Manga panel redraw requested by @gbeebs26 back in… april? Maybe. Lol. At least I finally finished it aaaaaaaaaaaah, and it gets to be my second event art for guiltyobiyuki22~
It’s been a long year for the second year running, and we here at the comm have felt exceptionally fortunate to have so many people keeping up with the breakneck pace of our challenges. So this year we thought we might do something a little different; something a little more low-key than our usual: and Guilty Projects Challenge.
From December 31, 2021 to January 2, 2022, we are giving you the opportunity to wrap up the WIPs in relegated to the darkest recess of your hard drives, or give you the excuse you need to get hopping on the project you’ve been waiting for. There are technically no rules for what these can be, other than that they must be obiyuki-- or at least part of an obiyuki work.
But since we know there is nothing quite so scary as an project where you can pick any topic, we’ve made some themes for the days along with some potential possibilities for how you might like to approach them. You may take those suggestions if you like, or you may disregard them entirely and just post what you’re working on-- there’s no wrong way to play when it comes to your Guilty Projects 😄
Day 1: Endings
An Obiyukiweek post you didn’t quite finish in time-- or never managed to start
The last chapter of a fic you keep putting off finishing
The final rendering of a sketch you always meant to go back to
Day 2: Beginnings
A space from an Obiyuki AU Bingo board (doesn’t have to be your own)
An idea you meant to use but never had the opportunity to work on it
A prequel to a piece you already posted
Day 3: Second Chances
A trope that never reached the Final Four in Trope Madness
And idea based on a past manga chapter that got jossed before you could get to it
A redo of a past work
Dates: December 31, 2021-January 2nd, 2022
Tag: #guiltyobiyuki22
[Guidelines beneath cut]
Guidelines:
All work must be your own (eg. no plagiarizing other sources, tracing, pose stealing, etc)
The main pairing is Obi x Shirayuki
Must be tagged #guiltyobiyuki22 within the first five tags
With Tumblr’s tagging system on the fritz, please also @ snowwhite-andtheknight in your entry
Please label with the day’s number!
All NSFW content must be tagged and under a Read More!
Hug Lessons, submission for day 3 of guiltyobiyuki22 - Second Chances: idea based on a previous manga chapter~ @snowwhite-andtheknight
Many moons ago we had a discussion on Discord joking about Obi's apparent inexperience with hugging, curtesy of chapter 57's 'hugging Shirayuki good-bye' scene, and about how if Shirayuki were to try to teach him how to hug he would end up accidentally using various fighting moves on her.
I vowed then and there to draw Shirayuki teaching him how to hug, and now, many moons later, I have done so.
…It ended up being more of a self-defence lesson for Shirayuki.
“You're much sweeter than me by far
You're much stronger than me
You know you are
Whether you see Summer, Winter or Fall
When I look at you I see them all
You'll never know dear how much you breathe
Strength and courage into me
And as the day comes closer to an end
I find no reason to pretend
On a day much quieter than this
I will hold your hand and kiss your face
I think it's imperative you know that I am
Not about to
Not about to let it go”
-Sweeter Than Me / No Reason to Pretend / Not About To, Aaron Sprinkle (for Day 1: Endings by @snowwhite-andtheknight)
Hhhhhhh I am super late, but this is another chapter from a very old Childhood Friends AU that sprang from the “Childhood Friends” trope from the 2019 Obiyuki trope madness. There are a few more chapters to go, but it feels nice to get some momentum on this project again! I hope you enjoy, and thanks to the @snowwhite-andtheknight for the opportunity to resurrect this from the dead WIP pile!
It is light.
He learns the girl is a chatterbox, once she gets going.
Through breakfast she is quiet, gifting him her smile, but not her words. He can tell she is curious though, for her eyes keep flickering to him while she eats. He pushes distractedly at his empty mug and tries not to stare at the girl or the meal she consumes with abandon. She hums with delight at the taste (he agrees), honey smudging against her freckled cheeks and crumbs raining down on the simple linen of her nightgown. He must fail in his quest, for at some point she pulls on her mother’s skirt as she passes, and whispers something urgently. The Mystic smiles, and shortly after a second pastry appears on his plate and more sweet tea warms his cup. She disappears as he finishes the welcome addition to his meal meal, reappearing with a clean face, a simple cotton frock, and courage enough to speak to him.
“Do you want to play?”
He is surprised, but nods – he would never deny a Mystic’s request, even one so young – and they begin to play. He doesn’t know the game, but the child is more than happy to teach him.
At some point his mother emerges from her room. She smiles as she passes him, smoothing a hand over his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead before joining the Mystic at the table. Soon enough, the sounds of quiet conversation fill the room as the women chat over hot mugs of tea.
The girl chatters at him endlessly, telling him the story of the tawny-haired doll he is assigned to direct – how the doll is a gift from her grandmother who lives in the town with the big castle. She sings a song she heard men singing at her grandmother’s home, something about a lady with holes in her stockings. He thinks it sounds silly, but not nearly silly enough for how much the Mystic and his mother laugh when they hear it. She talks about her own doll, a ragdoll with brick-red hair, for which she has been given the name “Aka”. She pauses mid-chatter to stare directly at him.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
“Oberon,” he offers, and he distantly notices the women stop talking.
“O-Over-Ober-” she attempts the name a few times, then shakes her head, “Too long.” She cocks her head, and offers a compromise, “I’ll call you Obi!”
“Obi…” he repeats, lips wrapping around the unfamiliar, but dear shape of the nickname, “Okay, I can be Obi for you.”
And with that, play resumes, and he learns his own doll’s name is Shima, and that she is best friends with Aka, even if Aka sometimes steals Shima’s clothing.
(He doesn’t notice the tears that rise in his mother’s eyes as he accepts the nickname. He doesn’t realize these are the first time he has spoken since he and his mother whispered comfort to each other for bruised faces and yanked shoulders. He doesn’t notice how the adults’ topic of conversation shifts, how the Mystic’s brows furrow in concern for their predicament, nor how his mother’s voice cracks as she describes that dark day.)
They continue to play, barely pausing to inhale some sandwiches at lunch, and before he knows it the sun is setting. They all share a warm, spiced stew with crusted bread and creamy butter for dinner, and although he longs to take in each moment, his eyelids feel heavier and heavier once his belly is full. His mother smiles and lifts him in her arms to carry him to bed. The little Mystic follows along, and somehow discovers he does not have a stuffed animal for the night. Offended, she huffs and shoves a well-loved bear from her own collection into his arms with strict orders to snuggle it tightly. He does as instructed, and whatever spell the child had placed on the bear must be strong, for he is asleep almost as his head hits the pillow.
It is dark, but for the first time in weeks, his dreams are light.
Things usually got hazy between life and death. One minute she was dying, the next Shirayuki was three years old and finally able to form permanent memories. Everything in between was a wash.
It was also around three years old that she remembered her past lives, which made her a really weird kid to be around.
Right now, though, she wasn’t three. She was still eighty-five, and felt like she’d just passed away in her bed in this lifetime’s home minutes ago.
“You did.”
She sat up with a small, startled intake of breath and spun to face the man who’d just spoken to her. He stood a few feet away, his stare as cold and clinical as the impossibly white room they were currently in.
Shirayuki had a million questions, but the most pressing one to her was, “Did you just read my mind?”
The man waved a dismissive hand. “There are no secrets in heaven.”
Heaven? She felt her eyes go wide. That couldn’t be right. She hadn’t-
“Exactly,” he said. “You haven’t. Despite how many chances?”
Fourteen. This last had been her worst failure yet. Zen had barely just begun to agree to be her friend when he’d died in a car accident. They’d been nineteen. She’d had to live sixty-six years without him. At least she’d had Obi by her side for most of those, her constant companion no matter how unpredictable Zen’s presence in her life was.
“You have been favored by the gods,” the man said. “But even they have limits, and you are testing theirs.”
“How?” Shirayuki asked, confused and vaguely frustrated. It wasn’t her fault Zen kept dying. If anything, that was on the god who were patting themselves on the back for giving her the opportunities to be with him.
A corner of the man’s lips quirked up, a show of humor there and gone so quickly she couldn’t even be sure she’d seen it in the first place.
“Is it wise to place blame on gods in their own kingdom?” he asked mildly.
“I don’t care about kings or gods,” Shirayuki said. “I care about Zen.”
This time, he didn’t try to hide his amusement. One corner of his lips tilted upwards as he said, “We are not meant to interfere with human lives, you know.”
“Why did you, then? With mine?”
“Eternity is long.”
“So you’re bored.”
His lip curled a little higher.
“We are not meant to interfere with human lives,” the man said, “and we are especially not meant to guide them after they’ve failed to listen to what we have been telling them for, what was it, sixteen times now?”
“Fourteen.”
“The gods are getting restless. You have taken our gift, but are refusing to use it properly.”
She frowned, uncomprehending.
“Think of-”
Shirayuki was a toddler. She was a toddler for the fifteenth time. And the last thing she remembered from her past life was a baffling conversation with a god.
Chubby, clumsy hands reached for oversized building blocks. What were gods to a three-year-old anyway? She could sort that conversation out after her brain had developed past addition and proper sentence structure. Right now, she had a castle to build.
Her brain was on Calculus and essays by the time she met Obi again.
The campus coffee shop was absolutely packed after her first class of the day, but she was fine with a line so long as she got something large, iced, and caffeinated. It was already pushing 90 degrees and the air conditioning in Blake Hall was on the fritz; she was definitely going to need something to get her through her next two classes.
She was debating trying something new or going for classic iced coffee when she felt eyes on her. She skimmed past the man with an arm draped casually over the open chair next to him, slouched low in his own seat. Her attention snapped back to him when she registered the fact that she knew those warm eyes that were almost always sharper than his lazy, relaxed body language. Her stomach flipped over in excitement and surprise. She’d always met Zen before she ran into Obi. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to expect the routine of Zen-before-Obi until Obi had changed the game. It was a specialty of his, really. For all that he was a steady, dependable presence in her life, he made sure to change things up every once in a while. It kept life fun, and she always missed his unique brand of zest until he showed up and distracted her from the more mundane parts of her days with his casual chaos.
She gave up her spot in line to make her way through the throng of loitering students over to his table, slid into the chair next to him - her only choice, really, since the other two chairs were occupied by apparent strangers who didn’t so much as glance up from their laptops when she sat down - and said, “Hi. I know you don’t know me right now, but we’re going to be very good friends.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching in suppressed amusement, and said, “That has never worked, you know.”
Shirayuki blinked.
“What?” she asked after a moment of attempting to parse his words.
Too casual to be anything but an act, he said, “You always promise we’re going to be friends, and you’re right, but you gotta boil the frog a little first. Buy a girl dinner. You can’t just come in hot like that.”
What? It sounded like- like he remembered. But that wasn’t possible. He never remembered. Neither did Zen, nor any of the others. She was the only keeper of their past.
His smile grew as she worked out what he was telling her, full of amusement and fondness, eyes sparkling as he watched her unravel his secret in real time. It was the kind of expression built on shared history.
“You,” she said, trying and failing not to hope, “remember me?”
“Remember you, Miss?” he asked with feigned surprise, even as his oldest nickname for her gave the game away. Then, softer, he said, “I don’t know how I was ever able to forget.”
He was hers again. Immediately. She didn’t have to spend months - years - regaining his trust this time. The sheer relief that washed over her was almost overwhelming in its intensity. Without conscious thought, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could with their knees awkwardly in the way.
“I’m so happy to see you,” she said into his collarbone. “I’ve missed you.”
After a brief pause, she felt his arms wind around her back. Almost too soft to be heard over the din of the coffee shop, he said, “I’ll always come back to you.”
Written for the first day of the Guilty Project challenge! This one was supposed to come out for Obiyukiweek this year-- the free day, as per usual-- but I just had too busy a schedule in August and September to make it happen, especially when it seemed like this part of the fic would grow out of control once again!
[Read on AO3]
Shirayuki should be sleeping.
She had every intention to after Obi murmured his last goodnight. Her whole body hummed through the hang up, savoring the way his voice raked over the gravel in his chest, but it was hardly the first time. There’d been plenty of nights post-rehearsal where she spent the whole walk home thinking about something he said-- no, the way he’d said it in the dark of the backstage, sitting on that couch, conspicuously not touching. Entire hours where she wondered why her fingers trembled and her brain felt numb, running over the precise pitch he said kid.
Sure, the answer’s obvious now, but still-- she’s used to it passing. The whole time she winds her headphones, finding a safe place to put them on the bedside table, dreams seem only a blink away, all this nebulous tension destined poof into the ether like a cartoon cloud once her head hits the pillow.
Yet as she watches the minutes tick past midnight, and the dull ache that he’d left between her legs blossoms into a soaked, trembling need. For what, Shirayuki won’t even let herself contemplate.
You didn’t come, did you? It wasn’t a purr when he asked, but there’s no use telling her head that, not when every neuron is hell-bent on inventing words to put in his mouth too. You want me to handle that for you?
Shirayuki stifles a groan into poly-fil. Maybe he hadn’t said it, but he would have, if she let him. Which she just-- should have. Sure, it might have been mortifying to contemplate, but sandwiched between Senior Day and sexual frustration, the mortifying ordeal of being known (as horny) is a cheap price to pay for a body that can fall asleep on command.
But now she’s stuck; hoping that this terrible frustration might yield to fatigue sometime before night turns into morning. That instead of laying here, trying to distract herself with brain-ticklers from the Mathlete study guide, she dozes off, doomed to unsatisfying dreams filled with fluttering curtains and nondescript bodies rubbing against each other. Fade to black material, Kihal would tease her, even in your own wet dreams.
It’s the only kind of material she has; all her concrete knowledge of Obi is above the waist, and though he’s done some, um, exciting things beneath her skirt, it’s not like she’s ever seen any of it. At least, nothing that isn’t his eyes, peering up from where fabric’s rucked back, meeting hers as his tongue flicks out to--
Haah, that is-- that’s not helping. Not when she can’t just reach down and get herself off with the way Obi does. Instead she’s on her own, waiting until--
The table rattles, and her phone's display shining bright in the dark. Her heart leaps into her throat-- maybe?-- and sinks when she sees 92˚F Sunny/Clear. Ugh. At least she can be consoled by the nice weather when she’s sleep deprived from lack of-- of jacking off. No, jilling off? It would be nice if someone could give her a glossary, so she can at least explain with precision why she’s failing sexy culinary school.
Her hands clap over her eyes, but it’s no use, she can already hear Obi’s playful lilt, the way he’d almost certainly tell her, you know, if you need some help with technique, I’m happy to observe. Maybe provide some hands-on training. Proctor your exam...
She snorts. Little good that does her now, when he’s in bed, and she’s got to deal with this all on her--
Shirayuki blinks, hands dropping to the mattress. Her phone sits silent, screen dark now, but maybe...maybe...
Maybe she doesn’t.
Her fingers hover mere millimeters away from the screen protector, one curled corner tickling her smallest knuckle. She shouldn’t, really. It’s bad enough that she’s suffering, she doesn’t need to drag Obi into it. He’s going to be behind the wheel tomorrow, which requires things like sleep and concentration and not having stayed up until the wee hours talking your hopeless girlfriend through her perfectly normal sexual arousal. It’s not like he can do anything about how all she has is her own, fumbling hands.
That doesn’t stop her from asking, Are you up?
No answer. Not after two seconds, not after ten. Because unlike her, he’s asleep; wrung out and sated from how she-- she--
God. His moan is too vivid to be just in her head. I would have come for you anytime.
I’m stuck, she adds for good measure. Maybe luck will be on her side, and he’ll get up to pee sometime in the night, and she’ll...
She’ll die from waiting that long. Or at least, it’ll feel like it tomorrow morning, when all she has is two hours of vaguely dissatisfying sleep to go off of.
Options, Shirayuki must admit, are limited. Her fingers pluck at the smooth cotton of her waistband, lifting until she sees the barest shadow of auburn. There are plenty of people who can handle their own sexual needs without the use of a partner or, er, other accoutrements. In theory, she could be one of them.
But that’s not what the data says. Her waistband snaps back into place, leaving the barest flush of red across her belly. Without any natural aptitude, her next most obvious recourse is to bring her problems to google, but, er, well-- even if Kihal finally showed her how to clear her cookies, she’d never live down having this in her search history. Sure, all Grandad knows how to do on a computer is play solitaire, and if Nanna knew about search history then she’d know enough to use bookmarks too, which hasn’t happened no matter how many times Shirayuki has begged but--
She can’t risk it. Not unless she wants to be grounded forever. She’ll just have to figure it out on her own, like climbing trees, or reading. Maybe the data doesn’t favor a positive result, but history has shown: if she wants something bad enough, she’ll get it done.
(”God.” It leaves him on a groan, low enough to rumble straight from his chest into hers. Her lips feel swollen, raw from where his stubble’s scraped them, but that doesn’t stop her from wanting to draw him back. “And you thought you needed someone to teach you how to kiss?”
Her breath stutters, breasts crushed so close against his chest she nearly has cleavage. “Well, you laughed the first time.”
“Because you were braced for mouth-to-mouth warfare.” The ghost of a grin cants his lips-- her thighs clench tight, flexing against the flare of his hips.“But after that...”
One hand cups her cheek, palm hot against her jaw. It’s hard to look at him when he’s this close, the amber of his eyes shining gold as they drop to her lips. “I-I’m a fast learner. And...” Heat flares painfully under her skin, pinching at her ears. “I had a good tutor.”
“Well, sure.” His smile is positively insufferable; a bold move when he’s already hard against her hip, one squiggle away from incoherence. “But there was definitely some natural talent at play, kid.”
His thumb skates across her skin, only stopping at her lips. They tingle, more from anticipation than touch. If Shirayuki’s being honest-- which she always is, except when Nanna asks if everyone is decent when she comes up the stairs-- the rest of her body isn’t doing much better. “A-aah?”
“I think...” The pad of his thumb catches on her bottom lip, drawing her mouth open, loose-- and emptying her head in the process. “You could have gotten those results with anyone. Guess I’m just lucky you knew I’m easy.”
He laughs when he says it, that quick little wounded chuckle he’s so good at hiding behind. It’s as good as a cold shower. Her hands are trapped beneath his shoulder, but she brings them as far north as the can, gripping his ribs. “That’s not true.”
Obi blinks, the smooth molten honey cooling to a confused amber. “Sure it is, kid. I mean, I’m not mad or anything. Worked out just fine in my opinion.”
“No, I didn’t-- I didn’t pick you because you were easy. I mean, because I thought you were easy. Not that I did!” It’s good she’s already got him in her hands, because otherwise he might feel the way they trembled. “I went to you because I trusted you. Zen laughed when we kissed the first time, and I couldn’t-- I knew--” words have always been her most constant companions, but for some reason, she can’t make them come out in order-- “you wouldn’t.”
“Ah...” he huffs, amused, rolling onto his side. “Well, looks like you were wrong about that.”
There’s far too much space between them. “I wasn’t, not really. You laughed, but it wasn’t...at me.”
He stares at her like she’s started spouting Latin. Or Joyce. “Of course not. I was just nervous as fuck. I really wanted...”
It’s obvious what he wanted, now. But even still he can’t say it, only sit there, tense, as his skin flushes darker. Back then she would have missed it, and now she can’t help but wonder if he’d looked just like this then, flushed and wanting while she’d been too blind to see it.
“I also thought...” Her fingers reach out, toying with the button on his henley. “I thought if I was going to ask anyone, it should be someone who was a good kisser. And I, um, knew you would be.”
“Ah right.” His mouth slinks into a smirk. “Because I’m a slut.”
Her mouth pulls thin. “No. I mean because...” If she thought blushing had been painful before, it’s worse now, heat stinging her cheeks like a slap. “Because I had, ah, thought a lot about what it might be like to kiss you.”
His jaw drops. “Me?”
“Ah...yes.” The whole night churned through her head endlessly these past few months, examined from every angle to determine how she went from practice kissing to dry humping to long-term boyfriend, if only to keep from sliding back to friends and then strangers in the same inexplicable fashion.
It took an embarrassing amount of time to conclude it wasn’t about that night. It wasn’t even about Zen’s kiss. Oh no, it was the tech couch, her bare knee rubbing against his jeans as she leaned too close, wondering about where he bought his body wash. It was how she always found a reason to touch him when she thought his shirt looked soft; how she always volunteered to do sound check just to hear him rumble in her ear, the two of them alone on the headsets. It was how with every hook up the crew dragged out of him, his imaginary partner inched a shade closer to red.
“I liked Zen,” she admits, the safest part of this terrible confession. “But I...I really wanted to kiss you. Just once. I think.”
His mouth is so wide that she can nearly see his tonsils. “So, you...?”
“Not-- not on purpose.” She breathes; something it feels like she hasn’t done in forever. “But I think if you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have even thought to go to anyone else.”
Obi stares at her, uncomprehending. “So you mean to tell me, you tricked me into kissing you?”
“I didn’t know I was!” she yelps, hiding her face. It’s too late, he’s already laughing; she can see it where she peeks through her fingers. “But...I’m pretty sure, yes.”)
Right. A breath huffs determinedly from her lungs. The only way to make good data is to generate more of it.
It’s easy for her hand to slide down the smooth plane of her belly; both summer heat and suffering makes her skin slick, slick enough that her fingers bang knuckle-first into her waistband. It’s not much of a barrier-- just a cotton drawstring that is more decorative than functional, tied into the cutest bow a youtube tutorial could walk her through after it unraveled in the wash. But it’s enough to pull her up short, blunt nails scraping at stretch cotton.
“It’s not a big deal.” Her fingers pluck at the band, letting it slap softly back against her abdomen. “Anyone can do this.”
And she better be able to, otherwise she’ll be spending Senior Day snoozing behind her sunglasses instead of having fun in the sun. Or whatever is they’re supposed to do.
That’s what decides her; one minute she’s dithering, and the next she thinks about Kihal getting curious about the bags under her eyes. What kept you up? she’d ask, unsuspecting. Shirayuki would love to think she could be vague, that somehow she could dress a lie up in the truth’s costume, but-- she knows herself too well. I got stuck would come out as a reflex, and, well...
Her hand slips beneath her shorts. Between her two options, this is sure to be less mortifying.
Last time, hair had crinkled against her palm, tying painful knots around her fingers like kudzu, but now-- now she’s soaked, everything between her thighs coated in a film of slick, and there’s nothing to stop her sliding down, nothing to stop her opening her lips and dragging fingers through them the way Obi tells her she likes. And she does when it’s his fingers, callused and slender, touch just the perfect pressure, but now--
It’s fine. Fingertips skate along her folds, teasing her slit, and it’s-- it’s okay. Not enough to make her forget it’s her hands touching her, that she’s just fumbling through the dark with nothing more than a guttering match and directions written on a napkin.
Fumbling is apropos; she’s wet but too much so, and one slow swipe careens close to her clit, sending her vision into pixels at the edge but not in a good way. How Obi manages, she’ll never know. It’s her own body and she’s hopeless.
She shifts, back hitting the pillows with a huff. It’s no use; there’s nothing exciting about it being her own hands, not like how it is when Obi touches her, every breath and brush a surprise. There must be some secret to forgetting, something everyone else is born able to do and is broken in her, because short of thinking of Obi--
Wait. Her hands still. Could she?
She’s tried before; nebulous fantasies where she shied from faces, even if every partner spoke in his same elastic voice, laughed with his warm rumble-- well, except for the few times they goaded her with a good, Shirayuki, just the way Kiki did that one time in gym class.
(She nearly apologized the next day, worrying that Obi would think she wasn’t serious, but she never made it past the first breath on that anxiety. Instead she remembers Kiki looming over her backstage, asking her to help with the billion pearl buttons on the back of her costume so she could get to the bathroom, and Kai breathing into her ear, I’d love to help her take off the dress.
His mortification is instant. She may not be able to see him over the headset, but she doesn’t need to to know he was eight shades of red already. Oh, jeeze, don’t-- don’t tell her I said that. I didn’t mean--
It’s okay, ladykiller, Obi drawls, every syllable smug. I think it’s part of the human experience to want to fuck Kiki Seiran. Or be fucked by her, he adds, thoughtful. Whatever floats your boat.)
Anything more than vague human shapes and some, er, illicit voice sampling has seemed too much, so personal, but maybe, maybe if she did--
Well, it would be nice if this overactive imagination was good for something other than providing the angle of her broken neck if she missed a stair. But if that’s the case, well-- she would definitely need some, um, inspiration, as Obi called it.
The phone slides into her palms easy; she takes a moment to look at the home screen-- No New Notifications, it reads, disappointingly-- before flipping right to the gallery.
Just a splash of tan skin on the thumbnail sets her heart to a gallop, chasing the thrill up and down her spine. Full size, she squirms, staring at his bare chest, the casual way he lounges in his chair. His gym shorts are baggy, hanging off his body without showing anything more, but-- but he was hard beneath them. He’d taken this, and then moments later came whimpering into her ear, because he-- he--
He touched himself. Even with her...reservations, there’s a part of her that’s curious, that wants to know what he looks like with his hands wrapped tight around his-- his thing. Penis. Dick? Cock. That sounded better. More, ah, literary.
She could right now-- know, that is, if she could find the courage to ask. I know its late but I was wondering if you might send me a picture of your erect penis.
No. Cock. Or was that too aggressive? It hardly matters, the second she pictures typing it, her mind stalls out, embarrassment wiping the slate clean. What would he even say to something like that.
are you sure?
Yes, that’s right. He would want to-- he’s sent them to other girls before. Not at their school, but before, when he didn’t have xbox but all the time in the world to get into trouble. At least, that’s how he puts it. He’d want to, but she has rules, and, um, a dickphobia, so he wouldn’t just...whip it out.
No, that’s not quite right. Her eyes screw shut, trying to picture it. He’s conscientious, sure, and if she asked him in person, he’d want to have a whole conversation-- or as much as his head could handle, hard as it would make him. But a picture she has control over; she could ask and just...never look. Not if she didn’t want to.
just gimme a min Smugness would radiate from the screen. If there’s one thing Obi is confident in, it’s his body. gotta make it look good u kno what i mean kid 😘
That’s closer to reality; as close as she can come without actually doing it, but it feels-- right. But also not enough, not what she wants.
u want me 2 call?
That isn’t it either. She squirms, that electric feeling trapped too far beneath her skin, net enough to set her slight. She needs more.
how ab a meet n greet 🍆
It’s too much, even for him, but she doesn’t care, not when all she imagines trembling fingers replying, yes please
5 minutes His own would have to be shaking, too, if he bothered to type the whole word. keep the window open
Ah, if she’d thought she was soaked before, she’s drenched now, hips bucking hard against the slide of her hand. That’s how he’d find her, his name already half on her lips as he climbed through the window. No, don’t stop on my account, kid...
She whines, every stroke of her fingers sending sparks under her skin. It’s still her touching herself, but he’s beside her now, breath tickling her neck. Fuck. His voice is already a wreck, his hand laying over hers, feeling every flick of her tendons as she works. Fuck, kid, you’re so wet.
He’s shirtless now too, t-shirt decorating her floor and gym shorts riding low, doing nothing to hide how hard he is against her hip. If this were real, her stomach would flip, half-fear half-arousal. She likes knowing he wants her, that his attraction to her isn’t just that she’s the first person who showed him a scrap of kindness but also based in quantifiable chemistry, but--
But there’s a part of her that’s convinced one day he’ll get bored of her being prude. That he’ll reach his limit with her ridiculous dickphobia and just whip it out, no warning at all, and she’ll--
Well, she doesn’t know what she’ll do, but she wouldn’t be coming out of it with a boyfriend, that’s for sure.
She doesn’t think about that now. No, not when all she can think of is the choked-off whimper he gave when she told him how she wanted to see him come, how he whined when he took himself in his hands and-- and--
Every inch of her is static, Obi’s phantom touch setting her to writhe beneath her fingers. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To touch him? She could take her hand and press it right over filmy material of his shorts, palm raking over the ridges of his cock.
He bucks into her hands, whine tearing from his lips. Kid...
It’d felt good to make him come tonight, to be the one that talked him over the edge. But if she was the one touch him, the one controlling how fast his heart beat in his chest...
Shirayuki doesn’t have any practical knowledge about what a penis feels like, not outside of what she’s felt against her hip as they kissed, but she can imagine. All those pictures on google hadn’t done much for her-- fleshy shafts seemed more ridiculous than arousing-- but it’s Obi. There hasn’t been a single part of him that doesn’t make her salivate, wondering what it would feel like against her. How could this be any different? How could she not want it when he’s panting beside her, name caught in his throat from just the barest touch?
I want to see it, she whines, and Obi wastes no time, yanking down his waistband with a groan that sets thunder rolling in her belly. His cock springs against her hip, and she takes it, looking down--
Only for her mind to go utterly blank. She can’t picture it, not as anything she’s seen in the harsh light of google image search. Her fingers skitter awkwardly, nearly jostling into her clit, but-- but she’s not going to lose this progress, not when she’s so close, when it would take nothing to tip her right over the edge. She screws her eyes shut, focusing on the weight in her hand, the warmth, the way his breath would hiss between his teeth as she moved her hand.
Shirayuki, he groans, hips thrusting up into her palm, don’t stop. Please...
She can’t, not now, not when she’s chasing that elusive height at the apex of her thighs, when she’s made less of flesh and more of nerves firing over and over, so close to her edge--
Please, she breathes. I want you. I want you inside--
It takes her by surprise. One moment he’s curled into her side, hissing in her ear-- you can have me, take me, please, please-- and then she tips over, static sweeping over from her head to her toes and back again, a blinding rush that only Obi’s ever given to her, until--
Until now. Her eyes blink open, fixed on the ceiling. She did it.
It’s not as good as when he touches her; nothing could be. But this...
Well, she’s no longer stuck. But now she’s have to tell Obi, and--
Ooh, kid. The thought of his grin sends a spike of want between her legs, even as she withers under it. How’d that happen?
Shirayuki flops onto her belly and groans. That’s something for Tomorrow-Shirayuki to deal with.
