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Anakin is heavier than he looks.
Obi-Wan wheezes trying to haul his master over his back, nearly tripping over his own feet trying to make a grab for the man’s arms. After an eternity of struggle, he gets Anakin settled horizontally over his shoulders, holding tightly onto his arms and legs to keep him from sliding off.
Face red and sweating, he jolts into a run.
If Obi-Wan hadn’t distracted him, Anakin might not have gotten bit by that stupid snake. Humiliation and regret burn through his blood as he runs, breath coming hard like an animal, in remembrance. Once Anakin wakes, he will apologize, and hope desperately that the man hasn’t regretted his decision to take Obi-Wan on as a padawan.
He nearly trips over a protruding tree root, and the scramble to right himself jostles his cargo. In his grip, Anakin’s thigh seizes.
“Ngh,” his master grunts.
“I’m sorry, Master,” Obi-Wan soothes. “We’re almost back at camp, please just hang on a little while longer.”
“Ngh…”
By the time they make it back to camp, Obi-Wan is sure he is dying; his calves and shoulders won’t stop seizing, and his lungs burn with each breath. He lays Anakin into the cot and collapses onto the rocky ground at his feet, gasping for breath and dizzy from the effort.
They had set up camp inside a cave on the outskirts of the forest, and in the morning had left almost everything there, only taking the commlinks and a handful of emergency medical supplies. Now, Obi-Wan is glad for the foresight, as he pulls himself off the ground and rummages in one of their packs for something that might help with the situation.
And what a situation it was.
The mission itself was nothing of note: land on the planet, scout the area, and await the rendezvous with the local scout team in a few day’s time. Their information about the local conflict indicated little threat to offworlders, so they could anticipate minimal resistance. At the time of briefing, Obi-Wan had been privately glad that the mission was so straightforward.
The flora and fauna, however, were a different story. The locals had a natural immunity to virtually everything their own planet could throw at them—but for offworlders, getting bit by a snake or inhaling the wrong plant pollen was a dice roll for anything from severe fevers to total memory loss to complete psychic annihilation.
They had been given provisions to account for most reactions, so Obi-Wan sifts through the patches, pills, and vials until he finds the one marked for snake venom and injects it into the man’s arm.
Frustrated, he sits back and runs his fingers through his hair—which, he muses, is overgrown and sticking uncomfortably to the back of his sweaty neck. Just another irritation piled atop an already terrible start to the day. He should have stuck to the traditional padawan cut, but his master had insisted…
It was very lucky that they had not traveled too far from the cave. Who knows what could have happened if they’d been too far to get to the meds in time.
Obi-Wan lets Anakin sleep after checking his vitals and confirming they’re stable. The incoming fever is expected—a side effect of the shot—but it still makes his pulse race to see Anakin get sweatier as his temperature spikes, turning fitfully back and forth in the cot, pawing at his own clothes like they were suffocating him.
“Are they too warm, Master?” he asks.
“Off…off! Nngh…”
Carefully, he pulls off Anakin’s boots and socks. Then his obi and tabards, before carefully considering the tunics. He couldn’t just let him lay there naked, the cave was not that warm.
The solution comes easily: he lights a fire, and fishes a temperature-trapping blanket from the emergency pack, which he throws over his master’s naked body once Obi-Wan gets the rest of his clothes off, careful not to look too closely.
Anakin stills, and falls into a quiet sleep, his face tilted toward the fire, looking so very beautiful even in his weak state.
Obi-Wan seats himself on the ground by the cot and keeps watch, and the evening hours soon pass into night. By the time the moon is high in the night sky, Anakin’s fever breaks, his temperature returning back to normal levels.
Obi-Wan tosses the temperature reader into the pack and sighs. He glances over at his resting master. Then does it again, just for good measure.
Crisis averted, now all Obi-Wan can think about is just how naked the man is under there. He hadn’t thought it through in the moment, far too concerned with making sure Anakin would be comfortable, but now he is faced with the exact sort of situation that wreaks havoc on his roiling teenage hormones.
It isn’t unusual for a padawan to nurse an infatuation with his master. Plenty of padawans in his cohort have admitted to it, but Obi-Wan can’t help but think that none of their silly, blushing little crushes have anything on the sheer depth of what he feels for Anakin.
He’s attributed many of his firsts to the man over the years of his apprenticeship: his first hero worship, for one. His first choice in master to oversee his training. His first erection, damn him.
Obi-Wan scrubs his hands down his face and groans. He peeks through his fingers to steal another glance.
It’s getting harder to bear the older he gets, and the more ravaged he is by hormones. While many of the other padawans tend to steal away with each other to take care of each other’s carnal needs, Obi-Wan has chosen a vow of celibacy in order to dedicate himself wholly to the Order and the Code. It isn’t a common choice, at least not in someone so young, but it’s earned him some admiring remarks from many of the more devout masters at the temple, which always makes him preen.
None from Anakin, of course, who has repeatedly expressed his bafflement at Obi-Wan’s path, saying that he doesn’t understand what the Force could possibly want with his virginity, of all things.
Normally, Obi-Wan just fires back that that’s between him and the Force, and that Anakin can mind his own business, which usually gets him a rather dramatic scowl.
The vow is easier said than maintained, though. Especially with a master as handsome and passionate and intense as Anakin Skywalker is. Anakin Skywalker, who looks deeply into Obi-Wan’s eyes whenever they speak, who stands close and smells so good that it distracts him half the time.
Who has given Obi-Wan all the adoration and attention he has ever craved.
It is the worst, most difficult test the Force could ever bestow on him. To shove its golden child into Obi-Wan’s tiny, unspecial life and task him with restraining himself.
He stands over the man and watches the rise and fall of his chest, blessedly covered by the blanket. He knows how defined it is under there, has accompanied Anakin to countless training sessions and seen him shuck his shirt. Something that always leads him to duck away to the fresher afterward, shoving his hand between his legs with shame.
Obi-Wan bites his lip.
Surely, though, a peek wouldn’t be too bad? It might be enough to feed the blank spots of his imagination, and keep him satisfied with only that. He would never—could never—ask anything of his master, but surely just a look wouldn’t hurt?
But no, that would be such an invasion of his privacy, wouldn’t it? Obi-Wan wouldn’t take too kindly to someone getting an eyeful of his naked body without his permission, why would Anakin be any different? The man is free with affections and anything but shy, but that’s a choice he makes when conscious. He is not conscious now.
But, a sneaky voice in the back of his mind whispers, Anakin adores Obi-Wan. He isn’t some stranger with ill intent. He is just curious, and Anakin wouldn’t mind at all…
With a deep breath, Obi-Wan yanks the blanket down before he can talk himself out of it and lets his eyes take in their fill.
The first thing he notices—aside from his cock, his master’s big, thick cock, nestled in a bush of dark hair that Obi-Wan wants to bury his nose into and feel tickling against his face as he huffs in the scent—is that Anakin has no tan lines. His body is golden all over despite always wearing those long dark robes, from his fluffy head down to his toes, and for a long, hysterical moment, Obi-Wan wonders when and where his master managed to find the time to go tanning naked—
He settles the blanket back over him, face hot. And then pulls it back again.
“You can touch, you know,” croaks a voice from above, and Obi-Wan screams.
“Oh, Force!”
He shoves the blanket over his master’s face and scrambles away to the other end of the room, heart hammering in his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he babbles to the wall. “That was unforgivable and I don’t know what came over me. I’ll take any punishment, please just don’t tell the Council—”
“You being a sneaky pervert is our little secret, don’t worry,” Anakin says, and Force damn him, he has the energy to smirk as though this is all some lighthearted joke. “I wouldn’t dream of sharing this with anyone else.”
“Master, please,” Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t—I’m not—it was a mistake!”
Anakin snorts.
Obi-Wan bows deep, straight and from the hip. His nerves ignite in terror and humiliation, both.
“I wasn’t being perverse, Master. I was just…curious.”
“About what?”
He chews his lip as he straightens, not quite able to look his master’s way. He says, “You…I suppose…I just wanted to…compare?”
Even as he says it the excuse sounds flimsy, and feels something inside himself shrivels and dies from embarrassment.
From the cot, his master gives a big laugh—it’s the one he does when he’s deeply, genuinely amused by something. Low, and breathy. A warm sound that makes Obi-Wan’s head go light.
“Oh?” murmurs Anakin. “Well, tell me, then: how do we compare?”
Anakin sweeps the blanket aside, bearing all. Only, this time he is conscious, and Obi-Wan’s guts are going to drop out onto the floor.
“Master —!”
One of Anakin’s long, shapely legs bends, and he angles his body toward Obi-Wan with all the ease of a nude model posing, his head leant on the palm of his durasteel hand. His eyes—hooded, amused—bore deeply into Obi-Wan’s in challenge. Between his legs, his cock lies over a finely muscled thigh, less soft than it was mere moments ago.
And stars help him, Obi-Wan feels his own starting to answer in kind. It takes all the self-control he possesses to not bring his hands in front of himself and cover his groin as he mentally thanks the Force for the long, thick material of his robes.
“I think you should cover up,” he says, mouth dry.
“Is that what you’re really thinking?”
Anakin tilts his head back, looking down his nose at him. Not quite sneering, but he can always sense that Obi-Wan is full of banthashit and is not going to let him out of this gracefully.
“Y-yes.”
“Don’t lie to me, padawan.”
“Please, Master, don’t…”
“Don’t what? Say what you feel, I won’t judge you.”
“...You might.”
“Nothing will turn me away from you, Obi-Wan,” he says, his tone intimate. Deceptively gentle. “I couldn’t do such a thing even if my life depended on it.”
Obi-Wan swallows.
“I am thinking…” he stops, and then takes in a deep, steadying breath. He shakes out his hands under his sleeves. “That I want to see you hard.”
The word nearly comes out as a squeak, high pitched and undignified. He tries to feel some pride at the fact that it didn’t.
“There, was that so difficult?” Anakin smiles, and leans back to make himself comfortable on the bed.
With little fanfare, his master takes himself in hand. He strokes languidly, in no rush at all, making use of the wide span of his palms and the long length of his fingers. He touches everything: the shiny tip, the root and all along the entire shaft. Inside and outside and around the foreskin, caressing his own flesh in a way that feels obscene to watch for its sheer indulgence. The balls, too; he cups the sac and rolls them in his palm, giving Obi-Wan a wink—knowing exactly what he’s doing with the gesture, because it makes Obi-Wan suddenly desperate to know the heft of them in his own empty, tingling hands.
He notes that Anakin uses the durasteel arm and not the flesh one, and the thought comes barrelling into his mind like a wayward speeder, hysterical: does it feel better?
Obi-Wan’s fingers twitch at his sides.
Fully hard, Anakin finally lets go of himself and sweeps his hair back from his face. He exhales, his gleaming chest moving with it, and Obi-Wan thinks the very air itself is rippling with the Force. With heat.
“How’s that?” he asks.
Obi-Wan’s brain—the useless thing occupying his head, that abhorrent organ that makes tremendously stupid decisions—nearly doesn’t comprehend the question. He’s too busy staring and trying to burn the sight before him into his memory: of his beloved master, the chosen one, the most impressive Force user the galaxy has ever known…naked and aroused before him, something out of Obi-Wan’s darkest, most shameful dreams.
He stares and stares and stares because he will never get enough.
“Obi-Wan.”
“It’s—yes.”
Anakin smiles. “You’re adorable.”
“I don’t feel adorable,” he mutters, “I feel rather wretched, actually…”
“Don’t.” Anakin says. “You’re going after what you want, and that should make you feel powerful, Obi-Wan. Don’t let anything else come into this.”
“Master,” Obi-Wan has had some variation of this discussion with his master countless times, though this is the first time they’ve had it with one of them naked. “I’m not supposed to want this.”
Anakin stretches on the bed and every muscle in his body beneath his lovely, sunloved skin flexes in the firelight. He is a radiant being, so utterly touched by destiny, and so beautiful it makes something inside Obi-Wan hurt.
“And yet?”
“And yet I do,” Obi-Wan confesses. Drags it out of himself with tremulous effort. “I want this.”
“I’m prepared to give you anything you want,” says Anakin. “All I need from you is honesty.”
“I…”
“Can you be honest for me, Obi-Wan?”
“I will try, Master,” he acquiesces.
“Good,” Anakin sinks deeply into the cot, his long body undulating like a snake, or a dragon luxuriating atop its pile of gold. His cock drools at the tip and makes a sticky, tempting mess on his stomach. “Good…”
In Obi-Wan’s blood—and his belly, and his head, everywhere—is an inferno. He is hot all over, it feels like. He is fever incarnate, a body burning to death from the sickness of lust.
“Now,” Anakin’s gaze turns sharp. “You said something about comparing?”
Obi-Wan freezes.
“It’s your turn,” he continues. “It’s only fair, padawan.”
“I—”
He jolts, feeling a nudge at his calf. When he looks down he sees nothing but his own boots and the stone of the cave floor. Anakin had touched him using the Force.
“Master…”
The phantom touch drags itself upward, the feeling almost indistinguishable from a human hand, so much so that Obi-Wan half wonders if he’s going mad—but no, he feels the thrum of the Force around him, that gut-clenching sensation of someone tapping into it. It moves up, and when it bypasses the heavy ache between his legs, Obi-Wan nearly whines.
“Easy,” murmurs Anakin. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”
The obi and sash around his waist loosen and fall, pooling on the ground. As his robes spring open, the tent between his legs becomes obvious, a visible demonstration of his shame. The weakness of his body, his inability to control his emotions.
It is only because of his master’s intense look that Obi-Wan does not scramble away to cover himself. That, and he had asked Anakin to masturbate in front of him, just after taking liberties no sane person should with someone he cares about. If Anakin is insistent on this, then Obi-Wan will not fight him. He will do anything his master wishes.
He tries to convince himself that it is repentance that spurs him.
“Come here,” beckons Anakin. “I want to do the rest with my own hands.”
Obi-Wan swallows, whispers, “Must I?”
“Do you want it? Remember: be honest.”
“I do,” he confesses, miserably.
“Then come here.”
He is true to his word: he undresses Obi-Wan with his hands, taking his time with it, unfolding the fabric from the contours of his body with a concentration and reverence that makes Obi-Wan shiver. No one has ever looked at him in such a way, and certainly no one has ever touched him in such a way, either. No one is supposed to, according to the Code; or more precisely, Obi-Wan is never meant to permit such a thing.
The outer tunic drops to the ground with a soft plop. Then goes the undershirt, bearing his trembling stomach and peaked little nipples to the cool air. After that, Anakin drags the leggings and underwear down his thighs with agonizing slowness, his thumbs dragging a scorching line down the sides of his legs until they reach his boots, which Obi-Wan shimmies out of in such a hurry that he nearly trips over, if not for Anakin’s steadying grip at his hip.
His hip—so, so close to his cock, which is already unbearably hard and jutting obscenely from his body toward Anakin. Much more honest than his mouth could ever be.
Naked now, Obi-Wan looks between the two of them in fascination. As much as the comparison excuse was a lie, he has not actually had the chance to see many other naked bodies aside from his own. Because he usually tries his hardest to ignore the other padawans in the communal showers, always keeping his eyes to himself lest dangerous, curious thoughts invade the already weak foundations of his mind.
His master’s touch draws him out of his sudden reverie, warm on his belly, his rough palm caressing his skin with a gentleness that somehow makes Obi-Wan feel even guiltier. It would be better if he went fast, and left Obi-Wan no time to think about any of this happening.
Unlike Anakin, Obi-Wan’s skin is pale beneath the line where the band of his underwear rests. It brings out the deep red of his public hair and for some inexplicable reason, this embarrasses Obi-Wan greatly. He resists the urge to cover himself again, ridiculous though the impulse is.
“Mm,” Anakin sighs, almost dreamily. “Look at you.”
“I–I try not to.”
“That’s a shame,” Anakin leans in close, and the feeling of his breath on Obi-Wan’s stomach makes him whimper. “I guess I’ll just have to look enough for the both of us.”
He kisses along the trail of hair leading from his navel to his groin, unbothered by the fact that Obi-Wan’s cock is jutting into his neck, leaving a wet smear on his skin, the place Obi-Wan is sure his pulse must rest.
And then, before he can ever consider the notion of reaching over to rub it off, Anakin swallows down his cock in one fluid motion, and Obi-Wan’s knees buckle.
There are too many sensations all at once for his poor mind to parse: wet, sucking heat, a void that beckons Obi-Wan to fall into it. Ecstasy beyond anything he thought possible. Big hands grabbing hard at his ass, his hips. The slight, accidental nudge of teeth which hammers home that Obi-Wan now knows intimately the feeling of his master’s mouth from the inside—he knows the jagged edges of enamel, the texture of his tongue, and the tight, grasping channel of his throat.
Humiliatingly, he only lasts seconds before he is coming, hard and without his permission, down into the greedy clutch of his own master’s mouth.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbles at its peak, grasping desperately at his own hair to keep from pawing at Anakin like an animal, unable to help himself with one last apology to save his soul, a plea for his future within the Code.
Anakin pulls off slowly with a luxuriant sucking noise, his lips pulling taut and swollen around Obi-Wan’s cock. He had swallowed every drop, it seems.
His master pants, naked chest heaving beautifully, his voice rasping with the effort, and then declares, “Don’t be, because I’m not.”
“You don’t have to be, Master,” Obi-Wan retorts, dizzily. He then rests his hands on Anakin’s shoulders, too unsteady to stand on his own power any longer.
Anakin snorts and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you not hold me to the same standards, then?”
Obi-Wan shakes his head. Sweaty locks of hair fly across his face. He imagines that he must look ruddy and mussed all over, the picture of overwhelmed inexperience.
“Is it because I’m the chosen one?” asks Anakin, tightly.
Again, he shakes his head.
“Speak, Obi-Wan.”
“It’s because you’re you,” Obi-Wan finally answers. He tips forward into the man’s lap and wraps his arms around his shoulders, burying his face into the crook of his neck. He smells strongly of unwashed, feverish skin, and Obi-Wan can’t get enough. He delights in the way their hides stick together, tacky with sweat. “I know it sounds foolish, Master, and you don’t need to say anything.”
Shyly, he places a soft kiss onto the meat of Anakin’s shoulder, before continuing, the words coming out of him in a rush, “I want you to be happy. I like it when you’re happy. I try not to think of the reasons beyond that because I'm afraid of myself, but you asked for honesty and this is all I can give you. I’m sorry if its worth is meagre, but it’s all I have.”
Powerful arms circle around him and hold him tight, so tight that his ribs creak. This close and pressed together, Obi-Wan feels the way Anakin’s pulse speeds up at his declaration, and suddenly, he feels bereft that he can’t devour the man’s expression.
Anakin buries his face into Obi-Wan’s hair and breathes hard. They hold each other like that for a while. Sharing warmth, tracking heartbeats and breath.
“All right…” murmurs Obi-Wan, feeling for the vestiges of his wit returning now that his blood has cooled and his head has cleared from the orgasm. “I take it back: please say something, Master.”
Anakin laughs, a quiet huff against Obi-Wan’s head.
“I don’t know how I’ll be able to keep away from you after this,” he finally says.
He turns them both on the cot and Obi-Wan finds himself put firmly onto his back. His master looms over him, his hair and eyes wild, looking like some great beast out of ancient tales meant to cow children into behaving. Anakin is a being made of firelight and shadow, his human flesh merely a gesture of earthly compromise, and Obi-Wan feels terribly mortal beneath him now, a small offering to something far greater than any living thing in this galaxy could ever begin to touch.
A glance downward tells him that his master is still hard, his cock readied like a weapon, ready to seek purchase in Obi-Wan’s vulnerable, sacrificial flesh. To bleed him dry.
He swallows, and asks, “Are we going to…?”
Oh, but he cannot say it aloud. Obi-Wan is not that far gone, yet.
There is weight to Anakin’s eyes on him, as though his very gaze brings some measure of the Force’s power with it. And it very well might, as he is its only son, after all. It starts at Obi-Wan’s mouth when he asks the question, before traveling downward. He feels it everywhere; his nipples, his quivering belly, the soft and despoiled flesh of his cock. Even down his gangly and awkward legs and his pale feet, toes clenched in anticipation. There is now only one part of him that remains free from Anakin’s reach—
Anakin nods.
“We are,” he breathes, before pushing Obi-Wan’s knees apart with strong, unyielding hands.
Obi-Wan knows vaguely how men do this with one another: Anakin will put himself into Obi-Wan’s body, which is not made for it but can be coaxed to accepting him anyway, and Obi-Wan will have truly forfeited the connection to the Code that his chastity was meant to give him. The Code did not demand his dedication in that way, not really, but Obi-Wan had thought that the devotion on his part would’ve made up for his own shortcomings in every other way.
But alas, it is not the will of the Force itself, it seems, not if its son sought to bear down into Obi-Wan’s body and made a place for himself therein.
The thought stirs his blood again and he feels his soft, spent cock begin to stir. He digs his heels into the cot and shakily grasps at the frame, and bites the inside of his cheek.
Anakin had not taken note of Obi-Wan’s distraction, too busy nudging apart his cheeks with his thumbs and peering at his hole with such an unrestrained, yet intent hunger that Obi-Wan whimpers.
“Stop looking there,” he protests, embarrassment making his face hot.
“I would do anything for you, Obi-Wan…” says his master, “but don’t think for a second that you command me.”
He ducks down, and does something that shocks Obi-Wan to his very core: he licks there, at that dirty and secret place that Obi-Wan is certain no mouth is supposed to ever go.
“Oh!”
His whole body jerks in response, joints locking and head falling back into the pillow so hard the whole cot creaks.
“Ah …!” Obi-Wan would writhe if he could, but the Force has been summoned into the cave with them, pinning him down like a specimen upon a slab, arms locked high above his head and legs spread out as though he has been gored open. And perhaps he has been, because that’s what it feels like—“M-master wait, that’s—! Oh!”
Anakin moans, low and throaty, as his tongue circles around the rim of Obi-Wan’s asshole. To feel him breathing down there—his nose poking at skin just below his balls, far lower than it should be—makes Obi-Wan’s sense of decorum break apart into pieces.
“That’s it,” says Anakin, panting, his voice almost crazed. “There’s no one around, Obi-Wan. The Order can’t hear you here. Only me.”
He nearly sobs at the reminder, looking down the length of his own body and seeing his master’s fluffy head moving obscenely between his thighs.
Obi-Wan had expected the touch on his cock to feel good. He had been braced for it, knowing that part of his body was made to bring pleasure—but this, this is different. He didn’t realize how this could feel, not even close. Surely it’s a mistake, or perhaps Anakin is enacting some forbidden Force magic upon him, changing the very design of Obi-Wan’s body according to his will. Surely—
Anakin rises and kisses him on the knee, bringing the barrage of pleasure to a miserable halt. The touch tickles, and he tries not to yip.
“I can feel you thinking,” soothes Anakin. “Just relax. Let your body take over, and give that beautiful mind of yours some rest.”
“Please, Master,” says Obi-Wan. “I beg of you, don’t torture me.”
“Mm,” Anakin nips at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “But you make it so tempting. And rewarding. If you could see yourself, you wouldn’t blame me at all.”
“I would!”
He tries to buck up, begging with his body if his mouth can’t get him what he wants—which is Anakin’s mouth back on him. By the Force, if this intensity was nature’s design—this raw need, this all consuming mania —it is no wonder the Code warns against it so, cautions every Order initiate against the indulgence of it for fear of being tempted by darkness.
But Anakin’s Force hold keeps him down. He is completely under his master’s whim, and the thought makes his cock pulse.
“As much as I’d love to spend all night taking you apart, I don’t have that much patience,” says Anakin, spitting into his palm. “I’ve wanted this too long, Obi-Wan. You don’t understand.”
“But I do, Master.”
Something haunted overtakes Anakin’s eyes as he slicks up his cock, his motions jerky and barely restrained. Lust is rolling off him in waves, choking the air with its heat, but something else lurks beneath it, too; something dark, and desperate. Something selfish and deeply, deeply unkind.
“You don’t,” Anakin grits out. “Whatever you feel for me, Obi-Wan, whatever you want right now…it pales in comparison to the things I’ve always wanted from you—that I’ve come so close to taking from you, whether you were willing to let me or not.”
Suddenly, he drops down, and bites hard onto Obi-Wan’s lower lip. The sharp sting of it makes stars scatter across Obi-Wan’s vision, and if it were not for the Force holding him down, he would’ve jerked away on instinct.
“Ah—!”
The teeth pull away, and then Anakin sucks the wounded flesh into the heat of his own mouth in apology, before pulling back. Not far, though. He is close enough for Obi-Wan to count each individual eyelash. His oily curls graze the plane of Obi-Wan’s cheekbone. All he sees is his master’s face, and not the cave, not the fire nor the shadows that crawl all over the rock walls. Just Anakin. Only Anakin.
“Your rooms at the temple are so close to mine,” says Anakin. There is blood on his breath. “And every night, I think about…well.”
He smiles his wry smile, somehow so handsome and charming, still, despite the terrors that come to life in his confession.
“I’m sure you can guess,” he finishes. “You’ve always been bright, my padawan. Just know that it doesn’t stop at just fucking you—”
The kiss he gives Obi-Wan’s ravaged mouth is soft with apology.
“—it stops only when I’ve consumed you completely.”
Obi-Wan’s mind fills with images: of his master creeping into his rooms and doing precisely what he is doing now. Getting his hands and mouth all over him. Holding him down with the Force and stripping him of more than just his clothes—taking his vows to the Order, too, and this last thread of connection to his innocence. Stealing Obi-Wan’s personhood, his free will. Because it is so natural to be caught up in the raging torrent of Anakin Skywalker’s passions, so frightfully easy to convince oneself that what he wants is what one wants, too.
Perhaps that is why Obi-Wan is here, now, in this very position.
Perhaps Obi-Wan, too, is simply caught up.
Perhaps if Obi-Wan could put distance between them, he would realize that he takes no pleasure in being a sacrificial offering to Anakin’s dark and fiery appetite. That he wants to run far away from the drooling, snapping maw holding him in its grasp, on the edge of clamping down and devouring him whole.
He peers into the lovely blue of Anakin’s eyes, and asks, “...Bones and all?”
Anakin’s eyes flash, and Obi-Wan swears he sees them trap fire within them, flashing gold—but the moment passes quickly, and suddenly, his body is being breached.
His mouth falls open, overwhelmed.
The pressure of Anakin’s intrusion is immense, pushing apart Obi-Wan’s tender flesh like a weapon. It is ceaseless, knocking the very air from his lungs. He aches.
“Master! Master!” he cries.
But Anakin is beyond words, now half-mad with desire. Obi-Wan feels it pulsing in the Force, bringing wildness upon them and scorching, dizzying heat. His head is pure noise, he cannot think. Despite the pain of it, all he wants is to feel Anakin bottoming out, their bodies locking together, the executioner’s axe coming down on the fraying remains of Obi-Wan’s vows.
And he gets his wish. Through the pulsing of his temples and the roar of his own blood, he feels the halting grind of Anakin’s hips flush against his. The scratch of his pubic hair against his ass. The deep, unconscionably intimate fullness of his cock—
Panting, Anakin glowers down at him, almost looking almost angry. He growls, “I finally have you.”
Two fingers of Anakin’s durasteel hand push into the pockets of his cheeks, prying his mouth open.
He sees gleaming white teeth as Anakin’s jaw opens and his lips pull back, as his tongue slithers out to drip the hot, viscous string of saliva down into Obi-Wan’s awaiting mouth. He feels it slide down, down into his own throat, and his eyes roll back into his own head.
Obi-Wan cannot think anymore. He is not a being capable of thought any longer. He is an amalgamation of nerve endings and rushing blood and a thundering pulse.
After an eternity, Anakin moves. He pulls back his hips before slamming back inside, striking a spot deep inside Obi-Wan’s body that makes him scream. Before he can even try to muster up the faculties to beg his master to find that spot again, Anakin is already thrusting, beginning a frenzied, inelegant rhythm that leaves them both trembling and groaning like primordial animals. Beneath them, the metal cot shrieks against the rocky floor.
The cave takes the obscenity of their noises and amplifies it into terrible, ringing echoes that force Obi-Wan to contend with how he sounds, how desperate and hungry for it he is. He had not known such noises existed within him, but here they are, wrung out of him with every drag of Anakin’s big, demanding cock.
He doesn’t last long, only marginally longer than the first round, before he is coming with a sob and spurting into the space between their bodies, splattering all over his trembling stomach. His whole body clenches, his ass tightening mercilessly around Anakin, and suddenly he feels the Force hold releasing him as Anakin falls bodily on top of him.
Obi-Wan’s muscles burn, stiff from being held in stasis, but he can’t mind that now, not when Anakin is grasping at him with his bare hands, panting into his hair as he pounds into Obi-Wan’s wrung out body, chasing his own release.
“Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan…!” he gasps, his voice mauled from use. “My beautiful boy…my love, my love…”
Whimpering from the strain, Obi-Wan sinks his nails into the muscles of Anakin’s big back.
“Inside me, Master,” he keens. Right at this moment, he wants to feel Anakin finish inside him, more than he wants anything else in the galaxy.
And he does—he comes with a long, stuttering groan right by Obi-Wan’s ear. His cock pulses inside Obi-Wan’s ass, filling him with spend, and he grinds his pelvis down into Obi-Wan’s as though he’s trying to feed every last drop into his body.
Anakin’s weight crushes him into the cot, the sheer strength of his racing pulse and heaving chest bearing down upon him like a giant. Even without commanding the Force, he is immovable, a being of so much power that all Obi-Wan cling to him and try to catch his breath.
Slowly, the noise in his head fades during the comedown. Incredible how much clarity orgasm brings, he thinks.
With a muffled grunt, Anakin pulls out of him, the sensation sticky and unpleasant. What he leaves behind is a dull ache, and an emptiness that wasn’t there before.
Arms encircle his waist, and then he is being spun around to lie on top of his master, his cheek sticking to the drying sweat on his chest. A sharp chin digs into the top of his head, and plush lips murmur into his hair.
“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” he says.
With a shudder, Obi-Wan responds, bearing through the embarrassment of his ruined voice, “Don’t be. I wanted it.”
“Not for that.”
“Master?”
Anakin runs his hands all over Obi-Wan’s back, and with a dreamy sigh, kisses the crown of his head, and says, “I’m sorry that I won’t be able to let you go after this. I’m telling you now…because I won’t later.”
He does sound sorry about it, to his credit. As though it were something entirely beyond his control.
“Ah,” Obi-Wan closes his eyes.
Exhaustion suddenly catches up with him, as if his body has just remembered what it’s been put through. He thinks he could sleep through the next month, if allowed.
“Well,” he murmurs, already succumbing to darkness. “My rooms at the temple are rather close to yours.”
He falls asleep to the feeling of hands on his skin, lips in his hair. A soft, breathy voice telling him sweet nothings he cannot make out.
If he wakes tomorrow in the beast's belly, he thinks, then he may as well make himself comfortable.