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The blast knocks Anakin off of his feet.
He’s stunned by the explosion, bones shuddering, teeth rattling in his skull. It means that he’s unable to do more than reach wildly for the Force, desperate, as his body tumbles gracelessly through the air. He only manages to slow himself by a fraction—too little, too late—before he slams full-force into the towering durasteel wall behind him. Debris rains down around him: shrapnel and droid-parts and chunks of impossibly heavy metal, all blown apart by the force of the Separatist bomb.
Anakin knows even before his vision clears that something is terribly wrong.
Pain, razor-sharp, lances through his right arm. It is intense enough that he barely feels the rest of the pain he knows he should be in—especially given how hard his head hit the wall. In fact, he’s dimly aware of something warm and wet trickling down the back of his neck. But his arm—it’s agony, red-hot, a ring of burning where durasteel connects to flesh. And what’s worse, he can’t move it.
The battle is still raging around him, though Anakin can hear other, distant explosions echoing through the facility. Evidently, the Separatists would rather bomb their own droid factory to ruin than allow the Republic a clean victory. At this point, he and his men just need to get out of here. But—
Anakin tries to lift his wrist again. It’s futile; his arm is caught beneath an enormous hunk of metal plating. Even the brief attempted movement sends another wave of nauseating pain roiling through him, intense enough to leave him lightheaded. Okay—okay, he needs another plan.
This is fine.
“Rex,” he manages to gasp into his com. It’s damaged and lightly smoking, so he can only hope it still works. “Can you hear me?”
The relief that washes over him when Rex’s voice crackles through—“I hear you, sir!”—is dizzying.
“I need you to get the men out of here,” he says. “This whole factory is going to come down.” As if to punctuate his point, another explosion rocks through the facility, rattling the walls.
“Yes, sir,” says Rex. “Rendezvous back at the ship?”
Anakin stares at his trapped arm, eyes narrowed. “Uh, yeah,” he hedges. “See you there.”
The com goes silent.
With a deep breath, Anakin lifts his left arm and focuses on the metal plating pinning down his right. He tries to shift it with the Force, to lift it just enough to tug his mechno hand free—but it only shudders a little in place, barely moving at all.
“E chu ta,” Anakin snarls to no one in particular. “Kriffing karking hell—“
If Obi-Wan were here, he would comment dryly on Anakin’s propensity to reach for Huttese swear words ahead of Basic. He claims that the language Anakin swears first in gives away just how annoyed he truly is. Huttese, apparently, indicates maximum frustration.
Right now, he would be correct.
Flexing his left hand, Anakin reaches for the Force again. His right arm is in so much pain that cold sweat has begun to drip from his hairline, shine on his forehead. Even if he does manage to shift this hunk of metal, there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to actually muster the strength to get out of here before the whole facility blows. But—that, he tells himself, is a problem for future Anakin. Very near future Anakin, but still.
This time, thank the Force, the plating rises with a metallic groan. Anakin’s arm shakes violently with the effort of holding it as it drifts just a few inches into the air. But he manages to shift it to the side, just far enough to free his arm, before he lets it drop back to the ground with a crash.
He curses—Huttese, again—when he sees the state of his right arm.
His black leather glove is burnt and shredded, hanging in scraps off of his mechno hand. And the hand itself… it’s nothing more than a mangled mess of plating and loose wires. The remains are smoking, occasional sparks flying from the ends of broken wires, and the place where it connects to Anakin’s flesh is shredded and bloody. Of course the Force-damned pain receptors would continue working even after the rest of it was blasted to smithereens.
Anakin breathes shallowly through his nose, in and out. He’s lucky no one is shooting at him right now, because the way he immediately tumbles over when he tries to stand is utterly embarrassing. And panic-inducing. He really might not get out of here.
He manages to get onto his hands and knees—well, hand and knees—and stays there for a moment, head spinning. He tries to stand again… but the wave of nausea that washes over him immediately tells him that, nope, that is a terrible idea and not going to happen. He’s going to have to crawl. So he does.
Slowly, inch by inch, Anakin crawls along the floor toward the exit. The remnants of his mechno hand drag along the floor as he goes, sending jagged pulses of pain radiating through him. But if he can just get out of here—if he can just get back to the ship—back to his men, and Obi-Wan—
“Anakin!”
He looks up, vision blurry. Whether it’s from the pain or his head injury, he isn’t sure. But he would know Obi-Wan’s voice anywhere.
“Master?” he croaks.
Obi-Wan is at his side in an instant. “Anakin, you’re all right. I’ve got you.”
“My hand,” he says. “It’s…”
“I’m not worried about your hand,” Obi-Wan says firmly. “I’m worried about you.” He helps Anakin to his feet, holding him securely about the waist. “Stay with me, darling. Come on. We’re getting out of here.”
Anakin stumbles along beside him, head lolling onto his shoulder. “Master,” he mumbles. “Master, I—“
“Shh, Anakin. We’re almost there.”
Anakin has no idea how long it takes to flee the facility. All he knows is that, eventually, he becomes aware that Obi-Wan is dragging him up the ramp to the ship, and then he’s almost immediately swarmed by medics. The pain in his arm is still indescribable—but now he can feel his head wound, too, a dull throbbing at the back of his skull. He thinks he’s going to pass out. No—he’s definitely going to pass out. Everything begins to darken at once, his lids growing too heavy to keep open.
The last thing he hears is the sound of the droid factory imploding… and Obi-Wan murmuring his name, soft and hazy as a dream.
#####
When Anakin comes to, he’s lying in a white-garbed healing bed, clad in nothing but a thin grey medical gown. The throbbing in his head has receded to a dull ache, pale in comparison to the agony he’d felt as he fled the droid factory with Obi-Wan. And his arm…
He cannot feel his arm at all. He looks to his right, where he finds that the pieces, still attached at his elbow, have been propped onto a little white table. The blood has been cleaned off of his skin, but the mangled heap of metal and wires remains.
Anakin swallows audibly.
“Anakin,” someone says, voice full of relief. It’s Obi-Wan—of course it’s Obi-Wan. He’s hunched in a chair at Anakin’s bedside, still wearing his battle-filthy armor.
“Welcome back, sir,” says another voice, and Anakin turns to see Rex. Kix is beside him, holding an armful of bandages and what looks like an IV bag.
“I… made it out,” Anakin says slowly. “I didn’t think…“
“Yes,” Obi-Wan cuts in, and now his voice is edged with displeasure. “Why you did not ask for help, I haven’t the faintest inkling. Had I not felt your pain in the Force, you might have—“
He abruptly stops talking. Anakin can see his jaw flexing beneath his beard. Whether he’s furious or holding back tears, Anakin doesn’t know. Possibly it’s both. He looks away from Obi-Wan, chastened.
“Did the rest of the men…?” he asks. “Ahsoka?”
“Yes, sir,” says Rex. “Everyone is all right, Commander Tano included. They’re all concerned about you, though. They all saw you coming in. It… didn’t look good.”
Anakin attempts his signature dashing smile. “Well, I’m all right now, thanks to Obi-Wan,” he says. But then his gaze drops to the charred, twisted hunk of durasteel that is his arm, and his smile fades. “Except for that, I guess. I’ll need a new one, huh?”
“Eventually. But the first priority is getting this one off,” Kix says. He bustles over to Anakin’s side, where he hangs the IV bag he was holding on a stand. “Which may prove to be complicated.”
“Complicated?” Anakin asks. “How?”
“You can’t currently feel any pain, can you?”
Anakin shakes his head.
“Good,” says Kix. “But the effects of the painkiller we gave you will be wearing off soon. And unfortunately, thanks to your head injury, it isn’t safe to give you any more.”
Cold dread washes over Anakin as he remembers the razor-sharp agony he’d felt back at the droid factory. But if there’s nothing to be done… He’s just going to have to deal with the pain as they remove the remains of his arm, then. He sets his jaw and says, “It’s all right, Kix. Do what you gotta do. I can handle it.”
Kix looks horrified. “What—? No, I didn’t mean—“
“We won’t allow you to suffer, Anakin,” Obi-Wan interjects, exasperated. “But Kix had to get a little… creative with his painkilling technique.”
“You won’t feel a thing, sir,” Kix assures him. He flicks the IV bag. “This right here? Full of Kashyyykian orchid juice. Second this stuff hits, you’ll be floating on a cloud.”
“Oh,” says Anakin. He grins again, relieved. “What’s complicated about it, then?”
“It’s just that some people tend to get a little funny on this stuff. Nothing serious! But, well, try not to think too hard about any embarrassing secrets you might be keeping, yeah?”
Anakin swallows down the urge to look at Obi-Wan. Not that he’s embarrassed about it—but it is, well, kind of a big secret that he’s, you know. Fucking his former master. More than that: hopelessly in love with his former master. Whatever. “Well, it’ll be just you here, anyway, right, Kix?”
“I’m not leaving you,” Obi-Wan says at once.
Rex raises a hand. “Kix asked me to stay and help, rather than one of the other medics. Just in case you were to say anything… sensitive, sir, while you’re under the influence.”
Well, then. Anakin does look nervously at Obi-Wan, now—but he just looks as serene as ever, completely unconcerned that Anakin is about to get high off his ass and potentially start waxing poetic about Obi-Wan’s cock.
“Okay,” Anakin says, not without trepidation. “When are we doing this?”
“Now, preferably,” says Kix. “You’ll be in pain again soon if we don’t, and I’m worried about leaving that busted mess attached to your body for too long. Sorry, sir,” he adds, looking apologetic.
Anakin nods. “Let’s do it, then.” He looks at Obi-Wan, desperate for a distraction as Kix starts to prep his left arm for the IV with a pad of some cold, stingy liquid. It’s a little silly, but for all the pain he’s learned to bear, he still hates needles.
“You could’ve gone to change, you know,” he tells Obi-Wan. “Still can.”
Obi-Wan presses his lips together into what could, ostensibly, be a smile. “I wasn’t going to leave you, Anakin,” he says. “In the beginning, we didn’t know if you’d pull through. I was worried.”
Anakin can feel him in the Force. Suddenly, he knows with absolute certainty that I was worried is the understatement of the century. I was so scared I couldn’t breathe, Obi-Wan means. If I’d lost you, it would have destroyed me. His heart seizes in his chest. He wants nothing more than to reach out for Obi-Wan, kiss that pained expression off of his beautiful face. But Kix and Rex are here. He can’t.
He feels the IV needle enter his arm with a light pinch, and he winces.
“All ready, sir,” says Kix. “The effect should be pretty immediate. We’ll just give it a couple of minutes.”
It’s strange: Anakin feels as though he can feel the liquid entering his veins, spreading warmth from the crook of his arm upward, over his bicep, downward, to his wrist. Across his chest, pumping toward his heart. It’s like he’s slowly sinking into a soft, fluffy cloud—just like Kix said. He giggles, a little incredulously.
“Floating on a cloud,” he says sagely. The pain in his head, his arm, is nothing more than a distant memory. He feels so light that he can’t help but giggle again. Obi-Wan’s blue-grey eyes crinkle up at the corners when he hears Anakin’s laugh, and oh, that’s hot. Anakin loves to see Obi-Wan smile like that. A real smile, not the pained twist of lips he’d made earlier.
“I think it’s kicked in already,” someone says, sounding amused.
“Keep him distracted, General?” says someone else.
And then Anakin feels a light pressure on his right arm, tugging at it. He starts to turn his head to see what’s going on, but Obi-Wan says, “Look at me, Anakin,” and he’s helpless but to obey. As always.
“Like when you tell me what to do,” he mumbles. “S’hot.”
Obi-Wan flushes right down to the neck of his armor. “Anakin,” he says hastily, “you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re—er, compromised.”
Anakin sits up straighter at that, indignant. “I am not!” he argues. “I’m just saying it does things to me when you get all ‘Do what I say, Ah-na-kin.’” He imitates Obi-Wan’s Coruscanti accent, probably quite poorly. Somewhere on his other side, someone—Kix?—lets out a strangled laugh.
“You’ve never followed orders a day in your life,” Obi-Wan says. But he smiles again, and lifts a hand to stroke Anakin’s curls back from his forehead.
Anakin leans happily into the touch. He might as well be purring like a Loth-cat. “M’good at following your orders,” he says. “So good.”
Obi-Wan coughs loudly. “Er, are you excited to be able to build a new arm, Anakin?” he asks. “I know you always loved tinkering with this one.” He’s obviously changing the subject, and it makes Anakin pout. He can be good for Obi-Wan. He is.
But he thinks about Obi-Wan’s question for a moment, nose scrunched. “Yeah,” he finally decides. “I can make it better this time. Stronger.” Maybe he can even include some new features—like a laser beam. Or a concealed blade. Or a lock picking tool! Not that he’s ever needed to pick a lock—not when he’s more prone to slashing doors open with his lightsaber. Well, it was a cool thought. Maybe a shield would be a better idea. It could project, and then—
“You still with us, sir?” Rex asks.
“Hm?” Anakin asks absently. “Oh, yeah. Was thinking about a shield.” He squints at Obi-Wan. Now, he could use a shield.
“You don’t wear enough armor,” he informs him.
Obi-Wan lets out a surprised laugh. “Anakin, I wear lots of armor.” He spreads his arms, gesturing at his chest piece and pauldrons and gauntlets. “It’s more than I’d like, as it is.”
“Your chest piece barely covers anything,” Anakin says, frowning. “You should wear full armor, like Rex and Kix. That’s good armor. Solid.”
He thinks for a moment about what Obi-Wan would look like in full clone armor, and—kriff, that’s a picture. He looks hot enough in the little armor he does wear. Anakin imagines Obi-Wan fully kitted out, leaning against a wall, just his codpiece removed so Anakin would have room to sink to his knees and—
“You’re projecting, Padawan,” Obi-Wan says in a strangled voice.
Anakin grins. “Yeah? You like what you see, Master?”
Obi-Wan flushes again, and his fingers tighten infinitesimally in Anakin’s hair.
“He likes when I call him Master,” Anakin informs Rex and Kix. They both go wide-eyed, as though they’re unsure whether they’re allowed to laugh or not. “Especially when we’re—“
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says desperately. “Remember yourself.”
“I remember lots of things,” Anakin says, pouting. “Like last night while we were in hyperspace, when you shoved me over the command table and—“
“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan says to Rex and Kix. “Anakin doesn’t know what he’s saying right now. The orchid juice—“
“Of course, sir,” Kix says. But he’s smirking.
Anakin leans back into the pillows on his bed, sighing. He feels extra warm, now, and loose-limbed. It’s the first time he’s felt this relaxed in—well, ever. It’s like he’s had six shots of Twi’lek liquor, only better. The only thing that’d make it perfect is if Obi-Wan would go back to stroking his hair.
“You stopped petting me,” he complains.
“Oh, how could I,” Obi-Wan says with a smile. He twines his fingers into Anakin’s curls again, stroking the top of his head.
It feels so fucking good that a moan slips out from somewhere in Anakin’s chest, deep and, frankly, kind of obscene. He’d probably be embarrassed if he were in his right mind. But he’s not, so.
He relaxes into the sensation, letting his eyes flutter shut against the bright lights of the med bay. He feels like gravity is tugging him down and down and down, pressing him into the softness of the mattress and sheets. It’s wonderful, beautiful, perfect.
When he opens his eyes again, blinking in the light, he’s delighted to find Obi-Wan leaning over him.
“Master!” he says. Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkle at the corners again, the way Anakin likes. Force, he looks beautiful right now. His face is streaked with battle-dirt, his hair wild with grime and dried sweat, but—it’s a look on him. “You’re so hot, Master,” he says earnestly. “So hot. You shouldn’t even be allowed outside, looking like that. Want you all to myself.”
“Well, at least we definitely know this stuff works,” says Kix. He sounds like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“Hey, Master? If I had a credit for every time I saw someone as hot as you, I’d have one credit. Get it? Cause there’s no one else as hot as you!”
Obi-Wan turns cherry red, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears.
“Yeah, it works,” Rex says, grinning. “Unlike the General’s pickup lines.”
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin starts. He’s fully ready with another line—and they do work, thank you very much. But Obi-Wan reaches out and catches his left hand in his own, shushing him softly.
“Shh, Padawan,” he says. “You’re all right. Let’s let Kix do his job, hm? You’re doing so well.”
Now Anakin is the one to flush red. He loves when Obi-Wan tells him he’s being good. He eyes his master’s lips, slightly chapped beneath the edges of his beard. He wants to kiss them, lick that clever mouth open, work Obi-Wan up until he’s willing to shove Anakin down and fuck into him…
He squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand in his, relishing the feel of his strong, callused palm. “How’d I get so lucky, huh, Master? You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen, and you’re so good. The best. Everyone knows it. Anyone would be lucky to have you, but me?” He shakes his head, awed. “You’re so nice to me all the time. Even when you’re mad at me.”
“I’m never mad at you, Anakin,” says Obi-Wan. “Frustrated, maybe. But never mad.”
“Really? What about the time I pretended my com broke and threw it down a garbage chute and then me and Ahsoka ran into the—“
Obi-Wan closes his eyes, as though he’s begging the Force for strength. “Even then,” he says at last.
Anakin beams. Then, suddenly, he hears a strange sawing noise coming from his right side, and he frowns.
“What‘s that?” he asks. “Why am I here, Master?”
“Kix is fixing your arm,” Obi-Wan reminds him gently. “You have to keep still for him.”
“Oh. He’s making it better?”
“He’s taking off the broken one so you can make a new one. So, yes, I suppose he’s making it better.”
Anakin blinks wide blue eyes up at Obi-Wan. “You could make me better, Master,” he says slyly. “All I need is a kiss. Kisses are healing, you know. That’s what my mother always said.”
“You’re delirious,” Obi-Wan protests. He’s smiling, though, like he thinks Anakin is the cutest thing he’s ever seen. It’s the same smile he reserves for small baby animals (and Ahsoka). “Kix is taking care of you. He’s doing a great job.”
“I want you to take care of me,” Anakin pouts. “C’mon, Master, just one kiss? Just one?” He purses his lips hopefully.
“Anakin, we’re not alone,” says Obi-Wan helplessly.
Kix coughs. “I’m not looking, General,” he says. “Very engrossed in this hunk of metal. Almost done, too. Do what you gotta do to keep him happy, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Seconding that,” says Rex.
Obi-Wan looks at Anakin. Anakin looks back, his eyes wide and begging.
“One kiss,” Obi-Wan says firmly. “I suppose the Loth-cat is out of the bag, anyway, isn’t it?” And then he leans down and presses his lips to Anakin’s.
Anakin melts eagerly into the kiss, reveling in the soft scrape of Obi-Wan’s beard against his skin. He runs his tongue along his master’s bottom lip, wetting the kiss, trying his best to turn it as filthy as he wants. And for a moment, it seems to be working: Obi-Wan kisses him more firmly, wraps one large hand around the back of his neck, thumb pressing into his pulse point. But just as Anakin’s heart rate begins to ratchet up, just as he’s starting to whimper into Obi-Wan’s mouth, Obi-Wan pulls away.
“Master!” Anakin complains. He hooks the fingers of his free hand over Obi-Wan’s belt, trying to tug him closer. “You can’t just kiss me like that and then leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere, darling,” Obi-Wan says smoothly. “See? Not leaving.”
Anakin pouts again. “But you’re not kissing me anymore. You have to touch me, Master. Obi-Wan. Please.”
“Still very much not alone,” Obi-Wan warns. But Anakin barely hears him; he’s too busy fantasizing about everything he wants Obi-Wan to do to him. Or everything he wants to do to Obi-Wan.
“Let me at least suck you off, Master,” he begs. “I’m so good at it, you know I am, remember?”
“Dank farrik,” Kix swears, at the same time that Rex makes an odd choking noise. Anakin turns to look at them both, confused. Why do they sound so shocked? He is good at sucking Obi-Wan off. Of course he is. But for some reason, Rex’s brown skin looks strangely purple, as if he’s struggling to contain an outburst. And Kix’s eyes are fully watering. What the hell is wrong with them?
“Just a few more minutes, and this thing will be free,” Kix manages. “And then we’ll, uh, leave you two to it. Hand me that, Rex, will you—yeah, the silver one—”
Yes, Anakin thinks, leave us to it. He absently starts fumbling, one-handed, with the fastenings of Obi-Wan’s belt. If he could just get it off—
Obi-Wan seizes Anakin’s hand in his, forcing him to still. “Anakin,” he says, and it’s in that stern, commanding tone that sends a shiver down Anakin’s spine. “Behave.”
“I am behaving,” he argues.
“You are not,” Obi-Wan says with a growl. And, oh, that sound makes Anakin absolutely dizzy with want. He whimpers, just a little.
“You are going to be still and let Kix finish removing your old arm,” Obi-Wan continues. “And if you’re very good, perhaps I shall reward you afterward.”
Kix and Rex are still shaking with silent laughter. Weirdos. But Anakin doesn’t care: he has an order from Obi-Wan, and the promise of a reward if he follows it to perfection. He can do this. He was born to do this. “Yes, Master,” he says breathily. He goes absolutely still on the bed, letting his hand drop from Obi-Wan’s belt. Perhaps he’ll get to remove it later. After.
“Incredible,” says Kix. “I’ve never seen him follow an order like that.”
“It is a rare occasion,” Obi-Wan says dryly.
Anakin contents himself with staring dreamily at Obi-Wan as Kix continues the delicate work of removing the scraps of his arm. Eventually, his eyes drift shut again—but he can still practically see Obi-Wan, the perfect image of him burned into the backs of his eyelids, bright as an angel. At some point, Obi-Wan starts stroking his hair again, and it feels so Force-damned good that Anakin could die like this and he’d be happy.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Anakin feels pressure on his right side, and then—and then sudden lightness. He opens his eyes.
“Done,” Kix declares, and he holds up the mess of durasteel and wires, the remnants of Anakin’s old arm, victorious. “Just have to patch you up with some bacta and you’ll be good as new. Well, almost.”
Anakin smiles, bright and happy. “Thanks, boys,” he says. “Hey, how long is this orchid juice stuff gonna last?”
“Should wear off pretty soon after we remove the IV,” says Kix. He wastes no time in coating Anakin’s now-exposed elbow joint in bacta, then wrapping it in bandages. When he’s done, he rounds Anakin’s other side to slip the needle from his arm.
“Well, that’s our cue,” Rex says as soon as Kix has finished cleaning up. “Er, permission to leave, Generals?”
“Please leave,” Obi-Wan says, sounding pained.
A shit-eating grin splits Kix’s face. “Enjoy your alone time, sirs.”
He and Rex file out of the room, shoulders suspiciously straight.
The second the door slides shut behind them, muffled laughter breaks out in the hall. It goes on and on, only fading when the two men have made it too far down the hall to be audible.
“Well, I expect we have about…” Obi-Wan looks at his chronometer, sighing. “About a half an hour before the entire clone army knows about this.”
“Hmmm?” Anakin asks. He’s distracted by the perfect planes of Obi-Wan’s face, practically glowing in the stark med bay lighting. He wants to kiss every curve of every feature. Trace his tongue over every freckle that dots Obi-Wan’s pale skin.
“You have a very one track mind, dear one,” says Obi-Wan. He settles on the edge of Anakin’s bed and reaches out a hand to cradle his face. “Would you like me to take care of you?”
“Would like you to fuck me,” Anakin says hopefully. He turns his head to the side just to catch Obi-Wan’s thumb in his mouth. The way his master’s eyes darken as he laves his tongue over the digit, sucking it as enthusiastically as he would his cock, sends a shock of satisfied arousal rippling through him.
“You’re still recovering, Anakin,” Obi-Wan manages. He doesn’t sound very firm in his resolve, though. “And—and you are still under the influence. I cannot take advantage of you.”
Anakin moans around Obi-Wan’s thumb. “Please, Master,” he begs. “Please take advantage of me. I’ve been so good.”
Obi-Wan inhales, sharp. “Yes,” he agrees, and his voice is low. Rough. “Yes, I suppose you have, darling. So very good for me.” He tugs his thumb out of Anakin’s mouth, dragging it along his plush bottom lip as he goes. “Force, you’re beautiful. Look at you.”
Anakin reaches for Obi-Wan’s belt again, whimpering. “Let me,” he pleads. “Just let me—“
“Be still, Anakin,” Obi-Wan orders. But he reaches for the belt himself. Tugs the leather straps free. Lets it drop to the floor. “If we are going to do this, you are going to have to listen to me. I won’t hurt you.”
“Yes, Master,” Anakin moans. He’s practically vibrating out of his skin with want. He’ll do anything Obi-Wan asks, if it’ll get him more of his touch. He watches, greedy, as Obi-Wan strips out of his armor, setting it neatly on a chair next to Anakin’s bed. When he finally pulls his sweat-stiff tunic over his head, Anakin very nearly goes dizzy. The pale, muscled expanse of him… he’s all rippling abs and fine copper chest hair. And lower… his cock is thick and hard, jutting out from the sharp vee of his hips. Anakin wants it. His own cock throbs between his legs, and he’s suddenly very aware that his thin grey medical gown hides absolutely nothing. Just how long has he been this hard? Perhaps Kix and Rex truly did see more than they ever wanted to. Oops.
When Obi-Wan is fully nude, he wastes no time. He crawls atop Anakin in his narrow healing bed, shoving Anakin’s gown up above his waist as he goes. He has nothing on underneath; like this, the bare lines of their bodies are free to tangle together. Anakin can feel Obi-Wan’s hard length rutting against his own, smearing precome against his skin. He can’t help but buck his hips up into his master’s, chasing the sweet friction against his cock. It feels so fucking good his eyes roll back a little, lashes fluttering.
“Oh,” he says, “Obi-Wan—oh, oh,“ and he’s caught between the soft cloud that is his bed and the deliciously hot press of Obi-Wan’s body, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. He spreads his legs, hooking his feet around the backs of Obi-Wan’s knees. He wants Obi-Wan to fuck him, but he is absolutely not going to last that long.
Obi-Wan bends down to capture his mouth in a kiss, wet and open-mouthed. Anakin melts into it. He goes slack against Obi-Wan, allowing him to direct the kiss as he wishes. And Obi-Wan does: he curls a hand into the hair at the back of Anakin’s neck and tugs him into position, licks his mouth open and claims every inch of it for his own.
“Thought I was going to go mad,” Obi-Wan pants into Anakin’s mouth. “Listening to you talk about sucking my cock in front of the men.”
“Did you like it, Master?” Anakin asks. His voice is caught on the edge of a whine. “Did you want it? Want me to do it right there, so they could see?”
A low, gutted groan tears from somewhere in Obi-Wan’s chest. “You could show them how good you can be for me, hm?”
“Yes,” Anakin agrees. He’s mindless with pleasure, brain still fuzzy at the edges. All he can do is lay there and take whatever Obi-Wan is willing to give him—and, right now, the rhythmic friction of his master’s cock rutting against his own is this close to sending him over the edge. “I’m—I’m close, Master,” he manages.
“Good,” Obi-Wan growls. “I want you to come for me, Anakin. Come on, darling, let me see you—“
Anakin does. He cries out, high-pitched and keening, as he comes, and his cock spills messily all over his abs and stomach, painting his golden skin in streaks of pearly white.
Obi-Wan reaches down to streak his fingers through the mess on Anakin’s abs, gathering up his come and using it to slick his own cock. The sight is so erotic Anakin can hardly bear to watch—but he forces himself to keep his eyes trained on Obi-Wan, unwilling to miss even a second, as he rises up onto his knees and begins to jerk himself in earnest. His perfect hand moves in quick, efficient strokes, each one making wet noises echo through the room. The sounds mingle with Anakin’s whimpers and Obi-Wan’s pants, a filthy medley. Anakin can tell from the way Obi-Wan is breathing, heavy and unsteady, that he’s close. His blue-grey eyes are almost black with his arousal, pupils nearly eclipsing his pale irises.
“Come in my mouth, Master,” he suddenly begs. “Please, I want it—want to taste you—“
The sound that escapes Obi-Wan then is inhuman. He shuffles forward over Anakin’s body, squeezing his cock hard in his fist. It must be to stop himself from coming, because the second he’s positioned over Anakin’s wet, open mouth, he lets go—and then he tips his head back and shoots off with a low, feral groan.
His cock spurts into Anakin’s waiting mouth, onto his lips, his tongue, his cheeks. Anakin swallows as best he can, moaning like the star of a dirty holo-vid. He loves when Obi-Wan claims him like this, marks him like this. It makes him feel like he’s truly his, every inch of him possessed.
They come down slowly, panting together. Anakin’s eyes are glassy, glazed over with pleasure and utter contentment. He scoots over a little in the bed, then gestures for Obi-Wan to collapse beside him. When his master does, Anakin snuggles into his side, delighted.
“How are you feeling, dear one?” Obi-Wan asks. He presses a kiss to the side of Anakin’s head to punctuate his question.
“Never been better,” Anakin says earnestly. “And I don’t even think I’m high anymore.” It’s true: the effects of the orchid juice truly did wear off quickly. But even though he can feel the dull throbbing of his head wound again, and his arm aches at the elbow joint, it’s nowhere close to the burning agony he’d felt before the arm was removed. This? He can work with this.
Obi-Wan lets out a muffled laugh. “I’m glad, darling,” he says. “Although… I suppose we should clean up before Kix comes to check in on you.”
Anakin wrinkles his nose. “I think he’s going to stay well away from here for quite awhile, Master,” he says, and Obi-Wan laughs again. He supposes he should be embarrassed by the scene he’d made while Kix and Rex were removing his arm, but, well... he’s too happy to care just now. Except—
“You do realize this means Ahsoka is going to find out about us,” Obi-Wan points out.
Anakin groans. “Oh, we are never going to hear the end of it from her. I already know it. She’s the one we’re going to have to worry about barging in here before we’re ready.” He peers nervously toward the door, as if she could be only moments away. Knowing her, she really could be.
But Obi-Wan tucks him a little closer into his side and says, “Shhh, Padawan. Just a few more moments.” And Anakin is helpless but to obey. How could he not?
They can worry about Ahsoka and the rest of the men later. For now? He’s here with Obi-Wan… and that is enough.