#ficcups

[infernaleikon]

riding the law au aka 50 y/o obi-wan who’s getting divorced and has the hots for 23 y/o law student anakin who is assisting with his case

enjoy!

(3k)

*    *     *

“You could at least try to look happier to be here,” Quinlan says without looking up from studying the desserts as he flips the page of the menu. “It’s not like I’m making you put out after. Although, it might improve your mood.”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow, barely holding back an inelegant snort. “If you made me put out for inviting me to lunch?”

“Baby, you would be begging me for some sweet birthday love before the desserts are served if I turned it on,” Quinlan quips without missing a beat. When Obi-Wan flicks his eyes up to look at him, Quinlan is still studying his menu but the smirk on his face is insufferably cocky.

“Don’t call me baby.” Obi-Wan already regrets agreeing to come out for lunch today. He had very firm plans to avoid his phone or thinking about his current state of affairs by day drinking on his couch while watching wildlife or history documentaries. But in a moment of incandescent insanity he had made the mistake of telling Quinlan as much.

Which had landed him here. At a stupidly fancy restaurant for lunch with his best friend (though he is currently debating that label, really), in a fine suit, and nowhere near the sad state he’d hoped to be in by this time of day (without the option of achieving it either, given the very public and very pretentious setting).

“Sorry, daddy,” Quinlan says, and maybe Obi-Wan doesn’t need to get drunk. Maybe he needs to whack Quinlan. In the very public and very pretentious restaurant. The menu is solid enough to make it sting, at the very least.

Quinlan snaps his menu shut and leans back in his chair. “No objections to the sweet birthday love then?” he drawls. “The big five-oh deserves a formidable…entry, you know.”

“I will enter you,” Obi-Wan answers, reaching for his wine glass, “in a Taylor Swift lookalike contest. After bleaching your hair.”

Quinlan clutches at his chest with wide eyes and a barely concealed grin. “Vicious,” he gasps with faux-terror. “And here I thought you’d lost your edge and turned—” He scrunches his nose. “—vanilla.”

“Compared to you I have always been vanilla,” Obi-Wan says before taking a sip from his wine. At least his day involves day drinking after all.

Quinlan grins, wide and toothy, moving his own glass to make the wine swirl. He hums, eyeing Obi-Wan over the rim as he takes a sip. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, stud.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t deign to answer and instead returns to studying his menu. It’s never a good idea to let himself be goaded by Quinlan, and after years of friendship he does know all of Obi-Wan’s buttons, and even though he’s always insufferable about it, sometimes he pushes them to make Obi-Wan feel better.

“Aren’t you excited to be able to let loose in your prime cougar years?” Quinlan asks. “I distinctly remember you saying you look forward to getting finer.”

“I said older,” Obi-Wan points out without looking up.

“Same thing.” There’s that grin in Quinlan’s voice. He’s clearly not yet given up. “Come on, Kenobi, unclench. Why are you suddenly acting like your life is over?”

Obi-Wan sighs as he puts his menu down. “I’m f—”

“Mr. Kenobi?” a voice cuts in, and Obi-Wan snaps his mouth shut.

There’s an excited flutter in his chest, warm and thrilling, as he turns to face the source of the voice.

Anakin.

Anakin who had told Obi-Wan how excited he is about the opportunity to help out at the firm and with Obi-Wan’s case to gain work experience while studying to become a lawyer himself. Anakin who soaks up Obi-Wan’s attention like he’s been starving for it. Anakin who, in turn, gives Obi-Wan his own undivided attention whenever they talk, focusing on him like a laser and making Obi-Wan sweat from it beneath his shirt.

Anakin who is twenty-three years old.

Anakin who is blinking big, blue eyes at him, a faint but earnest smile playing around the corners of his mouth as Obi-Wan meets his gaze.

Obi-Wan unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Anakin says as his eyes trail curiously over to Quinlan. “I saw you when I came in, and I thought I’d say hi.”

“No apologies necessary,” Obi-Wan says, waving him off. His mouth feels bone-dry. “Just having lunch with my f—”

“His side piece,” Quinlan cuts in with the sharp grin of a wolf. He’s leaned back in his chair, one arm hung over the backrest and holding his glass in the other hand, and oh, Obi-Wan is going to—

“He’s—you’re not.” Obi-Wan turns from Anakin to Quinlan. It comes out with far more vehemence than he anticipates, carrying a note of urgency and desperation that is entirely unbecoming on someone his age, really, especially regarding this; especially in front of Anakin. “You’re not flexible enough to be my side piece.”

Quinlan sniffs. “It’s not like you give me time to stretch.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t groan. He should’ve known better than to engage Quinlan. He does know better. “You know you don’t have to take every opening I give you,” he points out, and regrets it immediately.

Quinlan’s grin grows impossibly sharper.

“Don’t.” Obi-Wan levels him with a look and watches Quinlan raise his eyebrows, shrugging nonchalantly.

Turning back to Anakin, Obi-Wan finds him looking—Obi-Wan would say intrigued if he didn’t know better. There is a part of him that wants to run wild imagining the things Anakin would find enthralling, the things he’d enjoy, the kind of banter he’d engage in and how he’d react. But Anakin’s gaze sweeps over Quinlan once more before returning to Obi-Wan and it’s—unsurprising and not even quite disappointing. Quinlan has an effortless charm about him that’s hard to compete with.

Not that Obi-Wan is competing. He may be on his last shred of composure and dignity when it comes to Anakin but that one is still holding.

For now.

“Apologies,” Obi-Wan offers. Anakin blinks as if he’s coming back to himself. “Quinlan grew up surrounded by mannequins, with no human interaction, so he doesn’t know what is appropriate in social situations and what is not.”

“Sorry, daddy,” Quinlan chimes in.

Obi-Wan very nearly kicks him under the table.

“Uh,” Anakin says as he drops his eyes to his feet. There’s a flush high on his cheeks: a pretty, dusky pink that draws Obi-Wan’s attention like a beacon. He’s seen Anakin blush before; he actually quite enjoys flustering that boy himself and watching the color spread across his tanned skin. Anakin’s responsiveness is intoxicating. It’s dangerous.

Anakin looks back up and releases his bottom lip, now even plumper than usual and slightly shiny with spit, from between his teeth.

Obi-Wan’s last shred grows precariously thin.

Anakin clears his throat before he says, “Uh, nice to—um—meet you,” as he turns his attention to Quinlan once more.

Obi-Wan is never going out with Quinlan again, no matter how slim the chances are of running into Anaki—people. Who Obi-Wan may or may not be more or less ruinously attracted to.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan starts before Quinlan gets rolling again, “works at the law firm handling m—the divorce. He’s helping with the case.”

Quinlan’s eyebrows rise in interest and so does Obi-Wan’s blood pressure. “Is he?” Quinlan comments, in a tone that is far too casual for Obi-Wan’s liking. He hums, diverting his gaze from Obi-Wan back to Anakin. “And how is that going?”

Anakin ducks his head again and the way his lashes fan out over his cheeks is criminal. Obi-Wan takes a sip of his wine, bemoaning the fact that its quality is too good to burn on the way down his throat to distract him.

“Sorry we couldn’t get you your dog,” Anakin says, looking back up and squarely at Obi-Wan. The earnestness in Anakin’s big, blue eyes makes Obi-Wan’s gut clench with the desire to ravish him.

He smiles mildly instead. “Oh, that is quite alright,” he promises. “It has always been Satine’s dog. I am not a pet person myself. But the dog did get me the beach house in Naboo.” Despite himself, Obi-Wan can’t keep the satisfied glee out of his voice entirely.

Quinlan barks out a laugh and Anakin stares at Obi-Wan as if he’s seeing him for the first time. Which, Obi-Wan supposes, cursing himself for his own arrogance, he does. Leveraging the damn dog to get the beach house had been a dick move but he’d felt petty and vindictive at the time. Satine loves her flea carpet too much to have given it up just to spite Obi-Wan. Of course, Obi-Wan hadn’t told Anakin any of that for fear of losing Anakin’s eager attention.

Good job.

“Oh.” It rushes out of Anakin in an exhale. “That’s—you’re—”

“Such a bitch?” Obi-Wan suggests, choosing to own his gracelessness.

“Yeah,” Anakin says—and immediately colors beautifully. “No! No, of course not.” He clears his throat, hands flexing. “You just—you know how to get what you want.”

There’s an odd quality to his voice, a sort of low, alluring timbre that sounds…obscene.

Or maybe Obi-Wan is just a dirty old pervert.

Quinlan looks like he’s having the time of his life when Obi-Wan’s gaze lands on him after averting his eyes from Anakin. Oh, he’s never going to hear the end of this. At least Quinlan is keeping his mouth shut for once.

When Obi-Wan chances a glance back at Anakin, Anakin’s eyes are tracking over his suit, and the precise attention of his gaze makes heat rise up within Obi-Wan.

“Special occasion?” Anakin asks when he notices Obi-Wan looking. His eyes flicker to Quinlan for a brief moment.

Obi-Wan is so busy trying to decipher what conclusion Anakin could possibly have come to that he momentarily forgets to answer.

“It’s his birthday.” Quinlan mock-whispers, pressing his right hand to the left corner of his mouth conspiratorially. “He’s being very blushy about turning fifty.”

If Obi-Wan was a lesser man, he might have considered amicicide. As it is, he feels himself brace for something as a wave of dread washes over him and drowns whatever imaginary chance he may have entertained about having with Anakin.

“Fifty?” Anakin says. His eyes track over Obi-Wan like lasers. “Really?”

Quinlan smirks. “Like a fine wine.”

“I’m a very exclusive vintage,” Obi-Wan snaps. He doesn’t chug the rest of his wine but it is a close call, especially when Quinlan’s smirk grows wider, more mischievous.

“An acquired taste,” he offers.

Obi-Wan puts amicicide back on the table.

But then Anakin croaks, “Yeah,” and it sounds like all the air comes rushing out of his lungs. He looks a little faint.

“What?”

Anakin blinks and clears his throat. “I better get going, uh,” he says. Obi-Wan can watch the flush work its way down Anakin’s throat and disappear below the collar of his shirt.

(He wants to follow it all the way down with his tongue.)

“I’m, uh, running late already.” Anakin sucks in a breath. “Happy birthday, Mr. Kenobi.”

Anakin is already retreating when Obi-Wan finds his voice again. “Obi-Wan,” he corrects, without even thinking.

Anakin stops and looks at him. “Obi-Wan,” he repeats, a little wondrous, a little breathless, as if he’s revealing a secret. The sound of it runs through Obi-Wan like molten gold.

Obi-Wan clenches his jaw, imagining what his name would sound like if Anakin moaned it, gasped it, screamed it while writhing in pleasure beneath him.

With a final nod, Anakin turns and walks away. He’s not wearing a suit jacket today, exposing the long lines of his torso. Obi-Wan has wondered more than once how his hands would look on Anakin’s trim waist. As his eyes trail after him, Obi-Wan imagines grabbing it, pulling Anakin back against his body by it and—

He tears his gaze away and makes himself breathe a deep inhale and exhale.

Quinlan is practically noisily vibrating with barely contained glee when Obi-Wan turns back to him.

“Thinking about getting yourself a little birthday treat?” he asks, leaning forward like Obi-Wan is going to tell him a juicy piece of gossip any second.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Obi-Wan says. It’s a pointless battle, he’s aware. “I’m more than twice his age.”

Quinlan kinks an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “So?”

“He could be my—”

“Boy toy?”

He says it just as the waiter arrives at their table to take their dessert orders. Obi-Wan wonders if he can get them to substitute the coffee in their tiramisu with tequila.

He ends up ordering more wine.

“He’s cute,” Quinlan notes as he hands his menu back to the waiter.

“He’s too young for you,” Obi-Wan retorts drily. He’s drunk the last of his wine already which is a shame because he really needs to throw something back.

Quinlan snorts and wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh, he is. We both know I lean more towards…man toys.”

Obi-Wan passes a hand down his face and swallows the groan that threatens to burst out of him. Quinlan cackles as if someone told him the funniest joke he’s ever heard. Bastard.

“Are you going to ask out the pretty baby lawyer?” Quinlan asks, nudging Obi-Wan with the tip of his foot under the table. “Bang it out? You deserve a nice rebound screw. I bet he meets your high standard of flexibility.”

Obi-Wan will hear about it until either he dies or Quinlan.

“Youth does not equal flexibility,” Obi-Wan points out.

“But you have fantasized about bending him in half,” Quinlan states. He states. Like it’s a fact. Like he knows it to be a proven truth.

The worst part is that he’s right. Which Obi-Wan can’t admit to his face because Quinlan might pop a gleeful aneurysm.

(…maybe Obi-Wan should admit to it.)

He’s spared the embarrassment of answering because the waiter returns with their desserts. It’s not like there is anything he can say to convince Quinlan otherwise anyway and Obi-Wan doesn’t feel like arguing about it.

“Seriously, Obi-Wan,” Quinlan starts as he generously piles his dessert’s whipped cream onto his spoon. “What’s the big deal?”

Sometimes he feels like Quinlan is being deliberately obtuse and it’s one of his most irritating qualities. “Because I am fifty, getting divorced from my wife of twenty-three years, which is, coincidentally, also how old Anakin is, and I am starting petty arguments with her just to get the things I want out of this divorce even though this split is mutual. I think I’m having enough of a midlife crisis as it is,” Obi-Wan points out through gritted teeth. He doesn’t need to add fucking a twenty-something to the list pathetic things men his age do. “Besides, Anakin is just being friendly. He saw a client, he said hello. It’s called ‘being polite’. You should add that to your behavioral repertoire.”

Quinlan looks entirely unimpressed. He scoops up more whipped cream. “A divorce isn’t a midlife crisis. Turning fifty isn’t either,” he says with a shrug before spooning the cream into his mouth. “And from where I’m sitting, Anakin was very politely turned on, so you know, that boy is DTF—down to frolic, to explain it with your elderly vocabulary, and he’s young enough to know all the tricks in the book to help you relieve all that stress and tension.”

Before Obi-Wan can respond, the waiter reappears at their table carrying a tray with two empty wine glasses and a bottle.

“We didn’t order this,” Obi-Wan explains when the waiter puts down the glasses in front of them.

“This is courtesy of Organa and Amidala,” the waiter answers with a small smile as he starts pouring the wine. “Happy birthday, Mr. Kenobi.”

Quinlan picks up the bottle once the waiter leaves and reads the label, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Courtesy of Organa and Amidala, huh?” Raising his glass to his nose to smell the bouquet, his grin widens. “A very nice vintage. Bet he really enjoys these old grapes himself.”

Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut and draws his fingers over his beard, trying to will himself away. He can feel heat rising into his face. The truth is if he allows himself to entertain any thought of actually…engaging Anakin, there is now way he’ll be able to stop. The thought of pursuing Anakin ignites an excited flutter in his stomach, a wildfire of desire that licks up his spine and dries out his mouth. Anakin entices him in a way nothing has in a long time.

It would be inappropriate to take advantage of Anakin’s interest, especially since Obi-Wan’s own stems from the selfish wish of distracting himself from his current situation and to satisfy his own desires. Anakin deserves better than that.

And yet the thought of peeling Anakin out of his suit piece by piece and spreading him out on his bed doesn’t leave Obi-Wan’s mind.

Obi-Wan surrenders his own dessert to Quinlan and decidedly does not think about having one that is way better. In return, he gets a dozen more innuendos that get progressively worse and worse but somehow still manage to make him bite back exasperated laughs.

“Your lunch has already been paid for, another courtesy by Organa and Amidala,” the waiter explains after Quinlan’s ordered the bill. He places the check presenter on the table in front of Quinlan.

Quinlan scowls. “Then what is this?”

The waiter smiles politely. “Mr. Skywalker covered Mr. Kenobi’s bill.”

Obi-Wan has rarely seen Quinlan this flabbergasted. His gaze drops from the waiter to Obi-Wan and he narrows his eyes at Obi-Wan’s barely contained smirk.

“You deserve each other,” he hisses as he puts his credit card into the presenter and hands it back over.

Obi-Wan starts to believe that that may be true.

*     *     *

anakin, explaining the 600 dollar bottle of wine on the bill: it’s mr. kenobi’s birthday 👉👈

padme:

anakin: it’s his fiftieth birthday 🥺 👉👈

[tennessoui]

AO3 has been down for 24 hours and knowing I can come to your tumblr to read your snippets is the only thing keeping me sane =.= Are there any other Obikin blogs you recommend that also have snippets I can read once I've finished reading all of yours?

i am really hoping ao3 isn't down long enough for you to get through all my snippets/ficlets on here, BUT if you need a break from kit-writing, i know these writers also post ficlets/aus on tumblr!

@tomicaleto - her fic tag

@obiwanobi - clem's AUs masterlist // clem's aus tag

@obiwaned - her 'ficcups' tag (adorable name for ficlets btw)

@travellingcircus - a few very long ficlets which are worth the read

ummm i know there are others, but most people just link their ao3 and don't have a defined tumblr fic spot - but enjoy these tags!!! and if you have one or you know of someone who does, leave a comment or reblog with the link!

[lycantrophies-moved]

under construction

(613): His whole street is under construction. Third walk of shame this week & I'm getting a lot of sympathetic nods from the workers. (540): he said I was the best sex he's ever had, handed me a burger king crown and told me to take my walk of shame with pride

Derek dabs at the enormous hickey at the hollow of his throat, gets a sick sort of thrill from the dull ache, and realizes, just in that moment, that he’s completely and utterly gone on Stiles. -When they first started fucking, they agreed on certain things, one of them being to leave no marks, and now here he is, staring at the monstrosity on his neck, feeling some sort of accomplished.

Stiles stumbles in, dressed in a pair of boxers only, hair mussed and sticking out in every direction. He’s a little bleary-eyed, pillow creases imprinted on his left cheek, looking soft and pliant, and all Derek wants to do is take him back to bed and spoon the shit out of him.

He’s so lost.

“Oh my god,” Stiles sways over to him, staring intently at the huge thing on Derek’s neck, pokes it at gently. “Is that a--is that a hickey?”

“No, I think it’s a hatebite,” Derek says, looking back at Stiles through the mirror, swatting Stiles’ probing fingers away.

“Oh, dude.” Stiles’ eyes go wide, he looks utterly mortified. “I’m so sorry, I know we agreed on--I’m--”

“It’s okay,” Derek cuts in gently, unable to stop himself from smiling like an idiot, a love-struck idiot. “I don’t mind.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth open. Derek wants to bite his lip. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Derek rolls his eyes. “I mean people will probably think I had some wild animal sucking on me.”

Stiles smirks shiteatingly, waggles his eyebrows in a way that drives Derek crazy. “Wild animal, huh?”

Stiles bursts out laughing, leans on Derek shoulder as he topples over, patting him lightly. Derek likes this, the easiness of it; thinks they could be something, something great if Stiles let it. Maybe he should suggest breakfast, or dinner; take Stiles out to Laura’s restaurant, because he knows for a fact that Stiles loves the food there.

“You know,” Stiles says, sucking in a deep breath to calm himself down. “Your puns are awful. I love them.”

Derek bares his teeth at him. “That’s because you have a terrible sense of humour.”

Stiles punches him playfully in the shoulder before he gets on with his morning business. Derek watches him brush his teeth from Stiles’ bedroom while he gets dressed, running down a mental list of places where he could take Stiles for breakfast.

He doesn’t get to actually take him out, because Stiles practically kicks him out of the apartment, saying he’s got lots of work to do.

~

“That is--did he do this all by himself?” Laura pokes at his hickey, disbelief colouring her features.

“Surprisingly, yes,” Derek says, covers it back up with the collar of his shirt. He thought if he couldn’t take Stiles out for breakfast and after being thrown out, he was allowed to treat himself, so he went to Laura’s restaurant to get her to whip him up something tasty.

As it is, she put a plate of pancakes in front of him, the way he likes them best, and keeps him company while he eats.

“And you don’t mind.” It’s not even a question, it’s a statement. “I thought you said you had this agreement--”

Derek starts regretting telling her about his sex life. “We do,” he says, scrubs a hand over his face. “I think he got lost in the moment or something.”

“But you don’t mind,” Laura says again, eyes placed on him, scrutinizing in a way Derek doesn’t like. “You hate hickeys, Derek. You hate having them, and you hate giving them to other people.”

He refuses to say anything.

Laura kinks an eyebrow. “You chew like a cow when you’re offended, did anyone ever tell you that?”

Derek gives her his best Fuck Off Smile, and Laura shrugs. “I’m just saying. You’re falling.”

He’s quiet for a moment, stares at his pancakes and ponders his life choices. “I’ve already fallen,” he admits then, flicks his eyes up to look at his sister.

There’s a crease between her brows, but she doesn’t appear to be particularly surprised. She leans on her elbows, puts her chin top of her folded hands, contemplative line around her mouth as she watches him.

“What about him?” she finally asks.

“He doesn’t--he isn’t--” Derek sucks in a breath. “We’re just screwing.”

“Not anymore, you’re not.” Laura’s gazing at him intently.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Laura reaches out to pat his hand with a sympathetic expression on her face. “Find out if he feels the same way, and if not...walk away.”

It’s that easy.

~

Except it’s not that easy. Stiles snapchats him a picture of his dripping dick, and Derek trips over himself getting over to his place as fast as possible. He lets him stay over after they screw each other senseless, curls up against Derek’s side and tucks his face against the crook of his neck; but whenever he wants to ask Stiles out, the words get stuck in his throat, and he leaves with Stiles slapping his butt enthusiastically.

They keep ending up at Stiles’ place, and Derek doesn’t mind, not really, except it kinda feels like he’s being bootycalled. But Stiles’ mouth is hot against his skin, nipping and biting, whispering how good Derek feels, how good he makes Stiles feel, how much he loves this, and Derek forgets everything else; Stiles the sole center of his attention.

It’s the third time this week alone that Derek’s stayed over at Stiles’, and he’s feeling a little brave.

Derek tries to smoothe out the wrinkles in his shirt, unsuccessfully. There’s a tear in the seam from where Stiles ripped a little too enthusiastically to get him out of his clothes last night; Derek picks at it. He adjusts his briefs, wrinkles his nose at the patch he’s left there, because Stiles got him straining and dripping wet without touching his dick for way too long. He definitely has to shower again once he gets home.

“I think I should start leaving spare clothes here,” he says as he steps into his pants, and Stiles freezes entirely mid-movement.

“Why?” Stiles eyes sweep up Derek’s frame, accessing.

Derek’s heart sinks, so he takes a breath, shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance. “It’s just--I don’t only look like I’m doing a walk of shame, I also feel like it.”

Stiles stares at him with an expression on his face Derek can’t decipher. He shakes himself out of it then, walks over to his desk, with his back to Derek. Stiles is shirtless, khakis low on his hips, and Derek watches the play of muscles on his back; admires the way Stiles’ pale skin looks in the sunlight that filters through the windows. There’s a path of moles traveling all the way from his right shoulder down to the dimples above his ass; a path Derek’s followed often enough with his tongue.

Stiles walks up to him, places a Burger King crown on his head and pulls Derek in by the collar of his shirt to drop a kiss on his nose. “Then you should consider that you’ve been the best sex I’ve ever had, and you should take that walk of shame with pride,” he says with a cocky smirk.

Derek takes that as a no on leaving spare clothes. Stiles kisses him goodbye, deep, with a sense of finality that makes Derek’s heart sink.

He gets a lot sympathetic nods from the construction workers as he passes them, and it’s both frustrating and soothing. There’s a lump in his throat that just won’t go away, no matter how often he tries to swallow.

Guess it’s time to walk away, he texts Laura on his way home, feels oddly hollow and alone.

~

Heartache is a bitch. Laura spends a day lying next to him in bed, and Derek decidedly keeps his mind blank.

~

He shouldn’t drink alone. Well, technically, he didn’t drink alone, because Erica is on the other end of the video call, so Derek’s not actually getting smashed all by himself.

“He’s just so--and I’m so--”

“He’s a moron, and you’re a love-struck failboat,” Erica says, one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows lifting. “Stop drinking.”

Derek knocks back another shot of tequila, sucks on a piece of lemon and thinks of Stiles sucking his dick.

“But he’s just so--”

“Moronic.”

“--swell.”

“Oh god, ‘swell’, really? You have to stop it with the tequila, Derek, it messes with your head.”

“I just want to fucking leave my clothes at his place, and, y’know, be his boyfriend, not his booty call,” Derek mutters against the rim of his shot glass, pours another round before chugging it down. “I don’t wanna take my walk of shame with pride.”

“You wanna take your walk of shame in tears?”

Derek levels Erica with a look. “No, I don’t wanna there to be any more walks of shame.”

Erica sighs deeply, rolls a strand of hair around her finger while she considers him. “Well, there haven’t been any of those in two weeks now, so mission accomplished.”

He frowns at her, disapproving, and Erica flashes back a smile, which--rude. When he first started sleeping with Stiles, there’d been a look in her eyes, worried, but she’d not said anything. But the longer the thing with Stiles went on, the more she kept telling him to watch out for himself, be careful, to not lose himself to someone who might not reciprocate.

“I have to pee, I’ll be right back,” Erica informs him, disappears, and Derek’s left to stare at the back of her chair.

He drinks another shot, the fierce ache in his chest numbed by the alcohol. There’s an idea forming in his head, and Derek’s up and gone before he even knows it.

~

Stiles opens the door in a ratty shirt and a pair of boxers, bleary-eyed, hair smoothed down flat over his scalp on one side, and sticking out into every direction on the other. The crease between his eyebrows make him looked deeply annoyed, sleepy, but annoyed.

“I want to leave my clothes here,” Derek says without preamble, looks at Stiles over the pile of randomly chosen pieces of clothing from his closet. “I want to--I wanna have spare clothes at your place.”

Stiles’ eyes wander over the pile of clothes in Derek’s arm up to his face. There’s a soft line around his mouth that hasn’t been there before, a tender expression in his eyes; Derek tracks the easy slope of his shoulder.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly, and takes a step back to let Derek sway inside.

~

Derek jerks awake, a dull pounding in his head and a stale taste in his mouth. He feels like shit. God damn tequila. He knows better.

Bright morning light filters through the windows, illuminating dust motes floating through the air. Slowly, Derek takes in his surroundings; recognizes the couch he’s occupying, the living room he’s in: he’s still at Stiles’ place. The memories from last night come back to him, the tequila, the video call with Erica, Derek collecting clothes and practically dumping them on Stiles. But most importantly: he remembers that Stiles said yes. He agreed.

It’s a little sad that the exhilaration surging through him makes him feel sick.

He hears soft rustling sounds next to him, and Derek turns his head to look, finds Stiles sitting across from him, neatly folding familiar clothes. When he notices Derek’s up, their eyes meet before a sweet smiles stretches over Stiles’ features, making Derek’s heart lurch and pound hard against his ribs.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks, looking up at him.

Derek ponders the question for a minute. “Pretty damn good, actually.”

“Yeah?” His smile turns a little mean. “How about a greasy piece of pizza right now?”

Derek makes a face, stomach turning at the mere thought, and Stiles snickers as he puts a neatly folded shirt on the table.

“What are you doing?” Derek sits up slowly, his whole body protesting.

“Well, turns out that pile of stuff doesn’t fit into the drawer if I just shove it in like that, and even though you look ridiculously hot when you’re all rumpled, it’s probably better to fold it all up,” Stiles says, corner of his mouth quirking up. He smoothes out the legs of a pair of pants.

Derek stares at him, awestruck. “You gave me a drawer?”

Stiles shrugs, smiles sheepishly as his eyes flick up to meet Derek’s again. “I gave you my Burger King crown.”

Derek’s heart is suddenly lodged in his throat, warmth spreading through every inch of his body as Stiles sends him another smile, small and soft. He heaves out a breath, feels stupidly giddy, but it makes him forget his nausea for a moment as he gets up from the couch to go over to Stiles.

He sits back down and leans in to press a dry kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth. A blinding smile spreads across Stiles’ face; Derek could look at him forever.

They don’t get to do anything for half the day, because after the initial happy wave, Derek feels miserable; hangs around Stiles’ bathroom for the better part of the morning. At least the construction workers give him thumbs-ups when he walks past them later when he leaves to get a spare toothbrush.

[infernaleikon]

surprise chapter update 🎉

wip wednesday indeed. chapter 2 of the fake married obikin au is up!

[infernaleikon]

oooh, what about The Moment in the fashion au where Anakin gets his makeover and obi is just. stunned speechless. bonus points for padme in that au!

soooooo, this has taken me an age and a half. it's not really a "makeover" tbh but i hope you like it anyway!!

this is also my first fill for my obikin bingo card, for the "office au" @obikin-events.

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editor-in-chief obi-wan and assistant anakin | (4.2k)

Obi-Wan scowls at his watch as he makes his way through the office space. He swallows down the groan that’s been building up in his chest, refusing to let his growing irritation and impatience echo around him. There is no need to involve any of the staff in his souring mood. It’s not like any of them can do anything about it, anyway. The only who can is, incidentally, also the one who brought it on.

Anakin was supposed to go over the budget report with him thirty minutes ago. Obi-Wan is used to Anakin being a bit liberal in interpreting set appointments between them but he’s never actually been this late to any of them before. And whenever something had come up, he’d notified Obi-Wan in time, and vice versa.

Now, Obi-Wan can’t even reach him because Anakin—uncharacteristically—left both his tablet and phone, and his headset at his desk. He’s not answering his personal phone either. And he’s nowhere to be found.

Obi-Wan exhales deeply. It’s been a long day and the cursed budget report is the last thing he wants to do, but it’s also the last thing he has to do today before he can go home. The thing remains the bane of his existence and the only thing—the only one—who gets him through it is Anakin.

It’s not like Obi-Wan can’t go through the report alone. He has plenty of times until—

He smooths out his cuff.

—until one day Anakin had noticed how tedious Obi-Wan found it and joined him to get through it faster, presumably. Since then, it’s become something like a ritual, a pocket of time just for them: Anakin always blocks off more time than they would really need if they worked through it diligently. Except their conversations always drift off to other topics, growing into discussions about this thing or that, before they’d return to the task at hand.

It’s Obi-Wan’s guilty pleasure. He rather selfishly has not yet told Anakin that it’s not part of his job to—well, to basically hold Obi-Wan’s hand while he’s suffering through the budget report. For all that they see each other every day and spend so much time together, it’s rarely just the two of them and even rarer still a conversation that doesn’t revolve around some issue concerning the magazine.

Obi-Wan has quickly learned that he quite likes having Anakin’s undivided attention. And their budget report meetings give him just that.

So it’s not that he can’t do it by himself. It’s that he doesn’t want to.

It’s also that Anakin was supposed to grab the report.

Obi-Wan is just about to resign himself to a long night at the office when he hears Anakin’s laughter as he passes the Closet. The sound skitters down his spine in a pleasant tingle. A woman’s answering laugh joins Anakin’s.

Irritation bubbles in Obi-Wan’s gut. Anakin was supposed to meet him a half hour ago. Instead, he’s in the Closet doing—something. With someone.

At least he’s not in the utility closet, a treacherous little voice in his head soothes.

Taking a deep breath in, Obi-Wan pushes through the glass doors of the Closet.

The admonishment dies on his tongue the second he rounds one of the clothes racks and spots Anakin standing in the middle of the dressing area.

“No, no, no,” the petite woman standing right in front of him is saying, words catching on a laugh. She reaches up and undoes the first few buttons of the pale blue dress shirt Anakin’s donning. Her fingers graze the skin of Anakin’s throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple is visible even from where Obi-Wan is standing. “You don’t want to look like a stuck up econ major.”

Anakin laughs. “Maybe stuck up econ major is exactly my style,” he says as he tips his head down to look at her.

A snort makes Obi-Wan turn his head. Aayla is stretching on one of the chaise lounges. “No self-respecting econ major would be caught dead wearing what you usually wear.”

“She’s right,” the woman in front of Anakin says as he starts rolling up one of his sleeves.

Obi-Wan recognizes her. Padmé Amidala, a young, rapidly rising politician, who’s the subject of their coming issue’s editorial. Obi-Wan had met with her a few days ago to talk about some details, and she’d been slated for a dress rehearsal today. It would explain why she’s here.

And why Anakin got distracted and forgot about the budget report. He’s been mooning over her since the first time she stepped foot in the building.

Obi-Wan ignores the tight-cold-hot feeling behind his ribs.

“Fine, okay,” Anakin huffs with a small head shake and a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He rolls the other sleeve up to his elbow, exposing the sinewy stretch of his forearm. Obi-Wan’s mouth is suddenly dry. “It’s definitely not my style. I could do stuck up econ major, though. Stuck up econ majors couldn’t do me.”

Obi-Wan clears his throat and decidedly does not think about anyone doing Anakin.

Anakin’s eyes flicker up to meet his, and Obi-Wan can see the exact moment he realizes.

“Oh, shit,” Anakin says empathetically. “The budget report—”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows. “I’m glad you have not forgotten about it entirely. Though I suppose this…” Obi-Wan tips his head to indicate their surroundings, “is more entertaining.” It comes out more sardonic than he means it but Anakin’s slight wince, the way he ducks his head and passes a hand over the back of his neck, feels oddly satisfying.

“It’s my fault, actually,” Padmé interjects.

I’m sure it is.

She smiles apologetically at Obi-Wan. Her hand is on Anakin’s biceps as if to soothe him and she’s standing half in front of him, like she’s shielding Anakin from Obi-Wan. It’s a ridiculous thought, of course, but their proximity to one another grates on Obi-Wan’s nerves like few other things do.

He’s being irrational. It’s become an odd pattern.

“Please.” Obi-Wan waves her words away with a smile that feels fake. “You are far lovelier company than I am, I’m sure. It’s no wonder Anakin got sidetracked.”

Anakin scowls lightly, eyes darting from him to Padmé, and then to his feet, as if he’d been caught in something. A beautiful, rosy pink flush rises to his cheeks, the way it always does when Anakin is embarrassed or caught off guard.

Obi-Wan almost feels bad.

Almost.

Padmé steps away from Anakin then, revealing his full outfit. The pale blue button down is tucked into a perfectly fitting pair of black dress pants. Black suspenders with silver clasps run along his torso, emphasizing the lines of Anakin’s upper body. The clothes show off his trim waist and the width of his shoulders. The open collar that allows tantalizing glimpses of his clavicle and throat, and the rolled up sleeves make him look casual with an almost understated, effortless elegance, similar to and yet wildly different from Anakin’s usual style.

Obi-Wan’s mouth is suddenly as dry as the Tatooine deserts.

Anakin spreads his arms a little. When he meets Obi-Wan’s gaze there’s something akin to a challenge in the upward tilt of his chin, but his eyes keep fluttering away and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, the dusky blush still faint on his cheeks.

“Doesn’t he look fantastic?” Padmé asks with a little, excited clap of her hands.

Obi-Wan tries to gather spit in his mouth to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You look―”

A few things cross his mind none of which he can utter in a professional environment without getting slammed with a sexual harassment case, rightfully so.

“Dashing,” he finishes, rather lamely, he supposes. Dashing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Anakin rolls his eyes at him but his flush darkens a bit. “Please rein in the compliments.”

“I can hardly contain myself,” Obi-Wan returns with a wry smile. His mouth still feels dry.

“It is quite a glow-up,” Aayla chimes in as she sits up, crossing her legs at the ankles. She grins at Anakin good-naturedly before propping her chin on her palm. “You don’t look like a dumpster racoon anymore.”

“Yeah?” Anakin says and raises his brows at her. “What do I look like now, then?”

Aayla tilts her head from side to side as if to ponder. “Like a regular racoon,” she decides with a shit-eating smirk. “Still a pest.”

Obi-Wan sees Anakin bristle and Aayla’s smirk widen. They squabble like siblings, and Anakin always rises so easily to her bait. It’s as entertaining as it is exasperating, at times.

“May I ask what brought this… makeover on?” he asks before the two of them can really get into it.

“Oh, I asked about Anakin’s wardrobe choices and when he said that he’s embarrassed about working here, I asked him to show me how he’d dress otherwise,” Padmé answers. She’s made her way over to the shoe rack, probably to pick out a fitting pair for Anakin’s outfit.

Obi-Wan barely registers it, though. He glances at Anakin. “You’re embarrassed working here?”

“No!” Anakin says hastily. His gaze skitters away as he turns and slips on his sneakers.

“Oh,” Padmé says again. “No, that’s not―”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to hear Padmé’s explanation, though. He wants to hear Anakin’s. But Anakin is busy bustling around to collect his own clothes. He grabs the binder with the budget report before straightening. His eyes don’t meet Obi-Wan’s eyes once.

“I’ll bring back the clothes later,” Anakin says over his shoulder to Aayla. He nods at Padmé and then beelines for the door as if someone was chasing him.

“He’s not―” Padmé starts again when Obi-Wan turns to say his goodbyes but stops, wincing. He smiles at her, and it feels just as fake as before.

“Have a nice evening,” he says instead of waiting for a more detailed explanation, and leaves.

Anakin is already in his office when Obi-Wan gets there. He’s moving around the room as if hounded by something, all jerky motions and hasty gestures while he gathers pens, colored sticky notes, and other stationary they might need.

Obi-Wan gives himself a moment to watch him, take him in with the changed clothes, and how he looks in this space now.

Anakin is striking. He’s always been―Obi-Wan knew that boy was trouble from the first moment they met. The clothes have never taken anything away from Anakin’s odd charisma, have never made him less beautiful. And yet, there’s a subtle change to him now, in this new attire. Obi-Wan is certain he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t worked closely with Anakin every day, and even so it’s hard to pin down exactly.

He looks, inexplicably, as if part of him has been revealed.

A number of questions rattle around in Obi-Wan’s skull, one more pressing than the other, and all just as desperate and anxious. Something in him wildly roars at the thought that Anakin is embarrassed working at Jedi, and it begs him to ask, to implore, to find a way to make Anakin comfortable. Because, that part of him says, if he’s embarrassed, it’s only a matter of time before he leaves.

Obi-Wan swallows every question that threatens to fall off the tip of his tongue. It’s not his place to pry into something that’s clearly personal and private. Especially as Anakin’s boss.

“Anakin,” he says gently.

Anakin barely glances up before his gaze skitters away again. “I’ll order some food from Dex’s and then we can get started on the report.”

“It’s late,” Obi-Wan reminds him. Outside, the approaching evening casts the facades of the highrise buildings in the first blue hues of the night. “There’s no need for you to stay. Go home.”

“No. I know you’re going to sit here and go through this thing until it’s done,” Anakin says, dropping the collected items on the low table in front of the couch.

“Well, yes―”

“Yes, and it’s my fault that you have to stay late, so I’ll help you get it done faster,” Anakin argues as he moves back to Obi-Wan’s desk.

Obi-Wan smooths a hand over his beard. Anakin always works doggedly to fix mistakes he thinks he’s made, often with such obstinate insistence that he runs himself ragged in an attempt to prove―something. It has blown up in his face on occasion and created―not a problem, per se, rather―a…situation that Obi-Wan has needed to fix. Anakin’s red face and clenched jaw has always set his teeth on edge in these moments but he still doesn’t understand how to help him…or what even makes Anakin react to perceived mistakes the way he does.

“That’s very kind of you,” Obi-Wan starts. “But I can’t ask you to stay late to do this. It’s not part of your job.”

He sees Anakin’s jaw work as he stares at a point between his hands on the desk. With a deep inhale, Anakin says, “I’m your assistant. It’s right there in my job title that I’m here to assist you.” Anakin meets his eyes now with a stubborn set to his mouth.

Obi-Wan barely manages to bite back a groan.

“Besides,” Anakin adds and grabs the phone, already dialing, “I wouldn’t get free food if I went home now.”

Before Obi-Wan can say anything, the person on the other end picks up and Anakin gives them the order. He rattles it off smoothly, getting everything Obi-Wan would order from Dex’s for himself, and it makes something hot pour through Obi-Wan’s ribcage. Obi-Wan allows himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of its warmth spreading through his body.

“Just don’t leave stains on the pages or Jocasta will have my head,” he huffs after Anakin’s hung up the phone.

Anakin grins at him like he’s going to attempt just that.

An hour later they’re—uncharacteristically—almost done with the task at hand and in a—more or less surprising—turn of events, it’s not the report that has Obi-Wan clinging to the last, gossamer-thin shred of his sanity.

Anakin is walking up and down in front of the couch table and gesturing as he talks, and Obi-Wan has found himself practically on eye-level with his ass. And for the first time since Obi-Wan has known Anakin, his ass is not covered by a plaid shirt or lost in shapeless, baggy pants.

The black dress pants fit Anakin like a glove, accentuating his waist and hugging his ass and thighs nicely. Obi-Wan definitely doesn’t think about how firm and biteable they look.

The sleeves of the dress shirt wrap neatly around his biceps and the fabric stretches across his shoulders whenever Anakin gestures wildly. It’s not tight by any measure but it’s perfectly fitted to the planes of his torso. Obi-Wan hasn’t thought of Anakin as lanky, really, but his usual wardrobe does a good job at hiding his frame, his build, and while Obi-Wan can’t say he’s surprised by Anakin’s actual physique, he’s…enticed. Inappropriately so.

It doesn’t help that the pale blue of the shirt brings out his eyes and the warm tones of his skin.

It’s impossible to look away from him.

So, really, it’s all of Anakin that has Obi-Wan keeping a white-knuckled grip on his composure.

“Okay—what?” Anakin snaps. He halts his pacing and crosses his arms over his chest defensively. Obi-Wan tries—and fails—not to notice how the sleeves stretch around the flex of his biceps.

Obi-Wan lifts his gaze from Anakin’s arms to meet his eyes. Smoothing his face into a mask of mild confusion, he says, “Pardon?”

Anakin looks at him like he’s calling bullshit. “You’ve been staring at me the way you stare at—at models or mockups or―or photoshoots that you don’t like,” he accuses, shoulders rising minisculely. The furrow between his eyebrows deepens with his frown but the line of his mouth looks―unhappy. “So, what is it? Do you not like the outfit?”

“Apologies,” Obi-Wan says. Anakin scowls and drops his gaze to stare at the low table. His arms remain crossed, however, in a manner that appears significantly like he’s trying to shield himself. Obi-Wan winces inwardly and tries again. “I apologize, Anakin. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Anakin quirks a brow and shrugs. “You didn’t,” he says, full of false bravado, as he raises his eyes again without meeting Obi-Wan’s, instead letting his gaze drift to look outside the windows.

Obi-Wan takes in his profile: the barely perceptible downwards slant of the corner of his mouth, the tension in jaw, the slight furrow of his brows. Anakin rarely shows discomfort or soft vulnerability, though he’s open with his other—loud, bold, deep—emotions.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan implores softly. He waits until Anakin, with some reluctant hesitance, turns to meet his eyes. “I do like the outfit. I was looking―or staring, I suppose―because you look―”

“Like a fraud?” The tone of his words drips mocking self-deprecation.

Obi-Wan bites back a sharp rebuke. “Comfortable,” he finishes, ignoring Anakin’s mocking words. “Like you’re comfortable in your own skin. In a way you haven’t been before.”

Anakin blinks at him.

“It suits you,” Obi-Wan adds, and then, “Both the outfit and the look.”

Anakin dips his head but it barely hides the soft pink dusting his cheeks. When he looks back up, there’s a stubborn little tilt to his chin. “You should really work on your facial expressions,” he huffs half-heartedly.

“Apologies,” Obi-Wan says again, trying to stifle the grin tugging at his mouth. “Would it help if I told you that whatever it is you saw on my face was awe?”

Anakin’s arms drop from their defensive position across his chest as he turns to fully face Obi-Wan, the color on his cheeks turning into a rich, dusky pink. He looks so wonderfully flabbergasted and so beautifully pleased at the same time that Obi-Wan very nearly coos.

(Gods, he’s such a sucker.)

For a moment, Anakin dips his eyes down with a proud little smile. He shakes himself out of it when he looks up again. “Guess I have to pay more attention to your face, then,” he muses and his brows crinkle as his gaze sweeps over Obi-Wan.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan’s stomach, stupidly, flips.

Anakin’s shoulders rise lightly. “Well, I do have to know what you think, and I thought I was on top of your face already—” He stops abruptly and his flush extends all the way down his throat now, past his collarbones, and disappears under the fabric of the shirt. “Facial expressions! On top of your facial expressions! Because I’ve been watching you so closely—” Anakin stops again, face scrunching, before he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a brief moment.

He could probably illuminate the office all by himself if the lights weren’t already turned on.

Obi-Wan’s stomach has gone from a flip to somersaults even though he knows Anakin is talking about being observant and attentive. It’s one of the things Anakin had told him on Obi-Wan’s first day: that he needed to know what he was thinking so he could help Obi-Wan in the best possible way.

Obi-Wan’s stomach just hasn’t gotten the message yet.

Obi-Wan clears his throat lightly. “I appreciate your dedication…to my face,” he says, trying for teasing, and breathes a sigh of relief when his voice doesn’t come out strangled.

Anakin makes high-pitched noise. He’s still steadily glowing crimson but he rolls his eyes. “You suck,” he says, with feeling, but there’s a slight wheeze in his tone.

“Can’t say that I don’t.” It falls from his mouth before he even realizes what he’s saying, but his own mortification and Anakin’s utterly gobsmacked face drive regret through him like a lance. “I’m sorry, Anakin,” he quickly adds, just as heat rises into his own cheeks. “That was inappropriate. I apologize.”

“Okay.” Anakin’s voice comes out like a croak and he clears his throat once, twice. “Thanks. I mean—” He rubs his palms over his thighs. “Yeah. It’s—okay.”

There’s a beat of silence during which Obi-Wan feels pinpricks of anxiety prattling along his skin, regret and discomfort twisting in his gut.

A thought strikes him then, and suddenly, he needs to know. “Is this why you’re uncomfortable working here?”

“What?” Anakin seems adorably confused before his expression morphs into one of alarm. “No. I’m not—” He sucks in a breath. “I’m not uncomfortable or embarrassed working here.”

Obi-Wan frowns, unconvinced, but something within him unspools nevertheless. Anakin sits back down on the couch, half turned towards him, with one leg tucked under himself. He sighs and runs a hand through his messy curls, tangling his fingers in the soft-looking strands, and then scrubs it, almost furiously, over the back of his head for a second.

Regret lances through Obi-Wan once again. “I’m sorry, Anakin, you don’t have to answer it. It’s not my place to ask.”

“I like working here,” Anakin says, so fiercely that it freezes Obi-Wan to the spot. “I like working with you.”

Oh, what a siren song.

Anakin drags in a deep breath and releases it in a long exhale. “A lot of people make fun of people who work in fashion and lifestyle. It’s still seen as—I don’t know—silly and unimportant, and people who work in this industry are regarded as airheads or vain, unless it’s someone really high up the food chain, like you.”

Obi-Wan turns towards him and sinks his shoulder against the backrest as he watches Anakin rub the pads of his fingers over the seam of his pants.

“There are enough people who just don’t take you seriously when they clock you as someone working in fashion or when you dress…differently. When you use fashion as a—a way of being who you are.” Anakin lifts a shoulder as he frowns at his hands. “So, I just, um, say I don’t care about it.”

It, Obi-Wan realizes, means more than one thing.

“People make assumptions all day long and I can’t stop anyone from doing that but—well, I guess, I can. Not play into their hands at least,” Anakin continues. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “And besides, you know, there’s more pressing stuff like housing and food and since I don’t like sharing either, fashion is—it’s—just a non-issue by necessity. Also, I am firmly against fast fashion, as you can see.” He begins motioning down himself but aborts not even mid-way through. “Well, not right now but tomorrow for sure.”

Anakin sucks in a breath through his teeth and lets his shoulders slump before he looks up to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze. There’s something akin to a challenge in his eyes, defiant and defensive and ready to strike, as if he’s waiting for Obi-Wan to pass judgment on him. But that soft, vulnerable part of him remains exposed: a glimpse of a part of Anakin that’s so delicate he rarely allows anyone to see.

And he trusts Obi-Wan with it.

The weight of it is—immeasurable.

Obi-Wan hums. “I do have to say I am quite surprised that someone as brazen as you pays any mind to the opinions of others,” he points out with a wry smile, keeping his tone jovial. “May I advise finding new friends if yours are judging you for expressing yourself?”

“How have I ever not thought of that before?” Anakin scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Guess I am too brazen.”

Ah. Wrong approach, then.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, softening his voice, “you’re exceptional at what you do. I wouldn’t get half of the things done in a day if it weren’t for you covering my back. Do you know how many people have envied me for my ‘feisty assistant’?”

Anakin scowls at his hands. “How many?” He sounds as if he can’t help himself but ask.

Obi-Wan curls his lips in a smile. “I’ve lost track, to be quite honest, but I wager you do come up in conversation at least once a week.”

“Oh.” It’s a soft little thing, full of surprise and pride. Anakin snaps his eyes up at him and purses his lips like he’s trying to keep from smiling. He rubs a hand over his neck.

“I know your value, Anakin,” Obi-Wan adds, imbuing his voice with conviction, with affection. “And it’s got absolutely nothing to do with what you wear, but I see the way you carry yourself in these clothes. Don’t let the ignorant assumptions of strangers dictate how you express yourself. Don’t make yourself smaller for anyone.”

Clearing his throat, Anakin ducks his head. His lashes fan over his cheeks as he blinks, casting long shadows along his skin.

He’s beautiful when he’s brash but there’s something inexplicably gorgeous about him when he’s bashful and flustered, a kind of unwitting vulnerability that speeds Obi-Wan’s heartbeat up and makes him curl his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to wrap a hand around the back of Anakin’s head to guide into the crook of his own neck.

Anakin clears his throat again. He smiles, small and happy. Obi-Wan answers with his own smile.

“I mean,” Anakin starts as he sits up a bit straighter and sharpens his edges, “duh.” He sounds insufferably cocky and though the softness has disappeared from his face, there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. “You would crash and burn without me.”

Obi-Wan sighs, faux put-upon, and Anakin grins.

Later, on his way out of the office, he makes a note to call HR in the morning.

[infernaleikon]

Obikin and either Q or K

Q - one missed call (2k)

*****************************************************************

As Anakin made his way through the room, people he hadn’t talked to yet—some he didn’t even recognize—stopped him. He found his hand grasped by honored guests and as they shook it in their warm, sweaty grips, they congratulated him with drunken cheer. Their caterwauling followed him as he untangled himself with laughs and shoulder pats, making for the open double doors leading out into the garden.

When he finally made his escape, dodging more damp hands, he slunk out onto the terrace. The night air was crisp and smelling of spring flowers, and it felt like a balm on his heated cheeks. He inhaled until his lungs felt too full to hold it all, and released the breath in a languid exhale. As he started walking, deeper into the garden, the noise from inside spilling out fell away until it was just a low hum in the background. The soft rustling of wind in spring-new leaves filled his ears. A too familiar urge itched under his skin.

It was the first quiet moment all day, and while Anakin didn’t mind the attention—enjoyed it, really—after a whole day of excitement, speeches, games, and well-wishes (and too warm hands), he needed a moment to himself. He thumbed at the new ring around his finger and the sensation of smooth metal was pleasing in a way he couldn’t even describe.

Anakin fished the cigarette and lighter he’d snagged from one of their guests from his pocket. He’d raised it halfway to his lips when he paused mid-air, doubt halting his hand. It had been months since he’d last smoked, the habit as good as beaten. He still remembered Obi-Wan’s face whenever they’d kissed after Anakin had had a cigarette.

“What?” Anakin had asked when Obi-Wan’s brows crinkled ever so slightly and he had drawn away from him. “You said you didn’t mind.”

“And I don’t,” Obi-Wan had insisted, and instead of going back to kissing him, just pressed his lips to Anakin’s knuckles.

Anakin scowled and grabbed at his wrist, pulling him back in. “Then what?” he had pressed, pushing Obi-Wan down on the sofa and straddling him to keep him from running away again.

Obi-Wan’s hands had settled warm and heavy on his hips. A soft chuckle had slipped from his mouth. “I prefer tasting you,” he’d said, a hand sliding up and to Anakin’s neck, fingers wrapping firmly around his nape before guiding him down to Obi-Wan’s face. “Smelling you,” he’d added as he nosed under Anakin’s chin. Raising his head to look at Anakin again, his slow smile had grown wider. “But I’ll take you any way,” he’d promised before slotting their mouths together for a kiss that had left Anakin’s toes curling.

Anakin caught himself smiling, and then lit the cigarette. Obi-Wan would forgive him for it. After all, it was a stressful day and he’d been so good for months.

As he took the first drag—the slow, warm curl of nicotine felt soothing, familiar—he dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Tension bled away from his shoulders and jaw; he hadn’t even realized how tense he was. No wonder, he supposed, he’d been on a tight schedule all day.

Anakin rolled out his shoulders and pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. Maybe he could play a round or two of Candycrush (without rage-quitting), or just scroll the social profiles of their friends who’d surely already posted pictures from the wedding.

He swiped away a few notifications, checked the two emails he’d received, tapped to see whose call he’d missed.

Anakin frowned at his phone. Obi-Wan had called him earlier… several times in short succession. Staring at the missed calls, Anakin tried to fathom what had made Obi-Wan try to reach him. He had no reason to.

“You’re smoking again.”

His head snapped up to the source of the voice and jerked his hand behind his back, like a child caught red-handed still trying to hide.

Obi-Wan was smiling wryly at him. The light of the lanterns along the garden path gleamed in his hair, caught in his eyes, and he looked so handsome in his dark blue suit.

“No,” Anakin said reflexively, his heart beating in his throat. He’d been good. “No, it’s just—”

“Relax, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said with a light chuckle. “It’s alright. I’m not here to berate you.”

Anakin eyed him warily, hackles rising with stress and anxiety as Obi-Wan stepped closer. He half expected a deep, disappointed sigh from him at the misstep, except there was only warmth in Obi-Wan’s eyes.

Obi-Wan grasped him firmly by the upper arms, the heat of his hands seeping through Anakin’s jacket, and closed the distance until they were less than an arm-width apart from each other. Anakin’s breath caught in his throat. He’d always felt trapped under Obi-Wan’s gaze—and strangely enough it had never been uncomfortable. Obi-Wan’s attention was intoxicating, and he never could get enough of it.

He felt like he could breathe again.

“Congratulations, Anakin.”

The words hung between them in total stillness, suspended in a moment of disbelief.

Anakin felt himself grow cold. “What?”

A nonsensical question and yet he couldn’t stop it from tumbling from his lips. He could feel his heart hammer against his ribs.

“On your wedding,” Obi-Wan clarified, as if Anakin had forgotten. “I wish you all the happiness in the world. Truly. May you have the marriage you’ve always wanted.”

The last bit of warmth slipped away when Obi-Wan withdrew his hands and put more distance between them again. Shivers ran up and down his spine. Anakin heard his own blood rush in his ears like an angry, roiling ocean.

A sudden burst of anger surged through him. Of course Obi-Wan would come here and act high and mighty, like he was somehow better than Anakin; like he was such a magnanimous do-gooder. Like he’d won.

He hadn’t. Anakin had. Anakin was the winner, and the fact that Obi-Wan was here, now, only proved it.

“You wouldn’t be here if you really did,” Anakin spat with far more venom than he’d anticipated.

A shadow passed over Obi-Wan’s handsome face as he slid his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. What looked like a display of casual carelessness Anakin knew to be practiced calm, an iron-grip on composure when there was something fierce raging on the inside.

For a fraction of a second, he looked like he wanted to snap back. Anakin wanted him to.

Instead, Obi-Wan winced. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you.” After a beat, “I’ll leave.”

“Why are you here?” Anakin asked before Obi-Wan could even turn away. The question tumbled from his mouth before he could stop it; before he even knew he wanted to ask. Needed to know. Anakin’s heart was pounding in his throat, surely loud enough that even Obi-Wan could hear. He didn’t know which answer he dreaded more.

Obi-Wan stroked a hand over his beard. The ghost of a sad smile flashed on his face. “I suppose I wanted to see you happy one last time.”

Anakin’s hands, fisted by his sides, trembled. He wanted it to be from anger.

“Well, then take a good, long look,” Anakin snapped. “Because I am happy.”

He was. He was happy. He was happy. Without Obi-Wan. Today was proof of that.

“I’m glad for it,” Obi-Wan said softly. His eyes were full of warmth, little crinkles at the corners as he smiled, with more affection than Anakin could handle. “It looks beautiful on you.”

Caught between fight and flight, Anakin stared at him. He felt himself crumble. He wanted to rage.

Something hot gathered behind his eyes.

“Goodbye.” Obi-Wan sounded… final. “Anakin.”

Obi-Wan had already turned around and started walking away when Anakin regained his voice. “Wait!” he shouted, stumbling after him. “We’re not done yet.”

There was a scowl on Obi-Wan’s face when he turned to face him but he stood, patient and stoic, as always.

Anakin’s lungs felt too small for his breaths. “You called me,” he said, words almost swallowed by the lack of air. “You called me, earlier, several times.”

Obi-Wan looked pained, regretful. It sent a pang through Anakin.

“Why?” Anakin asked, voice trembling with urgency. “Why did you call?”

Obi-Wan dropped his gaze, a deep furrow between his brows. “Anakin,” he murmured—begged, by the sound of his voice. He’d heard this tone once before.

“Tell me,” Anakin demanded. There was a wild thing charging behind his ribcage and he was sure if he didn’t reign it in, he’d go insane.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said again, slowly, pleading; almost sighing. Ah-na-kin. As if it was being torn from his throat, from the very depths of his soul.

“Tell me.”

Obi-Wan set his jaw, caught between frustration and desperation. It wasn’t a rare sight. Anakin had put that look on his face more than once, and Obi-Wan had always cracked when Anakin pushed just hard enough and on the right spot. And Anakin would push until he got what he wanted.

Anakin hissed, gaze snapping to his hand just as he dropped his long-forgotten cigarette. It had burned all the way down to the filter, abandoned. He ground the remains into the grass before bending down to pick up the stub. When he looked back up, Obi-Wan’s face had softened to something achingly adoring that it almost made Anakin’s knees buckle.

Obi-Wan had always disapproved, when they first met, of Anakin simply throwing the stubs to the ground, carelessly tossing them down and away, not wasting a second thought on it. He’d stopped doing it after he realized, and Obi-Wan kissed him—taste of nicotine and all—until Anakin had felt light-headed.

When their eyes met, Obi-Wan sighed, and Anakin knew he’d get his answer.

He looked like he was bracing himself before he said, quietly, “I wanted to tell you not to do it. Not to marry Padmé.”

Anakin’s heart skipped a beat, or several. He wasn’t sure.

“Why?” His voice was barely above a whisper, eyes glued to Obi-Wan’s face.

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled deeply, and then turned his gaze squarely on Anakin. “Because I was being selfish. Because… I made a mistake letting you go.”

Time moved faster as it stood still.

“Because you love me,” Anakin whispered, with certainty, with awe, with a wildly beating heart.

With regret. With guilt.

If he’d only thought to look at his phone when he had paced around his room, stalling, hoping Obi-Wan would show up.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said with a nod and a sad smile. “I do.”

Anakin thumbed his ring. It felt too smooth.

Obi-Wan’s eyes dropped to his hand and Anakin followed his gaze to his wedding band. He raised his hand, slowly twisting the ring with the fingers of his other until—

—until he’d twisted it off.

Anakin pocketed the ring before he strode towards Obi-Wan. He grabbed his lapels to pull him close. Their noses brushed, their breaths mingled. Obi-Wan’s eyes tracked him carefully but he didn’t resist. Quite the contrary, his hands fell to Anakin’s waist, warm and safe, pulling Anakin even closer.

“I wouldn’t have married her,” Anakin said into the scant space between them.

“You did.”

It wasn’t an accusation, Anakin knew, just a statement of facts, uttered with regret.

“I waited for you,” Anakin promised, bunching the fabric in his hands.

“I’m sorry I was too late,” Obi-Wan said. He took a deep breath and moved to draw away again.

Anakin stopped him by gripping him tighter, refusing to let go now.

“You’re here now,” he said, and he could barely recognize his own voice: breathy, hungry, happy.

Obi-Wan eluded him when Anakin leaned in to kiss him. His eyes searched Anakin’s face carefully, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Anakin thought he’d leave. That Obi-Wan’s morals would kick in.

And then, “I’m here now.”

Anakin smiled harder than he had all day when Obi-Wan’s lips caught his own.

[infernaleikon]

How about force bond shaneningans and dirty talking? Obi-Wan teasing Anakin while they are listening to a council report 🤭 And and maybe Anakin has a plug in him to keep him ready for Obi-Wan whenever they feel like it (and to keep Obi's cum inside) and Obi-Wan uses the force to move it while he tells him all the things he will do to Anakin as soon as they are alone

aaaaahhh!! sorry this took me so long, anon, and thank you for sending this in! <3 it's not really much talk but hopefully much dirty lol. it's a separate thing from the force bond shenanigans thing that's still sitting in my docs because the vibe is different, but i had a lot of fun writing this.

i hope you enjoy!

dirty force bond shenanigans | cw: exhibitionism & non-con voyeurism (on the side of the voyeurs) | 1.1k words

***************************************************

A sensation like a promise brushes Anakin’s mind. It smooths along his edges, soft and gentle like a caress but scorching, maddening like wet, hot kisses down his vertebrae, trilling with playful teases and little taunts. Anakin sucks in a sharp breath and digs his mech-fingers into his left wrist where he clasps it behind his back, feeling his muscles quiver with the force of his restraint.

“Anakin?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze is sharp with disapproval when Anakin lifts his eyes to look at him. He arches a brow once he has Anakin’s attention, a clear expectation written on his face.

Anakin swallows and wets his lips. The ghost of fingertips lingers beneath his chin before gliding down the length of his neck as their phantom touch gets firmer, more pressing, before rubbing over his nipples. He makes an involuntary sound even as he tries to bite down a moan.

A reprimand twists against his skin.

“I’m sorry, masters,” Anakin says, voice coarse and his throat tight. Clearing it doesn’t help. Praise skitters across his skin like heat, like blunt nails scratching lightly down the slope of his back, and before he can continue, something tight-wet-hot wraps around the head of his cock, squeezing with a flutter. His knees almost buckle. “The 501st—” A sensation like wetness sliding along his length. “—has secured the base. We’re—” Another squeeze. “—the 212th is helping—”

“Skywalker, are you alright?” Master Windu’s voice snaps Anakin back to attention, barely. When Anakin looks up, Mace is scowling at him.

Focus, a whisper in the Force tells him sternly, in time with the sensation of wet heat pressing around his cock head. It’s not a feeling, Anakin realizes, as something trickles through the Force at the back of his head, it’s a memory. And not one of his own.

“Yes, Master,” Anakin croaks and his voice catches on the roughness of his throat. Unbidden, he thinks of a hefty weight settling on his tongue, sliding between his parted lips, slipping into his throat with intoxicating pressure. His body trembles. “I apologize. The base—” Phantom fingers slide through his hair and curl at the back of his neck, pressing praise into his neck. “—has taken a lot of damage. The 212th is helping us get it operational again.”

Sweat beads at his hairline, on his back, and he’s sure there’s a mortifying flush high on his cheeks. The Force feels sticky with his arousal, thick and heavy as it sluggishly swirls around him, drawing his attention elsewhere. Heat throbs in his groin and the insides of his thighs sting where teeth marks mottle his skin. The ache cascades through him in pleasurable tingles.

Anakin locks his knees and straightens his shoulders as another tremor shakes him. His own precome slides down his leg, catching against the marks. He catches a whimper on his tongue.

A soft, approving hum passes his left ear and an echo of a chuckle resonates in the Force. Gently mocking whispers pass through the Force: needy, messy boy, they coo. They carry glowing affection nevertheless and it makes tears sting at the corners of Anakin’s eyes.

“Do you have an estimate of how long it will take you?” Mace asks. 

Concentrating on the briefing becomes harder and harder with each passing second. 

“Uh,” Anakin says, attempting to gather some focus, some last shreds of coherent thought. Standing still makes it more difficult; moving has always helped him to focus more clearly, but he fears if he moves now, he’ll lose the last thread of composure that he has. “I, uh—”

A spark like a rebuke snaps harshly against his ass. It’s deliberate: meant to punish while stoking the incandescent heat roiling within him. Anakin exhales roughly.

“Anakin, are you sure you are alright?” Mace’s voice is softer now, concern written in the way he wrinkles his forehead. 

Anakin clears his throat but his voice still comes out rough when he says, “Yes, I just need a few hours of sleep.” Despite the coarseness of his voice, the words come out steady.

Good boy. The praise envelopes him like an embrace.

“According to the first assessment,” Anakin starts again after drawing in a steadying breath, “it will likely take at least a few rotations. Maybe more if—”

The plug inside him twists slowly. Anakin snaps his mouth shut just in time before a moan escapes.

Firm pressure pushes the tip of the plug deeper, scraping it insistently over his prostate and making his cock spurt wetly against his leg. He squeezes around the toy in response and it only increases the pressure against his prostate.

“Maybe more if—” The pressure relents and Anakin relaxes minisculely. “—if we don’t have the necessary equipment to—” The bulbous end of the plug pulls at his rim, not enough to slip free entirely but enough to stretch his hole around it a little, smearing the come inside against the taut skin.

Such a needy boy with such a greedy little hole. Inexplicably, Anakin doesn’t hear the words. They rub along his consciousness like an affectionate tease, like the memory of when he’s spread out on some surface begging for something, anything. They’re the sensation of calloused fingers against his tender nipples, and the sting of a sharp slap against the meat of his ass.

Anakin swallows a groan. “—to complete all the needed repairs.”

Mild amusement rings in the Force. So desperate but in no hurry to end the briefing, apparently. It’s almost thoughtful, the way the sentiment curls around him, and Anakin feels a riotous part in him pipe up at that. As if it’s him who’s drawing this out unnecessarily. 

His indignation earns him another amused chuckle that brushes across his mind.

“We will keep you informed,” Anakin manages and his own voice sounds slightly strangled to him.

The council members nod their assent, and end the call.

Anakin trembles. He releases a shaky exhale before focusing his gaze on Obi-Wan, for the first time since he prompted him to speak.

Obi-Wan’s dark eyes are like dying twin stars, blazing with the all-consuming intensity of supernovae. A slow, sharp smile spreads across his face, dangerous and full of promise alike, and shatters the last of Anakin’s tenuous composure.

“Master,” Anakin whimpers, scratchy and thin.

Obi-Wan steps up to him, brushes a strand of hair from Anakin’s face with one hand and cups his chin softly with the other, thumb pushing lightly against his bottom lip. “Yes, darling.” His voice is thick with want, but dripping affection. A chorus of good boy and well done rings through the Force. “Anything you want.”

[infernaleikon]

this was inspired by one of the fictober prompts and by me watching too much ugly betty but think less ugly betty and more devil wears prada/the bold type

modern au with editor-in-chief!obi-wan and assistant!anakin

************************************

“Why the face?”

Obi-Wan looks up at the sound of Anakin’s voice and watches him wheel in a clothes rack carrying a variety of suits on it. Tucked between his ribs and his free arm are several folders and his tablet, and his long fingers cradle a pastry bag, a cup of tea and his phone. Slung over the arm that’s steering the rack is an opaque garment bag.

Obi-Wan almost forgets to respond. “What face?”

“The one you give me whenever you try to convince me that the food I’ve brought you isn’t making you cry from the heat,” Anakin says as he snaps the break on the rolls in place. He swiftly saunters over to Obi-Wan’s desk to drop off the files, the tea and the pastry, and then turns back around to hang the garment bag next to the other suits.

The tea smells unmistakably like Takodanan Green and when Obi-Wan peeks into the bag, he spots his favorite Eclair from Naboo’s. A delightful warmth spreads through his stomach and makes his heart flutter excitedly in his chest.

When he glances up, Anakin is looking at him with expectantly raised eyebrows.

“That happened once,” Obi-Wan points out, suppressing the shudder that threatens to wrack his body at the memory.

He watches a devious grin spread over Anakin’s full lips.

“It happened—” Anakin taps and swipes at his tablet before meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes again with a gaze full of mischief. “Thirteen times.”

“Are you keeping score?” Obi-Wan sounds scandalized and indignant even to his own ears, unable to keep the emotions out of his voice at being taken so utterly by surprise.

Anakin’s answering laugh, though, is the most beautiful sound in the world. His whole face is lit up by it, open and radiant and gorgeous. “It’s a blacklist,” he says once he’s done laughing.

“A blacklist,” Obi-Wan echoes faintly, staring in disbelief.

“Yeah, you know, a comprehensive list of food that makes you cry. I hand it out to the event planners whenever we’re organizing a bash.”

“You…give the event planners a list with food that makes me cry,” Obi-Wan repeats, again, like an idiot.

Anakin’s still grinning, though it looks soft and warm. “They don’t know that,”he explains with a fond roll of his eyes. “They ask for food restrictions and that’s what I give them.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. He’s the one who approves all final decisions on any event the magazine organizes, even the menus, and this is not something he’s ever considered or noticed.

Anakin rubs a hand over the back of his neck and ducks his head. “Besides, spicy food doesn’t belong at fashion events anyway. And the list helps me not to forget what not to get you again,” he adds with a shrug.

Something unfurls behind Obi-Wan’s ribs, huge and weighty, and he knows that if he looks at it too closely, it will swallow him whole. So he turns away from it, though the glowing, soft warmth of it spreads out into his fingertips anyway.

Obi-Wan clears his throat. “The board wants us to get an exclusive with the Oppress brothers,” he says, finally answering Anakin’s initial question. He supposes Anakin knows this already, considering the choice of tea and pastry he’s brought him. “They were very adamant.”

Anakin hums. “Why is that a problem?”

Obi-Wan fixes him with a look, swallowing back a groan and the exasperation that always seems to be at his fingertips whenever Anakin’s deliberately being an intolerable brat. Instead of replying right away, he reaches for the tea and gives himself time to ground himself by taking a sip.

Actually, he sees no need to deign it with an answer at all. He shouldn’t let himself be goaded by Anakin. He keeps nipping at his tea, letting the heat of it drip down his throat and curl through his body, somewhat settling the knot of irritation that’s been forming since the board meeting.

After a stretch of silence, Anakin makes an annoyed sounding little noise. Obi-Wan hides his smirk behind the cup.

Anakin throws his hands up and sends his phone flying in the air as he does. Going by the surprised look on his face, it’s unintentional, but he manages to snatch it back before it clatters to the ground. Obi-Wan has to take deep breaths to keep himself from laughing at the irritated look on his face.

“Why do you always have to create problems where there are none?” Anakin finally breaks, pocketing his phone and tightening his grip on the tablet. “Maul is obsessed with you—”

“He hates me,” Obi-Wan corrects mildly.

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Anakin quips loftily. “He will give you the exclusive because Jedi is his best option. You are his best option.”

Obi-Wan grips the paper cup hard enough it indents beneath his fingers and decidedly ignores the way Anakin’s emphasis on ‘you’ seems to ignite fireworks in his belly.

“I’m sure Maul begs to differ.”

Anakin rolls not only his eyes but his entire body. “This is a big deal for him and his brother. This whole thing can make them or break them. And if they go with anyone else because of your little feud, it is going to break them. And as stupid as he may be, that he knows.”

Obi-Wan considers Anakin’s words. He’s not surprised by Anakin’s insight, not really, not anymore, but it does catch him unexpectedly sometimes. “So what do you suggest I do?” he asks softly.

Anakin blinks, then shrugs, a defiant tilt to his chin. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you, old man?”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Obi-Wan shrugs lightly as well, folding his hands on his desk. “You clearly have an opinion. I’d like to hear it.”

“Just…be real with him. He and his brother went through something deeply traumatic, and people on the internet are already being disgusting about it. This is a very delicate issue and something intimately personal, and it touches on several different sensitive topics that Jedi has proven it can handle with great care and respect. That’s an established fact. There’s no other magazine out there that could give Maul and Savage’s story the weight and consideration it deserves.” Anakin shrugs again when he finishes, drumming the flat of the tablet against his thigh in an irregular pattern. “You make sure of that. You always do.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to argue that making sure sensitive topics are treated with respect is hardly something he implemented and made sure it was followed to a T, when Anakin sends him a glare, already expecting the argument. He snaps his mouth shut and leans back in his chair, letting the words settle between them.

“That’s wonderful advice,” Obi-Wan finally says, lacing his voice with warm approval. “Thank you, Anakin.”

Anakin exhales audibly, dipping his eyes down as a beautiful flush works its way into his cheeks. He shakes himself out of it quickly, clearing his throat, and steps up to the rack he’d rolled into Obi-Wan’s office.

“Now that that’s settled,” he starts, and his voice sounds a little rough, “Dolce & Gabbana sent over these suits for the Publisher’s Association Gala. Spoiler alert: they’re all boring and uninspired.”

Obi-Wan can’t help the smirk from forming on his lips. For all that Anakin keeps insisting he doesn’t care about fashion, he holds incredibly firm opinions.

Anakin pushes the hangers to one end of the rack in a clear dismissal. He pats the garment bag. “This is your suit.”

Obi-Wan blinks.

“I’ve confirmed your three o’clock with Bail Organa,” Anakin says, already moving to leave the office. “I’ll set up the meeting with Maul.”

Obi-Wan stares after him and then gets up to inspect the suit Anakin chose for him. Anakin chose a suit for him. “Yes, thank you, Anakin,” he says distractedly, and then, as he’s unzipping the bag, calls, “Who is the suit from?”

He gets the answer the same moment he sees, the cuts and lines and subtle details unmistakably—

“Plo Koon,” Anakin hollers from his desk outside Obi-Wan’s office.

Gingerly, Obi-Wan touches the fabric of the piece and wonders in speechless awe how Anakin managed to get his hands on a Plo Koon suit on short notice. He turns around to ask as much but Anakin’s already on the phone. When their eyes meet, he sends Obi-Wan a slight smile, and Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat.

“Has nobody warned you about me?” Anakin had asked when they’d met on Obi-Wan’s first day as editor-in-chief.

No, Obi-Wan thinks, not for the first time, nobody had. And still, nobody does.

[infernaleikon]

I am still thinking about your ugly Betty/devil wears Prada obikin headcanon and sighing dreamily about it. Can we get some more scenarios from that universe?? Maybe the first time they met? 🥺🥺🥺

oh, anon, you are so sweet!! thank you so much <333 here's their first meeting for you.

modern au with editor-in-chief!obi-wan and assistant!anakin (3.2k words)

*     *     * *     *     * *     *     *

The Jedi offices on the 36th floor of the Temple Publications building are bustling with life when Obi-Wan steps off the elevator. He regrets—again and not for the first time—that he hadn’t arranged to visit the Jedi offices before starting as editor-in-chief, but his presence in Stewjon had been required until the very end and it would’ve been a disservice to his employees to leave during such a critical time, even just for a few days.

It’s not an insurmountable problem, or even a grave one to begin with: Mace had instructed and informed everyone about when Obi-Wan would take over for him, and he’d assured him that his assistant would take good care of him.

“He’s not moving on with you?” Obi-Wan had asked, both surprised and relieved that he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of looking for a new assistant.

“He wasn’t amenable to the suggestion,” Mace had answered without elaborating.

It would’ve made Obi-Wan slightly suspicious if Mace hadn’t spoken highly of him before, promising he’d be leaving Obi-Wan in good hands.

Now, Obi-Wan checks today’s schedule on his phone. The first hour is reserved to sort out the most important issues upon his arrival. There’s a staff meeting scheduled right after and a board meeting after that, and then there are a couple of hours blocked off titled Walk Walk Fashion Baby which—he can only guess what that means but there’s no further info given, so he decides to circle back to that later.

The first block tells him to ‘find Anakin’ in bolded all caps and nothing more. Obi-Wan lifts his gaze from his phone and makes his way over to the reception to ask where he can—well—find Anakin.

There’s a man—a boy—a man, going by the width of his shoulders, standing at the reception counter. He stands out between the rest of the people around him, dressed plainly in a pair of well-worn looking jeans, old sneakers, a thin shirt that appears as if it has seen one too many washing cycles and shows off his collarbones almost indecently, and plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up exposing sinewy forearms. Leaning with his back against the counter and his elbows resting on its surface, he’s scrolling through his phone. Obi-Wan finds himself oddly enthralled by his unassuming elegance.

As Obi-Wan approaches, the man looks up and meets his gaze. The blue of his irises is almost startling as they fix on Obi-Wan. His hair curls around his ears, at his neck, nearly brushing his shoulders, and the fullness of his lips is dangerously inviting.

Obi-Wan lightly clears his throat and redirects his thoughts.

He must be a model, waiting for something or someone. There’s a prominent but narrow scar bisecting his right brow, skipping his eye and ending high on his cheekbone that Obi-Wan knows they’ll remove during edits and retouches but hopes, nevertheless, they won’t.

“Hello there,” he says once he reaches the man, and notes, senselessly, that the stranger is an inch or two taller. “You must be waiting for—” Obi-Wan doesn’t actually know who this stranger could be waiting for as he’s not familiar with Jedi’s stylists yet.

The man blinks at him, lips slightly parted, and Obi-Wan needs to not look at him for at least a minute. So he says, “Actually, let me take you to the Closet. I’m sure they’ll be able to get you sorted and settled.”

“Uh,” the model says with a slight quirk between his brows and a bemused expression on his face. Something flits across his face and then he rights himself, grabs the tablet and the papercup that sit by his elbow and says, “Thanks.”

Obi-Wan turns and—

He doesn’t actually know where the Closet is. And, a little voice in his head provides, he’s supposed to find Anakin, not wayward models that are probably scheduled to be taken care of anyway.

Well, he’s in it now. And there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the company of a pretty model.

Obi-Wan catches sight of the directory hanging on the wall beside the reception that urges him to go left for the Closet, and he’s thankful for the help, even though going left, as it turns out, isn’t much of a help when he finds several doors and hallways there.

He peers into the first door and finds a copy room. The model, when he glances back over his shoulder, is tapping away on his phone single-handedly and with impressive speed which is, in Obi-Wan’s opinion, quite a feat. He’s not a slow typer himself but if he has to do it with one hand only, he’s definitely nowhere near as quick.

It also means that he probably didn’t notice Obi-Wan striking out. Small mercies.

He looks up at Obi-Wan then and raises an eyebrow. “Something wrong?” he asks and tilts his head slightly to the side. It’s—endearing. Enticing. It shouldn’t draw focus to the column of his throat but it does.

Obi-Wan is not distracted by that. “Not at all.”

A woman rounds the corner with several garment bags in her hand and Obi-Wan peeks into the hallway she’s just exited to find that it ends in big double glass doors behind which, very clearly, is the Closet. He breathes an internal sigh of relief.

“I must apologize,” he says, catching the curious glance his companion throws him. “This is my first day. I’m not familiar with the layout of the offices yet.”

Obi-Wan holds one of the glass doors open for the model to pass. The man hums as he does, eyes catching on Obi-Wan’s, before they both step further into the sprawling room.

It’s not the first Closet Obi-Wan has been in but it’s by far the airiest with ceiling-to-floor windows and big mirrors, racks and racks with clothes from different designers, high shelves with shoes and glass cases with jewelry. There are some soft-looking lounges spread around the room.

“I’m actually supposed to be finding my assistant right now,” Obi-Wan says with a wry smile and pushes a hand through his hair.

The model fixes him with unreadable eyes. “Why aren’t you?”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his lungs. Why isn’t he, indeed.

Thankfully, he’s saved from answering that—or rather, trying to answer that—when a young woman slips out between two clothes racks. Her hair falls in two thick braids over her shoulders and for a moment, Obi-Wan is so captivated by the rich blue of her hair, that he forgets to greet her and introduce himself.

“Mr. Kenobi!” A smile spreads across her face as she sticks out her hand for him to shake. “Aayla Secura. I didn’t expect you until this afternoon.”

“Apologies,” he offers, startled, because there’s no appointment scheduled with her in his calendar. “Obi-Wan, please. I hope I’m not disrupting your schedule, I only meant to leave—” Obi-Wan falters, realizing he hasn’t even asked for the model’s name. “This model in your care.”

Aayla’s brows furrow as her gaze flickers from Obi-Wan to the man beside him. “He’s not—” She cuts herself off, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing him with a flat look. “Anakin.”

Obi-Wan blinks and turns to look at—Anakin, apparently. Who grins, unrepentant and devastating, as he gives Obi-Wan a tiny shrug and a wave.

“Hi,” Anakin says, and his eyes glint. “Sorry”—he doesn’t sound sorry at all—“you seemed so eager to help that I didn’t want to rain on your parade.”

Aayla snorts before Obi-Wan can even think to say anything. “You just did it so you can gloat about someone thinking you’re a model.”

Obi-Wan, inexplicably, cannot find it in him to be offended at being the butt of the joke because, well—anyone with working vision could attest that Anakin looks ethereally pretty enough to be a model. Actually, it is rather outrageous that he’s not one. Criminal, even.

“You knew who I was and you just let me bumble around?” is what he ends up saying, wincing inwardly.

“I believe in learning by doing,” Anakin says with another casual shrug and the look he gives Obi-Wan is utterly mischievous. “Besides, Aayla needed to see you anyway, so you helped me beat two birds with one stone.”

Obi-Wan is very fairly distracted by Anakin claiming he helped him.

Oh, this is dangerous.

“You must’ve driven Mace mad,” Obi-Wan comments, almost nonsensically. It’s a hard thing to unsettle Mace who is one of the calmest and coolest people Obi-Wan knows, pragmatic and patient and kind. Kind, indeed, as the most ambivalent thing he’d said about Anakin is that he has a tendency to do things his way and would occasionally go overboard.

Anakin smirks deviously. “I got a very deep sigh out of him once. It was better than any orgasm I’ve ever had.”

Poor boy. “That’s a shame.”

“No.” Anakin pouts. He pouts. “It was glorious.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says and kinks an eyebrow. “I meant your orgasms. They must not have been satisfying at all.”

It’s out before he can stop himself, and he can already see Anakin scheduling a course on sexual harrassment for him—if not getting him fired altogether.

Anakin splutters, a pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks. “They were fine,” he insists and scowls furiously.

Now that’s even sadder, but this time Obi-Wan has the presence of mind to keep that to himself. He’s a grown man, he’s an editor-in-chief and this is his first day; he cannott go around commenting on his employee’s—his assistant’s—poor sex life. Besides, Anakin’s definition of ‘fine’ could be ‘world-shattering’, who is Obi-Wan to tell?

(Except Anakin didn’t sound very convincing.)

(But Obi-Wan decidedly doesn’t dwell on that.)

Aayla clears her throat, and Obi-Wan startles. “Anakin’s right. I did need to see you today to get your size, so we can prepare some suits for you for the benefit on Friday.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says, grateful for the distraction, and turns to face Aayla. “Do you need to take my measurements?”

“That’s okay.” She smiles wryly. “I have an eye for sizes. But you do need to come back to try them on and we’ll make the adjustments then.”

Right. Aayla is a stylist, and Obi-Wan, apparently, is an idiot in the face of unreasonably beautiful assistants.

He takes a breath and a moment to gather himself. “Well, I know where the Closet is now,” he says with a pointed look at Anakin who ducks his head endearingly.

Obi-Wan agrees to drop by again tomorrow to try on some suits before he lets Anakin lead him back out into the office hallways.

Anakin offers him the cup he’s been carrying around. “Here’s your coffee.”

Obi-Wan blinks, and Anakin raises his eyebrows at him. He’s holding it out with a confidence that speaks of routine, which it probably is, but Obi-Wan doesn’t know the details of Mace and Anakin’s daily rapport.

“I drink tea,” Obi-Wan says after a beat too long.

“Perfect, because this is a Pumpkin Spice Latté with a triple espresso, two extra shots of pumpkin spice and full fat milk, and it’s for me.” Anakin says it like he’s trying to aggravate someone and grins like a happy kid before taking a big gulp.

“I can get my own drinks,” Obi-Wan says as Anakin steers him through the offices, making happy noises as he downs the latté. “You don’t need to bring me any.”

Anakin shrugs easily and tucks his tablet and phone under his arm. He pries the lid off the cup to swipe a finger through the foam that’s left behind inside and raises it to his mouth to lick it off.

It’s—obscene.

For a brief moment, Obi-Wan considers putting in for a new assistant but discards the thought as quickly as it came. He can’t punish Anakin for his own transgressions. Obi-Wan is a professional. Anakin is his employee. He’s—young. It would be absurd to entertain any sort of…fantasy.

Anakin leads him swiftly to his office: an open room with the same ceiling-to-floor windows as in the Closet that’s otherwise clean and minimalistic and looks like it’s been lifted straight from some joyless interior designer’s mind. He’s definitely going to make some changes.

When he looks over, he finds Anakin gazing at him with oddly appraising eyes, a smudge of foam at the corner of his bottom lip, and his hand twitches to reach out and wipe it away. Instead, Obi-Wan curls it into a loose fist and smiles. Anakin ducks his head again and his eyes flutter.

“You have some foam at the corner of your mouth,” Obi-Wan says.

“Oh.” Anakin wipes at his lips and brings his hand before his eyes, and then licks the remnants of foam away. “Thanks.”

Obi-Wan can only nod.

Anakin walks him through setting up all his accounts, connects his phone to the office Wi-Fi and instructs him on how the phones work. They go over the week’s schedule briefly while Anakin also outlines the current projects and possible issues that might arise. He ushers Obi-Wan to the first staff meeting and sits next to him the whole time, adding some comments here and there as each department introduces itself and what they’re currently working on.

After that, Anakin shows him to the conference room where his board meeting—and future board meetings—takes place. He doesn’t stay for that which Obi-Wan is almost disappointed about. But it’s a rather short introductory round where Mace—now a board member—and the rest of them welcome him to the magazine.

Anakin is waiting for him outside the conference room, tapping away at his tablet. He looks up when Obi-Wan approaches and the blue of his eyes is just as mesmerizing as it was the first time Obi-Wan saw it.

“That was shorter and nicer than I expected it would be,” Obi-Wan confesses in the elevator on their way down to the Jedi offices.

Anakin raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Obi-Wan smiles ruefully. “The ones I’m used to were more—combative.”

Anakin’s gaze is steady, and he hums. “The Temple board—they do manage and direct but the culture here is far more open and unconventional than anywhere else in the industry.”

He says it conversationally, casually, but there’s an undercurrent in his tone, something warm and appreciative. It makes Obi-Wan smile to himself. Anakin likes it here.

“No need for me to be anxious, then,” Obi-Wan notes.

Anakin looks back up at him with big eyes. “You were anxious?”

“A little bit.”

“Huh. It didn’t show at all.”

Obi-Wan smirks. “I was. On the inside.”

Anakin scowls fiercely at him. “Well, that won’t work. I’m not inside you, unfortunately.”

Obi-Wan only barely keeps himself from choking on absolutely nothing. “Pardon?”

When he looks over, Anakin is scowling down at his tablet with his lips pressed into a tight, thin line and a delicate, utterly delicious flush dusting his cheeks.

He clears his throat pointedly before meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes with a defiant little tilt of his chin. “I mean, I need to know what you’re thinking, so I can be of better help to you.”

“Would you like me to journal my thoughts?” Obi-Wan asks innocently and watches the blush deepen in time with Anakin’s eyes growing mutinous. He’s perhaps enjoying flustering him a bit more than is appropriate.

Anakin huffs. “If you can’t keep track of your thoughts otherwise, yes, please do.”

It almost startles a laugh out of Obi-Wan: the unexpected snide and the utter, well, disrespect are both delightful and, for Obi-Wan specifically, troublesome.

Pretty and sharp. Oh, this boy is dangerous.

Anakin leads him around the offices, shows him the photo studios, the differently themed break rooms and introduces him to some more people. He grows less huffy with each new area or person they meet and answers Obi-Wan’s question with a patience that Obi-Wan, truthfully, didn’t think he’d have.

Anakin, as it turns out, is full of surprises.

They’re on their way back to Obi-Wan’s office when Anakin suddenly curses, grabs his biceps and shoves him into the nearest room before following him and pulling the door firmly shut. It’s a tiny utility closet, as it turns out, with barely any room for one person, let alone two. Which is why he finds himself pressed up tightly with his back to Anakin’s chest and Anakin’s mouth perilously close to his cheek.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, questing, and Anakin’s hand around his biceps tightens a fraction.

“Sorry,” he mutters. His breath brushes across the side of Obi-Wan’s face. “There’s someone out there who you don’t need to meet today. Or, at all actually.”

“And you know that because—”

“Because I’m your assistant and it’s fucking Jabba, and he probably heard that you took over for Mace and thinks he can get his hooks into you.”

Obi-Wan frowns at a bottle of industrial bleach. “So you’re saying you don’t think I can deal with him myself?”

“I’m saying you shouldn’t have to deal with him now or any other time because Temple doesn’t do business with the Hutts,” Anakin insists. “And he knows that, theoretically. He’s just that stupid.”

“While I appreciate your—protectiveness, I assure you I can—”

Anakin shifts slightly behind him and Obi-Wan’s words die on his tongue.

“I don’t doubt your capability to deal with him, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says seriously against his ear. “Will you please just trust me that you really don’t want to do this today?”

Obi-Wan swallows and sucks in a breath. “I suppose,” he replies on the exhale, and tries not to relish in the delicious heat of Anakin at his back.

“I do like a good spooning,” Obi-Wan informs him lightly after a beat, even as his mouth dries out with incomprehensible velocity. “How’s that for sharing my thoughts?”

Anakin’s soft groan catches against the hair at his temple, and Obi-Wan feels a shiver skitter down his spine.

“That’s great,” Anakin answers, oddly strangled. “Just—I was about to tell you this before I saw Jabba. Don’t—uh—” He clears his throat and his voice drops. “This is, um—people come to this closet to fuck, usually. It’s the only room in the office that can be locked from the inside—even though most forget to do that, so don’t—don’t come here unless you want to get an eyeful or to—uh.”

“Fuck?” Obi-Wan supplies helpfully while his brain wonders how he, logistically, could fuck Anak—

He stops the thought from forming fully and takes a steadying breath when Anakin’s rough exhale burns across his skin.

“Yeah,” Anakin finally mutters low in his ear.

Obi-Wan thinks very hard about scrubbing dirty toilets with the bleach in front of him. “I’m not sure this is a—an appropriate topic for us,” he says then.

He needs boundaries if he wants to stay sane. And not be fired for sexual misconduct at the workplace because he couldn’t stop lusting after his obscenely pretty assistant.

“Sorry—I’m—I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t mean—” Anakin’s next breath comes in a stutter. “Please don’t fire me.”

“I’m not planning to, Anakin, relax,” Obi-Wan assures him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.” Anakin’s cheek brushes his ear. “Nobody’s warned you about me, have they?”

Obi-Wan can’t help the small laugh that escapes him. “No, certainly not.”

At least not in any way that could’ve prepared Obi-Wan in any way for the menace that Anakin Skywalker turned out to be.

“Sorry,” Anakin says again. “I’ll—I’ll be better.”

“There’s no need. You’re already doing so well, darling.” And it’s true, Obi-Wan has glimpsed enough of Anakin to know that, even without the memory of Mace’s reassurance.

But Anakin shudders against him, and—

Oh, this is going to be a challenge.

[infernaleikon]

“The witch.” Mace says it slowly, voice tinged with a dawning realization, and his mouth thins as his brows furrow in concern. “From your last mission. Did she do something to you?”

Obi-Wan strokes his beard, thinking back to the encounter with the witch. He had briefed the Council upon his arrival back at the Temple, holocron already safely stored away in its rightful place in the Archives. There hadn’t been much to report, really.

When Obi-Wan doesn’t immediately respond, Mace prompts, “You said she attacked you. What exactly did she do?”

Ice drips into Obi-Wan veins, slowly, inevitably, and something behind his ribs ripples and writhes. He lifts his gaze to meet Mace’s. A terrifying thought forms in his mind.

“She—” One of his hands splays over his sternum where the witch had placed hers. “I think she cursed me.”

A heavy silence settles around them and the air seems to grow tighter.

“Mention nothing of this you did, in your briefing,” Yoda points out. His eyes are thoughtful but there’s an edge to them that Obi-Wan has rarely seen directed at himself.

He winces. “I assumed—because I felt nothing within me or the Force, I thought she perished before she could finish the curse,” he says. It had felt as if it was of no importance, so he hadn’t mentioned it when he’d informed the Council about the outcome of the mission. Absently, he rubs at his chest. Perhaps he was—is—wrong in his assumption.

Mace pinches the bridge of his nose between his eyes and a deep sigh slips out of him. The disapproving look he sends Obi-Wan then makes him feel like a padawan again.

“Did she say anything to you?” Mace asks with a patience that’s entirely admirable. If Anakin were here, he would probably enjoy it. Under different circumstances.

Dread digs its claws into Obi-Wan’s skin, the ice in his veins spreads steadily through his limbs, and his throat is suddenly bone-dry. The witches’ voice rings in his head, echoing and otherworldly—

I shall have your greatest comfort.

OR; Obi-Wan gets himself cursed and makes it everyone’s, but mainly Anakin’s, problem.

[infernaleikon]

Anakin clears his throat, again. “So what is it then?” he asks, turning his head slightly to nod at the papers in front of Obi-Wan.

The furrow between Obi-Wan’s eyebrows reappears. He raises a sheet. “Is this—is this what you make in a month?” he asks carefully.

Anakin scowls a little and then turns to take a better look at the paper he’s holding up.

“Uh yeah,” he confirms. “Why?”

Anakin stares down at his hands for a moment. He’s painfully aware that he’s not making as much as he should, quite truthfully, but he’d needed a job straight out of college to help pay his mom’s medical bills. This firm had been the first one to offer him a contract with a yearly raise and decent benefits, so Anakin had taken it. It’s not like he hasn’t tried to find better paying jobs but every other one that—more often than not only marginally—paid better came with either non-existing benefits or other sucky stipulations.

So, money is—tight, to say the least. Anakin manages. He’s always been on a budget, so this isn’t new. But—

But.

Anakin hoped that getting a degree in engineering would allow him to make that little bit of extra cash to actually be comfortable and live, and have the credits to spare to help out his mom and Ahsoka if either of them ever needed it.

Whenever a month turns out to be financially harder than expected and Anakin finds himself mere seconds away rampaging through his apartment out of sheer frustrated anger, he reminds himself that this job does have upsides.

Well. Upside. Singular.

He met Obi-Wan.

So, he stayed. Stays.

Obi-Wan sighs, deep and incensed. “You should be making more.”

Anakin’s whole body warms at Obi-Wan’s indignation on his behalf. “It’s fine, really,” he offers but Obi-Wan shakes his head. Of course he does.

He looks up and meets Anakin’s eyes. A thoughtful expression passes over his face.

“Married people are paid significantly more,” he says then, slowly, looking at Anakin like he’s trying to solve a riddle.

Anakin stares, dumbstruck. “Huh.”

[infernaleikon]

Obi-Wan nearly puts his head in his hands at that. It’s a close call. Instead, he huffs and turns his attention away from Quinlan, eyes drifting automatically to find Anakin again. He’s aware he’s hopelessly exposing himself, but then again, it’s not like Quinlan doesn’t know already, and Anakin isn’t even looking at him, so he’s got nothing to lose.

The bottle comes to a stop, pointing, again, at Anakin.

Obi-Wan has nothing to lose. Except his sanity.

The girl whose turn it is blushes and giggles with her friends before meeting Anakin halfway. He grins as he crawls toward the center of the circle and she flutters her lashes, tilting her head to receive her kiss. What a hussy.

Anakin dips his head and presses his lips to hers briefly. It lasts entirely too long.

[infernaleikon]

such selfish prayers (and i can’t get enough) | fleshed out ficlet for this prompt | possessive obi-wan . corsets . virginity kink . breathplay | ao3.

*     *     *

Anakin’s breath stutters when he casts a glance over his shoulder at Obi-Wan. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are as dark and all-consuming as a black hole, sucking Obi-Wan in with terrifying ease and stripping him down to his very essence, leaving nothing but the truth between them.

“Can you—can you lace it tighter, please?” Anakin asks, voice rough as it catches on the words.

Obi-Wan stills his hands, the laces slipping between his fingers, and he holds Anakin’s gaze. “Are you sure?” he asks in turn and cups his ribs in his palms. “It’s tight already.”

Anakin nods without breaking eye contact. “Yes,” he says, barely more than a breath. In the Force, Anakin is as clear and open as the crystalline waters on Scarif’s beaches.

Obi-Wan squeezes his hands against his ribs for a moment, dropping his lips to the first knob of Anakin’s spine, and Anakin tips his head down with a pleased little sound.

Lacing Anakin into the corset is tantalizing. The muscles of his back and shoulders shift and flex as he holds on to the doorframe while Obi-Wan yanks the garment even tighter around his body. Anakin’s breath hitches audibly in his throat at every pull and sweet tendrils of pleasure swirl in the Force, sticky and heavy. Deep inhales become impossible with how snug the corset wraps around Anakin’s ribs, constricting his breath unyieldingly, but it only makes his pleasure taste sweeter, richer.

Obi-Wan wraps it around himself, soaks himself in it, and enjoys the way it licks at his spine. His fingers trail down the back of the corset once he’s finished lacing it and his cock throbs, hard and aching already, just from this. The desire in his blood leaves him feeling light-headed.

The unblemished white of the corset is a stark contrast to Anakin’s golden skin. It stokes the flames of the inferno that blazes in a deep pit within Obi-Wan: of something dark and possessive that rests at his core, incinerating, inextinguishable, insatiable. The need to lay claim to Anakin settles at the base of his skull even though he knows that Anakin is utterly his already; has been for far longer than he’d even realized, and that—that roars from inside the inferno like a Kadri’Ra dragon.

That first time Obi-Wan had spread out Anakin on his bed with steady hands, soft words and guilt-ridden thoughts that hadn’t been enough to make him stop, Anakin had confessed that Obi-Wan was his first; that he had always wanted Obi-Wan to be his first. And Obi-Wan had kissed him then, tasted those words on Anakin’s tongue, set ablaze by his own thrashing need to press himself into every last crack and crevice in Anakin’s being, to ensure that no matter who else would have him later—the thought had scrubbed Obi-Wan raw—Anakin would never be able to shake him completely.

But then Anakin had cradled Obi-Wan’s face in his hands as Obi-Wan was sinking into his body, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, had pinned him with dark, earnest eyes, and told him he wanted him to be his last, too.

Those words had burned themselves into Obi-Wan’s very being, both satisfying a rampant selfish need and making him flinch away from it. Guilt had crept in around the edges to remind him that Anakin was—is—young, that he still has so much to see and to experience, that there is so much more than…Obi-Wan. He’d told himself that this would be the only time. He could give this to Anakin, this first of so many other firsts, to ensure that this experience would be safe and comfortable for him. Another part of him, a weaker but persistent part, had kept telling him that he wasn’t giving: he was taking.

And that night, Obi-Wan had taken and taken and taken, ravenous and unrepentant.

He’d kept taking long after that night, too.

Keeps taking whatever Anakin offers him: takes it with possessive hands, a greedy heart and a gluttonous soul, and the dying embers of a guilty conscience. It’s become eerily effortless to tune it out, for a time, at least.

It scares him, sometimes. Not as often as it should, probably, for he is a Jedi and should not feel—and much less hold on to—such emotions. What’s even worse is that he barely flinches at it anymore.

It: the hunger for Anakin and the spine-breaking need to be the only one to sear touches into his skin, to eradicate traces of anyone else on his mind.

It: the guilt of keeping Anakin to himself, of indulging his misguided desires instead of sending him out into the galaxy to explore beyond what Obi-Wan can offer.

But who else could give this beautiful, mercurial, powerful boy exactly what he needs? Who else even knows what he so desperately desires? Who else understands that this ethereal creature, his Anakin, needs to be contained, to be surrounded, to be surrendered; needs to be held and loved and proven that he is enough?

The deep, dark pit within Obi-Wan, the inextinguishable inferno of a sun, tells him that it’s only him, will only ever be him. And he takes it and gives it to Anakin because he has nothing else to give than all of himself: his selfishness and possessiveness as much as the unconditionality and the devotion.

So, sinking his cock into the clutch of Anakin’s body over and over and over, he whispers into the scant space between them, “Always yours.”

Because, in the end, all of him is all for Anakin.

Gently, he curls a hand around Anakin’s throat and squeezes for a moment until the Force overflows sweetly with his pleasure, the air rattles in his lungs and his eyes crumble him to dust until all that is left between them is the truth.

And Anakin, threading his fingers through Obi-Wan’s free hand, pouring the words into their bond, too, promises, “Always mine.”

[infernaleikon]

Anakin doing innocent things that Obi-wan’s perpetually horny & frustrated mind turns lewd. Eg anakin eating a space popsicle.. Obi-wan thinks of anakin sucking his dick; anakin bending over an engine with his ass in the air, Obi-wan conjures scenarios where he fucks anakin like that; anakin moaning while he stretches sore muscles ... Obi-wan mind starts thinking about the sounds anakin would make in bed & whether he could make anakin scream or squeal 😏 horny Obi-wan, my beloved! (NSFW prompt!)

horny obi-wan my beloved, indeed! i like your thinking, anon! sorry this took a bit longer, i hope you like it :3

*     *     *

The waffle cone drops into Anakin’s lap and he sucks the remainder of the scoop of vanilla flavored freeze-cream into his mouth with a soft gasp as melted parts of it—the edges he had wrapped his lips around to hold on to it while he worked—drip down his chin in indecent white streaks, looking as though he’d sucked a cock to completion and failed to swallow all of the come; and Anakin wipes them up with his fingers to suck on them with a string of happy, slurping noises that sound like they belong in cheap holopornos. Obi-Wan exhales quietly but roughly and refrains from grinding the heel of his hand into his rapidly fattening cock, even though the heat that throbs in his groin is nearly unbearable, making him dizzy with want and the desire to dirty Anakin’s plush lips with his come, see him lick it up; leaves him wondering if Anakin’s eyes would flutter and if he’d make the same lewd sounds sucking Obi-Wan’s spend off his skin.

“Are you done?” Obi-Wan asks, because he needs him to be done, and Anakin blinks up at him with big, bright eyes, lips a lurid red and glistening with his spit, and Obi-Wan swallows down a guttural groan that builds somewhere deep inside him, watching Anakin get up in one fluid motion.

“Yeah, there was fluid in the carburetor that shouldn’t be there. I drained it all,” Anakin says with a nod before raising his arms over his head and leaning back to stretch, emphasizing the curvature of his strong back and the sinuous long line of his body, a soft moan falling from his mouth; and as he goes through a series of light stretches with quiet, pleased exhales and noises, Obi-Wan steadily loses more of his higher functions as all the blood seems to pool in his groin. 

There’s something else he could drain with those deft hands and clever mouth, and for a moment, when he catches the look Anakin gives him—strangely dark and heated, with something unfathomable written in it—he almost thinks that Anakin might even…like that.

*     *     *

thank you!!

[infernaleikon]

Anakin gasps wetly, Obi-Wan’s words spilling through his body like an uncontainable wildfire, making his cock—hard again and aching—twitch. Obi-Wan kisses him then, kisses him with an ardor that even drowns out the pain for a moment: dirty and wet as their tongues slide against each other with urgency, delving deeper, sucking and biting at every chance until they’re both short-breathed. The skin around Anakin’s mouth is raw from Obi-Wan’s beard, his lips swollen and spit-slick. He surges up to press his lips to Obi-Wan’s again before dragging them over his jaw, and the sensation makes him shudder with fiery pleasure. Moving his head to create additional friction against the raw skin of Anakin’s mouth, Obi-Wan chuckles and rubs his jaw back and forth until Anakin falls back, gasping. Obi-Wan drops a soft kiss to his numb lips.

7k words . pwp . overstimulation . multiple orgasm . aftercare . 

[infernaleikon]

NSFW ask: anakin having to wear a garter belt/stockings/thong for some sort of *waves hand* mission and Obi-wan, ashamed and in denial, trying very hard not to nut instantly on seeing anakin dressed that way (was this thot inspired by ragnarlothcat’s fic taking care?? MAYBE SO!!)

anon, you are SO valid by being inspired by rag's fic honestly. i hope you enjoy this one!

*     *     *

Obi-Wan’s stomach swoops dangerously, the way it does when he finds himself in a dire situation and the Force doesn’t offer a solution to the problem, and he feels like he’s been sucked into the vacuum of space, drifting in the soundless endlessness of the galaxy, untethered and helpless.

He clears his throat casually when he hears Anakin call his name and snaps his eyes up to his face, desperately trying to remember what Anakin had just been telling him about this mission of his, while the rabid beating of his heart pours molten rock through his veins and straight to his cock.

“Can you help me with this?” Anakin asks, halfway twisted backwards and clasping one of the straps of the Dathomir-coloured garter in his fingers, trying to clip it to stockings resting tantalizingly against the skin of his golden thighs. 

Which is how Obi-Wan finds himself kneeling behind Anakin—though how that happened and why he thought it best to lower himself to be on eye level with Anakin’s ass he couldn’t recall—carefully securing the garter to the backs of the stockings and brushing the backs of his knuckles against the bare globes of Anakin’s ass to straighten out the straps; trying—and failing—not to emblazon the image of the thong disappearing between his cheeks and emphasizing their fullness on his mind. 

His mouth is desert-dry and drenched with saliva all at same time, the strange sensation accompanying the aching drip of his straining cock, as he remains on his knees, staring at the sight before him, just a beat too long, maybe—time stands still—so when he gets back up to let Anakin finish getting ready, he can’t quite meet his eyes, knowing that this will remain on his mind, on his hands, on his skin—like a claim, like a brand.

*     *     *

thanks!