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The air is humid and warm, sticking thick to Anakin’s throat every time he takes little gasps of it in. Sweat trickles at his temples, along his back, crawling at that decidedly slow pace where it becomes a borderline itch; tickling at damp skin. The drop clinging to his chin finally falls and is quickly absorbed by the ruined bedroll under him. Thin blankets bunch tight in the grip of his clenched hands.
“Ah – uh, uh…” Anakin whimpers, hushed, face flushed. He scrambles to stay perched on his elbows and knees as Obi-Wan drives into him deep again, spearing him wide on an unforgivingly thick cock—big, so much so that Anakin can feel every inch of it dragging hot along his insides, boiling, throbbing. He half-expects to look down and see the head of it bulging shallowly above his navel.
Anakin shivers as Obi-Wan draws back once more, an obscenely wet slurping noise following. Excess lube drags out with the motion and smears messy against the inside of Anakin’s cheeks—spills warm from his hole, rolling down his taint, over his sack. More liquid silicone than anyone truly needed, but they’re both drunk, and it’s so hard to see in the tent once it’s this dark.
A sigh above his head and then his Master is pushing back in, pressure filling him, unyielding, stretching, just shy of burning—rubbing tender over sensitive insides. His rim flutters helplessly over the slicked length of it; rendered raw, loose, puffy. His walls clamp down spastically. Anakin hiccups as the heavy and full feeling returns in earnest to his stomach—once, then twice, then again—over and over. It makes his breathing stutter, and he tries to bite his lips to stifle some of that ceaseless noise leaking out of his mouth. Fails miserably in the endeavor.
For the life of him, Anakin just can’t seem to stop whining.
Which is absurd, because he’s never vocal like this. Not even when drunk. It’s only ever Obi-Wan and that stupid cock that does this to him.
“M–master, master… uh, uh…-!”
“Careful,” Obi-Wan says between pants, amused, and Anakin can hear the smug bastard smirking. “Wouldn’t want anyone overhearing now, would we?”
As if everyone in the camp can’t hear them already. Or see how their tent’s shaking. Any sentient within a mile and two brain-cells to rub together would be able to tell what’s going on right now.
Anakin, like a fool, opens his mouth to reply—snark at the ready—only for a humiliatingly high-pitched squeak to escape in its stead. His eyes scrunch shut, mind blanking, body shuddering as Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to grind into him just so, cock dragging delicious friction over that one spot that always makes Anakin utterly melt; electricity crackles white-hot up his spine.
His riposte is immediately forgotten.
“There – oh gods, t-there, ah… please, Master—” he starts to beg, and like clockwork Obi-Wan shifts, hammering away as requested at the bundle of nerves anew. The ruinous angle sings friction onto Anakin’s walls, lights everything abuzz with pleasure. Heat pools dizzyingly steady in his ass and guts alike.
“Yes – oh fuck yes, right there, Master – please—” Sweat. Skin on his tongue. A calloused hand flies over his mouth; vibrates as Anakin moans wrecked against it.
“Sithspit, you sound like a whore,” Obi-Wan curses, strained under his breath, and Anakin moans again because his Master never talks like that. Only once he’s like this: plastered, balls-deep, fucking Anakin through the floor—does he ever allow such filth to spew from his mouth at any such capacity. It flushes Anakin’s body so hot with arousal—delirious need—even as it tinges equally blistering with shame.
Especially when it tinges with shame, actually. Yet another unique-to-Obi-Wan thing.
Sometimes he wishes there weren’t so many of those.
Not right now though.
Anakin greedily rocks his hips back, seeking that heady wet smack of skin on skin, the heavy rhythmic slap of Obi-Wan’s balls up against his ass. He takes full advantage of the impromptu gag over his mouth and begins moaning unabashed. Whorish. Letting out those frantic, desperate sounds from his chest that his Master’s cock all but seems to punch out of him; it’s the furthest thing from quiet—and in no small parts humiliating—but it’s so freeing. He’ll spontaneously combust if he holds these in any longer.
Obi-Wan laughs, winded. “Barely been in you five minutes and you’re fucking sobbing – cockdrunk. Would’ve made you come on my fingers first I’d known you were this desperate for it. Needy little thing—”
Obi-Wan thrusts into him with long hard strokes, presses a hand to Anakin’s back and shoves him down chest first to the ground—spine curved, ass high in the air—and Anakin is practically clawing at the floor of the tent now. His nails rake over the blankets, face dragging along the material and tears streaming down ruddy cheeks; just crying out at his hole getting bursting full then nearly empty then filled again. The hot glide of volume inside him makes it impossible to think straight. He feels insane. It feels like Obi-Wan is rubbing up against his spine.
“You’re taking it so well, darling. All loose and wet – feels so fucking good—” Obi-Wan moans above him, soft. Breathless. The sound is nearly lost to Anakin gasping harsh for air, choking on his own hiccuping sobs. “Best ass I’ve ever fucked – so perfect,” —and a chest is meeting Anakin’s back, draping over him. His Master’s pants rush hot and humid over damp skin, prickling it with goosebumps.
A hand plants itself by Anakin’s head and the pace cranks, the one covering his mouth leaking sound at the edges as he sloppily licks salt from Obi-Wan’s sweaty palm. Anakin tries to slip his tongue in between those svelte fingers, take them into his mouth and suck—just something to wrap his lips around. Anything. He sobs pitifully when Obi-Wan denies him and simply clamps the spit-covered hand firmer over his face instead; muzzles him. Anakin wriggles impetuously in his grasp—wild, wordlessly begging—would have half the mind to start flailing if that cockhead dragging along his guts didn’t make his body so achy and weak.
More weight. Obi-Wan’s body pins him down. Tries to wrangle in the worst of his squirming.
“Fucking hell, Anakin—” Obi-Wan rasps, and oh, there’s a hint of something in the way he says that. An accompanying sharp spike within his signature, something carnal bubbling up to the surface. It blossoms, unrepentant; Anakin coming apart at the seams always managed to strike such a chord.
‘Coming apart at the seams’ really can’t even begin to describe this, though. That made it sound as if Anakin was unraveling—and he is not. It feels like he’s being liquified from the very inside out, melting, pummeled until he dissolves into a shimmering puddle of useless nothing that ripples at his Master’s touch, reflective as quicksilver.
A reedy sound starts reverberating throughout the tent, rings sharp through the air in a needy, sustained cry and—well, that’s just Anakin keening. Mewling, like some mindless creature in heat. A signal of his rapidly approaching end.
“Yeah? Already – after all that prep?” Obi-Wan taunts, breathless. “Are you gonna come on my cock again, baby?”
Yes, Anakin wails within the confines of his own mind, actual cries muffled beyond all recognition at this point. I’m gonna come – I’m gonna come all over Master’s fat cock. He always does. It’s a euphoric rush that haunts him until the next time they can stumble together—absurd amounts of alcohol in tow because it’s easier to blame it on the liquor than for either of them to admit how right any of this feels sober.
Something gives—or breaks, rather—and Anakin’s insides pulse frantically against the stroking cock in him as he comes, body seizing up tight, unfurling heat rushing out blindingly warm from his center and blanketing from head-to-toe. A towering wave of euphoria crashes him harsh against its shores and his jaw goes slack—eyes crossing as they roll back, back arching, toes curling—and then his voice starts leaking out funny; the sounds register completely foreign to Anakin’s own ears as he spasms, cock spitting weakly and used-up hole throbbing alike in sync to the blood rushing through his skull.
“Oh fuck – yes, just like that, baby—” Obi-Wan groans low in his ear; rich, warm tenor. “Just like that… milk my cock, sweetheart—” he whispers and grinds in, burying himself to the hilt.
His Master’s orgasm is a sudden flood of heat: liquid spilling hot into him, turning his insides messy, slickness coating his walls—just ribbon after ribbon being fucked in with each rough jerk of Obi-Wan’s hips. It mixes with the obscene mess of lube still in him and leaks just as thick, making the wet squelching in the air sound utterly filthy. Sloppy. Anakin shivers and more funny sounds escape from his mouth, but they fall out softer this time—sated—a delicate sense of contentment washing over him as Obi-Wan slowly fills him up, touches turning gentle.
He absolutely loves this part. He loves knowing he made Obi-Wan feel good; being stuffed full with the tangible proof of it.
Hips roll down against him sinuously. Languid. Savoring the pleasurable grip of Anakin’s body. The beskar-clad clamp over his mouth eases, and Obi-Wan’s lips attach to his neck in decidedly tender fashion, leaving increasingly sweet trails of kisses along the tan expanse of it. Movements warp sluggish and unhurried, then glacial as inebriation returns to drowsiness’ side at the foreground.
An eventual lull of noises in the tent, broken only by subdued panting. Anakin’s pulse continues to roar loud in his ears, nigh on deafening. The scent of musk and sweat clinging to the air is almost as suffocating as the humidity.
A sigh and then Obi-Wan pulls out—slicked suction, a wet pop—and then thickness is sliding warm down Anakin’s thighs. He feels his hole clenching, walls spasming in weak attempts to close once more, but Anakin knows he’ll still be feeling this tomorrow; the buzzing sensation left behind is proof enough.
Shifting weight. Absent body heat. His Master’s touch leaves him, and the blankets rustle as Obi-Wan flips over onto his back, settling against them with a drunken groan.
Anakin, for some reason, feels stuck in place. Frozen. There’s a weird… hole opening up in his chest—an ache—and the oddest whimpering noise is lodged beneath his ribs. Trying to break free. Sweat cools sticky on his skin, makes him feel claustrophobic, clammy all over, and… and he can’t seem to make himself get off his knees—
“Shh – it’s okay, angel. Come here,” Obi-Wan murmurs softly, and then hands are suddenly pulling Anakin to the side, directing him to lay half on top of his Master instead of the mess they left on the blankets. Anakin just whines listlessly as he’s moved—lost, so confused—but allows himself to be positioned as designated anyway. Air returns to his lungs in short bursts as Obi-Wan wraps him up securely in his arms, still shushing in that soft soothing tone. The keening sound gradually quiets down; lips press delicately to the top of Anakin’s head.
“There you go. I’m here, you’re okay,” —and oh, that ache in his chest is shrinking. Is this what he wanted Obi-Wan to do then? It must be, because it feels nice. Familiar, even—but this part always registers so hazy for Anakin afterwards. Blurry at its edges.
Little pleading sounds continue to slip from his lips at odd intervals—short, fragile things. Each one earns him another kiss ghosting atop his curls, more whispered rounds of praise and sweet nothings. It makes him inexplicably want to curl up into the tiniest ball and burrow away in his Master’s chest forever. Make a home and stay there.
And Anakin can never really explain that last part. His head just feels so floaty right now, fuzzy, swimming with something other than alcohol—if not more potent. He never feels like this when sleeping with anyone else.
More than anything in these moments, he just wants Obi-Wan to hold him close: tuck him against his chest in that way that makes Anakin feel so incredibly small even though he’s not—and it never matters, because it feels safe. Nothing in the galaxy can touch him as long as his Master holds him like this. Not even cold reality.
And that was another benefit of these being drunken encounters, ultimately. Because Anakin can snuggle close for now and Obi-Wan will cradle him back in his arms without reservation, petting his hair with an affectionate tenderness that makes Anakin’s stomach do little happy flips. The very same touches that will haunt him later once the sun rises, because even booze can’t be blamed for the sheer warmth blossoming inside of Anakin’s chest right now.
But he doesn’t want to think about that part just yet. Rumination will come later.
They’re going to doze off soon, drift apart in the middle of the night from overheating, and Anakin will rouse first some odd hours later because liquor makes him sleep like absolute shit. The opportunistic sex it enables is the only reason his mind even brushes the realm of unconsciousness at all.
And, once awake, Anakin will tiptoe back to his own tent—just before daybreak, before Obi-Wan normally stirs. He’ll take his sanitary wipe shower of shame, snag a packet of liquid IV from Kix, and down as much aspirin as humanly possible before their morning briefings start. No one will make eye contact with either him or Obi-Wan throughout the entire meeting, nary a comment about how their two Generals look like the living dead, and they’ll both agree in hushed awkward conversation afterward that last night can’t happen again.
It will. But they’ll look each other in the eye and lie anyway.
And that won’t be ideal—but that’s just the way things are between them. For now, at least.
Hopefully not forever, a small part of Anakin thinks, ever-determined, before his rational brain can snuff it out. He falls asleep with that singular doomed thought still swirling about in his head.
Someday, maybe. Force willing.