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mandoalorian · 3 years

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Borrowed Time [Din Djarin x F!Reader] SMUT

ੈ♡˳‧₊*: • Chapter 8: The Truth ✩࿐ ˚.✧

Summary: You are the princess of Mandalore, held hostage on your own planet by Moff Gideon and his army of Imperial troopers. Left with no choice, you send out a distress signal; a plea for protection— and who comes? None other than Din Djarin, a foundling of The Death Watch. He, by creed, is your sworn enemy. And where you have asked for his protection, he has been told by his mentor that he must marry you and gain the ability to restore Mandalore to its former glory.

Word Count: 2200>

Warnings: more angst and feelings! 18+ SMUT; unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), f receiving oral, fingering… very soft sex andddd a praise kink because it’s Din’s first time giving oral :’)

AN: Please reblog to spread this around! It’s not showing up in tags! i think i’m still semi-shadow banned:(

Series Masterlist

Din didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t understand. Not the Manda’lor? How could that be possible? If you weren’t the Manda’lor, then... who were you? As if you were reading his thoughts, you closed your eyes and turned around so you were facing the brick wall behind you, and tried your very best to explain the truth. You had to at least make an attempt. You ignored the choked nervous knot in your throat. You couldn’t bear to look at him.

How could you ever even begin to explain this to him. You’d never spoken about what happened back on Mandalore to anyone. You’d kept it to yourself all this time. It was so painful. But you had to try.

“My mother was Duchess Satine Kryze, and I am, by technicality, the Princess of Mandalore. I always will be. When my mother died, fifteen years ago, I became heir to the throne. I became the Manda’lor, and... everything was fine. I had everything under control, and, dare I say, I was a good leader. Until one night, there was a planned attack by the Imperials on my city and they slaughtered everyone. They raided homes and killed children…” a single tear slipped down your cheek. “Moff Gideon came to see me. He wanted… the darksaber. So he had his troopers raid the palace and they found it. And once he wielded it, he became the rightful ruler of Mandalore. And, I still don’t have it back… I’ve-- I’ve never felt so helpless. And responsible for the murder of my people.”

You were crushed. You thought by admitting all of this, it would take the giant burden you’d been holding this entire time off your shoulders, but it didn’t. It only made you dread all the built up pain and anguish you had in your heart… for letting this happen and for lying to Din. You really had failed everyone around you, but most importantly, you’d failed yourself.

Bringing your hand to your wedding ring, you twiddled it around your finger and took a shaky exhale. “Din, I understand if you want nothing to do with me anymore. I can leave, and you’ll never see me again. I promise you that much. But I will get the darksaber back and I will be the rightful ruler of Mandalore. These were my people he killed. He stole it from me. And I won’t let the Imperial’s take anymore than they already have. Not without a fight.”

Compiling all the remaining bravery left in you, you turned back around to face Din and opened your eyes.

And your heart stopped.

His eyes were big and brown and sad. He had short, shaggy brown hair and a light stubble which grazed his jaw. His pink lips were parted slightly as he looked at you with his own eyes. No visor modifying his vision of you. This was raw, and completely him. He’d taken off his helmet.

You tried to ask him why, but no words came out.

“So that’s why the Imperials were chasing after you?” His jaw ticked but Maker, his voice without the helmet was as soft as silk. Rich and velvety.

He was handsome too. More handsome than you could’ve ever even imagined. In a rugged way, not in your typical Prince of Mandalore way. But you liked it a lot.

“Yes,” you swallowed thickly. “Moff Gideon imprisoned me in the palace and he never wanted me to leave. He made me promise to never tell anyone that he had the darksaber, because no doubt, any Mandalorian who found out the truth would venture after him to try and reclaim it for themselves. I was forced to live this lie. But I had to do something. That’s when I sent out the distress signal to coverts around the galaxy. That’s when you came for me, and helped me escape.”

Din tried his hardest to process your words. It… made sense. His gaze fell from your face and he looked down at the ground. He looked so sad and your heart ached. If there was a way you could fix this, you were pretty sure you’d do anything. In that very moment, you didn’t even care about the Mandalorian throne or the darksaber. You just cared about Din.

“Din, I’m so sorry.” you began, preparing to fully beg for his forgiveness, but before you could say anymore, his lips came crashing into yours.

He didn’t have anything to say to you, really. He was just so enamoured by you, that he didn’t care. You could lie to him a million times over and he’d forgive you, because you were just too perfect. You were, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And he loved you.

He should be mad, he knew that much. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate you when all he could think about was just how beautiful your lips were. The entire time you were talking, he was fighting the urge to kiss you. Until finally, he just couldn’t resist anymore.

His mouth was soft and fit perfectly against yours. Your eyes snapped shut and a surprised moan fell from your lips as he took you in his arms and held you. You loved the way it felt… his hands on your body and caressing your skin. Was this… the first time he’d kissed? He was so passionate yet gentle, and Maker, you didn’t want it to end. He was absolutely gorgeous, and such an amazing kisser. When you thought he was going to break away, you raised your hands to his face and cupped his cheeks, swiping your tongue over his lower lip and signalling for him to continue the kiss. He did so, and you opened your mouth, granting him deeper access.

A minute or so later, when the both of you were practically gasping for breath, he pulled off you and rested his forehead against yours. If he was unsure about his feelings before, he knew for certain now.

“We’ll have to leave at dawn,” Din said eventually, huffing and looking into your eyes. His hands were still planted firmly on your hips and he nudged his nose against yours. “There’ll be less Imps around, the earlier we leave.”

You were baffled. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“We’re getting the darksaber back,” he confirmed. “You’re getting the darksaber back. You are the rightful ruler of Mandalore.”

You couldn’t believe it. He still wanted to help you, even after admitting to him that you’d been lying. He no longer had a duty to protect you, and yet he was doing this not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

“Are you sure?” you gasped, completely exasperated. “Are you sure you still want to help me?”

Din nodded his head wordlessly before kissing you again. “We should rest before our escape tomorrow,” Din breathed. “I have a room here.”

“Take me.” you begged, curling your body into his.

Din’s room at the covert was no different to the many other rooms that were habited by other Mandalorians. It was a small boxy room with a bed in the corner. At least it was a real bed though, and not Din’s poor excuse for a bed back on the Crest. He closed the door behind him and turned on the light, although it wasn’t bright whatsoever. It barely illuminated the room in this dull, amber colour, but it was just enough to cast your shadows on the wall.

You gulped, not tearing your eyes from him once. “I think you’re very handsome,” you blurted out, smiling when you noticed a rosy blush cross Din’s cheeks. “And I think it’s a real shame that you have to hide your face. I just know that those brown eyes could charm you out of trouble.”

Din chuckled nervously. “I think you’re very pretty too,” he said. “But you probably hear that a lot.”

You shook your head, the smile never leaving your lips once. “No.”

When Din kissed you, it felt like heaven. As the moment became more and more heated, both of you ended up undressing, and discarding your clothing and his armour into a pile on the floor.

Din carefully laid you down on his bed and hovered over you, planting kisses down your neck, along your collarbones and down your chest. He brought his hand over to your breasts and began with giving them a few experimental squeezes. He brushed his thumb over your hardening nipple and pinched it, earning a moan of pleasure from you.

Not taking his lips from yours, he dropped his hand down your body and to the hem of your panties, dipping his finger under the waistband and feeling just how wet you’d already become. He chuckled to himself, his thick and deft index finger tracing quick and tight circles across your clit. You arched your back into him, a foggy haze crossing your vision as he worked you into a complete state of euphoria.

You chanted his name like it was a prayer, caressing his biceps and holding onto him. After he drew out your first orgasm, he tapped on your thigh. You lifted up your ass so he could pull down your panties and take them off completely. You were an absolute sight to behold, there was no denying that. Your folds were slick with your arousal and Din done everything he could to contain himself. Licking his lips, he knelt down between your legs and began to lap his tongue around your bundle of nerves, even sucking occasionally on your sweet spot.

“Does-- does that feel good?” Din asked, briefly pausing just before you were about to cum again. Your legs were shaking with pleasure and Din just wanted to make sure you were alright. “I’m-- I’ve never done this before.” he confessed.

“Oral?” you asked breathlessly, rolling your head into the pillow.

“Mhm,” he confirmed, nibbling and pressing lovebites into the soft flesh of your thighs. “Never took off my helmet.”

You moaned something incoherent when the curve of his nose rubbed against your clit and you felt the warmth of his breath fan over your core.

“It’s good Din, so good,” you sighed longingly. “You’re doing so good. Please don’t stop.”

So Din kept at it until eventually you were a heaving, quivering mess, and he drove out your second orgasm. When he pulled away from you, a trail of his saliva pulled between your wet cunt and his lips, but he immediately licked himself clean and leaned over your body so he could kiss you again. The way you could taste yourself on his mouth felt so erotic.

You pulled his hard and leaking cock from the confines of his underwear and began to pump at his length. He was hot and heavy, and somehow, he was even better than you had imagined. Even as you stroked him, you yearned for him, and you could feel your cunt clench around nothing as you wished for him to fuck you already.

Din loved how you were a needy, squirming mess beneath him. He positioned himself at your entrance and slowly pushed his engorged tip inside of you, taking a few moments to allow you to adjust to his length. The wet noises as he thrusted into you were lewd and obscenely loud, and if you were with anyone else you might’ve felt embarrassed -- but as Din built up his rhythm and held on to your hips, you couldn’t even think straight enough to feel embarrassed.

“Din,” you cried out, letting your fingers curl in his brown locks of hair. “Oh Din.”

His own hips began to stutter and with a loud gasp, you felt his cock convulse inside of you and a spurt of his creamy hot seed rope your walls.

Din let himself soften inside of you as he caught his breath, eventually rolling off you and laying by your side. He wrapped his arms around you and spooned you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear until eventually, you fell asleep in his arms.

“You will reclaim Mandalore,” he whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I promise.”

_________________________________________

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#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal x you

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shadowsong26fic · 5 years

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Random Rebels Ficlet

Title: The Model of Efficiency

Author: shadowsong26

Rating: PG

Fandom: Star Wars

Characters: Hera Syndulla, Alexsandr Kallus, Sabine Wren (briefly)

Warnings: Just general background stuff war, etc. Nothing on-page.

Summary: This is not the contact you were looking for.

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective creators.

Note: This entire fic exists because one snippet of dialogue jumped into my head earlier. Also, it prooooobably takes place not long after Through Imperial Eyes? Except I think Sabine is already on Mandalore by then...ah well, this is Star Wars, where everything’s made up and the timeline doesn’t matter. XD

Honestly, it was a milk run mission and probably below Hera’s technical pay grade at this point, but there had been no one else available. And besides, her increasing command responsibilities and the fact that she hadn’t actually left the Atollon base in a while had left her with just a smidge of cabin fever.

So, here she was, hanging out in a small restaurant--it was a step or two above the type of cantina where these meetings usually took place, but still the kind of place where she could loiter for a while without raising too many eyebrows. And that was exactly what she was doing at this point; waiting to meet up with a contact. Who was, of course, almost an hour late. Which left her in the awkward position of deciding when to call the whole thing off. Or if they should investigate, see what might have happened to the contact, though her inclination was not. Mostly because he was a black market contact, versus a member of the local insurgency--different situation, different protocol.

“Any sign of him?” Sabine asked.

“Not yet,” she muttered. “I’ll give him another fifteen…”

Okay, that was weird. She only caught half a glimpse of his profile, and it was half-hidden by hair that was slightly shaggy and the wrong color, but she could’ve sworn that waiter was--

“Spectre Two? Still with me?”

“Yeah,” Hera said.

“Did you see him?”

“Nope,” she said. “Give me a minute, Spectre Five, okay?”

“Okay.”

She scanned the room for a minute, trying to get another look at that waiter and figure out how she could get close enough to figure out who he was; but he seemed to have disappeared into the kitchen.

Kriff. Well, I probably am wrong, what would he even be doing here? Unless he knew about this meeting somehow…

She frowned a little, drumming her fingers on the glass. That could also explain the contact’s failure to appear, but somehow it didn’t seem right.

“Can I get you anything else, miss?”

She didn’t jump, because she’d been doing this for a long time, but it was a very near thing.

Because that was absolutely Agent Kallus; she’d know that voice anywhere. Even if he was putting on a rough local accent. And had, apparently, dyed his hair a darker, almost muddy brown and left it hanging loose, rather than slicking it back. And, rather than his usual uniform, was dressed like the staff here, with a tray balanced on his left arm.

“Uh. No, thanks, I’m good,” she said.

“Right, then,” he said, then dropped his voice. “I don’t think anyone else noticed you noticing me, yet, but please try to be more discreet.”

She did not stare, but only by employing a truly supernatural effort. She hoped he was grateful.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, under her breath, bringing her glass up to take another sip and hoping that was enough cover.

“Working, obviously,” he said, irritated, shifting the tray.

Hera blinked.

“What, did you think my entire job involved stomping around in uniform, asking the right questions?”

“…well…”

“…all right, fine, that’s a good eighty percent of it,” he admitted. “But some of it involves being very much out of uniform and saying nothing at all.” He shifted his grip again, grabbing a pitcher off his tray and filling her glass. An excuse for staying so close, probably.

“What are you doing here, then? Working, I know, but...”

“Nothing to do with you,” he said. “There’s a gentleman here, a Crimson Dawn lieutenant. We have reason to believe there’s been a shakeup in their upper ranks. I was in the area, and my superiors at ISB borrowed me back for a few days to see what I could find out.”

“Oh,” she said.

“And I should get back to it,” he said. “…although…”

“What?”

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll circle back. And please don’t watch me,” he added, before raising his voice and reapplying the accent which--okay, she’d technically known he was a spy, but it was still bizarre to see his body language--to see everything--just shift when he assumed a persona. “Unless there’s something else I can get you?”

“Some more napkins, maybe?” she said. It gave him an excuse to come back, anyway.

“Of course,” he said, giving her a quick customer-service smile and weaving his way away.

“…was that…?” Sabine asked.

“Yep,” she breathed.

“Weird.”

“Oh, yes.”

And then Kallus was back, with a handful of extra napkins--and a datachip sandwiched between them. “A few files you might find interesting,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded once. “Will you be here much longer?”

“Don’t think so,” she said. “Unless you’ve spotted a Zabrak with green-dyed hair and a red armband?”

“Sorry, no,” he said.

“All right,” she said. Worth a shot, anyway. “Then I’ll probably head out in the next few minutes.”

“Understood,” he said, then made that shift again, and added, brightly, with the fake accent and smile which was somehow the most surreal part of this whole thing. “Anything else I can get you, miss?”

“Just the check, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll have that right out to you.”

“Thanks,” she said.

When he returned with it, she’d more or less recovered her wits. And, while signing, she couldn’t quite resist getting a little dig in. For old times sake. Just to make the whole thing seem less bizarre.

And, just maybe, to distract him for a split second so he wouldn’t notice she got a picture. For certain interested parties back on base. Who may or may not have admitted they were interested just yet, but. Well. That was their problem, not hers.

“…you know,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before?”

He stared at her for a moment. “…oh, shut up.”

…okay, so that did the exact opposite of making this feel normal.

But it was worth it, anyway. Even if she hadn’t gotten the smile, she’d still gotten the hair.

“Thanks so much,” she said.

He nodded, and went back to his cover job; she waited a few seconds, pretending to fiddle with her receipt, before starting to get her things together.

“Spectre Five,” she muttered, “I’m heading out. And tell base command that it wasn’t a total wash--I’ve got a surprise for them from Fulcrum.”

“Copy that, Spectre Two. Ready and waiting. …you want to tell Spectre Four, or can I?”

Hera smiled, leaving the restaurant with the datachip tucked securely into a hidden pocket. “You can have your fun,” she said. “Just tell me how he takes it. Especially when you show him the picture.”

“…I love you, you know that?”

“You’d better,” she agreed, and stepped into the street to make her way back to the rendezvous point and her regular, substantially less surreal duties.

Well, I wanted something different, she thought. I certainly got that. But, between the datachip and seeing Kallus for herself, for the first time since his defection…

I am very, very glad I came.

#shadowsong writes star wars

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mageejoseph · 3 years

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In preparing this work, it has grown much beyond the author’s original design.

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sabraeal · 7 years

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Sensitive Negotiations: Part 1

Despite the passing of spring, the snow falls heavily when they arrive in Vitsjo. Obi is learning, as little as he likes it, that in the North the seasons are far more fluid, far less inclined to make a distinct four. So close to Sama, anything that is not high summer is liable to include snow. He yearns for a place where at least in spring the snow melts.

Vitsjo’s lord is there to greet them, his sons flanking him to either side, fur cloaks bristling with snow. Hideo’s brow is heavy, his face angular and grim, but as they approach his mouth widens in greeting. His smile transforms his face, highlighting the creases around his mouth and eyes, well-worn from good humor. Obi finds himself liking the man before they are even close enough to speak.

The feeling does not extend to his sons. Their faces are long and petulant, and when they ride close enough to be clearly seen he does not miss the way their gazes slide covetously to the cardinal red peaking out of Miss’s hood.

Hideo throws open his arms, the gesture encompassing all of the stones around him. “Welcome to Vitsjo!”

Miss’s smile is bright and earnest; he’s seen it a thousand times, but his breath catches anyway. There is no getting used to the way he feels about her. “Thank you for having us, Lord Hideo.”

“It is an honor, I assure you, my lady.” He slants his head toward the manor. “Come, come. You are wet and hungry. We may not be as civilized as the capital, but I promise you will be greatly entertained during your stay!”

“Don’t tell your sheep story,” Miss warns him.

She is lovely in her dinner dress, a muted dove gray that makes the porcelain of her skin nearly luminescent in the candlelight. In the south, where seed pearls and delicate beading were in fashion, it would be considered plain, but Obi has always liked its lace trim, its very subtle embroidery. It fits her in a way he can’t explain. Poetry does not come easy to him.

“I don’t have a sheep story,” he protests stubbornly. “And even if I did, by your account these lords would lap it up.”

“You do so.” A blush settles high on her cheeks, pronounced against her pale skin. “You made me listen to all of it when you were deep in your cups at Lord Tadashi’s, and you --”

She purses her lips, the stain on her cheeks creeping down to her neck. “In any case,” she continues, looking anywhere but at him. “You’ll eventually run into a lord who isn’t charmed by the thunder beast. I don’t think Lord Hideo or his sons are the type who find barnyard animals diverting, unless they’re on a platter.”

“Miss.” He presses a hand to his heart, shocked. “You never said I told you all of the story.”

She stiffens guiltily, her fingers trembling on the wool of his formal coat. “Oh, I didn’t? I could have sworn --”

“You’ll have to tell it to me,” he insists, grinning as her flush deepens. “Then I’ll finally know about this supposed lord of thunder.”

“No!” The word bursts out of her, surprising them both. “I mean, it was just…very confusing. And I was…distracted…”

“Distracted?” His brow furrows. “By what?”

“You were just…” She still won’t look at him. “Oddly emphatic about certain parts.” She rubs her free hand over her thigh. “Very emphatic.”

There’s something odd about how she says that, enough that he wants to press.

“Sir Obi,” Lord Hideo calls out as he approaches. “We thought you would never make it to dinner.”

Miss takes the opportunity to flit away from his side, greeting Lord Hideo with a wide smile. Obi frowns. She has another thing coming, if she thinks it’s that easy to give him the slip.

Hideo does not disappoint. There are over twenty guests at dinner, nearly five full courses, and the dishes are so savory that not even the palpable hostility between his sons can sour the meal. Seated between the two of them, Miss does not seem to share his opinion.

Obi, for his part, can’t complain about his place. Though he had hoped to be closer to his miss, the young woman he escorting into dining room -- Mika, she says he should call her -- is pleasant company, if a little dull.

“His lordship’s sons are quite brotherly,” he remarks during a lull in conversation. “I’ve never had one myself, but I assume the intense rivalry is expected.”

“Oh.” She is a pretty thing, wide blue eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. It’s no surprise Hideo has seated her at the other end of the table to display her to her best effect. He wonders which son she is meant for. “No, they quite hate each other.”

He blinks, surprised at her honesty. “There’s a story behind that, I’d bet.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” she replies, eyelashes fluttering demurely. “Daisuke is his first wife’s son, and Tarou the second’s. They never got on well, and Tarou has always been a little too ambitious for his own good.”

He smirks around the rim of his wine glass. “Eager to be an only child?”

“Exactly.” Obi clamps his lips down from spitting out his drink. She only smiles wistfully, tracing the rim of her glass. “The only thing they hate more than each other is Hideo’s third wife.”

That intrigues him; he hasn’t seen a woman to put the title to the whole evening, and he’s about to ask just where the Countess Vitsjo can be found when Hideo stands.

“If the ladies could follow my wife out,” he says with a pleasant smile, “I believe it is time for port.”

Mika stands, smoothing her skirt. “If you would follow me, ladies.”

“The third marriage is best,” Hideo confides in him, two glasses deep. “That’s when you marry for love.”

Obi finds that highly unlikely.

It is just as Lata warned them: in the North the word of a man is twice that of a woman’s.

Hideo is at least amused by Miss’s arguments for the olin maris over dinner, wearing the same expression an indulgent father would. His sons are far worse; whichever one champions her cause, the other must shred to pieces, and their bickering is as ubiquitous as the clattering of sliver against porcelain.

No matter how much headway Miss tries to make during dinner, it is always undone by dessert, and it is left to Obi to impress the seriousness of their request over port.

That is, until tonight.

He is about to broach the topic – his lordship and his sons are drunk enough to be swayed, but not so much that they won’t remember their promises in the morning – when the study’s door bursts open.

His miss is flushed, though he can’t quite tell if it is with anger or drink, and she strides up to the table, throwing herself down at one end.

“Pour me a glass,” she demands, and then, mind having caught up with er mouth, adds, “If you would, please.”

Obi has traveled all over creation, but he’s never seen cows like Vitsjo’s, all shaggy coats and curling horns. They look more fit for battle than milking. Tarou is insistent that they can be tipped, if only you know the trick. Obi thinks its more likely for Vitsjo’s walls to fall.

“But will it hurt them?” Miss asks, face screwed up with concern, running a hand through one’s damp fur.

They’d only had two or three more glasses of port – enough to make him a little unsteady on his legs for a moment, and more than enough to make the lords stumbling drunk, excited to go out and chase sheep and wreak havoc. Miss, already bold with drink, had seized the opportunity.

She’s a city-girl, not used to the games bored country children invent to pass time, and he only remembers when she shies at the edge of the field, admitting she’s not sure what tipping cows involves.

Daisuke’s mouth cants in a mean-spirited grin. “Oh yes. Makes their stomachs burst when they land.” When she squeaks, alarmed, he creeps in closer. “Not to worry, lady. What’s on our land is our property.”

Obi doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fists until his blunt nails big into his palms. It’d be stupid to strike a lord’s son, not if he wants Hideo to agree to Miss’s proposal.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t tempting.

“Don’t listen to him,” Tarou spits, glaring at his brother. “It doesn’t hurt them in the slightest. They just get back up. And then you run.”

She blinks, turns to look up at him. “Run?”

Later, he’ll point out just how wrong she was about the barnyard animal thing. Right now, it’s hard enough just keeping her alive.

“You could ride with me, lady,” Tarou offers, holding his hand down, “I’ll see you safely back.”

“No, come with me.” Daisuke elbows his brother out of the way. “He’ll only try to lead you astray.”

“Me?” Hideo’s second son looks ready to demand satisfaction.

His miss sways awkwardly, hunching her shoulders, as if by making herself small she could make them overlook her entirely.

“Apologies, my lords,” he says with a grin, “but my mistress rides with me.”

They grumble a bit at that, but both are too canny to argue with such a convenient compromise. After all, what threat does a knight pose for an heir and an ambitious second son?

He waves them on, only goading them to action when he mentions how their father might soon awaken from his stupor and find them missing: sons, entourages, and diplomatic envoy all. They make noises about duty, saving face in front of their hangers-on, but he knows they are driven more by their father’s displeasure than any great desire to serve him.

Which leaves him with the problem of getting his mistress up on his horse.

“I know how to ride now, Obi,” she tells him, words hardly slurred. He knows better.

“As I said, Miss, it’s my job as your knight to have you ride with me.” Not to mention he’d hardly trust her to ride a cart right now, never mind try to direct a horse.

He’d hoped that the fresh air would sober her, but instead it’s made her in turns giddy and belligerent. She had insisted on checking each massive cow for signs of pregnancy before tipping them, only to remember that she had no experience with livestock and settle for cautiously prodding their bellies.

It had been a long night. And it was promising to be longer if she couldn’t keep a seat.

Her sudden...handsiness isn’t helping either. His miss has always been tactile, ready with a comforting touch or reaching for a steadying hand, but tonight it is more, her palms somehow constantly seeking out the planes of his body. He tries to boost her up onto his mount, only for her to get distracted by the line of his shoulders, or the bristle of his hair. It’s not exactly unwelcome -- as if any attention from her could be -- but it’s certainly not convenient.

He finally arranges her so that she is steady enough to wait for him. He swings himself up, careful not to touch her in the slightest – he had the first time, and she had slid right off – and settles in front of her.

Her arms clench around his abdomen like a vise, and he feels the whole of her pressed up against his back. A low steady heat begins to build in his groin, as it always does when she’s so close. He’s too tipsy to ignore it entirely, but the feel of it is less distracting and more – pleasant. He loves her, he wants her, but he doesn’t need to do anything about it.

Her hands press flat against his stomach, her touch muted by his layers of clothes. “I wish you weren’t wearing your coat,” she sighs, head heavy on his back.

“Oh?” he laughs. His miss doesn’t get drunk often, but when she does it is an experience. “Are you cold? Do you want to be wearing it?”

“No.” Her fingers idly drag over the fur, tracing whirling patterns up his chest and across his stomach. “It makes it harder to feel you.”

“Erk?” he asks eloquently.

“You’ve got so many muscles,” she tells him wistfully. “I like the way they feel when they move.”

“O-oh?” He knows its not her intention, but she has him tense, aroused. Her words have him wound too tight . “Too bad they’re not much to look at with all the scars --”

“No, I like those.” His heart thuds loudly in his ears. He should not be hearing this, not when her hands drift further south. “I mean -- I don’t like that you were hurt, but -- I like how you look like you’ve lived. There’s…texture to you.”

His ribs are a size to small to contain the wholeness of his heart. “Miss,” he manages. No one has ever --

“I wonder what it would feel like under my mou --”

“Miss!” He clasps a hand over her wrists to keep them from moving. His grin is painful, laugh entirely forced. “You shouldn’t joke about such things. You could give a man ideas.”

“About what?” she asks, confused. Her hands still under his. He lets out a sigh of relief; of course his miss didn’t mean anything like that. She tugs her arms, testing to see if she can free them. “Obi, you’re awful strong.”

“Don’t forget it, Miss.” He lets go of her wrists, meaning to tease her about ideas, when they drop down to his thighs and knead.

“I bet you could hold me down with just these, couldn’t you?” Her tone isn’t seductive but rather conversational. “I think about that a lot when I ride with you.”

“Y-yes.” His thighs clench, and he hears her hum against his back. “I could. But we really shouldn’t – that’s not really something I think Master would like you talking about. With me.”

“Do you think you could hold Zen down too?” He groans. This is…not the sort of picture he needs right now. “Or Kiki?”

This has got to stop.

“Miss, if you can’t behave back there, you’ll have to go in front,” he threatens, but he’s not sure how much better that would be, having her all pressed against his front, her curves so close to -- things.

She rears back. “But I am --”

Gravity and inebriation finally take their toll, and she nearly tips right off the horse. He catches her at the last minute, practically manhandling her to slot her in front of him. She’s breathing hard; he can feel her heart beating against his chest.

“Behave, Miss,” he pleads. He can’t take much more of this.

She nods, leaning back against his chest. Within moments, the steady movement of the horse and the alcohol take their toll, and she lies limp in his arms.

Never has he been so relieved to not hear her voice.

#obiyukifitenite #teamcompromised #trope: drunk confessions #obiyuki #my fic #ans #drunk diplomacy arc #what did obi do at tadashi's to make shirayuki so blushy?#a mystery #who knows #(i do)#(and madi probably has a good idea)

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