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It’s astonishing, really, how many times Obi-Wan thinks I’m far too sober for this in his lifespan. Even more so—or less, depending on who you ask—is how many of those moments have been due, in part or in full, to Anakin Skywalker.
Who is, at the moment, sitting half on his bar stool and half on Obi-Wan’s lap, heavy and slurring in a way that would be more endearing if it hadn’t only been three shots into the night. Obi-Wan, meanwhile, is nursing his seventh glass of, well, anything, as he’d long since stopped asking for complicated drinks and moved on to whatever the bartender was willing to throw at him. He needs the distraction, really. Anakin’s legs are far too heavy, and they have an important Council meeting tomorrow that he really isn’t looking forwards to.
“And then, Master,” Anakin says, waving his hand around to emphasize a story that he’s apparently been telling, “I caught Ahsoka sneaking back into her quarters! Do you know where she’d been all night?”
Obi-Wan resists, with some difficulty, the urge to remind his former padawan of the many nights he’d been caught returning to their rooms reeking of liquor and sweat. “Out at some bar with her padawan friends, I presume?”
“At Kristi’s Klub! I don’t even know where Kristi’s is!”
“Well, it is rather out of the way. And a bit raucous. I haven’t been there in many years.”
Anakin, honest-to-Force, pouts. “Of course you would know where it is, Master, with your blue eyes and that accent and—“ he makes a vague waving gesture at Obi-Wan’s head, “all of your beard and stuff.”
“My… ‘beard and stuff’?” Really now, he’d thought he looked quite dashing with his beard.
“Yes, your ‘beard and stuff’! It’s so soft, and when you do all your negotiating-talking it makes your mouth look pretty and everyone wants to kiss it so they give you the kriffing address of the Kristi Club so they can get you drunk and seduce you.” It’s said in such a plaintive whine that Obi-Wan has to laugh, really, at Anakin’s complete indignation at not being invited. Really, it’s a horrid place, all bodies that make him feel far too old and no room to even breathe in anything beyond spice dust and bad decisions. He hasn’t even been there in years.
But really now. “I can assure you, Anakin, I do not go into negotiations trying to ‘look pretty.’”
“You don’t need to, you do anyway,” he says, voice shifting into that sing-song-y lilt that Obi-Wan knows far too well at this point. Leaning forward, his face is altogether much too close to Obi-Wan’s for comfort, given that they’re still very much seated at the bar in the Outlander Club. “And your eyes, they’re really so blue, it’s like Artoo’s eyes! Well, if Artoo had eyes, and they were blue—like the rest of him. Although his sensor is sort of like an eye already, but it’s yellow. So if his sensor was blue. That’s what your eyes look like.”
Sometimes, Obi-Wan wonders how in the universe Padmé put up with him for so long.
Anakin starts to keel over, and Obi-Wan quickly waves a short gesture under the bar to push him upright. Anakin laughs, low in his throat like a loth-cat, nearly knocking over his drink before Obi-Wan re-balances it and, for good measure, floats it over to himself.
“That seemed an awful lot like irresponsible use of the Force, Master,” he says.
“Saving you from embarrassing the Jedi Temple and getting even more inebriated? I would hardly call that ‘irresponsible’.” What’s irresponsible, he thinks, is how sickly sweet this drink is. Barely palatable. Still, it’s not like Anakin is the only drunk one; he can feel his barriers loosening at their edges, fuzzing soft and wild at the seams, egged on by whatever was in Anakin’s drink. And he really could go for another one, he thinks.
Several minutes later, the bartender still hasn’t noticed him. “Or she’s ignoring you,” Anakin says from his perch, his face slowly becoming one with the wooden countertop.
“She’s not ignoring me. It’s simply a busy night,” he says. There are at least five customers here tonight, he estimates, and that absolutely qualifies as “busy.” Still, he figures there’s no harm in doing it himself as long as he compensates her accordingly, so he twists his fingers to bring over the cocktail shaker and what he thinks is the right bottle, given its alarming shade of pink, and begins stirring one himself. “Besides, this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do, given the circumstances.”
The air outside is bitingly cold, and its really unpleasant, given their abrupt transition. By which he means that the bartender had thrown them out after Obi-Wan, getting a little overzealous and more than a little overconfident, tried to float an entire unopened bottle of emerald wine over to him and Anakin. Anakin had roared with laughter, prodding at his master’s “inexpert use of the Force,” he’d managed to get out between tears, but Obi-Wan insisted that, in all fairness, his getting caught had less to do with his handling of the Force and more to do with the fact that the bartender had walked face-first into the bottle as it had crossed her path.
Anakin, meanwhile, had continued communing face-to-face with the bar up until they’d been forcibly evicted, and Obi-Wan’s a bit too uncoordinated to steady him with the Force right now, so instead he’s walking back to the Jedi Temple with Anakin slung over his shoulders. Anakin, who is humming some atrocious heavy isotope song that he’s heard far too many times while Anakin works on his droids.
It’s an altogether unpleasant scene as he makes his way back toward the Jedi Temple one step at a time, between the cold cutting through his robes and Anakin’s awful musical renditions.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Anakin, as I’m sure its entirely due to your increased hours in the saber rooms and not at all due to the snacks I keep finding in the couch cushions, but you have gotten quite heavy over the years,” he says.
Anakin makes an indignant sound that can really only be described as a squawk.
“Well, Master,” he says in a worryingly mischievous tone, “I can make it a bit easier for you.” His hands sweep out in a wide, messy Force sign, and Obi-Wan feels his feet levitating waveringly. It’s taking all his concentration not to drop Anakin, let alone control his limbs, and he really doesn’t think this is a good idea.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Anakin,” he says, before Anakin slips, his hands aborting their signing, and suddenly Anakin is very heavy and the ground is approaching very fast and—
He blinks open his eyes to a pounding headache and Anakin’s warm weight on the left side of his chest. His eyes are closed, and if he didn’t know better Obi-Wan would almost suspect him to be meditating.
“Oh, you’re awake!” he says, his eyes noting Obi-Wan’s open ones. “You were out for a while there, Master.”
He was unconscious? That’s a bit worrying. But, more pressingly, he asks, “And why are we lying on the ground?”
“Oh, that? Well, I kinda knocked you out when we fell over—“
“When you dropped me, you mean.”
“Fine, that, and you were lying on the street, so I lay down next to you so people would think we were just doing some weird Jedi thing.”
It’s not the worst excuse he’s heard come out of Anakin’s mouth, thankfully. And, as he pushes himself up, he can see the towers of the Jedi Temple in the distance, so it can’t be that far off. This time, though, he only slips Anakin’s arm over his shoulder, forcing them both to walk in sync. Carrying a drunk Anakin is an exercise he’d rather not repeat.
Miraculously, they make it to the building and down the really quite unnecessarily long and meanderingly long halls of the temple without being spotted. Which is astonishing, really, given that they’re both radiating fuzzed Force signatures like a binary star system. But the walls are warping and collapsing around them, he thinks, and surely they must have sprung some sort of trap or something, but no, they’re in front of his quarters already. He fumbles for the key with one hand, the other bracing against Anakin’s thighs in preparation to flip him down.
“Anakin, we’re here,” he says, because it’s foolish to pretend that Anakin has actually moved into his new quarters now that he’s not a padawan when they both know he spends more nights in his old rooms with Obi-Wan than anywhere else. “Time to get you into bed.”
His former padawan stirs, hair sticking to his forehead as he twists around, face visible somewhere near the crook of Obi-Wan’s elbow. “What?” he manages to slur out, voice heavy and wet.
As they walk inside, Obi-Wan stumbles over the droid that Anakin, again, had left near the front door, and his shifted weight combined with Anakin’s uncoordinated attempt to extricate himself from his grasp leads to their falling into an unceremonious puddle, Obi-Wan’s cheek unpleasantly flush with the floor. Anakin lets out a drawn-out groan as he pushes himself up on his forearms.
“Master, you need to get up,” he says, rolling onto one arm and pushing at Obi-Wan’s robes with the other. “You can’t be lying on the floor, you might be injured.”
And isn’t that rich, he thinks, his former padawan, blind drunk, trying to take care of him. He manages to push himself onto his hands and knees, throwing Anakin off of him and onto the floor, before pulling himself up and onto two very unsteady feet. “Come now, lets get you to bed,” he says. “You’re only going to feel worse in the morning if you stay there.”
Anakin moans into the floorboards, somehow pained and indignant at the same time.
“Okay, Anakin. Let’s get you up.” Anakin’s face is still plated firmly against the floor, but he offers a hand vaguely in Obi-Wan’s direction, so he takes and gives it a slightly Force-weighted tug, Anakin springing up at an alarming speed and colliding solidly with his shoulder which Force, Anakin, hurts rather a lot. They manage to maneuver into a semblance of upright, arms wrapped around each other as they stagger towards Anakin’s bedroom. Halfway there, however, Anakin veers sharply to the left, moving towards Obi-Wan’s bedroom door and waving it open—a bit too hard, Obi-Wan thinks, wincing as it collides with the wall behind it with a loud crash—to pull Obi-Wan into his room.
“I,” he says, with a firm sense of righteousness leaking out between syllables, “can get myself to bed just fine. You, Master, cannot. You have a head injury.”
Obi-Wan feels a sudden pressure across his mid-back, stretched like an open hand pushing him towards his bed, and he wriggles to the side to escape its grasp. “Anakin, what—“ he chokes out as it pushes too hard, sending him falling forward onto his bed, thank Force. “What are you doing? You are my former padawan, and you are drunk. I am going to help you into bed, and then we are both going to sleep.” He punctuates this rather impassioned speech with a Force wave that breaks Anakin’s concentration and pulls him alongside Obi-Wan as they lay horizontally across his bed. “Besides, Anakin, I only hit my head because of your ill-advised decision to try and misuse your powers on me.”
“Well, I only got drunk because of your decision to misuse your ridiculous alcohol tolerance on me!” he shoots back, more than a little petulantly.
“Anakin, what have I taught you about taking responsibility for your action?”
Rolling over, he crosses his hands across his thighs in a sloppy rendition of a meditation stance. “That if I do not accept responsibility for my own fate, I will be unable to change its direction,” he parrots off in a truly appalling imitation of a Coruscanti accent.
Obi-Wan sighs.
“Besides, Master,” Anakin continues, flopping gracelessly onto his stomach once more, “We’re already in a bed, and this way I can make sure you don’t have some sort of traumatic brain injury.” He sounds almost proud of himself, the way he says that phrase practiced and careful, as if he’d looked it up while he’d been unconscious. Which, Obi-Wan thinks, might be exactly what had happened. Still, they’re both far too old now to share a bed without substantial overlap, and far too drunk to engage in anything other than sleep, and he’s not sure he trusts Anakin in this state to avoid either—or both.
“If we’re going to share the bed, Anakin, then please let me sleep. I’m quite intoxicated, too, even if I’m not nearly as far gone as you are.” He moves to reorient himself to lie lengthwise on the bed, toeing off his shoes while shifting out of his robe, but the minute he lifts himself off of the bed he feels a Force-made pressure against his lower stomach, tracing patterns against his skin that blur and twist with a heat that reminds him of the aftertaste of liquor in the back of his throat. Glancing over, he’s altogether unsurprised to see Anakin smirking as he waves one of his hands loosely.
“Anakin,” he warns, probably much more sharply than he should have, “what did I just say?”
Anakin turns, moving languidly as he shimmies into Obi-Wan’s space, his face suddenly far too close for the amount of willpower he’s absolutely certain it’s going to take to resist.
“Why, Obi-Wan, I’m sure that you said we needed to sleep, right?”
His eyes are absurdly blue, he finds himself thinking, the scar tracing his right eye into a slight slant, and he lets out a shaky exhale against his lips. As he does, he can see Anakin’s pupils bloom.
“We do need to sleep, Anakin. We have a meeting tomorrow morning, remember? And I think you’ll find the Council even less palatable with a hangover.” Even he has to shudder at that thought—he’s attended meetings with a hangover before, and it had taken all of his concentration to not vomit spectacularly onto Yoda’s hoverchair. As soon has he does, however, Anakin resumes his path over Obi-Wan’s abdomen, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his lips as Obi-Wan gasps.
“The hangover is going to happen whether we sleep now or not, Master,” he says, and Obi-Wan has to admit he might have a point there, “and I’m not particularly sleepy—yet.” At this, he grins, widely and predatory, and Obi-Wan suddenly feels a bit like a nek facing down a hungry sabercat.
Oh, to hell with it, he thinks, and lunges.
His and Anakin’s mouths meet and it feels like fire, burning hot and wet as their lips part, his tongue slipping into Anakin’s mouth and seeking, claiming, searching as Anakin shifts the two of them to lie along the bed’s length and clambering on top of him, Force, heavy where their hips meet. His hands find their way to Anakin’s halo of curls and grab firmly, holding fast as Anakin’s hands move in a frenzied pace to shed them both of their robes. Of course, they’re both wearing far too many layers, and they have to break apart, breathing heavily, to pull apart their belts. He finds his fingers shaking too much to undo the fastening at the back of his over-tunic and he rolls over, bending forward to allow Anakin to undo it. Instead, Anakin mouths onto the junction between vertebrae at the base of his nape and suckles, latching on with teeth and throat and licking a fierce patch and Obi-Wan moans, throwing one hand back to tangle in Anakin’s hair once more as he bites his way up to the nest of short hairs at the top of his neck while his fingers open the collar.
Anakin pulls away and Obi-Wan is bereft, briefly, before he hears the shuffling sound of leather, shortly followed by Anakin throwing his tabard haphazardly across the room where it comes to rest atop a meditation statuette he’d been gifted upon ascension to the Council.
Anakin giggles.
“Really, Anakin?” He can’t help but chide him for his complete disregard for both his attire and the Council, but Anakin takes the opportunity to shift their now half-clad bodies back onto the bed, one hand holding him down and the other fumbling at Obi-Wan’s waistband, fingernails scrabbling and scratching in a burst of pinprick pain until he finally gets the clasp open. Then his hand dips down below the fabric, and Obi-Wan can feel his fingers, rough and callused from years of saber practice and droid repair, so different from the cool metal resting against his breastbone and so distinctly Anakin that he bucks up into it, desperate for friction and sensation and anything, really. Still, Anakin continues to trace idle circles at the junction of Obi-Wan’s thigh, coming soclosesoclose but never touching the thick heat radiating from his now quite erect cock, and he’s finding it really difficult to focus on anything other than the single point of heat where Anakin’s fingers meet his skin.
He sits up quickly, pulling his under-tunic over his head, but quickly finds himself tangled in the wrap-over chest, one hand stuck in what is either a sleeve or a pocket but can’t tell, the room is too dark, he’d forgotten to turn on the lights and everything is lit by moonlight alone, and he feels and senses rather than sees Anakin’s hands sliding from his hips to his arms, over his exposed chest and brushing over his nipples before coming to rest in the fabric currently holding his arms hostage above his head and pulling. The tunic slides off across the soreness at the base of his neck and he can’t even muster up authority to comment when Anakin throws it to land on top of his tabard on the damn Council’s statue. Really. It deserves it.
Anakin, of course, is already shirtless, the fastening on his trousers half undone, about to fall off and riding low on his hips and Obi-Wan just has to lean into them, biting at the sharp ridge of hipbones and swiping his tongue across the firm muscle between and licking upwards, tasting salt and smoke and the silver-fire tang of Anakin as he slowly lies back down, pulling Anakin down with him until he’s nose-to-breastbone and he can feel the swift thumps of Anakin’s heart against his lips, reminding him that he is here and they have this and the galaxy is circling around Anakin with the light of the Force, spinning out in webs and shatterpoints and memories of a life that could have been, broken and spiraling and weaving back together and knitting the threads that tie them to each other. He presses one last kiss to Anakin’s sternum and then pulls his head down flush with his own, returning to his mouth and sucking and running his teeth along Anakin’s plush lower lip, tasting the Twi’lek liquor he’d been downing earlier in a bitter-sick-harsh undertow.
Anakin fumbles a hand between them, finally, finally wrapping his hand around Obi-Wan’s now-desperate cock, firm and unyielding and smooth, ridged metal and Obi-Wan finds himself thrusting up, pinned down by Anakin’s weight but needing to move, but Anakin pulls his lips away and moves to whisper in Obi-Wan’s ear.
“No, let me—I want to do this. I can take care of this.” Husky and low, his voice sets Obi-Wan’s skin aflame, tingling down his back and between his legs to where Anakin is setting a solid, steady rhythm on his cock, and everything narrows down to the feeling of Anakin’s hand on him and Anakin’s mouth biting a ring around his neck and the infinite space between the two points and AnakinAnakinAnakin, he finds himself breathing out in time with his hands, his name like a paean to some elder being. Every attempt to move his hips or even to move at all are stopped by the Force wrapped around Anakin’s remaining hand as it sweeps his wrists to rest above his head, and he can feel himself tightening, closing, needing when Anakin—
“Force, Anakin, really?”
Anakin removes his hand.
“Anakin!” It’s more a broken, plaintive cry than a shout—though Obi-Wan will deny that to the end of his days—and he wriggles his hands experimentally but Anakin’s strength holds firm, and the sensation of air on his cock is altogether much too little, but then Anakin bends over and blows, lips millimeters from the tip, and Obi-Wan locks eyes with Anakin’s saber-blue eyes, all pale rims and blown pupils and sin, and then his tongue reaches out and laps and oh, Obi-Wan thinks.
Obi-Wan stops thinking. There are no more words in his mind, only images and feelings and pure pleasure, Anakin’s mouth hot and wet and smooth, sucking and licking and making sounds that should be absolutely inappropriate for any Jedi to make, and he realizes with a start that Anakin’s metal hand isn’t holding him back anymore, it’s all Force bindings, before Anakin catches his eye, moves himself to lie sideways across Obi-Wan’s hips, and kriff that’s a sight.
Anakin’s hole, stretched open and dripping lubricant around the black-and-gold fingers, his fingers moving at a roughshod pace as he throws his head back, supporting himself with a hand splayed across Obi-Wan’s stomach, as he moans. The sound goes straight to his cock, and he can feel it thrum in anticipation as Anakin lets out another groan.
“So good,” he says, watching as Anakin presses against his prostate with an unmistakable intake of breath, “so good, you’re stretching yourself like this for me,” he wants to reach open and take over, make Anakin scream out, “good boy, you’re mine, such a good boy for me,” and here Anakin nearly breaks, slams his forehead down against Obi-Wan’s hipbone hard enough to make him wince and lets out a sound that’s half-air and half-cry and—
“Master, please!” Anakin’s fingers are moving faster now, curling and pushing and Obi-Wan wants so, so much to free his hands, pull Anakin’s hand away and replace it with his own, but Anakin keeps begging and “please, Master, can I?” and all Obi-Wan can say is a single, breathed out assent.
Then Anakin moves to settle himself above him, hands on Obi-Wan’s chest, and there’s a moment that feels like it stretches on forever, Anakin’s skin blotchy and flushed and golden against his own milky white, his thighs tensed, before his sinks down and there, he can feel Anakin’s entrance stretching around the head of his cock, tight still and wet and searing hot, before Anakin lets out a gasp and sinks himself down entirely, their hips running flush.
He begins to move, slowly, a gentle lift of his hips halfway up Obi-Wan’s cock before pressing down again, each time pulling out more and more until the head of his cock just slips halfway through his entrance with each movement before being pulled back inside in a silky glide. Obi-Wan wants more, wants Anakin to just envelop him, but Anakin keeps his hips to a slow roll, a sinuous movement that he punctuates with a low purr in his throat like a rolling boil.
Feeling Anakin’s slow rise and fall and tight, tight heat without being able to so much as lift a finger to his beautiful heaving chest is almost too much for Obi-Wan, sensation right on the edge of not enough with how careful and steady he’s moving, and he puts as much concentration as he can spare into pushing against his bindings. He can feel them, stretching thin and taut like a strip of synthrub, and they’re almost there when Anakin stills his movements, looks directly at Obi-Wan with his lidded, black-and-blue eyes, and clenches around him. Hard. Distracted, he feels his hands snap back down, this time spread-eagle, pulling him down flat so Anakin can ride him in earnest. And he does, oh how he does, thighs coursing as his hips slide smoothly around Obi-Wan’s cock, and he begins to let out a jerky little gasp at the base of each bounce.
Finally, blessed finally, Obi-Wan manages to move his hips a fraction, meeting Anakin on his downward thrust. The resultant cry cuts through the air and Anakin’s grip on the bindings slip like the snapping of a sparkling thread, and Obi-Wan surges forward, wrapping his arms around Anakin and bowling him over onto his back, Obi-Wan flush against him as he drives his cock in as deep as he can.
Anakin keens.
There’s no other word for it, Obi-Wan thinks. He throws back his head, Obi-Wan taking the opportunity to bury his face in the crook of his neck, and howls, long and high in absolute pleasure. He can feel it, the sheer weight of it, thrumming through their bond as Anakin’s shields just shatter, coating Obi-Wan in lovewantneedlovewantedsafelove, pressing in and around until they’re the only creatures in the galaxy, working in symbiosis of pleasure and the sweet slight undercurrent of pain. Obi-Wan’s hands find their way to Anakin’s hair again, pulling his head back to reveal even more of his neck as he continues to work it with his tongue, all the while murmuring praise. With every word, Anakin shudders, and his hips become little more than a stuttering, out-of-sync flutter as he gets closer and closer to the edge.
“Oh, Anakin,” he whispers, “do you have any idea how good you’re being for me right now? So beautiful, so good.” He’s close, he can tell by the way his breathing has all but stopped, coming out in choked-off gasps with every sharp thrust, and Obi-Wan can feel the heat pooling low in his stomach, a synthrub band threatening to break, thick and heady and electric, Force energy crackling around them like the air before a lightning strike. Anakin’s mechanohand is carving into Obi-Wan’s back hard enough to bruise, he can feel its ridges scraping what is surely red down his shoulder blades, and he feels a coiled spring tight in his gut that needs to be released.
So he leans in directly next to Anakin’s ear, running one hand along the curve of his jaw and the other clasping Anakin’s other hand above the both of them, and asks, “Lovely Anakin, will you come for me?”
Beneath him, Anakin comes undone, mewling through his incoherent spasms, his hole tightening around Obi-Wan’s cock buried in full, their bond overflowing with the starlight of his orgasm as he comes across their stomachs. Anakin’s shaking hands wrap around Obi-Wan to bring him chest-to-chest, and with a few more thrusts through the aftershocks he, too, is coming, surrounded in velvet-wet heat and the supernova of their shared pleasure pulsing outwards from their joined bodies.
They stay like that, foreheads pressed together, for several long, drawn-out moments, until Obi-Wan slips his softening cock out and rolls over, bringing Anakin against his side and calling over a damp cloth from the ‘fresher which he uses to wipe off their stomachs and the stickiness collecting at Anakin’s ass. Anakin, already nearly asleep, curls up against him. Truly a loth-cat, Obi-Wan thinks, pressing a fond kiss against his forehead, still tasting of salt.
“Mm, love you too,” Anakin says, voice heavy with sleep.
Obi-Wan smiles, summoning his robe from where it had fallen off the bed and hovering it to cover the two of them before he, too, dozes off.