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    Summary

    “I’m thinking that I don’t even know what I want to do to you first,” Anakin mumbles, voice thick with saliva, eyes dark and hungry. His pupils blown so wide there is hardly any blue left in them to speak of. The blue that does remain, edged out into a thin ring, is dark, too—like a midnight sky, like the sea during a storm. It cuts into Obi-Wan, draws a line from jaw to sternum to cock to hole. Anakin locks there—that’s his favorite place. “Touch it,” he says, grabbing Obi-Wan’s pale thigh and using it to lever himself closer, close enough that Obi-Wan can feel the hot huffs of his breath on his stomach. “Touch your own hole for me, Master.”

    Series
    Language:
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