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

And For Dinner (Something Needy)

• Summary: Anakin isn't sure how this happened.

Well. No. He has a fairly good idea how it happened, he just doesn't know how the hell he let himself get swept up in the madness. Other than it was a slippery slope from the start, that maybe from the moment he walked into the classroom and noticed the man sitting up on the front row, back primly straight, glasses perched on his nose, giving him a scholarly air, this was the way it would have always gone down.

[OR: DILF Obi-Wan has a plan for his cute new professor.]

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Anakin isn't sure how this happened.

Well. No. He has a fairly good idea how it happened, he just doesn't know how the hell he let himself get swept up in the madness. Other than it was a slippery slope from the start, that maybe from the moment he walked into the classroom and noticed the man sitting up on the front row, back primly straight, glasses perched on his nose, giving him a scholarly air, this was the way it would have always gone down.

He doesn't know.

What he does know is the stretch and burn of Obi-Wan's thick fingers pressing deep into him, up to three now, and Anakin is gasping like he's underwater, eyes nearly rolling up into the back of his head, everything bright and wondrous and edged with fear. The door might be locked but it's the middle of the day, he's still got his 11 AM class to teach in—God, he can't think, is it 10:20 or 10:30 or even later than that?—but instead of preparing his materials, he's scrambling for purchase against his desk, tears heavy on his eyelashes as he lets a man almost twice his age, who is still his student, languidly fuck his wonderfully callused fingers into his hole.

There's nothing but the steady slick squelch of lube and Obi-Wan's murmured praise over the pounding of his pulse.

God, of course Obi-Wan is a talker. The man loves arguing with Anakin, challenging him, staying behind after every class with a gleam in his eyes that spelled ill for Anakin's peace of mind.

And yet he'd never walked away. He’d never asked Obi-Wan to stop. Not even when the good-natured discussions had shifted, almost imperceptibly, into Obi-Wan leaning into his space, the pale slant of his eyes hypnotizing.

Anakin hadn't realized that he'd been prey. Not until the jaws closed gently around him, their edges deadly, and he was caught.

"Shh," Obi-Wan kisses his cheek, the corner of his eye, licking away the tears that have been squeezing out one by one as Anakin bit his tongue. "Be quiet, darling, others are trying to learn. They don't need to find out about this, do they?" he coos, his smooth voice doing terrible things to Anakin's insides, like a hand grabbing his spine and pulling.

Fuck!

This is a mistake. It doesn't matter that Obi-Wan isn't like the other fresh-faced students in his class, most of them unable to even drink yet. Anakin could lose his job over this, his reputation, and he's so far from tenure that it isn't even funny.

Christ, but he wants it. He arches his back and whines as Obi-Wan’s index finger brushes over his prostate, teasing it.

He’s so wonderful about knowing what Anakin needs. At giving it to him.

Horrible man.

Anakin craves him so much.

"Professor?" Obi-Wan's breath fills his ear. "How am I doing?"

Anakin turns his head to glare at him. "Are you fucking serious?" he hisses, red-faced, sweaty, and surely that's not a good look. He's a teary, snotty mess, and he's never felt more young and stupidly inexperienced than when under Obi-Wan's calm, matter-of-fact touch.

"I'm very serious," returns Obi-Wan. His lips twist in a smile that Anakin finds entirely too charming. "I'd hate to do anything you wouldn't approve of, professor. Anything that might..." he pauses, letting the words drift and dissipate into nothing.

Anakin scowls, restless. He wiggles his hips, bucking back into the fingers that had gone still. “Might what?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, a quick, abrupt gesture, and his fingers grow mean. Anakin yelps as they core his prostate without mercy, angled now to grind into all of his deepest parts, not doing a particularly good job at keeping his nails from scratching just enough that Anakin is buckling, his knees liquifying along with that feels like his brain, his spine, all of his bones until he's a moaning, helpless, wretched thing.

"Oh, dear," Obi-Wan tuts. "What would the other professors say if they saw you, hm?"

Anakin shakes his head dumbly. There's a witty, cutting retort stuck between his Broca's area and his tongue, stalled in transit.  He's so over his head and he hates how obvious that is, that he's reduced to this and that he keeps allowing it to happen.

That he keeps looking forward to letting it happen, anticipating the progression of his debauchery. They've kissed and Obi-Wan has touched him, licked him, put his bruises on everywhere that he wished, marks that Anakin later finds in the shower; marks that he would then press on with his fingertips, with his palms, whining and taking himself in hand to jerk off to the memory-sensation of Obi-Wan owning him completely.

"Shut up," he manages an eternity later, and for what he gets a laugh exhaled against the side of his neck and a swat on the ass that transforms into a squeeze.

Obi-Wan pulls away but he doesn't go far, just enough so that when he pulls Anakin's cheek to the side, he can devour the sight of his fingers--god, it can't be four by now, can it?—plunging in and out steadily, the rim stretched unbearably wide to accommodate their girth. Obi-Wan has beautiful hands, big hands, veins flush against the skin, wide knuckles and even broader palms.

Anakin has stared at them for too long, too many times, for Obi-Wan not to notice.

Obi-Wan sighs and leans forward to drop a kiss on the back of Anakin’s head. "I'm sorry, professor," he breathes, sounding legitimately regretful. "But this is taking too long."

And the bastard withdraws his fingers, his warmth, everything.

The shock of the abandonment hits Anakin as solidly as if he'd stepped out of a cozy house into a blizzard. He jerks and panics and his lungs seize up, his inner muscles bearing down on nothing.

A broken "No!" rips out from his throat as he struggles to lift himself from his desk. "No, wait, you can't fucking—"

Obi-Wan smiles politely at him. And points at the clock hanging on the wall.

It reads 10:51, and Anakin's eyes well up with new tears of frustration. He's hard and aching and unbearably empty, soaking into the cotton of his boxers, lube seeping from his rim. He doesn't even have time to get himself off.

"I hate you," he seethes.

Obi-Wan blinks at him, as smug as any cat that got the cream. He takes out a handkerchief—who the hell in this day and age carries handkerchiefs!—to wipe his hand clean. "No, you don't," he says simply.

And he's not wrong.