Star Wars work in progress You Became to Me

[polgarawolf]

Thirty-ninth part of a work in progress
Title: You Became to Me (as suggested by avari_maethor)
*Pairing: Mainly Anakin/Obi-Wan with some mention of Padmé
Rating: Definite NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own the lovely boys from Star Wars, more's the pity! What I do have is an extremely contrary muse that refuses to shut up and leave me alone . . .
Summary: This is the one thing Darth Sidious never saw coming: a minor incident of collateral damage with repercussions that can potentially utterly undo all of his schemes
*Author’s Note: 1) Again, please see most of the previous notes.
2) And again, the boys are finally getting some alone time. Some might consider this more of an interlude . . .


In the aftermath of Obi-Wan’s first orgasm, there’s just enough time for one terrified doubt to rear its ugly head before there is an explosion of raw joy, coupled to an energy so bright that it impacts his senses with the heat and flare of a star going nova, slamming into him, and the bond flashes open along every branching reaching filament and Anakin is rushing down into it and into Obi-Wan. Awareness of the world beyond the bond, beyond the explosion of ecstatic love at the core of Obi-Wan, falls away, then, as Anakin rejoices in Obi-Wan’s pleasure, basking in the heat of his love and reassuring him, with swift, tender certainty, that he feels the same way.

One. Forever. Yes! Love. Beloved. One.

He returns to himself to the feel of Obi-Wan in his arms, the sound of Obi-Wan gasping, as if he’s just run twenty kilometers straight with nothing just his own determination and perhaps the barest trickle of the Force to help carry him. Obi-Wan is burrowing his face into the crook between his neck and left shoulder, hiding his face against Anakin’s skin as he wriggles his way more firmly into the grip of his arms. "Wizard!" Anakin breathes, transported by the euphoric high of shared joy back to a time of innocence, before evil in the form of the Sith had entered his world and upset - and nearly succeeded in ruining - everything, all of his dreams, and even, almost, him, too. A sound of choked laughter, muffled by skin and strained thin by shock and lingering joy, answers him, making him grin gleefully, helplessly. "Oh, hush, you!" Anakin replies, bending his head to lavish a tender kiss on a stretch of skin - still faintly pink tinged but otherwise almost a shimmering white, shining almost eerily - high on the blade of Obi-Wan’s left shoulder, peeping out from amongst the rumbled curtain of his oil- and sweat-dampened fiery hair. "Unless you have a better word to offer? Besides ‘wow’!"

A slight tickling sensation, as Obi-Wan twitches his head in a small negative gesture, is all the response he’s offered. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough. Anakin knows, because of that slight gesture, that Obi-Wan is alright, that he’s assimilated what’s happened to him and that he’s tracking everything that’s happening know. And that knowledge, that blessed certainty, warms him all the way down to the core. Anakin sighs contentedly, happier than he has ever been before in his life, as he sweeps the heavy mass of Obi-Wan’s damp and clinging hair out of the way and slides his hands up and down the leanly muscled and limply relaxed length of Obi-Wan’s back. Tempted to purr himself, he basks shamelessly in the incredible feeling of so much all-accepting contact, the incredible warmth and hard solidity of that slim and densely compact lithe body, which is even then burrowing closer to him, so very close that Anakin’s hands tighten, briefly, on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, as the somehow both strangely light and yet solid weight of that beloved body shifts, gliding over him and reminding him that Obi-Wan isn’t the only one whose body has been in need of release. But that’s alright. They have time. He can wait. For Obi-Wan, he can wait until the world ends, if he must . . .

Releasing into the Force - letting go not of his love, or his desire for Obi-Wan, but rather the tension building in his body, the heat that will, otherwise, far too easily build to a selfishly demanding frenzy of want and hunger, if he allows it - is instinctive, easy. No longer haunted by the frozen tangle of mutual self-doubt and fear and confusion and pain that has, for years, been keeping them apart, it is surprisingly easy to just lie there, entwined with Obi-Wan, and simply be, for a while. It almost feels that he could lie here forever, doing nothing more touching, like this, lying close and reverently holding Obi-Wan cradled against him, sprawled with an almost boneless grace half over his body. In silence, save for the paired whispers of breathing and the not quite inaudible sounds of careful, tender, loving hands gliding slowly - curiously, on Obi-Wan’s part, quietly but thoroughly mapping and relearning every square millimeter of Anakin’s body that he can reach; and all but worshipfully, on Anakin’s part, as the slick slide of skin against skin reminds him of the love he shares, the joy he has been given, the immeasurably valuable great gift he has been given, in Obi-Wan - across skin, the moments pass and pass, tumbling away and passing within the hearts of two men, two Jedi, who are but one perpetual fountaining flower of conjoined light and love, in the blazing heart of the infinite and ever-changing now of time and of the Force.

They lie still, utterly relaxed, quietly soaking up the gentle delight of feeling, floating in a bright haze just to the conscious side of the edge of sleep. There is no motion but the steady rise and fall of chests, their breath deep and calm and unhurried; the slight, slow stirring as Obi-Wan drowsily rubs his cheek, catlike, against Anakin’s neck, his fingers kneading gently, almost idly, against the muscles along Anakin’s sides; and the constant, rhythmic sliding of Anakin’s hands across Obi-Wan’s oil-slick back. They both know, without question or concern, that eventually the drowsy warmth between them will rise to heat, that soft brightness fracturing as it becomes shot through with fierce flashes of raying light, but there is no need to hurry towards it. They have time enough to let it come when it will. World enough, and time . . . Anakin contentedly muses, lulled by the feel of the slowly breathing body wrapped safe and secure in his encircling arms. Under the steady motion of hands, Obi-Wan stretches lazily, his body quivering ever so slightly, before a low, richly satisfied noise - not quite loud or heavy enough to sound like a rumble, and just a little bit too deeply reverberant to be classified as only a hum - catches in his throat and sustains itself in a long-drawn sigh of nonverbal but entirely understandable joy and pleasure, as he slowly begins to purr.

The sound of Obi-Wan’s happiness is a tipping point, and Anakin lets himself spill down its slope without hesitation. The nameless bright sensations own him utterly, and all he wants to do is to flow with them (and Obi-Wan) forever. The universe narrows down to a fluid heat within and a solid warmth without, featured with endlessly subtle variations of flickering detail. It’s all just so unutterably marvelous, the difference between those slender hard fingers caressing their way along his sides and the smooth cheek rubbing softly up against first his chest, and then his neck, and then the hard angle of his own cheekbone. And infinitely delightful, the deliciously spicy and ever so faintly salty smell, the slick moisture of Obi-Wan’s skin not just the result of Anakin’s liberal libations of massage oil, but also the heritage of a life born on and lived, at least in the main, upon water-rich worlds . . . Anakin shifts slightly and kisses him: first on one closed eye; then on the other delicately thin and trembling shut eyelid; then down the nearer side (the left side) of his face; and at last full on his mouth. Anakin can feel the faint trembling of Obi-Wan’s soul, taste the wild joy blossoming within Obi-Wan’s heart and flooding out through his body, just as if it were his own. And when, for a moment, Obi-Wan wonders if he might not faint under the impact of that gentle pressure, Anakin can feel the indescribably incredible sensory echoes of both the kiss and the press of Anakin’s love running both into and down the whole length of Obi-Wan’s body before the waves of heat gather themselves together and begin reverberating in his groin. Obi-Wan’s slightly disjointed but perfectly coherent thought - Oh! Oh, Anakin, my bones are melting! - is even clearer to him than it would have been if Obi-Wan had actually spoken the words. When Obi-Wan slides his hands up to press them snugly tight around the curve of Anakin’s head and holds him fast, desperate lest the contact be broken, Anakin cannot help himself, and Obi-Wan finds his body trembling to the vibrations of Anakin’s silent laughter.

So eager! This frantic from a kiss? What will you do if I . . . ? Knowing hands slide smoothly against his bare skin until thumbs reach the peaked hardness of nipples and can press in, rubbing and twisting, ever so slightly, and flicking those sensitive and sensitized nubs.

Obi-Wan breaks the contact, gasping in shock as his body arches, first helplessly shoving down into, then curling hastily back away, and then snapping almost violently back towards that careful skimming touch. Anakin laughs again, aloud this time, in amazement and sheer delight. Innocent clumsiness he almost expected, but not this frantic, vulnerable sensitivity.

Testing to see how far Obi-Wan’s almost painfully sensitized state extends, Anakin slips his right hand down and pulls his fingers lightly, teasingly, across Obi-Wan’s ribs, fascinated at the feel of him sobbing and shuddering and curling uncontrollably towards that side. The same caress, when repeated with the other hand, brings forth the same response, in mirror image. I could steer you like a ship, like this, Anakin marvels, automatically sharing his joy at this realization with Obi-Wan. The merest touch can move you . . . Reckless with happiness, Anakin strokes Obi-Wan until his body is writhing with pleasure, beautiful in his abandonment to the sensations wracking him. Steady, love! Steady. You’re almost a virgin, still, I know, and you’re body’s not at all used to feeling such things, but I told you I would teach you, and I will. Your body’s already learning how to take in pleasure, but there’s so much more that I want to show you, want to teach you, want to experience with you! It’s a gift, love. It’s my gift to you. See? Tipping Obi-Wan back over, his back against the badly rumpled cover, Anakin rears up on his left elbow, smiling warmly into Obi-Wan’s dazed and darkened eyes, then bends over and kisses him again, very slowly and thoroughly, teasing his lips apart and sweeping his tongue up over the ridges along the roof of his mouth, tenderly stroking his palate.

Obi-Wan is groaning softly and gripping his shoulders before Anakin’s kiss is done, and it takes a little effort to pull away. In compensation for the loss, he tilts Obi-Wan’s head slightly to one side and then nuzzles his way up across Obi-Wan’s right cheek before darting the tip of his tongue out to circle around the inner rim of his ear. Obi-Wan gasps in surprise and pleasure, his hands once again digging into the bedclothes. Anakin smiles again, watching the reaction. The combination of almost shocking innocence and even more extraordinary sensitivity is just too wonderful for words. Obi-Wan’s elegantly beautiful body is so responsive that he’s like a finely tuned instrument, just waiting for a master’s touch to direct him, to call up the power inside him and let that energy, the love, that light, slip the bonds of restraint and make him dance and sing and soar with joy . . .

I’ll learn you, inside and out, and search out every part of you, every particle of love that makes up the heart of you, Anakin vows, discover all of the wonders, all the treasures, hidden within you, and I’ll help them wing free, Obi-Wan, and then we’ll finally be free to fly, to truly fly, together and forever . . . His hands move slowly down Obi-Wan’s lean and shivering body, noting carefully which touches made him groan and quiver, or stretch and purr, or arch helplessly this way or that. It’s awe-inspiring, to think about how much Obi-Wan trusts him, to let him learn such secrets - at least until it occurs to him that this is just as much of an experience of discovery for Obi-Wan, who (except for what he has already experienced, under Anakin’s ministrations) has certainly never been touched like this before, and has not only never had anyone show him what he can be like, to feel, but has never even dreamed about allowing himself to experience such sensations, before Anakin finally won open admittance into his heart. I’ll show you, Obi-Wan, Anakin fervently expands upon his promise. I’ll show you what pleasure can be . . .

At length, Anakin’s hands begin to brush lower, sliding down Obi-Wan’s torso with deliberate intent, until Obi-Wan is moaning softly at Anakin’s insistent touch and his hands are alternately opening and closing on the bedcover, his body slowly arching, shoulders digging into the bedding and disarraying it even more than it already is, while his chest bows upward and his eyes close desperately tight, the building pressure so great that a trickle of tears actually squeeze out from behind those screwed shut lids. Anakin continues to stroke and watch, entranced, while Obi-Wan writhes until finally his body simply raises itself almost entirely up off of the bed (shoulders and head and heels the only points of contact remaining unbroken), like an offering. After that, unable to lie still anymore, Obi-Wan reaches out for him blindly, arms winding with desperate strength around Anakin’s back and neck, pulling him back up and then down against him. At first Anakin tries to hold back, to be careful of him, to keep some of his weight off of him so that he can’t feel pinned down or overwhelmed by Anakin’s body, but Obi-Wan only pulls on him harder, trying to get to more of him, to pull him down closer, and so finally Anakin abandons caution and allows his body to roll forward over Obi-Wan, covering him entirely with his longer frame, pushing him deep into the mattress . . .

*********

It is impossible to be still. The steady teasing heat in his groin has wakened a sweet, insistent tickling that is licking all along his nerves like threads of flame, and all Obi-Wan wants to do is to let the heat, that fire, spiral outward, upwards, through his flesh and into Anakin, who is so incredibly close to him now, pressing him down, blanketing his body with his own, his warm body covering him entirely, skin everywhere above and around him just begging to be touched and stroked as they continue to kiss. Obi-Wan moves beneath that delicious weight, instinctively lifting one leg and wrapping it up around Anakin’s narrow hip, trying to press him down even more firmly, to pull them even more closely together. To keep himself from crying out again and perhaps disrupting the kiss, he reaches out along the bond, love and joy pouring out from him into Anakin in a long wordless cry that ends with the fervent declaration of, I love you, Anakin Skywalker.

My Obi-Wan. Familiar hands wander over his body in a not quite unfamiliar but still shiveringly new and exciting way. Master. I love you, too.

Remembering the previous pleasure that had come only after he began to move, Obi-Wan rocks his hips slightly, immediately feeling Anakin thrust down against him in return, making him shudder at the sensation of their bodies touching in such an intimate manner, at the explosion of pleasure such a simple act brings. Every millimeter of Obi-Wan’s skin feels electrified: he is almost mind-numbingly aware of every single oddly silken downy hair on Anakin’s legs, of the sliding of hard muscles underneath skin the color of golden sand, of the all but paralyzing sensation of his groin pressing up against the demanding downward plunge of Anakin’s body, snapped up into that downstroke by the pistoning of his hips. The spicy, musky massage oil still coating so much of his body, in combination with the thinnest sheen of sweat on both of their bodies, makes their flesh slippery as they first start to move together. When a hard and shockingly hot ridge of flesh slides up over his right hip and nudges insistently against his groin, Obi-Wan’s breath explodes out of him in a silent scream, his ecstasy at having such new, secret skin rubbing down over him swallowed greedily down by Anakin’s mouth, sealing his lips with almost bruising force.

Yes . . . Anakin moans, the vibrations spilling down into the open cavern of Obi-Wan’s mouth, and thrusts hard against him.

Obi-Wan can feel the urgency building between them, feeding off itself through their bond. So good . . . He gasps wordlessly as the pace begins to speed up, kisses getting hungrier as they rock together with increasing strength, bodies almost crashing together with the intensity of their need. His leg rides up over Anakin’s left hip to tighten across the small of Anakin’s back, increasing the pressure on his groin deliciously. Heat doubles and then redoubles again and again, their bond reverberating with love and passion, deepening with each breath.

Much better . . . than . . . good . . . love . . . Words dissolve into a torrent of feeling, pleasure spiraling upward towards a summit that Obi-Wan could not have even begun to imagine before this moment. Anakin gasps, almost soundlessly, as it breaks over both of them simultaneously, hot waves of pleasure simultaneously breaking him, breaking them, apart and reforming him, reforming them, with each plasma-bright heated pulse.

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan screams, neck snapping his head back furiously against the mattress, before he falls forward and sinks his teeth into his lover’s right shoulder, not hard enough to draw blood but easily deep enough to leave a mark, muffling the rest of his cries around that mouthful of golden flesh - an act that squares Anakin’s mouth and reflexively snaps his hands even tighter upon Obi-Wan, fingers closing with almost bruising strength, the fleeting thought that those gripping fingers might very well leave marks upon him in the shape of Anakin’s hands shockingly pleasurable and even fitting, for if Obi-Wan is marking Anakin’s shoulder, it is only right that Anakin’s fingers should brand him in turn. The moment seems to go on forever, a strengthening surge of pleasure vibrating and reverberating back and forth along the bond, skipping from peaks and crests of ecstacy and building towards a climax of completion much bigger than either one of them, alone. Pulse thundering through his ears, he holds Anakin to him as tight as he can possibly manage, hearing Anakin scream his name while whirling sparks light the edges of his vision and begin to spread, eventually whiting out all other awareness as the bond inexorably draws him in deeper to his lover’s mind, soul, and heart.

Awareness fades as they fall down into one another, as close as they can get without actually being inside each other or melting into pure energy.

*********

They come back to themselves still wrapped in each other’s arms and for a long while simply stay there, relishing their closeness in the aftermath of that shared euphoric high. Their bodies cling wetly together, thighs and groins and stomachs especially pasted stickily together, but neither one could care less. How could either one ever be discomforted or find a reason for distaste in what is, after all, only another physical sign of their shared love? So they simply lie in each other’s arms, cuddling together like nestlings, burrowing close and basking in the shared warmth of their embrace. Several long minutes or a lifetime later, when Obi-Wan finally stirs, it is only to raise his head up slightly and quietly muse (with perhaps just a hint of a question in his voice), "So this how people make love . . . I never could have imagined that anything so - so basic, and so separate from our lives within the Order, could feel so good . . . or so right. I understand why the Masters and the Council have encouraged celibacy among the Jedi for so long. Something so powerful, so emotionally resonant, would have terrified them, I think."

Anakin nods, absently stroking Obi-Wan’s rumpled, tangled, and dampened hair smooth again beneath his lovingly carding fingers. "And this is only the edge of the asteroid field. There are other ways we can be together, if you think you’re ready. We have time, though. We don’t need to rush."

"Rush? Are we rushing?" Obi-Wan blinks at him, honestly curious.

"Some might think so, yes. But then, being a Jedi has certain . . . perks," Anakin laughs, startled into it by Obi-Wan’s puzzled expression.

"Perks, Anakin?" Obi-Wan’s innocent bafflement makes Anakin want to sweep Obi-Wan up in his arms and declare, again, that he loves him, before kissing Obi-Wan senseless.

Instead, he restrains himself (at least for a little while), limiting himself to simply giving Obi-Wan an honest answer. "Like a very quick recovery time. More flexibility and dexterity. An ability to sense and seek out the best ways to give another pleasure that’s very much so rooted in the more telepathic aspects of our Force sensitivity," he explains, reeling off all of the differences he’s come to notice in recent years, "and a heightened ability to receive and to, ah, appreciate pleasure, in return. And lots and lots and lots of," unable to help himself, Anakin reaches down, stroking over Obi-Wan’s groin and causing Obi-Wan to yelp and his hips to buck as Anakin presses his palm flat and then curls his fingers around a growing hardness, "stamina."

"This - this isn’t - isn’t normal?"

"For nonJedi? No. For us?" Anakin’s grin becomes almost predatory as his flexes his fingers around Obi-Wan’s increasing length - growing in his hand like a swiftly ripening fruit, like something sweet and tender that has been waiting only for a sign to spread and grow thick and heavy with ripeness - stroking lovingly and purposefully over that hardening flesh. "Yes."

"Should I - are you - do you want - ?"

Obi-Wan’s stammer is adorable, his inability to complete a coherent sentence, as Anakin idly swirls his thumb around the head of his swiftly hardening length, an absolute joy. Anakin dearly wants to test his ability to render Obi-Wan speechless, but he also wants to makes sure that Obi-Wan will remain comfortable about what they are doing. There will plenty of time, later, to test Obi-Wan’s limits, to see how much pleasure it will take to render him entirely inchoate. So, careful to make sure that his withdrawal does not seem like rejection or anything other than what it is - an attempt to give Obi-Wan a little bit more space - Anakin draws back and quietly tells him, his manner almost solemn in his seriousness, "Anything I might want is secondary to what you want, Master, and what you think you’re ready for. I told you that I would not hurry, that I would not try to push for anything beyond what you are ready and willing to give me, and I mean to keep my promise. I love you, Obi-Wan. I want our first times together to be good for you."

"Anakin . . . I trust you. I love you, and I trust you. You know much more about all of this than I do. I think it will be safe to trust your judgment, in this."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Yes. Quite sure."

"Then will you turn over on your stomach for me," Anakin asks, not quite making the question a challenge, "please?"

Obi-Wan ducks his head slightly - a bashful motion, but one that draws Anakin’s gaze down the curve of his neck, across the sweep of his shoulder, and towards the graceful line of his back - but does not hesitate to rise from his reclining position where he has been lying, propped on his right elbow, until he kneeling on the bed. His gaze holds Anakin’s for a moment, his eyes full of a tranquil surety that all is well and that there’s nothing at all odd with Anakin’s request. His lips hold a faint smile and there is no anxiety in him whatsoever. No nervousness, no doubt, no fear at all. Not any longer. Obi-Wan looks upon Anakin, completely certain and secure in his faith, safe in the knowledge of their love, trusting in a way so absolute that it is awesome and almost terrible, in the way that unshakeable spiritual or religious faith can sometimes be. He then turns himself slightly before he begins to lower himself, face-first, down to the mattress, sliding gracefully across the tangled mass of rumpled and jumbled up bedding, smoothing a patch of it flat with his body as he lies down, so calmly trusting that it apparently hasn’t even occurred to him to ask why Anakin might want him to turn over.

Obi-Wan’s back has a slight sway to it, a curve that spills down into the two tightest, roundest, and most perfectly delectable buttocks that Anakin has ever seen or imagined looking upon. It is not for them that he has asked Obi-Wan to turn over, though, as magnificent as they are. At the farthest line of Obi-Wan’s back, just before it becomes not back but something else, are dimples. Well, perhaps dimple isn’t the right word for them, but Anakin knows of no other word to use to describe the incredible dips in Obi-Wan’s flesh there, and he has been fascinated with those slight depressions for a long, long, long while. (Anakin vividly remembers discovering them, quite by accident one night, maybe a month after he’d become Obi-Wan’s Padawan, when he’d crawled into Obi-Wan’s bed to escape from a particularly bad dream. Afterwards, he’d spent hours in the ’fresher, twisting around himself to try to see if he had or might be getting similar depressions in his backside.) Presented with the sight of Obi-wan’s back - bared for him, after a few moments, with an absent gesture as Obi-Wan reaches his hand up to sweep his hair around over his right shoulder, so that it can pool up on the pillows, out of the way - Anakin slides forward and curls around until he is half crouched upon his knees over the man and half simply lying close up by Obi-Wan’s side. Then, reaching out to Obi-Wan carefully but unhesitatingly, Anakin finally allows himself to do something that he has been yearning to do for years now, though he has only recently let himself acknowledge the existence of this particular longing. Anakin traces his right hand down the curve of Obi-Wan’s back and lets it naturally come to rest just there, just at the end of his back, right above the proud swell of his rump. Obi-Wan shivers then, just the slightest bit, under the touch of his hand, even though all Anakin has done is lay his hand flat against his skin. Let the weight of his hand rest between those two perfect dimples so low on his body.

Superstitious though it may sound, it truly is as though some deity had placed its thumbs just above the swell of Obi-Wan’s rump, while the clay had still been wet, just as an extra touch of sweetness. Like the idea that a dimple near the mouth is the kiss of an angel or avatar (a notion common to many far-flung cultures and various species, as Anakin is well aware, thanks to the dimples on Obi-Wan’s face) before a baby is born, these dimples on his body are also like some extra sign or form of grace. Leaning forward, his left hand alighting gently on Obi-Wan’s left shoulder to help steady himself, Anakin presses his lips, ever so gently, to each of those smooth hollows, so much like tiny shallow cups in Obi-Wan’s skin. Each mark is the exact size of his mouth, when pursed to kiss, as if they were actually made and meant solely for Anakin Skywalker to kiss. Sighing happily at that thought, Anakin bends forward to lay his head down in the curve of Obi-Wan’s back, resting his left cheek upon those infinitely beautiful marks of grace, so that his face is slightly tilted with the rising swell of Obi-Wan’s body, leading Anakin’s eyes naturally down the curve of his flank, down along his legs to his seemingly quite distant feet. For the moment, though, Anakin is entirely content to be where he is, doing what he is. And what he is doing is using Obi-Wan’s body as his pillow. And just as Anakin’s mouth fits to those eminently kissable dimples, so too does his head fit naturally in the curve of Obi-Wan’s body, just as if he were meant and has always been meant to rest himself here. And so he does. Lay there, that is. Quietly. And simply. Just resting himself on Obi-Wan. And after a few heartbeats, Obi-Wan’s breath goes out in a long sigh, and his body seems to settle into the bed, as if some tension that Anakin hadn’t even been able to see or sense in him has, by Anakin’s action, been allowed to drain out of his body, leaving him able to finally rest.

Several long moments later, Anakin trails his hand down across the curve of Obi-Wan’s right flank, causing his former Master to make a small (and, to Anakin, unutterably sweet) sound deep in the back of his throat. Encouraged, Anakin trails his fingers lower, tracing the long line of his thigh. A thigh that is lush and smooth-skinned and firm with muscle, much like so many other parts of Obi-Wan’s body, though this one is also downed - ever so lightly, the hairs so tiny and delicate, so silky, so close to his skin, that it would be entirely possible to overlook them, if not for their vibrant coppery color - with the faintest cobwebby swirls of hair, ghosting against his skin in tremulous lines of airy sensation. Sighing with quiet pleasure, Anakin gradually glides his hand back up Obi-Wan’s leg and allows his fingers to begin tracing spiraling, interconnecting circles up across his delectable derriere. Those small, slow movements draw small, quick sounds from Obi-Wan - almost but not quite noises of protest. Calmly, his voice as soft and lazy as his touch, Anakin asks, "Does this hurt you, Obi-Wan? You’re almost making pain noises." He is all but certain that those helpless little sounds aren’t an indication of pain, but it’s far better to be safe than sorry.

"No-o," Obi-Wan says after a moment’s hesitation, his voice showing a strain that his body isn’t even hinting at. "It’s just that - Anakin, I can feel how much you’ve wanted to touch me, how long you’ve wanted to touch me here, along the bond, as you’re touching me. And it feels . . . amazing . . . just to have your head resting on me, your hands on me. It just - it feels so good, Anakin . . . " he sighs, his voice throatier than normal but not quite a moan.

Reassured and encouraged, Anakin allows his hand to trace, very delicately, along the shadowy cleft between Obi-Wan’s buttocks - an area on his body that he had been very careful, earlier on, when he was still massaging the tension out of Obi-Wan, to avoid touching altogether - slowly enough that, if there had been any little hairs there, Anakin could have played with them. But there aren’t any. Obi-Wan is smooth, utterly smooth, so smooth that it makes Anakin wonder if other things are as smooth . . .

Resisting the urge to shudder, Anakin lets his fingers trace over that path again, tracing the line of demarcation between the cheeks, then allows them to drift lower, until he finds that first band of warm flesh that is neither buttock nor more, but a line of soft, silken, thin flesh. Gently, Anakin puts a finger to either side of that line of skin - this softest of pinches all that he will allow himself, knowing how very delicate that skin is and how sensitive that area is - and slides his fingers up and down, the movement translating to a back and forth motion upon Obi-Wan’s skin. Obi-Wan writhes helplessly under even that careful touch, his hands struggling against the sheets as if he isn’t sure what to do with them, unable for a moment to even make fists, and he’s so beautiful, struggling against the sheets, that Anakin can’t help himself. Touching with just his hands is no longer enough: he needs to use his mouth, to kiss and to taste, if only a little. Raising his head from Obi-Wan’s back, Anakin kisses his way up and across Obi-Wan’s cheeks until he can lay his head to one side of him again, like a pillow. But this time, when he caresses his way down Obi-Wan’s thigh, Anakin makes circles behind his knee, reaching over to repeat the caressing gesture upon his other leg as well before working his way down, sliding himself down Obi-Wan’s body until his fingertips can play with first one and then the other of Obi-Wan’s ankles.

Obi-Wan laughs and struggles against the bed again, just as if Anakin has touched him in a much more traditionally intimate place. Anakin smiles triumphantly, unable to help himself, because he has long been convinced that there are many, many more erotic areas on the body than usually show up on the pitifully small list most people make, and Obi-Wan’s response to this latest touch reinforces that belief. Still grinning, Anakin raises up from the pillow of Obi-Wan’s body, so that he can pay more attention to his ankles, sliding his body down on the bed enough to allow his left hand to drift comfortably down near his right and then simultaneously drawing his nails lightly across the apparently highly sensitive skin of both ankles. Obi-Wan really writhes for him, then, his entire upper body coming off of the bed, his breath shaking out in something between a sigh and a laugh. Inspired, Anakin sits up entirely, up on his knees, so that he can lean forward and run his fingers lingeringly across the bottoms of Obi-Wan’s feet, making Obi-Wan breathe out a startled half-strangled cry of, "Force!" When Anakin moves his hands to touch the front of his feet, very lightly, Obi-Wan kicks both feet, powerfully, as if even those butterfly gentle touches have almost been too much for him to bear. Not everyone’s feet are this sensitive for foreplay (as Anakin sadly has cause to know) but when someone’s feet are, apparently they always really are erogenous. Pausing for a moment, Anakin gazes up the line of Obi-Wan’s body, while he lays gasping against the rumpled sheets. Anakin has barely even gotten started: there are so many choices, though, that he hardly knows where to begin. After another moment’s hesitation, he finally bends down over Obi-Wan’s right ankle and licks up along the roundly prominent bone, tracing the skin with his tongue in thick, wet circles.

Obi-Wan makes protesting noises and starts to kick his feet again, but Anakin grabs his right foot with both of his hands and holds Obi-Wan determinedly against his mouth. He makes a sound then that is almost a scream, his body moving frantically, curling in on itself but also turning further towards Anakin, so that when he turns his head over his shoulder to glance back at Anakin, down along the length of his body, they are much closer than they were only a few moments before, close enough that Anakin is almost tempted to lunge up and catch him in a kiss, his eyes are so wide and wild, his expression both tender and amazed. Instead, Anakin bites down on that thin flesh - not at all hard, not nearly hard enough to actually hurt, really just a graze of teeth, more to make a point than anything else - but even that careful scrape of teeth rolls the eyes back in Obi-Wan’s head and folds his shoulders back onto the bed, almost as if he’s actually fainted. Unable to keep from shuddering this time, Anakin moves rapidly back up the bed, so that he can lay his head back down on Obi-Wan again, not on one cheek this time but across that part of his body with those incredibly dimples, so that the heated flesh is once again acting as his pillow. The feel of Obi-Wan’s cheeks spreading under the side of Anakin’s face makes him have to close his eyes for a few heartbeats, to try to relearn how to breathe. He wants to rise up and slide along Obi-Wan’s back, laying his longer frame down over Obi-Wan and rolling along his back, his buttocks, rubbing himself all over Obi-Wan. But he doesn’t quite trust himself to go so far as that, not yet. So instead, spilling his right hand down the line of Obi-Wan’s body again, Anakin searches until he finds that wonderful band of almost preternaturally soft silken skin again. But this time he uses it like a line to trace to something else. When he finally finds what he is searching for, the skin there is almost unutterably soft, softer than anything else Anakin has touched yet on his body.

They’re mostly trapped underneath the bulk of Obi-Wan’s body, thick and round and oh, so delicate. Only the barest part of them are in a position where Anakin can actually touch them, and the combination of body weight and excitement has caused them to swell, so that the skin isn’t as loose as it would have been otherwise. Anakin is almost disappointed: he’d wanted to play with all that fragile loose skin, but it’s already pressed tight around him. To pull on it now might be more pain than pleasure, a risk that Anakin simply cannot take. And so, sighing, Anakin allows himself to slip his body entirely over Obi-Wan’s leg and to push those legs further apart, nudging until Anakin can lay himself comfortably down between them. Lowering his head, he lays his mouth against the inside of Obi-Wan’s right thigh, licking just a little bit before kissing, smiling against the skin as Obi-Wan’s body spasms around him. Obi-Wan’s body instinctively knows more about what can bring pleasure than Obi-Wan himself consciously understands, and Anakin is sorely tempted to stay right where he is, mapping Obi-Wan’s skin with his mouth, not just kissing him but actually working at all of his lovely skin with lips and teeth and tongue, testing and probing to see which points on his body will bring the most pleasure, how far he can go before Obi-Wan actually screams his pleasure out loud. The urge to lick his way up across all of that beautiful satiny skin, to taste Obi-Wan everywhere he can, even in the most intimate of places, is so strong that it’s almost an ache within Anakin’s body. Obi-Wan’s willingness to allow so much touch is more powerfully arousing than anything Anakin has ever experienced or even dreamed of experiencing before in his life.

Yet, as relaxed as Obi-Wan is now, though, as open and receptive as his body seems to be to anything Anakin might want to do, Anakin knows that Obi-Wan himself is still far too innocent to truly realize the significance of the position his body is in, to understand all of the many things that Anakin could do to him, and for him, from where he is, lying in between Obi-Wan’s spread legs. And he’s not at all sure that Obi-Wan is really ready for what he’s thinking about, no matter how receptive and open his body may seem to it. Better to wait, and try a few other things first, to make sure Obi-Wan truly understands the significance of such a position, before he can get carried away and do something he might have cause to regret doing, later. And so, with a regretful sigh, Anakin raises up, sliding his hands in one last caress up across both of Obi-Wan’s buttocks, cupping them almost reverently in his hands, and then admits, "As tempting as the view is, from back here, I think you might want to turn over again, now . . . "

*********

Anakin has slid back up beside him on the bed, the absence of the heat of his body between his legs almost a physical pain, and by the time Obi-Wan has recovered enough from that loss to begin to turn, his body instinctively curling around to try to scoot closer to the incredible heat of Anakin’s body, Anakin has somehow managed to wriggle his way closer still, so that by the time Obi-Wan is half over, Anakin is nearly half underneath him. Obi-Wan pauses for a moment, startled, but then Anakin’s arms are winding around his back and tugging on him, and he is collapsing against Anakin. The startled yelp that rises in his throat never makes it further than that, though, because Anakin is immediately raising up from underneath him, his head lifting so that his mouth seals Obi-Wan’s shut before any noise can make its way out of him. And then they are kissing again, a long, full, deep kiss, one that makes Anakin vibrate beneath him, a deep moaning sound caught low in his throat, trapped behind the barrier of their sealed lips. Their mouths, their arms, their bodies, lock together in a warm, faintly musky, vaguely spicy, almost vanilla-scented nest of Obi-Wan’s own hair - the length of which he is still not quite used to - and it is strangely like being rolled in warm satin. Anakin kisses him as if he would like to climb inside of Obi-Wan through his mouth, and Obi-Wan opens up for him instinctively, letting Anakin explore him, taste him, touch him.

It isn’t the feel of Anakin’s hands, cupping with an almost aggressive greediness at the smooth curves of his buttocks, that finally gives Obi-Wan pause. What makes him pull back away from the gloss of Anakin’s mouth (his lips so suffused with color that they almost appear painted with some deep wine-red hue) is the sudden realization that his own right hand has somehow gained a mind of its own and drifted all the way down from Anakin’s shoulder across the sharp ledge of his collarbone, into the little hollow where the bone ends met the base of the throat, out across the broad high plain of Anakin’s golden left pectoral with its peaked, dusky-hued blushing rosette (the skin there hardening and tightening readily under the barest touch of his fingers), down along the broad arches of his ribs, across the warm ridges of sharply defined belly muscles, and onward to the marvelous sensitivity below, where the skin is so very thin, down along the inward curving edge of the hidden surprise of a sharp hipbone, the corded strength of long thigh muscles, the contrasting tender smoothness of the inner thighs . . .

Anakin lies very still at first, as if paralyzed by the explorative touch, but his breathing shifts into a long, harsh gasp when Obi-Wan’s hand suddenly stills, pausing barely millimeters from the straining flesh that is obviously so eager to receive his touch. "Obi-Wan, please . . . " Anakin finally groans, unable to help himself, his hips snapping up until the thick, solid length of him is pressed in between them, pinned straining against Obi-Wan’s stomach by the press of their bodies. Anakin’s body is warm, unbelievably warm, almost hot, and the push of him against Obi-Wan’s body is just as solid as if he were fighting not to push himself through the front of Obi-Wan. To make a new opening, something, anything, just to find a way to somehow be within the warm depths of his body, if Obi-Wan will not hold him in his hand. The sudden movement makes Obi-Wan’s flesh kindle with an answering heat as his body writhes, grinding down uncontrollably against the upward thrust of Anakin’s hips, and Anakin presses his face urgently up against Obi-Wan’s, whispering, "Please, please, please," over and over, and in between each please he darts his head up until his lips brush Obi-Wan’s mouth in a light touch of lips, kisses almost strangely airy in nature. Please, kiss, and please, kiss. And it’s more than Obi-Wan can stand.

Helplessly, not quite sure what he’s doing but unable to hold himself still any longer, he slides both hands around until he is mirroring Anakin’s earlier grip upon him, hands sliding along his body to follow the flow of his shoulders down his back and to the smooth silken curve of his flanks. By the time the back of Anakin’s body is filling Obi-Wan’s hands, the front of him is so flushed with scalding heat that he feels like flesh wrapped around a core of fire, almost hot enough to burst into flames. And then Anakin’s mouth is fastening firmly upon Obi-Wan’s, tongue, lips, and even teeth working over and against his lips, so that it’s almost more like Anakin is eating away at his mouth than kissing him, but it still brings forth a whimper from Obi-Wan’s throat, a small helpless sound of utter pleasure. Anakin shifts beneath him then, still pressing upwards but also spreading his legs apart, thighs gaping wantonly wider and still wider, until Obi-Wan’s entire body slips down in between those spread legs, allowing Anakin to move yet again, his legs rising up around Obi-Wan’s hips to grasp at him and pull him down against him, even more tightly. As Anakin moves against him, twining both of his legs up around Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan’s hands slip slightly in their grasp, and entirely without meaning to Obi-Wan discovers the next step that Anakin has in mind, as his index finger inadvertently slides down in between Anakin’s buttocks, sliding easily, almost effortlessly, into him, up to the second knuckle.

He freezes then, for a moment, eyes shocked so wide that they are almost panicky, and Anakin, his body still moving from the momentum of his latest powerful thrust up against Obi-Wan, finds himself riding back onto Obi-Wan’s still hands, shoving back so hard that not one, not two, but three digits slip entirely into him, until he is impaled and writhing on Obi-Wan’s right hand, his flesh having opened up to Obi-Wan like a lock to a key or a flower to the sun, just as naturally and completely and easily as that, the flesh, in spite of its tightness, offering absolutely no resistence to Obi-Wan. Anakin cries out then, not in pain but at the explosion of pure pleasure wracking his body, as Obi-Wan’s fingertips inadvertently brush up against a nub of highly sensitive flesh buried within Anakin. A moment longer Obi-Wan hangs frozen over him, as Anakin writhes, spitting himself even more thoroughly upon his hand, and then Obi-Wan is yanking himself rapidly back and away, his instinct prompting him to hurtle himself up off of Anakin and scuttle backwards away from him along the bed, certain that he has somehow transgressed and caused Anakin pain as Anakin’s wailing cry tightens towards a scream.

He is barely allowed a single heartbeat of panic, though, before Anakin is reaching out to him, flooding the bond with a pleasure so sharp it is almost paralyzing, love and joy and desire rising off of him in waves and freezing Obi-Wan in place before he has gotten any further away than a half seated, half kneeling position between Anakin’s wide-spread legs. And at that point Anakin casts caution to the wind and lunges forward, catching Obi-Wan’s frozen form and tackling him down to the bed beneath him, rolling him in a sudden amazingly fast, fluid movement, with a wave of laughter and hot, searching hands and a devouring mouth that leave absolutely no doubts behind as to just how much Anakin wants him or how much pleasure and desire Obi-Wan’s accidental little slip of hand brought him. It breaks the blind panic, but it’s not quite enough to banish the fear of having done something horribly wrong, and so Obi-Wan promptly tries to open his mouth, thinking to ask a question, and Anakin even more promptly lunges forward and attacks his mouth. Kiss is, without a doubt, the wrong word for what Anakin is doing. He isn’t just trying to press his lips to Obi-Wan’s mouth: apparently, he is trying to fuse their bodies together, permanently, at the mouths. Dazed as he is, Obi-Wan is still reasonably sure that Anakin has actually drawn blood, though he’s uncertain as to whether it’s his or Anakin’s. When Anakin finally draws back, he tastes the sharp metallic tang of blood - oddly almost sweet, for all its bite - upon his tongue and cannot keep himself from staring. Still, he’s gotten no further than opening his mouth again before Anakin has laid two fingers gently across his lips, stopping the words before they can finish forming with no more than a whisper of pressure and the barest shake of his head.

"You have not hurt me, love. I swear to you. The only hurt I felt was the pain of disappointment as you pulled away. I want you in me. I want that, for us. I was trying to help prepare the way for it: it was not my intention to startle or discomfort you. I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. I’m trying to take this slow, to give you enough time to adjust to everything. If you don’t want to do this, then we won’t. We can do other things, love. Many other things. You know I won’t press you for anything you aren’t ready for. Please, don’t worry. Feel me along the bond," Anakin all but begs, his voice nearly vibrating with intensity, "and know how much I love you, how happy I am just to be here with you, together, like this."

The burst of love and joy and desire along the bond is, once again, utterly undeniable. It curls Obi-Wan’s toes and arches his back, electrifying webs of fire gathering in his groin and shooting out along his body like tongue of flame, filling his belly and threading down through is thighs, making his feet kick helplessly, and rising up through his torso until his head feels so light it’s almost as if the top is trying to come off. His hands, reaching blindly for some solidity, close around Anakin’s back and dig into the rolling muscles there, the only thought he is able to sustain for several long moments a mixture of pure astonishment and even purer gratitude at Anakin’s obvious pleasure over his tight, almost clawing grasp. Then Anakin’s right hand is sliding down his belly, fingers whispering across the fiery down of tiny silken hairs sprinkled sparsely along Obi-Wan’s lower belly to resettle upon a swiftly rehardening length of unyielding flesh that pulses under the gliding pressure of Anakin’s palm, and all coherent thought flees away. Silently, Obi-Wan simply raises his head for another hungry kiss and yields, allowing Anakin to do whatever he wishes. As he relaxes back into Anakin’s embrace, Obi-Wan’s pulse beats soft fire in his veins, filling his whole body with a bright network of yearning flame. Distantly, he’s aware that his voice has started to purr again in cadence with that slow surging, and even though he has absolutely no control over any of his responses to Anakin, he couldn’t care less. This is right: what they have been doing, what they are doing, is right. How could anything that Anakin might want to do possibly be anything other than right when the mere fact of them being together is so unutterably and all-encompassingly right?

With what can only be described as a sighing hum of joy, Anakin settles back down between Obi-Wan’s legs, nudging his thighs apart with his body and wriggling into position, settling carefully until they are matched, only differences in width and length keeping them from aligning perfectly. Anakin is longer than Obi-Wan is, which is perhaps to be expected, considering his greater height. The greater length keeps him more in proportion to his body. Obi-Wan, however, is noticeably thicker around, so large that Anakin’s eyes go round and wide and almost shocked at the realization of his actual his size, almost as though he were slightly intimidated by the bulk of him. Wide eyes don’t keep him from gasping with excitement as they come together, though, the contact sending stabs of lightning up Obi-Wan’s spine and evidently infecting Anakin with the same frantic need for more. Stretching out over Obi-Wan’s heaving body, Anakin starts to pump himself slowly against Obi-Wan, making Obi-Wan surge helplessly under him, breathing in not quite ragged sounding rumbling exhales, rather like the purring of some enormous feline, his hands blindly combing at Anakin’s back with a clutching, involuntarily raking motion only just shy of being hard enough to cause pain. When Anakin finally slides forward to kneel up over Obi-Wan’s body, legs sliding up around his hips and pressing Obi-Wan’s legs back together again, searching out Obi-Wan’s eyes and looking for agreement, for permission, for what he is about to do, Obi-Wan doesn’t even hesitate before nodding. If you’re sure you want to, then do it. I’m ready, love. I’m ready for you.

*********

Anakin moves back, positioning himself, feeling the snub pressure of rounded hardness against his opening. Ready for him, indeed. He begins to press down, blithely trusting his body to know its limits, and it is only after he has begun to move down onto Obi-Wan that Anakin remembers why he had never been able to bring himself to actually try this with anyone, no matter how willing or eager or even gentle the possible partner, after he had first discovered this method of coupling, back in his early teens when he’d been researching modes and means of making love. It occurs to him, then, that he should have used some of the massage oil on Obi-Wan or himself or both, that this will probably hurt, possibly quite badly, and that he won’t be able to hide his pain from Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan will doubtlessly torture himself endlessly for that pain, and never mind that it will have all been Anakin’s own fault . . . And then, when he is trembling upon the edge of unreasoning panic, Anakin suddenly realizes something. This . . . this is no hardship. Not only is it bearable, it is not at all painful. In fact, all he feels is a spine-sizzling, almost disturbingly sharp pleasure. Obi-Wan’s thick, hot flesh is pressing into him, gradually but inexorably, and his body is offering up not even the barest hint of resistence. As with Obi-Wan’s inadvertently slipping fingers, this, too, Anakin’s body is welcoming, opening up to, surrendering to utterly, all but actively reaching with clenching muscles to help draw Obi-Wan further up into himself. And it feels so incredibly good, to have Obi-Wan in him, sliding into him, stretching, burning, and wonderfully filling. Involuntarily, Anakin rocks back upon him, sliding down all the way until they are finally fully locked together in an intimate press of connection, Obi-Wan buried just as fully within the depths of Anakin as he can go.

Anakin holds still then for a little while, just to get used to the feeling, to the idea, of having Obi-Wan inside him, in his body, like this. And then, without warning, he moves sharply, rocking upwards rapidly and then shoving down, almost violently, testing to see how far he can push this unexpected but blessedly total acceptance of Obi-Wan within his flesh. Obi-Wan is huge and Anakin’s body is tight, not to mention unprepared in any real way. What he’s trying to do should hurt. Honestly, this shouldn’t even be possible, considering what he knows about this method of making love and the simple logistics of it. And yet, somehow, even though Anakin has to work at it a little bit to get all of Obi-Wan’s pulsing and heated flesh sheathed fully within him, he does it, pushing down until Obi-Wan is buried deep within, using both the motion of his hips and the leverage of his body, braced up over Obi-Wan on his knees as he is, to drive himself down over Obi-Wan. There’s a sense of burning pressure, of being filled just shy to the point of overflowing, but no pain, and no real resistence. It’s as if his body has actually found a way to prepare itself for Obi-Wan without Anakin knowing about it - and perhaps that’s the Force, again, tweaking things to make sure that their joining is complete in every way. The Force had helped him earlier, when Anakin was trying to swallow Obi-Wan down his throat: it’s not unreasonable to think that it might be helping them again, is it? Anakin can’t be entirely certain - and he’s too busy with other things now to try to work it out for sure - but whatever it is that’s causing his body to react to Obi-Wan like this, it’s both undeniable and unutterably wonderful. It’s easier by far to simply accept it, at least for now. If this is another gift, then Anakin’s gratitude is and always will be limitless. Much better to accept it in the spirit of which it has been offered, than to risk seeming ungrateful.

So Anakin shows his gratitude in the most obvious way possible, by making ready use of that gift. Obi-Wan manages to hold mostly still during the first two gradual pushes of Anakin’s body down over him, but after Anakin has pulled himself back off of him after that second time around - still moving slowly, though only out of necessity this time, since Anakin’s powerfully contracting muscles are reluctant to give Obi-Wan’s hardness up, tightening down around him as though trying to hold on to him longer, unwilling to let him back out again - pausing when only the very tip of Obi-Wan is still within him, Obi-Wan cries out, wordlessly, and moves under him, up against him, his body arching so that his hips can shove up hard and fast, driving him in just as deep as he can possibly go, absolutely frantic for more. The impact of their bodies tears a grunt from Anakin’s throat and a deep, hoarse, guttural sound from Obi-Wan’s, a noise such as Anakin has never before heard Obi-Wan make, and when Anakin moves to ride back up off of him Obi-Wan immediately traps Anakin’s hips under the strength of his hands, driving himself forcefully back up even further inside of Anakin, fighting against the not quite too tightness of those clutching muscles as if he were actually piercing a new hole in Anakin’s body, the channel already there not wide enough to allow easy enough passage.

After that, after Obi-Wan’s hands rise up to grasp his hips in that demanding grip, Anakin rides up the swell of his arching body, throws his head back, and abandons all restraint. Placing his hands flat against Obi-Wan’s chest, so that his fingertips just barely brush forward across his nipples, skidding with flickering, skittering motions across and around those hard peaks of easily stimulated flesh, he pumps his body up and down with almost reckless abandon, using the flashes of sensation from the teasing of those nipples to guide Obi-Wan up and to the right just a hair’s breadth, until Obi-Wan is convulsing helplessly beneath him, struggling to help push up harder, farther, and every shift of his rolling hips seems to stroke over a place within Anakin’s body that, when stimulated, explodes outwards in roiling bursts of pleasure bright enough to rival even a star going nova. Anakin begins to ride him in earnest then, plunging wildly up and down over him as if he means for Obi-Wan to come up all the way through him and out the other side, rocking down violently and making Obi-Wan spasm and scream hoarsely, his fingers digging in so hard that bruises spring to life on Anakin’s hips almost immediately, a strange simpatico of sensation that somehow only ends up accentuating and increasing the pleasure flashing through his body, centering on the heated pulse of Obi-Wan’s flesh sliding almost brusquely up against, along, and back across that incredibly sensitized and explosively pleasurable node buried so deep within Anakin’s body. With a wild flashing grin, Anakin slides his hands up across Obi-Wan’s navel, stroking and stimulating his heated flesh, fingers dancing in delicate teasing spirals up around his nipples before sliding back down his chest, using the remains of the now slightly sweat-diluted massage oil to paint gleaming pictures across Obi-Wan’s heaving, stuttering chest and stomach, using his own motion, the almost violently rapid sliding up and sinking down, to draw arcing trails and spiraling pathways across Obi-Wan’s dancing muscles, the lines he traces heavy with desire.

As they begin to move together then - trying to find an actual rhythm, not just Anakin moving over Obi-Wan or Obi-Wan spasming helplessly beneath Anakin - Anakin tries to brace himself more securely up against Obi-Wan’s chest, both to give himself more leverage and to gain more control over his movements. His hands slide in the remains of the oil, though, its slipperiness defeating all of Anakin’s attempts to coordinate their movements. This is a good position to go slow in, but slow isn’t exactly what either one of them wants any longer, to judge by the eager and even forceful way that Obi-Wan’s hips are lifting to meet Anakin on every single one of his rushing downstrokes. If this particular arrangement isn’t going to lend itself to what they want to accomplish, then perhaps he can entice Obi-Wan to help them into a more useful position . . .

*********

Obi-Wan has never imagined anything could feel so good as what he is experiencing now, as Anakin’s body rides him, the seemingly limitless hot rings of busily contracting muscles lining his almost impossibly tight (and yet somehow strangely almost slick-seeming, so that pressure alone is enough to allow him to glide up within Anakin) orifice clenching at him greedily, caressing and clutching at him like hundreds of synchronized tiny stroking oiled hands. When Anakin’s hands slide helplessly along his slick chest, though, Obi-Wan feels a burst of frustration along the bond, brief but intense enough to make him wonder whether or not Anakin is experiencing anything like the pulse-pounding ecstacy that he is. And so, greatly daring, he decides to do something that he hasn’t before, something entirely different.

All but stilling the wild plunging of his hips, Obi-Wan calls on his control to perform a delicate shimmy of motion that culminates in him making a movement with his stomach like that of a Twi’lek dancer, and changes his rhythm utterly, so that his motions grow both more urgent and yet somehow also smoother, or cyclical, as if rotating through a circle that pushes deep inside Anakin before spiraling up out of him again. A circle that naturally tends lower going in and higher coming out, so that he will be touching all of that heated channel of flesh on his passage inside Anakin, but not all at the same time. Their earlier wild, almost rough plunging together and pushing apart has given Obi-Wan a hair’s breadth of extra room within that almost too unbearably tight channel, and he uses it now to establish that circular rhythm, to rub himself caressingly all along the walls of Anakin’s opening, both gliding teasingly and rubbing purposefully down across and up against that spot deep inside of him that inevitably makes Anakin’s body bow and snap with sensation. It’s a careful, delicate dance, the push of Obi-Wan’s hips up against Anakin as strong as ever but controlled now, directed in a way that requires much more strength of purpose than merely wildly pumping and shoving blindly away with brutal, undirected force. Strength of a far different kind . . .

*********