Archive of Our Own

There’s always been a rhythm to how they’ve done this. 

It’s smooth, easy— habitual, even, despite the fact that that word is the last thing that Anakin would’ve ever used to describe something like this a few months prior. It’s something that Anakin knows, something that they don’t talk about because there’s nothing to get caught up on that would make talking necessary. 

(But then again, Anakin always talks too much. It’s not like starting now would be any different.) 

And so he doesn’t, because talking doesn’t get him what he wants. Not when they’re finally both back on Coruscant at the same time for once and there’s better things to do than talk, and not when the picture before Anakin serves itself more than any words ever could. 

The door of the ‘fresher is open just enough for Anakin’s eyes to linger, soft and lidded as he watches Obi-Wan in the mirror. He’s doing something that Anakin hasn’t bothered to ask about before, combing a sweet-smelling oil of sorts into his beard with a face that’s only slightly less regularly concentrated than it typically is. He’s achingly particular in a way that makes Anakin feel like everyone around the rest of them hasn’t tried a day in their lives, and yet keeps his company with someone who picked up the first crumpled robes he saw on the floor that morning and put them on without a second thought.

(Well. Maybe there was a second thought, but he had already been running late to begin with.)

“You’re taking too long.” Anakin murmurs lowly after a moment, and they both know it isn’t true—Obi-Wan’s hardly been in the ‘fresher for five minutes, but it isn’t like it matters one way or another when Anakin already knows what happens next. 

“I do this every evening, Anakin,” comes the automatic response from the ‘fresher, and Anakin’s eyes flicker back to the picture just to see if he’s made Obi-Wan’s attention catch, even for a moment, “and I’ll remind you that it’s hardly my fault that you were released from your duties early—” 

“—so it’s not my fault that you were held up late,” Anakin’s tone is familiar as he sits up, a soft grin threatening to ruin the unimpressed look that’s hardly an attempt to mirror the man’s own that stands before him, “and besides, I’ve been off-world for so long that I thought you’d at least want to see me. You know that I won’t be here for much longer.”

“You got back three days ago, Anakin, and I believe that we both know that I’ve seen quite a bit of you since then.” Obi-Wan returns smoothly, but there’s a murmur of bemusement in his tone and Anakin knows that it’s enough. It’s always enough: Obi-Wan is smooth and focused and intelligent in ways that Anakin could never begin to imagine equating to, but Anakin knows how this situation always goes, and so despite the fact that Obi-Wan’s response is a rebuttal at the root, there’s no surprise in Anakin’s face as his Master finally pulls himself away from the ‘fresher mirror. It’s maybe three steps to the bed from where Obi-Wan stands and yet it feels like an eternity as the man crosses the threshold, a swallow thick in Anakin’s throat as his eyes flicker upwards to meet his gaze. 

“But that’s not enough,” Anakin replies without thinking. He doesn’t have to—not about something like this.

“It’s never enough,” Obi-Wan assents with a hum of warmth that Anakin’s all-too-familiar with, “not for you.” 

And despite the tease in Obi-Wan’s tone, Anakin doesn’t disagree. He can’t—not when they both know that there’s so much truth in the statement that neither of them can pretend anything otherwise. 

“Can you blame me, Master?” Anakin hums instead, and it’s more than enough to seal his fate. 

Obi-Wan’s lips are on his own in a half-moment, hardly enough time for Anakin to close his eyes before he feels the warmth of his Master’s enveloping presence overwhelm his own in the midst of the Force. It’s enveloping, encompassing, and they haven’t even started—even so, it’s more than enough for Anakin to indulge himself on, greedy as he finds himself chasing the kisses that Obi-Wan leaves against his lips. Obi-Wan is never one to rush things, and there’s been more times than Anakin can remember of Obi-Wan displaying just that—nights of languid, soft, effortless patience on Obi-Wan’s end, Anakin’s keen whines and soft, pleading murmurs of need carried through the night until his voice eventually runs hoarse—but none of that matters now. 

What matters is that Obi-Wan’s lips are traveling from his lips to the edge of his jaw, intentional and placed and almost more than enough for Anakin to stir with needy impatience already, the scent of whatever beard salve Obi-Wan used not moments before fully invading any of his senses that aren’t currently focused on what stands before him. It’s more than enough, but then again, it’s nothing at all—Anakin Skywalker has never been one to mitigate his own emotions, but the flood of warmth being sent straight to his core from Obi-Wan’s urging lips is still hardly attention. 

Anakin doesn’t waste time as his hands find purchase near Obi-Wan’s waist, fingers trailing a messy path until they find the hidden buckle—he’s never cared about the sort of piety that comes with nicely folding your robes in the middle of a hookup, and he doesn’t think anyone else except Obi-Wan does, either—but nevertheless, he works with as much as he can before Obi-Wan’s clouded senses can come back to reality and tell him otherwise, the leather thudding lowly to the floor along with some metal thing.

…Dank farrik.

Anakin cringes inwardly at the thought of what that metal thing hanging from Obi-Wan’s belt probably is, and so he doesn’t get a mid-hookup lecture about how disrespectful he is of the saber that’s now discarded somewhere in the floor, he finds Obi-Wan’s lips and kisses them headily again, hungry and messy and unorganized as he pushes himself further back on the bed. Obi-Wan follows, a push-and-pull that Anakin could drown in if so given a chance; it isn’t long until Obi-Wan’s hands wander further and his lips are only suited to follow, the cool of the breeze from the open window hitting his skin as Obi-Wan unfastens the top of Anakin’s robes. 

It doesn’t have any other effect than what’s intended, the equivalent of a cool towel on a burning fever as Obi-Wan’s lips wander further down Anakin’s neck. Half of him wants to tell him to stop, to kiss in one place and kiss hard and keep going until the lightly-tanned skin there has gone purple and sore, wants to tell him to keep going just like that until Anakin’s littered with more spots than a kriffing lothcat, but he doesn’t—Obi-Wan’s never been keen on leaving marks, and to ask him to do it so early would only leave him with the disappointment from letting himself think about wanting it at all. 

So he lets himself indulge in the way that Obi-Wan kisses his neck, hungry and giving despite the way that Anakin shifts beneath him and allows himself to enjoy the way that his Master’s beard scratches against his skin, an echo of the kiss that was only smoothed there a moment prior. A soft noise breaks from his throat as Obi-Wan travels downwards, finally hitting his mark as Anakin feels the nip of his teeth in the skin there, and that’s it —that’s enough to keep him from asking for more when he knows that Obi-Wan will hardly ever give it. At the pressure, Anakin keens forward, fingers finding purchase in Obi-Wan’s hair as he cards carelessly through the neat style that Obi-Wan undoubtedly spent far too much time on the morning before, but none of it matters when Obi-Wan’s hands pull away.

“You’re done?” He asks without thought, eyebrows furrowing lightly in confusion.

“I’m sorry—would you rather do this with our robes on?” Obi-Wan answers naturally, and Anakin doesn’t bother to hide the way that his cheeks burn hot before he shakes his head. “Now, come here, dearest one. I’m not quite finished with you yet.”

There’s pageantry in the way that Obi-Wan talks to him sometimes in these situations, and he’d be a kriffing idiot not to know it—none of it is real, not a single bit of it, and yet Anakin falls into it every time. It’s too easy: there’s an easy sort of warmth that surrounds Obi-Wan in moments like these, moments where words that sound like words begin feeling more like names that are reserved for Anakin. 

And even so, he comes closer on Obi-Wan’s request, lips finding purchase idly against Obi-Wan’s jawline as the older pulls the rest of Anakin’s robes off and over his head. When Obi-Wan inches away to remove his own and place them on the nearest pillow, Anakin can’t help the way his fingers wander to touch him nonetheless, each individual centimeter between them feeling like an entire parsec. It’s maddening enough to watch the way that Obi-Wan has such composure in times like these, but even that pales in comparison to the feeling Anakin gets when his Master comes back to him, hands wandering downwards as if perhaps he can read Anakin’s impatience just as easily as he does the book of Alderaanian poetry that sits on the nightstand. 

Obi-Wan’s hands travel downwards and it doesn’t take half of a mind to wonder just where they’re going, Anakin’s hips keening forwards as his Master’s fingers toy over his waistband. They’re wasting time despite the fact that they’ve hardly just started, every inch of desperation blown-out the moment that Obi-Wan’s hand dips below his waistband, a broken noise falling from Anakin’s throat as the building pressure of his own arousal is satiated for the moment by the feeling of Obi-Wan’s smooth touch against the tent of his undergarments. Anakin’s all wandering hands and lips and needy touches and it’s only a moment before he’s matching Obi-Wan’s movements, a thick swallow in his throat grounding himself in the midst of the moment before it all flies out the window, Obi-Wan’s touch moving past Anakin’s undergarments as he finally feels the heady relief of his Master’s hand around his cock. 

The feeling of Obi-Wan’s hands on him is the closest thing that Anakin could describe as being holy despite the fact that he’s felt it countless times, breath shaky and panting as he eases his hips forwards into Obi-Wan’s hand. There’s been times before when Obi-Wan’s drawn it out far longer, almost as if he likes it better when Anakin’s left needy and messy and all over the place just for the simplest of touches, but this isn’t one of those nights—something Anakin praises the stars for, even if he’s still only thinking about what’s coming afterwards. 

“I want to touch you,” Anakin pants, and it’s hard to say anything when Obi-Wan’s hand is moving so languidly and easily as if he isn’t doing anything innocuous whatsoever, something that causes Anakin’s head to fall blurry and disoriented even if he wasn’t the one with Obi-Wan’s hand on his dick, “I just—I want you.” 

Something inside of him stirs at the way that Obi-Wan chuckles warmly in response and instead only quickens his pace, thumbing over the head of his cock as Anakin’s hips follow the motion all the same.

“Later,” he says after a moment, “I’m enjoying myself quite enough as it is.” 

Sometimes, Anakin wants to wring his neck at how absolutely easy it is for Obi-Wan to maintain his composure. Other times, it’s just what Anakin needs, allowing himself to melt into the feeling of Obi-Wan’s hands against him as his pace falls relaxed and constant. He’s not giving him hardly enough to where Anakin’s afraid he’ll reach any sort of peak early, but then again, he’s sure that that’s just what Obi-Wan’s planning on, messy haste on his own part as he attempts to pull his trousers off in a way that won’t dare to disconnect the touch between them. 

“If you keep going, I’m not—” Anakin swallows, starting again after the words feel a little more coherent and his thoughts less distant, “—you’re just—Master, you’re going to kill me like this.”   

“Well, we can’t have that.” Obi-Wan assents with the softest of grins, and maybe if Anakin could be absolutely kriffed with finding the humor in the way that Obi-Wan agrees, he would’ve found it funnier. Unfortunately, humor is the last thing on his mind, and Anakin nods breathlessly as he pulls Obi-Wan closer by his hips, the loss of his Master’s hand on his cock hardly enough to be mourned in the stead of what comes next. “Tell me then, my Anakin—what would you prefer?” 

My Anakin, Obi-Wan says, continuing like he expects Anakin to be able to coherently follow kriffing anything after. 

(Honestly, Obi-Wan can’t blame him for nearly anything that he puts him through when he’s the very one saying something like that.) 

“You know what I want,” Anakin says instead, because despite the fact that he’s told Obi-Wan what he’s wanted more times than he could count without second thought, he’s not that far quite yet as to where his own stubbornness doesn’t at least take a little bit of prevalence, “I don’t—I don’t need to say it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Obi-Wan’s voice is effortless and low around the edges as his breath is hot in Anakin’s ear once more, lips brushing against his lobe as Anakin aches into the touch, “so I suppose you’ll just have to entertain me.”

Anakin almost thinks about strangling him, if not just for a moment. 

But there’s better ways to get back Obi-Wan than that. 

“What do you want me to say, Master?” Anakin’s eyes are firelight in the dark of the bedroom, gaze flickering low as his hands somehow travel even lower. It doesn’t take him long to find his target, and he delights in the way that Obi-Wan’s breath arches in his throat as Anakin traces the outline of his arousal in his trousers. “Do you want me to tell you that I want you to fuck me so that I can feel it tomorrow, even when you’re not here? That I want so much of you that I can’t know anything else? I’m ready—you took so long at the Council meeting that I had to entertain myself somehow.” 

Anakin doesn’t say that he already thinks about Obi-Wan enough as it is. Once you’re already drunk on something, you don’t taste the shame that comes with thinking about it more, and it doesn’t matter— none of it matters, because Obi-Wan is here and present and against him in a way that’s making him lose every sense of himself. His voice is hot, heavy, and heady—he’s not sure what he’s entirely even saying, but every inch of Obi-Wan’s control and poise lessens with each word, and Anakin can’t lie and pretend as if he doesn’t want to know what that looks like. 

“Or is that not good enough for you, Master?” 

And that’s it. 

The collapse of Obi-Wan’s self-control is something that only Anakin’s ever seen, and there’s a perverse delight in realizing it, something that Anakin could live off of and never need anything else. Obi-Wan is swift as he advances upon him, kisses hot and heavy and all over in ways that make Anakin feel as if perhaps he’s less of himself and more of something that can only be Obi-Wan’s own, his back arching lightly into the bed as he props himself up on his elbows to watch his Master remove the rest of his clothing. In the light of the ‘fresher, Obi-Wan’s worn muscles are shadowed by the yellow fluorescent light, Anakin’s breath hitching as his gaze catches the way that the Negotiator’s scars litter his body like constellations. He’s not much better, of course; all the same, their scars are reflections of each other, more than half undoubtedly received in the same place. 

Just another thing that ties them together that Anakin can’t stop thinking about. It serves him right, at least. 

“That’s more than—more than enough, dearest one,” Obi-Wan groans, and there’s no hiding the way that Obi-Wan’s voice is a little raw; it doesn’t take much figuring for Anakin to realize what that’s probably from. The moment that the rest of Obi-Wan’s robes are stripped off, Anakin’s advancing back again, unsettled impatience finding purchase on sweet-smelling skin. Their foreheads bump together as Anakin presses a kiss against Obi-Wan’s upper lip, lazy and uncoordinated as he watches Obi-Wan’s hand dip down below them.

“Don’t tease me,” Anakin half-sighs, and there’s the hint of a keening whine in the mix near the end of the phrase, his leg curling around Obi-Wan’s thigh as he pulls him closer, “I need you—fuck, Obi-Wan, please, just—” 

“—Anakin, there’s quite a difference in teasing and simply taking my time.” 

And maybe that’s most of it: Obi-Wan takes his time on Anakin like he’s a work of art to be preserved, languid and soft, each individual touch as far from impertinent as something could possibly be. When he feels Obi-Wan’s fingers against the curve of his ass, Anakin sighs and leans into the feeling, a soft noise bitten back at the way that Obi-Wan circles and eventually sinks two digits into him. It’s a familiar feeling, and sometimes, that’s all they ever find themselves at—Anakin left whining and pliable and messy in Obi-Wan’s arms as he fucks his fingers into him, pace smooth and languid just like everything else that Obi-Wan is. 

This isn’t one of those evenings, and Obi-Wan works quickly—Anakin can tell that he’s wanting, too, even if he doesn’t show it as much. Anakin pulls one of the pillows off of the neat part of the bed as he puts it beneath himself, eyes flickering upwards as he all but entirely reaches his hand down and holds Obi-Wan’s hand against his own.

“I want you to fuck me,” Anakin says levelly, and his breath is shot and shallow, “please, Master. I can’t take this.” 

He feels like an impatient Padawan, stirred with the desire for far more whilst being held back in training classes that feel entirely useless. Even so, there’s a moment of hesitation before Obi-Wan removes his fingers, Anakin hardly having time to mourn the loss before he feels the spongy head of something far bigger pressing against him.

“You were impatient,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and half of Anakin wants to reply and say no shit, but he lets him finish,   “I’m sorry I took so long, dearest.”

“‘s fine. I can think of a way that you can pay me back,” Anakin answers breathlessly, and on his assent, Obi-Wan finally gives in. He’s felt the feeling of his Master a hundred times before, but the proximity is deafening, lips messy as he trails kisses along Obi-Wan’s beard. The stretch burns in the way that Anakin loves, Obi-Wan sinking lowly into him as Anakin’s legs curl around his waist. He doesn’t bother to think about the noises that fall from his throat, messy and needy and full and probably more expletive than anything else, the full feeling of their Force energies mingling in a way that makes him feel like there’s nothing else in the ‘verse that could be better.

Until Obi-Wan starts to move, and Anakin sees stars, a drunken whine ripped from his throat as his arms wrap around his Master’s neck. He’s never liked the fact that he’s so easily pliable, but with Obi-Wan, it’s as if it’s second nature: he knows exactly what Anakin likes and wants and it’s impossible to pretend that he doesn’t, the scratch of Obi-Wan’s beard against his neck all but entirely overstimulating as messy, spitty kisses tongue into his skin.

“Kriff, that’s—just like that,” Anakin sighs, and he hardly even needs to reassure Obi-Wan of what he’s doing, because the familiarity of which Obi-Wan reads his body should be all but entirely illegal, “don’t stop, I just— please, Master.” 

He could worship him if so given the chance, and Anakin’s almost sure he would: the picture before him is almost too much, the veins in Obi-Wan’s arms flexing slightly as he pulls Anakin’s hips closer. There’s a bead of sweat on Obi-Wan’s forehead that Anakin can’t stop staring at, but then again, there’s so much to stare at that focusing on one thing by itself feels ultimately impossible, his Master’s pace quickening as he thrusts his hips deeper.

Neither of them ever last long like this, not unless Obi-Wan’s in one of his moods or Anakin’s in one of his (which, coincidentally, are often set off by each other), but either way, Anakin’s fingers dig into Obi-Wan’s back as he pulls him impossibly close, drunk off of the hot need and desire that comes with the threat of boiling over. It’s impossible to imagine that he’s going to last long at all when Obi-Wan makes him see colors that nobody else could make him see, the vivid flooding warmth of Obi-Wan’s Force signature wrapping around the parts of him that his physical body can’t. It isn’t far longer afterwards that Anakin feels himself spill over, accidental and almost entirely unaware, the climax of his own heat and arousal messy over his stomach as his back arches into the mattress below, only halfway aware of the fact that Obi-Wan pulls out not a moment later when he reaches his own. 

It’s uncharacteristically messy, but real in a way that makes Anakin’s heart ache. He knows what’ll happen next, even in the delirious after-pleasure that follows their acts: Obi-Wan will clean them up, he’ll bring a chaste kiss to his forehead as if he hadn’t claimed the rest of his body not moments before with those very same lips, and Anakin will fall asleep in his bed, only awoken by the dull ache of his hips and the filtered light of the sun through the slatted blinds. 

But tonight, it feels distant, unimportant. All that matters is what Anakin can feel, and flooded in the warmth of Obi-Wan’s touch, it’s all he needs.