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It started innocently enough.
Or else, it started when Anakin was young enough he didn’t care if it was innocent or not. He was twelve or thirteen at the dawn of this terrible habit, still seeking out underground races to enter, still filling the Jedi temple with droves of unwanted droids, still desperately, maddeningly hungry for not only Master Obi-Wan’s approval, but his touch. Forever on the edge of disapproval, always knocking up against some rule to break. What was one more? It didn’t seem worse than any of his other minor infractions.
He doesn't even remember the first time he did it—crept into Obi-Wan’s quarters, stood poised at the edge of his bed with his breath held, heart hammering in his chest. He just knows that tampering down the wild, lonely, angry heat of his own Force signature and staring down at Obi-Wan’s slack face when he slept, unbeknownst to Anakin’s presence, was comforting enough he could fall back asleep after lurching awake from a nightmare.
Or at least it was at first. Then, like most things in Anakin’s life, it proved not to be enough.
After several nights of simply watching, it occurred to him to touch. That was what he truly wanted, after all. The heat of Obi-Wan’s arms around his shoulders, hands in his hair, toying fondly with the Padawan braid as Qui-Gon once did, in the brief time Anakin was his Padawan. Qui-Gon was not afraid to touch Anakin as Obi-Wan seemed to be, Anakin often thought, not without bitterness. In fact, Qui-Gon seemed to delight in touching him, Anakin still remembers the broad span of his palms across his chest, rubbing his back, dipping lower to cup his small body, hold him close, whisper in his ear with a low voice and hot breath. It was all a hazy memory at this point, but Anakin knew it must not have been forbidden by the Jedi Council, to hold one’s Padawan close and stroke his hair and comfort him as a father might. Obi-Wan was simply denying him. Withholding affection in favor of something cold, something like propriety.
But Anakin grew up amid scarcity and it taught him to claw at things, swallow them whole without chewing, hoard them away and dream of possessing them. It made him push rules, test boundaries. It made him decide, one night, as he stood soaked in terror-sweat by Obi-Wan’s bedside, to reach into his Master’s mind, steer it deeper into sleep using the Force, and then, with Obi-Wan lost in the folds of his dreams, climb into his bed.
He remembers that part. The smell of his Master’s slept-in sheets, spicy and salty and intimate. The way his arm was so heavy as Anakin ducked under it, pressed his cheek to the bare strip of his chest at the neck of his sleep tunic. The steady lulling rhythm of his breath, drifting off, matching his own exhalations to it. Feeling safe, cared for—but also, terribly naughty for having stolen something without asking. Not only without asking but by manipulating the Force.
It was a heady combination. Breaking the rules so clearly, so indulgently. But also, the peace of being held. Thrill and security, blending into one, his need to push boundaries melting into his need to be touched, cherished, loved. He’d found a way to access that, and it didn't matter how he got it. Anakin decided then and there, snuffling into his Master’s coarse auburn chest hair, that this was where he belonged. It was his right, after having sacrificed so much, fought for so long.
And so, it became a ritual.
Many times, especially as he got older, Anakin convinced himself that he should probably stop. That the guilt of knowing what Obi-Wan smelled like, how he twitched and murmured in his sleep, how he sometimes tightened his subconscious hold on Anakin and nuzzled into his hair, was too much to endure. Especially considering Obi-Wan did not grant Anakin access to such treasures—Anakin merely took them. He bent the Force to take them, without asking. So he’d vow to quit, to wean himself off such a terrible indulgence. To be normal, to want normal, acceptable things from his Master.
But then, after months of abstinence, Anakin would be awoken by a nightmare, and the whole shameful cycle would start again.
He was fifteen when it stopped even wearing the guise of innocence.
The shift—it wasn't his fault, he told himself. He was a teenager. Teenagers had confused bodies and wild desires, that was what Master Yoda and Master Windu kept saying, anyway, every time he and Obi-Wan were called in for some lecture following some other awful thing Anakin had done. He was seemingly always doing awful things, so why quit this, when it was easily the most rewarding? The one he needed most?
Obi-Wan, of course, only denied him further the older he got. Even the stilted, meager touch he offered when Anakin was a child dried up to nothingness, evaporating like droplets under harsh sunlight. So, in his darkest moments, Anakin began to think of it as his right. To control Obi-Wan’s sleeping mind, force it into a box, shut it up so he could take what he deserved. Warm skin, slack face, soft snores. And then—then—more.
Getting an erection half-asleep in his Master’s arms wasn’t even shocking, or unexpected. When it happened, Anakin just rutted closer, stomach in knots. Of course, he thought. I should have known this would happen.
Not just because it was happening all the time in other, even stranger circumstances. But because Obi-Wan had always been the remote, unattainable sun of Anakin’s solar system, the center around which he orbited in vain, burning too brightly to touch. He existed that way as a father figure, as a mentor, as the ideal Jedi. It seemed natural—comically predictable, even, that Anakin would also lust after him. This didn't even register as a revelation. Only of course, of course, of course, he’s perfect in every way, of course, he’s untouchable in every way. Unless you put a wall up, twist the fabric of the Force, dull him from knowing, and touch him anyway.
Anakin touched himself, instead. Sucked in ragged, desperate inhalations of Obi-Wan’s sleeping breath while he fisted his cock, came in Obi-Wan’s sheets, and then mopped it up carefully with the hem of his own tunic, still gasping, choking on sour-thick air. Of course.
And that became a ritual, too. Just like meditation, like swordsmanship. Another way to interact with the Force and hone it perfectly, bend it to Anakin’s will so he could get away with exactly what he meant to get away with: furiously jacking off in his Master’s bed every other night, staring at his pretty profile, his parted lips, his copper hair glinting in the low light. Perfect, untouchable. But then, not untouchable at all. Hot skin under Anakin’s hands, his lips, his open mouth. Shining spit halos on his gold-stubbled throat in the shape of Anakin’s ever-hungry mouth. Seed on his clothes. Clinging to his beard. Touched, touched, marked.
Anakin knew it was a filthy secret, but he luxuriated in the filth. He was fifteen and all wrong, a wrong Jedi, a wrong boy, fatherless and starving and angry, sick with longing. Obi-Wan might seem untouchable, but Anakin was untouched, and that was a far worse fate to suffer, he thought. Plus, it was Obi-Wan’s fault he was that way, and therefore Obi-Wan’s fault he was forced to take what he needed by using such vile and mortifying means. Maybe if Obi-Wan had been more like Qui-Gon, had loved him like he craved to be loved, hugged him, told him he was proud of him, Anakin’s desire would have not ended up in such dirty places. Maybe if Obi-Wan had been a decent father figure, Anakin would not have grown to want him in every other way. It was all fucked up, but it wasn’t his doing. Anakin was merely making the best of the lot Obi-Wan dealt him.
There was also the fact that Obi-Wan was, objectively, the most handsome man in the whole Jedi Order. Perhaps all of Coruscant. What was Anakin supposed to do, spending all his time with such a man while only being served breadcrumbs, mild disappointment, still milder praise? How was he supposed to survive burning up in the terrible, white-hot of Obi-Wan’s beauty, the cerulean of his eyes, without going mad for more?
His justifications were, in part, because it felt too fucking good to stop. The intimacy was unmatched. Sweet because it was Obi-Wan, sweeter because it was stolen. Anakin had to guard his mind during the days spent training with his Master to prevent scattered images from seeping out into their Force-bond and giving him away. Terrible things—his hard cock nudging against Obi-Wan’s sleep-limp hand, streaking the palm in slickness. Their legs tangled, Anakin’s hips grinding, rutting. And worst of all, somehow, the maddening blur of kissing Obi-Wan’s slack, unresisting mouth. Putting his tongue inside, licking over his teeth, tasting his spit, moaning into him as he came in a sudden, animal snap of his hips. Obi-Wan’s mouth was always so hot, molten and burning and so easy to lick open, so pink inside. Anakin could effortlessly imagine fucking it. Usually open and drooling and soft how it was when Obi-Wan slept, but sometimes, deep within the depravity of his arousal, he’d dream of the suction of it. Obi-Wan not an unaware, unwilling participant but as hungry as Anakin was hungry, base and broken as Anakin was base and broken. Sucking him down, moaning around his cock, breaking all the rules he supposedly cared so much about, all because he wanted Anakin. Needed Anakin. The thought usually worked to push him over the edge, cock spilling into his Master’s sheets, just as Anakin groaned into his mouth. Into their almost kiss, half of a kiss, untouched, untouchable.
It was never enough. Come daylight, Obi-Wan was as remote as ever, as cold as ever, winking out like a satellite in the distance. Saying yet again, in his increasingly exhausted tone, you’ll have to learn to manage your emotions, Anakin, if you truly want to pursue the path of a Jedi knight. It was like he could sense the ways in which Anakin was feeding their bond, cultivating their attachment in darkness and in secret, pressed between sheets like a pressed flower in old diary pages. Obi-Wan was always tired, nerves frayed to near nothingness, and Anakin was well aware of his part in this. Aside from his constant, concrete boundary-pushing in their waking hours, there was the fact that he worried their Force-bond at night, consciousness deep in Obi-Wan’s mind, weighing it down, silencing it, nudging it deeper and deeper into sleep. Obi-Wan didn’t know it, but his mind was not truly his own anymore. Anakin’s hands were always in it, and it had grown to fit the shape of them. To fit perfectly in the grip of his meddlesome fingers. No wonder he was worn so thin—he was forever being shaped, at the mercy of someone he thought he was shaping. Anakin loved knowing Obi-Wan was under his subconscious thrall, but it didn’t really soothe the sting of not having what he wanted willingly. His nighttime habit sated the burn of his want only in sickly, temporary bursts. But it always came back, got its teeth in him, Obi-Wan’s voice in his head reminding Anakin, but you don’t really have me, do you? I don’t even know it’s you tossing me about, toying with me. Certainly, there’s an attachment. But does it even count if I don’t know the ways in which I return it?
So, Anakin gets greedier. Restraint is not working, maybe excess will.
On the night of his sixteenth birthday, he arrives at Obi-Wan’s bedside as he always does. He shucks his sleep tunic in a single motion, cock already half-hard and heavy in his palm. With his other hand, he reaches for his Master, sinks fingers into the soft shiny spun-gold of his hair, and touches his mind. Obi-Wan’s sleep-muted Force signature rises to meet his touch, yearning for this moment he’s been trained to hunger for after five years of careful, deliberate stroking. That is the only reciprocity Anakin ever gets—the heat of Obi-Wan’s mind lifting in trembles to touch his, twine with it, allow itself to be flattened into silence and submission.
Anakin presses into it, kneads it, cock twitching at the soft, supple way Obi-Wan just gives. He’s so soft in his sleep, and there might be no limit on what Anakin would do to witness such tenderness in waking. It’s my birthday, he thinks, curling up at Obi-Wan’s back, licking up the column of his neck, drinking in the small, breathy sigh that escapes Obi-Wan’s sleeping mouth as he melts into Anakin’s touch. I deserve a present.
He holds Obi-Wan possessively, loops his arms around him, crushes the frame of his body close to his chest, and ruts against him. He’s grown taller than him in the last year, and it’s easy to fold him up, make him feel small and weak in the cage of Anakin’s grip as he humps against his ass. When Anakin was a boy, part of the comfort of this ritual was that Obi-Wan was so much bigger, heavy and suffocating as Anakin wormed his way under the weight of his arm. But now, his body seems easily manipulable in his sleep, and this development opens up a series of formerly unthought-of possibilities. For example, up until this point, Anakin hasn’t gone as far as undressing Obi-Wan, mostly because it seems impractical and difficult to get his clothes back on without their disarray seeming suspicious in the morning. Plus, Obi-Wan sleeps on his side, top knee bent and hiked high enough that pulling his waistband down would be challenging without rearranging his limbs.
But Anakin can do that now. He could roll Obi-Wan onto his back, peel his pants down his thighs just enough to get his cock out. To smell it, kiss it, suck it, taste it. The mere thought makes Anakin get shaky and breathless, groaning against Obi-Wan’s shoulder, cock pulsing against the crease of his ass. It’s crossing a line, somehow. He knows this. He can’t quantify exactly why this particular act feels like more of a violation than just making himself come in Obi-Wan’s bed, using Obi-Wan’s body, but it does, which only makes him need it more. You’re mine, he thinks, feeding the words into Obi-Wan’s sleep, letting them sink into him, disguised as dreams. Even your sleeping cock is mine, and I deserve to have it, to taste it. Give it to me, Master, please.
Obi-Wan stirs, brow furrowing in his sleep, and Anakin props himself up to kiss the troubled line to smoothness, murmuring against sweat-sticky skin. “Master,” he murmurs. “Let me.”
It’s easy to move him. His body is unresisting, pliable as Anakin carefully rolls him over, lays him out, parts his lithe, warm thighs, and settles between them. He knows it's a terrible risk. That it will require unmatched focus to split his attention, to suppress Obi-Wan into a sleep deep enough to not be awoken by Anakin’s physical advances. But he feels up to the challenge, maddened by the certainty that he needs this, he deserves it, it’s his right, to bury his face between his Master’s legs and suck the sweat and musk smell of him up until he’s drowning. Obi-Wan has given him no option but to take, and take.
His heart is pounding as he does it—leans into the Force with his mind as he tugs the waistband of Obi-Wan’s trousers below the soft heft of his cock. Not entirely soft, though, Anakin realizes, mouth flooding with longing as he stares at Obi-Wan’s thick shaft, chubbing up like his body is responding to all that Anakin is feeding into their Force-bond. Fuck. He’s gorgeous, fat and pink in a nest of red-gold curls, the foreskin creeping back just enough to expose a small amount of wet cherry red at the tip. Anakin wants to put his tongue right there—he will put his tongue right there.
Anakin always turns the light setting up when he arrives in Obi-Wan’s quarters first thing, as he likes to look at what he does, indulge in the impossibly, infuriatingly lovely expressions that flick across Obi-Wan’s face as Anakin touches him in his sleep. But this time he uses the Force to turn them up even higher so that he can drink in the full picture: his Master peacefully asleep, spread out on his own bed so sweet and vulnerable, sleep tunic crisp and proper save for the way his thighs are parted lewdly and his cock is hanging out, pulsing under Anakin’s hungry scrutiny. “Master,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Oh, Master.”
Lowering himself carefully onto his stomach, Anakin arranges his too-long body on the bed, rutting into the mattress as he ducks closer, inhaling deeply, hungrily. Obi-Wan smells so good. Clean sweat, spice, cock. Anakin has never been so close to another man’s cock before, and he feels drunk with it, stomach in knots as he sniffs, drools, groans, humps into the sheets. He feels giddy with power, can hardly believe he’s getting away with seeing his Master undone like this, bare and slick at the tip and half-hard. He takes him in hand, loving the shift of crepe-paper-soft over steel-hard, loving the heat, the rawness, the glory. His eyes flutter closed as he inhales, hunger-thinned saliva dripping down onto his Master’s shaft before he bends his head, licks it up.
It’s impossible to stay quiet. Anakin whimpers and moans rhythmically into Obi-Wan’s fever-hot skin, spreading one hand to anchor his thigh and fumbling between his own with the other so that he can touch himself while he sucks in greedy breaths. The whole act becomes very desperate, very fast. Because Obi-Wan is asleep, it takes all pressure off bringing him to orgasm, and Anakin can simply indulge, rubbing his cheek into his pubic hair, mouthing all over his balls, his cock, loving the way it’s twitching from softness to something else, thick and hot and perfect. Anakin licks wetly, spit all over his chin, glistening on the brilliantly pink crown of Obi-Wan’s cock as it pushes from its pocket of foreskin, pre-cum bubbling messily at the tip, so slick, so obscene. Obi-Wan gets really wet, wetter than Anakin, and that knowledge drives him absolutely mad, so that he is a ravenous, mindless, animal. Wet like a girl for me, like a pussy, my Master’s sweet pink pussy under my tongue, he thinks, too quickly to keep it guarded, away from their Force-bond. It only makes Obi-Wan moan in his sleep, though, almost fully hard in Anakin’s mouth as he sucks him in earnest, cheeks hollowed, everything wet.
For such a vile thing, it feels strangely and powerfully holy. A sacred moment, something exchanged between Master and Padawan, ancient and forbidden, a lost rite from a bygone time. Anakin swirling his tongue into the slit and swallowing the salt-bitter of Obi-Wan’s pre-cum, fisting his own cock roughly and leaking into the sheets while the Force swirls around them, joining them, bearing witness. It is as unresisting as Obi-Wan, thrumming in time with Anakin’s pulsing sucks, his greedy, lurching thrusts into his own hand, lapping at each of their minds like waves at a shore.
Anakin keeps feeling Obi-Wan’s Force signature ripple outward from him in minute, seismic tremors as his own hold on his Master’s sleep weakens. He grapples with it to keep a firm grip, keep it close, keep Obi-Wan close, at the same time something dark inside him wishes he would wake. You're mine, he thinks again, sucking Obi-Wan as deep as he can go, choking himself on the thick, perfect weight of his cock. Mine.
He wishes, wonders if he could bring Obi-Wan off this way. And then he realizes he knows he could—his mouth is made for this, the whole of him made for it—he only doubts if he could keep Obi-Wan asleep through the pleasure of it. The truth is he’d hardly want to. He needs his Master’s moans, his shame, his head thrown back as he gives himself over to pleasure and spills searing and brine sharp down Anakin’s throat.
The thought of swallowing Obi-Wan’s come is driving Anakin closer to the edge, twisting him up into a fever pitch of need, more, need, more. Always, always fucking more. With his own mind clouded in a mess of static and Obi-Wan’s beginning to tremble with the slightest, gentlest beginnings of awareness, Anakin pulls away, lets Obi-Wan’s cock slip from his mouth in a mess of thick, foamy spit. And then he does not make the decision to push further, it doesn’t feel like a decision, it feels like a necessity, like a reflex as he takes one of Obi-Wan’s legs, bends it, and pushes it to his side to manhandle him onto his stomach, using every ounce of his remaining mental fortitude to keep him sleeping.
The generous heft of his Master’s ass is too much of a temptation to resist. It’s firm, pale, dusted in the finest gold hair, and Anakin has lost all sense of anything he should be, capsizing fully to drown in the reality of what he is: starving. Deprived. In love with a man who cannot love him back, even in the ways he’s supposed to. I deserve a present, Anakin thinks again, burying his face in the crack of Obi-Wan’s ass, and licking.
He makes sounds as he does it. Pitiful muffled groans right up against the tight ring of muscle, which twitches and spasms before eventually relenting so that Anakin can press his tongue inside, fuck it in and out until Obi-Wan is dripping. He’s moving, too, shifting with sleepy confusion, and Anakin knows, he can feel him waking, is trying his hardest to scramble for the hold on his mind but it’s too late, now. Obi-Wan’s Force signature is flickering to full awareness, and he is the sort of Jedi whose power comes from restraint, so it is easy for him to take control of Anakin’s meager attempts to cage him. Anakin is compromised, after all. He’s all wrong, a wrong Jedi, a wrong boy, fatherless and starving and angry, sick with longing. You’ll have to learn to manage your emotions, Anakin, if you truly want to pursue the path of a Jedi knight.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan rasps, still half-asleep, and what Anakin lacks in mental strength, he makes up for in physical, so he does the only thing there is to do: he crawls up, lays his full weight against his Master’s back, and claps a hand down over his mouth.
“Just let me,” he begs, rutting his pitiful, wanting cock into the spit-slick crack of Obi-Wan’s ass, making him cry out, writhe, buck. He’s still hard, too of course he is. He could shove Anakin off, but he’s not. His eyes are wide, clear, blue, but they’re not disgusted. They’re something else. Anakin crushes his mouth under his palm, rubs it, rents it open, and then he puts his fingers inside. “Please, let me have this, Master, I need it, I need it or I’ll die. I’ll kill.”
Obi-Wan tries to say something, but the words are unintelligible, garbled around Anakin’s fingers. It comes through loud and clear in his mind, though. You’ll kill me, Anakin?
“Not you, never you,” Anakin sobs, rubbing his face into the ditch of Obi-Wan’s neck, inhaling him desperately, trying to memorize the way his sweat smells before he loses everything forever. “Just. Something. Someone. The world.” Then, after a beat when he realizes he might as well spill the whole desperate truth, “I love you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But I love you. And I deserve to have a little bit of you. It’s not fair I don’t. ”
Obi-Wan laughs against his hand then, a humorless laugh, and Anakin would be angry at being mocked, but then Obi-Wan’s back is arching beneath Anakin as he squirms, hot and alive and awake. He rocks against the heat of Anakin’s body, not exactly urging him on but not flipping him over and lecturing him or murdering him or whatever else he should do either. His mind is rippling, jagged in its conflict for a few moments before, then, then. He suddenly lets his wall down, and Anakin is flooded with images.
Filthy images. His hard cock nudging against Obi-Wan’s sleep-limp hand, streaking the palm in slickness. Their legs tangled, Anakin’s hips grinding, rutting. The maddening blur of kissing Obi-Wan’s slack, unresisting mouth, putting his tongue inside, licking over his teeth, tasting his spit, moaning into him as he came in a sudden, animal snap of his hips—and then, miraculously, devastatingly—things that have never happened before. Obi-Wan on his back, knees slung over Anakin’s shoulders, gasping with his eyes shut in rapture as Anakin fucks him savagely. Obi-Wan on his knees before Anakin, holding his cock to suck in one hand, reaching around himself to fuck his hole open on his fingers with the other. Anakin sweat-slick and groaning, Anakin’s Padawan braid gently worried between Obi-Wan’s fingers, the slope of Anakin’s neck, the shape of his lips parted around a word of protest, his eyes dark with anger, his body curled up in Obi-Wan’s arms, Anakin, Anakin, Anakin.
His grip falters, stomach dropping, hand falling from Obi-Wan’s mouth to the stubbled bob of his throat as he swallows, the skin is flushed a violent red. “Master,” Anakin says stupidly, still numb with disbelief. He had been certain of the lack of reciprocity. It was the one truth he believed firmly enough to allow himself to do any of this.
Obi-Wan clears his throat. “I thought that—all of that was me. My dreams. Seems some of it was not.”
“Some of it was,” Anakin says, snapping his hips punishingly, rutting against Obi-Wan’s hole. You’re mine, he thinks. You were mine the whole fucking time ,and you didn't tell me. I hate you, I love you. You’re mine.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says gravely, closing his eyes, face crumpling as he rubs it into the pillow, visibly defeated, flushed, beautiful. Anakin props himself up, licks his face, ducks into his throat to suck at his pulse. “Anakin, we shouldn’t,” Obi-wan says, but it’s a useless, proprietary thing, like all that he does in waking. The difference is, Anakin can feel now that it’s not what he really wants.
“We already are,” he insists. “I already have been. For years now, almost every night.”
Obi-Wan groans, his hole twitching madly against Anakin, like it turns him on to hear how long he’s been used like a doll by his Padawan. Anakin bites him, sucks at the sting, licks up his sweat as his thrusts get slower, greedier. Then he deliberately adjusts his position, crown snagging at Obi-Wan’s hole. Like a pussy, my Master’s sweet pink pussy under my cock, he thinks, and almost comes right there, like that. “Please, please, Master, let me fuck you,” he growls out against his ear. “I know you want me to. I saw it, I saw myself fucking you, in your mind. I’ll make it so good, I’ll fill you up with come, I love you so, so much and I need you and you want me back, so just let me do it, please.”
Obi-Wan says nothing, but his body relents, rigid muscles softening so that he is slack and prostrate there on his bed. “We shouldn’t,” he says again, eyes closed, face troubled. Then, with a frown, “We cannot. I cannot. You’re sixteen.”
Anakin has won, though, he can feel it. Obi-Wan’s mind has eased up just enough that he can get inside again. This is what he’s spent five years training for, five years perfecting in gradual exercises. He lets go of Obi-Wan, pitches forward so that he can lick his mouth open, kiss him rough and messy just how he likes to. “We will,” he says between demanding drags of his mouth. Obi-Wan is kissing back, wet and hungry and terrified. “I can put you to sleep again, if you want. But I don’t think you do want that. I think you want to be aware for every second of it, feel me in you, feel me come.”
Obi-Wan makes a sound into Anakin’s mouth, wordless and frustrated, his mind flexing against Anakin’s without truly pushing back. It’s as good as a yes, as far as Anakin’s concerned. He’s been working with far, far less for years.
So Anakin sucks his tongue greedily, paws over his sides, shoves his hands under his shirt to make bruising fists in his hot, sweat-tacky skin so that he can feel the whole of his body. “You’re perfect, I need to fuck you so bad, Master,” he groans, mouthing down Obi-Wan’s spine. “And you’re going to let me,” he urges, using the Force, sinking into Obi-Wan’s mind, and putting hooks in it, rough and needy. “You’re going to love it. You're going to want it every night, just like I do.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan groans, voice broken, raw. He’s fisting in his sheets, he hasn’t really touched Anakin yet, not how he craves, if the brief tour through his filthy dreams was any indication. But he will—he will. Anakin knows it. And if he doesn’t, he’ll make him.
“Master, your ass,” Anakin groans when he gets there, parting the cheeks to lick messily over Obi-Wan’s hole, spitting a thick mouthful out onto it, and rubbing it into the ring of muscle with his thumb. “You don't know how long I've wanted it. How perfect it is. It’s not my fault, none of this is,” he murmurs, getting Obi-Wan so wet, sucking at his hole until it’s twitching open around the tip of his tongue easily, willingly. Then Anakin levers himself up to his knees, bracketing his Master’s body between them and aligning his hard cock. Obi-Wan has hidden his face in his pillow, but his body is all but begging, back arched deeply, thighs spread and shining in spit. He wants this, too—whether Anakin put it into his head five years ago or not, whether he’s admitted it aloud or not, he wants it. Anakin is certain.
He presses the crown inside and stays there to catch his breath for a few moments, lost to the heat, the tightness, the tremulous sound that escapes Obi-Wan’s wincing lips. “Oh, Master,” he murmurs, working himself in inch by inch, taking his time so that he doesn’t come immediately, breath torn and ragged. “You feel so good, so perfect, all mine, my Master,” he grits out through his teeth, sliding greedy palms under Obi-Wan’s tunic to touch the smooth, secret skin there. “Will you make yourself come on my cock?”
Obi-Wan nods into the pillow, reaches between his thighs with a trembling hand, and begins to touch himself. Anakin moans, hips snapping as he fucks in and out of that impossible heat, burning face pressed to the ditch of his Master’s neck. “Can you feel my spit? Can you feel I was sucking you while you slept? Sucking your beautiful perfect cock, making you hard for me, taking what’s mine, making—ah—fuck,” he chokes out, vision whiting out as his mind short-circuits. He can’t think, all he can do is feel: Obi-Wan’s desire, his heat, his body, his shame shining through their Force-bond, delicious in its vulnerability.
That’s what makes Anakin come—being able to feel all of Obi-Wan’s thoughts unhindered, laid bare, raw and bleeding there under him. The whole of the years’ long hidden desire he’s fought. His self-loathing at feeling that way. His powerful, consuming love for Anakin, so powerful that he’s been forced to suppress all outward regard for him. And all this time, exactly what Anakin wanted, needed. His to claw back, swallow whole, hoard. He cries out, digging his nails into Obi-Wan’s sides and emptying into him, feral and possessive, Mine, mine, mine.
Obi-Wan follows shortly afterward, with nothing but a snagged gasp as he spills over his fist, body milking Anakin fiercely. It’s too much, almost painful, and Anakin wants to live in this moment of purity. Of reciprocity. His sixteenth birthday, his Master his and his alone, touched, touched, marked. “Thank you,” he mumbles, eyes shut to nothing but stars as he pulls out and spills onto the bed in a wreck of limbs. “For letting me.”
Obi-Wan says nothing, only turns on his side, and buries his face in Anakin’s hair, fist tight around his Padawan braid like he’s clinging to the last remaining tie to his old life, the life in which he successfully managed to stifle all he was, the life he just, in all likelihood, destroyed by allowing his underage Padawan to come inside him. Anakin feels smug, delirious, terribly powerful. The regret of any of it hasn't even begun to settle upon his shoulders yet, so he rolls over, nuzzles into Obi-Wan’s neck, and kisses his still-speeding pulse. “You can tell the Jedi Council I did it all. That I climbed into your bed and forced you to do it. It’s not even far from the truth.”
“They would never believe me,” Obi-Wan says. Then, after a beat. “Must we tell anyone?”
Anakin shakes his head, combs his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair before scratching down to his beard. It’s crazy, hearing him pose a question like that, as if it is up to Anakin, what they will tell the Jedi Council. As if Anakin has any power or say at all. It’s also crazy to touch him like this. Watch his crystalline blue eyes dart, thumb over his perfect pink lips. Beautiful, perfect, his. Anakin would die if he wasn’t. He’d kill. “We don’t have to tell,” he murmurs. “Just let me do it again, and again. Whenever I want. Whenever I need.”
And Obi-Wan says nothing, but his mind opens up like a sink-hole, like a chasm, like a fracture during an earthquake, vast enough for cities to fall through and disappear. It’s as good as a yes, as far as Anakin’s concerned. He’s been working with far, far less for years.