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This was Obi-Wan Kenobi—Coruscant raised, with his posh Inner Core accent and appreciation for refinement, for civilized things. He liked Corellian rum, Tarine tea and acerbic flirtation. He valued manners, cleanliness and the cultural rules others might prescribe as ‘good breeding’ or politeness, never an elbow on the dinner table, or force forbid-chewing with your mouth open. He disliked untidiness, and the droid parts Anakin purposely left in his apartment for an ever-present excuse to wander his way into his master’s space.
He also disliked the way Anakin propped his feet on his caf table and he loved to gripe about the invisible boot prints and mud left about his space. He taught Anakin how to dance, to stand up straight, which fork to use for the main course at important negotiations and mission dinners. He taught him how to take a lady’s arm, how to bow to royalty and those of higher station as an act of respect.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, in all his well-groomed and put together pieces, was refinement and manners itself. Wherever they went, the planet or moon or starbase did not matter, human and humanoid and alien alike all blushed and swooned over his master. He flashed his broad, white grin that always accompanied the playful twinkle in his eyes and negotiations miraculously slanted their way. The Negotiator indeed.
And so, with all these little pieces that made up Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker could not fathom, could not compartmentalize or begin to understand, why his master sat like that. Oh yes like that, all parted knees and splayed legs, toes of his boots often tilted sideways from where he let his feet lay haphazardly on the ground, if they were even on the ground at all. If not found splayed at the ready as if he expected a Twi’lik to be on their knees between his legs, he could often be seen in council meetings lounging in a loose-limbed drape of one leg propped high across his opposite knee.
In complete opposition to every other precise piece and component of his personality, this cog did not fit with the others, and Anakin loathed a machine out of rhythm. It bugged him, plainly, not constantly or even often enough to be named a nuisance. But it remained the diligent part out of alignment that often caught his attention, with the faint reminder to pursue the root of.
This odd habit persisted for years, from Anakin’s first notice of it soon after he arrived at the temple and learned Obi-Wan well enough to realize how strange this action was. He continued to notice into puberty, and then throughout his teens. During those later years, with noticing also came noticing, the enticing ways his thighs splayed, the open stretch of his legs and tall leather boots.
It brought fantasies to his mind, of falling between the open lines of him and pressing his hands to the tender inner skin of his knees and taking him into his mouth while fingers buried in his curls and pushed. As he grew older, the fantasies too matured, morphing into hazy conjurings of sitting across his master’s open lap, muscles in his legs stretched to their limit, arching and begging to take the full length of him while his master sat fully clothed beneath his naked, writhing body.
That image gnawed at him, the imaginings of his hip sockets aching and pressed wide to rest on the outside of Obi-Wan’s always widespread legs. He thought of how obscene it would look, to walk into the Council chamber and see Obi-Wan lounging in his seat with Anakin, ass canted back on his master’s cock and bruising hands holding him still and gasping in his lap.
But those were mortifying fantasies reserved for the fresher or late at night in his own quarters, and he always had difficulty looking Obi-Wan in the eyes the next day, after coming apart on his own hand to the thought of writhing on his master’s cock. But his fantasies were always vague, fueled by the impressions of Obi-Wan’s spread legs and the submissive stances he longed to take between them. He always pictured his master’s cock like the rest of him, thin and compact, pale and well groomed.
But on Nal Hutta, after escaping the clutches of the Outer Rim cartel and dragging themselves half drowned from an infested swamp, thick with glowing green sludge and all sorts of slithering things, he saw his master naked for the first time in his life. Just offshore they made camp and amidst the swimming humidity and squelching grasses, Obi-Wan stripped out of his waterlogged clothes and wrung them out.
Anakin stood, gaping and shaken to his core, dripping swamp water and slime. He had seen Obi-Wan shirtless many times through his teen years, during practices and changing on missions. His deeply etched and chiseled muscles never failed to squeeze his insides with want. But he had never seen the tendons in his naked legs, or the corded muscles of his pale thighs, and he had certainly never seen his master’s thick and heavy cock hanging between his legs.
The cog shifted into place and the machine finally whirred in perfectly working alignment. It all made sense then, the way he always sat with his legs splayed, or with one leg propped high on the other thigh. In all his many fantasies, the consideration for his master having a ridiculously large cock never crossed his mind. He felt inconsolable, utterly distraught with the knowledge. He couldn’t shake the restless and squirming want deep in his gut that accompanied the new fantasies of him arching and shaking, taking the entire, impossible length and weight of him.
After Nal Hutta, at night when he fingered himself open on all fours on his bed, he always took the extra time to stretch himself wider, always taking four fingers as he drooled into his pillow, canting his hips and moaning to the thought of how bone shatteringly good it would feel to take that much cock and be stuffed that full, to be owned and used so thoroughly. His late-night sessions always left him liquid boned and pliant, and they mellowed the podracing stadium of noise that always chorused inside of his head. But it never lasted, and he continued to ache and ache and ache.
“Something has been bothering you,” Obi-Wan finally said.
“I don’t know what you mean. I thought you told me I’ve been doing well?” Despite himself, panic made sweat prickle on his neck
Obi-Wan frowned and collapsed beside him on the practice matts in the training room, his long legs splayed wide and obscene just like always. Anakin swallowed and averted his eyes to stare at his own crossed legs, and the toes of his leather boots.
“And you have, as I tell you often. We both know it will be any day before the Council deems you ready for knighthood. But that doesn’t mean something hasn’t been plaguing you my padawan.”
He swallowed again and finally lifted his gaze to look into Obi-Wan’s kind eyes. He ducked his head. “It’s nothing serious, master, only a personal failing of my own.”
“Anakin,” he said in that tone. “You are never expected to carry a burden alone.”
“It’s not the kind of burden you can help carry, master,” he said in a strangled voice. He thought of the previous night and how he had come from the spine deep ache of his fingers pressed against his prostate, untouched and shuddering onto the bed.
Obi-Wan sighed, “What about Nal Hutta has shaken you so?”
His face went hot and blotchy as he fought guilt in the possible face of being discovered. “It’s nothing master, really.”
Obi-Wan dropped the subject, but Anakin could not shake the shameful, never ending want brimming in his veins that manifested as the ache low inside of him.
The Council finally called him before them, most likely at the worried recommendation of Obi-Wan, who sat splayed in an artful drape of robes in his councilor’s seat, with one boot propped high on his opposite leg. It exposed the inseam of his tan linen pants, and made his mouth go dry at the thought of the fat cock taking up so much room between those splayed legs of his.
Master Windu leaned forward, unease written plainly on his face. “Obi-Wan is worried about you, Anakin, as is the rest of this council. What plagues you so, padawan?”
Anakin knew his face was flushed well past red and had crossed the boundary into mortified purple. “As I told my master, it is nothing I can’t handle myself.”
“Negative emotions, kept internal, only breeds more sadness, they do,” said Master Yoda.
“Will all due respect, Master Yoda,” he said, voice shaking with the sudden terror that the council might literally force him to admit what had tied him into mental knots. His master’s cock never being an acceptable answer. “In no way do I intend to discuss such a personal matter with the Council.”
“Understand this, we do. Simply worried, we are.”
“I can assure the Council it is under control,” he said, and dismissed himself, practically bolting out of the chamber.
“Anakin wait!”
He ignored Obi-Wan yelling after him and darted down the halls of the temple, racing to hide himself in his quarters so he could die of mortification in peace. But his master caught him just outside of his room and grabbed his arm, frustration lacing his tone.
“Anakin, do not be angry with me padawan, please, I only want to make sure you are alright.”
He wrenched his arm from Obi-Wan’s hold and scrambled to unlock his door, even deeper embarrassment bringing tears to his eyes. “I’m not angry, master, I’m kriffing mortified.”
In an unusual act of forwardness Obi-Wan followed him directly into his living area and sat on his low couch with a sigh. Anakin watched him sprawl, wide legged even now, and turned away from him to stare out his window.
“Anakin, please tell me. I am sorry to have tried involving the Council, I see now that was entirely the wrong decision.”
“It’s because of you,” he finally said, voice breaking.
“I beg your pardon, what did I do?” He asked incredulously, straightening from his slouch indignantly.
Anakin screwed his eyes shut and let down his mental shields, let his naked want bleed into the force and seep into their training bond. “Because I saw you.” Somehow even more embarrassment welled up and he kept his eyes closed to trap the tears behind his lids. “I’m sorry, I—I tried keeping it to myself but—”
He felt Obi-Wan stand and step close to him, through the brushing of his mind against his in the force, and from the heat of his body radiating close to him. “Anakin,” he breathed, “Anakin look at me.”
He did, with shamed tears spilling down his face, cheeks radiating horrified heat. Obi-Wan stared at him, wide-eyed and strangely vulnerable as he cradled Anakin’s face between his hands. “Anakin,” he said again, and pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek, and then said it again, Anakin-Anakin-Anakin, between kisses to his forehead, his nose, his jaw. And then he gasped his name warm and breathy against his lips and pressed their mouths together in a kiss.
Anakin made a wounded noise in the back of his throat and surged against him, pressing his mouth back more firmly. Obi-Wan wound his hands past his shoulders to hold the back of his head and press his fingers against his short, stubby ponytail before dragging them forward to dig his fingertips behind the hinge of his jaw. He parted his lips at the pressure and Obi-Wan slipped his tongue into his open mouth. They both breathed deep against the feeling, gasping into each other’s mouths.
Anakin broke the surge of their mouths with a slick sound. “Master I—?” But Obi-Wan felt his wordless question in the force.
“I never imagined,” he kissed the underside of his jaw, “that you would want,” kissed down his neck in laving open mouthed movements, “an old man like me.”
“You’re not old,” he said, scandalized.
Obi-Wan laughed, warm against his collarbone where he drug his tongue against the hollow of his throat. “Everyone is old when you’re twenty.”
Anakin yanked his head back up and kissed him, deep and urgent. “I want you,” he said, “so desperately, it’s been all I can—Obi-Wan—” he broke off on a sharp gasp as Obi-Wan bit the extended tendon in his throat and pulled their hips together with the press of his hand against the small of his back.
“I know, I know—here,” he walked them backwards to the couch and sat, with his knees jutting out, and tugged Anakin’s hand.
His legs shook for a moment, with possible unbelief that every fantasy he had obsessed over since he was fourteen was playing out before his eyes. He slid onto his lap, thighs bracketing Obi-Wan’s and his master pulled his head down by his padawan braid to bite at his bottom lip in stinging tugs of his teeth. He sighed against him and let his hips settle against their stretch, sitting on the pressure of his master’s cock. They both moaned and Obi-Wan lifted his hips beneath him, raising Anakin from the compressed balance of his position in the backs of his thighs to rocking his weight to his knees. Obi-Wan’s hips settled and Anakin let his weight fall onto his cock again, before Obi-Wan repeated the motion, bowing his back to lift them both, like a boat rising and falling with the motions of the tide.
Anakin buried his face against his master’s neck and whimpered, aching and squirming, not just for relief from the tension in his cock and his balls, but from the clench of his ass over nothing, from the reminiscent and phantom ache inside him where his body remembered, had learned to expect the stretch and push and taking of his own hand. His body craved to be filled, to fall back to his long-practiced motions of wanting and spilling around pressure inside of him, to thoughts of clenching around his master’s thick, gorgeous cock.
He kept squirming and Obi-Wan noticed, pulling his face away from his neck to press his thumb against his bottom lip, pulling his mouth open to gasp against his fingers.
“What do you want, Anakin?”
“You—” he choked, “I’ve imagined it so many times—here, let me—”
He pulled his knees inside the barricade of his legs and slithered off the couch to the floor, sitting between the lines of those gorgeous spread thighs, like he had imagined for years. Obi-Wan sat forward but Anakin pressed on his sternum with his open palm, gentling him back so that his shoulders pressed flush with the couch, hips curved forward and knees opened obscenely wide.
“No,” he whispered against the inseam of his pants, shy but fueled by this singular want that had seared him from the inside out for so many years. “Please—just this once, let me—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, too mortified by how deeply and viscerally he needed this, by how wanton and unhinged he sounded. So he drug his mouth against the seam of the pants, tracing the curve of Obi-Wan’s leg to his knee and mouthed the highest arch of brown leather boot against his calf.
He shuddered against the feel of the stiff leather against his lips and curled his fingers behind his leg. “Master can I?—” He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against his knee, unable to look up to meet his eyes, unable to finish what he so desperately wanted to ask for, too mortified, but also too desperate, too close to what he ached for to let it go completely.
Obi-Wan curled his confusion through their bond and Anakin lifted his eyes then, his mouth still dragging against leather, his hand still gripping the back of his calf.
“Master—" he keened, tears threatening to gather in his eyes, “please—” he begged, pressing his mortified wants through the force, unable to actually say them aloud.
Obi-Wan blushed above him and blinked, mouth opening in shock. “Oh—I—yes? If you’d like?”
He sobbed against his pants and fell forward to slide Obi-Wan’s boot between his legs to press his cock against the leather, to shift his hips so that he rocked against the curve of foot into ankle and leg.
“Mhhf—master?” He tugged at linen pants high on Obi-Wan’s thighs and he lifted his hips to shove them down to his knees, revealing the lurid sight of his bulged underwear, pressed tight against the heavy weight of his cock.
Still with his hips shoved against Obi-Wan’s high leather boot, he twisted his shoulders to tilt between his legs with his fingers pressed into the meat of his inner thighs and mouthed at his master’s cock through his underwear. The heat of him felt like it might burn him alive and he felt Obi-Wan jerk against his tongue, the weight of him throbbing against his mouth and he moaned, a lance of arousal crackling through him so that he ground against his master’s boot, painfully hard to stave off the pressure in his balls threatening to spill into leaking release against his master’s foot.
“Ahhhmm—” He moaned, sucking at the tip of his cock jutting above the band of his underwear, jaw aching against the saliva pooling in his mouth from the bitter salt of his master’s precome drooling from the slit of his head where he wriggled the pointed tip of his tongue against him.
Obi-Wan swayed his hips in a gentle figure eight motion and he felt him suppressing the instinct to lift his hips, to shove himself into the damp heat of Anakin’s mouth. He whimpered, canting his hips to dig leather against himself where he leaked continuously in his pants, riding the edge of coming just from the feeling of his lips wrapped around the fat head of his master’s cock, from the taste of him flooding his mouth.
Obi-Wan pulled his mouth off of him then, so quickly his lips slipped from his length with a slick pop and he yanked him back into his lap by a firm tug of his padawan braid, and wrenched his pants down just far enough to free his cock and cut into the fat of his thighs. Anakin arched his spine, yelping against the bolt of heat in his gut from the pull against his scalp and the feeling of his master’s spit wet cock sliding between his ass cheeks, back and forth back and forth.
“Oh,” he panted, wriggling to try and catch his leaking head against his rim, and then he raised higher on his knees and did, feeling the blunt weight of him press against his fluttering hole. “Oh,” he moaned louder against the feeling. “Master please—please I want to take you.”
Obi-Wan curled forward and pressed his forehead against Anakin’s chest, muffling his groan into the layers of his tunics. “Anakin—you’ve never—we need to take this slower, I’m too big padawan.”
He clutched desperately at Obi-Wan’s shoulders, rocking his ass forward and back to keep dragging his cock between his cheeks, where he clenched down against nothing and ached to be filled, to be stretched and split apart and taken and wrecked.
Frustrated tears did gather then, pooling in the corners of his eyes unbidden as he huffed, frustrated and desperate and teetering on the edge of losing his karking mind.
“Please,” he sobbed, “I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you, master. I’ve been practicing, I promise, I can take you—please.”
Obi-Wan pulsed heated want through their bond, sudden and sharp from the strength of it, and he moved as if to lift him from the couch.
“No!” Anakin clamped down his thighs to roll their weight back into the couch. “Please, right here, let me stay in your lap—please!”
He didn’t have an explanation for his master, for wanting it right there. He knew it would make taking him harder, no matter how many fingers his body was used to. He knew it might hurt but he welcome that too, if it meant he could live the experience of bouncing in his master’s lap, between those wide spread thighs and coming on his cock where he knew he could take it so-so deep in this position. Deep enough that he imagined he might be able to feel it from the outside, might be able to press his palm against his stomach and feel the bulge of his master’s thick cock inside his narrow hips, his flat abdomen.
Obi-Wan laughed, incredulous but pleased. “We can try, but we’ll probably have to move, Anakin.”
“No,” he muttered against his throat, “no I’ll be so good, master, I can take you.”
Obi-Wan raised his hand then, arm stretched behind his shoulders and fingers open and waiting. A moment later the plastisteel bottle of lube he kept tucked underneath his mattress snapped into his palm, probably stinging with the speed it collided with his tender skin.
“Alright,” he soothed, kissing his sweat slicked jaw jarringly sweet and gentle when juxtaposed against the feel of him squeezing his flank and pulling his pants further down to his knees. “Easy—padawan, we can try.”
He leaned sideways then, tugging off Anakin’s boots to drop them to the floor with heavy thuds and then he lifted his left leg, pulling one pant leg off and then gentling his weight to the opposite limb, shedding Anakin’s linen and underwear to the floor.
“Lift your arms for me, love.”
He did, unquestioningly and incandescent from the endearment as Obi-Wan unclasped his belt and pulled both layers of his tunics off to dump them with the rest of his clothes. He looked at him then, completely naked, flushed and leaking in his lap, wriggling with want and begging through the force, crying through their bond, please-please-please.
He heard the bottle cap click open and then his master dug his fingers into the full curve of his left cheek, pulling him open to expose his cleft to the cool air of the room, and then he felt the cold dribble of lube sliding between his cheeks, almost icy compared to the searing heat of his inner hidden warmth.
Obi-Wan curled his fingers against him then, massaging against his rim and rubbing the lube into his skin. He lifted his chin and sighed to the ceiling, hips going liquid relaxed and spine arching, something deep and primal easing at the feeling, at finally—finally feeling pressure and stimulation where he needed it most.
“Alright?” Obi-Wan asked, dipping just the pad of one fingertip against the inward ridge of his rim, testing his clenching muscle with his slicked, feather light touch.
“Yes,” he gasped, “oh yes, I can take more—please.”
His master thunked his head against his naked chest, and silently slid his finger inside of him to the first knuckle and then went still.
Anakin whined and twisted his hips, trying to take him deeper.
“More?” His master laughed.
“Yes,” he hissed from behind clenched teeth.
He slid the rest of his finger in, frustratingly slow and making him ache all the more, cock leaking and smearing precome against his clenching stomach. Obi-Wan glanced down from where he kept his forehead pressed to his breastbone as he slowly pulled out his lubed finger to curl it back inside of him, pressing against his inner walls and searching for—there!
His knees spread wider as he canted his ass back, pressing against the feel of his master’s finger massaging against his prostate as his cock pulsed heavy beads of precome with every deep clench of pleasure from the inner pressure.
“You’re so wet,” Obi-Wan murmured against his skin, voice pleased and lilting, “just as bad as a girl.”
He moaned, high-pitched and embarrassed as he clenched around that finger, silently begging for more even as he continued to dribble against himself.
“Alright,” Obi-Wan laughed, feeling his begging through their bond.
He pressed another slick fingertip against him and then squeezed it up past his rim, stretching inside of him with that gut curling pressure and inside press that made his blood sing from feeling so full, made the white static hum inside of his head roar in the background of his own mind.
“Obi-Wan,” he whined, wriggling his hips to take both fingers like he wanted.
His master huffed, laughing a silent impatient through the force as he sucked bruises against his chest, mouthing along his clavicle to flick his tongue across a nipple.
Anakin clenched down like a vice on his fingers and gasped, threading mechno fingers into his copper hair and pulling his mouth harder against his chest. He hummed, sucking the sensitive pink flesh between his lips and lightly scraped his teeth over him, even as he twisted his fingers to thrust inside of him, quicker and with more purpose now, building up a rhythm as Anakin ground against his hand.
He clenched around him with that same rhythm, muscle seeking more, asking to be filled with more pressure, a deeper weight. Obi-Wan slid a third finger inside of him then and thank the force—oh gods he finally felt the stretch, finally felt the burn.
“Ahhh,” he pulled Obi-Wan’s mouth from his chest and bit at his swollen lips, sliding their mouths in a deep and gasping kiss and moaned against his tongue as his master curled his three fingers inside of him.
He curled the fingers harder, pressing against his prostate and he clenched up tight, muscle trapping his master’s hand as his cock pulsed more precome against his skin, thick and less clear and dangerously close to spilling openly, close to shuddering into orgasm.
“Master,” he pressed a hand against his shoulder, “master I’m ready, please, I don’t want to come now. I want to feel you inside me.”
That seemed to finally break his master’s otherworldly patience and he sighed, sweet and breathy against his mouth. He pulled back then with a serious expression, eyes steel blue from his dilated pupils though narrowed and stern.
“I won’t hurt you, if it’s too much, you will stop me, understood?”
He shuddered against the order and nodded rapidly, gasping shaky and breathless as he withdrew his fingers and squeezed more lube to dribble between his cheeks.
Obi-Wan glanced up, hair falling damp and haphazard onto his forehead, a flush sitting high and bright on his cheekbones and open adoration glinting in his eyes.
“You are so beautiful, what did I do to deserve you?”
What did he do to deserve him? Anakin felt Obi-Wan had entirely misconstrued this situation, when the thought of getting to take his master’s cock had sent him into rapture for so long, the thought of being taken by him, being owned and loved by him had utterly wrecked his psyche for so many years. But he wouldn’t question it at the moment, not when he was so close to this.
Instead he resorted to begging, suddenly shameless and desperate and practically gagging for it. “Master,” he keened, “master!”
That finally seemed to do it, as Obi-Wan pulled his cheeks apart and pressed his cock against his stretched slick rim. Oh—the pleasure of it burned like fire in his gut, the stretch of his ass around the impossibly fat head of his master’s cock.
He threw his head back and tilted his spine, letting the weight of his hips settle lower, spearing himself against the hard-heavy weight of what he’d wanted for so long. Oh but how it burned too, exquisitely and with ardent heat behind it, stretching and pressing him wider open to let his cock shove deep and high inside of him.
He settled fully then, quivering and sweating in Obi-Wan’s lap as they both panted, wide eyed and struck dumb by the pleasure. He clenched around the pressure and they both made wounded noises and he stroked his flesh hand down his stomach, skirting his bouncing cock to press fingertips against the dip of flat skin between his hipbones.
He did not feel the indention of his master’s cock as he thought he might, too far back inside of him probably, but the pressure against his gut did make him squirm and wriggle on the feel of his enormous cock.
Obi-Wan hissed and lifted his hips by the bruising grip of his hands and rocked him in his lap, letting his cock thrust slow but deep.
It was more than he could have imagined, burned more exquisite and filled him so rapturously he thought he could die right there from the nerve searing pleasure of it.
And then they fell into the most glorious rhythm of the rise and fall of their hips, his master’s cock grinding inside of him as he bounced in his lap, his legs spread wide across his thighs. He thought of how obscene they probably looked, his pale narrow hips and dimpled ass taking the stretch of his master’s huge cock, bouncing naked between his stretched legs while Obi-Wan still wore all of his clothes, even those tall leather boots that reached his knees.
“Oh you’re doing so brilliant, Anakin. I can’t believe how well you’re taking me, love.”
He whimpered and let his shoulders fall back, bowing his spine in a tight curve to take him deeper, egged on by his master’s praise.
He seemed to realize it too, by his quirked smile and the knowing glint in his eyes.
“Can you come just from this?” He said with wonder. “Can you come untouched just from having me inside of you?”
“Yes,” he gasped, his cock leaking rivulets and bouncing against his stomach at the thought of it.
Obi-Wan surged forward then, pulled his spine straight by the hand on the back of his neck as he pulled Anakin’s mouth against his. He sucked at his bottom lip and snapped his hips up, deep and hard so that he felt the thrust heavy and throbbing against his prostate. He shuddered, half caught on the edge of orgasm, his balls drawn up tight and his ass clenching around him.
“Good boy,” Obi-Wan snarled against his swollen lips, “such a good boy.”
He whimpered into his master’s open mouth and shuddered apart on his cock, clenching against the orgasm which rolled from deep inside of him and unfurled through the pulsing of his come between their stomachs.
Obi-Wan screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, thrusting inside of him once—twice, and then came with a near silent gasp, his arms and legs quavering from where they snapped taught.
He felt the warmth spill inside of him, felt the liquid heat as Obi-Wan pulled his softening cock gently from his ass and his semen leaked down his cheeks and inner thighs.
They sat like that for a heaving minute, until Obi-Wan felt how Anakin’s thighs were beginning to cramp up and seize through their bond, and he lifted him gently to lay back on the couch as he stretched his legs out with the squeeze of his lube greased fingers to his locked up knees.
He smiled into Anakin’s stomach, licking still warm come from his skin obscenely and with little care to how it made him blush, embarrassed but pleased.
“Was it how you imagined?” Obi-Wan laughed, loving and content against his skin.
“No.”
Obi-Wan lifted his eyes then, worry suddenly etched into his face, that he might have hurt him, that it might have been too much.
He grinned and pulled his master up from his stomach to lap at his mouth. “No it was so much better.”