Baby's Blue Eyes Shine

Anakin looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, master?”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and fights down the urge to take a step back, to put some space between them. Not that there’s much room to do so in this particular cabin. With how big Anakin has gotten, there’s barely enough space to fit the both of them and the solitary bunk at the same time. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Anakin’s expression. “You’re not my padawan anymore, Anakin,” he says. “You don’t have to call me ‘master.’”

Anakin shifts, and the rustle of fabric on fabric seems to echo, or maybe that’s just Obi-Wan’s senses, far too attuned to his former apprentice. When Anakin speaks, his voice is closer, his presence nearer, his chest emanating a warmth against Obi-Wan’s thighs. “I know. I’m also not here because I want to call you ‘master.’” He says it so simply, so openly.

Obi-Wan winces, because he thought -- or hoped -- that maybe he could distract Anakin with a tired old argument that they’ve been having for months. But he can feel the omnipresence of Anakin’s desire, of his need. Anakin is so powerful now that his emotions have something close to a tangible presence, thick enough that Obi-Wan can feel it, uncomfortable and cloying, against his skin. “I thought--” Well, perhaps it had been more a hope than a thought, that they had left this part of their relationship behind when Anakin had taken his own padawan, that perhaps Anakin had outgrown it.

“Please?” Anakin asks. His voice is soft, cajoling, none of the hard edges he gets when he picks fights with Obi-Wan.

He is so sweet when he gets like this. For all that Anakin can be moody and argumentative, he can just as easily be frustratingly, surprisingly sweet. Eager and enthusiastic and malleable. Obi-Wan opens his eyes, and Anakin meets his gaze. Anakin knows what he wants, and he wants it from Obi-Wan.

This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea that Obi-Wan is certain that even Master Yoda can feel a disturbance in the Force several dozen lightyears away, just from how bad an idea this is. Even Anakin, on some level, knows that this is a bad idea in that way he likes to dive headlong into all his bad ideas and then expect Obi-Wan to stop him, to be the responsible one in the room. It’s a trap. It’s always a trap, because then Anakin can make Obi-Wan into the figurehead for whatever authority he’s upset at, because Obi-Wan is the easy target.

“Anakin, if we do this--” Obi-Wan starts. He can feel the shift in Anakin’s emotions, bright and hopeful at the possibility. “If we do this, it can’t -- we can’t continue on like this. It’s not -- you must think of what is best for Ahsoka.”

“Of course,” Anakin agrees readily. So very sweet.

Obi-Wan takes another deep breath. He needs it. His heart is beating too fast. His palms are sweating. There’s an uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck. But for all that, he cannot deny the reaction that his body has to Anakin like this. “Stand up,” he says. He will be able to handle this better when Anakin is standing up, looking down at Obi-Wan in a way that is still vaguely disorienting.

“Yes, daddy,” Anakin says. His voice is softer, higher, younger-sounding. He stands up, shoulders square, gaze level, completely unashamed. He never gets the same thread of discomfort and unease that seems to be a consistent companion to Obi-Wan during these encounters.

“You will be good for me, won’t you?” Obi-Wan asks. He cups Anakin’s cheek with one hand, finally daring to touch Anakin skin-to-skin.

Anakin leans into it, nodding, and his eyes are so bright, Obi-Wan has difficulty meeting them.

“Take off your clothes,” Obi-Wan says.

Anakin strips quickly, shedding his tunic, his shirt, his pants, his boots in record time. He then crawls onto the bunk, sprawling on his back as best he can on the narrow mattress without prompting, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he wants to chide Anakin for making assumptions and taking liberties. He decides against it because he-- Obi-Wan wants to look at him. He’s filled out since the most awkward of his teenage years, no longer that same mess of too-long, too-gangly limbs. He has somehow, despite the odds, made it to adulthood. A purple bruise is livid on his left bicep, fading at the edges into yellows and greens, a souvenir from their last battle.

Obi-Wan swallows around the lump in his throat. Perhaps this would be easier if Anakin hadn’t grown into such a lovely young man, lean and strong and handsome. “Very good, little one,” Obi-Wan says, letting his approval leak into the Force.

Anakin flushes at that, the bloom of color spreading from his face all the way down to his chest. “Thank you, daddy,” he says. Obi-Wan doesn’t understand why Anakin needs to say the word so much, especially since he never had a father, never had the same associations with it that other people, other non-Jedi people do. Obi-Wan doesn’t need the word, either, but there’s something in the way Anakin says it, so open, so trusting, without that harder edge he uses when he calls Obi-Wan, “master.” Anakin has always been willful and self-sufficient, even as a boy. He has always resented needing Obi-Wan for anything. But here, in this space, where he gives away the word freely, he is nothing but need, so willing to accept anything that Obi-Wan gives him, willing to entrust himself fully into Obi-Wan’s care.

Obi-Wan peels off his clothes with careful, deliberate motions. He wants -- there are so many things Obi-Wan could do to Anakin, so many things he wants to do. He needs to keep himself focused. Like any other battle, he needs a plan of attack. “And what does my good boy want from me, today, hm?” he asks, settling down on the only free patch of mattress, right next to Anakin’s legs. He places one hand on Anakin’s thigh.

Anakin squirms underneath Obi-Wan’s touch. His breathing goes short. When he speaks again, his voice is raspy. “I-- could you fuck me, please?” His cock, which has been half-hard since he stripped himself naked, hardens further, and the pretty pink flush spreads even farther across his chest. “Just want to feel you, daddy.”

“All right. We can do that.” Obi-Wan moves his hand, using it to nudge Anakin’s legs apart.

Anakin’s breath hitches, and Obi-Wan likes it more than he should. He can feel Anakin’s accompanying spike of arousal in the Force, but there’s something viscerally appealing about those tangible, physical reactions and the knowledge that he was the one who provoked them.

Obi-Wan lets his hand linger on Anakin’s leg as he strokes the skin there, surprisingly soft. This is the only time he allows himself to get this close, lets himself revel in the intimacy that comes with physical touch. Anakin shivers as Obi-Wan’s hand drifts upwards, towards his crotch. His hips twitch when Obi-Wan gives his cock an absent squeeze, and then again when Obi-Wan rakes his fingernails over the tender skin of his balls, but otherwise he remains still, letting Obi-Wan set the pace.

“You are doing so well for me,” Obi-Wan murmurs. Anakin is otherwise always in motion, always looking for the next thing, always resentful when Obi-Wan asks him to slow down. His patience here -- or what passes for patience for Anakin -- feels like a strange and rare gift.

He can feel the pleasure Anakin gets from the praise, the swell of pride in the Force. When Obi-Wan’s fingers move downwards, pressing against his ass, Anakin says, “You don’t need to -- I can take it, daddy.”

Obi-Wan is sure Anakin can. He’s the sort who will happily push through any sort of discomfort or injury, treating any sort of medical recommendation involving rest as a personal insult.

“Why don’t you let daddy decide that, little one?” Obi-Wan asks, because this is on him, when he has to take care of Anakin because Anakin refuses to take care of himself, an all too common dynamic in their relationship. He imagines that this is what it’s like for real fathers the galaxy over, this feeling of protectiveness and possessiveness and responsibility. And not in the diffuse way of the Jedi, where that’s part of a padawan apprenticeship, because all Jedi belong to the Order, ultimately. But when they’re together like this, Anakin only belongs to him.

Obi-Wan opens Anakin slowly, using the packet of lube he dug out of Anakin’s pockets, and watches the expression on Anakin’s face as he gives himself over to Obi-Wan’s hands, a complete surrender that Obi-Wan can feel an echo of, somewhere low in his gut. It’s not the happiness that gets to him. Obi-Wan sees Anakin’s happiness plenty, the delight he gets in a cockpit, the joy he feels in a fight. It’s the contentment, the willingness to still himself because Obi-Wan asked it of him, and the fact that for once, Anakin actually seems to enjoy it.

When he feels Anakin is ready, Obi-Wan clambers onto the bunk, settling himself between Anakin’s spread legs. It’s a little awkward, considering that this bunk was not designed for two bodies to occupy it at the same time, but they manage to make do. Anakin’s body is warm and strong beneath Obi-Wan’s. His skin smells a little like blaster ozone and a little like engine grease, comforting in its familiarity.

“Daddy?” Anakin asks, voice plaintive, eyes wide. “Will you kiss me, please?”

Obi-Wan smiles at him. So polite. “Of course, little one. You’ve done such a good job of letting me take care of you.”

Anakin accepts Obi-Wan’s kiss with open-mouthed eagerness and returns it with an unguarded fervor. His hands clutch at Obi-Wan’s shoulders. His teeth nip at Obi-Wan’s lips, because he might be sweet and pliable in this state, but he’s still Anakin. There will probably be some beard burn on Anakin’s unshaved face later, not distinctive enough for anyone else to notice, as distracted as they are by the mechanics of war, but Obi-Wan will still be able to see it, and he will know exactly how it happened.

Obi-Wan asks, “Would you like more?” He uses one hand to push a lock of Anakin’s hair away from his face. He’s been growing it out since he’s been knighted.

“Please,” Anakin begs. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, showing the long line of his throat.

Obi-Wan arranges them so that he can push his cock inside. Anakin lets out a low moan, and his body yields startlingly easily, almost welcoming underneath the pressure. He shudders, making soft, high noises that could almost be called whimpers at Obi-Wan’s first few tentative thrusts.

When Obi-Wan settles in and picks up the pace, Anakin lets out a cry, almost a sob.

“Shhh, little one,” Obi-Wan says, keeping his voice low and soothing. He’s not worried about being overheard -- the thick durasteel bulkheads are more than sufficient soundproofing. It’s that he wants to soothe Anakin through it rather than let him get overwhelmed. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to do anything that could break him.

Anakin goes quiet at the murmur of Obi-Wan’s voice, but he still squirms beneath Obi-Wan, their legs tangling together on the bunk. His need is a tidal wave in the Force, threatening to sweep Obi-Wan under with him. Obi-Wan can’t let him. He still needs to be the responsible one here. He can’t lose himself in Anakin-- he just can’t.

He readjusts their position, settling Anakin’s legs around his hips, and Anakin clings to him, pulling him so close that there’s no space between them. From this angle, where they’re pressed chest-to-chest, Obi-Wan can push in deep, and it’s impossible not to notice how hot and tight and welcoming Anakin’s body is.

“Daddy,” Anakin whispers. He blinks open his eyes, and they are bright and glassy with unshed tears.

“Yes, I’m here,” Obi-Wan says. “Daddy’s here.” He cups Anakin’s face with one hand and presses a kiss to his lips. He doesn’t know how else to deal with Anakin’s expression and the dense tangle of Anakin’s emotions.

For whatever reason, that’s all it takes for the tears to spill in earnest, leaking from the corners of his eyes, accompanied by small, hiccoughing sobs. Obi-Wan almost stops this whole thing, almost pulls out, pulls away, but Anakin clings to him tighter. “Please, daddy, don’t stop, please, more.” The words spill out in a rush, a barely coherent jumble.

And because Obi-Wan is weak, and because Obi-Wan loves him, he does as Anakin asks: he gives him more.

He can feel Anakin’s oncoming orgasm as it reverberates through the Force. He wipes Anakin’s tears from his cheeks and says, “That’s it, little one. Come for daddy.”

Anakin cries through it, shuddering and sobbing in a way that makes Obi-Wan’s chest feel tight and uncomfortable, but it also feels like a relief, a draining away of tension, a catharsis that Anakin so desperately needs.

Because Anakin is so powerful and because they are so connected -- or maybe that’s just what Obi-Wan tells himself -- Obi-Wan lets the sensation sweep over him, pulling him over the edge as well. It’s a physical release that he lets himself indulge in, just for this moment, when they can be nothing more than two bodies coming together, and not two Jedi generals carrying the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders. They can just be skin and muscle and bone, sweat and come, and Obi-Wan doesn’t have to think about troop assignments or Senate politics or the constant, ever present news of war.

When the moment has passed, Obi-Wan pulls away for real this time, not letting himself be dissuaded from his task by Anakin’s grasping fingers or pained whimpers. He finds a clean rag to clean the both of them up, giving Anakin time to put himself back together.

“Please, don’t go,” Anakin whispers as Obi-Wan breaks contact, just for a moment. He extends a hand out, grabbing for Obi-Wan’s wrist. “Daddy, please.”

But Obi-Wan just shushes him again. “I’ve got you, Anakin.” He wipes the rag over Anakin’s stomach, cleaning him until there isn’t any trace of what they’ve done left.

“Master,” Anakin says eventually, sounding more like himself.

Obi-Wan looks up from where he’s starting to dress himself again. Anakin takes that as an opportunity to yank Obi-Wan into another kiss. Obi-Wan goes along with it, lingering for just as long as he thinks he can stand it.

“Stay,” Anakin says after Obi-Wan draws back. His eyes are red, and there are tears drying on his face, but his mouth is curled into a small, hopeful smile.

Obi-Wan sighs. “You know I can’t,” he says. While he’s here, while they’re still in this strange bubble that feels outside of regular space and time, he can admit that Anakin has sunk hooks into him. But he can’t let them turn into attachment, can’t let them transmute into an even deeper, even more painful version of love.

“Please, master?” Anakin asks. His face hides nothing. He needs so much.

“I can’t, Anakin,” Obi-Wan repeats, avoiding his eyes. He doesn’t say anything else as he finishes dressing. There’s nothing else to say.

FIN.