Archive of Our Own

Obi-Wan watches Ahsoka turn and go, stoic and suddenly taller—head held high as she leaves the only family she's ever known. The family, he realizes, heavy in his heart, that had utterly failed her. I'd leave too—his mind supplies without really thinking, an involuntary contradiction of ill-advised and instinctual action. Both heedless and right somehow—in a way that made Obi-Wan thankful he didn't find himself in the situations both his padawans usually did, where they were forced to weigh what they'd been taught versus what lived inside them and were often found wanting. All at once, Obi-Wan feels profoundly sad and angry. He'd been the one with misgivings about expelling Ahsoka from the Order, but it hadn't been enough to make her feel like they'd been looking out for her. They hadn't—and they should have.

Anakin follows immediately behind her. He catches his former apprentice's face as he turns on a heel, sees frustration and—hurt. Yes, Anakin was going to take this incredibly personally, like it was a failing of his own that drove Ahsoka to this. He'd—well, he'd certainly cloak it in contempt for the Jedi, and there would be truth to that too, but Obi-Wan knows Anakin. For all that he thought so highly of himself, no one was more critical of their own shatterpoints. Anakin was going to crawl into every possible moment this could have cracked from and drown himself in all the things he could have done instead. But Ahsoka was her own Jedi, and the choices she made would not always stem from her master, close as they were. Obi-Wan sees them standing across from one another, Ki-Adi-Mundi having held him back from his initial desire to run alongside Anakin. He was right, of course—this is between master and padawan, and though Obi-Wan called Ahsoka theirs, it was ultimately Anakin who had that bond with her.

They look so similar, even in shadow, all limbs and obstinate stance and impetuous swagger. They'd taught each other so much—even if Anakin was reluctant to admit he needed to learn anything, he was a very different man than the one who'd been so bewildered when Ahsoka'd come bounding down the landing runway to tell him that she'd been assigned his padawan by Yoda. To let go of his pupil, a greater challenge it will be—Yoda had said to him, that day Anakin had taken her on. Obi-Wan wonders if Yoda had seen anything like this coming to pass—just how much more of a challenge it would be when it wasn't knighthood that split them up, but a fissure that had run down between Ahsoka and the Order. Anakin and the Order, it could so easily end up, his padawan likely to fight the battles of those he loved as if they were his own.

Anakin rarely did things by the book, but Obi-Wan had a feeling that Ahsoka not finishing her training and passing the trials would wear on him, much coarser than the rest of the council could anticipate. He did not know what to do about this just yet, but he vowed to be there for Anakin, ride out the tempest of his anger and be sure that he saw the sun again.

He eventually catches up with Anakin, and Ahsoka isn't there when he does. Anakin's face is stunned—as if his first expression, while upset, was still an immediate reaction that he assumed he'd be able to change, she wouldn't really leave. But she's gone, and Obi-Wan knows she isn't returning. Anakin's eyes are too wet, holding back his tears, his mouth too set in its discouragement. It's real—Anakin, despite his outrage at how this has all turned out, has accepted it through that very outrage.

The look of resigned fury sits strange in Obi-Wan's sights. He puts a hand on Anakin's shoulder, wants to give comfort even if he also has to give boundaries, and the reply burns his skin to bone. He's been trying to slacken the rope between them lately—you've got your own padawan to handle—the war cannot last much longer—this is what he's received. Because Anakin had never tried to get as far away from Obi-Wan before.

There's a rage there that—Obi-Wan had seen, only flickers in his eyes, only distant futures—capable of such, but never as close. Anakin grabs him by the wrist, pulls him barreling toward his broad chest. When he stopped, Obi-Wan stopped, not quite there yet. Anakin always edged right up to where his feelings would finally have to be addressed by the council, always ticked like a time bomb, but somehow defused himself just before detonating. Obi-Wan straightens, even in his hold, looks sternly up at his former padawan.

"I was merely offering my acknowledgment and understanding of this, Anakin."

"What would you understand about this, Obi-Wan? Have I left you, Master?" he sneers, Obi-Wan of two minds—it's selfish and short-sighted, absolutely, but he also knows it's personal even in those faults. Lashing out ahead of directing much of the antipathy inward. He releases him and stalks away, loftiness betraying apprehension. Obi-Wan is struck by how much he suddenly looks like the boy they found on Tatooine, a confident presence in the Force, yet also there was fear—sprung from rigidity, a place that could not easily bear change.

He'd flung his fists into the wall of his quarters, still seething, striking it over and over again—how could she leave the Order—leave me—how could the council have been so stupid, so ignorant—how could I, her master, have not prevented this—until the pain in his hands took over all else—one short circuiting, the other ripping open. Classic Anakin, Obi-Wan would say—and does, when he walks into the room to see him breathing heavily, sparking and blood running down his fingers—punching a wall in times of stress. He does not let his master's attempt at humor affect him, though it takes a set jaw and a long, deep inhale.

"Come here then," he says, fishing through a first aid kit. He looks up at Anakin, rooted firmly to the spot, and merely raises his eyebrows, a loud now in their shift. Anakin relents, crosses the room and lets him inspect the injury before tending to it.

Obi-Wan rubs bacta on his knuckles—they tingle and begin to heal at his touch.

(Anakin is reminded of a humid swamp planet he can't even remember the name of—battles and systems melding together in his mind, the war now a blur of mud and ice, mountains and trees, dry cracked desert and the trails of traveling through hyperspace—his hand torn up along his knuckles from crossing rough terrain. Battalions had set up camp for the night, and Anakin holds a dirty rag to stem the flow of blood, much more immersed in tomorrow's strategy than today's injury. Obi-Wan tries to insist he put something on it, but he declines—they were short on medical supplies, any they had should go to his soldiers. His master sighs then simply says fine, come here then—you can still study your tactical holos, but that—nodding at the cloth—is not a permanent solution.

As if he knew he would not accept the bacta, Obi-Wan retrieves from the pocket of his cloak a needle and thread, uncorks a bottle of the locals' finest with his teeth and pours it over Anakin's wound as makeshift disinfectant—disregards the indignant hiss in response. He takes a pull off the bottle before setting it down. Anakin, realizing what he's about to do, grabs it for his own swig. You can't be ser—but the needle pierces his skin before he finishes and Obi-Wan gives him a sharp look, so he shuts his mouth. He could go back to his internal debate on best tactics, yet he finds himself curiously engrossed in his master's careful work. It is not a skill Anakin presumed him to have, but then—Obi-Wan was full of surprises, every layer that managed to peel away complicating the man Anakin thought he knew. The needle moves in precise, deliberate motion, and before he knows it, his hand is sewn back together—the jagged line of thread running across it odd, antiquated. I'm a bit out of practice, but that should do until a medical shipment arrives—from which you will find something to heal this—his tone decisive, not to be ignored.)

His skin reknits itself under the viscous gel—a sight he should be used to, but early years in the Outer Rim, as a slave, no access to anything like this, makes it even now strange to see. In some ways, the needle and thread was comforting, if only by its adjacency to familiarity. He flexes his hand then reaches for a screwdriver to mend the other one. In his punches, the glove had ripped and eventually was in tatters—he shakes away the scraps to reveal metal and wires, starts poking inside to diagnose. He's fairly certain it's the power cell, overloaded with sensory impulses—too much stress on the lines, registering so much stimuli at once. Probably didn't help that he'd been destroying the hardware either. He'd have to give it an upgrade at some point, but for now, he just wants it up and running again. Having only one working hand was an unpleasant sensation.

Obi-Wan cleans up the medical supplies as he works on his arm—it looks like he's making himself useful, but Anakin knows it's to avoid seeing him prodding around in the limb. He'd always been uneasy with Anakin's insouciance at tinkering with the prosthetic, improving it to suit his needs as he would a ship or a droid. While it was cybernetic, it was also a part of his body—and Obi-Wan, old-fashioned that he was, thought there was an indecency in Anakin constantly taking himself apart. Even repairing it was a job he thought best left to droids, or at the very least, someone who wasn't its owner. But it had never bothered Anakin—if anything, this one was—usually, anyway—much more resistant to injury than the one it replaced, and he, proficient with machines as he was, could fix it himself on the move. He'd once joked about slicing off his other arm so he could have a matching set, but Obi-Wan had blanched in utter shock, so he hadn't said it again.

Aha—yes, it was the power cell. He can give it a reset, keep it running on a lower mode until he found a replacement—quite a few of the sensory impulse lines were damaged, so there wasn't as much to process anyway. He'll have to replace those as well, but Artoo had spares. Huh, hadn't taken this much of a beating in awhile. No matter—basic functioning would do fine for the time being. He'd go after new parts when Obi-Wan left. He just didn't like his arm being completely powered down—it was disconcerting, something even his master should understand. He hears it whir slowly to life once again, as Obi-Wan conveniently finishes puttering around in his cabinets. His fingers tap his palm on a slight delay and he registers less complex sensory details beneath his touch. It had never been able to discern as precise as his other hand, anyway. For all that it could do—which was a lot, especially on the battlefield—it couldn't compete with flesh and blood on feeling—perhaps the only reason his quip about replacing his other arm had been said in jest.

Feeling—and then, as he stares at his own blood on the wall, the anger builds again. His skin begins to heat, the air stifles. Obi-Wan can feel it, Anakin knows—they're too attuned to each other. He's paused at the door, now unsure whether or not to leave, searching Anakin's face. Tooling around, fixing things, should have calmed him down, but this was not some errant fleeting emotion. It was a fracture running through him, electric and mean like lightning. It ignited him—even knowing it was wrong, that he shouldn't dwell so deeply in it. Ahsoka was gone. He couldn't fix that.

"Calm down, Anakin," Obi-Wan says, in that long-suffering tone of his that seemed to enter his voice the same time Anakin entered his life, "your anger will pass."

Anakin is tired of him constantly lecturing him about this, he doesn't understand, he will never understand—they took his padawan away, they condemn and forbid what he is, when he has given them everything. He will always be the very first on the very front lines, he would die for this—and doesn't even have to because he's good enough to survive.

He loves Obi-Wan but he's not going to let him tell him to calm down like he's still a padawan who doesn't understand anything about the galaxy. He understands plenty—the galaxy is cold and unforgiving, dark and pain, he's known this longer than anyone. Naively hoped it wasn't true, but it is—and Obi-Wan must know it too. He needs to understand. Anakin holds a galaxy inside him, more innately connected to the Force than anyone, and he too can be unforgiving. Something dark borne of pain lives deep within him, something that surges with power—something he has always quelled for the Jedi, when he could have easily bested them all. They have never trusted him, have thought he was a blemish on their precious Order, when he's the greatest Jedi in generations.

(No—not always. His mother's limp, dead body in his arms. He'd promised her he would come back, free her, save her from what he'd been rescued from—but he'd been too late. He should have sensed earlier, should have felt her pain even all those lightyears away, should have been able to. He wasn't good enough, but he would be. No one he loved would ever leave him again, he would become powerful enough to make sure of it. And those who took her away—they would suffer the consequences of him. A righteous fury roils in him, gathers like an electrical storm, and he reaches into that deep pit in him and summons the anger, the strength he needs for this. He has no one left, and so too shall there be none left of them.

Jedi are trained to let the few die for the sake of the many, even instructed in how to take those lives themselves, but detached they must be. Understanding of the great burden that is giving death, always clear-headed in making these choices. Anakin's head whirls with dark storm clouds and he raises his saber with a fiery need for retribution. The quick death of his blade is too good for them, but it is the weapon at his side. He hates them, and if there is a just universe, they will feel that hatred as they fall.)

He lunges at Obi-Wan, crowds him against the wall with a thud to his back and a hitched breath, arms bracketing the sides of him. Anakin looks down at him, still easygoing and airy underneath the burn of his stare. Obi-Wan was Anakin's master—always would be, because they'd stayed a team long past his knighthood, because Anakin had decided so—but he was going to teach him something, this time.

"I don't think I want to calm down," he growls low into his ear, the last words petulant.

He runs his lips along Obi-Wan's jaw, curls round and down his neck—ghosts of touches that have him jutting his chin out, a show of defiance if not so rooted in the need for more contact. Without any warning, he sinks his teeth into Obi-Wan's neck—closes them around a tendon, sucks at soft tissue, tongues to try and find his pulse. Angry red blooms in his mouth, blood vessels break as if saying yours beneath the skin, in his very cells. Anakin smiles against the hairs standing on end, the arch in Obi-Wan's body that is already so yielding to him.

He loves Obi-Wan, that he cannot stop himself from obeying the base instincts that Anakin provokes. He has always agitated his master—but the way he, physically, was so influenced by him—Anakin could take himself in hand and roughly jerk himself to orgasm, come easily to the mere thought of Obi-Wan so utterly his, had done so. For all that Anakin wanted his master satisfied, he knew no small part of this was the fact that it was him satisfying—and that pleased him. Obi-Wan pants under him, feels the pain of his bite and pulls against it with a ragged whine—flesh scrapes against teeth as it falls from their grip, and as if in trade, Anakin slips a thigh between his legs. New friction, just as effective at aiding Obi-Wan in letting go.

"I think you actually enjoy it when I won't calm down, when I don't just do what you say. You didn't really want a model apprentice—you want a challenge, Master."

Anakin palms him, feels him hardening at his touch, at the title. It had been so satisfying to pull that first tripped breath, that first stuttered groan from him when he had called him what he'd been calling him their entire time together—finally rasped into his ear, thick with his intentions. Anakin knew there was something alive under his skin—flinting nerves, a pounding heart. Obi-Wan could hide from almost everyone, but he knew his every beat—the way even just the smallest betrayal of his eyes was like exposing his blood and guts. Unstrung him at last, under the slice of the moon shining into their tent on the fourth night of a siege of a backwater planet. Opened himself, so Obi-Wan could feel like he was still closed. They'd taken out the last of the separatists the next day—practically single-handedly, waiting on reinforcements, Anakin thought he could've fucking flown. Starlight spilled through his veins, didn't even have to look at Obi-Wan to know his next move. He'd pulsed so strongly on the battlefield—felt the echo in Obi-Wan, and he'd all but taken him again, right there in the dirt in front of everyone in their units. If not for his master's pointed look—wreathed with just a hint of if you listen to me now, you'll get more of what you want later—he probably would have.

But he's not listening to him now. He slips beneath fabric and takes him in his hand—left hand, clumsier than his other one, but Anakin wants to feel skin on skin, the heat of blood pumping. He jerks him, inelegant—still Obi-Wan responds, rapid little breaths tumbling out his slack jaw. Anakin kisses him roughly, somewhere between passionate and violent, licks into his mouth and around a moan. He's grinding himself against Obi-Wan, who grabs and claws at his hip. Bites his bottom lip when Anakin runs a thumb over the tip of him, perfunctory, provoking pleasure and pain—draws blood that runs down his chin crimson, drips into his mouth metallic. He sweeps his tongue along skin, cleans it, tastes it, and with a filthy smirk stares at Obi-Wan harder than the steel of him. Obi-Wan, even mussed and panting, stares back—eyes suddenly unhazed, bright and piercing, glacial. Anakin pushes his tongue, inky red, back into Obi-Wan's mouth—pours ichor into him, quickening the pace of his strokes. He's painfully hard still untouched—more so when he sees Obi-Wan's mouth, debauched and bloody, keening with broken exhales, the red trailing down his bitten neck and spiraling out into the flush across his chest. Ruined underneath him, Anakin ruinous in his efforts.

He wants to absolutely, truly wreck him—the blood isn't Obi-Wan's, but it could be. He needs to save him, always, but he needs to—he didn't help me, and I couldn't stop it—he won't ever be there for me like I need him to be—he wouldn't, couldn't—his grip tightens and his metal arm raises. He loves Obi-Wan but he's angry—so angry, and the strange, tenebrous power that grows from such feeling billows, swells like a sharp wind. The Force whirls in him, yearns to flood out of him—too big to contain. He is too big, too vast—he can almost feel, just within his grasp, every atom, every star—can almost take hold and put everything just as he wishes, as it should be. But the pit of him, it isn't deep enough to reach in and clutch it all tight—he is still just a man. And that makes him angry too.

Incandescent, wild ire flows molten through him as if his blood. Connects with the Force like a solar flare, and then—as if he must hold something, if he cannot hold the cosmos—grabs Obi-Wan's neck through the air, squeezes, pulls coughs and splutters out of him. Smashes his mouth against Obi-Wan's, drags his hand up and down the length of him without care—mercilessly makes him come with a choked sob. A smile like a knife unfurls on his face, tucked in the crook of Obi-Wan's neck, lets it go through the Force, slows his pace to help him ride out the aftershocks.

"That was quite presumptuous of you," Obi-Wan finally rasps.

"You've enjoyed it before."

"I have," he says flatly, if slightly brittle-tinged. "But you know you must ask first, which you did not."

He pulls away from him to meet his gaze. "What're you going to do, punish me—Master?"

The Force swirls around Obi-Wan in—perhaps the closest he could get to anger, still remarkably level-headed. He takes Anakin by the shoulders and flips the two of them, shoving a thigh between his legs, rubbing it against Anakin—now achingly hard, feels like he could burst beneath him, with just the slightest of touches. Obi-Wan's smile is too clever—he's not going to touch him. An invisible hold pins him to the wall.

"You want me to touch you, but this is a punishment, Anakin. It wouldn't be effective if I simply gave you what you want."

Anakin groans at his name so stern in his master's mouth. He could free himself, he's sure, but this is a punishment—he must take it, he couldn't control himself. He deserves it. Obi-Wan curls a hand around his neck—the physicality of it startling. He feels calluses against the delicate skin of his throat, the pad of each finger pushing into flesh—one-two-three-four-five pressure points. Harder—he tries to hoarsely whisper.

Obi-Wan knows—of course he does, their bond sparkles and shudders. He closes his hand tighter—thigh still pressed against him, though motionless, providing no friction. Anakin whimpers softly in his hold.

"You cannot just do whatever you wish without thought for others, Anakin. Surely I taught you that. Though perhaps not well enough. What ever could make you really internalize such a lesson?"

He only sees the shrewd grin shine briefly—he's thrown into his own head unbidden, visions engulfing him. obi-wan across his back, fucking him open against the window of his quarters. on the dirt floor of a jungle system, pushing and pulling him where he wants as anakin rides his cock, muddy and howling—shoving fingers in his mouth to quiet his moans. pulling his hair and thrusting into his mouth roughly, a sloppy wet slide, sputtering and drooling, eyes glazed, lips shiny and red. It all overwhelms him—senses kindled and sparking, set ablaze. Obi-Wan still does not touch him—only chokes him harder, sends a stream of all the filthy things he has done to Anakin, what Anakin asked—no, begged—him to do.

It was humiliating—to see himself so lurid and exposed, to lose control, to be told he still did not have enough self-restraint—for his master to find him wanting. Anger should want to flare—does want to flare, but under the weight of Obi-Wan's stare, it's shame that builds instead. He's so hard, throbbing—tears sting his eyes, his very bones strain, static and plastered against the wall. He throws a pleading look at Obi-Wan, asks for more—MORE—keep him under and drown him in the glassy nebula of what he wants, shatter what he is, what he's afraid he can't be.

"I'm not going to touch you. You're going to come without me touching you, and you're going to do it when I tell you."

obi-wan's broad hand bending him over his starfighter, fucking into him—in the hangar, anyone could walk in, see him wanton and taking it. on his back, obi-wan practically impaling him, so deep inside him he touches the place that makes him scream, see blinding stars behind his eyes—hand wrapped around his neck, just shy of cutting off air—hazy, floating in a bright empty galaxy—he can really feel his throat constricting, Come—he can really hear, growled into his ear—and fuck—he convulses, in the grip of his master, a strangled cry and then release.

Obi-Wan lets go of him, lets him slump into his arms—always keeping him steady and upright. Everything burns in him—his anger, his shame, his need, his love. All of these creeping shadows that feel so right, only human—that galvanize him, make possible all of the things he does. He does not wish to be rid of them—just wishes that everyone else could understand, allow them to flourish properly, allow him to be what he is.

But they don't. They won't. And that keeps resentment simmering in him, the threat of boiling over everpresent. Already, he'd lost his mother, now his apprentice—how many more would they take, thoughtless of how he needed them, how they were his. He'd have to pull them all closer, make sure they didn't leave him—bind them to him, completely and utterly. He could keep them, keep them safe—he would, fury reigniting in him with its sudden striking purpose. His anger could be useful, he would harness it for this—for those he loved.