Anakin seemed to pull himself together with an effort, shifting unobtrusively under Obi-Wan. "Good... point," he said. "Let's try this again."
"I'll count," Obi-Wan offered.
Anakin coughed, and slapped him. There was a pause. "Oh. One," said Obi-Wan, trying to focus. He had flown out of his head, a little, when Anakin moaned, and he still felt disconnected, dartingly conscious of the sheet under his wrists, his heavy head, the bunched stuff of his leggings. Anakin hit him again and again, this time setting a regular pace. Obi-Wan felt the jolt more and more in his pelvis, a bone-deep ache, even as his asscheeks started to go numb. He clenched without thinking of it, and winced when Anakin's hand landed differently, sending pins and needles everywhere; but he couldn't seem to help himself, he was thinking about what it would feel like to be rocked, not by this flat cudgeling, but by Anakin, inside him, an uncomfortable but continuous stretch...
He had made it up to twenty on autopilot. It wasn't, after all, as if he wasn't enjoying this. From the first it had felt at once like too little and too much, the blows light and yet spreading, his thighs quaking: but it got better as he sank into it, the single plane of impact. He had a passing, totally foreign thought about what this would have felt like with a paddle, or a lash--but never mind. Never mind, he was glad to think of Anakin's tiring, real hand, firm and outsize. Those long fingers.
The slaps had stopped. A finger found its way to his entrance. Just the tip prodded, rubbed, and he came as though ordered to: his thoughts linking up with that one glimpse to haul him over the edge. It was a long orgasm. His eyes closed, opened, and he could still feel himself spasming, his cock already sore against Anakin's tabard. Anakin hadn't even tried to push him away, which Obi-Wan couldn't decide whether he was grateful for or not. It seemed an unnecessary consideration, really. His head was ringing enough without him having budged.
Anakin did, however, roll him over onto his back after a few moments, probably getting spunk all over his flipped-up tunic--certainly getting some on his abused bottom. Anakin seemed concerned about something. Obi-Wan squinted up at him blearily, and realized his apprentice was trying to apologize, red mouth moving at half-speed.
Only Anakin.
He was filled with the old fondness, rather chaste. He sat up in Anakin's lap, ignoring the pain that spiked through his tailbone, and kissed the boy. Anakin made a sound of surprised betrayal, a little powerless rasp, and jammed a hand under his own waistband, displacing the tabard; Obi-Wan let their mouths slip apart, put his face in Anakin's neck, and let Anakin rub off against his hip. In his current frame of mind it felt more like a massage than anything, that sort of mechanized jostle. Even Anakin's climax was a distant, echoey bell-tone through their bond... no, through the Force. They weren't master and padawan any more.
Not really appropriate, he reflected. But neither was it the worst thing they'd done to each other over the course of Anakin's training; when he thought of the arguments they'd had, the missions endangered... It was hard to summon up the wherewithal for a lecture. Exhaustion had left Anakin slumped against the wall, where they lay in a rather indelicate pile. Obi-Wan could feel come soaking cold through the wool of his tunic, and Anakin's tights were probably unsalvageable. No lecture. He kissed Anakin's throat, instead, lightly but severely. Then, because Anakin was still there, chest heaving, he kissed the long neck all over, from the corner of Anakin's jaw to just under his collar. Anakin trembled once or twice, but displayed, on the whole, remarkable tolerance.
"Well," he said, after a while. "Will you rest, or do I have to get the shock collar?"
"What did the med-droid tell you?" Obi-Wan mumbled into his clavicle. "You seem lacking in stamina."
"I can't feel my wrist," Anakin admitted.
"I'll have to assign a strengthening kata."
"Not my master, Master."
"Oh. Yes." Anakin had begun stroking his back in abstract patterns. "Perhaps a compromise..."
"Nap?"
"Nap."
They disentangled themselves. Slowly. He hissed a bit when some insignificant movement sent a twinge up his back, and Anakin's durasteel hand tightened on his shoulderblade. Obi-Wan let a hint of the soreness bleed across his shields; it was hard to broadcast the soreness, though, without also spilling some of his satisfaction with it. He clamped down quickly. Much good it did him. Anakin's crooked smile followed him even as he lay down, a silly, private moon lodged in the corner of his eye. Anakin got up to get a washcloth--it was a testament to the justice of Anakin's original complaint that Obi-Wan had been fully prepared to sleep in his mess. Though Anakin was always more fastidious than him, really, when fastidiousness was a choice.
When he came back he'd taken off everything but his undertunic. His long legs shone in the soft strip lighting of the cabin. He bent down to clean off Obi-Wan's belly, and Obi-Wan, appreciative, arched into the touch for a moment before insisting on taking the towel. Obi-Wan looked at Anakin for what felt like the first time in an hour: not too close, not blurred by want. Just the slightly overdetermined clarity of sleeplessness.
He knew they both worried too much. But he could do better, he decided--he would learn to do better. If it was a question of trust, why, he was prepared to involve himself in any number of ridiculous things--to practice trust until there was no end to it.
And there was Anakin, within reach. Hair in his eyes, biting his lip--not hard enough to hide the grin, what a pity. Obi-Wan tugged him down.
[FILL] the tables table, 2/2
"I'll count," Obi-Wan offered.
Anakin coughed, and slapped him. There was a pause. "Oh. One," said Obi-Wan, trying to focus. He had flown out of his head, a little, when Anakin moaned, and he still felt disconnected, dartingly conscious of the sheet under his wrists, his heavy head, the bunched stuff of his leggings. Anakin hit him again and again, this time setting a regular pace. Obi-Wan felt the jolt more and more in his pelvis, a bone-deep ache, even as his asscheeks started to go numb. He clenched without thinking of it, and winced when Anakin's hand landed differently, sending pins and needles everywhere; but he couldn't seem to help himself, he was thinking about what it would feel like to be rocked, not by this flat cudgeling, but by Anakin, inside him, an uncomfortable but continuous stretch...
He had made it up to twenty on autopilot. It wasn't, after all, as if he wasn't enjoying this. From the first it had felt at once like too little and too much, the blows light and yet spreading, his thighs quaking: but it got better as he sank into it, the single plane of impact. He had a passing, totally foreign thought about what this would have felt like with a paddle, or a lash--but never mind. Never mind, he was glad to think of Anakin's tiring, real hand, firm and outsize. Those long fingers.
The slaps had stopped. A finger found its way to his entrance. Just the tip prodded, rubbed, and he came as though ordered to: his thoughts linking up with that one glimpse to haul him over the edge. It was a long orgasm. His eyes closed, opened, and he could still feel himself spasming, his cock already sore against Anakin's tabard. Anakin hadn't even tried to push him away, which Obi-Wan couldn't decide whether he was grateful for or not. It seemed an unnecessary consideration, really. His head was ringing enough without him having budged.
Anakin did, however, roll him over onto his back after a few moments, probably getting spunk all over his flipped-up tunic--certainly getting some on his abused bottom. Anakin seemed concerned about something. Obi-Wan squinted up at him blearily, and realized his apprentice was trying to apologize, red mouth moving at half-speed.
Only Anakin.
He was filled with the old fondness, rather chaste. He sat up in Anakin's lap, ignoring the pain that spiked through his tailbone, and kissed the boy. Anakin made a sound of surprised betrayal, a little powerless rasp, and jammed a hand under his own waistband, displacing the tabard; Obi-Wan let their mouths slip apart, put his face in Anakin's neck, and let Anakin rub off against his hip. In his current frame of mind it felt more like a massage than anything, that sort of mechanized jostle. Even Anakin's climax was a distant, echoey bell-tone through their bond... no, through the Force. They weren't master and padawan any more.
Not really appropriate, he reflected. But neither was it the worst thing they'd done to each other over the course of Anakin's training; when he thought of the arguments they'd had, the missions endangered... It was hard to summon up the wherewithal for a lecture. Exhaustion had left Anakin slumped against the wall, where they lay in a rather indelicate pile. Obi-Wan could feel come soaking cold through the wool of his tunic, and Anakin's tights were probably unsalvageable. No lecture. He kissed Anakin's throat, instead, lightly but severely. Then, because Anakin was still there, chest heaving, he kissed the long neck all over, from the corner of Anakin's jaw to just under his collar. Anakin trembled once or twice, but displayed, on the whole, remarkable tolerance.
"Well," he said, after a while. "Will you rest, or do I have to get the shock collar?"
"What did the med-droid tell you?" Obi-Wan mumbled into his clavicle. "You seem lacking in stamina."
"I can't feel my wrist," Anakin admitted.
"I'll have to assign a strengthening kata."
"Not my master, Master."
"Oh. Yes." Anakin had begun stroking his back in abstract patterns. "Perhaps a compromise..."
"Nap?"
"Nap."
They disentangled themselves. Slowly. He hissed a bit when some insignificant movement sent a twinge up his back, and Anakin's durasteel hand tightened on his shoulderblade. Obi-Wan let a hint of the soreness bleed across his shields; it was hard to broadcast the soreness, though, without also spilling some of his satisfaction with it. He clamped down quickly. Much good it did him. Anakin's crooked smile followed him even as he lay down, a silly, private moon lodged in the corner of his eye. Anakin got up to get a washcloth--it was a testament to the justice of Anakin's original complaint that Obi-Wan had been fully prepared to sleep in his mess. Though Anakin was always more fastidious than him, really, when fastidiousness was a choice.
When he came back he'd taken off everything but his undertunic. His long legs shone in the soft strip lighting of the cabin. He bent down to clean off Obi-Wan's belly, and Obi-Wan, appreciative, arched into the touch for a moment before insisting on taking the towel. Obi-Wan looked at Anakin for what felt like the first time in an hour: not too close, not blurred by want. Just the slightly overdetermined clarity of sleeplessness.
He knew they both worried too much. But he could do better, he decided--he would learn to do better. If it was a question of trust, why, he was prepared to involve himself in any number of ridiculous things--to practice trust until there was no end to it.
And there was Anakin, within reach. Hair in his eyes, biting his lip--not hard enough to hide the grin, what a pity. Obi-Wan tugged him down.