FicWad

Additional Author's Note: THIS CHAPTER SHOULD BE CONSIDERED NC-17. The boys are finally getting some alone time. Some might consider this chapter more of an interlude . . .






The massage oils are where Obi-Wan left them, the better part of a year ago, tucked away on a shelf in the back of in his closet because he had not known what else to do with them, sure he would never have a need for them himself but unwilling to refuse such a heartfelt offering of genuine thanks. There are a dozen transparisteel vials, safely stored in a deeply cushioned and surprisingly elegantly platinum-chased chest of deeply polished black ebon-wood. Each bottle is roughly the size of one of Obi-Wan's hands, when clasped in one of Anakin's, and they range in color from a smoky amber-gray transparency to a gem-bright blood-red hue, all of them polished and bright like cut-glass or crystal ornaments, their shapes lovely and intricate with carving, like pieces of artwork. The oils are both rare and expensive, he knows, but he is not sure what any of them are, precisely, anymore. If the Corellian ambassador ever told him, he has forgotten. So he closes the lid on the chest and allows Anakin to gather the whole thing up to his chest before leading the way back to his bedroom, hesitating only briefly before palming the door open for them and stepping inside.

The room is exactly as he left it - neat and clean and not an item out of place - but the bed somehow seems to loom, larger and more prominently placed than he seems to remember it being, the ever so slightly different but complimentary shadings of abstract blue-grey-green sky-mirroring-sea dapple of the bedclothes (sheets, coverlet, and bedskirt, the pillows a foam-tossed bright white, pure as clouds) a shockingly bright splash of color against the light yet warm rich beige of the walls, the scheme of natural, almost earthy colors echoed in the rugs and other furnishings. Obi-Wan hesitates just inside the doorway for a few long moments, unable to help himself, looking at the room and the bed as though he has never truly seen them before, his stomach a continuously roiling mass of anticipation and desire and not a little fear. Anakin strides with graceful ease across the room, setting the trunk down carefully, precisely in the center of the bed. He moves with such confidence, such unhesitating ease, that Obi-Wan finds himself simply watching him, mesmerized by that grace, that deliberateness of movement and purpose, as he moves away from the bed, removing his outer robe and folding it away into the chair by the desk that, for many years, used to serve as a catch-all for Anakin's things, whenever he would follow Obi-Wan into this room in the evenings, sticking close to him to avoid the looming shadow of bad dreams. He has toed his way out of his boots and socks and padded, barefoot and silent, back across the room back to Obi-Wan, before it can truly register, what that disrobing means.

Before he has time to panic, though, Anakin is kneeling before him, his fingers drumming against the deeply polished brown leather of his right boot, just over Obi-Wan's toes, the tapping an unspoken question that became a part of their evening ritual well over thirteen standard years ago, when Anakin was still so eager to be helpful in all things and Obi-Wan hadn't had the heart to refuse him the simple pleasure of such a small and seemingly harmless task. Obi-Wan raises his foot, obligingly, feeling Anakin's warm fingers slide up around the shaft of the boot and catch at the leather's upper edge, just below the joint of his knee - Obi-Wan having always favored a lower and more easily gotten into and out of style of footwear than Qui-Gon, with his thigh-high and many-buckled specially made boots - Obi-Wan balancing effortlessly as Anakin eases first the boot off and then works the material of his pants' leg up to reach the lightweight, silken-weave, palely buff-colored, calf-hugging sock, easing it down and off as well, the pads of his fingertips ghosting so gently over Obi-Wan's skin that he barely has time to react before the touch is gone again, the material of that pant leg falling loosely back down to his ankle. The smooth, practiced progression of movements as Anakin taps at his left boot and he automatically responds are all so familiar that Obi-Wan's heart quiets, unable to rouse itself to fear, even when he finds himself standing on bare feet and Anakin rises from the floor to stand before him. Only when Anakin's graceful long fingers reaches for the clasp of Obi-Wan's outer robe does the anxiety return, his heart knocking painfully against his chest as Anakin eases him so skillfully out of the loose outer garment that their bodies never quite manage to come into direct contact. But Anakin turns away again, then, following the ritual, bending to retrieve Obi-Wan's boots before striding unhurriedly back over to that chair, adding Obi-Wan's robe to the chair's lap and standing his brown boots to the other side of the chair, opposite where Anakin's own black boots stand.

Straightening up, then, Anakin pivots gracefully about, standing next to that chair by those brown boots (on the side nearest to the bed), facing him, his eyes steadily searching Obi-Wan out until their gazes lock - not challenging him, no, but not at all shy about holding his gaze either - as he unselfconsciously reaches down to unlatch his belt, the barely audible snick of the metallic clasp shockingly loud, in Obi-Wan's ears, startling him, the susurrus of leather sliding against fabric as Anakin uncoils it from around the slimness of his waist rasping in Obi-Wan's hearing. Free of the all but incongruous darkness of the black leather belt and boots and the deeply dark chocolate drape of his cloak-like outer robe, Anakin looks so much the image of a perfect Jedi Knight and Master (even though the neck of his innermost tunic barely creeps up around the edge of his throat at all, the neckline much lower than that on the uniforms of most Jedi Masters) that Obi-Wan's heart aches with pride and overflows with happiness at the sheer/ rightness/ of the sight of him like this. And yet . . . and yet, as Anakin's hands curve inwards, back towards his waist again, Obi-Wan finds that he simply cannot stand it. It is intolerable, suddenly, that Anakin should disrobe himself like this, as though they are only going to be lying down together to sleep, as they have done so many thousands of times before. Obi-Wan is moving before the thought can entirely finish forming, throwing caution to the wind and allowing his instincts to guide him, his hands reaching out to Anakin's to stay him as he reaches for the sash wound securely around his waist, keeping his tabard and tunics all comfortably in place. Obi-Wan's hands shake only a little when his fingers close over Anakin's wrists, gently pulling his hands away from that sash. The tilt of Anakin's head is as eloquent as a question, and, greatly daring, he merely lets the tips of his fingers come to rest to either side of Anakin's waist. "Let me. Please."

"If you're sure - "

It is not as hard as he has feared it might be, to hold that all too serious gaze. "Of this much, I am certain. I want to do this, Anakin. Please."

Anakin nods, and Obi-Wan lets his hands come to bear with more pressure, their heels just brushing Anakin's hips. This, he well knows how to do, having helped to dress and undress Anakin Skywalker so many times - when Anakin was but a boy and newly his Padawan, and had been unfamiliar with the surprisingly intricate dance involved in donning and doffing their simple Jedi garb; when he was a teenager, and too weary, or too hurt, for Obi-Wan's heart to allow him to stomach watching Anakin fumble clumsily after the elegant drape of fabric; and also when he was a man, and they had finally grown so close that it was second nature, for one or the other or both of them to offer helping hands, whether in times of haste or of leisure, when they were alone together and preparing to go meet the day or to retire for a night's rest - that his hands need no conscious direction. This, he needs no instruction for. Obi-Wan's hands are gentle, lingering just enough more than they ever have before in this task for Anakin to know that it is deliberate, as he unwinds that sash, pausing to let the weight of Anakin's heavy tabard pull the material out of line before gliding his palms up the center of Anakin's chest, arrowing out to his broad shoulders, to catch the edges of the garment and ease it down over Anakin's arms and off of him, after which both of those carefully removed garments are draped casually over Obi-Wan's own left shoulder, to keep them out of the floor until he is ready to add them to the pile on the chair.

His practiced, deliberate actions encourage the outmost, wrapped edge of the relatively loose outer tunic to slide away, its edges drifting back away from its secure wrap to reveal the lighter-weight, body-hugging inner tunic. Obi-Wan steps closer as he presses the palms of his hands flat against the center of Anakin's abdomen - marveling over the tension in the muscles clenching and jumping beneath his touch, even with a layer of fabric still keeping them from being skin to skin - pausing for several long heartbeats in that position, with the heels of his hands just barely touching the line of what he knows is the uppermost boundary of Anakin's pants, before repeating his previous motion, sliding the palms of his hands up the center of Anakin's chest, encouraging that outer tunic to peel open as he pushes his hands up to Anakin's shoulders and then catches the edges of the garment, pushing it down over his arms and off of him. Then, leaning past Anakin, Obi-Wan carefully adds both sash and tabard and outer tunic to the growing pile of clothes on the chair. After that, he pauses, patiently waiting. The next step in their little ritual belongs to Anakin, not to him, as they both very well know.

Obi-Wan's heart is hammering within his chest, not from fear so much as from a giddy sense of anticipation. When Anakin's hands alight on him - so careful not to press too hard or to stray anywhere much below the level of Obi-Wan's natural waist - a shiver wracks his body and sways him irresistibly closer to Anakin, making a gasp catch between Anakin's lips like a hiss as the heels of his hands slide off of Obi-Wan's belt and skim down across areas dangerously near the junctures of Obi-Wan's thighs and his groin. When his finger rise back up to Obi-Wan's belt, they are trembling so hard that he has to curl them about the edges of the leather, tugging it (and, surprisingly, also Obi-Wan's pelvis) forward to gain enough purchase to fumble the clasp open. The sound Anakin makes, when that grasp cants Obi-Wan's pelvis provocatively towards him, is almost a sob. Obi-Wan is so startled by both the sound and the feel of that tug, of the flaring sense of heat and strange loosening it inspires in all his joints, that his eyes fly wide and his lips frame a silent O of shock. Anakin becomes very still, then, eyes falling shut as he obviously tries to regain some of his lost control, his breath so deep that it dislodges the fold of his inner tunic until, even as snugly fitted and tightly wrapped as it is, its edges begin to crawl away from their places. Only the return of Anakin's hands to his hips - their tremor only a fine, intermittent thing, this time - his fingers deftly reaching to unwrap Obi-Wan's snugly bound sash, bring him back to himself enough to jar his gaze away from the slow movement of the fabric of that inner tunic. Anakin's actions are all a bit swifter - not to mention much more delicate, with much less pressure brought to bear against Obi-Wan, only the tips of his fingers, for example, skimming up along Obi-Wan's chest to strip back his garments - than Obi-Wan's, as he strips away first sash, then tabard, then outer tunic. By the time he has finished and is bending to place Obi-Wan's clothes on the chair, Anakin's own inner tunic has slid far enough apart to reveal a swath of sun-kissed bronze skin.

Anakin has always had surprisingly little body hair, and if Obi-Wan did not know that the Force had essentially remade their bodies for them, every time they surrendered and then returned from its fullest embrace, he would be tempted to wonder if those titanic Force energies have not somehow augmented that natural tendency towards smoothness, because the widening strip of bare flesh revealed by the movement of that inner tunic is hairless, but for the lightest dusting of hairs across his navel, the wispy golden curls hinting at what might lie below the fabric of Anakin's trousers. Obi-Wan's breath catches, almost painfully, in his throat, at the sight, though he has certainly seen Anakin's entirely bare chest enough times before that the toned and sculpted contours of those muscles are nothing new. It is - entirely extraordinary, that the drape of fabric and the brightness in Anakin's eyes should make this all so different, so strange, so . . . so intoxicating . . . Anakin's Anakin's hands are hovering near his body, hesitating over reaching out to him again, and Obi-Wan understands that sudden reluctance entirely. He is not sure he can trust his own control, now that he is faced with the prospect of peeling away that last thin layer clothing Anakin's upper body, and he, unlike Anakin, has no real ken of what might happen, should he lose control! "Perhaps - " he offers, trying and failing to keep the catch out of his voice as Anakin's gaze zeroes in on his mouth, his blazing eyes locking on Obi-Wan's moving lips and sending yet another flush of unexpected heat through his body, " - Anakin, perhaps you should remove your own tunic, while I take off mine?"

" . . . I think that may be wisest, yes . . . " Anakin's voice is only the barest whisper of sound, so husky that it shivers strangely along Obi-Wan's spine. "But perhaps . . . perhaps you should also turn away, when you remove the last of your clothes. You will want a towel, for your hips. It may be easier, if you turn away . . . "

Obi-Wan's thoughts white out entirely. It has not even occurred to him, that he will have to disrobe entirely, for the massage that Anakin intends to give him, to help him relax and grow more accustomed to the press and touch of their bodies, when skin to skin. But of course, he is right. And it will be easier, much easier - perhaps even easy enough that he will not break and bolt, like a startled voorpak, the instant his eyes are no longer on Anakin - if he turns away.

" . . . O . . . of course," he manages somehow to force himself to agree, breathing the words out past his heart, where it has leapt so far up within his throat it is a wonder he is able to make himself heard at all, already turning away, his fingers scrabbling nervelessly at his inner tunic in an attempt to get the garment off before he can lose his resolve and break and run . . .

***

Anakin can feel Obi-Wan shivering all the way across the bedroom, but he determinedly keeps his eyes lowered and gives him as much space as he possibly can, removing his inner tunic and dropping it carelessly on top of the pile of discarded clothing in the chair before walking over to the bed, bending to open the lid of the chest and then carefully sliding down onto the mattress, making a show of examining the various bottles of massage oil and giving Obi-Wan his privacy while he finishes stripping. The faint rustle of clothing is maddening, but he will have the rest of his life to admire Obi-Wan. He not risk frightening the man by looking at him now, when he is already so nervous. And so, to keep himself safely occupied, he begins opening the vials, to smell the massage oils, trying to locate one that Obi-Wan will not find too overpowering.

The first uncapped bottle yields a riot of perfumes - scents that might or might not be jasmine, lilies, moonflowers, cardamom, sandalwood, black currant, and frankincense. He nearly sneezes, his nose overpowered by the strange combination of perfumes, and quickly rejects the mix as too strong. Unfortunately, the mixture in the second bottle is even less suitable for Obi-Wan: an overpowering perfume of attar of roses, myrrh, amber, musk, lotus, hibiscus, cassia, and osmanthus assails him, and he almost spills the bottle in his haste to close it. And the third time, unfortunately, is not always a charm: oleander, magnolia, mandarin, peach, plum, lilac, orchid, and jasmine, altogether so sweet that it is almost sickening. The fourth vial is . . . not so bad, but still a bit strong, with notes of rosewood, amber, musk, sandalwood, patchouli, vetiver, neroli, and ylang ylang. The fifth bottle is a confusion of orris, patchouli, frankincense, myrrh, poppy, myrtle, hazelnut, amber, opium, and musk. He is, in spite of himself, beginning to worry when the stopper on the sixth bottle yields to him: the heavenly scent of an almost vanilla-drenched musk impacts his olfactory senses with undertones of cinnamon and spice and perhaps the barest hints of sandalwood and patchouli, amber, and cedar, and myrrh. The scent is so perfectly Obi-Wan that heat blossoms in his stomach, just from inhaling it. Carefully closing the lid on the trunk and cradling the bottle - fittingly, a kaleidoscopic prism dancing through all the colors of the rainbow but lingering most over the spectrum of blues - Anakin leans over and places the closed trunk on the floor, sliding it safely under the bed, where it will neither be in the way nor be in danger of being knocked over or damaged by being dropped or having something dropped upon it.

It is only when he has straightened that he realizes Obi-Wan's presence has drawn nearer - so near, in fact, that he must be standing only a few yards from where Anakin is sitting. Turning around slowly, so as to avoid possibly startling Obi-Wan, his face carefully stilled, eyes hooded and lowered, so that he cannot see him immediately and -

- and he finds himself gasping, unable to catch his breath, heart thundering in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, desire having hit him squarely, like a solid wall of fire. Obi-Wan - Obi-Wan is - is -

There are no words. Obi-Wan is a vision, an absolute vision, too gorgeous to seem quite real, his head ducked shyly down so that a curtain of silken fire falls down across the right side of his face like a veil, his skin palely pearlescent, ever so slightly kissed with just a tinge of color as he blushes, his entire body flushing under the weight and heat of Anakin's gaze, so incredibly lovely as he stands there - hesitating no more than two steps away from the foot of the bed, arms cross self-consciously near his waist and the top of the towel that is securely wound and knotted about his waist - that the sight of him breaks Anakin's heart, just shatters it (and him) to pieces.

Obi-Wan is a surprisingly small man, out of his Jedi garb. His aura, his sense of presence, is so great that it all but overwhelming when one is face to face with the Jedi Master. Anakin is well aware of the fact that Obi-Wan, when wearing his Jedi robes and his best Jedi Master mien, appears larger than life, towering in perception and in memory like a calm colossus of power somehow given human form. Even when he was a Padawan, Obi-Wan had this ability, to wrap himself in Jedi calm and power until he seemed to tower, able to overshadow even someone as physically enormous as Qui-Gon. In their years together, Anakin has seen the same stunned reaction of hundreds - perhaps even thousands, though it is hard to be sure, the war has been so hectic and kept them so very busy - of sentient beings, upon finally realizing how relatively short Obi-Wan actually is, when compared to someone like Anakin (who is still not entirely sure if his final growth spurt is finished or not) or Dooku, who is so tall that he can still make even Anakin look short. Obi-Wan is so slender, so compact, and is always so effortlessly graceful that others have been fooled into assuming that these things mean that the Jedi Master must also be physically weak, his all but willowy body seeming almost feminine in their eyes; yet, nothing could be further from the truth.

Muscles show under Obi-Wan's skin even when his body is at rest - lean muscle, true, not bulk, but more than enough to clearly define the well-turned lines of his powerful legs, the sculpted planes of his abdomen, the hardness of biceps that widen out into almost surprisingly broad shoulders (broader than Anakin's own shoulders for the longest time, until about a year or so ago, when the rest of his body had finally begun to catch up with and adjust itself to the growth spurt that had shot him up another half a head's worth of height, until he all but towered over Obi-Wan) and let out onto strongly muscled arms. Obi-Wan might be slender, might be graceful, might even have a heartbreakingly beautiful face, but there is absolutely nothing feminine or even androgynous about him. Anakin himself could be said to be far more feminine than Obi-Wan, with his almost delicate features and that blasted mouth of his, the bottom lip so full that he has often been thought, by many within the Temple and elsewhere, to be petulant when the apparent half-pout is only the natural shape of his mouth. Anakin has been called a "pretty boy" so many times that he has lost track of the number of times he's heard the words. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, is beautiful in the same way that a work of art is beautiful - not because he is merely pretty, but because his physical form echoes the shape of his soul, in a rhapsody of light and energy and grace and music made flesh and wrapped around a core as strong and unyieldingly pure as diamond.

Silently, unable to trust himself to speak, Anakin hugs that prismatic blue bottle to his breast (feeling as if his heart might explode within him, if he does not move) and raises his right hand, beckoning Obi-Wan forward, inviting him to come and stretch himself out on the bed.

Obi-Wan's gaze flickers up then, just for a moment, so that Anakin sees a heady mix of eager anticipation and heated desire, tempered with hesitation and an unreasoning fright that hits Anakin's with the force of a full body blow, and then he is gliding forward, eyes determinedly lowered, only the white-knuckled grip of his hands upon that towel betraying his nervousness as he lowers himself, with sinuous grace, down over the bed, crawling up along it on the side furthest from where Anakin is sitting until the vibrant wealth of his hair is spilling over the pillows like a shimmering sheet of flame, shockingly bright against the white of the pillow slips.

Unable to gather wits enough to frame even a prayer for help from the Force, Anakin takes a deep, calming breath, and turns around on the bed until he is facing Obi-Wan's offered back, bare but for that towel, his fingers fumbling for the bottle's stopper, knowing that he if wants Obi-Wan to ever be able to relax he will have to go very slow, and very carefully, from here on out . . .

***

Obi-Wan is sure that the oil will be cold and keeps himself steeled against the shock right up until the moment when Anakin carefully reaches across him with his left hand to gather up all of his hair and move it out of the way, up on the pillows above his right shoulder, and a slippery pool of heat dribbles across his skin and gathers itself across the small of his back. The heat - not nearly enough to cause discomfort but more than enough to be noticeable - is so shocking that he gasps, prompting a low chuckle from Anakin. He cannot help himself, then: he opens his tightly shut eyes and tries to turn his face towards where Anakin is perched, on the edge of the bed, but Anakin is already in motion, and before his gaze can find him, Anakin has swung around, his knees almost touching Obi-Wan's left hip, and his hands -

- Force, his hands! When did Anakin's hands become so clever?

Anakin's hands remake him. Stretched out on the bed beneath him like a sacrifice, Obi-Wan learns entire new realms of sensation - a world of pleasure so keen that it is almost pain, almost intolerable. Anakin's iron fingers feel out muscle-locked tensions and knead them loose before going even deeper, pushing past the fascia that hold the muscles in place, probing at the fiber-bunched memories jammed down so close to the bone, so close to the core of him, that not even being reborn time and again by the Force's joyous embrace has been able to rid Obi-Wan of these muscle-memories. He starts out by sliding his hands up through that pool of shocking heat welling across the small of his back, until he can glide effortlessly up to Obi-Wan's shoulders, kneading with unsurprisingly strong but oddly comforting fingers, the oil allowing his hands to dig in deep enough that his fingers effortlessly reach knots of stress-tuned tension that haven't been loosened in months - perhaps not even years. Afterwards, Anakin works his way down first the left arm, followed by the right, attending to each muscle in turn and even rubbing caressingly along Obi-Wan's hands and fingers, his touch probing firmly against his callouses and palms, to release tension, but oddly tender as he manipulates the tendons along the backs of each hand and massages each elegantly tapered finger. While Obi-Wan is groaning and purring from the attention being lavished over his hands, Anakin leans forward and swings himself around until he is straddling Obi-Wan, braced up upon knees spread wide enough that the heat of his body laps up against Obi-Wan's hips with a touch almost as palpable as the press of flesh. He is so utterly enraptured by the sensations wracking his body, though, that he cannot seem to gather up enough energy to become alarmed, though he is sure that only a few moments ago this change in Anakin's position relative to him might have caused him to panic. And then Anakin's hands are gliding back up his arms to his shoulders again, and even the thought of alarm falls away.

Afterwards, Anakin works his way, with almost torturously methodical slowness, down Obi-Wan's back, one muscle and one vertebra at a time. Baseline humans will generally have five layers of muscle in their backs: as a Jedi, Obi-Wan has more than his fair share of muscle, though the sleekly compact nature of his body disguises this extensive musculature and keeps him from appearing bulky with excessive muscles. As Anakin works his way carefully down Obi-Wan, his fingers seek out every single separate fiber of muscle that there is on Obi-Wan's back, digging in with his thumbs and using what should have seemed like a cruel amount of pressure but somehow instead always blossomed radiantly with tension-erasing heat. With the heels of his hands, Anakin strokes against the grain of the more obvious bands of muscle, ferreting out the deeper bands of underlying musculature and attending to it with a combination of unremitting remorseless friction and vibration that actually cause the individual muscles to lift and shake themselves, resolving into new, limber shapes of elasticity that make Obi-Wan moan helplessly, body trembling under Anakin's touch, suffused with so much feeling that he can no longer hold himself still, his flesh flexing and stretching under Anakin's hands until he is purring and twisting sinuously underneath him. Soon after that, when Anakin finally reaches the top of the towel, he simply pulls it away, and Obi-Wan is so far gone in an emotion that is not quite pain and is not quite simply enjoyment either that it doesn't even occur to him to object. There is something so intensely beautiful about feeling the muscles sliding free, under his skin, that not even the brief flares of pain-whitened intensity can keep him enjoying Anakin's ministrations.

Anakin massages his way down the ripe roundness of Obi-Wan's buttocks, his touch somehow both firm and delicate, the focus he brings to the act somehow managing to make the act sensual without seeming sexual, his avoidance of a certain shadowy area between them - just below the dip where the spine bows and the back swells to become two tight, smooth curves, defined by that shadowed path that lies between them - so careful that it does not even register on Obi-Wan that Anakin is avoiding touching a part of him. And after that Anakin works his way down each leg, heat chasing after heat as more slipperiness drizzles over his skin and Anakin's hands glide after, working delicately down around Obi-Wan's thighs and sliding down towards his knees, Anakin moving so gracefully that the bed jars not at all as he slides his way down Obi-Wan's body, still braced upon his wide-spread knees. Thighs, knees, calves, ankles, heels, insteps, and each and every toe get their share of perfect, total attention. When Anakin grasps his left foot, slicing down the sole with the hard edge of his thumbs, pushing deep into the sensitive meat of the arch and then flaying the foot wide, separating each toe and its ligaments, years of abuse from too many missions spent mainly on his feet, moving in worn or inadequate or no footwear at all, are rubbed away. A noise half of pain, half of pleasure, strangles in Obi-Wan's throat as his entire body arches in response to that pressure, suffused with so much feeling that his entire being vibrates between pleasure and pain, the intensity of the pain-pleasure so great that it almost lifts him out of himself, at least until Anakin's hands move on him again, his ministrations continuing until his fingers begin to climb back up Obi-Wan's legs towards his back once again, his body becoming ever more sleekly limber under Anakin's touch.

By the time his attention has returned to Obi-Wan's shoulders and back - revisiting every spot that had been tense, that had held knots of tension and what had felt like the exposed and sizzling endings of sensitive bundles of nerve endings, earlier, and carefully making sure no knots have had a chance to reform, no muscles have begun to stiffen up again - Obi-Wan is suffused with so much languorous contentment, his body so utterly and completely relaxed, that it does not even occur to him to resist, when Anakin's right hand pulls gently at his hip, pressing him gently back over towards the true center of the bed. Instead, Obi-Wan simply rolls obediently over, all but drunk on the attention, sighing and stretching entirely unselfconsciously as turns over, allowing Anakin's hands access to his chest and stomach and entirely unaware that his eventual target might lie somewhat lower on Obi-Wan's body . . .

***

Anakin cannot keep from smiling at the sight of Obi-Wan, naked and yet entirely unselfconscious, as he stretches with innocent joy under Anakin's caressing touch. His former Master is all but purring underneath his hands, and if this isn't the time to try something beyond a simply massage, then there will never be a time to do so.

Wonder of wonders, Obi-Wan seems to anticipate him. He is already lifting his head from the pillows when Anakin makes his decision and begins to lower himself down over Obi-Wan's body. And then they are kissing. And kissing. And kissing. They kiss for what feels like hours - languorous, long, unhurried kisses, a sweet caress of their mouths tenderly clinging to one other, though sometimes Anakin moves away from Obi-Wan's mouth to press loving caresses all over his gently flushed face, not just kissing his temples and cheeks but lavishing attention on his eyebrows, his chin, his nose, his eyelids, and everything else in between, too - and not once does Obi-Wan try to pull away. Instead, Obi-Wan accepts each and every kiss, each and every touch, seeming to bask in the attention, making Anakin revel in the feeling of warmth and love suffusing him. And this, this wondrous feeling, this is the exact reason why he is sure that it was the right decision to make, to refuse to rush . . .

***

When Anakin finally slips his tongue past Obi-Wan's lips to explore the wet sweetness of his mouth once again, Obi-Wan cannot keep from gasping and sighing contentedly. In response, Anakin's right hand skims lightly across the skin of Obi-Wan's stomach - the skin soft and smooth as satin over the steely bands of muscles stretched beneath - as he deepens the kiss. His hand roams waywardly across that expanse of satiny skin until it slides down around to stroke a silky flank, even as he begins to suck gently on Obi-Wan's tongue. The noise that catches in Obi-Wan's throat then is more like a mewl of pain than a gasp of pleasure, but Anakin takes it as the encouragement that it is, and sensually rubs his tongue over the sensitive ridges on the roof of Obi-Wan's mouth. Obi-Wan, having no real idea what to do with his hands, what to do to keep encouraging Anakin, raises his right hand up just enough to trail along Anakin's skin with the backs of his fingers, tracing the hard belly hanging above him (Anakin having been careful to keep himself propped above Obi-Wan, most of his weight braced against the mattress so as to avoid overwhelming Obi-Wan with the press of his body) and marveling at the soft, utterly unblemished skin where only a day before he knows there had been a sprinkling of small scars from an explosion about eight standard months ago that Anakin had not quite managed to shelter himself entirely from. He closes his eyes as Anakin moves to rest their foreheads heavily together, letting out a shuddering breath that wavers hotly against Obi-Wan's neck as Obi-Wan, daring greatly, runs both his hands up across Anakin's bare chest and then turns them to trace down his sides. Anakin begins to move slowly, then, lowering himself until he is barely keeping their skin apart, his torso moving up and down Obi-Wan's, cords of muscle standing out on his forearms from the strain of keeping them from simply crashing together.

The motion is teasing, the faintest whisper of touch shivering up and down his torso with every move Anakin makes, sensitizing already highly sensitive nerve endings with its ghosting slide of pressure so that when he finally slides one leg over and settles himself between Obi-Wan's legs, Obi-Wan almost sobs in relief, at the gloriously solid press of actual flesh up against him. The rough fabric of Anakin's loose pants is utterly maddening, though, so much so that when Anakin captures Obi-Wan's mouth for another kiss, tongue stroking tongue with urgency, the press of his mouth all but bruising, breath coming in quick, wrenching gasps to prologue the kiss, the mouth to mouth contact, Obi-Wan allows his right hand to slide up between their bodies again, until his fingers can curl questioningly around the waistband of Anakin's trousers. As the back of his hand strokes inadvertently up against Anakin, Anakin lets out a noise that is half a sob and half a whine and lunges forward, leaning down to trail kisses down Obi-Wan's neck and across his chest until his mouth reaches and latches upon the peaked hardness of a nipple. Anakin's tongue reaches out to lick across his first, before his lips can close over it, after which his entire mouth locks against the skin, sucking with enough force to scrap the edges of his teeth across the sensitive skin around the aureole. The combination of lips, teeth, and tongue, all working in unison upon that one spot, makes Obi-Wan's back snaps rigidly tight, curving up from the mattress and raising Anakin up with him until Anakin has to brace himself up on his right hand again, to gain enough distance between their bodies for his left hand to slide between them, gliding past Obi-Wan's hand to the fastenings at his waist, tearing the ties there open awkwardly but swiftly. Then the maddening material is vanishing as Anakin body purposefully moves above him in an oddly graceful shimmy of dancing motion.

A moment later his mouth is back, licking a burning trail across Obi-Wan's other nipple (his left one) before moving away, leaving a trail of wet kisses down the rippling muscles of his chest and towards his stomach, in the end laying burning kisses among the almost impossibly silky-fine hair feathering Obi-Wan's lower belly with is down. Obi-Wan feels as though he has just taken a step off a high cliff before realizing he has carelessly forgotten how to fly. His breath hitches painfully in his throat as unexpected heat and desire floods his body and then shudders, hips making one abortive churning instinctive motion, a noise like a sob not quite making it out from behind his teeth, his fingers scrabbling restlessly against the coverlet, unable to find any purchase against its slickness. And then Obi-Wan is crying out, wordlessly and loudly, his left hand twisting deep into the bedcover and his right hand rising to latch with convulsive tightness upon Anakin's golden curls, as Anakin deliberately exhales a gust of hot, moist breath through carefully pursed lips, blowing the air so that it courses down over him . . .

"Am I hurting you? Master - Obi-Wan - /am I hurting you?" Despite the breathless catch to Anakin's voice, his question all but reverberates with intensity. And his face, when Obi-Wan manages to open his eyes again and refocus enough to raise up a little and look down his chest at him, is flushed. Aroused. /Beautiful.

"No! Yes! Oh, Anakin . . . " Obi-Wan groans helplessly, entirely unable to find the words that can explain what he is feeling.

Anakin has worked his body all the way down between Obi-Wan's legs, his elbows resting on either side of Obi-Wan's hips. Dark blue eyes, so dilated that they appear to be nothing but pupil, shimmer up at him with intense emotion as Anakin whispers, "If you're ready, then, I can show you. I can teach you this. If you want me to. If you are ready to let me - to let me love you." Anakin lays his left cheek against the hard jut of the bone of Obi-Wan's right hip, then, his arms clutching to hold him tight, as though afraid he might try to get away. Keeping his gaze locked on Obi-Wan's eyes, he moves, just a little, stroking his clutching hands along Obi-Wan's flanks with deliberate intent.

Obi-Wan isn't sure that he understands, not at all, but he can understand enough to know that Anakin is waiting for him to reach a decision - that Anakin is actually breathlessly hoping to be given permission for something yet still expecting, in the sick pit of fear in his stomach, to be denied that wish. Grasping that, Obi-Wan stretches to move his trembling right hand and lay his palm against the bronzed expanse of Anakin's back. Anakin trembles at the touch, shivering with tension, and Obi-Wan's hand jitters until his nails catch, ever so slightly, dragging against the skin as he pulls his hand up to Anakin's bowed shoulders, through the tangled mass of his golden curls, and around to his exposed cheekbone, his palm pressing flat against it as he whispers a helpless, "Please." Anakin gives a small nod without lifting his cheek, placing a chaste kiss where Obi-Wan's hip and groin meet, and then he is sliding downward again, Obi-Wan shuddering and jumping slightly upwards as Anakin's curls tumble down over a hardness there, along his downward path. And then, a bare instant later, Obi-Wan is crying out again, wordlessly, even more loudly than before, his hand tightening convulsively, once again, in Anakin's hair as Anakin deliberately moves his head, angling to brush his cheek down along that hardness . . .

***

Anakin settles back with his cheek against Obi-Wan's right thigh, rubbing back and forth a little bit, like a cat will to scent mark someone. Just that, nothing more, but it makes Obi-Wan writhe helplessly, his legs tensing around Anakin, so that they flex on either side of his body. The feel of even that much makes him close his eyes - sad though he is to lose the sight of Obi-Wan, thus, stretched out above him, gloriously nude, the line of his body so absolutely beautiful that it makes Anakin's heart want to seize within his chest. His face, with those irresistible dimples and that knee-weakening cleft chin, that tantalizingly reddened kiss-swollen mouth and those amazing not quite entirely blue eyes; the clean, long line of his neck, spilling down into the wide, hard flesh of his shoulders, with those adorable dimples, off to either side of his collar, so like another set of irresistible dimples; the chest that shows so much more definition of muscle than can ever be clearly seen, under all the clothes he normally wore, that it seems an actual sin, to ever cover its hardened expanse; the curve of his ribs under sculpted muscle naturally leading the gaze down to the flat plains of his stomach and the slight dimple of flesh that is his belly button; the rich swell of his hips; and, finally, the ripeness of him, thick and heavy with need and riding out from his body so that it is almost impossible to judge the size or the length of him, just by looking alone, so that the touch of a gauging hand is all but begged for - and turn to rest himself between Obi-Wan's legs, so that his face is cradled, oh, so gently, against the satiny soft warmth of his groin. He nestles his mouth against that thin satiny skin, the barest down of surprisingly silky soft short hairs tickling along his face, his lips, as he licks at that soft, infinitely movable skin, sucking on the skin and drawing some of it and the flesh beneath carefully up into his mouth, just enough to work at it with tongue and teeth, rolling it in his mouth just enough to taste before drawing back, releasing Obi-Wan with one last lingering kiss.

Obi-Wan seems carved of ivory and mother-of-pearl, and where the blood runs close to the surface, as it does here, he is flushing helplessly, his skin blushing pink like the shine inside a seashell, delicate and shining and almost eerily beautiful. Unable to resist that delicate blood-shine, Anakin climbs up to his knees, his hands sliding up around and then across Obi-Wan's thighs, guiding them until his legs are spread wider, so that Anakin can more easily reach more of him. And then Anakin licks up along the underside of him, licking Obi-Wan's hardness like it is an enormous piece of candy and he wants a taste but doesn't want to make it melt either. Obi-Wan's skin is fever-hot here, and Anakin licks back and forth, up and down, loving the feel of the delicate skin moving under his tongue, carefully using all of his control to gently help guide that outer layer of almost surprisingly elastic skin back until he can trace just the tip of his tongue down along the snaking blue path of one oddly prominent vein, until Obi-Wan almost screams, his hands convulsing on the bedspread so hard that Anakin can easily hear the purl and pop of stitches giving way. Backing off for a moment, Anakin turns his head away to place a kiss on Obi-Wan's inner thigh, murmuring, "Steady, love. It's alright. It gets better. Let me do this for you. Please. And for me."

Then Anakin reaches out, wrapping his right hand around the base of that hardness, and, opening his mouth wide, leans back over, sliding his open mouth down over Obi-Wan's ripeness. And it's a struggle to take him all in - something Anakin hasn't really considered, since so much of what he knows about this act is limited to what he has read and seen on holovids, information he gained years ago - a struggle that hinges on an unexpected moment when his body protests, trying to tell him, No, stop, you're choking yourself! Nothing that big should be coming down this far in one piece. It's almost as if he's swallowing Obi-Wan down, but because he's still attached, of course, and so huge, it's more like Anakin is actually walking his throat up over him, along the rigidly straining length and breadth and width of him. Quickly, he discovers that if he doesn't struggle, if he doesn't fight to take more in, too swiftly, he can still breathe, even with such an unyielding mass down his throat. Anakin can breathe as long as he doesn't struggle, and he can fight his way down the long, thick length of Obi-Wan as long as he relaxes while he is fighting for it. It's a struggle to get all the way down, but at the same time, the trick is not to fight. There is something . . . almost strangely, almost laughingly, appropriately Jedi, about that seeming contradiction . . .

He moves his hand away when it gets in the way of his mouth, but it is only when Anakin feels the solid touch of the front of Obi-Wan's body pressing firmly up against his lips that he allows himself to begin to slide back up again. It's surprisingly easier going up than coming down, so much so that when Anakin finally comes up off of Obi-Wan, he is breathless but so intensely pleased that he is almost crackling with pleasure. Catching his breath (and not bothering to wait to see if Obi-Wan has managed to catch his breath again), Anakin smiles triumphantly and then promptly slides his mouth back over him, swallowing Obi-Wan down until the back of his throat finally begins to convulse around the thickness of him and Anakin can feel his throat actually starting to close around him. Obi-Wan is so deep inside him then, so terribly deep, that Anakin finally has to call on the Force just the barest bit to keep himself from gagging, since Obi-Wan is so large that he's apparently even longer than Anakin's throat is. But that's alright: Anakin's here, in this position, because of the Force, so the Force might as well make itself useful and be his ally in this, too.

With a mental shrug, Anakin slides back up that thick, throbbing hardness, and then forces himself back down again, down until he meets Obi-Wan's body with his lips and there's nowhere else to go, no more of him to take inside. After that, it isn't so much that Anakin actually tries to squeeze Obi-Wan's length in his mouth so much as it is that Anakin's throat once again begins to convulse of its own accord, tightening down around him, his body trying to do something about the fact that his throat is currently overflowing with something so huge and so unyielding that it is impossible to swallow entirely down. The vaguest hint of warning as to what might happen, otherwise, keeps him working his throat muscles once they start convulsing, so that Anakin can swallow the saliva trying to build up in his mouth instead of choking upon it. Only when he is absolutely sure that he can't take any more, that any more of this will cause his own body more pain than pleasure, does Anakin allow himself to stop swallowing. After that, he purposefully allows the wetness of his mouth to trail behind his lips as he slides back up Obi-Wan, trailing down his skin in thick, wet lines until he is just as wet from Anakin's mouth alone as he would have been if Anakin had actually applied the massage oil here as well, anointing Obi-Wan's hardness with his hands. He raises his mouth up off of Obi-Wan, his saliva trailing in shining lines from his mouth to Obi-Wan's body, and Anakin is careful to turn, to rise up, carefully, slowly, so that Obi-Wan will get the full effect of that particular visual.

"Force!" It is almost a curse, coming out of Obi-Wan's mouth in that tone. He is staring down his body at Anakin, his eyes far too wide, face almost frantic with feeling. "Anakin!" he breathes, stunned, as he sees him, takes in the sight of him, moving up off of that wetness, and then Obi-Wan is throwing his head back helplessly, spasming against the mattress, his hands searching for something to hold on to.

Grinning wickedly, proud of himself for being able to bring Obi-Wan so much pleasure, Anakin reaches out again, with his right hand, rolling his fingers up over Obi-Wan's groin, using the liquid there to smooth up over him, to glide up to the head of him and then, leaning in, give a lingering little twist with his thumb. Obi-Wan's spine bows so sharply that it bends him almost double, his back curving up off of the bed to an almost painful height. And with Anakin's hand wrapped around the base of him again, it should be easier to take him in, if he only goes down until he meets his own flesh . . .

Still smiling, Anakin bows his head back down and, suiting actions to thoughts, slides the remaining length of Obi-Wan into his mouth, taking him in easier and faster, this way. With all of him, it had been a fight: no matter how good it felt having Obi-Wan in his mouth and down his throat like that, Anakin had still been fighting his body to keep Obi-Wan down, to breathe and to swallow, so that saliva didn't build up and choke him and that hardness in his throat didn't gag him. Anakin had needed to be so careful that he hadn't truly had the time to enjoy the experience as much as he had wanted to. Like this, though, with less of him to work with . . . ? Well, he still has to be careful of him, careful not to hurt him - it's a bit like rolling some precious, priceless work of art around between his teeth, in an odd way - but since he knows he won't do anything so foolish as to bite down on that delicate skin (so like the thinnest layer of silk stretched over a moving, heated, oddly flexible bar of durasteel) and there's more room to manoeuver around him and to hold him, this way, things suddenly become much more fun. It isn't just the incredible feel of Obi-Wan - so ripe and hard in his mouth, but with skin so incredibly soft, softer than any other skin on the body, so that it's like rolling muscled silk on his tongue, pounding it inside his mouth and throat - though it's certainly a joy to be allowed to feel him like this. Anakin watches Obi-Wan's body while he's swallowing him, and that's an entire education and wealth of joy right there. Obi-Wan's entire body is moving now, writhing and arching, his frantic breathing making everything from his stomach to his shoulders move. In the midst of one sucking swallow, Obi-Wan's hands convulse amidst the pillows and covers until the muscles in his arms bulge and his body lifts up off of the bed, crying out a sound that is both a moan and a scream and ending on the rising wail of Anakin's name . . .

***

Obi-Wan is entirely undone by feeling, by emotion.

He has no idea what he's doing or where to put his hands, his legs, his anything, really. The first time Anakin slides down his body, he tilts his head to the side to watch for a moment, not sure what to expect. He has a moment to wish he could still see Anakin's face: all he can see are his curls, his face hidden as he bobs up and down, not quite rhythmically. After only the briefest bit of that, though - of Anakin's wet, hot mouth playfully lapping and greedily sucking at what is rapidly becoming the painful center of his universe - Obi-Wan finds himself rapidly losing the ability to think at all.

Anakin raises his head up and meets Obi-Wan's gaze once, reassuringly, after something he has done with that wickedly talented mouth makes so much heat flare along Obi-Wan's body that he screams out, shocked, sure that he will explode into flame if he does not move. But after that Anakin lowers himself back down over Obi-Wan's groin again, and after that the only sounds Anakin makes are quiet, low noises in the back of his throat, sounds that cause vibrations to race up Obi-Wan's body, sending more flares and explosions of heat rocketing and sizzling along his spine and bending him until he bows helplessly up off of the bed and loses sight even of Anakin's bobbing curls. Obi-Wan knows that people do this; he even understands the mechanics of the act, if only in a vague and entirely abstract manner. The reality of it, though, is so far beyond anything he's ever experienced before, that Obi-Wan honestly feels as if he might fly to pieces, if Anakin keeps at it much longer.

Helplessly, unable to hold still even a moment longer, Obi-Wan finally rubs his hands up over his face, moaning and arching his back, transfixed by pleasure but unable to avoid an almost reflexive flash of sharp humiliation over the wild sounds he's making - at least not until an even more guttural noise from Anakin startles him away from that particular train of thought. After that, he lets one hand fall helplessly back to his side, and Anakin's left hand somehow finds its way there. Anakin promptly laces their fingers securely together and gives Obi-Wan's hand a silent, reassuring squeeze. But Obi-Wan can feel an unfamiliar, demanding pressure building up in him that makes his skin feel too tight and his limbs feel useless, and it will take more than the grasp of a hand to reassure him. He feels so full of heat, of energy, that if he doesn't move - if he does not do something, anything, just so long as it gets him moving - he's afraid the skin might actually crawl off of his body or his blood burst into flames.

Finally, unable to think of what else to do - and obviously grasping at the pillows and the covers with his hands is not enough to satisfy this blind urge to move - Obi-Wan tries bending his legs, letting them draw up so close to his body that his heels almost touch his flanks, but all that accomplishes is to frame Anakin's once again busily bobbing curls in a V of Obi-Wan's own flesh, and that . . . that's no real improvement. Groaning, Obi-Wan lets his legs fall uselessly back down to the mattress again. Only a moment later, he is being swallowed down deep, tight ripples drawing him in and in until his head falls back with a gasp and his body arcs upward, off the bed. Electric jolts play along his spine as pressure rises within him, rising in his body like a swelling tidal wave will build itself up and up before crashing inexorably down to shore. The hand still holding Anakin's clamps down spasmodically as that strange, commanding pressure begins to concentrate in his stomach, building up deep in his belly towards a painfully unbearable pitch until finally Obi-Wan shakes his hand free, slides both of his hands wrist-deep into the moving mass of Anakin's golden hair, and begins to move, himself. Obi-Wan's motions are slow, at first, with no real sense of rhyme or reason to them, but he soon learns to move his hips up and down with greater force, as his body is demanding, until finally Anakin has to brace himself up over him on his forearms and relax both his lips and his throat.

"Force! Anakin, I can't - I can't help - I need - O Force . . . Anakin!" Obi-Wan throws his head back violently against the mattress, eyes tightly shut, mouth open and squared to the shape of an unvoiced scream in his agony and confusion. He keeps his hands buried deep in Anakin's curls, his grip unbreakably tight for several long moments, only relaxing as he feels the last of his powerful spasms die. When his eyes reflexively snap open again, dazed and wild at the peaking sensation flooding his body, Obi-Wan sees that Anakin is still moving slowly up and down, over his groin, Anakin tightening his mouth as he swallows. Obi-Wan's first impulse - inspiring by a lifetime of striving for absolute and unbreakable control - is to throw an arm up over his face, ashamed at his lack of restraint, but then Anakin is crawling back up his body, and before he knows it, they are kissing again, a strange flavor - not quite salty, not quite bitter, not quite like anything Obi-Wan has ever tasted before - flooding his mouth as Anakin gently teases his lips apart and plunges his tongue down into Obi-Wan's mouth.

It is only then, with the taste of himself filling his mouth, that Obi-Wan truly understands.

And then, as though that taste is the missing piece of a puzzle, or the last bit of nudging pressure needed to bridge the last gap that will complete a circuit, the feeling that has been flooding Obi-Wan's body - so entirely alien to his understanding and so all-consuming powerful that, for a moment there, his brain had incorrectly assumed that it was pain, the sensation is that refined, that intense, and that entirely unknown to him - abruptly transmutes into the ecstasy that it is. And it's like being plunged suddenly into the core of a star, the ecstasy is so strong, so overpowering. His entire being is flooded with it, is blazing with it, wracked with so much sensation that awareness of his body begins to fade rapidly away as Obi-Wan feels his consciousness, his spirit, buoying up away from his flesh on a wave of pure sensation and washed tumbling down into Anakin, merging with him even more fully, the bond between them strengthening and drawing them even closer together than they already are, so close that Obi-Wan simply exists for a long, timeless moment wrapped entirely in and around his beloved's soul, loving and being loved in return.

***