Chapter Text
Anakin remains sick enough to not come over on Tuesday either, and Obi-Wan is mostly thankful for it. He knows it’s somewhat fucked up to actually wish for Anakin’s condition to deteriorate a little more, but he also really hopes it does anyway—to the point where Anakin will start thinking he hallucinated the entirety of Monday’s events, and not bring them up to Obi-Wan at all. Especially the part where Obi-Wan Ubered back to the Walgreens, rode—and somehow survived—Anakin’s motorcycle back to the apartment, and then drove his Range Rover back home. It’s unlikely Anakin will forget, but Obi-Wan is crossing his fingers anyway.
In his absence, Obi-Wan notices that July has arrived. Or, Cody informs him of it’s arrival when he mentions the Fourth is on Friday. It’s the only holiday Obi-Wan gives Cody complete control over—because he doesn’t give a shit about it. The first year they were together, and Cody wanted to celebrate, Obi-Wan scrunched his nose and reminded him that neither of them were even fucking American, and it was particularly shameful for Obi-Wan to take part given the holiday’s origin.
It was a relief to find out Cody didn’t care for the true meaning of Independence Day much either. Rather, he and his family just really liked good weather, fireworks, and renting out giant houses on Lake Tahoe; traditions Obi-Wan didn’t entirely hate. To his own surprise, he actually began to look forward to the trip each year, especially as the Fett’s grew to know him better and stopped trying to make him eat nasty hot dogs or anything else with his hands.
All Tuesday afternoon is spent packing. There’s something soothing about planning each and every bit of his appearance meticulously, down to the jewelry, and filling his suitcase to the point he has to sit on it in order to zip it shut.
Wednesday morning, Anakin texts him that he feels well enough to come over. With this being the only time he’ll see Anakin for the rest of the week—their flight leaves on Thursday—Obi-Wan figures he should really make the visit count.
The swim trunks he picks out are one of the most obscene pairs he owns, due to the fact that they don’t really cover his ass all the way. Cheek peeks out no matter what, but after any sustained movement, they ride up and it looks more like he’s wearing a pair of women’s boy-short underwear. They’re white—but not thin enough that anything can be seen through them, and trimmed in black. Obi-Wan usually hates Dolce & Gabbana, but he makes an exception for their slutty, slutty swimwear collection.
Other than that, the only thing he puts on is his jewelry. A menagerie of gold chains, some stoned with crystals, some with dangling charms; his favorite of the bunch being a golden heart engraved with the words someone special.
When Anakin rolls up on his motorcycle, Obi-Wan is sitting on the front porch steps, licking a red, white, and blue popsicle. It’s a bit disappointing when Anakin doesn’t react to it, instead yelling over the roar of the engine, “Can I pull it in?” While pointing to the empty spot where Cody’s Bentley is usually parked in the garage. Obi-Wan shrugs and nods, before getting up and following him, getting in the garage just in time to see Anakin swing his long leg over the bike and dismount it. His jeans are dirty at the knees, and his navy blue t-shirt is almost too tight. Obi-Wan is so distracted by his biceps he forgets to say hello, and barely has time to react when Anakin swoops in to kiss him, big hands cupping his face and stroking his beard.
It’s so good Obi-Wan doesn’t bother pushing him away to make sure he’s no longer sick, he just kisses back, slipping one hand up Anakin’s body to grope his chest through the tight shirt, while the other still holds his popsicle. When it starts to drip onto his fingers, Obi-Wan pulls back, and Anakin hums a satisfied noise. “You taste good,” he sighs, and his eyes look all dopey.
Obi-Wan holds the popsicle in front of him. “You can have it, if you’d like.” It was mostly for visual effect, anyway. His teeth ache as Anakin leans forward and bites the popsicle, taking the entirety of what was left in his mouth. The ache must be reflected in his expression, because Anakin laughs after he swallows.
They kiss and kiss until Anakin’s mouth is no longer cold, and then Obi-Wan asks why he wanted to pull his bike in.
“The headlight’s out,” Anakin says, dropping to a squat in front of the bike, then taking off his backpack and rummaging through it until he pulls out a screwdriver. He wedges it where the headlight covering attaches and begins to pry.
Obi-Wan takes a step back. “Is that how you’re supposed to do it?” If something flies off and hits him, he’s going to use that screwdriver to do damage in return, doubly so if his Range Rover is caught in the line of fire.
Anakin hums noncommittally, and that very much seems like a no. “I could take it to a shop, and they’d do it a little differently, but they’d make me pay way too much.” Obi-Wan gets the feeling differently probably means safer, but keeps his mouth shut since Anakin has actually managed to get the cover off. Behind it is the light itself, and it’s attached to a whole lot of shit Obi-Wan knows nothing about, so he focuses on Anakin’s hands as he uses the screwdriver for it’s actual purpose and begins loosening the screws that hold the actual light structure together.
“Would you hand me the new light? It’s in my bag,” Anakin asks with his hands full. It might be the first time Anakin has actually asked Obi-Wan to do something for him. He tries to remember another time as he fishes the lightbulb from the plastic bag inside Anakin’s backpack, but comes up short. After he rips it free of the plastic and cardboard packaging, Anakin takes it and replaces the old bulb, then screws everything back into place and puts the cover back on. Obi-Wan throws away broken one, and decides he’s done enough work to earn a reward.
Just as he’s about to yank Anakin back by his hair and shove his face against his groin, the boy stands and turns to him.
“How was it?” He asks, nodding his head to the motorcycle. To Obi-Wan’s dismay, apparently Anakin has not forgotten about Monday.
“Horrid, naturally—but, I lived,” Obi-Wan responds, turning his nose up.
Anakin laughs, and then gets a kind of forlorn-but-horny look on his face. “I wish I could’ve seen you on it.” Of course he does.
With a snort, Obi-Wan moves closer, his Jimmy Choo wedge sandals slapping on the ground. “Move aside,” he says, nudging Anakin, before swinging a leg over the bike and settling on the seat. When he leans forward to grab the handlebars, his feet dangle. With a little shake of his ass, he smirks at Anakin. “Do try not to cream yourself.”
Anakin stares, and Obi-Wan watches his fingers flex over and over again, squeezing the screwdriver still in his hand. “You’re so hot,” he sighs eventually, eyes raking over every inch of Obi-Wan, back and forth, back and forth, over and over again. After a moment, he steps out of Obi-Wan’s line of sight, around to the back of the bike. It makes him shiver, knowing Anakin’s gaze is still burning into him, even when he can’t see it, and he imagines what he must look like from the back; perky ass straining his shorts, golden legs dangling, and the way he’s leaning forward puts the way his shorts cup his balls and mold to his taint on display.
“Fuck,” Anakin groans behind him, and then a hand is pushing against the small of Obi-Wan’s back, making him sink further down until he has to abandon the handle bars, now just resting his arms on the bike in front of him with his chest against the cooling metal. Again, Anakin says, “Fuck,” as his hand smooths down until he’s cupping Obi-Wan’s ass.
“Yes, you said that,” Obi-Wan breathes out. Even as he makes the smart comment, his stomach is fluttering and he’s fighting the urge to squirm where he lays. Under him, his cock is coming to attention. Anakin ignores him completely, and Obi-Wan almost turns his head to bark some instructions, but he’s stopped by the press of Anakin’s obvious erection against his ass. There’s nowhere for him to go, so all Obi-Wan can do is lay there and take it as Anakin cups his waist and grinds against him. It feels so good, far better than it has any right to, but it would be perfect if Anakin would actually pull down both his shorts and actually fucking touch him. He still can’t get his feet under him, but he tries—and mostly fails—to push himself back anyway, leaning into the pressure of Anakin’s cock harder, his hole starting to feel neglected.
An embarrassing sound comes out of him when Anakin leans down, essentially covering Obi-Wan’s body with his own and trapping him against the bike. “God, I missed you,” Anakin pants in his ear.
“Anakin, please,” Obi-Wan whimpers.
Immediately, Anakin is pulling back, and then fights the tight material of Obi-Wan’s shorts to get them down his legs. When he feels his ass being spread, Obi-Wan grins and humps the seat below him. “My good boy.” His toes curl and one of his flip-flops falls to the ground when Anakin’s tongue laves over his rim. Further into his slutty little arch he sinks, trying to push his ass up and grind down on Anakin’s mouth. Against him, Anakin groans, and it zips right through him, makes his balls feel fuller before sparking up his spine and coming out his mouth as a high pitched gasp while his eyebrows furrow like he’s in pain. With the swirls of Anakin’s soft tongue, Obi-Wan’s hole becomes laxer and pliant, until he starts to feel horribly empty, and he reaches his own fingers back to rub against his rim.
Anakin makes a higher, needier noise, running his tongue over Obi-Wan’s fingers and getting them wet. Without needing to be told, Anakin lets up a bit, pressing kisses into the skin around his entrance so Obi-Wan can slide two fingers inside of himself.
“You’re getting quite good at this,” Obi-Wan smiles, then groans as he angles his fingers to press against his prostate. Laying over Anakin’s bike like this has him feeling like a whore, and that’s really working for him—to the point that he doesn’t want to move, not even to touch his cock. He rocks back onto his fingers and Anakin’s mouth while his hard cock leaks where it’s trapped against the seat.
Tongue working around the fingers, trying to shove into Obi-Wan’s hole beside them, Anakin groans, “’S’all I want—to be good. For you.” The words light Obi-Wan up perhaps even more intensely than the physical sensations, and he gasps. Almost too aggressively, he shoves his fingers against his prostate, massaging it until his toes curl and his thighs begin to twitch.
“You are, Anakin. Eating out my slutty little hole—such a good boy. Do you want me to come all over the seat? I’ll lick it up afterwards, I promise.” Imagining laving his tongue over the black leather and tasting his own come is the breaking point. Obi-Wan grits his teeth and wails behind them, balls pulsing under him as he orgasms. Around his fingers, his hole pulses greedily, and hot shivers run all the way up his legs, and then his spine, while Anakin drools all over his fingers and ass.
When Anakin eventually pulls away, Obi-Wan goes to stand, to turn around and take care of him, but a hand pushes against the small of his back again, pressing him to the seat.
“Anakin—“ Obi-Wan looks over his shoulder to see Anakin standing, hand flying over his cock and staring down at the place where Obi-Wan’s fingers are still stuffed inside of himself. Before he can get another word out, the boy is coming. His free hand smacks Obi-Wan’s ass and grips it afterward, using it to steady himself while the other continues to pump his cock.
The hot, wet stripes cover Obi-Wan’s ass, and he groans at the feeling, feeling dirty and used. A hand winds it’s way into his hair, and he’s pulled up suddenly, feet finally touching the floor, but his arms losing purchase. Into his ear, Anakin laughs and rasps, “I’ll clean up my mess first.”
The next day, Obi-Wan is in the middle of trying to narrow down what perfumes he wants to pack from five bottles to three, when Cody comes in and ruins everything.
“It’s a bust, baby—Tahoe’s cancelled,” he sounds just as annoyed as Obi-Wan becomes within a second of hearing the news, which is the only reason Obi-Wan doesn’t bite his head off immediately.
“What? Why?”
“You know Rex and the kids—“
“It’s not my fault they decided to get Covid again. I thought everyone had decided to go anyway and simply mourn their absence.” Obi-Wan didn’t plan on the mourning bit—but the point still stands. They’d already had this discussion, and Rex implored his brothers and father to go on the trip without him.
“Yes, we did,” Cody sighs. “But Jango just texted me—Boba broke his leg.”
As fond of Obi-Wan is of his nephew, he doesn’t really care. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Cody bristles a little, but continues. “Something stupid on his skatebaord. Regardless, it means that Jango’s not coming, and after that Bly decided that if it wasn’t gonna be the whole family he’d rather stay with his girlfriend.”
Aayla. Obi-Wan likes her, even if she does have ugly, badly dyed, blue hair.
“And?” He asks. None of this has any bearing on him personally. He should still be going to Lake Tahoe.
“Jaster pulled the plug—said it wasn’t worth it. I mean, c’mon. It’d just be us, him, and Wolffe.”
That kind of sounds like an ideal scenario, but Obi-Wan keeps this to himself. As persuasive as he can be, he knows his husband well enough to know when he won’t be receptive enough for Obi-Wan to get anywhere. With half of his family ill or in the hospital, he’s more likely to take offense to Obi-Wan whining about the trip, and that definitely won’t help change his mind. With a little pout on his face, Obi-Wan places all of his perfumes back on their rotating crystal shelf.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Cody says, coming forward to kiss the back of his head before leaving him be.
After he’s gone, Obi-Wan pulls out his phone and texts Anakin. What are you doing for the Fourth of July?
The changing of plans that Obi-Wan considered set in stone rattles him. There’s some part of his brain that can’t make peace with it, can’t let it go. Qui-Gon prattles on about control issues in the back of his mind, and that just makes Obi-Wan even more unsettled and testy.
Anakin has a football game on the Fourth of July, because of course he does. To feel like he’s in control again, Obi-Wan tells him he’ll be there, but doesn’t tell him that he’s bringing Cody along too. Getting them near each other without incident makes Obi-Wan feel like he’s got everyone and everything on a leash.
The game doesn’t start until six, which is convenient, because it gives Obi-Wan hours to decide on what to wear. He debates wearing literally any or every color other than red, white, and blue, but decides against it—if only so Anakin can get a kick out of Obi-Wan’s version of patriotism. In the end, he’s in blue Diesel jeans and a snug, white Ralph Lauren t-shirt, with a red Dior square scarf around his neck; the patterns on it made of suns and vines and flowers.
When they finally arrive, Obi-Wan is praying the satisfaction he gets from whatever happens is worth the steep price of having to be around the type of people that make a habit of going to rec-league football games. At least the field is outdoors, so he doesn’t have to worry about the feet smell this time. After Cody spreads a blanket over the part of the small, metal bleachers Obi-Wan has decided is far enough away from other people to sit on, he sends him off to the concessions stand so he can walk to the edge of the field where both teams are mingling and throwing balls back and forth before the game starts. Despite the black rec-league jerseys having no names on the back, Obi-Wan finds Anakin right away. He’s sat on the ground, lacing up his cleats, which look so new Obi-Wan wonders if they were bought with one of the paychecks he’s written himself.
No one is too close to Anakin, so Obi-Wan goes right up to the fence that separates the field from the stands and calls, “Hey, pretty boy.”
Anakin looks up, a confused look on his face until he turns to the right and sees him.
Obi-Wan’s heart feels like it’s being wrapped around and strangled by an enormous snake; he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the look Anakin gets upon seeing him.
“You came!” Anakin smiles as he springs up, closing the scant space between him and the fence, and Obi-Wan reminds himself he has hand sanitizer in his bag, so he can wrap his fingers around the top of the fence just like Anakin is and their pinkies can touch.
“I told you I would, darling,” Obi-Wan says. He almost adds do you take me for a liar but then remembers that he is very much a liar and Anakin is very much aware of that.
Anakin still looks incredibly pleased, but he adds, “Sorry about Lake Tahoe.”
Obi-Wan shrugs and sucks his teeth, before looking at Anakin up and down slowly. “It could be worse.” The boy’s cheeks go pink, and Obi-Wan moves on before he announces to all Anakin’s teammates to go easy on him so he’ll be in good enough condition to fuck him later. “What, er, position do you play?” He’s pretty sure that’s the right way to phrase that.
“Center.”
“I would say I wish I knew what that means, but I really don’t.”
Anakin grins again and taps his pinkie with his own. “I’ll be in the center. At least in the beginning.”
“Color me shocked.”
“I know you told me you’d rather live next-door to Chernobyl than participate in team sports, but I think you’d make a fantastic tight end,” Anakin tells him, nodding like he’s being serious.
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, but feels his cheeks heat, and his teeth nearly come out. “Ha ha.” They stand in amused silence for a few seconds, and Obi-Wan glances up toward the concessions stand to see Cody still in line—there’s quite a lot of people here for it being rec-league—and his gaze also catches on another player from Anakin’s team, sitting on a bench and struggling with his laces.
“Please do not tell me you associate with people who cannot tie their own shoes, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says quietly, nodding subtly over to the other boy.
Anakin looks over, then laughs. “It’s a ritual—good luck kind of thing. He has to thread them like ten times.”
Obi-Wan tries not to judge, but fails. “Is that really necessary for rec-league football?” He turns back at Anakin, who is looking at him flatly. “No offense,” he adds, smirking.
“Probably not,” Anakin concedes, shrugging. “Everyone’s got something, though. Lucky socks, kissing their rosary. When I was in high school, chicks would give scrunchies to their boyfriends to wear on their wrist during games.”
Another glance to Cody—he’s talking to the cashier.
Perhaps Anakin passed his illness over to Obi-Wan after all, and he’s actually been sick as a dog all week without experiencing any fever-dream symptoms until this very moment; he can’t think of any other explanation for why he does what he does next.
“Here,” Obi-Wan tells him, tugging at Anakin’s hand to get it on his side of the fence. Then, he takes one of his Cartier bracelets off—the one that looks like a golden screw curled in on itself—and squeezes it over Anakin’s broad hand until it’s dangling from his wrist.
“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, voice so warm it makes Obi-Wan squirm.
To avoid meeting his eyes, Obi-Wan looks back toward the concessions stand again, and sees Cody walking back toward their seats. They lock eyes, and Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to stomp all over the sappy shit Anakin must be feeling right now, raising his hand to wave to his husband and announcing casually, “Ah, there’s Cody.”
When he turns back to Anakin, he catches the briefest flash of darkness in his eyes, before he’s obviously forcing his face into a full-of-shit smile, and raising his hand to wave as well. The urge to praise Anakin for his quickness and willingness to lie through his teeth when Cody comes around arises in Obi-Wan, but before he can can, Anakin speaks again, and his voice is far from matching the sunny look on his face.
“You didn’t tell me he was coming.”
Irritation flares, and Obi-Wan welcomes it. This is much easier to deal with than whatever he was feeling when he gave Anakin his bracelet moments ago.
“I wasn’t aware I needed to run such things by you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, leaving just enough condescension in his tone to push buttons.
Anakin’s jaw clenches, but he still keeps his everything is fine look on his face. “Why would you think I would want him here?”
Satisfaction curls inside Obi-Wan in response to his distress. He pushes further. “I didn’t—“
“Then why is he here?” Anakin interrupts him.
“Let me fucking finish,” Obi-Wan snaps. He’s in his element now. “I didn’t think about what you wanted at all.” It’s said like a plain fact, not like an apology, and he adds a shrug for good measure.
“It’s my game, Obi-Wan.”
“You’re the one that invited me, Anakin.” Obi-Wan can see the way Anakin is practically vibrating in his skin to control his own anger, and has to fight to keep the smile off his face in response.
“Yes—you. I invited you.”
“He’s my husband. You’re the pool boy. What exactly is it that you want from me?” Obi-Wan bites out. The last few days he’s been stewing in annoyance over Tahoe, his own behavior whilst at Anakin’s apartment, and Cody’s lingering presence on his days off; now, all that ire rises to the surface, the festering state of it having turned it into something closer to vitriol. It feels good to take it out on Anakin. It feels good to be in control again.
Anakin’s eyes betray his hurt, despite him still maintaining a pleasant look on the rest of his face. Before he can do something truly pathetic like tear up, Obi-Wan speaks again. Just to confuse him, just to soothe things over enough that Anakin won’t dare lash out.
“I’m here, though, aren’t I? You wanted me to come—here I am. Just because he’s here doesn’t change—you know.” And with the words he won’t say, he brushes their pinkies together once more. Anakin’s eyes grow wet anyway, and Obi-Wan pulls his hand back to his own side of the fence. “Play well, darling,” he says softly, before retreating and going to join Cody back at their seats.
“Coffee’s fucking vile,” Cody says after he sits down, handing him the styrofoam cup to try it. Obi-Wan does, and makes a blech sounds, immediately handing it back. From his backpack, Cody pulls out the snacks Obi-Wan packed for himself; Annie’s cheddar bunnies and apple slices, along with an iced matcha latte stored in a spill-proof tumbler. As he watches Anakin huddle up with his teammates, Obi-Wan peels all of the skin of the edges of each apple slice, letting it fall to the metal below his feet.
“Do you know what position he is?” Cody asks.
“Center,” Obi-Wan answers instantly, keeping his eyes on Anakin.
“Really? A bit lanky for it, don’t you think?”
“How should I know? It’s fucking rec-league, Cody. Maybe they just didn’t have anyone else.”
Cody snorts, and reaches over with the hand not holding his shitty concessions stand coffee, squeezing Obi-Wan’s thigh. “You’re sweet, doing this for him.”
Obi-Wan hums noncommittally. “He’s all alone. I’m pretty sure his mother is dead.”
“You think?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure—he doesn’t talk to me much. I’m only trying to be supportive.”
Cody leans in, wrapping an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders and kissing his temple. “You do have your moments. They’re few and far between—but you do have them.”
For a brief moment, it’s just him and his husband, and Obi-Wan smiles under his touch and affection, until he glances out at the field again and catches Anakin staring through the gaps of his helmet.
As it would turn out, Anakin isn’t the center because there was no one else to do it. Anakin is the center because he’s a perfect fucking center, apparently—at least, that’s what Cody surmises. He explains the basics of the center position to Obi-Wan, who is actually taking in a conversation about sports for the first time in his life, and how despite not being the most obvious candidate for the position physically, the role suits Anakin very much. The initial snapping of the ball is left to Anakin, but everything after that is where he really shines; tackling other players and forcing them to the ground so aggressively Obi-Wan winces in sympathy multiple times.
It’s really not all that surprising when his cock takes an interest—the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Anakin was when he was brawling with another player on the ice. The shover.
During half-time, Anakin jogs over to the tiny excuse for a locker room near the concessions stand, and Obi-Wan watches him all the way, imagining massaging his strong quads and perfect ass over his stupid, grass-stained football pants—or whatever they’re called. It’s a pleasant distraction from Cody, who was recognized by another couple in the bleachers, though they originally thought he was Rex. Obi-Wan fought to keep in his laughter the whole time his husband explained to the couple—who knew Rex through having a child around one of his own’s age—that he was a whole different man, and that Rex did not dye his hair brunette and become a homosexual since the last time they saw him, they’re just identical twins.
The game starts again, and against Obi-Wan’s greatest instincts, he actually gets into it. At best he can, at least, while still not quite understanding how it works. He’s surely having a different experience than the rest of the crowd though, whose excitement seems to ramp up the longer each play goes on—whereas Obi-Wan likes the beginning the most, watching Anakin toss the ball and throw people to the dirt. He doesn’t score any points, but Cody tells him that’s not the center’s job.
Either way, Anakin’s team wins, and Obi-Wan actually claps, not just a half-assed golf clap.
Cody is all too happy to be pulled into another conversation by the couple as the bleachers clear out, and Obi-Wan squeezes his arm once and tells him he’s going to congratulate Anakin. He already knows where he is, his eyes followed his ass again all the way to where he stands now, bent over the drinking fountain on the outside of the small building with the locker rooms. One thing he’s learned about American football is that it’s oddly homoerotic, so he knows it’s not that weird when he waltzes up right behind Anakin and slaps his ass.
“Good game.”
Anakin flinches in surprise, sending water over his nose and cheeks. He glares over his shoulder before standing straight, wiping his mouth with a dirty arm. Obi-Wan points to the door which other players are streaming in and out of. “Are these the only—facilities?”
“There’s a public bathroom,” Anakin says flatly, jabbing a thumb in it’s direction.
“Not ideal,” Obi-Wan mumbles, before looking up at Anakin through his lashes. “Are you cross with me?”
He really should be. Obi-Wan would be, if he were Anakin.
“I—“ Anakin starts, then shoves his face in his hands and laughs into them. “Follow me,” he says, then leads Obi-Wan around the building—there’s another two locker rooms on the other side, apparently. And they’re unlocked, because the angels continue to smile down upon Obi-Wan.
Anakin twists the lock once they’re inside. “Anyone in here?” He calls out. When no response comes, he sighs, “Obi-Wan—“
Whatever he’s going to say, Obi-Wan doesn’t want to hear it; he latches onto Anakin, wrapping a leg around the back of him and trailing kisses up his neck, to his mouth, all the way to his ear, where he whispers, “Forgive me.”
Anakin pulls back, searching his eyes. Before he can find what he’s looking for, or anything at all—like the fact that Obi-Wan doesn’t really want forgiveness, because he’s really not sorry—Obi-Wan wraps around him even tighter, and bites Anakin’s lip until he keens. Despite how Obi-Wan can feel how his body remains stiff and cagey with apprehension, Anakin does as he always has, and follows Obi-Wan; kisses him back and lets himself be pushed against the wall, whatever he wanted to get off his chest thrown to the wayside because Obi-Wan has decided it’s not worth hearing.
All the of the false warmth and fallacious pleading he’d put into his voice when asking forgiveness is gone when Obi-Wan says, “Turn around, Anakin.” The boy shakes slightly as he does it, but he turns around all the same, and Obi-Wan feels like he can breathe for the first time since he walked into Anakin’s apartment. It’s so relieving he almost wants to walk away, sated with Anakin’s compliance despite his obvious wariness—but giving more than he was taking, even for only a day, is what has him doing this in the first place. For Anakin’s sake, and his own, Obi-Wan really has to do this. To set things right again. He tries to remember if the clock on the scoreboard ever displayed any angel numbers that might back him up—but even if it had, he’s not sure he could recall their meanings.
Roughly, he tugs Anakin’s clinging, white pants down until they’re around his knees. Under them, he’s wearing compression shorts, and when those come off, Anakin’s ass bounces with how harshly Obi-Wan pulls them down.
Roughly, he shoves two fingers between Anakin’s cheeks to press against his hole. It clenches, tight and shy under his probing, but Obi-Wan doesn’t let that deter him, even when Anakin goes up on his tiptoes to lessen the touch.
Roughly, he speaks into Anakin’s ear, “Have you ever touched yourself here?”
“Only since I met you,” Anakin breathes out.
If that’s supposed to signal please be gentle, Obi-Wan is deciding to ignore it. “How cute,” he hums, leaving Anakin’s twitching rim alone for a moment to reach into the front pockets of his jeans, where he’s stuffed packets of lube and a singular condom. When he touches Anakin again, his fingers are slick, making the boy let out a needy sound that’s far more familiar than his trembling. The more he touches him, the farther away Anakin’s trepidation seems, until he’s pushing back on Obi-Wan’s fingers with such fervor that it’s as if he asked for this.
That won’t do.
Anakin’s taking the two fingers with ease, but it’s really not enough to make taking Obi-Wan’s thick cock for the first time a seamless, comfortable experience—and he knows this, so he pulls his fingers out, rolls on the condom, and nudges the head of his cock against Anakin’s hole, humping against him a few times until the boy nearly jumps with realization.
“Shit—Obi-Wan, I don’t know—“
Obi-Wan smiles with all his teeth, and pushes up Anakin’s jersey to lick along the spine of his upper back, tasting his sweat. “Don’t know what, darling? Don’t you want me?”
A wounded noise, and then Anakin’s saying, “Of course I do,” like he’s hurt Obi-Wan would even ask.
He digs his teeth into Anakin’s shoulder, before slipping his fingers up to curl into the boy’s mouth, catching around his teeth and pushing his tongue down to make the spit pool. “My baby boy. You'll give me what I need, won’t you? What he can’t?”
In response, Anakin reaches behind himself and steadies the cock against his entrance. Obi-Wan can feel the way he’s trying so desperately to relax, and feels that strangling feeling in his chest again in return.
He could just slip between Anakin’s thighs, fuck him like that. Or continue on just rutting against the cleft of his ass. He wouldn’t even need to make Anakin come.
When he closes his eyes, he sees jade green. You must learn to let go of things that are out of your control, Obi-Wan. Is there any happiness to be found in playing God?
Obi-Wan grits his teeth, curses, and shoves himself inside of Anakin. The nasty sound it tears out of him shoots adrenaline through Obi-Wan’s body so fiercely it suddenly feels as if his arms and legs are full of static.
He makes it quick. The couple in the bleachers really won’t be able to hold Cody’s attention for that long. Anakin comes with a hand around his cock and his teeth digging into his own forearm; Obi-Wan comes when he sees his eyes watering as it happens. Before he slips away, he wraps an arm across Anakin’s sweaty, shaking chest, resting a hand over his heart.
“Remember what I said when we first met?”
Anakin makes a muted, inquisitive noise, and Obi-Wan kisses him softly on the cheek.
“Don’t burn yourself, Anakin.”
After Obi-Wan tosses the condoms, straightens his clothes, and covers up the smell of sex on himself with the sample size of Lost Cherry tucked in his back pocket; he turns to leave, but Anakin catches him by the wrist, and Obi-Wan turns back to see the boy trying to squeeze his hand out of the golden Cartier bracelet. He stops Anakin’s hands, and looks down at his cleats; now caked in mud, and what looks to be a few splatters of come.
“Keep it, honey,” Obi-Wan coos, and then he’s gone.