Secretdazeobservation - [Y/N]

Guys do centaurs have to eat both horse food and human food?

Absolutely beautiful reunion

[ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 ] with our husband, our lovely husband, din djarin

✶  ———  REUNION  ;   d.d.

summary: din comes back to tatooine, and you both have tender confessions to share after nearly a year apart

pairing: din djarin x gn!reader, friends-to-lovers

warnings: bro i made myself emotional with this, fluff and comfort, a little angst, and a rlly fun make-out with din

a/n: it's like 2019, i am back writing for din again like a starved woman — enjoy some mechanic!reader content that i've alluded to in the past, but with a dash of OH HI YOU'RE BACK. the beautiful gif is by @hayden-christensen from this stunning set that made me sit at my desk and like the lisa simpson meme. you know the one.

"There's someone you'll probably want to see."

Fennec looks cunning when she says it, and she goes so far as to toss him a smirk over her shoulder as she saunters down towards the lower level of the Palace.

Din's footfalls falter momentarily.

Before he can even twist his frown away and grit out a follow-up question, he hears your voice.

Your voice.

Fennec can't see Din Djarin's eyes, but she can interpret the look. The well-kept expression behind the mask of beskar? That's surprise. The tension in his shoulders tells her enough. It's apprehensiveness that slows his steps. It's yearning that twitches in his fingers.

"I thought you said you were the best mechanic in the Rebellion—" comes a voice, far off in the deep cistern of a hangar.

"One," comes your voice, anointed with a grunt of disproval, "I never said that. Two, that's a hell of a lot of mouth coming from the kid who asked for my help—"

At your jest, there's a quiet clamor of laughter.

Fennec watches Din as the two hunters circle around the Slave I; her warm eyes are crinkled at the corners. It's a sense of satisfaction that's settled across her face. The soft, tender promise of this reunion... A non-promise in a swirling void of chaos. Fennec's gloved hand skims the bow in the ship's hull as she follows — and she waits in the wings when Din finally lays his eyes on you.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And you're here.

In truth, you'd never left.

You're under a... scooter? A colorful little speeder sits neatly on jacks, and you're on your back — rag and wrench in hand. He can see the bare skin of your arms, smeared with grease, and thick gloves that crawl up your wrist. Your boots scuffle a bit as you roll father back and let you a little curse.

"Seriously, what did you think would happen?" you huff haughtily, "The propulsion vents on this model aren't built for finer grit dune sand—"

You're lecturing a gaggle of teens. Scrappy, amused teens that are hanging on your every word — even when you raise a hand and waggle your wrench in frustration. They laugh a little, and Din feels gutted with a deep pang of longing. The same sort he's been wrestling with for the last year. But, this time, you're right here.

He's hardly put together that he's been standing there, a few meters from you, for a few seconds. Not until one of the teens, one with warm skin and a cyberized orbital implant, coughs.

"We have a guest," Fennec projects, spurring you to pause.

Easily, you wheel yourself out.

Sitting up is the easy part. Wrangling your goggles off your face, and smearing the sweat from your cheek isn't as easy, but it's habit by now. Days and days spent doing just this — not that you can complain. Fixing helps. Keeps you busy. Has you feeling useful. Hell, even that is an easy realization to come to.

All that is certainly easier than the jarring actualization that Din Djarin is standing right in front of you.

Din.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And he's here.

Like he never left.

In the same glittering, beautiful beskar — and you can see your breath robbed from your lungs in the reflection. Your wrench meets the pavement of the hangar, and you forget about any attempt at grace.

Scrambling up, his name is like a petal on your tongue. Its springtime in his heart and Din is moving before he can remind himself to slow down. Din is half-ready for the planetary impact brought about by your orbit colliding with his — in a dizzying spell of limbs and gravity. The collision is as gentle as a year of longing can be — not nearly as brutal as the nights spent alone, not nearly as hollow as the ache of forgetting the sound of someone's voice.

"Din."

He knows — deep in his heart — he's never heard his name said sweeter. Maybe it's the horrible, lonely circumstance. Or, maybe it's the fact you've wound your arms around his neck and you're proving him wrong, that he hadn't lost you when he left this planet on the promise of duty-owed. When he left you.

You can feel his gloves wind themselves tightly into the back of your mechanic's jumpsuit. You nearly trip as you push yourself up onto the tips of your boots and cling — hardly the reaction you'd rehearse in your head a thousand times. No, no you promised yourself you'd be tangibly cool, perfectly calm.

Truth be told, you're far from it.

You pull back, gloved finding the curved sides of his helm as you settle back down and look him over. An inspection, a breathless one, that's halted with the deliberate press of his helmet to your forehead. It's cool. Smooth. And his hands, you realize, have moved to hold your shoulders steady. To follow the curve of your arms, and to settle along your jaw.

It's a quiet reunion.

One that's watched by an audience, you remember, when Skad pointedly clears his throat and delivers a good-natured jab.

"I take it you two 'ave met, then?"

Din wishes you wouldn't pull away — not until he's finished the thankful prayer on his tongue. His hands fall to yours, and you squeeze them tightly when you turn your cheek. The entire time, he's watching you. Assessing the change. You've started wearing your hair in a new way. There's a wrinkle, between your brow, he doesn't remember being there before. He notes a new scar along the curve of your clavicle.

The entire time he's welcomed by the great Daimyo and his enclave of collected followers, his attention remains on the one person he's been unable to push from his thoughts. Fennec supposes there's something rather romantic about that — and even though she can't be sure that T-visor is trained on you the entire time, she knows well enough.

Din notes a litter of new scars along your knuckles.

During dinner, you try to keep your tender-mouthed yearning quiet. You have a hundred questions for him — but bide your time picking out the best parts of the prepared meal to bring to his quarters after. You plate fruit and meat and little bits of love carved right from your rib. You sit there, flicking up your gaze to find his attending look each time. It makes your heart feel heavy, and so you pile on more sweetsalt berries to his plate.

Laughter comes and goes as do the questions about his armor, conversations about the current politics, and full-bellied lull of a Tatooine evening. Somewhere, a balcony curtain billows — and the three moons hang warm and pink in the sky.

"I trust you can show our guest his living arrangements."

Boba's eyes are kind.

When you stand, gathered plate in hand, there are few questions — just heavy, tender looks from the Daimyo and his Master Assassin. Just a strong hand planted warmly on Din's shoulder in passing. A smile, even, from Fennec to you.

Din is quiet as he follows. The quiet tinker of beskar and the cool breeze of the evening air is all there is — even when you nudge open the door to his quarters. It's one of larger rooms, with a balcony and a rotunda and a bed big enough for a Hutt. It's not entirely dissimilar from your own arrangements.

As you set Din's dinner down on the table near the balcony, he speaks. The door slides shut with a hiss, and you steal a berry to tide over your yearning.

"I thought you'd be angry with me."

You flick your eyes to him. He's stopped in the center of the room. The sunset has settled into the glimmering curves of his armor, and you can't help but feel your heart tighten at the words.

"I was."

Din inhales.

Your expression is solid — but not cruel.

"For a while," you continue, "But, I'm not anymore."

"Why?" he asks in a quiet breath. It sounds far away through the helmet's vocalizer. Like a glacial rift tearing itself apart.

You frown — and almost immediately Din wishes he could take the question back. He watches you reach for another berry, and then you drift away from the balcony. Back to the center of the room, back towards him. You step around him for a second, like a star in orbit. Somehow, you find his eyes beneath the visor. He's always been struck dumb by your uncanny ability to do it. He's not sure if you know, but you've done it. The eye contact he so dreads, until it's you.

And then he feels home.

Like he never left.

You push the berry past your lips and shrug. You drop his gaze, and you turn your cheek towards the rising moons.

"Did you find them?"

"Yes," you're deflecting — and Din can play the game just as well, "I thought you said you were going to go home."

Suddenly, you look panicked.

How do you tell him he was home all along?

Your mouth goes dry, and you shrug away the burn of anxiousness.

You promised yourself you'd be honest with him if you ever saw him again — you promised yourself you'd ask him to never leave again, to let you stay by his side no matter the risk. No matter the circumstance. You promised yourself night after night that someday you'd see Din Djarin again and tell him exactly how you felt.

Your eyes are wide. The wrinkle he noticed before is back. He realizes it's one born out of worry.

"I..." your words slip away. You blink, then shake your head, "I was going to. Then, I realized some things."

Din wishes someone would take the dark saber and carve his heart out. It's the tension, the fear of admitting what you both know — and the edge of fear that perhaps it's not shared.

His voice is raspy. He takes a leap.

Quietly, he steps forward with his confession. "I should have never left."

You shake your head. "We both know you had to."

"They exiled me," he says, then, as he stands over you in the moonlight; Din's words are heavy and they sink into your heart, "And I had no one. All I did was think of you, every night I was gone."

"Exile," you breathe; you don't like the sound. You try to distract yourself with it, and not the crushing cosmos of feelings swirling in your chest at his pretty admittances.

"And then, I thought I'd come back here," Din says with an edge of fear, "And you'd be gone. And I'd never see you again."

You can feel the lump in your throat. You wish you had more of the spotcha at dinner. It would have given you enough of an edge to compose yourself, and not bow into Din the moment he touched you. Your cheek meets the smooth plate of his chest piece when he touches your hand, and you bend into an embrace that surmises a year's worth of unspoken feelings.

"I missed you," he says as his arms wrap themselves tightly around your shoulders, "I'm sorry I ever left you."

"I'm sorry I agreed to it, to part ways," you laugh shakily as you settle your chin on the lip of the beskar, "It was the worst mistake I ever made—"

His gloves hands are cool against your cheeks.

Again, with fluttering lashes, you find his eyes beneath the visor.

There are a lot of things being said between the words, and Din feels himself settling into them. You've relaxed — gone nearly pliable in his hands as you touch his knuckles with your own calloused fingers.

"Exile?" you ask mournfully after a moment of content quiet as you rub the curve of his thumb.

Din's gaze falters. "For showing my face."

Hurt flicks across your face. You know he could have lied. He could have told the Clan that no, he hadn't. But, Din Djarin is a good man — and in his truth, he'd bore the brunt of his punishment.

"But," he says after a moment, "I find myself... bargaining."

"Bargaining?" you ask with a wry look, one half-etched with confusion and half with amusement.

"I'd bear the weight of a thousand exiles if it meant I could kiss you."

Oh.

Oh.

There he goes again, robbing you of breath — this time with words so soft and honest that you can hardly find the right reaction; and it worsens, when a gloved hand moves to tip the lip of his helmet back and the beskar bends the light. Blues and pinks and orange flicker along the rotunda, and you watch greedily as the warm skin of throat, of chin, of lips appear.

He's slow — tentative. The gap is closed with steady hesitancy that meets in an exceedingly gentle press of the lips. Your nose slots next to his, chin tilting, and you can't help the way you slip into bliss at the dreamed touch.

You hardly notice that the beskar falls to the floor when he really kisses you — you hardly hear the bell-like sound that rings in a year worth of want. Can anyone blame you? When a Mandalorian bends his creed to kiss you, soften his war-hardened hands to cradle you? You swear you'll never be able to love again, at this moment, and the Mand'alor holds not only the dark saber in his hand but your heart.

When he draws himself, slowly, away from your kiss, you keep your eyes shut firmly. The sort of thing you'd always negotiated when you'd first started feeling these things for him, back when you'd only been an impromptu live-in mechanic for the Razor Crest.

You can feel his smile tickle your cheek after a moment of quiet. Your own smile is big. Din, sans his helmet, huffs a little laugh from his nose. It's a nasally sound, a warm one. You know he's smiling now.

"I can save you exile," your lashes kiss your cheeks as you keep your eyes firmly shut, "I promise, I'm good at not looking."

You had, after all, spent nearly a year and a half aboard that small freighter playing this exact game — in tight living quarters with a Mandalorian meant snapping eyes shut at a moment's notice.

Then, a gloved hand cradles your face as he presses a series of kisses to your cheek. Over and over. Each is punctuated with a little bit more force than the next. And on the last, he keeps his nose to your cheek as he muffles a laugh. His voice is warm against your ear.

"Just open your eyes," he says lowly, "Before I offer marriage as an alternative."

You laugh and swat at his chest. But, it has you cracking one eye open.

And there's Din Djarin.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And he's here.

Like he never left.

reblog if your name isn't Amanda.

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This is so beautiful, and the characterization of oberyn is so on point! I loved the concept and just think this is absolutely fabulous. Thank you for all the effort that went into this beautiful writing!

Lemon Cakes & Lust | Oberyn Martell (One Shot)

Just a lowly kitchen girl, that's all you were. A life of struggle behind you, masked by the facade of the palace. A tray of lemon cakes holds your fate with Prince Oberyn and you are only too happy to oblige his wanting of you.

Pairing | Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings | Smut, this is porn with some plot (for once), fingering and unprotected PiV sex but nothing else, apart from mentions of loss of parents and alcoholism.

Word Count | 4.6k

Authors Note | HUGE shoutout to @jamesbuckyburns for sending in the prompt request of 'You're heart is beating so fast right now.' and allowing me to create this. I've been HUGELY intimidated by Oberyn, I didn't even know where to start with writing him, but I love this and I hope you all do too. Please consider dropping me a follow if you enjoy this - likes, reblogs and asks also help with keeping me afloat and writing - I love hearing from you all.

Main Masterlist

Dorne had always been your home. You’d never travelled but you were sure no other place in the seven kingdoms could compete. Hot days that warmed your skin, cool evenings giving much needed reprieve when you sat in your quarters to watch the stars in the sky. 

You’d spent most of your life alone. Your mother had died giving birth to you, something which your father had never truly been able to forgive you for. He’d sought solace in the bottom of every cup of wine he could get his hands on and had drowned one evening in the ocean, leaving you an orphan at the tender age of seven. You’d survived a year on the streets, dodging men and women alike who wished you harm, surviving off scraps dumped from taverns at the end of the night.

One day, as you were wandering through the streets, the smell of warm bread had filled your senses. The bakery on the corner of the street was always tempting, but you were usually able to resist until the stale scraps were thrown to you in the dark. This day, the temptation was too much. You’d reached out to touch one of the loaves in the display baskets. You were desperately hungry, and the warm loaf would be enough to sustain you for days if you were careful. As you went to lift the loaf, a hand gripped your wrist, fear spread through your body as you tried to get away, but the grip on your wrist was far too tight. 

“It’s okay, little one,” You’d looked up at the voice into the face of an older woman, her expression was kind and the look in her eyes bore no ill-will towards your thievery, “You’re hungry?” 

You’d nodded immediately. Hunger pains, though they never really left, has dissipated in your fear, but now your stomach grumbled. 

“Come inside child, no-one should go hungry in this city.” 

And that’s how you met Bernyce. That night she had admitted to looking out for you each evening, throwing scraps of bread to you when her husband hadn’t been watching. He’d passed a few weeks prior, and Bernyce had settled in her mind that the next time she saw you, it would be the last time you went hungry and slept on the street. 

For years after that she’d become something of a mother to you. She’d taught you how to make the bread and simple recipes that she sold to her regular customers, paid you a fair wage and gave you the home you’d missed for so long. When you were old enough, she started teaching you recipes she’d heard were favourites in the palace – lemon cakes, flavoured loaves of bread they enjoyed with their wine and cheese, and when there was enough money between you, she taught you how to cook meat with spices and fruits. 

One day, perhaps two years ago now, you’d been slaving over the counter, kneading bread, when a man you didn’t recognize came into the bakery. It was obvious Bernyce knew who it was, she had embraced him, and he’d placed a chaste kiss on her cheek in return. 

“Nalia has left us,” He spoke to Bernyce, you knew it was rude to listen in on conversations, but whoever this man was, you knew he came with an opportunity, “We need a replacement, so as I always do, I’ve come to ask if you would consider the opportunity.” 

Bernyce had laughed, it was deep and joyous and every time you heard it, it made you feel warm, “Zarin, I tell you this every time you visit, I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in a palace kitchen.” 

The palace. You were still kneading the dough in front of you, but your eyes were trained on this man and Bernyce. Of course, he was from the palace. Outfit made of light silks, shoes that weren’t covered in filth from walking the streets each day. Bernyce had always been candid with you about his visits – she’d spoken often of opportunities to work in the palace kitchen, but her husband had been vehemently against it. She was needed here so she’d always said no. So why now, with her husband out of the picture, would she not take the opportunity. 

“I am perfectly content here, however…” She trailed off, turning to meet your eyes, you felt them widen as you caught you watching, “I might have a solution for you.” 

That’s how you found yourself in the palace of Dorne, carrying a tray of lemon cakes from the kitchen to the great hall, where Prince Doran and his brother Oberyn would be entertaining one of many groups of courtiers that evening. 

There was chatter behind the closed door as you and a handful of other kitchen hands stood at the threshold. Two guards opened the door, swinging them inwards to reveal the opulent room inside. You’d been here hundreds of times, but it never failed to impress you. Open walls that looked out onto the ocean, allowing a fair breeze to waft through the room. Hangings of silk draped from the walls and candles flickering to give light as the sun faded. 

You rounded the tables, walking behind the men and women who paid you no mind. Head down as you’d been taught on your very first day, never look at the princes, was the warning, no doubt meant to intimidate you, but it had never stopped you before. 

You placed the tray of lemon cakes on the serving table behind where Prince Doran and his brother were sat. Trays of cooked meats and fresh fruit were placed on the table by your friends. You took a moment to catch glances around you. Everyone sat at the table was deep in conversation, drinking wine and picking at food they’d already been served. Both serving boys were busy filling up empty wine cups and gathering empty plates. 

You turn back to the tray of cakes. Your fingers reach for the golden lemon slice on top, twinkling in your eye like a jewel. You easily slide the slice off and pop it whole into your mouth, stopping briefly to suck the tip of your thumb where the residue of sticky syrup remained. The sour slice bursts onto your tongue before the sugar syrup sweeps across after it, it’s a simple pleasure, normally one enjoyed back in the safety of the kitchen, but temptation is a vice that seemed to be welcomed in Dorne and you were more than happy to indulge yourself wherever you could. 

You ducked your head as low as you could manage to hide the motion of chewing in your jaw and sped to leave the room and catch up with your friends, not realizing a pair of deep, brown eyes had been watching you the entire time. 

Later that evening, after the sun had set and the choking heat had subsided, you were in the lemon grove, basket hooked over your elbow, picking lemons for tomorrows batch of cakes. This was the kind of peace you loved at the end of the day, silence except for the licking of the ocean waves on the beach beyond and the sound of the lemons popping from their branches and landing in your basket. You had one in your hand, about to deposit it into the wicker on your arm when a voice spoke out from between the trees. 

“I watched you earlier,” The lemon dropped from your fingers as you jumped in shock, you watched it roll away, coming to a stop at the side of a foot, a hand picking it up and then emerging from the shadows, “You like stealing the lemon cakes?” 

Prince Oberyn. He hands you the lemon, which you gratefully take, placing it carefully in the basket. You’d never spoken to the prince, but you’d heard stories. The kitchen was always alight with gossip that he’d been seen in one brothel or another or had called so many people to his rooms of an evening that people had been confused as to what was going on. He was frivolous but frightfully intelligent, loyal, almost to a fault, and was an incredible lover. Dressed in his yellow robes, with his tanned skin and dark eyes, he was formidable, but you hadn’t survived your ordeals without a sharp tongue, and he wouldn’t get the best of you. 

“If I make them, am I really stealing them?” You offered, “And besides, it wasn’t the cake, just the lemon on the top.” 

He snorts but shrugs in acceptance, “Do you always make them?” He asked, to which you nod in affirmation, “They are one of my favourite indulgences.” 

“I wonder how I’m ever to compete with wine and women.” You shrug, moving back to picking more fruit. 

“That last girl made them too sweet,” He speaks beside you, watching your hands intently as they pick at the fruit tree, “The girl before her, too sour,” He stands right beside you now, lips so close to your ear you could hear his breath, “Yours are just right, enough sugar to mask the sour, but not enough to fully take it away.” 

Your own breath hitches in your throat as his hand comes to rest at your hip, he stands behind you, still and statue-like as you try to focus on the tree in front of you, you wonder for the longest time if he might press a kiss to your neck with his lips being so close to you, but he just stands there, reveling in your heaving chest and sweating palms. You were no better than anyone he’d ever come across before and you cursed yourself for it. 

 “Your secret is safe with me.” He whispers, so quiet you almost miss it, and then he is gone and quickly as he appeared, leaving you confused but ultimately aroused. 

*

“Prince Oberyn has requested a tray of lemon cakes to his rooms this evening.” His servant boy speaks to you in the kitchen a few mornings later. 

You nod, “I’ll have them ready to be delivered once dinner has finished.” 

“He also requested that you hand deliver them.” 

You were about to protest before remembering your place. Sure, you might feed the palace, but this man in front of you is infinitely more important than you. Despite both being servants of a kind, he spends his day walking three steps behind Prince Oberyn in the sun whilst you slave over hot coals. He might not be your boss, but he is to be respected. 

“Of course, I will deliver them as soon as they are ready.” 

The day was busy, so it wasn’t until you held the tray of freshly made cakes that the familiar bubble of nervousness set into your body. The servant from this morning was stood outside of Prince Oberyn’s door when you arrived, the warmth of the cakes through the tray almost verging on pain, but at least if you were focusing on the way your palms burned, you weren’t focusing on the anxiety in your stomach. 

The boy knocked twice on the door before he opened it, ushering you in quickly before shutting the door behind you. Oberyn was lazing on his bed when you entered, wine goblet in hand. 

“Set them on the table,” He instructed, you did as you were told, “And pass me the wine.”

You stood at the edge of the bed, filling up his goblet when it was extended to you before placing the jug down next to the tray of cakes, “Would you like to try some?” He was standing now, and you could get a good look at him. 

His usual mustard robe had been discarded; you could see it thrown over a chair in the corner of the room. He had a small shawl wrapped over his shoulders, doing nothing to hide his perfectly toned and tanned chest. 

You took the goblet in your hands from his own and took a small sip. Jesus, that’s good, you thought to yourself, the stuff left for you and the other cooks was swill compared to this. 

“Good, isn’t it?” He asked, leaning down to meet your eyes, “Have some more, there’s plenty to go around.” 

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” You asked, taking another sip, this time bigger than the last. 

“I would assume you don’t get the chance very often.” 

Your mind flashes to your father in this moment, the fuzzy images you have of him falling through the door at the end of the night, always sleeping where he fell, waking up in a pile of vomit and then standing to reach for the booze again. It wasn’t that you didn’t get the opportunity, it was that you didn’t want to turn into the man you’d grown to detest in the end. 

“I have plenty of opportunity, we’re not recluses in the kitchen, I just don’t like the way it feels.” 

“Your father, right?” 

Your eyes shoot to his in seconds, an accusing look covering your face, “How do you know that?” 

He shrugs, “I have my ways.” 

“Well, it’s rude,” You speak without thinking, “You shouldn’t bring things up like that.” 

He chuckles now, “You’re different,” He states simple, “The way you speak to me, no-one else would, I like that.” 

You watch him like a hawk as he takes his cup back and sets it on the table. He picks up one of the cakes from the tray and does similar to what you did in the dining hall. He slides the sticky lemon slice off the top first, putting it into his mouth before breaking the cake itself in half, eating it in small bites, all whilst his eyes never leave yours. 

He picks up another lemon cake, peeling the slice as he had done before, but this time he steps impossibly close to you. There isn’t too much of a height difference between you, enough that you must tilt your head to look at him. He brings the lemon slice to your lips, and you open gratefully, letting him place the sweet slice on your tongue for you to consume. You suppose you hadn’t needed to suck the end of his thumb to get the last of the syrup from his skin, but you did it anyway, watching as lust clouded his dark eyes. 

“Sinful little girl.” 

You had no idea where you’d found your bravado, but you replied with, “Are you tempted?” Looking up at him through your lashes as your hands pressed to his chest. 

“I’m always tempted.” He speaks, before leaning down and capturing your lips with your own.

It’s sticky and sweet on account of the cake, tinged with sour of lemon and wine. It’s delicious and all-consuming and you realize now why his reputation is so widely known. If this is how Prince Oberyn kisses, you can’t imagine how he fucks. His hands cup your face as his tongue traces along your bottom lip like he was begging for you to let him in. You oblige, opening your mouth, letting your tongue mix with his own as your hands press further into his chest. 

You pull away, his heartbeat racing under your palms, “Your heart is beating so fast right now.” You observe, how could a lowly kitchen girl have this effect on a prince? Especially a prince who could have his pick of his whole kingdom at the wave of a hand. 

One of his hands drops from your face and makes it way under the neckline of your dress, resting just above your own heart, “So is yours,” He speak, trailing his lips across your cheek, “Are you excited?” 

You nod your head as his teeth nip at your earlobe, hands falling to grip at your hips through your dress. You tilt your head back a little and excitement thrums through your bones as his lips trail from your ear, downwards. It’s a dance of sorts, a series of repeated moves, he uses his teeth to nip at the skin of your neck, then showers attention over it with his tongue before sucking on the spot as a final way to stake his claim. You’re going to have some explaining to do in the morning, but you couldn’t care less right now. 

Without warning, his hands drop to the crease where your ass meets your thighs, and he’s picking you up. Your legs wrap around his waist without thought and your arms wind their way around his neck for stability. You take a moment to breathe in his scent – it’s citrusy and sweet, but there’s an added note of musk and sweat that has you feeling high. 

He places your back softly on the bed, stepping back to admire you, hair fanned out underneath you, cheeks pink with blush. You take a moment to fist your hands in the sheets. The mattress under you in unbelievably comfortable, a far cry from the palette you sleep on each night. The sheets, you deduce, are pure silk, soft and buttery against your skin. Oh, how the other half live, you think as you move to look at him. 

The shawl from his shoulders is gone, revealing the broad frame of his shoulders, you want to reach out and run your hands over their expanse. His chest is tanned and toned as you’d expected, again, your hands itching to reach out and touch his skin. 

He crawls on top of you, dipping to trail his lips from your collarbone up to your mouth where you meet. Your lips open this time without the trail of his tongue along your lip, and as you kiss you can feel his deft hands undoing the belt to your dress. It’s simple, brown linen, the same that all the kitchen hands wear, and you’re thankful when you feel it fall open, your skin finally free from its itchy prison. 

Oberyn pulls away from your lips, sitting back on his knees as he admires your body. You don’t wear anything underneath the dress, the fire in the kitchen too hot for extra layers and you’re grateful for it now as his hands push the garment off your shoulders and he looks at you. Looks at you like you were the sweetest fruit he’d tasted, or the most beautiful piece of art he’d ever seen. You had to remind yourself that this was surely how he looked at everyone, you couldn’t have been that special. 

“You are perfection.” He breathes into your ear as his hand moves to your breasts. 

You let out a moan as he takes your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the bud to a stiff peak. Another moan as his mouth brings its attention to your other breast at the same time. He stays there for what feels like hours, switching his hand and his mouth a few times, until your chest is heaving, and you’re covered in a thin film of sweat. You wish at this moment that he hadn’t chosen to situate his hips between your thighs. Although the weight at your core of his hardening length was exciting, you wanted to rub your thighs together for friction, you’d do anything to add to the pleasure currently coursing through you. 

Once Oberyn is satisfied you are worked up enough, he trails his lips back to your neck, adding to the marks he’d already given you, whilst his hand dips between your legs. His fingers trace lightly over the seam of your aching pussy, dipping far enough into you to feel how wet you are, but not enough to give you what you really want. He brings his fingers to his lips and keeps his eyes on your as he licks your wetness from them. 

“Just as sweet as your cakes, little dove.” He all but growls, moving his hand back to your pussy. 

He gathers your wetness on his fingers, still towering over you with one hand placed beside your head to keep him upright and runs his fingers up to your clit. You swear at this point you see stars, all the buildup has led to this moment, your clit crying out for the attention he’d showered the rest of your body with, and it was just as delicious as you had dreamed. 

His lips are back on yours in this moment, tongues fighting against each other as his fingers set a pace between your legs. He’s rubbing tight, small circles across your clit that have your hips bucking up into his hand, but you want more pressure, need more pressure. Your legs drop open wider, and you’re pushing your hips up into his hand, small moans coming from your throat becoming lost in his own mouth as he continues kissing you. 

“You like this?” He asked, whispering into your ear, you nod in response, “Where’s your voice now, little dove?” He chuckles, you were only too happy to let your smart mouth talk before. 

“Yes..” You breath out, “I need more, please.” You beg. 

“What do you need?” 

“Harder,” You keen out, “Press your fingers harder.” 

He is only too happy to oblige, giving you just the right amount of pleasure to have you tumbling over the edge in moments. It rips through you unexpectedly, heat flooding your lower tummy as your pussy pulses around nothing as his name falling from your mouth. He works his fingers softly over your clit for a moment, almost entranced at the way it makes your legs shake through the aftershocks. 

“You look beautiful when you come undone for me.” He rasps into your ear as he lets you catch your breath. 

You cannot reply. Words fail you, so you use your hands, running them over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down his chest to fall at the waistband of his trousers. He swats your hands away with a smirk on his lips, sitting back on his knees and then standing from the bed. You lift yourself onto your elbows and watch as his thumbs hook into the waistband pushing them down just enough that they fall to the floor. 

You don’t think you’d ever seen a mere mortal look quite this good. He couldn’t be real. The toned nature of his chest continued down the rest of his body, his hips carved out in all the right places, leading your eyes to his cock. Well. The fumbling you’d done these past months with Jace from the kitchens was poor preparation for this. 

“You like the view?” He asks, a grin set upon his lips.

“I do.” You nod, his smile making your own form on your lips. 

He crawls back onto your bed and settles himself between your thighs again, his fingers fall to your entrance and work to somewhat stretch you open but you knew the way he was about to fill you would be overwhelming regardless of much he tried to prepare you. 

He fists his cock in his fist a few times, dragging your wetness over him, before the tip is nudging at your aching core and he’s pushing in slowly. He presses sweet kisses to your lips and your cheeks as he slowly inches further and further inside you, the moans falling from your lips are indecent and you were right, the stretch within you in obscene. You’d never felt so full in your life. Oberyn was whispering encouragement into your ear as he stilled himself within you, fully sheathed in your soaking heat. Good girl and you feel divine, sweet girl and you’re taking me so well. 

He begins moving when he’s sure you can take it, he pulls out almost all the way before he thrusts back inside of you. You watch as pleasure contorts his face, you know this is just as good for him as it is for you. Your legs wrap around his waist and your arms around his neck, leaning up to press your own kisses to his neck, stopping short of marking him, you weren’t sure what the punishment would be for a kitchen girl who staked the prince as her own. 

His pace is languid, like he has all the time in the world. He doesn’t pound into you like Jace did, always sure someone will find you, trying to get in over as soon as possible so you can get back to work. The friction of each thrust has you keening into his skin, he shifts slightly, hands gripping your ass, lifting your hips just an inch and then he’s hitting something wonderful inside you, something that has spots filling your vision and moans louder than ever dropping from your lips. 

“Give me your hand,” He demands, you do as your told, and he places it between you, “Touch yourself, little dove, I want to feel you come undone on my cock.” 

It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm to fling you into oblivion. This time, when your pussy clenched through your aftershocks, you could hear how much Oberyn liked it. His moans were falling freely from his mouth as his hips stuttered, the languid pace lost for a moment as he chased your orgasm. 

He pulls back onto his knees and uses his hands to wrap around your wrists. Still seated inside you, he pulls you up, chest flush to his own, your legs wrapped around his waist once more. Your arms around his neck hold you up, but it’s his hands splayed across your back that keep you steady. He’s thrusting up into you now, lips biting at your shoulder, fingers gripping so hard to your skin you think you might bruise there too. Then, he’s calling your name and you can feel him coming for you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you, painting your walls with his seed. 

He's breathing just as deeply as you are as he sets you back to the sheets. When he pulls from you it’s like you are lost, empty without him, in more ways than one. He gets up from the bed and walks to the table, filling his goblet with wine and taking a long drink. You take this as your cue to leave. 

You stand, unsure how you’re meant to make it from here to the kitchen with legs that feel like they might collapse at any moment. You reach for your dress when you feel a hand at the small of your back. 

“Where are you going?” He murmurs to you. 

“Back where I belong.” You speak simply. 

“For tonight, you belong here.” He takes your dress from your hands and drops it to the floor, joining the pile of his own garments. 

He moves you so you are facing him and kisses you deeply. You search his tongue with your own for the sweet taste of wine. 

“Just tonight?” You asked breathlessly when he pulls away. 

“If the fates bring us together again, I surely wouldn’t complain.” 

It’s as close as you’ll get to a commitment that he’ll see you again and for now it’s all you need. You crawl back onto the bed with him, setting yourself against the impossibly soft pillows. He hands you the wine and you take it, taking a sip before handing it back to him once he’s taken his place next to you. His warm hand rests on your thigh as your head tilts to rest on his shoulder. You think you’d like to close your eyes and fall asleep like this, but if one night is all that is promised right now then you won’t waste it. Instead, you move your body, trailing kisses down his neck and across his chest, when his hand falls to your cheek. 

“Patience, little dove,” He coos at you, “You’ll get what you want soon enough.”