#4rfl

"You can…" A breath. The stranger seems kind; certainly they're gentle, and careful that Obi-Wan should feel good too. He trusts them. "You can fuck me."

There's no answer, and the steady slow stroking of the stranger's hand on Obi-Wan's cock only barely hesitates, but after less than a minute — six breaths — something warm, and lubricant-slicked, and about the width of the largest bead, rests for a moment against Obi-Wan's suddenly not-very-relaxed-after-all arsehole, and nudges gently at him.

Obi-Wan is afraid. He doesn't want he doesn't want he doesn't want — he does want, he tells himself firmly, snatching his hand away from the yellow button, because if he can choose this, and wring some pleasure out of it, and say no when he feels like saying no, then he wins, and the terrible man from the spaceport loses.

"All right?" the stranger's voice prompts, warped by the membrane, and;

"All right," Obi-Wan says firmly.