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Obi-Wan’s boots slapped against the puddles of the pavement, causing the reflection of the flickering neon to ripple and distort. The underbelly of Corellia was like a maze. An obnoxious, neon-flashed, and currently very wet, maze. He tore his gaze from Anakin’s familiar black cloak that was billowing a few meters of head of him, and glanced back.
Unfortunately, they were still being chased.
Anakin darted left, then right, seamlessly weaving through the sea of people. Obi-Wan followed, barely nudging a shoulder, until he nearly slammed full speed into Anakin’s back, his boots skidding against the asphalt. Looking ahead, he knew what had caused Anakin to stop; another gang of Rodians, wearing the same insignia of the ones they were running from.
Fighting with a lightsaber was impossible in crowds like this, which is why they had ran in the first place, hoping to get to their ship as quickly as possible. But, it seemed the Rodians had more at stake than they had originally thought, since they were willing to quarrel with Jedi that had only come seeking information.
“This way,” Obi-Wan spoke before cutting through the crowd at his right, pushing against foot traffic and mumbling apologies to less-than pleased civilians. Once out of the crowd, Anakin flanked him and they ran side by side down the dimmer, quieter alleys, twisting and turning as the maze continued. Scanning the doors and flashing signs as they passed, Obi-Wan searched for somewhere to hide. The Rodians were out of sight, but he could still feel their presence nearby.
Suddenly, Anakin was stopping, taking him by the elbow and tugging him toward one of the flashing signs, “In here.” Glancing up, Obi-Wan only could read theatre in strobing bright red lettering before he was pulled inside after Anakin.
“Good thinking, my friend,” he told Anakin, scanning the large room. People were milling about, some waiting in lines. For tickets, he assumed. There was enough space in here to fight, if need be. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, though. “We should find a viewing room. We’re less likely to be seen there.”
Smirking, Anakin pulled his hood off and shook out his damp curls, “Let’s hope they’re playing something good, Master.”
Walking in sync toward the hallway that seemingly led to the viewing rooms, they were stopped by a burly man with a gruff voice, “Tickets?” He then looked Anakin up and down, “And ID for you.”
Obi-Wan brushed off the confusion at the request for Anakin’s identification, choosing to wave a hand in front of the man’s face and speak with intent, pulling the strings of the Force, “You don’t need to see our tickets, or IDs, you want to let us pass unbothered.” The man blinked slowly, then mirrored Obi-Wan’s words before standing to the side and letting them pass.
They continued down the carpeted hall. There were ten doors in total, five on either side, and no indication of what was playing inside of them. Just numbers scrawled on each one in that same red neon glow.
Anakin slowed and asked, “Alright, old man. Which one?”
Eyes on the end of the hall, where there was another exit leading to the streets of Corellia, Obi-Wan decided, “Number ten. If we sense them come in through the front, we can slip out the back.”
Slipping through the door, Obi-Wan noticed it was a smaller viewing room than he was used to, which made sense. The cinemas on Coruscant's upper levels were larger, and much nicer, but this one, somewhat shabby and tucked into a lower-level alley of Corellia, clearly didn’t serve that many people. Still, there were others in the room. More than a few on their own, which was slightly odd, he noted. Along with two couples, and a group of boys, perhaps around Anakin’s age, that couldn’t stop snickering.
On the screen, there was nothing. Instrumental music, something with a lot of bass, came through the speakers. The only light in the room came from the small red bulbs lining the walkway.
Obi-Wan led them toward the middle of the room, then walked them to the last seats in the row, trying to blend in as much as possible. From this position, they weren’t right in the sights of anyone who walked in.
They settled in their seats, and Obi-Wan was suddenly very aware of how close they were when they knocked elbows on the arm rest between them. Anakin knocked his elbow again, purposefully this time, “My arm was there first.”
Obi-Wan jabbed him back. “I’m old. I need the support.”
Anakin squinted, taking a tone, “Then use the left arm rest.”
“There is no left arm rest, Anakin. I’m squished to the wall.”
“Move over here then!” Anakin yelled in a whisper, gesturing with his right arm to the open seat next to him. He turned his head to glance at it, then came back to look at Obi-Wan with a turn to his mouth. “Nevermind, there’s something weird on the seat.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know. Just—fine. You can have the arm rest,” Anakin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
Rather than calling out his former apprentices pout, Obi-Wan only smiled and exaggerated a sigh when he rested his arm. “We can switch halfway through the film, if you’d like.”
Anakin rolled his eyes and slumped in his seat, grumbling, “Hopefully we won’t be here that long, Master.”
Obi-Wan could still sense the Rodians in the back of his mind, and he didn’t doubt Anakin could too. He was about to say the same when the large viewing screen came to life, immediately cutting to what seemed to be the start of the film. Obi-Wan let himself appreciate that for a moment. Coruscanti theaters always had what seemed like a thousand advertisements, and long introductions for the theatre itself, and whichever film was being played.
The appreciation only lasted a second. Only until he could register what was on the screen.
It was a Jedi.
Obi-Wan immediately turned to Anakin, and they rolled their eyes at each other in unison. They needn’t say it, they were both thinking the same thing. Of course, of all the theaters, of all the films, they had to stumble into this one.
Fictitious films involving Jedi weren’t rare. Obi-Wan could say there was at least one semi-popular film depicting Jedi released every year. Of course, it didn’t really depict Jedi. It depicted a caricature of them; forbidden Jedi romance, Jedi and the Princess, the Jedi who broke free. In Obi-Wan’s opinion, they were tasteless at the best of times, and blasphemous at the worst. But, he figured watching a foolish imitation of a Jedi thrust into some sort of ridiculous romantic comedy scenario was better than getting back into it with the Rodians. So, he turned back to the screen.
The Jedi was a human male, probably somewhere close to his age, and seemingly meditating. As Obi-Wan took in the simple scene, he let a neglected part of his brain acknowledge that he was handsome.
The camera panned out—or something like that. It moved shakily across the room, Obi-Wan could tell it was being carried in hand by a person, rather than being set on a rig. He considered it might be a more avante-garde film, something experimental, or perhaps it just lacked the budget for proper equipment and it wasn’t an artistic choice at all.
Either way, the line of thinking was cut off when the other Jedi came into view.
There was no avoiding acknowledging how attractive she was. But, she was also young, the kind of young that Obi-Wan had pointedly stopped letting himself pay attention to after he had turned thirty, for propriety’s sake.
Though, here in the dark, he supposed he could let himself look.
He reluctantly let himself feel the little twist in his gut when he trailed his eyes down her body on the screen. Her robes—closer to a Hallows Eve imitation of a Jedi’s attire—were parted, and she wore no undertunics. Nor a bra, Obi-Wan realized. Her nipples were showing through the robe. The twist in his gut was coiling further, and he tore his eyes away from her breasts. No, he couldn’t allow himself to be so lecherous, not next to Anakin.
Keeping his body facing forward, he flicked his eyes to the right. Despite his earlier moaning, Anakin was using the right arm rest, and his right hand seemed to be worrying at something, his hair, most likely. It was hard to tell while keeping his head forward, but Obi-Wan vaguely recognized the movement from Anakin’s days as his apprentice—always tugging at his braid when he was feeling uneasy. Deliberately stopping himself from narrowing his eyes in concern, he looked at Anakin’s face. His eyes were wide and locked on the screen, and his lip was in between his teeth.
He forced himself to look away from Anakin. For propriety’s sake, he told himself. He didn’t need to know how Anakin was reacting to the film, to the actors. Focusing, Obi-Wan searched for the presence of the Rodians, and he found them easily, not close enough to be in the theatre, but still close by. He let himself worry about that for a moment, thinking about escape routes and scenarios about what he and Anakin would do should they enter the theatre. The twist in his gut disappeared as his brain fell into safe, proper thoughts.
The peace didn’t last long. It was interrupted by a soft, caressing voice, “Master…”
Gaze flying up from where it had been focused on the seat in front of him, he took in the screen once more. The girl—woman, Obi-Wan reminded himself—was walking toward the other Jedi, presumably her Master. Or just a Jedi Master in general. Obi-Wan didn’t know why he was making assumptions. He swallowed as the camera followed her from behind. Her stride was confident, her hips swaying, sultry, Obi-Wan realized against his will. The camera circled her, and when it came up again on her other side, it stayed on a close up of her hand, trailing up the line between her skin and her robes. Her fingers applied slight pressure, sinking into her skin slightly, and for a moment, Obi-Wan could imagine what it would feel like to sink his hands into her. Grope at her flesh, feel the plush, soft skin of her breasts against his calloused palms.
The camera continued moving up, as did her hand, and Obi-Wan’s gut twisted once again when her finger twirled around a single, slim, pleated braid, separate from the rest of her free-flowing hair, decorated with bands and beads.
Her fingers stroked it, deliberately, crudely, as she giggled.
Anakin gasped. Obi-Wan’s gut stopped twisting and it sank.
The scene continued, the Master was speaking. But Obi-Wan’s blood was pounding in his ears. Impossible, this is impossible, he tried to reason with himself, but it really wasn’t. The red lights. The lack of introduction. The request for Anakin’s ID. Oh, Force. It couldn’t be, could it?
He centered his breathing again and focused on the screen. He’d watch until he was proven wrong, until his toes stopped curling anxiously in his boots, until Anakin stopped biting his lip like that.
She was talking again, in that alluring voice. Obi-Wan didn’t let himself think about the cadence of it, the pitch that would’ve given away her youth even if there was no visual. He didn’t let himself think about what she would sound like, staccato, whining, moaning, as her Master fucked into her. This wasn’t that kind of film. This couldn’t be that kind of film.
Obi-Wan desperately wanted to look at Anakin. The need felt foolish, but maybe if they locked eyes, it would make things seem normal. Maybe if they traded a glance, it would diffuse the situation and suddenly this would be another absurd mission story to add to their collection. One they could look back on and laugh, tease each other about.
But he couldn’t bring himself to turn to him. His body felt frozen in place, except for his toes, which were still curling with anxiety. He couldn’t look at Anakin. Not while the Padawan—Padawan, his mind curled around the word—on the screen was asking if her Master wanted to “check out her form”. Not while the man agreed, and then she was starting a rudimentary imitation of a set of katas. A set of katas that had her bending over at the waist, showing off her ass, then twisting and rotating her arms with the sequence, her barely-restrained breasts moving with her.
“Let’s see that first form again, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan felt sick, and his cock stirred.
She bent over again, and when her Master walked up from behind, grabbed her by the waist, and brought his groin to her ass, Obi-Wan heard a squeak.
Looking down, grateful for the excuse to take his eyes off the screen, he saw Anakin’s leg bouncing, presumably what made his boot squeak against the tiled floor under them.
“Mmm, is that better, Master?”
Obi-Wan’s tried to stop his body from reacting, but he felt heat pool in his stomach, while he grimaced. Doing anything to avoid looking back at the screen, Obi-Wan kept his eyes on the floor. Counting the black, square tiles. His eyes caught on something shiny, laying on the floor to his left, half under a seat. Squinting, he tried to make out the label on the shiny plastic, his mind begging for assurance it was a condiment packet, the wrapper from a sweets bar, anything, anything than what it most likely was. There couldn’t be an opened prophylactic at his feet while he sat, stuck, next to Anakin.
Another squeak, and Obi-Wan was drawn back to Anakin’s feet. His eyes traced the lines of his black, leather boots, all the way up his calves, then over his knees, to his thighs, where Anakin’s hand was clenched in the fabric of his pants. The sight of Anakin’s tan flesh made him feel woozy, so his gaze swooped back to the screen once more, just in time to see the Master pull back from where he was pressed against the Padawan.
There was a wet spot between her legs now, her gray leggings leaving little to the imagination. She must not be wearing anything under there, Obi-Wan mused. It shouldn’t have been shocking, but it still sent a trill down his spine. He shifted in his seat, What a—
“Naughty Padawan.”
His eyes flew back to Anakin as he felt himself twitch. Anakin’s fist was still clenched, and this time, Obi-Wan’s eyes kept moving up, until he was leaning the tiniest bit forward, squinting his eyes then widening them. He’s hard. The dim lighting, paired with Anakin’s dark robes made it difficult to make out, but it was definitely there. Anakin is hard.
“Maybe you should punish me.”
Obi-Wan flinched, not at the words, but at the barely-distinguishable sight of Anakin’s cock twitching. The dialogue was terrible, cliche, completely unoriginal and should’ve been laughable. What was going on? Why hadn’t one of them laughed yet?
Taking his eyes off Anakin, Obi-Wan turned back to the screen, just in time to watch the Padawan lean against one of the pillars in the sparse room they were in, and stick her ass out. Her Master came up from behind again, the shaky camera following, and with a too-harsh grip, tugged her leggings down just below her ass.
There it was, there was no convincing himself anymore. He was sat next to Anakin—my Padawan—watching a porno. When the Master groped at her, spreading her legs wider and crowding her against the pillar, Obi-Wan winced. When one of his hands swung back, he sucked in a harsh breath, and heard Anakin do the same. When it came down against her ass, making the flesh ripple while she let out an exaggerated moan that was still somehow arousing, Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut. He searched for the Rodians again. He had to get out of here, they had to get out of here. He’d rather fight the Rodians than stay here, stay hard, next to his Padawan.
The slaps against her ass kept raining down. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t sense beyond the sight of it, the sound of it, the growled whisper, “Look how wet you’re getting from your punishment, Padawan. Do you really like it that much?”
He looked. She was wet. The camera zoomed in, and the Master spread her open, showing off her glistening pussy. Obi-Wan’s eyes caught upwards, on her pink, little pucker. She looks tight, his traitorous mind supplied, Like she’s never been fucked.
Shifting in his seat at the thought, he berated himself, feeling his cock press against the seam of his trousers. This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be here.
The Master pulled back, unbuckling his belt and starting to peel off his pants. The Padawan looked back and swiveled her hips, whining, “Please, show me my place, Master.”
Obi-Wan bit as his lip until he winced, and when the Master’s cock was revealed, he glanced to his right to see Anakin’s jaw clench.
Movement past Anakin’s head caught his attention, and turned as much as he dared to without alerting Anakin. His eyes found one of the solo patrons, and he felt his heart stutter when his gaze followed their arm into their pants, watching as they clearly touched themselves under their clothes, wrist shifting in little circles. Suppressing a mortified sound, Obi-Wan searched until he found one of the couples, now pressed together in one seat, licking into each others mouths, hips moving together in a rhythm. Obi-Wan couldn’t tell if they were actually having intercourse, and swiveled back before he could figure it out.
Before his eyes could land back on the screen, they caught Anakin’s.
They were turned toward each other now, and Obi-Wan couldn’t tear his gaze away. He flittered his gaze all over Anakin’s face, eyes catching on his bitten-lips, crawling back up to search his eyes. He looked guilty and frantic at the same time.
Obi-Wan didn’t know what to do, didn’t want to turn back to the screen, back to the voice that was now rasping out, “Is this what you needed? Needed my cock, Padawan?” Anakin’s eyes flickered down at the words, and Obi-Wan shifted his legs open without thinking.
No, no. This is wrong.
She was moaning now. That staccato whine Obi-Wan had been imagining earlier. With his eyes locked on Anakin, he couldn’t help but think it might sound better if it was throatier, lower.
Anakin’s eyes came back up to his face, and Obi-Wan winced again. The sight of Anakin’s face shot his arousal through with guilt, horror. It all mixed together until his head felt like it was pounding with the perversion of it all. He squeeze his eyes shut.
“Master, Master, Master…” She was near screaming.
“Master.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes flew open at the sound of Anakin’s voice, and he immediately wanted to squeeze them shut again at the sight of his Padawan with a hand squeezing around the outline of his cock. Of course, that didn’t stop Obi-Wan’s cock from pulsing at the sight. He was sure if he peeled his trousers off, they’d be sticky with his arousal. He couldn’t remember a time he had ever leaked this much. This is wrong.
Anakin was breathing heavier now, and his eyes were glassy in the washed-out light.
“Fuck me harder, Master.”
Anakin moaned lowly, grip tightening on himself. Obi-Wan tried focused on his nose, knowing if he looked at his bulge, at his eyes, he would break.
Maybe Anakin knew him too well, maybe Anakin wanted him to break. He moved his hand from squeezing the outline of his prick to his waistband, slipping under, pulling it down, until Obi-Wan’s eyes shot down, watching his Padawan take out his flushed cock.
He didn’t want to, but he felt his mouth water at the sight of it, at the precome that Anakin swirled his finger around. When he pulled away, it stuck to his finger, making a little string. Obi-Wan looked back up at Anakin’s face, watching him grin a little at the sight, doing it again, playing with his cock. It was so boyish, so Anakin. Obi-Wan felt nauseous, yet he felt his nipples pebble, brushing against the soft fabric of his tunics.
When Anakin actually wrapped his hand around himself, he said it again, “Master.”
Despite being able to feel his cock push out a bead of precome, Obi-Wan tensed. “Don’t, Anakin.”
Beginning to pump his fist slowly, Anakin leaned closer in, whispering, “The Rodians are in the building, Master. I can feel them. They’re searching the rooms.”
Obi-Wan tried his best to check, and found that Anakin was telling the truth. That didn’t explain Anakin’s behavior. That didn’t explain why Obi-Wan was shifting his hips in his seat, hoping it was unnoticeable.
“We have to blend in.” Anakin was close enough that Obi-Wan could feel his lips brushing his ear.
Ire rising at Anakin’s pressing, Obi-Wan warned, “Padawan.”
This was undoubtably the wrong thing to say, as it only made Anakin moan into his ear, “Please, Master.”
Cock throbbing, Obi-Wan grit his teeth, irritated at his Padwan, furious at his own body. “What would you have me do, Anakin?”
The sounds of the scene were forgotten, fading into background noise. There was only Anakin, begging into his ear, “Take it out. Take it out, please, Master.”
Obi-Wan thunked his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes and trying to get a grip on his breathing, reminding himself, No, no. This isn’t right. This is wrong. This is your Padawan. His hands clenched on the arm rests. My Padawan. My young, alluring Padawan, with his pink lips and even pinker cock. He’s probably never been touched before, never fucked, never licked and spread and devoured.
“Or are you gong to walk out of here with a raging hard-on, Master? And here I thought you considered yourself a subtle Jedi.”
Obi-Wan ground his teeth. This should’ve been a safer version of Anakin. The Anakin that pressed too hard, pushed too far. Goading him, testing him. It should’ve been better than the begging, salicious Anakin from a moment ago.
But it wasn’t. Now, he only wished to bend Anakin over and slap his ass until he was cherry red and wailing, just like the girl on the screen. He wondered if he spread Anakin’s legs in that position, could he say the same thing? Look how wet you’re getting from your punishment, Padawan. Would Anakin leak that much? Would he thrash in his grip, or would he go pliant? If Obi-Wan spread him open, would his hole be as pretty and untouched as hers?
Horrendously, Obi-Wan figured it would be even prettier.
Even more horrendously, he felt his hand unclench from the arm rest.
He looked over, Anakin was grinning, panting, eyes glued to where Obi-Wan’s cock was bulging in his trousers.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes again, unwilling to let himself witness Anakin’s reaction as he reached his hand down and pulled at his waistband, spreading his legs and tugging until he could tuck the fabric under his balls. He hissed through his teeth, his cock now exposed to the cool air.
He wanted to be reluctant, to hesitate, but he didn’t think he had it in himself anymore. Obi-Wan wrapped his hand around his cock and squeezed, eyes flickering behind his eyelids. It felt so good, finally, to touch himself, to tug at his prick while Anakin watched. What was left of his guilt only made his blood run hotter, his hand move faster.
“Padawan, Padawan,” from the screen.
Padawan, Padawan, Obi-Wan thought.
Slick, wet sounds came from his side. He wanted to look. He needed to look. It was his right to look, wasn’t it? Anakin was his, his Padawan. He belonged to Obi-Wan. All of him, even his cock.
Especially his cock. Obi-Wan opened his eyes.
Anakin was already looking at him.
And there it was. The shared glance, the met gaze that made everything fall into place. Suddenly, Obi-Wan couldn’t feel any shame, or guilt. He couldn’t find the Rodians presence if he wanted to. Everything narrowed down to him, to Anakin, to the stroking of their cocks; perfectly in time with each other, like always.
Anakin grinned, Obi-Wan grinned back.
“Say it,” Anakin implored, hand coming down to tug at his balls.
“Padawan,” Obi-Wan groaned, doing the same.
Sucking in through his teeth, Anakin gasped and stroked faster. The wet sounds were loud, Obi-Wan felt like the sound of the two of them was drowning out the film completely. Or maybe that’s just how things always were for him, always being consumed by his Padawan, by his want for his Padawan. Always focusing on him, or focusing on not focusing on him.
“Yes, yes.” Anakin’s eyebrows were drawing together, his mouth falling open, his voice desperate and whiny. He was beginning to fuck up into the circle of his hands, sloppy and uncoordinated.
Obi-Wan watched, enraptured, his grip tightening, his other hand pressing at his perineum. He wondered if Anakin had ever touched his own prostrate. The idea of Anakin pressing his fingers into his ass and fucking back onto them made Obi-Wan start lifting his hips, but the idea of being the first to ever touch Anakin that way was better.
Nearing his orgasm, Obi-Wan let his gaze flicker freely between Anakin’s face and Anakin’s cock, moaning at both sights, “Anakin, fuck,” he drew out the words, meeting his eyes as they both climbed higher and hotter, the bond crackling, their hips and hands moving in time.
Anakin braced a foot on the seat in front of him to fuck his hips up better. It was wanton, the sight of it was more degenerate than whatever was still happening on the screen. Obi-Wan moaned and nudged Anakin’s foot that remained on the floor with his own. If they weren’t in a theater filled with strangers, Obi-Wan would’ve gotten down on his knees and let him splatter his beard with his come. Next time, he told himself, and felt a thrill at the prospect of next time, along with the real, filthy smile Anakin gave him as he gasped out into the room.
“Tell me, Master.”
Eye’s not leaving him, Obi-Wan commanded, “Come, Padawan.”
Anakin’s head fell back against the seat, groaning, and squeezed just below his head, as ropes of come shot out of his cock and stained the dark fabric of his tunics. He moaned with the aftershocks, pumping his hips slowly, his lazy smile returning before he settled again.
When he looked at Obi-Wan, his eyes glinted dangerously. Sultry, Obi-Wan thought dazedly, as his hand sped up.
“Come on, Master,” Anakin purred. Then, he was leaning over to tangle their fingers together, wrapping around Obi-Wan’s cock. He pressed close, and Obi-Wan felt his balls tighten as they shared air, foreheads knocking together. They were mere inches from another, he would only have to lean in the slightest bit to—
Anakin closed the distance, and Obi-Wan came.
They both moaned at the feeling, Obi-Wan’s come covering their linked hands and spreading over them. They kept kissing, and kissing, until Obi-Wan had long finished, and his cock was soft between them.
Finally, Anakin leaned back, sucking his fingers into his mouth, making eyes at him.
This is right, Obi-Wan thought lazily as he smiled at the sight.
“You think there’s gonna be another showing, Master?”
“Perhaps next time we just make our own movie, Padawan.”