Archive of Our Own ^beta

The clatter of fingers on keys filled the small office, the muffled hum of conversation from the newsroom beyond barely breaking Anakin's focus. His notes from the weekend’s Grand Prix sprawled across his screen—meticulous lap times, pit stop strategies, and the now-viral buzz surrounding Verstappen’s victory. The flow of data, strategy, and drama soothed him like nothing else. Racing was his lifeblood, a world where precision and passion collided.

His office was far from the glamour of the paddock, but Anakin didn’t mind. It was his space: a small shrine to the speed gods, adorned with vintage F1 posters and a miniature model of Senna’s McLaren MP4/4 perched on his desk. He leaned back, stretching his arms, and let out a satisfied sigh, ready to file the article before lunch.

Then, the door to his office slammed open.

Mace Windu’s presence could silence a room, but now it electrified Anakin’s modest workspace. Tall and imposing in a sharp, tailored suit that made him look more like a corporate executive than an editor, he carried himself with an unflinching authority. His dark skin gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and his clean-shaven head lent an edge to his already intense gaze—a gaze now locked on Anakin with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.

“Skywalker,” Mace said briskly, his voice cutting through the air. “We’ve got a situation.”

Anakin straightened, his mind flipping through the possibilities. Had there been breaking news? A scandal? A crash he’d missed? He started to ask, but Mace cut him off with a sharp gesture, the silver cufflinks on his sleeves catching the light as he moved.

“Aayla Secura’s out sick. Can’t even stand, let alone make it to an interview,” Mace continued, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him.

“Uh… sorry to hear that,” Anakin replied slowly, still unsure what this had to do with him. “But Aayla doesn’t work at Burnout, so why—”

“I know she covers celebrities,” Mace interrupted. “She’s with Luminara’s team at Starline. Look, I wouldn’t be here otherwise, but it’s big. Huge. They had it locked down two months ago. Aayla had been doing nothing except preparing for this for weeks.”

“Okay…?” Anakin frowned, the pieces not clicking into place. “But why are you telling me? I’m a racing journalist. I’m knee-deep in car stats, not red carpets. I don’t even work for Starline—”

“Luminara called me,” Mace said, cutting through Anakin’s growing protest, and falling into the chair on the other side of his desk. His foot bumped the back of it, disturbing Anakin’s creative arrangement of items, which some would be inclined to call chaotic mess. “They’re desperate, and we’re all one big family under the publisher, right?”

“Family’s generous,” Anakin muttered under his breath, and reached over to return the McLaren model to its place, as well as his framed photograph with Logan Sargeant, the first full-time American F1 driver since Scott Speed’s short stint in the mid-2000s.

Mace ignored him. “Everyone else is tied up. You’re it.”

“Wait.” Anakin’s brow furrowed. “You want me to drop everything and—what—cover for Aayla?” he scoffed, immediately dismissing the idea. However, he couldn’t help but be a little curious. “Who’s the celebrity? Who could possibly be this important?”

Mace just stared at him for a moment, the silence speaking louder than anything. When he finally answered, it was with deliberate weight.

“Ben Kenobi.”

The name dropped like a thunderclap. Anakin’s jaw fell open.

“Ben Kenobi?” he repeated, leaning forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Yes, Ben Kenobi,” Mace replied, deadpan.

“The Ben Kenobi? Eleven-time Oscar nominee, six-time winner, chart-topping Ben Kenobi? The guy who had all of three interviews in the last three decades?”

“That’s the one.”

Anakin sank back into his chair, stunned. Ben Kenobi wasn’t just a movie star—he was the movie star. Universally adored, endlessly memeable, and enigmatic enough to send entire fandoms spiraling with a single tweet. Landing an interview with him was a journalistic golden ticket.

“Why the hell would you send me?” Anakin said weakly.

“Because there’s no one else.” Mace folded his arms, a hint of finality in his tone. Just as Anakin was about to thank him for the vote of confidence, he continued, “And because you’re one of the best writers we’ve got. You think fast, you get people talking, and you don’t mess around.”

Well, he didn’t expect that. Still…

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts,” Mace interrupted firmly. “You’ve got three hours to prep. The car picks you up at two.”

/

Anakin stared at the number in the company directory, his finger hovering over the call button. He exhaled sharply and hit dial before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone barely rang before Aayla picked up, her voice raspy but still full of emotion.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Aayla. It’s Anakin, from Burnout.”

“Please tell me you’ve found some miracle cure, because I cannot believe I’m about to miss the interview with Kenobi. It was supposed to be the most exciting thing in my life!”

Her words dissolved into a muffled sob, which quickly turned into a coughing fit.

Anakin winced, pulling the phone slightly away from his ear. “Yeah, about that. They, uh, put me on it.”

There was a beat of silence, then a dry scoff. “They seriously couldn’t find anyone else?”

“Hey! That’s what I said!” Anakin protested, though her blatant disregard for him stung a little more than he’d expected. He pushed on, determined to keep this professional. “Anyway, it’s not like either of us has a choice. So, unless we want to make the publisher look bad, I need you to tell me everything you planned to ask Kenobi. I’ve got two hours. Crash course on interviewing movie stars, stat.”

Another pause. Then Aayla sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. Grab a pen.”

Anakin gritted his teeth and flipped open his notebook. “Okay. Go.”

What followed was an overwhelming torrent of starstruck enthusiasm, barely pausing for breath. Aayla started with Kenobi’s latest box office hit—a sequel to the spy thriller from twenty years ago that had made him a household name. She described the movie in vivid detail: the retired spy dragged back into action to help his old love interest, both now married to other people. According to Aayla, the movie was brimming with romantic tension. “But honestly,” she said, her voice growing wistful, “anything he acts in is like that. He just oozes chemistry. It’s a talent.”

Anakin muttered a noncommittal, “Uh-huh,” and kept taking notes, though internally, he was already regretting this.

Then came the rumors. Aayla practically gushed about Kenobi’s supposed off-screen romance with his co-star from the original spy movie. Apparently, people had speculated for years that the two had been secretly involved, but no one had ever confirmed it. Aayla had clearly planned to ask him directly, even though Anakin couldn’t imagine Ben Kenobi—a man notoriously private and reclusive—indulging that line of questioning.

“Mhm,” he said again, scribbling, though his thoughts were anything but agreeable. He couldn’t see the point of rehashing decades-old gossip when there were far better things to ask.

Aayla’s monologue rambled on, moving into even more frivolous territory. She listed off tidbits like Kenobi’s hair care routine, and secrets to how to stay fit at fifty. “You can’t not ask him about it,” she declared. “I mean, have you seen the man?”

Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed inwardly. Sure, he’d seen the man. Plenty of times.

When he was a teenager, Anakin had seen one of Kenobi’s lesser-known movies—Speeder—an underground racing story where he played the rival to the hero. That film had been everything to Anakin at fifteen: roaring engines, daring stunts, and a Kenobi in a leather jacket, exuding confidence and danger. He’d watched it at least ten times before he turned twenty. It had been the spark for his lifelong love of racing… and, if he were honest, the first time he’d started to notice how appealing a certain kind of man could be.

Anakin shifted uncomfortably in his chair and forced himself to focus. Aayla had moved on to some anecdote about Kenobi’s on-set pranks, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. She was still talking when he finally interrupted. “Got it. Thanks, Aayla. Feel better.”

He hung up before she could respond, closing his notebook with a snap. Kenobi was a once-in-a-generation actor, a man who turned every role into art. And this was what Aayla had planned to ask him? Gym routines and tabloid rumors?

No. If he was going to do this, he’d do it his way.

/

Anakin spent the thirty minutes he had before the car was to pick him up going through the wardrobe he kept at the office. It was stuffed with clothes, a testament to the fact that he apparently had no life outside of work. He sifted through the hangers, trying to find something presentable. It wasn’t every day he got to meet the one actor whose career he actually followed and whose craft he could truly appreciate, despite not being much of a movie fan.

But Kenobi was special.

Anakin still had an old Speeder poster rolled up in a tube somewhere at his apartment. It wasn’t hanging yet only because he hadn’t fully unpacked since moving in three months ago. That poster had been with him in every place he’d lived. No way was he going to stop putting it up just because he was over thirty now and, according to his best friend Padmé, should really go for more adult decor.

What did she know, anyway? Her apartment had no personality—just the kind of sleek, impersonal chic you could find at their sister portal DecorAdvisor, which Padmé and all her friends treated like the bible of home design. Anakin liked his place better, posters and car models included. At least it felt like his.

He focused back on the clothes and searched for anything that could make him seem even remotely attractive to someone like Ben Kenobi, whose sexual orientation—like everything else—was a total mystery. It left some room for hoping, not that it mattered; it wasn’t like any of Anakin’s teenage fantasies would ever come to fruition. But still, he wanted to look… good.

Eventually, he settled on a pair of dark blue jeans, a white tee emblazoned with his favorite Ayrton Senna quote—“Being second is to be the first of the ones who lose”—and his asymmetrical brown leather jacket. The jacket had become something of a signature look for him over the years, a trusted friend that never let him down. He ruffled his hair in front of the bathroom mirror, testing out a slightly disheveled look, then slipped on his aviator sunglasses.

Satisfied enough, he grabbed his old leather bag, whose front was covered with colorful pins from various racing events and headed out to meet the car.

The interview was scheduled to take place in some private garden where Kenobi was finishing up a photoshoot. On the way there, Anakin pulled out his phone and started Googling more about Kenobi’s latest movie. He hadn’t had a chance to see it yet—the American Grand Prix had taken up all his time, along with the rest of the F1 season he was covering. Still, from what he’d read online, the movie sounded interesting. The reviews suggested it told a deeper story than just the romantic tension Aayla had been so fixated on.

Curious, he pulled up the trailer on YouTube. The screen loaded, and there was Kenobi, larger than life. God, the man looked gorgeous. Aayla hadn’t been exaggerating about staying fit at fifty. Anakin could only hope he’d look half as good in sixteen years.

Somehow, Kenobi’s wrinkles only made him more striking, adding a rugged elegance to his features. The faint lines starting to appear on Anakin’s own face, meanwhile, just made him look weird. Definitely not more handsome, like Kenobi’s did. Unfair.

One surreptitious glance at the driver’s GPS told him he only had five minutes before they arrived.

His stomach twisted, a wave of nerves rushing in. Meeting F1 racers had never made him feel this way. But then, he didn’t have a crush on any of them for close to two decades.

/

The garden came into view through the car window, sprawling and green, enclosed by a tall iron fence covered with vines. The gate stood open, and a crew with photography equipment was wheeling items back to their truck. Anakin caught sight of collapsible light stands, oversized reflectors, and a softbox precariously balanced on a cart. They moved efficiently, weaving around each other as they loaded the truck with practiced ease.

The car rolled to a stop. Anakin stepped out, smoothing his leather jacket, and immediately noticed a handful of curious passersby lingering near the gate. They craned their necks to peer through the iron bars, but their interest faded quickly. Whatever excitement they were hoping for clearly wasn’t visible from the sidewalk, and they moved on.

Anakin took a breath, adjusted his sunglasses, and approached a young guy standing near the gate with a clipboard in hand. The guy couldn’t have been older than twenty, with a slightly frazzled look that screamed overworked and underpaid intern. He was scribbling furiously on the clipboard, barely glancing up as Anakin stopped in front of him.

“Hi,” Anakin began, clearing his throat. “I’m here for an interview with Ben Kenobi?”

The guy finally looked up, his expression flat. “And you are?”

“Anakin Skywalker.”

The intern flipped a few pages on the clipboard, scanning it quickly. “I don’t have you on the list.”

His tone was dismissive, and he’d already started to turn away when Anakin scrambled to respond. “You probably have Aayla Secura on the list. She’s sick—I’m her replacement today.”

The guy paused, looking him up and down with a skepticism that felt like it could scorch. Anakin flushed and instinctively patted his jacket pockets, then his jeans, hunting for a business card. He knew he’d tucked some in there—somewhere. “Hold on, I’ve got my company’s card—”

“Whatever,” the intern cut him off with a huff, clearly unimpressed. “I’m not being paid for that.”

He waved Anakin in without another glance, already returning to whatever he was jotting on the clipboard.

Anakin stared for a moment, debating whether to ask where he was supposed to go, but decided against it. The garden couldn’t be that big, right? And besides, he’d recognize Ben Kenobi at any angle.

Anakin followed a stone path winding through the garden, the soft burble of a small fountain nearby providing a strangely calming backdrop. He could see a group of people up ahead, standing near the edge of the clearing, talking animatedly. Among them, a man with distinctly ginger hair caught his eye.

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, and headed their way.

As he approached, a few people glanced at him. Whatever they saw in him was apparently interesting enough to shift the group’s attention. And then, Ben Kenobi turned.

The man looked exactly as Anakin had expected, and yet, somehow, even better. The tailored burgundy suit over a cream turtleneck and the ginger beard that framed his face made Anakin’s mouth water. But what really threw him was what happened next.

Kenobi looked him up and down.

Anakin froze mid-step, his mind short-circuiting. It was barely there, quick enough to not be noticed, but Anakin was pretty sure that he did. Or… no. No, that just had to his brain playing tricks on him. Wishful thinking. Desperation for that kind of look to actually happen.

He shook himself out of it and kept walking.

As he got closer, the group began to disperse, some grabbing equipment and others heading toward the gate. Within moments, Kenobi was standing in front of him, alone.

Anakin knew he was tall, but it still surprised him that he had to look down slightly to meet Kenobi’s striking blue-gray eyes.

“Hi, um, I’m here for the interview?” he said, his voice wobbling just enough to make him cringe internally. Smooth, Skywalker.

Kenobi didn’t mind. In fact, he raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh? Somehow, you don’t look like an Aayla.”

The crooked smile that followed sent a jolt straight through Anakin’s chest. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, she couldn’t make it. I’m covering for her.” And then, feeling a sudden rush of bravery, he extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Anakin Skywalker.”

For a moment, Kenobi looked surprised, his second eyebrow joining the first. Then he grinned and reached out, taking Anakin’s hand in a firm, confident shake. His warm fingers wrapped effortlessly around Anakin’s, his palm broad enough to crowd Anakin’s slighter one. Anakin couldn’t help but notice how neatly trimmed Kenobi’s nails were, a stark contrast to his own hurried grooming.

Kenobi didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he squeezed Anakin’s hand a touch tighter for a brief moment before letting go. The warmth lingered even after the contact was gone, and Anakin already found himself missing the feeling.

“Skywalker? From Burnout? Surely not!”

Anakin blinked, completely thrown. “Er, you know me, Mister Kenobi?”

“Oh, please, none of that mister stuff,” Kenobi said with a light chuckle. “Call me Ben. And yes, I know you. Vos is a good friend of mine, and I regularly read his motorcycle column. Your writing is so captivating, I often find myself reading yours too—despite not being much of a racing fan. Somehow, your stories always manage to spark my interest.”

Anakin stared, his brain struggling to process the words. Ben Kenobi knew his name. Liked his writing. Read his work.

It had to be a dream.

There was no way this was real. He must have dozed off in the car on the way over. That was the only explanation. Except Ben Kenobi was very real, standing right in front of him, gesturing toward a nearby bench and urging him to follow.

“Uh, you can call me Anakin, Ben. It’s only fair. So, you’re into motorcycles? You ride one?”

“Me? Oh, no.” Ben chuckled softly. “I’m into motorcycles in a purely theoretical way. In practice, I’m not much for speeding or dangerous driving. I actually ride a Vespa. The closest I could get to riding a two-wheeler without giving myself a heart attack.”

“A Vespa?” Anakin repeated, taking a long look at Ben and trying to imagine him perched on a cream-colored vintage scooter, complete with a Nazioni helmet. The image was both absurd and… strangely charming.

Ben nodded and sat down on the bench, patting the spot next to him. Anakin followed, plopping down and half-turning toward him. “So, all those sportbike scenes in Desperate Times...?” He pushed his aviators up, pinning his hair back.

“A stunt double,” Ben admitted with a slight shrug, also turning toward Anakin and resting his elbow on the back of the bench. His hand came up to scratch the side of his beard.

Anakin’s eyes were immediately drawn to it—the way the ginger hair grew toward his thumb, the faint freckles dusting his skin, and the lines marking his knuckles. His hands were distractingly attractive, their paleness contrasting with the vibrant color of his facial hair, which was tinged with white near his sideburns.

Anakin forced himself to look away, pulling his notebook from his bag. He took a steadying breath, clicked his pen, and turned back to meet Ben’s eyes, which were observing him with an intensity, he wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“You must think I’m a boring old man, with my Vespa, compared to the people you normally interview,” Ben said, his tone light but with a hint of doubt underneath.

“No!” Anakin protested, a little too vehemently. He cringed and tried again. “I—I think it’s very picturesque. It adds character. If you don’t mind me writing about it.”

Ben’s lips twitched into another crooked smile. “No, no. I think it would be unbecoming of Anakin Skywalker to write a piece and not mention vehicles, don’t you?”

“Sure, but…” Anakin hesitated, then added cautiously, “Your vehicle of choice is pretty personal. I’m not sure how much of that you want me to include. I know you’re a private person.”

“Now, that’s a level of consideration I’ve learned not to expect from journalists,” Ben said, his expression softening as he studied Anakin. He pursed his lips slightly, the intensity of his gaze leaving Anakin flustered. “Is it bad of me to feel thankful that they sent you instead of the Starline rep?”

“Well, she is pretty sick, so…” Anakin said with exaggerated seriousness, but he couldn’t hold it for more than a second before bursting into laughter.

Ben’s shocked expression quickly melted into a smile, visible relief on his face.

“So, if you don’t like Starline, why did you agree to the interview in the first place?” Anakin asked, settling back slightly.

Ben made a thoughtful sound, scratching his mustache with four fingers before spreading two of them to smooth it down. Anakin’s eyes followed the movement unwittingly.

“My manager insists on one every now and then. Thankfully, not too often. I mentioned Vos earlier—he swore Starline would respect my boundaries. Apparently, he knows Aayla personally and swore by her.”

Anakin snorted before he could stop himself. If Ben only knew what Aayla had planned to ask. Ben’s eyebrows furrowed in silent question, and Anakin shook his head.

“Sorry, that was unprofessional of me. Let’s just say you wouldn’t have been asked many movie-related questions had she made it today.”

“I see,” Ben said slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Well, all the more reason to be thankful for the turn of events.”

He was… looking at Anakin’s lips as he said it.

Anakin froze, certain he wasn’t imagining it this time. Unless there was something on his face—leftover ketchup from that hot dog he’d grabbed for lunch? Quickly, he ran his hand across his mouth and chin, but it came back clean. He licked his lips out of habit, and there it was again. Oh God.

When Ben dragged his gaze back to meet Anakin’s, the intensity left his cheeks flaming. Was this really happening to him?

“So,” Anakin said, clearing his throat and trying to reassert some professionalism, “let’s talk about your last movie. How did it feel to revisit a previous role after twenty years? Did you have any trouble getting back into that character?”

Ben’s expression shifted, thoughtful and soft. “In a way, it was challenging. Despite being the same character, his life had shaped him into someone very different. His job as a spy had taken so much from him that what was left was this blasé husk of a man in an unhappy farce of a marriage. And you know, it’s Hollywood, so of course it was his love interest from the previous movie that brought him out of hiding. But in the end, it’s not really a movie about them. It’s about him rediscovering his will to live.”

His hand wandered again, twirling the edge of his mustache. “So, no, it wasn’t like putting on the character’s shoes and picking up where I left off. I had to understand what he went through first.”

Anakin was entranced. Both by the way Ben spoke—softly, almost reverently—and by how he just couldn’t seem to stop touching his face. Did he even know he was doing it?

“I see,” Anakin said, jotting down notes with a shaky hand. “And what’s your process? How do you go about understanding the character?”

“For this one, I worked with a psychotherapist,” Ben explained. “She had to sign an NDA, of course, but the idea was that I pretended to be this husk of a man. Someone in a bad marriage, suddenly faced with the past knocking on his door. She helped me make sense of it all, just as the character did in the story. It’s a method I’ve always liked.”

Ben chuckled, smoothing his beard down. “I once pretended to die, just to see if I could play a dead person convincingly. My friends were furious with me for weeks.”

“You didn’t!” Anakin exclaimed in shock.

“I did,” Ben said with a grin. “They really couldn’t let it go.”

“Well, I don’t blame them! I’d be furious too if my friend did something like that to me.”

Ben laughed again, tugging absently at his whiskers. “Yes, yes, I know. I’d never do that again. I’ve learned my lesson. Now I only pretend in front of professionals who are paid for it.”

He winked, and Anakin’s heart nearly skipped a beat.

“This, uh…” Anakin faltered, his brain short-circuiting for a moment. Was Ben flirting with him? It felt like he was. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. “This method acting technique seems intense. Did you ever find yourself too immersed in a character?”

Ben hummed softly, tilting his head as if Anakin’s question were giving him real food for thought.

Maybe interviewing movie stars wasn’t so different from interviewing racers after all. Ben seemed genuinely engaged, not rushing to end the conversation or brushing him off with rehearsed soundbites. But then again… maybe that wasn’t because of the question. Maybe it was because…

No. Anakin shut the thought down. He wasn’t about to start imagining things.

He glanced back at Ben, expecting a reply, only to find him absentmindedly running his hand under his chin, his knuckles grazing the bottom of his beard. It was such an unassuming gesture, yet it left Anakin mesmerized. His mind betrayed him completely, picturing how that beard would feel against his own hands—or worse, against his face.

He was in the middle of imagining himself kissing Ben senseless when the actor’s voice broke the spell.

“I wouldn’t say too immersed, no,” Ben said slowly. His hand lowered from his beard, resting on the back of the bench as he turned to face Anakin more fully. “I try to always stay in balance. I’m not into hardcore method acting like some of my colleagues.”

He smiled, the expression warm and just crooked enough to leave Anakin’s chest tight.

“I think, at the end of the day, acting is a job, and it wouldn’t do to lose yourself for a job, would it? While I take it seriously and stay true to form, I wouldn’t want to fall to the exaggeration side of things.”

“I think that sounds like a healthy approach. So—”

But Ben interrupted him before he could move on to his next question.

“Hey, uh, would you like to grab something to drink?” Ben asked, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve spent most of the day here, posing in bushes and whatnot, only drinking water, I’d love something with more taste. We could continue our interview there?”

He tilted his head to the side, his blue-grey eyes warm and inviting. Anakin’s brain stalled. He would agree to anything Ben asked him at this point. Not only was the man riveting to talk to, but Anakin was pretty sure there was some kind of potential here. Anakin didn’t know exactly what Ben was after, but even five more minutes of talking with him would be enough to fuel his fantasies forever.

“Sure, do you have any specific place in mind?” Anakin asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray how unsteady he felt.

“Yes,” Ben said, his lips curving into a small smile. “There’s a place that understands the needs of some, let’s say, more recognizable clients. I’d like to take you there.”

I’d like to take you there. Take you there. Take you.

The words lodged themselves in Anakin’s mind, looping endlessly. Why did it suddenly sound like a date and not an interview over drinks? Was it? Was it?

He ran a hand through his hair, fighting to sound composed as he uttered, “Ok,” with what he hoped was a casual grin. Nothing about this was casual. This was Ben Kenobi. His teenage wet dream and—let’s be honest—his adult wet dream, taking him for drinks.

“Great.”

Ben stood, his movements graceful, and extended a hand to Anakin to help him up. Without thinking, Anakin took it, marveling again at how Ben’s hand dwarfed his own. Warm, steady, with a grip that lingered just a touch longer than necessary. What he wouldn’t give to feel those hands on him. Touching him, stroking him, filling him.

Stop it, he scolded himself silently, fighting to keep his thoughts from spiraling further. This was not the time to get a boner.

“I’ll get us a taxi,” Ben said, not letting go of Anakin’s hand right away, instead he let his gaze linger as if searching for something in Anakin’s face.

They were standing so close that Anakin could see the specks of green in Ben’s eyes and the freckles dusting his nose. Together they amounted to the most striking face he’d ever seen.

Ben pulled out his phone and called for a cab while they walked slowly toward the garden entrance. Still wearing his burgundy suit, he looked like he’d just stepped out of an editorial spread. Anakin glanced down at himself. It wasn’t that he looked bad, but his quote T-shirt suddenly made him feel a bit out of place.

If Ben noticed, he didn’t let on. Instead, he finished his call and turned his attention back to Anakin, chatting easily about the garden’s history and the various plants growing inside it.

“How do you know so much about it?” Anakin asked, genuinely curious.

“The garden? It’s mine.”

Anakin blinked, stopping in his tracks. “What?”

“I own this whole building,” Ben said, gesturing toward the elegant historical façade they’d been walking alongside. “The garden came with it. I wouldn’t have it otherwise. I come here to meditate.”

“You meditate?” Anakin asked, the surprise evident in his voice.

“Of course. It helps me achieve that balance I talked about earlier.”

“But why would you have a photoshoot in your private space?”

“I didn’t feel like doing it in public.” Ben’s tone remained casual, but there was an edge of distaste. “I dislike gawkers. Besides, the whole crew is contractually obliged to keep the shoot’s location secret. Not to mention most of them didn’t know the significance of the place.”

Anakin nodded slowly, fully understanding Ben’s preference for privacy. “I see. Well, I feel honored to have seen it, then.”

Ben gave a small smile in response, and they stood quietly by the entrance, waiting for the taxi.

Next to the gate, a cluster of ornamental grass swayed gently in the breeze. Ben reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against the delicate, feather-like plumes. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he was handling something precious. Then he seemed to notice something on the ground and bent down to pick it up—a single plume, fallen loose.

He held it between his thumb and forefinger, as one might a cigarette, and twirled it idly. The movement was unhurried, precise, and Anakin was beginning to think Ben had some kind of fixation with touching things. Anakin, on the other hand, was developing a fixation of his own—with how Ben touched them.

The way his fingers stroked the delicate edges of the plume made Anakin’s throat go dry. It was mesmerizing. He was dangerously close to saying something incredibly stupid—or stupidly incriminating—when Ben suddenly dropped the plume and nodded behind Anakin.

“The taxi’s here. Let’s go.”

Ben moved ahead to close the gate, punching in a code to lock it, before leading Anakin toward the car. He opened the door for him, and as Anakin scrambled inside, Ben’s hand came to rest lightly on his lower back, steadying him.

He touched him.

Anakin wasn’t imagining it. Either Ben was really handsy and unconcerned with how it might come across, or he was coming on to him. If it was the latter, then Anakin needed to start signaling his own very vested interest before Ben got the wrong idea and thought this was one-sided.

When Ben joined him inside and rattled off the address to the driver, Anakin shifted in his seat, spreading his legs just enough for their knees to touch. The contact was subtle but unmistakable. Then he turned his face toward Ben, who was already watching him, and met his gaze with a sly smile.

Ben’s eyes dropped to his lips again, just as they had before. This time, Anakin licked them deliberately.

The effect was immediate. He saw the way Ben’s breath caught, the way his posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. It was exhilarating.

Oh, how excited he was to see how the night would unfold.

/

The taxi pulled up to an unremarkable building, its facade plain and nondescript. There wasn’t even a sign to indicate what the place was called. Anakin glanced around, trying to get a feel for the area, but the building seemed to fade into the background of the street, inconspicuous by design.

Ben stepped out first, walking confidently toward the entrance. Anakin followed, watching as Ben punched a code into what looked like the keypad of a regular residential building. The lock clicked open, and a black hallway was revealed, lit only by strips of pink LED lighting running along the top and bottom edges of the walls.

The soft glow gave the space an otherworldly quality, and Anakin found himself wondering just what kind of place Ben was taking him to. The whole setup screamed exclusivity—the kind of place only insiders would know about.

Ben led him to a heavy door at the end of the hallway, where a bouncer stood. The man gave Ben a polite nod but didn’t so much as glance at Anakin, his focus firmly elsewhere. It wasn’t hard to figure out why—this place clearly prioritized privacy above all else. Still, it made Anakin wonder.

Did the bouncer think he was some kind of boy toy Ben had brought along? And if so, did Ben bring people here often? The thought tightened something in his chest, but he shoved it aside quickly. There was no way of knowing, and Anakin wasn’t about to start asking Ben personal questions, lest he changed his mind about him.

When they stepped inside, Anakin couldn’t help but take a moment to gawk.

The bar was sleek and elegant, far more refined than anything he’d ever set foot in before. It wasn’t ostentatious, but the understated luxury in every detail was clear—subtle pink accents over black backdrops, plush seating, and low lighting that made the space feel both intimate and exclusive. It looked like the kind of place where you’d need to spend a small fortune just to order a glass of water.

Ben, however, fit in effortlessly. His burgundy suit seemed made for the ambiance, and he moved through the space with the easy assurance of someone who belonged here. Anakin followed as Ben led him toward the bar, but he couldn’t resist glancing around.

In one booth, a pair of well-known rappers sat, having a heated discussion, their jewelry screaming affluence. Another booth housed a man who looked like an investment banker—or perhaps an heir to some international conglomerate—surrounded by several scantily clad women, all of whom seemed utterly absorbed in him.

What a curious place, Anakin thought. He wondered if any of the F1 racers he interviewed knew about it. He wouldn’t put it past them to frequent somewhere like this.

They reached the bar, and Anakin’s attention snapped back as Ben turned to him.

“What’s your poison?” Ben asked, his hand resting casually on the counter.

Anakin finally looked at the wall behind the bar, which was stocked with what seemed like every type of alcohol known to man. The sheer variety was overwhelming, but he already knew what he wanted.

“I’ll have a Pornstar Martini,” Anakin said with conviction. He’d long since grown out of being embarrassed by his cocktail choices. He’d spent too many university years forcing down bitter beers to fit in with his peers to ever let himself feel ashamed of his tastes again.

He glanced at Ben, waiting for some sort of reaction, but Ben only grinned, the expression softening his features in a way that made Anakin’s heart skip.

“Make that two,” Ben said to the bartender, his grin never wavering.

Anakin was pretty certain he was falling for the man.

Once the drinks were ordered, Ben lightly touched Anakin’s elbow, the brief contact enough to make Anakin feel weak in the knees, and motioned for him to follow.

“They’ll bring the drinks to the table,” Ben said, his voice low. He led the way toward a private booth near the back of the room.

The booth was tucked away, its black velvet seating nearly hidden by the curve of the wall. It was so secluded that only someone intentionally heading there would be able to see into it. As they slid inside, Anakin felt a thrill shoot through him at the realization—once their drinks arrived, they would be truly alone.

“This place is… something,” Anakin said, settling onto the plush cushion. The velvet was cool against his palms as he leaned back, trying to project an air of calm he didn’t remotely feel.

Ben smoothly slid in after him, effectively blocking Anakin in. “It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets,” Ben said as he settled into his seat. “Let’s just say it’s worth the price. Nothing that happens here ever gets out.” He turned toward Anakin, his movements unhurried as he got comfortable, one arm propped on the table, his head leaning lightly against his hand.

Anakin pressed himself into the backrest of the booth, actively fighting the instinct to close the scant inches between them. “Nothing?” he asked, his tone daring but his heart pounding. “So, if, say, a movie star and a racing journalist were to—”

He trailed off, the words slipping away as his brain caught up with his mouth. What was he even trying to say? It wasn’t like they were going to have sex in a bar.

Ben tilted his head, his smile slow and teasing. “Get to know each other better?” he supplied smoothly.

The faint clink of glasses on the table barely registered as a waiter discreetly set their drinks down and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

Anakin couldn’t focus on anything but Ben—on the way his hand moved again, rising slowly and purposefully. His eyes followed the motion, taking in the curve of Ben’s fingers, the way the pink LED lighting caught on the faint hair dusting the back of his hand, and the ridges of his knuckles.

Ben reached forward, tucking a stray lock of Anakin’s hair behind his ear. His fingers brushed lightly against Anakin’s cheek, the touch so brief yet impossibly intimate.

Anakin shivered. The gentle pressure, the roughness of Ben’s fingertips against his skin—it was sublime. It felt as though Ben had ignited every nerve in his body with a single motion. Like an F1 engine pumped with high-octane fuel, roaring to life with an unstoppable surge, heat flooded through him, pooling low as he became achingly aware of the tightness in his jeans.

Fuck.

“So…” Ben said languidly, his tone laced with a subtle edge of seduction. “How did you get into racing, Anakin?”

The question caught Anakin off guard, reminding him that they were supposed to be having an interview—and he was supposed to be the one asking the questions. Mace was going to have his head for this. But how could he stop whatever was happening here and go back to being professional when Ben was looking at him like that?

“I, uh—” He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a funny story, actually. I was fifteen and saw… Speeder,” he said, pausing as he noticed Ben’s eyebrows shoot up, nearly meeting his hairline.

“Really? You’ve seen it?” Ben asked, his surprise evident. “The movie was such a flop.”

“A flop? Are you kidding me?” Anakin said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’ve seen it at least twenty times by now. I still have the original poster…” He trailed off, realizing he was rambling and starting to sound dangerously like a fanboy. Oh God. Could he please stop talking?

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, forcing himself to collect his thoughts. “Look,” he said, trying to sound composed. “All I’m saying is that it came out at the wrong time—right when the world was swooning over 2 Fast 2 Furious. It wasn’t smart of the studio to release it so soon after. People couldn’t not compare the two, and they focused on all the wrong aspects to compare. I’m not saying 2 Fast 2 Furious was bad, but…”

He paused, meeting Ben’s gaze with more sincerity than he intended. “There’s a reason Speeder is my favorite movie to this day.”

And it’s not only because you’re in it, he added silently, his heart racing as he waited for Ben’s reaction.

"You truly are fascinating," Ben said, his voice soft and laden with quiet wonder as he looked at Anakin like he was a puzzle waiting to be solved. His gaze lingered for a moment before he lifted his hand, reaching out as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "How did you get the scar, if you don't mind me asking?"

Before Anakin could respond, Ben’s finger traced the line marring his face. Starting above his right eyebrow, it moved slowly, almost reverently, down the ridge close to his eye and ended at his cheekbone. The intimate touch made Anakin’s eyelids flutter closed for a brief second as he struggled to steady his breathing.

"I was covering the Coke Zero 400 at Daytona in 2015..." he began, forcing himself to focus despite the warm echo of Ben's touch. "A small part of Dillon's car flew into my face due to insufficient fencing. I was lucky it missed my eye."

The memory still made him shudder. Witnessing crashes like that was one of the worst parts of being a racing journalist—they were inevitable in his world. It was the reason he’d never gotten into racing himself. His right forearm, with its scars from a crash when he was just starting to drive, was a daily reminder. He’d thought he could race back then, speeding down a potato field in his mom’s early 2000s Honda Civic. But the car had flipped and caught fire, leaving his arm badly burned and him barely alive.

He hadn’t wanted to be behind the wheel of a race car since. He’d leave the driving to others, content to immortalize their feats through his writing.

"That’s horrible," Ben said softly, his voice sincere. "I’m sorry you had to go through that."

Anakin gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, unsure how to respond. But before he could say anything, Ben spoke again, his tone quieter, more reflective. "My parents died in a car crash when I was a child."

The words hung between them, heavy and unanticipated. Anakin’s eyes widened, his breath catching.

"I didn’t know.”

"I don’t really share these things with people," Ben admitted, his gaze dropping briefly to the table. His forefinger idly traced the rim of his glass, Anakin’s eyes avidly following its path.

"And yet you’re sharing it with a journalist now."

Ben’s eyes flicked back to him, sharp and assessing, but a slow smile tugged at his lips. "Are we still having the interview, then?"

Anakin leaned back, one arm draping over the back of the booth. His lips quirked into a half-smile, his confidence growing. "No. I don’t think so," he said, his voice low, almost daring. "You don’t have to worry. I won’t write about it. I’m not into celebrity gossip anyway."

Ben raised an eyebrow, his smile deepening, his gaze lingering. "That’s what I thought.”

Anakin tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Ben. "So," he said, his tone taking on a more flirtatious edge, "if we’re not having the interview, what are we having?"

Ben didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the shot of prosecco, lifting it between two fingers, before pouring it into his drink glass. The bubbles rose in a glimmering rush, catching the light and fracturing it into tiny bursts of color.

"A conversation," Ben said finally, his voice languid, with just the faintest undercurrent of suggestion.

Anakin mirrored him, picking up his own glass and pouring the prosecco in over the dried slice of passionfruit, his eyes never leaving Ben’s.

Ben raised his glass, and Anakin followed suit, their movements synchronized as though choreographed. The crystal-clear clink of their glasses meeting seemed louder than it should have been in the bustling bar.

"To new acquaintances," Ben said, his gaze intent and unwavering.

Anakin smirked, tilting his glass slightly in acknowledgment. "To new acquaintances," he echoed, his tone just as low, just as charged.

Their glasses lingered together for a beat too long before they each took a sip, the tension between them thick enough to drown in. Ben’s eyes remained fixed on Anakin’s over the rim of his glass, and Anakin met the gaze head-on, his heart pounding in time with the soft hum of the bar’s music.

They lowered their drinks simultaneously, as if some unspoken cue passed between them. The faint clink as they touched the table barely registered over the charged silence. Their eyes remained locked, the air between them thrumming with anticipation. Then, without hesitation, their lips met in a collision of heat and hunger, as if they had both been waiting for this moment since the second they laid eyes on each other.

Anakin’s breath caught the moment they connected. The taste of passionfruit and vanilla lingered on Ben’s lips, sweet and heady, intoxicating him more than the alcohol ever could. The faint, tantalizing scratch of Ben’s beard against his skin sent a shiver down his spine, making his entire body ache with want.

Ben’s hand came down firmly on Anakin’s thigh, his grip sending a jolt through him, grounding him in the moment while stoking the fire already burning in his chest. The kiss deepened, all tension and need, every ounce of restraint falling away. This was everything Anakin had ever dreamed of, but more visceral, more electrifying, more real.

Then Ben’s other hand slid into Anakin’s hair, his fingers threading through the dark blond strands. The touch made Anakin’s aviators, still perched atop his head, slip free and fall onto the floor with a clatter, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care, not when those fingers massaged his scalp and tugged him closer, pulling him so completely into Ben’s orbit that the rest of the world might as well have disappeared.

Anakin’s hands found Ben’s suit jacket, gripping the lapels tightly. The rich fabric bunched under his fingers as he poured everything into the kiss, the pent-up tension finding its release in the press of their mouths, the way their bodies angled closer.

Ben’s lips were demanding yet soft, his every movement confident and sure. His beard scratched deliciously at Anakin’s jaw as they moved together, the heat between them growing unbearable. Anakin’s heart pounded in his chest, a wild rhythm that matched the dizzying pace of their kiss.

He felt Ben’s grip on his thigh tighten, a silent insistence that sent a thrill rushing through him. Anakin gasped against Ben’s mouth, his chest heaving as they broke apart just enough to breathe, their foreheads brushing together in the intimacy of the moment. But Ben wasn’t done—not even close. He tilted his head, his lips trailing down Anakin’s jawline, lingering at his pulse point before continuing lower, leaving a slow line of heated kisses along his neck.

Anakin’s restraint snapped. He reached down, grabbing Ben’s hand from his thigh and bringing it to his mouth. He kissed the inside of Ben’s wrist first, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin where his pulse thrummed steadily. Then, without hesitation, he moved up to the fleshy part of Ben’s palm, letting his lips trace over the major lines etched there. His mouth continued its path, placing reverent kisses along the curve toward Ben’s little finger before he turned the hand over, pressing his lips to each knuckle in turn.

Finally, Anakin’s tongue darted out, teasing against Ben’s index and middle fingers before he took them into his mouth. He sucked them in slowly, his lips wrapping tight as his tongue swirled around their tips. Ben made a quiet, surprised noise at first, but the sound quickly turned into a low hum of approval.

Understanding exactly what Anakin wanted, Ben started moving his fingers, pushing them down on Anakin’s tongue and dragging them back out in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The languid motion was sensual, each pass imitating the measured cadence of something far more intimate.

All the while, Ben’s lips remained on Anakin’s skin, trailing down to the spot where his neck met his shoulder. His teeth grazed lightly before he latched on, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark that would bloom into a hickey. The slight sting of it, paired with the heat of Ben’s mouth, sent a jolt of pleasure through Anakin, making him moan around Ben’s fingers.

Anakin was in heaven. Every touch, every motion, every breath Ben took against him seemed calculated to unravel him completely, and it was working. He felt like he was burning alive, every nerve ending sparking with the sensation of being consumed by Ben in every possible way.

Ben’s fingers were coated with saliva, sliding in and out of Anakin’s mouth with leisurely wetness. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Anakin’s ear, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Open your fly.”

The words made Anakin’s breath hitch, his heart pounding. His hesitation must have been evident because Ben nuzzled closer, his hot breath ghosting over Anakin’s ear. “No one will disturb us,” Ben assured him, his voice molten, as his thick, spit-slick fingers pressed in deep. Reason slipped from Anakin’s grasp entirely.

His hands fumbled to obey, scrambling to undo his pants. His fly opened with a quick tug, and the strain against his underwear was undeniable. He hesitated again, but Ben’s firm encouragement followed. “Push it down.”

Anakin swallowed around Ben’s fingers, nodding faintly as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down. The cool air kissed his exposed skin, and his erection bobbed free. Ben pulled back slightly, his eyes dropping, dark and intent. When his gaze landed on Anakin’s length, his lips parted unconsciously, nostrils flaring, an undeniable hunger sharpening his features.

“Gorgeous,” Ben said, the word like a caress. His fingers slid from Anakin’s mouth with a wet pop, a thin line of saliva trailing between them for a fleeting moment before Ben reached down. His warm, slick hand wrapped around Anakin’s dick with a firm grip, movements measured perfectly as he started to stroke with the most excruciating slowness.

Anakin let his head fall back against the cushioned booth, a silent gasp caught on his lips. Ben Kenobi is giving me a handjob in a bar, he thought, his mind reeling.

Ben’s other hand, still cradling the back of Anakin’s head, tugged him forward. Their lips met again, Ben’s tongue teasing its way into Anakin’s mouth, drawing him into a kiss that was intoxicatingly demanding. Anakin responded instinctively, his hands gripping Ben’s jacket as their mouths moved in a perfect, practiced rhythm.

Ben filled all his senses. The taste of the drink lingered on his tongue. The soft, breathy gasps Ben made against his lips sent shivers through Anakin’s spine. The musky scent of Ben’s cologne wrapped around him like a luxurious cocoon. And the sight—oh, the sight—of Ben was enough to undo him completely. His mouth was glistening, his eyes heavy-lidded, his hair and beard deliciously tousled from Anakin’s touch. I did this to him, Anakin thought, his heart swelling. This is all me.

“Ben, I—faster,” Anakin sighed, his voice a trembling plea. He caught Ben’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently, and Ben groaned into his mouth before obliging. His strokes quickened, his wrist twisting at just the right moments, his palm sliding over the head of Anakin’s dick with devastating precision and a perfect amount of pressure.

Anakin’s hips bucked helplessly into Ben’s hand. “Ben,” he choked out, his voice ragged, a moan breaking free when Ben flicked his wrist just so. “I’m so close.”

Ben’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging sharply and pulling Anakin’s face away from his own. Anakin whined in protest, but Ben’s next words erased all sense of frustration.

“I want to see your face when you come.” Ben’s voice was low, his eyes blazing as they roved over Anakin’s flushed features.

The faster pace of Ben’s hand was relentless, pushing Anakin right over the edge. With a guttural groan, Anakin’s body tensed, his hips jolting upward as he came in thick, hot spurts, spilling into Ben’s waiting hand. His head lolled forward briefly before he looked down, his breath catching at the sight of Ben’s fingers coated in his release.

His mouth went dry as he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, his unspoken desire clear in his heavy-lidded gaze. Ben smirked, lifting his hand, offering it to Anakin without a word.

Anakin leaned in eagerly, his tongue darting out to lap at Ben’s palm. He licked along the lines of Ben’s hand, tracing the ridges with fervor before moving to the spaces between his fingers. His lips wrapped around each finger in turn, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on Ben’s the entire time.

Ben watched him intently, his expression dark and heated, his breath shallow as Anakin worshipped his hand. After a moment, Ben’s lips parted, and his voice came low, almost hesitant.

“Will it be too forward of me to suggest we go back to my place?”

Anakin froze, his brain immediately conjuring the fantasy that had consumed him earlier—Ben’s fingers filling him, wiggling inside, spreading him open, preparing him. Heat surged through him again, and he had to take a deep breath, steadying himself before letting Ben’s fingers slide from his mouth with one last lingering suck.

“Maybe it is too forward,” he said, his voice steady despite the wild pounding of his heart. “But I’m not going to say no.”

Ben sucked in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating as his gaze flicked down to Anakin’s lips and back up to his eyes. He straightened, reaching for his abandoned drink and downing it in two big gulps.

“Wait here while I tell the bar to call us a cab,” Ben said, his voice a touch rougher than before. He slid out of the booth with less poise than earlier and disappeared into the dimly lit space.

Anakin watched him go, then glanced at his own drink. Following Ben’s example, he lifted it and took a sip, but he couldn’t bring himself to gulp it down. This Pornstar Martini was one of the best he’d ever had, the balance of sweetness and tartness perfect, it was meant to be savored. He enjoyed it with deserved reverence, especially since he doubted he’d ever get the chance to visit this place again.

As he shifted in his seat, his foot nudged something, and he remembered his fallen sunglasses. He ducked under the table and fumbled in the dim light, his fingers brushing against the familiar frame. Sitting back up with his prize, he slipped the aviators back onto his head just as Ben returned, looking more composed, but his eyes still betrayed the wildness that overcame them.

“Come on,” Ben said, and Anakin slid out of the booth to follow.

As they wove their way through the bar, Anakin couldn’t shake the sensation that every pair of eyes in the place was on them. He was probably projecting—there was no way anyone could tell—but still, did they know he’d just come? Was it written in the flush of his face, the moisture in his eyes, the mess of his hair? Even if, were they jealous?

He couldn’t blame them if they were. After all, he was walking out with the hottest man to ever grace this place, his heart racing at the thought of what was still to come.

/

The ride back to Ben’s place passed in a blur. They kept a careful distance in the backseat, their posture straight, hands clasped politely in their laps, as though the taxi driver might see through the charged silence between them and kick off a rumor mill. Neither spoke much, but the tension in the air was palpable, simmering just below the surface.

When the taxi pulled up, Anakin followed Ben out and toward the building, passing by the garden gate without so much as a glance. He didn’t care to take in the details this time, his focus locked on Ben’s face. The lines at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the patch of white streaking through his beard—it was all surreal. This man, this impossibly handsome, distinguished man, was bringing him home to fuck. The thought alone was enough to make heat pool low in Anakin’s belly, anticipation already making him half-hard again as they walked.

The darkened hallways echoed faintly with the click of their boots on marble floors. Ben shrugged off his suit jacket as they ascended the stairs, the motion unhurried but dripping with purpose. Anakin followed suit, letting his leather jacket fall to his arm, though he hardly remembered when he lost it completely. Neither seemed inclined to wait long to shed more layers.

By the time they reached Ben’s bedroom, Anakin had kicked off his boots somewhere along the way, not bothering to notice where they landed. He asked for a quick shower and cleaned himself as thoroughly as he could in the shortest amount of time.

When he re-entered the bedroom, Ben was standing barefoot, his burgundy suit pants still clinging to his hips. The soft light of the bedside lamps caught on the pale expanse of his back, his skin freckled like a constellation Anakin was desperate to map with his tongue.

Then the soft strains of jazz filled the air, a low, sultry melody that made Anakin’s stomach tighten. The music seemed at odds with the raw desire crackling between them—unexpectedly intimate, almost tender.

When Ben turned, his eyes roamed over Anakin’s chest with open appreciation, lingering just long enough to make the air between them crackle with tension. He let his eyes glance briefly at Anakin’s mangled arm, but nothing changed in his face, his desire still clear. Anakin couldn’t stop his own gaze from wandering in return, drinking in the sight of Ben’s front. The thick hair covering his chest spread naturally, drawing attention to the soft curve of his belly and the slight roundness around his nipples.

It made him all the more irresistible, every detail fueling Anakin’s need. He wanted to bury his face in Ben’s chest, grip the flesh above his hips, bite into the plush skin around his nipples, and beg for his fingers to fill him. The arousal coursing through him was almost unbearable, yet he found himself frozen for a moment, caught in the gravitational pull of Ben’s gaze. It burned with the same hunger that was written all over Anakin’s face.

“Come here,” Ben said softly, his voice low and edged with something that made Anakin’s knees nearly buckle.

Anakin’s strides were so long that the towel around his hips didn’t stand a chance, slipping to the floor in his wake. Ben wasted no time, his hands gripping Anakin’s bare hips with a possessive urgency that made him gasp. Before he could process the movement, Ben leaned up, capturing his mouth in a kiss so sudden and commanding it stole every coherent thought from Anakin’s mind.

The smooth fabric of Ben’s pants pressed tantalizingly against Anakin’s erection, and he could feel Ben’s hard length, firm and insistent through the cloth. The friction sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through him, and his hands instinctively found their way to Ben’s hips, tugging him closer, guiding them into a slow, deliberate grind.

“What do you want?” Ben rasped, breaking the kiss just enough for his words to graze Anakin’s swollen lips like a spark.

“You,” Anakin answered without hesitation, his voice breathy. He covered Ben’s hands with his own, pressing them harder against his skin. “Your fingers. On me, in me.” His voice dropped, raw with need as he squeezed Ben’s hands tighter, hoping they would leave an impression, a physical mark of Ben’s claim. “Please.”

Ben’s response was immediate, his eyes darkening as he moved with a dancer’s precision. With the smallest guiding pressure, he turned Anakin effortlessly, like a practiced partner leading a familiar routine. Before Anakin could take another breath, Ben had him sprawled across the bed, his movements fluid and charged with intent.

Ben followed immediately, pressing against Anakin from behind, his clothed erection dragging along the curve of Anakin’s ass. The sensation sent a shiver down Anakin’s spine, and he arched into the contact.

“You, my dear, are exquisite,” Ben murmured into Anakin’s ear, his voice rough and full of rapture. His hand gripped Anakin’s shoulder firmly while his other reached over Anakin’s head. The telltale sound of the nightstand drawer sliding open filled the air, and Anakin caught a glimpse of the bottle Ben retrieved before it was dropped beside him.

Ben shifted again, positioning himself on his right side. His arm stayed anchored on Anakin’s shoulder while his left leg draped possessively over Anakin’s thigh, holding him steady. His free hand slid over Anakin’s ass, squeezing the flesh with an intensity that made Anakin groan into the bedcovers.

“Is this what you want?” Ben asked, his voice low, teasing, his fingers flexing slightly.

“Yeah…” Anakin sighed, his voice thick with anticipation.

Ben’s grip tightened briefly before he spoke again, his voice a quiet rumble. “Can I spank you?”

“Yes,” Anakin breathed, urgency lacing his tone.

The first slap echoed sharply, and the sting was immediate, sharp and electric. Anakin hissed, his hips jerking forward to grind his cock into the mattress. He barely had time to catch his breath before the second slap landed, the pain blurring into something hot and addictive.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice catching as the third slap struck. His breathing turned ragged, and his entire body tensed, the sharp heat grounding him even as it pushed him closer to the edge.

Ben’s hand smoothed over the reddened skin, soothing the sting with soft, circular strokes. The contrast made Anakin’s entire body ache, his muscles quivering with the need for more. He could have come like this, from the interplay of pain and pleasure, but he wanted—no, needed—more.

The sound of the lube bottle’s cap flipping open pulled his thoughts into sharper focus. Ben worked one-handed, squeezing the cool liquid directly over Anakin’s crack. The sudden chill made Anakin shiver, and he pressed his forehead into the mattress, a low moan slipping from his lips as the lube trickled down between his thighs and over his balls.

Ben’s movements were precise and confident as two of his fingers slid between Anakin’s cheeks. They pressed down firmly over his rim and dragged toward his perineum before gliding back up in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. He repeated the motion a few times, the pressure teasing yet firm, before focusing entirely on Anakin’s entrance. His fingers began to trace slow circles around his rim, flirting with the threshold but never quite breaching it.

The patience Ben exuded was maddening. His touch was calculated and unyielding, his control unshakable, and it was driving Anakin to the brink. The sensations were intoxicating, but not enough. He craved more, his body tense with the ache of unmet desire.

“Ben, please, just—”

The plea seemed to be all Ben needed to hear. His teasing stopped, replaced by a purposeful press against Anakin’s entrance. Slowly, one thick finger slipped inside, filling him at last.

Anakin inhaled sharply, his lips parting as his body stretched to accommodate the intrusion. God. The way Ben’s finger twisted and explored his inner walls was electric, sending a wave of pleasure through him that left his limbs loose and pliant. He loved being played with like this, and Ben’s fingers were just made for fingering.

Thick and long, they felt perfect inside him, and they moved with an expertise that made Anakin’s head spin. Just as he opened his mouth to ask for more, Ben anticipated his need, slipping a second finger inside. The stretch was glorious, the initial burn melting into pleasure as Ben worked him open, scissoring his fingers to prepare him further.

Anakin’s breath caught when Ben curled them, the motion purposeful as they brushed against his prostate. A burst of sensation shot through him, his hips bucking instinctively in search of more friction for his leaking cock.

By the time Ben added a third finger, Anakin had surrendered entirely, his body writhing on the bed. The pleasure was overwhelming, his moans filling the room as Ben stretched him wider, his fingers exploring every sensitive inch with care and precision.

“Are you ready?” Ben asked, his voice dark and heavy with meaning. But Anakin still didn’t have enough of this.

“I want more,” Anakin gasped, his voice hoarse with need. “I want four. Give me four, please.”

“You insatiable creature,” Ben murmured, his tone a mixture of amusement and heat. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, earning a frustrated whine from Anakin. “Hold on. I’m adding more lube.”

The cool drizzle against his sensitive skin made Anakin shiver, and Ben wasted no time. When his fingers returned, there were four, pushing into him with a stretch that stole Anakin’s breath. The pressure was intense, but it was everything he wanted. His back arched, his body trembling as he adjusted to the width, a desperate moan spilling from his lips.

Ben’s fingers were sending shocks of pleasure through Anakin with each movement. If they only had more time—if he were better prepared—he knew he could take Ben’s whole fist. The mere thought of it made his cock throb against his stomach, his body alive with need.

“I’m—I’m good. Good, you can—” Anakin gasped, his words barely forming, his breath hitching with every syllable. “You can fuck me now,” he finally managed, his voice cracking with desperation.

Ben’s response was immediate. His grip on Anakin’s shoulder tightened, his fingers digging in possessively as he leaned down to bite the soft skin over Anakin’s back ribs. The sharpness of it sent a shock through Anakin, followed by the soothing warmth of Ben’s tongue as he licked over the tender spot.

Ben pulled his fingers free carefully, the withdrawal so deliberate it made Anakin whimper at the emptiness left behind. The rustle of fabric caught his attention, and he turned his head eagerly, just in time to see Ben standing to shuck off his pants.

When Ben’s cock came into view, Anakin’s breath caught again. It jutted upward, thick and proud, flushed an enticing red with its tip glistening faintly. Anakin’s gaze drank it in, the sheer size making his mouth water. It wasn’t just big—it was perfect. He wanted it inside him, wanted to be stretched and filled completely, his body aching with anticipation.

Ben stepped out of his pants with ease, climbing back onto the bed with predatory grace. His knees sank into the mattress as he shuffled forward, his cock bobbing slightly with the movement.

“How do you want me?” Anakin asked, his voice rough, the need palpable in his tone. He could hear the faint rustle of Ben opening a condom and rolling it onto himself.

Ben didn’t reply with words. Instead, he sat back on his heels, still kneeling behind Anakin, his hairy thighs slightly spread apart. His cock stood like a spear between them, thick and imposing. He pulled Anakin closer, guiding him to kneel over his lap, their bodies perfectly aligned—chest to back. With a firm grip on Anakin’s hips, Ben began to lower him, the blunt tip of his cock pressing against Anakin’s slick entrance.

The stretch was exquisite, the pressure building slowly as Ben’s cock pushed inside, inch by divine inch. Anakin moaned, his head falling back as he felt himself being filled in a way that was almost maddeningly satisfying. The girth, the heat of it—nothing had ever felt like this. By the time Ben was fully seated inside him, Anakin’s thighs trembled around his, his entire body alive with sensation.

Ben leaned forward then, pressing a lingering kiss to the middle vertebra of Anakin’s spine, his breath warm against the damp skin. His arms wrapped around him possessively, one hand splayed over Anakin’s taut abdomen, while the other spread across his sternum, fingers brushing his pecs. The intimate scratch of Ben’s chest hair against his skin, the way his mouth worshipped the curve of Anakin’s back, was as exhilarating as the feeling of being completely impaled.

Anakin’s gaze dropped to Ben’s hands, and his heart skipped at the sight of them roaming over his body, keeping him in balance as he started moving up and down, riding Ben with lustful abandon. The feeling of fullness drove him wild, each motion sending jolts of pleasure through his body. His own hands reached up to grip Ben’s wrists where they pressed against his torso, holding onto them as an anchor while he moved.

The intensity of it all began to overwhelm him. His legs felt weak, his rhythm faltering as his strength waned. He slumped back against Ben’s chest, panting heavily, his body desperate for more even as it struggled to keep up. Ben didn’t miss a beat. His arms tightened around Anakin, one hand sliding lower to keep him steady, and his hips began to move, thrusting upward in powerful strokes. Each thrust sent Anakin reeling, the force of Ben’s movements pulling moans from his throat with every jolt.

Ben’s hand slid from Anakin’s abdomen, wrapping firmly around his aching cock. The added sensation was electrifying, and Anakin cried out. Ben stroked him in time with his thrusts, his grip sure and knowing, and the relentless pleasure soon had Anakin spiraling toward the edge.

“I’m—oh, fuck—close,” Anakin gasped, his voice shaky, his body quaking as the tension inside him coiled tighter and tighter. Ben’s pace quickened, his thrusts gaining an almost punishing intensity. The rhythm of his hand on Anakin’s cock was perfect, every stroke purposeful and devastating. Anakin’s body arched, his muscles locking as the orgasm tore through him, a raw cry ripping from his throat as he came. His release coated Ben’s hand, warm and sticky, his entire body trembling from the force of it.

Ben didn’t stop. With a low growl, he shifted their position, guiding Anakin forward onto his hands and knees. Anakin barely had time to catch his breath before Ben gripped his hips and began thrusting again, harder and deeper than before. The new angle had Anakin moaning helplessly, his oversensitive body writhing in the aftermath of his release.

Ben’s movements grew erratic, his breathing ragged as he neared his climax. His fingers dug into Anakin’s hips, anchoring him in place as he drove in one final time. “Anakin,” he groaned, his voice raw as he came, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. His weight pressed into Anakin’s back for a moment as he collapsed forward slightly, both of them panting and spent, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex.

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies tangled, hearts pounding in sync as they came down from the high. Finally, Anakin let his elbows bend, and he fell against the bed, Ben following behind but rolling off to the side before he could squish him. They both panted in silence, Anakin lying flat on his stomach and Ben sprawled on his back next to him. One of Ben’s arms was flung over his head, while the other stretched lazily in Anakin’s direction, the backs of his fingers stroking the damp skin of his back in lazy, soothing motions.

“That was…” Anakin murmured, his voice muffled against the mattress.

“Yes,” Ben agreed. “Quite.”

The minutes stretched in comfortable quiet, the low hum of jazz filling the space. Anakin’s mind floated, his body too boneless to move, his muscles too content to care. Still, as his eyes drooped, a practical thought nudged its way in. He couldn’t just pass out here—he had to get back home somehow. The idea of moving, of even trying to sit up, felt impossible. Maybe he could lie there for five more minutes. Just five.

The time ticked by, the five minutes turning into an eternity of soft bedsheets, luxurious cushioning, and the warm presence of Ben beside him. His eyes cracked open, catching the rich purple of the bedspread below him, the way it practically cradled him in comfort. It was easily the nicest bed he’d ever been in. Probably one of the perks of being disgustingly wealthy, he thought with a faint, amused smile. But the longer he lingered, the more leaving felt like an insurmountable task.

Groaning softly, he started to push himself up, ignoring how his muscles protested. Ben’s head turned toward him, his blue-gray eyes narrowing slightly in question, the furrow of his ginger brows making him look both curious and concerned.

“I should probably—” Anakin began, his voice thick with reluctance, but Ben cut him off. He rolled onto his side, facing Anakin fully, and placed a firm hand on the small of his back, keeping him from moving too far.

“Stay,” Ben said, his voice low, gaze piercing yet warm. His fingers flexed slightly against Anakin’s skin. “I don’t think I’m quite done with you yet.”

Anakin blinked at him, his lips parting slightly. He wasn’t sure if he could handle any more tonight, his body thoroughly spent, but there was something about the way Ben was looking at him—like he meant something more with those words, like there was a tether between them that neither of them wanted to sever. It was enough to make him pause, his resolve crumbling.

Without a word, Anakin let himself sink back down onto the bed, turning onto his side to face Ben. The warmth in Ben’s smile softened the moment, and he moved closer, pressing a kiss to Anakin’s lips. It was slow and unhurried, a stark contrast to the passion of earlier, but no less intoxicating.

“I’ll bring us some water,” Ben murmured as he pulled back, his lips brushing against Anakin’s as he spoke.

Anakin nodded faintly, his body already pulling him back toward sleep.

“And a wet cloth,” Ben added after a moment, his voice softer now, but Anakin’s eyes were already drifting closed. He barely registered the sound of Ben moving off the bed, his footsteps quiet against the floor. Anakin let out a long sigh, sinking deeper into the mattress, the lingering warmth of Ben’s presence lulling him into a contented doze.

By the time Ben returned, Anakin was already fast asleep.

/

Anakin woke up slowly. The morning sun filtered through the large windows, casting golden light across the room, illuminating everything in soft clarity. He shifted slightly and realized he was covered with the bed sheets and naked—but cleaner than he had been last night. Ben must have taken care of him.

The thought made his chest ache with a wistful sort of longing. Seriously, could the man get any more perfect? The idea that this might have been a one-time thing was unbearable. Groaning softly, he pushed himself up, taking in the room now that it was bathed in daylight.

Ben was nowhere to be seen, but Anakin noticed his clothes had been collected and draped neatly over the back of a plush chair. His boots stood side by side on the floor, looking far too orderly for anything Anakin owned. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, wincing at the soreness. At least his ass would serve as a constant reminder of last night—a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Reaching for his clothes, Anakin froze when his fingers brushed against something beneath them—a folded piece of paper. Brow furrowed, he opened it and couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. It was a hand-drawn schematic map of Ben’s ridiculously huge house. A dot labeled you’re here marked his current location, with a line directing him to another dot labeled kitchen.

He dressed quickly, pulling on his pants and shirt with a wince at the stiffness in his muscles. Once dressed, he left the room, following the map’s directions.

It took him a few minutes to navigate the labyrinthine hallways, but he finally found himself stepping into the kitchen. Ben was there, seated at the counter, sorting through a pile of sleek plastic boxes. At the sound of Anakin’s approach, Ben looked up, his face lighting up with a warm smile.

“Oh, you’re awake!” he said brightly.

“Yeah,” Anakin replied, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for falling asleep last night.”

Ben waved the apology away. “Don’t worry about it. Breakfast?” He held up one of the containers, the label crisp and minimalistic.

Anakin stepped closer, raising an eyebrow at the collection of boxes. Ben caught the look and shrugged lightly, a small, self-deprecating smile on his lips. “I don’t really cook, but I have catering delivered every day. There are several options to choose from.”

Curiosity piqued, Anakin leaned over the counter to examine the labels. His eyebrows shot up as he read some of them: Truffle Scrambled Eggs. Quinoa Porridge with Saffron and Pistachios. Greek Yogurt Parfait with Caviar. Blinking in disbelief, he pointed at one box at random, unable to decide on a preference from the absurdly outlandish selection.

“You eat all this every day?” he asked, incredulous.

Ben laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Goodness, no. I wouldn’t be able to fit through the door if I did.”

Anakin bristled slightly. “What, you just throw it out then?” His tone carried a note of accusation, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he might have finally found a flaw in the otherwise impeccable man.

“Throw out perfectly good food? Absolutely not.” Ben looked faintly offended by the suggestion. “There’s a fire station across the street. I always bring whatever I don’t choose to the volunteers.”

Not a flaw in sight, then. Instead, another item to add to the ever-growing list of things Anakin liked about him.

Ben picked up the two boxes, placing them into two microwaves. Anakin shook his head in silent disbelief. The rest of the boxes were carefully stowed in the double-door fridge.

“So,” Ben began, leaning against the counter with casual grace. “I think I derailed your interview a bit last night. How about we eat breakfast, and you can ask me anything else you wanted?”

Right. The interview. Anakin had almost forgotten. “Sure,” he said, recovering quickly. “That sounds like a plan.”

Once the microwaves dinged, they sat across from each other at the sleek dining table. Anakin noticed his leather bag on the chair beside him, its placement premeditated and deliberate. Ben really had thought of everything. He fished out his notebook and opened it on the notes from the previous day.

Breakfast was surprisingly delicious. The Truffle Scrambled Eggs melted on his tongue, decadent and perfectly seasoned. The conversation flowed easily, Ben answering his questions with thoughtful insight, their laughter filling the space. By the time they finished eating, and the tea Ben had steeped for them was gone, Anakin had run out of questions. And he realized, with a pang, that the time to leave was fast approaching.

He hesitated, fiddling with the edge of his notebook. “Look, Ben—”

“Anakin—” Ben said at the exact same moment, their voices overlapping. Anakin motioned for him to go first.

Ben hesitated, his hand lifting to smooth down his beard. He tugged lightly at the ginger strands growing from his chin, his gaze dropping to the table. “Do you think you’d maybe be… interested in,” he paused, glancing at Anakin before looking away, “seeing me again?”

“Seeing you again?” Anakin repeated dumbly, too shocked to say anything else.

Ben winced, backtracking almost immediately. “Or not! I’m probably too old for a young man to want to…” he said quickly, trailing off and busying himself with the empty breakfast containers, stacking them neatly.

Anakin reached out, his fingers brushing the back of Ben’s hand, stilling his movements. “Yes,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “Yes, I totally would.”

Ben relaxed visibly, his shoulders lowering as he let out a breath. His eyes softened as he gazed at Anakin, a shy smile pulling at his lips. “Good. Oh, good.” His voice regained some of its confidence. “Maybe for breakfast tomorrow? After dinner tonight?”

Anakin grinned, his heart fluttering at the way Ben was looking at him now—hopeful and charming all at once. “I’ll, uh, bring a change of clothes this time.”

“Please do,” Ben said with a small smile, his hand covering Anakin’s for a brief moment before they both stood to clear the table.

And just like that, the promise of more hung between them, a thread waiting to be pulled—like the rumble of an engine on the grid, charged with potential energy, waiting for the signal to explode into motion.