Two Halfs of One Warrior • Obikin/Vaderwan One-Shots

We Sin, We Don't Repent

• Summary: Obi-Wan wakes up with his arms full of Anakin, the tang of sweat and sex lingering in the air.

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Obi-Wan wakes up with his arms full of Anakin, the tang of sweat and sex lingering in the air.

He studies Anakin’s face in awe. Even while asleep, Anakin radiates such contentment into the Force that the space around them glimmers as if they were at the center of a meteor shower. Unaware of Obi-Wan’s scrutiny, Anakin's mouth forms a sweet pout—lashes resting against his sharp cheekbones—with a vulnerability that kindles warmth in Obi-Wan’s chest, incandescent with the desire to protect and cherish and—

Stars, he's gone and claimed his former Padawan—an act too resolute to be labeled anything as tawdry as a fuck, no matter how deep he’d ground into Anakin and left his mark inside him. He could meditate until the Room of a Thousand Fountains ran dry and still never discover a hint of repentance in his soul.

He should be taken aback by this utter mockery of the training bond that once existed between them, by the power his position on the Council grants him over a Knight, by the disparity in their ages. Yet, he cannot even pretend to be. Not when Anakin—a strong, exasperating man who recognized when a “no” was a contrived façade meant to uphold the status quo—is nestled against his chest, just like he used to do over a decade ago as a child. Obi-Wan hadn’t meant for his rejection to come out so sharp, so forbidding—much less so when Anakin’s gaze had slid away, blinking rapidly as if warding off hurt, before swinging back to confront Obi-Wan with a demand for the truth.

And the truth is, Obi-Wan has been terrified of losing this final connection to Anakin. Of losing everything. Better to be brothers-in-arms than strangers.

In hindsight, it’s been a long time since Obi-Wan’s been a good Jedi. Attachment, fear, love; he’s nurtured them all in the darkness of his heart.

So no, he doesn’t drown in guilt or curse himself for his weakness, for the structural flaw that has blown wide open, for this want that had begun with the cradling of small fingers into his own. Want of steadiness in a world left hollow, aching for a purpose and a reason to exist beyond the duty that any Jedi could perform. Obi-Wan cannot reach for the words to quarter his ego and flagellate himself before the Council, a sinner confessing his crimes.

He can't do that when sunlight slants across the bed and their tangled legs, glinting off the gold plating of Anakin's mechno-arm and gilding his disheveled curls. If Obi-Wan despises himself for this, it's akin to despising the taste of Anakin's lips and reviling his courage. It means regretting the constellation of scars on Anakin's body—a testament to his survival in a war that has claimed so many and left no trace of them behind.

Obi-Wan finds his fingers combing through the messy curls, winding the familiar strands around his knuckles, unable to withhold from the physical affirmation that he isn’t going to wake up in his bedroll on some battle-torn planet, cold and alone with the antiseptic smell of bacta and charred flesh seared into his lungs, and the remnants of a lingering dream in his mind.

What a cruel dream to have, if so.

Before Obi-Wan can obsessively contemplate such a horrible fate, Anakin stirs.

His eyes fly open and meet Obi-Wan’s. Relief immediately blunts the initial jolt of panic injected into the bond. “Oh, kriff. I thought you might have—” Anakin stops, shakes his head, and his hair slips from Obi-Wan’s fingers. His long throat is covered with proof of Obi-Wan’s desire, red marks that disappear as Anakin blushes darkly, and finishes shyly, audible only through their bond, I thought you… might have left.

The words are accompanied by a shocked joy, effervescent like the drinks they’d shared nestled between intimacies the night before, both exhausted from campaigning for so long, thankful to have returned to Coruscant unscathed while their ships underwent repairs.

But you didn’t, Anakin adds. Now there’s a surge of smugness, his lips curving. He’s not a graceful loser. Somehow, he’s not even a gracious winner.

Obi-Wan will let him have this. If it weren’t for Anakin reaching out to him first, placing a hand on Obi-Wan’s knee and cocking his head with an invite written in the quickening of his breath, they wouldn’t have ended up intertwined on bed together. Obi-Wan wouldn’t carry the knowledge of what Anakin sounds like when wrecked by pleasure, nor how easily he surrenders himself to a firm hand on his nape, a bite on his thigh, when in all else he fights tooth and nail.

“You realize,” Obi-Wan begins, murmuring to him as if they aren’t the only two people in the room, “that you’ve utterly ruined me, don’t you?”

Anakin raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? I’d say you ruined me. Gods, Obi-Wan, you were filthy.” His pupils dilate in remembrance, prompting Obi-Wan to roll them until Anakin lies beneath him, laughing. Obi-Wan drinks kisses from Anakin’s mouth like he’s a parched wanderer who has spent a lifetime in the desert and found, at last, a spring of cool water to quench his endless thirst.

Anakin clutches at him, desperation etched in the tips of his fingers, durasteel and real alike. There's a chaos in Anakin that the Order shuns, restricts; he's flesh born of the Force, a being of whirling emotions and passion that defies their Code, that writhes and craves and takes.

Perhaps Obi-Wan should fear the depths of what Anakin is capable of, but he has spoken the truth—Anakin has ruined him, completely undone him. By demanding his affection, his attention, and that Obi-Wan lay bare the core of who he is, Anakin has dismantled Obi-Wan's defenses. And in return, Anakin has given back so much more, unsparing in his devotion and loyalty, in his belief that they are meant to be, an ouroboros in the perpetual act of consuming and being consumed.

“Obi-Wan.” His name is whispered against the corner of his mouth. Anakin’s thigh is between Obi-Wan’s legs, pressing against his groin. Obi-Wan lazily rides it, satisfaction looping between them. “Don’t regret this,” Anakin warns. There’s a flicker of fear behind his eyes and in their bond, hastily concealed. “I’m not going to let you go.”

“I know that you won’t.” You are incapable of it.

Anakin smiles crookedly at him, innocent and proud at the same time. His darling hasn’t fully grasped yet how much power he wields over Obi-Wan, how loved he truly is.

He doesn't know how Obi-Wan will follow him wherever his path goes, down whatever twists and turns it takes.

To do otherwise is unthinkable.