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The unifying experience of all living beings in the galaxy is that of loss.
Everything tends toward extinction. Nothing lasts forever. Even the stars, in their precious magnitude, in their magnificent luminosity, die.
The problem with loss is that it cannot be taught except in the flesh because it is not innate in the spirit. Loss cannot be explained, charted, or theorized. It can only be felt. The childish belief that things can live forever is gradually stained with the ashes of habit.
Obi-Wan Kenobi learned to overcome loss as the Jedi taught him. To swallow it, to feel it in his stomach, and finally to let it go in a gastric system of grief. It had been explained to him that if you don't let your grief go, it will rot inside you and corrupt you. It is unnatural to keep good and bad feelings in your intestines. Like food, they only leave you their nourishment –their teachings – and you have to get rid of what is useless.
It was easy to understand because it was natural. It was a process that all beings within the Jedi Temple could understand. Living off misfortune was impossible. All it did was cause one to fall to the dark side, to the saturated filth of attachment. So Obi-Wan believed, all the years he lived under Qui-Gon Jinn's tutelage, that the only possible way out was to rip the problem at the root: not to feel, to not fill his stomach with complicated feelings, and to avoid the pain of swallowing something too big.
Qui-Gon watched him earnestly while Obi-Wan did everything. While meditating, while listening attentively to the senate meeting they had to attend, while navigating the ship on the way to a mission, and not feeling his hands because he held the wheel so tightly. Obi-Wan ignored the edge in his gaze and went about his business, or until his Master sighed and said:
"This is not the way you should go, Padawan. Courage is not because of fear but in spite of fear. Don't be so hard on yourself. Don't hide your heart."
"I am not hiding it, Master," he assured him, his eyes closed and his back so stiff it began to hurt.
But Obi-Wan refused to show his heart. He knew his heart better than anyone, even better than his ever-watchful Master: it was a tiny, naked, ever-hungry little thing, and he feared he would lose control of it if he let it run free.
He remembered the pain of not being chosen as a Padawan and being sent to Bandomeer. He remembered the pain of being rejected by Siri when he confessed his feelings to her at the dinner table. Most of all, he remembered the terror that gripped his body when Master Yoda repeated the Jedi Code to them as they learned to meditate, and Obi-Wan, at five years old, wondered if he wasn't sinning without knowing it, if he wasn't feeling passion instead of serenity, if he wasn't creating chaos instead of harmony.
All he knew was how to be a Jedi. What would they do with him if it turned out he wasn't good at it, and his wild heart was to blame for his exile?
Over time, his emotional starvation became part of his personality. It was as if it had always been there, as if he had been born hungry and found satisfaction in not eating. A creature with severed canines, that was him. Skinny, constipated, mute. The perfect Jedi on the outside, but a man hanging on by the seams on the inside.
His body, moreover, was designed to fail him. His Stewjoni origin was another obstacle to overcome, for he had been born to carry life within him, like the human women of Coruscant. He was made to expand, to swell with blood and milk and life, not to contract, to have skin glued over bone, to carry a concave, dry, atrophied belly in a state of perpetual infancy.
Not that he was a fraud, but that he had melted into the Jedi suit, detached from all the ailments of his heart. So much so that he had finally believed it. So much so that everyone else had believed it, too. Even Qui-Gon, eventually.
And he would have spent his whole life like that: with his mouth closed, his hands in the sleeves of his cloak, his head slightly lowered, aware that the people around him saw in him a submissive monk, obedient to his superiors, peaceful to the extreme, calm, serene. He would have spent his whole life like that, believing in the fantasies he had invented to avoid suffering, content with the hollowness, the silence, the aridity.
But then his master died at the hands of a Sith.
And then he met Anakin Skywalker.
*
"Kenobi. You have no business here. I'm sure someone else needs your presence," Vokara Che said, crossing her arms in front of him. Behind her, the temple healers moved between the rooms where the wounded masters were recovering. Obi-Wan had refused to leave the lobby of the infirmary. He had told them that he wanted to see Anakin first.
Master Vokara had to ask him to leave, still dressed in her surgical gown. She had only removed the gloves from her blue, dry hands after spending hours in the operating room. "I'm serious, Obi-Wan. What Skywalker needs right now is rest. And I don't like to see you in the infirmary. It's always bad news."
But Obi-Wan refused to listen to reason. "Please," he begged. "Let me see him. I need—I need to know he's all right. Just for a moment."
Vokara sighed. They both knew it was a lost battle. No force within the Jedi Temple would remove Obi-Wan from there. Not when Anakin... not when Anakin had been hurt so badly because of him. "I will let you in, Obi-Wan. But I will also warn you that I will tell Master Yoda," she said gravely. "This is not protocol... but then again, none of this is protocol. Go on. Quickly. He's in room number 3."
He nodded, feeling his heart pounding. It was a reasonable exchange, and he was willing to pay for it with an unusual scolding from the old master. If Master Vokara had told him that he had to give him his right arm to see Anakin, Obi-Wan would have said yes without question. That would have been the right consequence.
He walked calmly to the intensive care unit and looked for the door with the number three on it. He tried to feel Anakin's signature through the Force, but his apprentice was still hidden. He didn't know if it was because of the anesthesia or a conscious decision.
That had been the worst, he thought, approaching the door and stopping in front of it to take a breath before entering. The moment when they took him to the operating room he felt, all at once, the silence of their connection.
They had been connected for ten years, more than half of Anakin's life and a third of his. When he stopped feeling it, he thought he had died, even though that wasn't possible. But the shock of the sudden emptiness remained on his skin, like a permanent chill. He never wanted to feel anything like that again.
On the other side of the door, Anakin was lying on the hospital bed. He was awake, quiet, staring at the ceiling. He didn't turn to look at his Master as he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
"Anakin," he said. He dared not say another word. The boy looked the same as he had in the Petranaki coliseum, the same as he had left him at the landing pad in Coruscant, next to Senator Amidala, disguised as an exile seeking safe passage to Naboo: his sun-burned blond hair, his face still dirty from the red soil of Geonosis, the thin Padawan braid on the white pillow.
He looked so young. He also looked so beaten.
On the covers of the bed was the proof of his mistakes: on the left side, a hand making a fist; on the right side, a stump wrapped in bandages.
Obi-Wan felt the pang of his Padawan's pain in his chest. It was such a hopeless wound. It was not a cut from a droid's fiber optic, nor a bruise caused by a fall. It wasn't something that could be healed with a bacta plaster and a kiss on the forehead. It was a total loss. It was an absolute void. Where once there was something precious, there was now a space that would never be filled again.
"Anakin," he said again because it was the only word his mouth could articulate at that moment. Anakin. A name that took on so many meanings when he said it and now meant something like "forgive me," "look at me," "if I could, I would rip my arms off and give them to you, but I can't, so forgive me, please."
The boy shook his head as heavy tears streamed from his eyes. "Get out of here," he muttered angrily, his face contorted in deep resentment. "I don't want you here. This is all your fault. You, you... my mother is dead because of you."
Obi-Wan walked towards him and Anakin flinched in his bed. "Anakin, what are you saying, what happened to your mother?"
This news made him feel even more disoriented. How was that possible? Was that why he had gone to Tatooine without telling him?
"She is dead! I couldn't reach her in time! And I told you, I told you that I had dreamed about her, that I knew she was in danger and you didn't believe me. You never believe me. So go away, leave me alone. I don't want to see you again."
But Obi-Wan had never left him alone in ten years. Obi-Wan had tried to control the incarnate intensity that was his apprentice and had never found the right balance, the perfect measure. His lessons had fallen on deaf ears and his scoldings had only widened the gap between them. The only thing Obi-Wan had received from his apprentice was rebellion. The only thing they had in common was mutual contempt and constant irritation.
He hadn't realized when it was born. When they had stopped being the unbeatable duo of Padawan and Master and had become these two wounded men, unable to be in the same room without hurting each other.
Master Yoda had told him that what Anakin needed from him was a teacher and not a friend, but no one understood that Anakin was not a normal Jedi, but a special boy who needed different methods to understand the lesson. Obi-Wan had tried to control and contain his heart in every way and had only found something like a truce with one method.
"Anakin, please: listen to me," he pleaded, coming closer anyway and grabbing his shoulder. "If you had told me she was in mortal danger, I—I would have," but they were hollow words. It was no use now when the proof of his mistake laid between them.
"I told you: Let go of me! You always take everything from me," Anakin shouted moving Obi-Wan's hand off of him. His screams had become sobs. He was completely out of control, breathing heavily and shaking. Obi-Wan had no choice but to hold him by the shoulders and pull him closer to him, trapping him within his arms to keep him from moving further away. "Don't touch me, get out of here!"
Obi-Wan did not let go. He pressed his head against his shoulder and held Anakin as he sobbed, clutching his arm with his one hand. They stayed like that for minutes as Anakin cried over the loss of his mother and his arm, and Obi-Wan, with his eyes closed, relived all the images of devastation they had seen on Geonosis. All the Jedi who had lost their lives. The dark shadow of the Sith looming over them. The sudden darkness, the uncertainty.
He wanted to make him understand that the only real thing they had left was each other, their relationship. That was all he had thought about since they had landed on Coruscant. It was the only thing his mind kept repeating while he waited for the healers to operate on his arm, close the wound, and prepare it for a prosthesis.
It was so strange. Obi-Wan looked to his left to see Anakin's slender, maimed arm. He remembered his hands well, how agile his fingers were. How could it be that there was nothing there anymore?
When Anakin stopped stirring in his embrace and his body softened, tired from crying, Obi-Wan gently pulled away from him. He carefully laid him down on the bed and, trying not to make too much of a fuss, lifted the sheets and laid down on the covers beside him. Anakin just looked at him through his tear-filled eyelashes without saying a word.
Obi-Wan went up to his face and kissed him: kissed his red-hot cheeks, kissed his sweaty, salty forehead, kissed the corners of his lips. Anakin did nothing. He received his kisses with the patience of a child who had to get dressed for school. Fed up with the ritual, but aware that he couldn't go anywhere if he wasn't dressed.
He knew it was awful to think about it at such a terrible time, but Anakin looked so beautiful lying in his arms: soft, shivering, like a child. Obi-Wan ran his thumb over his reddened lips, parched from the anesthesia. They both needed a bath and ten hours of sleep, but that could wait.
"Would you like some milk?" he asked in a whisper, moving even closer to Anakin, running his hand over his cheeks and his neck, pausing over his pounding heart.
Anakin shook his head as his chin wrinkled, threatening tears again. But Obi-Wan wouldn't listen to any of that. They both needed this. Ever since he had been captured by Dooku on Geonosis, Obi-Wan had felt the telltale signs that his chest was full of milk. It was as if his body had anticipated the tragedy.
He had spent the whole day with painful flashes running through him, filling his heart with fear. He needed Anakin to drink from him. He knew it would heal them both, bring them back to the peace they had shared years ago when this was so new to both of them when Obi-Wan's body had adapted to the needs of this special, lonely boy.
"No, Master, please," Anakin whispered, covering his eyes with his left hand. "I can't—not today, please."
"Shh, Padawan. Breathe," he comforted him, pressing his swollen breasts against Anakin's arm, beginning to feel the thrill that filled him every time they did this. He spread his fingers over his apprentice's collarbone and Anakin closed his eyes, too weak to resist, and allowed himself to be invaded by his master's mental touch. "This is what you want, remember? You told me you loved me. This is what you want."
*
When they were strangers, Obi-Wan thought that it couldn't be that hard to be the Master of Anakin Skywalker, the supposed chosen one of the Force. Qui-Gon had made it sound so easy.
He had pulled him out of the desert like a gardener plucking the prettiest rose from a bush, and announced to the Council that he was willing to give up Obi-Wan’s training to take up this prodigy with a midichlorian count to the sky and the most impressive victory of the Classic Boonta under his belt. The boy wasn't even 10 years old and had already accomplished more than many Jedi within the Order.
Obi-Wan did not think he had much more to teach him since his talent was so natural. When he knelt before Master Yoda to assure him that he would train the boy in his Master's absence, he did so more to uphold Qui-Gon's legacy than for himself or the boy.
Training Anakin was a tribute to his late master, a favor to his memory. What the boy would learn was secondary, something the two would have to figure out as they went along. He never expected that Anakin would be everything Obi-Wan had worked for years not to be.
It was jarring.
Where Obi-Wan was contemplative silence, Anakin was untimely noise. Where Obi-Wan was routine, Anakin was novelty. Where Obi-Wan favored calm and passivity, Anakin tended toward proactive chaos.
It was as if he did everything to antagonize his master. He moved like a storm, disrupting everything in his path and creating anarchy. Anakin was pure, desperate hunger. When Obi-Wan saw Anakin running out of class, his Jedi uniform disheveled, his Padawan braid tangled, his eyes bright with mischief, he remembered his own self, his creature-heart, unmuzzled, fangs sharp, ready to bite anyone who came too close.
Obi-Wan saw clearly what the Council feared: that the boy was too attached to his mother, and that it would be impossible to teach him the detachment of the Jedi teachings. Anakin was too human. He was too used to asking for love and receiving it unconditionally.
Even in this, he was so different from Obi-Wan. His desperation was born not of hunger but of satiation. He had not learned to fear the consequences of clinging because he had learned to live that way. Resentful of the slavers, anxious for a better future, loved by his mother.
What kind of a poor substitute was this Padawan who had been made Master so quickly? What could Obi-Wan teach him, so thin, so withdrawn, that he had not already learned in the violence of survival?
When Obi-Wan had taught himself to stop feeling, he had only piled loneliness upon loneliness. He had not come to miss contentment. That was why it was so cruel to teach a child to be content with emptiness, with the uniformity of the Jedi, with their lonely purity. The point was not to teach him to meditate but to teach him to accept scarcity.
At first, Anakin did not understand why he had to sleep alone in a cold, dark room.
This is how it began.
Obi-Wan would opened his eyes in the middle of the night and knew that on the other side of the door was Anakin, curled up on the floor like a stray dog, lying on the warm vents of a street to warm his cold bones.
He would open the door to his room and Anakin would open his eyes wide. "Sorry, Master," he always said to him. "I couldn't sleep. It's just—"
"Just what?"
Anakin was no baby, he was no youngling. He was ten years old and knew exactly what he was doing. But in those moments he looked so small, like a lost child. "It's just that I dreamt that you died, and I... I don't want you to die, Obi-Wan. You're the only one in the temple who loves me."
Obi-Wan would tell him that just for this one time he would let him sleep in his bed. But "just this once" kept repeating over and over again. Just for tonight, Master, Anakin said, no longer with the pleading tremor in his voice. And tomorrow I will return to my room. I promise.
Once, after a particularly hard lesson, Anakin laid awake in his blankets, fiddling with the straps of his robe, tossing and turning. Obi-Wan sat up in bed, irritated. "Padawan, for God's sake, what's wrong? Go to sleep or go to your room."
Anakin shook his head making his pillow rustle. "I'm sorry, Master. It's just..."
Obi-Wan ran his hand over his face. He hadn't shaved in three days and his stubble was itching. He had already considered growing his beard as well as his hair. It was like a rite of passage: leaving behind the youthful Padawan look, showing the world that he had become a Knight and a Master.
"Just what?" he asked, more forcefully than necessary. Anakin was silent for a while, waiting for Obi-Wan's sudden anger to subside. He laid back on the bed and sighed. Lately, his outbursts were like that: like whiplash, like explosions that disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
"It's just... you know, on Tatooine I used to sleep in the same bed as my mother. We only had one bed."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and imagined a faceless woman holding Anakin in her arms.
The boy continued. "And, I don't know. When Master Qui-Gon came to Mos Espa, everything happened so fast. Suddenly, I had to say goodbye to her, and we were already here on Coruscant."
"Do you miss her?" asked Obi-Wan, although he already knew that, of course, he did. He suspected that he would also miss his mother if he remembered her. Anakin turned his face and pressed it against his shoulder.
"Yes, but I also miss..." he mumbled, as if he was not sure what he wanted to say. He let out a small sigh and finally said, "I miss drinking her milk."
"Oh."
Obi-Wan heard this and stood very still, trying to process the information. "Weren't you too old for that?"
The boy next to him shrugged. "I don't know. My mom kept doing it. I don't know if it's something about Tatooine."
Obi-Wan placed his hand on his chest, feeling with his fingertips the bones of his ribs pounding to the rhythm of his alarmed heart. Perhaps someone else would have heard this confession and not thought about it, but to Obi-Wan the words "drink" and "milk" had felt monumental, magnified. Not only because he couldn't help imagining Anakin's mouth on his mother's dark, hardened nipple, but also because he was capable of it.
He was surprised by the force with which the thought entered his brain because he had kept it inside himself, like a note that had been folded many times and forgotten at the bottom of a drawer. Because he had forgotten that his body was capable of harboring life and producing milk; he had believed for so long that he was like the rest, that he was identical to Qui-Gon, from his casual indifference to the physicality of what existed between his legs.
In that horrible moment, he realized that, much to his chagrin, he bore more resemblance to Anakin's mother than to his Jedi Master.
"Well," he said, feeling his mouth dry and his stomach heavy. "Try to get some sleep, okay? We'll talk about this another time."
They never spoke of it again. The next day, as if the confession about his mother's milk had been too vulnerable for Anakin, the boy disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. Obi-Wan left the Temple and ran blindly through the city's lower levels, asking people if they had seen a little Padawan passing by. He found him in a dumpster, perched on a small mound of scrap metal, like a kitten watching a prey as small as himself.
When Obi-Wan called for him to come back and Anakin shuffled his little feet over to where he was, he was holding a rusty verbobrain and a bunch of capacitor wires. These were things he could find in the tech area of the temple. Those were things he didn't need.
But that was not the point. The point was that those things belonged to him and no one else. He had earned them and no one could take them away from him.
So Obi-Wan made a decision.
The next day, he visited the infirmary and was greeted by Vokara Che, who, like him, was just learning to exist in her new position of authority. It seemed to Obi-Wan that it was much easier for her than for him. He felt that his problems were unique and unrepeatable. Nobody else had the weight of the Force Chosen One on their shoulders.
"Obi-Wan, hey. How are you? I hope you are in good health," Vokara greeted him cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"
Anakin's words repeated in his head. I miss drinking her milk.
"Master Che. I would like to stop taking hormone blockers."
*
But Anakin was a child. His heart was as malleable as his body.
The sadness that tormented him one day was gone the next. It was a matter of Obi-Wan taking him on a diplomatic mission to the other pole of Coruscant for Anakin to forget his grudge against his classmates.
Such were the hearts of the children. They were new, accommodating, immaculate, innocent and sincere. That was why he had confessed to him that he missed nursing at his mother's breast because he wanted to return to the comfort of her embrace, to the perfect bond between mother and child.
So while Obi-Wan survived the onslaught of his body experiencing his Stewjoni hormones for the first time in years, Anakin went back and forth in his considerations of what he wanted, as well as to his room. He couldn't help but think that he was the strange one, the one who had decided at thirteen that he would rather starve to death, to wither away, than feel too much and fall to the dark side of the Force. Maybe the one who was born strange was not the fatherless child with an impossible midichlorian count, but he, the neutered Jedi, stuck in a false calm.
But he was doing it for his Padawan. This was what masters were supposed to do for their apprentices, this was what Obi-Wan would have wanted Qui-Gon to do for him. Not some Jedi platitude, but something tangible, something he could feel between his hands, something he could see and sort through.
There was nothing clearer than this: the swelling of his breasts, the warmth in his belly, the wetness between his legs. A body that adapted day by day to the emptiness in Anakin's heart. A boy who had lost his mother and who now had in her place a man who, at the age of 30, was experiencing puberty for the first time, at the same time as his apprentice.
Between the two of them, the boundaries between Padawan and Master blurred. As Anakin connected so naturally with the Unifying Force, Obi-Wan learned along with him. When Anakin smiled at others and trusted people he had just met a minute before, Obi-Wan knew he had to let go a little and be more flexible. In many ways, Anakin was also his Master. That was the great challenge of being a teacher: balancing authority and submission, distance and affection. It was a difficult path that only Masters like Yaddle had been able to perfect.
But Obi-Wan did not have the advantage of living 800 years to feel the swelling of his breasts and the surge of his hormones, and not fall into lust.
Because he longed. He longed for Anakin to be with him again, in his bed, and he longed for someone, anyone, to press into his body so that everything inside him could come out. The soreness in his nipples was even less painful than the longing in his stomach than the desperation in his vulva. He needed to be emptied as much as he needed to be filled.
It was infuriating. He felt like he would explode at any moment and lose his perfectly cured disguise.
One night, Anakin finally asked to stay with him in his room. It had been a couple of months since the boy had been going in and out of his room. He was a boy after all. He liked having his own space and he didn't like Obi-Wan forcing him to take a bath every morning. But his eleventh birthday was approaching, and instead of rejoicing over another year of life like the rest of the Padawans, Anakin's face darkened and his boisterous personality became taciturn.
Would he be thinking of his mother? Obi-Wan thought, frustrated. How long would it take him to forget her? When would he accept that this was his home now and that he, his Master, was all he would ever need?
Obi-Wan had been lactating the past few days as if his body had sensed that Anakin would want to spend the night with him. He looked at himself in the mirror and didn't recognize the body staring back at him, but he had never felt so fulfilled, so sure of his destiny. His purpose as Anakin's Master was to nourish him, in every sense of the word.
He watched as the boy took off his boots and uniform and crawled under the covers of his bed, wearing only his underwear. Without the Jedi attire, only with his curious little face and his bright eyes wide open, Anakin didn't look like the most impressive Force user of the millennium. He just looked like a child who wanted nothing more than to be held by his mother.
Maybe that's who he was, at heart. A son waiting for his mother. And maybe that was who Obi-Wan was. A surrogate mother who transformed her body to accommodate him.
He lay down beside him and, in a reversal of what had happened the night his Padawan had revealed he still nursed from his mother, Obi-Wan could not close his eyes. He did not dare to speak until Anakin rolled over and rested on his hand. Even though they were immersed in the darkness of their room, Obi-Wan could feel his Padawan's gaze burning across his cheek.
"Master, are you awake?".
"Mhm."
"I think I can almost hear you thinking. It feels funny," Anakin said. His hand came out of the shadows and stopped at his collarbone, just above his left breast, above his heart.
Obi-Wan swallowed. His whole body was expectant, like a high-voltage line. "How does it feel?"
"Funny. I don't know. Like... like a heart. Thump-thump," the boy replied, laughing at his joke.
He had no choice but to lie on his side, to face Anakin. He could barely see the boy's face. He was so nervous that he could feel his heartbeat echoing through the room, through the entire Jedi Temple. "Anakin, Padawan... about what you told me the other day..."
"Don't mention it, Master. I'm ashamed to have told you," Anakin said, his voice barely audible.
"No, no. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your culture, I mean—how you were raised on Tatooine. It's respectable. I didn't mean to make you feel—what I mean is if you still miss it, I have a solution."
He said all this in a rush, because they were not the perfectly rehearsed words he always said. They were new words, terrifying words. It was a desperate plea, and Obi-Wan had gone 20 years without asking for anything, not even a word of encouragement. The only one who had seen him vulnerable and naked was the one he was supposed to protect. What a master, he thought bitterly. What a man I am.
Anakin was silent for a long time. Obi-Wan could not even hear him breathing. "You mean you...?"
But he did not finish the question. His Padawan's hand moved from his heart to the curve of his chest, and they both exhaled as if surprised by the existence of something neither of them had believed possible until that moment. But it was not a miracle, it was reality. Which was perhaps even worse.
"I don't know how to..." Obi-Wan said, feeling terribly stupid. "You will have to teach me, Anakin. You have to lead the way."
His apprentice stood up a little to make himself comfortable and began to open his master's robe. He did it with the ease of someone who had done it all his life. In one quick motion, Anakin reached down, grabbed his right tit from underneath, and let it fall to his chest. He was so sore, so sensitive from the rapid growth of his glands, that the gentle touch of his hands was enough to make him moan in pain.
"Be careful, Padawan. Slow down."
Anakin just nodded. "This is what I used to do, hm, I just... wow, Master, this is very—" Obi-Wan understood that this was as strange for Anakin as it was for him. The boy usually wasn't so fearful when he did something, but he was sure that this was too much, even for him.
"Come on," Obi-Wan insisted, feeling the tingles of fear running through his body. "Do what you have to do."
Anakin settled down on the bed and Obi-Wan held out his arm for support. Without hesitation, he felt his apprentice's warm lips approach his swollen areola and close around it. After a quiet second in which they both marveled at the new sensation, Anakin began to suck.
Obi-Wan didn't have the right words to describe what he was feeling. He was surprised that he could feel it so clearly when Anakin began to draw the milk from his tit. Anakin's mouth also felt terribly wet, hot, too used to this action. The boy clung to his body, intertwined his legs with his, and while he held his tit with one hand, he began to caress his Padawan’s arm and waist with the other in a soothing movement like a mother would do to her child to lull it to sleep.
Obi-Wan had never been so close to another person. No one had ever put their mouth on his body, and the sensations that coursed through his body were as excruciating as they were exhilarating. He didn't know where to categorize his experience. It was a satisfaction similar to emptying his stomach or bladder. It was utilitarian, ordinary. Like the tears that come out of your eyes when you yawn, which are neither sad nor happy, but part of the body's natural reactions. Yet it was something so intimate, so sensual, that he would consider it close to sex. The pleasure was so much like an orgasm: total and seismic, a lightning bolt that split the earth in two.
Anakin's mouth drank from it with the strength of a hungry child. Their room was filled with their heaving breaths and the Force, vibrating around them with metallic twangs. The world had become one just for the two of them, sharing the most intimate and sacred act: a mother feeding her child.
He closed his eyes and let the flood of emotions wash over him. Anakin, who had already lost his initial fear, pulled away from his nipple, reached for his other breast and began to drink from it. In the darkness, Obi-Wan could see nothing, only feel. He felt completely surrounded by Anakin. His hands on his tits, his legs around his, his forehead warm on his chin, the scent of Anakin as a boy combined with the strange sweetness of his own milk.
It was too much. It was exactly what he had feared most and, at the same time, the most moving thing he had ever experienced.
When Anakin finally stood up, Obi-Wan felt his milky exhalation hit his cheek. Now that he was empty, his Padawan was full. The exchange was complete. "Master?" he whispered, gluing his sticky lips together, softened by the milk. He kissed him chastely on the cheek and fell into his arms. "Thank you for this."
*
Obi-Wan watched his Padawan during lightsaber training and wondered if the truth of what had happened could ever cross anyone's mind.
When Anakin fought the hologram that emerged from the floor, moving with the skill of a Master 20 years his senior, Obi-Wan knew his stomach was full of his milk. When Anakin entered the Temple classroom, Obi-Wan knew he was inside his Padawan all the time. Separation was impossible.
He also knew that a better Master and Jedi than he would have told the Council that Anakin had never been weaned from his mother and that many of his behavioral problems could be explained by the sudden interruption of breastfeeding. Had he been a man less desperate for the slightest touch, things might have turned out differently.
Because the Jedi had no possessions. Not even the cloaks draped over their shoulders belonged to them, nor the lightsabers hanging from their belts, but Obi-Wan had this. The nights that had become a ritual, Anakin's warm mouth, his hunger and thirst. All of that was his, and his alone. Anakin, his apprentice, his son, was also his.
Nothing had ever belonged to him. He had not even been sure that his own Master had wanted him back. But this was something he could feel and see and count.
Silently, as he watched Anakin's movements on the tatami, Obi-Wan thought: We have been doing this for 42 nights. Anakin has been feeding on me for a month and twelve days, and I have been emptying myself into him. His stomach is full of me.
For months and months, they carried out this exchange. Obi-Wan would give him his milk, and Anakin would give him what he wanted from his Padawan: loyalty, honesty, obedience. He had given him the deepest part of himself and Obi-Wan expected Anakin to reciprocate with the same earnestness.
But Anakin was not serious; he was fickle, sentimental, ruled by the whims of his heart. He was a child, after all.
They had their first confrontation on one of those long and tedious afternoons when all the Padawans came and went in the training dojo, tired of repeating the same movements and not finding the balance. The teachers, tired of repeating the same words and not seeing the results, sat on the wooden bleachers and watched the teenagers.
Anakin had practiced the Soresu, a form that challenged his impulsiveness. Obi-Wan had spent hours telling him to plant himself properly on the ground, to stop thinking about the lightsaber in his hands, to think on his feet.
After a while, fed up and sweaty, Anakin turned off the lightsaber and approached him. It would never have occurred to him that the boy would do such a thing in front of so many people, so he couldn't understand his intentions.
He watched as Anakin dropped between his legs and sat down on the floor, and as he raised his hand to reach into the folds of his tunic, to his breasts. Obi-Wan could only pull back as if his Padawan's hand was burning him, and he shook it off with a slap. "Padawan!" he whispered angrily. "What do you think you're doing?"
Obi-Wan had never hit Anakin before and never treated him with violence, but this surprised him so much that he had no choice but to force Anakin off him. Anakin opened his eyes wide as if he was also surprised. What did he think would happen? That his master would pull out his tit so that he could drink from it? He covered his chest with his arms and turned around. Only Master Unduli had turned to look at them.
"I thought..." Anakin stammered confused.
"Stop it, Padawan. That's enough. Get back on the tatami or get out of here."
Anakin stood up, hurt and ashamed, and continued training with the rest of the apprentices, his back to him. He could not calm himself. He felt as if everybody in the room looked at him and recognized his secret.
That night, Anakin did not show up in his room.
They did not speak again with their usual familiarity until Obi-Wan informed him a week later that they had been given a mission to Onderon to collect ancient artifacts for safekeeping in the Jedi archives. It was a protocol mission that asked nothing more of them than to get on a ship, go, and return.
But a mission, no matter how boring, still filled Anakin with excitement. Especially the promise that his master would let him pilot the ship back.
They boarded the frigate and sailed to Onderon without exchanging a word. Anakin still resented the slap on the hand and Obi-Wan regretted having acted that way. Besides, if he was honest with himself, he missed having him around at night. His own body had grown accustomed to the young boy always clinging to him, kneading his skin with his hands, sighing after feeding from him.
Obi-Wan programmed the ship, and when they jumped into hyperspace, he had no choice but to face his Padawan, who was staring intently at the celestial lights of space.
"Anakin."
The boy turned to him. His eyes were still full of the feeling that had overcome him in the dojo, bright as if he was about to cry. His small face, beautiful and flawless, reflected the light of the stars. Obi-Wan held out his hands and with a nod of his head beckoned him to come closer.
But Anakin did not move. Obi-Wan sighed in despair. "You must understand, this is something we do between the two of us."
"I know, Master. I'm not a fool. It's just that—"
"It's just that you acted without thinking. I know that too, Padawan. You do everything without thinking," he replied dryly.
"I'm sorry, Master."
"Those are words you say very easily, Anakin. But I don't think you mean them."
Anakin closed his mouth defiantly. Why wouldn't he obey him? Why was he so difficult to deal with? "Come here, Padawan," he repeated.
The boy said nothing and didn't move. He just sat there and looked at him.
Suddenly Obi-Wan realized what was happening. Anakin knew that he had the upper hand. He was punishing him. You slapped me. So I will not nurse from you anymore. It was a personal affront. Anakin didn't need it as much as he did, because he was the one in absolute control of the situation.
"Anakin, I'm not going to say it again," Obi-Wan said, feeling his voice break in his throat.
However, Anakin stood up and moved to leave the cockpit.
His body overtook his thoughts. Obi-Wan raised his hand to stop him, but he thought that if his voice wouldn't work, then the Force would have to. He had never tried it with someone as powerful as Anakin, but he felt the suggestion of obedience leave his fingers to wrap around his apprentice's wrist.
Anakin stopped abruptly as if an icy hand had gripped him. "What the hell are you doing?"
"You want this, Padawan," Obi-Wan said. "You don't want to disobey me."
It was more difficult than with a non-Force-sensitive person. Anakin's signature wanted to refute him, wanted to get rid of his influence, but as in the dojo, Obi-Wan had the element of surprise on his side. Anakin would never have imagined that his master would use mental manipulation to convince him, so it was relatively easy to actually convince him, to bend his rebelliousness under his hand, to trap his stubborn mind, and make him obey.
And it was even easier because he knew that Anakin liked it, too.
Anakin stood very still, letting Obi-Wan's warm suggestion soften his body. Then, he walked towards him, docile and calm. He sat down between his legs as he had done in the training dojo and put his face on his legs. This time we'll do it right, Obi-Wan thought.
"You love this, Padawan. You love it as much as I do."
The boy nodded, tickling his thigh. "I love it."
"You want to drink from my milk."
"Yes, I want to drink your milk, but..."
"Shh, no buts. Come, Padawan. Drink from me. This is all for you."
He began to open his robe to expose his tits while Anakin stood upright. His eyes no longer had their characteristic glow that seemed to reflect starlight, but a small sacrifice they both had to make for the greater good. The boy raised his hands and cupped his tit, running his thumbs over the hardness of his pink nipple, making him tremble.
Anakin opened his mouth, but instead of just sucking, he ran the length of his tongue along the curve of his tit. "I love it as much as you do," the boy repeated, still intoxicated by Obi-Wan's mind manipulation. "I want to suck you all the time, Master. But you only let me when we're alone. It's so unfair."
"Ah, Anakin."
His Padawan took his two milky tits and squeezed them together, pressing his nose into the space between them, turning the nurturing ritual into something more. Anakin opened his mouth and closed his teeth slightly over one of his nipples, stretching it out and making him scream in pain and pleasure. Everything he did was repeated all over his body. Every time Anakin pressed his lips to his tits and kissed him with the gentleness of a lover, Obi-Wan resented the caress between his legs.
"Keep doing that, Padawan. Suck me," he murmured, holding Anakin's head to keep him still. Obi-Wan crawled to the edge of the pilot's seat to feel some pressure on his wet vulva. His hips swayed to the rhythm of Anakin's licks. "You're such a good boy, Padawan. You make me feel so good."
Does he feel the same? Obi-Wan wondered, feeling his head fill with white noise. Will it arouse him as much as it does me?
Finally, Anakin closed his pink lips over one of his tits and began to drink, making little sounds of satisfaction, sucking down all the milk his Master had saved for him during this week of awful silence. It was obvious that he needed it as much as Obi-Wan, but Anakin was capable of starving himself to death to prove a point.
In a way, they were not so different. How lucky his Padawan was to have a Master who understood him so well.
With one hand still on his head, gently stroking the Padawan's braid, Obi-Wan slid his free hand into his leggings. For weeks, he had felt the need to touch himself but had not done so for fear of what his apprentice would say. But in this moment, just as he held him by the braid, Obi-Wan held him through the Force. There was nothing he did that Anakin would find disgusting, because he was telling him so: You're going to love this too, Padawan.
His cunt was so wet and sensitive, just like his tits. With two fingers, he found the small nub of his clit and began to circle it while Anakin continued to drink from him. His pussy felt so different now, full and smooth, ready to receive a cock. He imagined the boy, naked and on top of him, painfully erect, drinking his milk and pumping in and out of him, creating a loop between the two of them: as Anakin drank from him, Obi-Wan milked him as well, getting everything the boy had to give him.
"Ah, Anakin, Padawan. Drink from the other," he urged.
As the boy moved his mouth from one nipple to the other, Obi-Wan accelerated the movement of his fingers, filling the cockpit with the obscene, wet sound of his pussy as well as Anakin's mouth, which never tired of sucking. What would that mouth feel like between his legs? He imagined it like it was on his tit: wet, warm, perfect. As if he had been born with the exact knowledge to satisfy his Master.
With that thought, he felt the orgasm shoot through his entire body. He couldn't help but grab onto Anakin's head. The boy cried out in pain and let go of his chest, putting his hands on his chest to pull him off. But Obi-Wan had no control over his body. An excessive trembling came over him, as well as a pleasure as white, wet, and sweet as mother's milk. With his tits in the air, wet with Anakin's saliva, Obi-Wan experienced the assault of his first climax.
He had never masturbated before. All his life he had been driven by the sin of self-pleasure, believing that he would become obsessed with it, that he wouldn't have enough, that he would fall to the dark side. But now, with Anakin between his legs, looking at him with wide, glowing eyes, he realized that it wasn't driving him to the dark side, it was saving their lives, it was bringing them together.
His Padawan looked completely ruined, his hair disheveled under his hand and his mouth wet and red. Obi-Wan knew he didn't look any better, with his tits out and his hand still in his pants, his fingers tender and wrinkled with wetness.
"Did you love it?" he asked, still gasping for breath.
When Anakin answered with a small smile, he couldn't tell if it was his own opinion or the suggestion of the Force. "I loved it, Master," he said.
*
The feeding ritual began to carry the component of sex.
Over the years, the two began to blur. Breastfeeding had become stained with the filth of carnal gratification. Gone was the childlike excitement Anakin had when he came through his room and lay on his bed, rubbing his legs, content to go to sleep with his master and drink from his milk as he had with his mother.
Obi-Wan had tainted him; and not just their bond as Master and apprentice, but Anakin's heart with his attachment.
During the missions, it was very noticeable for both of them. When they had to separate for some reason, because Anakin had to stay on the ship while he checked the surroundings, or when his Padawan teamed up with another Padawan and they went far away from their Masters without turning back even once.
It felt physical. As if his whole body mourned the separation. He couldn't imagine what Anakin's mother must have felt as she watched him leave, knowing that he would never come back, or that he would come back changed, different from the child she had so lovingly nurtured.
But still, the connection they had strengthened their bond in a way neither of them could explain. It was so strong that it felt like another part of their body. Obi-Wan could feel Anakin even when they were light years apart, and Anakin could sometimes understand exactly what his Master was thinking. It was as if they were one, as if their souls were intertwined, one with the other, like a Padawan's braid.
The milk was adulterated with arousal and nursing had become a prelude to pleasure. Anakin clung to his body, numbed by the food and Obi-Wan's mental touch, and began to pump his hips on his legs like a wild animal, trying to find satisfaction on every surface of his master. And sometimes, when Anakin had behaved well when he had decided to act like a Jedi and avoided starting a civil war on a planet, Obi-Wan would lend him his hand to fuck the hole between his fingers, jerking, moaning in misty pleasure, and then falling asleep in his arms.
Not only Anakin‘s orgasms belonged to him, not only his mouth, but also his mind. His precious Force signature, powerful and luminous, like a star. His desire, his will. There was no greater pleasure for Obi-Wan than to know that he could spread his fingers, through the Force, and make it yield. If only in that, alone. Even if it was just so that his Padawan drank his milk.
But Anakin continued to grow despite everything. Obi-Wan could not control the passage of time and his Padawan's arms and legs took the shape of an adult, a man who disdained his Master's care with each passing day.
"Must we do this?" he asked once, sitting on his knees at the edge of his bed. Obi-Wan had uncovered his torso, as he had done for years, and waited for Anakin to stand beside him as usual. The question confused him.
"What do you mean, Padawan?".
Anakin wiggled his fingers on his knees as if he was brushing crumbs from his fingers. "I mean. I'm eighteen, almost nineteen, Obi-Wan. This is—" but he didn't finish the sentence. He bit his lip and turned to look at the floor of the room. "Do we have to do this when I become a Knight? Is this normal?"
Obi-Wan pulled his tunic closed, feeling exposed and as embarrassed as his apprentice. "You never complained before."
"Yeah, well," Anakin scoffed as he got out of the bed. "A lot of times I didn't get a chance to, did I?"
"Anakin."
The boy sighed. They had never spoken so directly about what existed between them. Obi-Wan felt the humiliation burning his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Master, it's just that—we do this, but you ignore me the rest of the day. I can't even hold your hand. It's confusing, you know, sometimes I wake up in the morning and I don't know what's the truth and what's not."
"I don't understand. What do you want?" asked Obi-Wan, confused. What more could he want? Haven’t I given him everything? His body, his milk, his heart, his promises. His commitment to the Jedi, to his training, to his health. He was surprised to hear that Anakin was still pushing, asking for more and more.
"Can I kiss you?" the boy asked in a low voice.
Obi-Wan stood very still. He rose and sat down on the bed. A kiss. That was what he wanted. For all those years that had been one of the boundaries between them. Just because Obi-Wan nursed him and jerked him off didn't mean he could kiss him as if they were lovers. That was how he had compartmentalized it in his mind: this was a sacrifice he had made for his apprentice; it was not a violation of the Code; it was a service for the sake of the Code. This was what he had told himself. That was what he had always believed.
Anakin shook his head. "See. Do you love me at all?"
"Padawan, what are you even saying?"
"Just a kiss. It can't be much different than what we do, can it? I want to be with you without having to... I don't need it anymore, Obi-Wan. I'm very grateful, but can't we just love each other like this?" the boy insisted, moving closer to the bed. He put his hands around his body and pressed his face to Obi-Wan's.
It was as if he could not reach him. Just when Obi-Wan thought he had Anakin pinned to his side, he would discover that it wasn't true, that the boy had run miles away from him, screaming at him to hurry and catch up. And if he kissed him, then what? What would happen now? What would be the limit now?
"Why—why won't you settle for anything, Anakin?" asked Obi-Wan in a whisper, turning his face to the side and pulling away from him.
Anakin exhaled angrily. His hands, which had been clenched into fists on the sheets, came up and placed themselves on his neck, squeezing hard. It was one of many outbursts he'd had lately. His apprentice had always been quick to anger, but these days he was finding it harder and harder to control himself. He didn't choke him, but the threat was enough.
"I could do the same to you, Master. I could pollute your mind with my desires, but I don't, because I love you," Anakin said through clenched teeth. "I love you so much that I would let you kill me, but you won't let me kiss you. You are so unfair."
The boy pressed his thumbs into his larynx, cutting off his air and blood supply. His declaration of love was similar: a death threat. All or nothing. This was Anakin. After ten years of tutelage, Obi-Wan should have learned it too.
When he released him, Anakin pulled away, the boy's eyes filled with angry tears. Without another word he gathered his clothes and left, leaving Obi-Wan in the middle of his bed, catching his breath, feeling a painful tug in his heart and all the mistakes and faults around him like a breath of icy wind.
They had no time to fix anything.
The galaxy continued to exist despite what the two did in the secrecy of their quarters or the cockpits of their ships. The Separatists continued their attempts to undermine the sovereignty of the Republic, and the latest victim of their attacks was Senator Amidala.
The council summoned them both because of their closeness to the former queen of Naboo. Obi-Wan wanted to tell them that neither of them was any closer to Padmé Amidala than a pair of strangers sharing public transportation. And to his continued annoyance, Anakin decided to punish his silence and his refusals by befriending the senator, laughing at her comments, complimenting her clothes, leaning against her more than necessary.
He wanted to make him jealous and he had succeeded. Obi-Wan had never disliked a poor, innocent girl so much. She didn't know Anakin like he did. Nobody knew Anakin like he did.
When he let them go to Naboo, Obi-Wan kept his eyes on the boy's blond hair, hoping that he would turn around to say goodbye, but he didn't. He didn't see him again until they were in the Geonosian Coliseum, a hair's breadth from death. He did not feel him again until Count Dooku cut off his arm with a precise blow.
It had been his fault.
Obi-Wan had taken it from him. He had forced him to follow him to fight the Sith. Everything that had happened to Anakin, all the wounds, all the insecurities, he had inherited from his Master.
Of course. He had fed him from his body, from his twisted spirit, from his insecurities, from his desperate, wild, uncontrolled love. That's why Obi-Wan had held himself back for so many years, because he knew what he was capable of when he let his heart take over.
So there he was, with the personification of his mistakes in his arms, mutilated, with tears in his eyes, still. But now they would make it right, he was sure. He couldn't lose Anakin. He was the only thing he had, the only thing that belonged to him. He felt mad with grief and fear. He knew it wasn't good, but he couldn't help it. It was worse to know that he could lose it any day.
These were the things a mother did for her child.
He settled down next to her on the infirmary bed and put his Padawan on his arm, just like the first time. "Do you remember when you told me that you missed this, Anakin? You were so small. Such a little boy. So small in my arms. I miss that."
Anakin nodded, his lashes still full of tears. "I miss you, Master," he repeated between hiccups.
"I miss you too," he whispered. "Come, drink what is yours. Take my body."
The boy lay back, sinking his face into the folds of his tunic, stained with the red earth of Geonosis. It felt like absolution. Everything that would happen between them and the rest of the galaxy would be an afterthought. This was a separation, a necessary cut to begin anew. Obi-Wan would offer his body to the wounded god that was his Padawan. A body for a body. It was a fair exchange.
Anakin, numbed by the manipulation of the Force, began to kiss carelessly the patch of skin that peeked through the tunic. "Please, Master. Please let me in."
Obi-Wan removed his utility belt, obi, and opened his robe, keeping his eyes on the door to the room. Master Vokara could walk in at any moment. Their secret could be discovered at any time, but it was worth it. He did not want to be separated from Anakin again. He never wanted to lose another piece of him, no matter how small it might be.
So he took Anakin's heavy head and led his dry mouth to his nipple so that he latched on and began to suck.
At that moment, he realized that Anakin had been drinking his milk for more years than he had from his biological mother and that Obi-Wan had been with him longer than she had. The belonging was absolute. All he had to do was give birth to him, but isn't a student the same as a son? All the days and nights they had spent together, with Obi-Wan teaching him how to use the Force, showing him how to hold a lightsaber, guiding him in meditations, instructing him in diplomatic negotiations. Maybe Obi-Wan hadn't given birth to him, but Anakin Skywalker, the boy in his arms, was more his than his mother's.
His heart was filled with a breathtaking, catastrophic love. He didn't know if it was the adrenaline of the moment, the hormones heating his body, or if it was Anakin's luscious mouth lightly biting his nipple, enlarged after so many years of serving that purpose, and beginning to suck his milk. It was like the first time. His whole body was on fire, sensitive to the slightest touch, responding to his apprentice's trembling hand that began to squeeze his tits hard.
He had missed it so much. He felt most comfortable when Anakin was on top of him, lapping at him, filling his body with saliva, and running his hands all over him. But this time it was different. The Force knew it too, echoing in the room with its expectation.
Anakin's left hand began to move clumsily down to his belly, stopping over his navel, circling over his hair.
"Anakin," he sighed, imagining his apprentice's hand sliding inside him. "You want to do this, Padawan. You want to touch me. Do it."
Without interrupting his sucking, Anakin pushed his cold fingers into Obi-Wan's vulva. The first touch was shattering. As if he knew exactly where to touch, the boy plunged his middle finger between the folds of his pussy and delicately pressed his clit. He felt his whole body shake. He arched his back and pressed against Anakin's fingers, seeking more, beginning to move to the inexperienced rhythm of his non-dominant hand. He would have to teach him that too, he thought ecstatically. He would have to teach him to touch his master with his prosthetic arm and his left hand, and he knew that Anakin would be his body's best student.
"You feel so good, Master," Anakin murmured, pulling away an inch to look down and see his hand in his pants. His fingers never stopped moving, thrusting in and out of his cunt, touching everything, making themselves present, claiming possession. "So wet. So beautiful, did I tell you that, Master? How beautiful you are."
"Anakin, keep drinking, come on. We don't have much time," Obi-Wan groaned, leaning down to offer him the other tit and holding onto Anakin's hand, continuing to pump his hips on his fingers, feeling the promise of orgasm begin to stir in his belly.
"No, don't go," Anakin said, slurring his words as he kissed the skin of his breasts. His fingers had begun to dig deeper into his pussy. In addition to his sobs, Obi-Wan could hear the obscene splashing of his fingers. He could hardly wait to feel his whole body, his cock, thrusting in and out of him. "Stay here. Don't leave me alone."
"I won't. I am here. I am always here, ah, ah, my Padawan."
Obi-Wan felt Anakin's erection clinging to his stomach, incredibly hard and real through the thin hospital gown. They had never done anything like this, nor had they ever done it in such a bright place. He had never had Anakin so close and so clearly. He could see the blush in his cheeks, the saliva wetting his lips, and the shape of his cock stretching the fabric of his pants.
As Obi-Wan continued to ride Anakin's hand, getting closer and closer to his orgasm, he copied the boy's position and pulled his waistband down with his right hand to free his cock. Anakin exhaled, closing his eyes and pulling his face back.
"You want me to touch you," Obi-Wan said, equally mesmerized at the sight of his cock, long and thick, dripping with grease, bouncing slightly. "You want me to put my mouth on it now."
"Please, Master. I want you to touch me. I want you to suck me, I want to feel your mouth on me," Anakin moaned and began to move his hips forward, fucking himself for air, desperate for his caresses. They weren't much different, really. They were identical in what mattered.
They both needed this, so much. To have someone to call their own, to devour, to satisfy an insatiable hunger. No one could ever have understood Anakin the way he did. Only he, so misguided from birth, full of emptiness, full of loss, to be absolutely filled with the vastness that was Anakin.
Dizzy and wet, Obi-Wan got out of bed and sat down between Anakin's legs, who was breathing as if he had just run. "Please, Master. Touch me. I can't stand it anymore. Make me come."
"I will, Padawan. Just—" he mumbled, circling Anakin's cock with his hand from the base, unsure of what to do. He had never sucked a cock before. This was the first time for both of them.
He lowered his head and, like a child learning to suckle from its mother, closed his mouth around the head of Anakin's cock. The taste of his apprentice impressed him: it was salty, incredibly human. It tasted like him. Obi-Wan had never allowed himself to taste, to run his tongue over Anakin's body. At that moment, he wondered why he had gone so long without doing so. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, licking the head of his cock experimentally. Anakin gasped and thrust his hips into his mouth, sinking in and colliding with his teeth. He tried to hold back the gagging he felt at the size of his cock.
"Take it easy, Anakin. I'll make you come," he said, pulling away.
At first he did it gently: without stopping to move his hand up and down, Obi-Wan opened his mouth to receive the head of his cock, tasting its salty young skin. He ran his tongue along its length, guided by the vein on its underside. He dipped his nose and opened his mouth beneath his balls, reveling in their texture. Anakin's entire body deserved to be loved and treated with care. After having his arm maimed, that was the least he deserved. Obi-Wan‘s mouth was hungry and obliging, just as Anakin had opened his mouth to receive him for so many years.
His Padawan's cock was soon glistening with his saliva and devotion as he stroked his balls and continued to suck him, licking his dripping pre-cum. When he found a rhythm between his left hand and his mouth, Obi-Wan took the opportunity to finish himself off. Squatting on the bed, he plunged his own fingers into his pussy, circling, squeezing his clit, thinking that just as Anakin had milked him for so many years, now it was his turn. To milk his cock, to feed on his seed, to take the nourishment of his pleasure, of the body of the Chosen One of the Force, into his stomach.
With a choked cry, Anakin raised his left hand and placed it on his Master's hair to stop him as he came in violent spasms into his mouth, filling his mouth with the taste and consistency of his cum, closing the circle, creating an endless loop of giving and taking. At the same time, as if driven by his apprentice's violent orgasm, Obi-Wan came on his own hand, clenching his muscles around his fingers, lifting his face to breathe.
The whole world had become this feedback of telluric pleasure, of wishes fulfilled, of hunger sated at last. A few thick drops of Anakin's cum escaped his lips, but Obi-Wan returned his tongue to the skin of his slender stomach, leaving it clean, not a drop wasted.
He couldn't help but feel like an animal over a pool of fresh water, quenching his thirst after days in the worst desert, on the brink of death. If he had been a dog, he thought, imagining a man like Qui-Gon, he would have been drowned at birth. He was born wrong, they would have said. Better to put him out of his misery.
He got out of bed and adjusted his uniform. Anakin was still in the middle of the bed, nodding, still overwhelmed by the power of his orgasm, his mind foggy from Obi-Wan's mental suggestion.
He carefully tucked his deflating cock back into his pants and covered him up with the bed covers, leaving him much as he had found him. If anyone came into the room, they would think the boy had a fever from the scarlet color of his cheeks. With a sigh, Obi-Wan sat down in the metal chair next to his bed and buried his face in his palms, fighting the waves of guilt that threatened to wash over him.
The only thing that brought him back to reality was Anakin's voice. "Master?" the boy murmured.
Obi-Wan turned to look at him. He looked as beautiful as ever: eyes shining like stars, lips pink, skin kissed by the sun. He was alive. He was with him. That was all that mattered. "What's wrong?"
"Tell me you love me, Obi-Wan," Anakin murmured, looking at him with narrowed eyes, more asleep than awake. "Tell me you love me."
"Of course I do. I love you, Anakin. I love you."