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Obi-Wan has never believed he was meant to be a father, or even a Master. Teaching and guiding another person, especially one so young, has never called to him. Now, this sniffling, tiny boy with his scraped knee in his hands all but assures him he was never meant to parent.

He can’t be trusted to judge if the boy is old or capable enough to spar with imitation sabers. Clearly.

There’s no reference point in his mind for any of this. Qui-Gon certainly hadn’t been fatherly–at least not in the tender or supportive sense, but what does Obi-Wan know about it anyway? What had Qui-Gon really known about it? The many Jedi who tended to him as a youngling were kind, but they were also distant in a way Anakin refuses to abide.

The hugs, the little touches, and the grasping hands. Leaning on him, falling asleep on him, sneaking into his bed at night. Obi-Wan shouldn’t allow any of it, but he can’t find it in himself to put a stop to it either. It would break Anakin’s heart. His too, if he’s being honest with himself.

“This might sting a little,” Obi-Wan warns, holding a fresh disinfectant wipe near where small beads of red well up on Anakin’s damaged skin.

The bacta will soothe any stinging, but he has to clean it first. Anakin’s eyes are wide and wet, but no tears have spilled over just yet. ‘Jedi don’t cry,’ he keeps saying.

‘Everyone cries,’ Obi-Wan protests, but the boy dedicates himself to the act. For now, at least. He can only hope he grows out of it. Obi-Wan would give almost anything to have a single conversation with Shmi Skywalker. Just to help him understand a little better. Has Anakin always been so clingy? Is it just in his nature to latch on and not let go, or has the separation from her at this age done some kind of permanent damage to him?

Obi-Wan takes a last glance at Anakin’s pouting face before gently pressing the wipe to the aggravated skin. Anakin’s face scrunches up, lightly flinching at the sting, his small hands balling into fists.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan apologizes, dabbing at the skin until the scant debris and blood are all wiped away. He reaches into the pouch fastened onto his belt to retrieve the small tube of bacta he keeps there, squeezing out a little onto one of his fingers.

“It’s okay, Master,” Anakin says, small. Strained. His bottom lip fastens between his teeth, and it looks like it’s taking a concentrated effort to keep to his ‘Jedi don’t cry’ proclamation. Obi-Wan smiles a little despite himself.

Cool and painless, the green-tinged gel glides over the wound. Anakin’s little face soothes almost immediately, his whole body untensing. The sight makes Obi-Wan’s chest tighten. He’d hug him if he didn’t know he shouldn’t. Anakin initiates enough over-affectionate touching without Obi-Wan encouraging it.

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan keeps rubbing it in until the small tears seal, and the redness fades away almost completely.

“Mhm, thank you, Master.” Anakin smiles at him, but his eyes are still gleaming with unspilled tears.

“Come then, we’re finished for today.” Obi-Wan moves to stand, but Anakin’s face is intense, his hand half stretched out to him. “Is something wrong, little one? Does it still hurt?”

Anakin shakes his head, looking closer to tears than he has since he fell. “Could you… kiss it, Master?”

He isn’t sure what he expected him to say. Not that.

Obi-Wan knows he should decline, but oh how Anakin has wrapped his fingers around his heart and squeezed tight. This young, exceptional boy who so transparently misses his mother more than anything in the galaxy. How can Obi-Wan possibly deny him?

With a deep exhale, Obi-Wan holds Anakin’s leg delicately and leans in to press his lips to the barely there redness lingering on his knee.

The smile Anakin gives him in return is brimming with sun-bright warmth that pierces Obi-Wan straight through the chest. This boy is going to be quite a problem for him.

It would be wise for someone else to be his Master. Someone with more experience who could handle him better, but Obi-Wan promised, and he isn’t in the habit of breaking his word. Especially the kind you intend to honor as a last wish.

He’ll be the Master Anakin needs. He’ll make it so.

Anakin never quite grows out of his propensity for physical affection, though it lessens over the years. Whether it’s because he’s grown up and doesn’t desire such coddling, or if he’d gradually picked up on Obi-Wan’s mild discomfort, he can’t be sure. Part of him hopes it’s simply the first. It does make him uneasy, but not because he doesn’t want to offer Anakin the comfort he desires.

Obi-Wan would give it freely and without hesitation if it didn’t feel like a betrayal to the Order each time. Anakin’s attachment to his mother has been an ever-present obstacle, and Obi-Wan shouldn’t let himself be a surrogate.

Rationally, those things are obvious to him. It’s another matter entirely to look into his Padawan’s round, pleading eyes and say no to him. The recurring thought that he’d be a terrible father is a ceaseless splinter beneath his skin that Obi-Wan only seems to wedge deeper every time he tries to dig it out.

If there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that he’ll never take another Padawan. It might do Anakin some good to learn to be less possessive of him, but Obi-Wan fears that alone will never be enough to offset how uneasy and inadequate this experience makes him feel.

By the time Anakin is fourteen, there’s only one particular affection he still outright asks for.

“Kiss it, Master,” he says, holding out his scraped palm to him. His cheeks are pink, and he looks away from him as he asks. He even waited until they’d made it back to the temple.

Obi-Wan has to wonder why he keeps asking if it’s so embarrassing for him, but he never pries about this particular subject. Most likely, it would make him stop asking altogether. Maybe he should. Put a stop to the last vestiges of his childlike need for such things.

He doesn’t.

“If you were less reckless, I wouldn’t need to kiss anything,” Obi-Wan chastises, but he’s already laid his hand across the back of Anakin’s, tugging it closer.

He wouldn’t have fallen so badly if he’d listened to Obi-Wan’s pleas to stick by his side and slow down. There’s no reason at all to go jumping on your average low-life trying to sell illegal spice on the streets of Coruscant. Like he’s some vigilante. But Anakin is still very young, and his sense of justice is strong. Not a bad thing, but something that needs better direction for sure.

As always, there’s still a faint redness to the skin even after applying bacta. Obi-Wan smooths his thumb over the fading wound where Anakin had thrown his hand out to catch himself on the rough duracrete. Chancing a glance at his face, Obi-Wan finds him chewing on his bottom lip with a doe-eyed stare.

Obi-Wan’s lips press to his warm palm, brief and chaste.

“There. Better?” he asks, letting Anakin’s hand slip from his grasp.

The bright-eyed, familiar smile Anakin answers with is worth every bit of doubt that threatens to tarnish the blood in his veins.

“Yeah. Much better.”

Anakin is panting, laid out below him with the blue of Obi-Wan’s saber cutting dramatic edges across his face. There’s usually a pouty reluctance to yield when he’s clearly lost a sparring match, but the way Anakin looks at him now with wide, unblinking eyes is almost worrying.

“Master, you’re bleeding,” he finally says, pointing at his own cheek just below his left eye.

Obi-Wan blinks at him. He sheaths his saber, reaching up to graze his fingers over where Anakin had gestured, and they come away with a small amount of crimson smeared on them. He can’t say for sure when in their sparring match he’d even got it. Anakin is always rough, but he can’t remember him ever drawing blood.

“So I am.”

Anakin is standing before he can offer him a helping hand, and it still strikes him that he has to look up at the boy to meet his eyes now. At seventeen, he’s probably as tall as he’s going to get, but there’s still a roundness to his face that will chisel away, and his body is still filling out with corded muscle and fat.

Obi-Wan is so caught up remembering how much smaller Anakin used to be that he doesn’t register him invading his personal space. He’s barely able to process Anakin tipping his face downward toward him in time. Obi-Wan flinches back before the boy can touch him, and the immediate hurt on his face makes him regret the action instantly.

“Anakin–” he starts, grabbing at one of his forearms. It’s to ground himself more than anything, but it keeps Anakin from moving too far away as well.

Had he just tried to kiss him? Surely not.

Anakin gives him a look that’s reserved for a single purpose, one he’s seen many times over their years together. It dawns on Obi-Wan then what he’s trying to do, and his stomach flips over itself in such a strange way he’s unsure what to call the feeling.

He is trying to kiss him, but not with the intention he initially feared. Obi-Wan suddenly feels like an old lecher for assuming such a young, handsome boy would have any interest in kissing him in that way. Especially Anakin. What’s wrong with him? Why would he entertain such a thought?

“You don’t have to do that dear, I’m perfectly fine.”

The wound is so superficial he doubts bacta will even do much of anything. He certainly doesn’t need his nearly grown Padawan to kiss it better.

“I want to,” Anakin says, small and almost pleading, like he’s the one asking for his wound to be soothed over with a tender touch.

Does Anakin know how easy it is for him to tear away his resolve? To leave him bare and raw? It’s difficult to believe he doesn’t have a clue, but it’s the option Obi-Wan would most prefer. Even if it’s ignorant to assume, it’s chilling to imagine Anakin has any inkling of his influence.

“It’s quite alr-” but Anakin doesn’t let him finish, his expression morphing from a dejected pout to something so intense Obi-Wan feels the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“I said I want to. Let me kiss you better, Master. For once.”

From Anakin’s lips, it almost makes sense. Yes, of course you can kiss me better; why wouldn’t you? And why does he protest? It’s innocent, a holdover from a lonely little boy’s need for comfort. Anakin only wants to share that with him. Where’s the harm in it?

“Well, I-” but he cannot find the correct words to say no. “I suppose. Just this once.”

The way Anakin’s face shifts from scowl to contemplative to beaming warms Obi-Wan to his core. A wide, toothy grin stretches over Anakin’s face as he ducks his head down to avoid Obi-Wan’s gaze. When he glances back up, his eyes are timid, his cheeks rosy. As unconventional and potentially inappropriate as this is, Obi-Wan can’t regret saying yes to him. Not when he looks at him like this.

It’s slower than Obi-Wan thought it’d be. Anakin leans so close he can feel his breath ghosting over his cheek, his hands coming to rest on Obi-Wan’s biceps. He lingers just long enough to make Obi-Wan uneasy, but his soft, warm lips press against his face before he can say anything in protest.

Obi-Wan’s kisses are always brief. Appropriate. But Anakin keeps the full press of his lips against Obi-Wan’s cheek for several heartbeats, fingers twitching where they’re still holding onto him.

Obi-Wan goes rigid, like a small animal hoping to be passed over by a larger, terribly fanged thing. A bit late, perhaps. It only makes him an easy meal.

The mercy Anakin shows by pulling away is a roiling mix of relief and disappointment to Obi-Wan. Feelings he doesn’t even get the chance to digest, because Anakin’s lips stain the slightest bit red with his blood. It takes all the willpower in Obi-Wan’s being not to make a pitifully wounded noise.

“Is that better, Master?”

No, he’s quite certain he’s allowed Anakin to cross a boundary he shouldn’t have, and it’s too late to take it back. All he can do is force a smile and say, “Yes, thank you, Anakin.”

That was the first and last time Anakin ever asked to kiss him. The childish longings he harbors for Obi-Wan’s lips on his scrapes and bruises, however, persist nearly two full years later. At nineteen, Anakin is a proper man, if still a very young one. Obi-Wan has given up on the idea that he’ll ever outgrow this oddity.

The mildly uncomfortable incident they’d shared broadly fades from Obi-Wan’s memory, and the kisses he still gives are a routine he barely thinks about. Anakin will be thirty years old and still asking his Master to kiss him better. This is the Master he needs, so it’s the Master Obi-Wan will be.

Anakin sits on the couch he often idled on as a child in Obi-Wan’s temple rooms, channel surfing the holo TV while Obi-Wan finishes washing the rest of his dishes a ways behind Anakin in the tiny kitchen. He can only see the back of his head from where he’s standing, but the tiny bounce of his ponytail at every shift of his body is rather cute. Anakin might be the only boy he’s ever seen look good in such a ridiculous style. He’ll be a little sad to see it go once he’s knighted.

It doesn’t pay to be distracted, not even doing something as simple and mundane as the dishes. Obi-Wan goes to dry the knife he’s just rinsed, and his finger catches the blade while his eyes and mind wander elsewhere.

“Shit!” he curses under his breath.

Obi-Wan sees Anakin whip around to look at him when the knife clatters into the sink, and their eyes meet in the instant before Anakin is on his feet. That ‘broadly forgotten’ memory resurfaces so vividly it’s almost like it just transpired a moment ago.

“Master, your finger–”

Obi-Wan thinks about Anakin’s warm lips on his cheek, and he shrinks back, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, Anakin, I-”

Anakin catches his wrist before he can pull it away, eyeing the crimson drop beading at the tip of his finger. Obi-Wan’s gaze met his, tensing, but unable to wrench his hand away. The gathering ruby drop spills down his finger, and Anakin’s predatory gaze follows the line it takes.

A surge of nostalgia so strong that his stomach turns washes over him. A young boy who knows nothing about the world begging Obi-Wan for affection. For comfort.

There’s no precursor to what Anakin does next. No indication or asking permission or hesitation. Just as Obi-Wan’s blood pools at the base of his finger, Anakin leans in and lets it touch his tongue. The single drop blooms across it as the tension breaks. Red on pink. Obi-Wan hears the aborted, breathless noise Anakin makes, and a ragged gasp catches in his throat as well.

“Anakin.”

“I’ll make it better, Master. Let me make it better.” Still close enough for his lips to brush against his finger, the red of his blood smears on them the slightest amount. Obi-Wan’s stomach lurches.

The single word thought of ‘pretty’ comes to mind before he can stop it.

Obi-Wan has no idea what to do, and the nothing he decides on is permission enough for Anakin to drag his tongue up the thin trail of red on his finger, obscene in Anakin’s fervent obsession. Obi-Wan’s fingers twitch. He stiffens, jaw clenching. Oh, Anakin. Always such a strange, lonely boy with odd ideas and baffling crossed wires Obi-Wan will never know how to arrange or untangle.

Too distant. Too close. Obi-Wan never knows how far away to hold Anakin–the safe distance seems to change by the hour, and Obi-Wan cannot keep up. It would be easiest to keep him beyond arms reach at all times, but that’s a rather hindsight thought at this point. Something he should’ve thought about before he allowed Anakin to dig his claws into him and smear his lips with his life essence. Before he sat back and let him taste it.

Anakin’s pink lips close around the cut, and Obi-Wan cannot watch. He looks away, turning his head completely aside. Of course, it does nothing to prepare him for the scorching wetness of Anakin’s tongue curling around the digit.

A wounded noise punches past Obi-Wan’s lips, and Anakin parts his own enough to ask, “Does it hurt?”

How many times has he asked Anakin that same thing before pressing his lips to his tender skin?

His finger doesn’t, but something deep and intangible inside of Obi-Wan does. He feels it in marrow, in his heart. To Anakin, this is something sacred, worshipful. Perhaps that’s why he cannot bring himself to stop him, or perhaps he’s simply a coward at this young boy’s mercy, as he’s always been.

From the first time Anakin ever looked up at him with wide, wet eyes, he was doomed. He knew it then. He knows it now. His Padawan is sucking the blood from him like it’s the most reverent thing he’s ever done, and Obi-Wan is letting him.

“No, it doesn’t hurt.” Obi-Wan means it in protest, but the words come out soft, and his body and arms refuse to listen to any suggestion of pulling away.

Anakin wraps his lips around the digit again and sucks in gentle, rhythmic pulses, long after there’s nothing left for him to nurse on. Obi-Wan looks this time, because he cannot look away quickly enough, and the image of Anakin’s full lips wrapped around his finger imprints into his memory like a white-hot brand on tender flesh.

This is something he isn’t meant to see. The ever-present need for comfort, his over-affectionate tendencies, his reverence–he could stand. Ignore. But this–this is a crossed line so bold Obi-Wan doesn’t know where to begin, and to Anakin his silence is his submission.

“Master,” he breathes, the tip of his tongue flicking over his finger.

Unbidden, Obi-Wan wonders what it would look like teasing the head of his cock.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan finally rips his hand away, and with a sickening start, he realizes his dick is half hard in his pants. He cups a hand over his mouth, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. “Enough.”

How can he think such a thing? What’s the matter with him?

“But-” Anakin whines. The sound of it should be more irritating than anything, but it tugs at his heartstrings in confirmation that this cannot continue for another second.

“Enough.” Obi-Wan tips his chin up, trying to look stern, unsure of how successful he is. Anakin’s face draws up a little, and the resolve in Obi-Wan’s chest thins slightly. “I’m fine, Anakin. Please.”

Amazingly, Anakin doesn’t press him. His eyes are dark; predatory and hungry. An animal that’s had its first real taste, and is so keen for more. More shocking than any of that is Obi-Wan’s lack of mortification. Well, he’s definitely mortified, but not at what Anakin’s done. It’s his own lack of disgust or horror at all of this that loops back around to appall him.

“Goodnight, Master,” he finally says, his irises a thin ring of starving blue as he gives him a final once-over before turning away.

Obi-Wan thinks he sees him bite his lip.

Anakin is much like a raxshir; he realizes. Primal and beautiful. Deadly and unpredictable. But it doesn’t matter how special or pretty an animal is. Maneaters have to be put down, don’t they?

After that incident, time seems to drag for Obi-Wan, no longer content to pass without notice as it always has. No, these past months insist on dragging their feet, Anakin an ever-haunting presence–weighing him down, pulling him under.

Those pretty pink lips, his dark, hungry eyes, and his hot, wet tongue. Obi-Wan shudders. They haven’t spoken about what Anakin did–the obscene boundary he tore open between them. What would he even say to him? ‘Please don’t drink my blood, Padawan, it’s entirely inappropriate.’? He’d sooner peel his own skin off than broach the subject.

So it festers–open and red and clawing at the dark recesses of his mind every single day. It turns the mundane passage of days and weeks and months into ordeals he has to endure.

Anakin knows he crossed a line. He knows he’s been crossing a line since he first asked Obi-Wan to kiss his scraped knee all those years ago. That they’ve both pretended Anakin’s last incident regarding the subject never happened is telling.

It’s also entirely the wrong time to be thinking about this, but it’s difficult not to with Anakin lying in a hospital bed missing an arm.

Obi-Wan’s knee bounces where he’s sat in the sunbathed waiting room of the temple medical facilities. He should eat and get a change of clothes, but how can he be expected to retire to his rooms and take it easy before he makes sure Anakin is alright? Before he’s told him how sorry he is?

A young male Twilek Obi-Wan can’t recall seeing before eventually comes to tell him that Anakin will be fine, that he’ll have to be monitored for a couple of days before a prosthetic can be attached, but is otherwise in good health. So why does Obi-Wan still feel queasy?

Anakin should have listened to him, but it’s still his duty to see that no harm comes to him, isn’t it?

He’s allowed to visit with him now, but his boots feel like they’re full of duracrete. A cowardly man who should never be Master to anyone. Especially someone as special as Anakin.

But Anakin must feel his shame. So strong that it bleeds into their bond vividly enough to make Anakin reach for him through it. Obi-Wan is on his feet before he can decipher what exactly he’s trying to project to him. He doesn’t think he can take Anakin trying to comfort him when he’s the one with the missing limb.

The door to his room slides open, and his boy looks up to meet his gaze immediately.

“Master.” That single word escapes Anakin, small and barely audible, and Obi-Wan rushes to his side before he can think to show any restraint.

Obi-Wan’s hands clasp at the metal framing of his bed before he can do something stupid like cup his face in his palm or take his remaining hand in his own. When his eyes finally fix upon the bandaged remains of his right arm, the lump that forms in his throat is so thick he almost chokes on it.

“Oh, Anakin,” is all that comes out of him in response.

Anakin turns his head away from him, his shame heavily saturating the space between them. “I’m sorry, Master.”

“Stop it,” Obi-Wan snaps, reaching forward to grab any part of Anakin to make him cease blaming himself. The sheets bunch between Obi-Wan’s fingers near Anakin’s thigh, and he looks back at him with slightly widened eyes. “You’re my responsibility. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

Anakin blinks at him. “It’s not your fault; I didn’t listen.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. It’s my duty to look out for you.”

Why didn’t he teach Anakin to mind better? He should’ve been a better mentor. He should’ve been worth listening to. His throat grows tight again, and this time he isn’t able to swallow it down without a pathetic noise escaping him. Why had Qui-Gon asked this of him? Because he was the only option? It can’t be because he thought him up to the task. It’s unfathomable.

“Master, don’t be upset.”

How can he not be? Perhaps it’s unbecoming of a Jedi to fret so deeply about anything, but what’s more important than rearing exceptional Padawans such as Anakin? Exhaling deeply, Obi-Wan closes his eyes and tries his very best to calm himself before he says or does something supremely embarrassing.

Once Obi-Wan feels like he isn’t about to crumble into a heap of ash at Anakin’s bedside, he opens his eyes. Anakin is still looking at him, his gaze tender in a way that’s incredibly contrasted to the predatory glint they’d shone with a couple of months prior.

“Forgive me, you’re alive and mostly in one piece. I should be grateful for that.”

Anakin shrugs. “It’s okay, if you got one of your arms cut off, I’d be upset too.”

Yes, Obi-Wan imagines so. Anakin probably views it differently, but Obi-Wan knows he’d cry the second he laid eyes on him if their positions were switched. Like Obi-Wan nearly had when he stepped into this room.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Padawan?”

Anakin’s eyes dart away from him, his cheeks flushing a nearly unnoticeable amount. “Could you stay? Just for a while, it’s boring here, and they say I can’t leave for a couple days. I know you probably wanna wash off and-”

Obi-Wan almost laughs at the meek display, but holds it back so he can cut off his rambling. “Of course I can.”

Obi-Wan pulls up a chair that’s only a little uncomfortable and settles beside Anakin’s bed.

There’s a small holo television in the room, and while the picture isn’t the best, it provides Anakin ample opportunity to explain the intricacies of various pod racing vehicles and components. It’s all rather interesting, he has to admit, but perhaps there is a profound purpose in being Anakin’s Master. He’d have gotten himself killed years ago in one of these races otherwise. He’s sure of it.

Catching frequent glimpses of Anakin’s arm, the question that’s been eating away at Obi-Wan since he got here finally gnaws its way out of him. “Does it hurt?”

Anakin’s face crinkles, like he’s really thinking about whether losing an arm has been all that painful. “A little, it aches mostly, but they say it won’t be long before they can get me a cybernetic.”

Obi-Wan pauses, as if he’s waiting for Anakin to say something more. To ask something. When he doesn’t, Obi-Wan is more than a little mortified when he realizes what he’s waiting for.

It seems the very last of Anakin’s clinging, childlike graspings have finally fled him. Or perhaps asking for a get-well kiss on a limb that’s been totally severed is too nonsensical even for Anakin. Obi-Wan doubts that’s the case. Not making sense has never stopped the boy from doing anything before.

Like sucking on his cut finger, for example.

He should be relieved, but the sodden disappointment that soaks into his bones says everything he’s too ashamed to put into words.

Worse still, his internal lamentations don’t go unnoticed under Anakin’s keen eyes.

“What is it, Master?”

His eyes. Blue and soft and painfully genuine. Intelligent, but still so young and naïve.

“It’s nothing, I just–” but what can he say? Anakin caught him with his belly exposed and throat bared.

And his smart, sharp-edged boy takes the opening and bites down.

“Do you… want to kiss it?” Anakin breathes, the question hushed and illicit.

Does his blood taste good welling up between Anakin’s fangs?

“I–”

He’s twenty-five again, staring down at a wet-eyed young boy pleading for affection Obi-Wan knows he shouldn’t give.

But it’s ten years too late for ‘shouldn’t’, isn’t it?

“If you’d like me to,” Obi-Wan says, his voice thin, so as not to burst the fragile tension that’s bubbled up between them.

Anakin only nods slowly, like Obi-Wan will spook if he does anything too suddenly. With the way his heart is pounding, that isn’t a totally unfounded concern.

He’s already close, his chair almost touching Anakin’s hospital bed, so it’s little trouble to lean over and lessen the space between them. Obi-Wan’s hands linger over what’s left of his arm for a couple of heartbeats. Unsure if he should touch him.

Anakin makes that decision for him, his arm pressing into his lingering palm. Obi-Wan nearly recoils, but his touch clearly isn’t causing Anakin any discomfort. Still, he keeps it light as he leans even closer until his breath hits Anakin’s bandages.

Obi-Wan flicks his eyes upward to gauge Anakin’s expression, and he’s staring with such rapt attention Obi-Wan can’t look away. He keeps his eyes on him, watches his boyish face go red and his brows knit together as he lays a gentle kiss on his arm.

It’s not like all the other times. Obi-Wan lingers, wishing there were no bandages in the way to stop him from pressing his lips to the bare, tender edge of his severed limb. When he pulls back, he’s overcome with a desperate longing for this moment to continue.

Anakin wants it too; Obi-Wan can feel it in him when his hand comes to lie atop Obi-Wan’s. See it in the depths of his soft blue eyes, always pleading for his Master’s attention. For his love.

So he surrenders, allowing his lips to touch Anakin again. Obi-Wan trails slow, gentle kisses all over what’s left of his arm, like he really believes he can kiss him better.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin breathes, his fingers twitching where they’re resting atop Obi-Wan’s palm.

When he looks up at Anakin, his pupils are blown so wide there’s only a sliver of blue left, and his chest rises and falls in quick breaths he’s trying to stifle. If Obi-Wan were to touch the thrum of his pulse, he’s certain he’d find it racing. His is too.

If he doesn’t end this strained, precarious moment right now, he doesn’t know what will happen. All he’s sure of is that it will irrevocably change something between them. Maybe it already has.

It’s like pulling teeth to will himself away from Anakin, but he manages. The flash in Anakin’s eyes when he does makes him fear he’s going to stop him, but the boy only goes rigid for a short moment, his fingernails grazing the back of Obi-Wan’s hand before relaxing again.

It feels more than a little silly to ask Anakin if he feels any better this time, but he still wants to. Out of habit, and maybe a little hope as well.

“I wish I could do more,” is what he ends up saying.

A little pathetic, perhaps, but it’s genuine.

Anakin shakes his head, a fond smile gracing his soft features. “It’s okay, Master. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear.” The pet name slips out without him thinking much of it; it’s not like Anakin seems to mind. In fact, he’s sure he catches a fresh tinge of pink rising in his cheeks.

After that, Anakin blatantly seems to regress in his previously timid wants for physical affection. It’s like he’s a much younger boy all over again, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The boy’s head is in his lap right now, his face completely relaxed as he dozes off in the security of Obi-Wan’s quarters on The Negotiator. He’s taken to coming to him nearly every afternoon they’re both available to lounge around on or near him like a clingy tooka.

They’re on Obi-Wan’s sofa, and Anakin’s long legs partially dangle off the too-small piece of furniture. There’s a datapad in Obi-Wan’s hand, and he thinks he’s read this mission briefing a hundred times. Almost none of it will commit itself to his memory at present. With a weary sigh, Obi-Wan sets the pad off to the side, letting his attention fully wander to Anakin.

He can’t regret showing Anakin how sorry he was–he’d do it over again given the chance, but he always always takes things too far. Obi-Wan should’ve put a stop to all of it a decade ago. It’s always ‘should’ with Anakin. Even now, he knows he’s too weak-willed to put an end to it.

Not with this war raging, when it might be the only consistent tenderness either of them regularly experiences with another person. Woeful as he is to admit it, Obi-Wan takes comfort in it too.

So Anakin hugs and leans and lingers and touches. It’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything particularly offensive to the Order or their bond. Anakin is old enough to know the difference between physical affection and possessive attachment. Or he should be. Obi-Wan isn’t entirely sure Anakin can untangle those things from each other.

He sighs audibly at the train of thought. What won’t he rationalize at his own expense for Anakin’s benefit? The self-awareness is painfully undesirable–at the very least, he’d like to enjoy his delusions, but he isn’t allowed even that.

He threads a gentle hand into Anakin’s soft, growing hair, and Anakin presses his face into Obi-Wan’s thigh, making a small noise of contentment. Anakin keeps telling him he sleeps better when he’s with him. Obi-Wan knows he can be prone to nightmares, but it could just as well be a lie to spend more time with him. He isn’t sure he cares either way.

Anakin isn’t his Padawan any longer, but he cannot help himself from thinking: ‘This is the Master he needs.’ Obi-Wan leans back on the sofa and closes his eyes too, his fingers still threaded in Anakin’s curls.

He rubs his thumb behind his ear where his Padawan braid used to sprout from, and regrets so deeply that his entire body seems to ache that he couldn’t be there to watch him become a Knight. The council would have frowned upon any mission protest on the basis of being there for the ceremony. It reeks of attachment, and so he let it go.

Obi-Wan thinks he’ll die wishing he’d been there to see it.

There’s red smeared on Obi-Wan’s palm. Even more staining his robe where it’s torn near his waist. He’s panting, scarlet spilling out of him with each needling exhale.

“Master!” he thinks he hears Anakin call for him, but he isn’t sure.

‘I’m fine,’ he tries to say, but his mouth won’t move. He clutches at his side, his knees digging into the mud-damp ground below. Little drops of crimson mix with the sludge of brown beneath him, and his head spins, trying to grasp at the simple question of where he even is or how he ended up like this.

Obi-Wan’s ears roar with the pounding of his own heart and the shrill thundering of blasters firing and metal being grated apart. It all comes back to him much too slowly. The war, the droids, the clones, his training. The shrill sound of metal being blown apart and the shattering pain that had ripped through him.

There’s a body collapsing onto the ground beside him just as he’s about to finish working through the hazy red of his own mind.

“Master!”

Anakin.

The final thought he needed to complete this picture makes itself violently known as Anakin slides his arms around him and attempts to lift him.

“Ahgh!” Obi-Wan cries out as white-hot, raw pain tears through him, pulsing from the aggravated wound near his waist. He locks up, grabbing Anakin’s arm and shoulder. He grips him harshly, fingers curling into the fabric of his robes.

“Wait!” Obi-Wan begs, his chest heaving, the promise of mind-shattering pain creeping up his spine as he becomes more and more lucid.

Anakin makes a pained expression, but doesn’t let go of him. “Master, you’re hurt. I have to get you to safety. I’m sorry.”

Those words are all the warning he gets. Anakin pulls him up, and his entire nervous system wails in objection. The searing pain is so great that Obi-Wan can’t even cry out properly–his eyes screw shut and his mouth hangs open while guttural, aborted noises catch in his throat.

Anakin is making him walk long before he’s ready, his boots sticking and dragging in the sludge of the wet ground beneath them. There are still some makings of a battle ongoing, but clones filter past them in great numbers, as the harsh sound of blasters being fired becomes less of a never-ending cacophony around them.

At least Obi-Wan doesn’t have to worry about being shot on top of almost being blown apart. Probably.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach one of their small deployment ships, but every step had been fresh torture, and Obi-Wan collapses the second his boot meets the durasteel of the ship's interior. The shift in weight nearly bowls Anakin over, but he bears his weight without dropping or crumpling to the floor with him. Even in a mind-numbing amount of anguish, Obi-Wan swells with pride at how very strong and capable his boy has become.

“Master, I have to take some of your clothes off now.”

It takes a second too long for Anakin’s words to register properly, and by the time they do, the boy’s hands are already working on his blood-soaked belt and sash. Obi-Wan means to protest, but the way Anakin has to maneuver his body to undress him has needling shockwaves of pain ripping through him. Little whines and gasps, punctuated by flinching recoils, take up any cognitive function that might give him the proper words.

Anakin reaches his undertunic, and Obi-Wan doesn’t want to look down at the ragged wound he knows is waiting for him.

“Master…” Anakin’s voice is trembling in a way Obi-Wan hasn’t heard since he was smaller than him. “There’s still a piece of something in here.”

“A healer…” would know what to do. Could do this more easily and without such turbulent emotions swirling through them. Anakin is a storm of so many distraught feelings that it seeps into the center of his being and twists him up inside.

Anakin is half breathless when he replies, “It’s too far; I need to stop the bleeding at least.”

His hands hover over Obi-Wan as he draws his lower lip between his teeth. He must be staring at the ragged wound, a rough piece of sharp durasteel embedded in it. Obi-Wan still doesn’t look down.

“I’m sorry,” Anakin breathes, exhaling a deep breath, finally taking hold of the piece of metal lodged in his side.

It feels large and small at the same time. Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut so tight that red stars burst behind his eyelids. But nothing could have prepared him for the astonishing flare of red-hot, raw displeasure and pain that ravages his entire body.

“Gah!” The cut off, guttural sound he makes is entirely inadequate for how excruciating every nerve ending in his body feels, but he fears there isn’t a noise he’s capable of making that would display the sheer anguish that had just taken hold of him.

So he lies there for an eternal moment, his back arched, his toes curled, his eyes shut and mouth hanging open. There’s a soothing, gloved hand carding through his hair a moment later, and Anakin is cooing his reassurances.

“I got it, I got it, I’m done. You’re okay, Master. You’re okay.”

He isn’t done, though. He can’t be before he applies bacta and bandages. This wound is too deep to heal with bacta alone, though it will speed up the process. Obi-Wan can hear him unclasping and digging through the syntheather pouches fastened to his belt. His eyes remain closed, and he tries to keep his breathing steady, despite the way he can feel his own blood pooling underneath him.

His tender-hearted boy is as gentle with him as he’s able to be, but Obi-Wan still hisses and squirms when he rubs the cool gel into his open wound. It’s undeniably soothing, but there’s something raw and almost obscene about Anakin pressing his fingers in and around the bleeding tear in his skin. His left too. Glove off. His bare skin against Obi-Wan’s red flesh.

The pain pulsing through Obi-Wan’s body lessens considerably, so he decides it’s safe to crack his eyes open to assess. He lands on Anakin’s face first, and he’s devotedly concentrating on his task of spreading the gel evenly over his wound. Following the line of his neck to his shoulder and down his arm, Obi-Wan finally allows himself to look at the source of his acute anguish.

It’s not nothing, but it’s not as bad as he feared either. There’s a non-trivial amount of blood smeared on his flank and abdomen, but nothing lethal. Off to the side, Obi-Wan spots the small, jagged piece of durasteel that had embedded itself inside him. His tunics and tabards are nearby, stained with a generous spot of crimson. He’ll have to ask for new ones.

“Can you sit up, Master?”

Obi-Wan definitely doesn’t want to sit up, but he’s sure that he can. The bandages are all that’s left, so he takes a deep, steadying breath and pushes himself upright, Anakin guiding him with gentle, blood-stained hands.

It doesn’t hurt badly enough to make him cry out, but he aches down to his bones, and though the bleeding has largely stopped, it certainly doesn’t feel good to move. He groans lowly, wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep on the cold durasteel of the grounded ship they’re sheltering in. A pang of guilt-panic wracks his body. His men are still out there fighting and he-

“They’ll be fine, Obi-Wan. The battle was pretty much over by the time I got to you, so worry about yourself.”

Is he so obvious? His shields must be weaker than normal. Perhaps it’ll be best if he tries to stop thinking altogether for the time being. It would be pitifully easy for him to fall asleep right now, even on the unforgiving metal he’s sitting on.

“Raise your arm a little, Master.”

He does as Anakin asks, and he presses a large square bandage over the still ragged skin. Obi-Wan knew he was tired, but the full force of everything he just experienced hits him like a freighter, and he feels so weak he nearly collapses back onto the floor. He catches himself with an extended arm, wincing at the way his body lightly twists as he does so.

“I’ll have someone come pick us up,” Anakin says, fishing his comlink out of a pocket attached to his belt.

“Thank you,” is the only thing Obi-Wan can manage before allowing himself to ease back until he’s lying flat on the cold floor. It’s a monumental struggle he doesn’t want to participate in to keep his eyes open, but his gaze finds Anakin’s face a final time as his eyes flutter closed.

He’s staring down at his blood-soaked fingers, his eyes dark and unreadable. It instantly reminds Obi-Wan of how he looked the night he decided he wanted to taste the iron of his Master’s blood. Obi-Wan shivers.

Surely he won’t…?

Anakin seems to consider, rubbing his fingers and thumb against each other, smearing the drying life essence between them. He’s transfixed, not even noticing Obi-Wan watching him so intently just feet away.

After another stretched-out moment, Anakin’s face contorts into a scowl, his brows drawing together and lip curling. He wipes his hand on his own tunic, shaking his head as if trying to shake a pestering thought free.

As Obi-Wan finally closes his eyes, a sense of disappointment grips him. No–it’s more like a strange, apologetic longing.

It isn’t the raxshir’s fault it was born a carnivore, after all.

Relative inexperience aside, Anakin did a decent job patching him up. The healers back on the Negotiator look him over and observe him for a handful of hours, but after some water and rest, he's given the go ahead to sleep in his own bed that night. As long as he takes it easy.

He's in charge of changing his own bandages, but that won't be too difficult. Most likely he'll only have to worry about it for a couple of days. By then the bacta will have done its work, and only a scar that will fade away will remain.

Obi-Wan's got his fresh bandages and bacta laid out on his bed when he hears a knock at his door. He knows it's Anakin before he can even sense him–he's the only one that would come to his quarters this late barring an emergency.

“Come in,” he calls, debating throwing his under tunic back on, but ultimately deciding not to. Anakin's seen his bare torso plenty of times. Like several hours earlier, for example.

“Do you need help?”

Anakin's bashful tendency to look down and away when he asks for something he desires makes itself known, and Obi-Wan can't help but smile. His question isn't a literal one. What he means is: ‘Will you let me help you? I want to.’

“If you'd like.”

Anakin stands a little ways in front of the side of Obi-Wan’s bed, raking his eyes down his body until he gets to the bandage covering his waist. His gaze lingers there, his expression vague and dark in a way Obi-Wan has come to recognize. It takes a considerable amount of willpower not to shudder.

Thankfully, Anakin doesn't stare long enough to make things direly awkward. He sits beside him on the bed setting the fresh bandages and bacta off to the side.

“Lean back on your hands Master, it'll make it easier for me.”

Obi-Wan does as he's asked, and Anakin reaches for the old bandage plastered to his side. He closes his eyes, tensing and waiting for the skin to pull unpleasantly. It does, and Obi-Wan winches as the adhesive peels off his sensitive skin. The final tug rips the scabbed-over wound slightly, and Obi-Wan whines, fingers curling into the sheets.

“Sorry,” Anakin breathes, like he's short of breath from just sitting here next to him. From seeing fresh, red blood well up from his tender wound.

Oh. Obi-Wan very suddenly feels like he's crawled into the open mouth of a hungry beast, and if he makes any sudden moves, it will bite down. The strong fingers of Anakin's gloved mechno fingers splay across his belly and push and Obi-Wan’s arms slip from beneath him. He's flat on his back before he can put up any resistance, Anakin's gloved hand still pressing down on him.

Obi-Wan gasps, hating the way this brash display of strength curls hotly under the press of Anakin's mechanical palm. “What are you doing?”

Anakin stares at his oozing wound, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he lets himself touch the small amount of crimson spilling out of him. He rubs his fingers together like he had just the day before, but this time, there's no conflict creasing his brow or dulling his eyes.

“It's you Master… this,” he says, not looking away from the blood on his fingers. “And I haven't… kissed it better yet.”

“Anakin, you don't have to-”

Anakin shakes his head, brows drawing tightly together. He's short of breath when he speaks. “I have to, please. Master. I need to.”

Need to what?

It's the first and most obvious question that springs to mind, but he doesn't voice it, because he knows doesn't he? He's known since the first time Anakin ever asked to press his lips to Obi-Wan’s blood smeared cheek. So can he really be all that shocked when Anakin brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean?

“Anakin!”

Apparently he can.

“I'll fix it, Master. I'll make it better,” Anakin mutters, sounding half drunk as he bends closer to the source of his transfixion.

Before his soft, full lips can touch him, Obi-Wan squirms away, reaching down to hold Anakin's head in place. His curls are soft beneath his fingers, and Obi-Wan nearly whimpers when Anakin looks up at him with his hand still threaded in his hair.

It doesn't stop him. Anakin grabs his wrist and pries it away with little effort. He leans a little closer, the heat of his breath hitting Obi-Wan's torn skin. He squirms again, involuntarily, and he thinks he hears Anakin growl.

The sound of it frightens him, but it doesn't settle in his veins as the sharp, icy thing fear usually is. The simmering warmth Anakin sparked in him only seems to grow a little hotter instead.

“Stop this, please I-”

“I can't Master. It's you. I need it.” Anakin appears unwilling to look away from his wound now–fat scarlet droplets welling up and enthralling him.

“This is-”

Mortifying. Horrific. Appalling. But those words are too harsh to say out loud, and the pause he takes is the opening Anakin needs. His pink tongue slides out of his mouth, and touches hot and wet to the tear in his skin.

“Ah–!”

Obi-Wan's toes curl in his boots, his head tipping back against his bed when Anakin passes the flat of his tongue to where he's bleeding and licks. Obi-Wan clenches his jaw, and tries not to let another pathetic sound escape him. He's only half successful, a choked, garbled noise sticking in his throat.

“You taste good.”

“Oh fuck,” Obi-Wan curses, the heat in his veins flaring up with each pass of Anakin's tongue. It hurts, stinging and burning–stoking the flame in his belly until it's so hot he fears his insides will singe to ash.

Force, no. He can't lie here and let Anakin do this. Obi-Wan arches his back and rears his leg back to kick at Anakin's shoulders. He succeeds in bucking Anakin off of him, scrambling backwards until his shoulders hit the wall behind him. Obi-Wan’s panting, looking down wide eyed at Anakin.

He's crouched by the foot of the bed, his hands clutching the sheets, lips painted a sinful shade of red from Obi-Wan's blood. His darkened eyes don't meet with his own–they're settled lower. Obi-Wan thinks he's still staring at the gash on his side, but following the line of his gaze leads him lower. Until-

“You're hard,” Anakin says, voice dripping with breathless wonder.

Dying of blood loss on some outer rim shithole plastered in mud suddenly doesn't sound so bad.

“I'm sorry.” His weak voice falters, and he draws his legs together so Anakin can't look anymore.

“What for?” Anakin asks, voice pitching like he genuinely cannot comprehend why Obi-Wan has any reason to be horrified.

For not being firmer. For caving to the weakness in his own heart. For not being the master he needed. For letting this happen. For- “Everything.”

Anakin's brow creases, gripping the covers and beginning to climb up onto the bed again. All Obi-Wan can do is flatten himself against the wall and pray that being devoured isn't as painful as he fears it'll be.

“Do you like me, Master?”

The question is so juvenile and jarring that it makes him scoff. “Of course I like you, Anakin.”

Anakin's eyes flick away and back to him before he asks his next question. “Do you love me?”

That makes him take a little more pause. He does. Of course he does, but he's never said the words aloud to Anakin. He doesn't know if he should now either, but it feels unbearably cruel not to.

“You know I do,” he says, small, but he's sure Anakin hears him.

“Like a brother? Like a son?” he asks, voice edging with a desperate inflection.

Obi-Wan wants to say yes. He needs to say yes for his and Anakin's sake. It doesn't matter how strong and handsome he's grown. How Obi-Wan has thought of him in his most shameful solitary moments. That his cock is still hard in his pants. He'll say Anakin is his friend and student and nothing more if he's smart. If he could force himself to say such an abjectly untrue thing.

If.

“You're my…” but there's not even a word for what they are. “You're the closest friend ‌I have ever had.”

Those words are entirely inadequate to describe the depth of anything he feels for Anakin, but they aren't untrue either, and they're all he can think of that's even remotely safe to say. Anakin's round, eager eyes sparkle as he looks up at him, and Obi-Wan knows he's said the wrong thing. If there's even a right thing he could've said at all.

“Do you think… you could ever love me… as more than that?” Anakin lifts himself up onto the mattress a little as he asks, the tender features of his face creasing like if he pouts pathetically enough Obi-Wan will say yes.

And he wants to say yes. He wants to say that he already does. That he always has, ‌but over thirty years of training and devotion is a lot for a few minutes of half-forceful pleading to undo. Though if anyone can manage such a monumental task, it's Anakin.

He's been wearing him down all this time, really. Ever since he was a small boy. Now Obi-Wan's just being forced to face the beast he's allowed to grow fat and docile on his blood and affections.

“You mustn't ask me such things,” Obi-Wan says, turning his head aside. Away from Anakin's hungry, expectant stare. His words come out sounding like a plea for Anakin to stop trying to work his fingers into the cracked door of Obi-Wan’s resolve, rather than the refusal they should be.

“But you do, don't you?” Anakin inches closer still, and Obi-Wan's stomach flips over itself almost violently.

“I can't.”

A useless, cowardly thing to say. As if the rigid outline of his hard cock hasn't said enough. A distant, delirious part of him half hopes that this is all just some elaborate hallucination as he bleeds out in the mud.

“That isn't a no,” Anakin says, his gloved mech hand reaching out to rest on his knee, and Obi-Wan flinches like there's anywhere for him to flee to.

Anakin's touch is far too terrifyingly real for this to be a dream. There's only one thing he can do: close his eyes tight, bite the inside of his cheek, and wait for whatever Anakin will do next. He can't see, but he feels the bed shift as Anakin creeps closer. Obi-Wan doesn't even bother resisting when Anakin gently pushes his legs apart.

His former Padawan's powerful frame carves a space between his legs, Anakin's fingers curling into the fabric of his pants on the outside of either thigh. Obi-Wan can feel himself weakly trembling, the hairs on his arms standing on end.

When he feels an exhale of hot breath hit his cheek, Obi-Wan's eyes snap open, and again, he reflexively tries in vain to flinch back. Unfortunately, the wall behind him hasn't magically disappeared, and he's made acutely aware that there's still an open wound on his side; the jerking movement sending a burst of electric pain up his torso. Obi-Wan hisses, clutching at the wound lightly.

The pure, deep blue of Anakin's eyes capture Obi-Wan's attention despite the less than comfortable situation–beautiful and ravenous. He doesn't dare venture a glance at Anakin's lips, fearing that the red stain of his blood on them will drive him mad.

“Kiss me,” Anakin whispers. Pleading, but with a jagged edge that tells Obi-Wan he'll take what he wants by force if he has to.

Obi-Wan shivers–out of fear, yes, but something else too. Even now, he's terribly reluctant to acknowledge what Anakin does to him–the obvious proof still straining against the seam of his pants.

“Master,” he growls, teeth peeking from behind his pink lips, squeezing Obi-Wan's thighs even harder.

“Anakin. Please.” Please stop this. Please take whatever you want. Please.

Obi-Wan doesn't waste his energy trying to get away or shoving him off. If Anakin fights back, Obi-Wan won't stand a chance in the state he's in. Not to mention how it could permanently damage their relationship. As if it isn't damaged already. The shards of a thousand ‘should haves’ and ‘what ifs’ are embedded in the heart of their bond, and Obi-Wan fears trying to extract them will rip ‌both of them apart. Anakin especially.

“I've waited for so long, don't make me wait anymore,” Anakin groans desperately, pressing his forehead into Obi-Wan’s cheek.

Part of Obi-Wan wants to know how long he means exactly, but the answer will be obscenely inappropriate at best. The last thing he needs right now is to picture his teenage Padawan thinking of him in his most private moments. Shifting against him like this, Obi-Wan can feel how every muscle in Anakin's body is tensed. Pulled so taut that the slightest disturbance will surely cause him to snap. The thin, lanky boy he once was is long gone, replaced with the unmistakable build of a man.

“You're only twenty,” Obi-Wan whispers. Like he's trying to talk down a wild animal. Trying to reason with it. Begging it not to eat him as its claws dig into his flesh but bearing his throat anyway.

“And that makes me a man, doesn't it? I'm not even your Padawan anymore. I want you, Master.”

Anakin's brash declarations twist Obi-Wan up inside until he's nothing but a sickening, writhing mess from which there might be no coming back from. Perhaps Anakin will hold him down and strip him to the bone, just to see every part of him.

He knows it's futile, but Obi-Wan shakes his head, pushes Anakin back by his shoulders to look at him. “You're confused. You don't underst-”

Anakin's entire face creases into dramatic distress. “No! You don't understand. I love you, Master.”

If Obi-Wan felt like he was being twisted up before, now it's more like he's being clawed at and torn apart piece by piece from the inside. Anakin's eyes are wild with brazen sincerity, demanding his acknowledgement, his reciprocation.

“You don't even know what you're saying,” Obi-Wan quietly croaks, desperately searching Anakin's face for any sign of doubt or conflict.

He finds none, and the creeping despair that's lingered in his heart for a decade tears its way out of the careful cage Obi-Wan's constructed for it. It's freeing in a way; realizing there's nothing he can do to stray Anakin from this path, that everything he's done has led them both here.

“I do! Why can't you treat me like an adult for once?” His voice cracks, and he sounds precariously close to tears.

“Anakin, I-” But he doesn't want to hear anymore.

Anakin reaches up to grip Obi-Wan's jaw tight, keeping him in place as his plush, full lips press to Obi-Wan’s. Rather than any screaming instinct to break away, the first thing Obi-Wan notes is how tender his kiss is. The harsh grip of his gloved mechno fingers contrasts starkly with the gentle press of his mouth to Obi-Wan’s. It's nice. At least, for a few lingering moments, it is. Anakin's lips are parting against his own before long, demanding Obi-Wan to open so he can slip his tongue inside. He doesn't deny him. The iron of his own blood is rich on Anakin's tongue as he licks into his mouth, plunging it deep–over eager to push his spit into every crevice of his Master's mouth. His.

It isn't a good kiss, strictly speaking, but it's certainly very Anakin. The metallic taste of himself paired with Anakin's spit is horribly erotic, and Obi-Wan groans despite himself.

Anakin moans shamelessly into his mouth, ‌pressing himself impossibly closer. His knees slide under Obi-Wan's thighs, making his legs hook around his hips.

When Anakin's straining erection presses flush against the bulge of his own, the mewling sound Obi-Wan makes is shrill and shameful.

It's fuel to Anakin's already raging fire, and he bites at Obi-Wan's bottom lip before pushing his tongue back into his mouth, curling it around Obi-Wan’s, coaxing it forward so he can suck on it. It's by far the most obscene kiss he's ever shared with anyone–wet and messy and astoundingly ravenous.

The ache between his thighs grows harder to ignore, the aggravated gash near his waist almost completely forgotten save for a dull, pulsing discomfort. Obi-Wan’s been trying not to touch him, his fingers twisted up in the sheets below, thinking of how nicely Anakin's hair would curl around his fingers and how warm his skin would be beneath his palms.

Anakin must sense his trepidation, for he pulls back with a string of spit still connecting them. “Master,” he gasps, so close that his lips still brush against Obi-Wan's when he speaks. “Touch me. Please.”

That breathless plea is the final pull needed to force the door of Obi-Wan’s restraint wide open. The echoing mantra of, ‘this is wrong. Wrong. Don't. You can't.’ is suddenly nothing more than a quiet whisper in the depths of his mind. It all seems rather trite when Anakin's spit lingers on his lips while their cocks grind against each other.

Obi-Wan clutches Anakin's shoulder with one hand, the other cupping his jaw as he tips his head forward to kiss him again. Anakin growls, thrusting shallowly in search of friction, the hard line of his cock sliding deliciously against Anakin's even with several layers separating them.

It isn't enough for Anakin, though. Greedy boy that he is. He breaks away from Obi-Wan, pulling ‌both of them away from the wall and farther down the bed. There's red smeared across his cheek, and horrifically, Obi-Wan realizes his hand is still wet with his own blood. He splays his fingers wide in front of him; the tips smeared with tacky, drying scarlet. Glancing at the sheets, he finds them spotted with crimson too, and his forgotten injury suddenly becomes highly relevant.

“You're still bleeding,” Anakin says, brow creasing upward.

“It's al-”

But Anakin steals the words from his lips, the air from his lungs. He takes ‌Obi-Wan's bloody hand and brings it level with his face. He eyes it for only a moment before taking one of his bloodied fingers in his mouth and sucking.

It shouldn't surprise him, but Obi-Wan feels as though he's been slapped and doused in ice-cold water at the same time as Anakin's lips wrap around his finger. Anakin sucks the digit clean, humming around it and letting his eyes flutter closed. Obi-Wan’s cock twitches, and he's only just able to stifle the moan that begins welling up on the back of his tongue. One by one, Anakin licks his fingers clean with his scorching hot tongue, until he's lapping at his palm in refusal to let any of him go to waste.

This time, Obi-Wan does know exactly what to expect, so he can't be shocked when Anakin lets go of his hand and lies down beside him to fix his lips to the still bleeding cut on his waist.

“Ah-!”

“Does it feel good, Master? Am I making you feel good?” he asks between licks, looking up at him through his lashes.

“Fuck Anakin,” he curses, gritting his teeth as Anakin sucks lightly, tongue laving over the raw edges. Licking him out like the stinging wound is a cunt. He thinks seeing his cock in his mouth would be less obscene than this. It hurts, but he still says; “Yes.”

Pure molten heat pulses through Obi-Wan, and he groans deep and low, surrendering completely to Anakin's carnal obsession. Each cheek hollowing suck and pass of his tongue drives Obi-Wan a little more insane until he's panting and whining with the tenderness of it all.

Either his blood dries up, or Anakin's had his fill, for he pulls away, licking his lips and cleaning the smearing of blood from around the wound as well.

“M’ sorry, Master. I said I'd help, but I let you bleed all over yourself,” he says, still half-heartedly licking around the edges of his injury.

“It's okay, dear,” Obi-Wan breathes, reaching to run his fingers through Anakin's hair, petting ‌his soft curls.

He isn't sure why he says it, when everything Anakin's done since he stepped into this room has been a gross abuse of his trust and disregard for his boundaries at best. When his lips and cock are still swollen with the evidence of Anakin's transgressions. Obi-Wan doesn't correct himself. He simply watches as Anakin reaches for the discarded bacta and bandages.

It's odd to say the least; watching Anakin tend to his wound so dutifully after backing Obi-Wan into a literal corner while both of their cocks stand hard and aching between their legs. By the time Anakin is pressing a fresh bandage to him, his cock has flagged a little, but not as much as he might've expected.

The boy pushes his leg up and to the side so he can slide in between them again–this time with Obi-Wan lying flat on his back, Anakin looming over him. The light catches the edges of his golden-brown hair, the curve of his jaw and lips, and the darkened blue of his eyes. Beautiful as ever.

He leans over him, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of Obi-Wan’s head, and his stomach flutters almost violently. Obi-Wan throws up both hands to press on Anakin’s chest, keeping him from getting any closer.

“Anakin,” he warns, but his arms feel traitorously weak.

“I like it when you say my name like that,” Anakin purrs, bearing down a little harder. Obi-Wan’s arms give to the force, bending a touch more.

Their eyes meet, and Obi-Wan realizes he no longer has any fight left in him, if he ever truly did. Anakin's right. He doesn't want him to stop. Obi-Wan allowed this. It's his fault, all of it. How can he turn around and tell Anakin he doesn't want him now? It's equal parts relieving and terrifying.

Obi-Wan sighs in defeat, letting his hands slide from Anakin's chest up to around his neck. He pulls, and Anakin follows the motion eagerly, descending on him with a kiss that's all tongue and metallic spit.

This is the Master he needs.

With the length of Anakin's body blanketing him, he can feel the power of his larger frame, the roiling heat of him, the flexing strength of his muscles, the bulge of his hard cock rutting against his own. Obi-Wan’s head swims, and he gasps for breath as Anakin tongues his mouth so sloppily Obi-Wan questions if he even knows what a typical kiss is supposed to be like.

With a half-frustrated groan, Anakin pulls away from Obi-Wan, sitting up and back on his heels to tug at his belt and tabards. With it front and center, it's difficult not to look at the outline of Anakin's cock tenting his pants. Even while obscured by multiple layers, Obi-Wan can tell he isn't small. It's mildly astounding how badly he wants to reach out and touch it.

“You like it?” Anakin's smiling at him, but there's a genuine timidity in his words, in the way he casts his eyes off to the side.

“I- yes,” he says simply, fearing additional words will fail him.

They're both bare from the waist up now–it isn't anything either of them hasn't seen before, but it's amazing what context can do. Dragging his eyes up Anakin's muscled torso while the boy is kneeling between his spread knees sheds new light on the familiar contours of his body. Anakin’s body bends and shuffles somewhat awkwardly as he pulls his boots off, but Obi-Wan only finds the movement mesmerizing–the flex and pull of his skin and muscle.

He's rather unceremoniously pulled from his internal body worship when Anakin gropes his still covered cock over his pants. “You wanna see it? Touch it?” Anakin asks, staring down at him.

“Yes.”

Anakin grins, dipping his thumbs into the waist of his pants. He watches Obi-Wan's face with rapt interest as he pushes them down slowly, revealing more of the sparse trail of hair that starts below his navel. Obi-Wan can feel the pulse of his own heartbeat hammering through his entire body, roaring in his ears.

The base of Anakin's cock peeks over his waistband before he shoves the garment down completely, his hard cock springing free and swaying with the sudden motion. It curves upward towards his belly, a dusky, almost angry red at the tip. Obi-Wan's mouth waters, and he licks his lips absentmindedly. Anakin shifts a little on his knees, and Obi-Wan finds his face flushed dark, his eyes pointed somewhere off to the side again.

Even after all his theatrics, he's shy to bare himself completely to Obi-Wan in this way.

“Don't be embarrassed,” Obi-Wan says, propping himself up enough to reach out and grab Anakin’s hand. “It's–you're beautiful, my dear.”

“Really?” he whispers, looking at Obi-Wan with bashful eyes, his brows tweaking upward just a little.

“Gorgeous,” Obi-Wan exhales, letting go of Anakin and grazing his fingers down the line of his chiseled stomach, to the hair just above his cock.

When he finally touches it, Anakin makes a beautifully rough sound, twitching in Obi-Wan's hand. Warm and velvety and hard as durasteel, beading wet at the tip. He's never wanted something inside him so badly.

“Can I see yours too?” Anakin asks, both sets of his fingers brushing at the waist of Obi-Wan’s pants.

Anakin still has his glove on, covering the more intricate workings of his mechno-arm and fingers. He contemplates asking him to take it off, but he finds the synthleather on his skin rather arousing, ‌so he lets it be. If there's a next time–a thought that should not be allowed to sprout–but if. Obi-Wan thinks he'd enjoy the icy sting of durasteel on his skin.

“If you want,” Obi-Wan says, lifting his leg so Anakin can get at his boots.

Anakin scoffs. “Of course I want to; do you even know how many times I've tried to imagine it?”

“Too many,” he says plainly, leg still extended in offering.

Anakin pulls his boots off one after the other, discarding them on the floor before tugging at the laces of Obi-Wan’s pants. He doesn't waste time–he grabs at his bottoms and pulls, barely giving Obi-Wan enough time to lift his hips. His hard cock slaps against his belly as Anakin nearly tears his bottoms off ‌him, and he makes a tiny oof sound. He has to resist the instinctual urge to close his legs as Anakin ogles him.

He stares, lips parting, and his eyes gleaming with a hunger Obi-Wan has become well acquainted with. There's the mildest twinge in the back of his mind that he shouldn't be allowing this, that he can still put a stop to it, but how many times can he tell himself the same thing before it's nothing more than a toothless placation? That's what it was ten years ago, and it's what it still is now. He isn't interested in those comforting delusions any longer. Not when it feels so very good to let himself be devoured. No more running or hiding.

“Is it to your liking?” Obi-Wan asks, quiet.

“I love it,” Anakin breathes, not taking his eyes off his cock.

With a timid hand, Anakin reaches out and touches him, that singular point of contact sparking electricity through his body, and making Obi-Wan shudder as Anakin wraps his fingers around his cock. They both moan, Obi-Wan arching into his touch. He'd nearly forgotten what it feels like for a hand other than his own to touch him like this.

“Fuck Master, I need to feel you.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to ask what he means, but it quickly becomes clear as the boy pushes Obi-Wan's legs down and straddles his thighs, shuffling until his cock presses up against Obi-Wan's. Nothing separating them this time.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, giving a weak thrust upward.

Anakin wraps a hand around them both–his flesh one, but a hot and irrational impulse cuts into Obi-Wan, and he's speaking before he can register the words properly.

“Your other hand, Anakin, use it instead,” he pants, not looking away from Anakin's face as mild shock and realization fall over him.

“Shit, Master,” he curses, swapping hands and wrapping his leather-covered durasteel fingers around ‌both of them.

It's cold and bereft of any softness or give, but the cool, sleek leather makes Obi-Wan shudder and whine–high pitched and airy. Anakin tightens his grip just a little and gives them a slow stroke from base to tip. Obi-Wan struggles not to tip his head back and let his mouth fall open in a rapturous moan–he doesn't want to look away from what Anakin's doing for a single moment.

“That–that feels so good, darling,” he half moans, and Anakin whines, bucking his hips into his hand and Obi-Wan's cock.

“Yeah? Like my cock pressed up against yours?” he says, ragged.

“Yes. Force help me, yes.”

Anakin takes his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes closing tight as his brows crease upward. Their cockheads press together at the tips with each stroke in filthy kisses that mix their pre-come. It's obscene. It's rapturous. Little whines and whimpers slip out of Anakin as he tries to keep his pace something less than tight and frantic, only partially succeeding.

“Do you need a minute, sweetheart?” Obi-Wan coos, breathless.

The unyielding friction of Anakin's gloved mechno fingers is delicious. They could both come like this. Easily. The slow, simmering heat under Obi-Wan's skin could rise to an unrelenting blaze in an instant, and Anakin isn't faring much better. He shines blindingly bright in the Force, his enormous presence towering over Obi-Wan. Not like a raxshir–it's too grand, too imposing and awe-inspiring to be anything but a dragon.

Overwhelming, mounting waves of pleasure roll off Anakin and wash over Obi-Wan with every pump of his fist around them, drowning him in it. He wonders if Anakin will have the self-control to drag this out, or if he'll chase his pleasure to its quickest possible conclusion.

“Shit. Shit,” Anakin curses, his rhythm faltering.

He goes from half-furious stroking to stopping dead, letting go of Obi-Wan entirely and squeezing himself tightly at the base. He whines through his bitten lip, his body tensing and his eyes screwing shut.

“You can come if you want, Anakin,” Obi-Wan soothes quietly, imagining him streaking come all over both of their cocks.

He shakes his head before Obi-Wan has finished speaking. “No, Master. I want–”

Anakin opens his eyes, meeting Obi-Wan's directly and desperately, panting and trying to find the words for what he desires. Obi-Wan cannot think of a single thing he would deny him.

“Wanna fuck you, want you to fuck me, wanna suck your cock, wanna fuck your mouth, I want everything.” He's breathless, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes raking up and down Obi-Wan's body like he can't decide what part of him he wants to ravage next.

He wants to eat him, and Obi-Wan will bare the softest, most vulnerable parts of himself to make it easier. To make it good.

“Whatever you want,” Obi-Wan says, finding Anakin's hand and squeezing it.

Anakin makes a deep, choked sound from the bottom of his throat that's part growl, part moan, and Obi-Wan's hips jerk the tiniest amount. The boy maneuvers off of him, settling between his legs and lowering himself until he's eye level with Obi-Wan’s cock.

A breath stalls in Obi-Wan's throat as Anakin touches his cock, holding it steady as he tips his head forward enough to kiss the tip of him. His tongue laps up the wetness there, and Obi-Wan's moan blends with Anakin's. That's all he does at first; kiss and kitten lick at the head of his cock, teasing.

“Have you ever done this before?” Obi-Wan whispers, reaching to brush some hair behind Anakin's ear. He opens his eyes a little too wide and looks away a little too fast at his question. Obi-Wan stifles a laugh. “It's alright if you haven't.”

“I haven't,” Anakin mumbles, still refusing to look at him, his reddened lips brushing against his cock.

His mouth falls open a moment later, and Anakin takes the tip in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head. It takes a tremendous amount of willpower not to surrender to the animalistic urge to thrust upward into the wet heat of his mouth, but he manages with gritted teeth. When he sucks the tiniest amount, Obi-Wan keens, back arching. Humming around his cock, Anakin takes a little more of him, licking at the underside as it fills his mouth.

“Ah, you're doing fine, mmn, just like that,” Obi-Wan praises, his breathing picking up in speed, hitching when Anakin moans and sinks down as far as he can. He doesn't quite get it all before his throat spasms around the length of him, and he has to pull off, sputtering with spit dripping past his lips.

The sight is more intoxicating than he ever could have imagined. The only way he could possibly look prettier is with his come wetting his lips instead.

“That's my boy,” he says, cupping Anakin's face and swiping his thumb across his spit-wet bottom lip.

Anakin moans breathlessly, opening his mouth again, taking Obi-Wan's thumb between his teeth.

“Fuck.”

He suckles his thumb lazily, giving Obi-Wan's cock a few languid strokes before letting it slip out of his mouth. Anakin isn't satisfied, can't be satisfied until he's been inside ‌him, until he's bitten and licked and fucked every part of him he can get inside. Hands hook under both of Obi-Wan’s knees, and Anakin is pushing them up to his chest before he can properly register what he's doing.

It only takes a couple of dizzying seconds for Obi-Wan to realize he's ogling his ass. His hole. Obi-Wan’s toes curl, and he bites his lip, willing himself not to tremble at Anakin's scorching stare.

“Hold them for me, Master,” Anakin says, sounding half-drunk, not even bothering to look back up at his face.

He doesn't even really think about it before obeying, laying his hands beside Anakin’s on his thighs. His fingernails bite into his own flesh as Anakin lowers himself again, not stopping at his cock this time. Fingers brush against his cheeks, Anakin's thumbs pressing into the flesh to spread him wide.

Obi-Wan whimpers, unable to keep himself from shuddering. He's been ogled and looked at before, but never so tactlessly, so earnestly. It's viscerally exposing. Others have seen his naked body before Anakin, but none of them looked at him like Anakin is looking at him right now; with pure, instinctual hunger and rapture. Like he's a thing to be worshipped and savored.

“Master…” Anakin moans, the heat of his breath ghosting over Obi-Wan’s hole, hot and teasing.

Obi-Wan gasps, a reedy, wet sound that blooms into a full-blown, ragged, wail when the wet heat of Anakin's tongue drags hesitantly over his hole. A terribly arousing thought occurs to him:

If he'd never sucked cock before, it's almost certainly the first time Anakin has done this to anyone.

Had he ever even kissed anyone before Obi-Wan? It's overwhelming to even consider. Obi-Wan groans at the magnitude of it all flooding through him. This wild, beautiful boy has always wanted to worm inside Obi-Wan and taste him. Possess him in all the ways he's forbidden to. The wrongness turned Obi-Wan's stomach just minutes ago. Now, it only makes his cock twitch and leak.

Anakin licks at him like that–reserved and a little shy, but the wrecked noises he's coaxing out of Obi-Wan make him grow bold before long. The slow, teasing licks turn into broad, messy passes, and Anakin tries to shove his face in closer, mouthing and sucking and moaning like he's the one being eaten out. The bed shifts rhythmically below them, and Obi-Wan realizes he's fucking the mattress as he laps at his hole.

“Fuck Anakin, that's good, that's- ah- your tongue feels so good on my hole like that,” Obi-Wan pants out, grabbing his cock and squeezing hard to stave off the mounting pleasure low in his belly.

Anakin nearly growls, doubling his efforts and sloppily tongue-kissing his rim. It's a lot like he kissed his mouth. Oh, Obi-Wan feels faint, eyes rolling back as he sinks into the delirious spell Anakin's cast on him. It's never felt so good to surrender to anything.

Obi-Wan needs to tell him to stop, because if he doesn't, he's going to come all over himself well before Anakin is finished with him. Two rounds was already a lot for him in his mid twenties; it might be impossible in his late thirties. The madness of Anakin's eager, probing tongue makes words exceedingly difficult. He keeps laving messy circles around his rim and pressing filthy kisses to him between hot huffs of breath, and Obi-Wan can't take anymore.

“Anakin, please-!”

He squeezes his thighs together, grabbing at Anakin's hair and pushing him away. There's resistance, a low, rumbling sound and another hungry lick at his hole that nearly does him in, but Anakin relents, plunging back enough to cock a brow at him. His lips and chin are slick with his own drool, his hair tousled and curling in haphazard directions.

It takes Obi-Wan a few panting breaths for the intense tingling in his blood to settle down. “I- I'll come if you keep doing that.”

Anakin's teeth show in a wolfish grin that's as handsome as it is frightening. “Yeah? You like my mouth, Master?”

For all the times Anakin has used it to argue or whine or get smart with him, he should say no, but he can only think of his laugh, the attractive curve of his smile and the full lips that frame it.

“Very much,” is what Obi-Wan says.

Anakin takes a moment to pause, staring down at where his cock is pressing hot and hard into the crease of Obi-Wan’s thigh. He wets his lips.

“Master,” Anakin says, voice trembling, “Are you a virgin?”

“No,” he answers immediately, if softly. “But it's… been a very long time.”

Anakin looks at him then, his gaze a piercing, demanding thing. “How long?”

Obi-Wan's voice is little more than a strained whisper when he answers, “Over ten years.”

He watches Anakin do the math, watches as things click into place and his beautiful face shifts from euphoric realization to drawn-up, overwhelmed clarity.

“Not since I became your Padawan.” It's worded like a question, but it isn't one.

Obi-Wan offers his rasping confirmation anyway. “That's right.”

He didn't have the time or the desire. Well. The desire remained for a time, but it was never greater than his want to be a good and steadfast mentor to Anakin. The allowance for such frivolity grew scarce long ago, and by the time Anakin was a grown man, Obi-Wan hadn't taken someone to bed in so long he'd forgotten what the finer pleasures of it were like.

He nearly asks Anakin the same thing, but no matter the answer, Obi-Wan isn't sure he wants to know. If he's had sex, he doesn't care to think about the possibilities of who with, and if he hasn't, the wild, possessive arousal it would inspire in him would be another guilty pleasure to stack on top of all the others he's already collected.

Anakin bites his lip, squirming in place a little, eyes darting to and away from him. “You'll only let me from now on, then? No one else?”

The beginnings of a weak, humorless chuckle bubble up in Obi-Wan's chest. “There's never been anyone else.”

There can never be anyone else. He can not, will not ever give so much of himself to another person. Perhaps this was inevitable. Perhaps Anakin's need to drink from his essence is soul-deep proof of it, and Obi-Wan's reluctance to push Anakin away was always out of his hands.

Anakin pounces on him, sweat-damp skin to skin as he desperately kisses Obi-Wan, just as sloppy and tactless as the first time. Licking over his lips and biting them tender, his cock a persistent hardness between them.

“You're so fucking hot, so fucking good. I think about you all the time, think about this all the time,” Anakin babbles, kissing ‌the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth and across his cheek.

“Do you?” Obi-Wan breathes, desperate to hear more devotionals slip out of Anakin’s pretty mouth.

Teeth catch the shell of Obi-Wan’s ear, and he keens, his nails digging crescents into Anakin's back.

“I've wanted you on my cock since my first hard on,” Anakin growls, tongue dipping into Obi-Wan’s ear.

He tries, but he cannot stop himself from imagining it; his young Padawan sprawled out naked on his temple room bed, braid contrasting against the white sheets, his fingers wrapped around his weeping cock as he moans, ‘Master.’

“Anakin.”

He keeps kissing him; his ear, the bearded line of his jaw down to his throat where he licks the salt from his skin and bites.

“Anakin!”

Moaning, Anakin bites down again, so hard that Obi-Wan thrashes in his grip and cries out. It only makes Anakin bear down on him harder, keeping him in place as he sinks his teeth into him again and again. There will be dark bruises beneath the impression of his teeth come morning, lingering proof of his transgressions.

Anakin ruts against Obi-Wan, breathing hot into the crook of his neck between savage bites, his voice on the verge of cracking. “Want to make you feel so good.”

“Then do it,” Obi-Wan pants, light-headed.

Anakin makes a wrecked sound that's something between a sob and a moan, levering himself off ‌Obi-Wan to kneel between his thighs again. Obi-Wan spreads them wider, and Anakin gawks, taking his cock in hand and guiding the tip to Obi-Wan’s clenching hole, letting it pulse against him.

He looks back up at Obi-Wan then, his uncertainty back on full display. “Should I-”

Obi-Wan extends his hand back, fingers splayed wide, and a small clear bottle slaps into his palm a moment later from a nearby shelf. Anakin blinks at him, wide-eyed, his lips parted ever so slightly.

Frivolous misuse of the Force.

“Not a word,” Obi-Wan warns, holding out the nearly full bottle to Anakin. “Fingers first, dear, go slow.”

Anakin swallows, throat bobbing as he takes it, turning it over in his hand and glancing down at Obi-Wan's hole again. He doesn't look away as he flips the cap open and slicks his fingers. Obi-Wan curls a leg around him, urging him closer, and he obeys, moving forward until his thighs are resting atop Anakin's again.

The first brush of Anakin's fingers at his entrance–slick and a little cold–make Obi-Wan shiver.

“Just one at first,” he instructs, and for once, Anakin obeys without protest, pressing until a single finger begins to slip inside. Obi-Wan hasn't done this in a long time either. When his need infrequently becomes too much to ignore, it's easiest to just wrap a hand around himself and stroke until the problem alleviates itself.

Anakin curls his finger once it's fully inside him, barely grazing his prostate. “Fuck, just like that.”

Quick learner that he is, Anakin is easing in a second before Obi-Wan has to tell him to. There's slight discomfort already, but Obi-Wan makes himself go lax and pliant, tossing his head back and keening when Anakin curls both fingers inside of him.

He sounds drunk when he speaks. “You sound so good when you moan around my fingers, Master.”

Anakin works him open, pressing and thrusting his fingers into him until he's got a third inside him. Obi-Wan’s chest heaves as he whines and whimpers, torn between the unpleasant burn and the glacial build of pleasure each curl of Anakin’s fingers brings. Three of his fingers are still undoubtedly smaller than his cock, but he's as ready as he's going to be tonight, and Anakin's arousal is so potent in the air between them he fears it will suffocate them both if he doesn't get his cock in him soon.

“I'm. Ah- fuck me, Anakin. Please.”

Brazenly begging his Padawan to fuck him. He waits for the icy, sinking claws of regret and shame to rip him open and shred him to ribbons, but it never comes. As Anakin whines and slides his fingers out of him, there's only wanton anticipation for his cock to press inside him and fill the space that's always belonged to him.

“Put your cock in me, sweetheart.” Obi-Wan implores, grabbing one of his legs and tugging his knee up to his chest, exposing his lube-slick hole. Anakin groans, taking his cock in hand and slicking it, lining it up.

“Fuck, I can't believe you're letting me.”

Obi-Wan almost laughs. As if there exists a world where he would fight against what Anakin so clearly needs from him. Despite all his misgivings and uncertainties, he never has. Why would he start now? How could he start now?

Anakin cants his hips forward, and the tip of his cock rubs against his hole before he falls forward, bringing them face to face again as his cock breaches him. He's big, and being so out of practice makes him feel even bigger, but he'll take everything Anakin gives him; he always has.

“Oh, that's it–fill me up with it,” Obi-Wan hisses, wrapping his arms around Anakin to clutch him tight as he slowly slides inside him.

Their foreheads touch, breathing in each other's every exhale. “Are you okay, Master?”

“I'm fine, dear, keep going,” he says, whining high-pitched as Anakin sinks deeper. It feels like it takes hours for his balls to come flush with Obi-Wan’s ass, and when they finally do, the exhaled sound Obi-Wan makes is gritty and guttural.

It’s been much too long since he fucked anyone to take a cock the size of Anakin’s comfortably–the stretch borders on overwhelming, and he’s so full he almost swears he can feel it in his throat. He threads his fingers into Anakin's curls, taking a tight fistful, and digs his heel into his lower back to keep him in place as he struggles to adjust. Anakin’s hips still buck when he clenches, trying to press even deeper inside ‌him, and Obi-Wan moans lowly, the motion sending a bolt of pleasure-pain up his spine.

“Master, you- you feel so good. So fucking tight.”

Obi-Wan isn't sure how long he holds him there, seated fully inside him. He can feel the pulse of his heart in time with his own, a rhythmic thumping that proves how deep their bond truly goes. Anakin whimpers, kissing over his face to his neck again, where he mouths and suckles at the marks he's already made. Trying so hard to be good.

Wanting and impatience take root inside Obi-Wan, and he cannot wait another second–he's as ready as he'll ever be for Anakin to take what's always been his.

He slides his hands to Anakin's shoulders, pushing lightly until the boy pries himself away from his neck with some reluctance to look at him. His eyes are lidded, pink lips parted and brows drawn up to make up a fuck-drunk expression that's almost more obscene than his cock inside him.

Cupping his cheek, Obi-Wan says, “Move darling, fuck me like you've ways wanted to.”

He expects Anakin to snap his hips, hold him in place while he savages him with hard, deep thrusts and a bruising grip, but that's not at all how Anakin fucks him. He lowers himself until their noses touch in a position Obi-Wan can already tell Anakin has fantasized about, and finally, he moves.

It's painfully intimate; the slow roll of Anakin's hips, cock dragging torturously good along Obi-Wan's insides. The sparse hair on Anakin’s belly rubs against Obi-Wan's aching cock with each languid thrust, offering him minimal friction that feels nothing short of divine.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan moans deeply, because it's the only word he can remember.

Anakin, however, has no such trouble with words. “Knew you'd look so good on my cock, knew you'd feel amazing, Master, you're so- fuck-! You’re perfect.”

Throaty little sounds catch in Anakin's throat every time he bottoms out, kissing Obi-Wan wetly between breaths as he fucks him, slow and rhythmic, making Obi-Wan simmer hotter and hotter–a slow rising flame that licks maddeningly through his veins.

“Master. Master. Obi-Wan,” whiny and strained, huffing between the words.

“You feel so good, dear,” Obi-Wan tells him, sliding his fingers loosely into his hair.

“Really?” he asks, his voice and face so tenderly desperate it makes Obi-Wan's chest ache.

“Yes, sweetheart, that's my boy. My good boy,” he says sweetly, petting through Anakin's tousled curls.

“Always wanna be good for you, Master. Just for you, only for you.” His voice edges with a high-pitched moan, his thrusts briefly faltering.

“You are, darling, you are.” He could never be bad. Not in a way that matters to Obi-Wan. He'll take him in any way, in all ways. Whatever he needs.

Obi-Wan cups his face, swiping his thumb across Anakin's ruddy cheek, the beginnings of tears shining in his eyes.

“Want you to come, want you to come on my cock, please come on my cock, Master.” He's begging for it like he's the one being fucked, head dropping onto Obi-Wan's chest, as the plea escapes him.

Anakin bites down on his nipple with a shaky growl, soothing it over with his tongue and taking it into his mouth to suck. Obi-Wan is entirely aflame with his rapturous attention–with his pure, undeniable obsession.

This must be love. At least, the way Anakin feels it. The same way he feels everything else: intense to a painful degree.

“Keep fucking me, Anakin, just like this,” he strains, feeling the tension and heat in his body begin to reach their limits.

Anakin's thrusts stay measured, but become punishing, pulling out until only the tip is left inside and slamming to the hilt with an obscene slap as he nails his prostate each time. Obi-Wan is dizzy with it, drunk with it, and the pressure that's been simmering inside him for years finally finally boils over in the most blindingly intense orgasm he's ever experienced. His toes curl, his back arches, his fingers clutch at Anakin's hair, and his nails dig into his skin as he cries out, guttural and ragged. The space between their bellies slicks with Obi-Wan’s come, and Anakin wails.

His thrusts lose all rhythm, going shallow and fast and sloppy as he babbles, “Master, you're- that's- fuck! I'm- m’ gonna-”

His body shifts up the bed a little with every slap of Anakin's hips against him, dangerously bordering the line between pleasure and pain. His spent cock rubs sticky between them, the friction terribly overstimulating, and his freshly patched wound doesn't much care for the rougher movements either; the bandage pulling at his raw skin with each fuck inside him.

But it's still good. Still Anakin inside him, so he clenches his jaw and begs him for more, “That's it, come inside me, Padawan, let me have it all.”

The sound Anakin makes is primal, hips stalling, buried to the hilt inside of him. “M’ coming! I'm coming, I'm-”

And he feels it; Anakin's cock pulsing inside of him, the warm and wet mess he makes of them both as he comes deep inside him. Obi-Wan groans deep from his chest, already feeling a full-body ache creep up on him. He holds Anakin there for a moment anyway, chest heaving against his own, his hot breath panting against his kiss-marked neck as his cock goes soft and slips out of him.

Obi-Wan moans weakly at the loss. He thinks Anakin does too, but everything around him has gone fuzzy and muted, aside from the pounding of his own heart.

The bed shifts as Anakin peels off him, leaving him cold and slicked with his own drying come smeared across his belly. He opens his eyes just enough to look at Anakin. He's staring again. Eyes flitting over his spent, sweat-sheened body from head to toe. His expression is so atypical Obi-Wan isn't sure what to make of it until a lazy smile curls Anakin's lips.

He looks sated. Full. For the first time in his life, perhaps.

As if in direct protest to the thought, Anakin swipes his fingers through the come on Obi-Wan's stomach, eyeing the tacky spend on his fingers before bringing them to his lips to lick it off.

Obi-Wan inhales sharply, a fresh twinge of heat sparking anew in his groin. “Anakin, enough.”

“You want me to let it go to waste?” He grins wide as he teases, bending to drag his tongue through the mess.

He nearly chokes on the aborted noise that scrambles up his throat. “You are a horribly filthy boy.”

Anakin cocks a brow at him, flashing his pretty teeth. “Whose fault is that?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Mine. I'm quite aware.”

A hand settles on his knee, pushing it back enough to expose his ass so Anakin can watch his come leak out of him. ‌Shameless. Obi-Wan hisses, the movement throbbing through his sore body and ass. His come-slicked hole ‌transfixes Anakin–he has difficulty looking away from it, but his brows knit at the pained sound Obi-Wan makes, and he lets his leg go.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Dont worry about me, dear, I'll be alright.”

Truthfully, the ache isn't entirely unpleasant. He'll wake tomorrow with the undeniable evidence Anakin has touched him, been inside him. With every move he makes, he will remember. He thinks he could get hard again just by thinking about it. A problem for future him.

“Need me to kiss you better?” Anakin asks, flopping down on the bed beside him, giving him a wry look.

Obi-Wan chuckles, turning on his side to look at Anakin properly. “Will it make a difference if I say no?”

“Nope,” he answers, leaning closer to press their lips together.