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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

He closes his eyes against the light shining in hers, just for a moment it is too bright. Her hand against his skin, tracing the name, and Obi-Wan opens them again, when she speaks, and his answering chuckle is buried in a satisfied hum and the return of her kiss.

"I don't need gold to tell me that," Obi-Wan says, sarcasm painted gentle in loving tones and the way his arm settles around her waist, cinched close, "I was already yours. But now..."

Now there is no doubting with his eyes the evidence of his heart. Now he knows that whatever of himself he has given away, it is accepted, and returned in kind. Words can lie, circumstances can lie, even emotions can lie, do lie, to their owners as much as to others. The soul cannot lie-- why else would the Maker give his children this gift? The truth. Their truth.

"I can see it."

Cassandra smiles. She is relieved, yes - and grateful. For someone who struggles with words as much as she does, it is a miracle - a true gift from the Maker - to see her love written clearly on his skin. She would never lie, but neither, she suspects, could she ever completely put into words the depth of her feelings for him.

And more than that, now she knows that it is not mere wishful thinking, her foolish, romantic heart tricking her into believing that she has finally found what she had dreamed of for so long. What they have is real. Now, it cannot be denied. And he is hers, just as she is his.

Her heart leaps in her chest, a moment of pure, unbridled joy, and she throws her arms around him, squeezing tight.

"I love you." She peppers kisses against his neck and shoulder, unable to hold herself back, near bursting with love and happiness. How could she have ever been afraid? Why had they waited so long, when this was within their reach? "I love you, I love you, I love you."

He laughs, open and honest, genuine delight as he catches her up in his arms and pulls her close. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and her touch irresistible.

"And I love you. So much," Obi-Wan catches her up in a kiss of his own at the tail of her outburst, silencing the flurry of affection against a longer, deeper answer. As if to remind him of their surroundings, the motion sloshes the now-cold water against his back, inspiring a shiver, "...So much, in fact, that I think we should move somewhere less likely to give us our death of a chill."

Though, if he were honest, he's not really feeling the cold, as much as perhaps he should be.

As reluctant as she is to release him, he's right, of course. They cannot stay in the bath forever, and the water is growing cooler and less pleasant by the moment. Cassandra nods, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before drawing back.

She sits for a moment, delaying the inevitable, and simply studies his face.

"My husband."

Her smile returns - it seems she will never stop smiling, not so long as she is here. With one last look at him, Cassandra steps out of the bath, hurrying in the cool air to wrap a towel around herself as Obi-Wan does the same. The towel is overlarge, fluffy and absorbent, and she tosses Obi-Wan a wry look.

"They have truly spared no expense."

"My wife," He returns, reaching to briefly hold her face in his hands, to brush the ball of his thumb across the apple of her cheek, and return her smile with all the warmth and softness within him.

He is so engrossed in the moment that it trails after him like an overlong cloak, and he is blind to anything other than the happy fog of it until she speaks. He regards the towel with a weather eye. It could easily serve for a bedroll-- certainly they've both slept on worse.

"Orlais," he says, feelingly, but without malice, "I don't know what it says about me that as much as I appreciate the amenities, I'm looking forward just as much to being with you in humbler surroundings?"

He could probably hide the smile, sliding sideways towards, but never crossing, the line of a smirk. But he doesn't; what he'd said before, in the throes of passion, had been no less sincere. The idea of Cassandra in armor was no less appealing than anything else. Perhaps more, because he would see that smile, and know by the sight of it what no one else could know at all.

Ah, but now he is staring again. Even swathed in a fluffy towel, all he wants is to kiss her. There is no reason not to, so he does.

"You are so beautiful."

My wife.

It's a reasonable enough response, but she feels her heart swell at the sound of it, all the same. It's still difficult to imagine herself as anyone's wife, in the abstract, but to be his...

Surely, the Maker has blessed her, to have given her so much.

She accepts the compliment with a small smile and a noncommittal hum; the kiss she returns much more enthusiastically, and draws back, grabbing quickly at her towel to stop it from falling to the floor.

A quiet laugh, as she rolls her eyes.

"I am afraid there will not be many humble surroundings in your future," she tells him wryly, and begins to dry herself off. "You are married to the right hand of the Divine now. We will have to run away entirely to find anything less than this, and it is not so easy these days to sneak past Leliana."

"Don't spoil my fantasies," He teases, pausing a moment to watch her before bending to his own task. The towel really is ridiculous, but efficient nevertheless, "I have a feeling that the Right Hand of the Divine is going to be just as attractive to me after a day in the practice yard as she is in a perfumed bath."

He says it wry, flirtatious, but it's a sincere sentiment. There's something to be said for wild hair and the flush of exertion, no one can disagree. He crosses into the next room, feeling strangely comfortable in his skin, nudity almost an afterthought. The bathing room is a disaster, but-- but that's something for some other time.

"Maker, Ive never felt so..." Words fail him as he sits on the bed that not too long ago saw the first of their lovemaking. He smooths a hand over the rumpled coverlet, smiling, and all at once the exertion of the evening catches up on him, and he sighs in contented weariness, "...Looking back, I have no idea why it took us this long. It used to make more sense, I'm sure, but now I can't imagine it otherwise."

Cassandra follows, pausing momentarily to look around - surely there must be sleeping clothes somewhere - before she notices Obi-Wan, sitting fully nude on the bed, seemingly content to remain that way.

Oh. Perhaps sleeping clothes are not so important, after all.

Not nearly as important as it suddenly seems to be near him, in any case; she feels drawn to him, as a moth to a flame, and changes her path to follow, settling in against him.

"I feel the same," she admits. "I was so...so nervous, so afraid, and now..."

She takes his hand in hers, threading their fingers together.

"I cannot imagine being without you."

He only smiles and, after a moment, lifts their joined hands to kiss her fingertips and knuckles, softened by the bath, but never all the way. A lifelong habit of swordsmanship is beyond the work of a single bath to erase, from anyone's hands. And here again, that indulgent urge, that makes him turn her hand and press another kiss against the pulsing smoothness of her wrist, just above the first curl of gold.

"Bed?"

It's not the way he asked, before, no fervent passion. He's tired, and he wants only to hold on, and to rest together.

"I - "

Her lips curve up into a smile at his touch, her fingers curling close around his.

"I - I cannot. Not tonight." She's not sure if he's asking or not - she thinks he might not be. But she feels the need to warn him, all the same, and prevent his being too disappointed.

"I want to." Her eyes flick quickly up to his; oh, how she wants to, how she wants to feel that connection with him again, that pure, unsullied moment of ecstasy. "But I am...I am tired. I need to sleep."

A soft kiss, pressed to his cheek.

"I am sorry."

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