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“Is this what you want from me?” Obi-Wan keeps his hand light, carding through the ropey curls.
He's seen his Master's darkened gaze, ever since his presentation. He assumed it was because teaching submission and deference to an alpha was meant to be harder, and was hurt by the thought that his Master thought so little of his restraint.
His Master's eyes roll up, panting wetly against his palm, sucking on the outline of his cock, sloppy. The curved hilt of a saber rolls away discarded under a console. He slides his fingers down, around the nape of the young Master’s neck, grips the tender spot under his ears. Skywalker shudders at that, eyes bleary. Obi-Wan’s voice comes quiet.
“Is this what you need, from me, Master?” Mismatch of hands, flesh and durasteel scrabble at Obi-Wan's open thighs. Eyes are hooded and lightless. His lips a wet, red gleam.
Obi-Wan takes his young Master's chin in one hand and lifts. Skywalker’s eyes snap up to him, open mouthed. He looks, in effect, debauched, already a feast for taking.
“I'll do anything you ask,” Skywalker stutters, gasps, pushing past to nose between Obi-Wan’s legs.
Obi-Wan wonders if the man knows what he sounds like. If he knows what it means to have the Chosen One of the Force offer himself, his servitude, his submission and surrender. If he knows what his Force is like, now, all the lights and its many-eyed gorgon glory directed at Obi-Wan, and only at him, like he is the only one that can give the Chosen One completion. If he understands the weight of what he promises, and if Skywalker does, how can Skywalker throw himself away so carelessly, for someone far more sinister than he to take freely. If Skywalker knows how powerful he is on his knees, more powerful than he has ever been.
Obi-Wan thinks he understands why his Master made a decision to keep his secondary gender to himself. Even before taking him as his padawan, Master Skywalker's struggle with the Code and the council was well-known within the temple. However untrue, he would have thought that his omegan traits were unwanted and unwelcome, turning to lies of omission instead. With Obi-Wan’s own early presentation, those glances were wary. Even with that knowledge, he feels betrayed, still.
However his Master teach him to be truthful, to be faithful, when he isn’t himself?
However will his Master teach him against attachment, when he hasn’t let go of anything in his own life?
He feels lightheaded from the blood that pools downwards. The back of his head still pulses with pain and nausea rolls in him briefly. He awoke only to see his wayward Master on his knees and sucking mindlessly on the bulge of his forming knot.
“What other things have you kept from your own Padawan, Master?”
Obi-Wan knows about the wife, knows about his twins, from the way perfume of vanilla and pomegranate lingers, the way there is a sloppy bead bracelet wound around his Master’s left wrist. At first it frustrated Obi-Wan, have dismayed him. He meditated to release these emotions to the Force's embrace, then sought counsel from other Masters. The audacity to lecture him about attachment and the becoming of a Jedi...when the Chosen One himself is the farthermost thing from discipline.
He slowly undresses himself and they pool at his feet. He has grip Skywalker’s curls harder to pull him back from mindlessly delving in for a taste the moment he is exposed. Obi-Wan grips himself and strokes, slowly, his ruddy cock plumping up and obscene, precome smearing on his Master's cheek.
Skywalker, predictably, strains against his hold on his hair. Ever so impatient. His eyes are blown almost black. He sticks his tongue out, shallow, harried breaths, and Obi-wan would think he looks almost pitiful. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes, almost cross-eyed, denied of something he wants desperately but doesn't understand this deprivation, spit pooling in his open mouth and tongue glistening wet. A single tear streaks across his cheek.
Obi-Wan finds that he likes this. This young Master of his, prideful and reckless, always on the move—quiet and still for once.
Skywalker looks like he can be his.
He strokes a hand down his Master’s angular face and lets his grip go lax. At this permission Skywalker takes all of him, choking himself, and it's wet and sloppy and messy that Obi-Wan lifts his head towards the ceiling.
They're in the middle of a mission. There is a headless corpse of Count Dooku behind them and the Chancellor is nowhere to be seen, while his Master chokes and gags himself on his apprentice's cock, in the empty, crashing ship, his hands gripping Obi-Wan's thighs, wet clicks of his throat the only sounds from between his legs. Even if his Master does get a taste of an Alpha’s release, the heat will not break, not until he is knotted. Then Obi-Wan wonders of there was an element of truth in why Skywalker paraded around like an Alpha all these years.
The Force whirls around them like a dark cloud. His guts bunch. Obi-Wan pulls his Master up, kisses him. Tasting the salt of his own spend.
His scent tangles around his Master’s, and he feels the responding rut in him unfurl, like an infected wound. He feels the tar of the heat spread to the thoughts Obi-Wan thought had let go, in the Force, whenever he sees his Master coming back late to their quarters, rosy-cheeked the way he’d never be able to between battles. Whenever he smells the scent of powdery milk of pups on his robes carelessly thrown in a heap on the floor. Whenever his Master laughs, ducks his head down, with a longing glint in his eyes, once this karking war is over…
What can’t he offer, that Amidala can? What his children can?
Does he not need Master? The way his children does. Does he not need his guidance, his protection, commitment, his affection?
Did he not make vows, too, one with the Order to teach Obi-Wan? To make him into a Jedi?
Attachment is by definition discriminatory. It is why it’s not allowed, in the eyes of the Jedi Council. Obi-Wan loops a finger around the bead bracelet in Skywalker’s wrist. Slowly traces a dip of his wrist, through the bracelet, threads frayed and worn. Marvels at just how easy it is, the man turning into his touch, his taller frame crumpled around Obi-Wan’s, panting. It’s entirely inappropriate. He presses his hands on either side of Skywalker’s narrow hips. Heat spreads, even beneath the layers of tunic.
For one, Obi-Wan has a knot. That would fill him nicely.
Obi-Wan deepens the kiss, licking behind his teeth. I had you first, see, he tries to write into his Master’s wet, open mouth. Before any of them. If you want to belong to someone, you will belong to the Order and nowhere else.
Without warning, Skywalker wrenches his head back, almost slipping out of Obi-Wan’s grasp. The Force is like a miasma around them, ever so dark. Obi-Wan wonders silently when this began—from Master Jinn, from Naboo, from the never-ending war. When did they started losing his Master.
Skywalker blinks, or tries to, horror contorting his slack, unthinking features. The Force is murkier than Obi-Wan has ever felt. His Master’s hunched forward, almost toppling over hadn’t it been Obi-Wan’s grip on his trim waist. “I—I can’t…I have children, my wife…”
“Oh yes. How you betrayed so completely the Order, Master. The ways of the Force.”
Skywalker looks at him with uncomprehending eyes. “I shouldn’t—I—”
“You are ours, Master.” He looks into his Master’s eyes, a weave of colors that Obi-Wan has never seen before. “You are only ever the Force’s.”
Ever the Negotiator, Obi-Wan says, “It’s time to make things right.”
Skywalker’s throat bobs, and there's apprehension that clump his wet lashes together when he opens his eyes again.
“I...I've only…I’ve…never...I mean, I...”
To think that the Chosen One, the Hero without Fear, splayed out between his legs, gagging for it, have never been taken—makes him shut his eyes and makes him groan.
“How about your own fingers?”
His Master ducks his head down at that, with a deep flush. Obi-Wan always had been able to tell if his Master was lying, or did not want to give a straight answer. He deliberately gentles his voice, his hands.
“It's alright, I'll teach you, Master, how to take my knot.”
He’d say his young Master’s eyes look hopeful, even. Obi-Wan cups his tear-streaked cheek.
“You've taught me so much...and I want to teach you something too.”
Taught yes, to covet something he cannot have. If it were up to him, he would have laid out the Chosen One in his own sheets and taken his time worshipping his force-made body, mapping the gilded lines of him with lips and tongue, like a supplicant kneeling at the altar. Sucking him until his Master's wrung dry, trembling and babbling. Making him ride Obi-Wan's fingers while they kiss breathless. Instead they tear off each others’ clothes and he pushes his Master over a console. Completely bare, Skywalker’s rose and gold, he can see the glistening inside of his thighs. Obi-Wan kisses up the older man’s shin, the syrupy scent of him sticking to the roof of his mouth. When Obi-Wan travels up to the crease of his thigh, bypassing his swollen cock, Skywalker moans.
He does what he must. He licks into the heat, tongue between his own fingers and his Master looks beautiful, wet on his fingers. To open petal by petal. The way he opens, he’d accuse the man of lying. It’s small, very small though and Skywalker is almost buzzing beneath him, delirious with desire. He pulses on Obi-Wan’s tongue like he can trap that little tip of wet muscle inside himself.
Nothing has breached here open. His fingers and tongue is the first thing that has been inside his young Master.
"Please, please," Skywalker keens and quivers around him, gushing, and has Obi-Wan ever seen him be this accommodating? The man was capable of it after all, under all his robes.
He feels like he can drink this in forever. Obi-Wan tips his head back and breathes in deep, as if he’s surfacing. Meets almost the fearful gaze of his Master to lick his slick upper lip.
He stands up, and his cock hangs heavy between his legs. Gives it a stroke, to take the edge off. Taps the fat head of him on his Master’s wet folds, pushing through to see his length slide along where he would open for Obi-Wan.
Thighs jerk, and his Master parts his full lips, zeroed on to his crotch. “Oh, you're so big,” he whispers like he can't help it and it makes Obi-Wan laugh, breathy. “Anakin.”
At his name his young Master looks up. Obi-Wan never used it often. He deemed it disrespectful. Master's face is going slack again. Obi-Wan pulls back then pumps his hips forward, his luridly red cock aggravatingly slow, parting through soaked folds, and with a thick vein catching, Skywalker’s lashes flutter.
“Tell me you want this.”
He could have said, beg. Beg for my cock. For my knot, to be tied and seeded. Tell me that you’d belong to me. Tell me that you are mine. But Obi-Wan’s doing an act of kindness.
Skywalker looks up at him with wide, wide eyes, and says, “Please.”
As his thick cockhead breaches his Master he thinks he can hear the pulse of the Force around them. His Master jerks back, hitting the back of his head hard on the console. He parts so perfectly around Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan wraps a hand around an ankle, when Skywalker squeals and kicks out weakly, taking him fully to the hilt. Turns his head to kiss it and lifts another ankle. His young Master is spread so wide, and when Obi-Wan presses forward he takes his own legs like a good Omega.
And like a good Omega he’s greedy, already working around him for his come. “You are very tight.”
“I’m—I—I’m sorry,” Skywalker stutters, hands hooked under his knees. Sloppy. Wet. Moaning like a degenerate. “I’m sorry—Obi-Wan—ah, I’m sorry I failed you.”
“You didn’t fail me.” The Jedi don’t take children. They instead of apprentices, their Padawans, to continue their own legacies. It’s the sound of their bodies that make Obi-Wan blush too, the wet slaps and each pull of his cock has Skywalker leaking all over the console. It’s all the more proof that he wants Obi-Wan, his body preparing itself for Obi-Wan’s place. Skywalker holds on to his own legs tighter, he dripping so much that Obi-Wan’s upper thighs are also slick wet. Obi-Wan pushes his palm behind his knee, tapping the tender, soft skin there, snapping his hips forward.
”That's it, Master, you take me so well. It's like you were made for this.” He croons, and Skywalker's eyes flutters shut with a sigh, come pulsing thick between their bodies. Good for him, under him, like he never has been before. Obi-Wan rakes his hand through a smooth chest, bringing his fingers to taste the pleasure of an omega. And isn't this the way of the Force, of how the Force has given him this? Has made him into an alpha, a counterpart for his Master, the prophecized force-born chosen one?
Is this not right?
The Force would not have made them the way they are, if it weren’t.
His knot begins to catch and Skywalker moans, and drops his legs. The servos of his mechno-hand whirls as he clenches them tight in to a fist, over and over again, face turned away. Obi-Wan leans forward and his padawan braid drapes across the man’s cheek. “You can hold on to me, if you’d like. You’d not hurt me, Master,” he allows, and sobbing Skywalker does just that.
His young Master has been the protector of the Republic, the high general of his troops, a teacher, a husband, once—a father—but he's never been this, filled and craved and loved. Worshipped. Every time he sinks into the heat of his Master it's all the more clearer. Obi-Wan kisses the long stretch of his throat, grazes his teeth along the barely visible raise of a gland. We will not lose you, not to this. They could give him commitment. They could give him belonging. There was a reason why he was present here as a witness. Just before the tipping of the balance, the Force brought all of them, here. His hands caress the strong thighs that's never wrapped around anyone else's, and Skywalker shivers. He fills him, over and over, and thinking that his shape is the only thing that has had his Master remade, reborn, makes him shudder.
The mechno hand digs into his shoulder, he imagines there’d be angry grooves clawed down to his arms. He barely registers the pain, with the roar of the Force in his ears. “Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan,” his Master keens, pupils blown wide, he’s always been too pretty to be a Jedi Master.
He almost reconsiders. Though, it would be almost martyrdom. The way Obi-Wan offers himself, for the betterment of the Order.
The bite is quick. Skywalker gasps, like he’s been shot through. The gland breaks so easy under his teeth and he licks blood and oil off his lips. “You didn’t fail me, Master,” Obi-Wan repeats, as Skywalker squirms and whimpers on his inflating knot.
“I am what you made me,”
with you, who I made.
“And you are perfect.” In the eyes of the Force.