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Mustafar's crimson sky bled across the black rock, the planet's fires painting the horizon in strokes of blood and rage. The air that hit Padmé's lungs was thick, scorched, tasting of sulfur and metal. Behind her, the ramp of the skifter hissed shut, sealing them in this inferno.
Obi-Wan's steps were grim and purposeful on the cooling lava field. He didn't look back, but she could feel the coiled tension in him, a predator's focus fixed on the distant processing facility. She followed, the senatorial silks of her gown a pale, impossible ghost against the hellish landscape. Each step was a negotiation with the uneven ground, her resolve hardening with every crunch of obsidian beneath her slippers.
Inside, the heat was a physical presence, a palpable thing that pressed against her skin and made the very air hum with menace. And there he was. A silhouette against the glow of the control room's panoramic window, a figure she both knew and didn't, all sharp angles and contained fury. Anakin.
He turned. The face was the one she loved, but the eyes were hollowed out, lit from within by a yellow fire she'd only seen once before, on the wings of a nightmare. His gaze found hers, and for a fleeting, desperate second, she saw *him*—her Anakin, lost and reaching.
Then he saw Obi-Wan standing just behind her, and that flicker grew brighter.
"You," Anakin snarled, the word a curse directed at his former Master. "You brought her here? To turn her against me?"
"I don't need to turn her against you, Anakin," Obi-Wan's voice was dangerously level, the calm before a storm. "You've done a fine job of that yourself. You're lucky we care about you so much."
Anakin's hand twitched.
Obi-Wan started forward, his lightsaber a silent threat in his hand. "Let her go, Anakin. This is between us."
"No!" The shout tore from Anakin. He looked at her, a raw, pleading desperation warring with the venom in his eyes. "Padmé. Obi-Wan. Together, we can overthrow the Emperor. We can rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be!"
Padmé and Obi-Wan knew there was only one thing to do. Get Anakin focused on them and keep him under control. "Kneel for me and you wont have to give me the galaxy. I'll be your galaxy."
Anakin froze. The yellow in his eyes seemed to flicker, receding just a fraction as her words found a crack in the darkness. He stared at her, his lips parted slightly, as if tasting the offer. *Kneel. Be my galaxy.*
Obi-Wan watched the play of emotions across Anakin's face. He saw the longing, the hunger, the flicker of the boy from Tatooine who'd always wanted too much. He also saw the Sith Lord, the pride and the fury that would never truly bow.
Before Anakin could answer, before he could choose between the dream she offered and the power he craved, Padmé turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting Obi-Wan's over her shoulder. Her expression was clear. Not of fear, not of betrayal, but of a terrible, resolute acceptance. A silent permission.
*Do what you must.*
Understanding passed between them, an unspoken treaty forged in the fires of Mustafar. Obi-Wan gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. The mantle of Master settled back onto his shoulders, heavier than it had ever been.
He stepped past Padmé, his presence filling the space between them and Anakin. The hum of his lightsaber seemed to deepen, vibrating through the metal floor.
"Kneel for her or kneel for me." Obi-Wan said, resolved to leave here with anakin or not at all.
Anakin's eyes flickered again, yellow to blue then back again. Deciding then and there that he would only be willing if he had both of them, but his pride was too strong, "I will kneel to no one."
"Yes you shall." Obi-Wan promised, a dark whisper in the roaring silence of the control room.
He moved then. Not with the furious grace of a duel, but with the deliberate, crushing weight of a master correcting a recalcitrant apprentice. He was a blur of blue light and worn brown robes, a storm of purpose that Anakin was unprepared for. The Sith Lord's own blade, a vengeful crimson, sprang to life, but he was a half-step too slow.
The first clash was not of equals. Obi-Wan drove Anakin back, not with raw strength, but with superior position, with an intimate, terrifying knowledge of every weakness, every opening. He disarmed Anakin with a sharp twist of his wrist, the hilt of the red saber skittering across the floor. Anakin stumbled, off-balance, and Obi-Wan was there, a foot sweeping his legs out from under him.
Anakin hit the floor with a grunt, the breath knocked from his lungs. He tried to rise, but Obi-Wan's boot was on his chest, pinning him to the scorched metal deck. The pressure was immense, an undeniable anchor. The blue tip of Obi-Wan's lightsaber hovered an inch from Anakin's throat, its heat a promise.
The pressure of the boot was an anchor in a sea of chaos, and Anakin, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, stopped fighting. He looked up, past the humming blue blade, into Obi-Wan's face. There was no triumph there, only a weary, terrible certainty. Then, his gaze shifted, searching for her.
Padmé stepped forward, her gown whispering against the floor. She knelt beside him, her presence a cool balm to the suffocating heat. Her fingers, cool and steady, traced the line of his jaw.
"You see, Anakin?" she murmured, her voice the only soft thing in this room of fire and metal. "This is where you belong. With us."
Obi-Wan shifted his weight, the pressure on Anakin's chest lessening slightly, becoming a possessive weight rather than a crushing one. He deactivated his lightsaber, the snap-hiss echoing in the sudden quiet. He knelt on Anakin's other side, one knee pressing into Anakin's shoulder, holding him fast.
"Padmé is offering you grace," Obi-Wan said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Anakin's bones. "I am offering you truth. You have been a slave to your fear, to your pride. Now, you will be a slave to something else. To us."
The words were a violation, a branding. Yet, in the hallowed ground of her touch and the undeniable power of Obi-Wan's hold, something in Anakin shattered. The frantic, desperate need to *win*, to control everything, dissolved into a different kind of hunger.
He turned his head into Padmé's palm, pressing a desperate, open-mouthed kiss to her skin. A concession. A surrender.
Padmé's fingers tightened in his hair, a firm, guiding grip. She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. "Good boy," she breathed, the praise a shiver of electricity down his spine.
Obi-Wan watched the exchange, a predator assessing its captured prey. He saw the slackening of Anakin's muscles, the way the fight simply… drained out of him. He felt the shift in the Force, the chaotic storm of Anakin's rage quieting, folding in on itself, becoming a still, deep well of submission.
Satisfied, Obi-Wan moved. His hands, calloused from years of wielding a lightsaber, worked with an infuriating calm at the fastenings of Anakin's tunic. The leather and cloth parted, revealing the sweat-slicked skin of Anakin's chest, the pale scars from a hundred battles.
Anakin's eyes narrowed in confusion, his brow furrowing. Padmé leaned down to kiss him, smiling against his lips as his brow smoothed out. Obi-Wan began his exploration, “I guess we will have to occupy you mind and body if this is what you get up to in your free time.”
The heat in the room was suddenly not just from the planet's fires. Anakin felt a flush creep up his neck, a different kind of heat pooling low in his belly. He was exposed, laid bare, not just physically, but spiritually. Every one of his transgressions, his fears, his desperate loves, were laid out under the dual scrutiny of the two people who knew him best.
Padmé broke the kiss, her eyes dark with an emotion that transcended love or pity. It was ownership. "We will give you what you've always wanted, Anakin," she promised.
"Order. Purpose. To be wanted." Her hands slid down his chest, her nails scraping lightly against his skin. "To be needed."
Obi-Wan's grip on his shoulder tightened, a grounding force. "You will be good," the Master stated, a command, not a suggestion. "You will obey. You will enjoy it. And you will be rewarded."
Anakin's gaze darted between them, a cornered animal finally seeing a way out that wasn't death. The choice was an illusion. It had always been an illusion. He was already theirs. He had been from the moment she'd told him it was okay, from the moment Obi-Wan had looked at him and seen not a monster, but a person.
A slow, shaky breath escaped him. Finally he was the center of their worlds not on the sidelines. A nod. Barely perceptible.
Padmé smiled, a genuine, breathtaking thing in the heart of darkness. "Yes," she whispered, as if he'd spoken a vow. "Good boy."
The praise was a key turning a lock deep within him. Anakin felt the last of his resistance crumble into dust. He arched his back slightly, a silent offering. Padmé met his gaze and then looked at Obi-Wan, a silent question and command in her eyes. Obi-Wan leaned over and kissed Padmé. It was a claiming, a brutal, messy kiss that left Padmé breathless and wanting. Anakin watched, a strange sense of pride welling in his chest.
Padmé’s hands roamed over Anakin's chest, her touch a brand. Obi-Wan's hands were on him too, one still holding him down, the other exploring the lines of his hips, the powerful muscles of his thighs. Anakin felt a surge of something he couldn't name. It was humiliating. It was intoxicating.
The world narrowed to the space on the floor between them. The raging fires of Mustafar, the fate of the galaxy, the Emperor—it all faded to a dull roar.
He no longer had to wonder if he was doing something right or not. They would tell him. He was theirs.
Anakin reached his hands to hesitantly, asking silent permission to touch them. Padmé caught one of his hands, bringing it to her lips, kissing his palm. Obi-Wan caught the other, placing it on the straining fabric of his own trousers. Anakin’s fingers curled instinctively, and a low groan rumbled in Obi-Wan's chest.
"See?" Padmé murmured against his skin. "You know exactly what to do."
The dual sensations—Padmé’s soft lips on his palm, the hard heat of Obi-Wan beneath his other hand—shattered the last vestiges of Anakin’s will. A tremor ran through him, a full-body shudder of release. His fight was over. He was no longer a general, no longer a Sith Lord, no longer the Chosen One. He was a vessel, ready to be filled, ready to obey. His universe narrowed to the only things that ever truly mattered, his two loves.
Obi-Wan’s voice was a low, rough command in his ear. "Don't just hold it, Anakin. Earn your reward."
Emboldened, Anakin’s fingers moved, exploring the shape and heat of him through the fabric. He felt Obi-Wan’s sharp intake of breath, the tightening of the muscles in his thigh. Power. Not the chaotic, world-burning power of the dark side, but a simpler, more profound power. The power to give pleasure. The power to obey.
At the same time, Padmé's touch became bolder. Her nails raked down his chest, leaving faint pink trails on his skin. She leaned over him, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, blocking out the hellish red glow of the room. "You've always been so eager, my love," she whispered, her breath hot against his lips, "but always distracted, restless. Because you needed Obi-Wan too."
"Yes. Thank you," Anakin said breathlessly. He looked at Obi-Wan, whose gaze was heavy-lidded, fixed on him with an intensity that was both terrifying and deeply reassuring. "Master."
The word was a prayer. A final, complete capitulation.
A slow, sharp smile touched Obi-Wan's lips. "That's right," he said, his voice a dark promise. He finally moved, taking his weight off Anakin's shoulder, only to settle between his legs, nudging them apart with his knees. Anakin went without resistance, pliant and open.
Padmé shifted, rising to her knees beside them, her hands never leaving Anakin's body. She watched as Obi-Wan hooked his fingers into the waistband of Anakin's trousers, pulling them down in one rough, decisive motion. The cool air of the control room hit Anakin's heated skin, and he gasped.
He was laid bare, utterly exposed, the scars of his past and the evidence of his present desire on full display. But there was no shame in it. There was only the truth in their eyes—the dark, possessive heat in Padmé’s, the commanding, hungry focus in Obi-Wan's.
Obi-Wan's hands spread across Anakin's thighs, holding him open. "Look at me," he commanded.
Anakin's eyes, wide and dark, locked onto his.
"You will take what we give you," Obi-Wan stated, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin of Anakin's inner thigh, making him twitch. "You will enjoy it. You will not hold back. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good," Obi-Wan murmured. Then he leaned down.
The sight was obscene, perfect. Obi-Wan Kenobi, the stoic Jedi Master, the Negotiator, with his head bowed over Anakin's most vulnerable flesh. Padmé's hand tightened on Anakin's chest, her nails digging in as Obi-Wan's mouth closed around the straining cock.
A choked cry escaped Anakin's throat. His back arched off the floor, a desperate, seeking motion. Padmé was there, her other hand tangling in his hair, holding him down, grounding him. "Stay still," she ordered, her voice a silk whip. "Take it."
He tried. He really did. But Obi-Wan was relentless, his tongue, his lips, the heat of his mouth, a calculated assault on Anakin's senses. Every lick, every suck was a lesson in submission, a demonstration of who was in control.
Anakin's hands fisted at his sides, knuckles white. He wanted to touch, to grab, to pull Obi-Wan closer, to bury his fingers in that graying hair. But he had not been given permission.
Padmé saw the struggle. She saw the desperation in his eyes. She smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. "You may touch him," she conceded. "But only with one hand. The other stays on me."
Anakin's breath hitched. He reached down with one trembling hand, hesitantly resting it on the back of Obi-Wan's head. The other he found, blindly, and laid on Padmé's thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her gown.
The dual contact was a circuit, a completion of the energy arcing between them. Anakin's fingers curled in Obi-Wan's hair, not pulling, just holding on. On Padmé's thigh, his fingers spread wide, anchoring him to her.
Obi-Wan hummed around him, the vibration a final, devastating blow. Anakin's entire body went taut, a string pulled to its breaking point. He shattered, a wordless cry tearing from his lips as he spilled into Obi-Wan's mouth.
As he came done from the high of his orgasm, Padmé slipped on top of his face. To his pleasant surprise, she wore nothing underneath her thin gown. "Clean me up, Anakin. Earn your second reward." Anakin looked at Padmé who was now straddling his face, her gown pooled around her waist. He didn't need to be told twice. He leaned up, his tongue darting out to taste her. She was wet, and he could taste her desire on his lips. He licked her slowly, reverently, his tongue exploring every fold and crevice. He could feel her shudder, hear her soft gasps of pleasure.
Obi-Wan watched for a moment, a dark, hungry look in his eyes. Then he stood, shedding his own robes with quick, efficient movements. He knelt back down between Anakin's thighs, his hands spreading Anakin's ass cheeks, exposing the tight, puckered hole.
Anakin froze, a tremor of fear and anticipation running through him. He'd never... not like this. But he didn't protest. He trusted them.
Obi-Wan's thumb circled the tight ring of muscle, a slow, teasing pressure. "Relax," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Let me in."
Anakin took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to open, to distract himself with Padmé's pussy. Obi-Wan's thumb breached him, a slow, burning stretch. It was uncomfortable, intrusive, but it was also... good. It was a claim, a mark of ownership, and he found himself arching into it, wanting more.
Obi-Wan added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him, preparing him. "That's it," he praised, his voice a dark, velvety purr. "Take it. Take all of it."
Anakin moaned against Padmé's core, the vibration making her cry out. She ground her hips against his face, her hands gripping the air for support. "Yes," she gasped. "Just like that. Don't stop."
Obi-Wan worked him open, his fingers finding that special bundle of nerves inside him, stroking it, teasing it, sending jolts of pure pleasure coursing through him. Anakin was lost in a haze of sensation, the taste of Padmé on his tongue, the feel of Obi-Wan's fingers inside him, the sound of their voices, their pleasure, surrounding him.
When Obi-Wan finally replaced his fingers with his cock, Anakin cried out, a raw, primal sound of pleasure and pain. Obi-Wan was big, bigger than he'd expected, and the stretch was almost unbearable, but deliciously so. He was being filled, claimed, possessed in the most intimate way possible.
"Is this what you wanted, Anakin?" Obi-Wan growled, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt. "To be ours? To be used for our pleasure?"
"Yes," Anakin sobbed, the word muffled by Padmé's flesh. "Yes, Master."
"Good," Obi-Wan said, and began to move.
He set a punishing pace, his thrusts deep and hard, each one hitting that spot inside Anakin that made him see stars. Padmé rode his face, her movements matching Obi-Wan's rhythm, her cries of pleasure growing louder, more desperate. Anakin was the center of their storm, the focal point of their combined passion, and he loved it. He was no longer the Chosen One, no longer a Sith Lord, no longer a Jedi. He was just theirs.
He felt Padmé tense, her thighs tightening around his head, her cries reaching a fever pitch. With a final, shuddering cry, she came, her essence flooding his senses. Anakin drank her down, his tongue working to prolong her pleasure, to give her everything she had given him.
As Padmé's tremors subsided, she collapsed to the side, her body boneless and sated. Anakin was free to focus on Obi-Wan, on the feel of him inside him, on the sound of their bodies slapping together, on the delicious friction that was building a fire in his own groin once more.
He reached down, his hand wrapping around his own cock, stroking himself in time with Obi-Wan's thrusts. "Please," he begged, his voice hoarse. "Please, Master."
"Please what, Anakin?" Obi-Wan demanded, his grip on Anakin's hips tightening. "What do you want?"
"Come with me," Anakin cried, his body arching off the floor. "Please, come with me."
With a final, brutal thrust, Obi-Wan buried himself deep inside Anakin, his own release a hot, wet flood that filled him to the brim. Anakin followed him over the edge, his own orgasm a blinding, all-consuming thing that left him gasping for breath, his body trembling with the force of it.
For a long moment, they lay there, a tangle of limbs, their bodies slick with sweat and other, more intimate fluids. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, rumbling roar of the Mustafar fires.
Finally, Obi-Wan moved, pulling out of Anakin with a soft groan. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at them. Padmé was already stirring, her eyes heavy-lidded and sated as she gazed at Anakin.
Anakin lay between them, a boneless, spent thing, but for the first time in a long, long time, he was at peace. The rage, the fear, the desperate need for control were all gone, replaced by a quiet, profound contentment. He was theirs. He was home.
Padmé reached out, her fingers tracing the line of Anakin's jaw. "Our good boy," she murmured, her voice a soft, possessive caress.
Obi-Wan leaned down, his lips brushing against Anakin's temple in a surprisingly tender kiss. "Always," he agreed, his voice a low, rumbling promise.
Anakin closed his eyes, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. He was no longer a slave to the dark side, but he was a slave nonetheless. And he wouldn't have it any other way.