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In the confines of a canvas tent on an arid, war-torn planet in the Outer Rim, Obi-Wan Kenobi pressed his eyes closed and tried to fall into badly-needed sleep. Despite the exhaustion resulting from nearly two weeks of daily battles against the local Separatist forces, rest failed to come to him.
His sleeping bag was thin, the rough ground uncomfortable through the canvas. The surrounding encampment was quieter than during the day, but not silent—enough clones from the 501st and 212th were on-duty, keeping watch and cleaning equipment and unloading the latest supply drop, to create a quiet buzz of background activity. The air was warm and stuffy.
Obi-Wan was a Jedi, skilled in meditation and having rapidly gained experience over the past eighteen months in the practicalities of living in a war camp. Discomfort, noise, high temperatures: those, he could tune out.
But then there was the scent of the man laying next to him.
When Anakin had presented as an alpha at age sixteen, Obi-Wan had known he was in for some trouble. His Padawan was already headstrong, more talented than his peers and socially isolated enough to have a chip on his shoulder about it. Already he’d begun pleading with Obi-Wan on every mission they took for more independence, more advanced responsibilities, more opportunities to show—or show off—what he’d learned.
As Anakin had spent his first rut in the Halls of Healing, Obi-Wan had paced back and forth in his quarters, pondering the potential consequences. Anakin was already impulsive, emotional, quick to anger—the emergence of alpha hormones would surely add fuel to that fire. Anakin formed attachments easily, and had never quite internalized the Jedi Code in the way that Temple-raised Padawans did—should he meet a compatible omega, Obi-Wan would need to keep an eye out to make sure his hormones didn’t get the better of him. Anakin wasn’t one to believe nonsense about the natural inferiority of omegas, but he had already begun testing the bounds of Obi-Wan’s authority well before he presented—Obi-Wan might need to be firmer at times in response to Anakin’s natural dominant instincts.
Later, he would look back and see the irony: by the time five years had passed, the primary problem created by his and Anakin’s respective designations was one that he himself had been too arrogant to predict. And worse, it wasn’t one that he could honestly say Anakin was entirely to blame for.
After a long day of exertion in battle, followed by inadequate bathing facilities, Anakin’s alpha scent hung heavy in the confined air of the tent. Musky, potent, heady—even after years of exposure, Obi-Wan wasn’t quite used to it. Obi-Wan had spent plenty of time in the company of alphas over the years, and never had suppressing his body’s reactions required as much of his self control as it had with Anakin these past couple of years. Jedi had more control over their biology and pheromones than most, a fact that Obi-Wan was grateful for, as Anakin would surely have noticed Obi-Wan’s arousal.
And Anakin noticing could surely only lead to disaster. There was a difference between a casual assignation between a Jedi and someone they had met on a mission and would never see again, and an affair between two Jedi who were best friends, as close as brothers, emotionally entangled right up to the increasingly blurry-to-Obi-Wan line of what was allowed by the Code. There was an even bigger difference when one of the Jedi in question was the other’s former Padawan.
Still, suppressing his reactions was...challenging, at times. Anakin’s scent was always strong after exercise, and sparring in particular seemed to send his pheromones into overdrive, the opportunity for even play-aggression inciting a wave of alpha hormones which on occasion drove Obi-Wan to distraction. It didn’t help that Anakin had always been tactile: he’d throw an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, afterwards, all but marking him with his scent.
Objectively, Obi-Wan knew that nobody would think it odd if he happened to smell like the friend he spent a great deal of time with, especially after a sparring session, but that wasn’t much comfort when his own reaction to being covered in Anakin’s scent was far from platonic. Not when every day on the battlefield, he couldn’t help but notice the proof of Anakin’s strength, his goodness, his growing maturity. The proof that he was no longer a child, and no longer Obi-Wan’s apprentice.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He was slicking in his sleep clothes. Obi-Wan breathed deeply, forcing himself to mentally recite the list of planetary military targets they’d discussed at that afternoon’s tactical briefing, and prayed that Anakin was already asleep.
But it seemed that the Force was not with him in that moment, because moments later he heard rustling as Anakin shifted in his sleeping bag. “Master?” came a drowsy voice from the other side of the cramped tent.
“Go to sleep, Anakin,” Obi-Wan gritted out.
For a moment, there was only silence, and he had a moment’s hope that Anakin had taken his advice. Then, In the quiet of the tent, he heard an intake of breath as Anakin sniffed the air.
There was just enough light from the surrounding camp that Obi-Wan could see Anakin’s silhouette as he sat up abruptly, turning his head to stare in Obi-Wan’s direction. “You—” Anakin began. “You’re…”
“Go to sleep, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said again, adding a note of command to his voice.
Anakin ignored him. “I knew it,” he breathed. “All those times...you’re attracted to me, aren’t you?”
Obi-Wan closed his eyes in humiliation. “Don’t be arrogant,” he snapped. “I’m an omega. Just because I...I have an involuntary bodily response to the presence of an alpha doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you, my very young friend.
“But it’s been more than just one response, hasn’t it, Master?” Anakin said. He shuffled out of his sleeping bag and crawled over to Obi-Wan’s side of the tent. “I’ve smelled it before, when we spar. And you don’t smell the same way around Master Windu, or Kit Fisto, or any of the other alpha Jedi. Only me.”
“Even if I were attracted to you,” Obi-Wan said in the most dignified tone he could muster, “it wouldn’t mean that I think having sex with you is a good idea.”
Anakin swung a leg over Obi-Wan’s sleeping bag, straddling it, holding himself up by his arms so that the dark line of his body was hovering just a few inches above the fabric. “And just because you think it’s a bad idea doesn’t mean you don’t want it.” He leaned down. “Do you want it, Master?”
There was no way for Obi-Wan to answer that question without surrendering his dignity entirely, or lying. He said nothing.
Anakin took that as permission. Allowing himself to drop the last few inches, he pressed his mouth to Obi-Wan’s.
Obi-Wan kissed back. In the darkened isolation of the tent, far from Coruscant and the Jedi Temple, far from anything but violence and war and the men he’d brought to fight and die alongside, it was hard to remember why he shouldn’t. It was good; Obi-Wan had always known it would be good. Anakin kissed the way he did everything: roughly, passionately, skillfully. And Obi-Wan was hard, Obi-Wan was slicking.
“Master,” Anakin gasped against his mouth, and then he was breaking away to unzip Obi-Wan’s sleeping bag. Obi-Wan shivered at the inrush of cool air against his thin clothes, but then Anakin was on him again, his body hot and solid and heavy, the thick line of his erection pressing against Obi-Wan’s thigh.
“Anakin,” he hissed, more for form’s sake than anything else. “We shouldn’t.” But he didn’t say stop, he didn’t say don’t, and he certainly didn’t say I don’t want to.
Anakin ignored him, fumbling with the ties of Obi-Wan’s sleep pants and then tugging them down. “I’ll make it good for you, I promise,” he said, and then, reaching a hand down between Obi-Wan’s legs, wonder in his voice, “You’re wet, you’re so wet for me, Master.” He slipped a finger inside Obi-Wan’s slick entrance, and Obi-Wan bit his lip to keep from making any sort of embarrassing noise.
“If you’re going to do it,” Obi-Wan panted, trying to keep his voice even, “then stop talking and do it.”
A pause. And then—what else could he have expected, giving Anakin Skywalker a challenge?—Anakin burst into motion, his finger sliding out as he grabbed Obi-Wan by the shoulder and flipped him over onto his stomach. Obi-Wan felt the other man’s hands grabbing his cheeks, spreading them apart; moments later, something much thicker than a finger pressed at the tight ring of muscle.
This time, Obi-Wan couldn’t hold back the noise he made at the intrusion. If Anakin’s alpha scent had been heady before, it was intoxicating now, leaving Obi-Wan lightheaded and dizzy with arousal as Anakin pushed inside.
“You smell so good,” Anakin whispered against the back of Obi-Wan’s neck as his hips snapped forward. Obi-Wan clenched around him, his own erection grinding against the thin sleeping bag below him, hard and aching. “Fuck, you smell so good, Master, you always do.” He kissed the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, then nipped at it, not quite on the mating gland, but close enough to send fire sparking through Obi-Wan’s body.
Obi-Wan lost himself in the heat, in the sharp, painful pleasure of Anakin’s thick length filling him and stretching his body open, in the exhilarating mix of their scents combining as they pressed together.
And then, inside him, something changed, a sudden, exquisite pressure that had his fingers clenching and his back arching as he came. For a moment, he knew nothing but bliss, nothing but the feeling of Anakin inside him, breaking him apart.
Reality reasserted itself. “Did you just knot me?”
“Uh,” Anakin said. He lifted his hips as far as they would go, which was only a few inches, the width of his knot pulling at the inside of Obi-Wan’s rim, firmly locked inside, before collapsing back down. “We might be here a while.”
“We have a battle tomorrow, you know,” Obi-Wan reminded him, still panting slightly to regain his breath, his own cock softening beneath him in the aftermath of his orgasm. “We need to be up early.”
“Sorry,” Anakin said, but he didn’t sound sorry at all.
And if he was honest with himself, Obi-Wan wasn’t sorry either.