You think you know… what you are, what’s to come…

Title: Trouble Me
Characters: Anakin/Obi-Wan
Word Count: 932
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes stubborn insistence yields the most welcome of outcomes.
Author's Notes: Here you go, buff_iroh. Hehehe. I didn't write it exactly as I think you might have wanted, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. Oh, and I hope everyone will forgive me my prevalence for run-on sentences and some rather pesky pronouns. Ugh. This is what makes slash such a tough thing for me to write (even if it can be a rather enjoyable endeavor). :)


‘No, Anakin.’

A pout. That damnable pout, on those damnable lips, on that damnable face. Sometimes he believes the pleasures his former Padawan offers would be easier to resist if said former Padawan was not so aesthetically appealing. As if there was nothing else to the force of his desire for the young Jedi.

‘But I want to.’

Obi-Wan heaves the sigh of the long-suffering Master – something he’s perfected in all of the years he has served as mentor to one Anakin Skywalker. He often wonders if Qui-Gon was secretly a Sith, plotting his final revenge in some misguided sense of loyalty to his own former Master.

‘And I don’t,’ he replies, wearily, rubbing his eyes. Anakin’s gaze is heated blue and shaded with unmistakable stubbornness. He doesn’t want to take no as an answer. Fortunately, these days Obi-Wan knows how to twist the blade: ‘Why don’t you go find something in a small, brunette senator to rub up against?’

The growl this elicits sends an involuntary frisson of excitement coursing through Obi-Wan. Quick as a flash, he is on his back on the sofa. Anakin’s insistent grip pins his arms down, his evident arousal grinding against Obi-Wan’s hips in a way that causes him to moan with sudden need.

‘Maybe because I’m in the mood for something of a different flavor,’ Anakin retorts, breath hot against Obi-Wan’s neck as he nuzzles his collarbone. Obi-Wan can hear the grin in his voice.

‘A different flavor?’ Obi-Wan asks, eyebrows lifted in amusement as he submits, plunging his fingers into Anakin’s hair and tugging gently. The latter takes the hint and lifts his head. The self-assured grin is confirmed.

‘What sort of flavor?’ Obi-Wan prods, expectance hanging in the air between them. He wants to hear it, wants to see the words pass that delicious mouth. Anakin knows it, but thankfully this is one arena in which he almost graciously surrenders each and every time.

‘I would like to suck your cock, Master.’

It’s that one word really – not the crude ‘cock’ but rather the deferential ‘Master’ - from which Obi-Wan derives the most pleasure. He blushes in spite of himself, noting the way Anakin lowers his head before waiting for an answer. But then Anakin never waits for an answer.

The beleaguered Master allows the data reader to slip from his hand and drop softly to the floor. His former Padawan’s lips are on the newly-bared skin of his lower abdomen, fingernails clawing lightly as he rakes leggings and underwear down in one single pass.

His cock hardens further under Anakin’s gaze.

That grin again. That kriffing –

And then:

Assuredness guides Anakin’s tongue in broad flicks, using just the right teasing pressure over the entire length of Obi-Wan’s cock before he abruptly swallows him down. His mouth is a haven of moist heat, the voraciousness with which he carries out his self-imposed task rocketing Obi-Wan’s arousal through the roof.

‘Oh… oh, Anakin… slow… down…’ Obi-Wan’s voice is a harsh rasp. His hips set their own rhythm as Anakin relaxes his throat in earnest, opening up to fit the full length of him. He holds there as long as possible before his gag reflex sets in and he comes back up with a gasp, spit threading from his lips to the tip of Obi-Wan’s cock. He pauses just a moment to grin, cheeks flushed with both his efforts and his own excitement.

Anakin’s head of unkempt dark blond curls lowers again and once more Obi-Wan is plunged back into that haven, his cock like durasteel between Anakin’s eager lips. Tongue and teeth (oh dear, so delicious, yesssssss) and the constant push and pull of throat muscles – these prove, in fact, to be the weapons Anakin Skywalker wields far more masterfully than he has ever wielded a lightsaber.

The pace he sets is frantic, the moans in the back of his throat sweeter than any aria Obi-Wan has ever heard at the Galaxies Opera House. The vibrations that rumble through Anakin’s throat add to working Obi-Wan toward that final precipice, and when Anakin wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking in time as he sucks him off, Obi-Wan digs his own into the young man’s hair, bucking shamelessly up into his mouth.

Obi-Wan’s orgasm tears him out of orbit and he’s floating somewhere safe, somewhere beyond peace, beyond even the uncomplicated serenity of the Force. Anakin milks him greedily, swallowing every last drop before the latter collapses back against the sofa in a shivering, sated wreck. Anakin kneels up, the smugness in his expression making Obi-Wan wish he was a younger man, one who could recover far more easily, far more quickly so that he could immediately turn the tables and fuck the smug look off of that gorgeous face, make it turn into one of the purest kind of pleasure the young Jedi Knight could ever hope to experience.

‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ Obi-Wan asks wryly, closing his eyes.

‘Mmm, very much. Thank you, Master.’

Anakin’s voice is in his ear, the full length of his warm body a solid, comforting weight on top of Obi-Wan’s own. When Obi-Wan opens his eyes, Anakin’s are there to greet him. The look of smugness is gone, replaced by that inimitable tenderness Obi-Wan will forever associate with Anakin alone.

‘You are trouble, Anakin Skywalker,’ Obi-Wan murmurs affectionately, reaching up to trace the scar bisecting his right eyebrow.

‘But you love me anyway,’ Anakin replies, gaze aglow. Obi-Wan’s fingers stray to Anakin’s lips. He smiles.

‘Yes, Anakin.’