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missusk · 4 years

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[an excerpt from a raihanxleon high school AU i may never finish]

Only fifteen minutes to go.

Leon’s face was starting to hurt from the persistent puckering and from the ceaseless class-president smiles he offered all the girls that came up. At least his lips weren’t dry, thanks to the Cheri berry chapstick Nessa bought for him, but he felt guilty whenever it left a waxy sheen on someone’s cheek. The girls didn’t seem to mind, and he even heard one mutter ‘I’m never washing my face again.’

He waved another goodbye to a group of giggling freshmen, checked his phone again, and sighed.

Fourteen minutes.

The girl’s kissing booth beside him had a lull in the action (as Sonia predicted), but it wasn’t like Leon didn’t notice how much shorter their shifts were compared to his… it even seemed Milo hardly sat down before getting back up for Leon’s turn. Sonia didn’t explicitly say starting quarterback and class president Leon would be the main attraction of the Fall Fair kissing booth, but the quickly-filling donation jar and snaking line said it for her.

Fourteen minutes and probably like, twenty seconds. At least yawning helped stretch his pinching face muscles. Leon had never given anyone a wedgie before, but if Gordie was a single second late to taking over his shift then he’d consider it.

Some of the girls were cute (whether that be pinch her cheeks cute or pinch her cheeks cute), and some of them were funny, so Leon at least didn’t mind when the people who came up were entertaining. Half the football team waltzed into line, only to briskly scuttle out when Vice Principal Oleana walked by and shot them a warning glare. They got their fair share of blackmail and recordings on their social media stories first, though.

After another girl left, Leon looked down the line. It hadn’t gotten any shorter, as people kept filling in at the back. Was the entire school in line? Yeesh. He bit back a mournful sigh and checked his phone again.

Under ten minutes now, he could do this. It was for charity.

He gave another cheek kiss and leaned back to stretch, and again forgot to not lick his lips and avoid eating the makeup residue from some of the girls. Sonia and Nessa had brought a washcloth for him a while ago to help, then Nessa brought him the chapstick. Those things helped a little, but maybe if Leon shot a desperate text to Gordie, he’d be willing to come a little early for his shift. After the next girl in line left, he reached for his phone, only to freeze when an orange headband sauntered into his periphery.

Leon tried to peer around the line of long hair and rosy cheeks that had been monopolizing his vision for so long, and his heart kicked when that orange headband stepped into line. Immediately his blood went cold, yet his stomach flipped in giddy anticipation. He wouldn’t, would he? No, he was just talking with a group of friends, Leon was pretty sure they were all from yearbook class. He tried to determine if any of them were holding hands or standing too close to each other. One guy with a group of girls often meant one of two things: he was a girlfriend’s emotional support, or those girls were his emotional support. He hoped it was the former just as much as he hoped it was the latter.

Leon’s focus was trained at the end of the line, and not on the girl in front of him. He offered a quick and distracted apology when he kissed her ear, then her hair, then finally made the mark of her cheek. The donation jar had been sitting calmly his entire shift, yet now it seemed like it was everywhere Leon’s clammy hands were. Thankfully the next girl in line picked it up off the ground for him, but it took him a few tries to get the money back in. Was the jar opening smaller? Leon finally looked away from the end of the line to properly aim.

No one had complained yet, but suddenly Leon was very aware of how chapped his lips were or what his breath smelled like. Did he have any gum? Did Sonia put any under the tabletop when she set up the booth? Leon felt around, only to poke his hand on an ill-hammered nail. When he brought his hand to his mouth with a hiss, he took a moment for a breath-check. It seemed neutral enough, but what if he was just imagining that? What if it got terrible within the next two minutes? That orange headband was suddenly halfway through the line.

“Alright Leon, we can switch,” came a voice from beside him, and Leon nearly jumped out of his skin. Gordie set his bag down and was ready to hip-check Leon out of the chair.

“Thanks but I’ve still got a few minutes left,” Leon said as he peeked at that orange headband again. “Do you have any gum?”

“I figured you’ve done your time,” Gordie chuckled. “And no, but the guys are going to get you some snacks if you want, their treat. They said to meet them at the fried cookie cart.”

“I’ll, um, I’ll finish my time here,” Leon said as he peeked around the girl in front of him. She smiled and bashfully flipped her hair, only to pout when she realized Leon was looking behind her.

“I already said you could go,” Gordie said as his brow furrowed. “You’ve been here forever, aren’t you tired of it? Doesn’t your face hurt from kissing people?”

“Just wait a little longer,” Leon muttered, and he offered a kiss on the cheek to the girl who was so patiently waiting through their conversation. That seemed to satiate her pout.

“Dude, no, I’m already here,” Gordie huffed. “I missed out on an elephant ear to save you from this.”

“I’ll buy you one,” Leon hissed out of the corner of his mouth. When Leon’s eyes scanned the line for that orange headband, Gordie’s eyes followed. A sly smirk inched onto his face and he stood back with crossed arms.

“Do my math homework for me.”

“What?” Leon huffed.

“For the next two weeks, and I’ll come back after that girl in the blue sweater.”

That girl in the blue sweater was exactly one person behind the guy in the orange headband.

“Fine, whatever,” Leon hissed. “Get out of here, come back later.”

“You’re such a giver,” Gordie teased as he clapped Leon on the shoulder. “Happy to see that the kissing booth is such a charitable idea, with such a charitable man at the helm.”

“Okay, ha ha, I get it, go away,” Leon muttered. That orange headband was getting within hearing range. Gordie thought he was funny, so he needed to scram before trying to make a joke that revealed way too much to this line of girls and one guy.

Gordie finally left after trying to make a group of girls laugh, and Leon readjusted himself in his chair. Had he been slouching this whole time? Had his hoodie collar always been this tight? He should have asked Gordie if he had anything in his teeth. He cleared his throat a few times and offered an awkward smile to the next girl in line. After a cheek kiss to her and her friends, some small talk, it was then that the yearbook group was close enough to hear over the bustling fair around them.

Nothing unusual, they were just talking about carnival games and editing software.

Had his tongue always felt so weird in his mouth? Was he sitting too straight? Leon adjusted himself to try and look as calm and casual as possible, but when he leaned back, the chair pushed into the dirt and he nearly toppled backwards.

“Are you okay?” the girl in line asked.

She was pouting her lips in worry, but Leon didn’t take the time to admire the perfect pink sheen when his eyes darted a few people behind her. He was still talking with the yearbook girls about editing software, and didn’t seem to notice. Leon tucked his hair behind his ear and let out an awkward chuckle.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said with a breathy laugh. “So many beautiful girls around makes it hard to focus.”

The girl batted her lashes and put a few extra dollars into the donation jar, and Leon gave her a kiss on the cheek, then one to her friend after her. They left with pink-tinged faces and giggles, and the yearbook group came up. As Leon offered friendly small talk, he wondered how his smile looked, how his laugh sounded, when one of them made a joke. He didn’t actually hear what she said, though, because of how hard his heart was pounding in his ears and how his focus was trained on keeping his eyes from straying up to the electric blue that was boring into him.

He gave a kiss on the cheek to one, then the rest, and Leon wondered how young the youngest person to have a heart attack was.

He finally forced himself to glance up when the girls left and the person next in line didn’t follow. He didn’t think about his heart anymore (though it certainly kicked once, then twice), because it was then that the next in line ducked under the banner of the kissing booth, set his elbows on the tabletop, and Leon’s only focus was on how Raihan was now only a nose bump away.

“Hey,” Raihan said with that crooked grin.

That was the smile Leon was hoping wouldn’t show up, because that smile meant danger and an even faster heart rate. He was hoping that he could give a friendly, maybe even goofy, kiss on the cheek, and Raihan would be on his merry way with his yearbook friends. And yet, here he was, watching Raihan watch him with that devilish glint in his eyes.

“Hi,” Leon said nonchalantly. He didn’t want to risk fumbling, so he didn’t dare move his hands from his lap. “Not leaving with your friends?”

“I waited in line too, I want a kiss from Leon,” Raihan said quietly. Leon’s stomach flipped at how that sentence sounded coming out of Raihan’s mouth. “What do I get for ten dollars?”

Leon ignored how his toes curled and tried to offer his most indifferent scoff.

“You’re going to waste ten dollars on a stupid kissing booth?”

And Raihan leaned closer, even tilted his head, as his eyes fluttered to Leon’s lips.

“If it’s got you in it.”

Leon’s face was flaring red, he knew it, and he glanced to the side and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. His clammy hands snagged on a few hairs by his ear, and he hoped Raihan didn’t notice when he didn’t bother untangling them and just tugged them out when he set his hand in his lap again.

“It’s all the same,” Leon muttered. “One kiss.”

With all the charm of a devil, Raihan leaned closer, those hooded eyes dark and murky as he stared at Leon’s lips. Heat flared deep in Leon’s stomach at the look on Raihan’s face, since seeing it in person was unfortunately much more effective than fantasizing about it in his bed at night. He squirmed backward in his chair as if that would ease the intensity of the pull low in his gut. Unfortunately, that pull was full throttle when a flash of pink slid over Raihan’s bottom lip when he wet it, then a flash of a canine as he stared at Leon’s lips.

“On the cheek,” Leon clarified through a mumble.

“How about twenty dollars, then?” Raihan whispered, his gaze still latched to Leon’s lips.

“Raihan,” Leon muttered, and he had to force his own eyes to stay opened, even though Raihan’s were closing every inch closer he leaned.

“I’m willing to go the extra mile for charity,” Raihan purred. “It’s for a good cause.”

“One cheek kiss.”

“Twenty-five dollars?”

“One cheek kiss,” Leon repeated.

He turned his head, as that was the only way to get himself to stop staring at Raihan’s canine biting his lower lip. That was the perfect color, soft and full, and the back of Leon’s mind wondered how it would taste, what it would feel like on his tongue, between his teeth. How would Raihan sound if he playfully nipped that soft lower lip? Leon wondered if Raihan was thinking the same when he leaned closer.

“Thirty dollars?” he breathed.

Their trance was broken when the girl behind Raihan huffed.

“Can you hurry it up?” she whined. It didn’t seem to faze Raihan, because his eyes flit up to meet Leon’s. Leon wasn’t sure which was worse: Raihan staring at his lips, or staring into his eyes when they were so hooded and hungry.

“C’mon Leon, I need to get my money’s worth,” Raihan whispered. “The line is getting impatient.”

If Raihan was trying to get Leon to squirm, then he was unfortunately doing an incredibly good job, and Leon pursed his lips and looked to the wood of the tabletop. He could still feel Raihan’s gaze zig-zagging over his face. In his periphery he saw Raihan’s eyes drag down his frame, stare at how he squirmed in his chair. He wondered if Raihan’s gaze would have continued downward if there wasn’t this tabletop to block the view.

“I’m not…” Leon whispered as he adjusted himself in his chair. Raihan needed to stop looking at him like that and risk forcing Leon into needing to sit behind this table for a little longer, albeit for different reasons. “I’m not kissing you in front of all of these people.”

“I’m a big guy,” Raihan purred. He dared to inch closer, dared to block out everyone’s view when his finger ghosted under Leon’s chin. “They can’t see.”

Leon’s eyelids fluttered despite himself as that pull deep in his stomach became unbearable. This smug attitude was driving him insane, and concurrently driving forward every secret desire and craving Leon had been trying so hard to shove away. The heat of Raihan’s breath was grazing over his lips, and those electric blue eyes were closing. When the girl behind Raihan sighed again, Leon jerked his head back.

When Leon couldn’t manage more than a incoherent grumble out of his throat, Raihan finally took pity and leaned back. He tucked a ten-dollar bill into the jar and gave an apologetic smile.

“Fine,” he said as he playfully rolled his eyes. “Guess I’ll play by the rules. One cheek kiss please.”

Leon heaved out a deep sigh, and he hoped it sounded as sarcastic as possible and not as flustered as he felt. He cupped Raihan’s face, brushed his thumb over his cheekbone, and was pleasantly surprised to see a shift in Raihan’s eyes. He pulled Raihan closer, and as softly and with as much care as he could manage, he pressed his lips to the corner of Raihan’s mouth.

His own lips tingled, and he wondered if Raihan’s did too when they both pulled back, though Leon’s formed into a cheeky smirk when Raihan’s face darkened with a blush. That smug smile was long gone and replaced with something sweet, as if Raihan couldn’t force his own smile back, though he was obviously trying.

“I guess for another ten I’ll let you do stupid carnival games with me,” Leon hummed as he watched with a bemused satisfaction at how Raihan was now fumbling with his collar, with his hands, with the string of his hoodie. He nodded vigorously, and Leon let out a laugh when Raihan stood so quickly that he bumped his head on the banner. He tucked another ten into the donation jar and untangled himself from the banner with Leon’s help.

As he left with Raihan, both their shoulders bumping and their fingers awkwardly tangling together, just to quickly untangle again, Gordie passed by, discreetly gave a wink, and Leon returned with a grateful nod. Two weeks of extra math homework shouldn’t be so bad, and when Raihan’s hand brushed his again, Leon decided that perhaps the kissing booth wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

[other, actually finished & in progress stories can be found on my AO3]

#art #writing #high school au #pokemon #pokemon swsh #kbdn #raihan #leon #raihanxleon #leonxraihan #comic #fanfiction #fanfic #sword and shield #dande #kibana #kissing booth #mutual pining

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sabraeal · 4 years

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Rarely Pure & Never Simple, Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

The last entry in the 600 Followers Gift-a-thon! I meant for this to be out the last weekend in December, but dude to both illness, kiss-a-thon, and this fic turning out well over 7.5K...it just didn’t work out. Thank all of you guys for following and voting; hopefully this year I’ll actually get to finish all the 500 follower raffle fics too...

Despite the glut of graduation media Shirayuki’s been binging, trying to brace herself for-- for all this, nothing quite prepares her for what it will be like to wear her cap and gown.

“It’s plastic,” she says dully, rubbing the waffle-weave between the tips of her fingers. “It feels like a tablecloth.”

“You look great,” Nanna assures her, eyes shining, giving her arm a good squeeze.

“Besides,” Grandad adds, fiddling with his camera. They got him that two years ago, for Christmas, and even still he doesn’t know quite how it works. “At least you and all your friends will be wearing tablecloths together.”

That fact that doesn’t seem to assuage Kihal in the least.

“This is a disaster,” she wails as Shirayuki approaches, waving her hand to encompass both their gowns. “They’re practically see-through!”

Shirayuki blinks, and-- yes. At a glance, she knows that Kihal’s dress is blue beneath her robe, and Kiki’s is purple. She stares down at her own, and through the cheap plastic, the hazy pink splotches of the roses dotting her dress give the vague impression of period stains.

“Oh,” she murmurs, dropping the fabric. “Oh.”

“We’ve agreed, as whole, to aggressively ignore it,” Kiki says rationally, though by the round of her shoulders and the tense line of her jaw, it still rankles. “I’m going to warn the Junior Student Council that they need to ask for blue robes for all genders.”

“Or black,” Kihal suggests, “ditch the whole school pride thing altogether.”

Kiki nods. “Classic. I like it.” Her gaze hooks on to Shirayuki. “You’re doing a speech today, aren’t you?”

Butterflies races sickeningly in Shirayuki’s stomach. “Um, yeah.”

“Feeling prepared?”

Not at all. “As much as I can be,” she settles on. It earns her one of Kiki’s rare smiles, which at least gets the micro-fauna in her gut doing a more pleasant set of maneuvers.

“Good.” She reaches out, giving Shirayuki’s shoulder a solid squeeze. “I’m excited to hear it. Obi said it was, and I quote, ‘killer.’“

“Oh.” She knows they’re friends, of course; she met him through Kiki and Zen, and she hangs out with both of them on the regular, it’s just--

They talk about her. He talks about her, in a way that is, well, boyfriend-like. And she’s never...

Shirayuki has never been someone people talk about. At least, not without some rumor to go along with it.

“Um.” Her eyes sting, even as her mouth curves into a smile. “Cool.”

Kiki’s gaze flicks over her shoulder. “I better go check on Zen. It looks as if he might have some sort of apoplexy if he doesn’t get more help than Obi getting everyone into line.”

Shirayuki’s head whips over her shoulder, gaze fixing to where Zen stands in the gym, cheeks so red he might as well have been slapped. Right beside him is Obi, mouth hooking into his customary smirk, and something that’s been knotted in her breast since this morning loosens.

“That boy needs to get laid,” Kihal decides with a snort. “Or pick up yoga, or meditation, or something.”

A guilt heat sweeps over Shirayuki, head to toe. “W-what?”

“Wisteria.” Kihal jerks her head at him. “He’s going to pass out if he keeps walking around like a pot with its lid on, you know?”

“O-oh,” she says, now more mortified. “R-right.”

“Obviously not Obi. You’re already--” her eyes narrow-- “aren’t you already doing something about that?”

“Um!” Shirayuki casts about for anything that will keep her from having this conversation. “Looks like...we better go line up. I’m with the Ls so...I’ll see you after the ceremony!”

“What?” Kihal squawks, hands fisting on her hips as Shirayuki hurries away. “This conversation is not over!”

Tragically, Kihal is correct.

“I can’t believe you haven’t blow him.” Shirayuki glares down at where Kihal rests her elbows on the back of her chair, staring down the opposite row to where the ‘N’ section sits. “Like not even a little?”

The rehearsal was hardly three days ago, but somehow Shirayuki had forgotten the crucial fact that the ‘T’ section sat just behind the ‘L’ one after they file in.

“I don’t think this is really the time to be talking about this,” she hisses, glancing at the girl next to her, buried in her phone. To her other side is the aisle, thankfully, though when Mitsuhide throws her a small wave she can’t help but think if he was here, on this side, his staid presence might discourage this particular conversation.

“Just look at him.” Kihal gestures with the flat of her hand, right to where Obi sits, grinning, in front of Zen. “His dick is probably gorgeous. Like if I had to say who had the best dick out of everyone we know, I’d say--”

“Kihal.”

“--Probably Mitsuhide,” she admits, “but Obi would be a close second.”

Shirayuki sighs, and, well, maybe if she indulges this line of questioning, it will be over sooner. “We just...haven’t gotten there yet.”

Kihal gives her a dubious look. “It’s been what? Three months? And you expect me to believe he hasn’t mentioned it at all?”

She blinks. “No, actually.”

It hadn’t seemed odd to her-- after all, the only person thus far in her life that had mentioned her getting on her knees was Raj, and that had gone...not well, for either of them-- but now that Kihal has mentioned it...

Obi is nineteen, twenty in a month, and from every movie she’s ever avoided watching on the subject, he should be, well, more actively campaigning for an end to her dickphobia. Or at least, mentioning how he’d like her to be touching him, often and well.

“Maybe he doesn’t like it,” she suggests, at a loss. After all, she knows there’s, um, a reciprocal position, and as nice as it sounds when he suggests it, it doesn’t excite her in a, ah, intellectual sense. It’s not anything she cares about doing any time soon.

“Fake news,” Kihal grunts, “all boys like having their penises touched. If you asked him what he’d like to do to celebrate--” Shirayuki grimaces at the suggestive nudge-- “tonight, he’d say, hands down, that he wants you to blow him.”

Her menagerie of intestinal insects takes flight at the thought. “I don’t know...”

“Scientific fact,” Kihal insists, “given the choice, a dude will always want to be blown.”

“Well--” Obi meets her gaze, giving her a wink that is somehow both saucy and supportive-- “good thing there’s going to be no time for any of that tonight.”

Kihal’s gaze darts between the two of them, her mouth curling slyly. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll both find a way.”

If there’s one thing to be said for Kihal’s dogged determination on the subject of Obi’s penis and what Shirayuki should be doing with it, it’s that while she’s worrying about just how glacially slow she’s moving in her single serious relationship of her lifetime (and whether the local access cameras are near enough to pick up this entire conversation), she had absolutely no time to worry about her speech.

Which is why she nearly faceplants into the aisle when Zen announces, “Shirayuki Leon,” from the podium.

With a recovery that is as removed from smooth as she is from cool, Shirayuki shuffles up to the stage, trying not to stumble on the kitten heels Nanna insisted she wear. Distantly, she’s aware that there had to have been more lead up, that by Zen’s cheerful smile and the interested applause of the crowd, he must have said something complimentary enough to get her into heaven. But she can’t find it in herself to worry about that; instead she thanks him woodenly as he steps back, taking his seat on the stage as the Student Council President, and lets the cold breath of fear wash over her.

“Hi,” she begins eloquently, eyes scanning over the crowd. Goodness, this is a lot of people. “I’m Shirayuki, and I’m new.”

To her surprise, the crowd chuckles, fond smiles spreading across a few faces, and--

She can do this. She really can.

“I think I said that a million times my first week here.” It’s not anywhere near an exaggeration; she’d been searching for friends, anyone to make a senior year transfer seem like less of a punishment, and she’d been what she liked to term aggressively friendly. “I’d thought nothing could be worse than having to leave my old school right when I was going to graduate. How could I replace eleven years of friendship in less than nine months? How could I even become part of this school, when even your colors are weird?”

They laugh at that too, and it’s strange-- she’d thought she’d feel naked saying these things in front of a crowd, in front of classmates who had whispered behind her back, or even asked her bald questions in the hall about blowing Raj Shenezard. But it’s all so far away now, another lifetime, one that existed before Honor Society, before Mathletes, before--

Well, before Drama Club, certainly.

“But I didn’t feel that way long.” Zen and Kiki are on the stage behind her, but Mitsuhide and Kihal are were she left them in the crowd, smiling as she meets their eyes. “I made friends, good friends. The kind of friendships that last beyond homework. The kind of relationships--” her knees quiver under the podium as she glances at Obi, as she says the words she wrestled over last night, trying to make perfect-- “that last beyond a play, beyond high school, into whatever comes after. Together.”

He holds her gaze, and oh, she is-- she is not going to make it through this if she keeps looking at him>.

“I’m changed because I came here. We’re all changed because we came here,” she says, lifting her gaze to the crowd. “My Nanna likes to say that we’re not stone, but clay, constantly being shaped by what’s around us. Being here has shaped us, but it’s also shown me that we can shape ourselves if we choose to. When we leave here we’ll change again, and again, and for some of us, we’ll lose this shape entirely and becomes something new. And for others, we’ll carry pieces of what we became here our whole lives.”

With a single, steeling breath, she continues, “A few months ago, I couldn’t imagine fitting in here. And now I can’t imagine ever having been anywhere else. So as much as this speech is a celebration of all we’ve achieved together, it’s also a thank you.” She smiles, letting her gaze scan over the whole of her class, realizing she knows a name for every face. “Thank you for my senior year.”

“I cried,” Kihal informs her, fanning herself with a program as they wait for their families to find them on the field. “So I hope you’re happy about that.”

Shirayuki frowns. “That wasn’t really the point--”

“Hey!” Zen holds out his arms, wrapping her in a hug that’s only slightly stilted. “Great speech!”

“Thanks,” she says, gripping his arms as she steps back. “I was nervous. I don’t really know how much that would, um, resonate for people.”

“It’s a small school,” Kiki drawls, cutting between them to wrap her arms around her. A thrill shoots up her spine, all the way from her toes. “And you’re one of us now.”

“Oh.” Her eyes sting, like she worried they might on the podium, but this-- this-- “Thank you.”

It’s fine.

“You did an amazing job, Shirayuki!” Mitsuhide tells her, bounding up with a grin and a hug strong enough to break a moose’s back. “The best speech today!”

“Thanks,” Zen deadpans.

“Oh, I--” he grimaces, rubbing at the back of his head-- “I forgot you gave one. But It was good too!”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Zen laughs, shaking his head. “You’re right, Shirayuki’s was much better than mine.”

“I thought that, um...” If only she could remember any bit of the ceremony that wasn’t her speech or Kihal’s opinion on oral sex, this would be a much easier compliment. “It was very good!”

“Doesn’t hold a candle to yours, though.” Obi’s arm slings around her shoulder, drawing her tight against his side. “Though maybe I’m biased.”

Zen grins at that. “You are kissing the competition.”

Obi waggles his eyebrows. “You’re always welcome to come over here and bias me yourself, Chief.”

He flushes, bright pink against the platinum of his hair, and coughs, “I’m-- I’m good.”

“Do have to say, kid,” Obi continues, dropping his chin to tangle the amber of his gaze with hers, “there was a part in the middle there I don’t remember practicing.”

“Mm.” It’s good he didn’t look at her like this when she was talking; she’d never have gotten a word out around the tangle of her tongue. “I found out I had more to say about all the, um, future stuff.”

“Future stuff?” he asks, breathless.

It would be inappropriate to kiss him here, at least the way his eyes are promising. Her grandparents are talking to Kihal’s parents just a few feet away, and all their friends are watching them, and a peck might be in order but--

But his chest rumbles under her hands as he leans in, half a purr, and as much as she knows this is more fit for a dark corner instead of right next to the bleachers, she pushes up on her toes--

“Hey, Obi, are you coming tonight?”

He steps away, hazy-eyed. Her lips still tingle with thwarted anticipation. “Hm?”

Zen darts a glance between the two of them. “My graduation party. I know you have, uh, a competing engagement.”

“Oh right.” He nods, tucking her into his side. “Yeah, I’m gonna come for about an hour, and then ditch out for Shirayuki’s. As long as that’s okay with you, Kid?”

She blinks. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry I can’t make it, Zen, but--”

“Don’t worry,” he waves her off. “I know how it is. I might try to pop by after Kiki’s dad opens the liquor cabinet though.”

Kiki grimaces. “Me too.”

“Glad that’s settled.” Obi presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll stuff myself on canapes for an hour, and then I’ll come just in time to eat Grandad’s cooking.”

Shirayuki feigns a pout of disapproval. “Well, now I know where your real priorities lie.”

Kiki barks out a laugh. “You can’t be surprised that it’s his stomach.”

Obi grins at that, but his eyes grow serious. “Aw, c’mon kid,” he says, softer, pressing another kiss between her eyebrows. “You know you’re what matters to me.”

She wraps an arm around his waist, enjoying the way his breath skips as she squeezes him. “I know.”

In all her anxiety-watching of graduation movies, not one of them had managed to show a graduation party, opting instead for moonlit moments on picnic blankets beneath the floodlights of the school’s football field. Thus, Shirayuki is thoroughly unprepared for how chaotic it is.

“Shirayuki!” Nanna calls out, waving at her from across the room, “do you remember Mrs Kino?”

She doesn’t have many relatives; her mom was an only child, and her whole paternal side is shrouded in a mystery she’s only even half-interested in solving, but the party is filled to the brim with her grandparents’ friends and business associates from the pub, as well as a handful of old teachers Nanna managed to track down as a surprise. Her own friends have been filtering in and out all night: the Mathletes started here and left after the first round of chafing dishes were finished, leaving to go to another party across town; at least a handful of drama club members here since before even she managed to arrive, ever-changing, though always clustered around the refreshment tables; Kihal has been aggressively greeting everyone that walked in the door as if it were her own party, making sure that Shirayuki gives everyone at least a cursory hello and an outline of her post-graduation plans. Even Ryuu puts in an appearance around dinner, looking as if he’d like to melt into the floor as his mother gushes about what an excellent influence Shirayuki has been, how she’ll be sorely missed next year.

Still, she hasn’t seen Obi.

“He’ll be here,” Kihal promises as they take a breather in the den, scarfing down a entire plate of chicken marsala with an intensity that makes Shirayuki concerned about her future gastric health. “You know he will. And if he doesn’t I’ll kill him.”

There’s a half dozen thing she could say to that, but she settles for, “Thanks.”

“Do you mind checking to see if there’s anymore chicken?” Kihal holds out her plate with wide, pleading eyes. “It’s so good. And I know you want to see if the desserts have come out.”

More like Kihal wants to know if the desserts are out. “Can you not make it there yourself?”

“Nope.” Kihal lounges against the couch’s arm. “I’m like a California condor. I’ve eaten so much I won’t be able to fly for another hour.”

She lifts a brow. “And you still want more?”

Kihal scoffs. “Your grandpa made it. Of course.”

Technically, the staff of the pub made it, and it’s just Grandad’s recipe but-- Shirayuki takes her point and her plate. For a minute, she contemplates cutting through the party, which fills up the living room and spills out onto the back deck, but then elects for the longer, quieter route around the stairs.

“Hey, kid, there you are.” Obi’s smile lights up the kitchen, plates in both his hands stacked high with appetizers. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Me too,” she admits, breathless, frozen in the doorway. He’s still in his dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and haah, she has never been more tempted to tell him that if they’re quiet, no one will know they’ve snuck up to her room.

Obi grimaces. “Sorry about that. I meant to only go for an hour, and then Zen wanted to play a quick pick up game, and it turned to two, and then I got here and...” He shrugs, shaking his head.

“It’s packed,” she agrees, “but I should have known to check the kitchen.”

His lips tick up into a grin, and he turns, leaning his hip against the counter in a way that only heightens the length of his limbs, that reminds her how good they feel around her--

“You did great, by the way,” he says, suddenly earnest. “If I didn’t say already.”

“You did.” She flinches at how awkward and hostile the words sound, but there’s no easy way to say, Kihal has reminded me you have a dick, and even though it abjectly terrifies me, I really want to make out. “I mean, thank you. Again. I’m glad you liked it.”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Not a dry eye in the place.”

Shirayuki almost says, that wasn’t the point, but what falls out of her mouth is, “Not even yours?”

Obi lights up. “Definitely not.” His cheeks flush as he continues, “I got you a graduation gift.”

It’s on the counter just behind him, conspicuously placed away from the food: a small bag with crumpled up tissue paper, done so artlessly that she knows it couldn’t have been gift wrapped in-store, that he had done it himself. He had picked out that tiny bag, had crushed that paper in his huge hands-- his face distressed, like he’s afraid he’s doing it wrong, like he might break it just by trying-- and there’s something about it that is so sweet, so heartbreaking that she-- she--

Gosh, she really wants to kiss him.

“Me too,” she says, setting her plates down. Kihal may be waiting on the chicken marsala, but she’ll understand the delay. Probably all too well. “I left it upstairs. Should we--?“

“Oh, yeah!” Obi recoils with a grimace. “I mean, yes. Mine’s probably better given in private anyway.”

She blinks, wondering what he could give her that he wouldn’t want other people to see--

I was thinking of one of those little egg ones, the kind that just sit here–

“Obi!” she gasps, scandalized. “You didn’t...”

“What?” He catches her wary glance at the present, and his eyes pulse wide. “No! I mean, I didn’t--”

“Obi!” Nanna bustles in behind her. “You’ve finally made it! I was getting worried I’d miss you.”

With an ease that clearly comes from sixty years of practicing shamelessness, her grandmother closes the space she hasn’t managed to, enfolding Obi in a hug so tight he squeaks. It would warm her heart, normally, but all Shirayuki can think of is that bag, not two feet from them, that may or may not contain a gift that will definitely see her grounded until she’s thirty.

Shirayuki could live with that though-- after all, no one is more eager to not repeat history than her-- but-- but--

The very thought of Nanna standing here, in this room, sharing air with something at least vaguely phallic shaped that Obi would have every intention of putting inside her for the purpose of like, sex stuff and orgasms is just-- wrong. Super wrong. She tastes bile at the back of her throat just contemplating it.

“Have you had the meatballs yet?” Nanna asks, pulling away with a smile. “Colin put them on the menu for you especially.”

Pink flares high on Obi’s impossible cheeks. “Oh! I--” he blinks, gaze fixing over her shoulder-- “Lata?”

“Obi!” Shirayuki presses to the jamb to let him pass, and there’s something about the wildness of his eyes and the mussed mass of his hair that reminds her that the professor is a narrow man, but a tall one, looming over even Obi as he stumbles into the kitchen. “There you are. This place is a zoo.”

“It’s a party,” Nanna offers, wry.

He stares at her, uncomprehending. “Did I not just say that?”

“Lata.” Obi’s voice is strained, every line of his face etched with worry. “Is something wrong?”

Professor Forenzo doesn’t answer, not with words, but instead he reaches into his coat, thrusting out his hand, and--

And he’s holding an envelope. A large envelope. A golden lantern glitters under the kitchen light. “This came for you.”

Obi only stares, gaping, hands dead at his side.

“Oh!” Nanna gasps, eyes wide. “Oh, why don’t you-- you should--” her eyes meet Shirayuki’s around the professor’s shoulder-- “I’ll make your excuses, honey.”

She blinks. “But...”

Obi still hasn’t moved, and neither has Forenzo. Even from where she stands, she sees the professor’s hand shakes.

“Right.” She sets down her plates, taking the envelope from his hands as she slips her fingers through Obi’s limp ones. “We should go open this, don’t you think?”

Obi swallows thickly. “Yeah. Yes. Open it.”

She tugs on him, yanking him a single staggering step. “Come on, I know just the place.”

“Okay.” He stares at the envelope in her hand, following her woodenly. “Okay.”

Shirayuki glances at the plates on the counter. “Nanna, could you do a favor for me?”

She eyes Obi worriedly. “Anything you need.”

“Do you think you could bring a plate of chicken marsala to Kihal?” She grimaces sheepishly. “That was sort of why I came it here.”

Nanna's mouth twitches at the corner. “Sure thing. Have fun, you two.”

“Right,” Obi murmurs, every line of him tense. “Fun.”

The bleachers haven’t been broken down.

Somehow that’s the detail she hangs onto as they pull up to the field in Obi’s sedan, dew staining the satin of her flats. They’d been here only hours earlier, the afternoon sun burning bright and endless, but now fog hangs heavy over the grass with only the floodlights to break through it.

It’s strange how it only strikes her as she lays out a blanket with shaking hands, dew wetting her fingertips, that it’s all done now. Her whole life has been focused on graduating, on going to college, on not letting history repeat itself, and now it’s over, the work of a single afternoon. The moment she’s bent her whole life towards has passed.

Now she needs a new one.

“All right,” she says, settling onto her knees, feet crossed under her. “Is it time?”

Obi’s wide-eyed in the glow of the floodlights, mouth slack, his hands clenched around the edge of the envelope like he’s drowning and it’s the only thing holding him afloat. “Is it?”

“Obi.” She folds her hand over his, feeling how he shakes right down to his bones. “Whatever happens, we’ll be okay.” She gives him a confident smile she only half feels. “There’s skype, remember?”

He nods, absent. “Right. Right. I know. It’s just...”

Shirayuki knows what it’s just. She’d had plenty of time to think of every single worst-case scenario on the way over in triplicate, and now she’s just-- she’s just--

She’s tired of being afraid that something good will happen. “What’s the worst thing that could be in there? They won’t accept you? We’ve already been planning for that.” Her thumb rubs over the bone of his, soothing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, I know. I just...” He sniffs, rubbing his face on his shoulder. “Sometimes hope is worse, you know?”

She doesn’t, not really, but she knows that deep down inside, he’s still that little boy hoping his mom would fight for him, hoping that he’ll get passed to someone that will finally love him. She may not get it, but she understands.

“Okay, this is-- it’s getting dumb.” he laughs wetly, turning the envelope in his hand. “Let’s do this.”

Despite the bravado, his fingers shake as he opens it, muttering curses to himself when the flap won’t come off with one clean pull. Every time he tries to do another tear, the paper feathers out of his grip, until the edge is thousand little finicky rips that flutter off to the blanket. Shirayuki bites back a giggle as he tips the whole thing over, trying to use the weight of the packet to break through the last of it, sitting up on his knees and just shaking--

A thousand flyers flutter out, covering the blanket between them, the grass beside them, everything. Student Dining she sees on one, Greek letters on a dozen more, financial aid-- but still the bulk stays stuck inside, its squared-off corners stuck where the envelope didn’t fully tear.

“You know,” he grunts, tearing the edges off wholesale, “they don’t show you this shit in movies.”

A laugh bursts out of her, scattering the glossy papers she’d already straightened. “I think that’s because most people know how to open mail.”

“I know how to open mail,” he protests, shaking harder, “this is just unnaturally--”

The packet slips out in a slump, hitting the blanket with a weighty thwap, like the calves they show being birthed in biology class, only without all the, uh, extra gunk, or cows, or anything being actually birthed at all. They both stare at it, wide-eyed, neither of them making a move, not for the large, spiral-bound book or the crisp letter on top of it.

When Obi does, it’s for that, picking it up between his fingers as if it’s made of tissue, like all he has to do is breathe and it’ll break. Her eyes fall to the thick manual beneath it, squinting to make out the words Prospective Student Guide. Just like hers. “Obi...”

“I did it,” he chokes out. “I got in. I got in.”

In the glow of the floodlights she sees the shine on his face, and she knows, right then, that whatever her new moment is, she doesn’t want it unless its with him.

She fists his shirt in her hand, dragging him down until she can press her lips to his, until she can taste the salt under his lips and the hitch of his breath.

“I knew you could do it,” she murmurs as she pulls away, sitting back on her heels. “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath rasps out of his throat, eyes wide and gold like dollar coins, and-- and maybe this is too fast, too much. Maybe she’s too much like her mom, thinking that her high school boyfriend is forever when he’s really just right now, just what’s easy, and she--

She stops thinking when his mouth covers hers.

He whimpers into her mouth, hands digging through her hair like he can’t get close enough, like nothing less than consuming her whole will be. Her hands fly to his wrists, holding him where he is, leaning into his touch, and oh, maybe she is like her mom, falling too hard and too fast, but Obi’s right there to catch her.

With a groan, he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers. “Well, I gotta say...this sort of fucks up the gift I got you.”

“What do you--?”

He springs for the bag, set at the edge of the blanket, and thrusts it at her. “Go ahead.”

Her brows furrow as she rifles through the tissue, plucking out wads of crumpled paper. There’s two layers at least, packed tight, and even if she hadn’t heard the broad strokes of his life before he came to Clarines, she’d be worried about just what sort of childhood he had if he can’t pack a gift bag.

She unearths a blister pack, pulling it out with a twist of her fingers. There’s a headset nestled inside, blue and white, clip-on instead of buds, with the packaging boasting microphone included!

“Oh,” she breathes, running her fingers over the bubble. The bulge of the mic is innocuous, a small thing, and it’s so easy to see the way it would have slipped subtly it under a hoodie, or how she could have just slung it around her neck as she moved from class to class, never bothered by the weight. She’d believed him when he said he was serious about her, that nothing about his feelings were casual, but still, still--

He wanted to fit into her life, as unobtrusively as he could. Hours away, he wanted her to know that he was there for her, only a quick phone call away.

“I didn’t want to get the earbuds since you always say they hurt your ears.” His grin goes wide, wicked. “You know, because you’re tiny.”

“I’m not tiny,” she says, wrinkling her nose, “my ears are tiny.”

“Sure, kid.” He coughs, mouth twitching, “it’s your ears.”

“It is!” she insists, swatting at his arm. “Anyway, thank you. These are wonderful.”

Obi shrugs, just a twitch of his shoulders, cheek flushing the pales pink. “You won’t really be needing them now, I guess.”

“I guess not.” She sets them aside, right next to his student guide, and-- and it’s all so much. Too much. “It was thoughtful, though. And I’m sure I’ll use them anyway, even if it’s not for, you know, three hour long skype calls.”

“Yeah, keep ‘em.” His grin pulls even wider. “I’ll just have to make sure to get you that other gift too, to make up for it.”

She surges forward with a yelp, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Stop.”

His lips shiver beneath her palm, and despite the burn on her cheeks, she can’t stop smiling either, can’t stop thinking about this is it, he is it. “Just sayin’...”

“Yes, yes, I think you’ve said plenty, thank you,” she laughs, dropping her hand. She’s so close to him now, half on his lap, her hand pressed to where his chest still shakes with laughter, and-- “We should celebrate.”

“Oh, are you going to take me out?” His arm cinches around her, yanking her close, and she gives out a shriek, hands bracing on his shoulders. “Going to drive me out to Olive Garden and treat me right?”

“I mean...if you want,” she blurts out, wishing that she was better at conveying...stuff. Sexy stuff. “I just meant that we could, um, celebrate here, too. Now.”

“Oh.” His eyes pulse wide. “Oh. You mean...here. Just the two of us. Like...” He swallows hard. “What were you, ah, thinking?”

“I thought I might, ah--” this should be easier than it is, especially when she can feel him twitch against her thigh, excited-- “leave that up to you?”

His eyes go impossibly wider. “You mean...anything?”

“Yeah.” It’s what’s fair; she asked him to touch her, to make her come, and he should-- he should also get the choice. It’s his achievement, not hers.

Scientific fact. The words still ring in her ears, reminding her what a terrible idea this is. Given the choice, a dude will always want to be blown.

He ducks his head, fixing his gaze on hers. “Are you sure, kid?”

Shirayuki braces herself. It’s fine. She can do anything for him, even if it involves penises. “Yes. Anything.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “okay.”

That’s all the warning she has before she spills back, air huffing out of her as she hits a particularly hard clump of earth. Obi’s there in a second, wrapping her legs around him, and oh, she’d thought maybe this would be a-- a blowjob, but-- but Obi has had sex before, after all, even told her he missed it--

So it’s a real surprise when he just kisses her, open-mouthed and wanting, and doesn’t do anything.

Not that she’s complaining. He’s got one hand snug against her scalp and the other keeping her hips firmly against his in a way that is...very exciting, especially when she can feel, um, him grind into her, right where she’s starting to ache. It’s just--

“You just want to make out?” she asks, incredulous, as he slips the strap of her dress down and cups the breast he bares. “That’s it?”

He pulls back, blinking. “Is there a problem with that?”

It’s hard to locate one when he rolls her nipple like that, right between two long fingers before his mouth closes over it wholesale. But still, still-- “I thought you’d want to-- to--” she takes a gasping breath as his hand snakes up her thigh-- “do something, um, new.”

“I do,” he rumbles, mouth grinning against her breast. “I just can’t really, ah, go for it.”

“Why not?” She squirms, lifting her hips as he hooks a finger into her panties and pulls. “I said any-- ohhh--thing.”

His fingers slip against her in just the way she likes, and oh, it’s getting really hard to protest any of this. His mouth is back on her neck, kissing down to her sternum, and her arguments turn mushy and indistinct as she tries to voice them, slurring into groans and sighs as he touches her, tracing her clit and teasing her folds.

“I know,” he murmurs against her skin as she arches into a particularly good thrust. “And I appreciate it, but...it’ll feel weird if you aren’t ready.”

That gets her thinking, as much as she can in this state, but all high function stop the minute he purrs, “Good thing you are now.”

His mouth leaves her skin, the hand in her hair skipping straight down to ruck up her skirt, and still she has no idea what he could possibly mean until he puts his mouth right on her clit.

“Oh!” she yelps, hips bucking so hard she nearly knocks his chin. “Woah!”

He blinks up at her, concerned. “Is this okay?”

Oh, it’s...it’s really hard to think when she can feel every puff of breath out of his mouth like a caress, deliciously warm against her. “Yes. I mean, yes, but I thought you would want, ah, something for you?”

“For me?” His pupils blow wide as he looks down at her, bare and wet beneath him, leaving only a thinnest ring of gold. “Kid, you don’t know how much I’ve thought about this.”

“O-oh?” The worst part about him being down there, touching her, is that she knows he can feel her get wetter, get hotter. “Just...recently? Or...?”

He laughs, tongue tracing along her slit in a way that makes her sure she’s about to come right there, if only he’d keep going. “Always.”

“Always?” she breathes, curious.

She can’t really see his cheeks, but his neck definitely flushes. “You were just always perching on things with, you know, skirts on and being cute. I’m only human.”

(”--and I think we may have to move this flat,” she hums, tucking a leg beneath her, pulling her skirt back down over her knee. “Raj keeps running into it when he exits through the door, and-- Obi, are you listening?”

“Huh?” he slurs, gaze jerking up. “Were you saying something?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. The flats.”)

“Oh,” she pants, “oh.”

Her fingers curl through his hair, and with a single shuddering breath, she urges him down. His laugh huffs against her, so warm, and then he’s on her again, only this time better, more.

What he’s doing is just-- beyond her. His fingers thrust between her legs, so good and yet not nearly enough, hitting the rhythm she knows will bring her to the edge, but it’s his mouth that has her full attention. She’d imagined this before, sure, but she’d always though it would be his tongue where his fingers were, poking in and out, and she just assumed that would feel...good? Goofy, but probably nice, if people were always talking about doing it.

It had certainly appealed when Obi mentioned it, I could put my mouth on you, though she’d often wonder why afterward. Something that would make sense in the moment, she assumed, but not when someone was thinking with their actual brain, after.

She could not have been more wrong.

His mouth latches onto her clit, the jolt of pleasure almost too much, too intense when he give it one, strong suck. The noise she makes isn’t anything sexy, half a yelp and half a grunt, but he readjusts, tongue flicking over the tiny bud instead and-- oh, that’s...that’s much better.

Maybe a little bit too much. She wants this to last, to enjoy the feeling of him down there, between her legs, stubble tickling her thighs and mouth so warm against her, but-- she can feel it building already, too quickly, his fingers moving with his tongue in just the right way, sending her right to the edge--

She comes with a strangled cry, head tilted back toward the stars, and for a long moment she’s one with the sky above her, weightless, before she plummets back down to earth.

“Oh,” she gasps, blinking away tears, “wow.”

Obi flops beside her, mouth stretches in a grin, and pants, “Good celebration.”

She stares at him. “Is that it?”

He jolts up onto his elbow, serious. “Di you not--?”

“N-no! I did. I definitely did. It’s just...” She braces herself, determined. “It’s your celebration! You should come.”

His mouth rounds into a surprised O as he stares at her. He shakes himself a moment later, laughing, “No, no, trust me, Kid. I’m fine.”

“Obi.” She rolls up onto her elbow, fixing him with her most stubborn look. “I’m not going to make you drive back with a hard on, and then sit through more of my graduation party.”

She presses her thigh against it, just to underscore her point, and he groans, eyes fluttering shut. It should be so hot, but, ohh, it is.

“See?” she murmurs thickly. “The celebration isn’t over.”

His breath pants out of him, harsh. “Kid...”

“I-I could...”

“Kid,” he laughs, “don’t put yourself out. I can handle it. I mean, if you don’t, uh...”

“Yes!" She winces at the relief in her voice. “I mean...yes. You should-- do it now. I just won’t look.”

“Right,” he laughs as she turns over, putting her back to him. “I wouldn’t want you to feel oppressed by my massive--”

“If I’m going to see it one day, you probably don’t want to give me unrealistic expectations,” she snips waspishly, folding her hands to make a pillow.

“Oh.” The word bursts out of him, like he’s been punched. “Yeah. I mean...right.”

She can hear each tooth of his fly as he unzips, so slow she squirms in anticipation even though she’s not doing a thing, just laying here for, uh, moral support. It’s strange to think it’s right there, that if she turned over she’d see his-- his--

Well, a lot more of Obi than she’s seen before. More than she’s prepared to see, no matter how much she’s thought about it.

He gasps when he takes himself in hand, and even though she knows the mechanics of this, of boys doing that, she’s surprised at how quiet it is, how it sounds less like comical wet slapping and more like... skin on skin. It’s soft, rhythmic, lacking the weird, almost violent jerking in the five seconds of every old teen comedy she’s seen before she covered her eyes. And the sounds Obi makes...

Ah, those are...nice. Really nice.

Her thighs clench at each soft sigh, at the way his breath hitches with every stroke. Obi always said that just watching her come did it for him, and she believed him, she had, but-- now she knows how true it is. She only came minutes ago, but the sounds of him alone is making her wet, slicking the inside of her thighs and reminding her how he’d sounded in the car, months ago--

--ah, yes, like that, god – fuck, Shirayuki, I–

He moans, long and pained, and she-- she’s curious. Enough to get her into trouble, Grandad says, and sometimes out again. So she can’t help it, she-- she peeks.

Not at his-- down there, of course, but just at his face, at the safe parts. Or at least, it would have been safe, if his head wasn’t thrown back like that, if his eyes weren’t wrenched shut, mouth slack--

Yes, god, the way you sound – god, fuck, that’s so good, please –

Shirayuki rolls back, fitting tight against his side, stomach thrilling as she feels the pace of his arm rubbing against her, as she watches the way his whimpers eke out of his mouth, unbidden. He must feel it, feel the difference, because he stops, a whine wringing from his throat as his eyes slit open to look at her, so dark--

“Don’t stop,” she tells him, breathless. “Keep going.”

His eyes widen, seeking hers, and as he starts moving again, breath rasping out of his chest, all Shirayuki can see is gold. It’s too much, too much, and she leans in, covering her lips with his.

Obi gasps into her mouth, whimpering as her tongue licks against his teeth. He arches into her, hand wrapping around her neck and dragging her closer, fingers tangling roughly in her hair until he cups the back of her skull, holding her to him.

“God,” he murmurs against her lips, pulling back with each press to suck down a drowning man’s breath. “Fuck.”

His elbow works against her stomach, and she’s too curious still, letting her hand trail down his arm to feel the corded muscle there, standing out in stark relief as he strains to meet his pleasure. Her fingers trail down further, further, following those lines to his wrist, to where she can already feel the heat from his--

He whines, writhing beside her, hips bucking into her thigh, and she realizes: he’s coming.

Shirayuki jumps back from him with a pop, eyes searching his face, but it’s too late, it’s over, his head dropping back onto the grass with a laugh. In the burn of the floodlights, his face is flushed, dewy.

“You don’t, um, have a tissue or something in that bag of yours, do you?” he asks shyly, looking like he’d appreciate if the field experienced a sudden, localized sinkhole.

“Oh!” She pops up, grasping blindly for where she dropped her purse. “Yes! Here. I, um, also have hand sanitizer.”

Obi lets out a weak laugh as he takes the packet from her. “It’s not that much of a--” he hisses-- “mess, god damn.”

She dares a glance over her shoulder, mouth dry as she watches his back work. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just-- sensitive.” He casts a shy glance over his shoulder, before letting it skitter away. “It was just...really good.”

“Oh.” That is really not helping with her whole...situation. Especially now that she can see where her panties are, an arm’s length away on the grass, and she’s reminded that there’s nothing beneath her dress, that she could easily lay back and-- “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His zipper is loud in the silence, enough that she feels her own blush bloom on her cheeks. He lets out a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You know, I think it’s good you have your dickphobia, kid.”

That’s...definitely not what she’d though he’d say after all...this. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He lays down next to her, hands raising up to grasp her by the shoulders and guide her down beside him, ear pressed firmly to his chest. His heart is beating loud, strong, and triple time. “If that’s what it’s like with you just being here, I don’t know if...” He coughs, squirming. “I’m not sure I’m ready to have sex either. With you.”

She shrinks. Of course, of course. “Oh...”

“No, no! That’s not--” he pulls back to look at her, so serious-- “I want to. I want to so bad. But, I just mean...”

He lets out a sigh, head hitting the ground with a thunk. “I’ve never done any of this with, you know, feelings too. It’s just been...stuff. That I did. To feel good. But now...”

He bites his lip, and it’s terrible how it only makes her want to kiss it, to take it into her mouth and sooth away the sting. “Like, my dick wants to have sex, all the way, all the time. Everything about you does it for me, and I just...” He lets out a frustrated groan. “I think that my...my heart...”

He presses a hand there, brows furrowed, like he’s not used to thinking about it. “Never mind.”

“No, I...” She lays a hand over his, squeezing it. “I get it.”

“It’s just that...” He takes a breath, clears his throat, and looks at her with eyes as warm as honey. “You’re not casual for me, Shirayuki.”

She can feel the smile on her face, almost too big to contain, and she leans down, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Good,” she breathes, curling fingers into his hair. “You’re not casual for me either.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #lemon #my fic #rarely pure and never simple #as promised #THE GRADUATION #this was actually supposed to be the bulk of the last chapter #but things got out of hand on both ends and now HERE WE ARE #fyi the first draft that included both chapter 5 and this was about 3.5K #and now together they are over 13K #JUST SO YOU ALL KNOW #HOW STUPID LONG THESE THINGS BECOME IN THEIR FINAL DRAFT #I'd actually hoped to get this out the last week of december and then do ch 7 for kiss-a-thon #but OBVIOUSLY that was not meant to be #AH MEMORIES

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hellyeahomeland · 4 years

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“Fucker Shot Me”: an HYH recap

A day after Haqqani turns himself over to the Americans, the Americans are turning him over to G’ulom. Saul and Haqqani pull up to Ghazi Stadium, where G’ulom has been holding the Taliban fighters.

G’ulom is standing outside, in a cape, like he’s Andre Leon Fucking Talley (to be clear, we stan). Haqqani says he’s ready and Saul gets out of the car to give another speech that G’ulom is definitely not listening to about Justice and Due Process and Integrity. G’ulom fulfills his end of the bargain, releasing the prisoners, who all make a beeline for Haqqani because, well, he’s the Emir! Saul warns G’ulom that if he doesn’t treat Haqqani with respect, “your world will explode.” So that’s coming.

Saul goes back to Kabul station and Mike and Jenna have something to tell him.

Jenna: Remember how yesterday I had one job, which was to get Carrie on the plane to Germany? Saul: Yeah… Jenna: Well, I fucked that up. Mike: Carrie was photographed at the airport getting in a car with everyone’s favorite Russian hunk. Yevgeny Gromov! Can you believe it? Saul: Yes. I mean, no! How surprising. Mike: They could be halfway to Moscow by now. Saul: First, chill. Second, doubtful. Carrie is all about saving her friend Max. She’s probably somewhere in Pakistan. Mike: This is an outrage. Rules! I must follow them! I’m referring this to the FBI. Saul: Whatever. Send me a text or something when you find her ok byeeeeee

Carrie and Yevgeny are somewhere in Pakistan, it turns out. They’re listening to the radio, which is such a quaint thing for two lovers frenemies to do together. The radio report is about Haqqani turning himself in, and they get to talking about the CIA’s working theory that Carrie is a traitor who told her Russian handler—Yevgeny—about the president’s helicopter so that he could alert Haqqani who could fire an RPG! Phew. That’s a lot. They’re both like “yeah that didn’t happen” but also realize the, like, component of weirdness of the situation since they’re off on this road trip together and look extra double super suspicious now. “Ironic,” Carrie says while gazing out the window.

They pull up to a checkpoint. Yevgeny gets out of the car because he is In Charge. He approaches two guys, who are actually his homies, inquiring about where “the American” (Max) is. They have a line on him.

Carrie and Yevgeny’s next stop is a small Pakistani village. Again Yevgeny gets out of the car and instructs Carrie to stay. But we all know (and he should too by now!) that if you tell Carrie not to do something, she turns into a four-year-old child who instantly must do that thing. Plus her spidey senses are tingling. Maybe she recognizes some of these structures? She hops out of the car and ends up at a gravesite. Rows upon rows of graves with the year “2014” etched across the bottom. Uh oh. A few split-second flashbacks later and… yep, these are the graves of the people she dropped a bomb on in “The Drone Queen.”

Carrie: Quit fucking with me. Yevgeny: Heh? Carrie: Quit 👏 fucking 👏 with 👏 me Yevgeny: I’m not fucking with you. Carrie: Coolio, so we just happened to end up at the village I decimated four years ago in the event that probably more than any other haunts my waking nights? Yevgeny: What do you think happens after you decimate a village with a bomb, Carrie? We come in, help them rebuild the mosque, and develop contacts. It’s not a coincidence we’re here. But I’m not fucking with you. Carrie: I’m changing the subject now. What did the imam say? Yevgeny: He knows where Max is. Come on.

Saul, resident hottie Scott Ryan, and Not Martha Boyd are gathered around a conference table in Kabul station, talking to Linus and his homies back at the White House. They’re all very concerned that Haqqani’s trial will be a sham, he’ll be put up against a wall and shot, and that will mean more violence and more instability, and certainly not an end to “The Forever War.” Not Martha mentions that the lead judge is a woman she knows from some embassy events and she’s fair and independent so they can probably influence her (umm… what?)! Their meeting is interrupted by Hayes, who’s apparently just wandering the halls of the West Wing searching for something to do. He’s generally displeased this is all taking place behind his back, but no one thinks he can do anything, so it’s understandable. He flatly denies Saul’s request to declassify some intelligence that could prove Haqqani is innocent, asks again for the “action plan” to kill more brown people, and storms out.

Back in Carrie/Yevgeny land, Yevgeny continues to pry about the drone strike. He says again he didn’t put two and two together, then proceeds to ask actual personal questions like, “so is that why you left the CIA?” Carrie explains her mental state in season four, which is not something she’s ever done, but it’s interesting nonetheless. She catches herself at the end again questioning whether he’s being truthful or not, because if he is, she doesn’t know why. Poor Carrie has no concept of a personal relationship that’s not transactional.

They eventually arrive at the house where Max is being kept. Again, Yevgeny does all the talking. Carrie storms in to find Max, sprawled out on a mattress, one arm still handcuffed to the bed frame. Immediately she springs into nurturing, concerned Carrie, which is not a hat she wears often (side note: when will Carrie wear another hat?). Max says he’s fine but the narsty wound they show in close-up confirms otherwise. He explains that he doesn’t have the flight recorder anymore but he didn’t want to make a big deal about it, lest it suggest the flight recorder was not just some random red boxy thing. “You did good,” Carrie assures him.

Unfortunately, their touching moment ends right there because a few trucks full of Taliban soldiers pull up to the house. They uncuff Max and then cart him off. Yevgeny looks on helpless. Carrie tells Max she will find him. Then she goes off on the dude who let them in. Yevgeny has to physically restrain her. He looks in her eyes, tells her he’ll take care of this while Carrie attempts to calm her breathing. Did anyone else get the indication he has definitely done this before? He was too effective for that to be a rookie attempt. Anyhoozles, Yevgeny finally gets the location where they took Max, so it’s off to stop #3.

At Dover Air Force Base, Hayes is asking Linus for his unconditional loyalty, which is always something you want a president to be asking for. He’s really miffed that people are going behind his back but Linus says something like “we gotta be in the information flow, man.” Hayes repeats the phrase back, and you definitely get the indication he’s the type of person who uses words and phrases wrong all the time without realizing. Again, he’s the president! Don’t you feel safe?

Oh, the reason they’re at the base is because Hayes had an empty casket shipped back on Air Force One for a photo op. And surprise, surprise! G’ulom came over too. I’m sure they’ll have tons to talk about.

Elsewhere in Pakistan, Saul is grasping at straws and goes to Bunny’s home. Tasneem is there, because they have no secrets between them. Saul pleads for their help coming up with a way to help Haqqani. If they don’t, there will be another war, right at their border, and that’s not great for America, but they’re 7000 miles away. It’s really not great for Pakistan, because it’ll be right on their doorstep. Bunny is having none of it. The Americans play hot and cold with Pakistan, asking for their help whenever it suits them and in the interim killing their citizens, withholding aid, and generally being massive dicks. Enough already!

Saul sees himself out, but Tasneem surprisingly comes knocking on his car window. She’ll help him. Why? She doesn’t want to watch the world burn. This is a surprise because I thought that was Tasneem’s defining quality.

Carrie and Yevgeny arrive at stop #3, which is a field just above where Max is being kept. Carrie scopes out the house. It’s barely being guarded, but who knows how long that’ll last. She decides to phone a friend, but Saul never answers his damn phone. So she decides to phone a Single White Female.

Jenna: Carrie? What the hell? You made me look like an idiot. Carrie: Made you? Lol ok. Anyway, please listen. Mike: What are you doing, Carrie? Carrie: Oh, great, you again. I found Max. Y’know, that thing you guys were doing anything in your power to accomplish? I did it in like 12 hours. Mike: Who are you with? Carrie: ...Breezing by that question. Anyway, here are the coordinates. Will you call special ops? Max is in critical condition, I don’t know how much longer he can make it. Mike: Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? Carrie: Do you have any idea how much I don’t give a fuck? Just call special ops. Bye. [click] Mike: You are now a fugitive, your case is with the FBI, Carrie…? CARRIE?

In the Oval Office, Hayes and G’ulom meet for an “unofficial summit.” Hayes reads a headline on his iPad that declares “The Two Presidents,” which… is certainly a true thing about them. Hayes hems and haws about going back to war with the Taliban, and G’ulom says some manipulative stuff about the US being all-powerful fighters who could totally put them away in two to three weeks. Hayes doesn’t even know he’s being manipulated though and plays right into G’ulom’s hand. He eats this shit up! He loves hearing about American dominance and how he could be the steward of it. If it means murdering even more brown people, that’s just a bonus!

Saul and his new BFF Tasneem arrive at the home of the lead judge for Haqqani’s trial and plead with her that he’s innocent. She asks for literally any evidence and their response is “just trust us, two perfect strangers who barged into your house late at night.” She’s highly skeptical until Tasneem pulls up a news article about the RPG that hit one of the Taliban caravans back in episode two. That was meant for Haqqani, because he wanted peace and the ISI didn’t, and he still agreed to the peace deal. This is apparently enough to sway her, so she agrees to a continuance for one week while Saul and Tasneem figure out what to do.

Carrie is taking a light nap in the back seat of Yevgeny’s truck when he wakes her. Some more cars have arrived at the house where Max is. She peers through the binoculars to see Jalal Haqqani rolling up with his crew. Shit. Jalal enters the room where Max is being held and asks him who shot down the helicopters. “What helicopters?” Max cooly replies. Max 4 President!

Above, Carrie is panicked and phones Mike again. Mike admits that no, special ops isn’t coming. It’s too risky, they haven’t scouted the site, etc. Carrie, totally missing the point, offers to scout the site herself. The issue, of course, isn’t with the site, it’s with Carrie herself. She’s a rogue agent, calling from a Russian sat phone. Who else is even listening in on this call? Carrie says, verbatim, “I don’t underestimate the difficulty.” Whenever Carrie goes searching for euphemisms (“That is a mischaracterization!”) you know she’s in deep shit and that she knows she’s in deep shit. She pleads with Mike that Max is one of ours and we can’t just abandon him. He says they’re doing all they can, which is of course a lie. This must all feel eerily reminiscent of Brody and Tehran for her, a slow-motion car crash she’s powerless to stop.

In need of something, anything, to do, Carrie asks Yevgeny for his gun. She’s going to scout the site herself, at least see if Max is still alive. Yevgeny reluctantly agrees but vows to book it if she gets in trouble, which is also of course a lie.

In Kabul, Saul visits Haqqani in his cell, which is also eerily reminiscent of the cage they kept Brody in in season three. He tells him of the continuance he secured and Haqqani is like, “bro, why are you doing all this?” Saul says it’s because he’s innocent. Haqqani knows the truth though: after forty of years of war, none of them are still innocent.

In the court room, one by one the judges file in. The last and presiding one, however, is not the woman Tasneem and Saul met the night prior. That’s right, G’ulom pulled the ol’ trial judge switcheroo! This new guy is definitely not ordering a continuance. He gives a speech about the pain and suffering Haqqani has inflicted on thousands of people. How he killed both presidents. He sentences him to death. Saul looks on horrified. He calls Linus, who informs him that Hayes has asked for new perspectives on Afghanistan, and John Zabel is in the Oval Office meeting with him as they speak. They are extremely disgusted, so we know John Zabel must suck. Outside the courthouse, crowds have gathered in celebration of the announcement of Haqqani’s inevitable execution.

In the Oval Office, Linus interrupts the meeting between Hayes and John Zab—oh my god, it’s Hugh Dancy! Ok, ok, we all knew it would be Hugh Dancy, but it’s still exciting! He has a terrible haircut, awful facial hair, and gives off general vibes of hot evilness. He makes a few incredibly racist remarks, praises Hayes’ quick action in avenging Beau Bridge’s death, and talks about next steps. Linus comes thisclose to doing a Jim Halpert on The Office impression.

A few Taliban soldiers come into Max’s room and drag him up. He groans and yells. Outside, Carrie, gun in hand, makes her way to the perimeter of the house. They’ve carried Max into the courtyard and are pulling an orange jumpsuit on him. He screams in protest, doing everything he can to resist. Jalal stands in front, camera and tripod at the ready. Carrie watches in horror, beginning to put the pieces together. They pull Max’s glasses off and she pulls her pistol up, ready to shoot.

Suddenly, Yevgeny grabs her from behind, his hand over her mouth, muzzling her cries. He puts her against a wall (why is this so sexual??) and stares into her eyes. “No,” he whipsers. For once, she listens.

#homeland #an hyh recap #fucker shot me #*#by: sara

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