Work Text:
The Millennium Falcon’s crew quarters hum with the quiet thrum of hyperspace, shadows stretched long across the narrow bunk. Obi-Wan lies face down, the soft fabric of the mattress dipping under his weight, his legs bent at the knees—an invitation, a surrender. Anakin’s breath catches. He’s on his knees already, palms pressed to the backs of Obi-Wan’s thighs, spreading him wider, reveling in the way the older man shivers before he’s even been touched.
"You’re gonna kill me," Obi-Wan mutters into the pillow, but the way he arches his hips betrays him.
Anakin grins, wild and besotted, dragging his tongue in one slow, deliberate stripe from the base of Obi-Wan’s spine down to the crease of his thigh—avoiding, teasing—before licking a diagonal path from the right, where Obi-Wan barely twitches, up to the left, where his whole body jerks.
"There," Obi-Wan hisses, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Anakin knows this game. The left side makes Obi-Wan’s breath stutter, makes his hips rock back into Anakin’s mouth like he’s chasing something he can’t name. So Anakin keeps the angle sharp, tongue gliding upward-left in smooth, relentless strokes until Obi-Wan’s moans pitch higher, until his thighs tremble—and then he’s coming, untouched, gasping Anakin’s name like a prayer.
"Didn’t—mean to—" Obi-Wan pants.
But Anakin doesn’t stop, can’t stop, drunk on the slick heat of him, the way Obi-Wan’s body keeps clenching around nothing. It’s the noises that undo Anakin in the end—the bitten-off whimpers, the way Obi-Wan keeps murmuring "yes, yes, just like that"—and then he’s coming too, hips stuttering against empty air, forehead pressed to the small of Obi-Wan’s back. Only then does Obi-Wan shift, rolling onto his side, pulling Anakin against him with an arm slung possessively over his waist.
"Show-off," Obi-Wan murmurs, but his fingers card through Anakin’s hair, tender, grounding.
Anakin just laughs, breathless, and kisses him.