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Anakin should have known. He should have realized, he should have remembered. This was his master, after all. This was about his master, so he should have known even when everyone else forgot.
He’d landed on Craul exactly two days ago to chase sightings of Dooku in the northern hemisphere. It was a standard mission for the war:
Information—heavily coded, heavily encrypted—containing last known geo-data of a Sith’s location was acquired by the Council.
The best of the Jedi were sent to retrieve the Sith in an attempt to bring him to face Galactic Republic justice.
Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were the best of the Jedi, invariably, and so they would be deployed for the priority mission, regardless of where their troops were stationed across the galaxy.
It was so run-of-the-mill, so incredibly rote, that Anakin thought absolutely nothing of it when their orders came in. He’d been a day's worth of hyperspace travel away in a different sector, thwarting a Separatist incursion on one of the Republic’s more mineral-rich moons. His comm had flashed with the notice from the Council, he’d had the stray thought that this was good, this would mean that he would meet up with Obi-Wan’s troops—with Obi-Wan himself—and he’d turned to run back into the fray.
By the time they’d reached a safe area for extraction—by the time Anakin had ushered Ahsoka aboard the pod for immediate transport to Craul—by the time they’d managed to link up with Obi-Wan’s 212th, get within range for a secure commlink to be established, Obi-Wan was already looking pale and haggard around the edges.
But Anakin had not thought anything of it. Everyone was tired. Everyone wanted a break from the monotony of war, the fighting, the running, the endless flow of droids. His master was one of the Jedi who usually hid it better, yes, but Anakin wasn’t a youngling drenched in hero worship anymore. He knew that Obi-Wan was just as capable of those thorny emotions as Anakin himself. As any of them.
So when Obi-Wan connected to Anakin’s signal looking tired and on edge, when he snapped at one of his men in an irritated tone, jaw bunching and then relaxing, Anakin told himself not to think anything of it. Even men like his master have times where they feel worn to the bone.
It isn’t for two whole days that he realizes. That he has the time to breathe, to think, to remember.
There are nine moons trapped in the planet Craul’s orbit.
And his master hails from the planet Stewjon.
“Kriff, Master,” Anakin says the moment he does remember. “You’re Stewjoni!”
His master’s nostrils flare, and he pointedly, carefully places his spoon into his bowl. “Dismissed, Commander,” he tells Cody, voice neutral. Even though it’s halfway through mealtime, and Obi-Wan can’t really dismiss his men while they’re eating, Cody drops his own spoon into his bowl and stands, cuffing Rex on the back of the head to get him moving as well.
Anakin winces as the others around them vacate the area without being directed, until the only people sitting below the small rocky bluff they’d found to camp under for the night are an unimpressed Obi-Wan, a sleeping Ahsoka with one hand still curled around her utensil, and Anakin.
“Do you have a concern you would like to share with your superior officer, padawan?” Obi-Wan’s tone is cutting.
A part of Anakin thinks the treatment’s a little harsh for the sin of just talking about the planet his master is from.
A larger part of Anakin admits that he probably should not have brought it up quite so loudly and publicly during meal break.
A very different part of Anakin rankles at Obi-Wan pulling rank on him. “Master,” he says reproachfully. “Of course I’m concerned. You’re Stewjoni and we’re on a planet with nine kriffing moons.”
“I have the situation under control, Anakin.”
“Sith’s hells you do! You’re on edge! You’re snapping at everyone. You almost made Rex cry earlier today–”
Obi-Wan’s jaw clenches and he looks away, glowering out into the night. The rather illuminated night. Given all the kriffing moons.
“None of them are full moons, padawan,” Obi-Wan jerks his head in sharp disagreement. “Three are waxing gibbous, four are waning, and two are hardly in the sky at all. I can assure you that while the myths of the Stewjoni affliction have been quite sensationalized, the stories you’ve seen on the holonet are correct on at least a few things. Stewjonis only ever feel the pull to transform during a full moon. I will be fine, so long as we capture Dooku quickly and efficiently.”
Anakin’s mouth falls open. “You can’t be serious, Master! You can’t be trying to pretend that you’re not already behaving out of character—they may not be full or whatever, but you have to admit they’re having an effect on you! There’s nine of them!”
“End of discussion, padawan—”
“No!” Anakin is on his feet so suddenly that he truly cannot tell if he accidentally used the Force to help him move. He just feels so—so—wild. “It’s not! We went to a planet once when they had two moons and you almost transformed. They weren’t full then, and there were only two of them! You can’t pretend you’re not affected now!”
It had been a rather nice mission, truth be told. For Anakin at least. He had still been small, all of eleven, so he hadn’t been privy to a lot of secret things about his master. He had not been privy to moments where his master struggled, moments where he faltered, not like he is now.
All he really remembers is Obi-Wan’s strange insistence that they share a bed at night and the heat of him curled up around Anakin—protector, space heater, and pillow all in one. That, and the fact that his master, a rather strict vegetarian, had requested a bloody, mostly raw slab of meat from their hosts for every meal they had planet-side.
“That was a mission, padawan,” Obi-Wan’s voice is sharp like lashes of a whip. “This is war.”
“It is! And you are unfit to lead this mission, Master, they shouldn’t have put you in this position at all— no one has enough control, not even you!”
Obi-Wan rises, bowl and spoon discarded to the side. His nostrils flare as he stares at Anakin. His armored shoulders heave with the force of his breaths. The picture of tightly leashed control slipping in fits and starts.
“What would you have me do, Anakin? Stay back on the ship while you run after Dooku?” The words are sneered out. His eye fall to the fist Anakin has made with his mech arm. “Again?”
A beast of Anakin’s own roars to life in his chest at the cutting remark, the reminder, the lack of faith Obi-Wan has in his abilities, even though it’s been years since Dooku took his arm and he’s grown into a man in the interim. One he thought was an equal to Obi-Wan.
The very fact that Obi-Wan is denying that when Anakin knows Obi-Wan sees him as his partner proves exactly how affected by the moons Obi-Wan is. Regardless of whatever bantha shit he’s saying.
Anakin forces his shoulders to fall, forces the anger from his voice. “General Kenobi,” he states in his best attempt at detached neutrality. “You are compromised. For the safety of our men, our padawan, and yourself, I will be taking the lead on this mission—and you will fly out of Craul immed—”
His words cut off in a pained gasp as his body connects with the rocky wall behind him. Obi-Wan presses forward, arm up and pushing against Anakin’s throat, an animal snarl contorting his handsome face into harsh, dangerous lines. “Do not challenge me now, padawan,” his master says, words low and muffled as though he is speaking through a mouthful of food.
It is only when Anakin tears his eyes away from Obi-Wan’s, down to his lips, that he realizes why. In the blink of an instant, his master’s canine teeth have grown, becoming sharper, becoming fangs exposed to the night air.
Every part of Anakin is finally in agreement: submit, submit, submit.
“Obi-Wan, come on,” he pants out as his master’s muscled forearm presses harder against his windpipe. “You’re affected. You look like you’re going to tear out my throat. Me. It’s me.”
A Stewjoni Jedi is a rare thing; a Stewjoni Master even more so. Stewjoni wolves by their nature are pack creatures, possessive ones that rely on strong bonds between pack members for their peace of mind, even for their sanity. It is anathema to the Jedi tenets, but Obi-Wan Kenobi has always proved to be an exception, always been legendary for his control even as a youngling.
For much of his life, as far as Anakin can tell, precautions had been taken. Crechemasters had moved him through several different creche clans as a youngling so that he could not intuitively form a pack bond with any of his peers.
Qui-Gon Jinn had taken him on as a padawan late in his life—thirteen and close to being aged out of the Temple all together. It was a purposeful move, so that the youngling was solidly a boy and his wolf would not seek out an inappropriate bond with his Master or view him as one might a father . Lines had been established, and Obi-Wan, by all accounts, had worked with single minded devotion to respect them all.
If Obi-Wan were to ever have a padawan, he would be expected to choose an older Initiate, a Jedi close to aging out as well, so that the wolf inside him would not be inclined to view the youngling as his pup.
But then Qui-Gon had died, Obi-Wan had lived, and Anakin had had nowhere to go but into Obi-Wan’s care.
Those first few years as a padawan, Anakin had been too lost and caught up in his own head to take much notice of the unusual ways Obi-Wan would sometimes treat him. His master was kind and warm and soft towards him, and that was all Anakin needed. He was all Anakin needed.
It wasn’t until he was a teenager that he realized some of the weird things Obi-Wan insisted upon were, well. Weird.
On off-planet missions, Obi-Wan often gave Anakin his cloak to wear, even though it was much too big for him. When they ate meals together, Obi-Wan’s nostrils would flare in disapproval if Anakin took a bite from his plate first—but Anakin was always served the biggest portions of the food. Before leaving their quarters, Obi-Wan would crouch down to Anakin’s level and allow him a hug, contact Anakin could never get enough of.
He’d only learned the term for that action later—and not, of course, from the mouth of his master but rather from the flimsi pages of an old biology textbook. Scenting. Obi-Wan scented him every morning for years before he sent him off to his classes in what all the texts called a protective claim used primarily between packmates and pups.
As Anakin grew older, became a senior padawan and stepped closer to the path of a Jedi Knight, the touches—the scent-marking—stopped. The cloak sharing stopped. Anakin was left to initiate any physical contact between them—something he never could bring himself to do even as he yearned for it.
At least the textbooks and datapaads all reassured Anakin on one thing while his master refused to even talk about it: the bond between a Stewjoni wolf and its pup was near unbreakable.
So even if Obi-Wan tried to put distance between them, even if he stopped ruffling his hair and scenting him, even if he no longer offered up his cloak or allowed Anakin to shadow his every step, there was no way he’d be able to break that bond. Anakin would always be his pup.
(Then Anakin grew up some more and the comfort he took from the datapaads’ declaration turned cold the more he realized how much more he wanted from Obi-Wan. How little interest he had in just being his master’s pup. How much he wanted to be his master’s everything. His partner.
His lover.
But at least pup denotes importance. Permanence. Priority.)
So Obi-Wan flashing his fangs at him now, eyes darkening into a supernatural gold as he snarls at Anakin—it takes Anakin completely by surprise. Obi-Wan would never hurt Anakin. He’s not capable of it, not his master. Not when it’s Anakin.
“Master, lemme go,” Anakin mumbles when Obi-Wan snarls again, pressure uneasing. “C’mon, I’m—I’m your pup, yeah? Lemme go. You’re hurting me.”
Submit, submit, submit, a voice in his mind chants. He won’t let you go until you submit.
Obi-Wan’s eyes are almost entirely black now, swallowed by pupil. He leans forward and drags his nose across Anakin’s jawline to rest at its hinge, a pantomime of the scenting that he used to do to him when Anakin was a youngling in his care.
Though he’d often squirmed in his master’s hold then, tickled by the stubble on his chin or just to enjoy the fleeting feeling of the contactAnakin tries to keep himself still this time, tilting his head up and to the side to make it easier for his master to smell him. Maybe in his affected state, brought around by the moons and nudged into violence by Anakin’s defiance, he cannot understand who he has trapped by his claws. He must need to smell him, to redefine his prey as his pup.
When Obi-Wan speaks, it’s a soft rumble, steeped in a kind of fury that Anakin has never heard from his master.
“You smell of her.”
The words make Anakin freeze. His heart rate picks up, skyrocketing as his master scents him.
The low growl of his voice, the harsh touch, the proprietary way that his master tips Anakin’s head back to expose his throat even more—this is so radically different from the scenting that happened when Anakin was a youngling. There is intent behind it now, fingers flexing on his waist, gripping him too tight and then letting him go. The hard line of Obi-Wan’s body pressed against his own is unignorable—not that Anakin would ever be inclined to try.
It does make it difficult to think straight though. His nervous system is alight with prey instincts, recognizing a beast in position to rend flesh. His mind knows that his master would never hurt him. His dick is relishing in their position, how close Obi-Wan is to him, how much he wants him to be closer.
And every part of him is screaming at him to submit–submit–submit.
“Fix it then,” Anakin says instead of any of the things he thinks he should probably say. “If it’s bothering you so much.”
He knows instinctively, intrinsically, who Obi-Wan is talking about. Whose scent has been left strewn across him.
Though their marriage had failed in record time, Padmé had stayed in his life and in his bed, partly from the convenience of having her there and partly because it felt good to be touched, loved, taken care of and occasionally looked after.
She’d always insisted that Obi-Wan knew of their affair, but Anakin had never agreed. Surely his master would say something if he knew.
Now there’s no pretending he does not.
And there’s no pretending he’d be approving of the connection, not when he’s a snarling half-wolf pushing Anakin so hard into the rocky wall behind them that Anakin’s half afraid an errant piece of rock is going to pierce his robes and armor and slide into his spine.
“If you want me to smell like you again,” Anakin whispers, mouth dry, mind at war. “Do something about it.”
Obi-Wan snarls. “Mine,” he growls out and his touch turns punishing. “You are mine.”
His hand curls into Anakin’s hair and forces his head to the side, baring his neck for his master’s perusal.
The sight, the surrender, must soothe some part of Obi-Wan’s psyche, because he lets out a low rumble that’s more akin to a purr than a growl and leans forward more forcefully to shove his face into the exposed skin of Anakin’s throat.
“Master—"
“Generals!” Cody’s voice barks through the dark, breaking the heavy tension of the moment. Obi-Wan starts to let out a warning growl before he must wrest control back from his instincts. Anakin feels like growling himself when Obi-Wan separates their bodies, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face as though he cannot believe himself.
“What is it, Commander?” Anakin calls back, pushing himself away from the wall and giving Obi-Wan a precious few seconds to recover.
“Dooku, sir!” Cody reports the moment he’s close enough. He’s fully dressed in his armor, helmet on and blaster at his hip. “He’s been sighted in the area—three clicks to the east and readying a Separatist transport vessel.”
“Sithspit,” Anakin curses at the same time Obi-Wan lets out a growl of pure fury. His master pushes past him, lightsaber flying into his hand with aid from the Force.
“We’ll leave now,” Obi-Wan declares. “Anakin and I. Commander, stay with the men.”
His tone is clipped, words still slightly slurred. Fangs. His master has fangs in his mouth.
Through his helmet, Cody manages to convey a look of great reluctance. “Is that wise, sir?”
Obi-Wan’s lips curl. “More bodies mean more targets,” he snaps. “Dooku would choke the life out of a legion of men before he allowed himself to be captured.”
“Master, I’ll take Ahsoka. You should—” Anakin has to try. He has to. It is a horrible plan, to bring Obi-Wan close to a deadly opponent when he is so obviously and incredibly fucking compromised .
But: “Do not argue with me, padawan.”
And that’s that.
“It’ll be fine.”
Right.
If Anakin were not gagged, he’d be taking the time to tell his master that I told you so.
Because, in fact, it is not fine. Nothing about this situation is fine.
After a quick capture and solid thrashing at the hands of a group of droids, Anakin has been rather forcefully gagged to be dragged in front of Dooku, who has his master on his knees beside him looking decidedly furious and largely unharmed. In fact, the only sign that Obi-Wan is a captive at all is the similar bindings lashed around his wrists.
Anakin gets beaten and gagged and bound, all the while Obi-Wan has been placed rather comfortably next to Dooku’s chair like a docile pet. Blatant grand-padawan favoritism, Anakin thinks resentfully as he pushes himself up on his knees to glare at the Sith.
“Skywalker,” Dooku says silkily, rising from his chair to approach him. He walks in a careful circle around him, hands behind his back and head cocked to the side as if he were appraising him. It makes every hair stand up on Anakin’s body, and he snarls around his gag as if he were the Stewjoni between the two of them.
Behind Dooku, Obi-Wan is holding himself perfectly still. His eyes, however, are wild, and the makeshift gag is soaked through with spit.
“You’ve caught me at a bad time, I’m afraid,” Dooku says. He stops directly behind Anakin, and a moment later, a hand falls into his hair, yanking his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling of Dooku’s ship. “My master has called me away post-haste. Otherwise, I would have enjoyed indulging in another round of cat and mouse with the last of my lineage.” The hand tightens to the point of pain, and Anakin lets out a groan at the pull on his already tender scalp. A droid had hit him in the head only a few minutes before, and the wound stung.
“I’ll be leaving,” Dooku continues. “And you will unfortunately be unable to follow. I’ll ensure it this time.”
Anakin tries to make a noise to underscore how bantha shit he thinks that is, but the gag is effective. He tries to tilt his head down enough to see Obi-Wan, but Dooku’s grip is too strong.
The familiar buzz of a lit lightsaber makes him freeze.
“The problem with lightsabers is that the heat cauterizes the wound as soon as you’ve made the cut,” Dooku murmurs, and the red blade ghosts close to Anakin’s exposed neck. It’s hard to swallow suddenly.
Will Dooku kill him? Truly? Is this how he dies?
A long and low growl rises from across the room, but Dooku either does not hear the warning sound or he chooses to ignore it.
“You don’t deserve that, Skywalker,” Dooku says. “And I’d told myself that if we were ever in this position again, I would use a vibro-blade to take your other arm after all the trouble you’ve caused me.” His voice moves closer as the man leans down, tone becoming quiet and resentful. “My master does not want you dead, but he does not care if you come to him maimed.”
Anakin tries to steady his breathing, but it’s a near impossible task. Obi-Wan’s noises of fury are growing louder, but he’s tied up at the other end of the room wearing Force suppression cuffs the same as Anakin. What can he do?
“You are of my lineage though, disgrace that you are to it,” Dooku rises back up and the lightsaber flicks off. It taps against Anakin’s left shoulder. “So I will give you a choice. Arm or leg?”
There’s a shift in the air. A moment that stretches half a beat too long.
Anakin can’t do anything. Anakin can’t fucking move and he can’t reply and he can’t even scream.
“Both then,” the Sith decides lightly, and the lightsaber is withdrawn from his shoulder.
A moment later, the faint buzzing is back; the heat warms Anakin’s face, and he tries to brace himself for the pain that will be unlike any pain he has ever felt, save for the last time this monster took one of his limbs.
He clenches his teeth, eyes shut. The pain will be extraordinary, but he can survive it. He can—
Dooku lets out a sudden noise—half disbelief, half fear—which is almost completely drowned out by a loud and furious roar that echoes through the room so close to Anakin that his ears ring from it.
The strange feeling of hair brushes over his upturned face for a nanosecond, and then the heat of the saber is gone. It clatters to the ground beside him, narrowly avoiding skewering his thigh, and Dooku makes a noise that Anakin can hardly catch. And then—he is gone, tossed away from him, the sound of his body hitting the ground accompanied by a beastly snarl.
Blood, hot and smelling of iron, splatters Anakin’s face the moment he turns to look.
An auburn colored loth wolf stands atop the fallen Sith, one paw pressed against his chest, claws embedded into flesh. Its muzzle is still hovering over the red carnage of what used to be Dooku’s throat. The corpse’s eyes stare sightlessly at Anakin, a look of surprise frozen forever on his face.
Obi-Wan.
Anakin scrambles to his knees. The sound of his movement catches the beast’s attention, and its giant head swings around to pin Anakin in place. The loth wolf lets out a snarl, teeth bloodied from its last kill.
Its eyes are yellow and unrecognizable. But Anakin knows in his heart of hearts that this is his master. That this is Obi-Wan’s wolf form.
He’s never seen it before. He doesn’t know how much of this wolf is Obi-Wan and how much is the wolf.
Obi-Wan would never tear out a person’s throat with his teeth, Anakin thinks hysterically, so the odds are not quite in his favor.
The wolf’s head cocks to the side as it watches Anakin. A predator examining its prey.
It steps away from Dooku’s corpse. Closer to Anakin.
Their training bond is gone, severed when he was Knighted, and he can’t get the gag out of his mouth himself, not while his hands are bound. All he can do is watch Obi-Wan pad closer, watch the blood drip from his muzzle until it’s falling on Anakin’s robes.
The wolf stops inches away from his face, a low growl trapped in its throat.
Anakin swallows and closes his eyes. If this wolf is more wolf than Obi-Wan, if this wolf attacks him, if this wolf kills him, then Anakin forgives him already.
This is his master.
He would forgive him anything.
A warm nose nudges against his cheek, then his jaw, pushing his head back and to the left to expose his neck.
The wolf lets out a rumble. Pleased at his submission or his scent or both.
Fur replaces the nose as the wolf nuzzles into his cheek and throat, and Anakin exhales sharply. He hadn’t realized how soft Obi-Wan’s fur would be.
He turns slightly—slowly at first to make sure that his movement will not be seen as a challenge, and then quickly to press his face into the fur.
Obi-Wan lets out another rumble of pleasure. Anakin relaxes completely, his fear-emptied mind conjuring up words he has not thought about in years. In his head, they sound as if they’ve come from Obi-Wan’s voice, though their training bond has long been dissolved.
Protector. Pack.
Padawan.
Anakin’s breath hitches at the last word, and he pulls back from Obi-Wan’s fur to look at his eyes.
Master? He asks in his head, feeling incredibly silly. They have no bond. They can’t—
The pleased rumble comes once more, though this time it reverberates around Anakin’s skull.
Mate, the wolf growls in his head, voice of the wild loth wolf tangled together with his master’s stiff upper Coruscanti accent until Anakin cannot tell which part of his master is speaking the word. Mate.
It’s sort of embarrassing and incredibly poorly timed that this is the moment Anakin’s body chooses to give out on him. He faints—but as far as he can feel, he never touches the floor.
He swims back into consciousness with the sticky feeling of drying bacta on his skin and the sort of sore mouth and jaw he’s come to associate with full-body bacta soaks.
The groan that leaves his mouth is automatic and has nothing to do with pain. It does, however, have everything to do with the amount of flimsi-work he’s going to have to do to explain the waste of an entire tank worth of bacta for what he remembers being only a few busted ribs and a bit of a bruised face.
When he finds the courage to open his eyes, Kix’s is the first face he sees, blinking down at him with an inexplicable expression of relief. “Oh, stars, he’s awake. Confirm with the general.”
Anakin blinks, slow and groggy, and shifts his head to look to his left. There’s no one there. This is wrong.
He knows intrinsically and immediately that this is wrong.
But it’s the coldness he feels at the back of his mind that truly reinforces exactly how wrong this is.
“Obi-Wan,” he says, pushing himself up first to his elbows and then to his hands, tensing his legs to swing over the side of the cot. “Where’s—”
“Lay back down, General,” Kix instructs at the same time that a gloved hand clasps his shoulder and holds him still. “You shouldn’t push yourself.”
“You soaked me in a tank for some minor bruises, I think I’m fine,” Anakin snaps, pushing against the other trooper’s hand. He twists around until he sees the flash of Rex’s distinctive hair out of the corner of his eye. It’s always good to know who one is in a room with.
It just doesn’t particularly matter at the moment because none of them is Obi-Wan.
His medic does not look impressed. “You had three broken ribs,” he corrects, tapping at the screen of his datapad. “And a pierced diaphragm.”
“And a literal wolf pacing the room and growling during intake assessment,” Rex adds, dropping his hand from Anakin’s shoulder when he seems to understand that he has no intention of remaining prone for this conversation.
“That too,” Kix agrees. “It certainly made for a hostile work environment. Which, as a battle medic, is not something I say lightly.”
Anakin throws his legs over the cot and goes to stand—it’s only the quick reflexes of Rex that save him from falling on his face.
“Oh,” Kix says. “There was the blood loss too.”
“Where is he?” Anakin demands. It’s rather hard to sound like an intimidating, battle-hardened general when leaning on his captain for support and dressed in only his small clothes, but he makes a valiant effort at it at least. “Is he—I mean, has he…or, I assume that we’ve…left the system?”
“The Jedi Council has requested that we remain in the Craul sector until reinforcements arrive,” Rex says, and Anakin turns to look at him, incredulous.
“Reinforcements?” he repeats. “What need do we have for reinforcements? Dooku is dead. I saw—”
Anakin’s mouth runs dry as the memory of what he saw floods his mind. Of Dooku’s torn throat, the hot spill of his blood, the empty eyes. And his master, the wolf, crouched low before him with a muzzle of pale auburn fur stained darker red.
Master. Protector.
Mate.
“He’s dead,” Anakin says finally. “Surely no reinforcements are needed.” Surely the best thing for them to do is get away from this planet and all its blasted moons as quickly as possible. It must be torture for Obi-Wan. It’s inhumane to ask him to stay for a moment longer under the tug of the moons and his biology.
Kix looks over Anakin’s shoulder, exchanging an unreadable look with Rex.
“Well,” Rex says, dragging the word out into several uncharacteristically hesitant syllables. “It’s not necessarily…”
Anakin pushes himself back onto his feet—slowly this time. Apparently in the time that he’s been out, the situation has gone to hell. Figures.
“Sitrep, Captain,” he commands, locating a medical robe and tossing it over his bare shoulders to ward off the chill of the medbay. “I want to know what’s been said, who’s said it, how long ago, and where the kriff General Kenobi is. And—ah, in what form.”
Rex is nice enough—or professional enough—to not point out his hesitation or how transparently clear Anakin’s priorities must sound.
“We encountered no difficulties retrieving you both from the outpost,” Rex begins, and Kix coughs pointedly. “Alright. We encountered no Separatist difficulties when retrieving you from the outpost. General Kenobi expressed…reluctance. To part with your body.”
“He bit his commander when he approached,” Kix says brusquely. “Gave me a heart attack til we had a moment to research Stewjoni wolves. Luckily there’s no transference of the condition by bite or blood-sharing.”
Anakin frowns, glancing around the otherwise deserted medbay. “Is Cody recovered?”
“Nothing but a nasty scar,” Rex confirms, sounding rather jealous. “Well. Another nasty scar.”
It makes Anakin’s heart tighten with concern. Not for Cody, though he’s glad to hear the clone commander’s fine. But he’s sure that Obi-Wan must be tearing himself to shreds over what happened.
“Might have been the shock General Kenobi needed to change back,” Kix suggests, setting aside his datapaad and turning to wash his hands free of any remnants of bacta. “Or he recognized the danger had passed by the time we got you in the tank.”
“He transformed shortly after, whatever changed,” Rex agrees.
“Crys and I looked him over and confirmed no injuries,” Anakin’s medic says, tone dry, “or—no injuries we could confirm within the brief window of time we were allowed to look.”
That does sound like Anakin’s master, which is good. He hates medical exams on the best of days; he would have tried his hardest to escape attention after an ordeal as emotionally taxing as fully transforming into a wolf must have been.
He’ll be in his quarters then, where he feels safest in his ship—if they’re still under the pull of the Craul sector’s moons, he’ll have retreated to his den.
Anakin wraps the medical robe tighter around himself.
Mate.
Obi-Wan had said mate.
Or—he’d thought it. He’d looked at Anakin and he’d thought it and that was—that was—
Something they’ll need to talk about, and for once it’s a conversation that Anakin cannot wait to have.
“Alright,” he tells the two clones in front of him. “Good work then—I’ll go, uh, touch base with Obi-Wan then to discuss some, uh. Very serious Jedi business .Privately.”
“Wait, General,” Rex says quickly, catching his shoulder when he turns. There’s something about his expression that’s too knowing, but then, Anakin has been so incredibly transparent. Yes, other things are important. He should technically make sure that his padawan is safely aboard, figure out the standing chain of command, take back command from, he assumes, Cody now that he is cognizant and capable once more. He should liaise with the Jedi Council, find out why they’re being stalled here of all hellscapes, when these reinforcements will arrive and why they’re necessary.
But—
Mate.
And so—priorities have shifted in the last few days.
Rex’s hold tightens on his shoulder for a moment before he lets go. “You should know, General. It wasn’t the Council who requested we remain in Craul.”
Anakin blinks, eyebrows furrowing together as he turns to stare at Rex. “What? Who else is there?”
Rex’s lips thin for a moment before he answers.
The door to Obi-Wan’s room slides open easily when Anakin’s fist makes contact with the keypad. He doesn’t know if that means it was unlocked, if Obi-Wan felt him coming and unlocked it, or if he simply used the Force to push it open himself.
He doesn’t know and he’s too incandescently furious to care at the moment.
“They plan to open an investigation?” he snarls as he storms into the dimly lit room, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Into you? You saved my life!”
He looks around the space wildly when there’s no immediate reply. He can feel that the other man is here, though he still doesn’t understand how he knows it. They do not share a Force bond anymore, but they are connected.
There is a connection there, in the back of his mind. Something dark and new and warm to the touch.
His master is on the floor, back against the low bed frame, knees drawn up to his chest. He hadn’t moved when Anakin burst through the door, but his eyes are pinned on him in a way that lights up some instinctive part of his brain.
Stay still. Don’t move. There is a predator in the room with you.
But Anakin knows this predator and he loves him and he is shaking with fury so dark and twisted that he thinks it’s transforming him into a beast as well. “Dooku would have killed me.”
His master’s reply comes in the form of a short, sharp growl that’s cut off suddenly when Obi-Wan bites down onto his palm.
“Master!” Anakin is across the room in an instant, anger forgotten at the door, kneeling at the man’s side and wrapping his hands around Obi-Wan’s wrist. “What are you doing?”
There’s blood. Obi-Wan has bitten himself hard enough to break the skin, to draw blood.
"Don't touch me," his master snaps, pulling away from his hold as if the touch itself hurts. But Anakin is just as stubborn and there's no universe out there where Obi-Wan is hurting and Anakin does not reach out to help him, so he doesn't hesitate to grab at his hand once more and bring it back into his lap to study the teethmarks.
He tears a makeshift bandage from the flimsi-thin medical gown he's still wearing and wraps the fabric around the wound, tight enough to stop the sluggish bleeding. He wants to make a joke about the sharpness of Obi-Wan's teeth, the veritable weapons they are when they're like this--when they're fangs--but he isn't sure how Obi-Wan will react. Even in the dark, in the privacy and safety of his quarters aboard his ship and firmly in his territory, his master's body is practically vibrating with tension.
"You saved my life," he says instead, pulling Obi-Wan's hand closer to him just for the sake of holding him near. If he could climb into his master's lap or tug the other man into his arms, he thinks he would. He wants so badly to do so in fact that his teeth hurt with the knowledge that he is not allowed.
The embers of anger flicker brighter in his stomach as he smooths his thumb over the amateur bandage and remembers the conversation with Kix and Rex. We're to wait for reinforcements, Rex had said. The Supreme Chancellor requested an investigation into what happened on Craul.
"You took out a Separatist leader who posed an immediate threat to a General of the Republic," Anakin says, even though they both know that and no one's arguing and there's nothing to argue against, really. It's just--it's just so unfair that it borders on inhumane. "It's not like you--you slaughtered a stronghold indiscriminately or anything!"
Obi-Wan's lips pull back from his teeth at this. There's blood in his beard once more. His own, this time, but it's so easy to remember the way Dooku's blood had looked darkening the muzzle of the wolf that's still somewhere inside his master. Just beneath the skin.
His beard is the same color as his fur. Anakin hadn't ever really thought about it, how Obi-Wan's human coloring would transpose itself onto his wolf, but he can't stop thinking about it now. He wants perversely, desperately, selfishly to see it again. The wolf. Those eyes.
"I believe it is the method of neutralization that the Senate is having difficulty accepting," Obi-Wan tells him. It would sound like his master's familiar and dry tone if it were not for the growl still lingering at the back of his throat. His Force signature is tight and stiff with something Anakin has never felt from his master. Anger, almost but not quite. More wild than that; more unknown.
Anakin hesitates for just a moment. It's important that he hesitates, he thinks. It's important that he feels the slightest stirrings of guilt, of regret, even as he decides to barrel forward with these sparse fragments of a plan he's been building in his mind since he woke.
Mate, his master had thought. Had said. Obi-Wan had called Anakin his mate.
And that changes things. That changes everything.
"He was going to kill me," Anakin murmurs again, thumb smoothing over the bandage as he studies the man next to him from the corner of his eye. He holds his breath.
A growl--short and sharp and distinctly wild--escapes his master's bared teeth as his hand seizes within his grasp, curling into a fist automatically as if the threat is still in the room. As if the very words can harm Anakin and so they must be also be torn to shreds, the same way Obi-Wan had torn Count Dooku to pieces. For Anakin. Because of Anakin. To keep Anakin safe.
Anakin cannot help himself; he pushes for more. It is his due. This is his mate. His.
His mate.
He thinks about the wolf's eyes, their keen brightness and the way they'd pinned him where he lay on that floor. He thinks about earlier, when Obi-Wan had pushed him back against that stone outcropping and forced his submission--the feeling of his beard scraping over the skin of his neck. The searing heat of his eyes boring into his own.
Mate, the wolf had thought.
You smell of her, Obi-Wan had said, as if it were a great injustice, as if were a slap to the face.
Anakin's hand tightens around Obi-Wan's wrist. Then he raises himself off the floor and slides into the man's lap.
"Anakin--" the snarl is immediate and predictable, but Obi-Wan doesn't toss him to the ground, which Anakin thinks must be a win. Which Anakin thinks is as good as a flag of surrender.
"That's not what you called me," Anakin says because he thinks maybe he should lay all of his sabacc cards out on the table. His knees slot naturally, perfectly around Obi-Wan's hips, and his master's hands fall to his waist. His grip on him is tight to the point of pain. Anakin relishes in it, the ache of it. He'll get bruises. Good. That's good. Obi-Wan had ordered--intimidated?--an entire tank's worth of bacta to heal Anakin of his other bruises and scrapes. It feels right that Obi-Wan should add his own now to the newly bare canvas of Anakin's skin.
"Padawan..."
Anakin rests his mech hand on Obi-Wan's chest and tangles his fingers in the short edges of his hair. "Closer," he murmurs, tipping forward until there's hardly breathing room between their bodies.
Obi-Wan's eyes fall shut as if he is in a great deal of pain. But--his mouth opens. Just slightly, almost as if he cannot help himself. Almost as if he is tasting the air for Anakin's scent. Maybe he is. After all, Anakin must not smell right. He must smell like chemicals, like bacta. He hadn't had the chance to wash off in a sonic between receiving the report from Rex and storming to Obi-Wan's quarters. If Obi-Wan had laid a claim to him by scenting him all those hours ago against that cliffside on Craul, it's most certainly been covered up and washed away.
But Anakin is a good mate. In fact, Anakin can be the best mate Obi-Wan could possibly want. He lets his head fall back further, highlighting the bump in his throat and its vulnerable tendons and what must be his racing pulse, and uses his hold on Obi-Wan's hair to push him closer until his nose bumps up against the edge of his jaw. He can't fight the shiver that rushes through him at the sensation, nor can he fight the way he can feel his body begin to respond to this position he's manipulated them into.
It's not his fault. Obi-Wan's beard feels indescribably good along his skin. It had all those hours ago too, but it's different now. It's different now that he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Obi-Wan does not view him as his pup who he must scent for his own protection. That any claim Obi-Wan leaves on his skin, he is not leaving out of some parental sense of duty or platonic weakness he cannot curb. Mate leaves no room for platonic. It leaves no room for parental.
"Why do you test me so?" his master murmurs, though it sounds more like a groan.
His hands stay latched onto Anakin's waist. His eyes stay closed. Each brush of his lips on his skin sends bursts of pure sensation straight to Anakin's center, like he's a droid in the process of short-circuiting.
"You know why," he tells Obi-Wan, and he lets his hand trail around his face, cup his cheek and hold him steadily in place. "I have questions," he adds when Obi-Wan remains stubbornly silent, frozen where Anakin has placed him but not taking anything more. Not engaging, even though Anakin can feel the tensions in his body and in the Force around them, can feel how much energy Obi-Wan is expending to hold himself back and away, as if that could ever be what Anakin wants from him.
"Oh," Obi-Wan drawls. "So this is a new sort of interrogation technique."
Anakin shifts on his lap, rocks into his hold--and down, against the evidence of Obi-Wan's arousal. "I think I deserve answers," he says. He means to sound stern, no-nonsense. The sort of tone he takes with Ahsoka when she's acting out or with his men when they've slipped on the job. His voice comes out sounding far too breathy though. Far too affected. But of course he's affected. He wants. Desperately. Completely. And he is so close. He is so close.
"I think I'm being quite accommodating," he adds, and Obi-Wan's hands tighten on his waist to stop him from moving forward again, pushing down. His master knows him so well. They're made for each other. Made to be like this. Mates like this.
Obi-Wan's exhale is rough, half chuff of laughter and half growl. Anakin feels it dance across the skin of his neck. Really, this is a shit interrogating position, given that Anakin is so incredibly turned on and weakened by it. Whoever holds the power here, it's not him. But it's interesting that Obi-Wan feels just as powerless, just as beholden to what's between them and what they're becoming.
"Reinforcements are two days travel out, which means that you must continue to feel the moons' tug for two more days," Anakin relays. He carefully does not mention that he has ordered Cody to move their ships to the edge of the sector as they wait, so that the moons' effects on his master's instincts are dulled. After all, this is not an interrogation, but it is, in part, a negotiation. Everything is. His master taught him that.
"Thank you for the update," Obi-Wan grits out. His mouth barely moves, but Anakin's skin is so hyper-sensitive that he can feel the wet exhale of his breath along the line of his throat. It's rich, that as much as Obi-Wan's trying to pretend that he's being held hostage against his will or whatever, his hands remain bruise-tight on Anakin's waist. If he were move now, move away--he isn't sure Obi-Wan would remember to let him.
Which, honestly, fits Anakin's plans too nicely to test out. "I thought you'd want to check me over yourself," he says. His voice drops down, low and inviting. "Make sure I was okay."
"I trust my medic," Obi-Wan says, which is neither a confirmation or denial.
Anakin hums and uses his grip on Obi-Wan's jaw to push his head away from his neck so he can fully appreciate his raised eyebrows and skeptical expression. It's mostly for show. There's something endearing about Obi-Wan like this, so stubborn and such a dirty kriffing liar, as if they don't share a bond in the back of Anakin's mind. A very un-Jedi like bond. "You trust your medic," he agrees easily, because Crys and Kix's competence is not in question here. "But with me? With my life?"
Obi-Wan's jaw tenses, the muscle bunching as he grinds his teeth together. His eyes are wild still, feral and tinted that supernatural gold of the wolf clawing at the cage of the human.
Anakin leans forward, presses his lips up against the shell of Obi-Wan's ear. "I almost died," he whispers.
He does not want to be cruel, but sometimes cruelty is necessary. The war taught him this. And the fact that it works--that in between one blink and the next his back is on the floor and his master is hovering above him, lips parted in a silent snarl as his hands yank open the thin fastenings of the medical gown--just reinforces the lesson.
"You test and you push and you needle and you taunt," Obi-Wan growls even as his fingers run up and down Anakin's exposed flanks, leaving red lines in their wake. Even as his eyes flare gold and his teeth elongate. "And you never seem to realize that you play with fire."
"And you don't seem to understand, ah," Obi-Wan's thumbnail catches on his nipple, makes sharp pleasure zing through his body and his thoughts scatter to the wind for a second. "That maybe I want to burn."
For a moment, Obi-Wan's bandaged palm stills, flexes around his neck. The grip is just tight enough to be unignorable, but not tight enough. Never enough--it's never enough, what Obi-Wan gives him. Anakin always has to take matters into his own hands.
"Anakin..."
"That's not what you called me," Anakin says, reminds him. Again. And then, to ensure that there's no misunderstanding, no purposeful obliviousness to what exactly Anakin wants and why he's here, he adds: "You called me mate."
Obi-Wan's presence in the Force expands exponentially at the word, like a part of him goes supernova just at the sound. In the back of his mind, at the site of their new bond, something rises to its feet. Stretches, as if it has all the time in the world, as if it has locked eyes on its prey and knows for certain there is no escape.
"I did," Obi-Wan rumbles in agreement, and he fixes his hand around Anakin's jaw and jerks his face up so that he can study it in full. There is no hesitation in the movement; Anakin can't decide what that means. He's practically naked beneath his master's clothed form, medical robe splayed out around him. He's defenseless and aroused and desperate for a touch, and yet Obi-Wan has not ravished him. Has not claimed him or mated him, despite the wolf in the back of his mind that so clearly, headily wants him. Anakin can't decide what that means either, except that his master is being unfair.
"Master," he whines, gripping him by the back of his head and tugging him closer, angling his head up so that he can kiss him. At the last moment, Obi-Wan turns. Anakin's mouth drags along the line of his beard.
Anakin could cry.
"Master, c'mon, I want it," he pleads, pushing the words out of his mouth and into Obi-Wan's jaw as he tries to pull him closer. He wants a kiss. He wants to kiss his mate. His mate, his master, who is currently holding himself just too far away from him. "Please, Master, I want it."
"You have questions," Obi-Wan murmurs and he has to know how cruel he's being, how much Anakin wants him. He has to realize that all of Anakin's questions can wait until after. They've established the important things: Obi-Wan referred to Anakin as mate. Anakin wants to be his mate.
Therefore, they should mate.
He can feel the curl of Obi-Wan's satisfaction in the Force around them. Not the wolf's through their bond--it's wholly Obi-Wan and his apparent need to hold the upper hand, to be the one giving instead of the one being taken from. It's Obi-Wan, the Jedi and the asshole, who is holding himself up and away from Anakin. Who is lingering in this moment, in the before, when it's so clear that both of them are desperate to taste the after.
Of course Anakin has questions, ones he will hear the answers to. He wants to know everything, the when and the how long. The exact moment he realized he wanted Anakin, how he feels about it.
But that can wait. All of his questions can wait.
And if Obi-Wan wants to fight to see who can hold the upper hand for longest, then Anakin will indulge him because he's his master and his mate and even before that he was the hopeless, one-sided love of his life. So he'll play along.
But he has no qualms against playing dirty.
"Yeah, I guess I do have questions," he says, dropping his head back to thunk against the ground and curling his leg over the backs of Obi-Wan's thighs.
It's a matter of a second's worth of effort to flip their positions, settling back on top of his master like he never left his lap at all.
"Here's one," he grins down at Obi-Wan, pushing the other man's wrists together and holding them over his head easily. The hold is loose enough that he could break out of it, should he want, but Obi-Wan settles surprisingly quickly in his grasp.
That is, until Anakin asks: "Do I still smell of her?"
From this vantage point, Anakin can clearly see the way Obi-Wan's eyes flare yellow at the words. His lip curls up into a sneer, and his captured arms strain against Anakin's mech hand. "No."
It is not the answer Anakin had expected; truthfully, he hadn't really wanted an answer at all, had been aiming to find a sore spot and dig into it until his master lost control and had to claim him. But now that he has one answer, he finds himself hungry for more. "Would you have killed me in that outpost? If you hadn't scented me before? If I still smelled like her and not like you?"
He doesn't even realize the thought has been haunting him until he's already given words to it. Would you have recognized me? Is there any version of you that would not know me?
This time when Obi-Wan strains against him, he loosens his grip enough for his master to escape. He's prepared to find himself underneath Obi-Wan once more, but instead the man tangles his hands in his hair and pulls him down until their foreheads crash together non-too-gently. "You wore her scent for years, padawan," Obi-Wan pushes the words straight into his parted mouth. "And underneath it, you were mine all along."
Anakin can taste his breath. Anakin can smell his sweat, and underneath that--his blood. He'd agree to anything his master tells him right now, but it's not as if Obi-Wan's wrong. "Yes," he admits, barely a word. Barely an exhale.
"I know," Obi-Wan says. Agrees. When Anakin opens his mouth to beg once more, Obi-Wan leans up and kisses the pleas from his mouth.
Anakin can't decide if he wants to melt or burn. It's everything he's ever wanted, his master kissing him. Wanting him back. He collapses down on top of Obi-Wan's chest, mindlessly running his fingers through his hair as he groans into his mouth. It's dirty and wet and Anakin is so fucking grateful that they're already on the floor; otherwise, he thinks his knees would have given out already.
Obi-Wan doesn't kiss him like it's their first kiss. He kisses him like it's their fiftieth, like it's their hundredth, like Anakin's been his all along. His tongue doesn't swipe across Anakin's bottom lip as if he's asking for permission, but rather like he's expecting entrance. Like it's his due.
And it is. Force, it is.
His spine lights up with the sparks of their tongues tangling together, and he feels like a senior padawan all over again the way he wants to rut down into the hard lines of Obi-Wan beneath him. Storm and stars, he's achingly hard in the thin layer of his briefs just from one small kiss. He hadn't felt this inexperienced since the first time he'd tumbled into bed with Padmé.
Very quickly, he abandons that train of thought. It feels unfair to compare the two in his mind on a normal day; it skirts the line of danger to do so now, while their newly formed bond is wide open at the back of his mind and lips are slick with Obi-Wan's spit.
"Eager," his master observes, separating their mouths to breath against Anakin's jaw. It'd be embarrassing if he couldn't feel Obi-Wan's answering arousal: in the Force, over their bond, and straining against the fabric of his own loose pants beneath him.
He tilts his hips down again, rubbing against the hard line of Obi-Wan's cock. "Could say the same," he points out, though he sounds far too breathy.
One of Obi-Wan's hands lands on the small of his back, strokes along the base of his spine above the cloth of the medical gown. Anakin wants it off, the gown. He can't stand the idea of any clothing between them. Thankfully, Obi-Wan had only gotten dressed in sleep clothes after cleaning up, and they're relatively easy to remove. It means that Anakin has to sit up and pull himself away from him, which is impossibly hard and incredibly brave, but it's well worth it when he gets the both of them naked and on the standard-issue bed.
This time, Obi-Wan presses him down against the mattress, and Anakin yields to him immediately. It's better like this, for this, their first time. He feels short of breath and strangely shy, running his hands over every inch of his master's body that he can reach--that he's, amazingly, allowed to touch. It is better that Obi-Wan is in control of their pace, of the night. Anakin can hardly form sentences, too distracted with the sight and feeling of Obi-Wan's coarse chest hair. It had been softer, less wiry, in his wolf form. Anakin blinks as a thought occurs to him and then, almost involuntarily, his eyes flash down to Obi-Wan's cock and the thatch of hair surrounding its base. His mouth waters at the sight of it.
Suddenly, there's nothing in the world he wants more than to feel that cock in his mouth. It's big the way he always knew Obi-Wan would be, and a bead of pre-come already wets the tip. "Eager," he whispers, but even to him it sounds less like a sarcastic rejoinder and more like a worshipful prayer. His flesh hand falls from where it's been exploring the exact breadth of Obi-Wan's bared shoulder and down to wrap around his shaft.
"Let me," he says--begs, even as Obi-Wan takes his teeth to his throat and nips bruises along the tendons there. It feels so good that Anakin can hardly believe he's advocating for a cessation. "Master, please, let me suck you. Wanna taste."
Obi-Wan's hips rut down into Anakin's as if he can't help himself. As if he's just as affected by this as Anakin is. It's hard to imagine, but they're mates. They're made for each other. "Anakin," he grits out, teeth gnashing together as Anakin strokes up along his cock and then down, getting the feeling of it in his palm. "I won't last, darling."
The name makes Anakin shiver. It also makes him all the more desperate.
"That's alright! We have--two days," he gasps out as he uses his mech hand to push at Obi-Wan's chest until he gives in and rolls off from him. Anakin is quick to scramble to sit up and then to sink down the length of the bed. The head of Obi-Wan's cock is shiny and pink, cut in a way that must be normal for babes brought to the Temple. His mouth is salivating at the sight of it. He knows already that Obi-Wan is thicker than him, but he can tell that he's longer. He needs to know how their taste compares though. He needs to know everything. How much of Obi-Wan he can fit in his mouth; how many fingers he'll need to take before Obi-Wan can push into his hole--if Obi-Wan has ever taken cock there before, if he'd be amenable to Anakin's--what makes him come, what gets him close to the edge.
Oh. Right. He was saying something. "Two days, we have two days before reinforcements arrive," he babbles, most of his attention on running his nose along the line of Obi-Wan's cock. Scenting it. Does this qualify as--?
Suddenly, his master's hand tangles in his hair and yanks him up and away as he sits up himself. The whine he lets out is one of surprise, and definitely not of loss.
"And then?" Obi-Wan challenges. His voice is rough from his arousal, but his eyes are all fire. "What do you imagine will happen in two days when reinforcements arrive?"
Anakin blinks. Surely his master isn't cruel enough to actually make him think right now. Surely his master is not actually expecting a conversation when Anakin is so hard that every word he can remember feels too long and heavy to pronounce. "We'll...leave?"
"And?" It's never good when Obi-Wan's eyebrow arches like that, but he looks so stars-damned attractive when he does it that Anakin can't breathe right. There's a flush high along his cheeks and his pupils are blown. A tendril of hair falls loose over his forehead. Anakin is so preoccupied staring at it that he almost forgets to focus on what Obi-Wan says next. "Do you think, after two days, I will give you back? That two days is all that I plan to have you for?"
Obi-Wan's hold in his hair tightens, and Anakin scrambles up to perch properly in his lap, blowjob forgotten in the wake of what can only be considered a threat. "What? No!" He can feel his eyebrows furrowing, can feel his lips turn into a frown. "No. Forever. I want this forever."
And so Obi-Wan who is his master and his mate must give it to him. Forever. Always.
"Good," Obi-Wan says, eyes darting between Anakin's as if searching for some hidden agenda or hesitation. Anakin lets him find none. There is none to find, after all. "Because we can't--that is, I would not find it...easy. To let you go. I will--I would, if you...but I would...prefer..."
"I won't," Anakin states, hands tightening on Obi-Wan's shoulders. He wants to bruise him. He wants to bite until his skin carries the scars of his teethmarks. The idea of Anakin only wanting a short fling with Obi-Wan is ludicrous. The idea of Obi-Wan turning Anakin away after having once given him everything...that makes Anakin feel dangerous. "I won't let you make me go, and I won't let you go. You said mates."
"I did," Obi-Wan agrees, lines in his face easing at Anakin's immediate and steely insistence. As he relaxes, Anakin shifts in his lap and wraps his palm around Obi-Wan's shaft once more.
He was right. Anakin is longer, though Obi-Wan's cock is thicker and much more neatly groomed. Both of their cocks are the same color of angry red though, and their bond is stretched thin on both sides with their twin need.
"I just meant--you know. You can come whenever, however you want," Anakin manages to say, twisting his hand over the head of Obi-Wan's cock and moving it faster down. How does Obi-Wan like to be touched? "In my mouth, in my hand, whatever you want now--ah, Obi-Wan--got two days under these moons, you can knot me later--"
Obi-Wan's spit-soaked hand, which has wrapped around Anakin's own shaft, freezes. "What?"
Anakin almost cries at the loss and pushes his hips forward, into Obi-Wan's loose grip. He's too close--it feels too good, to get everything he's wanted, to see and feel and taste his master--if only his Force-damned master would shut up and save the talking for later.
"Master, please, I wanna come, lemme come," he babbles, bucking up into his hold, rubbing himself up along his master's body like an inexperienced boy chasing after his first orgasm. But that's how he feels, that's how it feels to be in his master's lap right now. He rubs his cheek along his shoulder, before curling his lips back and running the line of his exposed front teeth along the bared skin. Not to bite--not even to threaten a bite. Just to feel.
"I--alright, Anakin, I have you, I--I've got you, darling," Obi-Wan tells him, one hand resting on the nape of his neck while the other strokes his cock.
"No," Anakin snarls. The pet name is sweet, soft, and beautiful. It is not what he wants to hear. "Master, say it again. Obi-Wan, please. Again."
Obi-Wan hesitates for just a second, but it's long enough that Anakin turns his face into his neck and bites down on his throat in retaliation.
"Mate," Obi-Wan calls him, just once, hand tangling in his hair while his thumb flicks at the head of his cock, and Anakin comes with a cry.
Thank the Force Obi-Wan comes soon after, tilting his hips up into Anakin's admittedly loose grasp and fucking himself over the precipice. Anakin would suck his cock in a heartbeat, of course, would get down onto his knees and present himself for the taking.
But it's been an incredibly long day. And Anakin is so tired. When Obi-Wan tips him--gently now, with all the care in the world--to the side and onto the mattress, he goes without a protest. His eyelids are heavy, and Obi-Wan is within reach. Dooku is dead and Obi-Wan loves him and Obi-Wan kissed him and they're both here, safe and sound.
It's only when Obi-Wan starts to dab at the mess on Anakin's stomach that he blinks his eyes open to squint down at his master. "Just leave it, Obi-Wan," he protests around a yawn. "I'm still covered in bacta. No use cleaning that now, I'll take a sonic in the morning."
"Mm," Obi-Wan says in agreement even as his hand continues to move along the planes of Anakin's abdomen in a circular motion. It takes Anakin a second to realize that Obi-Wan doesn't have a cloth in his hand. It takes him a moment longer to realize that he's not trying to remove the mess at all. But rather--he's rubbing it into his skin.
"Is this a new kind of scenting?" he asks, letting his head loll back and relaxing his body completely, small smile curling his lips up at the edges. "For mates only?"
"I don't know," his master admits quietly, abandoning the project so that he can wrap his arms around Anakin's waist and pull him halfway on top of his chest. "Perhaps. My instincts...are confusing. I don't recognize half of them, and the ones I do remember are far stronger than they usually are. The moons' influence still, I think. I promise, I will learn to control them again once we're out of this sector."
Anakin hides his pout in his own arm. "I don't know, Master, I sort of miss being dressed in your cloaks. And I definitely don't mind this kind of scenting. If you want to...slip up and lose control once in a while, I certainly won't be complaining."
The Force tinges with a rush of embarrassment mixed with fondness, mixed with something like shy pleasure. "Yes, well," Obi-Wan says, clearing his throat. "I think perhaps...well. Every now and then...it could be considered healthy. To...indulge."
"Indulge," Anakin repeats, smile curling into a grin that he pushes into his master's skin. "Indulge you or your wolf?"
Obi-Wan tugs gently at his hair before he curls his palm around the back of his neck and rests it there. "My mate, actually," he says lightly, and Anakin melts into him with a purr.