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ruleofexception · 6 years

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Ch. 4 (SoulM8, AU!)

SoulM8

He's fucked. Oh man is he fucked.

How did one beer turn into… this?

Fuzzy thoughts press through the alcohol induced haze that's clouded his brain, but the only one that seems important is that she might walk around the corner any second and see him like this. Which would be… not something he wants.

Grabbing the edge of the sticky countertop and pulling himself up to peak over it, relief crashes through his veins.

She's still distracted.

For now.

But, it’s only a matter of time before her or Yuzuri decide they need another drink and head to the kitchen. He needs to get out of here.

"Suzu." Ignoring the grunt that floats up from the star-fished human on the floor, he glances over his shoulder, shifts and nudges the guy with his knee. “She can’t see me like this, man.”

"Y'know wha?” Suzu snorts and rolls his head to the side, his eyes glassy as they desperately try to focus on him. "Who cares, dude. Yuki’s yer Match. Love is bound to hap’n.”

“I care! She doesn’t even know sober me. I don’t think she’s ready for… for this. I’m an asshole.” Lowering himself to the floor, he rests his head against the cupboard and groans as the room starts to spin. “Is it possible to fuck up a Match? Cause I think I could.”

“Pft. Stop bein’ a bitch.” Blinking blearily, Suzu jolts his arm up and points somewhere over Obi’s shoulder, though he’s almost certain the motion is meant for him. “Yer a cool dude, my dude. An’ Yuki’s a cool dude.”

The guy may be drunk and half naked on the kitchen floor, but he could have a point. This whole SoulM8 thing seems to be legit… And although he’s never really been great at dating, Shirayuki is his Match. It’s different now, right?

So, just because he hasn’t taken her on a proper date yet or figured out what her favourite cereal is, doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world? It doesn’t mean he should be embarrassed about having one-too-many drinks with one of her best-friends, right? Maybe she’ll even be happy to see he’s getting along with Suzu?

Suzu snorts again and starts to squirm; from the flying limbs and clear struggle, Obi’s guessing that he’s trying to sit up. It’s not going so well. Grunting, he continues to flail. “Listen, just… be cool dudes, but together.”

“I don’t know how to do that, man.” Shutting his eyes and lightly banging his head against the cupboards, his hands clench nervously. Tonight he’d been planning to actually talk to her, like a decent human being, like a good Match, and instead he’s been drinking with Suzu and talking about her.

Fuck.

Maybe he can find a way to work up the courage to call her tomorrow after his hangover passes and some of his pride finds its way back to him. But tonight? Right now? He needs to get out of here, before he finds a way to truly make an ass of himself.

“Sure yah do. Besides, didn’t yah read the fine print before you got that thing?” Peeking over at Suzu, who’s now sitting and grinning dumbly at him, he refrains from cursing again. “Accordin’ to science, yer exactly what Yuki’s been waitin’ for fer almost a decade.”

“Ha, yeah, great. No pressure there…” how could he ever forget that he’d made her wait that long?

Huffing loudly, Suzu reaches forward and punches him, encouragingly.

Before he gets the chance to slur some other Match nonsense, Obi growls, “Suzu, you don’t get it. The only reason I got the stupid thing is because-” biting down on his tongue, he cringes. Now’s not the time to bring up Torou or Deadre or any of that past bullshit. “Look, I just don’t know what I’m doing. I never have. I was hoping getting this shit would help, but I seriously think that it might be broken, because honestly, Shirayuki is… well she’s just… she’s so… I don’t know, she’s-”

“Standing right here?” A light giggle causes his eyes to widen in surprise and shift to where a sparkly set of purple toenails are curling nervously beside him.

“Ah, shit.”

Well, this certainly isn’t what he’d expected to happen. Not even remotely close.

Honestly, he thought for sure that Yuzuri would have kicked him out as soon as he’d been caught mumbling all that gibberish about Shirayuki; he may not have known her for long, but he does know that she doesn’t put up with shit like that. Especially when it involves Shirayuki.

But, instead of being kicked out, he found himself being coaxed out of the kitchen and through the house, by none other than Shirayuki herself.

It had been strange out first - her tiny hand sitting effortlessly in his as she dragged him behind her, going from room to room. He’d been hopeless to do much more than stumble along, dazed and in awe that she was still holding his hand. It didn’t even matter that she wasn’t saying anything or that his stomach felt like it was full of intoxicated butterflies. It didn’t matter, because touching her just made everything feel... right.

Even with the house still spinning from all the drinks, everything felt right, for once in his life.

And he would have been happy to follow along behind Shirayuki for the rest of the night, in a spinning house, if it meant she’d keep holding his hand.

The only time they’d stopped their trek through the house was when she yanked him into the bathroom. But, after a few brief awkward minutes spent swaying in the small space, she eventually groaned, slipped her hand into his once more and started pulling him towards one of the bedrooms.

He’d nearly had a panic attack.

Which is really saying something, because before all this SoulM8 shit, if a beautiful woman had been pulling him towards the bedroom, he wouldn’t have been able to move down that hallway fast enough. But with her… he wants to do this right. It already feels like she got the short straw in this Match, since she’s pretty much the closest thing to perfection he’s ever encountered and he’s… well he’s not.

A gentle touch, brushing against the tops of his knuckles pulls him from his thoughts and back into the small, unfurnished bedroom she’d locked them in.

Looking down to where Shirayuki’s fingers are still laced with his, he shivers as her free hand runs thoughtfully across his knuckles, before trailing down to his wrist where the same summer-green of her eyes, dances across the tiny screen. “I wondered, you know…”

“Ah, wondered?” Brows furrowing and still trying to fight off the haze of alcohol and panic, he blinks rapidly to clear his vision and looks up from their joined hands to stare at her.

A partial curtain of red hangs between them, her gaze downcast to where she continues to explore the device on his wrist. He’s not entirely sure she’s looked at him since they’d been in the kitchen, and even then he’s not sure she was really looking at him, since he’d been desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with her.

Nodding slightly, she smacks her feet together nervously and squeezes his hand. “Yeah… That day, in the supermarket, when you were being a… a butt.”

“I can’t beli- wait, wait… Did you…” chuckling and ducking his head down to try and catch her eye, he’s surprised to find a grin pulling at his lips.

It’s not that he’s surprised at the grin itself, but rather at how natural and easy it is to be around her. Fuck, he’s known her for less than a month, knows almost nothing about her and yet spending time with her feels as though he’s known her for years.

“Did you just call me a butt?”

“Yes!” A soft giggle swirls around him as she tips her head back and moves to brush her hair out of her face; a brilliant summer green gaze smiles up at him and her cheeks flush. Donning a fake pout, he bites at his cheek to keep himself from smiling any wider. “Well you were! You were being rude, but when I turned around to tell you to go away, I… ah… well you were just so… so...”

“I was… what?” Leaning closer and bringing a hand up to cup his ear, he allows the grin to break free. Eyes wide and squeaking shyly, she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and shakes her head. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that. You were going to yell at me, for being a butt - your words, not mine - but I was just so… what? ”

The room grows quiet, save for the nervous shuffling of her feet; twice, she opens her mouth and meets his gaze, like she’s finally found the words, but both times she’s quick to close it and look away. Panic starts to bubble up and the notion that maybe he’s taken it too far begins to worm its way into his mind. He needs to fix this.

“Hey,” Squeezing her hand and chuckling, he bumps her shoulder gently. “I’m just curious. If there’s something I shouldn’t be doing, or something that bugs you, I want to know so I don-”

“Distracting!” A painful blush sits high in her cheeks and she squeezes her eyes shut before taking a deep breath, “Obi, you were… you were very, ahm, distracting. But, uhm, in a… ah, a good way.”

A mixture of surprise and pride flits through him. He’d really only been teasing her before, not realizing that she’d actually thought he could be something more than just an asshole bugging her at the grocery store. “You really thought that?”

“Yeah, I really did.” Humming she runs her fingers across his wrist again, raising goosebumps along his arm. “I was trying to see if you already had a SoulM8, but you were wearing a long sleeve… And I thought about asking you, but then you went and opened your stupid mouth again.”

Grimacing, he watches as her hair starts to slide out from behind her ear - strands of it fall forward, trying to form a curtain between them again. “Not one of my finer moments, I assure you.”

Nodding, her thumb runs soothing circles around the SoulM8 and she sighs before looking back up to meet his gaze. A sad smile teases at her lips, “You know, you’re actually why I booked the removal appointment?”

To say he’s shocked would be an understatement. All he can figure out how to do is shake his head slowly, since his lungs don’t seem to be cooperating and his stomach is threatening to spill everything he’s consumed in the past 24 hours.

He had been the reason she was at the clinic? She was there to get it… to get it removed?

Oh, holy fuck.

That’s why she was there? It makes sense, probably should have pieced that together before just now, but... fuck.

She was there to get it removed and... and he’d gone in to get it installed, all because of the same fucking conversation? What if he hadn’t decided to get it done? Where would they be now? Certainly not sitting on a bedroom floor, holding hands and matched.

“I… I’m so…” Fuck, he’d very nearly ruined the only good thing in his life without even realizing it. What if he’d missed the appointment? Or changed his mind? It’s getting harder to breathe and his shoulder aches. Maybe he should leave her alone for a while. Try and process everything. Call her tomorrow. “I just… fuck.”

Shifting his legs, he means to let go of her hand and push himself up off the floor, but he seems to have lost control of his limbs; they all feel heavy and useless. Not even his free hand has the ability to fist in his hair like he needs it to.

Stomach rolling again, he can’t bear to look at her. What had he done? He knew that the conversation hadn’t exactly been stellar. In fact, he’d left the supermarket feeling utterly defeated; she was the reason he finally decided to go and get the SoulM8.

She was the reason he was getting it and he was the reason she was removing it…

“Obi, breathe. It was a good thing.” he nearly startles when her hand moves from his wrist, to his cheek, gently turning his face towards hers, until an understanding, concerned gaze searches him. “I’d been thinking about it for a while… you just helped me realize that I didn’t want to wait another 3 decades, hoping that this thing would tell me who I was supposed to end up with. Meeting you made me understand that this thing on my wrist didn’t have to define me.”

“But I…” Catching his breath isn’t working and his shoulder aches with an intensity he’s never felt before; and although she’s smiling tenderly at him, running her thumb along his cheek, he can’t seem to move past the fact that he’d been the reason she was willing to get it permanently removed. “I almost… and you wer-”

“Yuki?” A loud knock echoes through the room, Yuzuri’s words slurring through the thick wooden door. “Yuki, you in here? C’mon, play beer pong!”

Shit, he’s not ready to go out and face the rest of the party. He doesn’t want to leave Shirayuki’s side - not when there’s still so much to be said. She needs to know how he’d gotten to that point in his life. Needs to know that he’d never meant to push her so close to removing it.

“Yup! Be there in a sec, Yuzuri.” Dropping her hand from his cheek and giggling shyly, Shirayuki bumps his shoulder. “Look, Obi, I’ve thought about it a lot, since it happened, and I want you to know that I wouldn’t change anything about that day.”

The fingers laced between his give one final squeeze before they release him and a moment later she’s on her feet, bouncing slightly in an attempt to get her blood flowing again. Watching her shake out her hands and smile down at him is oddly comforting, but the twisted knot that is his heart, continues to throb painfully behind his ribs. If he doesn’t find the words, soon, she’ll walk out that door and he’s not sure he’ll know how to bring this up again.

A shaky breath fills his burning lungs and he’s no longer sure if the spinning room is alcohol-induced or his anxiety over this whole situation. Thoughts burrow into his mind, digging up questions of what-if’s and he desperately wants to talk to her about what had happened that day and why, but all he’s able to manage is a whispered, “Nothing?”

She’s at the door now and he half expects her to just open it and join her friends, ignoring his quiet question, but slowly she turns to face him and steals the breath from his lungs all over again - but this time, it’s simply because of the way she’s smiling at him.

Scrunching up her toes and shaking her head slightly, she giggles, “Nope, nothing.”

Aside from the muffled music coming from the hallway and Yuzuri’s insistent hollering for Shirayuki, the room grows quiet once more. An odd sense of relief, he’s not sure he deserves, comes over him and the pain in his shoulder, dulls. Shirayuki stands there, hand on the doorknob, and sighs.

“Now, I need to know…” a mischievous grin pulls at her lips and she cracks the door open to let music flood into the room, “Are you going to come be my partner or am I going to have to fend for myself out there?”

#obiyukiweek2018 #day 4 #free day #obiyuki #ans #akagami no shirayukihime #mild language #soulm8 au #*forcefully boots out of drafts*#here #take this nonsense #*climbs back in trash can*

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aroundvou · 4 years

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one #. “We Are Not In A Polymorous Relationship.”

SONATAS FOR SOULM8S” bang chan x reader

in which y/n’s soulmate is an unrecognized soundcloud artist - yet she’s sung nothing but his works that replay in her mind.

m.list

———

sotd” gone days - stray kids

taglist” @staywrites

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sabraeal · 3 years

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Slow Burn Obiyuki Fic Rec!

After seeing her tags on that lovely obiyuki piece, I promised @skittledoodles some good fic recs-- specifically some slow burn with a preference for both sappy and canon, but AUs were fine as long as they were in character. LUCK FOR YOU, this canon is mostly the SLOWEST OF BURNS, though we skew toward AU solely because of the summer challenge

Canon Slow Burn

Seven Suitors for Shirayuki by me

Melt series by @bubblesthemonsterartist

Absence Makes the Heart by @claudeng80

Saint Elmo’s Fire by @infinitelystrangemachinex

Gods of Opportunity by @jhalya

loving you was red by @nat-portman

AU Slow Burn

The Wide Florida Bay series by me

I Should’ve Met You Yesterday by @bubblesthemonsterartist

Caulk dirty to me by @yoolee

Plumage by @claudeng80

Starlines by @infinitelystrangemachinex

heading for a small disaster by @thelionshoarde

Adagio Appassionato by @vivianwisteria

Sunlight and Shadows by @glitter-and-golden

What If... series by @owlsshadows

The road to Clarines is gravel by @codango

SoulM8 by @ruleofexception

Talk Too Much by @xaphrin

Nine Lives of Stardust by @k-itsmaywriting

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #fic rec #ans #it's so weird to self rec but literally every time I don't I get scolded #since then people see my name and are like #oh i like that person as a person i don't want to know if she writes bad there's so much fic here #what if it's low quality #and then like a week or two later it's like #why didn't you TELL ME that you were like ONE OF THE BIG WRITERS of this TINY FANDOM #why would you put me through EMOTIONAL TURMOIL #me: i didn't wanna sound like a dick though #also as always i highly recommend just going through the works page of like...everyone on this list #honestly the fic in this fandom is like 99.9% high quality #you are pretty much safe no matter what you click on

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ruleofexception · 2 years

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SoulM8 AU - Ch 7

Day 3 of this NSFW nonsense! @snowwhite-andtheknight

Morning comes with a headache that’s out to get him like he owes money to a mob boss, and the horrible realization that he’d failed to brush his teeth last night.

It’s like he’s got little Chewbacca’s for teeth. Fuzzy little monsters where his pearly-whites should be. And his tongue-

Ack.

His tongue can taste itself. And it’s so not good.

It’s legitimately like something crawled into his mouth in the middle of the night, shit itself and then promptly died. He’s got a shit-carcass on his tongue. Right at the back, near his throat.

Tongues shouldn’t be able to taste themselves. They just shouldn’t. But if he’s suffering from the lingering taste of this shit-carcass, then it’s probably safe to assume that his morning breath is-

Oh god.

The breath gets caught in his lungs. Lips press together - like that’s somehow going to keep the stench from wafting out into the open - and his eyes scrunch shut a little tighter as he hopes - prays - that she’s still sleeping. That she’ll be too lost to her dreams to notice the bed shifting as he crawls his way out of it and drags himself into the bathroom to brush his teeth and gargle a couple bottles of Listerine. Maybe rummage through his cupboards for some Tylenol or something to help with this headache trying to split his skull in half with a jackhammer.

Terrified of opening his eyes to find emerald staring back, he starts off slow. Just a sliver of gold. Barely enough for him to even register the sunlight pouring in through the window to land on-

Empty sheets?

That seems… odd.

They spent the night cuddling. He knows they spent the night cuddling; because at one point, he woke up in a slight and disoriented panic, because something was wrapped around him like a goddamn jetpack.

It was her. She was wrapped around him like a jet-pack which did very strange things to his heart and made him ache to whisper his love for her, even as she snored very loudly in his ear.

And that means that his sheets should not be empty.

Before it can make a monster of his emotions, Obi tries to wrestle with his anxiety and convince himself that maybe she’s just wormed her way down the bed. She’s small enough. Tiny enough that it might be easy to lose her amongst the sea of sheets. This vast ocean of a mattress.

He’s not really sure if that’s even possible, but, then again, he’s never dated someone this tiny before. So, it might be a thing.

Usually he finds himself with women who have no problem reaching the top shelf or who - especially if in heels - tower over him. He’s never had to consider whether he might lose them to the tide of sheets, because they always took up the whole bed. Shirayuki, however, may be able to reach the top shelf if she stands on the counter, but heels - even the largest ones she could get her hands on - would likely only bring the top of her head up to his nose. If that. And the bed?

She may very well be lost somewhere near the bottom, where the comforter is likely all fucked up. Maybe she’s down there, drowning in it. In need of help, to free herself from its clutches.

“Shirayuki?”

He dares a whisper, opening his eyes, determined to check and-

And curses - rather loudly and creatively - when the mid-morning sunlight almost fucking blinds him. Little bursts of light dance behind closed eyes and his head throbs as he shoves his face back into the pillow with a moan.

Surprisingly not stupid enough to try another staring contest with the sun, only seconds after being blinded, one foot cautiously ventures out towards her side of the bed. Past chilled and empty sheets, his foot and leg wander, searching for a limb, waiting for an annoyed and sleepy grunt, or a terrified shriek as he accidentally boots her from off the end of the bed. Finally, his toes find-

The edge of the bed.

She’s not here. There’s nothing here.

Nothing but empty sheets.

“The fuck…” he slurs into his pillow, brows pinched.

Where is she?

Last night he’d had a lot more to drink than he’s had in a while, but-

But, still.

He remembers most of the night. Remembers enough to know that she was fucking here and-

Something clatters in the kitchen - a wooden spoon, dropped on the floor, he thinks - followed by a tiny squawk and hushed curse.

Ah.

She’s still here. Good.

For a brief second there, he was starting to worry that, perhaps, the impact of the L-bomb he dropped hadn’t quite hit her until she sobered up. Fear that, maybe, she’d grabbed her things and left, before he or the sun had a chance to rise.

Obi relaxes a little. Lets his heart try to get back to its regular old rhythm, as he takes a moment to revel in the soft and muffled sounds of Shirayuki flitting about in his kitchen. Making herself at home. And although it antagonizes his headache, he grins. Laughs a little, to think that last night actually happened and that she loves him, just as he loves her and-

And almost gags when the pillow spits his breath back up in his face.

Wrenching up and away from the noxious fumes now clinging to his pillow, he gasps and struggles to sit up. To find his feet and swing them over the edge of the bed, with the hope that they’ll just know how to carry him to the bathroom, without him having to open his eyes, so he can do something about the awful stench without being totally blinded.

Again.

But his feet are hopelessly tangled in the sheets and every time he tugs at them, they only seem to become more ensnared. The blankets, creeping up his legs. Swallowing his knees and thighs as he continues to struggle.

Jesus, fuck-

These fucking sheets are like quicksand. And, just like in the movies, the more he moves, the more of him becomes trapped. Twisted in the unforgiving folds of madness.

Already, they’ve claimed him up to his waist. Inching their way up past his belly button.

If he carries on like this, in only a few more minutes, he’ll be the one who turns into Stay-Puft. Which could be fun, but not exactly how he’d like to start his morning. Especially when Shirayuki is somewhere in his kitchen, humming along to whatever song is stuck in her head, and sober.

Possibly hungover, as he is.

But, sober.

And that’s the important part.

With a renewed sense of determination, he starts to claw and yank at the blankets, with heavy and tired limbs. Buck and squirm as they, somehow, manage to engulf him up to the long, jagged scar on his chest.

“Fuck off, sheets.” He snarls sleepily.

There’s no way he’s giving up. He absolutely refuses to lose to a stupid piece of fabric. Shirayuki is out there, and he’s not. And the sooner he can free himself of the sheets and get himself to the bathroom, the sooner he can hold her in his arms. The sooner he’ll be able to ask if he can kiss her.

If that’s not incentive enough to claw his way out of these godforsaken sheets, come hell or high-water, then he’s not sure what is.

Groggily daring to crack one eye open, he tries again and-

“FUCK!”

His heart launches itself into his throat just as his eyes go wide, and he tumbles - ass-over-teakettle - out of the bed to slam into the floor as a blind and twisted heap of human and sheets.

“Ouch.” Grumbling, he tries to rub at where he’s just beaned the back of his head off the floorboards, but finds, with a growing sense of frustration, that he’s now neck-deep in sheet-sand.

“O-Obi?” Shirayuki calls out to him, worry making her voice tight. Closer - inching her way down the hall towards him - she asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He grunts, hopelessly fighting with a sheet that’s doing its best impersonation of a straight-jacket. Blinking sunlight and tears from his eyes, he breathes heavily through grit teeth and growls, “Just having-”

“A rough start to the morning?” The giggle from the doorway does absolutely nothing to calm or steady his heart, still lodged in his throat.

“Admittedly, not my smoothest,” with a pained chuckle, he rocks his head back until it rests on the floor, “but I-”

The words stop dead on his tongue. He blinks at her for a moment, trying to process. Trying to figure out if what he’s seeing upside down, is the same right-side up and-

“What?” Shirayuki smiles coyly. A deep blush quickly paints her throat and drips down towards the tops of her breasts, before it vanishes beneath the apron she’s wearing.

He’s having trouble recalling if he even owns an apron. He doesn’t think he does. Honestly, he doesn’t think he’s ever owned an apron. But the longer stares, the more he finds that he doesn’t much care where it came from or if it is, somehow, his. He just knows that he likes it. A lot.

Swallowing hard, he tilts his head slightly, trying to get a better look at her. Trying to read what’s written in gold script across her tits. “You’re wearing an apron.”

“I am.”

The apron itself is already enough to divert the blood flow from his brain, but it’s the breathless hum of her laughter and the way she tucks a flyaway piece of red behind her ear, that just about pushes him over the edge. Growing harder by the second, he raises a hopeful brow at her. Wets his lips and groans, like whether he lives or dies hinges on how she responds. “Only an apron?”

“Don’t be silly.” Another delicious wave of laughter. “I’m wearing more than just an apron.” She winks at him and - still watching him from over her shoulder with one graceful red brow arched as though to say ‘see?’ - turns around, and slowly saunters back down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Struck stupid, Obi’s gaze falls down her bare back, drinking in the thousands of freckles splashed along her skin-

The apron strings, tied back in a little lopsided bow at the base of her spine-

And, finally, the pièce de résistance-

Dark, lacy panties that cut across the swell of her ass in a way that is so fucking hot, if he were capable of forming a single, coherent sentence, he’d beg her to come over and sit on his face. Whimper that he would very much like to have her for breakfast.

As it is though, just seeing her walk down the hallway, away from him, wearing nothing but an apron and those fucking panties, causes every synapse in his brain to fire at once and he does the human equivalent of blowing a breaker. Completely short circuits.

Whatever doesn’t stop working entirely, starts to malfunction. Both his heart and his lungs - neither of which seem to remember their job - struggle to find room in his throat as his gut explodes into flames. His brain starts to melt and his poor cock - woefully confined beneath at least three different layers of material - twitches and throbs.

Only when she’s no longer in sight-

When all he can hear of her is soft, delighted humming coming from the kitchen; accompanied by the sounds of coffee being poured and things frying in pans-

He starts to flail about on the ground like a madman. Like a dollar-store Houdini, who’s more apt to end up in handcuffs than break out of them.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck.” Twisting and writhing, desperate to free himself of these goddamn sheets, he pants, “Holy sweet fuck, I love her.”

With one arm mercifully free and a foot close to joining the number of movable, functional limbs he has, he starts trying to trip and stumble and drag his way towards the door. It’s not a graceful process. Not even close. But he doesn’t care, because it works.

The sheet slowly loosens its grip on him and by the time he’s up and fumbling his way towards the bathroom like he’s got two left feet, it’s just a puddle of material in the middle of the hall.

Heart doing its very best to break his ribs and flames licking up the inside of his chest, Obi all but flings himself into the tiny bathroom, and immediately starts digging through the cupboard for tylenol and mouthwash.

Fingers pause their frantic flight when they land on the box of condoms. His breath catches.

It’s fine, if she doesn’t want to. And he’d be totally okay if all they end up doing is talking about what happened last night - what was said and what wasn’t said - while they eat the breakfast she’s made, but-

But if the apron-

And those goddamn panties-

Fuck.

If either of those are any indication of how this morning will go, then he’ll be a well-fed man. In every sense.

He swallows hard. Refrains from biting at his knuckle to hold in the moan that’s building in the back of his throat and takes a deep and shaky breath, before fishing a condom out of the box and slipping it into his pocket.

_____

The advil he frantically choked back is starting to kick in, the total scrub-down of his teeth and tongue have left his mouth feeling like some icy cave in the arctic, and the kitchen smells amazing. Freshly brewed coffee, crispy bacon and fluffy pancakes.

Her.

“So you like it?” Shirayuki purrs, arching into him. Stretching up on her toes until the heat of her words is a ghostly kiss against his lips. “Really?”

“Like is an understatement.” He gasps when her fingers rake through his hair. Cup the back of his neck. “I still can’t believe you texted Yuzuri, asking her to drop off a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron.”

“Hahh-” a sharp breath and a shiver, as his palms glide up her sides; a trail of goosebumps, left in the wake of his touch. “Drunk me does have her moments.” She wets her lips. “And Yuzuri is a good friend.”

Gold flicker down. Though she’s still covered by the apron and its gold-scripted order to ‘Kiss the Cook’, the tops of her breasts - rising and falling with rapid and excited breaths - are stained red with the heat of her blush. Obi nods, appreciative and enthusiastic. “A great friend.”

For a moment, the kitchen goes silent and still, save for their shallow breaths and racing hearts. Not even the clock in the living room, or the yappy dog from next door, make a sound.

Finally, nails curling against his scalp, Shirayuki whispers, “Hey, Obi-”

“Mhmm?” It’s a choked sound. Strangled, before it even has a chance to fully form.

“Last night you told me that, if we were sober-” she leans in closer. So close that when she speaks, he can almost taste the words on her lips and tongue. “You’d kiss me.”

“I did?” He tries to tease. Tries to raise a brow at her, like he’s no recollection of having said that. But even to his own ears, he’s breathless. A low and wanting whimper, more than it is a lighthearted jest.

“Mhmm.” The hum that vibrates up and out of her is as sweet and thick as honey. “Thoroughly, I believe is what you said.”

Gaze fixated on the way her lips have pulled up into a half smile to dimple her cheek, he leans in with breath held captive in his lungs. “Thoroughly?”

“Mhmm.” The hand cupping the back of his head, with nails dragging pleasantly along his scalp, starts working to grab a fistful of his hair. It’s her turn to whimper. To choke on words hardly formed as they slip from her throat. “And we’re sober now.”

“So we are.” He grins. Rumbles; determined to make her tell him exactly what she wants. “Your point?”

Bordering on exasperated, she pulls back only far enough to gesture frantically at her tits and the gold script winking up at him. “I really don’t think I can make this any more clear, Obi.”

Unable to help it, Obi snorts and gently butts his forehead to hers. Lets his fingers curl into her sides as he draws her closer once more. So close, that they’re chest-to-chest and the hard length of him is pressed against her belly. “Shirayuki, I should have kissed you last night.”

“Yeah.” Soft - so impossibly, unbearably soft - she murmurs, “You absolutely should have.”

Before her, those words would have scared him. Would have left him wondering what else he’s about to lose. What else he’ll have to replace. Because, before her, when intimacy was involved, ‘should have’ usually meant something was about to be thrown or broken. That he was about to learn the price of ‘no’.

But, now-

Now, ‘should have’ means that she agrees with him. Agrees that he should have kissed her, but understands why he didn’t. It means that she’s giving him permission, now, to do what he should have done last night.

‘Should have’, no longer means that he’s royally fucked up. It just means that she’s patient enough for him to figure his shit out.

“I guess I’ll just have to make up for lost time.” And he means it. Every word. He will do everything he can to make up for the time they’ve lost - and he’s not just talking about the kiss he withheld last night. He’s talking about all the years he made her wait. All those moments she was haunted by the big flashing zero on her wrist, because he was too stupid and stubborn to let himself believe that maybe - just maybe - there was someone out there, waiting for him.

That she was out there, waiting for him.

“I guess you will.” She teases, “And you can start,” her lips dust against his as she whispers, “by finally kissing me.”

_____

Shirayuki gasps against his lips as they stumble backwards and the countertop bites into her back. He devours the sound. Feeds it to the flames that bellow and roar within him, and starts searching for the next scrap.

Waiting for the next gasp or whimper or moan he can have.

The hand threaded through her hair - the one that cups the back of her head - tightens and fists as the kiss deepens. As her nails bite into his chest. Claw at his shirt. Wander their way down to the waistband of his jeans and tug playfully at his belt loops.

He thinks that’ll be it. That, in a moment, she’ll retrace her steps. Maybe let her fingertips slip beneath his shirt and flutter them along his abs. Make her way back up until her palms lay flat over his heart and she’s left to silently wonder over the gnarled, puckered skin she’s stumbled upon.

But she doesn’t do what he expects; which in a way, he supposes, he should have expected.

Only one of her fingers seems to be brave enough to test the waters, but it more than makes up for its shy comrades. Fearlessly and with very little hesitation, it dips into his waistband and wriggles beneath the tight elastic of his boxers; and while it’s not quite long enough to reach wiry hair or brush against the head of his cock, it’s certainly long enough to make his hips stutter at the sensation. His heart thunder in his chest and a groan swirl in his lungs.

Encouraged, Shirayuki grunts, trying to stretch a little more. Reach a little farther. Convince her other fingers that if they were to work together, maybe she could somehow manage to shove the whole of her hand down into his pants, without having to worry about button or zipper. And, albeit slowly, they start to join the first. One by one, her fingers stop hanging around outside his jeans and try to wiggle their way down to where the first is doing its best to follow the sharp cut of his hip, towards his cock.

Obi leans into her with a moan. Traps her hand and wandering fingers between them as he pulls her bottom lip between his teeth. Bites and nibbles and sucks as he quickly tries to decide whether the hand resting on her hip wants to migrate to her breast or her ass, and-

And it’s really not fair that he has to decide on one, when he wants both. Needs both.

Breaking the kiss with a harsh gasp, pulling her hair only hard enough to tilt her head and bare her throat to him, he growls against her pulse, “I don’t have enough fucking hands.”

Her laugh is a breathless pant. A delighted whimper. “Is that so?”

“It is.” Teeth graze along the column of her throat. “I need-” fingers dig into her hip, growing more and more frustrated that he can’t have both and still keep a hand knotted in her hair. He counts. Debates. Finally settles with a huff, “I need at least four.”

“Hahh-” her own hand - still trapped between them and fingers dangerously close to rubbing up against the head of his cock - starts to wiggle and fidget a lot more intensely than it’d been a second ago. “And what would you do with four hands?”

“Hair. Breast. Ass.” The words rush out of him like a prayer - like he might somehow speak it into existence. Like, somehow, if he is a very, very good boy, he’ll get another set of arms for Christmas.

As he presses a sharp kiss to where collarbone meets neck, Shirayuki shivers. Stutters breathlessly, “T-That’s only three.”

He pauses a moment. Brows pinching together momentarily as he tries to think of a good use for the fourth one, other than just ‘spare’ or ‘other breast’.

It doesn’t take him long.

He grins against her, and purrs, “Clit.”

“O-Oh. Mmmm.” The fingers trapped in his boxers, spasm. A knuckle brushes against his cock, making his hips jolt and her breath catch. “F-Four would be great.”

The strangled noise he makes - the one that’s doing its best to masquerade as some kind of intelligent response - quickly turns into a hiss sucked through his teeth, as her fingertip finds the head of his cock, circles once, then gently rubs along the slit, already slick with precum. To keep himself from moaning or cursing, he occupies his mouth by sucking at the hollow beneath Shirayuki’s ear.

“Obi,” she chokes on his name with an edge of needy frustration building in her throat and, with what seems like a lot of effort, withdraws her hand, letting his boxers snap back into place, as she moans and starts fighting with the button on his jeans. “Undo your pants.”

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

He’s already painfully hard. Embarrassingly so. Like, at this point, he’s halfway convinced that all she’d have to do is look at his cock the right way and he’d come.

A curious, teasing finger was more than enough-

If she gets his jeans undone-

Takes his cock in her hand and strokes, even just once-

“Obi, please-” she whines. Throat bobbing sharply under his teeth and lips. Flustered fingers continue to struggle. “I can’t get it.”

“Good.” He says, grinding himself further into her. Trying to keep her searching fingers from finding what may be the only thing between him and making this last for more than a few fevered minutes.

Although the hand on her hip is still very much torn between ass and tits, Obi bids it to start wandering up along her side. To go for breasts, hidden away beneath that clever and cheeky ‘Kiss the Cook’ script. Because, while feeling the lace of her underwear beneath his fingertips, squeezing her ass and helping her grind against him a little harder, is a hard choice to pass up, it wouldn’t be long before his own fingers were trembling and dancing along the lace’s edge, looking for more.

Too soon, he’d eagerly make space in between them so he could slip his fingers down to play with her clit and tease slick folds with his middle finger. And more space for him to play, also gives her more room to find and undo that goddamn button.

As his hand traces along her side, inspiring goosebumps to ripple out across her skin, she wiggles and squirms, trapped between him and the counter. “O-Obi-”

“Yes?” He hums, lips not leaving her throat. Slowly, gently, his hand slips beneath the apron and eases over her breast. Squeezing just on the soft-side of rough, he teases, “Can I help you?”

“Y-Yes, you can-” Shirayuki arches into him with a delightful moan. Presses herself further into his palm and speaks through grit teeth as she starts to yank at belt loops and waistband. “You can undo your goddamn pants.”

Apparently, for now at least, she’s given up on fighting with the button and is going straight for trying to rip his pants off of him. Which is making it really fucking hard not to grin. Not to laugh right out loud. Especially when she issues a long, low and incredibly frustrated whine, and starts trying to just shake him out of his clothes.

He rumbles, entirely too smug, “Nope.”

“Please?” Her breaths hiccup and he’s certain she’s about two seconds away from stomping her foot and trying to attack his button again.

A trail of kisses along her jaw makes her tremble and sigh. And, adjusting his grip on her until the weight of her breast is in his palm and her nipple is hard between his finger and thumb, he whispers against the shell of her ear, low and teasing, “Still no.”

“Hngggg… Why not?” It’s a half sob as she starts to squirm again; grinding against him in a way that almost makes him cave. Almost makes him reach down between them to snap open the button and let her do as she pleases with him. See what she has in mind and last for as long as he’s able.

But he’s not ready for this to be over. Not ready for her to take him into her hands and make him come, before they’ve even really started. Before he’s had a chance to make her beg for it.

“Because-” nothing about his groan suggests he’s in control here. It’s so heavy with want, that it’s honestly a bit of a miracle he manages to speak at all. “I’m nowhere near done with you, yet.”

#guiltyobiyuki22 #day 3 #obiyuki #ans #akagami no shirayukihime #lemon #soulm8 #timer au #there was going to be more to this (in which they finally actually bang) alas... not this time around.#but hey at least they finally kissed?

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ruleofexception · 2 years

Text

SoulM8 Au - Ch5

This one is, in a way, for @claudeng80. She mentioned wanting to see a SoulM8 kiss and when I was cleaning out my drafts for this challenge, I realized I’d already (at some point, for another challenge) started heading down that path. And because I have exactly no self control and was left unsupervised, this thing went from a cute single chapter, to a bit of a monster. SO, for the next 3 days, there’s going to be some very NSFW content for this AU. Enjoy <3

(And tagging @snowwhite-andtheknight, just in case Tumblr eats the tags)

It’s not until the glow of the cab’s brake lights disappear around the corner and into the night, that the realization that this is actually happening, settles in and he starts to wonder if it’s too late to change his mind.

He thinks it might be.

Heart slowly clawing its way into his throat, Obi grits his teeth against the icy wind starting to tear at his sweater and sting his cheeks, and jams his hands into his jean pockets, before turning to face the rundown apartment complex before them.

“This building is huge.”

In front of him, Shirayuki sways drunkenly as she squints up and up and up, to where the 34th floor seems to vanish into the mist creeping through the neighbourhood.

“Ah, yeah, I-” Obi tries and fails to clear his throat of the terrified, failing organ that’s taken up residence there, “I guess it is.”

Sweat gathers and pools in the small of his back, despite the heavy chill hanging in the air, his hands grow clammy in his pockets and the little screen embedded in his wrist seems to burn and ache with every breath he takes.

This is a bad idea. Maybe he can convince her that it’s best if she were to head home, instead. Tell her he’s feeling unwell. Offer to pay for her cab across town and-

“So,” Shirayuki giggles, “What floor do you live on, again?”

“28.” Obi swallows hard, trying to chase after the courage he’d had twenty minutes ago when he asked her if she wanted to go back to his place.

It made sense, when he asked.

Why spend cab fare for two cars, when they could just share? And, with his apartment being closer to Suzu and Yuzuri’s place than hers is, it meant less money and-

“Whoa.” Cheeks red as her hair, she turns to him and grins, “That’s a lot of stairs.”

“The elevator’s work.” He laughs, trying to force himself to relax, fishes his keys from his pocket and starts towards the front doors, “Mostly.”

Giggling again, Shirayuki trots up beside him and clumsily loops her arm through his. “Thank you.”

“For?” The key trembles as he jams it into the lock. If he tries hard enough, he can almost convince himself it’s just because he’s drunk and cold.

If only his heart would calm the fuck down.

“Hmmm.” Resting her head against his bicep, not seeming to care or notice that he’s shaking, she hums, “For being the perfect Match.”

“I, ah-” the words sputter and die on his tongue, before they have a chance to fully form, “I’m not, ahm-”

“I know you don’t think so.” Squeezing his arm a little more tightly, she sighs happily, “But you are.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, beyond trying to argue that in this relationship, she is - without a doubt - the perfect one. Which doesn’t seem like a wise decision. Not with how much they’ve had to drink tonight. So, instead, he tries - and fails - one last time to clear his throat as he pulls the door wide, letting harsh fluorescent light, and smells of curry and smoke and wet dog, drift out into the cold. “Shall we?”

“We shall!” Shirayuki beams up at him and, with all the grace of a newborn calf strapped into rollerblades and shoved into a ballpit, goes staggering into the lobby ahead of him. Beneath her breath she slurs, “Holy moly, even the lobby is big.”

Despite trying to keep it locked behind teeth, a chuckle bubbles up and out of him. His heart swells to think that the clumsy, ethereal being that’s bouncing along cracked tile and dirtied floor mats, humming happily to herself, is the person meant for him. That this is who he gets to spend the rest of his life with.

If only past-him could see him, now.

“Big doesn’t mean nice.” Obi’s laugh is tight as he moves to catch up with her, and lead her to where the elevators sit; a long row of metal teeth crammed into the narrow mouth of a hallway. Four of the six have caution tape hanging limply across their open doors. He sighs, “But it does mean cheap.”

“Mmm, I don’t care.” Suddenly latching onto his arm so she may swing herself around to nuzzle her nose against his sternum, Shirayuki purrs, “I’m here for you, remember?”

“Ah.” Breath catching and hitching in broken lungs, Obi stares up at the water-damaged ceiling, begging his foggy brain to keep its shit together as her fingers curl into his bicep and her lips blow hot air against his chest. Before he has the chance to say something stupid, or make a total ass of himself, the dull, musical ping of the elevator sounds off and Shirayuki pulls her head back to frown up at him.

“Did you just ding?”

“No.” He laughs, “The elevator’s here-”

“Oh!” Shirayuki grins dopily at him, spins round to face the gaping mouth opening up in front of her and giggles, “Y’know, I’m really happy you invited me over, Obi.”

“Yeah.” Heart little more than a trembling puddle trying to drown his lungs, Obi follows her into the elevator with numb knees; fingers brushing mindlessly against the little summer green strip along his wrist. “Me too.”

_____

It’s a mess.

His entire fucking apartment is a goddamn mess.

And, as Shirayuki stumbles around the small space, fawning over each of his possessions as though she’s wandered into some kind of treasure trove, Obi follows along behind, frantically shoving dirty socks and empty take-out containers into shadows, nooks and crannies, she’s not likely to look in.

Scrambling to snag a pair of boxers that are slung over the back of the couch, heat building in his cheeks, he pauses when Shirayuki stops in front of the bookshelf and breathes out excitedly.

“Ohh, Obi, this is such a good photo! You look so hands-” she spins, frame held in her hands and grin tugging at flushed cheeks. Emerald eyes first meet gold, then slowly drift to the boxers fisted in his hand. One delicate red brow arches, head tilting ever so slightly and she stifles a giggle, “Obi, what’re you doing?”

“Ahm. Well, I was just, ah-” it takes him a moment before he realizes he’s talking with his hands, waving the boxers around like some kind of goddamn flag. For how hot his cheeks are, they’re likely the same colour as her hair. Tucking trembling hands and boxers behind his back, he clears his throat, “See, I-I didn’t exactly plan on, uh, h-having you over so soon? So I didn’t get a chance to clean, and-”

“Well,” placing the picture back on the shelf with slender fingers, Shirayuki begins taking wobbly steps towards him, “Believe it or not, I like that it’s a little messy.” She stops only when she’s close enough to him that, should she breathe too deeply, her chest would brush against his, “It looks lived in and loved.”

“You know, I think most women would be horrified to be invited over for the first time, only to find their boyfr-” Obi cuts himself off before he can finish the thought. Before he can finish calling himself her boyfriend, when they’ve yet to have that particular conversation. They may be SoulM8’s, but that doesn’t mean he has the right to imagine himself being worthy of such a title when they still hardly know each other. Clearing his throat, he finishes lamely, “T-That there’s a pair of boxers thrown over the back of the couch.”

“Lucky for you, I am not most women.” Lips pulling up in a lopsided and giddy grin, a blush crawls through the spaces between her freckles, “I’m your girlfriend, and I happen to find it oddly charming.” One shoulder raises in a half-shrug. “Besides, if we’d gone back to my place, I’m fairly certain I have a bra hanging over the armchair and a disgusting number of dirty socks shoved under my coffee table.”

The breath leaves his lungs as a pathetic and weak rasp, to hear her refer to herself as his girlfriend as easily and confidently as if she were telling him she’s a red-head. As her hands reach out to hesitantly rest upon his chest, palms laying over the puddle of his heart, he stammers, words far beyond his control, slipping from a tongue loosened by too much beer and the hope she’s inspired with just a single sentence. “If I’d known you were my Match - that you were the person waiting for me - I would’ve made the appointment long ago.”

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, still thrumming in his veins and making everything sort of fuzzy. Or, maybe, it’s the way his liquid heart shivers and seeps into his lungs. But, right now, with her standing in front of him, he’s reminded of that moment, back in the SoulM8 building, where green met gold for the second time, and the new device on his wrist began to sing in perfect harmony with the one on hers. That moment when he realized that the beautiful woman with the summer green gaze standing before him, was the one he would spend the rest of his life with.

It’s hard to believe that was only a few short weeks ago, when it’s felt more like a lifetime that he’s loved her and-

And it’s still far too early to tell her he loves her.

SoulM8 or not, if he were to whisper his affections against the shell of her ear, or paint his words on her lips with a kiss, she might think it too forward of him. Might believe that he’s only done so, because of the alcohol in his veins. The beer that fogs his brain and slurs his words.

So, he’ll not tell her. Not for a good long while. And only when he’s sober.

“Obi?” Gentle fingers march their way up his chest, until palms rest atop his collarbones and nails dig lightly into the fronts of his shoulders.

Somewhat dazed, melting beneath the warmth of her gaze, he hums, “Yes?”

The blush that stains her cheeks and spills down her throat is painfully red, “Do you have something I can borrow to sleep in?”

“Y-Yeah.” Obi swallows hard, not entirely convinced his heart is going to survive an evening in which she’s wearing his clothes. Slow, he licks his lips and nods, “Of course.”

_____

He’d given her pants.

He knows he’d given her pants.

And yet, when she comes waltzing out of the bathroom, her legs are bare, right up to where his shirt - far too big on her - hangs down to her mid-thigh.

Feet padding lightly down the hallway, Shirayuki wobbles this way and that as she stares down at the logo on the front. “This is a band shirt, right?”

“I-It is.” He wheezes, amazed he can even get that much out past the heart swollen in his throat.

Maybe she’s just forgotten that he’s given her pants? Put them off to the side while she was changing and-

“Thought so.” She releases the hem and grins at him, practically dancing her way over to where he’s melting into the couch, desperately trying to keep himself from wondering if she’s at least kept her underwear on. “Pretty sure Suzu has this record, somewhere...” She says as she plops down beside him. Almost on top of him. Dangerously close to being on top of him.

Fuck, this was a terrible idea. Why did he invite her over? Why didn’t he just bid her goodnight and pay for her cab fare home?

Cock twitching and the pressure in his jeans growing at an alarming rate, Obi inhales sharply, fingers sinking deep into his thighs, like that might somehow stop him from pitching a tent in his pants. “Seems he’s got good taste in music, then.”

“Mmmmm.” Almost vibrating from how happy she sounds, somehow she manages to worm her way closer. Make whatever scant distance had been between them disappear entirely, without actually going so far as to throw her leg over his and straddle him. She purrs, “I’m glad that you two seemed to get along tonight.”

“Y-Yeah, he’s, uh-”

Shirayuki shifts and readjusts a little more, trying to make herself comfortable. Finally, with a bit of a huff, she manages to reposition herself in a way that has her sitting sideways beside him, with one bare knee casually resting on his thigh. Which wouldn’t be a problem, if the shirt she was borrowing was long enough. But as it’s not quite long enough to accommodate her new position, it now sits, hiked up around her waist, exposing pale, freckled thighs and barely managing to cover what he thinks are dark and lacy underwear.

Fuck.

What’s meant to be a casual head-roll onto the back of the couch - nonchalant and like he’s just trying to get comfortable, too - damn near gives him whiplash, for how fast he tries to look away.

He’s lucky he doesn’t throw out his back or invite a crick to sink its fangs into his neck, moving like that; and, still, it’s not fast enough. Not fast enough to keep his imagination from starting to wander and wonder what that lace might feel like beneath finger and tongue.

It’s almost impossible to keep the groan swirling in the back of his throat from falling pitifully out of him as his cock twitches and grows harder.

“H-He’s a good guy.” Actively avoiding looking anywhere that is not the disgusting little patch of water damage smeared across his ceiling like a literal shit-stain, Obi does his best to just will-away his erection and pray she hasn’t noticed, as he stammers and slurs, “And I’m, um, I’m glad you invited me out to m-meet your, uh, your friends.” God dammit, thoughts - thoughts that don’t involve how little she’s wearing and whether or not he could get away with adjusting himself without her taking notice - are hard to have. The tiny hamster that represents his brain is not doing so hot. Any minute now, the poor fucker is going to fall off his wheel and Obi’ll be left a drooling, braindead mess of a human. He knows it. “I, ahh… I had a lot of fun.”

That should be a safe conversation. One he can have without having to really look at her or think too hard on. And it’s not like he’s lying. He is glad that she wanted to invite him out. Thrilled that she wanted to introduce him to her friends. And actually introduce him to her friends, not just drag him along like he’s an afterthought. Like he’s just there to make an ex jealous, or hold her purse.

Tonight was the first time he’s ever been taken by the hand and introduced, like he’s someone who’s meant to be there. Someone who’s important and cared for. A boyfriend she’s proud to introduce and show off, and not just a fuck buddy who’s hardly even worth a dismissive hand-wave and a ‘don’t worry about him’.

And he really did have fun; even if it was stupid of him to get drunk with Suzu, instead of sticking to her side like he wanted to-

“Me too.” She sighs dreamily. Like this has somehow been the perfect night. Like he’s somehow been the perfect date - the perfect Match - even though they both know that’s far from the truth. “Everyone loved you.”

The hamster is getting tired - its little legs struggling to keep up, even as the wheel continues to spin faster and faster - and the shit-stain on the ceiling is, unfortunately, not doing a fuck-of-a-lot to get rid of the issue crowding his jeans. It’s all just making him dizzy. He shuts his eyes, letting the room spin in the darkness behind his lids. Deep breath. Keep it together. “How do you figure?”

“They told me so.”

Said so matter-of-factly that it almost makes him chuckle, the couch groans as - best as he can tell with his eyes shut and the blood leached from his brain to fuel his lower half - she somehow wiggles even closer. Still, there’s no pressure settling atop his cock or thighs that suggests she’s taken it upon herself to straddle him, so that’s a small blessing. If she were to do that, he’s almost certain his heart would give out. He’d flatline, right here on the couch.

His tombstone would read, ‘Here lies Obi. Don’t be hard-on him.’ or ‘Obi. What started with one bone, resulted in a pile of them.’ or maybe-

“It stinks though, because instead of being by your side and gushing about you to anyone who might listen, I actually feel like I spent most of my night just hearing from others about what a great guy you are.” Her tone is forlorn, “And I knew that as soon as I introduced you, they might steal you from me to ask you a bajillion questions, but still…” almost annoyed, she huffs, “Everyone else got to talk to you and I didn’t...”

“Hah.” He snorts; nose wrinkling when she gently boops it, trying to get his attention. Still, he doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear that seeing her face - seeing her wear his shirt, with those little lacy panties peeking out from beneath the hem - will do to his already-throbbing cock and molten heart. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Sorta feels like I spent the night talking to everyone, except you… which definitely wasn’t the plan.”

“I tried looking for you.” Even without stealing a glance, he can see the pout that’s surely pulling at her lips. The way her nose will be crinkled and brows furrowed as she says, “I even got up on the counter and screamed your name and, still, you didn’t come...”

Oh, fuck.

It’s not what she means. He knows that it’s not what she means. He’d seen her at the party, standing inside on the counter, looking out over the crowded living room, but-

But god damn, that’s one hell of a pretty picture.

Shirayuki, up on his kitchen counter, wearing the shirt she’s in right now - and only the shirt she’s in right now - with her pale legs spread wide and hooked over his shoulders. Small hands fisting tightly in his hair as he plunges a finger deep into her, tongue circling her clit-

Making her scream out his name-

Begging him to-

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No.

No, no.

He needs to stop thinking about this. Immediately.

That isn’t why he invited her over here tonight. He doesn’t want to fuck her.

Nope. Wait. That’s not even close to being true. He does want to fuck her. Desperately.

He wants to christen every goddamn surface in this apartment, and then do it all over again, just to make sure they didn’t miss any spots.

He wants to lift her up and eat her out on the kitchen counters or the old dining table he’d thrifted for $20, two years ago; make her come so hard her knees shake and she’s sufficiently breathless. And then, only when she’s eased her grip in his hair and most of the tremors have passed - only when she’s still trying to catch her breath and believes he’s finished with her - he wants to lose himself between her thighs and make her come, again.

He wants to lay her out on the couch they’re currently sitting on, with its sagging cushions and creaky springs, and nip at her neck and breast, while he finger-fucks her so slowly and gently that by the time he’s struggling to keep a steady pace and his forearm is burning and the stiffness of his own cock is nearly unbearable, she’s on the verge of madness; sobbing and begging him to go harder. To fuck her, with more than just his fingers.

But, mostly, he wants to scoop her up in his arms and carry her to his bed. Stumble his way down the hallway with his lips against her throat and her legs wrapped around his waist, before he gently lays her down amongst the messy, unmade sheets, and shows her, without having to use his words, how much he loves her. How crazy he is for her, despite having only known her for a handful of weeks.

He wants, so badly, to lose himself completely to her; fuck her absolutely senseless, until the only thought she can manage - the only thing she can say - is his name. Make love to her until the sun rises, blooms and then falls once more.

But not tonight. Not right now. They’re both drunk. And she’s already half naked and he’s got the best, worst hard-on of his life and-

And he doesn’t want their first anything to be when they’ve both had way too much to drink. She may be his SoulM8 and - according to literally everyone he’s talked to about this thing embedded in his wrist that glows green like her eyes - is stuck with him now, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to do this right.

He needs to do this right.

Obi bites back a low and throaty groan. Buries his fingers a little deeper into his thighs and rasps, “We should, uhm-” he swallows hard and his head spins nauseatingly. “We should get ready for bed. It’s late.”

“Mmmm’kay.” Hum caught halfway between a giggle and a yawn, Shirayuki reaches out to trace a finger along his jaw until she hooks it under his chin and coaxes him into finally opening his eyes and looking at her. Brilliant, beautiful summer green search him a moment, before she grins big and wonderful. Deep in his chest, the puddle that is his heart, melts a little more.

It would be so stupid of him to say it now. Tell her, with all the sincerity and vulnerability he’s never shown anyone before, that he loves her. That he is completely and utterly hers, so long as she’ll continue to have him.

They’re drunk. Worse, they’ve only known each other a handful of weeks. And, no matter how true it may be, telling her he loves her when his tongue is loosened by too much beer and not enough common sense is right up there on his list of things not to do tonight. It may actually be the first thing on his list, only just above fucking her so tenderly and passionately, that her fingernails leave great welts down his back and his name is the only thing she’s capable of moaning against his lips and-

“Do I get a goodnight kiss?” She purrs, wetting her lips and leaning in ever so slightly.

“Ahhhhh-”

And, just like that, he’s flatlining.

His lips part and eyes widen. Breath catches in lungs that don’t know their function anymore, and the puddle of his heart burns and aches. A horrendous whine sounds off through his skull and it’s hard to know whether it’s the sound of a heart monitor shrieking, or the poor, stupid hamster screaming in its wheel.

What he does know is that there’s no part of him that doesn’t want to respond with a kiss. Every cell in his body is shouting at him to reach out and thread his fingers through her hair. Cup the back of her head and crush her lips to his in a kiss that tastes of vodka and beer.

Somehow ignoring the urge to kiss her so thoroughly his lips are at risk of bruising, he chokes, “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Kissing me isn’t a good idea?” The frown that slips onto her features is entirely too adorable and not at all helping him squish the growing desire to say fuck-it and go for it.

“It’s a terrible idea.” Puddled heart swelling and sloshing about in his chest, he chuckles weakly as she gets this look on her face like she’s about to launch into a lengthy argument as to why, she believes, kissing her is the complete opposite of a terrible idea; but before she manages to get even a single word out, he dares to rest his hand atop her bare knee, thumb brushing along the dusting of freckles splattered there, and rasp, “Shirayuki, I’ve wanted to kiss you since we got in the damn cab.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Understandably, she’s confused. The pout deepens, even as she leans in a little closer. Gaze fixated on his lips. “You could have.”

He doesn’t even make a show of trying to hide the want from his tone. From trying to pretend that he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want her. The words are a low growl, “I don’t think you understand just how badly I want you, right now.”

“O-Oh.” She exhales, entirely too breathless. Emerald spark with something excited and wanting as they slip, for the briefest of moments, to his groin. Bottom lip drawn between her teeth and gaze hooded, she moves to close the distance between them-

“But we can’t.” Obi groans like he’s a dying man.

How he hasn’t kissed her yet - said fuck it and pushed her down onto the couch cushions, eagerly devouring each and every whimper and moan to fall from her throat - he’s not entirely sure. Truly, the amount of will power he has going for him right now is deserving of some kind of goddamn trophy.

“Why not?” Her nose nuzzles his. Finger still hooked beneath his chin, holding him in place, her breath is hot against his lips, “If you want to and I want to-”

“Because I want to do this right.” He tries to explain in stinted, pleading words. Hoping - praying - that it’s a good enough reason. That she understands. “Both of us have been drinking and-”

“Okay.” She says with an easy and lopsided shrug. And, just like that, backs off. Drops her hand and withdraws until her breath no longer heats his lips with a phantom kiss.

His chest grows tight. Anxiety starts to climb, screaming at him that he’s upset her. That he’s just royally fucked up. Signed his death certificate and nailed his own coffin shut.

“Then let’s get ready for bed.” With the utmost care - as though she believes him to be made of glass - Shirayuki takes his hand from her knee and brings his knuckles up to her lips; and, while the kiss itself is fluttering and hardly there, it’s like she’s branded him. Burned him straight through to the bone, with a single touch.

His throat swells. Anxiety levels quickly reaching critical as alarms sound off in his brain, reminding him that the last woman he’d upset to this degree had quite literally tried to cut his heart out with a steak-knife while he was sleeping. And despite the sweetness of her smile or the imprint of her kiss still hot on his knuckles, he’s terrified of what Shirayuki might be capable of doing to him if she really and truly is pissed at having been rejected. If this is just the calm before the shit-storm he’s about to find himself at the centre of.

They’ve not been Matched long, but he knows enough to realize that there are probably a dozen different plants she works with on a daily basis that could have him all kinds of fucked-up. And not in the fun way.

And, after tonight, he has absolutely no doubt in his mind that her best friends, though nothing but friendly and kind to him so far, wouldn’t hesitate to help her hide or dispose of his body.

Shit.

Fuck...

Maybe it’s not too late to make this right. Kiss her as she’s asked him to and just pretend he didn’t reject her only seconds ago. Do whatever she wants him to, if it means he hasn’t completely fucked this up already. Shit, he’ll even toss aside his hopes of making their first time together more meaningful than a quick and sloppy drunken fuck, if it means she’ll not try to kill him in his sleep, or throw his coffee-table through his TV.

“You’re, uhm-” without breathing, he stares at her; a deer in the headlights, ready to bolt but too stupid to move. The words are bile on his tongue. “Y-You’re really okay with that?”

If she responds with anything that’s not a simple ‘yes’, he’ll do it. He’ll lay her back on the couch and kiss her. Do all the things he aches to do on a night that isn’t tonight and-

“Yes?” She giggle-snorts and, without releasing his hand, takes a wobbly stand. When it quickly becomes clear that she’s very little hope of dragging him up out of the couch cushions after her, she tilts her head and frowns down at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I-” he starts, stops; then tries again, once he’s managed to swallow down some of his past. Some of the anxiety that’s clawing its way up his throat, bringing with it memories he’d rather forget. His chest aches. “I don’t know, I just thought maybe you’d be… u-upset? With me?”

“Upset with you?” The frown deepens and grows.

He licks his lips. Blinks up at her, still too afraid to move, and quietly rasps, “Or angry.”

Like snow melts into spring, the tension sitting in her shoulders rushes out of her with a heavy sigh. The hand not already holding his lifts to cup and cradle his cheek. “Obi, I could never be angry or upset with you for setting boundaries.” Thumb brushing along the sharp edge of his cheekbone, she whispers, soft and sincere, “If anything, I find it incredibly romantic that you want to wait.”

This hasn’t happened before. This softness, left in the wake of a ‘no’. Refusal, met with understanding and acceptance. His throat burns. Eyes sting.

Slightly overwhelmed, the surge of anxiety that’s been building in his brain and trying to choke him out, pours along his tongue and dribbles from his lips as a gentle wheeze, “I-I’m just so scared to fuck this up-”

“Oh, Obi-”

“I mean, I’ve never - not once - wanted to get anything more right in my entire life.” Finding courage enough to lean into her touch, his heart clogs his throat as he does his best to chuckle past it. To get across that he does want her. All of her. But that he doesn’t want their first kiss - their first time - to be numbed by the alcohol in their veins. Something they’re at risk of forgetting or regretting, come morning. “And I am desperately trying to do right by you. To wait for when we’re not both three-sheets to the wind, before I kiss you. Which is proving to be extremely difficult, when all I want is you.” Eyes flutter shut and he groans, casually trying to adjust himself without making a big deal of it. “I want you, so bad, Shirayuki. And I was so scared that when I told you no-” bile surges up his throat. Stomach clenches and his heart starts to leap around his chest like it’s a rabbit caught in a snare. The anxiety, not quite vanished, sits upon his chest like a heavy stone. Squeezes his skull like it’s caught in a vice. He swallows hard, tries to convince himself it’s just because he’s drunk, and breathes out, soft and shaky. “I’m glad you’re not upset or angry with me.”

A long moment passes. Then two, then three.

Finally, after a deep and shuddering breath, she whispers, “Hey, Obi-”

“Mmmm.” The noise he makes is somewhere between a hum and a grunt. It’s about all he can manage though, without risking it coming out as a whimper.

“If we were sober,” she ventures, entirely too hopeful sounding for what his heart is currently capable of handling. “Would you kiss me?”

“Thoroughly.” It hurts to say it. To try and laugh it off, when all he wants to do is crush her lips to his. Thread his fingers in her hair and drag her bottom lip between his teeth. Thank her, each time their lips part with a soft smack, for not being angry with him. For just being her.

For being the perfect Match.

Thin fingers squeeze his and she rasps, “What else would you do?”

“If we were sober?” He asks, though it’s less of a question and more of a way to buy himself some time to try and stop his head from spinning. To try and keep his heart from wriggling out between his ribs to splatter on the floor at her feet.

“Yeah.”

One eye cracks open, studies her where she stands in front of him - a beautiful and fearless creature who remains still and clear amongst the dizzying chaos of the world - and, before he can stop the flow of his words or catch them as they trip off his tongue, whispers back, “I’d tell you that I am so completely and hopelessly in love with you.”

#guiltyobiyuki22 #day 1 #lemon #obiyuki #ans #akagami no shirayukihime #soulm8 #timer au #here we go friendos #see you tomorrow for more of this dumpster fire #<3

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ruleofexception · 2 years

Text

SoulM8 Au - Ch6

Day 2 of this dumpster fire - let’s go! @snowwhite-andtheknight

NSFW ahead! Also, this chapter comes with a TW for mentions of past assault/sexual assault/abuse.

Knuckles ache for how tightly he’s gripping the sink, water drips from off the tip of his nose and trickles down his forehead. He blearily glares at his reflection. Curses beneath his faltering breath as he tries - and fails - to properly fill his lungs. To keep the world from spinning entirely out of control.

What he’d really like to do is yell at the drunken idiot staring back at him. Demand to know why he let his heart come gurgling up his throat and pour from his lips, as if it were vomit brought on by too much drink.

But, he can hear Shirayuki outside the bathroom door. He can hear her feet pacing and hands fidgeting. Texts sent and received with little chimes and notifications. Breaths catching in her lungs as a thousand different responses crowd her mouth; and a thousand different responses - none of them deemed good enough to say aloud - get swallowed back down with a quiet hum. And if he can hear her - regardless of the tap still running and his heart pounding so hard half the city is witness to its deafening calls - then she can definitely hear him.

It’s not like this situation can really get much worse, but it certainly wouldn’t make it any better if she overheard him lecturing his reflection for his own idiocy.

Fuck.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

There were only two things he didn’t want to fuck up tonight. Two measly little items on his list of things not to do. Easy things he should have been able to handle, no problem.

He grits his teeth, shuts his eyes and hangs his head, if only to prevent himself from doing something else reckless, like putting his fist through the wall.

As soon as the words left his lips-

As soon as he was hit with the sinking realization that he’d just told her that he loves her-

That he’s in love with her-

Well…

The details are a little hazy. One minute he’d been sitting on the couch - the little drunk hamster that is his fucking brain, having just been sent hurtling out of its wheel at breakneck speeds - and the next he was sucking air and sliding down the bathroom door, ripping the towel-hook from the cheap hardboard on his way down.

It was probably a solid five minutes that he sat there; a pitiful pile of a human, buried beneath towels still damp from this afternoon, slumped next to a tidy little pile of Shirayuki’s discarded clothes. The pants he’d given her, folded neatly on top. Definitely not forgotten. Just not bothered with.

And all the while, as he continued to spiral out of control, she stood there in the hallway, just on the other side of the thin door, knocking lightly and pleading with him to let her in. Asking him if he’s okay.

She only fell into silence after he managed to find enough courage to choke out that he’s fine and that she should just head to bed. That he’d see her in the morning.

And that was…

That was a while ago. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? He can’t say for certain, as he’s pretty sure his phone is lost somewhere in the living room. Maybe fallen in between the couch cushions. Hopefully not broken already. The thing cost him a small fortune.

Another face-full of cold water and his breathing starts to steady. Heart stops trying to pummel his ribs to dust. He stares at his reflection and watches as droplets of water curl down his cheek and cling to his hair. Glares at the gold eyes in the mirror, while trying to scrounge up enough courage to shut off the tap and open the door.

See the extent of the damage done by the massive L-bomb he just dropped.

Because there’s bound to be damage. Lots of it.

So much so, that he’s pretty sure she’s going to leave. That the little pile of clothes on the tile, is all that’s keeping her here.

That’s the only logical reason for why - even after he’s spent however long he’s been in here, with the tap running and his anxiety through the fucking roof - she’s still out there in the hallway. Why she hasn’t grown tired of waiting for him to stop hiding away in the bathroom like a goddamn coward. Why she hasn’t given up and toddled off to bed.

Because all of her clothes are in here. She’s just waiting around out there, so she can grab them and leave, the moment that door opens.

He’s certain of it.

Which means that this is, truly, the biggest fuck up he’s ever made in his life.

Definitely the most heartbreaking.

If it weren’t for the little huffs and puffs coming from the hallway - the steady whoosh and ding of texts sent and received - he might dare to hope against hope that she’s out there because she loves him, too. That she hasn’t walked away, because she’s genuinely worried about him. Hasn’t gone to bed, because she’s willing to wait for him, while he figures his shit out.

But he’s done this before. Or, at least, something similar.

And he knows all too well that the rapid-fire texts going out to her friends - Yuzuri, he suspects - are likely rife with complaints. Picking apart this evening and everything he’s said or done, as a vulture does a cooling corpse.

If not already, then soon, anything he may have had going for him will be twisted and spun into a nasty, tangled web, in which he - a fly trapped at the centre - somehow gets labelled the spider. All because he couldn’t hold his fucking tongue.

Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, hard enough to coat his tongue with the bitter tang of iron and salt, his heart, no longer playing the part of terrified rabbit caught in a snare, begins to wail. Break and shatter to think of what’s waiting for him when he opens that door.

It’s hard not to let himself wonder if she’ll give him a moment to explain. If he’ll be able to apologize, before she shoves him out of the way and stoops down to grab her clothes. Tells him that she has to go. Warn him not to call her for a while. Whisper that she has to think about what he’s said.

Of course, if he does get the chance to talk to her before she decides to vanish like the best dream he’s ever had, he’ll have to make the most of it. Apologize until he’s blue in the face. Grovel, if he has to. Explain that he didn’t mean it-

No. Not that he didn’t mean it. Just that he didn’t mean to say it right now and-

And god, fucking dammit, what a mess.

Why did he have to go and open his goddamn mouth? Better yet, why couldn’t his useless fucking hamster brain have gone with literally anything other than jumping straight into the ‘I love you’’s?

He could have told her that he wants her to smother him. That he wants her to sit on his face and not stop until he’s at risk of drowning, for how wet she is. Or confess that he’d go crazy if she were to bind his wrists together and use him however she needs, to get herself off.

Both are true and both would have been better than ‘hey, I know we’ve only known each other a few weeks at this point, but I love you’.

He could have even said that he wants to raw her right there in the middle of the living room floor, and that he’d very much like to spend the day fucking her so passionately that the scent of her never washes out of his sheets.

Quite literally anything would have been better than ‘so, I know I’ve had salad dressings in my fridge for longer than we’ve been SoulM8’s, but I’m hopelessly in love with you’.

Unfortunately, what’s done is done. All that’s left to do now, is walk out that door and nail his coffin shut. There’s very little use in trying to delay it.

It’s time to rip the bandaid off the broken bone, as it were.

Doing his best to collect himself just enough to face her and get this over with, Obi splashes his face with water once more and shuts off the tap.

Outside the door, the pacing stops.

He hears her suck in and hold her breath, just as he exhales shakily, blinks water from his eyes, and reaches for the door.

The lock has barely slipped free and the door is hardly open a crack, when Shirayuki comes barrelling into the bathroom, his name a relieved and rushed sob pushed from her lungs as she throws her arms around his middle and buries her face in his sternum.

“Ahhh.” Hands held up in surrender and not entirely sure how he should be reacting in a situation like this - in a situation that is unprecedented and not at all what he’d been anticipating - the backs of his eyes sting and he stammers, “Shirayuki, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mea-”

“I-I’d tell you I love you too, Obi!” She cries.

The poor hamster in his brain, still trying to recover from the earlier impact with the inside of his skull, keels over again with a pathetic twitch.

Thinking he must have misheard - knowing he must have misunderstood - he grimaces down at the messy halo of red pressed up against his heart. “Wha-”

“If we were sober,” wobbly words and sniffles are muffled as she speaks into his chest and rubs her nose against his shirt, before looking up at him with wide emerald eyes that glisten with fresh tears. “I’d tell you I love you, too.”

“You-”

He’s flatlining again. Trying to process things that don’t make sense. Things his brain isn’t capable of handling right now.

Hands twitching, not sure if he should hold her or not, he mumbles. Brows pinching together, still trying to figure out what the fuck is happening. “But-”

She can’t-

She was going to barge in here and collect her clothes. Tell him to fuck off and give her space. Spend the rest of her night, back at Yuzuri’s talking shit about him.

There’s no way she-

“So much.” Enthusiastic doesn't begin to describe how vigorously she’s nodding at him.

“You actually-” he clicks his teeth together, locking the rest of his thought on his tongue. What if he questions her and it causes her to change her mind? What if he asks, both hopeful and afraid to hear what her response may be, and she laughs in his face?

After how this night has gone, he’s not sure his heart could handle it.

Exhaling rather wetly, she nuzzles her face back into his chest with a low and happy sounding, “I love you, Obi.”

It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever heard.

Never before has a collection of sounds - a smattering of words - filled him with so much joy. So much bliss. He could listen to her say those words, over and over and over again, and never tire of how they sound and, yet-

Somehow, despite his elation to hear her say she loves him too-

Regardless of how his heart feels about ready to burst for how full it is-

Having her say she loves him too is almost worse than her just coming in to collect her clothes and leave.

Because if he thought he wanted her badly, before?

Ha.

Haha.

Oh... it’s very clear now that he didn’t even begin to know the true meaning of want.

And, at this point, he’s starting to think that his want is very quickly becoming a need.

As in he needs to kiss her, like he needs oxygen. Like plants need sunlight and fish need water.

But, he also needs to do this right.

And by god, if he only manages to get one 'first’ right, then it needs to be their first kiss. It needs to be this. Please, let him have strength enough to not fuck up a second time tonight.

Please, let him make it to morning.

_____

It’s not the quiet cursing or the annoyed huffs that give her away, but rather it’s the slither of blankets dragging along the floor as she wanders out of his bedroom that does it.

Obi sighs and glances over his shoulder, “What are you doing?”

Wrapped up in all of his blankets - like she’s just spent the last few minutes rolling around his bed to turn herself into a massive blanket-burrito, before toddling her way out into the living room - her face is just about the only part of her he can see. She pouts at him, waddling closer, “If you’re sleeping on the couch, so am I.”

“No, you’re not. The couch only fits one.”

‘Barely’, he doesn’t say as he turns back around and glares at the pillow in his hand that’s somehow both lumpy and flat, and should have been tossed in the trash years ago instead of winding up in the closet as a ‘spare’.

“'sides, the bed is a lot comfier.”

He wants to add that it’s the only piece of furniture in his apartment that he’s actually spent good and decent money on in a real, live store, but doesn’t think it really needs to be said, for her to have realized by now that the rest of his stuff has either been stolen, thrifted or rescued from the curb.

More huffing and heaving as she inches that mountain of blankets she’s buried under, closer. “Then come sleep in the bed.”

Fingers sink into the pillow. Threaten to tear it apart in hands that tremble. Every cell in his body aches to agree. Say yes and let her lead him down the hallway. Stumble into the bedroom and find out if her lips are as soft and sweet as he thinks they are. Instead, he rasps, “Nope.”

“Why?”

He knows it’s a bad idea. Knows that turning around to look at her right now will stir up the flames he’s only just managed to stomp down to embers, but he can’t help it. He wants to look at her. Wants to close the distance between them with only a few long strides, and sweep her up in his arms. Carry her back into the bedroom and plop her down on the bed. Help her slowly shed those blankets she’s bundled herself up in and ensure she truly understands that, though he hadn’t meant to tell her, he wasn’t joking, nor exaggerating, when he told her he’s completely and hopelessly in love with her.

Cheeks burning and heart throbbing, he spins around to face her and uses the floppy, wilting pillow to gesture down the length of her, as he hisses, “Because, even though you look like the goddamn Stay-Puft Marshmallow Monster, I am still having a very, very hard time not going over there and kissing you senseless. That’s why.”

For a moment, she blinks at him. Slowly, one side of her mouth pulls down in a slight frown and she tries to look down at the ridiculous monstrosity that is her blanket-body, with very little success. Disappearing further into the depths of the blankets, she grumbles, “I look like the guy from Ghostbusters?”

“Absolutely.”

It’s gotta be some kind of cruel joke that he’s hard in a situation like this. That he’s actually turned on by the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Because that’s what it is. Ridiculous.

She’s wandering around his apartment, trapped in a blanket prison of her own making and desperately trying to convince him that they can share the bed, and all he can think about is that he would take great pleasure in helping to free her from the blankets.

Because of course he’d help her escape. But only far enough for him to eat her out. Spread her thighs wide, circle her clit with his tongue and sink his fingers deep into her cunt. Make her squirm and writhe and gasp his name. And only when her back is arching off the bed and his name is a ragged breath drawn through grit teeth-

Only when she’s so close to coming that he can feel her clenching down on his fingers and she begs him not to stop-

Would he stop. Pull his fingers from her core and his face from between her thighs. Work to free the rest of her from the blankets, and press a gentle trail of kisses along sweaty collarbone and throat and ask her what she wants. Make her tell him exactly what she wants him to do.

And he’d do it. Anything she asked of him, would be hers.

But, as he’s not even allowing himself to kiss her tonight, finger-fucking is definitely out of the question.

“But you still want to kiss me? Even if I’m Stay-Puft?” The voice that seems to originate from somewhere deep in the blankets is hopeful. Excited. Entirely too cute and not at all good for the health of his heart.

Or his cock.

“Desperately.” He rubs a hand down his face, pausing only long enough to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose as he offers up a deep sigh, “Which is actually pretty confusing for me, because I love that movie and not once have I thought about fucking the marshmallow monster, until tonight.”

The blanket-monster still taking little stumbling steps about his living room as she tries to navigate her way over to him, giggles, low and breathless, like what he’s just said is completely scandalous; then, as the words and what they must really mean settle in, she stops walking and slowly turns her face-hole - now filled with a wild, tangled mess of red hair, instead of her face - towards him. Or, at least, mostly towards him.

She whispers, entirely too seductive for a woman who’s just referred to herself as ‘Stay-Puft’ and is hopelessly trapped in a blanket-burrito. “So you’ve thought about fucking me, then?”

“I-” by some small miracle, the truth dries up on his tongue before he can speak it; before he can tell her about how often he’s thought about it, or confess that, if she wanted him to, he’d more than happily fuck her right now - blankets and all. Instead, he teases, “I think it’s time for you to go to bed, Stay-Puft, before I do something else incredibly stupid.”

The face-hole that’s not filled with a face, droops. “Are you going to come with me?”

Don’t do something stupid. Don’t do something stupid. Deep breath.

Don’t do something stupid.

Though he knows she can’t see him right now, he smiles at her. Or, at least, tries to. It’s too tight and threatens to shatter if he pushes it much farther. Break and spill the real answer he’d like to give her, instead of the one he needs to give her.

His heart starts to wail in his chest - begging him to reconsider and to just pretend that the light wandering in through the windows is daylight and not pollution from the great big city outside. That the hum in his veins isn’t alcohol, it’s just his desire for her.

He rubs at the back of his head and whispers, “Much as I’d like to, you already know I can’t.”

The blanket lump that is Shirayuki, does a weird little hiccup thing, like she’s trying to shrug from somewhere deep in the monster’s guts. “Then I guess you’re sharing the couch with Stay-Puft.”

“Shirayuki.” Her name is a breathless chuckle. A weak and hopeless plea.

What little resolve he did have is quickly going up in flames, just like the Stay-Puft monster had, only minutes after his big entrance.

Doing her best to both toddle her way closer and wiggle her way back up the blanket-tunnel in search of her face-hole, Shirayuki sighs, almost mocking. “O-bi.”

Another wobbling step and she’s close enough for him to reach out and grab. Close enough to let hesitant hands sink into the blankets, somewhere around where her hips should be, and hold her steady as she continues to squirm and wriggle her way back up through the twisted, mangled burrito.

“You’ll sleep a lot better in the bed.” He rumbles, giving her one last chance to change her mind. To take his bed and leave him on the couch until morning. Leave him out here with only a scrap for a pillow and thoughts of her, until the alcohol finally leaves their veins and they can try this again tomorrow, without the added risk of forgetting or regretting due to too much drink.

Face finally emerging, red and sweaty and with hair plastered across her cheek and forehead, she beams up at him, heartbreakingly beautiful, “So will you.”

“Yeah.” He agrees, resolve almost entirely non-existent. Breathing in so deeply his lungs are at risk of exploding, he gently pushes back great waves and globs of his blankets, exposing more and more of her face. “Probably.”

The sleepy, utterly content smile she wears is one he’s not sure he’ll ever tire of seeing; and it’s right now, in this moment, with her wrapped up in his blankets like the goddamn Stay-Puft monster, smiling up at him with all the softness and warmth belonging to a ray of early morning sunlight, that he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she’s his person. That this is it for him. All his life, it feels like he’s been searching for her and, suddenly, here she is.

And she is so much more than he ever could have hoped to have for himself. So much more than he’s ever thought he was worthy of. To speak of his love and adoration for her would be to go on forever. He would become a poet, describing the warmth found in every sunrise. A painter, trying to capture the beauty of a changing world with simple brushstrokes. And, still, he would have more to say. More to paint.

She makes him want to be so much more than he is. To be the kind of man she’s deserving of.

The kind of man she’s waited almost a decade for.

“I promise, nothing will happen. We’ll just sleep.” Oblivious to his thoughts and naive to the way she’s effortlessly claimed his heart for the rest of his days, innocent, wide emerald blink up at him as she works to reassure him. “Morning will come soon enough and-” something flickers in her gaze, too quick for him to place, and she stammers as a blush works to fill in the spaces between her freckles. “A-And I’ll, uhm, m-make you breakfast, if you’d like!”

“I’ve never looked more forward to a sunrise in all my life.” His chuckle is a weak rasp, like the last bits of his resolve are dead leaves carried on the wind. Trembling fingers brush the hair from off her forehead and, for only a heartbeat, he dares to press his lips against her brow.

She leans into the kiss; her sigh, making it sound like he’s just made her the happiest little blanket creature to ever live. “Let’s go to bed, Obi.”

Another deep breath. He nods. “Okay.”

_____

Bathed in the murky moon and city lights filtering in from his window, nestled beneath the blankets, and only visible from her nose up, Shirayuki yawns. Cold toes press against his shins. Small, gentle hands rest atop his heart. Her fingers thrum and she whispers, like she’s about to share a secret with him and fears the shadows may overhear. “Can I ask you something?”

It takes him a minute to fish his voice out from his stomach and when he finally does, it’s barely there. Hardly even a sound. “Sure.”

“Earlier tonight, did you...” Green search gold for a long, heavy and quiet moment, before she finally dares to ask; a ribbon of hurt - of worry - laced through her words. “Did you really think I’d be upset or angry with you, for not wanting to do anything intimate?”

Though she’s spoken softly - gently - it’s like she’s punched him. Slugged him so hard in the stomach, he’s about to cough up his lungs or vomit. Maybe both. “I, uhm-”

Things he’d rather not think about-

Moments, he’s tried to forget-

Unwelcome memories that make his heart tremble and squirm around in his chest-

They all start to gurgle up to the surface of his mind. A flood, from a broken dam.

Memories of mornings spent in screaming matches, while he frantically tried to get ready for work, dodging remotes, books and coffee-mugs being hurled across the room at him, because he had the nerve to push her away - reject her - when she tried to blow him, 5 minutes before he had to leave.

Of showers he almost never had the luxury of taking himself; because as soon as the water started, she'd come wandering in, wearing a hungry grin on painted lips. Her clothes scattered down the hallway behind her, like a snake who’s shed its skin. And beneath the scalding water, she’d rake sharp nails down his chest. Bite at his neck and take his cock into her hand, pumping until he grew hard enough to fuck her. Every time he’d tried to turn her away - ask if he could have a few minutes to himself, or suggest they skip the sex and just shower - he’d come out to find most of his clothes flung off the balcony. All of his boxers and favourite shirts, caught in the trees below.

Nights where he’d only just stumbled through the door after a 14-hour shift - wanting nothing more than to take a shower, alone, and pass out - only to suddenly find his pants yanked halfway down his thighs, and long acrylic nails trailing along his shaft and cupping his balls. The coat-rack in the hallway, biting into his back as she growls at him that he’s late. That she’s been waiting. Kisses stolen from tired lips trying to say ‘not tonight’, all while he’s led down the hallway with her hand gripped tightly around his cock like it’s some kind of goddamn leash, and-

“I-It’s, uhm-” he chokes, desperately trying to stop the flood. To keep the memories from drowning him. “It’s hard to explain, but-” he can’t explain. Not well. Not the way he wants to. And, worse, Shirayuki thinks this is somehow her fault. Thinks that his reaction earlier had something to do with her. Fuck. He needs to tell her. Tell her something. Anything. She needs to know it’s not her fault and-

And still, he can’t find the words to explain. Doesn’t know how to sift through these memories and make them make sense.

How does he make this make sense?

Anxiety trickles down his throat. Sinks its claws deep into his heart. Makes it difficult to think straight.

The hands on his chest curl slightly. Tone questioning. Concerned. “Obi?”

“Before you, there was, ahh-” gasping, like he’s not taken a deep breath for a year, a cold sweat breaks out across his brow. He just needs to get the words out. Say something to let her know that she didn’t do anything wrong. That it’s just the past, haunting him. A ghost he can’t bury. “There was this woman and she, uhm-” his stomach clenches so violently his head spins and, before he can pass out or throw up in front of Shirayuki, he starts to struggle with the sheets. Starts trying to wrestle himself up and out of bed. “I-I’ll be right back, I’ve gotta, haaa-”

“W-Whoa, Obi-” alarmed and already half-sitting, tiny hands fist in his shirt, aiming to hold him steady and stop him from flailing. Keep him from throwing himself up and out of bed so he can go lock himself in the bathroom again. “It’s okay.” Voice edged with heartbreak and dripping with confusion, she coos, “You’re okay. I promise. You’re safe.”

“I-” his chest heaves. The scar carved into him, burns and aches as his heart pummels against it. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Shhhh. It’s okay. Breathe, Obi.” The hands in his shirt - hard fists against his chest - tremble as she holds on a little tighter. “I need you to breathe.”

The sharp and ragged breath he takes spends hardly a moment in his lungs, before it slips back out as a hiss. Same as the next. And the one after that. They’re shallow and fleeting, instead of deep and calming, but-

But it must be enough for her, because she whispers, “Good. That’s it. Just breathe.”

Long before it even registers in his brain that he’s stopped trying to wrench himself free of the blankets-

Before he’s even realized that - while his muscles are still tense and ready to carry him as far as he needs to go to get away from these memories - he’s starting to relax and his breaths are evening out-

Shirayuki cautiously rests a hand against his cheek. Coaxes him into looking at her, with a kind of gentleness he’s still not used to. A gentleness he’s not sure he’ll ever really be used to, but one he desperately needs.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.” Emerald green - wide with worry - flicker and flit across his features, and she speaks so softly that if he didn’t see her lips moving, he might not even realize she’s talking. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. We can just lay here.”

With his throat so swollen it hurts to swallow and his heart rattling around within him like it’s the marble in some kind of fucking pinball game, he’s pretty sure he’s far beyond being capable of using his words right now, so instead, he nods stiffly. Lost in the depths of her green gaze and slowly easing beneath her soft, reassuring touch, he tries to gain control over his breathing. Stop the flood and bury the memories, far out of reach. Banish the ghost with her cruel laugh and malicious grin.

“I’m sorry, Obi.” Shirayuki’s lip wobbles. Eyes water and glisten. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I just thought-” a single tear snakes its way down her cheek when her eyes flutter shut and she leans in to press a lingering, featherlight kiss to his forehead; her thumb brushes tenderly along the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “I never meant to hurt you...”

There have been many ‘firsts’ tonight.

First time he’s been proudly introduced and spoken of as a boyfriend. First time he’s told someone he’s in love with them and meant it. First time he’s ever considered fucking Stay-Puft.

And this is the first time someone has said those words-

Has told him that they didn’t mean to hurt him-

Where he’s actually believed it...

Breathing growing slightly erratic, chest about ready to split open and present his heart to her like it’s some kind of ring-box, he nods once more, shuts his eyes and winds his arms around her middle.

A hot and shaky breath against his hairline, and a moment later, Shirayuki returns his embrace; looping her arms around his shoulders and burying her fingers in his hair, she works to tuck his head beneath her chin as she coos, hushed and thick, “You know, if we were sober, I’d tell you, again, how much I love you… how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Obi trembles. A pained and pathetic whimper crawls out from his throat and shaky hands fist in the back of her shirt. Hold her closer as he nuzzles his nose into her neck and breathes her in. Steadies and grounds himself, with just her presence.

She doesn’t say anything more, but she does hum. It’s little more than a soft rumble in her chest. A comforting vibration against his nose as the sound makes its way up her throat.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that for; with him curled into her, holding onto her like she’s a life-preserver and he’s lost at sea, caught in the middle of a storm; and her, lulling him to sleep, humming a song he doesn’t know, with her fingers gently winding through his hair and rubbing smooth circles across his back.

What he does know is that, as his limbs grow heavy and sleep settles over him as a warm, thick blanket, one more ‘first’ tacks itself onto the list.

It’s the first time he falls asleep, wrapped up in the arms of someone who actually loves him.

#guiltyobiyuki22 #day 2 #lemon #obiyuki #ans #akagami no shirayukihime #soulm8 #timer au #tw: mentions of past assault/sexual assault/abuse

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