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for obi_wanmanshow

The name had been a part of her nearly all her life, as familiar to her as her own. When it had first appeared - glowing golden script on her inner arm - she had been fascinated, spending hours upon hours staring at it, tracing the letters with one finger, dreaming about the kind of person her soulmate might be. The name was strange to her, not Nevarran or Orlesian or anything she had heard of, but that had only added to the mystery and excitement.

His name had appeared on her skin at the time of her first flowering - one more marker on her path from girlhood into womanhood. If she had been the sort to go to school and have friends, it might have been the kind of thing to giggle over with the other girls, to shyly hide away, only to shriek in feigned indigence when her sleeve was playfully pushed up and the name finally revealed. As it was, Cassandra learned from tutors, and rarely had contact with other children. The name, like her beloved books and dreams of dragon-hunting, became a solitary escape, a daydream of a better life.

Both had faded, in time, as such things do. Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones). And the name on her arm had faded from a bright gold to something duller and duller as the years went on, until it was something that could not be seen at all except in the brightest light of day.

(The longer it took, they said, the more your soulmate's name faded, the less likely you were ever to find him at all. And this one - an unknown, foreign name, one belonging to a man who clearly lacked either the interest or the means to seek out a soulmate with the name Pentaghast, well...)

Cassandra herself couldn't say exactly when it was she had stopped expecting to find him. Certainly it had been nothing overnight, no sudden revelation. She had simply woken up one day, no longer a girl in her twenties eager to make the world her own, but a woman in her late thirties - accomplished, certainly, perhaps even fulfilled - but utterly alone, and more and more likely to stay that way.

But the name is still a part of her, as much as it ever had been. And so it is that when she hears it spoken aloud for the first time, she doesn't even blink; hearing the words she had whispered so reverently to herself for twenty-five years is as natural as breathing.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi." She nods sharply, focused on her work, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is urgently whispering something, something is happening, this is important - She holds her hand out to shake - her arms, as they always are these days, fully covered by long sleeves that meet her gloves, the barely-visible name securely hidden from even the most prying eyes. "I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast."

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"I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do this," He whispers, both because a whisper is all he can manage, and because it seems somehow irreverent to use an ordinary speaking voice, "You'd laugh. Or-- maybe you wouldn't."

As he's speaking, his hands are traveling again, stroking upwards to hook around the outermost edge of her smalls, as fine and lovely as they are, and draw them back again. Down, down, down those lovely long legs, peppered with scars and well-muscled, and off onto the floor in a pretty little heap. He pays them no further mind; she is bare before him. Thus inspired, or perhaps wishing to level the playing field somewhat, he looks up, catches her eye, and pulls away just long enough to slide the shirt from his back on one long, slow slide-- or as slow as a man in his position can make it. Obi-Wan is a patient man, but mortal flesh has its limits.

And then he is touching her again, soft kisses melting into wet and biting ones along her thigh, going up, up onto his knees and he nears the inevitable goal, and then reaches it.

She'd thought her heart was racing before. Before is nothing compared to what happens when he hooks his fingers into her smalls and slides them off. It's done so quickly, so smoothly, that they're gone before she has time to object or hesitate. She digs her fingers into the mattress, white-knuckled, and stares, not even able to fully appreciate the sight as he discards his shirt.

But Obi-Wan looks neither bewildered nor disgusted at what he sees, and she tries again to relax, gasping quietly at the feeling of his teeth and tongue against her inner thigh. She tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling, unable to watch as his mouth finally meets her in her most secret place.

"Is it...all right?"

She has to ask. Surely he will tell her, he will be honest, as she has tried - not always successfully - to be honest with him. Won't he? "Please, tell me the truth. Am I - d-do I taste..."

He pulls away, barely thinking, reacting more to the anxiety in her voice than the words, and leans his cheek against the paleness of her thigh, soft despite its strength.

"You are beautiful, everywhere," He wishes he were more eloquent, but there are few enough parts of him not utterly dedicated to the task at hand; Obi-Wan feels he has done more than well enough to form words in sensible order. They need not be poetry, "I'm not done tasting."

Or, perhaps his eagerness is answer enough, a kiss she may find more accustomed to another kind of lips, made with laving tongue and satisfied hums. Obi-Wan's shoulders twist and bow as he rises up to give himself a more complete leverage, mantling like a hawk, protective of its meal. Even now, his hands steal forward, to cup the curve of her rump, to squeeze and urge her forward against him, where he's turned to suckling lips and the gentle scrape of teeth. He is devouring her, seemingly ravenous; if she were unpleasant, how could he be so eager?

She closes her eyes, relieved, and nods her head in acknowledgement, not trusting herself to speak. But Obi-Wan's actions do, in fact, speak louder than words, and she lets out a sigh - partly of relief, partly of pleasure - as he turns his attention to the task at hand once more.

He is not repulsed by her - quite the opposite, it seems. That knowledge is enough to allow her to relax further, tense fingers easing on the blanket. And then his tongue finds her, teasing, his lips sucking deliberately, and she nearly jumps, crying out in sudden, somehow unexpected pleasure.

"Oh - "

She must feel his smile, though how she will interpret the sensation is unknowable-- but for the delighted chuckle, stifled against her flesh. Hoping not to offend, hoping to inspire yet further surprises, Obi-Wan redoubles his efforts with tongue and lips. Slipping one hand forward to run his fingertips through the slickness, he dips into her body in earnest, cautious but unafraid, far deeper than a tongue may manage.

Now she is beginning to understand, he thinks. Or at least, she is learning to relax into it and forget, for the moment, her worries. There is more to come, of course, but for now, it is enough to hold her trust in his hands, and to reward that trust as well as he possible can.

That he is rewarded in turn is no concern; that's what he tells himself. Even so, oh, but her voice is sweet.

Cassandra gasps again when his finger slips inside her, and though she tries to contain her movements, she cannot entirely stop herself from writhing against him, seeking more. Her hips jerk, and she shudders. Everything is slick and warm and welcome, her entire being focused on that single place, the things he is making her feel.

"Obi-Wan - " She reaches for him, needing to touch him, and her hands find him, sliding through his short hair. "Please - more of this. Do not stop." Not that he seems inclined to, thank the Maker.

He is tempted-- tempted only-- to stop, if only to see her indignation, to be scoffed at and to laugh and go back to his work light-hearted, but that is a joke for another time. Now, now his hands are full of wet heat, and the weight and momentum of her pleasure crests over him. He can no more stop than he could ever deny her, nor does he want to.

Two fingers now, a slow, thrusting counterpoint to the urgent pace of his mouth. He allows her a breath of rest with this sensation for a moment, a desperate, motile suspense, then crooks his fingers up and inward, seeking for that fierce final pleasure that she is already so close by.

She mewls helplessly, gasping under his hands, and if Obi-Wan had not yet been certain that he was seeing a side of Cassandra that no one else had been privy to, he unquestionably is now.

There is an uncomfortable moment when he slides a second finger into her beside the first, stretching her, and her face twists up with momentary strain - but then his fingers are inside her, filling her to an unprecedented extent, and she breathes again, shallowly, marvelling as the sensation overtakes all others.

"Oh - " She catches her breath as he pauses, her every nerve on edge, and then -

Cassandra does not scream, but it is a close thing. Her hips buck and she clenches tight around his fingers, the hot, urgent feeling in her lower belly exploding into pleasure. A single cry, one she would have blushed to hear, had she any attention left to care, and then she slumps backwards, her thighs shaking and her limbs like jelly.

He thinks, for a moment, that the sound itself will be enough to let him follow her, like an over-eager boy, hard in his trousers. He sits back on his heels, watching the graceless satiationof her, the bob of her breasts as she pants. Much satisfied at this scene, the result of his efforts, Obi-Wan withdraws, a slow, lingering caress, soaked in the evidence of her pleasure.

His shirt is old and soft-- it goes for a rag, to wipe his face on, and the wetness of his hand, and all the while he watches her recover.

"Oh, Cassandra," He murmurs, coming to slump himself half on the bed, half off, so that he can drape one arm around her waist, and stroke the jumping expanse of her belly, to tease, "You are magnificent."

She smiles at him, warm and satisfied.

"I have not done anything," she protests, without heat, and brings a hand up to stroke his hair. "It is you who are magnificent."

A pause, as she reflects. He had given her all this, and received nothing in return. This will not be the end of their night...but he had started with this, an act of pure generosity, and all to reassure her and soothe her anxieties.

Her soulmate. She must work hard, she thinks, to emulate him, to be as patient and selfless as he.

She bends her head, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome," He replies, uncommonly cheerful under her regard, although he finds his attention sliding with perfectly common sentiment towards the nearby distraction of her breasts. They are not overlarge, but they move as she breathes, and through the disheveled sheerness of what she wears, he can just barely discern the shape of her nipples. Enticing did not adequately describe it.

"There's more, if you'd like," He says it quite casually, but there's no masking the hungry way his eyes flick up to meet her own, "I would love nothing more than to show you."

Oh, that look in his eyes. Cassandra's heart speeds up again, and she takes a breath, opening her mouth to reply -

- and is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

She looks up, startled, and then down with dismay at herself. Barely clothed, her smalls in a heap on the floor. The thatch of hair between her legs still glistening.

She turns, wide-eyed and silent, to Obi-Wan, the question clear in her eyes - what do we do?

Obi-Wan, who is regarding the door as if it were a foreign object, meets her gaze in near-perfect tandem. Then he rolls his eyes and with exaggerated frustration mutters something only slightly blasphemous about the Maker's buttocks, and seizes upon the rumpled coverlet Cassandra is lying on for a solution.

"Here, try this," He says, draping it around her shoulders, "I'll try and..."

What, make them go away? Throw them off of the balcony? Punch them in the nose? When the knock repeats itself, he certainly feels like trying that last one, to be honest.

"...handle that."

Cassandra nods wordlessly, as if merely speaking aloud runs the risk of giving her away. She takes the blanket, wrapping it tightly around herself.

"I will - " She casts her eyes around the room, then gets to her feet and hurries to a side door, to a yet-undiscovered room. "Just - wait here."

With that, she ducks through the door, shutting it firmly behind her. She slumps against the wall, throwing her head back, and sighs.

Obi-Wan opens the door and finds an impatient-looking manservant with a silver tray that would be quite beautiful if he hadn't been annoyed beyond even his generous capacity for compassion.

Ice, a bottle of champagne, and an assortment of delicately-cut fingerfoods, fruit and savory pastries no larger than a mouthful. He might just throw it all in the man's face-- a face which is taking in his half-dressed state, the wild look in his eyes and... And where any ordinary snoop might have had the grace to look embarrassed, he only gazes back impassively.

Somehow, somehow he just knows, that a certain spymaster is behind this.

"...Thank. You." Obi-Wan grits out, accepting the tray. When the door closes, he locks it, "Maker's Breath."

After a moment, and after depositing the tray gently on the bed, he goes to explore the mysteries of their shares suite, and the location of his erstwhile wife, wherever she may be. Hopefully she hasn't vanished completely, in her embarrassment.

She's found what appears to be a dressing-room.

An entire room dedicated only to wardrobe - it is a ridiculous, unnecessary extravagance. At least, judging by the rows of clothing haning neatly, it is a shared room for the both of them - no separate lady's dressing room here. Even now, she notes with some amusement that the room itself seems to have been built for a much greater quantity of clothes than both of them together have, wide gaps present between the neatly hanging garments.

Well. She supposes they must have something.

There is a vanity, which she passes without a second glance, and a full-length mirror. It is here that Cassandra stops, gazing at herself in the mirror, trying to see what Obi-Wan sees when he calls her beautiful.

Long, strong legs. Skin glowing golden in the lamplight. A strong jaw. And of course...the outfit. She lets the blanket fall to the floor and gazes at herself in the mirror, at the dark shapes of her nipples and the swell of her breasts under the gauzy fabric, the lower curve of her buttocks just visible under the hem of the short gown.

Cassandra hesistates, holding her breath. But there is silence from outside. Tentatively, she looks at herself in the mirror, and takes a steadying breath.

Then, she levels her gaze at her reflection, lowering her eyelids and letting her lips pout. She takes a sauntering step forward, swinging her hips - not at all the way she usually walks. One hand slides up her thigh, rucking up the skirt as she splays a hand across her belly -

The door opens, and Cassandra drops her hand as if it's red-hot, turning wide-eyed and guilty to stare.

Obi-Wan, who was intending to do something that might have been labeled as demure, or perhaps even tentative, finds he is unable to repress the urge to simply lean against the doorjamb and regard her with the full measure of affection. Oh, he's amused, and that's there too, in the tilt of his hips and the cheeky way he's folded his arms, but of all the things he thought he'd find her doing...

"You don't have to stop on my account," He's teasing her, really-- he knows she'll stop. And, even if she calls his bluff, is that really losing, as such? Obi-Wan thinks not, "What are you trying out?"

She gives him a look - as if she could continue with him watching her that way, even if she had wanted to. And then she turns away, shaking her head, cheeks blazing as she stares at the floor.

"Nothing - nothing. That is - " She hesitates, twisting her hands together, all but shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. "I...I do not know. I merely wanted...to see what it was like." What what was like, she doesn't specify, but her eyes are already darting around, in search of some kind of a robe. She's still much less dressed than Obi-Wan, and well aware of it.

He's only in pants, Cassandra, if you want him naked, it wouldn't be hard. Or rather-- it would. Still is, technically, and her own state of dress is doing nothing to assuage that. He just can't stop looking at her.

Her own remonstrative glance does nothing to discourage him.

"I think I understand," He says, coming to stand behind her, telegraphing every movement clearly, so that it is obvious, reflected in the mirror, that he means to wrap his arms around her. It's warm, skin on silk on skin, gathering her close, "You look good. You look..."

She looks, even now, as if someone had spent some time pleasuring her and the evidence is even yet lingering between her thighs. Magnificent she had called him? He watched her face in the mirror and sighed at his own besotted self, unrepentant.

"...You're beautiful, Cassandra. Never doubt it."

An uncertain moment, and then she relaxes into his embrace, leaning back against him and resting her hands on his arms.

"I am not the sort of woman to be able to seduce you," she admits quietly. She looks into the mirror, meeting his eyes there. "I do not know that I will ever be."

She is never self-conscious on the battlefield. But this - this is another sort of battlefield entirely. It's still a struggle not to feel foolish in this ridiculous outfit, even though she can tell how much he enjoys it. His clear regard only makes her more hyperaware of herself, of every ungraceful motion. Alone in front of the mirror, she had tried, briefly, to embrace it, but now...

But now he is back, and she can only be grateful that he hadn't actually laughed at her outright.

"You're thinking too much," He murmurs, voice warm, beside his ear, "For one thing, I don't need seducing, I'm already yours. For another..."

He considers her now in a more clinical light, propping his chin on her shoulder. Cassandra is not... She's no soft blossom, nor is she the kind of delicate-skinned creature who prefers lace to leather, or silk over steel-- except, perhaps, in private.

But that is her strength.

"Think of it this way. You're not pretty. But prettiness isn't everything about beauty-- it's not even the main part. Some people prefer songbirds, but I'm not the kind of man who stands in court, and I prefer hunting hawks. I find you beautiful in your strength, in the strength of your appearance, not in spite of it. After all, the Maker meant me to fall in love with the woman who could slay dragons while carrying a book of romantic poetry in her pocket. You are so stunning; I never had a chance."

She considers this, watching their reflections in the mirror. Not pretty...but beautiful.

Obi-Wan...he is so handsome. But not once had he flinched away from her, or shown the least disappointment in her looks.

A wry smile curves her lips, and she shakes her head. "I did not have any poetry with me when I slayed the dragon." But she knows what he means, and she turns in his arms, looking into his eyes. They are pressed chest to chest, separated, now, only by the thin layer of her gown, but now, that does not seem so very intimidating.

They fit together. And she trusts him. She leans up to press a soft kiss to his lips, drawing back to look at him with dark eyes.

"You are already mine," she murmurs, marveling at it. "And I - "

Another kiss, and she winds her arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper into his ear. "I am already yours."

"Don't spoil my fantasies," He teases, but then she turns and words become too uncouth for the moment. The comparison of a hunting hawk was apt; though warm with love, her gaze is just as piercing. He accepts her kiss with the grace of simplicity.

The second has more fire in in it and he wraps himself tighter around her pulling her weight up and against him even as she winds her arms around him in turn. Maker, this woman will be the death of him!

I am already yours.

If he hadn't already abandoned all pretense of dignity in this, that would have been the end of it. But even so, he groans at this, and with helpless abandon, fastens his mouth against her shoulder, a wet, sucking kiss that breaks for air only reluctantly.

"Bed? Or...?"

She tilts her head back, eyes fluttering shut as her lips part - all in all, doing a fairly good impression of all those graceful ladies she's so convinced that she could never be.

When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, and she nods, smiling, not yet trusting herself to speak.

"...Yes." She reaches a hand up, caressing his cheek, the curve of his ear, down his neck to his shoulder. She can feel him, straining through his pants against her still-wet folds, and she takes in a stuttered breath, quite unconsciously moving her hips and grinding down against him.

Oh, but she needs more. And the sooner the better. She rolls her hips once again, deliberately this time, and bites back a moan.

"Yes."

He hoists her up against him, mute acceptance of unsilent gesture, and for the second time carries her across a threshold, and into the bedroom.

It's not a straight path, by an means, but then in order to move without distraction he would have to stop kissing her. Honestly, he'd just as soon take the scenic route; it's not as if either of them are paying attention to the time. He won't drop her, instead he sets her on the bed and presses a kiss against her lips that has weight on it, and the promise of an advancing tide. He breaks the promise when he draws back, offering the apology of lips and tongue along clavicle and shoulder before pulling back.

It's a good thing these pants are only worn-out sleeping trousers because between the two of them, they're stained beyond saving. He hesitates, only a little, a glance of self-denigrating amusement mixed with apprehension, then unties and lets them drop off. Well, fair is fair, after all-- and there is always that one standard by which men are judged.

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