stabsbooks | for obi

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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cassandra takes note of the unusual emphasis. My Lady. It reminds her of the letters he'd given her, the ones she no longer remembers writing, and the way she'd signed them - your Cassandra.

As a young woman - and even as an older one, up until a few short weeks ago - she would have rebelled at the thought of belonging to anyone. Romance is one thing, but she is not about to give up either her independence or her individuality to someone else, no matter who he might be.

This, though...

There is nothing possessive about his tone, not in the way she might have feared. Nothing threatening to compel her, or to take away her choice - though perhaps that is only due to the situation and the context, constructed though it may be - the way he bends easily to her own will, wholly subservient in that moment.

Would she be so eager to play along, if their positions were reversed? Would he?

Something to consider later, perhaps. For now...Obi-Wan is not complaining.

She nods gravely, and bows her head to meet his outstretched arm, opening her mouth to receive the pastry. It's a little awkward, at first, but they manage it, Cassandra darting her tongue out to lick her lips clean afterwards, and gazing at him with dark eyes as she swallows.

"Thank you." Is that the right response - she has no idea. It comes out softer than she had planned, a hoarse whisper.

He smiles, and ducks his head with a burning face. Ridiculous, the utter indulgence of it, of the utterly banal childhood fantasy-- like something taken not off the cover of a book, but the hidden drawing on the inside, the woodblock print too suggestive to leave sitting out in the open.

And here he is in a luxurious Orlesian palace, hand-feeding a nevarran princess. That at any moment she could likely quite handily win any fight that cared to present itself is only for the better; reality outpacing fiction, in the best way.

"You're welcome," He finally responds, then sits back a little, suddenly embarrassed, "And thank you. For indulging me."

And for everything else.

"If you think of anything I can do to return the favor..."

She studies him for a moment, quietly thoughtful, and then, moved by a sudden impulse, reaches for him, tugging him closer once more.

"I think," she says lowly, "that I would like to taste the champagne." Her eyes shift to the bottle in its chilled bucket, and the empty glasses waiting to be filled, before she looks back at him.

A moment, as she gathers her courage and takes a breath.

"From- from your lips."

If his face is still burning...at least he's in good company now.

If he wasn't red before, he's back to it now, yes. And he can't help the half-delighted, half-embarassed smirk, trending toward a smile, or perhaps a grin; he covers it with one hand.

"We are a pair," he murmurs, helplessly pleased, and then, "For you, my love, anything."

He considers the bottle, reaching over her body to take it by the neck, and opens it with a satisfying pop. Bubbles rise, beautifully frothy as he pours, and after a moment he sips at it, to test the flavor.

"Now, I've never done this before," He warns, hoping only not to embarrass himself- or soak the bed. Obi-Wan takes a mouthful, not over-generous, reaches to cup her jaw with one hand, and with only a little awkwardness, kisses her.

Cassandra's expression breaks into a wide, relieved grin. It helps, somehow, that he too is embarrassed, yet still so willing to play along. Easier to risk making a fool of herself when both of them are equally unsure.

She watches avidly as he reaches for the bottle, amazed that this is actually happening - though perhaps she should not be, after all else that has happened tonight. The thought, the memory, sends a sharp spike of excitement through her, and she leans forward to meet him, sliding a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck to hold him in return.

The kiss is a mere press of lips, at first, before she carefully probes with her tongue, gently seeking entrance. It is a near thing, as much because she is on the brink of laughter (and, thus, disaster) as anything else, but they manage it, the bubbly champagne no sweeter than Obi-Wan's lips themselves.

When she at last swallows and pulls back, she is flushed, happy, just a little bit tousled.

"Oh." She raises a hand to cover her own smile, eyes shining. "Oh. I - I have never done that before, either."

"It is difficult to express," He tells her, unable to resist the impulse to take her hand away, to press a kiss there instead, and another against the pulse-point of her wrist, "How privileged I feel... How wonderful it is, to have been your first."

The temptation is there, too strong to ignore, so he kisses her again. The moment lingers, still sweet with champagne, but less hesitant. He could just as happily go up on his knees, kiss his way down her neck, her collarbone, and find a different flavor to occupy himself, but the growling of his own stomach interrupts him, and Obi-Wan laughs instead.

"...I apologize, it seems I'm distracted from the task at hand. Why don't we focus on the food? Then, I'll..." He pauses, considering his phrasing with an amused air, "Draw us a bath?"

Cassandra returns the kiss, momentarily tongue-tied. She wants to tell him that it is nothing so wondrous, that it would not have changed her if things had been otherwise (save, perhaps, that she would not have been so mortifyingly awkward and afraid); but she also wants to tell him how lucky she feels to have had him to help her through, how grateful she is for his kindness and understanding...

In the end, she says nothing in reply, merely pours all that she can of her feelings into the kiss. And draws back, with a laugh.

"I suspect we will both be fighting distraction for some time," she says, all but glowing with happiness. She reaches for one of the pastries, hesitates as she holds it up to his lips. "Let me?"

"I wonder why," He replies,droll and beaming. He opens his mouth obediently when offered, deliberately touching the tips of Cassandra's fingertips as he closes it around the pastry. Underhanded teasing, perhaps, but worth the look on her face. It's fine work, flaky, savory and sweet, delicately spiced in that complex, artistic way that Orlesian chefs prize so highly.

They pass the rest of the meal that way, equal parts innuendo and silliness, laughing over food and drink alike, and the both of them thoroughly distracted. By mutual agreement, Obi-Wan leans in to seal the last of it with a final kiss, then excuses himself to the adjoining bath-chamber.

Many parts of Val Royeaux have existed long before firm contacts with the kind of engineers who might have invented such marvels; but this room had either come later, or been refitted at considerable expense to reflect the changing times. It has spouts, and a long, luxurious tub-- not marble, but copper, like a well-polished teakettle. The water comes in cold or tepid as the season requires, but clean enough, and can be thereby heated or cooled through the clever use of runes slotted into the underside of the tub itself. Expensive, but for a city with its own tower and access to magical expertise, not unthinkable. Obi-Wan has seen its like before.

Presently, there is the sound of water, and then the presence of steam, and various perfumed, soapy smells. Whenever Cassandra cares to investigate, she will find Obi-Wan testing the temperature of an enormous, steaming bubblebath.

Cassandra takes a moment to sip at her champagne; she feels as if she might need it. She knows, or at least suspects, that this bath is likely to be more than a mere bath; she's not stupid, after all. It's not that she is nervous, not anymore - how could she be, now that she has seen firsthand what a thoughtful and generous lover Obi-Wan is? Still, there is something in knowing what lies in the room beyond that makes her stomach knot in excitement and nerves, all at once.

So. The champagne. She drains the glass, sets it aside and goes to seek out her - her husband once more. She finds him kneeling beside the tub, thoughtfully sinking a hand into the water - ridiculously overloaded with bubbles - and kneels beside him, one hand on his back.

"Is it ready, my love?"

He startles, caught in reverie, then smiles for her. My love she'd said, and for the first time-- was she trying it on for size? He thought back to the mirror, and the half-second of sultry, doe-eyed expression he'd caught, and his smile turns soft around the edges.

"I think so, yes," He pauses, contemplating yet another valiant salle into the realm of giving her an out, a way to simply have a bath without any further pressure to perform, and then catches her eye. Well. Well, then, "Would you like to settle in first, or shall I?"

Or rather, would she like to watch, is the question-- or be watched. Or some further third option.

It hardly matters, she thinks; he will watch either way. She certainly plans on watching Obi-Wan as he joins her in the tub - if nothing else (and there is so much else), then to make sure he does not slip and injure himself.

But she appreciates the offer of a choice for what it is, and smiles, untying the sash at her waist. Emboldened, perhaps, by the champagne, or the way Obi-Wan has gazed at her all evening, his tireless, earnest insistence that she is beautiful.

She almost feels so, when he looks at her.

And he is looking now, she is sure, as she turns away to slip out of the robe and hang it up for later. She shivers as the air hits bare skin, lingering a moment longer than she needs to as she imagines his eyes on her back.

Finally, Cassandra turns and steps to the edge of the tub, then glances at Obi-Wan, reaching out a hand for support.

"Help me?"

"Of course."

He takes her hand almost blindly; if asked, he'd hardly know how to pretend otherwise. Cassandra is a woman who's body reflects her lifelong warrior-calling, in both scar and musculature. He has time now to appreciate them in a way that their earlier activities had not allowed. The way the curve of her spine merges seamlessly with the curve of her rump, and the interplay of the muscles in her shoulders and back, the way all of them flex and move, this is very nearly art, sans artist. Or perhaps, that is simply the hand of years, or the Maker himself, whos hand sculpts all things that might be.

Truly, he is blessed.

After a moment, he shakes himself out of the reverie; Obi-Wan has the grace to look sheepish. His turn, then? Very well.

It's not as though he lacks grace, after all, but it takes a breath for him to ease away from the foolish, coltish feeling, and remember how to move naturally. There is little enough fanfare to the show, but he is extremely aware of being observed as he slides the robes off his shoulders and down one arm. It makes the simple motion of draping the fabric over a hook into something slow, almost ritualistic. When he turns back to the bath, he is clear-eyed and calm.

She sinks into the hot water, grateful both for its heat and comfort and for the bubbles that serve to cover her up. It is not that she minds him seeing her, even looking at her, which is something different. But she is not used to it, and it is a little exhausting being under such close scrutiny.

It's a luxury to relax into the water, and take the opportunity, however brief, simply to look at him instead. Obi-Wan is lean; still, perhaps, more so than he should be, after his time in the cell. But he is muscular, with a strength borne of hard, honest labor. She finds herself gazing with special interest at his shoulders, and then his arms; undoubtedly a man's arms, broad and well-built, biceps flexing as he slowly hangs up his own robe.

Putting on a show. For her.

She blushes when he turns and meets her eyes, shifting her own gaze reluctantly away from his body, and reaching out a hand to urge him forward.

"Come, join me."

Something about getting into baths is always a little awkward-- just as settling into the water afterward is as freeing. Sitting like this, legs entangled, frothy, floral-scented foam riding high, and the undeniably tension of the moments before... Well, freeing is one word, for it.

He wonders, combing fingertips through the underside of a layer of bubbles, how ridiculous he must look, despite the soothing comfort. A glance confirms the strange dichotomy of the moment in Casandra, up to her shoulders, everything a not-immodest dress might conceal hidden under the water. It lends her both an air of innocence and a decadent, sexual air. He cannot help but be intimately aware of their shared nakedness.

"May I kiss you?" He asks, without fear of the answer; it echoes the night previous, and the day they'd first been reunited. Then, he'd wondered about her feeling, but now, he knew. Obi-Wan meant it in truth; her promise, to him, was as a good as any gold.

He does not look ridiculous at all. The water adds an air of mystery, if a false one; they have both seen what is now hidden. Cassandra smiles and reaches for his hand under the water - carefully. Their legs slide against one another, wet and slick.

"One day, you will not have to ask," she promises. She appreciates the question now; this is all so new, and it's not so unlikely that a situation may arise where she says no - though that situation is getting harder and harder to envision. Her fingers tangle with his, and she squeezes tight.

"Kiss me."

"Something to look forward to," one bright moment in an endless list of them, he's sure, "In the meantime I hope you'll be patient with me."

As if she's been anything else. He sits forward, and the water sloshes a little, rocking in its copper bowl. The waterline along his shoulders and back retreats as he rises slightly, a stripe of incongruous cold. He has to brace both hands against the bottom of the tub, bracketing her waist, to ward against slipping.

Champagne and lavender, sweetness and soap bubbles, and the delicate, musky flavor he's quickly coming to associate with Cassandra herself. The water is a warm barrier between them, a tantalizingly permeable margin. Daring indeed, he strokes down her bare sides under the water.

Perhaps he needn't ask, but even then, he might. The ability to say yes is meaningless if one cannot refuse.

"Always."

She can do no less, not when he has been so patient with her. Well - she bites her lip, thinking. Cassandra is not a terribly patient person, on the whole.

"At least, I shall always try."

But there is no need for patience now, not when his lips capture hers and Cassandra's eyes flutter shut, her own arms going up to wrap around his neck to keep from slipping herself.

She sighs at his touch, and opens her eyes, smirking.

"Is there something else you wish to ask?"

Patience? He considers it, very briefly, then meets her question with another kiss, gone from coy to fervent in the space of a hasty breath. As if that were not answer enough, he breaks away too-soon and breathes the words against her mouth.

"May I have you?"

He is ready, all over again, and if he entered the bath half-hard, then it is no matter. Every part of him is eager to take what she is offering, and he is already so close, kneeling over her, wet and nude and hidden close by in the water and suds.

"My Cassandra, may I take you?"

Gone is the hesitance, the gentleness; here, now is naked fire in his eyes, burning for no other; only her. He licks his lips, and waits for the answer.

She shivers, goosebumps rising on her arms despite the warmth of the water. In response, she slips her hands down to his face, cupping his cheeks and gazing into his eyes. The fire in his eyes is reflected in her own; she finds now that she is not nervous after all, only eager. Eager for this, and for a thousand thousand nights in their future, she and Obi-Wan joining together again and again to celebrate their love.

This is only the beginning, and it will only get better from here.

"Take me," she whispers, and surges forward, kissing him fiercely. "Take me, my Obi-Wan, my love. Take me with you."

"Yes," He whipsers, bracketing her hips between hips and hands, blindly so because he cannot look away. He watches her face through the whole first thrust, slick and wet giving way to heat and pressure, and he hides nothing of his own reaction. Every time, every time, it cannot be this poignant; he'll die of the emotion alone.

Later, this, this will the moment he remembers with the greatest strength. Confidence, as ever, is Cassandra's most beautiful self.

The bathwater sloshes; he doesn't hesitate, nor make her wait any longer. A wise man never leaves his wife wanting, as they say, and the floor will recover on its own, one way or another. There is nothing else in Obi-Wan's mind, but this.

Cassandra mewls, arching up into him and wrapping her legs firmly around his waist. The water and the warm, steam-filled air add a sense of unreality to the whole experience. She feels as if she could float away, buoyed by their love, wrapped up safely in Obi-Wan's warmth and strength and his body, in and around hers.

"Do not stop," she begs, hands fluttering - reaching for his shoulders, his arms, the back of his head. She wants to touch him, everywhere; wants to hold him and never let go. "Please - oh - Obi-Wan, please - "

He bows his head until the waters are lapping around his shoulders and he is within easy reach, bending to kiss against her jaw and neck, and the line of her shoulders. He cannot speak, too caught up in the sensation, in the rocking ebb of the water in time with his thrusts, accentuating the power and direction, and her own wild abandon. The rhythm he falls into is at once both too much and not enough; eventually, he pulls back, water falling noisily from his back, and grasps the edge of the tub itself for a brace.

Faster now, hips and knees, the strong curve of spine and flexing belly. She is coming apart under him and he cannot find the edge, if there is one. Pleasure seems to go on forever, though even this must soon end, even if he is determined that she'll go before he does. Oh, the sounds she makes! No one else could imagine such a needy, helpless noise, not from Cassandra, but now it is all Obi-Wan can think of.

I love you, he thinks, desperate and fervent, and whispers it over and again in the heated air between them, I love you, I love you.

The light outside the window is faded and in the streets of Val Royeaux the lamps are being lit under a rising moon. But the world ends at the windows of their chambers, and begins again in the gasping pleasure of Cassandra's breath, and his own in reply. For the second time that night, they come together, and not for the first time Obi-Wan wonders at the symmetry of it, that such a thing should be not merely possible, but seemingly inevitable.

She stops trying to talk after that, content to communicate through quiet sighs and louder moans, hungry kisses and desperate touches. Words seem superfluous, in any case. Every time she meets Obi-Wan's eyes, she is struck anew by the depth of emotion in his eyes, by the surge of love she feels for him in return.

At some point, they find a rhythm and everything else falls away. She forgets the hard copper of the tub at her back, the sound of the water spilling over the side; there is only herself and Obi-Wan, moving together, perfectly, blissfully in sync. Cassandra lets out a helpless little sigh, her eyes closing as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses a kiss against his ear. Into her own ear come his quiet whispers, a repeated litany - I love you, I love you, I love you. A tear trickles down her cheek, happiness and wonder and oh -

"Oh -"

She does not scream, but she gasps and grabs at him, her whole body shaking against his as she comes, as she feels him reach his climax inside of her; and for that moment, everything is perfect.

When Obi-Wan returns to his body, he is lying across hers, head bowed against her shoulder as if in some obscene prayer, one shoulder still half-submerged, off-center. For just a few breaths, he cannot move, can only let awareness seep back into his mind in the slow dripping of water and the pace of her heartbeat against his cheek, already calming.

They still fit perfectly together, when he shifts slightly, only enough so that he can see her face again. It's a moment whole and entire, dependent neither on the past, nor the future; strung, like a bead, on the years of his life. Shining. Beautiful, even with wet faces and damp hair, and the cooling bathwater.

He lifts his hand out of what's left of the bath and strokes it along her cheek, fingertips following the line of scar and bone, marveling at the profound delicacy of form, and the depth of shared experience.

There are no words. And then, momentarily, there are.

"Oh," It takes him several seconds to notice, and then several more to remember the significance, but when he does, Obi-Wan lifts his arm so that she can see, "Look at that."

Golden-bright, slow and careful it writes itself in gilt ink, stroke by stroke. A name. Her name. Even in the low lamp-light, and the grey ghost of the sunset, it shines. Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast.

"Oh."

She stares, transfixed, her eyes following the letters as they light up, one by one, all the way down his arm. She has never been terribly fond of her name - no one, child or adult, should be saddled with such a name - but now, now it is beautiful.

Cassandra puts a hand to her mouth, unable to hide her smile, joy and delight and not a small amount of relief. She reaches out, hesitantly, and traces the letters of Calogera lightly, awed and almost reverent.

Her soulmate. Marked, now and forever, with her name. With proof positive of her love for him.

"True as gold," she murmurs, the old saying. She tears her gaze away from the name at last, with some difficulty, and leans forward to press a soft kiss to Obi-Wan's lips.

"Now you are mine."

Edited 2016-08-29 20:18 (UTC)

for obi_wanmanshow

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject