Chapter Text
It starts with a reprimand.
Well, Anakin concedes; perhaps less a reprimand and more a I’m sick and tired of your bullshit, Anakin; get your act together sorta thing. Anakin’s paraphrasing, of course, but that’s the long and short of it.
Anakin’s distracted.
And Obi-Wan never can stand Anakin’s distractions and their resulting consequences.
So it starts like this:
“Thank you for your report, Kix.”
The medic nods curtly. “Of course, General.” With an about turn, Kix strides to the next cot within the makeshift med center. A stray blaster bolt or two whistles outside the tent and swallows the medic’s next commands.
Anakin shifts in his seat.
“Cody, Rex.”
Now his cheeks heat (and if asked later why, he’ll plead the extra color as a pain side effect that has nothing to do with how his former Master’s actions sting Anakin’s pride. Nope; it’s all just a simple coincidence.) He beats back the wiggly sensations creeping up his spine he once experienced as a recalcitrant Padawan reprimanded by his Master. He’s a Knight, godsdammit, competent and self-assured making his own decision.
Why can’t Obi-Wan see it?
Twin responses of Yes, General? steals Anakin’s momentary attention, but embarrassment scatters it away the way a loth-kitten hides from a Nexus. Anakin’s eyes train studiously on Obi-Wan’s side profile, torn in a vortex of begging for and hiding from the older man’s attention, especially despite how resolutely his former Master avoids Anakin.
It’s hateful.
Obi-Wan’s tone is sharp with authority as he directs, “You two are in command while your Generals are…indisposed. Questions? None. Dismissed, gentlemen.”
Their respective Commander and Captain accept their new responsibilities with salutes. They respond Generals before they return to their assigned duties.
Anakin’s jaw tics from the force gnashing his teeth incites. “Obi-Wan, this isn’t necessary—”
“Oh?” When the High General finally, finally deigns Anakin his undivided attention, the dry toned rhetorical question combats the disinterested expression, which promptly lights a match under Anakin’s ass. “Then you’ll have no qualms entertaining your old Master’s whimsies to ensure your good health.”
Anakin shifts, then winces. The flash of pain permeates between them if the flaring of Obi-Wan’s nostrils are anything to go by. “I’m. Fine,” he insists through gritted teeth, fists curled up inside his lap, and stares back defiantly. “You’re overreacting.”
“Our medic says otherwise.” Obi-Wan tilts his chin up in mimic to Anakin’s. The older man’s posture is ramrod straight, hands tucked behind his low back, and boots clicked together; he embodies every inch a High General of the GAR. “And I’m quite inclined to agree with his assessment.”
Anakin snorts, disbelief vibrating his larynx. “All of this,” he flaps his hand around the room, “is overkill and you know it.”
Obi-Wan only answers with a raised eyebrow.
“I am fine to continue leading my men. We don’t have time for this banthashit; just because we finished the battle doesn’t mean our duties are finished, too.”
The way Obi-Wan remains silent pisses Anakin off. Synthleather crinkles against Anakin’s tight fists. He rants, “You’re a godsdamn hypocrite, d’ya know that?”
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, arms crossing over his pauldrons and broad chest. “Are you quite finished?”
Although the title is unspoken, Anakin hears the Padawan tacked at the end. Ready to defend himself, Anakin shoves off the examination cot—
and instantly stumbles forward by the overzealous disregard of his good health. Because the urge to scratch the itch under his skin distracted him. Again. Obi-Wan always knows how to get under Anakin’s skin. And somehow, even now with ire coloring embarrassment a rosy shade of pink, as Anakin’s foolhardiness quite literally trips him up, he gravitates toward the infuriating migraine inducing man.
Obi-Wan catches Anakin before the ground is reacquainted with his nose. “You were saying?”
Anakin’s gonna hit him; and it’ll be his Master’s own damned fault for inciting Anakin’s violence. “You’re an asshole,” he grits out.
His former Master rearranges their position until he tucks Anakin under his armpit, taking the majority of Anakin’s weight. “Hm, I disagree. If I were an asshole, I’d have let you embarrass yourself by falling on your ass; it would’ve served you right for your careless disregard concerning your own health. But, alas, I did not.”
They begin a careful path out of the med center toward the barracks.
“Such a kriffing hypocrite,” he mutters under his breath. If Anakin avoids medical attention until it is forced upon him, then Obi-Wan doggedly avoids it to the point it wouldn’t surprise him if his Master would find a way to avoid it even in death. “Why won’t you let this go? I’ve been hurt worse than a broken femur and bruised ribs in the past and you’ve never reacted like…this.”
Obi-Wan does not reply.
So their walk back to their shared tent huddles in tension. Anakin tries not to trip and Obi-Wan holds him upright. Anakin will not admit the relief from the extra support is coursing through his aching body. The steady pillar of his Master’s strength temporarily soothes him. He definitely could have walked by himself. If he wanted to, of course. But… having Obi-Wan beside him will always be the better option, Anakin’s pride be damned.
“Here,” murmurs Obi-Wan, twisting his body around to use his shoulder to open the tent flap and encourages Anakin shuffle inside. “Easy does it; let’s get you situated.”
Wind sapped out of his sails from his heavy breathing, Anakin allows his Master situate him until Anakin’s seated on their little makeshift stool by their little makeshift command desk. His shoulders slump. He attempts stretching out his left leg but stops at a hot flare of pain.
Obi-Wan kneels in front of him, silently fussing over Anakin’s thigh. He bats away Anakin’s hands before smoothing out wrinkled leggings, mindful of the thighbone area. The touch warms Anakin in ways he doesn’t particularly want to acknowledge.
“You’re the most infuriating man I know,” he says without any heat, needing to break the silence and Obi-Wan’s careful ministrations than a need to confess.
A pair of agate greenish-blue colored eyes, startling in their intensity, pin Anakin in place. Suddenly, Anakin is aware of how close they are to each other as the starburst shades of Obi-Wan’s eyes are clear to see. So, too, are the hidden freckles scattered from nose to apples of his cheeks. His breath catches in his throat, hung on tenterhooks…because what happens next?
Under his breath, Obi-Wan returns the volley, “The feeling is quite mutual.” Like Anakin, no trace of sarcasm laces the older man’s tone of voice. In a clearer command, he says, “Hold still.”
As if Anakin’s going anywhere.
A sweeping, cool breeze through the Force startles him, alarm pitching through him, and Anakin cries out. “Obi-Wan!”
Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, the Jedi Master is undeterred by the interruption. His left hand curved around Anakin’s knee to hold him steady as the right hand hovers above the thighbone. He is Force healing Anakin’s injury!
“Hey, hey,” the words tumble out as Anakin clutches onto Obi-Wan’s biceps, alternating between patting and squeezing there, “stop; Obi-Wan stop! You’re gonna drain—”
Obi-Wan huffs, a bead of sweat glistens above the mole on his forehead. Attention firmly locked on his task, he is steadfast against Anakin’s interference. The stubborn, stubborn bastard.
“Master, that’s enough.” he tries for stern but the alarm cracks his voice.
After an eternity, Obi-Wan sits back on his heels and transfers his hands on his own thighs. He’s breathing heavy as he stares up at his former student with an undecipherable glint in his eyes.
The lack of pain from his injury adds to the rampant beating of Anakin’s heart as he stares back, agog by the unexpected treatment. He shakes his head, though no coherent thoughts link together. How can he…? What was Obi-Wan thinking? It makes no sense….
“You need to take better care of yourself.” Obi-Wan says, apropos of nothing.
Anakin blinks, dumbfounded and befuddled.
“You’re growing sloppy—”
Daze lifted, indignation growing, Anakin tosses his hands up and hisses, “Here we go again. Just another round of ‘let’s blame Anakin for everything.’”
“I’m serious, Anakin—”
His outstretched foot twitches, maybe from phantom pain, maybe from an unconscious desire to kick the infuriating man Anakin’s had the displeasure of knowing. “It’s always my fault, isn’t it? Nothing I do is enough to satisfy your high ex—”
“Would you shut your mouth and listen to me for once in your life—”
Anakin snaps his teeth. “I’m listening just fine, thanks much.”
Obi-Wan blows out a lengthy breath, which does little to lessen the throbbing vein on his temple. “You asked why I am paying particular attention to you right now.” A growl curves his upper lip when Anakin attempts to interrupt again. “I see how you are spiraling, how terrible your suffering grates you down.”
Now Anakin grits out, “I’m fine.”
“You most certainly are not. If you were you wouldn’t have been hit by—”
“That was a lucky hit!” Anakin growls, tugging at his curls. “This sorta shit happens all the karking time, Obi-Wan; don’t act obtuse. We’re fighting in a war in case you’ve forgotten. Getting hurt in the line of duty is part of our job description.”
Obi-Wan purses his lips. “And damn near overdosing on stims means you’re fine.”
Anakin’s chest heaves and his nostrils flare at the call out. “I have a job to do.” he retorts, a stubborn tic in his jaw throbbing as he fights back the urge to cross his arms. “And I’ll decide what’s best for my battalion and ensure their safety.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. After a couple beats, he clearly states, “You’re going to get yourself killed, Anakin.”
The beast trapped behind his ribcage roars until Anakin’s whole body trembles. “I could die at any point! The longer this fucking war wages the higher the probability! Don’t you get it? None of this fucking matters unless the Republic wins—”
“So your life means nothing in the face of a win for the Republic?”
Anakin pulls up short at the unexpected question, the venom behind it, eliciting a cold chill skitter up Anakin’s spine. Head tilted, Anakin squints as if Obi-Wan’s words will parse through clearer. It doesn’t. “What?”
The High General tips his head up to stare at the ceiling panel, but does not lose the determination setting his jaw. “Why do you think your life does not mean anything?”
Heart galloping at Obi-Wan’s question, Anakin grapples for his earlier irritation. “Isn’t this how the whole blasted thing is supposed to go?” he forces himself to scoff, eyes flickering every which direction in their shared tent but unable to hold his Master’s gaze.
“No,” rasps Obi-Wan, “it’s not.” A look Anakin can only describe as devastation paints the Jedi Master’s striking visage into a pinched veneer. “How could you believe such a thing?” A hand reaches out as if to cup Anakin’s cheek, hesitates as it thinks better of the decision without connecting.
Anakin’s speechless; speechless and trembling. Disbelief curdles acid in his stomach as his brain attempts strangling a knot of hope. Obi-Wan doesn’t mean it; he’s just…yeah, he’s just saying whatever he believes needs saying to assuage Anakin.
“Tell me what’s bothering you.” But kark are Obi-Wan’s words chipping away at the dreamy insecurity.
Unable to quit arguing to save his life, Anakin denies, “Nothing—”
“Will you please stop arguing with me—”
Anakin tugs the roots of his hair hard enough to wince. Yet the confusion does not lift. “You’re the argumentative one.” Which… no, Anakin’s not gonna capitulate on, thanks very much. “Stop talking in circles and maybe we’d have a civilized conversation.”
For the barest of a split second, Obi-Wan’s expression twists into a snarl and Anakin wonders if his former Master will shake him. Anakin hasn’t seen Obi-Wan in such a tizzy in years. But it doesn’t last long; that stubborn edge straightening his facial features as if nothing happened at all. Calm, placid; the perfect Jedi. It stabs a dagger through Anakin’s patience.
“I want to help you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan says, earnest inflection cutting down their bickering quicker than a uranium bomb could, Anakin reckons.
What? What? What? His mouth opens and closes like a bubble guppy without any words to articulate the jumbled chaos in his head.
“Tell me how to help you, dearest.”
The feeling he’s walked into an alternate reality loosens his lips. “There isn’t anything to fix, Obi-Wan, because everything is fine.”
The older man’s jaw locks and his tongue sweeps along his lower lip. “That isn’t what I asked you.”
The reaction doesn’t match with the anticipated glance to the ceiling as if Obi-Wan’s begging the Force for patience; it’s the move Anakin’s patented as his and he’s rather proud of it. Obi-Wan’s continued showing off frustration doesn’t sit right with Anakin.
“Anakin.”
He balks at the sharp call of his name. On reflex, Anakin’s left leg kicks out and Obi-Wan is quick to shuffle closer into the opened space. The air sparks as their breaths sync. His fingers itch to reach out—to touch yet at the same time Anakin knows he can’t and—
“Why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” Obi-Wan’s eyes widen then narrow, genuine confusion clouding his expression. One hand reaches down and fits around Anakin’s ankle bone and the other lands heavily above his knee. “Have I—?”
The proprietary touches short circuit his brain. Suddenly, Anakin is clueless as he whines a pitiful, “Obi-Wan.” Because what in the ever loving fuck is going on? Anakin doesn’t know.
Obi-Wan’s fingers flex, a coal-hot branding through Anakin’s clothes, and the older man scoots infinitesimally closer. He remains silent, eyes assessing and stripping Anakin bare. The hand around Anakin’s ankle curls tighter. But the hand above his knee? The palm inches higher up Anakin’s thigh, teetering inward, and comes to a rest with the tips of his middle and ring fingers grazing Anakin’s crotch.
Anakin chokes.
“If you are amenable,” his Master’s voice pitches low, dark in a sultry tenor Anakin has never heard, “I have…some alternate methods to assist you.”
“Yeah?” comes out on a whiny note. Anakin blinks rapidly, gobsmacked by the noise.
His High General hums. “Yeah.” Obi-Wan licks his lips as his touch slides higher. “Will you let me help you?”
His mouth dries out. Stars fizzle across his vision, alighting Obi-Wan in a flickering white halo. “You will…?” Unsure how to finish the sentence, all Anakin is capable of doing is staring incredulously at the other man because surely, surely he is dreaming. “Will you—?”
Obi-Wan nods, a hint of earnest desire blackening his gaze. “Whatever you need.”
Anakin shivers. “Yes,” his words are firm compared to the internal upheaval as he processes the proposition, “show me.”
Permission granted loud and clear, Obi-Wan’s hand cups Anakin and his dick twitches into half-arousal immediately. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you, darling?”
All Anakin can do is nod. All the blood in his body rushes south; he doesn’t think he’s breathing. His body feels weighed down, so even if he were inclined to pinch his thigh to ground himself in reality, he cannot. He will do nothing of the sort in case Obi-Wan changes his mind. This dream bubble will not pop. Anakin needs to stay here forever.
“Very good, Anakin.”
Obi-Wan’s praise warms Anakin’s belly. He swears his former Master’s eyes blaze like a forest fire hellbent on dragging Anakin through the wreckage. And it is this moment Anakin acknowledges the core belief wherever Obi-Wan goes, he will follows; this is no different.
“Will you touch me?” he whispers. “Please, Obi-Wan.”
The man in question moves further forward, his body forcing Anakin’s thighs to widen to accommodate the extra width. “Of course, darling,” he murmurs in return. His non-dominant hand smoothes hair from Anakin’s forehead and eventually tucks a curly strand behind Anakin’s ear. “Anything you need; I promise I’ll make you feel better.” The palm on Anakin’s crotch grounds down, providing delicious friction. “I’ll take such good care of you, dearest.”
Anakin trusts him.
They work together divesting Anakin of his gear. Nimble fingers unknot the legging’s drawstring and Anakin lifts his hips as they shimmy down the pants. Anakin has mostly filled out his boxer briefs at this point with a growing dark patch noticeable against the black cotton. He whines as the side of Obi-Wan’s hand drags against his erection.
“Oh, look at you,” the wonder in Obi-Wan’s tone brings funny feelings to Anakin’s entire being.
Anakin mangles curses, hips bucking to meet Obi-Wan’s touch. Not a single modicum of embarrassment or insecurity lingers; instinctively he leans into Obi-Wan knowing his former Master is capable of caring for him. Down to the marrow of his bones, Anakin knows this is the truth.
A thumb swirls the width of Anakin’s cockhead, gathering and spreading precome in lazy circles. Anakin’s breath catches in his chest and his eyes squeeze shut as sensory overwhelm threatens to end this exploration prematurely. And how embarrassing would that be, he thinks; shooting off a load like he’s fourteen all over again with the first touch on his aching dick and not a twenty year old man.
Now the touch encircles the tip of Anakin, though does not tighten or stroke. Bleary eyed, Anakin blink blink blinks until Obi-Wan’s expectant smirk focuses. The sparking charge between them may as well be a tangible thing; the Force sings with it inside and outside of their bond, swirling colors like twilight.
“Has anyone touched you like this before, Anakin?” The tone comes across as strained. Obi-Wan’s throat bobs.
His eyes widen, mind casting back to the handful of times he has allowed a few others touch him. “Only like—” his voice cracks. He clears it once, twice, then continues. “Only like you are now; just with their hands.”
His Master’s pupils blow. “Nobody’s put their mouth on you?” The grip on Anakin’s cock temporarily presses more intentionally.
Anakin shakes his head, heat staining his cheeks. “No, Master.”
If at all possible, Obi-Wan appears more aroused. “None. What a shame; your cock is too pretty not to have been sucked.”
Anakin thinks he probably should be vexed his dick is referred to as pretty, but Siths hells hearing Obi-Wan say cock in his posh accent does something sinful to his body and Anakin can’t find enough willpower to disagree.
A fingernail dips into the slit and Anakin sees stars. His hands fly out to clutch Obi-Wan’s triceps. It takes several seconds to realize his ears buzz with high pitched noises, which are whines if Obi-Wan’s shushing is any indicator. Anakin’s going to die after all of Obi-Wan’s attempt to the contrary.
“Hush, darling.” Obi-Wan huffs a laugh under his breath. His thumb moves and finally, finally the blessed heat squeezes Anakin’s cock; the evilly talented man makes no move to quit his ministrations. “Your noises are for my ears only, hmm?”
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin breathes, voice hardly lower than before as he struggles plucking coherence into the forefront of his thoughts. Like an echo of the previous touch Anakin’s fingertips dig into his former Master’s muscles. “Please, please, please,” the chants lift his voice and Anakin doesn’t recognize the neediness.
The maddening man twists his wrist but moves no further. “Anakin, look at me.” When the command is obeyed, Obi-Wan licks his lips. “Have you touched yourself?”
Anakin thinks it’s a stupid question until Obi-Wan’s fingers slip beneath his testicles. He gasps out a tremulous, “No—not really.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers move higher, loosely rolling around Anakin’s testicles, before finally settling at the base of the shaft. All the while Obi-Wan’s gaze roves over Anakin with the intensity expected during tactical briefs; like Obi-Wan has a specific plan of attack and Anakin’s the intended target.
“And this?” this question is hushed, dark and predatory, as his fist painstakingly slow glides up Anakin’s cock. “Have you used your cock to fuck someone?”
Anakin shivers, giving a half head shake in place of verbalizing the truth.
“You’re a virgin?” If at all possible, Obi-Wan’s voice deepens.
He isn’t given any time to formulate a response—or even a non-response—before Obi-Wan’s soft Good Anakin assumes isn’t meant for him heightens his arousal.
“Will you—” he gulps, then chooses to throw caution to the wind. He drags his fingers up into the back of Obi-Wan’s hair and grips the short reddish strands. After a prolonged silence spent gathering courage, he finally says, “Will you show me?”
Obi-Wan growls, eyes clenched shut. “Yes,” he answers, “yes, darling; I am honored to show you.”
There isn’t any time to process his Master’s words or expression because Anakin cries out when Obi-Wan removes his hand. Had Anakin done something wrong? The frenzy shifts from excitement to anxiety—
He need not worry; Obi-Wan licks his palm then grabs Anakin by the root again. The new grip is firm and smooth as it slides up and down Anakin’s erection. Any trace of anxiety evaporates the way rain rises off pavement; pleasure overrides conscious thought and Anakin gives into it, content and confident Obi-Wan will follow through on his promise.
(A promise Anakin will examine later; but not right now.)
Anakin bucks into Obi-Wan’s fist, chasing magical sensations and accepting the fact his own hand will never replicate Obi-Wan’s thick grasp.
“That’s it,” encourages Obi-Wan, “fuck my hand.”
Anakin doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Which is… such a silly thought to have in the midst of experiencing the best handjob of his life. The best decision is keeping them in Obi-Wan’s hair, he decides; because the slide of Obi-Wan on Anakin’s dick is more important than any other silly distraction.
Sooner than he’d like, Anakin whines out a pathetic, “M’close. Master, m’close.”
And his favorite devilish man? Instead of keeping his hands pace or even increasing it, Obi-Wan bends down and wraps his lips around the tip.
Anakin keens from the force of his orgasm.
Obi-Wan suckles the last drop—which Anakin’s embarrassed to admit is quite a lot—and presses a tender kiss to the softening shaft then head. He glances up at Anakin as he sits back on his heels, palms resting atop his thighs, and drags his tongue on both the bottom and upper lip.
A gorgeous pleasurable haze clouds his mind and his eyes are half-mast as he stares at the incredible man knelt below him.
He reaches out and Obi-Wan meets him halfway. Their fingers lace together and Obi-Wan guides their hands to rest against Anakin’s cheek. He melts into the touch, eyes fluttering closed, basking in serenity.
“Let’s lay down.” The suggestion is soto voce despite the rasp at the back of Obi-Wan’s throat.
“Okay.” Anakin opens his eyes to find warm green eyes waiting for his attention. They smile, Anakin’s shy and Obi-Wan’s gentle.
Quietly, attentively, Obi-Wan sets Anakin back to rights. The older man draws Anakin to stand and steadies him when Anakin sways from the change in position. He nudges Anakin in the direction of his sleeping cot then bends down to pick up Anakin’s gear. Next, he hands over a fresh pair of clothes and turns around to give Anakin privacy, which is… Anakin might laugh if his head weren’t so loose; not five minutes ago Obi-Wan was personally acquainted with Anakin’s dick. Yet at the same time… Anakin’s charmed by the thoughtfulness.
Anakin slides into bed and rests his head on the lumpy pillow. He cushions his arms underneath, twisting to lay on his stomach.
“What’re you doing?” he mumbles, squinting.
“Moving the bed, obviously.” Obi-Wan replies as he butts his cot next to Anakin’s. A few moments pass of rearranging and outstretching blankets until Obi-Wan lies down. “C’mere, let me hold you.”
“What?” Anakin asks, but does as bid, wiggling around until he rests on the edge of his cot afraid to go further lest the weight dip.
Obi-Wan’s arms wrap Anakin up.
And everything quietens completely.
“S’nice,” he hums.
A thumb sweeps across Anakin’s collarbone. “Go to sleep, dearest.”
Anakin does.