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Obi-Wan staggers into the apartment like a man escaping a collapsing mine shaft, Council debates still ringing in his skull. Anakin’s relentless psychic bombardment—vivid flashes of Obi-Wan bent over the Council table, Anakin’s teeth sinking into his shoulder—has left him trembling, sweat plastering his robes to his back. The silence screams. Where is he? Obi-Wan tears at his robes, the fabric catching on his belt buckle. He yanks Anakin’s pillow from the couch, the cheap synth-cotton case smelling of engine grease and ozone, and presses it hard over his face. He inhales deeply, groaning. His cock’s already iron-hard beneath his leggings. He shoves them down, fisting himself roughly, hips jerking into his own grip. The pillowcase muffles his ragged breaths. Faster. Harder.
Across the room, Anakin flickers into solidity near the malfunctioning beverage dispenser, a grin splitting his face. Drool slicks his chin. He watches, rapt, as Obi-Wan’s thrusts turn frantic, precome frothing at the tip. Anakin’s own erection strains against his pants. He waits, savoring the desperation, until Obi-Wan’s fist is a blur, cockhead slick and gleaming.
"Looks delicious, Master!" Anakin calls out, voice thick with hunger.
Obi-Wan flings the pillowcase away like it’s poisoned, scrambling backward. "Kriffing hells, Anakin!" He scans the room, wild-eyed. "Don’t call out to me from the Force! Not now!"
"Wasn’t the Force this time, Master," Anakin chuckles, stepping fully into view. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, radiating smug satisfaction. "I’m right here."
Obi-Wan stares, chest heaving. "Anakin, unless you’ve mastered permanent invisibility, you are fucking with me."
"Close." Anakin pushes off the wall, closing the distance. "Visited Mother Talzin. She brewed a potion—made Asajj vanish for a whole cycle. I took one." He stops inches from Obi-Wan, eyes dark. "Cost me a week’s pay. Worth it."
Normally, Obi-Wan would launch into a tirade—Talzin’s dark magicks, the recklessness, the danger. But the phantom taste of Anakin’s sweat still coats his tongue, and the boy’s proximity ignites the raw need coiling in his gut. Fury and lust twist together. He wants to punish. To claim. Anakin reads it instantly, his grin turning feral.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Hurt me."
Obi-Wan doesn’t hesitate. He shoves Anakin hard, sending him sprawling face-first onto the cold permacrete floor. Anakin gasps, but arches his back instantly, presenting himself. Obi-Wan drops to his knees behind him, fingers digging into Anakin’s hips. The boy’s pants are already shoved down, his asshole glistening wet—he’d prepped himself. Cheeky bastard. Obi-Wan spits onto his own cock for good measure and slams home in one brutal thrust. Anakin screams, a sound ripped between pain and ecstasy, fingers scrabbling on the floor. Obi-Wan sets a punishing rhythm, each drive deeper, harder. The slap of skin echoes off the walls. He’s past thought, past control, riding the edge.
"Mine," he snarls, gripping Anakin’s hair, yanking his head back. "Gonna fill you up, boy. Ruin you."
Anakin chokes out a sob. "Yes—please—"
Obi-Wan’s release crashes through him like a detonation. He roars, burying himself to the hilt, pulsing jet after jet of hot spend deep inside Anakin’s clenching heat. He collapses forward, panting against Anakin’s spine. Beneath him, Anakin trembles, a thin stream of come already leaking onto the floor. Slowly, Obi-Wan pulls out. He lays a palm over the reddened, swollen pucker. A soft, golden glow emanates from his hand—Force-healing, gentle, repairing the worst of the abrasions, cleansing the mess within.
Anakin sighs, boneless. "Always fixing me after you break me, Master," he murmurs, voice rough.
Obi-Wan kisses the nape of his neck, tasting salt. "Someone has to."