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Anakin grunts as his saber clashes with Obi-Wan’s, the force of the impact sending an uncomfortable jolt through his shoulder. He jumps just in time to dodge the blade coming for his legs, parrying another downswing which would have taken off his arm. Unfortunately for him, he’s unable to move in time when Obi-Wan brings his saber hilt down on his shoulder, and Anakin stumbles, ducking just in time to dodge the swing aimed for his neck.
This is round number who’s-counting-anymore, and he’s growing more tired with each passing second — but he’s too stubborn to yield, and Obi-Wan would never let him off easy anyway.
Anakin yelps as the glowing blade of Obi-Wan’s saber swings a little too close to his chest, and he loses his footing for a second. Even on one knee, he still manages to block the next swing, but he’s already been forced into a defensive, and that little disadvantage is all it takes for Obi-Wan to knock him to the ground, lightsaber inches from his neck.
“You have much to learn, my dear padawan,” Obi-Wan says, but there’s a hint of pride on his voice. It’s a phrase Anakin has heard many times before. “Again.”
So they spar once more. Anakin dimply registers the hilt of Obi-Wan’s saber catching him in the back, but it’s a dull pain, and just another one of many blows he’s suffered in the past hour. He can feel the fatigue setting in now, though, and Obi-Wan may be older but he’s got just as much stamina as Anakin if not more.
Then Anakin is on his back again, his weapon flung to the other side of the room, in the same position he’s ended up in for the last few rounds — a lightsaber close enough to his neck for him to feel the heat of the blade. He groans in frustration. His left side is still too open.
Some Jedi Knight.
“Point,” Obi-Wan says. He’s straddling Anakin’s legs, looking impossibly attractive, even though he’s sweaty and breathing hard.
Anakin sighs. This is the eighth consecutive round he’s lost, and he can credit that to the growing heaviness in his limbs. Obi-Wan powers down his blade, gracefully lifting himself off Anakin. ”No more today. You're at your limit.”
“I know my limits,” Anakin says, even though Obi-Wan is probably right and he is pretty tired. “One more round.”
“No,” Obi-Wan says firmly, and Anakin knows he’s not going to change his mind. He rolls onto his side, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles and the ache in his shoulder as he pushes himself off the floor. “I saw that,” Obi-Wan says, pulling a tunic over his head. Anakin allows himself to admire the chiselled plane of Obi-Wan’s back before it disappears under the beige fabric.
“Up,” Obi-Wan says, but he can’t help his faint smirk when he realises what Anakin was staring at.
“No thanks,” Anakin mumbles, still sitting on the floor.
“Now,” Obi-Wan says, more insistent this time. “You’ll cramp up if you don’t.”
Anakin reaches for Obi-Wan, who sighs and takes his hands, pulling him to his feet with a grunt.
“Ow,” Anakin grumbles, shaking out his stiff legs.
“Told you,” Obi-Wan says, and he can’t resist allowing his gaze to linger on Anakin for a moment — his mussed-up hair, face flushed from exertion, the lithe definition of his arms, shoulders, chest —
He doesn’t realise he’s gawking until Anakin huffs out a laugh, swatting his arm playfully. “Stop staring.”
“You’re no better,” Obi-Wan says, but he’s smiling too. They walk out of the training salles, hands close enough to touch but not hold. Never hold.
“I’ll stop by the refectory,” Obi-Wan says, as they make their way back to their — Obi-Wan’s — quarters.
Anakin shakes his head. “No need. I’ll pick something up from Dex’s.”
“Alright,” Obi-Wan says. “Can you manage alone?”
Anakin smiles tiredly. “Obi-Wan. I’m twenty years old.”
Obi-Wan just ruffles his hair, the way he never would in front of a council member. “If you say so.”
They walk in silence to the speeder bay. Obi-Wan stops by the door, stopping Anakin before he can walk through and turning him around to face him. After checking that the space around them is empty, Obi-Wan slips a hand behind Anakin’s neck and kisses him, a soft, chaste press of lips. Anakin hums contentedly, placing his hands on Obi-Wan’s waist.
“Get something for me,” Obi-Wan says when he pulls away, cupping Anakin’s cheek in his hand.
“Of course,” Anakin replies, leaning his head into Obi-Wan’s palm. I love you.
“Tell Dex I said hello!” Obi-Wan yells as Anakin runs off to what looks like the fastest speeder in the bay.
When Anakin returns with two bags of better-than-temple-refectory food, Obi-Wan has already washed up and changed into looser, lighter clothes, and is sitting on the couch with a datapad in his hands. Anakin makes his way over, dropping the food on the table, before dropping himself on the couch next to Obi-Wan and dropping his head in Obi-Wan’s lap. Obi-Wan absentmindedly places a hand against his cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw.
“Master,” Anakin says lowly, turning his head to kiss Obi-Wan’s palm. There’s an unmistakable hunger in his eyes. Obi-Wan knows it’s been there since before they sparred — Anakin probably hoped to quell it by fighting, but the tension of sparring only served to heighten the aching want, gnawing at the edges of his mind, yearning to be satiated.
“Eat first,” Obi-Wan says, standing from the couch to curb his own growing desire, hot in his core.
Soon.
Anakin suppresses a smile as his gaze roams down Obi-Wan’s figure, from his chest to his stomach, lower —
“And go take a shower,” Obi-Wan says, patting Anakin on the shoulder.
Anakin sighs. He pushed himself harder than usual, sparring with Obi-Wan. He’s so used to sparring with Ahsoka that he underestimated an opponent who could easily match him. No — he underestimated the Jedi who was once his Master.
Tease, Anakin thinks. He’s going to get sweaty again anyway. What’s the point —
“Shower!” Obi-Wan yells.
And that’s how he finds himself in Obi-Wan’s bed, checking over the latest reports he’s written. Yet he’s still trying to distract himself from the niggling voice in his head urging him to grab Obi-Wan and kiss him into delirium.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says from where he sits beside Anakin on the bed. “I want to ask you a question.”
“Mm-hmm.” Anakin doesn’t even look up from his datapad. He’s much too comfortable sitting up like this, and the soreness of his muscles has eased out into stiffness.
“And I want you to answer honestly.”
Anakin does look up at that. “Are you insinuating that I would lie?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the question?” Anakin asks, ignoring Obi-Wan’s response as he slides the datapad onto the bedside table.
Obi-Wan places both hands on Anakin’s shoulders and gently turns him around so he’s facing away. He pulls the hem of Anakin’s tunic up, and Anakin takes the cue to slip his arms through the sleeves, leaving the fabric bunched on his shoulders and around his neck.
Obi-Wan touches the slightly darkened patches on his back — light bruising. That’s all. Nothing serious. He’s still concerned though, especially after seeing Anakin wince a little harder than usual.
“When we were sparring,” Obi-Wan says. “Did I hurt you?”
Anakin sighs, looking ten times more relieved than he was a second ago. “No. Of course not.”
“Really?” Obi-Wan asks, and he hopes Anakin can hear his apology through their bond, right before he digs the heel of his palm into a very sore spot on Anakin’s back. Anakin yelps, jerking away.
“Fine,” Anakin says, scowling. “I hurt myself. You didn’t hurt me.”
Obi-Wan tugs at the sleeve of Anakin’s tunic. “Off. Let me see.”
“It’s nothing,” Anakin says gently.
“Then take your clothes off for a reason other than for me to check your back.”
“Wow,” Anakin says, raising both eyebrows. “You’re eager.”
“We made a deal,” Obi-Wan says patiently. “I don’t care how minor your injuries are. You’re supposed to tell me.” So I know which parts of your body to avoid when I’m pounding you against a mattress, he doesn’t add.
It’s not as if Anakin is oblivious to this. The problem is that Anakin likes the pain a little too much, and while Obi-Wan will do anything in his power to please Anakin, he’s reluctant to hurt Anakin at all. Even for pleasure.
“Compromise,” Anakin says, rolling onto his side to face Obi-Wan. “I’ll let you scold me for not telling you if you make me come twice tonight.”
“Anakin.”
“Twice isn’t even that hard for you.”
“I know that.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, exasperated.
Anakin pouts, those puppy-dog eyes doing ridiculous things to Obi-Wan’s heart, and Obi-Wan knows he’s done for.
“I know you’ve wanted to fuck me all day,” Anakin says, and somehow manages to make it sound innocent.
Obi-Wan inhales sharply. It’s not as if that’s untrue.
Anakin grins brazenly. I’m right, aren’t I.
You’re a brat; that’s what you are, Obi-Wan shoots back.
Anakin laughs. I saw the way you were looking at me. I heard every thought in your head because your shielding was bantha shit. He pauses, smiling at Obi-Wan’s scandalised expression, and moves closer to lay an arm on Obi-Wan’s waist. I wasn’t aware you wanted to fuck me against a wall. Can we do that sometime?
In an instant, Anakin’s hips are pinned to the bed as Obi-Wan flips himself onto him, straddling his thighs. In another instant, they’re kissing, and Anakin greedily pushes back against the gentle pressure of Obi-Wan’s mouth, his lips parting eagerly. But Obi-Wan seems insistent on taking it slow — he doesn’t return Anakin’s fervent sentiment, doesn’t even squeeze Anakin’s hips where his hands hold them steady.
Anakin frowns when Obi-Wan pulls away.
“What is it, Ani?” Obi-Wan asks gently, rubbing a finger over the creases on Anakin’s forehead, smoothing them out.
“Why are you being so gentle with me?” he asks, and immediately regrets it.
Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows. “Where’s this coming from?”
Anakin pulls Obi-Wan down by the shoulders, sliding his hand into Obi-Wan’s hair, their lips a hair’s breadth apart.
“I like it when you’re rough,” Anakin murmurs, and before Obi-Wan can react, Anakin kisses him so forcefully he knows his lips will be swollen in a few minutes. Anakin pulls away just as abruptly, leaving Obi-Wan reeling, and says, “You can be rough.” Then, quieter — “You like it as much as I do.”
Obi-Wan pushes himself up on almost-trembling arms, sitting back on his heels, Anakin’s thighs clamped between his knees. He runs his hands down Anakin’s bare chest and lowers his head again, his words only ever meant for Anakin.
“I am being gentle with you, dear one —” a kiss on the jaw — “because I can see you are sore from sparring with me —“ a kiss on the corner of his lips — “and I don’t want to hurt you further.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Anakin says.
“And if I do?” Obi-Wan asks. Because with how rough he is, that’s possible. That’s plausible. He’s fucked Anakin to the point of tears before. And though tears don’t necessarily mean he’s hurting, they don’t always mean he isn’t, either.
Anakin considers this. Then he smiles, and says the absolute stupidest possible thing in this situation: “You can try.”
Obi-Wan wants to smack him and yell you absolute masochist, but he decides that his own desire to fuck Anakin until he’s screaming does actually land him on the other end of the spectrum.
“What would you like me to do, then?” Obi-Wan asks.
Anakin doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Fuck me.” He pauses. “Hard.” Another pause. “Please.”
Obi-Wan smiles and taps Anakin’s hip, motioning for him to take his pants off. Finally.
“Suck,” Obi-Wan says, holding two fingers to Anakin’s lips. He complies, obedient when he’s getting what he wants, and Obi-Wan has to resist the urge to push his fingers deeper, to watch Anakin’s eyes roll back in his head as he tries not to gag.
When he pulls his fingers away, Anakin’s lips are parted and he’s breathing heavily. Obi-Wan reaches down, nudges at his entrance and easily presses two fingers into him. His heart pounds at the realisation.
Obi-Wan curls his fingers sharply and Anakin whines, throwing his head back onto the pillow. “Care to tell me when you decided to finger yourself?” he asks softly. Anakin grinds his hips down on Obi-Wan’s hand, reaching for his shoulders to pull him closer, but Obi-Wan grabs one of his wrists and pins it to the mattress, pushing his fingers deeper.
Anakin manages to gasp out "Before we sparred.” It’s barely been a minute, and he’s already struggling to form simple sentences.
Obi-Wan closes his eyes, trying to calm himself from the storm of possessiveness, pride, arousal raging through his chest.
“And?” he asks roughly, the words guttural.
“You were out.”
“You couldn’t wait for me to come back?” Obi-Wan’s voice is dangerously quiet, and Anakin shudders in anticipation of what’s coming next.
“I was — Obi-Wan —“ Anakin writhes on the sheets as Obi-Wan pulls his fingers out, adds a third, and pushes them back in without warning — all while pinning Anakin’s arms to his chest with his other hand, his knees spreading Anakin’s legs, the weight of his body holding Anakin down.
“You were?” Obi-Wan asks. His voice is thick with lust and want, and there is nothing which satisfies him as much as rendering Anakin speechless.
“Thinking of you,” Anakin moans. “I was thinking of you.”
Obi-Wan’s stills, making a strangled noise in his throat.
“How does that —“ A gasp, a groan, two heavy breaths. “— make you feel?”
Obi-Wan doesn’t answer the question. He only dips his head to kiss Anakin’s neck, knowing Anakin is going to be so overstimulated he probably won’t be able to form coherent sentences for the next fifteen minutes. And it’s barely been three.
“Did you come?” Obi-Wan asks, the words quiet, barely loud enough for Anakin to hear over the dizzying feeling of Obi-Wan’s fingers in him and the sharp ache where Obi-Wan’s teeth nipped his neck a little too hard.
“No,” Anakin mewls, and Obi-Wan can’t help but be impressed that he’s still able to process thoughts at this point. But that also means Anakin hasn’t reached his breaking point yet, and that means Obi-Wan isn’t doing his job well enough.
(The reward for pushing Anakin to that breaking point is hearing him beg, which, in Obi-Wan’s opinion is as good a reward as any. He has yet to find out what happens when he pushes Anakin past it.)
“Why?” Obi-Wan asks. Because I’m the only one who can make you feel like this?
“I know how to make myself come,” Anakin huffs, though he knows Obi-Wan is right.
“Cocky,” Obi-Wan says, and twists his fingers, pushing them deeper. Anakin cries out, panting, his grip tightening on Obi-Wan’s shoulders.
“No — Obi-Wan — Master —“ He’s started fucking Anakin with his fingers, drawing them out and in relentlessly as Anakin is helpless to do anything but lie there and surrender. “I — wanted to wait for you.”
Oh, that flips a switch. Anakin knows exactly which buttons to press, which strings to pull to shatter his master’s remarkable self-control. Just like he almost has, now.
Anakin’s already stretched out, and Obi-Wan knows he doesn’t have to prepare him any longer or he’ll be too comfortable (and that would be a shame) so he pulls his fingers out and releases his solid hold on Anakin’s arms, unceremoniously shoving Anakin further up the bed as he reaches for the drawer in the nightstand.
Anakin whimpers at the sudden loss of sensation, but lies still, watching greedily as Obi-Wan slicks himself up, stroking himself a few times, a soft moan falling from his lips.
“Flip over,” Obi-Wan says. Anakin does, and without any warning, Obi-Wan positions himself at his entrance and bottoms out with a single stroke, not stopping for even a second to let him adjust. Anakin doesn’t even have time to moan before Obi-Wan starts thrusting, and he knows he probably wasn’t ready or slick enough because it almost hurts — but in a good way.
The burn eases out, and Anakin almost mourns the way each stroke hurts less than the last, even as the waves of pleasure continue to crest. “More,” he breathes, and Obi-Wan’s fingers dig into his hips as he obliges. Anakin revels in the ache of his flesh where he might find bruises tomorrow, reminders of who has claimed him, marked him, wrecked him.
“Look at you,” Obi-Wan says softly, breath hot against the shell of Anakin’s ear. “Taking it so well.” His voice is even, but his laboured breaths give away his own effort.
Anakin can only moan, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through him, mingled with pain — but that’s good. That’s good. He knows he can take this, and he drinks up the praise.
Obi-Wan slips a hand under his hips, stroking his length, and the already-building tightness in his stomach grows.
“Master,” Anakin begs. It’s the only thing he can think to say. His brain refuses to construct anything past single words.
“Don’t come,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin whimpers, about to protest, because that’s not a very nice command for Obi-Wan to give while he’s fucking Anakin hard — and sure, he asked for this, but —
“You waited earlier,” Obi-Wan says, the hand in Anakin’s hair tugging almost painfully. “You can wait a little longer.”
“I can’t,” Anakin whines, and it’s too much too fast —
“Not yet, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, gritting his teeth as he pounds harder into Anakin, feeling his own release growing closer.
Anakin’s hands clench in the sheets, as if trying to pull himself away from the torrent of sensation, but Obi-Wan’s grip holds fast on his hips. He’s trying — he really is — but the way Obi-Wan drags against his prostate with every thrust is intense enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Please,” Anakin begs, and his plea is so soft and sweet and desperate that Obi-Wan almost caves.
“No,” Obi-Wan says, and kisses the back of Anakin’s neck, an arm coming under his stomach to wrap around his middle.
“Master, please,” Anakin whimpers, and Obi-Wan finally gives in, seeing that Anakin looks utterly wrecked, pretty and pliant, all limp and fucked out.
“Come, then,” Obi-Wan says, delighting at the way Anakin shudders, the tension in his muscles melting away as he drops his head against the sheets. He quickens his pace, knowing every second longer he draws this out is another second of growing overstimulation for Anakin, and that’s probably more than he can handle right now.
When he finally finds his release, Anakin is a trembling, whimpering mess, chanting a litany of thank you, thank you, thank you. Obi-Wan pushes himself off, pulling Anakin with him as he rolls onto his side.
“Are you okay?” Obi-Wan asks, rubbing out the stiffness in Anakin’s arms and shoulders. He hasn’t even caught his breath yet.
Anakin nods.
“Ani,” Obi-Wan says.
“Yeah.” Anakin pauses to take a breath.
Obi-Wan pulls him closer. He’s still trembling a little, but he sighs softly and allows himself to be turned onto his other side.
“That was good,” Anakin breathes, and Obi-Wan hums his assent.
If there’s any moment which can compare to Obi-Wan fucking the noise out of his head, it’s basking in the afterglow of Obi-Wan fucking the noise out of his head.
It’s might be seconds or minutes or hours — time loses all meaning as he’s tucked into a warm chest, a pair of warm arms around him, not asleep but not fully awake either. The post-orgasmic haze mollifies his body and his mind, turning his thoughts to warm, viscous liquid.
Obi-Wan pulled the blanket over him just up to his waist at some point after cleaning him off. Anakin would be content to go to sleep right now, except he’d rather spend as much time as he can mapping out every inch of Obi-Wan’s bare torso with his fingertips.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says softly, lips against his hair.
“Mmm,” Anakin mumbles, snuggling further into Obi-Wan’s arms. He drags his finger slowly down the line of Obi-Wan’s abs. The hand touching his back rubs firm circles into the knot in his muscles, loosening them up.
“Did I hurt you?” Obi-Wan asks, brushing the lingering dampness away from the edges of Anakin’s eyes. He knows Anakin is probably okay — he would have sensed it through the bond if he really was in pain — but he can’t just not ask.
“No,” Anakin mumbles, followed by “Ow,” as Obi-Wan digs a knuckle between his shoulder blades.
“Too rough?” Obi-Wan implores, readying his apology.
Anakin shakes his head and tightens his grip on Obi-Wan’s wrist. “Rough is good.”
“Even when we’re sparring?”
Anakin wrinkles his nose. It’s adorable. “I let you win.”
Obi-Wan sighs. “Of course you did.”
“I did.”
“Your defensive is still weaker on the left.”
“Obi-Wan!” Anakin complains.
“What?”
“Stop thinking about my weaknesses in lightsaber combat. We just had sex.”
Obi-Wan just smiles, his hand trailing lower down Anakin’s torso. “I believe we had a deal,” he says slowly. “Twice, was it?”
Anakin groans. “Obi-Wan. Don’t be mean. I can’t —“
“Reached your limit?” Obi-Wan asks casually.
“You’re trying to kill me,” Anakin protests, but he doesn’t really mean it, and he doesn’t object when Obi-Wan reaches for him under the blanket, hard even though he’s come once already.
“Come one more time for me,” Obi-Wan murmurs, starting to stroke him again, and Anakin can only whimper as hypersensitivity spikes through his spent body, still reeling from his first orgasm. “I know you’ve got it in you.”