Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I know you’re getting antsy, Anakin. I can sense your desire to do something reckless. Resist that urge, and I’ll reward you, alright?

They’ve been on this planet for two months; Anakin’s restlessness is understandable. What he decides to do with it, however, Obi-Wan finds himself more concerned about. When he sends out his former Padawan along with Rex and Cody to do recon, he makes his offer to Anakin, sensing he might do more than just reconnaissance without Obi-Wan’s eyes on him. 

Hours later, Cody alerts him they’re on their way back. He gets a message from Anakin as well, telling him exactly what he’d like his reward to be, and Obi-Wan’s face heats so intensely he has to walk away from his other men to avoid being seen blushing.

Anakin gives his report, shifting on his feet with his pent-up energy. Rex gives his as well, and while he reports nothing Obi-Wan can turn his nose up at, he knows the Captain might be persuaded to lie as long as Anakin’s misbehaving didn’t go overboard. So, he turns to the only man who has no issue making Anakin look bad and occasionally seems to take joy in doing so.

“Cody?”

“Nothing to say that General Skywalker and Rex haven’t already said themselves, Sir.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows. Well, he supposes he’s going to be sitting on Anakin’s face tonight. As he makes eye contact with the younger man across the holo-table, he knows Anakin is thinking the exact same thing. “You’re dismissed,” Obi-Wan tells the two clones. “We’ve nothing more to do tonight. Enjoy your leisure while you can.”

After Rex and Cody leave the large tent, Obi-Wan turns off the holo-table’s blue imagery and leans an arm on the table. “Color me shocked,” he drawls, giving Anakin a smarmy look.

Anakin uses the Force to jump over the table—show off—and presses him into it, teasing against Obi-Wan’s mouth. “Oh ye of little faith.”

Obi-Wan snorts and lets himself be kissed while he undresses himself; armor, belt, and tabards falling to the floor. When he pulls back to get his tunics off, he raises an eyebrow and asks, “Any particular reason for this request?”

“Do I need a reason to want to tongue-fuck your hole?” Anakin asks, before trying to kiss him again.

Dodging it, Obi-Wan grabs him by the chin and pets Anakin’s bottom lip with his thumb. “Humor me. I’m curious.”

Anakin relents, and he actually looks bashful for a moment as he shrugs and says, “I miss it.”

Obi-Wan blinks at him. “Unless my memory is going, I don’t seem to recall ever sitting on your face before. Or are you speaking of rimming me generally?” It’s the kind of straight-forward sex talk Anakin used to despise, but he’s coming around since realizing he can make Obi-Wan blush just as easily with his bluntness. 

Like now: “No. I miss your hole.”

And Obi-Wan does blush. Not terribly intensely, though, because most of his blood is too busy rushing south to his cock. They’ve both gotten in the habit of carrying a few small packets of lubricant on joint missions should the opportunity arise, but those ran out after a single week on this planet, and they can’t waste their finite bacta supply on their selfish desires. Since the last of their lube ran out, they’ve been getting by mostly on blowjobs, which has worked just fine, but, Obi-Wan would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the fullness of Anakin being inside of him; the intimacy of being inside Anakin. 

Endeared, ridiculously, Obi-Wan coos at him and cups his handsome face. “I miss your hole too, darling.” He reaches down and squeezes Anakin’s ass. “When we return to Coruscant, we’ll spend the entirety of our leave in bed.” Anakin hums and ducks down, their noses brushing, nuzzling each other’s cheeks. “But to tide you over until then…” Obi-Wan murmurs, letting go of Anakin to kick off his boots and pull his trousers down along with his briefs. “I’m going to sit on that pretty face of yours.”

Minutes later, Anakin is laying on the ground, still fully clothed, while fully naked Obi-Wan kneels over him, facing his feet. Despite his love for being eaten out, the position makes him feel oddly vulnerable, and Obi-Wan’s knees shift on the GAR-issued blankets Anakin had folded up for him to kneel on. He looks over his shoulder. “Should I—just—?”

Anakin looks ravenous. “Sit,” he says simply, grabbing Obi-Wan’s thighs and pulling him back. 

He allows it until he feels Anakin’s nose brush his ass. Then, Obi-Wan stills and moans, “Oh,” just from knowing Anakin is so close. Pressing his palms to the hard muscles of Anakin’s stomach, Obi-Wan rocks back gently, and shudders as his tight, neglected hole is laved over by a warm, wet tongue. Anakin’s lips press to his rim, and he kisses it like he kisses his mouth, even moaning against it before pulling back. 

“All the way, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says with another tug to his thighs. 

As good as it feels, Obi-Wan protests. “I can’t fully sit on you, Anakin. I’m a grown man.”

“So am I,” Anakin says. He bites one of Obi-Wan’s ass cheeks. 

Obi-Wan eyes the large bulge in his former Padawan’s pants. “I’m very aware of that.”

Leaning up, Anakin noses at his hole, which should be off-putting, but actually just sends a white-hot bolt of arousal up Obi-Wan’s spine. “Come on. Don’t make me force you.”

“Oh, please,” Obi-Wan scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

Then, his hands on Anakin’s stomach—that happen to be holding most of his weight—are pulled behind his back by an invisible grip, making Obi-Wan lose his balance. He might’ve face planted right in Anakin’s groin, if not for the real hands pulling him back and forcing his weight down onto Anakin’s face. 

Anakin moans right against his hole, saying something like yesyesyes, and Obi-Wan makes one futile attempt at putting his weight on his knees before Anakin uses the Force to keep him right where he is, practically smothering him.

It feels glorious. The more Anakin laps at him, the more his entrance relaxes, and soon, Obi-Wan’s hole is being shallowly fucked by Anakin’s tongue. Eyes rolling back, Obi-Wan pushes into the touch. “The things that incentivize you, Anakin. Force.” 

Hands grope at his ass, splitting him open wider as Anakin tries to get deeper. For a moment, they push him up slightly, and Obi-Wan almost shoves himself back down before Anakin rubs his cheek against the spit-slick skin off his ass. “I’ve been thinking about this for days, Master. I can’t stand it when we bathe with the clones and I can’t grope you.”

Preserving their clean water supply has led to bathing in the nearby river. And while Anakin hasn’t groped him, that doesn’t mean he’s been an angel. Obi-Wan reaches down—Anakin must have given up on the Force grip, knowing the fight had left him—and takes him by the curls, keeping his head against the ground and away from his twitching hole and the spit-soaked blonde hair around it. “You still stare, though. Do you think I can’t feel your eyes burning a hole into me while I’m all slicked-up and soapy?”

Anakin whines and tries to raise his head. “I can’t help it. You’re such a show off.”

Obi-Wan will never admit it, but he’s right. There’s something delicious about being a little over-the-top when soaping up his pectoral muscles or his thighs; too thorough while cleaning his cock and balls under the surface while Anakin watches from across the water; bending over to retrieve his clothes after climbing out of the river. 

Smiling lazily, he sways his ass slightly above Anakin’s head. “I’m surprised you’ve behaved this long.”

Anakin growls a little. “You should enjoy it while it lasts and stop teasing me.”

Obi-Wan hums, considering. Then, he says, “Have it your way,” before grinding back down on Anakin’s face. He keeps his hand in Anakin’s hair and uses it to keep him still, letting his hips take control. “Stick your tongue out, darling. I’m going to do all the work. You just lay there and be a good little toy for me, alright? I’ll fuck myself on your tongue just like you wanted.”

He does just that, notching his rim right against Anakin’s tongue and shoving himself down on it. Lazily, he strokes his cock, barely paying attention to it; Obi-Wan doesn’t think it’ll be very necessary for him to come. Attention on his hole after what feels like forever without it is working him up faster than usual, as is Anakin’s complete pliancy, the only movement coming from the boy being his cock twitching in his pants. Obi-Wan stares at the bulge of it and his mouth begins to water. He rocks himself back onto Anakin’s tongue and groans, wishing it was thicker. Wishing they had infinite bacta. Wishing their cocks were maybe a little smaller so fucking without lubricant wouldn’t be such a hazardous activity. 

Sitting down fully, he lets Anakin huff against his ass and fruitlessly try to get his tongue deeper. Obi-Wan releases Anakin’s hair so he can slide his hands down the younger man’s torso, until he’s inches from his cock. “Once I come, Anakin, you’re going to get up and bend over the holo-table for me. I’ll eat you out until you bust all over it, and then I’m going to lick that up and feed it to you.”

Anakin groans against his hole, and Obi-Wan begins to feel his orgasm creep up on him. “But for now, sweet boy,” he sighs, leaning back up so he can wiggle his hips and smother Anakin a bit more, “Keep tonguing me just like that.”

Chapter Text

“You remind me of her so much sometimes,” Anakin mumbles. 

Obi-Wan looks away from the Coruscant sky outside his window and tilts his head down, furrowing his brows at Anakin, who’s half-drunk and laying with his head in Obi-Wan’s lap. The absentminded petting of the younger man’s hair halts, and Obi-Wan’s voice feels as stuck as his hand for a moment—because when he hears her come out of Anakin’s mouth, he can only assume he means Senator Amidala. And he’s not exactly partial to that comparison. 

Reaching up, Anakin’s leather-clad fingers brush Obi-Wan’s cheeks. “I miss her.”

Seeing as the last time they spoke with Padme was only a few days prior when they ran into her in the Senate building, Obi-Wan’s body relaxes as he realizes that’s not who he’s being compared to at all. When it dawns on him what Anakin actually means, his chest becomes tight again, but for an entirely different reason. 

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan mumbles, stroking through the soft curls. “I hardly think I hold a candle to your mother.”

The word mother being spoken aloud makes Anakin’s hazy eyes squeeze shut momentarily. When he opens them again, he wets his lips with his tongue, and the fingers in Obi-Wan’s beard slide over to press gently against his mouth. “Sometimes, I want…” Anakin trails off. 

Despite the lack of substance in his words, Obi-Wan knows exactly what he wants. He’s been expecting this ever since the first time Anakin called him daddy. The younger man doesn’t even have a father to have issues about; the other side of the coin, the one that actually has meaning to Anakin, had to show it’s face at some point. It seemed inevitable to Obi-Wan—and it seems he was right. 

Shame is an emotion he knows Anakin is very familiar with, but only because he’s realized how much effort his Padawan puts into covering it up. The fact that he’s breaking eye contact with Obi-Wan, not even able to continue speaking about his desire, obviously abashed, has to be an effect of the liquor. Obi-Wan fished him out of the lower-levels before he went too far, but Anakin is still far from sober. 

He hates to see him this way; his bright, daring, untamed Padawan should never look so sheepish. Especially not with Obi-Wan. Keeping one hand in Anakin’s hair, he cups the younger man’s face with the other, thumb stroking his cheek. Something tugs at his heart when he feels the barely-there stubble. 

“You can say it, dear one,” Obi-Wan tells him, voice gently. 

Anakin sniffles, then turns his head to bury his face in Obi-Wan’s stomach. For a few moments, Obi-Wan leaves him be, feeling Anakin teeter on the edge of releasing this thing that has built up inside of him. 

Then, muffled into his robes: “Mommy.” 

Obi-Wan coos, and nudges Anakin’s face back into view. Taking Anakin’s hand out of where it’s gotten caught in his tabards, Obi-Wan presses a kiss to the palm of the synth-leather. He places the hand onto Anakin’s chest, squeezing his fingers so he’ll keep it there, then trails his own hand down to rest on Anakin’s stomach, which he rubs light, sweeping circles into. “You’re a very sweet boy, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, their blue eyes staring into each other. 

Face scrunching again, Anakin shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t want to hear it. “‘M not,” he whispers. 

Humming a disagreeing tone, Obi-Wan slips his hand under Anakin’s tunics, and the sight of his Padawan, vulnerable and needy, combined with the feeling of hard, defined abdominal muscles under Obi-Wan’s hand makes his head spin a little. Of course, his cock stirs as well—but that’s no surprise. Most things Anakin does has that effect on Obi-Wan. 

“You are a sweet boy,” Obi-Wan tells him, watching Anakin’s eyelids flutter as the teases his stomach with cold fingers and drags them along the waistband of his trousers. “You’re more than just that. You are a precious little boy—my precious little boy.” Anakin whimpers at that, and Obi-Wan can see the bulge forming in his pants. “And you’ve grown into such a strong, handsome man, Anakin. Such a capable Jedi.”

Hips bucking and breath stuttering, Anakin stares up at him in a daze. 

“Your mother would be so proud of you,” Obi-Wan coos. He reaches down and cups Anakin’s half-hard cock through his trousers, jogging his hand slightly to watch it bounce beneath the fabric, before returning his gaze to Anakin’s face. “Your mommy is so proud of you.”

Anakin’s mouth drops open and he rumbles in a deep voice, “Oh, fuck, mommy.”

It sends blazing heat to Obi-Wan’s groin, and he swears he can feel his balls swell.

“I know, you’ve needed to hear that for a long time—haven’t you?” Obi-Wan squeezes Anakin’s big bulge, breath shaky for a moment as he loses focus and can only think about how good his Padawan’s fat cock feels in his hand, even through his pants. When he tugs at them enough to expose Anakin’s groin, he goes straight for his warm, full balls, rolling them in his palm. “I should’ve known, darling,” he purrs, apologetic. “I haven’t been taking very good care of my little boy, have I? Can you forgive me? Can you forgive mommy, Anakin?”

Anakin rolls his hips up, and Obi-Wan takes his cock in hand, watching sweat begin to bead at his hairline. “‘Course I can,” Anakin says, “Always. Obi-Wan hums, and plays with the tip of Anakin’s cock until pre-come dribbles out and slides down the shaft, making his mouth water in return. Then, Anakin speaks again, a lazy, crooked smile on his face. “You still have to make it up to me, though.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asks, turning to look Anakin in the eye once more. “And how would you like me to do that for you?”

“Suck it, mommy,” Anakin nearly moans, rocking his hips up. “‘Know you want to.”

Obi-Wan’s breath hitches, and his own hips twitch, jostling Anakin’s head a bit. “Of course I do, baby,” he says. “How could I not want to? Look at it.” Obi-Wan squeezes tight around the cock in his hand. “Look how thick you are. Look at all the pre-come your cock is making.”

Anakin hisses through his teeth. “It knows how bad you want to taste it, mommy.”

Shifting, Obi-Wan lifts Anakin’s head off his lap and slides to the floor on his knees. “Mommy does,” he whispers, pulling at Anakin’s legs until they’re on either side of him and that fat, leaking cock is right in his face. Eyes flitting up to Anakin’s, Obi-Wan spits, thick and foamy onto the tip, and uses his hands to spread it around, even petting his drool into the skin around the base of Anakin’s cock. There’s no hair there because Anakin’s one of those boys who shaves his entire body clean and there’s something about that turns Obi-Wan on. Guiding Anakin’s cock to his mouth, he lolls out his tongue and slaps the pink, spongy head on it a few times before pulling back. “Mommy’s going to suck your cock and swallow your load, and then you’ll feel all better, baby.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan isn’t a cuddler—that’s what makes Anakin so suspicious. Usually, Obi-Wan can’t get away from him quick enough after sex; something of a sensory issue. At least, that’s what Anakin’s always hoped is the problem, not that as soon as his Master’s dick isn’t hard, he no longer wants Anakin.

But tonight, he’s spooning Anakin, letting his cock go soft inside of him. Anakin doesn’t dare ask about the change in behavior. Drawing attention to it might make Obi-Wan pull away. 

Behind him, Obi-Wan grumbles a lazy sound, hand squeezing Anakin’s hip. Then, he sighs deeply, “Ah—there we are.”

Anakin doesn’t get the chance to question him before he feels it; warm, rushing liquid in his hole. He nearly jackknifes, but Obi-Wan clenches his arms around him tight, keeping him trapped as he continues to fucking piss inside of him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Anakin barks, trying to buck away.

Obi-Wan hums an unbothered sound. “Oh, don’t be such a prude.”

Anakin hates that word. Prude. He hates it because it’s the truth; he is a prude, especially compared to his Master. Anakin’s preferred version of sex is lovemaking. He wants missionary, eye contact, intimacy. The whole shebang. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, is as difficult to understand in the bedroom as he is everywhere else to Anakin. And a while ago, Anakin made peace with getting to have his Master like this—gross and weird and vulgar—rather than not getting to have him at all. Still, he should’ve known that the unusually tame and vanilla sex they’d just had was meant to lull him into a false sense of security; a precursor to something filthy.  

The image of succeeding in getting away from Obi-Wan comes to Anakin; piss flooding out of his ass as he scrambles off the bed while Obi-Wan stares at him, disappointed and annoyed. When he takes this into consideration, he irritatingly finds that letting it happen is the lesser of two evils, and gives up the fight. Physically, at least. Anakin refuses to shut his mouth, though.

“I think this is the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about beforehand. You’re such a freak, Obi-Wan.” He can feel piss leaking out of his hole as he says it. The soft cock isn’t enough to plug him up and stop the stream, which doesn’t seem to bother Obi-Wan at all. 

“If you wanted me to be more considerate, perhaps you shouldn’t have come here smelling like a woman.” Obi-Wan says it so nonchalantly, a woman, like they both don’t know exactly who he’s talking about. 

Bringing Padmé up suddenly makes the situation so much worse, and Anakin cringes at the thought of what his wife would think if she saw him like this, if she knew what he was up to at all. Not only would he suffer her rejection because of his horrible need to have Obi-Wan any way he can, and his cheating borne of it, but he’d also suffer the humiliation of her knowing he’d even settle for this, if it only meant his Master would touch him. 

Padmé hardly likes sucking his cock; Anakin hates taking her from behind or pulling her hair. But with Obi-Wan, Anakin has pushed or been pushed past every boundary he’s ever had. When Obi-Wan says jump, Anakin says how high. 

“If you want me to be nice, you have to show me a little respect, Anakin. I’m not asking much,” Obi-Wan tells him. As he does, he pushes Anakin under him, onto his stomach, and lays on top. There’s so much piss inside of him he can’t tell if Obi-Wan is still going or not, and the change in angle, despite both of their cocks being soft, makes Anakin grunt out a horrible sound of surprised pleasure. The things his Master can make him enjoy—it scares Anakin, sometimes. 

Obi-Wan just laughs at his noise, sounding like he knew all along Anakin would end up like this. He leans down, pinning Anakin’s head to the bed with one hand, speaking low into his ear, “Do you think you deserve my kindness, Anakin? Have you earned it, showing up here like that?”

Anakin tries to shake his head no, but Obi-Wan forces his face to the sheets even harder, stopping him. “Do I send you out there, face all red from being buried in my ass, your hole leaking my come, your breath smelling of my cock?” He pulls out of Anakin’s hole, and piss streams down over his taint and balls and pools between his legs, soaking the sheets and probably the mattress. But Obi-Wan’s on the Jedi Council—no one’s going to ask questions if he puts in a request for a new mattress. 

A thumb slips into Anakin’s ass. He gasps as it tugs his hole open, and he knows Obi-Wan is just looking. 

“No, Master,” he tries to say, attempting to placate Obi-Wan, lull him back to being sweet like Anakin knows he can be, sometimes. If he plays his cards right. 

“Of course, I don’t,” Obi-Wan agrees, slipping his cock back inside. It’s half-hard. “I carry myself with a bit of dignity. If you ever listened to me, you might be able to get some yourself.”

Anakin moans as Obi-Wan deliberately fucks against his prostrate, piss still dribbling from his hole, the movement making sounds that humiliate him.

“Or,” Obi-Wan says, “Next time I might not be so nice.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s last thought before Anakin shoves him against the wall is that he’s going to kill Garen and Quinlan. He knew he had a reason to be wary when they’d originally told him about trying to extend their friendship to his former Padawan, and now that reason is very clear—one too many drinks in the lower levels led to his old friends revealing a little too much about Obi-Wan’s past. 

And Anakin has never been very good at reigning in his reactions, especially the volatile ones. Like the display of jealousy and hostility happening right now. It leads to things like the sharp twinge of Obi-Wan’s shoulder as Anakin slams him into the wall, tabards curled in gloved fists. 

“How many?” Anakin asks, nearly through his teeth. 

Obi-Wan lets himself be pinned, putting all his strength into lowering Anakin’s hackles. “Get ahold of yourself,” he says in his best Master voice. 

It does nothing. Anakin just pushes against him harder and hisses again,“How many?” 

“I didn’t keep count.” Obi-Wan’s voice veers into a snarl, a representation of how ridiculous he thinks Anakin is being, but it’s also the honest truth. He never did keep count of his bed partners—or, rather, he lost count a long time ago. Whatever the number is, though, it stopped getting any higher after the first time he slept with Anakin, which the younger man knows. Still, Anakin seethes. And Obi-Wan, for the first time since his prude of a Master was around, feels a flicker of shame. If Anakin of all people, with all his faults and troubles and violence, is looking down on Obi-Wan for this, maybe he has a point. Maybe Obi-Wan should be ashamed. 

The logical part of his brain knows that’s just as ridiculous as Anakin’s line of questioning. But he’s never been very good at adhering to sheer logic as far as his former Padawan is concerned. Obi-Wan’s love for him mucks up the works of his rational thinking. And he so hates for Anakin to be upset with him. 

“E chu ta, Master,” Anakin says, shoving at his shoulders one more time before stepping back and looking at Obi-Wan with narrowed, judging eyes. “Did you start fucking me because I was the only being left you hadn’t?”

It stuns Obi-Wan, slightly. The jealousy is one thing, but the degradation is another. “Do not talk to me like that,” he manages to get out, though he remains slumped against the wall, feeling unsteady on his feet. 

Anakin laughs, but it’s mean. “Like what? Like you’re easy? Like you’re a slut?”

Obi-Wan feels his face flame, and his expression tightens with indignation. “I’m not listening to this,” he barks, then starts to move toward the door. 

Before he gets it open, though, Anakin snags his wrist, pulling Obi-Wan’s body to him before bullying him against the door, face first. He gets both of Obi-Wan’s hands in his durasteel grip and kicks his legs apart. How quick all of it happens takes Obi-Wan’s breath away, and instead of doing the logical thing and shoving Anakin off of him, he stills completely, like a fawn. Waiting. Accepting, maybe. 

“Are you even going to deny it?” Anakin asks, breath hot against his ear.

When it becomes clear he’s going to be here until he answers, Obi-Wan gives in. “What would you have me say, Anakin?”

“The truth.” Anakin’s mech finger pinch at his skin. “Tell me, Master, when you walk through the Temple, does everyone see you first as a cocksucker, and a Jedi second?”

Obi-Wan squirms. Perhaps not first. But there’s certainly a lot of his fellow Jedi that know what Obi-Wan looks like with tears streaming down his face as he’s face-fucked. Compared to Anakin, who’s only ever had Obi-Wan’s cock in his mouth, he feels slightly dirty. 

Still, he cannot help that the other main use for his mouth has always been running it. Over his shoulder, he sneers, “You underestimate my prowess for eating pussy.”

Anakin’s flesh hand cups his skull and shoves his face against the wall again. “Whore.” Obi-Wan says nothing, just huffs out a breath through his nose. When the hand leaves his head, he doesn’t move it. He doesn’t move at all, not even when his trousers and underwear are being pulled down to his knees and Anakin palms his ass roughly. “I never think about anyone but you. I don’t want anyone but you.”

“Anakin, I—“ Obi-Wan tries to defend himself, but he’s cut off. 

“How much of an effort is it for you to keep your legs closed? Do you miss it—being a slut?” The hand on Obi-Wan’s ass slides down, shoving between his legs, stroking his taint, ignoring his balls, then wrapping around his cock. Anakin pulls it back, making Obi-Wan yelp in slight pain, before he adjusts his stance so it’s less strained. Unfortunately, that just means pressing his chest to the wall and arching his spine, sticking his ass out.

He’s already half-hard, though. So any dignity he had left to begin with is erased as soon as Anakin grips him in his hand and discovers that fact.  Presenting his ass like the slut he they both know Obi-Wan truly is becomes less of a concern as Anakin strokes him harshly, making Obi-Wan whimper. 

“Look at you,” Anakin whispers. “Look how bad you need it. Like a bantha in heat.”

“I am not an animal,” Obi-Wan protests, though his voice is shaky, and he shudders when Anakin’s thumb caresses his slit and works more pre-come out of him.

“You might as well be, with the way you’re led around by this fucking cock. How do you even get anything done? How do you get through those long, boring Council meetings without begging one of them to put you in your place and fuck you stupid?”

Obi-Wan gasps. “Shut up.” The words burn, especially because Obi-Wan has found his mind wandering several times during aforementioned long, boring Council meetings, daydreaming about cockwarming Kit Fisto or Shaak Ti putting him on a leash and guiding him to kneel between her legs. It always feels a little wrong, having such thoughts even after he’s committed himself to Anakin, but he’s always figured what Anakin doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

But apparently, Anakin does know. And Obi-Wan has never felt more exposed. He wonders if he just admits it, just says, You’re right, I’m filthy. A lust-driven bitch in heat that can’t go more than twenty minutes without hoping someone will use me—perhaps Anakin will get over his anger and forgive him. 

The grip on his wrists tightens, slackens, then disappears completely. Obi-Wan keeps his hands at the small of his back anyway.

Anakin huffs a laugh. “If I touch your hole, are you going to come?”

Obi-Wan shoves his forehead into the wall and grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to answer, but the hand on his cock is only getting wetter as his slutty cock continues to drool, and the slick channel of Anakin’s fist, along with the nasty sounds it’s producing, are pushing him closer and closer to the edge. And if he touches his hole, he knows he’ll go right over that edge. 

“What if put my tongue on it?”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan whines. 

The younger man hums. “No, I don’t think you deserve that.” 

Then, two fingers are roughly shoving between his cheeks and stroking over his hole. Obi-Wan’s eyes roll back, and his thighs begin to quiver. It only takes the faintest pressure against his entrance, as if Anakin is considering stuffing him full, for Obi-Wan to tip into orgasm.

As soon as it starts, both of Anakin’s hands pull away. 

“No,” Obi-Wan cries pathetically, reaching down with both his own hands to take over, hand flying over his wet cock and three fingers rubbing over his pulsing hole. His spend slicks his hand, and before his balls are done pulsing, Obi-Wan is reaching back with that hand to fuck himself with fingers covered in his own come. 

He must look like such a slut. 

Chapter Text

It’s easy enough to keep Captain Typho, Senator Amidala, and her gaggle of handmaidens off the transport before takeoff. The whole reason Obi-Wan and Anakin are here is because of the assassination attempt on the landing platform, so all it takes is Obi-Wan requesting that he and his Padawan give the transport a final security sweep for Typho to agree and keep everyone away. 

And, for the record, Obi-Wan does do a security sweep. Nothing appears to be amiss, though, and he’s quick to move onto the real reason he’s found a way to steal a moment of privacy. 

“Over my lap, Padawan.”

Anakin shifts on his feet where he stands in front of Obi-Wan. “Master, must we…” He pouts, face scrunching up. 

“Unless you’d like me to inform the Council of your unreadiness for this mission and have them assign another Jedi to it, yes. We must,” Obi-Wan tells him. Master Windu had talked him down from the ledge before when Obi-Wan brought up his uneasiness about sending his Padawan as Senator Amidala’s personal bodyguard, but if Obi-Wan insisted, the Council would heed his concerns about his Padawan and call Anakin back. 

It really shouldn’t come to that, though. Obi-Wan wants his Padawan to do well. But he knows Anakin well enough to recognize when he’s teetering on the edge of transgression, and especially when he’s just waiting to be out of Obi-Wan’s sight to dive straight into it. His Padawan’s display in Senator Amidala’s apartment after not seeing her for ten years is proof enough that Anakin needs a firm reminder of his place and of his duties before being sent off alone with her. 

Usually, Anakin balks when Obi-Wan tells him to get over his knee. What? What did I do? I haven’t done anything! The fact that there’s no fuss this time tells Obi-Wan his Padawan already knows what he’s done to earn a sore backside all the way to Naboo. And as Obi-Wan predicted, Anakin’s desire to prove himself is stronger than his want to save himself from a little embarrassment and pain; he shuffles over and balances himself on Obi-Wan’s lap. He doesn’t fit as neatly in the spot as he once did, but his long limbs and broad shoulders are no obstacle to what Obi-Wan really needs to get at. 

Flipping up the ends of Anakin’s tabards and tunics, Obi-Wan places a gentle hand on his backside. “You know I only do this because you need it. You’re capable of greatness, Anakin. I would hate to see you squander it by acting irrationally.”

“Yes, Master,” Anakin answers in a small voice. Obi-Wan pets at the wispy curls on nape of his neck to comfort him. 

“That’s right. I’m your Master. And it’s my duty to take you in hand and protect you from all things, even yourself.”

A bright flare of emotion comes from Anakin, which isn’t unusual in times like these. Despite not liking the form it takes in these circumstances, Obi-Wan knows his Padawan has something of a black-hole inside of him that feeds on nothing but affection. And somewhere along the way it has dawned on Anakin that this is his Master’s way of showing him affection; Obi-Wan couldn’t be prouder. 

“Thank you, Master,” Anakin says, before wrapping a steadying hand around the ankle of one of Obi-Wan’s boots. 

Those words are Obi-Wan’s queue to start swinging. And he does—hard. His palm meets the swell of Anakin’s ass and even through his pants and underwear, Obi-Wan’s hand smarts from it. Of course, his Padawan has a little more padding on his backside than Obi-Wan has on his palm; something he’s keenly aware of and the reason he doesn’t dare go easy on the boy. Anakin has always been tough, but he’s especially resilient to physical pain. Obi-Wan wouldn’t dare insult him by softening his blows. 

Even so, the first smack barely has an affect on Anakin. There’s only a soft exhale of breath after the fact, telling Obi-Wan he held his breath as he was hit. Usually, Obi-Wan spanks him until he breaks and cries, but they’re pressed for time, so he’ll have to make do with punishing his Padawan as quickly as he can and supplementing with his words. 

Ignoring the ache in his palm, Obi-Wan rains down smacks on Anakin’s backside, alternating cheek to cheek and making sure to hit every spot. While Anakin’s breathing sharpens and his flesh ripples under his hand, Obi-Wan thinks about the way his Padawan had looked at Senator Amidala in her apartment; how utterly, blissfully pleased he seemed when told he was to accompany her back to Naboo. 

He hits harder, right over the crack of Anakin’s ass which must be horribly uncomfortable, then moves down to swat at his sit spots, over and over again. 

“Let this be a reminder of your commitment, Anakin. Not only to the Jedi Order, but to me. I am always with you, Padawan, no matter how the physical space between us. Every time you sit, you will remember that. You will remember how much I care for you, how much I want you to succeed.”

Anakin’s breathing begins to slow again, but Obi-Wan recalls the look on the Senator’s face. Ani? My goodness, you’ve grown! He shifts his legs, props Anakin’s backside up higher, and makes his hits extra mean.

“You are a good boy, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, stressing the words. “I know you are.” The grip around his ankle tightens, and Anakin squirms a little, which is unusual. “Do not let somebody else sway you into being something you’re not. I couldn’t bear it. You only need to be what you are—my Padawan.”

As he speaks, his smacks become so aggressive that Obi-Wan has to steel himself to keep going even as his hand throbs. The last two words, my Padawan, are said through gritted teeth.

When he stops, he’s panting. Anakin, on the other hand, has become very still. 

Obi-Wan stares at his red palm until there’s feather-light pressure against his leg, and he shifts to see Anakin, braid swaying gently, pressing a kiss to the side of his bent knee. 

“I know, Master,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan hopes he’s not lying. 

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan only lets Anakin fuck him when he’s drunk.

So, he gets drunk a lot. 

On missions with his own battalion, he does the responsible Jedi thing and discourages his men from raucous, drunken celebrations, but on joint missions with the 501st, he relaxes the rule; letting it seem like his troublemaking former Padawan has talked him out of being so strict. In reality, Obi-Wan needs no convincing. Every mission, every second away from Anakin is plagued with an unsatisfiable emptiness. 

The sight of Anakin, alive and safe, should be enough to sate him. But it’s not, and Obi-Wan drinks until he’s stumbling. Until Anakin is luring him farther and farther away from their camp and their men, into the dark woods of a mid-rim planet. Until Obi-Wan’s pants are around his knees and Anakin’s fucking him from behind, against a tree that Obi-Wan clings too as his hole is pounded and his soft cock sways uselessly. 

It’s a side effect of the drinking, of course. When Obi-Wan is sober, his cock works perfectly fine when he shamefully touches himself to the thought of Anakin—perhaps a little too well. But they’ve only ever had sex like this, sloppy and drunk and rough, so Anakin has no proof that Obi-Wan’s cock works at all, really. 

Anakin very obviously doesn’t care. “Take it, take it,” he growls. 

Obi-Wan’s pants stop him from widening his stance further, so he tries his best to lean more of his upper body against the tree, arching his back and groaning as Anakin’s cock drags in and out of him. It feels so fucking good he could cry. He opened himself up in hyperspace in anticipation of this like he always does; Anakin probably thinks the natural state of his ass is slick and open at this point. It wouldn’t be surprising—Anakin so obviously thinks his hole is the most important part of him. The most hungry, the most needy. Obi-Wan’s cock, small in it’s softness and entirely irrelevant to the sex they have, is all the proof he needs. 

The only attention it ever gets is when Anakin points that out. 

Obi-Wan winces as durasteel cups and squeezes his flaccid cock, not trying to get him hard, just gripping. “Wish I had a mirror to fuck you in front of,” Anakin pants into his ear. “Your useless cock makes me so hard, Master.”

It shouldn’t make Obi-Wan preen, but it does. The fact that Anakin wants him, gets hard for him, is the headiest thing he’s ever known, and he can’t ever bring himself to feel slighted by his former Padawan’s filthy mouth, even when his words verge on insulting. All they do is convince Obi-Wan that Anakin is right. His cock is useless; he has no need for it. The center of his pleasure, his being, is his hole, and Obi-Wan’s purpose is to take Anakin’s cock inside of it. 

The intoxication makes his shielding shoddy, and some vague sense of what he’s thinking must be picked up by Anakin, because he lets go of Obi-Wan’s cock to reach up and grab him by the jaw, turning his head to the side so he can lick into Obi-Wan’s ear. “That’s right, baby. You don’t need anything else but my big cock, do you? I could cage yours up and toss the key out the airlock and you’d fucking thank me for it.”

Making a wanton, agreeing noise, Obi-Wan tries to nod, but it’s difficult to do so with how hard his face is being gripped. The thought of his cock being locked up, potentially forever, drives him wild, and his flaccid dick drips on the forest floor. He’s thankful that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, because now he can look down and watch it sway and bounce as Anakin’s cock stretches him open and heavy balls smack against his own. 

“But I’m not going to do that,” Anakin says, reaching between their bodies with his flesh hand to stroke around Obi-Wan’s wet hole as he continues to stroke in and out. “I like that your dick stays soft, not because of a cage, but because it just doesn’t work.” His laughter slurs and he shoves as deep as he can into Obi-Wan’s ass, grinding his hips. “Your body just knows it’s meant to be fucked, Obi-Wan.”

When his mouth drops open in a moan, durasteel fingers shove inside, and Obi-Wan bites down on them as Anakin resumes his thrusting, only much harsher than before. Every part of Obi-Wan that touches the tree is scraped and dragged and he can feel parts of his skin tearing with it. As much as it hurts, he relaxes, letting himself become a wet, warm, loose hole for Anakin to fuck into. They make eye contact as Obi-Wan looks over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together in pleasure as his prostate is stroked over again and again. 

Anakin looks at him like he wants to eat him. Obi-Wan spreads his legs wider. 

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan has always encouraged his Padawan to be curious. Perhaps a little too curious for some, but to Obi-Wan, there’s no such thing. In fact, Anakin being overly curious has always been the plan. His highest hopes were Anakin blowing right past curiousity and into pervasive, aggressive intrusion.

They’re not quite there—yet. For now, Obi-Wan will settle for Anakin’s naive lack of boundaries and his desire for connection. Add on all the work Obi-Wan has put in to make him entirely unaware of what is and isn’t appropriate conduct between a Master and Padawan, and honestly, Obi-Wan has nothing to complain about. 

He’d started by just letting Anakin see his cock. Nudity isn’t taboo as a rule for Jedi, but it’s certainly not encouraged between adults like Obi-Wan and young Padawan’s like Anakin. Communal showers filled with Masters, Knights, and senior Padawans is one thing—stepping out of the personal ‘fresher he and Anakin share in their quarters, fully naked, cock soft and swaying with each step is something else entirely. Running through his morning stretches and katas like that, pretending there’s nothing inappropriate about it at all while Anakin turns furiously red as he attempts to finish his breakfast with his jaw dropped, is one of Obi-Wan’s favorite memories. 

It took some time, but eventually Anakin had come around to the nudity, and now Obi-Wan is very used to the sight of his Padawan naked. He’s not  quite as obscene as Obi-Wan is; he doesn’t readjust his balls as he sits or bend over to get the blue milk out of the conservator to put his hole on display, but he’s comfortable. And that’s enough for Obi-Wan.

Until, that is, the first time he enters Anakin’s room, just as he does every morning to wake him, and finds his Padawan tenting the sheets. It takes everything in him not to wake Anakin up by sucking his hard cock, throating him as deeply as possible—which wouldn’t be difficult; Anakin is still relatively small. But Obi-Wan is smarter than that. He wakes his Padawan as he always does, pretending nothing is amiss.

Then, over breakfast, “You know you can come to me for anything, don’t you, Padawan?”

Anakin’s mouth is full, so he just nods and grunts an affirmative noise, though his eyes are questioning.

“Even things you might find unseemly, or embarrassing,” Obi-Wan says as earnestly as possible. “You should never be ashamed, Anakin. Not with me. I’m your Master, these things are what I am here for.”

The emphasis he puts on these things seems to clue Anakin in, because his cheeks bloom red. 

So cute, Obi-Wan thinks. He nudges Anakin’s bare foot with his own under the table. “It’s only natural,” he practically purrs, smiling at his Padawan. 

Anakin visibly gulps. “Yes, Master.”

Later, Obi-Wan’s restraint is tested again—the first time Anakin comes to him, heel of his hand pushing at the bulge in his leggings. It’s the middle of the night. 

“Hurts,” Anakin mumbles, other hand rubbing at his eyes. 

It would be so easy to call him over and take care of it himself. Obi-Wan would put a lot of credits on his ability to make his Padawan orgasm in ten seconds flat. It’s a nice fantasy, but it would be far too much, far too quick. It’d bite him in the ass in the long run. 

So, instead, he sits up and makes a vague, jerking off motion. “Go back to your bed and stroke it just like this, Anakin. Keep at it until you feel something funny in your stomach—“

“Funny?” Anakin interrupts him, hand already trying to mime Obi-Wan’s over his clothes. 

Obi-Wan tilts his head, considering a better way to put this. He never thought about the language he’d use in this specific scenario. In the end, he goes for the most straightforward, yet crude, description available. “It will feel a bit like you have to pee.” At Anakin’s look of slight horror, he assures, “You won’t, though. It means you’re about to orgasm.”

“And I…want to do that?”

“Very much,” Obi-Wan says, unable to keep the timbre out of his voice. “Afterwards, that—“ he looks pointedly at Anakin’s erection, “—will go back down and you can sleep. Clean up first, though. There will be fluids.”

Anakin gives him another anxious look.

“Again, not urine. Come, Padawan. That’s what it’s called. Come, semen, spunk, jizz. It’s supposed to happen. You will be fine.” Obi-Wan’s own cock is stirring under his blankets, so he nods to the door and says, “Now, go back to your room and take care of that. We have an early morning, remember?”

With a final nod, Anakin turns to walk out, but before he goes too far, Obi-Wan calls, “Anakin, wait.”  With the Force, he pulls the nearly-empty bottle of lubricant from his bedside drawer and tosses it to his Padawan, who catches it without even looking at it. Talented boy. “Slick yourself up with that, first. Trust me.”

“I do,” Anakin says.

After that, Anakin’s hormonal changes and how inconvenient his cock is becomes a frequent topic of conversation. Obi-Wan, of course, doesn’t find it inconvenient. He enjoys every chance he gets to walk in on his Padawan tugging his cock in his bed, in the ‘fresher, in the cockpit of a ship. His careful manipulations have made Anakin immune to the typical response of mortification; he doesn’t ever bother covering himself. Obi-Wan carries on as if nothing inappropriate is happening at all, brushing his teeth while listening to Anakin pant in the shower, or sometime’s he’ll make conversation—try tugging on your balls with your other hand, pinch your nipples, hump that pillow. He never sticks around long enough to see Anakin attempt such things, that would be far too obvious. 

Still, it burns. Obi-Wan wants to see. He wants Anakin to want to show him.

In that case, he figures, he should make the first move himself. 

One afternoon, he gets an alert from Master Billaba that her Form II class has been cut short due to one of the Padawan’s being injured. Since Obi-Wan has already spent most of the afternoon playing with his cock, it’s easy to decide that this time is as good as any to take things up a notch. 

When he hears the door slide open, he’s pumping his hips up into his clear fleshlight with a smile on his face that he makes sure to turn into an expression of oblivious pleasure as he hears footsteps approach his wide-open doorway.

“Master, I’m—oh.”

Obi-Wan raises his head lazily and looks at his Padawan. Anakin’s expression is only one of surprise; not disgust, not embarrassment. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with seeing Obi-Wan like this, he just didn’t expect it. 

“Well, I’m happy to see you’re not the injured Padawan,” Obi-Wan tells him casually. 

Anakin ignores him, tilting his head. “What is that?” His eyes dart from Obi-Wan’s face to where his cock is shoving into the toy, the movement producing nasty, slick sounds. 

Obi-Wan considers the term pocket pussy, just because he’d like to see the look on his Padawan’s face after hearing that word come out of his mouth, but decides against it. Saying pussy might give Anakin the impression that that’s where his dick should go. Obi-Wan himself has never had much of a preference when it comes to holes, but for this situation, he’d like to keep the only kind of hole he doesn’t have out of the conversation, lest Anakin spare any thought to putting his dick anywhere but inside him. 

“It’s a cocksleeve,” he says bluntly.

“What—“

“It’s self explanatory, Padawan.”

Anakin takes a few steps closer to the bed, one hand worrying at his Padawan braid, brows furrowed. Obi-Wan watches his eyes follow his thrusting hips. Good boy, he so desperately wants to tell him. 

“It feels better than your hand?” Anakin asks.

“Oh, yes,” Obi-Wan tells him. “A warm, snug, slicked-up hole is the best place to put your cock, Padawan.”

Greedy boy that he is, Anakin follows with, “Can I try it?”

“Rather rude to ask while I’m in the middle of using it, don’t you think?”

“Sorry, Master,” Anakin apologizes immediately. Then, a beat later, “After?”

Obi-Wan finally lets himself eye the bulge in Anakin’s pants. He gives his Padawan an unimpressed look. “I’m not sure you’ll last that long.” 

Predictably, Anakin pouts. He also shoves his hands right down his pants, which thrills Obi-Wan so intensely that he slows the thrusting of his hips slightly to get ahold of himself. After steadying his breathing, Obi-Wan inches his bent knees apart. “Perhaps…”

Anakin’s eyes zero in between his legs. “Master?”

“I really shouldn’t indulge you, Anakin, but perhaps,” Obi-Wan sighs, “if you really wish to feel it—a tight, little hole around your cock—I’ve got another one for you.”

Chapter Text

Thyferra is a hot, humid planet. So when Obi-Wan and Anakin, on a stealth mission, have to make camp under the coverage of the forest, it grows unbearably stuffy in their small tent very quickly and the two of them strip off their clothes and sleep on top of their sleeping bags in the nude. 

Which leaves them vulnerable.

At first, Obi-Wan thinks it’s Anakin. He really does. When he wakes, sprawled on his stomach with his head resting on folded arms, Obi-Wan first notices how his sweat is making his sleeping bag cling to him. Then, he notices the tongue between his legs, trying to wiggle its way toward his hole. Perhaps he’d be more receptive if it weren’t so fucking hot, but it is, and Obi-Wan isn't built for this heat like Anakin is—who seems to purring as he drools over Obi-Wan’s backside. 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, voice still groggy and eyes still closed. “This really isn’t the time for such things.”

The response he gets isn’t a complaint or a pout or even a smack to his ass; it isn’t anything Anakin would say or do. 

It’s a low, grumbling sound that Obi-Wan knows immediately isn’t human. The puff of breath that comes next rustles his hair, and he’s suddenly aware of how sharp the tongue feels against his skin, like it’s covered in a thousand tiny needles. It’s fast, how primal fear takes the reins. So fast that he doesn’t spare a thought to the actions themselves, just the animal behind them. 

Pressing his lips together to avoid whimpering in distress, Obi-Wan turns his head as slow as he can, peeking over his shoulder. 

It’s a fucking Raxshir. A juvenile, to be sure, due to the fact that it can even fit in the tent—though it is a very tight fit, but a Raxshir nonetheless. The most feared species of feline in the entire Galaxy. Obi-Wan almost laughs at the thought; feline brings to mind the image of a playful loth-cat, not this towering, terrifying monster, with it’s vividly striped fur, paws the size of Obi-Wan’s head with claws the length of his fingers, and those fucking teeth. No, not teeth, fangs. The creature locks eyes with him, and Obi-Wan sees that it’s gaze is golden, like a Sith’s.

The animal part of his brain, the part wired to survive at all costs, remembers his lightsaber is only mere away, above his head. Though, retrieving it would require reaching for it, and the longer he and the Raxshir stare at each other, the less likely it seems that Obi-Wan will be able to get away with that, even if he goes very slowly as he had when turning his head. 

The only other option is to reach suddenly, snap his arm out and grab, ignite, defend. Hopefully not kill—Obi-Wan still knows he wants to avoid that, despite his fear. The animal is beautiful, in a strange way. And Obi-Wan is technically on it’s turf; uninvited. 

He reaches, and just as his fingers begin to close around his ‘saber hilt, a weight presses down on his back that feels like a starship has just landed on him. It knocks the wind out of him, but that’s the least of his concerns; accompanying it is five sharp, stabbing needles to his back that drag down his skin, and Obi-Wan realizes the Raxshir has stepped on him. 

Immediately, all energy goes to getting the Raxshir off, and Obi-Wan riots underneath it, which is fruitless given it’s size and strength. His lightsaber is now just out of reach. And Obi-Wan is too busy panicking to call on the Force. Dimly, a teenage memory of himself being pressed against a sticky cantina wall by a grown man that wouldn’t take no for an answer comes back to him—and how much he had beat himself up for it afterward; why didn’t you just shove him off, you’re a Jedi, you should’ve just flashed your ‘saber, used the Force. But there’s something about that strange, specific type of fear that strikes you when a predator has you in their sight that just locks you up.

So that’s what Obi-Wan does. He locks up, and waits for the Raxshir’s next move. It occurs to him that Anakin must’ve left to search for a water source like they’d discussed the night before, but he has no clue if Anakin departed five minutes before the animal had shown up or if it has been hours, and therefore has no clue if there’s a chance he’ll be back anytime soon. Even worse, his stomach turns at the thought that the Raxshir may have found his former Padawan already, and Anakin is now torn to shreds somewhere in the forest where Obi-Wan will never find him—if he lives.

The Raxshir breaks their eye contact—Obi-Wan hadn’t dared move his head while he reached for his lightsaber—and a moment later, a cold and wet, but very soft nose is puffing breath out along his spine. Obi-Wan’s racing mind suggests that the animal is Force sensitive and therefore felt the absolute weakness in him at the thought of losing Anakin, and has now decided he’s easy enough prey to go in for the kill. Hastily, he uses the little concentration he can muster to raise and steady his shields. But this turns out to be fruitless. 

That giant paw is still on him, and Obi-Wan can feel blood pooling in the small of his back. Fur tickles his ribcage. Then, a tongue laps at the blood. 

Instinctively, he tenses and arches, trying to get away from the Raxshir’s mouth. It doesn’t seem to like that; pressing its paw even harder against him, so Obi-Wan forces his body to do the exact opposite of what it wants to do and goes as limp as possible. This gives a little bit of his breath back as the animal eases up on the pressure, but it worsens the licking, which starts to move down until it’s lapping between his legs again. 

Though nervousness still dominates, Obi-Wan’s mind makes a little room for embarrassment and slight horror. With the way he’s laying, the large tongue even slightly brushes his balls, along with leaving streaks of drool all over his ass. It’s well-muscled enough to get between his cheeks on its own too, and Obi-Wan shudders when the slick warmth and slight sharpness drags against his rim. He almost thinks it would be better if Anakin didn’t come back, so long as he didn’t see Obi-Wan like this. 

Then, he thinks about all the creatures in the Galaxy that start off a meal by devouring their preys weak spots to get to the organs. Weak spots meaning genitals. 

Obi-Wan does not fear death. But he does very much dislike the idea of dying like this. He lays there, trying to come up with something, anything to distract the Raxshir. It’s pathetic that he really can come up with nothing, seeing as the animal makes no further moves, just continues to lick and lick. At least it’s giving Obi-Wan quite a long time to think.

It’s a bit distracting though. Lick, lick, lick. 

The Raxshir seems distracted enough that Obi-Wan allows his head to rest on his arms again, his straining neck thanking him. It continues; lick, lick, lick. The tongue is focused now, never straying from his hole. Obi-Wan involuntarily shivers, thinking it’s the easiest way to rip me open, and the movement pulls him away from the licking slightly. 

But the animal just chases after him, and Obi-Wan, who is already dreading being pinned by those long claws again, tries to settle back into his previous position in order to quell the Raxshir. The force of both his own movement and the Raxshir’s has the unfortunate consequence of forcing the slick, warm, tensile tongue into Obi-Wan’s wet, soft hole slightly. 

Obi-Wan moans. Without thinking, he presses back further, chasing the sensation, then realizes what he’s doing and freezes. The tongue eases from him as he locks up again.

There’s another huff, and Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut. That strong, furred snout nuzzles at his backside which spreads him open a bit. Obi-Wan can feel the cool press of two protruding fangs on his skin.  Luckily, they’re still not clamping down, just touching him lightly as the Raxshir’s tongue drags over his hole again. It doesn’t seem to like how tense Obi-Wan has gotten, or maybe it enjoyed the mortifying sound he just made, because its tongue seems to be trying to recreate what it had done before; spearing inside of him. It takes several tries, but eventually the creature establishes a rhythm of dragging its long, broad tongue up Obi-Wan’s taint all the way to his rim, where it curls slightly and dips into him. It only gets easier for the creature as Obi-Wan’s hole relaxes more and more with each spit-soaked lave. 

Trapped between his stomach and his sleeping bag, Obi-Wan’s cock begins to harden. “No,” he moans miserably, but the tongue just keeps fucking into him. His stomach flips as he realizes he just thought of it as fucking. 

Fucking into me. Fucking me. It’s fucking me. The Raxshir is fucking me. 

Does it even have a cock?

Obi-Wan flinches at his own thoughts, and the Raxshir growls at his sudden movement. 

“Okay, okay, alright,” Obi-Wan mutters, relaxing once more. Call it survival instinct—the way he perks his backside up slightly so the animal will get distracted again and forget about his jolting. It leaves his balls even more vulnerable, and the new position also splits him open a fraction wider. The wet nose, the tickling fur, and the warm tongue return. Obi-Wan’s mouth drops open slightly. “There. Are you happy now, you perverted thing?” He quips without really thinking about it. All the response he gets is the tongue fucking even deeper into him. 

Obi-Wan makes a strangled little noise, and becomes aware of the way his nipples are rubbing against the sleeping bag underneath him. It’s pleasant—any attention on that part of his body is—and his mind briefly supplies the image of that rough, warm tongue licking over his chest, and his strangled little noise becomes a groan.

The Raxshir pauses, lifting his head. A moment later, a great, scary paw lands very close to his shoulder, and fur tickles his upper back, neck, and ear. It’s right next to him. Obi-Wan can feel it’s breath. 

Perhaps he’s gone stupid, or just wants to get this over with and be killed already if that’s his fate, because Obi-Wan dares to turn his head toward the creature. 

It’s terrifying up close, but in the way any large, looming predator is scary no matter what. Its expression seems curious, though. 

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan says, trying to stay calm.

The next second, he’s sure he’s made a mistake, because it comes even closer and unhinges it’s jaws—

—only to lick into Obi-Wan’s mouth, like it’s kissing him. 

“Mmph!” Obi-Wan doesn’t move, not knowing what to do. Every attempt to pull away thus far has gotten him hurt or threatened to be hurt. And now the creatures face is right next to Obi-Wan’s head, making him feel very small and edible. Stunned and out of good options, Obi-Wan lets the Raxshir do as he pleases, tongue moving around his teeth and gums and soft palate. He can’t help but move his own tongue around, trying to avoid the large, invasive one belonging to the Raxshir, but it’s oddly and startlingly thrilling when their tongues stroke against each other. 

Like we’re kissing. Like we’re making out. I’m making out with the Raxshir. 

It’s disgusting. He shouldn’t be thinking like that, even though he finds himself tilting his head and fluttering his eyes shut. Obi-Wan’s tongue licks over sharp teeth and then suddenly his hips are moving and he’s fucking the ground and he’s about to come and—

Obi-Wan lets out a sound of revulsion directed solely toward himself and forces his hips off the ground, halting his orgasm in his tracks. He retracts his tongue and tries to break the kiss, but the Raxshir keeps licking, resorting to lapping at his lips and beard when Obi-Wan avoids it. “No, stop it. No more kissing,” he tells the animal. “Just—just go back down there,” Obi-Wan says, trying to nod over his shoulder while still avoiding the kiss.

The Raxshir doesn’t listen, so Obi-Wan pushes his luck, reaching out to set a hand on it’s large, furry head, gently nudging its gaze in the direction of his backside. Since his hips are still off the ground, and he’s not pinned down, Obi-Wan gets his knees under himself. “Go back to tonguing me there,” he says, and when the Raxshir still doesn’t listen, Obi-Wan nudges its head a little harder, pushing it away from licking his nose. “Please. I’m begging you.”

It huffs, then noses at his back again, down to where its claws had cut into him. The wounds have gotten tacky with clotting blood, and it stings when they’re licked over. 

“That hurts,” Obi-Wan mumbles. It’s not like he wants the Raxshir to go back to licking his hole—because that would be disgusting—he just wishes it wouldn’t lick over the cuts. He squirms with the discomfort of it, until he feels that cold nose on his tailbone before it sinks lower and lower.

Lick. 

“Oh.” If it’s a moan, that’s okay. No one is around to hear it. Obi-Wan does his best to give his shame to the Force; it’s not his fault this is happening. It’s this or be mauled by the creature, right? Usually, giving his emotions to the Force isn’t too difficult of a task for him, but right now, he finds that the only time the shame fades away is when the Raxshir’s tongue drags over his hole. At least, it has the manners to establish a semi-stable rhythm again, which means the shame hardly has any time to come back in between licks, and Obi-Wan soon forgets what’s so wrong about all of this. It’s hard not to when the big tongue curls into him gently, coaxing his rim open once more so it can fuck inside of him. 

The difference between giving his emotions to the Force, and getting them fucked out of him, though, lies in the fact that when Obi-Wan chooses to surrender something to the Force, he is the one deciding what he’s giving up. But the Raxshir’s tongue drives away more than just Obi-Wan’s shame. Soon, as his whole ass seems to be wet with drool and his hips rock back onto the tongue without him realizing it, all Obi-Wan’s other thoughts float away too, until there’s just the sensation of his hole being played with and eaten so attentively, so thoroughly. 

Obi-Wan is lost to it all, and spreads his legs wider, hoping the tongue will spear him deeper. He bites his sleeping bag, muffling all his whines and groans. Going up onto his knees has removed the possibility of rutting into the ground, which Obi-Wan swiftly regrets, already having forgotten why he did it in the first place. 

Maybe the Raxshir really is Force-sensitive, because it draws it’s mouth away from Obi-Wan’s ass, and for a moment, he thinks it’s because it’s going to allow him to sink back down so he can fuck the ground again. But quickly, that idea is forgotten when a paw lands near his head again. Obi-Wan blinks at it, briefly wondering if he’s about to be kissed again, but he would feel the animals head if it drew nearer to do that. Confusion takes over, and Obi-Wan feels the other paw land on the other side of him. 

Something nudges his hole. 

All his fear and arousal have shot his nerves and drained his energy. Obi-Wan doesn’t realize what’s about to happen until it’s too late, and just as he drops his jaw open to shout and readies his body to riot, his wet, open,  well-prepared hole is filled with the largest cock Obi-Wan has ever felt in his life. 

He does shout. But it’s not one of aggression like he plans. It’s a guttural, sobbing noise that’s ripped out of him as the Raxshir’s fat cock drags over his prostate and makes Obi-Wan come all over his sleeping bag, cock untouched and tears in his eyes.

Beginning to cry, in mortification and overstimulation, Obi-Wan goes limp and surrenders to the Raxshir, letting it fuck his hole, thrashing his body back and forth on the sleeping back.

Just when he feels the beginning of a knot pressing at him, and Obi-Wan shamefully registers the stomach-flip of aroused anticipation that comes over him in response—a twig snaps outside the tent. 

“Master?”

Chapter Text

In Anakin’s defense, it starts innocently. 

Pathetically, in the throes of sleep-deprived longing for his Master who has been gone for only a month, Anakin pulls up the folder of every training video Obi-Wan has ever made for him. His Master always got antsy being away from the Temple without Anakin; leaving his Padawan in the care of others for too long. Back then, Anakin had thought it was overkill to leave him with all these lessons—now, he wishes Obi-Wan had sent more. He sets the videos to run on a continuous loop and is finally lulled to sleep by that beloved Coruscanti accent. 

The fact that he has the most vivid wet dream he’s ever had, waking up as he comes in his pants, can’t be a coincidence. Afterward, Anakin tries to pretend that it’s nothing, but as he presses play and Obi-Wan’s voice fills the room for the second night in a row, prattling on about proper Soresu posture, Anakin’s cock twitches. So, yes; it had started innocently. However, every night after that is anything but innocent—with Anakin stroking himself to the sound of his Master’s lecturing until he comes so hard he passes out almost immediately after.

Obi-Wan’s return marks the end of it. His Master’s actual presence fills the void Anakin was using the videos for. He wishes he could be relieved about it, but seeing his Master in person again has created a different problem for Anakin. 

When Obi-Wan briefs the Council on his mission, he invites Anakin, seeing as the information is vital to the next mission they’ll be going on together. And as his Master shares the rather long-winded tale, Anakin’s eyes go half-lidded and he’s suddenly weak in the knees. He’s standing right beside Obi-Wan’s seat, and his arm reaches out as he stumbles slightly, steadying himself against it. 

It makes Obi-Wan shut up, which Anakin is momentarily grateful for. 

Then, “Dear one?”

Hearing that is so much worse than the mission rambling. Anakin almost moans. A hand lands on his shoulder, and another presses to his forehead. Anakin blinks his eyes open to see Obi-Wan, now standing very close and looking at him, blue eyes all big and concerned. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

Has his Master’s accent always been so sexy, or is it just because he’s showing this level of concern in front of the Council? It’s probably neither and has more to do with the fact that Anakin has spent over a week jacking off to his voice. 

“Um,” Anakin says dumbly, rubbing at his eyes.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” Obi-Wan asks. When Anakin doesn’t answer immediately, he looks around, like someone else would know. 

“Perhaps a trip to the Halls of Healing?” Master Billaba suggests. 

“I don’t need to go the Halls,” Anakin says quickly, then, softer, “I think I just need to go back to my quarters and lie down.”

“I’ll walk you,” Obi-Wan says, in his stupid-sexy-sweet voice. It must come off far more authoritative than hot to the rest of the Council, because they broker no argument as Obi-Wan takes him by the elbow and pulls him out the door. 

Back in his rooms, Anakin flops down on his thin mattress and tries not to scream into his pillow. He hears Obi-Wan set something down and turns his head slightly to see a cup of water on the table before the older man sits on the edge of his bed. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Obi-Wan asks, hand reaching out to pet over his hair. 

Anakin tries not to push into it. “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. It must be catching up to me. That’s all.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says. “You know, it’s rather bad for you to use these before bed. That might be part of the problem.”

Raising his head in confusion, Anakin’s eyes go wide when he sees Obi-Wan holding the data-pad. It’s not like there’s anything illicit on it, but the way he’s been using it for the past week certainly makes it feel like Obi-Wan has just found a stack of porno-mags under his bed. But if he makes a scene, then Obi-Wan won’t let it go, so Anakin squirms and watches Obi-Wan open it up, trying to look unbothered and probably failing.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, raising a brow at him. “Did you miss me that much?” He’s absolutely joking, completely clueless that yes, Anakin did miss him that much; he missed his Master more than he could ever stomach admitting to. 

“Or I just needed something boring to put me to sleep,” Anakin tells him. 

Obi-Wan snorts. “Well, if that’s the case,” he pauses to press play on one of the vids before setting the data-pad on the table next to the cup of water. “Get some rest, my dear.” With one last caress to Anakin’s curls, Obi-Wan stands and walks out the door, leaving only his voice floating through the air. 

As soon as the door to his bedroom slides all the way shut, Anakin shoves his hand down his pants, biting his lip and rocking up into the grip. 

It’s his own fucking fault for not waiting until he hears the snick of the entry door shut, which would signal Obi-Wan being out of his quarters entirely. He never hears it, because it doesn’t shut. Obi-Wan never leaves.

The door to his bedroom hisses as it opens again. “Actually, we should first discuss the mi—For the love of the Force, Anakin.”

Anakin yelps, yanking his hand out of his pants. “Could you fucking knock?” He nearly shouts, embarrassment making his voice pitchy.

“I was gone for ten seconds!” Obi-Wan balks. 

Groaning, Anakin turns over and shoves his face into the pillow. 

“Did you pretend to feel ill at the Council meeting so you could return here to play with yourself?”

Anakin turns back over in a huff. “No,” he snarls, insulted. “You would think me low enough to do something like that, wouldn’t you, Master Kenobi?” He knows he’s only so angry because it’s Obi-Wan’s fault he’s like this in the first place, but that knowledge doesn’t make him any less angry.

Obi-Wan shrugs. “Well, you must be in some sort of rush, seeing as you couldn’t even turn off the recording of me going over diplomacy tactics for non-verbal sentients.”

The mortification makes Anakin stupid, so he says, “I didn’t want to turn it off!” It’s meant to be a haha, gotcha, I proved you wrong, but as soon as it comes out, Anakin realizes that’s not at all what it sounds like. It’s just a blatant confession, and his cheeks heat as his eyes widen, giving him away further.

Obi-Wan makes a strange little sound, eyebrows raising. Then, he tilts his head, and the corner of his mouth tugs up. “I suppose I should be flattered, then?”

“You should shut up, Obi-Wan.”

Humming, Obi-Wan steps closer to the bed, arms uncrossing, fingers of one hand dragging along the mattress. “Oh, I don’t think you want me to shut up at all, do you, Anakin?” 

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut. “Master, please.”

“Please, what?” Obi-Wan asks. Anakin feels him sit on the bed again, right next to him. “Please leave so you can return to tugging your cock to lessons you learned a decade ago?” A miserable noise worms out of Anakin’s throat, before a hand strokes his face, then down his neck, over his torso, finally coming to a stop at his belt. “Wouldn’t you rather listen to me talk about something a bit more—stimulating,” Obi-Wan says, leaning in so close Anakin can feel his breath on his face. 

His belt loosens, and then his tunics are being rucked up. A shiver wracks Anakin as Obi-Wan’s cold hand presses flat against his bare stomach, and the older man chuckles.

“Did my monologuing in the Council Chamber do this to you, Anakin?”

Eyes still shut, Anakin doesn’t know what to say. He’s already given away enough; he’s not sure if it can get any worse. Still, his pride makes him hesitant to answer. He stays silent. 

Until Obi-Wan’s hand slips under his waistband—only of his pants, not the underwear—and palms at Anakin’s cock that had just gone fully soft but immediately begins to perk up again. “I asked you a question.” Obi-Wan squeezes him harshly. “But, perhaps you’re just not answering because you want to listen to me repeat the question.”

Anakin’s cock hardens mortifyingly fast, and it takes way too much effort to stop his hips from rocking up into Obi-Wan’s touch. “Don’t mock me,” he rasps out, pressing his hands to his face. 

“Oh—you’d like me to shut up?”

Nearly growling, Anakin replies, “You are the most insufferable man I’ve ever met, Master.”

The mattress shifts, and then Anakin feels breath against his lips. He keeps his hands over his eyes, disbelieving. 

“Because of my mouth?” Obi-Wan drawls softly, so close Anakin’s chin is being tickled by his beard.

Anakin can’t help it. His Master’s crisp Coruscanti accent, gone so smooth and low, pulls a moan out of him, and he finally gives up and arches into the hand on his cock. “Obi-Wan.”

“That’s it, dear one.” Hand massaging Anakin’s cock, fingers petting at his leaking head through the fabric of his underwear, Obi-Wan snickers, “Will you come in your pants if I say something truly filthy? I fear that if you’ve gotten into such a state listening to my very boring lessons and mission reports…”

“Insufferable,” Anakin repeats. It comes out as a whine as he squirms under the weight of his Master’s attention.

He can hear the smile in the older man’s voice when he replies, “You still have not told me to shut up. Might I give you some options on how you might do that?” 

Suddenly, Anakin’s cock is pulled out into the open. He squeaks, then registers he can no longer feel Obi-Wan’s breath on his face. Instinctively, he reaches down, heart rate rocketing when his hand lands in Obi-Wan’s hair. He opens his eyes to see his Master’s handsome face hovering above his hard, drooling cock. 

“Is that a yes?” Obi-Wan asks, making his length twitch. 

“No,” Anakin shakes his head, sitting up as his mouth begins to water. “Switch. I want you to talk me through it.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan knows they shouldn’t ask this of Anakin. But, he’s been outvoted by the rest of the Council, and now here he is, asking his best friend and brother to commit treason. The we are at war, Anakin, he justifies himself with feels half-hearted, even to himself. It’s not that he disagrees with spying on the Chancellor; it’s the fact that his Padawan is so obviously the right man for the job. Logistically speaking, at least. Realistically, he knew it would go like this, with Anakin becoming upset and protesting against the idea. Pushing back; pushing Obi-Wan away. 

That’s the worst part; the dagger that sinks the deepest. In the past months, the cracks in their relationship that Obi-Wan was sure could wait until the war is over to be mended have begun to widen into chasms. He’s never felt farther away from Anakin, even with the younger man right next to him. And this business with the Chancellor is only making it worse. Obi-Wan can feel Anakin drawing back from him in real time, right in front of his eyes, and it makes him ache.

Not just in his heart, he realizes. Not just in the metaphorical sense. It’s physical, it’s tangible. 

It’s in his chest, all of a sudden overwhelmingly sore and begging for relief. 

Reflexively, a hand flies up to press gently against his body, trying to investigate the source of the pain. Even the light touch makes him hiss, and with a dawning realization, milk spills out of Obi-Wan’s nipple and seeps into his robes. 

This really can’t be possible, he hasn’t lactated in years—but it is, and swift embarrassment follows. Obi-Wan tries to cover his chest with his robe in an effort to conceal the sight of wetness through his tunics, but his quickness to do so makes him clumsy, and his forearm harshly brushes his chest. If Anakin hasn’t noticed his initial reaction, he surely has just noticed the loud, pained gasp Obi-Wan’s dropped-jaw lets out in response to the sudden, blinding pain. 

“Master, are you—?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t dare look up at him from where he’s slightly hunched over himself, hands still gripping his robes, not knowing what to do with himself. “Leave it, Anakin,” he orders, though he already knows Anakin won’t. Maybe Obi-Wan could walk away easily if they were in a busier area of the Temple, somewhere the audience would prevent Anakin from doing anything too brazen. But the topic of conversation made Obi-Wan steer them into a private alcove.

Black boots and the swishing ends of a black robe appear in Obi-Wan’s vision. 

“It’s for me, isn’t it?” Anakin asks.

Of course it is, Obi-Wan wants to snap. It always is. It always has been. 

When he had first starting lactating, it wasn’t all that surprising. Stewjoni’s have the tendency to do so not only for their own children, but for any being they feel bonded to and fiercely protective of. So when Obi-Wan’s chest began to leak at night when he would wake and see his very small Padawan curled up on his floor, it didn’t faze him. He milked himself in private and waited for his body to adjust to Anakin’s presence. Before he could, though, the truly surprising thing occurred: Anakin wanted it—the milk. A simple mission to a frozen planet led to huddling for warmth, and Obi-Wan blinked awake in the cold morning to find that there was one spot he was very, very warm; where his Padawan had shucked up his tunics and latched his hot mouth onto Obi-Wan’s nipple. It felt so deliriously good that Obi-Wan actually fell back asleep, lulled into it by the rhythmic pull of his milk into his precious Anakin’s mouth. 

After that, the practice did not stop until the first time Obi-Wan felt his Padawan grow hard against him as he nursed. For years, Obi-Wan’s chest was dry. Before this moment, the only lapse occurred after Geonosis, when his Padawan was still one-armed and grieving. Obi-Wan tried and tried to hide it, and he succeeded—until the war had just barely started, and Obi-Wan was in the showers of his flagship, using his hands to drain what he hoped was the last of his milk. Perhaps Anakin could sense it, perhaps the Galaxy just liked to punish Obi-Wan, but his Padawan, now complete with mech-arm, waltzed right in, eyes zeroing in on Obi-Wan’s swollen chest and the milk beading on his nipples. 

“Out!” Obi-Wan had barked, caught so off guard that he used the Force to repel Anakin back the few steps he’d walked in, then locked the door. 

For days after, Anakin stewed. He didn’t say anything, but Obi-Wan knew he felt slighted by being denied what was his. 

He fears that’s where things are going right now. It’s for me, isn’t it? Technically, it’s a question, but Anakin’s tone sounds very sure. 

“Must you humiliate me?” Obi-Wan sighs, finally straightening and looking Anakin in the eye. Posturing. 

Anakin tilts his head, and this is when he truly starts to frighten Obi-Wan. When his indignance and anger fades, and something eerily placid takes it’s place. “You only humiliate yourself when you deny your body it’s base needs, Obi-Wan.”

“I am not denying anything. And this is not a need,” Obi-Wan says, nostrils flaring. He wants to cup his tender chest so badly. Anakin’s voice itself seems to draw out more milk, and it drips into Obi-Wan’s robes, making a mess that is surely going to start showing through the fabric soon. It’s as if his milk agrees with Anakin; it belongs in his waiting mouth and stomach, so it’s trying to get there as soon as possible.

Anakin just looks at him, his eyes are like a fire that burns so hot it’s turns blue. “Let me help you.”

“As I told you, I do not need your help, Anakin.”

“Okay, so it’s not a need,” Anakin concedes, but Obi-Wan knows a negotiation tactic when he sees one. “A Jedi is meant to be compassionate, isn’t he? I don’t like seeing you in pain, Master.” He takes a step closer, and Obi-Wan stands his ground, even as the smell of sweet milk reaches his nose. 

“Five minutes ago you were at my throat for daring to ask you to spy on the Chancellor. I hardly think you are feeling very compassionate toward me right now.”

That makes Anakin go still, and then the corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk. Obi-Wan considers making a run for it, but Anakin steps to the side, standing between him and the way to the main hall. 

Fluttering his long lashes, Anakin bargains, “Let me, and I’ll do it.”

“What?” Obi-Wan asks, eyebrows drawing together. It’s more of a response to the gall Anakin has to suggest such a thing than a real question.

“Let me help you and I’ll bleed the Chancellor dry of information,” Anakin says, taking another step forward. “Once I have my milk, I’ll do exactly as the Council asks. You’ll know everything he’s up to, everything he says.”

It makes Obi-Wan balk. “Your milk, Anakin?” He throws his hands up in exasperation, which he regrets as soon as he does it, tenderness making his leaking chest throb with the jostling. “I should not have to bribe you into being loyal to the Jedi Order. This is not a negotiation, I am a member of the Jedi Council, I am your Master, I am—“

“A hypocrite,” Anakin says snidely. “You’re asking me to commit treason. Not only against the Chancellor of the fucking Republic, but a man who cares for me, has been there for me since I was a child—“

Obi-Wan can’t help the interruption; “Oh, yes, and you’ve always been short on those, haven’t you?”

Anakin sneers but ignores the remark, barreling on, “I’m expected to surrender a parsec, but you’re unwilling to concede an inch to me.”

Unfortunately, he has somewhat of a point, and that makes Obi-Wan’s stomach turn. “Why do you even want this, Anakin? You shouldn’t want this.”

Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, Anakin says, “Because it’s mine, Obi-Wan.”

With a disbelieving bark of a laugh, Obi-Wan shakes his head. “You are the most presumptuous, ridiculous, narcissistic man I have ever met.”

Anakin’s eyes narrow and he snaps back lightning-quick, “Your tits leak like that for everyone, Master?”

“Don’t be fucking vulgar.” It’s contradictory, but Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from cursing. 

“I know you like it.”

“I assure you, the undignified consequences of your outer-rim upbringing are not on the list of your more endearing qualities.”

Anakin licks his teeth and rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.” In two quick steps, he’s in Obi-Wan’s face, grabbing his hips and forcing their bodies together. Obi-Wan tries to walk backwards, but Anakin just follows until his spine hits a large pillar. His former Padawan is right in his face. Obi-Wan can smell the caf on his breath as he says, “I meant, I know you like it when I nurse, Master. You always did, we both did.”

Obi-Wan grabs his forearms and tries to keep distance between them, turning his face to the side. “Anakin, you must—“

“Why did we ever stop?” Anakin asks, leaning closer to murmur it in his ear. “I miss you.”

I miss you too, Obi-Wan thinks without trying to. “You know why,” he says, closing his eyes. 

Anakin laughs a little. “What, you’re not willing to lie back and think of the Republic?”

Obi-Wan wants to smack him; it’s not about the fucking Republic. If it was easy as letting Anakin have his way in order to get once step closer to finding the Sith Lord, Obi-Wan’s chest would be empty by now, and Anakin would be on his way to spy on the Chancellor. Hearing his Padawan admit to missing him, though, after all these months of disconnection, chips at Obi-Wan’s defenses. 

“It’s not that simple,” Obi-Wan tells him, letting go of one forearm to rest gently on Anakin’s chest. “Lie back and think of the Republic,” he scoffs. “Foolish boy.”

“It could be that simple, if you’d just let it,” Anakin says nonsensically. He catches Obi-Wan off guard by reaching up and running his thumb under the curve of Obi-Wan’s chest, just below where the worst of the pain begins. “Doesn’t it hurt?” Milk dribbles out at a mortifying pace, and Obi-Wan knows exactly when it begins to show through his robes, because Anakin tilts his head down and inhales deeply.

“I can take care of myself, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, hand moving from Anakin’s chest to his messy curls as his head sinks lower.

“Why should you have to? It’s my fault.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t like when he talks like that. “Nothing is your fault, Padawan. It’s—it’s my burden to bear.”

Anakin laughs into his robes. “Burden,” he mumbles. “You’re wrong, Obi-Wan. It is my fault. I did this to you.” And suddenly, with a shift of Anakin’s body, Obi-Wan feels something hard digging into his hip. “Just like you do this to me.”

Eyes flying open, Obi-Wan makes eye contact with Anakin for a single second before he’s shoved fully against the pillar by the younger man’s body weight. Anakin’s chest presses into his own harshly, making Obi-Wan choke out a shocked, wet sound of pain. “Anakin,” he rasps.

“You liked this back then, too. That’s why we had to stop, isn’t it? Not simply because it happened—because you liked it.”

Obi-Wan blinks at him, chest throbbing. He’s never felt more exposed in his entire life.

But, this is also the closest he’s felt to Anakin in months—no, years. While his body cries out in pain and want, the Force sings. 

Obi-Wan’s hands cup Anakin’s face, forcing eye contact. His Padawan is beautiful. Obi-Wan would give him the Galaxy to keep him happy. And in this way, he realizes that what Anakin asks is not so much at all. If anything, it would be rather selfish of Obi-Wan to agree. 

“You’ll report to the Council on the Chancellor’s dealings tonight, Anakin,” Obi-Wan tells him, letting go of his face. 

Anakin swallows loudly. “I will.”

“And if you prove yourself helpful, you can have more afterward.” Obi-Wan’s tabards fall from his shoulders, and he begins to pull at his tunics. 

Nodding his head, Anakin’s gaze drifts down to Obi-Wan’s chest. The smell of milk grows stronger, and then Obi-Wan is heaving a sigh of relief as his chest is exposed, hairy and full and glistening with his milk. His nipples are swollen and almost embarrassingly pink. Milk beads at their tips and one drop falls, landing on Anakin’s leather glove. 

Obi-Wan nods at him. “Go on, then,” he says, already feeling himself slipping to that warm, syrupy state of mind he’s dreamed of for so long. “It’s yours.”