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Anakin stares at Obi-Wan as he fingers him open, eyes blown wide and black with awe as he crooks at the knuckle, digs deep. Sensation too wonderful to be pure pain and too nervy to be pure pleasure rips through Obi-Wan’s body, makes him gasp, and he pulls his knees apart wider still, as if that will help him make room, will help crack open the puzzle of his bones for further invasion.
Pumping in and out, Anakin licks his lips. “I bet I could fit another,” he says in a low, curious voice because he is always, always wanting more.
Obi-Wan shudders, overwhelmed by the thought of being further split, stretched to breaking point. Every muscle is already straining, every vacancy already shuddering around maximum capacity. “Let’s not try,” he grits out, even though part of him wants it desperately—to be filled to the brim, to overflow with Anakin’s desire. There is some indescribable thrill in giving everything, only to have Anakin continue to beg and cajole and coax something new from him. It makes Obi-Wan feel like he does not know himself as well as Anakin knows him. Like his boundaries and limits are illusions Anakin will lick down to nothingness, worrying to sugar water like candy in the heat of his mouth.
Of course, Anakin does not listen to what he says. Instead he pries into his mind, a white-hot blade cleaving against their Force Bond so that he can mine that Obi-Wan really wants, and of course, the truth lies there, bare and bleeding amid raw flesh: yes, please, oh, Anakin, please.
Anakin grins, lopsided and sharp and triumphant, a wolf's snarl. Obi-Wan’s breath catches at the sight of it, terror and longing flickering through him in equal measure, loving the way Anakin smiles like he is going for the jugular, poised to rip it out, fearing it all the same. That is what it means, to love Anakin: to be unable to untwine the two feelings. Terror, longing, pleasure, pain. They are all the same, here in Anakin’s bed.
“I knew you wanted me to, Master,” he says, sitting back on his heels tilting his head so his Padawan braid tantalizingly grazes against a nipple. So beautiful, every thing about him so beautiful, Obi-Wan does not even care to discern between extremes. He likes it here, crucified in the middle lamella. It is his place, he knows that now. His body is perhaps the only thing that can contain a beast like Anakin, and he is more than willing to crack it open to do so. To try.
Anakin spits then, right at the filthy place his fingers breach Obi-Wan’s hole. There is some prodding, some twisting, but it comes shockingly easily—hard won centimeters, giving along a fault line: his little finger sinking in so all that is left outside the maddening sucking heat of Obi-Wan’s body is his thumb.
He sweeps through the sweat-damp hair surrounding Obi-Wan's hole with it tenderly. “I think—I could fit my whole fist, if you let me,” he says, throat bobbing around a swallow, eyes lava dark and fire-bright and focused with nothing short of stark, worshipful awe. “It’s not that much more.”
“Give me a moment,” Obi-Wan begs, trying to catch his breath at the sensation of being wrought open, split. It hurts and it's brilliant—Anakin is everywhere. Laying claim to his body, his mind, inching deeper, demanding more. Obi-Wan does his best to relax around the bruising stretch, imagines Anakin breaking his ribcage apart, slipping those lovely hands through the slick sacs of viscera, licking blood from his knuckles. Saying the same things he always does, reverent and wild: you’re so beautiful, Master, and every part of you is mine.
Anakin’s patience is in limited supply, but he does his best, fucking those four fingers in and out of Obi-Wan as steady as he can, though each thrust must be shallow to ensure he stays fully imbedded. It feels good—too good, actually, like heaven, like drinking, like drowning in drink. Obi-Wan’s senses are dulled and heightened all at once the same way they are when he is drunk—lights careening past him, space shifting and unfixed, but his body more on than ever. He can feel every raw nerve, every heartbeat, every breath, every cell vibrating with mad, undiluted want. Yes, please, Anakin, please. Anakin crawls around in his mind eating the overwhelm up like a maggot finding infection, luxuriating in his pleasure, his pain, his terror, his longing. He waits for permission to keep pushing, but he won’t wait forever, so Obi-Wan takes a staggering breath. “Alright, Darling,” he murmurs, vision hazy through the tears clinging to his lashes. “Try.”
Anakin does. He withdraws, presses his thumb to the tips of his other fingers, all of which are puckered and pale from having been tucked inside Obi-Wan so long. Then, he slides home. There is resistance, but his brow only furrows in concentration, Obi-Wan willing his hips to relax, his body to accommodate, to open and open like a python’s mouth swallowing an entire corpse. Larger things have fit into smaller vessels, he reminds himself, eyes shut tight and mind sinking into the Force, melting into the yearning heat of Anakin’s signature. Smaller vessels have fit larger things. Anything is possible, in the Force. In love. In the Force which is love which is Anakin who is the Force.
Agonizing minutes pass. Anakin watches, presses his tongue to the corner of his lips, withdraws and approaches new angles, innovative and hyper focused the way he is fixing a ship or rebuilding a droid. Finally, it becomes evident a bit of force is needed--a push. Obi-Wan braces himself for it, closes his eyes as Anakin settles, bites his lip, and punches home.
Obi-Wan cries out, his vision pain-white then blood red before the room comes slamming back in technicolor and he gasps. Full, full, full. Knuckles and joints and Anakin's sure square palm, pressed up against Obi-Wan's heartbeat. Full. Anakin’s fist is inside of him. His hole is clutching at his wrist.
They both moan, before Obi-Wan’s is cut off in a fierce, bruising kiss. Tongue and teeth, love as big as Anakin's whole hand, his fingers reaching up, grabbing his heart, clutching it tight from the inside out. You’re so beautiful, Master, he feeds into their Force Bond, every word incisor sharp, a needle sewing Obi-Wan up in sinew white thread, sealing his fate. And every part of you is mine.