“Sithing hells, Vos,” Obi-Wan complains, face mashed into the pillow, as Quinlan wriggles under the thick blankets beside him. Hisses, loud and offended, when Quinlan presses his cold feet to Obi-Wan’s shins, and flaps an uncoordinated hand at his face like he’d smack him if he was willing to wake up for it. “Oh, Force, you egg-sucking son of a slime-devil.”
“You kiss Asajj with that mouth?” Quinlan asks, smirking, and Obi-Wan growls. He still doesn’t lift his head, though, so clearly he’s not that offended.
“I,” Obi-Wan says with perfect dignity, “have never kissed Ventress. Unlike some people I could name.”
“Oh, ouch,” Quinlan says, unbothered, and stuffs himself as far under Obi-Wan as his greater bulk will allow. “Someone’s feeling mean tonight.”
“This morning,” Obi-Wan says pointedly, but after one more stubborn second he rolls over, cracks open an eye, and lets Quinlan plaster himself to Obi-Wan’s sleep-warm chest. “Kriff, Quinlan, were you skinny-dipping in the snow? You're freezing.”
“Had to leave the capital suddenly,” Quinlan admits, and buries his nose in Obi-Wan’s throat, more for the offended squeak it gets him than anything. “My speeder got shot down, so it was a long walk.”
“And you thought you’d just wander into my camp?” Obi-Wan huffs, but he wraps his arms around Quinlan and presses his feet over Quinlan's, so Quinlan assumes he’s forgiven. “Anakin is closer.”
Quinlan snickers. “Are you advising me to climb into bed with a married man? Force, Obi-Wan, it’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”
He doesn’t have to see the roll of Obi-Wan’s eyes to know it’s there. “Don’t say that too loudly. Anakin still thinks I don’t know.”
Anakin's an idiot, Quinlan decides. He definitely takes after his Master that way. “It’s still not Anakin I wanted to crawl into bed with,” he says, and gets a grip on the hem of Obi-Wan’s shirt—
“Quinlan Vos, if you stick your cold hands up the back of my shirt you’re going to be back out in the snow before you can say hypothermia.”
Quinlan groans, dropping his head against Obi-Wan’s collarbones. “Well, I'm going to have to stick them somewhere.”
“I hear Cody was admiring your hair the last time we served together,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “Perhaps try him.”
With a sound of pure pain, Quinlan closes his eyes. “He has the same face as—as that nerf-herder—”
“Ah,” Obi-Wan says, dry. “Aayla’s still seeing Commander Bly, then. I'm so happy for her.”
“Oh, go kiss an asteroid,” Quinlan mutters, and gets his hands on Obi-Wan’s hips. Over the cloth of his breeches, so even he can't complain. “If you really want me to go seduce your commander—”
“Don’t you dare.” Obi-Wan’s hands curl in his hair, and Quinlan laughs, turning his head to press a kiss to Obi-Wan’s wrist. The expression on Obi-Wan’s face softens faintly, and Quinlan doesn’t say the only bed I want to be in is yours, because that’s kriffing sappy. And besides that, Obi-Wan has his attention split between a hundred thousand things right now; friends who have fun in bed is the most he’s willing to do.
At the very least, of the two of them in this bed, Quinlan's the one who has psychometry. Obi-Wan doesn’t need to know everything, no matter what he seems to think.
“Dare what?” Quinlan asks, smirking. “Make out with a guy who’s got the same face as my former padawan’s…”
He can't finish. Aayla. Dating. If he wasn’t sure that she’d never speak to him again, he’d turn the clone upside down and shake him until a few answers came out.
“You know,” Obi-Wan says dryly, “she was seeing Kit for a while, too—”
“Shut your mouth, Obi-Wan,” Quinlan says, aggrieved, and Obi-Wan has the audacity to laugh at him. He’s never been impressed by Quinlan's bullshit.
“Shut it, hmm? And what should I do with it instead of talking?” Obi-Wan fingers curl in his dreadlocks, pulling just tight enough to feel, and Quinlan's breath catches. It adds a layer of smugness to Obi-Wan’s smile, and he twists, shedding blankets as he rolls them over, gets his hands on Quinlan's shoulders and pins him to the cot.
Raising his brows, because this isn't generally how things go, Quinlan settles back and smirks at him. “If you think I can jump right from talking about my padawan—”
“—to sex with you, try again,” Quinlan finishes. He reaches out for the blankets, intending to pull the covers back over them, but Obi-Wan catches his wrist. Deliberately, he raises it to his mouth, laying a kiss against Quinlan's pulse-point, and smirks at the hitch of Quinlan's breath. Leans forward, and—
“Maybe,” Obi-Wan murmurs, right above his mouth, “a man who’s a serial romantic shouldn’t disregard the romance of his former padawan and her commander falling in love in the middle of a war.”
Quinlan snorts, hoping it will cover the sudden uptick of his pulse. “Serial romantic?” he drawls. “Don’t make it sound like an incurable disease, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan’s smile is faintly crooked. “Isn't it?” he asks. “I'm so glad I escaped that particular affliction.” Lowering his head, he kisses Quinlan, slow and thorough, and Quinlan hums, gets his hands in red-gold hair. A knee presses up between his thighs, and with a groan he spreads them, letting Obi-Wan settle fully on top of him.
With a huff, Quinlan breaks the kiss, then offers Obi-Wan a smirk. “Did you escape it enough to let me grab the blankets? Because it’s cold.”
“Everything on this planet is cold,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “By virtue of it being an ice planet. I don’t see why you thought sex would be any different.” He ducks his head, tracing his fingers and then his mouth down the line of Quinlan's chest, then asks, “No armor?”
“You think I'm catching your crazy?” Quinlan retorts. “I was actually wearing my armor, so when I got shot in the heart the plastoid blocked it. Unlike some people I could name.”
But Obi-Wan doesn’t throw up a defense of his decreasing armor use. He pauses, startled, and looks up at Quinlan, a strange expression crossing his face. “In the heart?” he asks.
Quinlan rolls his eyes. “When I say I had to leave somewhere suddenly, it usually implies there was blaster fire involved. Or an attempted execution.”
“I have no idea why I even like you,” Obi-Wan says with an air of horrified revelation, and Quinlan laughs. He pulls Obi-Wan down on top of him, kisses him through the scratch of his old-man beard, and snickers when Obi-Wan pinches him in retaliation for the thought.
That thigh between his legs pushes up higher, and Quinlan obligingly rocks down on it, groaning at the pressure. Shivers when Obi-Wan slides a hand down his stomach, and asks against his lips, “Right for the main course, huh?”
Obi-Wan grunts, focused on rubbing his beard against Quinlan's neck to the point where most people would want to start investing in scarves. If Obi-Wan thinks Quinlan's going to do that, though, he doesn’t know him well enough. Beard burn might as well be a badge of honor at this point. It always makes Anakin turn incredibly entertaining colors, too, when he finally notices it.
“You're the one who woke me up in the middle of the night,” Obi-Wan tells him. “If you want long and slow, get here when I have leave next time.”
“Sure,” Quinlan says, “let me just schedule my next dramatic escape after I'm outed as a spy—”
“You do seem to be quite bad at the undercover part of all these undercover operations—”
“—and then we can fuck in—ngh.” Quinlan sinks his fingers into Obi-Wan’s shoulders, able to feel the smug slant of his smile all too well where it’s tucked up against his throat. The hand pressing against his zipper rubs in long, slow strokes, and Quinlan groans. It’s been a hell of a long time since they last did this, and Obi-Wan is a pushy, impatient bastard, no matter what front he might present to his former padawan.
“Kriff, Obi-Wan,” he mutters, and reaches for Obi-Wan’s cock. Shoves cloth down, gets his hands on it, and Obi-Wan’s low, gutted sound is massively gratifying.
Then, of course, because it’s Obi-Wan, Quinlan suddenly finds both his hands pinned above his head, held to the cot by an invisible grip. For a moment, he blinks at them, then laughs. It breaks on a moan as Obi-Wan shoves his pants down over his hips, wraps his hand around both of their cocks at once.
“Misuse of the Force?” he teases, breathless, and moans when Obi-Wan drags long, clever fingers up his shaft, washing sparks of light-bright sensation up his spine. Tightens his grip, right under the head, and Quinlan jerks up, only to get pushed back down. Obi-Wan kisses him, all clever tongue and an edge of teeth, and Quinlan's hands fist tight on nothing as he kisses back desperately, rocking up as best he can as Obi-Wan thrusts against him.
There’s no chance of running his mouth with Obi-Wan’s on his, with each tight stroke of Obi-Wan’s hand and the drag of his cock against Quinlan's driving the air from Quinlan's lungs, but Quinlan's never been shy with the Force. He bites at Obi-Wan’s lip, shoves an image at him—their next encounter, just like this, with all the things they don’t have time or energy for right now. Quinlan on his back, and Obi-Wan riding him, flushed pink and panting and still wicked. Or Quinlan on his knees, Obi-Wan on top of him, thrusting so hard Quinlan can't catch his breath—
With a sharp, needy sound, Obi-Wan thrusts up against him, twists his hand. Shudders, taking a desperate breath, and gasps out, “Menace,” even as he answers with an image of his own. It hits Quinlan as hard as a blow, shuddering through him, and for a moment he can feel it, as vivid as reality. Himself in Obi-Wan’s lap, back pressed to Obi-Wan’s chest, Obi-Wan’s cock buried in him to the hilt and the thick stretch of it. Small, slow, rocking thrusts, just enough to tease, to draw things out, to keep Quinlan squirming on the edge as Obi-Wan leaves marks on the skin of his shoulders, more and more until Quinlan has to put a real shirt on the next day to cover them.
One more hard stroke and Quinlan jerks, cries out. Obi-Wan’s thumb-nail drags beneath the head of his cock, scrapes down just as his other hand strokes up, and Quinlan can't hold himself back. The knot in his gut pulls tight, and with a ragged groan he comes over Obi-Wan’s hand, shaking through it. There’s a hitching, stuttering breath against his cheek, a prickly scratch of beard that burns, and then Obi-Wan is coming too, his breathless moan making Quinlan shiver.
The invisible grip on his wrists eases, and immediately Quinlan tugs his hands down, buries his fingers in Obi-Wan’s hair. Dragging Obi-Wan’s mouth back to his, he kisses him hard, gets a low, quiet chuckle as Obi-Wan sinks down on top of him again. The fingers on his cock stroke gently, slick with their spend, and Quinlan pulls back just enough to say, “I should have known this was all to get me to wear sleeves.”
Obi-Wan hums against his mouth, unrepentant. Adds to the image, slowly, deliberately, layering on imagined sensations until Quinlan has to thrown his head back with a groan, renewed arousal sparking uncomfortably under his skin. It makes Obi-Wan chuckle, and he kisses the corner of Quinlan's mouth and says, “It wasn’t just your hair Cody was admiring. A shirt is a good idea.”
Quinlan snickers. “Jealous?” he teases, knowing that Obi-Wan is going to laugh at him—
“I already had to put up with half the Order and Master Kolar making eyes at you,” Obi-Wan says, indignant. “If I have to worry about it from my men, too, I’ll never get any rest. They’ll all be walking into walls every time you go to throw a punch.”
With a laugh, Quinlan waves a hand, sending the blankets flopping up over them to bury them completely. In the darkness under them, as Obi-Wan splutters, he says, “Careful, Obi-Wan. I might think we’re going steady if you keep talking like that.”
There’s a groan, and Obi-Wan thumps down face-first on his chest. One hand slides up, pressing hard over Quinlan's heart, and Obi-Wan says, “You’ll be the death of me, you rankweed sucker. Someone has to keep you out of trouble, don’t they?”
Quinlan refrains from pointing out that Obi-Wan gets into roughly twelve times the trouble that he manages in any given week.
Obi-Wan still pinches him in the ribs for thinking it, but—
Well. Quinlan touches his skin and all he feels is me too you idiot me too.
He’ll take it.