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The bar is crowded and dark, thrumming with music so loud Anakin has to shout in order to be heard over it. He’s too young to be here—already an alien bouncer came over to try and steer him out into the street, clawed appendages tight around his arms and shoulders, digging in barbs. Obi-Wan came to his rescue, of course, and explained they were there on Jedi business before effortlessly using a mind-trick to dispel suspicion. That was before he ordered a drink and polished it off in record time. He’s on his second, now, while Anakin sulks in a booth, watching in and watching from the shadows. He thinks they've exhausted all their potential leads here but Obi-Wan is continuing to chat up locals, swirling something electric blue in an elegant, tapered flute as he talks with an Amarian female, her plush vulpine tail twitching and a sly smile plastered on her muzzle before something Obi-Wan says makes her laugh.
Anakin frowns, sipping despondently at the Caf he ordered. He hates when missions send him and his Master to a bar. It’s Obi-Wan’s natural habitat and so they always end up staying too long for Anakin’s taste. Plus, he hates watching Obi-Wan charm people for information, his body language transforming from cold propriety into soft, open, warm, inviting energy that makes even the surliest strangers feel at ease. He never stands like that when he talks to Anakin. Or, at least he hasn’t in a very long time. Not since Anakin was a boy. He still feels like a boy sometimes actually, stuck in the irritating natal stages of adolescence where he is not yet entrusted with adult responsibilities, but is expected to hold his own in situations like this one: sitting patiently, waiting for his Master to deem this place a dead end so they can return to their hotel room in Morlana’s capital. Not letting his feelings get the better of him.
He supposes he could be attempting to gather more intel himself, but instead, he just obsessively watches Obi-Wan, the mess of want and resentment he’s given up trying to untwine and cut out of himself throbbing with a dull pain. It’s hard to stop himself from spiraling deeper when he’s in one of these moods—he is fifteen and perpetually angry and doomed to spend all his time in blinding proximity to a man he loves like flowers love the sun, like daughters love their mothers, like addicts love their favorite fix. And perhaps worse, and most base of all, like teenagers love their first love: hungry and banal and deeply, resolutely painful.
The purple and green neon above the bar reflects in the gold of Obi-Wan’s hair, his eyes twinkling as he talks, laughs, throws his head back so the jagged line of his throat and its bobbing Adam’s apple are cast in the ethereal glow. Anakin licks his lips, watches Obi-Wan order yet another drink, and press the rim so firmly to his mouth the pink of it dimples beneath the pressure. Then, Anakin tears his gaze away and miserably entertains jealous, unkind thoughts about that glass. It should be me, he thinks, knowing it’s pathetic. Sitting on his lower lip. Getting it wet. It should be me.
Another half hour or so passes before Obi-Wan excuses himself from the bar and to the fresher. When he returns, he walks straight to Anakin. “Let’s move out,” he says, voice oddly clipped. “There is nothing for us here, and the music is too loud. I’m a bit light headed.”
A bit?! Anakin imagines snapping. He saw him drink three drinks, it’s no wonder he’s feeling it. But Anakin is more hurt than he is angry and it doesn't seem worth the effort to earn nothing but Obi-Wan’s reproach in exchange anyway, and so he gratefully gets up, slides out of the booth, and weaves through the bar patrons, following his Master out.
He sees Obi-Wan trip twice, which is odd. Still, he is not in the least bit prepared when, once they’re outside on the street to hail a transport, Obi-Wan collapses.
Panic spikes, metallic and sudden in Anakin’s throat as he drops to his knees, catches Obi-Wan’s body before he hits the pavement in a splay of limbs. “Master!” he chokes out, voice tight with fear. He has never seen Obi-Wan fall like that, not even when he’s injured and bleeding. “What’s wrong? Do you need me to call—”
“No, no don’t call anyone,” Obi-Wan slurs, blinking up at Anakin with hazy, confused eyes. “Goodness. I think it’s just—just that the drinks were quite strong, and it was terribly warm inside and very cool out here and the change in temperature…well,” he gestures loosely, noncommittally, and Anakin reels at how unlike him it is to be at a loss for words. “Did you know Master Qui-Gon would get immensely drunk all the time, when I was a Padawan? I would have to cut him off and steer him out of the bars at closing time, whenever we were visiting the outer rim. Used to embarrass me. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”
Anakin is too worried to be embarrassed. There is some instinctive alarm bell going off inside him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he pats down Obi-Wan’s body, makes sure he’s not hurt, hands trembling. “I’ve seen you drink far more than you drank tonight,” he says. “But I have never seen you fall over.”
“The temperature change, I told you,” Obi-Wan says, blinking a few times before closing his eyes like he’s tired. Anakin’s heart is still racing, but he gets lost in just looking at his Master for a moment—his wan cheeks, the paper thin lids and their blue tracery of veins just under the surface, the golden hairs of his beard framing his licked pink mouth, everything glinting in the moonlight. Anakin aches, kneels there, stares, and all the while he curses the condition of being in love.
After a few moments, Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. “I believe I can stand,” he says. “Will you help me, Anakin?”
“Of course, Master,” he says, righting himself and offering a hand, hauling Obi-Wan to his feet. He is unsteady, wobbling there for a moment leaning on Anakin, gaze still unfocused. Nervously, Anakin braces, holds him up. “Are you sure—”
“Yes, I’m sure, I just need rest. Some water,” Obi-Wan clarifies, beginning to take a few tentative steps. “I’ll sleep it off at the hotel. Thank you, Anakin, I’m glad you’re here.” He offers a watery smile, then, which Anakin returns, even though his pulse is still speeding, scalp prickled in intuitive fear. Or maybe it is not intuitive—maybe it’s just that he's in love with Obi-Wan, which makes him worry, makes him lose sight of logic, makes him fall apart.
But after they pay the cab and step from the transport into the street, Obi-Wan begins weaving, then shivering in a sheen of sweat, then stumbling. Anakin catches him before he goes down this time, loops an arm around his lower back and ducks under his shoulder to keep him stable, heart pounding up in the slick of his throat. They are less then a block from the hotel lobby, but he takes each step carefully, continuing to check on Obi-Wan and try to make sense of his condition, huffing nervous inhalations from his hair with every step. It’s maddening, having him this close, and Anakin wishes he was too worried for it to have an effect on him, but it does. In fact, Obi-Wan being compromised is actually making the situation worse—he’s not used to seeing him so vulnerable, so sick. It’s doing things to him.
In the harsh light of the lobby, Anakin notices Obi-Wan’s former pallor has given way to a violent flush. His face is red all the way down to the flutter of his pulse in the sweat-dewy hollow of his throat, which Anakin tries not to stare at too hard. “Come on, Master,” he urges, helping Obi-Wan step carefully but laboriously up several stairs to the turbo lift landing that will take them to their room. “Just a bit further.”
“Thank you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs faintly, leaning against Anakin with enough weight it throws them both off balance, eyes shut, face upturned, mouth parted and gasping. “Thank you. I’m very—I so appreciate this. You.”
Anakin blushes, adjusting his stance so he can bear his master’s slack, unbalanced weight. He feels very alive and painfully sober here in the stark florescent lights of the lift, panting from the exertion of nearly having to carry Obi-Wan, but also from the perverse thrill of being close enough to smell his deodorant, the sweat beneath it, the smoke and perfume remnants from the bar still clinging to his robes.
As Obi-Wan sags against him, Anakin studies him again, takes stock of the observable physiological changes so that he can look them up on the holonet as soon as they're safely back in their room: the unfocused gaze, his pupils blown vast and black, his slurred speech, his general disorientation. It’s becoming increasingly clear to Anakin that Obi-Wan is not just drunk—he’s been drugged.
Horribly, Anakin’s first thought following this revelation is that in spite of the fierce surge of protective rage that courses through his body, he doesn’t blame whoever did it. He would be lying to himself if he hadn’t considered it in his most desperate moments, when he was out of his mind with want in the late, forlorn hours of the night, cock hard and sticky and aching in his palm, all logic and dignity lost. Anakin feels like Obi-Wan belongs to him, that he is his in some fundamental and indelible way, but the truth is, he’s not. Any man with the right drug could see how desirable Obi-Wan is, and do something about it. The mere thought makes Anakin’s rage rise sick and covetous in his gut to the point of nausea, and he tightens his grip on Obi-Wan’s side possessively as the lift dings to its stop, the doors sliding open. “I think someone put something in your drink,” he finally announces, steering Obi-Wan carefully down the hall towards their room.
He thinks Obi-Wan might protest, act like a Jedi should know better and could never be slipped something so easily, but instead he just coughs out a weary sigh. “I think so too,” he mumbles as they make it to their destination, and Anakin carefully disentangles him and prop him up against the wall as he fumbles for their key card. “Thank you,” he says then, turning to look at Anakin, eyes looking peculiarly dark with their wide, night-black pupils. “Thank you for being here.”
Anakin feels guilty, for a moment, at that. He is not the best person to be taking care of Obi-Wan in such a state—he deserves company that is not ogling him, not sympathizing with and fantasizing about killing the man who drugged him in equal measure. “Of course, Master,” he mumbles, finally finding the key and opening the door.
He steers Obi-Wan to his bed and deposits him there, dizzy with the smell of his burning, boozy exhalations, and something…something else. Something oddly sweet, but a sweetness about to go sour, like it is on the cusp of turning. An organic smell, a human smell, a familiar smell. Anakin pulls away from his master, gaze snagging on Obi-Wan’s wet, parted mouth for a moment before he forces his eyes to drop in shame.
Down the pink column of Obi-Wan’s throat, to the flutter of his frantic pulse, to the gaping neck of his robes and then—lower, to—
Anakin goes suddenly and violently red, and his voice dies in his throat.
The front of Obi-Wan’s tunic is all wet. Wet with milk.
Now the smell is unmistakable. Nostalgic, some childhood memory dislodged by the near-curdle in the back of Anakin’s throat. There are twin stains, palm sized, a darkening of the beige gathered linen, right over Obi-Wan’s nipples.
Anakin sits down on the other bed. His stomach is in knots and his cock mortifyingly hard, just from that. From seeing his Master leaking. Wet. He cards a hand through his hair, wonders if he should say something. Do something. “I’m going to get you some water,” he decides on. “Don’t move.”
In the fresher, his hands shake. He stares at his stricken reflection in the mirror before rinsing his hot face, arms braced against the counter as he goes over the sight in his head, again and again. He knows Obi-Wan can theoretically lactate, he’s obsessively researched Stewjoni male biology on the holonet and masturbated to the knowledge an embarrassingly frequent amount of times. But, with Obi-Wan being a Jedi and the lactation usually only coming about as the result of reproduction, he thought he’d never get to see it. That it was just a fantasy.
But here he is. In a hotel fresher, achingly hard with his Master drugged and dripping in the other room. His mind races to one hundred inappropriate unforgivable places, but he tries to curb those reflexive thoughts and return to practicality. He can’t go on like this, pretending it’s not happening, when his body is reacting with the knowledge it absolutely is. But he also just can’t let it happen. Obi-Wan needs to know.
He fills a glass of water, and brings it out to Obi-Wan, who is struggling to sit upright enough to even drink it. Anakin patiently bolsters him with the pillows from both beds, steadies his hands, tries not to stare open-mouthed and drooling at the growing wet spots. God. He wants—he wants to suck them, so bad. Drop his head and get his mouth on the darkened fabric of Obi-Wan’s tunic and nurse the milk from the fiber of his robes. He hates that precious milk is getting wasted in clothing, unnoticed, when it’s everything to him. Where he would swallow it all, rub it into his skin, rut his cock against the growing damp patches until he came.
Obi-Wan finishes the water. “Any better?” Anakin asks. “Want more?”
“No, thank you, Anakin,” he says, voice hoarse and faint. “What you can do for me, now, actually, is take some credits from my bags and go down to the lobby to book yourself another room for the night.”
Anakin stares, dumbfounded. It was the last thing he was expecting, if Obi-Wan is ill it seems imperative that he remain as close as possible. The rejection stings and he reels back, brows knitting together. “What do you mean?! You’re drugged, you need my help, you—”
“I’m afraid this has happened to me before,” Obi-Wan says, as evenly as he can muster with his ragged breath, though there is something like shame pinching at the tails of his eyes, tightening around his mouth. “And there are specific side effects—some of which are already beginning to transpire—that I would prefer to be alone in enduring. I am not in immediate danger, you returned me to the hotel safely which is all you can do. But it’s best you’re not here for the rest.”
“I see the milk, already,” Anakin says in a small voice, ignoring Obi-Wan and creeping closer, deciding there’s no point in being more delicate about it. “I don’t mind.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter closed and he twitches there on the bed, a weak shudder that makes Anakin’s heart clench. He is not leaving him alone, Obi-Wan is mad to think he would.
“I had hoped you would have already been on your way by the time that began. But. It is the first of many things. Being Stewjon means—”
“I know what it means,” Anakin interrupts, his mind already made up. “Your hormones and reproductive system are different.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan adds, eyes opening, flashing in warning. “And this particular date rape drug I have had the misfortune of encountering once before in my youth, triggers those hormones in all species who have them. And—Anakin,” he says then, voice becoming sharp, pleading. “I do not wish to explain further, but know, you must not be here for it.”
The blood is pounding in Anakin’s ears, a sea-fierce, rushing sound and he can barely make sense of anything Obi-Wan is saying. He just knows he will not leave him here, and that he loathes the idea of Obi-Wan having this happen to him twice. “Last time,” he says, because he must know. “Did he—did you—”
Obi-Wan’s cheeks redden, like he’s appalled Anakin would even ask, and well. Anakin supposes it is appalling. It’s invasive and he shouldn’t want to know but he must, he needs to. “I was spared,” Obi-Wan says. “If that's what you're asking.”
And Anakin worries he’s lying, but presses on anyway. “You don’t have to be alone this time, Master,” he urges, gaze flicking down to the wet tunic, mouth watering at the smell of it. His hands, which he had been sitting on to keep from touching, move to flex in the space between them, then tentatively lay on Obi-Wan’s sides. Obi-Wan flinches, but is not strong enough to actually jerk away. He just stares up at Anakin with hazy black eyes, gaze wavering from frightened, to ashamed, to resolute and back again. “Can I at least take this off?” Anakin murmurs, fingers twisting in the fabric, each inhalation thick and cloying with the smell of his Master’s milk. “So it doesn't stain?”
Obi-Wan nods, sighs, tries to duck one shoulder from the tunic before he gives up, the task proving too complex for his lack of coordination. Anakin feels breathless and smug as he undoes the ties on the inside and helps Obi-Wan out of the sleeves. “See?” he says, their eyes locking. “It’s better I’m here.”
Anakin cannot help but stare at his Master’s newly exposed chest, cock aching. He’s come so many times in the past thinking about Obi-Wan’s already well defined chest plump with milk, nipples puffy, the hot sweet gush in his mouth if he ever got to nurse on them. But the reality is so much better—his golden chest hair glinting furred ditch between them, the nipples so red, so wide and glistening, perfect for Anakin’s mouth. He shifts against the bed, wondering if Obi-Wan can tell how turned on he is. It’s not exactly like his feelings have ever been much of a secret, surely Obi-Wan must know what this does to him. “Do they hurt?” he asks, hands lingering close enough to Obi-Wan’s body on the bed he can feel the heat from his skin warming the sheets.
“Tender,” Obi-Wan mumbles, his strength dwindling by the minute as he lolls on the starchy white hotel sheets. “Not painful.”
“I could help,” Anakin begs, creeping closer, his eyes stuck on the impossible beading white at the peaks of his nipples. Obi-Wan shifts, and the drips slide down to pool in the indentations between his rib slats, creamy and obscene. Anakin wants him so badly, wants to lay his own cheek against the gentle heave of Obi-Wan’s ribcage, lap at the spill of color down his extended throat, affix his mouth where it’s meant to be, and suck him dry. Drain him. Feed from him. “Let me help.”
“No,” Obi-Wan says as firmly as he can muster, even as his voice slurs, weakens. “Anakin go. This is not. It’s not your responsibility.”
“Yes it is,” Anakin urges. “Who else will take care of you?”
“The way I need to be taken care of—what gets rid of the effects of this particular drug as it affects my… biology? You cannot give that to me.”
Anakin’s blood ices over. Obi-Wan has not said it plain or outright, he knows what he’s implying. What he means. He’s read all about Stewjon males and the substances that can induce their lactation, their desperation, their heats. Heat. That word alone, obscene and burning unsaid on Anakin’s tongue. He swallows. “I can. I could.”
“No you couldn’t, I could never—you don’t know what it entails,” Obi-Wan slurs, squirming pitifully on the bed, plump, swollen tits jostling obscenely as he pumps his hips toward nothing. He’s hard—Anakin can see it tenting his leggings, can smell the spice and musk of arousal blending into the sweetness of milk.
“I do,” Anakin promises. “You need to come.”
Obi-Wan flushes more deeply, which Anakin did not think was possible. He imagines digging his teeth into that flush, watching the pink creep back into the bloodless half-moon of indentations his bite would leave. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan pleads. “Leave, please. Before it gets worse.”
“You think I can’t make you come? I could, Master, I want to, and it would be so good, I’d be so good to you,” he begs, climbing over Obi-Wan on fours and bearing down, straddling his body and bracketing it between his own knees so he cannot roll away. He doesn't care how desperate he sounds, how bare. Obi-Wan is enough out of his mind Anakin isn't even sure he’ll remember this in the morning, and he needs this badly enough he’ll beg, he’ll tear himself open, he’ll bleed. As long as Obi-Wan eventually caves. “What are you going to do? You can’t even sit up, you won’t be able to get yourself off.”
“It doesn't matter,” Obi-Wan mumbles. “It can’t be you. I would never ask you.”
“You’re not asking,” Anakin reminds him.
There’s a pause, where Obi-Wan almost seems like he’s considering the possibility, his eyes twitching beneath the lids, a troubled line creasing his brow. Anakin stares at his chest, licks his lips, prays, prays, but then, Obi-Wan’s eyes snap open, the doubt back in the corners of his downturned mouth. “Anakin, no. If I’m unable to deal with it myself I can call—”
“What, a whore?” Anakin interrupts, chest tight with pain, with rejection, body white-hot with need. He’s not thinking clearly, and he doesn’t care. Obi-Wan is his. He should be his. “A pleasure slave?” He spits out, meaning for it to sting. He knows Obi-Wan would never stoop so low, but he also knows the implication he would will stir his guilt, and he wants him to feel guilty about anything other than this. He wants his cock to feel like the most ethical option. The only option.
“I was going to say friend,” Obi-Wan eventually manages.
Anakin realizes that’s worse, his chest tightening up with jealousy. He hates that Obi-Wan apparently has friends he can call to fuck him if he needs to be fucked, when Anakin is right here, and needs it. It should be me, he thinks. Sitting on his lower lip. Getting it wet. It should be me.
His desperation turns sharp and miserable, sours like the milk in Obi-Wan’s tunic as he crawls up closer, so that they are face to face, Obi-Wan limp and unresisting beneath him. “You know how I feel, Master, how I feel about you. And I've felt that way for so long, can’t you just—once, let me, when you need it too? We won’t be breaking our vows. I’d be helping. I want to so bad.”
Obi-Wan can barely speak. He shakes his head, makes a wordless sound, licks his lips and so Anakin imagines licking them, too. Sucking his master’s liquor-sweet spit from his mouth, before nuzzling down to his juicy tits and draining them.
“Please,” he begs, trembling, beside himself. The insides of his underwear are sticky and wet from his pulsing cock. “Am I so repulsive to you?”
Obi-Wan chokes out a laugh. “Oh. It’s not—it’s not that,” he grits out on an exhale, and it’s the most encouraging thing Anakin has heard so far, so. He decides to try his luck.
He unclamps one hand from the bed and lays it on Obi-Wan’s side, smoothing his palm up and down the shape of his ribcage for a moment, testing to see if he has the strength to throw him off. He stills beneath the stroking, mouth open, breath labored as Anakin holds his own. But, he does not stop him. Encouraged, Anakin moves his hand to Obi-Wan’s chest, thumb grazing the wet, leaking nipple as he squeezes. “How about you just let me nurse, then?” Anakin asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Just let me have some of the milk? Relieve the pressure?”
Obi-Wan moans and arches into it, hips churning helplessly as he turns his head, drooling onto his pillow. There is a moment of visible resistance in his face before it goes slack and then, finally, finally. “Yes. Fine.”
Anakin sobs wordlessly, dropping his brow to Obi-Wan’s sternum to kiss it, mouth across it, murmur in wordless gratitude. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, rolling onto his side and bringing Obi-Wan with him, scooting down the bed so he’s level with his swollen nipples.
They are so pink. A little raw from chafing on the inside of his damp tunic, the skin of his chest stretched taut and tender looking from the sudden build up of milk. Anakin marvels at the close up view, heart pounding as he inhales the intoxicating smell. It is so creamy, so raw. After he catches his bearings Anakin takes the first tentative swipe of milk with his tongue, licking it up from Obi-Wan’s skin. Sweet, mild. Remarkably human, all Obi-Wan, and the taste makes him groan, buck his hips. After a few more sloppy licks Anakin is opening his mouth wide, and latching on.
He sucks. Angry like a vine yearning towards sunlight, instinctive like a daughter feeding from her mother, desperate like an addict getting his fix. He sucks.
He sucks hard, and more comes out than he anticipated, sudden and hot on his tongue. He has to pull away to swallow, but after he affixes his mouth to the tender peak again he soon finds his rhythm: squeeze, suck, swallow, squeeze, suck, swallow. Natural and right and divine, Obi-Wan gasping and whimpering with each pulse. Anakin reaches out with his Force Signature, twining with Obi-Wan’s only to find it hungry and muted and hazy and broken open all at once. More vulnerable and raw than he’s ever felt it, and it makes him go a little crazy, groaning into his skin as he sucks with desperate, bruising force, getting his teeth into tender flesh.
Obi-Wan doesn’t make a single move to stop him, though. He lays his hand on the back of his head instead, strokes his hair with feverish clumsiness, rocks his hips in time with Anakin’s sucking mouth. “Good, good boy, so good, so perfect,” he mumbles, and Anakin’s eyes prickle in overwhelm. He wants to be good for his Master, he really does, it’s all he wants. But its so fucking hard, when he loves him like this. When he hungers for him so profoundly it blots out his sanity, his logic, drowning them all in a vast sea of blood-black. Squeeze suck swallow, squeeze suck swallow. Each motion grows fierce and punishing, Anakin’s eyes stinging and wet as he nurses, shifts closer and ruts his cock against his Master’s slack body, so fucking hungry for more, for everything.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers, dropping his head to bury his nose into his hair and inhale, settling closer, holding him like an apology. “Anakin.”
The milk from the tit he’s sucking grows thicker, creamier, and then, stops all together. Anakin pulls away in a daze, staring at his handiwork—the nipple drawn tight and pink and long, swollen from the suction. “Did I drink it all?” he asks.
“For now,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “The other.”
Anakin shifts, nuzzles into Obi-Wan’s other breast, loving the plump, tender heft in his palm. “Does it feel good?” he asks, even though he knows. Can feel how aroused Obi-Wan is through their Force bond, and every place they're touching. The way Obi-Wan is softening against him, yearning towards his mouth is maddening—it should be like this all the time, not just when some other man has drugged him. He kisses the nipple, opens his mouth and uses his hand to squeeze milk directly onto the hot plush of his tongue, fascinated by the spray of it.
“It feels so good, Anakin, terribly good,” Obi-Wan admits, pushing fingers through his hair and then gently guiding him back down. “Please,” he says, and Anakin groans, swirling his tongue around the taut bud before latching onto this one, too.
Obi-Wan is so pliable against him, body shifting, hips pumping in slow, needy, mindless motions. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—Anakin can tell how lost he is. Lost to the pleasure, the drug, the feedback loop between the two and fuck, it just makes him want more. He groans into Obi-Wan’s tit, pulling back to raze his teeth over the nipple, press his mouth to the swell of it just above the areola and bite. Obi-Wan cries out, and so he does it again, licking the sting away before moving onto the next. He wants to mark Obi-Wan. He wants his chest littered in bruises and suck marks and the little telltale notches from his teeth, like constellations. He can’t stand the thought of this being just one night where he was permitted an inch and clawed for a mile, he wants Obi-Wan to give it all to him. He wants Obi-Wan to be covered in him in the morning, tits bruised and drained, Anakin’s stomach full. He wants Obi-Wan to be his.
Out of his mind with pure, undiluted desire, Anakin rolls Obi-Wan onto his back and presses the heft of his tits together, so they meet obscenely. And then, crouching over him, he marks them up. Proof I was here, proof you let me, proof, he thinks, moaning and rutting against Obi-Wan’s thigh as he sucks and bites and bruises until Obi-Wan’s pale skin is dappled in red, flecked in purple, all in the shape of Anakin’s famished, needy mouth.
Obi-Wan takes it, thighs parted and twitching, like he wants Anakin between them. Needs Anakin between them. And Anakin wants so badly to give that to him.
“Master,” he moans, so hard it hurts. He winces as he tugs his pants down his thighs and takes his cock out, precum dripping in a shining string from the head onto Obi-Wan’s bare stomach. “I’m going to do it, going to make you come. You need it. I can feel how bad you need it,” he babbles, talking to himself as much as his Master, hands trembling as he reaches down to cup Obi-Wan’s cock through his pants. It’s hot to the touch, and Obi-Wan bucks into the pressure of his hand, throws his head back like he did at the bar when he was laughing.
No one is laughing now, though, and that seems like such a long time ago. Unfathomable, given all that has changed. The tension in the room is unbearable, tight, everything milk-sticky and sweet and forbidden but it doesn’t matter, Anakin is taking what he wants anyway. He has decided. “Let me take these off,” he breathes, hooking his fingers into Obi-Wan’s leggings and rolling them down his hips. “Lift up.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t, can barely move save for the desperate writhing, so Anakin makes do himself, draping Obi-Wan's legs over his own shoulders and pressing him back into the mattress until there is enough room to drag his pants down over his ass.
And then—then. Fuck. He’s all wet there, too. Shiny and glistening on the pale globes of his ass, a slickness matting down the golden hair. Anakin’s mouth floods, his cock throbs. He knew this happened to Stewjon males, but he still hadn’t expected so much. So obscene, so mouth watering. “Master,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb through the wetness. It’s wetter than water, wetter than anything, thin and hot and perfect, and he wants it all over his face. “So pretty.”
Obi-Wan whines as Anakin touches him experimentally. Just skims his fingers through the slickness, dipping them into the crack of his ass to feel the soft, furled rim of his hole. Obi-Wan’s cock, which is gorgeous and pink and uncut and so hard, flexes against his stomach as Anakin rubs him there. Like he wants to be fucked.
Anakin sucks a ragged breath in. He knew this is where he would end up tonight. He could try to resist, try to take a better path, but as soon as it became clear what happened to Obi-Wan, Anakin knew in the deepest fold of himself what he would eventually, inevitably do. He doesn’t even feel guilty about it, at this point—Obi-Wan needs it as badly as he does, even if he doesn’t know he needs it. “I’ll take care of you, Master,” he whispers, pressing three kisses to Obi-Wan’s body—one to each swollen nipple, and then one in the bruised divot between his tits. “You just relax. Let me. Let me make you feel so good.”
His hands are shaking, but they stop once he tucks a finger effortlessly inside of Obi-Wan’s body, like his instincts are taking over. He gasps at the burning clutch, the slickness, the way Obi-Wan arches his back and moans, opening up so easy. Anakin pushes another finger in alongside the first, pumping them deep, past the second knuckle, crooking them and feeling up inside of Obi-Wan’s body with curious determination. “You are so wet,” he mumbles, drawing his fingers in and out, marveling at the lack of resistance, the obscene bubble of fluid around his knuckles, the wet snick snick sounds. “So wet for me.”
And he knows it’s not really for him—it’s from the drug, but he pretends anyway. That Obi-Wan is his, his mate to fuck and knock up, his Master who gets this dripping slick-wet for Anakin’s cock alone. He whimpers, his own cock throbbing and pulsing at the sensation of Obi-Wan’s hole sucking at his fingers, pulling them back in each time he withdraws, so tight. He can barely imagine it around his cock—it seems too good, too impossible, like he’ll come instantly, but he decides that's ok. He can get hard again. He can, will do anything for Obi-Wan. “M’Gonna fuck you,” he says, pulling his fingers out and staring, awe-stricken, at the way his pretty pink hole flutters and winks closed. “I’m going to make you feel so good, Master, maybe you’ll remember it. Maybe you’ll see we’re supposed to be like this, and you’ll let me do it all the time.”
He arranges himself, folds Obi-Wan’s legs back towards his chest to expose his hole. Obi-Wan is nearly limp, his limbs heavy, slack, but his breath is coming fast and his cock is hard and twitching, begging. Anakin beads down on him, bends him in hand so his stomach is pressed to the back of Obi-Wan’s thighs, and just like that, he aligns his blunt head with his hole.
Obi-Wan whimpers, stills. Then, like a miracle, he murmurs, “Good. Like that—inside, Please Anakin.”
Anakin. His name, unmistakable, like Obi-Wan knows what is happening, and wants it too. Like he realizes how good it will be and how much Anakin can help him. “Yes Master, that’s it, that’s—ah,” he chokes out as he sinks in, breaches Obi-Wan’s body. He’s so hot inside, so slick and wet and messy, and tears bring sudden and unexpected to Anakin’s eyes at the mere feeling. His Master’s hole, his hot wet sticky perfect hole, opening up and sucking on his cockhead like heaven. He sobs, whines, presses closer, fucks in inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed in his master’s body, filling him up.
He can’t move. If he does he’ll come, so he nuzzles into Obi-Wan’s chest instead, finds a nipple and starts furiously nursing, coaxing what's left of his milk up and into his mouth, onto his tongue. Obi-Wan pets his hair as he swallows, each touch laborious and tender all at once. “So good, Anakin.”
“Yeah?” Anakin chokes out, drooling milk-opaque spit onto Obi-Wan’s chest. “My cock feels good in you?”
“So good. You’re perfect, my perfect boy, I must be dreaming,” he slurs, razing his fingers lightly down the sweat-tacky back of Anakin’s neck, to his Padawan braid, which he strokes reverently then, between two fingers. “So full of you.”
“Yeah, so full, gonna come in you, pump you so full of come,” Anakin babbles, beginning to rut, his hips twitching in reflexive, staccato bucks. They're graceless and rhythmless but Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to care, he groans loud and raw and digs his nails into Anakin’s back, rocking messily to meet his thrusts.
“Oh—Anakin—Anakin,” he murmurs, head thrown back, golden hair glinting on his throat. Anakin licks over it, scours his tongue, then mouths back to a tender nipple, which he sucks in desperate pulses as he capsizes over the edge, and comes. It’s hard and fast and easy, and Obi-Wan’s body pulses around him, milking him as he milks Obi-Wan’s tits, everything drowned out in a white-hot cascade of pleasure.
The reality sinks in a few hazy seconds later—he just came bare in his Master. His Stewjon Master. It should terrify him, it should sober him up, but the riskiness only makes Anakin groan—his cock twitching inside Obi-Wan, still hard even as he pulls out to stare at the creampie. White come diluted in slick, dripping from his hungry, used hole. Obi-Wan’s cock is still hard—he needs more, and Anakin will give him whatever he needs. He swipes his thumb through the mess, pushes it back up inside him, loves the way Obi-Wan twitches and spasms around his fingers.
Then, he clambers up to his knees, and pushes in, again.
He lasts long enough to find a rhythm this time, to learn how Obi-Wan likes it, to track the way he gets louder and more flushed when Anakin thrusts slow, deep, steady. It’s bliss, being inside his master. Anakin savors and memorizes every second of it, stares down at the obscene undulation of Obi-Wan’s milky tits as he fucks him, mouth flooding at the way his cock twitches and leaks onto his stomach until the golden hair there glistens. Anakin fucks him until his own thighs are shaking with exertion, until he is dripping sweat onto Obi-Wan’s chest, until his Master is nothing but a wordless, pitiful, begging mess on his cock. “Please, please, please, Anakin,” he groans, voice punched out of him with each snap of Anakin’s hips. “Please. Touch me.”
“I will, I’ll make you come,” Anakin promises, lips wet and open on Obi-Wan’s cheek, leaving a smear of spit there. “Just—not yet. Want you here. Under me, like this, want to fuck you forever, Master. Want to put my come in you again and again,” he says. And it’s true—he does want to make Obi-Wan come, but he knows as soon as he does, the effect of the drug will wear off rapidly. He won’t have this—his Master wanton, begging, slick-wet, his. So, he must prolong this act as long as possible. Drink his fill, fuck until he’s weak and exhausted and can’t fuck any longer.
He pulls out and Obi-Wan gasps, arching pathetically up off the bed into a golden, glistening parabola of longing. Anakin puts his hands all over him, rubs from thigh to armpit in greedy, roving strokes before laying him out, rolling him onto his stomach.
He’s confident, now. Obi-Wan wants this, even if he was driven to want it by the drug. He’s not going to stop Anakin and so he can take what he wants, indulge in his basest, more shameful fantasies. Get in close, examine, indulge. He parts Obi-Wan’s cheeks to study his hole, pink and fucked and stretched and puffy, all from him. “God. You’re so beautiful, Master do you know what? Do you know what you do to me?” he asks, though he doesn’t expect an answer. Obi-Wan arches his back and pushes his ass out, like he’s feeding his well-fucked hole to Anakin. It’s maddening, and Anakin wants so badly for it to be real. For Obi-Wan to need him like this every night.
He holds him down, rubs his face into his slick crack and licks over the swollen rim, loving the banal metallic bite, raw and used. His Master’s hole, all his, his to lick, to suck on, to push his fingers into, to fuck. He moans against the slippery skin, inhaling the musky smell of slick under the bite of his own saliva, the bitterness of his own come, fucking his tongue in and out of the tight ring of muscle, loving the way Obi-Wan squirms and backs up onto him, like he wants cock but will take anything, any stretch, any burn.
Anakin eats him out for a long time, until his jaw is sore and his ears are ringing and his chin is dripping with saliva. And then, because he’s not done using his mouth, he hikes Obi-Wan up by his hips, reaches between his pale thighs for his cock, and brings that back to suck on, too.
Every part of him tastes so fucking good it almost makes Anakin angry. Spiteful. It should be me, Sitting on his lower lip. Getting him wet. It should be me. He nurses on the head of Obi-Wan’s cock, lashing his tongue at the tip, cramming as much of the length into his mouth as he can, as much as he can fit. And he would stay here, doing exactly this—alternating between nipple, cock, and ass under his tongue until he was sated, if he wasn't so hard again. Coming once wasn't enough, he needs more, like he is the one drugged. And finally that hunger is too much to bear so he levers back up, spreads Obi-Wan out on the bed, and slides home inside him, again.
Obi-Wan cries out at the sensation of suddenly being filled, locking up under Anakin and gasping, bucking, rutting himself into the sheets. So fucking beautiful, so desperate for it, and Anakin is certain he could get him like this even without the drug. That he would worship and adore his Master so thoroughly he would beg for his cock in any universe, under any circumstances. He rubs his face into the sweaty ditch between his pectorals, licks up the perspiration beaded there, hips pistoning in urgency as he imagines it—every night like tonight, Obi-Wan pliant and weak and begging under him, his hole so puffy and needy, and all his. His to breed, to fill up. Obi-Wan’s tits milky and forever full for Anakin to suck, for the baby he fucked into him to suck, for—he tries to hold on but his orgasm rips through him like a scourging fire, whiting out his mind, turning him inside out.
He comes long and hard and violent, his hips snapping, his voice snagged over an animal groan. As he fills Obi-Wan’s body up to the point of overflow, he comes too, rutting into the bedspread, hole clenching in surging pulses on Anakin’s cock, milking him until there is nothing left but white—come-white, cream-white, static white, hotel-sheet white. The world blanched out in nothingness, Anakin collapses into shuddering tears on Obi-Wan’s back. The end to something, and the beginning to something else, eclipsed in white, and white, and white.
The world comes back in increments. Obi-Wan stirring under Anakin, the wet, filthy feeling of his softening cock sliding from dripping heat. The guilt and grief sinking in, moment by moment, as reality comes back to him—the smell of milk and come and sweat in the air. The rise and fall of unsteady breaths. The ugly painting above the headboard in the hotel. The roar of traffic in the city outside. And then, worst of all, the sinking feeling in his gut as he realizes what he’s done.
Not only fucked his Master without his full consent while he was drugged, but fucked him without protection. Fucked him and came in him. Twice.
He rolls off, shifts down the bed so he’s face to face with Obi-Wan and can examine him. “Master?” he says quietly, laying a palm on the side of Obi-Wan’s face and cupping it gently. His skin is sticky with sweat, with tears, his heaving chest littered in bite marks. Anakin winces to behold them—fuck. He went so far, barreling on ahead, driven by utter madness and entitlement, and now he will have to face the consequences for his transgressions. He braces for the worst, gently thumbs over Obi-Wan’s cheek bone. “Are you alright?” he murmurs.
Obi-Wan blinks at him. HIs eyes are dark, shot, but his pupils aren't half as dilated. There’s a clarity to his gaze, too, like he is awaking from a long nap. “I’m—” He closes his eyes, mouth twisting for a moment as he assesses. “I’m very tired,” he admits. “But it seems I’m otherwise intact.”
Anakin shrinks away from him, sickness roiling in his gut. “I came in you,” he admits in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, settles closer, laying a reassuring hand on the outside of Anakin’s arm, smoothing up and down it gently. “If you hadn’t, I would still be suffering the effects of the drug. It can last for days, sometimes—it would have compromised this mission. You did the right thing. No matter how undignified and improper it might have been, you—you were perhaps thinking more logically between the two of us.”
Anakin blinks, stunned. “I should have used a condom, though,” he offers, because he’s still very stuck on what they might need to do next, to prevent yet another problem.
Obi-Wan offers a sad, watery smile. “It wouldn't have mattered. I cannot actually reproduce—after the last time this happened, the Order suggested a procedure to prevent future complications. I obliged.”
First there is a powerful wave of relief, but when it subsides something painful and confused twists inside Anakin. “A procedure?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs, finally strong enough to stand. He staggers to the refresher, and Anakin stares at the long line of his body, pale and wrung out and beautiful. “You don’t need to know the details. Just know I would have stopped you if there was a risk.”
He refills his water glass and cleans up, while Anakin lays on the bed in the wet spot of milk and sweat, heart pounding. Maybe Obi-Wan doesn't need to know he wouldn't have been able to stop him, even if he had tried. “That’s—do they make anyone in the order who can reproduce get a procedure?”
Obi-Wan returns, a towel tucked around his waist, skin of his chest damp where he wiped it clean, nipples still tender, bruises obscene against his pallor. They make Anakin suck in a sharp, pained breath. “No,” he says, sitting on the other bed. “And they didn’t make me…it was a time when Qui-Gon and I were on a long mission that required an extensive…seduction element, let’s say. So, this—” he says, gesturing to the bed, his body, the rumpled, milk stained tunic still on the floor. “It was more of a risk. However, tonight serves to show me this sort of thing can happen any time, anywhere, and that it’s best to stay vigilant.”
It hurts, to see him speaking so normally. As if he wasn't begging for Anakin’s cock only moments ago, bent in half and sloppy and obedient under him. Open, warm—all of the things Obi-Wan so rarely is, at least for Anakin. He lays a hand over his heart, because it feels so wounded he imagines he can feel blood seeping through his breastbone. “You’re not angry?” he asks then.
Obi-Wan looks at him, face unreadable, a troubled line through his brow. “No,” he says eventually. “Perhaps I should be. And maybe I will be, in the morning. But what matters is that no one is hurt, and I am in my right mind, now. And for that I am grateful.”
I love you, though, can’t you tell that I love you? Aren’t you at least mad about that? This wasn’t some quick thinking fuck free of attachment to save the mission, it was everything, to me. He doesn't say all of that, though—he can’t. Obi-Wan very clearly doesn’t want to discuss the matter further tonight and Anakin can hardly blame him, after all that transpired. Instead, he decides to risk vulnerability in another way. “Master,” he says, sitting up, cheeks coloring. “Can we share that bed?” This one is all wet.”
Obi-Wan nods, scoots to the very opposite side of the mattress and holds up the sheets. “Yes, come,” he murmurs.
Anakin does. He feels like he did when he was a boy and he’d sneak from the dormitories to the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed every night, lie there shivering on the cold floor staring up at his new Master, willing him to wake up and invite him into the heat of his bed. And he did, on many occasions—always with a sigh, a long suffering, pinched expression on his face. I really shouldn’t let you, he would lament, letting Anakin snuggle up to his side, hide his face in his underarm and inhale the spicy smell of him there. You really should get used to sleeping on your own, with the other apprentices.
But still, he let him. Like he knew Anakin wouldn’t take no for an answer—or like he knew this was where he belonged.
Tentatively, Anakin sidles up now, loops an arm around Obi-Wan's bare waist, marveling at the fact he’s letting him. He rubs his face into the space between his tits, and Obi-Wan hisses as his chin digs into a bruise. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
Obi-Wan strokes his Padawan braid, something resigned in the way he says, “It’s alright, Anakin.”
Anakin closes his eyes, and hangs onto the sound of his own name. Clutches it tight with a foolish, hopeful grip.