life without your touch.
Perhaps Anakin’s already won.
Obi-Wan doesn’t speak, can barely manage to think it, but in a tragically poetic way, he’s sure it’s only a matter of time till he gives in. He had a plan in the beginning of all this, to slowly erode Anakin’s paranoia with false promises of trust, and somewhere along the way, it had been lost in a flurry of tentative kisses and bruising grips.
When he falls asleep, it’s to the feeling of Anakin’s eyes boring into him. The boy is studying every feature, every wrinkle and freckle, just as he does every time at the end of this. One memorable night he’d spent tying him down to freely lick and mark what felt like every speck of surface of his body.
It hardly surprises him that when he wakes what he hopes to be the morning, it’s to Anakin’s molesting. To his rough, insistent press of his arousal, the fervent whispers into his shoulder. And because Obi-Wan is tired, weak, and reluctantly in love with the boy, he rolls over and lets him do as he wants.
It hurts just as much as it pleases, and perhaps it's for the best.