How well I remember the look that was in his eyes.
It's not much - my ideas/to-write list is staggering compared to the energy I have to attend to much of it right now - but I was finally able to finish a short 'fic. P.S.: Other people should start cranking out the filthy, gratuitous Obitine smut so I don't have to keep doing it.
Summary: Obi-Wan's the only one who can ever reach Satine, and she's about to be within arms' length again. Warnings: Contains some BDSM-colored material, and casual misogyny masquerading as foreplay. Title comes from "Son of a Preacher Man" - I'm particularly digging Katey Segal's version recorded for Sons of Anarchy. Rated NC-17.
Taking Time to Make Time (Telling Me That He's All Mine)
*
They know why he's here, he can see it in the tawdry side glances with which they gift him, in the mincing glee they take in ushering him to the Duchess' private chambers. In part, the nature of his visit would be more covert if it were even remotely common for Mandalore's ruler to hold court in her bedroom with anyone except for Obi-Wan Kenobi; and yet, Obi-Wan finds a certain satisfaction in the otherwise untouched flesh of his beloved Satine, and so he accepts with prim good nature the undignified guffaws on his behalf, and, when he's fairly certain that secrecy will not be possible, ensures that these semi-frequent diplomatic visits remain just between them by way of subtle mental suggestions.
Satine appears agitated today, the product of impending threats of Deathwatch and, of course, the pressures of remaining neutral ("apathetic," Obi-Wan told her cheerfully at one point, and she'd slapped him across the face for it) in a galactic-wide war. She brims with tension and tightly coiled need, but as per usual, she does not intend to make it easy for Obi-Wan to help her find a release.
Naturally, then, he's got his work cut out for him.
"Master Jedi," Satine greets him, favoring him with a creamy, well-manicured hand, which he cradles in his own palm, brushing a fuzzy kiss across the top. This is protocol, tradition, foreplay. "Your hands are remarkably smooth for one who kills for a living," the Duchess remarks haughtily, and Obi-Wan smirks against her soft skin.
"And yours, my dear, are remarkably warm for one who regularly turns a cold shoulder to the suffering of her people."
Satine's eyes flash with fury; Obi-Wan's, with triumph. It has begun.
The Duchess looks lovely and positively enraged pressed flush against her own door frame; Obi-Wan tells her as much, and her cheeks flush hotly, pulse racing beneath the Jedi Master's (soft) fingers. "Pretty, pouty Satine," he croons, and tuts at her half-hearted attempt to knee him in the groin. His fingers tighten around her wrists; his own leg nudges her thighs apart and, even beneath the thick, ornate robes she dons faithfully like a dumpy school marm, he can tell that this arouses her. "You're wet for me so quickly," he murmurs, and, pausing so that he's sure there's eye contact, adds, "My little Duchess of Mandawhore."
"Brute!" Satine cries, and attempts to yank her fists out of Obi-Wan's vice grip. Angry red colors her cheeks, and her mouth drops open in appalled astonishment when Obi-Wan outright laughs in her face, having absolutely no trouble holding onto her, despite her struggling. In truth, the jibe had originated from Anakin, whom Obi-Wan had disciplined sternly over the guffaws of their collective battalions. That he'd told Anakin to stop being inappropriate did not mean the young man's word-play hadn't been clever - still, he wasn't about to admit that to Anakin.
It's easy enough to maneuver Satine over to her own bed, a sordidly platformed affair that's as pompous and trussed up as she is. He considers manhandling her clothing off, but decides with naught but a quick, thoughtful stroke of his beard against it. "Strip," he orders her instead, voice soft, eyes burning with bemused lust. Satine's scowling is not enough to hide her hitched breath, or the sudden uptick of flushing rising from the collar of her still-in-tact gown - and yet, it's not in her nature to make things easy on Obi-Wan, or herself, for that matter.
"How dare you," she glowers, but Obi-Wan remains unfazed by the Duchess' haughty posturing, at least beyond the pleasure inherent in breaking her will to his satisfaction. "Is that headdress obstructing your ability to hear, milady?" he asks mildly, and Satine's nostrils very nearly flare. "I believe I requested that you do something for me."
"I do not take orders from a servant," Satine bites out, but Obi-Wan, ever the Negotiator, is ready for this line of reasoning.
"Your servants ensure your continued well-being and relevance." He pauses to caress Satine's soft, pampered cheek, and then catches her chin between disarmingly soft fingers. "In that manner, it would behoove you to keep them content. Now," Obi-Wan adds, relinquishing his hold on her dismissively, "strip, your majesty."
With obvious reluctance, Satine begins to comply, her movements brisk, unaccustomed and unwilling to be party to such a depraved act of seduction. Obi-Wan lets this slide, takes in Satine's fumbling fingers (she's nervous) and huffy breaths. "Look at me," he cajoles, and her humiliated gaze snaps up, still prideful, and he cannot resist once more chuckling at her outright. Swallowing hard, Satine removes her remaining garments; her pale skin prickles from the combination of brusque movements and chilled air, and even more so when Obi-Wan reaches out to caress a puckered nipple. The act makes her squirm, almost out of reach, but she stops at Obi-Wan's behest. "Ah," he tsks, "none of that. First of all," he persists, "I have not ordered you to move; but now," he adds, straddling her ridiculous bed, "come here."
To her credit, Satine manages to look at least moderately dignified as she dutifully takes a seat across Obi-Wan's nap, hands at her sides, eyes smoldering yet civil. Her nude nethers rub against even the mild coarseness of Obi-Wan's Jedi uniform, and the anxious tremor that runs through her at this does not go unnoticed by either of them. "Don't be scared, Satine." Obi-Wan's voice, though sweet, holds an oily tinge, underscored when he outright pinches her nipples this time. "Do you want this, my darling Duchess?" he purrs, and the hand caressing her breast slips lower, fingers guiding expertly to her clit, making Satine buck. "Tell me you want this; but quietly," he chuckles against the shell of her ear. "You wouldn't want to give any of your other servants ideas now, would you?"
"P-please," Satine whispers. Her hands alternate between fisting bits of coverlet and the fabric covering Obi-Wan's legs, but she does not move to cover herself - this game is not new, and she knows better by now - even as her legs shake as Obi-Wan's hand pries them further apart. "Please, Obi," she gasps, and Obi-Wan's fingers abruptly cease moving in small circles. "Please --?" he mocks, and Satine turns to shoot him her most put-upon glare, face red, eyes glazed.
"Please, Obi. Fuck. Me."
Obi-Wan's expression is very nearly sinister. Words are sparse, then, as are the number of movements it shuck off his own garments and to get Satine beneath him. Wedged between her thighs, he fingers her some more, watching the subtle ways that her face conveys arousal. "Such a pretty, wet cunt," he marvels, holding up a couple of fingers to show her. "Dripping, practically." She looks up at them as though anxious he's going to feed them into her mouth, but he curls his hand around his member instead, jerking it once, twice, sheathing it between his moist fingers. Teasingly, he leans forward, rubbing it against her slit, mutters "Satine," and then drives into her with steady precision, balancing himself on his arms. Obi-Wan's movements are measured, controlled, though he does not seem as attuned to the peaks and valleys of Satine's arousal as he has on past occasions. A particularly rough jab elicits a yelp from Satine, her eyes wide, her shout breathless. "Hush," Obi-Wan tells her, "and serve me, my beautiful Duchess."
When his leg muscles begin to tense, Satine prepares mentally for the familiar warmth pooling inside of her; and yet, once again, Obi-Wan surprises her. Hand wrapped around the base of his cock, he pulls out of her with some effort, and motions with but a gesture for her to stay where she is. "Say that you're here to serve me, Satine," he orders her. He thumbs his cockhead a few times, and Satine understands now what he aims to do. "Obi ..." she frowns, and the turgid member bobs almost threateningly close to her face.
"Say it, or I'll make you swallow every drop." The cock rubs almost seductively against her cheek.
Satine lets out the tiniest of sighs. "I am here to serve you, my most humble Jedi protector."
"Yes, you are," Obi-Wan agrees, and his back arches before he finishes, striping the Duchess' face and even the crown of her hair with his ejaculate. "Ah-ah, no wiping it off," he chides, and Satine looks at him in vague horror. "You look lovely covered in my spunk, my dear," he tells her, and if she's not talking much, it's possibly because she's worried about some of it sliding into her mouth. "So debauched, Satine," Obi-Wan admonishes, tugging his trousers back into place; aside from a stray strand of hair brushing his forehead, he looks rather well put-together, given the circumstances. "Such a little Separatist slut."
"I'm NOT a Separatist," the Duchess declares hotly, foregoing her own silent rule not to speak. She watches somewhat nervously, keeping her head as still as possible, as Obi-Wan circles the perimeter of her bed, tugging open drawers and peeking at corners as it suits him. What he comes up with would somewhat humiliate her, had she not already been embossed with now-drying come across her cheeks and forehead today.
The vibrating device switches on, the plug mysteriously finding the socket seemingly of its own accord. "Yes, of course not," Obi-Wan agrees smarmily. "You're 'neutral.' Not loyal to one side or the other. Completely blind to the plight of others and utterly useless." He presses the device against her, eliciting an outraged 'harrumph,' nonetheless muted by lust. "Whore for any cause." He presses the device against her cunt harder, angling it upwards, sending waves of pleasure through her. "Aren't you a whore, Satine?" he demands, and he switches hands so as to allow his dominant right to grasp her slender throat. "Say it," he orders, squeezing with no small amount of pressure, reveling in the immediate spike of arousal that this sends coursing through her. "Say you're a whore, Satine."
"I'm a ... whore ... I'm, Obi, I ... I'm c-close ..."
It would be simple enough to continue teaching her a lesson about deference, to let her arousal plateau and then die off again, but Obi-Wan is feeling generous today. "Come for me," he murmurs, the softest he's spoken to her today. The vibrator's wide head moves in exaggerated circles; his hold on her throat is lax enough for her to suck in a big, trembling breath. "Almost there, Satine. Come on. If your palace servants could see you like this," he tells her, grinning wickedly. "Circling you, tugging you apart, using you to sate their many, many needs ..."
"OBI," the Duchess cries out, hands gripping the bedding, mouth agape in spite of the dangers of opening it too widely. The orgasm rips through the Force, unbeknownst to her; and yet, memory wiping most of the servants in the vicinity is imminent due to the noise alone, Obi-Wan decides then. He switches off the vibrator and sets it aside, and then watches Satine heave herself into a sitting position. She begins to wipe furiously at her face, the effort taking her, grumbling, to her private refresher, where Obi-Wan almost immediately hears running water.
With an idle wrist gesture, he summons a goblet from the Duchess' nearby night table, pouring himself a generous drink. He sips it slowly, the aftermath in the atmosphere prickling around him. Faintly, he hears the shower head pulse to life. He drains his drink and stands, placing the ornate cup back where he found it; then, glancing down at his uniform, lying alongside Satine's discarded and, remarkably, unsoiled head dress, he ambles leisurely towards the open refresher door, prepared to order his Duchess to make her Jedi protector's visit worthwhile and serve him once more.
*
Summary: Obi-Wan's the only one who can ever reach Satine, and she's about to be within arms' length again. Warnings: Contains some BDSM-colored material, and casual misogyny masquerading as foreplay. Title comes from "Son of a Preacher Man" - I'm particularly digging Katey Segal's version recorded for Sons of Anarchy. Rated NC-17.
Taking Time to Make Time (Telling Me That He's All Mine)
*
They know why he's here, he can see it in the tawdry side glances with which they gift him, in the mincing glee they take in ushering him to the Duchess' private chambers. In part, the nature of his visit would be more covert if it were even remotely common for Mandalore's ruler to hold court in her bedroom with anyone except for Obi-Wan Kenobi; and yet, Obi-Wan finds a certain satisfaction in the otherwise untouched flesh of his beloved Satine, and so he accepts with prim good nature the undignified guffaws on his behalf, and, when he's fairly certain that secrecy will not be possible, ensures that these semi-frequent diplomatic visits remain just between them by way of subtle mental suggestions.
Satine appears agitated today, the product of impending threats of Deathwatch and, of course, the pressures of remaining neutral ("apathetic," Obi-Wan told her cheerfully at one point, and she'd slapped him across the face for it) in a galactic-wide war. She brims with tension and tightly coiled need, but as per usual, she does not intend to make it easy for Obi-Wan to help her find a release.
Naturally, then, he's got his work cut out for him.
"Master Jedi," Satine greets him, favoring him with a creamy, well-manicured hand, which he cradles in his own palm, brushing a fuzzy kiss across the top. This is protocol, tradition, foreplay. "Your hands are remarkably smooth for one who kills for a living," the Duchess remarks haughtily, and Obi-Wan smirks against her soft skin.
"And yours, my dear, are remarkably warm for one who regularly turns a cold shoulder to the suffering of her people."
Satine's eyes flash with fury; Obi-Wan's, with triumph. It has begun.
The Duchess looks lovely and positively enraged pressed flush against her own door frame; Obi-Wan tells her as much, and her cheeks flush hotly, pulse racing beneath the Jedi Master's (soft) fingers. "Pretty, pouty Satine," he croons, and tuts at her half-hearted attempt to knee him in the groin. His fingers tighten around her wrists; his own leg nudges her thighs apart and, even beneath the thick, ornate robes she dons faithfully like a dumpy school marm, he can tell that this arouses her. "You're wet for me so quickly," he murmurs, and, pausing so that he's sure there's eye contact, adds, "My little Duchess of Mandawhore."
"Brute!" Satine cries, and attempts to yank her fists out of Obi-Wan's vice grip. Angry red colors her cheeks, and her mouth drops open in appalled astonishment when Obi-Wan outright laughs in her face, having absolutely no trouble holding onto her, despite her struggling. In truth, the jibe had originated from Anakin, whom Obi-Wan had disciplined sternly over the guffaws of their collective battalions. That he'd told Anakin to stop being inappropriate did not mean the young man's word-play hadn't been clever - still, he wasn't about to admit that to Anakin.
It's easy enough to maneuver Satine over to her own bed, a sordidly platformed affair that's as pompous and trussed up as she is. He considers manhandling her clothing off, but decides with naught but a quick, thoughtful stroke of his beard against it. "Strip," he orders her instead, voice soft, eyes burning with bemused lust. Satine's scowling is not enough to hide her hitched breath, or the sudden uptick of flushing rising from the collar of her still-in-tact gown - and yet, it's not in her nature to make things easy on Obi-Wan, or herself, for that matter.
"How dare you," she glowers, but Obi-Wan remains unfazed by the Duchess' haughty posturing, at least beyond the pleasure inherent in breaking her will to his satisfaction. "Is that headdress obstructing your ability to hear, milady?" he asks mildly, and Satine's nostrils very nearly flare. "I believe I requested that you do something for me."
"I do not take orders from a servant," Satine bites out, but Obi-Wan, ever the Negotiator, is ready for this line of reasoning.
"Your servants ensure your continued well-being and relevance." He pauses to caress Satine's soft, pampered cheek, and then catches her chin between disarmingly soft fingers. "In that manner, it would behoove you to keep them content. Now," Obi-Wan adds, relinquishing his hold on her dismissively, "strip, your majesty."
With obvious reluctance, Satine begins to comply, her movements brisk, unaccustomed and unwilling to be party to such a depraved act of seduction. Obi-Wan lets this slide, takes in Satine's fumbling fingers (she's nervous) and huffy breaths. "Look at me," he cajoles, and her humiliated gaze snaps up, still prideful, and he cannot resist once more chuckling at her outright. Swallowing hard, Satine removes her remaining garments; her pale skin prickles from the combination of brusque movements and chilled air, and even more so when Obi-Wan reaches out to caress a puckered nipple. The act makes her squirm, almost out of reach, but she stops at Obi-Wan's behest. "Ah," he tsks, "none of that. First of all," he persists, "I have not ordered you to move; but now," he adds, straddling her ridiculous bed, "come here."
To her credit, Satine manages to look at least moderately dignified as she dutifully takes a seat across Obi-Wan's nap, hands at her sides, eyes smoldering yet civil. Her nude nethers rub against even the mild coarseness of Obi-Wan's Jedi uniform, and the anxious tremor that runs through her at this does not go unnoticed by either of them. "Don't be scared, Satine." Obi-Wan's voice, though sweet, holds an oily tinge, underscored when he outright pinches her nipples this time. "Do you want this, my darling Duchess?" he purrs, and the hand caressing her breast slips lower, fingers guiding expertly to her clit, making Satine buck. "Tell me you want this; but quietly," he chuckles against the shell of her ear. "You wouldn't want to give any of your other servants ideas now, would you?"
"P-please," Satine whispers. Her hands alternate between fisting bits of coverlet and the fabric covering Obi-Wan's legs, but she does not move to cover herself - this game is not new, and she knows better by now - even as her legs shake as Obi-Wan's hand pries them further apart. "Please, Obi," she gasps, and Obi-Wan's fingers abruptly cease moving in small circles. "Please --?" he mocks, and Satine turns to shoot him her most put-upon glare, face red, eyes glazed.
"Please, Obi. Fuck. Me."
Obi-Wan's expression is very nearly sinister. Words are sparse, then, as are the number of movements it shuck off his own garments and to get Satine beneath him. Wedged between her thighs, he fingers her some more, watching the subtle ways that her face conveys arousal. "Such a pretty, wet cunt," he marvels, holding up a couple of fingers to show her. "Dripping, practically." She looks up at them as though anxious he's going to feed them into her mouth, but he curls his hand around his member instead, jerking it once, twice, sheathing it between his moist fingers. Teasingly, he leans forward, rubbing it against her slit, mutters "Satine," and then drives into her with steady precision, balancing himself on his arms. Obi-Wan's movements are measured, controlled, though he does not seem as attuned to the peaks and valleys of Satine's arousal as he has on past occasions. A particularly rough jab elicits a yelp from Satine, her eyes wide, her shout breathless. "Hush," Obi-Wan tells her, "and serve me, my beautiful Duchess."
When his leg muscles begin to tense, Satine prepares mentally for the familiar warmth pooling inside of her; and yet, once again, Obi-Wan surprises her. Hand wrapped around the base of his cock, he pulls out of her with some effort, and motions with but a gesture for her to stay where she is. "Say that you're here to serve me, Satine," he orders her. He thumbs his cockhead a few times, and Satine understands now what he aims to do. "Obi ..." she frowns, and the turgid member bobs almost threateningly close to her face.
"Say it, or I'll make you swallow every drop." The cock rubs almost seductively against her cheek.
Satine lets out the tiniest of sighs. "I am here to serve you, my most humble Jedi protector."
"Yes, you are," Obi-Wan agrees, and his back arches before he finishes, striping the Duchess' face and even the crown of her hair with his ejaculate. "Ah-ah, no wiping it off," he chides, and Satine looks at him in vague horror. "You look lovely covered in my spunk, my dear," he tells her, and if she's not talking much, it's possibly because she's worried about some of it sliding into her mouth. "So debauched, Satine," Obi-Wan admonishes, tugging his trousers back into place; aside from a stray strand of hair brushing his forehead, he looks rather well put-together, given the circumstances. "Such a little Separatist slut."
"I'm NOT a Separatist," the Duchess declares hotly, foregoing her own silent rule not to speak. She watches somewhat nervously, keeping her head as still as possible, as Obi-Wan circles the perimeter of her bed, tugging open drawers and peeking at corners as it suits him. What he comes up with would somewhat humiliate her, had she not already been embossed with now-drying come across her cheeks and forehead today.
The vibrating device switches on, the plug mysteriously finding the socket seemingly of its own accord. "Yes, of course not," Obi-Wan agrees smarmily. "You're 'neutral.' Not loyal to one side or the other. Completely blind to the plight of others and utterly useless." He presses the device against her, eliciting an outraged 'harrumph,' nonetheless muted by lust. "Whore for any cause." He presses the device against her cunt harder, angling it upwards, sending waves of pleasure through her. "Aren't you a whore, Satine?" he demands, and he switches hands so as to allow his dominant right to grasp her slender throat. "Say it," he orders, squeezing with no small amount of pressure, reveling in the immediate spike of arousal that this sends coursing through her. "Say you're a whore, Satine."
"I'm a ... whore ... I'm, Obi, I ... I'm c-close ..."
It would be simple enough to continue teaching her a lesson about deference, to let her arousal plateau and then die off again, but Obi-Wan is feeling generous today. "Come for me," he murmurs, the softest he's spoken to her today. The vibrator's wide head moves in exaggerated circles; his hold on her throat is lax enough for her to suck in a big, trembling breath. "Almost there, Satine. Come on. If your palace servants could see you like this," he tells her, grinning wickedly. "Circling you, tugging you apart, using you to sate their many, many needs ..."
"OBI," the Duchess cries out, hands gripping the bedding, mouth agape in spite of the dangers of opening it too widely. The orgasm rips through the Force, unbeknownst to her; and yet, memory wiping most of the servants in the vicinity is imminent due to the noise alone, Obi-Wan decides then. He switches off the vibrator and sets it aside, and then watches Satine heave herself into a sitting position. She begins to wipe furiously at her face, the effort taking her, grumbling, to her private refresher, where Obi-Wan almost immediately hears running water.
With an idle wrist gesture, he summons a goblet from the Duchess' nearby night table, pouring himself a generous drink. He sips it slowly, the aftermath in the atmosphere prickling around him. Faintly, he hears the shower head pulse to life. He drains his drink and stands, placing the ornate cup back where he found it; then, glancing down at his uniform, lying alongside Satine's discarded and, remarkably, unsoiled head dress, he ambles leisurely towards the open refresher door, prepared to order his Duchess to make her Jedi protector's visit worthwhile and serve him once more.
*