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When he felt the knife-to-the-gut urge to kill Ventress, Anakin had brushed it off. He feels explosive at the best time of his days, and with the war stretching long, wearing him thin, an urge of a sort wasn’t anything new.
Then he wanted to throttle one of his own men, feel the crunch of cartilage under his palm, the salt of blood, with his alpha scent and aggression in the camp, in front of his men, he stops dead in his tracks.
“Fuck,” he swears, clenching his mechno hand. “It's coming for me, isn't it?”
Rex looks grim as he nods. He can feel the sweat gathering at his nape, a hot flash of unfounded anger and aggression. His armor is suffocating and the cloth itchy against his heated skin. He feels like he want to tear this place apart with his hands and teeth. It was, no, he scowls, three weeks early. As it was with his mind, his body was also tumultuous. Rex clears his throat. Rex knows, better than anyone else, what Anakin is like when a rut strikes.
“Finding an omega partner could—”
”No. Not happening.”
He gnaws at his knuckles until he felt Rex's eyes flicking down at them. “I need my Master,” he decides instead, and the sense of dread settles, leaden.
—
Obi-Wan looks just as exhausted in the blurred outlines of him in the Holo, arms crossed. His armor in ecru is scraped dirty and his beard needs a trim. It was always a tell that his Master had been worn out to the wick. Anakin always found it very like Obi-Wan to wear his beard always neat and trimmed even during the most grueling battles, an impossible feat—Anakin himself could never. Obi-Wan abhorred anything less than civilized lest how he presented himself, and it was also his way of finding a grain of self in testing times. In other moments, Anakin would have felt a stab of fondness, at the sight of him, uncharacteristically frazzled.
They’re only an hour apart; Obi-Wan camped at the other side but he couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. The campaign was droning on for the second month now, the terrain here with the thick foliage brought their operation and canons to an acute disadvantage. It hadn’t been bloody, not as other campaigns were, it was fucking frustrating; they kept losing a thin stream of man every week with surprise attacks and he loathed to draw this out any longer.
He’s pacing, when Obi-Wan finally speaks.
“You don't mean that I have to…force submission, Anakin, that was an emergency, to keep you from hurting yourself anyone else—”
Anakin immediately snaps back. ”—and this is an emergency too. I can't hold it off and I can't be off the field right now.”
Locked up, or drugged to the gills, barely able to articulate a single thought would not lead this campaign. Or, fly to the nearest planet, two days from here, to find an Omega partner. At that thought alone his gut squeezes.
“We must think through this, Anakin. It would last for three days—”
“—that we don’t have. I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s been long enough. He can’t lose anyone else. He can’t. Anakin stops in his tracks, grits his teeth. Under his lids his eyes throb. Fever branches down the curve of his spine. Breaths are already shallow.
Obi-Wan is quiet, the illuminating figure of him from the puck. Waiting for him to speak. Anakin shakes his head.
”We don't have—time. And I don't want—I don't—”
I don’t want to hurt anybody. Anakin swallows it down and crosses his arms.
”The real question is, are you okay with this, Master? I could hurt you, very badly. You know how I can get...”
At that, Obi-Wan lifts his head and looks at him straight in the eye.
”You would not.”
And it's that conviction, and his eyes that are contagious. Even through the blue hues of the Holo. His mouth goes dry. Anakin screws his eyes shut, feeling the Force of them titter like nails on a sheet of ice. When he opens them again his voice is hoarse.
”You need to take precautions. Tie me up. Restraints. Gags too.”
”I don't need to do that, Anakin. I didn't need to, last time.”
Indeed, he didn’t. “It’s different this time…I was just a kid then. Now we don’t know how it’s going to turn out.” But he would not have turned to his Master if it hadn’t been urgent. There is no one else he would trust. Anakin feels himself slip even further under, and that night in shivering fever he dreams of hands and teeth.
—
He presents at seventeen.
It was quite late for his age, and before Obi-Wan could come back to their quarters he locked himself in his own bedroom in despair and desperation.
He hated it. He hated what he was becoming. Anakin hated that now, the scent of vetiver and neroli would only irk him. He had been terrified as he pushed down his palm below his navel, tears hot, sobs raking through his body. He’s shuddering, with the heat creeping into his groin. Back pressed to his door, he now smelt of desert heat, something Anakin had always hated but could never quite shake himself free from.
If only he had been—anything else but an Alpha.
Obi-Wan’s scent—of stems and waterlilies was home. He meant that Anakin was safe, he was protected. That he would not go back. That he would not disappear, as Qui-gon did, as his Mother had to. In the rarer moments when Obi-Wan allowed him to, Anakin would tuck his face in his Master’s shoulder, or throat, to breathe in the scent of him. He didn’t quite understand what it was, there was nothing like it from where he came from. No frame of reference to know what the scent was like. When Obi-Wan sat in the gardens to guide him through meditation, hair copper in the watery light, the lush leaves heavy with rain, he wanted to be smothered in it beneath the roots.
To think now, this would only mean another alpha competitor, an enemy, that he’d find more than repulsive and to bare his teeth at.
His want made itself known years ago, furtive glances at his own Master bursting into a flame with an intensity that Anakin dedicated himself to with almost everything. It ashamed him. It mortified him. Thoughts twisted and coiled until he couldn’t discern it from desire and self-hate.
Secondary genders were rare in the Jedi to begin with, even rarer were Alpha pairs. It was well known that Alphas could not stand each other, their aggression full-blown with an existence of another unmated, viable alpha in the same room, and as practitioners of self-control the Jedi would have them set apart.
Back in Tatooine, Alphas were treated like animals. Suppressants were something many could not afford, and he’s seen them, caged, collared. They were costly for worker slaves, so when they presented many were discarded. Look away, his mother wraps her arms around him as his face is pressed to her shirt. But he still sees listless bodies and the unmistakable sound of a bomb going off. The wet sounds of them.
He thought of the Council members’ eyes on him the first day at the Temple. Maybe they knew all along that this was what was to become of him. Maybe it was why they never wanted him.
All except Obi-Wan, who had to take him to honor his Master’s dying wish.
And now he is going to abhor for what Anakin is.
He gnawed at his knuckles. Hate burned black and bitter at the back of his mouth. He hated it. That their relationship would be asunder. That they will never be the same ever again.
All because of his own body.
When Obi-Wan found him later that evening and coaxed him out of his quarters, face blotchy and knuckles torn open, miraculously, Anakin found that he was not being transferred to another Master. Probably it was Obi-Wan’s doing—convinced the Council that this far into his training, it was better for him to stay in training with Obi-Wan. More likely was that no one would have wanted him as an apprentice. Regardless, he was not going to argue.
Of course, he took suppressants, immediately after. Anakin didn't mind, or, rather couldn't, even with the suppressants made him hyper-sensitive to light, hot flashes and nightmares—leave it to his body to protest any kind of discipline, like how it willed against every one of his attempts to take control of the wild currents of his Force. From that day on he mourned being unable to find solace in the soothing, familial rain of his master.
Obi-Wan wound himself even tighter, both his scent and his Force. It was for his own good, an act of courtesy that was so like the man. Anakin spent most of his teen years being resentful, not knowing whether it was directed at self or his Master. Or both.
That was how Anakin perceived his new sex: with hate.
—
His first rut had been a disaster.
It was shortly before his knighting. Frustrated with his new mechno hand, sweat dripping into his eyes. He snapped at Obi-Wan who offered a hand, face red with exertion and humiliation, his long braid whipping at his right cheek.
Then Anakin felt it like a punch to the gut, and he stumbled, violent. The arid scent of him explodes. Lead bleed from his eyes, and his ears. When he rose again, hands on his knees, he felt in the Force that people were approaching him slowly, they were speaking, but not heard, in his burning world.
He bares his teeth. Many were betas, they would be of nuisance but not much of a threat. Their identical faces felt familiar, and a strange urge to protect, pack, nudged forth but soon discarded. He can’t detect a scent of an Omega here, but he’d find one soon enough. He wants his crackling myrrh resin and spice to rake across every corner. He wants to rip anyone apart who did not stink of his own. Someone was calling out to his name, again and again. Anakin. Anakin. He felt rage—and rage, of sand and blood, blowing into his eyes and mouth, he is back in Tatooine, and how they felt, wet, gritty beneath his nails. He doesn't want this. He wants to stop. He never wants to stop. He feels like he can still hear their screams.
He felt powerful. He felt powerless. He was terrified. Anakin had never felt anything like it.
Then he felt the weight of a strong body tackling him, arms wrapped around his waist. pinning him to the floor. He snarled, he thrashed, and he felt one of his finger nails catch something.
“Down, Padawan.”
A broad hand covers the nape of his neck. The Alpha twists, growling and spitting, and at the tip of his fingers he feels the Force—but before he gets a hold of its thread, his legs are kicked apart, the curve of his spine pronounced, and a sharp tug at his braid knocks him flat on to his chest.
Anakin gasps. He feels himself whining, low. Cheek pressed to the floor, he struggles, but he feels the hard ridges of a body bearing down on him, and his own molded into what may look like a presenting arch. The hand squeezes with warning just beneath his glands, a wordless threat. Scent of cedar and pouring rain only grew darker behind him. He hears the growl of an Alpha, that has him beaten and listless, back curved and throat bare, demanding to submit.
“I said, down. Padawan.”
Then he feels it. The heat that pools in his belly. He gasps again, and makes to struggle but Obi-Wan presses him into the floor. His cock thickens in his trousers and Anakin’s panting, trapped under his Master’s weight and entirely helpless.
Tears burn as he, humiliated, tries to claw forward. Obi-Wan doesn’t let him go, only nudging his thigh between Anakin’s legs and widening his stance, denying him of any leverage.
He felt himself go kittenish weak in his Master’s hold, and leaking, which made him want to throw up. His scent immediately dwindles down to soft amber, cowering. He can't feel Obi-Wan under the layers but it's enough—his body weight pinning him on his front, hot breath on his cheek, a hand almost like a bite on his nape. Voice low and dark.
“Good boy.”
He could not move.
And with that, he was blanketed with a warmth that Anakin never knew.
Submission—was liberation, as he stopped fighting and sagged in Obi-Wan's hold. It was frightening. It had been terrifying. But as he laid trembling and in tears under his Master he felt euphoria seep deeper than skin, even with mortification, even with terror, he finally was free.
He almost sobbed with it, the liberation that came with surrender.
With disorder wrestled out of his hands Anakin doesn't have to think. He doesn't have to fight.
He doesn't have to be afraid anymore.
Time passes over him like a tide and he loses sense of how much of it trickled by. A long while after a hand gently cradles his flesh one, examining his nails, torn to the quick. "Let's get you to a Healer," Obi-Wan murmurs, as he's helped to his feet, wavering.
His rut has ended, his scent near invisible by the time they arrived to the infirmary wing. Defanged, he sits on the bed and numbly listens to Master Che. Triggering submission of a younger, inexperienced alphas, after a tussle for dominance, being mounted by more powerful Alpha was the only thing his Master could do.
“Another Alpha forcing dominance would not have managed it,” Master Che said plainly. “You would have fought him until one of you bled out. Knight Skywalker, a powerful force user like yourself...things would have escalated. As crude as it is, he made a sensible decision.”
Anakin only prods his tongue against his blunt incisor, like they are filed down. He can't smell anything. Master Che hums, and pushes away the data pad.
“It seems that you have already accepted your Master as your pack leader alpha. You know him to be able to overpower you.”
After bandaging his pinkie finger they left him alone, hurt and sullen to lick his own wounds. It took a day before he could return to the front. Obi-Wan did not apologize, in character, as he did only what he had to at the time, and although Anakin did not want one, he hated and equally adored that part of the man. They went back to their banter and Anakin being unruly, and Obi-Wan letting him. That was what the kind of alpha he was—he never felt the need to assert himself. He never needed to.
From that day Anakin’s body was meld into something else. For one, he smelled like Obi-Wan for days. Of trodden earth on a rainy day, petrichor and dew, something the arid desert scent of him could never smell like. Then the rush of a haze, the submission his body was bent into, his hips, his parted legs, the sloping curve of his back to his shoulders flat on the ground, arms stretched above him, a vulnerability that Anakin never thought his own body was capable of.
And the heat of Obi-Wan’s body, the heavy weight of him on Anakin’s back.
His broad palm on Anakin’s nape, thumb and point finger squeezing just below his scent glands. The calm measured breaths, ghosting hot on Anakin’s ear. His pelvis pressed at Anakin’s ass, a mimicry of a mounting. His Master rarely growled, but he did then, a mossy, low sound from chest, almost though Anakin could feel the baring of his teeth.
Darkening scent so thick that Anakin could feel it in the back of his throat, as he gasped and panted in mortification through his mouth open, wet.
When Anakin reached up that night, legs folded under him, hair slick from the shower to touch his nape of neck, right under where his scent glands were, he felt a flare within. Then on he could not stop touching there, feeling the give of his own muscles and rubbing his thighs together.
At the end of things, he could not believe that he was not built for this—it felt right, loosening up to find four fingers curling deep. While his body thrashed and warred with his wants, the latter won over and Anakin would be on his front, a hand clawing at his own nape, panting, an imitation of supplication that he was fitted for that day. He'd shove his metal fingers inside, and while he stifled his snarls on his sheets he pulsed precome, and wished for something that could fill him better.
Something that would be lodged right beneath his breastbones, deep, where he could never be alone anymore. He ached for a shape that would fill him like no other.
Anakin didn’t understand it. His desire to be taken, his desire to be made quiet. Even before his presentation he as a rule rebelled at any sign of authority that tried to rule over him, and with his past, any attempts to make him submit should have made his hackles rise. Having teeth at his spine by another, made pliant should have made him sick to the stomach. It was weakness. It was subservience, that went against everything he is. Everything that he strove to be.
He couldn’t quite find where his strand of want began, only that he liked it. Needed it. In his pad he did manage to find cases of rogue alphas with torn-out throats and fucked in the ass, subdued and defeated. It was the shock of it, the debilitating to being overpowered so completely. In some cultures the treatment was called bitching, the wording alone so crass that it made Anakin hurriedly close the article and fling the pad across the room. He remembers the look of awe from the healer, skimming over his vitals.
You have already accepted him as a stronger Alpha, as a pack leader…this sort of thing should be only possible because you trust him. Trust him to protect you, trust him to guide you.
Even so, he had rioted against every one of Obi-Wan’s attempts of controlling him, especially during his tumulant teen years. Obi-Wan had not trusted him enough. He was holding Anakin back. He thought of Anakin as a child. Why should this be different?
But after his mother’s death, after Tatooine—rigged with self-doubt and hate he easily fell into this new obsession. He was plagued with it, that with a firm hand he could be made good. Better, with an equal dealing of punishment and guidance.
Good boy.
It bled into his bond with Obi-Wan quick enough, this obsession. The sky is still flesh-pink and air cold this early in the morning. As he straightens from his bow and stands poised with his saber, Obi-Wan only looks at him with serenity, only a quirk to his lips. Anakin has to quell a stab of arousal, just from the sweep of his Master’s eyes over his own body.
With a clash of their sabers they mirror each other, the angle and the curve of their bodies accommodating place for the other. Anakin hates it. It only means that he could be a leaf from a stem. As he breaks Obi-Wan's stance with a strike to the left the Force sings, as does his dark scent. Anakin shows teeth, the bluish light of their saber in his face, when he thinks he finally has the man.
The older Alpha does not rise to the challenge. With a sweep of his legs Anakin finds himself on the ground.
“Anakin.”
He doesn’t want to look up, but does. Chest heaving, forehead slick with sweat, he’s well aware that the myrrh of his scent is suffocating thick. The buzz of the Force inside his ears. The itch, in his gum over his sharpened incisors.
“Anakin.”
Obi-Wan’s voice is quiet. His scent doesn't flare to match his. A lock of copper hair falling into his face. It’s not to lecture, it’s of soft concern. “Your need to prove yourself…it blinds you.”
It should have made him growl, fight back with typical aggression. Why would I want to prove myself? He wants to retort. Tell me. Why do I want more? Why do I need to be seen? The tremor in his hands doesn't abate. Fight-or-flight kicks in, because being useless gets you killed out in the shifting dunes of the desert.
He snaps his mouth shut. His incisor grazes his lip, and Anakin sucks on the wound. Head bowed, he doesn't dare speak. His Master doesn't prod anymore, sensing his discomfort, allowing him leave early. Anakin returns to his own quarters without a word.
As he moans around his own fingers he doesn’t think of an anonymous Omega, soft and yielding beneath him, he never has. He thinks he should, but he comes clenching down with a name on his lips.
With how his mind quietened, and muzzled, with the hand that pinned him down.
With how he curved forward under that strength, sure and gentle, authoritative.
It was like a key slotting inside an intricate tangle of lockets that Anakin himself didn’t dare look into, a final missing piece.
But he hid it well and after his Knighting, Anakin was a tall, stormy alpha with a notorious temper that no one would challenge. Hero without Fear, he stood with a straight back, wide shouldered and proud, his fox-slanted eyes. Territorial, fiercely protective of his men and snapping his teeth at any attempt at restrain. Some commended him for it, some reprimanded him for it.
“By the stars, orders are not suggestions, Anakin,” Ob-Wan would snap, with exasperation. To him it was—only worth following if it was judged an adequate one, it wasn’t in him to mindlessly defer to it only because. He made a terrible solider—or a good one. Anakin pushed through it with a half-shrug that his way worked, in the end, and always was given surprising amount of leeway with Obi-Wan.
“I’m sure I didn’t teach you to be insufferable,” his Master sighs, his leg slung over the other, stance wide.
“I would use lovable,” he shoots back, grinning, rubbing engine grease off the slope of his nose and Obi-Wan cross his arms to squint at him. There are softness around his eyes but also strain between his brows, from whenever Anakin pulls an impossible.
“I wouldn’t dream of accusing you of anything unless you deserve it, Anakin. But Force…can you be any more of a stereotype.”
And at night in the privacy of his quarters he went on his knees, fucked himself and sobbed for a kind of relief that he could never find. Once opened up his body was sateless. Curved over like an Omega from the Holos, on his fours, keening high-pitched for a knot.
As his thumb bumps into his crack, oil dripping between his thighs, Anakin imagines what it would be like, to be not incomplete anymore. To be so full that it makes their faces washed over in bliss, slack and pliant, to give over every part of himself.
His body and his force pulled him apart and, directionless, he wanted discipline yet Anakin hated that he needed it. That he was not whole, without it. He felt like spun glass—shivering, trembling, fists clenched and wishing that he be held down, unclawed, where he couldn't hurt anybody, where he would be safe. Where he didn’t have to fight. It was a need that lanced through the entirety of his being, one that became known from that day.
—
He feels Obi-Wan’s glimmer in the Force even before he enters. It’s been half a day since the Holocall. He looks just as he would, glancing around his tent without lights, inviting himself and moving around a couple of bottled water on the floor.
His Master is here.
Anakin wants to cover himself. He’s stripped down to his unlaced sleep pants, around his thighs, sweating, panting, face down on the sheets, cock weeping, with a half-forming knot. He’s warned the men well away from his tent, for the next forty eight hours. Obi-Wan looks as he always does in his robe and tunics, austere and well put-together, looking prim among his chaos of things.
Untouchable. Unattainable.
He envied it as much as he hated it. Why can I not be that? Why can I not have that? He wants to yowl, with the unfairness of it all. He wants to know what quiet sounds like. He wants to know what the fabric of peace feels. He did not ask for any of this. His lack of control—shames and mortifies Anakin. His Master is right. He is nothing like how Obi-Wan has taught.
How disbelieving people would be, that he was taught by none other than Obi-Wan. They are nothing alike. He for one, desires his Master so.
Anakin wants to close his eyes. The verdant scent of him—the one he loves, damp earth, water and cedar should calm him. The Alpha still growls, back to the head of the bed, of a foreign alpha smelling of musk and patchouli entering the dark of his territory.
He hates. He hates it. Anakin leans forward, hair matting his forehead, to retain control. The hot coil of the rut has him tight.
“Last chance to go away,” he murmurs. His voice is weak with disuse. He can grit through it himself, or, or—
There is a click of a door closing behind him. Obi-Wan looks down at where he is crouched, his silvery eyes giving nothing away, shedding his cloak.
“I am not going anywhere.”
Anakin tries to breathe. The Alpha wars within.
Woodsmoke permeates this territory. The Alpha is displeased by this. He would not have an intruder here. It would not allow it.
Anakin doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t dare. “Tie me down”, he lurches, unable to form more than a few thread of words. “Master. I don't want to hurt you.”
”You would not, Anakin.”
He opens his eyes then. Obi-Wan comes closer, both palms facing up, face calm.
The Alpha snarls, its elongated canines bared. He lashes out, all the while his mind screams. Anakin doesn’t want to hurt anybody. He doesn’t. The Force shudders around them. Obi-Wan grabs him by the wrist and turns them around, using Anakin’s own power against him. He’s wrenched on his back, breath punched out of him. They wrestle until Anakin rolls over on top, has his hands fisted in Obi-Wan’s tunic.
He feels himself grin. The Alpha gloats in the messy tangle he made Obi-Wan’s hair, the wildness in his eyes—how well they match now. Teeth aches to feel the break of skin, the metal of blood, crunch of carotid. Anakin opens his mouth to close over a windpipe.
Only, as Anakin bends down Obi-Wan reaches out to grasp at his nape, like he would an unruly pup. Haze trickles in and that’s enough for Obi-Wan to have him pinned and now he is put on his front. A familiar pose that sends shivers across his spine, but the Alpha snarls loudly anyway.
A heavy palm stops him. Squeezes his nape. Anakin grows very quiet. Even the Alpha knows its defeat, tail trailing between his legs.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan bites, very low in his throat. “Anakin, let go.”
The Alpha growls. Obi-Wan commands even louder. “You can let go, Anakin.”
He is hard. Leaks beads into his slacks, as he gasps, struggling against his hold. Dark myrrh of Anakin’s scent flares, bitter. The warmth of a hard, firm body blanketing his back, the weight of it on his nape. The power that is kind, disciplined and controlled with a precision he would never hope to match. Their hips are pressed together and Anakin can feel the jut of a pelvic bone on his ass. He feels the prickling of tears behind his lids and mortification consumes him.
“Please,” he breathes, like begging is only thing he has known.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan only sounds hesitant. There is a long, thin whine trapped in his throat. He sags further and gives in, rubbing against Obi-Wan’s front.
“I—just—I want—” An ache that he should not know, the empty clench of him low in his belly that hurts.
He can feel the shift, of his Master hesitating. A hand that pins him to the mattress uncurls and Anakin almost shrieks. “No! No, no, don’t let go!”
He pushes back, spine arched and ass up like an Omega from the Holos. Head turned, neck bared like an offering. Anakin blinks back tears and breathes through his mouth.
“Please.”
“Anakin, I don’t under—”
He moans, more animal, and clamps down even harder on the hand that bites into his glands, keeping it there. His cock hangs thick between his parted legs, and Anakin hides his face, manages to croak.
“I have known only you—this is what you made me into.”
There is only musty silence. His palm feels sweaty, where he has it covering Obi-Wan’s over his neck. Anakin wants to sob, push back, or to rut down on to the sheets. He wants to be pinned down, he wants to run, he’s being torn apart at the seams.
A rasp of beard, and lips dragging slowly across his throat, Anakin barely bites down a whine. “You mean to say that you like me to do this?”
A preference, no. But a need.
“Yes,” he trembles.
Careful fingers caress his chin, then thumbs his lip. It parts, and the Alpha wants blood, wants to bite, wants to clamp down, but all he does is whimper around the thickness of fingers pushing into his throat.
They press down at his tongue, rubbing the inside of his cheek. Touch his elongated fangs like they own them. All Anakin can manage is breathing shallowly through his nose, mouth wide open, pliant, drool gathering at his chin, and Obi-Wan bends down to meet his eyes.
Fingers slip from his mouth and before Anakin can whimper, there are lips against his. It’s a sloppy thing, thumb hooked, his mouth open and still as he takes Obi-Wan like being claimed. His heart throb in his ears, he doesn’t dare make a sound or let out a breath, frozen.
Obi-Wan releases him then, with a quiet, wet sound that makes Anakin leak even more. His eyes are fluttered closed, but he can feel the heat of Obi-Wan’s gaze.
“Look at me, Anakin.”
He does, shivering. Obi-Wan looks down at him with an unreadable face, in the dark of the tent making his figure blown bigger than it is.
“You want to be mounted.”
With a hand that does not let up from his nape it passes over his flank, thigh, then between his legs. Obi-Wan grips him, lightly, then fingers dragging the underside of his dripping cock, as Anakin can only moan like he’s being strangled.
“Obi-Wan—not—it’s—please—”
With that fingers prod at his entrance and find it loose and already pliant, with him rigorously fingering himself for hours before Obi-Wan’s arrival.
“Oh, Anakin.” He says, like he's not making every one of his darkest necessities known.
His mouth is dry and he can’t utter a word, eyes burning, mortified. He only gives a weak sob, pushing his ass out.
“How could this be?” Obi-Wan muses, and Anakin doesn’t even know if it’s directed at him. A thick finger worms inside him and Anakin makes a choked sound into the crook of his arm.
“It’s you, I told you, it’s you, Master. It’s always you.”
Lips meet again, a clash of teeth but Anakin doesn’t bite, only parting open to let his tongue be sucked. There’s another sliding into him and he groans with the fullness of it. Then, equally, the emptiness of it. He aches like a bruise, clenching down on the fingers and pushing back.
“Master—I can’t—I need, please,” he begs, and there is a quiet sigh behind him.
“I’m not going to take you while you’re in rut, Anakin.”
“Rut has nothing to do with this,” it makes him snarl immediately, bucking under Obi-Wan’s weight. “It should make me want the opposite, if anything.”
Of course, he has no idea where this is all rooted in. Only that Obi-Wan has been the only one to make him feel like this, safe, protected, as he is held down and calm blankets his thorny wreath of mind. Submitting to any other alpha makes him feel sick to the stomach but not Obi-Wan—his scent of rain, his sure, calloused hands, his warmth and bulk draped over his back.
His surrender is not for anyone else. He wouldn’t trust anyone else.
Anakin drops his head again. "I've wanted this as long as I can remember." Even before he knew what a heat of a rut were. Even before his presentation. Even before, maybe, he understood what freedom meant. He wanted to be safe. He wants to stop being afraid.
Obi-Wan only hums, reaching forward to tangle his hand in Anakin’s curls. Head wrenched back, his throat on display, he should feel vulnerable. He can feel Obi-Wan’s hot breath skirting his earlobe.
“You mean to tell me that you want my teeth?”
Then, finally, he feels the blood-hot bulge of Obi-Wan's erection behind him. With the realization he arches, tries to roll his hips. He’s leaking into the seam of his pants, hard as rock, there is nothing more he wants.
“Yes, Master,” he whispers.
And as he feels it pushing inside of him, finally, the alphan hindbrain howls, then dies, and Anakin finally hears his own drawn out moans.
He’s mewling. Like a runt, like an omega. His cheek burns, but he drips precome all the same.
He barely registers that he’s moaning like a whore as slaps of skin to skin flare, making his cheeks heat anew. Obi-Wan—he is inside of him, Obi-Wan is filling him, to the hilt, and Anakin is on his front, on his fours, curving his back and cheek pressed to sheets, taking what is given.
All he had wanted was to love and to be loved in return. He sobs, and Obi-Wan hushes him, kissing the slope of his shoulder. He had wanted Obi-Wan dark-eyed and wrecked above him, wanting him, with the same desire that Anakin wears, to be the recipient of its sharp focus, on his back with legs knocked open. The only reason why he had hated his Alphaness and wanted more than anything to be something other was to feel that mirrored want, to be taken, to have the throbbing heat pushed inside of him, that pursuance, an unmistakable proof that Obi-Wan wants this as much as he does.
Now he has it he doesn't know what to do with it. Anakin can only moan and hope that this is forever.
With a particular hard snap of his hips, Anakin can feel the telltale bluntness of a knot forming, knocking in to the crease of his ass. This, this is what he needs. It makes him wheeze, trying to claw at the sheets.
“Knot me,” he gasps, tears blurring his sight. “Please, Master, give me your knot.”
Obi-Wan’s grip tightens, at his hip. His voice is strained. “I shouldn't Anakin, I could hurt you—we must think of the consequences—”
”You won't,” he yowls, desperate, it hurts to have him slip out and make him empty and aching again, to be incomplete, “please, you won't, you won't, I want to be good, alpha, please fill me—”
And then he feels it, filled like he'd be bursting at the seams but knitted together at the same time, flesh and bones. And—and—
Everything quietens.
Obi-Wan rises and he cups his throat with another hand, dragging Anakin’s body up with his own, and the strain should hurt him, should make him want to struggle and growl but all he does is mewl. Legs wide apart, his narrow hips protest as he bucks to take what he is not meant to take. He can feel the bob of his adam’s apple pressed at Obi-Wan’s palm, and he thumbs Anakin’s slick lips. They are pressed together, back to chest, seamless, same. He’s gasping with it. Obi-Wan fills him like no other.
Please, he wants to beg again. His cock is slapping up to his stomach, he can feel his own knot forming, toes curling, shins cramping, his body clenches, milking the throbbing length inside. Anakin hears a groan, Obi-Wan nosing at his long column of throat. He trembles in trepidation. Anakin desperately wants a hand around his own cock, his knot. He tries to look over his shoulder.
“Master, master,” he’s whimpering mindlessly, lips moving at its own accord, and Obi-Wan is shushing him.
“I have you, Anakin.”
A bite, Anakin should knock his shoulders back, snap, snarl, but strength drains out of him and he goes limp. Pleasure like no other sparks under his eyelids and his mouth goes slack. He can feel himself coming in ropes, knot flared, untouched. It goes against everything he is built for. Everything he has been taught and composed for.
But his Alpha wants that broken. So break he does.
He feels Obi-Wan coming, carving way into his body and wouldn’t that be an ultimatum of supplication, an Alpha bred by another. He feels like he could scream, with the heat flooding into him. But all he can manage is a punched out gasp of breath, as he goes limp in Obi-Wan’s hold.
A calloused hand smooths down his flank, and cups the dip beneath his navel, as if Obi-Wan can feel the bulge of his knot nestled in him, and Anakin pants, eyes rolling up.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan mutters, kissing along the column of his throat, the bite that would not hold. It only means that it needs to be reopened and opened again. “Anakin.”
“I love you,” he moans, pitiful, “I’m sorry, Master, I want to be good, Master, I love you.” Lips slant over his, the bristles of a beard on his cheek, swallowing his pleads and Anakin finally stops fearing.