#flowery fic

[pennedbylisse]

OPERATION CUPID | ep. 2

ep. 1 | ep. 3 |

wc: 4.4k

tracklist: 'halley's comet' by billie eilish

tense and POV: present and 3rd person

OPERATION CUPID Classified Excerpts

Jimin holds his phone at head-level and poses for what appears to be a selfie amidst an empty diner.

He attempts for it to be discreet, something dismissible by Namjoon marching to and fro.

The tall and broad man is far too preoccupied with restocking to notice the camera lens purposefully aimed at his frame, over Jimin's shoulder. It's not unlike him to become so hyper-fixated on a task that he blurs the surroundings. His eye sight is healthy, but prone to tunnel-vision.

It's a slow day at Halley's - has been such for a number of weeks now. What normally would be Wednesdays, which passed on as slow as molasses with the arrival of two, five, ten (if lucky) clients, had now ulcerated into slow weekends.

To a company, there's nothing as frightening as a slow Friday evening.

False comforts could be summed up with the phrase "Snow Season is the Slow Season” which they would recite to one another in the stillness. An acknowledgement of the fleetingness of seasons. A promise for a better tomorrow, of hope for prosperity somewhere in the vast horizon.

And, like the old remedy of honey for a sore throat, it would do the trick. It would soothe their unease long enough for the skies to darken, which during the winter isn't long at all.

Only the hours of daylight have started to extend with each day that's strikethrough on the calendar hung up on the wall, the chill in the weather easing with grace. There hasn’t been snowfall in weeks. 

Economic discrepancies have started to become pervasive - like cracks on a ceiling letting in rain. Drips amassing to puddles on the tile floor.

They can be ignored and evaded until you misstep and slip, landing on your tailbone, forced to face the truth of the matter. To hold its weight in its entirety and try not to cave in under the gravity.

It’s not for a lack of trying. Namjoon is as analytical as he is determined, and there’s no one more appropriate to run the diner, but even with his creative solutions, progress is scarce. 

Even if he were to lay out and repurpose a hundred kitchen containers to catch the flood, the persistent dripping would continue to echo the unspoken worries. Enough to drive anybody mad with the promise of overflow, of nearing a point of no return, a snapping point.

Problems keep materializing out of thin air, new cracks being torn across the ceiling, water dripping less sporadically, more consistently. Namjoon's having a hard time keeping the tally, though he doesn't let it show past the long hours he subjects his body to.

He justifies the severe degree of self-sacrifice and self-discipline with the generalization that such is the life of a small business owner. His grandparents, when at their prime, had made it seem almost easy.

It's been rough attempting to fill in their shoes over the past couple of years. Namjoon can't get over the feeling that he's drowning all the time.

He wonders if it'll always feel like this. If there will ever come a point where he could recline with a long-held exhale of relief, long enough to take in the progress made before diving back to tune-up the fine details.

Norah, who is significantly more discreet than Jimin, disguises her phone with her half-opened hardcover book. Though, it should be said, that in preoccupying herself with the perfect cover-up, she’s neglected the fact that her phone is not muted.

She cringes at the click of a captured image, slides down her phone along the textured surface of page 122, to collect on her lap. Shrinks into herself and apologetically bows her head in Jimin’s direction. Today, she could be the sole reason the operation blows.

Making a quick adjustment in correction, she places pressure on the metal button along the frame of her phone. The device's vibration is muffled on her lap.

But it's too late to salvage the situation.

Namjoon's head is turned her way. His analytical gaze narrows on her figure.

She turns a page, making note she'll have to go back to actually read its contents much later, when her ears aren't burning, her mind not racing.

Momentarily peering up over the frame of the book, she realizes Namjoon's gaze has laxed and lifted to look over her figure. It then rounds across the diner, sliding swiftly over vacant tables and unclaimed stools.

He stalls over Jimin, who's drawing circles over the spotless surface of a table with a tattered rag. Admittedly, the rag's in poorer condition than the table.

Namjoon's eyes narrow for a second before he averts his attention back to the task at hand - attempting to open a shipment box without slicing his fingers with the carton-cutter blade.

Nearing closing time, upon completing inventory, Norah's loading a cardboard box into a crowded storage closet. A skinny, crammed little thing with enough shelves to be repurposed for climbing like a ladder.

Her hands slowly retract around the edges of the box. She gently and measuredly presses her weight against the better half that still protrudes off the shelf, thrusts her hips once, twice, until it it shoves into place with a sigh.

Once secured, she claps her hands to rid them of gathered dust and backsteps out of the closet, all the while, maintaining her gaze fixated on its silhouette, cautious and apprehensive.

Barely blinking, her brows furrow with worry as she imagines her efforts collapsing forward onto the tiles, the contents of the box exploding. Pictures how that single disturbance could potentially bring down the rest of the crowded shelves toppling over her.

She makes herself small under the imagined outcome, rounds her shoulders into a make-shift shield, just in case.

Though her backsteps are light and delicate, she clumsily collides with something solid.

The sudden contact causes her to flinch and further shrink in on herself. Her eyes, now, though squinted half-shut from the surprise, remain cast on the wobbly shelf. The snagged and rusted nails holding it together.

Repeatedly, mantra-like, she whispers, pleads "Stay, stay, stay..."

Suspecting she'd made an error in her stepping, but without turning to confirm, she glides her booted foot towards the right and gradually shifts her weight over it, continues to retreat, but again collides with an opposing force. It's no longer startling, more of a source of great frustration.

Her suspicion grows at the coincidence of striking the force once more, and that's when her mental focus on the shelf wanes long enough for her to grow aware of the characteristically animate warmth flanking her.

A warm breath makes itself known on her nape, the way morning mist hovers glass blades during dawn. Only less graceful. It sputters.

Hurriedly, she swivels to find Jimin dissolving into a snicker, cheeks flushed rosy, the way she would envision a mischievous cherub. Love incarnate.

In this intimate proximity, her focus starts to blur. She no longer holds the image of the toppling shelves center focus, rather it obscures and falls out of frame. Replacing it are his lips, plump, round, bottom-favoring, which her gaze sporadically flutters back and forth from.

With a face commanded with startle, brows rounded and raised, eyes widened, she retreats back into the closet she'd originally been trying to escape from.

Contrarily, Jimin encroaches. He's fluid and swift, as he always is. The way he makes any interaction into choreography, contemporary lyricism. While she's solid and stiff like stone, he can't bear to be more opposite.

It seems a bit contradictory, but water holds a natural power over stone. With enough exposure, it starts to erode, to cave, to part.

Norah's frightened he's too similar to water. Too fluid. That she's eroding under his influence. It sends alarms blaring loudly within her. Abort. Flee. Escape.

Jimin lightly places a graze on her torso, in a way that's meant to reassure, and comfort, and somehow gauge a response all at once.

His gaze dances between her wide eyes, further gauging as he shuts the door behind him, albeit with a lack of gentleness compared to the way he holds her.

Norah flinches as though the slam physically hurts her when its brunt echo rattles the shelves immediately behind her and distresses dormant dust above.

It falls over her like snow.

Briefly, Jimin becomes captivated by the sight. The flurry specks dancing in the cone of light of the single bulb hanging overhead. Cascading and collecting on the top of her head.

Her round watchful eyes cast upwards at him.

The absolute privacy offered by the space. The knowledge that he'd only need to take one stride forward to be flushed against her.

It's brief, the moment, abruptly interrupted by the croak of her voice "What are you doing here?"

He clears his throat, moment gone, and digs something out of the pocket of his black apron.

An envelope.

"I did something bad."

"What? How bad?"

"It depends," he shrugs slowly, not very convincing of his innocence in the matter. Really resembles a turtle secluding into its hard shell. He wouldn't feel the need to hide if he didn't doubt his character in the moment. If he didn't suspect a scolding. "From some perspectives, it's bad, from others it's good. So I guess it depends on how you look at it."

"And, just what perspectives are those?"

"Bad-" The envelope tucked between his arm and torso, he mimics the plates of a weight-scale, cupping air in both hands on either side. He tips their height as he speaks. "- for the Namjoon that's self-sufficient and oblivious to our plan. Good - for the Namjoon who secretly wants - needs - help but can't bring himself to ask."

She holds out her hands expectantly. Attempts to assess the damage.

He places the envelope in her hold. Its face sports elegant cursive. A flower-pattern stamp on its upper corner. Exudes an aroma of lilies and something sweet like pastries. Its hem has been cleanly sliced through.

Hurriedly, as if their minutes of privacy are counted, she unfolds a letter through the cleanly sliced margin atop the envelope. Her eyes race across the page. "This is bad, Jimin."

"It's bad?" He braces a hand on his hip, feeling the sudden-onset of queasiness with the knife of guilt twisting further into his gut. "So bad-bad? As in bad from all perspectives?"

She nods, but continues to skim the writing.

"Ah, shit." He rakes his other hand through his hair, tossing it out of his sight and coming it back. "I only stepped into his office for the keys to lock the back door. I caught sight of it. My hands were on it before I could will myself against it. I couldn't put it back down, tormented with curiosity."

"Well, you should've." Concluded, she folds the letter back on its creases, stuffs it back into the snug envelope.

"That's when I heard him approach, so I panicked. When he opened the door, I stuffed it into my pocket - pure instinct - so that he wouldn't see me holding it and suspect something."

He means to pace, but the space is limited. Instead, he braces both arms against a shelf. Needs to feel reminded of something sturdy, stable, lest he hurl.

"I meant to return it, I really did. The longer I held it, I just couldn't help but think how useful it could be to know what's inside. A means to ensure both ends of communication coincide. To make sure the staged Namjoon social media discussions aren't mentioned in the letters. To...to...-" He's stammering for justifications but falling short. "Knowing what sort of things they talk about could make our play of him more like the real thing, right?"

Norah shuts her eyes and hangs her head, arms limp by her sides. "You have to dispose of it. He can never find out." She hates to rob Namjoon of the contents he likely never got to read. Hates to make this a ripped page of their love-story.

"But, why?" He turns to face her. "I could just shove it beneath the stack he keeps atop his desk."

"Namjoon rarely sponsors the impractical." Her eyes flutter open. She traces the sliced margin for punctuation. "He uses his nimble fingers to slice through his envelopes. He's haphazard, like that. Thinks it more genuine, more lived. Thinks it impractical to invest in a piece of metal whose sole purpose is to slice paper, only to misplace it when he knows he could just pop a kitchen drawer open and find the same thing, or use his fingers."

"He might not notice," he's dubious to her argument. "He's got enough things on his mind to not notice."

"Do you really want to take the chance?"

He resumes his squared position against the shelf. Feels a dense lump materialize in his throat. Tries to swallow it back, expecting the nausea to wane.

Norah voices his conscience, "We are playing with hearts here. Are you sure you want to continue?"

She can voice her loud opinion all she wants in a bid to sway him towards a desirable response, but she doesn't. She vows to be his willing accomplice.

The thing is that Jimin is more similar to Namjoon than either care to recognize. They are both over-workers with too much piled over their plates to notice the grapes that roll off the edges, bouncing on the floor by their dashing feet.

Jimin wants to find Namjoon someone to lean on.

Norah wants to be that for Jimin. It's not a spoken thing. Frankly, it might not even be that obvious to Norah herself. She just finds herself tangled up with him in the self-made chaos. Finds it good reason enough for it to be for him.

"I mean good, Nor. I really do."

"I know you do. It's just a dangerous game we’re playing. I want you to be conscious of that."

"I am."

As a consequence of being a college drop-out, who stayed complacent in his small hometown, and knocked up the first girl he ever developed feelings for, Jimin juggles two jobs on the regular, a means to an end, to adjoin paychecks with the demands of life.

He'd juggle three if sleep weren't collecting interest, indebting him at an exponential rate.

The kind of fatigue that has no decency in waiting until your face collides with the cool pillow at night. The kind that commands and gets what its due whenever, wherever, however.

Mondays through Thursdays he works at Halley's, then rushes home to spend quality time with his daughter, run groceries, comply with the daily upkeep of home and its chores.

On the weekends, when he gets off Halley's - around 5 PM - he boards the public shuttle to bartend at a local bar. That bar shift runs until midnight, sometimes later, depending on the need for coverage, and the willingness to sacrifice a couple hours of sleep for a healthy tip.

Tonight, he's heavy with fatigue, sleep debt compounded in his brain, slowing the traffic of thoughts, comprehension. Still, he doesn't let it show past the obvious taxes on his physique - sunken dark circles beneath the eyes, small capillaries angered against their whites.

He sighs, "Hey," mirroring Norah's greeting from across the apartment. Locks the door behind him with a symphony of clicks and strolls her way in a practiced sequence.

In a way that resembles a paper being folded by the grooves and creases into origami, the edges of his mouth fold into a kind, but tired smile. The kind of paper that's been folded enough times to near tearing at the next crease.

Norah's hands are steady and delicate, as is her tone. "Tired?"

"I'm ok." He always says that, though, and always drifts into deep sleep right next to her on the couch, laptop still laid on his lap.

"Should we call it a day? We can always raincheck."

"It's nothing a shower can't fix." He shakes his head, hair stirring over dim eyes. A sudden yawn commands his mouth.

Unfolding her legs and draping them over the edge of couch, she starts up. "I'll start whipping something up to keep us awake."

As she clicks the switch of the kitchen lights, and bathes in the sudden flash of illuminance, she hears the thud of Jimin's knees against the wood floor accompanied with a long-drawn sigh, "My baby Byeol."

He flushes the bridge of his nose against the plump cheek of the baby. Inhales the untarnished scent of youth, of purity, of her hypoallergenic bodywash.

He realizes he'd been wrong earlier.

A shower wouldn't fix anything, but this, this little creature could dismiss all the ache in his joints, lax all the tension held in his muscles.

"You finish that set of monarch earrings?" Jimin tosses a towel over his head, grips at the frayed ends on his nape, on his forehead, extracting excess moisture. The excited drops splatter onto the collar of his sweatshirt.

Norah lays Byeol into her crib. Combs the silky, floss-like hair at the top of her head. Grabs a baby monitor radio from the adjacent nightstand.

"Most of it-" she bites a yawn." Only need to take pictures and edit them for upload."

A sudden pop emanates from his knees as soon as Jimin crouches by the coffee table of his living room. The wooden face of it is superimposed by clutter - Byeol’s enrichment toys, baby bottles, two different sets of binkies, unopened mail, uncategorized purchase receipts and jewelry beads. 

Norah joins him, resting her weight on knees that will quickly grow sore. Starts picking at the clutter, shrinking it item by item, starting with her jewelry-making kit. 

The click of the colored bead collapsing into its plastic compartment resounds through the quiet space. It grows dense, shies away from echoing, the more beads are added. 

Jimin tears an envelope and is reminded of the day’s earlier events. Of prying open the private exchanges of Namjoon and his pen-pal girl. Parallels, only he’s not as ginger with his water bill as he was with his friend’s heart. Instead of slicing it thinly with a blade, he digs one finger into the cleft on the edge and rips haphazardly, mentally guessing how high it’ll be this month. 

He’s got his brows creased into a pinch that resembles the one at the collar of his laundered shirt. He’d always ensure to prioritize keeping up with laundry, the same could not be said about folding and sorting the laundry. Too much like Sisyphus's burden. Instead, he’d let the laundry pile on the drying racks. 

They’d be stale and stiff by the time he got around to claiming them. But at least they no longer reeked. 

Lips into a robust pout, his eyes skim the content of the letter. Quickly, urgently, not bothering to hone in on the formal headers. They land on the end of the page resolutely. He holds the amount in his vision for a second, two, shuts his eyes with the raise of his brows, and folds down the letter like an accordion. Insert it back into its envelope. 

His figure is cast in the indiscreet yellow light from the ceiling fixation. It pours over him like honey. Its shadows casted onto the sunken spaces of his under eyes.There’s a flurry of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Partly from age, partly from the sun, and partly genetic in origin. 

Though tired, his hands are steady while collecting and assorting beads. Helping her with the burden.

They huddle up on the couch once things are assorted into semi-coherent piles on the coffee table.

Norah made iced lattes to power through. From prior experience, she knows the high will only last until about 3:30 AM, which isn't too far off. So if they want to make any progress on this Namjoon operation, they have to hone in focus. Short bursts of significant productivity.

It's hard to, though, when sleep seems so much more enticing. When Jimin's warmly pressed into her side. When all she wants is to rest her head on his shoulder and let her eyelids droop.

Moisture clings to the pads of Jimin's stubby fingers from having held his drink. He mindlessly wipes them onto his shirt. Resumes impatiently pressing keys on the old laptop, attempting to start it up from the depths of inactivity.

Its every inch is covered with stickers and logos accumulated through the years. Within ten minutes, it starts to burn Jimin's lap.

He positions a cushion beneath it to remedy the problem, just as the loading circle disappears and the screen finally illuminates with the home screen.

Opening a search engine, he navigates to Instagram. Namjoon's new social profile. He'd hurl if he came to know, having been against the capitalist agenda shoved down throats by brands and trends there.

Ironically, he's a part of that capitalist economy. Makes a living off convincing people to purchase his (food) service. But he'd argue he's in the business of selling an experience, of cultivating memories, not in the greedy selling of an overpriced product.

Maybe the diner would be better off if he would only bend down, comply with the trends of the modern day, learn the language of the 21st century.

"But that's exactly what I want to gift people," he'd say, caught in the passion of his mission, eyes glassed over and distant. "Nostalgia. Pre-internet innocence. The antiquity of a used book in your hands, the texture of the stained parchment. The raw sound of a record on a turntable. The crackle of the jukebox as soon as the coin descends into its slot. Something they can only experience and live, not fabricate on their phones."

As the puppet masters, Jimin and Norah's jobs are to funnel the connection between Namjoon and his mystery girl. Act like catalysts for something that's been building at a a snail's pace over the course of months through letters. Though romantic, indirect and impractical, so Jimin views it.

He'd attempt to establish a connection with mystery girl via direct messages. Arrange for a date where her only job is to show up. Namjoon would be there, oblivious. He hasn't quite figured out the specifics of it like how exactly he'd manage to declaw Namjoon from his busy schedule long enough to take time for himself, for being idle, for exploring the town. Or how he'd keep him from turning around after catching on to the situation.

"We'll cross that bridge once we get there."

"What do we do tonight, then?" Norah sips her drink. Places it back on the ring of moisture on the coffee table. It's starting to take effect. A heat unfurling and holding in her chest, quickening her pulse. Thoughts materializing in her mind faster than she can keep track of the streams of reason.

"We start uploading the pictures we've taken of him. Make his profile believable. But not all at once because then it would seem too much like a spam account."

"This may sound entirely evil and conniving, but what if we upload a quote from the book they mentioned in the letter you tore-"

He gawks.

"You know what you did," she scolds him with a stern look that makes him shift his attention back onto the screen.

"For someone who holds herself on a high moral horse, you sure seem experienced. Hidden mastermind in there, huh?"

"Respecting your friend's privacy is not high morality. It's basic knowledge." She flicks his forehead with her middle finger.

"Alright!" he throws his head back against the couch. It rebounds lightly against the cushion. He'll never live that down. "I fucked up. I shouldn't have even stepped into the office. I should have left the back door open for anyone to sneak in."

Baby Byeol's fast asleep on the monitor propped up on the table across from the couch. Chest rising and falling in a steady but swift pace. Tiny little set of lungs working hard through the night.

The coffee is now more parts water than caffeine or milk. The contents diluted by melted ice. They'd meant to finish it, just as they'd meant to upload at least two posts, but their eyelids had grown leaden with slumber.

Norah had spiraled down a rabbit hole on the internet trying to find the perfect book quote to caption the first post.

Jimin's wrist had grown sore flexed over the keyboard. His lap had become sensitive to the heat of the cushion and the ancient machine. He'd repositioned it onto the seat beside him and their necks started to hurt instead.

Now it's possibly the darkest hour of night. The pitch-black stillness caught between dusk and dawn. Not a single sound of the activity of civilization making itself known, not even a stray car whirring outside the front windows.

Only the soft breath of Jimin on Norah's cheek.

Dimming the brightness on her phone, she confirms the time she'd suspected. Attempts to stir out of his hold without interrupting his sleep. She has to her benefit the fact that he's a deep sleeper, and that sleep's collecting its debt.

Just as she thinks she's about to get away, slip out the front door with the swiftness of a night-cloaked thief, there comes a gentle tug at her wrist.

"Stay," Jimin's voice croaks, all groggy and thick with rest. "It's too dark. Too late. Sleep here."

"That will be the third night this week. I need to visit home. Shower."

He stirs, propping his weight onto his elbow to make sure he doesn't let his eyes drift shut before he convinces her to stay. Sure, this conversation might seem hazy like a dream, ambiguous as to whether its real, but he won't take the risk of her leaving so late. "There's a bathroom here. Steal clothes from my closet. Just stay. Home will be there tomorrow."

Something in her stirs. Something about this exchange makes her think otherwise.

Home's here.

Home's him.

"Fine." She drops her bag from her shoulder.

Jimin smiles, eyes closed.

Slides off the couch. Sleep-drunk, he stumbles down the corridor leading to his bedroom. Norah follows.

He takes the opportunity to lean down and check on Byeol. An angel cast in the moonglow streaking in through the windows.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ i'm not entirely convinced with the last third of this chapter. might come back later and change alot of it but for now it is this or nothing.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ if you're a oth girly, and if you care to know, i realize jimin and norah's actions are reminiscent of brooke setting peyton up on lustfactor in S2 and i think it's hilarious that oth is bleeding into my subconscious from how much i rewatch it

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ shoutout to that clever army that once pointed out how jimin was made out of love and not a quick nut. sista, you were speaking facts!

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ the ode to jimin continues >>

[verstapdan]

writing rosquez is really hard when you’ve never perceived an italian…. much to think about…..

[dkniade]

I tried translating the description for the Tartaglia perfume in the Genshin Fragrances series (the perfume collab with Primaniacs), but I’m not fluent in Japanese so there might be grammar mistakes and nuances may be lost with word choice. So y’know, please take this with a grain of salt, and feel free to correct me!

This definitely follows the Japanese version’s characterization, haha

Character: Tartaglia

Note: NSFW/suggestive, tone is slightly dark. Translation notes have a few violent example phrases

But first, the layers of notes described on the website (in English):

Top Notes: Bergamot, Eucalyptus, Green Apple

Middle Notes: Jasmine, Orange Flower, Patchouly, Cumin

Last Notes: Floral Ozone, Nutmeg, Tonka Beans, Agarwood

-

(Would that smell nice? Does that match the vibe in the description? I’m not a perfume person, so…)

Product Description

朗らかな笑みが生む危険な光

A dangerous light that gives rise to a sunny smile

心を射貫くライトフゼアノート

A heart-piercing light fougère note

きらりと輝くオレンジフラワーの躍動感に乗せて、飄々と漂うシトラスハーバル。

A citrus herbal that drifts aloofly, matching the liveliness of a glistening orange flower.

冷ややかなパチュリの闇を背後に潜ませながらも、振り返ったその横顔にはトンカビーンズの温もりが宿り、柔らかな表情を覗かせる。

Though the chilly darkness of patchouli lurks in the background, the warmth of tonka beans dwells in that profile which looks back and shows a gentle expression.

それは心地良さと不穏な気配の、不思議なコントラスト。

It’s a strange contrast between comfort and a disturbing presence.

暗と明が放つ軽快な熱に浮かされ、どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス。

Giving off darkness and light while caught in a flash of zeal, a fragrance that puts you at his mercy completely.

If you enjoyed this, would you also like to check out how his Story Quest’s structure parallels his Character Story, how the Snezhnayan nursery rhyme is like in Chinese, and how he’s characterized in Chinese here?

——

DO PEOPLE REALLY DESCRIBE PERFUMES LIKE THIS. I understand describing the actual ingredients (?) but the rest of it is very flowery. (Update: Primaniacs seems to specialize in interpreting manga/anime/video game characters as perfumes. I read through some descriptions for their other character perfumes; this is the style they use for all of them it seems.) The first two lines sound like a shounen anime opening… but the rest is like a reader insert imagine… And what’s with that last line??

(My initial translation for the last line “暗と明が放つ軽快な熱に浮かされ、どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス” was “A fragrance that floats between a light heat emitting darkness and light, and toys with you endlessly” but after looking the words up in Weblio I think I messed up the definitions a lot.)

We really need to look up definitions for some words here… (using definitions and examples from weblio)

朗らか (ほがらか)：cheerful, bright, merry.

E.g. 朗らか微笑 (a bright smile), 朗らかに笑う (to laugh merrily)

射貫く(いぬく)：to shoot through (a wall, the heart, etc.); to go through; to pierce; to hit (e.g. the bull's-eye)

躍動感(やくどうかん)：energetic feeling; sense of liveliness; vigor

潜む(ひそむ)：lurk (in, behind, under). E.g. 物陰に潜む (lurk in the shadows)

振り返る(ふりかえる)：look/turn around; (physically) look back (at)

柔らか（やわらか)：velvety (e.g. voice), tender, (physically) soft, mellow

-

—velvety?? 柔らかな表情… 表情 means expression, so, “tender expression”? “Gentle expression”? (Looks back at item description.) I feel like I’m reading a M-rated reader insert vignette.

-

心地よい(ここちよい)(adj.)：comfortable; pleasant

心地良さ(ここちよさ)(noun.)：comfort

不穏な(ふおんな)：disquieting, unpeaceful

e.g. 不穏な犯罪 (a disturbing amount of crime), 形勢不穏なり (The outlook is grave.)

Hm.

-

And now, the last sentence:

-

放つ(はなつ): (of a light or fragrance) give out/off; send out; put forth; emit

芳香を放つ (send forth fragrance; smell sweet)

軽快な(けいかいな)(adj.)：lightweight, light

e.g. 軽快な手(a facile hand), 軽快な挙動(agile/nimble movements)

熱(ねつ)：heat, temperature; fever; enthusiasm

Oh, it could also mean enthusiasm?

浮かす(うかす): to float, to get up (?), to save (money), to be on the mind (??)

e.g. 熱に浮かされる(to be delirious)

Note: this is the same wording used in the perfume description

So “軽快な熱に浮かされ” isn’t “floats between a light heat” but rather something like “caught in a flash of zeal”…?

-

どこまでも: anywhere; in every point, thoroughly; persistently

e.g. 彼はどこからどこまでも武士だ (He is every inch a samurai)

e.g. あなたにどこまでもついて行く。 (I will go with you anywhere.)

e.g. どこまでも目的を変えるな. (Keep to your purpose.)

翻弄される(ほんろうされる): (for people) be made a fool of (by)

e.g. 『源氏物語』に登場する玉鬘も数奇な運命と自らの美しさが引き起こす騒動に翻弄され続けた女性である。(Tamakazura in "The Tale of Genji" is also at the mercy of her fate due to the incidents triggered by her hapless fate and beauty.)

風波に翻弄される: to be toss about by wind and waves

e.g. 船は狂瀾怒濤に翻弄された (The ship was tossed about by the ranging waters)

e.g. 船は翻弄されていた。(The ship was at the mercy of the waves.)

-

The ship examples sound way more sexual than the other example sentences on the page involving (heterosexual) humans huh

-

There’s no doubt a sexual undertone with this last sentence. “Messed with”… “endlessly”/“thoroughly”… “at the mercy of”…

-

“どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス”

“A fragrance that toys with you endlessly”…?

“A fragrance that puts you completely at (his) mercy”?

“A fragrance that makes you completely submerged in him”?

using “submerged” to evoke the image of waves and water

But, that’s probably not the intention of the product description, and I’m just having fun here

“暗と明が放つ軽快な熱に浮かされ”…

“A fragrance that gives off darkness and light, caught in a flash of zeal”…

…“どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス。”

…“and puts you at his mercy completely”…?

-

“Giving off darkness and light while caught in a flash of zeal, a fragrance that puts you at his mercy completely.”

-

(Putting this together is.. oh my, lmao. That is about the most erotic perfume description I’ve ever read, and for Tartaglia of all characters🤣 I’d like to imagine this as a battle, but that doesn’t work for him either—in the Chinese version.)

[lushrue]

ghoap angst inspired by "little brother" from the outsiders

tw: blood, depictions of grief, light gore

thirty-eight hours, fifty-two minutes, and nineteen seconds.

that’s how long they’d been on this stakeout from hell. holed up in some hostel in moscow, waiting for any sign of makarov peeking his grubby head out so they could cut it off in one fell blow. it wasn’t like they hadn’t done things like this before. 141 had gone on plenty of recon missions that required sitting still for much longer than this. give any of them the command to stay at heel and they’d obey until the inability of their body overpowered the iron will of their mind. 

this time was different though. there was a tension in the air that’d been there since the first deployment as a team of 3. a thick cloud hung over them, weighing down their shoulders and pulling on the bags under their eyes. to anyone who’d seen them before what they were calling “the mission”, they wouldn’t recognize them now. gaz had stubble on his cheeks, his jade-colored eyes shining a little less brightly than before. price was almost uncertain in his movements, his confidence rocked to its core. and simon? he wasn’t simon anymore. he hadn’t told a joke or made a witty remark since that day, and he intended to keep it that way.

it felt wrong to be lighthearted without johnny around. there were times that simon had tossed and turned in his bed, wondering if johnny was disappointed in him for losing himself like this. johnny had loved his jokes. maybe that’s why he didn’t want to tell them anymore. it was too stark a reminder when two laughs echoed through his headset instead of three. he was practically silent now, only speaking when required and even that was a struggle. 

ever since his death, simon had been walking around with a gaping hole in his chest. it was a wound he’d thought long closed by time, but now, it felt as fresh as the day he’d first noticed it. the stench of rotting flesh, of grief, wafted off of him, warning others to keep their distance. he felt like everyone could see it, this incompleteness in him. the hole that johnny had nestled himself into and put down roots. he’d never admit to anyone how painful it had been when those roots were yanked up.

another sip of watered-down coffee brought simon back to the present, back to the shithole they were camped in. the whole place smelled like piss, the air stale and stagnant. he felt price nudge his shoulder and he looked up, eyes bloodshot and heavy. “i’ll take watch,” he said, voice gentler than simon was used to. could the captain see the way his soul was so raw it glowed red? could he feel the weight like a stone around his ankle threatening to pull him under? “go get some rest, simon.”

he didn’t want to. sleeping was scary now. it was a chance for his regrets to rise up and wrap around his limbs, inky tendrils squeezing the life out of him until he felt like a shell of a man. he should have told him he was a good soldier, should have thanked him properly for his help in las almas, should have told him he loved-

simon gave a curt nod, hand tightening around the paper cup he held as he relieved his post. john took his place, sinking down into the chair and grabbing the binoculars. simon knew john was just as upset as the rest of them. he felt like the captain almost had more of a right to be, had told himself as much when the sadness was so heavy that he couldn’t drag himself out of bed. after all, it was him johnny had died saving, his life that johnny valued above his own. simon spared a glance back at his captain. if he looked long enough, he could see the heaviness they both shared in price’s shoulders.

all they had for beds were a couple of cots shoved into the corners of the rooms, thin things that creaked under a soldier’s weight. simon sat down heavily on his, the threadbare blanket sitting on the floor where he’d tossed it earlier. nightmares were more frequent now. visions of johnny, rotting and decomposed, came to him in his sleep. every time he closed his eyes, he could see it, this thing that claimed to be the man he loved. it haunted him, decayed flesh hanging off its bones and eyes glazed over with the film of something no longer alive. he’d seen those same hazy eyes in the rabbits he’d killed with his father as a young boy. “all for a good cause, simon,” his father had said. “just the way things are. when something dies, it’s to make something else better. fertilize the plants, feed a family, shit like that.”

simon didn’t know what johnny’s death had made better. the grass wasn’t greener, no one’s starving belly full. all that was there was darkness. no, simon decided. sometimes things just died for no one’s benefit. the only one who got any satisfaction was whatever cruel excuse of a higher power enjoyed tormenting simon riley like their own personal punching bag. he laid back on his cot, almost comforted by the threadbare blanket and paper-thin pillow. having things that were soft and good felt wrong when he couldn’t be sure if johnny was surrounded by soft and good things. blank brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, gaz’s cot creaking and the squeaking of the ceiling fan the only sounds in the room.

sleep came, albeit fitfully. it was blessedly dreamless, hours passing like seconds before simon’s eyes opened again. a cursory glance at the clock revealed he’d only slept for a couple of hours, and he deemed it enough. his joints creaked as he rolled off the cot, rubbing at his eyes to rouse his tired mind. he hadn’t been keeping up with his daily workouts as closely as he should’ve. johnny would’ve been upset with him for that. simon just didn’t see how he could take any pride in it when the man he was staying strong to protect was no longer there.

he stepped over to the table in the small kitchenette, relieved when price had no words for him. he couldn’t make simon go back to bed if he tried. the two of them had a tenuous understanding; john gave simon his space, and simon held no grudge against john for what happened in those tunnels. he didn’t want to blame price for what had happened, but some deeply angry part of him needed someone to pin this on. he didn’t believe in god or fate or karma, so price would have to do.

maps and pieces of intel scattered the wooden surface, marked in red pen and traced a thousand times over. they’d all pored over every single piece of paper, searching for anything that they could latch onto. makarov was a smart man and every failed lead just made the fire crackling under simon’s skin blaze hotter. he needed to crush him, destroy every single piece of his life until there was nothing left. he wanted makarov’s loved ones to feel the same emptiness that he felt, to know the anguish of losing the one person that could love who you were at your weakest. and so, he poured himself another cup of shitty coffee and got to work.

he made notes, he muttered to himself, he did whatever he had to do to make the evidence make sense. he was a smart man, johnny had told him so. he could see things that others couldn’t, perceptible beyond words. there were advantages to blending into the shadows. he read and re-read and traced and thought. his eyes were dry, red and bloodshot and aching by the 15th time he looked over the same map of makarov’s known whereabouts. simon was about to call it, to give his mind a rest and come back fresh. but one little thing jumped out to him, the tiniest little detail. a sentence in a transcript, which led to a larger motivation, which led to a location on the map. it all fell into place, the logic sound and clear.

he didn’t hesitate. he moved quietly, tucking his weapon into a holster on his hip and grabbing some knives from his vest. the last thing he needed was price trying to stop him. he knew it was a bad idea, rushing in alone. he knew laswell would chide him for it, gaz and price would feel betrayed. none of that mattered when he knew where the man who took his johnny was. he moved swiftly for the door, stopping with his hand on the doorknob when the captain cleared his throat.

“you’re a good man, simon,” he said, his gaze still fixed out the window. simon didn’t dare turn around, afraid that one look would give everything away. not that anything in the world could’ve convinced him to turn back now. he stayed silent, unsure of how to reply. john shifted in his seat, and if simon was a betting man, he’d put money down that he heard price’s voice shake a little. “we’re damn lucky to have you.” simon’s hand tightened around the doorknob, a lump building in his throat. he wasn’t going to cry, not now. there’d been too many tears. “you too, john,” he said, so quietly it could’ve been the breeze. he stepped out the door, shutting it tightly behind him.

his mind was surprisingly clear as he drove towards the outskirts of moscow into farming towns and villages. there were no racing thoughts, no guilt or grief eating him alive. for the first time in months, his mind was beautifully quiet. if a thought did pass by, it was of johnny. he hadn’t been gone quite long enough that simon had completely forgotten his face. seeing it in photos was nothing like seeing the real thing up close. a camera couldn’t capture the divots and scars, the way the light caught the mischievous sparkle in his eye that always seemed to be there. if simon listened close enough, he could hear the chime of johnny’s laugh in his ear.

simon pulled his car off the road a few miles away from his destination, hardly taking any time to steel himself for what he was about to do. he was capable, prepared. he had to be. for johnny, this had to go exactly right. there was no tactical plan as he rushed in, sinking knives and bullets into flesh. each drop of blood spilled felt like one step closer to retribution, freedom. the crimson that stained his hands was like a baptism, lifting the weight that had settled heavy in his chest. if he was shot or stabbed or punched, he didn’t feel it. he didn’t even register the tears that had begun to track down his cheeks, cutting through the eyeblack.

blows landed, attacks succeeded, each one bringing him closer and closer to makarov. it was like a motor drove him forward, the guilt pressing the gas to the floor and keeping him moving. when he came face-to-face with his target, his heart thundered in his ears. simon briefly registered the flash of a firearm, a splitting pain in his core. anger and sadness and pure grief gripped his soul like a vice. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. simon was supposed to make makarov suffer, drag the pain and agony on until his body broke under the weight and then inflict some more. a quick death was too good for a monster like him, but muscle memory took over and he returned fire.

deadly accuracy, as always. simon always hit his marks. he could hear johnny’s voice in his ear as makarov hit the ground, blood dripping down his forehead as he fell limply to the floor. “perfect shot, l.t.” simon let out a breathless chuckle, lowering his gun. “yeah. perfect shot, johnny,” he said in reply, his voice echoing in the expanse of the warehouse he’d destroyed with his bare hands. bodies laid in heaps, brutalized by the animal that was a grieving simon riley. he slumped to the floor alongside them, his legs no longer able to support his weight. fingers relaxed, his gun clattering against the concrete away from him. weapon down, relieved of duty.

simon’s head rested heavily against the unforgiving floor, the pain finally setting in. his abdomen was warm and sticky, pulsing with a familiar ache. he’d imagined his death so many times, thought he knew exactly how it would go. he’d pictured being surrounded by gunfire, the shouts of his comrades in his ears, the knowledge that the mission continued without him. now, it was silent, the blood rushing in his ears his only companion. and johnny, of course.

“wasn’t supposed to be like this, si,” johnny’s voice echoed, so close yet so far away. simon chuckled, finding the idea that it could’ve been any other way absurd. “yeah, it was,” he replied, his voice weaker than he’d ever heard it. “was always gonna be like this. you knew that.” simon had expected a lot of things, but he hadn’t expected to be scared. he thought he’d be at peace with his death. he was always marked for it, a target bright and red on his back for the grim reaper to find. his breath stuttered, lungs burning in an attempt to get air in. “johnny, i’m coming home.” “where’s home, l.t.?” “with you.”

the ceiling of the warehouse blurred as his eyes welled with fresh tears, a chill settling into his bones. “hope you saved a seat for me,” he rasped, using what was left of his strength to cover the wound in his stomach. he didn’t want some poor unsuspecting bastard to stumble upon him and be scarred by the sight of a gruesome death. johnny’s chuckle sounded in his ears, just like he’d heard in the car. “i’ll always save a seat for you, sir.” simon smiled, finally letting his eyes close. the moment he did, there was johnny, just as beautiful as the day he’d left him.

john put the pieces together a few hours after simon left. it wasn’t a surprise to either him or gaz when they got the call from laswell. makarov was dead, and so was simon. john had known, he’d always known. simon riley was a loyal dog, would follow johnny wherever he went. they scattered simon’s ashes on the same cliff as johnny’s. and some part of john was soothed knowing they were together again.

[getaroomryden]

i realised that there is . no ryden content on tumblr so i will create it

[planet-dusk]

what's with all the chat gpt fics on this app 😭

[peaches2217]

All the Gold in the World

This was my very first Mario fic, originally published June 22/23, 2023! As the original Tumblr publication was on a burner account, in celebration of its (belated) anniversary, I figured I'd give it its long-deserved place on my main blog. Please enjoy this throwback! And here's the AO3 link.

~~~

There it was again, that telltale sparkle in those big, blue, beautiful eyes. It was just as Peasley had hoped: an invitation to sneak away from the dreary duties of the palace in favor of strolling an upscale shopping pavilion arm-in-arm, a bit of light conversation about how worn his favorite tunic was becoming and won’t you help me choose a new one today, my love?, and a break for coffee that just happened to see them seated across from a display of some of the finest, most colorful, undoubtedly most expensive gowns in the kingdom, all efforts to disguise (and eventually expose) his true plan.

Seeing the awe in his Luigi’s eyes as he cast longer and longer glances at the display, watching the corners of his lips twitch beneath his mustache as the subtle spark of innuendo grew into a flame of yearning… he’d known it, oh, he’d known it all along!

Now, Peasley was very clever, and his consort had the loveliest of tastes, so how this knowledge had eluded him for so long, he was ashamed to say he wasn’t certain. But it didn’t matter now. The only question that mattered now was—

“Which of those gowns are you eyeing, my pet?”

Luigi sputtered so hard that a small mouthful of coffee forced its way past his lips.

“Wh— gowns? What gowns?” he stuttered, wiping the coffee dribbling from his chin with the back of his hand, a shamed blush overtaking him. “I don’t see any gowns!”

Peasley, unfazed, handed him a paper napkin. “I was thinking the deep green A-line with the bell sleeves, personally. The color’s a given, and the silhouette would compliment your form exquisitely. Perfect for the upcoming Edamame Extravaganza.”

Luigi hastily wiped his glove and the table clean, his mouth opening and closing in a way that wasn’t unlike a Cheep Cheep caught on dry land. Assorted sounds came out, but nothing coherent. 

Peasley couldn’t help but chuckle. His Greenie had a number of interests he’d tried to hide, offering up such excuses as “It’s embarrassing!” and “It’s really nothing, just a dumb pastime, you know?” when he was inevitably discovered. Yet every last one of those interests enamored Peasley, and perhaps none more so than this. Oh, how proud he was of his own detective work.

“I— I-I just couldn’t pull off a dress that well,” Luigi finally managed, “you know?”

“Nonsense! You once pulled off a more stunning Peach than the real deal. You didn’t hear that from me, of course.”

Luigi simply hid behind his coffee, humming nervously. His Starbeans order was always the same: a medium-roast Hoolumbian with so much nutmeg that the air around them smelled like a winter market. Watching him sip and hum and blush, Peasley found himself craving pumpkin spice.

“But they’re so… expensive, right?” Luigi eventually said into his near-empty cup. “I-I could never! I’d never ask for something like that!”

Ah, of course! His Luigi had come from a commoner’s background, after all. Little had changed since he’d become Prince Consort of the Beanbean Kingdom. He was still more comfortable in cotton and denim than the tunics and robes of the palace, he still preferred tinkering with pipes and assorted machinery to sitting in committees or kissing babies as adoring citizens fawned over him, and, so it would seem, he still worried about money, as though an entire royal family’s wealth wasn’t his to partake in.

“You needn’t concern yourself with such matters!” Peasley’s right hand met Luigi’s left, their fingers lacing together. Luigi’s hands were larger, quite a bit so, and yet they fit Peasley’s like a lock and key. “I would never offer something I couldn’t afford to give.”

That statement wasn’t entirely true — he’d promise his love a five-course banquet if all he had was a single loaf of bread, and by the stars he’d make it happen — but he could most certainly afford this, and that was essential to reinforce. For weeks now, he had been privately swooning to thoughts of Luigi strolling through the lush gardens of the palace, clad in silk and velvet that swished at his feet with every step, a crown of matching roses in the place of his favorite hat. He was one step closer to bringing that image into reality, and that was worth all the gold in the world.

And yet the reassurance didn’t seem to quell any of Luigi’s worries — in fact, he only looked more stressed, more uncertain. He stared awfully hard at some spot on the table that Peasley couldn’t see, and his fingers had gone rigid in Peasley’s hold, and— was he… trembling?

Dread blossomed in Peasley’s gut. Had he done something wrong?

“Luigi.” His opposite hand reached out to touch his face, offer comfort, but he stopped himself. Right. He typically preferred not to be touched when he was like this. “Luigi, my darling, what’s wrong?”

For a long moment, Luigi didn’t respond. And so Peasley waited, patient, ready to offer whatever words of comfort he needed.

“I can’t wear a dress,” Luigi finally said. It wasn’t a bashful excuse. It was a lament.

Confusion clouded Peasley’s rationale. Normally, he would drop the topic, see to Luigi’s well-being, and then ask questions when his beloved was in comfortable night clothes with a mug of hot chocolate in the privacy of their chambers. But that deadly mix of confusion and curiosity compelled him to squeeze his hand and ask, “Whyever not?”

At that, Luigi shook his head. “It’s so silly.” He cast a rueful smile to the side, but he did squeeze Peasley’s hand back, so that was progress, at least.

“‘Silly,’” Peasley said, scooting his chair in as far as it would go without crushing his midsection, “is Desi showing up drunk to Chori’s beanceañera on last night’s episode of The Mung and the Restless. What’s not silly is anything that causes you distress.”

Luigi laughed at that, quietly, but genuinely, and his eyes briefly met Peasley’s. They still sparkled, but with something new, something much more melancholy.

“It’s… it’s kind of a holdover, I guess.” He looked back down as he turned Peasley’s hand over, gloved thumb tracing aimlessly over his palm. “From my old world.”

“From Bruck-Len?” Peasley confirmed, watching Luigi’s thumb travel its idle path. “Did something happen there?”

Luigi set his lips into a thin line, and a short but not uncomfortable silence fell over them while he gathered the words he needed. “Nothing one-off, it was more… In Brooklyn, you couldn’t… guys really couldn’t wear those sorts of clothes, you know? If you do, you get made fun of, called names, roughed around, ‘cause you’re not, you know, not a real man.”

Peasley blinked, looking back up. Luigi didn’t meet his gaze.

The quality of one’s character based on the fabric they clad themselves in. The notion made little sense to Peasley.

“Well, what constitutes a ‘real man’?” he wondered aloud. Surely it wasn’t really something so inane as what clothes a man might wear. He, for example, was about as manly a man as they came — he was powerful, intelligent, skilled in combat, exceedingly good-looking — and yet he wore tunics while attending to political affairs or missions and Luigi’s oversized shirts at night, all dresses in all but name.

Yes, he knew well the typical fashion norms and how they differed between men, women, and those who lay in another plane of identity altogether, but never had he heard of such controversy in response to those norms being altered.

Luigi, his beautiful and equally manly Luigi, shrugged in response. “Someone more… rugged, I guess? Definitely not someone who wears a dress. And real simple clothes aren't enough either, oh no. Gotta be macho, hot-headed, tough, athletic, ready to throw down at the drop of a hat…”

“...perhaps with unkempt hair, lighter overalls, a red shirt, maybe?” Peasley guessed, half-joking. And to his delight, that got another laugh out of Luigi, a much lighter, heartfelt laugh. 

“Oh, no,” he said, “even Mario wasn’t man enough half the time!”

“Really? But he fits your description perfectly!”

“Yeah, but he had one liiiiiitle tiny problem: he supported me.” Luigi’s smile diminished again, not into a full frown, but his eyes seemed distant, wistful. “He was the only one I could really be comfortable around, you know? He hates shopping, but he’d always take me to the mall during sales because he knew I didn’t have the nerve to go without him. Sometimes he’d buy whatever I bought in his size and wear it out with me, and then he’d act like a goof so everyone stared at him and not me. Those were the only times I ever got to feel… well, good about wearing girly clothes.”

A feeling like warm nostalgia creeped into Peasley’s chest. Yes, he could picture it well: a shorter, smoother-faced Luigi, in the light fashions of city youth, perhaps a simple skirt and blouse. His matching elder twin, striding alongside him with twice the confidence and none of the elegance, going out of his way to make his gait as clumsy as possible with the biggest smile on his face.

Luigi smiling too, a younger and shyer smile, a boy becoming comfortable in his own skin, in the clothes he felt suited him best.

How could anyone envision such a sight, much less witness it for themselves, and not be besotted? How could anyone see that and mock him?

Peasley’s left hand moved to his opposite side, and he realized with a start that he was instinctively going for his rapier. But his rapier was back at the castle, and the threats which his beloved recounted were all in the past, unchallengeable, unchangeable. Something about that thought left a bitter taste in his throat.

“But I… still got the worst of it,” Luigi continued, and a heavy emotion like woe dimmed his features. “Mario, no one really cared what he did. He was a normal kid where I wasn’t involved. But me? No, I had enough going against me! You take a boy that likes other boys and wearing dresses, and you get…” He cleared his throat. “You get Mario getting grounded a lot. I think he’d beat up like, six different kids by the time we got out of high school?”

The bitterness in Peasley’s throat eased, and he washed the last of it away with a swig of his chuckoccino. He would have to give his gratitude to the elder brother next they met. He hoped little had remained of those vile perpetrators when he was done with them.

Luigi sighed heavily, leaning his cheek into his free hand. “Sooooo… yeah. Wearing dresses still scares me I guess. It shouldn’t, not anymore, I know that, but…”

But you’ve been scared your whole life, haven’t you?

An ache resonated deeply within Peasley, a hurt the likes he hadn’t felt since his favorite character’s untimely death in Days of Our Limas. 

“Oh, my love…” He finally gave in; he couldn’t help reaching forward to stroke Luigi’s face where his hand didn’t obscure it, and the ache lifted slightly when Luigi relaxed against his touch. His sad eyes grew warm, and Peasley could feel the blood rising beneath his skin. So warm, and so responsive… “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to bring up such distressing memories.”

Luigi lifted his head, just enough so that Peasley could cup his cheek. He graced Peasley with a smile so gentle and trusting and grateful that Peasley was sure he could drop dead on the spot from the crushing weight of affection alone.

“Honestly? It felt kinda nice to talk about it. Finally off my chest, you know?” Luigi’s right hand pressed Peasley’s palm deeper against his skin, and for a moment, he said nothing else. But his gaze caught some grounded nothing, and the corners of his mustache twitched, and was he blushing? Yes, he was absolutely blushing, a gorgeous scarlet growing in intensity against Peasley’s touch. “Kinda makes me feel like, uh... l-like it's... time to try again?” he finally found the nerve to say, quietly, but steadily.

Peasley, sagacious as he was, knew that this was his cue. Oh, his brave darling! He would gladly meet such bravery halfway.

“Then— then will you accompany me to that boutique across the street?” His eyes flickered briefly to their conjoined hands as he laced their fingers together once more, his right and Luigi’s left. This whole time, in one form or another, they’d remained connected. Truly like lock and key. “Will you choose a lovely gown and wear it for me, my dear?”

That luminescent shade of red burned hotter still, and as much as Peasley normally enjoyed such a sight, he considered backing down this time, truly considered it. But Luigi nodded, pulling Peasley’s hand towards himself. “As you wish,” he said, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Peasley could feel his lips curl into the smallest of grins. “Mio principe.”

~~~

It took a week, several trips to a handful of the kingdom’s finest shops, and many hours of compliments and sugary-sweet assurances, but by the time the Edamame Extravaganza rolled around and two very important guests arrived at the palace, Luigi stepped out to greet his brother clad in gentle slopes of deep green and gold, a simple but elegant gown that only served to make the handsome prince that much lovelier still.

Mario’s first reaction was shock, followed by what Peasley could best assign as glee. The words the twins exchanged in their native tongue flew by too quickly for him to catch anything of substance (he was, though he would never admit it, a bit slow in learning the language), but the gestures and laughter and the way Mario clapped as Luigi twirled to demonstrate the gown’s billowing skirt told him everything he needed to know: the elder sibling’s taste wasn’t as benighted as he’d feared it might be.

But most importantly, Luigi, his Luigi, was beaming. He was no towering monolith of self-confidence, but he held his head a little higher, and he walked with a sort of grace Peasley hadn’t seen from him before, and the golden embellishments of his attire looked comparatively dull next to the sheer joy that radiated from his countenance.

How much more brightly would he beam tonight, Peasley wondered, when he revealed he’d purchased every single gown Luigi had tried on during their venture, all thirty-seven of them? Surely he would outshine the sun itself.

“You’re going to send him to the hospital,” Peach sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as they stepped away to let the brothers chat. “If he was worried about how expensive a single dress is…”

“I already assured him I wouldn’t do anything I couldn’t afford.”

“I’m surprised you could afford that.”

Peasley tapped his temple in response. “Pragmatism, dear,” he teased. The humble Mushroom Queen was above using her title and benevolent reputation to obtain favors from her citizens. Peasley was not.

Peach shook her head and sighed again, but she couldn’t disguise the fond grin that found its way onto her face.

Turning to watch the brothers once more, Peasley followed suit.

Luigi was the rare sort who possessed no unflattering angles; he looked just as good in a gown as he did in overalls as he did in nothing at all. But he was most beautiful, Peasley decided, when he was unabashedly himself, when he lost sight of the eyes that followed him and simply let himself be, with no pretense  — in those rare instances, he could finally see himself the way Peasley saw him.

Showering him in fine clothing and helping him overcome an old emotional wound wouldn’t miraculously dissolve all of his insecurities. But if it helped even the slightest bit, then that was worth all the gold in the world.

[chromotps]

whipped up a short bit of saboace fluff—some fanart got me all mushy over them ;;

link!

[hollowfyshunsuikubo]

The Midnight Flame

A/N: More soulmate au i literally love this concept sm Izuru is one of my favourite Bleach characters, and I’ve been playing around with writing this in my spare time. This one is set pre-tybw but post fullbringer arc. I used the soul tug concept for this one, where the first touch between soulmates loosens the tug completely. Though, if your soulmate is having a hard time in any way, it can cause you pain. Only a little angst in this one >:) reader is both depressed and enraged so good luck. Once again, not Beta read

Izuru Kira x gn!reader Word count: 6.4k Warnings: angst, nsfw smut, bad language AU: Soulmates

Morning. The sunlight through the windows, the feel of a blanket covering only his legs. Morning. The arrival of another day, going to waste. Sitting up, Kira looks at his hands. Hardened from years of being a shinigami. He inspected them, turning them over, holding them up to the light that caused him to squint, searching for something that was both never and always there.

A hand reached up to grab one of his, followed by the interlocking of fingers. His heart jumped as he looked to the right, hoping, praying, needing- 

And there was nothing. He was alone in his bed, as always. It got cold at night, but it was warm in the mornings. With a sigh, he got out of bed, and got ready for the day. His captain was… interesting, to say the least. A music man. He was so different from Gin, like fire and water. Gin was unpredictable, he came and went as he pleased, often leaving some form of destruction in his wake. He raged through the Gotei 13, laughing as he did. His betrayal burned, and left its scars. Third degrees ran up over Kira’s arms, his torso, his legs. It felt like the fire of it was behind his eyes. When he thought of Gin, he thought of fire, he thought of how it felt to be burning without any water to douse the flames. Captain Otorobashi was different. He was like water. He filled the spaces he entered with ease, and even when he left, droplets of his kind words or generous music remained. He flowed with what needed to be done, and he left no space untouched. Captain Otorobashi was a calming presence, one that soothed the burns that covered Kira day after day, and finally put out the fires that had enveloped his skin. 

But with water came caution. Fire, at least, was direct with its deadliness. Water lulled you into a false sense of security, then drowned you as soon as you got too comfortable. Water could fill your lungs and take away your ability to scream, to speak. Water filled up any and all spaced, and could very well kill any and all within them. Kira had been burned before, and even if the flames had been cooled with sweet water, there was no telling if he’d drown. 

Morning. Kira walked out of his room and greeted his squadmates. Morning. Morning. Morning. Each day was the same. Morning meetings with his Captain, who would be strumming on a guitar or reading one of those manga he enjoyed. Then training, then requests, then paperwork until sundown, then to bed. Each day is more repetitive than the last, no change in scenery, no chance to unwind at the end of the night with something other than a bottle of sake and his right hand. The same hand he thought they had grabbed, whoever they were. He would love to change his days with the feeling of someone beside him, lounging in his bed when he went back to his room, smiling and waiting for him. He would love to wake up beside someone, kisses turning into wandering hands, wandering hands that turned into being late and disheveled for his morning meeting with Captain Otorobashi. He would love to finally see his soulmate. 

As he approached his Captain's office, he focused in on his heart. He felt the same familiar tug, that ever present feeling of being pulled somewhere. In a moment of hesitation, Kira paused in front of his Captains office. A lump rose in his throat, choking him as he wondered where his other half was.

–

“This could have been an afternoon job,” You groan as Shuhei drops a large stack of files on your desk. He shakes his head and tosses you a pen.

“This could be an afternoon job, but it might take all day, so it’s an all day job for you.” Shuhei was never one to beat around the bush with you. It was like talking to a printer. The same words, over and over again, hell-bent on forcing you to forget the incessant tugging you constantly felt in your heart, and the fact that you often found yourself staring out the window, hoping that your obviously internally tortured soulmate was at least doing okay. It was a painful tug, one that made your heart ache. Some days, it was so bad you couldn’t work, which brought no end of shame to Captain Muguruma and Lieutenant Hisagi. It’s not like you liked it either, as you’ve tried saying so many times. But neither of them are too impressed with you.

Recently, it’s like you’re being punished for things you can't readily control. Cramps had you taken out, despite the fact you were more than willing to throw yourself into whatever training was being offered by Captain Muguruma. Anything was better than missing another day because of some stupid pain. You were denied. You threw a plate in response. 

After that, during a particularly bad day, after an apparently horrendous captains meeting, the tugging on your heart had wrenched so bad it caused you to vomit, while also praying your soulmate wasn’t a captain, least of all your captain, since some of the tugs in your heart seemed to line up with his foul moods. You didn't really think it was though. What kind of soulmate literally throws you into your room and slams the door, leaving you to choke?

Whoever your soulmate was, they were causing no end to the grief you were going through. The paperwork on your desk was looking extremely flammable. Fire seemed to be the only way you were going to calm down, since you burned with rage over just how standoffish, stubborn, and stoic your squadmates were. You were fed up. But you still took the work that you correctly deemed an afternoon job, and first thing in the morning, started your pity paperwork with a scowl.

One day, you’d meet your soulmate and be able to quell the furious tugging on your heart that sometimes left you incapacitated. One day you’d be able to sit down and do pity paperwork so fast, Captain Muguruma would have no choice but to sing your praises.

One day, you'd be appreciated for the fact that you still work hard, despite the challenges you face. 

–

The nights were almost worse than the mornings. Sweat dripped down his face as he hunched over himself, holding his dick in his hand, stroking, squeezing slightly every now and then, his eyes fluttering. So often his heart hurt at night, and so often did he engage in guilty pleasures he should be saving for his soulmate. It brought him no end of guilt. He threw his head back as he began to move faster, his cock bobbing in his hands as he chased his release. He was filled with images he couldn’t even see clearly- hints of skin, another's hand, another's mouth, another's hole-

Kira gasped and groaned as he spilled over his fist, slowing his stroke to nothing. His mind was a mess, and once again, the clarity that came after hit him like a brick. 

What was he doing? He could be making good use of his time, getting sleep, resting his mind, being awake enough to maybe search for his soulmate, and yet. He was awake so late, hand on his cock, a weak and pale imitation of someone who would bring him joy that surpassed an orgasm beyond belief. Face burning in shame- that fire again -he cleaned off his hand before laying down. Fire was what burned him in the first place. That traitor, the man he trusted most, the man who, like a flame, had swept across him and teased him, teased him, about who the other half of his soul was. Who showed him what it was to be strong like the flame and burn so brightly even the sun would be jealous. 

He found a simple answer while reliving such a betrayal. He was afraid of having what he wanted. He was afraid of the fire of whoever matched his soul because of the burns that would follow. It was the reason he only kept Shuhei close, the reason he stayed an arms length away from everyone else, including his captain. His captain, who, like water, would soothe his burns, put out his flame, and carry him to safety if he wished. Yet water killed too, just slower. Kira lay on his back, a hand behind his head, and focused on the tug in his heart. He wondered if everyone had to go searching for that tug. Maybe his soulmate just had a simple life, without much fear or stress. Maybe his soulmate's heart was a closed book, better at hiding its anger and fear than he was. 

The last thought hurt his heart. He had gone through so much- he only wished that his soulmate was alright, and that whenever they searched for their connection, their tug, that they were not angry with what they found.

–

If it were possible to be enraged at a person you’d never met, seen, spoken to, or even knew at all, you decided you were rightfully pissed at your soulmate, whoever the bastard was. Your chest felt like it was being torn open, and you hid in the gardens of your squad. You were on a late night patrol, and things were going fine.

Until.

Until whoever your soulmate was decided to have a miserable time of things. You gagged as you curled up into a ball, hiding behind a large tree. You wouldn’t be seen like this. You hated it. If you could’ve made any wish at that moment, it would be to close off the connection between your souls, if even for two minutes, just so you could at least run to your room to have privacy. With what little strength you had, You attempted to stand. Tears pricked your eyes from the sheer pain, and you felt your dinner threaten to come up.

Then a hand grasped your arm.

“You look like shit,” Shuhei said bluntly. “Why are you still out here? Go home.” With a glaring side eye, you wrenched your arm out of his grasp, stumbling back a little. He must’ve heard the gagging, or just his damned sixth sense that told him where you were at all times. He must truly despise you to keep tabs on you like this. To always know when to send you home just so he can dock your pay, save the division a little more money. It made you want to howl. It made you want to feel blood between your teeth and your zanpakuto clenched so tightly in your hands that the sheer force of your grip left bruises.

“Fuck off. I’m fine.” You spat in response. The aching in your chest only got worse. Shuhei didn’t move.

–

He was at a crossroads. He could pick you up and haul you back to your room in the barracks and force you to stay in, he could stay with you and attempt to help you ride out the waves of this pain that seemed to cause you physical harm, or he could… leave. Shuhei could listen and leave. Listen and leave, easy as that. Something not even Muguruma did. He just grunted and sent you away. Left all the work to him, and let Mashiro annoy the shit out of him while he was working…

He couldn’t leave you. You were his subordinate, and you were in pain. It seemed like you were made of pain. It hurt him, but not as much as it hurt you. You were a diligent person, and you tried so hard. Yet there was always something wrong, things you couldn’t control. Because of the pain, you turned into a being of hate. A cornered, starving dog, snarling at everyone. Sure, you joked sometimes, but your anger was a fire that scorched others. Shuhei wasn’t sure if it burned the Squad or you more. 

Crossroads. He watched as you attempted to stand up straight, a hand grasping the left side of your shihakusho like you were going to rip it off. Your left hand grasping at yourself as if you could tear your soulmate bond out of your chest. In a moment of forgetfulness, Shuehi reached for you, but that flash of anger in your eyes made him stop and lower his hand. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know how to help. He couldn’t leave you, he couldn’t help you, and he couldn’t even show you that your anger was misplaced but not misunderstood. He couldn’t even be a good Lieutenant. He was grasping at nothing. So he stood tall, and just watched. He swallowed words and swallowed pity, and watched. He watched as you finally were able to stand, using the tree you were hiding behind as your crutch. He watched as you glared at him. And he listened as you spoke.

“Did you not hear me, Lieutenant? I’m fine. Fuck off.” Your voice burned with anger. He couldn’t help you, not without flames rising up his skin. But he’d been burned before. Captain Muguruma was made of fire. He burned away all the residual droplets that Tosen has left behind. Fire was a warm, comforting, protective thing when it needed to be. Just as water was not only calm and welcoming, but also a killer. Everything needed moderation. Shuhei knew that fire and water were both needed. You were burning in flames of pain, anger, and your own misery without any water to douse you in. Shuhei swallowed and finally, he spoke.

“You’re not fine. You’re hurting again and-” How like you to cut him off, riling like a dog about to strike.

“Lieutenant Hisagi,” His heart ached. Gone were the days you’d laugh and joke together, calling each other by first names. Another reminder of what had been washed away as the years had gone by. “I know you may not like me right now, but for the love of God, let me do my job.” It felt like a slap to the face. Not like you? You were his friend. Sure, you may not have been his anchor like Momo or Kira, but he still saw you as a friend. You’d begun pulling away. You’d begun to suffer alone after Tosen betrayed the Gotei, and you’d suffered more as your soulmate had begun to pull so hard your heart couldn’t take it. And you had the audacity to say that he was the one that didn’t like you. You-

“Listen,” His voice is sharp, like glass, hoping to slice your skin to make you bleed out your self-loathing. “Shut up. I am your Lieutenant. I am your superior. I am telling you to go home. I am giving you a goddamn order. Are you insubordinate?” He felt cruel. But he was at his wits end with you. There wasn’t anything he could do, and you refused to accept help, or even let him listen. You had shut yourself off and withdrew to the point where he halfway considered putting you on a watch. Yet you persisted, the pain that haunts your every waking moment, something you are determined to not let define you. It hurts him.

People had to focus to feel that tug. Everyone was a master of emotions. The fact you felt it like someone had tied a raging hollow to your heart and soul meant whoever your soulmate was was hiding a great deal of inner pain. Or they didn’t have a good grasp on their emotions. Either way, Shuhei didn’t know how to help. He could feel his tug, pulsing away, but it never hurt. Not like yours. But seeing you, an old friend, in enough pain that you are sick and weakened because of it made him despise your soulmate. It made him want to grab the offender by the throat and throttle them until they go ahold of themselves. A fire burned in your eyes as you turned his words over in your head. Shuhei kept a stern face on, despite the fact he’d directly threatened you. You wouldn’t know it, but he felt remorse for what he had to do.

–

You wanted to hit Shuhei. He looked every part the asshole as you thought he was. He’s been picking things up from Captain Muguruma, that’s for sure. Both of them are pricks. Cold, reserved, and uncaring. You could scream. You could leap forward and rip Shuhei to shreds. But instead, you glare and turn away, managing your pain for just long enough to walk to your room in the barracks, and slam the door. Someone will complain in the morning about the noise, but you don't care. You burn with fury. You lay in your bed, your anger getting the best of you for some time, until all you can do is think.

You fucked up, yet again. Every single time the burning pain from the tug in your heart gets too much, you lash out. It’s becoming the thing that is ruining your life, but only because you keep letting it. If only you could make it stop, but with what time? Finding one's soulmate took time, and time was something you didn’t have the luxury of. There were articles to edit, training to be done, rounds and commissions to complete. You couldn’t follow the tug of your heart without negativity following you as you returned. It was a cruel thing. Just like you and Shuhei have been to each other for some time now. It felt like another betrayal each time you and Shuhei butted heads. He seemed insistent on you not overworking yourself, while also sending you home whenever you showed a wince of pain. But you wanted to work. You wanted to keep doing what you loved in vain hopes the tug in your heart would lessen and finally be something you had to search for.

The night was long. Nights were always worse than the days. But you closed your eyes and ignored how the tugging in your heart, the tugging in your very soul, clogged your throat and made you choke on your own misery. Hatred pooled in your heart, but not for you soulmate. It made you sick.

–

“Someone’s in pain?” Kira blinked as Shuhei lamented. His close friend wasn’t doing well. Bags under his eyes, slouched shoulders, messier hair. It was like he’d been working overtime again. 

“And they won’t listen. All I do is tell them ‘take care of yourself. Go home and rest. Take your time’ and all they do is get angry!” Shuhei ranted. He took another swig of sake and glared at nothing. Kira was getting concerned. “If I ever meet their soulmate, I’m gonna use Kazeshini and slice ‘em up.” 

Kira was very uncomfortable with that notion, mainly because he’d be an accessory to murder if it happened, and whoever this person in pain was would have to live without the other half of their soul permanently. He had another sip of sake for himself, feeling sullen. He glanced at his friend again.

“How bad is it? Surely it can’t be that bad-”

“Now you even sound like them! Fucks sakes… throwing up because your tug is hurting that bad and still saying you can fight a hollow isn’t a good thing. I’m going to put them on leave just so they can find their stupid soulmate and so I can get a piece of ‘em and give them a piece of my mind… ugh.”

Kira ignored how Shuhei had interrupted him. He listened quietly, and thought about this person. They sounded strong, but tortured by pain they didn’t ask to have. He felt his own heart ache in solidarity. He wished his soulmate wasn’t in pain. Selfishly, Kira wished he could abandon everything just for a day so he could find his soulmate. Maybe then his hand would stop being his only comfort in the night hours. To finally hold them in his arms and be able to feel their skin against his as he kissed their forehead and apologized for taking so long. Shuhei had another long drink, and Kira saw this as an opportunity. He’d been feeling so restless lately, maybe a change of scenery would be a good thing.

“Why don’t I come in and help for a bit? I’m sure Captain Muguruma would understand, what with how chaotic Mashiro is, and all the work you’re putting in for the Communication…” He trailed off, anxious to hear what his friend would say. Shuhei was about to take another drink, then paused halfway. He lowered the bottle and stared at it, his expression forlorn.

“...maybe I’ll take ‘em to the printing room. That’ll raise their spirits. I’m just worried about ‘em… they’re still my friend, you know? Seeing them in pain, and hearing them accuse me of not liking them… it’s hard.” 

Kira had no idea what Shuhei was on about, but concluded it must be about the person he was ranting about before. Overall, he took it as an agreement. Kira had another sip of his own sake as Shuhei starts to bawl, the bartender looking at them oddly. Shuhei started saying a name, which seemed odd to Kira, but he concluded it as the person's name. Placing a hand over his heart as he begins to drink all of his sake, Kira hopes his soulmate is alright, and not suffering in pain like Shuhei’s other friend is. He shook his head as Shuhei howled in misery, and Lieutenant Iba had to restrain him.

–

You stared at the printing press. Your mind churned, trying to find the reason behind Shuhei's current niceness. It felt like a trap. You inspected every inch of it, making sure nothing was faulty. It had been a long time since Shuhei had let you in here, mainly because of your work not being up to standard because of your pain, but today was special it seemed. One of his Lieutenant friends had come in to save the day and help out, much to Captain Muguruma’s mixed chagrin and relief. A blonde boy, who reminded you a lot of water. Smooth, quiet, seemingly weightless. Something different to the fire that had burned in your blood. 

You caught Shuhei staring again and you frowned. Standing up straight, you walk over to him.

“You’re looking good, mostly. The text blocks need a little upgrading, though. The wood down the far end is looking a little shabby too. It might be time for a more modern upgrade, but other than that, everything is good. I’m surprised the platen is still going too…” You speak normally for the first time in weeks. It isn’t a complaint. It isn’t filled with suppressed rage. It isn’t said sarcastically. It’s a normal conversation. Shuhei nods and rubs the back of his neck.

“...It might be time for an upgrade, yeah…” He mutters. You can see the thoughts running through his head. For the first time in a while, you see Shuhei, and not Lieutenant Hisagi. You pause for a moment, just watching him.

You know what he’s thinking. You can see the flash of Tosen behind his eyes, thoughts of the man who was a good captain, but in reality a traitor to everything you loved. It was painful. You recalled a time when you sat with Tosen in the garden. You were new to the Soul Society then, a recently graduated Soul Reaper. You’d had a terrible day, and were sitting in the garden, trying to make sense of things. Tosen had come up to you and invited you to join him on a walk. You honestly thought he was going to berate you.

But the man had talked about nonsense for a solid hour. The weather. Ink cartridges. What wood felt best when you had to take a nap on a desk. The feeling of different winds depending on what direction they came from. Never did you think a blind man would be able to talk for so long about the things you either thought weren’t worthy of talking about, or the things you’d never thought of before. For a solid hour, he spoke, you sometimes asking questions. Before you knew it, your mood had improved. Tosen had somehow managed to make you feel better by utterly confusing you. 

It was something you didn’t forget. It’s the reason why you had lashed out so aggressively when he left, your soulmate's tug becoming the source of all your pain once you’d killed as many hollows as possible. A man who had stepped out of his comfort zone to comfort a young shinigami, became almost like a father to you, one of the three greatest traitors in history. It made you scream. It was like he’d thrown you into water to drown, and when you coughed up your lungs, you set things on fire, just to feel the warmth Tosen has once provided to you.

You and Shuhei stood in silence for so long, the air became thick. When he finally looked back at you, a flash of guilt crossed his face. He cleared his throat.

“A new printing press. It’s a good idea. We’d have more time to do other things and we’d be able to…” He trailed off. So you finished his sentence for him, a flicker of your flame reigniting in your chest, hot and furious.

“Move on from the past.”

You two locked eyes. His jaw set and your eyes blazed. For a moment, it seemed like you were both going to draw your zanpakuto and fight, just to feel something other than the rage that followed a betrayal of a man you both admired and respected. A man you both knew as your calm ocean.

Then the door burst open and that blond friend of his walked in. Your tug jumped, but you ignored it. You and Shuhei snapped out of it and turned to the blonde man, who walked in. “Apologies. I’m Lieutenant Kira.” He said to you. You nodded your head in response. He was just being polite. You introduced yourself as well, making sure to be polite. You dodn’t miss how his eyes widened slightly. You frowned a little. Shuhei must’ve ran his mouth again… speaking of Shuhei, he butted in.

“Kira, what’s happening? Is everything alright?” The black haired man asked, concerned. Kira shook his head.

“Captain Muguruma is about to dissect Lieutenant Mashiro. Half the Squad is holding him back.” 

You held back a laugh, putting a hand over your mouth. Kira looked at you, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion for a moment before Shuhei started running out of the room.

“Stay here! That little-”

His voice faded as he ran, leaving you and Kira alone. The room was silent again, until you burst out into laughter.

The sound was beautiful to Kira. To him, it was like water falling over stones, so merry and carefree. To you, your laugh felt like a warm flame, not angry or harmful, but merry and calming. It felt like freedom. You kept on smiling even after you were done.

“One of these days, Captain Muguruma is going to kill Mashiro.” You said dryly, chuckling a little more at your own thought. “But only if Shuhei doesn’t get to her first.” Kira chuckled to himself.

“They’re like oil and water…” He said in a tone of false sorrow. He shook his head and then glanced at you. His heart was racing, and his tug felt painful for the first time. It was like time froze as Kira realized his tug was hurting. It felt like someone was ripping his heart out of his chest whenever he looked at you. He stepped away a little, not knowing what to do. 

You looked at Kira again, and for the first time in a long time, you felt light. Like all your burdens had been burned away until only the embers remained. Something you usually only felt in the dead of night, an emotion of calmness and serenity you’d dubbed the ‘midnight flame’. A soft, burning sensation that soothed rather than harmed. You saw something turning behind Kira’s eyes, and the tenseness of his neck.

You recalled how Shuhei had said Kira was a bit antisocial. You’d heard of him before Tosen and the others had betrayed the Soul Society. You hadn’t met, though, due to your own schedule and the fact that Shuhei needed to be babysat while drinking, which wasn’t your favourite thing to do. Out of respect for him, you collected yourself and stepped away a little as well, looking away. Your chest felt so light. For the first time in a long time, it’s like you’re able to breathe without feeling the heavy burden of your soulmates tug. You went to speak again, maybe to break the silence, when Kira fell to his knees.

You paused for a minute, wondering if you should laugh or not. You opted to crouch down where you are and looked at Kira.

“...are you alright?” He glanced at you, his eyes filled with tears. He quickly looked away, clenching his fists over his knees as he tried to focus on anything but the pain. The tug in his chest was too much, this blistering hurt that burns him. You reached out to him, but he exhaled sharply before you could touch him. Your brow creased, and your own tug began to hurt again. An endless cycle for you, one that you couldn’t escape. Your face hardened. ‘I’ll get Lieutenant Hisagi.” A simple decision. You stood quickly and walked out of the room, searching for Shuhei.

You followed the sounds of commotion to see Shuhei and Mashiro having an argument. You were about to step in to ask when he’ll be done, when an errant hand grabed you by the neck and marched you back inside.

“Stay out of it.”

If you had to describe Captain Muguruma, you would call him a blaze. He was a wild-looking man, with the strength of a hundred regular shinigami, and an outrageous sense of style that had inspired Shuhei to get tattoos on his face, of all places. He set you down inside and checked over his shoulder to see if Mashiro was dead yet. Finding the little green girl still alive, he looked back at you.

“Whatever it is, you come to me. I’m your Captain now, not Hisagi.” Muguruma spoke with an annoyed tone in his voice, as if this was the last thing he wanted to be dealing with. You recalled every time he barked at you to speed up, or told you to go home and get over it. He was perhaps the worst person who could’ve caught you when you needed help. You swallowed and put on a smile.

“I was just looking to see if it had ended yet.”

“Well, it hasn’t, so get back inside. I heard he left you at the… printing thing.”

“...the printing press?”

“That. Whatever it is, just stay there.”

“We need a more modern one.” “Lieutenant Hisagi is in charge of that. He’ll come to me when he wants one and I’ll give him the funds.” “Well I want to talk to him about what options we have.”

“From what I hear, you’ve been banned from the Communication work until your pain isn’t such a hindrance.”

You fell silent. Muguruma stared down at you with his arms crossed, radiating pure annoyance. You weren’t going to be getting any help from anyone, it looked like. Without another word, you turned away, walking back to the printing room, and a distressed Kira. Your body burned with anger at Muguruma. He only became captain because there was nobody else to take the spot, and because the Soul Society had been desperate for experienced captains. Otherwise, he’d still be rotting in the mortal realm, living his pathetic life, probably getting more piercings. 

Muguruma watched you. He didn’t understand what he was doing wrong. He was being truthful, wasn’t he? He knew you were hindered by something that could be sorted. Why didn’t you take your numerous enforced days off to find the cause of your issue and stop it? Why didn’t you thank him for at least noticing you weren’t doing okay? He looked down at the ground as he scowled. You’re probably just emotional and in pain again. He’d have to give you more space, leave you alone. Your anger was helping nobody. At least when he got angry he had time for it… 

You entered the printing room again, your eyes trained on Kira. He looked a little better. He met your gaze for a moment, and you sighed.

“Lieutenant Kira is busy with Lieutenant Mashiro.” You announced. You walked forward and held out your hand, a gesture that seemed fine for time being. “Let’s get you somewhere that doesn’t house a machine.”

When he took your hand, his face pale and his palm slightly sweaty, it was like a thousand midnight doves erupt from the touch alone.

Such a feeling of fullness filled you. A flurry of soft wings enveloping your entire being, a eruption of a waterfall inside your soul that quenched all anger and pain that led you to salvation. No longer did you crave, no longer did your tug pull at your very being. Water rushed into every part of your soul, filling it with such a lightness you could've sworn at the moment it felt like you were suspended in a great sea, but no risk of drowning was present. 

For Izuru, he felt warmth after the loss of such a crippling pain. Such a hearth bloomed inside him he knew that he would never feel cold during his lonely midnight again. A flame so enveloping inside his being, something so warm and right to fight for, he likened it to a Phoenix. Reborn from the ashes, no longer suffering under cool water. The water in his lung was burned away, and with it, his passion ignited. Such a small thing he felt, something he'd never felt before. Passion. What was it? The kindle burned in his chest, a fire that would never go out. He felt free.

The two of you stared at each other, before Izuru slowly stood, your hands still clasped together, your souls both finally free of searching, of tugging. He was mesmerised by you. You thought of everything you'd been through. 

Fire and water were opposites, and yet no matter which element your soul reflected now, you had to make your peace. 

“...I was in insurmountable pain for a very long time.” You said. A boldness ripped through you. Yet your next words- ”You should make it up to me.” -were stolen from your throat at Izuru, not quite understanding what he was doing in his new passionate delirium, pulled you forward and swept you into a tight hug. On instinct, you responded in kind.

All was silent for a few moments, before Izuru spoke again. His voice was shaky from his nervousness, but his newfound passion simmer underneath it all. He damned himself for being so shy, but this time, he was going to push himself to show you comfort. 

“Never again.” His throat was hoarse. Hands once used for worry and work found their new purpose grasping you close to him. “No more pain.”

No more pain. How you'd longed for that for so long. How you'd longed for midnight under the moon where you didn't feel as if you'd lose your soul to such agony within it. How you'd longed to take it out on him, to scream and yell for the pain he'd unwittingly caused. And yet. Such a cool flow of water filled you, such a rush of comfort from his words washed over you, so much so you couldn't be mad anymore. How could you? How could you be so angry at the person whose first words to you was “never again”?

Izuru finally felt a flash of discomfort from the sudden hug he initiated. He stepped back but slid his hands to your ribs. You suppressed the urge to jump. You had ticklish ribs. He looked into your eyes before looking away, so red in the face he could barely talk anymore. 

For a moment, all was still. Then, in a moment of weakness you'd never felt, a tender kind you wished to explore during softer, quieter midnights, you began to speak.

“...you're-”

With a bang, the door to the printing press room slammed open. 

“I'm sick and tired of leaving you be, and ignoring the pain of someone who's one of my best seated officers-” Muguruma was yelling, but stopped. You turned your head and scowled.

That insufferable prick. 

Your souls, two lost souls now joined in what would blossom into such a pure love ordained by the universe itself, were still fire and water. You two balanced each other. As Izuru found out less than ten seconds later, after you gently pulled away from him, you would need plenty of water to cool down after you had a shouting match with Captain Muguruma. It was such a sight to see that even Shuhei and Mashiro stopped fighting to come and investigate the source of your yelling. To be fair, nobody had ever seen you explode like this. Shuhei and Izuru locked eyes, and as Izuru dissolved into embarrassment, wishing he could hide away, Shuhei felt himself grinning for his friend. 

It did nag in the back of Shuhei's mind on how on earth shy, quiet, water-like Kira was soulmates with the embodiment of sheer rage and hellfire. 

“Opposites attract,” He murmured to himself. Mashiro giggled.

“Maybe Captain Muguruma is soulmates with me if that's the case.” 

“...you're out of you goddamn mind if you think-”

Two fights broke out in the printing press room, both of which Izuru wanted to run and hide from. Yet he couldn't take his eyes off of your form, how you gestured as you and Muguruma argued loudly. He wondered if he should get you a glass of water for your throat. You were certainly yelling loud enough…

Then you drew your sword just as Muguruma did and he decided to leave it be for now. 

At the very least, Izuru could provide you with water during the midnights you would steal in the future, soft kisses that were stolen in the dark, and gentle sighs turned into moans when he finally felt such a flame burn away his gentle water in his soul. Seeing you spent and satisfied brought him more satisfaction and joy than anything else. Afterwards, he always brought you a big glass.

[pennedbylisse]

OPERATION CUPID

howdy :) so, the characters you're about to read sort of sprung out of their own volition as I worked on a namjoon fic. I wanted to see how these scenes would do as standalones, as little slices of life, peeks into the daily ups and downs of the cast. scenes proceed in no particular order. sometimes chronological, sometimes as time-skips. I'm just going with the flow, wherever the tide takes me.

wc: 3.0k

tracklist: 'halley's comet' by billie eilish, 'pink skies' by lany, 'safety net by ari g

tense and POV: 3rd and present

ep. 2 | AO3

OPERATION CUPID Classified Excerpts

Jimin is lean, and comparatively small when standing next to Namjoon. His hands are chubby, and his fingers are stubby. None of this, however, subtracts from his agility and his swan-like elegance even as he glides across a fifty-year-old, small-town diner at rush hour.

It's the kind of awe-inspiring grace that belongs on stage, spotlit amidst tule skirts and disciplined ballet point shoes. The kind of grace that is chiseled to perfection through years of arduous practice and patience.

Norah, who is sat on a swivel bar chair behind the register, takes inventory of crinkled green bills. Between lining the bills with a few taps against the counter and reaching over to scribble on a tracking sheet, she steals glances his way.

She wonders just how many falls it had taken him to trust his quick and light footing not to betray him. How many bruises he'd acquired and endured to no longer fear pain.

Jimin never seems to catch on to her stray glances, or the twinkle in her gaze every time he comes into frame from behind the shoulder, or broad back, of a customer that shuffles in, or out, of the establishment.

He's used to having eyes affixed to him; feels comfortable in the spotlight, in crowds. Naturally charming and approachable, he makes friends left and right, and talks to them as if they are years-long acquaintances meeting over dinner. How's your family doing? My, that must have been so hard for you! Say what, here's a plate of Saturn rings, on the house. He'd wink and utter something, while holding a hand to their shoulder, about keeping it a secret from the boss, Namjoon.

Norah would wince. It's not like they are financially flexible enough to afford freebies.

As for Namjoon, he'd pretend to have not seen anything.

Jimin gently sets down a tall glass of strawberry milkshake, adorned with a dollop of white foam and a single, shimmering cherry on a table where a customer is hunched over a book.

He'd noticed, on his glide her way, that she'd been pensively entranced, entirely engrossed in the blotchy ink of the pages, brows pinched beneath the slight part between her curled bangs.

He didn't want to interrupt her careful consideration. It appeared of utmost importance, and if not that, than at least of utmost enjoyment. In the case of the latter, she had a peculiar way of displaying it (enjoyment).

At the drum of the glass's rim over the wooden table, the woman snaps her head to capture his studious gaze.

The pinch of her eyebrows dissolves, much like the foam atop her drink, and becomes replaced with an appreciative smile.

"Is it any good?" He glances, suggestively, at the book she'd hurriedly closed over her forefinger, which she'd been using as a make-shift bookmark.

Her cheeks and ears grow flushed, as if it were a shameful thing to enjoy reading.

Jimin wonders if it's the nature of the text that makes her so bashful, hiding her blush by flattening her bangs.

Regret hardens like cement over his feet, leaves him paralyzed to assess her response.

"Ah, this?" She drums her fingers over the hardcover, and it resonates wonderfully crisp. "Quite unexpectedly, yes."

Jimin's smile returns, as does his graceful fluidity. There's a single crooked tooth that peeks through when his smile reaches his eyes. It's just barely noticeable. It's Norah's favorite detail.

Unaware, the woman elaborates further: "You see, a friend of mine-" She halts as if holding a mental debate over whether that was the proper term for it. She shakes her head, dismissing the flurry of questions and doubts brought forth by a simple six-letter word. "It was his choice for the month. We have this thing where we trade books after each turn. We read each other's margin annotations, and sometimes try to identify doodles done in the likeness of classical art pieces. It's our way of getting to know each other."

"It's unexpected because," she explains in a sort of round-about way, "he knows, and knew while picking out this title, that I loathe Nietzche."

"Ah, that's lovely! It's a clever take on penpal-ship," Jimin quips.

"Oh!" She chokes a chuckle down, not meaning to sound so excited.

She hadn't been able to conceal her smile at the mention of the friend; Jimin had caught on to her wandering, dreamy gaze falling down at the book's cover amidst her recollection. "I hadn't thought of it like that, but now that you mention it, it is, isn't it?"

Perhaps only now made aware of her rambling by the holler of a nearby customer for Jimin's attention, does she let her voice diminish and takes up interest at the glass before her. Condensation dotting her fingertips.

"In short: Yes, it's good." She takes a decided sip of her drink, the foam smearing her upper lip only for a second before she licks it away. Her eyes expand and soon enough she's eager for another sip of the decadent drink. "As is this!"

Jimin's turning to tend to the customer who had been hollering and whistling for his attention. He halts mid-step, and swivels back to face her, doesn't leave her table until he prompts: "You should tell him you like it over coffee, chocolate, or even a milkshake sometime. Step out of the pages, the margins."

"No-" she stammers. "No, no." It's more a bid to persuade herself out of pointless delusional than it is an attempt at shutting him up.

"We've never talked about meeting," she adds. "I think it's a mutual desire to keep it anonymous. It's perfect like this, safe from external pressure to be anything more than two friends bonding over literature and internal jokes."

"Perfect's not real," Jimin responds. "Forgive me for being pushy, here, but if you like him, as you appear to, why only limit yourselves to footnotes in each other's lives?"

"That's a preposterous proposition!" She hides her blush this time behind the rim of the glass she brings up to her lips, and what little frothy cream is left. When she sets the mug down, a triumphant smile momentously strikes her face like lightning at the realization she'd weaved in her word-of-the-day so subtly, and with added alliteration.

She continues, reigning in the smile (Jimin wouldn't get that inside joke): "How can you like someone you haven't even met?"

"Haven't you, though? Met him, in a sense? I'd argue you're intimately aware of all the pages of his life, like that little book of yours." He taps the sturdy cover lying on the dinner table before bowing away, leaving her to ponder - not before slipping a circular coaster beneath her drink as it had already started to condense.

Namjoon would get on him about the wood, how old it is, how delicate, how financially inflexible they are.

For, possibly, the first time in her life, since she was an infant, she sits in silence. The concerto of intriguing words playing in her mind falls mute. All diction and syntax is replaced with a profound note of realization. A note she ushers to silence, lest anyone else hear. A note that's her secret - like a bookmark, or dollar bill, sticky note, or receipt shoved between pages and preserved over time.

After tending to the demanding customer with an unwavering smile, Jimin glides around the counter and rubs shoulders with Norah, who is still hunched over the register — has been for the past half-hour, impatiently stabbing her fingers over its blank screen.

Fucking Mercurcy retrograding; it always had to cause some sort of glitch. She always happened to find herself dead-center to its discovery.

The register had functioned fine for Namjoon just an hour ago. Now, it'll appear as if it was her doing. How much of a deduction would that be from her paycheck?

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Jimin whispers over her shoulder: “It’s her.”

At Norah's lack of enthusiasm, he repeats himself, only now forcing her gaze onto his suggestive one.

Norah's face twists with bewilderment. "Who?"

Jimin casts his eyes at the star-dotted ceiling with an exasperated roll. Then, he slams his shoulder cloth down on the counter (more for dramatic effect than intimidation) and subtly nods in the direction of the bibliophilic woman.

Norah squints. Unamused, she blankly stares back at Jimin. Irritation is starting to settle on her face.

"Namjoon's penpal," he finally comes out with it, spells it out with each syllable as if it had been painfully obvious all of this time.

At that, her chocolate eyes light up, the way they do after her first espresso each morning.

Jimin crafts up this "amazing" (his words, not Norah's), and densely convoluted plan to stich the two up. He's convinced that just because they don't glide at his swift pace, they are helplessly in need of intervention, lest they waste their youth away pining and brooding aimlessly.

Norah holds her refutes deep in her chest, merely lends a curious ear to his inspired rambles. An assumption bubbles to the surface of her mind that this hyper-fixation with establishing a romantic interest for Namjoon was only a projection of Jimin's own scarcity in the love department. Even since he'd become a single father, he'd not had much time, space or privacy to afford a fling.

And even if a desperate fling did happen to materialize itself at his front door, he'd kindly decline; stringless hook-ups are no longer his thing. He's looking for something solid, something long-term. Thinks baby Byeol will benefit from a feminine role-model.

He's trying his best as a father, and in his defense, that's more than most absentee fathers out there, but he's fearful that as she grows, he'll be of less use to her. All he has to worry about now is feeding her, bathing her and providing a roof and clothes. Later, he'll have to procure answers to increasingly difficult questions.

Regardless of the intrinsic motive, Jimin's buzzing, talking a mile-a-minute as he walks circles around the diner.

Norah furrows her brows as she hoists a chair onto its corresponding table.

Jimin likes playing Cupid a little too much. He forgets that those red-tipped arrows are sharper than they seem in folklore. Perhaps Cupid wasn't born blind, rather his own carelessness with those arrows blinded him before he learned fates weren't something to toy with when bored and idle.

Jimin's first warning arrives in the form of Norah's apprehension. "I don't know, Chim," she whines.

His eyes round with quiet concern, and he cranes his weight onto the edge of a table. Crosses his arms over his chest, a stained rag dangling between his hold.

"Why? Why not? Don't you think Nam deserves some excitement? All he ever does is overwork himself and play the same miserable song over and over. " He shoots a deathly glare at the vintage juke box at the edge of the bar at the mere recollection.

"He's young. Has a build most girls would gawk over." He's listing the attributes on his stubby fingers. "Smart, kind, generous- I mean, do you think any other boss would put up with my BS on a daily? The man's an angel."

In the dim light of the overhanding star lights, Jimin's eyes glisten, and he averts his gaze, fearful his composure will crumble.

"He deserves happiness, Nor. if this all goes up in flames, he deserves a speck of happiness to carry him through it, guide him to a new horizon. This can't be his everything, because as soon as it falls, so will he."

"You're saying he needs a safety net."

"Yes, exactly! A safety net." He recites the term, weighing its shape on his lips, surprised at how properly it fits.

Norah weakly hoists the last of the chairs. "I thought that was us. You know? Us three, to the end?"

"Nor..." he frowns, launches his weight off the table he'd been reclining himself against, and saunters his way through the maze of stacked chairs to Norah. "We will always be there for one another, but you and I both know there are things he carries in secret. Things he keeps from us, for our sake. Maybe she'll crack through his shell, and make it less..." He looks for the word somewhere over and past her head, and physically palpates the air for its shape. "Less...you know...less heavy." He's not please with the selection, but it's the only word that comes to mind in that instance, and bears resemblance to the abstract idea of his mind.

"Maybe he'll allow her, unlike us."

"I get it. I hear you. I just don't know how to feel about this. What if it blows up and he hates us for it?"

Jimin takes up the role of devil's advocate, an un-orthodoxically hopeful one: "What if it works out wonderfully well?"

"Fine," her agreement falls flat, but he makes up for her lack of enthusiasm by doing a little fist hoist in the air.

She grabs his wrist and forces his gaze back onto hers. "This is Nam we are talking about. We need a good plan and an even better execution. Absolutely no room for fuckups."

"Hey, Jimin?"

"Hmm?" His gaze flies up at the sound of such formality, and the absence of the familiar 'Chim.' His furrowed brows frame a set of eyes rounded with concern. They scan her countenance, attempting to pick up on subtle, unspoken moods that could explain that sudden change.

"Whatever happens -if this place goes belly-up..." Norah does a motion with her forefinger, its silver band reflecting in the waning amber of evening. "We'll still be..." her gaze dances, unsteady between his steady and attentive one, but she proves incapable of holding it.

Circling the bands around her now clammy fingers, she orders her thoughts, lines her words over the plateau of her tongue. Like perfectly placed and aligned dominoes, she intends to let them charge forth with unbridled momentum.

But instead, they clank awkwardly and with no set rhythm as she stammers between what should be said, and what should be censored, eternalized to secrecy.

"It'll be us three, forever, right? Nothing will change?" Of course things would change, drastically. Namjoon alone would have to uproot his life to comply with the terms of agreement he'd established with his parents in allowing him to take-up the risk of running the diner. That alone would suggest him moving away. Communication between the three would fall, their bond crafted over years would loosen and come undone like an improperly fastened knot, or one that just wore away, sun-bleached and tattered.

He wants to procure a worthy response, to at least undo the tears starting to form on her lash-line, but he can't bring himself to lie to her. Nothing was certain. Not ever, and certainly not now.

He would be lying if he denies having scouted for jobs online once he puts Byeol down to bed each night.

It's less about holding different jobs than it is about the distance between those routines. The fall-out wouldn't be palpable during the first few months as they would make every attempt to overcome the discrepancy, to meet and chat, with everything being freshly new. Once they were to give into monotony and convenience, though, those meetings would shorten into oblivion.

Perhaps this is why Jimin is so adamant about helping Namjoon conquer love; it's his way of leaving an impression that will outlive his presence in Namjoon's life.

Instead of voicing his reasonable suspicions, he coos, much in the likeness of the tone he uses to calm Byeol. "Hey, hey... It's okay. It'll be okay."

He encroaches with outstretched arms, ready to collect her before she shatters into a million pieces right before him. His small, delicate hands hold her head and stroke her hair.

Norah renders her guard useless, and sheds it with a few tears that stray from her shut eyes. She nuzzles the bridge of her pierced button bose against the side of his neck.

No longer looking into her eyes, he musters a pretty, white lie, sweet like cane sugar, to coax the bitterness of medicine, of reality, of life: "Until the stars burn out."

She wants to call him out on the lack of accuracy in that statement; processes it's fallacy, but stops herself from speaking. Instead, she relishes the embrace as if it were the first and the last.

She allows herself to enjoy the imagery of the sentiment and locks her hands behind his back, just in case the stars do burn out in that instant. In case they drift off into the void together, to face that dark unknown together.

Norah's unspokenly ambitious, hazardly competitive. Rather than boasting about how she's the very best, she'll take up any and every opportunity to one-up her opponent in the most obscure trivia, a match of chess, tennis (you name it).

Her ambition is merely a deep, infiltrating greed that courses through her like an infestation. She's conditioned herself to fear coveting something. Taught herself that to want is to lose; and that vulnerability is dangerous.

She's recited a million times over in her head declinations of her blossoming feelings for Jimin. Every bud that blooms in daylight, she snips in moonlight.

She wants it all. She wants him. She wants forever. She doesn't merely want to buy an extension for the inevitable. She doesn't want to convince herself out of the want. Not with this want.

Something deep inside her is gnawing with want - not the lustful desire kind, rather, the I've been alone for so long that I am touch-starved, and wholly lonesome and tired and I just want a place to rest.

She wishes on every lash of her eyes that Jimin could one day be that for her, and likewise, her for him.

A safe place.

But she also wishes incessantly for the diner's success and Namjoon's happiness, yet the bills continue to pile. With winter unfolding, the crowds are thinning, the diner grows quiet and stale.

Wishing has never proven to suffice. It never has been the magical remedy. Stars are just pretty orbs of light in the sky, not wish granters.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ this teeny series is lowkey a love letter to jimin for being such a loving, warm person. a literal angel x

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ also, probs unconsciously influenced by peyton x jake oth dynamic (we were robbed!)

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ the ode to jimin continues >> ep. 2

[jrwiyuri]

The fucking one c!Wilbur TikTok audio showed up on my fyp today and it reignited a fucking burning rage I had over how people treated that dialogue as if it was cool.

[iamthecomet]

Comet my dear, do you have any aethshine thoughts you would like to share? I am Thinking about them and thought, perhaps, you would like to as well. 😌

Dearest Miasma, I'm sure I can conjure up some thoughts (I am plagued with thoughts). 650ish words of Aether/Sunshine musings. Not quite ficlet, definitely not just headcanons. Some angst (of the missing their packmates variety). More smut. They just love each other a lot ok!? Transfem Sunny because I said so.

With the rest of the pack gone, the ghoul wing is eerie. Sunshine's never seen it like this. Impossibly quiet. So many doors shut, rooms sealed off. Sure if she wanted to she could open Cirrus' door, slip in. Bury her face in the the blankets and pillows and clothes left behind. She could sleep in a different empty bed every night. Drift off to the smell of her missing packmates. She doesn't though, doesn't have to. Aether's with her. Noise carries differently when they're the only two in this part of the Abbey. Like a room with all the furniture moved out. The television drones, and she can hear it down the hall. Distant mumbling. When Aether's in his room, playing guitar, humming a tune she can hear him like he's next to her. They spend a lot of time together. Neither of them talk about it, but the emptiness of their home has seeped into the chambers of their hearts too. Bittersweet and aching with each video call where Cumulus pans the phone around so Sunshine can see the Eifle Tower lit up against the sky. Or when she can hear Aether and Dew talking through the walls. Dew's voice terse as he complains about everything except what's really bothering him. Sunshine slips into Aether's room once she's sure he's off the phone. Once they've both exchanged their good nights with their pack, halfway across the world. Sometimes they talk. Curled up together on Aether's big bed. TV on some show they've seen a hundred times. Voices hushed like there is someone they might wake up. Sometimes, Aether pulls her close. Kisses the breath from her lungs. Hands sunk into her curls as he holds her where he needs her. Thumbs pressed against the base of her horns, tongue sweeping over her teeth. She's glad it's Aether. Has been since they both announced their retirement independently of each other. Grateful not to be alone and glad it's him. Steady, devoted, Aether. Who only has to look at her to understand. Who will sit with her at the piano in their empty rehersal room and sing. Who lets her tag along on his infirmary shifts when she can't sleep. Aether who has good book reccomendations and makes sure Sunshine never gets bored enough to really feel how much she misses everyone else.

Aether, who knows exactly how to touch her to shut her mind off. Who holds her with confidence, knows she won't break as he presses her down into the mattress. Slips one hand into the waistband of her leggings and another up, under he crop top to cup a small breast in his giant hand. calloused fingers dragging over a pebbling nipple. Aether feels like home when he touches her. Even when it's rough and desperate. Even when he has both of their cocks in his fist, dragging the heads together, making her vision fuzzy at the edges. Even when he's three fingers deep inside of her, scissoring her open, pressing against spots that make her feel like she's going to cave in on herself.

Pleasure bowls over her, over and over again. His teeth pressed to her pulse. Breath huffed out in sharp pants over her sweat slick skin. Pressing in as deep as he can go, making her feel the way he carves out a place inside of her, his hand pressed firm over hers on her belly so she can feel him fucking her. There is no difference between this and the times when they move slower. When Aether presses his mouth to every inch of exposed skin on her body. When she does the same, grazing teeth over the swell of his belly, the cushion of his thighs. When I love yous are whispered freely. Either way, when she cums under Aether's gaze, it feels like going home.

[meowzilla93]

did i just spend the last oh say 3 days drafting, scrapping, redrafting and finishing my first official spicy, smut, Baxter Alexander Ward fic because I need this man biblically and there just isnt enough fics about this man out there? i have no idea what you are talking about

but like, you can totally check any follow up posts for updates of any kind if you feel like it

[asukiess]

C'mon, I can't NOT ask about schroedinger's cat ❤

hi huey!! <3

the title was a rash decision, and to the pedantic out there, it is not completely accurate to the real meaning of schroedinger's cat, haha.

however! the idea is this: Ladybug and Chat Noir, in a "very casual relationship" (yeah right) as late teens, decide to pick a date to add detransforming to their makeouts. both are trying to be Really Normal about this, because if they can't handle this, how will their relationship progress? I mean, what if HM takes a decade to find? and the crux is this: is it better to know what Chat Noir's human side feels like, to have that glimpse into the human she loves beneath the mask, or to never know at all?

[gale-force-storm]

Me: This is a fun idea for a little one-shot! I'll just bash it out real quick and post it in the next day or two

Me, two weeks and 7k+ words later: ...I don't know how this keeps happening

[rxttenfish]

i love it when miranda gets to be stupidly dramatic over nothing. currently in the fic she's wildly upset that aaravi didn't compliment how nice the letter she wrote breaking bad news to aaravi was. she put extra effort making it sound all nice and everything!