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They’re trying to be normal friends. After everything they’ve been through, it might prove to be impossible—but they’re trying.
Anakin’s never been rich in the close friends department, so he’s useless until Obi-Wan, who’s slightly more socially adept, suggests they go for a drink.
They do, and that becomes routine. Padmé doesn’t totally disguise her judgement, but she doesn’t make a fuss about it. Maybe because Anakin never brings his new habit home—the booze or Obi-Wan. He’d like to soothe her, or at least wipe that look off her face whenever he returns from an outing with his former Master, but he doesn’t have the words to do it.
With her, it’s always been difficult for him to lie. The very opposite with Obi-Wan.
Both these things are the reason he can’t comfort her. All he could say, if he dared, is that he drinks because it makes him honest. It makes Obi-Wan honest, too. Such openness between them is more intoxicating than anything he’s served at the bar, and Anakin’s unwilling to give that up.
Tonight, he’s four shots in when he runs his flesh hand down his face and sighs, “Can I ask you something weird?”
Obi-Wan’s glass—full of something sparkly and orange that smells like rock candy—is raised to his lips, but he doesn’t take a sip. Instead, he laughs. It huffs out through his nose and sends ripples across the liquor.
“What?” Anakin narrows his eyes. Obi-Wan’s rolls his without malice before actually taking a drink.
“Always exciting when you ask permission before questioning me,” Obi-Wan shrugs, his grin hidden behind his beard. “I can’t wait.”
It’s all liquid courage when Anakin looks at him and just says it. “Padmé and I haven’t had sex in—“ he pauses, thinking, then gives up,”—a while.”
All the mirth drains from the older man’s face, and it’s replaced by a curled lip of spare me. Anakin doesn’t call him out on it. It’s part of the honesty.
“That’s not a question,” Obi-Wan says, as if he’s bored by it.
With a groan, all thought of Obi-Wan’s reaction slips from Anakin’s drunk mind, and he returns to his original point. “Is that normal?”
Obi-Wan’s smile returns, but it’s sardonic. “How should I know?”
Anakin puts an elbow on the table and leans in. “You’ve had sex, Obi-Wan.”
“Not with anyone I’m bound to by law, Anakin.”
“We’re not married like that,” Anakin scoffs. He slumps back in his seat when he realizes how foolish of a response that is, especially to Obi-Wan. It’s all too easy to hear his former Master’s response in his head; well, of course—can’t leave a trail when you’re lying to everyone, my very young apprentice.
It’s not exactly what he gets. Obi-Wan finishes off his drink and waves down a droid to get him another. “That’s too bad—no joint tax return.”
It’s a choice to ignore the snideness. With a sigh, Anakin rests his cheek on his palm and nods to the droid that brings two of the sparkly orange drinks and places one in front of him. “Sometimes I wish I was more like you,” he grumbles.
Obi-Wan’s mouth opens a bit, and then he closes it before a snort comes out of his nose again; most likely him wanting to make fun of Anakin then thinking better of it. “Why’s that?” He asks—light and diplomatic though his eyes become sharp.
“You know,” Anakin gestures vaguely with his hand, forgetting it’s holding his glass and sending a splash of liquor on the tabletop. They both ignore it. “Just—fucking. Not caring so much.”
“I believe the gentlemen’s term is think with your dick.”
“Master,” he says, looking flatly at Obi-Wan as his mouth falls back into old habits.
“Sorry, darling.” Darling is another side effect of the drinking; the honesty. It pleases all parts of Anakin to hear it. He imagines wrapping up the word safe and tight and presenting it to his nine year old self as a gift.
“I just think it’d be easier,” Anakin continues, and then quickly adds, “Sometimes.”
Obi-Wan squints at him across the table, twirling his glass so the liquor whirlpools. “So, it’s her, then?”
Anakin takes half-hazard stock of everything he’s said and realizes that coming to the conclusion that he’s still eager to get his dick wet while his wife is withholding isn’t entirely unreasonable. That doesn’t mean it’s actually what’s going on, though. Not even close.
“No, I—I think it’s both of us.” His buzz isn’t fading, but becoming heavier, and not in a fun way.
“Anakin, you’re going to have to speak plainly. I’m not going to play twenty questions to figure out why you and your wife are not having intercourse,” Obi-Wan laments far more dramatically than he ever would sober. In further evidence of his drunkenness, he immediately contradicts himself by asking, “Do you want to be having sex?”
Sharply—so sharply it sends a jolt of searing and slow-to-fade pain down his neck—Anakin turns his head to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze. He hasn’t given much thought to the reasons behind the dry spell; hasn’t wanted to. Not by himself, at least. The desire to speak to Obi-Wan about it has been simmering since he’d realized it was a proper streak of unintentional celibacy. Regardless of his lack of forethought, when he looks at the older man, the answer comes to Anakin quick and obvious.
“Yes.”
Clearly, Obi-Wan expects more, because he raises his brows and doesn’t speak, waiting for Anakin to elaborate. Anakin shrugs; he’s got nothing.
Huffing, Obi-Wan prompts him again. “What’s stopping you?”
Anakin’s eyes dart away and his drunken mind finds shapes in the whorls of the scuffed table top. He also finds that when he doesn’t have Obi-Wan’s sharp gaze on him, answers are far more elusive, so he makes eye contact again.
What’s stopping you?
Obi-Wan stares back at him, patient as ever.
Handsome as ever.
The answer to his former Master’s questions stirs in his gut and starts to rise in his throat. Burning; begging to be expunged.
But it takes too long to come up, and Obi-Wan’s com-link chimes. Anakin would pay good money to see him show up in the Council chambers drunk, but he has a wife to go home to. A bed to do nothing but sleep in.
When they part, they hug, like normal friends do, and Obi-Wan’s breath smells citrusy and warm like cinnamon when he blinks slowly at Anakin and says, almost mournfully, “I wish you were more like me too, darling.” As he walks away, he turns over his shoulder and adds, “Sometimes.”
Hours later, Anakin is still awake, drinking blue milk from the carton and fiddling with his mechno-arm. Sleep evading him is no surprise, but sneaking out of his marital bed instead of seeking comfort in it is a newer habit.
As is Obi-Wan comming him so late, but this he welcomes.
“Don’t tell me they tossed you out for drunken and disorderly conduct, Master,” he jokes as a greeting.
Obi-Wan ignores it. “Are you busy?”
Anakin makes a face, even though it can’t be seen. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes, well, there are certain things people do in the middle of the night.”
“And as I explained to you earlier, I haven’t been taking part in those certain things for a while,” he groans.
Obi-Wan clears his throat. “That’s actually what I—I feel as if our conversation didn’t go anywhere earlier. You asked for advice, and I was of no help.”
“How could you be?” Anakin asks, hoping his tone tells Obi-Wan he’s not being an ass.
The other end of the line is quiet for a long moment.
Then, “Why don’t you come to the Temple?”
Anakin stands so quickly the chair under him squeaks across the floor, and it seems horribly loud in the quiet apartment. Before he can listen for signs of the disturbance waking up Padmé, he tells Obi-Wan he’ll see him in ten minutes.
The windows in Obi-Wan’s new quarters—the ones they put him up in after he joined the Council; the ones Anakin never seems to get used to—are huge. One wall is entirely floor-to-ceiling, blaster-proof, one-way transparisteel. Anakin drags a flesh finger across the surface and purposely leaves a smudge. In the windows reflection, he pretends to watch the constant blinking lights of Coruscanti traffic, but really watches Obi-Wan pour liquor for the two of them.
He greeted Anakin shirtless, shoulders still pink from the shower he must’ve taken to get the cling of the lower-levels off of him. He’s not pink anymore, but still padding around in only his lounge pants. Half-naked Obi-Wan isn’t really something Anakin’s used to; fully-clothed Obi-Wan is normal, and fully-naked Obi-Wan comes around sometimes when circumstances force them to bathe and change clothes together, but his Master has never been one to laze about half-dressed. Until now, apparently. The windows lack of insulation give the room a slight chill, but that doesn’t seem to bother Obi-Wan.
Once the cups are filled, Anakin stops staring and joins him in the kitchen-unit. “Looks expensive,” he notes, looking at the bottle.
Obi-Wan downs his whole drink in a few gulps, then refills. “It was a gift from Senator Chuchi.”
Anakin follows his lead and finishes off his own before holding the cup out for more. “What’d you do to deserve that?”
“We’re not here to talk about me, are we?” Obi-Wan smiles. If Anakin were sober, he’d call him out for the side-stepping of the question, but he’s not sober. His buzz from earlier hasn’t faded completely, and it seems like they’re going to make up for what has faded, and then some, because Obi-Wan pours them another before grabbing the bottle and walking away. “Come along,” he says, “Let’s get comfortable.”
Anakin follows, eyes tracking the movement of Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades and back muscles. He stops at the threshold to the bedroom and meets his Master’s eyes, who’s turned around.
“I’ve never been in here.” He’s not sure why he says it. He’s not sure why he cares.
“What? You’ve been in my rooms, including my bedroom, more times than I can count, Anakin.”
“Your old bedroom, sure. Not this one,” Anakin says, shifting on his feet.
Obi-Wan raises a brow and puffs out an amused breath through his nose. “Are you a vampire?” He turns his back to Anakin again as he sets the bottle on his nightstand.
Anakin enters—and rolls his eyes.
“Would it feel horribly unnatural for you to sit on the bed? I know how you like the floor,” Obi-Wan says, looking over his shoulder and smirking.
Heat rises to Anakin’s cheeks. It’s an obvious reference to all the times he’d snuck into his Master’s room as a Padawan to sleep on his floor in the middle of the night. They’ve never talked about it. Sometimes, when he’s deluding himself, Anakin likes to think Obi-Wan actually never noticed. But drunk Obi-Wan is too honest to remember they don’t talk about it, so Anakin clumsily kicks off his boots and climbs onto Obi-Wan’s bed, a place he’s never been before—even in the old quarters—and walks on his knees to the head of it, then sits on his ass with his back to the wall, throwing aside a pillow.
When Obi-Wan gets on the bed, Anakin can smell him; all organic soap and that special shampoo for natural blondes that his Master is just vain enough to own. He sits more toward the middle of the bed, crossing his legs under himself, and tucks his cup between his crotch and his ankles—after taking another drink, of course.
“You’re quiet,” Obi-Wan says, eyes piercing despite his casual tone.
Anakin’s lip curls a little, and he leans further into the wall. “From what I remember, you offered me advice. I’m quiet because I’m waiting for it, my oh-so-wise Master.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow for a millisecond, then he nods and says, “Alright,” almost too chipper for Anakin’s liking. “You’ve never been a traditional man, Anakin. Perhaps you should consider you don’t fit in the confines of traditional marriage.”
In response, Anakin’s stomach flips, for some reason. He smiles and laughs, but it’s all shaky coming out of him. After taking another long drink, he keeps his voice as neutral as he can manage when he asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?” He’s genuinely unsure—Obi-Wan can be so fucking ridiculously cryptic sometimes, but Anakin knows the liquor will get him his answers. Of course, he has some guesses, but those all seem a little too extreme for his mostly well-mannered Master to suggest. Especially to Anakin, of all people.
“It could mean a lot of things, young one,” Obi-Wan says lightly, face innocent—but Anakin doesn’t quite buy that.
“Don’t call me that,” is all he says, in lieu of calling his Master out.
Obi-Wan takes another drink. “But you are—young. Too young.” He tilts his head like he’s being sympathetic.
The liquor burns Anakin’s throat. “Too young for what, exactly?” Again, his stomach flips as he looks Obi-Wan in the eye.
“To be with a woman you don’t want to fuck, Anakin.”
Anakin gets a full-body chill and his eyes sting a little. That’s what he came for. That’s why he drinks. That’s why he and Obi-Wan fell into this foolish pastime. Sober Obi-Wan would never say fuck. Sober Obi-Wan never speaks so plainly about anything other than Jedi business. The honesty sends a headier rush to Anakin’s head than the alcohol, and apparently, his earlier guesses that he assumed too obscene weren’t very far off-base.
“You’re suggesting I find someone who does,” he says, stating it as fact, unbending his knees so his legs stick straight out in front of him, a socked foot bumping Obi-Wan’s knee.
Obi-Wan’s gaze gets all warm, but he still looks a little bit sarcastic. “I do so hate to see you neglected.”
Now, Anakin really laughs, barking at the ceiling, and ends up making himself dizzy. He looks back at Obi-Wan, mouth twitching in a wry smile. “I told you earlier, I’m not like you. I can’t—do that with just anyone.” He’s never been terribly self-aware, something his Master has chided him for many, many times, but this one fact about himself he is almost painfully knowledgable about. Fucking a stranger isn’t in Anakin’s capabilities. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even be able to get hard for someone he didn’t know, regardless of what they looked like, or what they did to him.
Before he replies, Obi-Wan finishes off his drink. Unconsciously, Anakin mirrors him.
“Well, perhaps not just anybody. It could be someone you know,” Obi-Wan explains, tilting his head and gesturing with the empty cup in hand. “Someone that you trust. Someone who would take care of you; make up for her lacks.”
Anakin defends Padmé instinctually. “She’s not lacking.” He knows Obi-Wan isn’t her biggest fan, but usually they don’t speak about it. As reflexive as his reaction is to it now, the thought that immediately follows it is just as instant; if that were true, would you be here? He doesn’t like the thought. It makes him squirm. Blindly, he reaches out to set his cup on Obi-Wan’s side-table, then fidgets, using his mechno-hand to crack the knuckles of his flesh one.
“Everyone lacks in one way or another, Anakin. I’d say reminding me of my own is a hobby of yours.” It could come off biting or condescending, but it doesn’t. Obi-Wan is still looking at him like he did when he taught Anakin to swim; waiting on one end of the pool with hopeful eyes that he’ll make it all the way across this time, but ready to grab him and do it himself if necessary. Anakin’s mind classifies it as sweet, though he’s not sure if that’s quite what Obi-Wan is truly exuding right now.
Still, this only serves to make Anakin feel guiltier than he should in response to what Obi-Wan obviously meant as a jest. “I never mean it, Master,” he says, eyebrows drawing together.
When Obi-Wan gets up to his knees, Anakin flinches like he’s about to be hit, then relaxes as the older man does nothing of the sort, only moves a bit closer. He actually—embarrassingly—thinks he’s about to be wrapped in a hug, but Obi-Wan reaches past him to set his own cup on the side-table. His ears burn as Obi-Wan settles again without returning to his original position, choosing instead to sit on his calves right next to Anakin’s knees.
Voice gentle, Obi-Wan tells him, “I know that, Anakin. I know you.”
Anakin lifts his gaze from staring at his lap, eyes squinting slightly as his brain tries to catch up to the reason his stomach has just flipped again. When Obi-Wan reaches out, he flinches just as he had before, though maybe not in anticipation of being struck. Maybe for another reason he can’t possibly come up with as drunk as he is, and with Obi-Wan cupping his cheek with a hand that’s broad and cool, eyes big and sad-looking in response to the flinch. “Tell me; do you trust me?” Obi-Wan asks, voice low as if they’re sharing secrets.
The continuous flipping of Anakin’s stomach has created a knot. A burning, sinking knot that’s spreading heat in his gut. “Of course I do,” he answers, sight suddenly blurry and making him blink rapidly. Each time his eyes open, it seems Obi-Wan has moved closer. He shivers as the hand on his face travels, the touch lessening until only the first two fingers of Obi-Wan’s hand drag down his cheek, then push gently at his bottom lip.
Obi-Wan leans closer. So close his left hand must rest on Anakin’s right shoulder to stay balanced. “I would take care of you,” he says, and it’s a rumbling thing.
Anakin’s mouth is already dry from the alcohol, but his Master’s hands on him just make it worse. When Obi-Wan moves his forefingers and instead swipes his thumb across Anakin’s lower lip, it doesn’t run smoothly, instead catching and dragging. This just makes Obi-Wan smile, and he looks up from Anakin’s mouth to his eyes.
Because the alcohol makes him honest, Anakin says, “Prove it.”
Obi-Wan’s smile widens to show his teeth as he swings a leg over Anakin’s lap to kneel, then drops the hand from his shoulder to squeeze at his cock through his pants.
“Ah,” Anakin moans, eyes closing and head falling to the wall behind him. Vaguely, he registers how strange it is that he’s not having a more frenzied reaction to this; to what he’s doing, and who he’s doing it with. It must be the honestly making him give in so easily. His eyes flutter open when the thumb on his lip pushes in, resting on his tongue as Obi-Wan palms his cock.
“Thank the Force,” Obi-Wan mutters, almost through his teeth. “It occurred to me earlier that part of your problem might be an inability to get it up.”
Anakin clamps his teeth down on Obi-Wan’s thumb, just enough to make him wince and pull away, leaving Anakin able to speak. “You know I love an opportunity to prove you wrong.”
Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and leans in, speaking against his temple as his hand continues to massage his cock over his clothes. “And prove me wrong you have, darling. Look how hard you are,” he practically coos, before reaching up to dig his hand under Anakin’s waistband.
Clumsily, Anakin tries to help, pulling at his pants until Obi-Wan is able to actually get to his cock and pull it out. The sight of it; pink and throbbing and thick in his Master’s pale hand is obscene. It twists in Anakin’s stomach and arouses him terribly, partly because it shouldn’t. This is Obi-Wan, this is his Master, this is certainly not his wife. And he’s stroking Anakin’s cock, spreading pre-come and dragging nails through his pubic hair, talking sweet and dirty to him, mouthing over to Anakin’s ear to whisper, “I’ll make it harder. I’ll make you harder than you’ve ever been before, Anakin.”
It makes something in Anakin snap, and he can’t go another second without more more more. He grabs Obi-Wan’s face and shoves their lips together; shoves being a perfect descriptor because it’s messy and harsh and not good, not objectively at least. But Obi-Wan still smiles against him and kisses back, forcing his tongue into Anakin’s mouth to drag over his teeth, licking at his canines.
Anakin’s remiss to break the kiss, but he makes himself do it, if only so he can say, “Take your clothes off,” and shove Obi-Wan back so he can start to remove his own.
They work with the quick efficiency they always do, stripping themselves down on their own because it’s faster that way and they’ll be back to touching each other sooner. And as soon as Anakin’s briefs are down his hips, around his ankles, then tossed to the floor, Obi-Wan is back on him, dragging him further down the bed by the foot then climbing over him, one hand on the bed next to Anakin’s head. He rolls his hips in a way Anakin is sure he’d never think his Master capable of, and it drags their cocks together haphazardly.
Anakin practically howls at the ceiling, hands reaching out to claw at Obi-Wan’s hips.
“Oh, yes,” Obi-Wan moans, dragging out the word. His free hand tugs at one of his nipples, and Anakin’s mouth is suddenly full of spit again watching him do it. The hand drops, wrapping around both of their cocks and stroking lazily. “Look at that. How we look together.”
Anakin does, head tilting down to watch the tips of their cocks push out of Obi-Wan’s grip, both fat and leaking. “Fits,” he murmurs dazedly, because they do. They fit together, they always have. Not very easily, but still. They might be the first two people in the entire Galaxy to make a square block go through a circle; to make it fit.
“We do, don’t we?” Obi-Wan says, smile in his voice as he leans down and moves his hand, trapping their cocks between their stomachs and letting his grinding hips do the work for the moment. He kisses Anakin, long and wet and sloppy sounding, before pulling back and nipping at his jaw. “Just you and me, Padawan.”
A sound that’s pure happiness falls from Anakin’s lips, no matter how wanton and throaty it really sounds. He’s pliant under Obi-Wan, lets him do as he pleases, lets his hand be guided until he’s not gripping at Obi-Wan’s hip anymore, but squeezing his ass.
Mouth back at his ear, Obi-Wan keeps rolling his hips, inching Anakin’s hand further and further in. “Let me give you what you need, Anakin. I told you I’d take care of you.”
Anakin gasps a cliche, “Yeah?” As he bucks his hips up, hard enough that it would dismount someone smaller, less sturdy than Obi-Wan. But the older man hardly moves, except to guide Anakin’s hand the slightest bit more—and Anakin’s fingers come away halfway between tacky and wet. His mouth drops a little bit, and Obi-Wan smirks a little bit.
“Yeah,” Obi-Wan answers, pushing Anakin’s fingers against himself harder, his hole giving slightly and sucking at the tips of the fingers.
It’s barely a second of that smothering, velvet heat around his digits before Obi-Wan pulls away entirely, and Anakin blinks slowly as he watches the older man get off the bed and walk away. If he weren’t so drunk, he’d probably make sure Obi-Wan didn’t take another step, but it’s like part of him is lagging from the liquor, so by the time Anakin fully processes that Obi-Wan has disappeared from sight completely, turning the corner into his ‘fresher, he appears again, lube bottle in hand.
When his mind catches up, it makes Anakin think about what Obi-Wan was doing in the shower before he showed up. It makes him think about Obi-Wan, standing in his kitchen-unit, pouring the two of them drinks, all while is ass was still open and wet with lube.
The train of thought is stolen from him when Obi-Wan reaches the bed again, climbing on and pressing their mouths together once more before he tumbles over Anakin, laying perpendicular to him, blonde head near his hip. In this position, Obi-Wan’s ass is well within reach of his hands—fingers included—so he attempts to grab the lube, but Obi-Wan keeps him from it, swatting his hand away and licking a wet line across his hip bone. “Let me do all the work,” Obi-Wan purrs, situating himself so his mouth can easily get between Anakin’s legs, and one of his hands, now slick with lube, can reach behind himself.
Anakin’s eyes dart back and forth from the place Obi-Wan’s fingers dip between his cheeks to where Obi-Wan’s nose is nudging the base of his cock. Dipping lower, his Master’s lips caress his balls, making Anakin’s legs lock up as he desperately tries to keep still and not embarrass himself by coming before his dick is even properly touched. He expects Obi-Wan to work his way back up to his cock and take it in his mouth, but the older man seems content nuzzling his balls, sucking them into his mouth and groaning around them until Anakin can’t not buck his hips. As he does, Obi-Wan’s eyelids flutter; blissed out.
When he finally pulls away, drool slides down Anakin’s sack and pools, leaving a wet spot on the sheets. Obi-Wan looks up at him, beard just as messy, and asks, “When’s the last time you came, Anakin?”
“Uh,” Anakin stammers, trying to remember. “A while.” It’s the best he can come up with in his current state.
“No,” Obi-Wan groans. “Think harder. How long is a while?”
It’s been almost four months since he’s fucked his wife. It’s been probably a third of that since he’s masturbated. Pleasuring himself has never been all that pleasurable for Anakin—whenever he gets off by himself, he can’t help but be preoccupied by the fact that he’s alone. And he’s always hated being alone.
“A—a month, maybe a little longer,” he squeaks as Obi-Wan licks along the veins of his cock.
His Master lets out a nasty sound in response, and then his head sinks down again, tongue tracing the seam of his balls. “Just imagine how much you’ll shoot, darling. You must be so full. Gods, I can’t—ah!” Obi-Wan breaks off his sentence with a sharp, gasping sound, shoving his forehead into Anakin’s thigh. It’s obviously a good sound, though. Anakin can tell from the way Obi-Wan’s hips are rabbiting back, fucking himself on his own pistoning fingers. He doesn’t know how long he watches, but eventually, Obi-Wan slips his fingers out of himself and kneels up on the bed again, a line of pre-come sticking between his swollen cock and the bed for a second before breaking. His happy trail is smeared with it, too.
Anakin reaches for him, and Obi-Wan doesn’t protest the tugging at all, willingly climbing over him once again and letting Anakin guide him down so they’re pressed together from head to toe. Chest hair tickles his nipples, sweaty thighs rub against his own, and Obi-Wan’s balls drag along the line of his cock as he humps against Anakin.
“Can’t what, Obi-Wan?” Anakin manages to get out between sucking kisses to the older mans neck.
Obi-Wan digs nails into his shoulder. “Can’t wait to have your cock inside me—so do it,” he goads, spreading his legs further.
There’s no thinking, he just does as his Master says; reaching down to take his cock in hand and doing his best to blindly guide it to Obi-Wan’s hole. He knows he’s hit his mark when Obi-Wan jolts and hisses, then relaxes completely. “There you go,” Obi-Wan murmurs, “Give it to me. Fuck it in.”
All it takes is one thrust of his hips and he’s in; a smooth, inviting glide made so easy by the excessive lube, the excessive drinking, and the excessive honesty. Anakin briefly considers if it’s ever been so easy to sink inside of his wife, but pushes the thought away as Obi-Wan pushes his hips down, hole stretching around the rest of his cock, taking it all until he’s fully sat on Anakin’s lap.
“Fucking hell,” Obi-Wan says, eyebrows furrowing as he wiggles his hips, adjusting. He looks down at Anakin, a small smile growing on his face. “Do I feel good, Anakin?”
“Obi-Wan.” He can barely keep his eyes open as he stares up at his Master. “Best thing I’ve ever felt.” There’s that honesty again.
“Really?” Obi-Wan asks as he lifts himself slightly, Anakin’s cock sliding out of him, dragging along his walls. When he sinks back down in one aggressive bounce, he says, “Describe it.”
Anakin tries, he really does. But his words are stolen when Obi-Wan repeats the move, fucking himself up and down on Anakin’s cock. Every time he forms a thought, Obi-Wan’s ass sinks down to his hips again, or he pulls up and Anakin feels the head of his cock almost slip out. Even between these moments he cannot think, as he’s still shoved up inside the smothering heat of his Master’s hole.
Obi-Wan plants his hands on his chest, and bounces on his cock even harder. “Talk to me, Anakin. I raised you to be a multitasker, didn’t I?”
“It’s—oh, gods,” Anakin groans, eyes rolling back. It takes Obi-Wan’s blunt nails raking over one of his nipples to get him to actually make sense. “Tight,” he hisses. “So fucking tight, Master”
With a pleased hum, Obi-Wan flexes and tightens himself even further, practically strangling Anakin’s cock. “Well, I don’t let just anyone fuck me,” he briefly leans down to whisper in Anakin’s ear before raising up again and fucking himself back down on his cock in a smooth rhythm. Anakin spares a thought for the older mans hamstrings; his Master is a beast.
“It’s warm—hot,” Anakin continues, head lolling on the bed, hands clumsily holding onto Obi-Wan’s waist.
“Just for you,” Obi-Wan tells him. His cock is bouncing obscenely between their bodies.
“And—ah,” Anakin moans. “I—I love it.”
Obi-Wan slows a bit, grinding as he leans back, placing his hands above Anakin’s knees. “So honest, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Master, yes,” Anakin agrees mindlessly.
A low groan. “All it takes is a good fuck from your Master.”
Well, that, and the troubling amount of alcohol. But Anakin’s forgotten all about that by now—Obi-Wan must have too. He groans right back at the words, tossing his head back and forth on the bed, babbling again, “I love it. I love fucking you.”
Obi-Wan’s body snaps forward, once again pinning Anakin down by the chest and returning to his fervent, desperate pace from before. Blonde hair falling in his eyes, nails turning into claws, he coos, “I knew you would, darling. I knew exactly what you needed.”
“Fuck—I’m gonna come,” Anakin pants out suddenly. He’s surprised he’s lasted this long, but he’s still disappointed it’s not going to last forever. Muscle-memory makes him follow up his words with, “Where?” Immediately after he says it, he realizes it really doesn’t fucking matter where, and with the way Obi-Wan is acting, he’s of the same opinion.
The drinking doesn’t just make them honest, sometimes it does something even rarer—gets them on the same page. So Anakin’s not surprised when Obi-Wan stares down at him with his pink mouth hanging open and wet, and says, “Anywhere you want.”
Anakin’s gut draws tighter.
“You could do it right where you are. Get me filthy with it and stuff me full of your come. Or in my mouth—on my face.” Obi-Wan bares his teeth. “I could push my tits together if you’d like, let you jerk your cock all over them.”
Frantically, Anakin shoves him off, and Obi-Wan does nothing but laugh. Every scenario sounds like the perfect scenario, and he can barely think, so he doesn’t think at all. He lets his hands run on auto-pilot, manhandling Obi-Wan down to the bed and climbing on top of him, one hand flying over over his own cock until he nearly shouts, head dipping back as he shoots come all over Obi-Wan’s cock.
A hand reaches between his legs and massages his balls, coaxing more and more come out of him.
“Force, Anakin. You poor thing,” Obi-Wan curses.
Anakin whines. The orgasm feels never-ending. He comes so much that every inch of Obi-Wan’s cock is covered in milky white, and it seeps down into his pubes and pools into his navel. “Sorry,” he says, hips bucking into his fist.
Tutting, Obi-Wan smooths a hand over his hip. “Oh, no, darling. Don’t apologize. It’s why I offered. Your pretty cock needed to be milked so bad, didn’t it?”
Too far gone to even blush at the words, Anakin just nods. When he finally stops coming—Obi-Wan stroking him base to tip to get one last spurt from him—Anakin collapses, squirming when his softening cock presses against the wet mess between them and his Master’s still-hard cock.
“You’d think shooting out that much come would make you lighter,” Obi-Wan mumbles, seemingly more to himself than Anakin. He grumbles as he tries to get purchase on Anakin’s sweaty body, then huffs as he pushes him off. After that, it’s a few seconds of the planet spinning as Obi-Wan maneuvers him around until Anakin’s flat on his stomach, with his Master pressing along his body from above, wet cock sliding between his thighs. Anakin shudders, still sensitive.
“Squeeze,” Obi-Wan orders, smacking the outside of a thigh.
A soft sound escapes Anakin as he tenses his thighs, feeling lethargic and heavy. He stretches his hands in front of him, staring at the way his fingers grip in the sheets, and gasps, eyes widening, as Obi-Wan swings his hips back, then snaps forward again, fucking his cock between his legs. It’s hardly more obscene than what they’ve just done, but something about it feels dirty in a different way. His Master is all over him, feet rubbing against his ankles, leg hair dragging along his own, peaked nipples pushing against his back. Even Obi-Wan’s arms cover his as a pale hand with golden hair on the wrist twines with his mechno-fingers. It hurts a little—the way Obi-Wan’s cock is fucking between his legs so hard, uncaring of his now flaccid cock, rutting so aggressively there’s nasty sounds coming from the amount of come easing the way and Obi-Wan’s balls slapping against him.
It’s soft, though, and sweet, when Obi-Wan whispers in his ear, “You’re going to make me come, Anakin.”
And it’s all honesty again when Anakin answers, “Do it—I want it.”
He wonders when the last time his Master came was, because he comes so much Anakin’s mind raises slight concern for not just the sheets but the mattress itself being soaked. All the way through it, Obi-Wan curses and groans, and rakes his nails up Anakin’s flesh forearm, sweat dripping all over him. Unlike their reversed positions from before, Anakin doesn’t mind Obi-Wan’s weight, and lets him stay put for as long as he likes. He thinks if that were forever, he’d be okay with it—but maybe he’s just drunk.
It’s a long time before his Master moves. When he does, it’s to reach for the bottle again.