Work Text:
Sleeping in the same bed as Anakin for no good reason other than simply wanting to is still a novel concept to Obi-Wan. Over the years, they’ve shared beds, sleeping bags, cots, even the same area of ground whenever circumstance calls for it. It’s led to Anakin being the only person Obi-Wan can sleep with and not be disturbed by the body right next to him; a truth that had never occurred to him until a night that was really the earliest hours of the morning, when he’d crawled out of Siri’s bed and she’d asked him if it was just her he couldn’t stand sleeping next to, or if it extended to all his other lovers as well. Thankfully, she’d meant it as a jest and therefore hadn’t been expecting a real answer, but Obi-Wan’s mind came to the conclusion that no, it wasn’t just her. It was everyone, except Anakin.
Of course, at the time, Anakin hadn’t been his lover. Now, he is, and the younger man slips into Obi-Wan’s bed whenever he can, even when there’s no sex involved. Of all things, that’s the part that makes Obi-Wan feel truly vulnerable, horribly seen. Fucking is one thing, but the way Obi-Wan’s simply likes having Anakin in his bed—fully clothed, drooling on his pillow, hogging the covers—is another. There’s something about it that makes it more intimate than even their lovemaking. The only thing Obi-Wan has ever experienced that’s more intimate is the bond he and Anakin share in the Force. He thinks, perhaps, the feeling of closeness comes from the conversations they have when in each other’s beds. Outside of these circumstances, the two of them carry on as they always do; friends, brothers, Jedi. Every single interaction that could be perceived as romantic or sexual in nature is reserved only for the moments after the bedroom door slides shut behind them.
They’re not all terrifyingly intimate, though. Many fall into the category of you’re the only person I’d ever tell this to, not because they’re particularly important, but because they’re invasive and inappropriate. Not even Obi-Wan’s closest friends whom he’s known since childhood, or his long-time lovers like Siri could get out of him what Anakin does. It’s strange; for all Anakin’s usual bullheadedness and ego, Obi-Wan never feels judged when they’re in bed together.
So, when Anakin shifts on his side, head laying on his arm, looking at Obi-Wan with only the Coruscanti traffic illuminating the room and asks, “What’s the most fucked up thing you’ve ever thought about while jerking off?” Obi-Wan doesn’t bother with feigned bashfulness or balking. He just looks at the ceiling, strokes his beard with one hand while his other arm is behind his head, and considers the question, genuinely thinking it through.
After a few moments, he comes to a conclusion. “Group sex, I suppose. Where I am on the receiving end of all of it. ”
Anakin shoots up as if he’s been struck by lightning, leaning over Obi-Wan’s body. “Really?” He asks, sounding like he can’t believe it.
“Why so shocked?”
“It just,” Anakin quirks his mouth, thinking, “Doesn’t seem like you."
Obi-Wan turns to him. “Doesn’t it? Only a few nights ago you called me a, hm, what was it?” He starts, then overdramtigcally pretends to ponder. “Ah, yes—a dumb, cock obsessed, come slut.”
It’s unfortunate, the way the lack of lighting prevents him from seeing the way Anakin’s face surely goes red in response to being reminded of his own words, spoken in a heat-of-the-moment, lust fueled frenzy. Though, the darkness does Obi-Wan the favor of covering his own face, including the dilating of his pupils as he recalls the words. As ridiculous as they sound now, it still turns Obi-Wan on immensely when Anakin talks to him like that. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to fully unpack why—Obi-Wan just knows he’d punch anyone else who dared speak to him the way Anakin does.
After a split-second of embarrassment, Anakin naturally recovers. “Oh—so it’s men?”
Obi-Wan shrugs. “If I wanted to have group sex with women, I think I would have by now. It’s…different to me.”
“Then, why not do it?” Anakin asks, eyes narrowing in curiousity. “With the men, I mean. What’s the difference?”
Being raised in the Jedi Temple gives one a more liberal view of sexuality than outsiders might think—even Jedi that choose the path of celibacy are still far from prudish. Given the rest of the Jedi’s reputation, that being one of modesty and asceticism, it’s not surprising that many times throughout Obi-Wan’s life, he’s surprised his bed partners with his sexual curiousity. Anakin’s irregular upbringing planted him firmly in this category, specifically in the very beginning of their sexual relationship. He seems to be coming around, though, given that he’s genuinely wondering why Obi-Wan is opposed to getting ran-through by a large amount of strange men.
“Well,” Obi-Wan sighs. “The nice thing about fantasies staying in your head is that everything goes exactly the way you want it to. You’re in complete control—even when the fantasy involves control being taken away from you. The idea of giving up my own agency and even my dignity out of sheer desperation to be fucked is a lovely thought while playing with myself, but as an actual scenario, it would be a nightmare for me.”
The reason Obi-Wan is able to give such a clear, concise answer isn’t due to his oratory skills or a sudden grip of self-perception. It’s because he’s been stroking his cock and stretching his hole to the thought of being taken advantage of by multiple people since before he even lost his virginity. And that was a long time ago. So, he’s had a lot of time to ruminate on it, mostly wondering if it’s something worth self-flagellating over.
“Huh,” Anakin says simply, then shifts to lay on his back again. “That makes sense.”
Obi-Wan will take easy acceptance when he can get it, especially when it involves Anakin. He waits a moment to see if Anakin’s going to continue, though, just in case, preparing himself to be asked something vulgar like do they come in you or on you?
When no such question comes, Obi-Wan inches closer to him and asks lightly, “What about you?”
One thing about Anakin is that even his silence is very loud. And after Obi-Wan speaks, it’s as if the air itself shifts. Like a flip has switched, from Anakin being quiet because he has nothing to say, to Anakin having something to say but not quite willing to say it.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Anakin. You’re entitled to your privacy,” Obi-Wan tells him, regretting asking somewhat. He knows it’s not unfair to simply raise the same question Anakin asked, but sparing a thought toward how Anakin might respond probably would’ve been a good idea. Though, it’s not like Obi-Wan can predict how he would’ve—not really. Despite their closeness, it’s as if with every mystery Obi-Wan thinks he’s solved about Anakin, another one takes its place. One mystery that’s remained unsolved since he had first met Anakin is how contradictory the younger man is; Obi-Wan has always preferred that word over hypocrite, which sounds far too harsh, no matter if it’s true. In this case, Anakin is both private, naive, and shy about sex, while also being boundary-pushing, perverse, and brazen. It really just depends on the day which one Obi-Wan will get. Right now, he can’t tell if Anakin isn’t speaking because revealing what he thinks about while masturbating is too personal a thing for him to share, or if it’s so filthy that he feels he can’t share it.
In true Anakin fashion, though, he surprises Obi-Wan, and goes for neither of the options expected. Instead, he says, “No, it’s—,” then stops, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know if what he’s hearing in Anakin’s voice is just shyness or flat out discomfort. “It’s just, mine’s a little different,” Anakin gets out eventually. “It’s about you.”
Obi-Wan’s chest grows tight with endearment, and his first thought is how sweet that is compared to his own answer. His fantasy involves a number of nameless strangers using him like a fleshlight, and Anakin’s is about Obi-Wan. Of course, it might be something filthy that simply involves him, but even then, it can’t be that bad. The worst of Anakin’s perversions seem to be the way he runs his mouth and his too-harsh touch; both of which he had apologized profusely for the first time he’d used either during sex. Luckily for him, Obi-Wan doesn’t mind being degraded and in pain, so long as Anakin is the one administering it.
Still, that doesn’t really explain Anakin’s original hesitance to answer.
“Oh?” Obi-Wan says, pushing him to continue. He curls onto his side to watch Anakin’s face that remains pointed to the ceiling.
Anakin swallows. “And it’s about me.”
Obi-Wan nods, curiousity clawing at him now. “Mm-hm.”
“But,” Anakin says, then takes a deep breath, “I’m…younger,” he finishes slowly. His hands are crossed over his stomach, fingers twitching.
For a moment, Obi-Wan just blinks at him, and his stomach feels strange all of a sudden. When he can get his mouth to move, he asks the obvious question. “How young?”
Anakin turns to look at him then—his expression is almost sad. “It depends,” he admits. “Always too young, though.”
Obi-Wan can’t even bring himself to say something acknowledging. He’s too wrapped up in how he’s very quickly become excruciatingly aware of his own body; his pulse is pounding in his ears, keeping time with his heart that seems to be trying to break out of his ribs. The rush of blood in his veins is suddenly a sensation he’s privy to, along with his lungs expanding in his chest, and the peculiar way he’s become both overwhelmingly hot; sweat slicking in all his crevices, and extremely cold; teeth wanting to chatter, a shiver threatening to wrack him all over.
It’s not revulsion. Obi-Wan knows that. But it’s certainly not approval either. Identifying what it isn’t comes easily—it’s figuring out what exactly the emotion that’s overtaken him in response to hearing Anakin admit he thinks about the two of them having sex before it was even legal that’s the difficult part. Dimly, he registers that it wouldn’t be sex at all if Anakin is speaking literally, and means before he came of age. That detail changes it to something else entirely, and Obi-Wan wonders if that’s occurred to Anakin. If that’s possibly part of what he likes about it—and with that thought, the shiver does come.
Self-awareness is a Jedi’s ally, but Obi-Wan’s never felt less sure of himself than in this moment. Eventually, he just says, “Oh.”
Anakin’s mouth twists, still looking at him with big eyes. His expressions are the easiest thing to read about him, so Obi-Wan knows from the look of confusion that he’s just as clueless about the reaction as Obi-Wan himself is.
“Do you think I’m fucked up?” Anakin asks. It’s rare that he’s so obvious about wanting Obi-Wan’s approval, or at the very least, his honest opinion. It gives rise to at least one familiar feeling; the urge to smooth down those raised hackles and lick Anakin’s wounds.
Perhaps it’s only in pursuit of that that Obi-Wan answers, “No.” But, after he says it, it feels right. Surely, there’s a case for Anakin being fucked up—though, Obi-Wan has always preferred words like troubled—but he would be hard-pressed to call this revelation, of all things, the greatest reason his former Padawan should be deemed such. In Obi-Wan’s opinion, there’s a laundry list of things that take precedence over what Anakin thinks about while masturbating. However, he has to admit some of those things might be tangentially related to his fantasies. Or, the fantasies are simply the effect of those things.
Anakin’s expression has morphed into one of expectancy, silent as he waits for him to continue, and Obi-Wan is reminded of the time he tried to explain to Anakin that just because they had constant, unmeasured access to as much water as they desired on Coruscant, didn’t mean it was being wasted.
Naturally, of course, there was water being wasted. How could there not be on a planet with a population in the trillions that some of the most famous resource-draining politicians in the Galaxy called home?
But Anakin wanted it to not be wasted. So, Obi-Wan used his words to make it so, even if only in his Padawan’s mind.
Now, Obi-Wan reaches out and runs his knuckles along Anakin’s arm. “Do you remember that conversation we had about crossed wires?”
Anakin nods silently.
The crossed wires conversation came about not after the first time Anakin had called him dad in bed—Obi-Wan had let that slide, perhaps because of how hard he came immediately after hearing it—but the time Anakin had thrown his head back in rapture and moaned mommy, Obi-Wan really couldn’t not say something. They’ve always been more than simply Master and Padawan, despite them both desperately trying to act otherwise since the first day Obi-Wan braided Anakin’s hair. The only thing more desperate than their pretending has always been the desire that raged within to stop pretending. Obi-Wan has wanted to kiss Anakin’s scraped knees and fill the hole left by his mother for as long as he can remember; to be the father the Force took from him. Only recently did he discover Anakin has felt the exact same way. Thus, the crossed wires conversation; the intersection of love and sex and brother-father-mother-soulmate-child.
It must be the same thing now. All that trauma-bonding and us against the Galaxy. It mixes with all that pent up lust. Add on Obi-Wan’s dead Master who always lacked in the paternal instinct department, and Anakin’s dead mother who can never be replaced, and it leads to things like Anakin getting hard at the thought of being taken advantage of as a child by his Jedi Master.
Despite this making perfect sense to Obi-Wan, or, perhaps it’s just that he’s so used to making excuses for fucking the boy he practically raised—Anakin remains silent. So, he keeps going.
“Do you think I’d ever do that to you? Truly? Do you think I had such a thing in me?”
A vehement shake of Anakin’s head; no, of course not.
“And—it’s not as if it changes anything. You’re fantasizing about the past, Anakin. No matter how much you may desire it, it is impossible. You’re not hurting anyone, not even yourself.”
Still, silence.
Obi-Wan goes out on a limb. “Do you want to tell me more?” He asks lightly.
The air seems to shift again, and Obi-Wan can tell he’s finally hit the mark, despite thinking it was only a shot in the dark.
“Well,” Anakin starts, still speaking slowly, as if he’s planning out his words very carefully in a way he never does. During Obi-Wan’s attempts at consoling he’d looked away, but now their eyes meet once more, and Anakin’s expression is much less weary. “Sometimes…I just ask. And…you say yes. It’s not all that different than the sex we have now, but—you give in so easily. You respond like you’ve been waiting for me to ask. Like the only thing stopping you from touching me is the lack of invitation, nothing else.”
Obi-Wan can imagine it; Anakin making a request just like any other he did during his apprenticeship. Master, teach me how to speak to animals through the Force. Master, can we move on to more advanced lightsaber forms? Master, let me fly the ship this time. Master, will you have sex with me?
Perhaps that’s not exactly how Anakin puts it in his fantasies, but nevertheless, the point is that Obi-Wan says yes and helps his Padawan out as a good Jedi Master should—or, shouldn’t, more realistically. Anakin had said the sex itself isn’t all that much different than the sex they actually have as two consenting grown men, but Obi-Wan finds that part more difficult to conjure up in his mind. He’s not sure he could just go along with fucking Anakin knowing he’s not of age—though, he supposes that must be part of the fantasy. A version of himself so enamored with Anakin and so eager to make his Padawan happy that he’d throw morals, law, and his own vows to the Jedi Order to the wayside.
Thinking about it, he can’t help but recall Anakin’s young face. Obi-Wan’s still not sure exactly how young Anakin is talking—for this fantasy particularly, or at all—but in his mind, he sees his Padawan at sixteen years-old, the last vestiges of baby fat clinging to his cheeks, with eyelashes longer than any girl his age. In hindsight, he knows Anakin was an objectively attractive boy, but the thought had never occurred to him at the time. Anakin was just Anakin. He imagines his Padawan propositioning him for sex would force him to consider it, though.
“And,” Anakin huffs a laugh, halting Obi-Wan’s contemplations, “Afterwards, you always say something stupid like, next time you want to sneak out to race swoop-bikes, come to me and we can do this instead.” He says it in a shoddy imitation of a Coruscanti accent, which Obi-Wan would usually comment on, but he’s too busy wondering if he’s the fucked up one for thinking it’s actually quite sweet that Anakin’s also fantasizing about what it’d be like after the sex.
Obi-Wan glances at him, chest heaving out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding. On the other side of Anakin’s confession, it doesn’t seem so treacherous a conversation anymore. In fact, it’s not at all as horrible as it could be. Child’s play—no pun intended—compared to some of the things other beings get aroused thinking about.
A small part of Obi-Wan wilts in response to this. He tries not to notice it, but he can’t help it. There’s something inside of him that likes how unusual Anakin is; how he knows no boundaries of a normal man. And it’s not as if Obi-Wan wants him masturbating to darker, more taboo things—but he’d expected it. The feeling left in that expectations wake reminds him of every time he’s ever poured cereal into a bowl only to find out he has no milk after the fact. Emptiness, he supposes. Hunger, or something like that.
He has to say something before his stomach growls. “Is there…more?”
Anakin gives him a look, narrowing his eyes a bit, as if he’s surprised Obi-Wan would ask. Whatever he sees isn’t a deterrent, apparently, because he tilts his head in a considering way before continuing. “Well, there are some that are more—more specific.”
Obi-Wan just nods, pushing Anakin to go on.
“Do you remember that time you came back to the Temple drunk, and I was in your room?”
Of course, Obi-Wan does. His Padawan had this habit of slipping into his room in the dead of night, so deadly quiet that even Obi-Wan’s Jedi senses never alerted him to the intrusion. He’d just wake up in the morning, and Anakin would be asleep on his floor. It was something they never talked about—not even when, after a few years, Anakin broke the habit. The incident where Obi-Wan was drunk, however, is the only time the ritual of it all was broken. Back then, it was like pulling teeth for his friends to get him to go out with them; they never understood, how could they? They didn’t have strange Padawan’s. Or dead Master’s to fulfill promises to. On an occasion where the teeth were easier pulled, Obi-Wan bent to their cajoling and agreed, only to return to the Temple in the wee hours of the morning, piss-drunk, to find his Padawan on his floor. He wasn’t asleep; he sat straight up when Obi-Wan came in. The details of their conversation are fuzzy due to how intoxicated he was, but Obi-Wan can recall his embarrassment, and also his insistence that Anakin simply go back to sleep as he stumbled around to the ‘fresher and then to bed.
Anakin couldn’t have been more than twelve at the time.
When he answers, Obi-Wan’s voice is nearly a rasp because of how dry his mouth has become. “Yes,” he says, “I remember.”
“I think about that. But it ends differently, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Obi-Wan murmurs, looking back to the ceiling. Does he even want to know? He shouldn’t want to know—but he fears he’ll wonder forever if he doesn’t.
“How does it end, then?” He asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Anakin hums and sucks his teeth. “I could just show you,” he offers, using a finger to point to his own head and then Obi-Wan’s. It’s not often they use the Force bond to share fully formed thoughts, words, or memories. Usually, they only have a shallow awareness of each others presence in the Force and can turn up that dial when needed, like when in battle. They’re already breaking the rules by keeping the bond they created as Master and Padawan intact after Anakin was knighted, letting it grow and stretch and strengthen into something Obi-Wan is sure he couldn’t get rid of now, even if he wanted to. Still, the idea of using it for this makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
It’s a whole other layer of immorality, but since they’re still speaking within the confines of Anakin being underage, Obi-Wan supposes it’s not worth wasting energy clutching his pearls about.
“Alright,” he agrees, reaching for Anakin’s hand. Touch makes such a thing easier, in his experience. Though, he’s only ever done this with Anakin, so he can’t say it as a universal fact. The younger man interlaces their fingers—Anakin says holding hands any other way is devoid of feeling—and Obi-Wan lets his eyes flutter shut, anticipating the storm surge of Anakin’s thoughts in the usual calm, lapping waves of his own. In silence, Obi-Wan braces himself, and then—there it is, the thread connecting them in the Force becomes a live-wire. The literal feeling of Anakin’s entry into his mind is something Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to convey, but he’s always thought that it’s perhaps what snorting a line of pure glitterstim is like. At least, in the beginning. After the initial shock to his system, Anakin seems to take up whatever space is left in his skull; making him feel full. Obi-Wan always imagines Anakin sliding in between all of the wrinkles of his brain.
Once they settle, and Anakin stops shaking from it all, Obi-Wan feels something forming in his head that doesn’t belong to him. He tries to make himself as blank as possible, giving Anakin a clean slate to work with. Soon, his mind’s eye is showing him his own bedroom; dark except the ever-present light of the Coruscanti cityscape outside his window. One second, he’s looking at things through Anakin’s point-of-view; the angle of everything makes it obvious he’s laying on the floor. The next, it’s a wider perspective of the whole room, Anakin on the floor included. Like he’s watching a holovid.
When Obi-Wan himself comes into view, it’s back to Anakin’s perspective, and he shivers when he sees how he looks to his Padawan. Large and looming in the doorway despite his slouching posture and stumbling gate. He stops right at his Padawan’s feet and looks down at him, hazy gaze narrowing.
“I can go,” Anakin says quickly.
Obi-Wan desperately wishes the fantasy would switch back to viewing the whole room. With slight shame, he realizes how badly he wants to see Anakin like this.
As he watches himself, eyes softening as he mumbles, “No, no. Come here, Padawan. Stay,” and picking Anakin up off the floor like he weighs nothing—Obi-Wan gets his wish. Perhaps the link between them allowed Anakin to sense Obi-Wan’s desires, because the vision switches back to the wide-shot, and now Obi-Wan can see himself carrying his Padawan to his bed. Anakin is small, but not obscenely so. He’s certainly too old to be carried, yet Obi-Wan does anyway. It’s not lost on Obi-Wan that this is all borne from Anakin’s desires; that it’s all prelude to some kind of sexual encounter, and so pertinent to the fantasy that it could not be skipped over to get to the main event.
Obi-Wan’s heart aches in his chest; Anakin fantasizes about being held as a child—by him. Later happenings in this fantasy aside, it has a lump forming in Obi-Wan’s throat.
In the vision, he kicks off his boots and clambers into bed, taking Anakin along with him. Things become fuzzy momentarily, and when they flicker back to clarity, Obi-Wan is laying on his back with Anakin tucked against him, practically laying on top of him as Obi-Wan rubs his back with one hand and runs fingers through his hair with the other. He supposes the mechanics of getting into such a position are less important than the position itself in Anakin’s mind.
His Padawan squirms closer, and Obi-Wan holds him tighter. Now, sensations seep into his awareness, and despite still looking at it all like a voyeur on the ceiling, he feels what Anakin would be experiencing; the heavy weight of a large, warm hand cupping the back of his slender neck, breathing in the scent of oud and sweat and liquor as his chest expands, the wonderfully confusing press of a large thigh between his two still-growing legs and the sparks in his flipping stomach in response to it.
Obi-Wan gasps. Not in the fantasy, but really, truly. It almost snaps him completely out of the trance-like state he’s entered as he watches Anakin’s thoughts unfold, but the only thing he feels in reality is the younger man squeezing his hand, which draws him right back into the shared space of their minds, and right back to a place where he’s ten years younger and is drunkenly encouraging his very young Padawan to writhe against him. Perhaps not even purposely; his hand is just pushing into Anakin’s back gently as he rubs it, and his arms will not stop pulling him closer. The ambiguity of Obi-Wan’s level of awareness must be by design; Anakin must like it. There’s a vague sense that Anakin himself knows what he’s doing, however, brief flashes of worry flit into Obi-Wan’s mind as well, and that must be his Padawan fearing Obi-Wan will suddenly become alert and aware that Anakin is nearly humping his leg.
He’s shocked when Anakin speaks in the fantasy, thinking all that was left was the physical. “Did you have fun?” His Padawan asks him. He must’ve told Anakin about his going out, said something about not having done it in quite some time.
Obi-Wan’s glassy eyes land on Anakin as his head lolls to look at him. “Not as much as I could have,” he tells Anakin, voice slurring slightly. “I had someone to get home to.” As he says this, he squeezes Anakin again, causing his Padawan to gasp as his hardening little cock drags up Obi-Wan’s thigh.
“I’m sorry,” Anakin says, voice shaky. He can feel the boy’s genuine remorse as he says it, still young enough that he actually cares about inconveniencing his Master. Just as well, Obi-Wan can still feel Anakin’s arousal, and the confused shame coming from him in the fantasy.
It’s impossible for Anakin—not just in his mind, but in reality as well—to know how deep Obi-Wan’s affection for him ran already at his point in his life. Before his Padawan had even become a teenager, Obi-Wan was already being subjected to ribbing from his friends about how he was best friends with a twelve year-old boy. And while he always waved them off, never having to do more because they knew just as well that Obi-Wan had a line not to cross when it came to joking about Anakin, he never quite denied the claims. They were right. So quickly, Anakin had become the center of his Galaxy, and Obi-Wan found he enjoyed his company more than anyone else, even the likes of Garen and Siri. Any time spent with his peers, while enjoyable, always ended with him being relieved when he could return to his proper place: at Anakin’s side. He never told his Padawan any of this, even after he was knighted and they became lovers. Despite the truth of it, it was always slightly embarrassing, and the kind of indulgent, unnecessary affection he always feared would do more harm than good as far as Anakin’s Jedi training was concerned.
In this fantasy, however, Anakin seems to be perfectly aware of it—as the drunken Obi-Wan strokes the few silky curls that have grown out at the nape of his Padawan’s neck, telling him, “Don’t be. I like you more than—well, anyone, I suppose.”
Witnessing it makes Obi-Wan feel quite naked. He knows it’s all Anakin’s thoughts, but knowing how close it is to the truth of things is somewhat jarring. And if his feelings in this fantasy are so in-line with his true thoughts, what does that say about his actions? Does it mean that the only thing that stopped this from actually happening all those years ago was Obi-Wan’s decision to say go back to sleep rather than come here, stay? If only that little detail had changed, would Obi-Wan truly have let his Padawan, only a boy, notch against his body and use him like this, hard cock leaking too much like all boys do and smearing a wet spot into both of their pants?
Obi-Wan shivers again, but it’s not the same as before; there’s more heat in it now. Just as it’s crawling up the last few notches of his spine, the scene in front of him suddenly disappears, leaving nothing at all in it’s wake until Obi-Wan opens his eyes and is met with the sight of his present-day ceiling rather than the one from Anakin’s fantasy. Glancing to the side, he registers that the younger man has broken the link of their hands and is now rubbing his temples gently.
“It’s just more of that until I come,” Anakin says to him, somewhat sheepish as they make eye contact again.
It’s not often he wears such an expression, and it occurs to Obi-Wan how strange it is for Anakin to be so genuinely meek. He’s too busy squirming himself to do what Obi-Wan might’ve expected him to—use his own brazen confessions to make his Master squirm. Despite him playing his fantasies out vividly, he truly doesn’t seem to be sharing in a purposefully erotic way. Obi-Wan realizes, with slight horror, that Anakin’s demeanor has less in common with the memories he has of the younger man dirty talking in his ear, and more in common with the memory of listening to Anakin confess what he’d done on Tatooine after his Mother died. The weight of that secret clearly took it’s toll on Anakin, and sharing it had to have brought him relief in some form, no matter how Obi-Wan took it. Perhaps it’s the same thing now; the addictive relief of honesty.
None of that accounts for the continuous flipping of Obi-Wan’s stomach at the moment, though. He doesn’t want to psychoanalyze himself. He really shouldn’t, for his own sanity.
“And there’s another,” Anakin continues, unprompted, “It’s, well, it’s gross.”
Obi-Wan finds he quite likes it when Anakin is gross. At least, the kind of gross that tends to happen when they’re alone together. It’s not something he’ll ever admit to, though. That would give Anakin far too much leverage. So, he attempts his typical, slow drawl of sarcasm, “As compared to the previous things you’ve shared, which are decidedly not gross?”
Anakin laughs lightly. “Fair point.” Then, his face smoothes into something more serious, and he looks right into Obi-Wan’s eyes. “We can stop, if you want.”
“I was only kidding,” Obi-Wan assures him immediately, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. “I don’t mind it, Anakin,” he says; I like it is too honest, so it’s the best Obi-Wan can do. It makes me feel close to you is tacked on rather embarrassingly in his head as well.
They both lack the tenderness required to play footsie, but Anakin knocks their ankles together, bone to bone, making Obi-Wan wince. He doesn’t know when they started doing that, but Obi-Wan sometimes looks down at his feet and hates his own boots because they stop him from hitting that specific spot with the kind of sharpness that sends a bolt of pain up the entire leg. Once, he’d drunkenly told Anakin they should always be barefoot so they could do it as much as they pleased. The pain is a gesture of affection, and now, Obi-Wan’s chest swells with it as his ankle throbs.
“I’ll just tell you about this one,” Anakin says. “The bond stuff is too much work. And you distract me.”
Obi-Wan dares to raise a teasing brow. “Do I?”
Anakin huffs. “I can feel your brain pressed right up against mine. Sometimes, I want to rifle through it.”
It would be a whole new level of hypocrisy if Obi-Wan tells him that’s a very intense violation of boundaries. So, he doesn’t.
“Alright,” he says instead, “Let’s keep rifling through yours then, shall we? Tell me what is so gross.” It’s an effort to keep his voice light.
Swallowing loudly before he speaks, Anakin continues. “I think about walking in on you. One of those times I just needed you for something benign and didn’t have the manners to knock.”
First, Obi-Wan thinks, You still don’t have the manners to knock. Second, he thinks about the first half of what Anakin just said; imagines himself in the position Anakin is obviously talking about—touching himself.
“And you’re with a man.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan says without thinking, voice going higher in pitch with his surprise. Apparently, his assumptions of being walked in on by his underage Padawan while simply masturbating were too tame. For a moment, he sits with his shock, though his mind is already trying to conjure the image of the man that would be fucking him in this scenario. He’s never been one to focus on faces when lost in his own fantasies, usually just getting off to the thoughts about what was being done with and to his body, so he finds it difficult. The idea of asking Anakin who he pictures this man being occurs to him, but that might be the one thing he doesn’t want to know—and perhaps Anakin would give the same answer of not caring for faces. It’s already surprising enough that he can stomach imagining Obi-Wan with someone else, but it certainly wouldn’t be a surprise if Anakin didn’t care to have a specific person in mind, lest he work himself into an irrational jealous rage.
Anakin glances at him nervously, but keeps talking. “It’s in the middle of the day for some reason. And I just stand there in the doorway, like my feet are glued to the floor.”
“While I’m…?” Obi-Wan questions, pulse loud in his ears again.
“Getting fucked,” Anakin says quickly, like it’s all one word. “He’s behind you. Your face is in the sheets. And it’s hard—really hard. Like it hurts.”
Beneath his tunic, Obi-Wan feels his nipples harden, and when he speaks, his voice is raspier than it was a moment ago. “It’s your fantasy. Does it hurt?”
When Anakin looks at him again, his gaze has gone all sweet and intense at the same time, like overly rich chocolates. “If it does, you don’t show it. Your face, it’s—it’s perfect. You always look like you’re relaxed for once; happy even.”
Obi-Wan almost tells Anakin that his sexual fantasies are oddly emotionally loaded, but again finds that this, of all aspects of Anakin’s thoughts, isn’t the part that Obi-Wan should be judging. Still, he can’t believe the younger man puts so much feeling into masturbation, while Obi-Wan himself simply answered the original question with being gangbanged.
“And then you see me,” Anakin says, voice gone slightly tight. “And you go from drooling into the pillow to smiling. You still have that glazed over look in your eyes, but you’re looking at me, and you’re smiling like you’re so happy to see me.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan can’t help but murmur, the word a term of endearment all on it’s own. He knocks his ankle into Anakin’s.
“The man does nothing. It’s like he doesn’t even see me, but you do, and you hold out your hand for me. And I come, of course I do. I come to you, and you hold my hand and call me dear one while I get down on my knees next to the bed. It comes out all jerky ‘cause you’re still being fucked, but you say it anyway, and then you cup my face and tell me to kiss you. It’s not like how we kiss now—you don’t even put your tongue in my mouth. It’s…innocent.”
Obi-Wan’s face grows hot as he fights off the tears that he knows his body is begging to let fall. First, the being held thing, now this; another bittersweet revelation about Anakin’s desires. There’s a chance that when his former Padawan thinks about such things when he’s actually touching himself, there’s more focus on the sex, but the way he tells it now leads Obi-Wan to only being able to think about the fact that Anakin’s fantasies, the most taboo ones he has, also involve the most chaste—childish—things imaginable. Holding hands, earnest pet names, the cupping of his cheek. It burns Obi-Wan. Both low in his belly and like a pierce to his heart.
Just like the previous fantasy, Obi-Wan wonders about the likelihood of it happening, if Anakin had really walked in on him like that all those years ago. The lack of intoxication makes it much less probable. Most likely, almost certainly, Obi-Wan would have screeched before ordering Anakin to get out, perhaps even mind tricked him into forgetting it ever happened, then lived with the mortification of it all himself.
However, peeling back the layers of the scene leaves Obi-Wan thinking that the real point of it all must be him choosing Anakin over this man. The idea that, just like the other fantasy, Obi-Wan would be so overcome with affection for his Padawan that he’d forget himself, even when literally being fucked by someone else.
And that, Obi-Wan can’t argue with; the sentiment behind it, at least. The urge to throw propriety out of the airlock and truly show his Padawan how much he cared for him came swiftly and often during the entirety of Anakin’s apprenticeship. Obi-Wan was only good at hiding it.
Turning onto his side again, he reaches out and grazes Anakin’s cheek with his knuckles. “You’re very sweet,” he says.
Anakin tilts his head, pressing his face into Obi-Wan’s touch further and looking in his eyes. “You are the only person in this entire Galaxy who thinks that.”
Greedily, Obi-Wan thinks good, but holds himself back from saying it.
“That’s probably for the best, though,” Anakin adds on, smiling softly. “You’re also the only person with the fortitude to put up with how fucked up I am. I’d hate to inflict it on anyone else.” It’s said as a joke, but Obi-Wan can sense the honesty behind the words.
It’s not fortitude. I love you with all my heart, Obi-Wan wants to say. Again, though, he doesn’t. He only shrugs the best he can in this position and tells Anakin, “Perhaps I’m just as fucked up as you are.”
Anakin’s ankle knocks against his own again, lightning quick, like an instinctual response. A second later, though, his face twists slightly; unbelieving. “You think about stuff, like I do?”
Obi-Wan almost laughs at the use of stuff as a placeholder for Anakin’s desires. Still, it’s not quite what he meant and without thinking, he makes a face in response to the thought of himself having the kind of fantasies Anakin has. “No. It’d be different if it was me. I’m the adult.”
“I told you we didn’t have to keep talking about this,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan gets the feeling he’s taken the uncomfortable look on his face a little too seriously; too close to the heart. “If you’re so bothered by it—“.
“I’m not,” Obi-Wan cuts in.
Anakin just looks at him. “Obi-Wan…” He sighs.
They’re this deep in already, and Obi-Wan can’t stand the thought of Anakin truly thinking he’s being judged for this. Especially while his stomach is still tying itself in knots that aren’t just made of guilt. He can’t do that to Anakin. He has to make it right, like wasted water on Coruscant.
“Tell me more,” Obi-Wan says plainly. “Tell me worse.”
An expression comes over Anakin’s face that Obi-Wan is far more familiar with than the ones of anxiety and meekness he’s had thus far—a look that says you asked for it. Obi-Wan’s never literally dared Anakin to do anything, but he often takes his words as such anyway, making it a personal mission for Obi-Wan to eat crow. Right now, it’s not as intense as he knows the expression could be, which hopefully means Anakin is only determined, rather than malicious.
“In my head, you don’t always want it,” Anakin tells him.
Obi-Wan’s ears ring. “What?” He knows exactly what Anakin means, but he still says it.
Anakin seems to be aware of this, because he ignores the question and just continues. “It seems like the most realistic option, don’t you think?”
And just because he’s right, doesn’t mean Obi-Wan is going to tell him he is. Keeping his mouth shut, he just bores his gaze into Anakin’s, hoping he’ll go on without having to deal with the shame of asking him to do so.
Again, Anakin sees right through him, straight down to the depths of his desire, and keeps talking. “Sometimes, you really fight me.”
Obi-Wan shudders again, and it’s horribly obvious.
“Other times, though, you just—you don’t stop me. You just let it happen.”
A shining, bright neon sign that blares out a ding ding ding blinks to life inside of Obi-Wan, like he’s just won big at a Canto Bight casino. His winnings come in the form of acknowledging that this is the most likely scenario without a doubt—just letting it happen. The slot machine is all lined up, and Obi-Wan is flushed with credits—because his former Padawan has just told him he dreams of sexually assaulting him, essentially.
Sometimes, Obi-Wan is glad Jedi aren’t buried after death. How many times would he have made Qui-Gon roll in his grave by now?
But, the guilt, as consuming as it is, as consuming as it should be, isn’t all consuming. There’s still plenty of room for the horrible arousal stirring inside of him, becoming headier than ever after hearing this particular fantasy.
Anakin shuffles closer to him, leaning up on his elbow and using his other hand to softly trail a finger down the slope of Obi-Wan’s nose, then drags it up his cheekbone. “I could tell you were so sorry, so guilty, sometimes, when I was a kid. For everything and nothing at the same time. I wondered how much you’d let me get away with when you felt like that. Like letting me do that to you would somehow make up for anything.”
Eyes stinging again, Obi-Wan asks him, “Would it have?”
“What if I said yes? Would that make you want to go back and change things?” Anakin says it all like a scoff, but it’s not cruel. It just sounds like he assumes the answer is an extremely obvious no.
Still, the words chafe Obi-Wan, and his insides squirm after hearing them. “Anakin,” he chides the same way he has a million other times, “Don’t be vulgar.”
Rolling his eyes and shrugging, Anakin says, “This whole conversation is vulgar.”
He’s right—and Obi-Wan is a hypocrite. While he outwardly condemns Anakin’s vulgarity, it’s far too easy for Obi-Wan to imagine such a scene; one where he’s at his Padawan’s mercy without protest.
Ever since he met Anakin, he’s been subject to the boy’s whims. Over the course of his apprenticeship, it was only with constant practice that Obi-Wan became so good at putting on a front of stern aloofness in the face of Anakin’s impulses. One so seamless and impenetrable that it eventually began to fool Anakin. Obi-Wan has always suspected only the years he has on Anakin gave him the ability to do so; his Padawan’s youth and the naivety that inherently came with it often had him taking Obi-Wan at face value. But if he had figured it out; that it was only a mask, Obi-Wan surely would have been in trouble. More than trouble. And if Anakin had known that all he had to do was keep pushing, who knows what would have become of them.
Perhaps it would be something like what swims in Obi-Wan’s mind right now; the idea of his Padawan pushing and needing and taking and never, ever stopping. Things were so difficult during those years. Would he have felt better if such a thing had happened?
When Anakin fucks him now, it feels like absolution and surrender all at once. Giving himself to Anakin is both the most selfish and most sacrificing thing Obi-Wan has ever done. If he’d done it back then, maybe it would have unclogged all their mucked-up streams of communication and affection. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt like he was drowning all the time—or perhaps it would’ve felt like drowning together.
Most likely, it would taste only of guilt. But it’s a fantasy, so Obi-Wan allows himself to imagine it; the lanky, lithe body of his still-growing Padawan cocooning him from above, sweet, dripping cock thrusting into him without finesse, the braid in Anakin’s hair dragging along his skin.
Under the sheets, Obi-Wan’s cock stirs. These thoughts arouse him enough that the ongoing conversation with Anakin doesn’t matter to his body anymore and the distraction of it no longer matters. Thinking of young—too young—beautiful Anakin losing his virginity by fucking into his Master’s ass is too much for Obi-Wan to bear. He’s never come hands-free, not a single time in his whole life, but it occurs to him that he might be able to in that scenario.
It’s the most realistic option, Anakin had said.
“Have I stunned the Negotiator to silence? You must really have not liked that one.”
Obi-Wan looks at Anakin again, gaze becoming a glare.
In return, Anakin just raises his brows and tilts his head. “What? So it’s only random groups of men you want to take advantage of you?”
The whites of Obi-Wan’s eyes show as the glare then becomes an exasperated look to the ceiling as he elbows Anakin in the stomach. “Forgive me,” he says, not really sorry. “I was lost in thought.”
Anakin doesn’t give up on being irksome so easily. “About what?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Obi-Wan drawls. The seriousness of their conversation and his silence has lifted slightly, and the air no long feels so thick that it’s unbreathable. The ground still isn’t completely solid under his feet, but at least it’s become easier to stand on. Banter is normal. Banter is good. Less loaded.
Of course, Anakin takes his mild jest as another challenge, though, and bites his lip like that’ll contain all the jittering nerves Obi-Wan can practically feel radiating out from the younger man. Despite the outward change in mood, Anakin is still nervous as he says, “One more.”
“The floor is yours, Anakin.” Obi-Wan shifts to lie flat on his back again and stare at the ceiling, but it’s only a moment before Anakin’s curl-framed face pops back into view, looking down at him. The bluster has already left his expression.
“Can I hold you?” He asks. “While I say it.”
“May I,” Obi-Wan corrects, just to balance out how easily he rolls onto his side so Anakin can plaster himself to his back; a very beloved barnacle. Not that he would ever admit to Anakin how much he likes to be held. The breath panting out against his hair makes Obi-Wan squirm, but the arms around him just tighten in response.
“There are times,” Anakin starts, and Obi-Wan can hear the hesitation in his voice as he trails off and goes quiet, before clearing his throat and starting again, now with his forehead tucked down against the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck. “There are times I don’t even understand what’s happening.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter shut, and he gets a hot-cold flash of adrenaline, like he’s about to jump from a ship straight into battle. “What do you mean?” He asks, nearly a whisper. It’s the same thing as before; Obi-Wan knows exactly what he means, no matter how he plays dumb.
This time, however, Anakin actually calls him out on it. “You know what I mean, Obi-Wan.” Somehow, even in a small, calm voice, Anakin gets across the point that there’s no room for argument. They both know.
Staying quiet, Obi-Wan takes Anakin’s hands from where they lay loosely on him and draw them up to press against his chest, keeping his own palms laid on top of them. His ankle moves around blindly until it slides along the knob of Anakin’s; go on, then.
The gesture is accepted. “I didn’t love you the first moment I saw you,” Anakin tells him. “But it was still too quick. I’d have let you do anything to me. Your approval—no, your happiness—it’s always been more important to me than I wanted you to know. It wasn’t normal, I knew it. That’s why I always acted the way I did; the way I still do, sometimes. But, back then, in the very beginning, I didn’t think it strange at all. I’d have done anything; I wanted you to love me back so badly.”
If Obi-Wan weren’t so well-practiced in not screaming at Anakin, even when the urge was bone-deep, he’d shred his own vocal cords telling him I did. I already did. Faster than you, probably. I was first.
The words beat against his insides, trying to get out, but Obi-Wan swallows it all and lets Anakin keep talking.
“On Tatooine… my mother made sure I knew what that kind of stuff was. She had to, so it wouldn’t happen to me. And I would’ve let you do it anyway, knowing full well what it was—because I loved you so much.” Obi-Wan feels him shake his head, and the nails of Anakin’s flesh hand sink into his flesh a little. “But when I think about it, really, it’s not like that stuff at all. If you had done it, it would’ve made sense. It would’ve been right.”
Out of any other words, Obi-Wan sighs, “Oh, Anakin.”
“I just think—I don’t think right and wrong apply to us. In some ways, at least. You think so too, don’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be in your bed. We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Obi-Wan just hums a noncommittal sound, unwilling to agree with such a thing, something that goes against the most basic of Jedi principles, so easily. Besides, Anakin is smart enough to understand what silence means coming from a man of many words like Obi-Wan, and they’ve argued so many times over the years that Anakin knows if Obi-Wan truly disagreed, he’d voice that.
The lack of offense from the younger man just confirms this. Anakin’s arms loosen around him minutely and Obi-Wan can feel his body scrunching and relaxing as he shrugs, even in this strange position. “That’s the worst of it,” Anakin says. “I know it’s—weird. But, I don’t know, I can’t help it.” Then, the grip on Obi-Wan tightens again, clutching him harsher than before.
“Do you think I’m disgusting?” Anakin asks.
“No,” Obi-Wan says easily. There’s no thought required to answer; he doesn’t. He knows he should have a negative reaction to everything Anakin has just told him, at least inwardly, but what Obi-Wan knows even more clearly than that is that he simply doesn’t. “And even if I did,” he continues, blush rising in his cheeks as he voices his own thoughts, “It wouldn’t change anything. I don’t mind such things—disgusting things. If they’re your disgusting things. Sometimes, I think I even like them.”
Obi-Wan tries not to stiffen like a corpse, though that’s his usual instinct after showing anything he considers to be overly vulnerable or flowery; making himself un-holdable.
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?” Anakin asks against his tunic. It makes Obi-Wan roll his eyes, which he only allows because Anakin can’t see it. He doesn’t allow himself to say something snarky about fishing for compliments or if it would kill Anakin to take him at his word, though.
Taking in a deep breath, Obi-Wan sighs out, “No, Anakin,” as he clasps the younger man's hand tighter in his own, trailing it down his body until Anakin is palming the tent in his sleep pants that’s been there the whole time.
A shaky breath is sucked in behind him. “Master…”
Obi-Wan is dizzy with arousal when he says back, “Do you want to touch it, Padawan?”
“I—I don’t know—“ Anakin says, trepidation in his voice like he really doesn’t.
“Here, let me.” Obi-Wan’s voice begins to come out shaky as well, though he tries to fight it as he pulls down his waistband to rest below his balls, then guides Anakin’s hand to wrap gently around his erection. “There you go, dear one.”
Anakin whimpers, and Obi-Wan realizes he’s just used the endearment from one of his fantasies. Dear one. The last time he’d used it in reality must’ve been before he’d grown a beard. Over a decade ago, surely.
“You can squeeze it, if you’d like. It’ll make me feel good.”
A moment later; a gentle, almost nervous tightening of the hand on his cock. “It’s big,” Anakin mutters, and a wracking shiver moves through Obi-Wan, sending him into a blaze.
“Try moving your hand,” Obi-Wan tells him, just as gentle, “So you can touch all of it.”
Anakin does as he says, tentatively moving his hand to the base of Obi-Wan’s cock with a shoddy grip like he’s never done this before, then sliding it up to the tip. It’s only a single stroke, but in this moment, it’s the most overwhelming thing Obi-Wan has ever felt—and Anakin must feel similarly, because suddenly he’s squirming against his back and rasping out in a small voice, “Master, I can’t—I want to—Will you—“.
Obi-Wan takes a guess. “Come here, Padawan mine. Won’t you let me see you?” With his words, he sits up, grabbing Anakin and hauling him up alongside himself. Once his back is against the wall, Obi-Wan maneuvers Anakin onto his lap, and the younger man immediately melts, tipping forward to press their chests and temples together. Luck isn’t something he believes in, so Obi-Wan allows his chest to fill with pride at the fact that it wasn’t a guess at all; he just knows Anakin that well. His Padawan wants to see him.
“There you are. Is that better?”
In response, Anakin nods, their skin dragging along each other.
“Good.” Obi-Wan tilts his head up to press a soft kiss to Anakin’s forehead, another act borrowed from his fantasies, which pulls out a low, pathetic sound that’s more man than boy.
“Can I…?” Anakin asks, leaning back slightly to look down at Obi-Wan’s exposed cock for a split second, then back up, cheeks ruddy.
“Whatever you want, my dearest. Explore all you’d like.” Obi-Wan’s nipples harden, and he doesn’t know if it’s in response to the talking or simply the fact that Anakin is on his lap. This isn’t a position they’re overly familiar with; Anakin likes to be fucked on all fours, and Obi-Wan prefers to be on top even when he’s on the receiving end of things. Having the younger man in his lap is quite novel, and Obi-Wan finds he likes it a lot. Part of it has to be how sweet and vulnerable Anakin looks like this, but there’s surely something about Anakin’s muscled form looming over him that stirs Obi-Wan as well, even with the naive act he’s putting on.
Anakin’s hand returns to his cock, slightly more confident than before. He looks down as he tugs at it, face tightening in concentration like it used to when Obi-Wan first taught him how to move objects with the Force. After a few moments, his blue eyes return to Obi-Wan’s—pupils larger than he’s ever seen them—and he asks, “Am I doing it right? Do you like it?”
Obi-Wan can’t help it—he groans, a rumble in his chest that he barely registers himself making because he’s too distracted by the needy, pulsing heat between his legs growing stronger. “I like it very much. You could—ah, Anakin—you could wet your hand to make it a bit smoother. Use your spit.”
Anakin tries, he really does; cupping his palm under his mouth and soft pahtoo escaping his lips as he attempts to spit, but it seems his mouth has gone dry, and he looks back to Obi-Wan with an embarrassed expression. It’s rather pathetic.
Reaching out, Obi-Wan grabs Anakin’s hand and pulls it toward himself. “Let Master do it,” he says, before spitting a wet, foamy puddle of drool into his palm. When Anakin touches him again, the glide of his hand makes quiet, slick sounds. Obi-Wan contents himself with watching him through half-lidded eyes and trying not to keel over from the pleasure and taboo of it all.
This becomes even more difficult when Anakin speaks again. “What’s this?” He taps finger against the slit of Obi-Wan’s cock, the only area he hasn’t swirled in spit with his palm. Gaze flickering down, Obi-Wan watches his urethra widen fractionally as he leaks on himself.
“That’s—“ Obi-Wan starts, but cuts himself off as he’s swept into a moment of deja vu, reminded of how accurate Anakin’s act is; he was so incredibly and inappropriately curious about everything as a child. “That’s pre-come, dear one,” he explains after the nostalgia passes.
Anakin rubs his index and middle finger together. “What’s it for?”
The laugh that comes out of Obi-Wan is breathy but heavy with endearment. “It’s not for anything. It just means you’re doing a very good job.”
“I am?” Anakin asks in a small voice, finger rubbing against his cock head again. Then, in a somehow even smaller voice, “You’re proud of me?”
Obi-Wan’s hazy eyes snap back into focus, and he looks right at Anakin, despite the way the younger man can’t hold his gaze for very long.
“I’m so proud of you, Anakin. Always.” I love you so much.
For a moment, he fears he may have spoken the last part out loud and scared Anakin off, due to the way he gasps and his hand flies off Obi-Wan’s cock. But, no—it’s not that at all. Looking down, Obi-Wan sees Anakin gripping his own cock through his pants as his chest heaves out breath. Like he was about to come just from hearing those words.
With a half-pitying and half-animal groan, Obi-Wan takes Anakin’s hand and brings it back to his cock. He’s not sure how long he can go on like this; every revelation from his former Padawan like a knife to his heart and a shot of desire everywhere else. The moment has broken their roleplay briefly, and when Anakin looks at him again, Obi-Wan says, “I should’ve told you—back then.”
He’s talking about all of it. The pride and the love. And just because Obi-Wan hadn’t spoken the last bit out loud, doesn’t necessarily mean Anakin is oblivious to his wanting to say it.
Especially because Anakin responds with, “I knew.” He strokes Obi-Wan’s cock with all the experience and finesse of the man Obi-Wan has raised him to be. “You’re right, you should’ve told me. But I already knew.”
And when Obi-Wan tells him, “Give your Master a kiss,” neither of them part their lips. Their mouths press together; sweet and soft and chaste just like Anakin had imagined it, and Obi-Wan comes into his Padawan’s hand, shaking like a leaf.
The last of his spend is still spurting out when he’s lurched violently forward by Anakin’s mech-hand on his forearm as the younger man clambers off his lap. Dragging Obi-Wan, pliant from orgasm and struck by the shock, Anakin pushes him face down on the bed, then yanks his pants down over the curve of his ass. He must do the same to himself, because a moment later, Obi-Wan feels the rigid, warm press of a cock against his backside, nestling between his cheeks with rushed movements.
Thumbs dig into the small of his back as Anakin grabs his waist far too hard. It fucking hurts, the way Obi-Wan is being pinned to the mattress, and he hisses out, “Anakin, Anakin,” as his body reflexively riots against the pain and the feeling of being trapped.
“Let me. Just let me,” Anakin says, voice desperate in a way that Obi-Wan is familiar with, but also dark in a way that sends a chill up his spine—one very different from his earlier shudders of arousal.
Still, Obi-Wan relents. He’s not sure Anakin would actually let him up if he protested further, anyway. His Padawan outmatched him in raw strength years ago. So, he lays there, letting Anakin drag his cock back and forth along his ass and hump at him messily. Obi-Wan’s own cock is stuck beneath him, still wet with his orgasm, soft and vulnerable as it gets shoved into the mattress and smears his own come into his pubic hair. He can’t deny there’s something stirring about it all; there’s a part of him that wants to reach back and spread himself open so Anakin can at least push his cock against his hole, but that’s not quite the fantasy, is it?
Because that’s exactly what this is—the one fantasy Obi-Wan hadn’t pulled from. The one where Anakin is the aggressor. The one that calls for him to let his Padawan have his way with him without protest.
True to form—at least, the form of a young boy—it’s over fast. Anakin’s flesh hand releases it’s bruising grip and Obi-Wan hears the lewd sounds of Anakin jerking his cock, before warmth splatters along his tailbone and pools in the small of his back.
As it’s happening, Anakin’s mech-hand lets go of him, and reaches up to pry Obi-Wan’s grip from the sheets so they can hold hands, fingers interlacing.