Chapter Text
There were two inches of dick down his throat when Anakin stopped whining and crying like he was being impaled by a porn star's cock. If his hair hadn’t currently been fisted by hands pulling him forward until his nose was buried in wiry pubic hair, he might have tilted his head at the sudden silence. When did that happen?
Not that the room was quiet, not with the wet, nasty noises of a good face-fuck bouncing off the bare walls, or the heaving pants of the man paying him a fortune for the night. The john was muttering the usual trite shit that Anakin had long ago tuned out: the "fuck yeah," "take it, slut," "whore," and "fuck" chants to the higher power that was the slick suction of his mouth and the snug clutch of his throat.
But the heavy Eurotrash that had been playing for the last hour was turned off. Was the party over? Had everyone gone home? It had bordered on an orgy out there, with people grinding up on each other, booze flowing freely—drugs openly displayed on cheap plastic trays as if they were hors d’oeuvres.
The resulting absence of sound was surreal and unnerving.
His pulse quickened. Anakin hadn’t survived as long as he had without a sixth sense for when to get the hell out of Dodge. He tapped the man’s thigh, a precursor to a much harsher “Hey, fuckhead, stop,” that would involve twisting the balls resting on his chin as if they were taffy. Forget the money. Cash was only useful if you were around to collect and enjoy it.
Besides, there were always other gigs.
“Huh?” mumbled the man, resurfacing slowly from his selfish bliss. “What? Get the hell back to it,” he demanded, fingers cruelly digging into Anakin’s scalp, nails like bites.
Well, Anakin could use nails too. And teeth. Dumb fuck. Let them put their dick somewhere hot and wet and they lost their goddamn common sense, he thought derisively, his hand already cupping the sweaty ball sac when the door opened.
It wasn’t dramatic. The door didn’t bang against the wall or rock on its hinges. It was a decisive click of the handle, followed by a smell that made Anakin gag for real. He recognized the coppery, metallic, almost salty-sweet stink of blood—lots of blood.
“Mr. Tyomkin,” drawled a polished, accented male voice that had Anakin tensing. “My apologies for interrupting, but we did have an appointment, and I’m rather aggrieved with you for missing it.”
Fear did strange things to the limbic system. In this case, Tyomkin (Anakin hadn’t needed his name, so he hadn’t known what it was) convulsed and clutched Anakin’s head with enough pressure that his skull ached, and fucked into his throat with a gasp that trailed off into a dog’s frightened whimper. Anakin had no choice but to swallow the bitter wash of cum, stomach churning in disgust and his own fear. Who was that? What had he done to the others?
And how had he done it so quietly?
Anakin yanked the balls in his palm hard enough to do real damage. Yelping, Tyomkin shoved him away, and Anakin hit the floor, pulse pounding as he glimpsed shiny wing-tipped oxfords. He was back on his knees when a hand entered his field of vision.
Anakin flinched away from it.
“Hello there,” that smooth voice spoke to him directly, a touch gentler than it had been for Tyomkin. “Allow me.”
Oh. So he was dealing with a straight-up psycho. Good to know.
Anakin focused on playing it up, lower lip trembling, peering through his lashes at the new threat in the room. “T-thanks,” he said, taking the offered hand all while running a complex algorithm that basically boiled down to: how the fuck do I get out of here in one piece? Did he make a run for it? Knock the bastard out? Play it coy?
Those calculations died when he saw the blood.
The man glanced down at himself with mild interest. “Ah, yes. Unsightly, isn’t it?” he murmured, as if the gory splashes of red across his dress shirt were a bit of spilled coffee.
“Not the word I’d use,” Anakin deadpanned, shocked into dropping the scared and helpless act.
“No, perhaps not,” agreed the stranger, whose grayish-blue eyes lit up. He was a good-looking man, not too tall, not too old, and his teeth were white when he flashed them in a worryingly friendly smile. His fingers were broad and somehow even more callused than Anakin’s own.
He smelled of gunpowder underneath the stench of blood. Gunpowder and sandalwood.
“Cody!” the man suddenly called out, earning another flinch from Anakin, still firmly in fight-or-flight mode. “Please escort Mr. Tyomkin’s guest out through the back exit.” He let go of Anakin’s hand. “Close your eyes when you step out, rud àlainn.”
“Why?” asked Anakin, licking his lips, tasting precome and spit on them.
Behind him, Tyomkin made a scuttling noise. Before Anakin could blink, the stranger drew a gun and pointed it over Anakin's shoulder, his grip as steady as a surgeon wielding a scalpel. "Mr. Tyomkin, stay," he chastised. "I'm seeing your guest out, as you won't be up to the task. Be a good boy and stay put." The stranger nodded at Anakin. "Go on then. Eyes closed."
Anakin had no reason to trust him.
He still closed his eyes as he stepped out into the hallway, and then retched at the slick taste of blood on his tongue.
“This way,” ordered a new, clipped voice. “Did you leave behind a coat or bag somewhere?”
Anakin patted his jean pockets. They were tight to show off what little ass he had, but not so tight he couldn’t fit his car keys and twenty bucks in there. “I’m good,” he said, lightheaded in the aftermath of suddenly going from a blowjob to this. His body was torn between panic and a really fuckin’ ill-advised interest in the man who could say something as cliché as good boy, not direct it at Anakin, and still make Anakin squirm with the urge to nuzzle his jaw. Gun or no gun.
(Honestly, the gun might make it better.)
(The blood, not so much.)
Anakin left the building with the exhausted epiphany that he was more fucked up in the head than he’d realized.
—
The fire was a brief, unremarkable segment on the morning news. Anakin’s spoon of Froot Loops halted mid-way to his mouth, milk dribbling back into the bowl as he watched the before-and-after images of the building. Not much remained after the flames , and it was still too dangerous to enter or search for bodies... but they'd find plenty once they started digging.
And one had almost been his own.
But it wasn’t. Maybe it’d just been luck. Maybe the man had pitied the whore he’d found on his knees. Who cared? The only thing Anakin lost last night was money, and sure, that hurt a little. But whatever.
What did hurt more was the suspicion that he needed to stay off the street. Let this whole thing blow over. This had the makings of a turf war, and he hadn’t worked his ass off staying away from hard crime—living off small scams and petty theft—just to get killed by some psychopath on a warpath. Even if said psychopath came in a delicious package of stubble and sex appeal.
He rinsed out his bowl as the newscasters switched gears to the elections. He wrote down a message on the fridge whiteboard for his mom to walk Threepio while he pulled a double shift at work, then popped his PrEP tablet and swallowed it dry.
He was nineteen. Not stupid.
—
Three weeks after that disaster of a gig, Anakin heard the stranger’s voice again.
“Are you Anakin?”
He nearly twisted the valve the wrong way. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
"Who's asking?" Anakin stared at the undercarriage of the car, dread and excitement pooling in the small of his back. Underneath the Mazda, it was cool and shadowy. He couldn't see anything except the suggestion of someone standing near his legs, which protruded from under the vehicle. It was a tight fit, and he wasn't as slim as he had been a year ago, but he'd never felt claustrophobic under a car before.
Until now.
There was a noticeable pause. "I've heard excellent things around town about a gifted mechanic who doesn't believe in shafting clients. A rare combination, I've found. I wanted to meet this young man before I allowed him to put his hands on my baby." The man hunched down. Now, Anakin could see his shoes. No wingtips this time. "I'm very careful about the people I trust with things I love."
Anakin breathed shakily. He had a wrench in his hand, but what was he gonna do? Brain the guy? “Sorry, I’m up to my eyeballs in jobs. Try elsewhere. Watto does good work,” he said, lying out his ass without a single iota of shame.
“Mn. What a shame. I prefer to have the best. What if I come back in a month?”
“I’ll still be busy.”
“Is that so? Any idea of when you might be… less busy?”
With a groan, Anakin rolled out from under the Mazda. The change in lighting hurt, but that wasn't why he blinked up at the man who was entirely too close. Almost leaning over him.
"Do you not know how to take a hint?" he bit out, on the defensive, even as he admired the line of the man's jaw—still scruffy, still pulling it off—the thin lips crooked into a smile, the arch of his brows. On the bench, his phone blasted music, but Anakin was as deaf to it as he was to the other mechanics swarming around their respective projects. It wasn't as if they were alone. Not by any stretch. But they might as well have been.
“I prefer an outright no, Anakin.” Those intelligent, cool eyes lit up again. “Hello, rud àlainn.”
“Are you stalking me?
The well-groomed eyebrows rose another notch. “No,” the man said, and it sounded genuine. “I need a mechanic. I asked the locals. They sent me here."
Anakin shrugged, a mixture of pride and embarrassment. It hadn’t been that long since he could make use of his skills openly, and it was nice to be recognized. “Fine,” he mumbled, against his better judgment, and sat up. “Let me take a look at your baby.”
‘Baby’ turned out to be a Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut. In black. Gleaming like a shard of obsidian in the sunlight.
Anakin sucked in a breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
The stranger smiled at him. “Thank you. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She’s fucking expensive, are you kidding me?” Anakin almost ran around the vehicle in his excitement, checking for defects and finding none. She was perfect. “Listen, you need a real shop to take care of her, okay? Koenigsegg has specialty auto repair—”
“She doesn’t need repairs. She needs regular maintenance and the loving hand of someone who appreciates her,” the stranger interrupted, following at a more sedate pace. “Here.” He tossed the keys at Anakin, who greedily snatched them out of the air and then hesitated when common sense screeched that he was filthy.
Yeah, he could fix that. Anakin dragged the zipper down the front of his puke-gray overalls, leaving them on the parking lot gravel. Then, without so much as by-your-leave, he popped into the driver’s seat and experienced what could only be described as transcendent bliss. The leather hugged him like a lover, and there was—ah. Sandalwood and cigarette smoke. He sucked in a lungful of it while he stroked the center console with his fingertips, running one around the edge of the touchscreen and purring in delight at the feel of quality, of craftsman engineering.
He wanted to drive her. He wanted to race her, let her tear up the streets and show off what a beauty she was.
He wanted to be held down and fucked in this car.
Anakin breathed out pure want, almost a low moan. If there was ever a car to jack off to, this was it.
“Maintenance, you said?” he managed. “Just maintenance?”
The stranger nodded. “Interested?”
“I think that’s pretty fucking obvious,” Anakin sniffed. “Right, so… weekly checkups? You want to drop her off here and—”
“No.” The man cut him off with a shake of his head. “I don’t have time for that. You’ll come to my house and check her over twice a week. Make sure no one tampered with her.”
It was Anakin’s turn to pause, eyebrows lifting. Oh. “What, like someone planted a bomb?”
“Or something.”
“... Hazard pay. Three times my normal rate.”
“Of course,” came the easy agreement, crisp and dismissive.
Anakin reluctantly stepped out of the car. Part of him was throwing a fit that he shouldn’t be doing this. It was a bad idea. This man was going to ruin his life. Was going to take him and wreck him—and Anakin wanted him to.
“So… who am I selling my soul to, exactly?” In for a penny, in for a pound. Anakin lifted his chin, eyes narrowed. He was slightly taller than the man, but that was, so far, the only advantage he had.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The man offered his hand. A signet ring gleamed on his pinkie: a flash of something that looked like a sword against a circular symbol. Anakin didn’t see clearly what it was before he was shaking the hand.
Then he pulled—not Obi-Wan, but himself—stepping into the man's space, pitching his voice low. “I don’t fuck with drug dealers or pimps or anyone who takes advantage of the vulnerable. I won’t hurt anyone for you. I won’t hide bodies. I’m not your whore or your dog. I’m your mechanic. Got it, Mr. Kenobi?”
The air between them vibrated. So close, Kenobi cologne was clearer, nuanced, undertones of bergamot and something herbal, masculine.
“Perfectly clear, gille clòite,” Kenobi said finally, a languid rumble that sank into Anakin’s bones.
God, he was so fucked.