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Obi-Wan walked through the pit, screaming fans on one side and the stage on the other. He didn’t need to be here, he should be behind stage doing anything else, but he found his way almost unthinkingly to the pit. At least once every show he went to watch Anakin. Not the rest of the band, as he should as their manager. Just Anakin.
The show was going spectacularly, as usual, Anakin was singing his heart out, each song riling the crowd up more and more, looking like a god damned angel. His curls framed his face beautifully, the lights and fire making him look almost ethereal. That was the point, but Obi-Wan fell for it too just like the crowd behind him. The black shirt Anakin wore was unbuttoned all the way, his bare chest sweaty but pristine. Obi-Wan had vivid memories of dragging his tongue between his pecs, tasting his skin; of the hand holding his guitar neck dragging through Obi-Wan's neatly coiffed hair in ecstasy. Obi-Wan didn’t know he liked his hair played with until Anakin spent the evening twirling it between his fingers.
Maybe it had just been the drugs.
“We’re gonna slow it down,” Anakin’s voice rang out over the amphitheater speakers after the last song ended. The crowd fucking cheered, but they cheered at damn near everything. “No one’s heard this one yet, except for Snips here.” He gestured to his bass player, who gave everyone a cocky little two finger salute.
Obi-Wan blinked up. No one ? Not even him? Was Anakin about to go off script?
Anakin turned -- fuck his ass looked magnificent in those leather pants -- walking towards backstage, unlooping his electric guitar and swapping it out for… an acoustic guitar? They played slow songs sometimes, but that normally involved the piano hidden off to the corner. Never an acoustic guitar. This was a hard rock band for gods sake.
“I fucked up,” Anakin continued to speak once he was back at his stationary mic. People whooped like the mindless fans they were. No, that was rude of Obi-Wan. They were the ones paying for all of this. “And not in the way we all expected with drugs and alcohol and overdose. I did something so beautiful, and so soul affirming, that I realized I fucked up years ago.” He slung the acoustic guitar strap over his shoulder and someone from behind the stage ran out with a stool for Anakin to sit on.
This was entirely off track. Were the other members aware this was happening? Besides Ahsoka, of course. Was the band going to have to pay for longer time or was Anakin swapping out a song for this one? Obi-Wan felt antsy now, anxious as Anakin did the most Anakin thing he could.
Why did he have feelings for this man? This wild, impetus, petulant, gorgeous man? He looked so young as he sat on the stool, guitar held lightly in his hands, fingers posed on the first chord of this mystery song. His eyes shone with the lights of the crowd, like stars in his eyes.
“Stars” , he’d said, touching Obi-Wan’s cheek in reverence.
Stars.
Obi-Wan felt stuck in place, listening to this song that Anakin was singing with all his heart, voice breaking on emotional parts. Was that planned or did he really feel it? His eyes were closed as he belted out “I’m so tired of not knowing who I’m supposed to be” .
His eyes opened suddenly and found Obi-Wan’s. It felt a little like a punch to the gut.
They hadn’t addressed what happened. Obi-Wan had woken up the next morning in his own bed with a massive headache and sore . It was a blur, but he remembered. Obi-Wan laid in his bed, hand over his chest, tears running down his face because they’d slept together. He broke all his rules and slept with Anakin Skywalker. His client, a married man, a father . Did that make Obi-Wan a homewrecker now?
But he remembered it. The exquisite feeling of Anakin filling him and touching his fucking soul. Because it’d felt like that, hadn’t it? Anakin looking at him like he hung all the stars personally, whispering how he’d never wanted anyone like he wanted Obi-Wan, the soft moans of how Obi-Wan was made to fit him.
Obi-Wan believed it. Obi-Wan was the one that whispered, “more, please,” when Anakin stopped talking. The praise would start up again, Anakin seemingly wanting to shower him in it. This man that was 16 years his junior whispered how he’d waited his whole life for someone like him.
“How many times do I have to break before you get it?” Blue eyes refused to look away, boring into him, ripping him apart. His lips parted; he reached up to tug one of his earplugs out to hear it better. The smoke leftover from the pyrotechnic effects from the song before shrouded the rest of the band, making it seem like Anakin was the only one there. Staring at Obi-Wan.
What was he supposed to do with this? How was he supposed to take this?
Anakin strummed his final note and dug around in his pocket while the stadium cheered. Obi-Wan couldn’t hear anything; his mind was screeching that Anakin was trying to tell him something. The lead vocalist knocked out a cigarette from the pack he had in his back pocket, putting it between his lips, seemingly ignoring the people encouraging him to keep going.
Obi-Wan hated when he smoked; he hated more when Anakin jumped down off stage and had one of his fans light his cigarette for him. Turning slightly, a lighter already procured from one of the screaming fans behind him, Obi-Wan snatched it out of their hand. He couldn’t hear their protest as he took it up to the stage.
Anakin watched Obi-Wan, face entirely unreadable. The younger man crouched down, cigarette between lips that Obi-Wan remembered were so soft against his. It took a couple tries but Obi-Wan got the flame lit and held it up for Anakin. Blue eyes, the color of every single shade of the midday sky, looked softly at Obi-Wan. It hurt, that look. It made him want to curl up and cry; to beg Anakin to know why he’d crossed the line and ask himself why he let him.
Anakin leaned forward, lighting his cigarette with Obi-Wan’s stolen lighter. Obi-Wan felt breathless, lightheaded, insane. He reached out with his other hand, finger tips ghosting over Anakin’s jaw.
They stared at each other like that, in front of thousands of people.
Obi-Wan was a man possessed as he walked to Anakin’s room after the show. He banged on the door, anger and fury and soul wrenching love.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan demanded. The door was yanked open, the man in question standing on the other side, still with his unbuttoned shirt and sweaty and red rimmed eyes. He’d been crying.
Obi-Wan couldn’t stop himself, even if Anakin’s wife had been there, even if both his children had been in his room asking why someone else was kissing daddy. He crashed into Anakin, fingers digging into his hair and moaning into his open mouth. He tasted cigarette smoke and cinnamon mints. Anakin’s arms wrapped around his waist, dragging him inside his dressing room and slamming the door shut behind them, shutting them off from the world.
It was only them, Anakin’s tears and Obi-Wan’s guilt. Obi-Wan’s back hit the door, Anakin’s hand slamming next to his head, hips pressed together. They were both breathing hard already, panting into each other’s mouths, desperation seeping into how they held each other.
Obi-Wan’s hands were at his pants, already fumbling with the belt and the buttons. Anakin’s free hand was at the small of Obi-Wan’s back, trying to roll his hips against the other man, trying to rub their erections together.
“ Please ,” was pleaded between them, but neither knew who said it. It was enough, Anakin’s pants pushed down just enough to free his rock hard cock. Obi-Wan sucked in a breath at the sight of it. He didn’t remember it being that fucking big. Hands were at Obi-Wan’s hips, turning him around and shoving him against the door.
This was less loving making and more fucking than the first time. Obi-Wan’s hands were undoing his own pants and shoving them down. A moan, deep and lengthy, from Anakin as Obi-Wan was exposed to him.
A hand, the one that was always gloved, caressed around one of the globes of Obi-Wan’s ass.
“Fuck,” Anakin breathed out. Obi-Wan looked over his shoulder at the younger man, seeing the reverence on his face. No one looked at him like that. No one but Anakin.
But then Anakin was moving, reaching over to his vanity to dig around in a drawer until he found a bottle of massage oil. It’d have to do. Wet, slick fingers were in Obi-Wan then, two immediately scissoring him open. The pleasure-pain burned through him. Anakin was in him. They were both sober; they were both consciously making this decision.
It was Obi-Wan, again, who begged for more.
“Anakin, please,” Obi-Wan breathed out when three fingers were in him and Anakin was savouring the feeling more than prepping him. “Fuck me, please. I’m ready.”
A needy whimper came from Anakin, but his fingers were gone and something much bigger, much thicker was pressed against his entrance. A litany of please was falling from Obi-Wan’s lips and then Anakin was pressing in, pushing, stretching.
Obi-Wan’s fingernails scraped against the wood of the door. He was pushing in, inch by inch, the stretch burning sweetly and it was so much. So much more than the last time. Anakin’s hand gripped Obi-Wan’s against the door, fingers threading together tightly as he bottomed out. Obi-Wan rested his forehead against the door and Anakin rested his against Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
“You’re so tight,” Anakin whispered, voice strained. “Are you mine?”
Obi-Wan could have cried then if Anakin’s fat cock wasn’t rubbing against his prostate.
“ Yes ,” Obi-Wan moaned out. Was it in answer to his question or to the pleasure? Neither asked for clarification as Anakin began thrusting. And it felt so good , the way Anakin dragged against his walls, the pleasure rolling through Obi-Wan’s body.
The other hand that wasn’t gripping Obi-Wan’s like a lifeline wrapped around his waist and grasped his weeping cock. Obi-Wan hissed at the near overstimulation but Anakin stroked him gently, building him up exactly as he needed.
How did Anakin know what he needed? His cock was so perfect in him, making him feel right, full, whole. Obi-Wan might have said that out loud because Anakin made a choked off noise, pained and haunted.
His thrusts became erratic, the gloved hand around his cock trying to pump him in the same rhythm as his rolling hips and Obi-Wan’s name was being cried out. Anakin pushed deep, spurting white hot cum in him, pushing Obi-Wan over the edge. He came all over Anakin’s hand, the younger man’s name a whine on his lips.
Obi-Wan’s knees felt weak, Anakin’s cock still in him even as they both came down from their orgasms.
“I never want to leave you,” Anakin was the first to speak, damning them both further. Obi-Wan was the one that separated them, pulling himself off Anakin’s softening cock. It was big enough to easily stay in him, even soft. He began hastily pulling his pants up, cum sliding out of him and down his thigh. Obi-Wan turned then, taking in how wrecked Anakin looked.
Shirt open, sweat anew over his tanned skin, hurt and an overwhelming love all over his face.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I love you too,” Obi-Wan said, voice breaking and pained.