starlitwhispers

[starlitwhispers]

for you hesitate to love me 1500 words, lime/mochi for @musubiki a/n: girly this is homework, tell me what i did bad so i can write them better

He said, “We’re no longer kids, Moch.” 

He said this, after breaking the news. Like a crystal ball dropped to the ground, shattering into a million pieces – those pieces being the words laid across the floor – sharp, deadly to the touch, drawing a line between them. She wasn’t quite too sure what to say in reply and as she struggled to find the words, her voice faltered and his expression remained the same. 

The tip of his sneaker toed the ground as his head hung down. He was waiting for a response. And a response, he didn’t receive. After a couple minutes painstakingly passed, he rubbed the back of his neck in frustration and sighed. His frustration was not with her, no – he could never find fault with her. His anger and discontent lay solely with the situation as it was not his ideal. It was not his ideal… but it was his answer. 

She watched as he turned his back to her and walked away. The moment he left her line of sight, he wouldn’t be the same person she knew. The same person she loved. In the worst way, he was off to become someone she could not trust, quite possibly her enemy. In the easiest way, as she told herself to ease her aching heart, he would return to her. It was fine, anyway, because she had decided her own path as well – without telling him in the first place. 

But when she turned her back to his, her heart began to ache. When would they see each other again? The young witch had been sure, very sure, when she returned, he would be there waiting. Time had progressed for her on her own journey, a metamorphosis through magic and growth. And when she returned, he wasn’t there waiting, like she had thought. As she wandered with her eyes glancing around for a glimpse of his orange hair, she found no such thing. 

Perhaps, he could really change too, after all. 

Days began to pass. She worked harder on her spells and her beloved familiar purred with praise and pride. Days turned into months and her mother said she could have more responsibility with the cafe. She spent more time learning about something called ‘FIFO’ for the stock in the back. Months turned into what felt like an eternity and her hair had grown a bit longer, sometimes more puffy depending on the weather. 

And finally, he had come back. 

In truth, really not much time had passed, it was all relative. But to Mochi, without him around, it could have been years and she wouldn’t have known it. A day without seeing him felt like forever. And for Lime, the feeling was quite the same – although, she didn’t know that. For all these years they had known each other, there had always been this thin wall between them. Faint hints and unsure mumblings about the other which barely passed them by – with a singular, clear message: 

I love you.

But with this decision, the wall between them had become stronger, wider and something she was unsure to touch. If she hadn’t been certain of whether to cross that boundary before he left, she had a more conclusive idea now. Lime had always been his own person to her, but looking at him in that getup was more than she could take. It was if they lived in separate worlds–

Funny. Funny how she felt what he had felt for so long. This… untouchability, this uncrossable bridge, of difference in ability and personhood. And in the midst of the difference, they shared the same heart. 

He walked around town with that girl for weeks, running around waving new weapons, and living his life without needing her. She wasn’t sure how to approach him, only he could really do that, so he did just that. And somehow, he found himself standing before her, in the privacy of her home, with no one else around. 

Her eyes looked him up and down, conflicting feelings of desire and heartache boiling inside all at once. And they stood apart, staring at the other not as children, high school friends, or classmates, but as a man and a woman. Yet, yet, yet, flashed in her mind; but, but, but! He’d been initiated as a member of the very organization that stands against her kind. How could she ever dare love this specific mortal? If it hadn’t felt like taboo before, it sank like a pit in her stomach now. 

Now, his eyelids slowly blinked as his gaze soaked every inch of her in. They both had changed so much, but in his belief, she stayed the same Mochi. Beautiful, kind, and a storm of emotion and pondering behind her eyes. But this time, she was hesitating, he could see it. It must be the clothes, he thought, they say they make the man, after all.

And made him they did. 

All this time, he had been running after her. He had been trying to close this gap but somehow instead took one step forward and three steps back. He wasn’t compensating anymore, he knew this, confidently. So, he would now step forward without the distance continuing to grow. When he stepped forward, she tried to step away and he reached out to stop her. For the first time. And he could reach her. 

“Mochi, please stop,” he began, his voice low and earnest. 

The seriousness in his words finally caused her to meet his gaze. Her eyes had been avoiding his face ever since the moment she noticed how handsome he had become. She could barely hear him over the sound of her beating heart. 

“W-What?” She finally managed to reply, a crack in her voice followed by uneasiness. 

He didn’t like this. He liked when Mochi was herself around him, when she was comfortable, laughing, and smiling. But then he thought to himself, how long had it been since he last saw that version of her? How long had it been since they had… been themselves together? He didn’t train this hard for her to push him away again. He loved her more than she could understand, more than the stars could explain, and more than whatever cosmic force might try to keep them apart. He would tear any opposing forces apart and down and inside out to have her. 

Gently, he grasped a few strands of her hair. He felt the ends of it on his thumb, lovingly peering down at the locks. And then, his gaze trailed up to her blushing and adamant face. His eyes ever so steadfast and sincere, he finally responded to her. 

“I’m not running on some baseball field anymore and you’re… you’re not struggling with 3rd period physics anymore. I’m not running anymore, but you – you are… Stop running away from me, stop… hesitating.” 

She swallowed, the resolution in his voice caught her off guard, and somehow, hurt her feelings. Her? Running away? She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face the music, hadn’t that been the case? She was running away? No, she needed to stay strong, feign ignorance. 

“What does some soldier from the M34TH want with me, some witch?” She answered, turning her face away from his. 

He stepped closer, their bodies barely an inch apart. He lowered his face closer to hers, his gaze piercing with sincerity and a fire she had known before behind his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not just some soldier and you’re not just some witch, but if you’re stressing that beautiful head of yours out about it, allow me to clarify.” 

His large, calloused hand swiftly found its way to her waist, while the other gently cradled her jaw tilting upwards. Within seconds he closed the distance between their lips and pressed their bodies together. How long had he been waiting for his moment, to claim what he felt was unclaimable? When he pulled away, he brushed his thumb across her lips, which she quickly pushed away and hid her face within his chest. 

What had he just done? He broke the wall, he crossed the line – he had done what she kept herself from doing for so long. He stopped hesitating. Her fingers gripped the sides of his coat and she pushed her face harder into his chest. She felt too many things, too many conflicting thoughts swirling, but above it all it told her this may change everything. 

And, in true Lime fashion, “this won’t change anything,” he said. As if reading her mind, he responded with the words she needed to hear. “But let me have this today, where you’re not some witch and I’m not some officer.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. “And what about tomorrow, when I decide to hesitate again? What about tomorrow, when I have to be who I really am, a witch, and you have to put that uniform on?” 

Wrapping his arms around her, he snuggled his chin into the nape of her neck. “No matter what day it is, you’re still Mochi and I’m still Lime.”

#musubiki #the cat witchs guild #limochi #the misc adventures of mochi & lime #tcwg #tmaomal #i rly wanted to finish this before my program starts bc then i will be virtually dead for a year smh #which i did!!! bc my first class starts in fifteen minutes lMAO #i thought lime talked too much in this.... very awk n i apologize for how ooc this may be babe #i rly hope u enjoy it i tried akdkdk #BUT LMK WHAT I DID WRONG... im taking notes so i can do better next time #i wanted to do more steamy words but... the spice left me... idk why

[starlitwhispers]

fennel seeds, dinner time, and you wikierror, 2197 words, nsfw! a/n: i did something bad @silverbuttercups

She hadn’t been home in a while. It was supposed to be a special occasion – and special he would make it. He had gone out of his way to consult friends, something he didn’t usually do, in order to curate the perfect menu. He, fortunately, was a savant in the kitchen, unlike her, although he did not put too much time into the craft. It was rare anyways that he would be cooking, since the moments they shared at home were sparse and oftentimes quick as well. 

He wasn’t too sure when the abrupt moment would inevitably turn up where one of them were to be needed elsewhere. So, he picked a meal that would be swift to prepare. With his cape draped over the back of the sofa, he tucked a dish cloth into the waistband of his dark pants, rolled up his sleeves and headed for the pantry. After acquiring the necessary ingredients he had bought a few days prior, a thought struck him as he set them down on the counter. 

The slippers on his feet rushed along with him into the living room, where he slowly began to light the many candles about the room. They were a comfort to her, the soft hue in a darker room was her type of ambience, something he enjoyed about her. He had hoped that when she eventually arrived home, the robust scent of dinner and dimly lit living space would lighten her spirits. 

With a push and flick of his wrist – a pop, pop, pop –  he turned the gas to the stove on. Within time, water began to boil in the pot beside him and sauce slowly came together in the pan on the front burner. He unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt as the temperature of the kitchen rapidly rose while he cooked. His sturdy hand whisked away in the saucepan, the veins protruding as he tightened his grip. After some time was spent and steam abundantly grazed his face, he removed the pot of boiling noodles from the stove to strain them and allowed the entreé and sauce to simmer. 

Dinner would be ready soon. His eyes quickly darted to the clock hanging in the living room, she should have been home ten minutes ago. A sigh released from his mouth which he then pressed into a line. He walked over to the table and sat down, bending over the ledge and resting his bare elbows. His jaw clenched as he watched more time pass, no sign of her. After a solid hour had gotten away from him, he stood up from his chair – the wood making a short creak – and turned the stove off completely. 

He watched as the food he lovingly made gradually lost its warmth and soon began to worry about her. She hadn’t always been the perfect time, no one was, but she would have never forgotten or stood him up – he was sure of it. …Was he? 

It had been almost a month since they last shared a bed together. It had been two weeks since they were last in each other’s presence. And each time he called her, the length of their conversations waned. Had she been subtly dropping hints that it was time to finish this long feast they indulged in without consequence? 

He rubbed his jawline and chin in thought. The ticking of the clock seemed to echo in his ears with each passing tock, a metronomic rhythm that eased him into madness and uncertainty. He hadn’t got much sleep in the past few days, he’d been strapped for work as well. Exhaustion gripped at his conscience, they couldn’t possibly be done. The red-haired champion knew her all too well, and she for him as well. She wouldn’t end this – whatever this was – without a conversation in person–

Shink, click. His head whipped to look at the front door, the lock in the doorknob turned with a key on the other side. The white oak door slowly opened with a squeak, chilly autumn air flowing in with the keyholder. 

All worry dissipated from his mind when he saw her face. Her hair had been a mess in some places, but golden tresses still flowed down her shoulders and back. Her cheeks flushed against her porcelain skin from the cooler weather and the scent of earth followed her inside. A tired, albeit grateful, smile crossed over her mouth when she spotted him sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Thank goodness you’re still here,” she let out in a relieved breath. “I’m so sorry I’m quite late, I really shouldn’t have kept you waiting like this – with myself looking like this.” She motioned to her messy hair and somewhat scuffed attire. “I was needed at Mt. Coronet for something and you know how dirty some quick cave-dwelling can make a woman.” 

She walked over to the table, setting her bag down. He still hadn’t answered her, his face serious and soaking in every word she said. She noticed his rather atypical behavior and raised a brow in curiosity. 

“Lance? Is something wrong?” 

At that moment, hearing her say his name had set something off inside him. Of course she had been called to some emergency, she would have never done this to him. He had over thought for nothing, absolutely nothing. 

“Absolutely nothing,” his thoughts repeated aloud in response as he stood up from his seat. The dimly lit home made his movements look more domineering as he closed the distance between them and slipped his arms around her waist. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

She looked at him, eyes slightly squinted in playful suspicion. Her lips quickly closed the gap between them, kissing him tenderly and swift. “Will you be upset if I say no? I had a large lunch earlier and you know I don’t eat much. How about you? I’m sure you are if you’ve been waiting for me all this time.”

His head leaned down into her ear. “I am absolutely famished,” he whispered. 

He was absolutely famished, in another way. Quite soon, he found one of his hands holding firmly onto her hip and the other trailing downwards. A soft chuckle released from her mouth as she wedged a hand between their chests and softly pushed him away. 

“Hold on there, I haven’t showered for the evening,” she told him, her head cocked to the side in reluctance. “My clothes are covered in filth and underneath is dried sweat.” 

“That’s perfect,” he began with a smirk. “I thought dinner needed a little more salt anyway.” 

The woman exhaled a loud sigh and shot back another smile. “You know, I won’t stop you.” 

Bingo. Clearance was all that he had needed. At that moment, he lunged at her, tightly embracing her body and taking in her scent at the neck. She gasped as he sucked at her nape and felt his hands force themselves underneath her blouse. Their bodies fell back a few steps, her back bending against the counter. 

She set to work herself, the tips of her fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt as fast as possible. As she slipped the sleeves off his arms, she exposed his bare torso. She marveled at the great, blank canvas she was going to wreak havoc on, nail scores and hickeys galore. Her eyes looked up at him and she met his deep gaze as he stopped feeling her. 

“It’s been too long, Cynthia,” he told her, panting like a dog in heat. 

She brought her soft mouth to one of his pectorals, first sucking gently and then fervently. He swallowed in struggle to contain himself as he slipped a hand into her pants. He grasped her from behind until she finally released her bite. 

“I know,” she answered, wiping her mouth from the saliva. “It’s been too long, there’s hardly any trace of me from last time.” Her hand glided over his body and he stared down at her. 

He wanted to ravage her. So he did. 

Picking her up, he sat her atop the counter in a frenzy. Her body knocked over several bottles of seasoning from earlier, with fennel seeds falling to the floor and scattering like broken glass. Her legs wrapped around his abdomen and back, pulling him closer. However, with the veins popping in his arms, he pulled them off, confusing her. 

“I won’t have these on any longer,” he stated, his voice low and demanding. In a rough, abrupt motion, he grabbed the waistline of her pants to pull them off. With that, she sat before him in only a black blouse. The anticipation to see the rest of her body ate away at him, he was weak. Before he could move himself to take it off, she smirked at him in seduction. 

Crossing her arms over the other and tugging at the hemline of her blouse, she slowly dragged the cloth off her torso, revealing her breasts. His eyes glazed over her in thirst, feeling unsure once again – after feeling unsure many times before – if he could really have her body. 

“You explored a cave with no bra?” He questioned as one of his fingertips circled around a nipple. 

“Maybe I lied about being hungry, maybe I was hoping for a different kind of meal when I came home.” 

With her last word, he moved his face closer to hers. Just before their lips met, he responded. “I believe I can satisfy you.” 

Indulgently, they kissed each other. His tongue pushed against hers as he drank her in and her hands moved towards the zipper on his crotch. She flimsily pulled down his pants to reveal his boxer briefs, and the bulge that they hid. However, she could not find the time to admire the glaring sign of his attraction to her, as he quickly threw her smooth and creamy legs around him. 

Her clit began to rub against his hard-on with her breasts pressed against him as he nibbled on her ear. Her sexual frustration grew as he continued to tease her, as well as the moisture between her legs. 

“Lance, stop playing around,” she breathed. “You know what I want.” 

The man laughed as he moved his mouth away from her ear. With her legs still straddled around him, he hoisted her over to the kitchen table where he gently let her back onto her feet. Cupping her jaw with his hand, he kissed her and then turned her around. He leaned her over the table, the candlelight illuminated their faint shadows moving in the wood. 

He admired the view, her sleek back in front of him and her long blonde hair laying across the oak grain. In one swift movement, his phallus was free of the boxer briefs which now laid around his ankles and he held it, slowly rubbing it in between her cheeks. A grunt escaped from his mouth as he tried to control himself – he wanted to make her suffer a little longer for making him wait. In this feast, he would eat first. 

With her body bent over, he used the tip of his penis to search for the opening. He chuckled to himself as it wasn’t too hard to find, she was soaked. He heard her gasp under her breath as he slowly began to enter her. Once he had been sure of the angle, he thrust himself fully inside. She had made it all too easy as he leaned over her, his crotch repeatedly colliding with her back end. He pushed his body closer to her, the friction stimulating sweat between them. 

He had one hand gripping onto the table edge and used the other to trail up her body, where it eventually found one of her breasts. He fully grasped it, fondling and pinching the nipple while he pounded into her. The weight and force began to rock the table, causing the seeds on the ground to shake against the flooring. She moaned as he increased the speed with which he thrust. 

After some time, he brought her to the ground and her legs wrapped against him once more. They embraced each other and she scratched his back in ecstasy. He sucked on her ear while rocking into her and she begged “faster” to him. With that, it was almost on command, he felt himself close to climaxing. In that moment, he pushed himself into her as deep and as fast as he possibly could, her cries becoming louder and his pants greater. Her legs tightened around him as he finished inside her, as if she was trying to clamp him to her. 

His back burned from her fingernails and her vulva pulsated from the rough friction. He steadily rose from the top of her, her hair splayed on the ground with the fennel seeds. Her white cheeks turned red from the intimacy, but her eyes said he had delivered pleasure. With a grunt, he helped her sit up, their bare bottoms sitting on the kitchen floor. 

“Would you like dinner now?” He asked, casually. 

She smiled. 

“You know I’m always hungry.” 

#pokemon #wikierrorshipping #wikierror #champion cynthia #champion lance #trainer lance #lance #shirona #silverbuttercups #i had yall in the first half didnt i #look i wrote a hurt/comfort fic n i wrote the comfort part too this time #its even smutty bc im dirty like that #i cannot believe i wrote this everyone pls forgive me #nsfw #smut #also pls dont judge i havent written smut since like.... 2016 #LEMON #BC IM OLD LIKE THAT

[starlitwhispers]

2, 3, and 5 for the fanfic ask meme 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽

ahshshs i love u babe<3

2. i like present tense the best but i find past the easiest //

3. third is best, but i can like first if the narrator is not written like a pick-me lmao

5. the thirst for content... frfr.. but also to better my craft!!! also writing for friends helps u know 👀

#silverbuttercups #ilysm babe #imma pop over n ask u <3 #asks

[starlitwhispers]

i'm a good writer, seriously! meme

just a simple little thing for you guys to do with me. put a number in my askbox and i’ll answer accordingly.

the mission, should you accept it, is to stay positive about your writing and yourself, but to also be fair about your shortcomings.

of the fic you’ve written, which are you most proud of?

favorite tense (past/present/future)

favorite POV (first/second/third/etc)

what are some themes you love writing about?

what inspires you to write?

thoughts on critique

create a character on the spot…. NOW!

is there a character you love writing for the most? the least? why?

a passage from a WIP

what are your strengths wrt writing?

what are your weaknesses wrt writing?

what’s your favorite place for writing resources?

who are your favorite writers?

[starlitwhispers]

burning the midnight oil Chapter 3: Forebode and Foresee

sorry this is late OTL explanation on the archive!! 

#Volokari #volo #akari #pokemon legends of arceus #pokemon #legends of arceus

[starlitwhispers]

burning the midnight oil Chapter 2: From the Back 

Chapter two is up!!! enjoy <3

#volokari #volo #akari #pokemon #legends of arceus #pokemon legends of arceus

[starlitwhispers]

burning the midnight oil Chapter 1: A Delightful Find A Volokari short-fic series. Updates every Wednesday. 

Summary:  The Ginkgo Guild merchant had aspirations no one could understand. Some girl fell from the sky and now what? It all went to hell.

follow along with me on ao3 while i write my feels and cry <3 i will post chapter updates with a link here every week!

#volokari #volo #akari #pokemon legends of arceus #pokemon #legends of arceus

[starlitwhispers]

rain. soulsilvershipping - 3000 words library au it was gloomy here, so here is my gloomy fic

The wind chimes tingle as they crash into one another, jingling in symphonic rhythm with the leaves scraping across the concrete sidewalk. She stares at the sky, standing from the open doorway of her modest home. It is the first time in months warm weather has come, but of course it must wash away the harshness of winter first with a shower. The warmth begins to slowly fly away with the breeze, a breeze beckoning danger and thunder with dark clouds creeping into the sky from the east. Goosebumps travel up her legs to the rest of her body as she feels the temperature change. It happens to be her day to reshelve books at the library. With a slight shrug of her left shoulder, she shakes her head in quiet surrender. 

“Must be my lucky day,” she says to herself, stepping back inside to slip her red rain boots on. “It’s going to downpour.” Her slender and soft fingers reach for the keys on the hook and she heads out her door. A quick lock to her entrance, she begins speed-walking to her local library. She does not have a rain jacket, never found the time to buy one. She does not have an umbrella, never received it after letting someone borrow it. 

However, that last part would be her fault, entirely. Last year, around this time, she handed her umbrella off to a stranger. She spent the day with her mother who drove her home in the weather, took notice of the unfortunate soul soaked in the storm, and demanded her mother pull over. She rushed out to hand the umbrella away and then ran back to her mother. She wiped the rain from her face and hair as they continued on with their drive. 

“I should really buy a new one!” She exclaimed to herself in admonition. Then, with another shrug of her right shoulder, she smiles. She had helped someone. Although her umbrella was a little rough around the edges, with yellow tape supporting the bottom handle, she could have made that person’s day. Will she see that umbrella again? Perhaps not, but a kindness had been paid that day. 

Luckily, she arrives at the library before the rain. The white, fluorescent ceiling lamps hurt her eyes a little, she could never really become accustomed to them. They are truly an awful choice, considering people are to read here, would not a softer light be better for eyes? The library has a low budget, though. Her mouth crinkles into a small frown as she acknowledges that the institution itself has become forgotten, as they seem to have fewer readers every month. Setting her bag down in a cubby behind the circulation desk, she says her quick hellos to the other girls at the circulation desk, writes her name down on the volunteer chart, and clips her nametag to the front of her blouse. 

“Jasmine, are these the ones that need to be reshelved?” She asks, in a low voice to another volunteer. She places her hand on the loading cart by the desk. 

“Yes, I sorted through them a little bit ago,” Jasmine answers, raising a travel mug to her mouth and taking a quick sip. “They belong over in Nonfiction.” 

“All right, well, I’ll take them over!” She responds cordially, dragging the cart over with her in her steps. 

An hour into reshelving, the rain begins. At the same time, the air conditioning in the library turns on. Much more to her luck, she now has the coldness of the air conditioning and the gray, dark skies outside to keep her company. She hopes the weather lets up soon, as volunteering will end in another two hours for her. As she brings her empty cart back to circulation, Jasmine looks at her with an apologetic smile. The young girl’s eyes glance to the left and land on another cart full of books. 

“I’m so sorry, Lyra!” Her fellow volunteer falters with shame, “We had a lot of books come back yesterday.” 

“I’ve totally got it under control, don’t worry about it,” she reassures Jasmine. 

With yet another quick shrug of a shoulder, she turns the cart with her and walks back to Nonfiction. She tries to bide her time now, glancing over at the windows regularly. The rain still has not stopped. In fact, it looks as if its drops weigh heavier onto the earth. What she would do for an umbrella. She snaps out of her trance as she hears the rustle of water and plastic nearby. Her hand squeezes between two books to fit another.  Lucky that person, they’re folding up their umbrella,  she thinks to herself. 

Reaching the end of the shelf lines, she stops in the reading cubbies for a moment. Her eyes pause as she notices… her umbrella? Her body swiftly rushes towards it, to examine closer. It is indeed her umbrella, yellow tape on the bottom of the handle, wrapped up next to this person’s backpack. She picks it up in excitement and cannot believe somehow it ended up back in her possession, in some form or other. From all the water on her umbrella, she can tell they just arrived. She wonders for a moment, would it be bad to steal back her own umbrella?  I mean, is it stealing if it’s owned by you?  The thought strikes her. 

In deliberation, she wonders what kind of legal issues it would put her in; and would it put her in any if she took it without the person knowing? No one saw her take it, it is rightfully hers, too. But then, what if it is still raining when they need to leave? She would be stranding this stranger in the rain after she saved them a year ago. Surely, this would be —

“Hey, what are you doing-!” A voice harshly whispers from behind her. “That’s my umbrella!” 

She releases a small  eep!  in surprise to have been caught as she turns around to face the stranger. This time, she catches a good and long look at his whole person. Hair red like autumn leaves, eyes gray like fine granite, with a few water droplets speckled across his cheeks and the top of his head. His cheeks flare pink, as though he is tired. And yet, his eyebrows furrow in exasperation, probably with her, some stranger holding onto what seems to be his umbrella now. She realizes how bad this must look now. 

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she blubbers bashfully, “I think there is a mistake.” 

“A mistake?” He responds sharply, without a second to lose, “How? You’re standing over my things and holding my umbrella.” 

Air catches in her throat at his hostility. She becomes unsure how to proceed, their meeting last year was without a doubt brief, and she did not manage a good look of him then, so he definitely does not know who she is. His glare pierces her as she stands wordless in his path, growing more irritated by the second. 

“I—Uhm—” she stumbles over her words. “This umbrella—” 

“What of it? Did you want it because it’s raining outside? Were you trying to steal it?” He further interrogates her. Her face heats over accusations, which are not false. 

“Yes—well, no—” she continues to dig her own grave. “I actually own this umbrella—”

“No, you don’t, it’s mine—technically it belongs to someone else, but I have yet to give it back to them,” he corrects her, “I don’t know where they are, I don’t even know who the person was, but I would like to personally return it. I don’t believe they’re the kind of person to just go and steal it back from someone, though.” 

“That’s just it!” She exclaims, causing others in the library to turn to her. She winces at the thought she was loud, and loudly whispers back, “Sorry!” 

“Please, just listen to me,” the young girl continues to explain. “Someone gave you this umbrella about a year ago, when it was raining really hard, right? They didn’t even say anything to you, they just shoved the umbrella in your hands and ran to hop in a car, right?” 

He stares back at her, stunned. Slowly, the red in his cheeks deepens to match that of his hair, he must have realized by now. His savior in the rain that day… is this girl standing before him. He scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat, “...It was you?” 

“Yeah, it was me.” 

Silence ensues while she looks at him intently. He has resorted to bashfully looking at all other directions than hers, he does not know how to address her. After a minute more in the awkward space they share, he abruptly walks back over to his things and sits down in one of the reading chairs. She still stares. 

“Well?!” He snaps chagrined. “Are you just going to stand there?” 

“Oh!” She realizes he has sat down by now and must be here to privately read or study. “No,” she answers as she scurries back to her book cart. “I have some books I need to shelf for the library.” 

Unbeknownst to her, his eyes follow her as she hurries down the book aisles a little ways from him. For the next hour, she toddles around the library with her books, reshelving, taking peeks at the mysterious stranger she gifted her umbrella. And, with each peek, she catches him staring back at her. He swings his head back down to his laptop, a seemingly abashed grimace adorning his face. With each encounter, she feels a little better, even gaining enough confidence to smile back at him. Somehow, her route of book shelving lands her in the aisle closest to him and she feels compelled to speak to him, although she hasn’t the slightest clue what to talk about. 

She steps up onto a footstool to reach the highest canopy. Maybe she could ask for his name? No, that would be far too odd, it makes it seem as if she wants to be his friend. Well, does she want to be his friend? She’s now unsure — and with her furrowed brow, she steps her foot behind herself to go down the footstool. Unfortunately, lost in thought, she misplaces her foot spacing and misses the step. She makes a small fall backwards and her hip hits the book cart. A few books from the cart clatter to the carpet floor. 

Without a moment’s notice, he stands in front of her, crouching down to grab the fallen books. She reaches to help, but his free hand quickly catches hers. 

“It’s fine,” he rebuffs her, “I’ll get them…” Her heart immediately palpitates in response to his holding her hand. 

He stands back up to face her, releasing his grip and handing the books over. “Thank you,” she says softly. “...And I’m sorry I made you think I was taking your umbrella earlier.”

His face contorts into exasperation for a second but quickly reverts back with eyebrows still knotted. “Really, I had no clue, so I should be apologizing to you… It’s your umbrella anyway.” 

“No! I gave it to you! It’s rightfully yours, I promise.” 

He gazes back, a little stunned she’s willing to give her umbrella away. He steals a glance at the window, the rain still has not let up. “How will you get home if the rain continues?”

“I’m not sure… I’ll figure it out, though!” She reassures him with a smile. She turns away and starts reshelving the books and he begins walking back to his seat. A few steps from her, he turns back. She notices this and looks over. “Everything all right?”

His body slowly begins to face her… and she sees his expression. An almost… pained expression on his face, along with an awfully red complexion. She notices a clenched fist quiver as he tries to speak. 

“W-Would you… maybe,” he slightly stammers, “I could walk you home… if you wanted.” 

Air catches in her chest as her heart pounds at the suggestion. She cannot contain her joy — she has found a way home to stay dry and she may learn more about this boy! A delightful smile arches up her face, “That sounds like a fantastic idea!” 

“O-Okay,” he gruffly clears his throat. “When do you need to leave?” 

She steps out of the book aisle and looks for a wall clock. To her surprise, her volunteer time ends in a couple minutes. Her head turns back to him and whispers loudly down the aisle, “Can you do five minutes? I just need to put this cart back and grab my things.” 

He gives a slight nod with his rouge cheeks and heads over to collect his things. As she travels back to the circulation desk, she gives her goodbye to Jasmine, signs her name off the volunteer list, and picks up her bag from the cubby. She heads to the door to see him already waiting for her, tapping his foot.  He’s an impatient one,  she thinks. 

“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” she apologizes, feeling a little guilty as he seemed a bit annoyed. 

“It’s fine,” he rebuffs her again. The pair step outside the building and he opens up the umbrella. For a moment, they stand there, in some awkward silence. “Well? Aren’t you going to start walking to your house?” 

“Oh!” She realizes again, her brain must have stopped working momentarily. “That’s right, you don’t know where I live,” she laughs squeamishly. 

They start off, this time, walking in awkward silence. She thinks to herself it was smart of her to wear her rain boots, if not her pants would have been soaked. Her eyes wander down to the stranger’s pants beside her. No rain boots, in fact, he has to have been wearing the dirtiest pair of sneakers she has ever seen. His jeans also seem ill-fitting. She then notices his shoulder has been peeking out the side of the umbrella the whole time, to give her more space under the shelter. 

“Woah, hey,” she starts all of a sudden, “You can come closer under the umbrella, I don’t want you to get more wet!” 

Her hand tugs at his sleeve to pull him closer, to which she also takes notice of his backpack. Incredibly worn, there are several holes at the front and in his straps. Is this the only backpack he has ever owned? Breaking out of her assuming thoughts, she decides to try and make light conversation. 

“Well, um, thank you for taking such good care of my umbrella all this time!” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

An attempt was made. 

Swallowing, she feels a heavy air around him. Why so much tension? 

“It’s kind of funny that awful weather made us meet, huh?” 

What is she even saying anymore? 

“I guess..?” He answers her, slightly off-put by her strange words. 

“I’m just around this corner here…” she guides as they reach a four-way intersection in the neighborhood. Maybe she could invite him in for a cup of tea? Or maybe he does not want to make friends with her? 

Walking up the street, a large bus begins to drive against their direction. A deep pothole lies before them, which he sees. However, in a way to cope with the gauche situation, she walks ahead. 

“Wait-!” He calls out to her, and in a swift motion he abandons the umbrella and rushes to grab her arm to pull her back. But it becomes too late, the bus passes at the same time and the water in the pothole splashes them both. The umbrella falls a couple feet away. He holds her waist and her arm close to his body, their faces only inches apart. Completely soaked to the bone, their eyes peer into one another’s. 

Thunder claps. The clouds darken. The rain comes down harder. It’s a little cold, but it feels warm between them, their hearts pounding. He gently lets her go from his grasp and turns to pick up the umbrella. They begin to walk again. 

“Sorry,” he starts quietly, “I wasn’t fast enough.” 

“No, please don’t be sorry!” She cries out dolefully, “I should have heard you and listened! But I guess it doesn’t matter now, we’re both soaked.” 

He doesn’t reply. Almost to her home, she tries once more to make light of the conversation to hopefully make this experience one not so full of regret for him. 

“You know, why were you out in the rain that day? Without an umbrella or anything?” She asks innocently, brimming with curiosity. 

“Because my dad is a deadbeat.” 

She purses her lips.  An attempt was made.  

She thinks to herself, that makes sense. He comes from a less fortunate home, with a father who doesn’t seem to love him. Yet somehow, under his rough exterior, she could find a kind person when she looked into his eyes. Would he come and visit her again if she asked? 

“Oh, this is my place right here,” she motions to the small townhouse to the left of the street. He walks her to her door, where she stops and turns back to him. “Thank you for walking me all the way here, even though you ended up getting wet.” 

“It’s fine,” he rebuffs her once more. 

“You really love that phrase, huh?” She quips at him, his attitude was beginning to rub her the wrong way and she would let him know in her own friendly fashion. 

However, he does not respond. Instead, he collapses the umbrella and begins to wrap it up. She realizes he means to give it back to her and walk home in the rain. Her hand quickly reaches for his own and she softly places hers over his grip. 

“It’s okay, you can borrow it one more time,” she smiles. “It just means you’ll have to bring it back another day.” 

“You don’t even know my name, why are you being so kind?” He plainly responds, although she could see her words made him feel special. 

“Then, tell me your name, that way I can consider you a friend.” 

“Silver.” 

She takes the umbrella from his hands, unties it from the velcro, and props it open. She holds it over them, extending the handle to him. 

“Silver, I’m Lyra, so take this umbrella, won’t you?” 

The tenderness in her voice makes his knees weak and he cannot help himself from grabbing the umbrella from her hand. He nods, unable to find words, and starts to leave. She watches him with a smile walk away, after a few steps she opens her mouth. 

“Come back on the next rainy day to return it!”

#soulsilvershipping #pokemon #rival silver #Trainer Lyra #for stella #heres a wittle library au its v soft i promise

[starlitwhispers]

saccharine. soulsilvershipping - 2400 words A flavorless au by yours truly. happy quarter century birthday to my boo @silverbuttercups

Heat. Pounding heat. Warmth beating into his cheeks like the summer sun, except it was her instead. He can’t get it to work, he just can’t. The paints keep meshing and clumping; it’s like his sweat is mixing with the acrylics. And it’s all her fault, because she won’t get off his mind. The idea of her sits atop his head, weighing him down — it’s like he can’t breathe. The air, it’s thinning, he’s panting, the taste of her skin is flashing back into his mind — he’s panting, remembering the feeling of her panting back onto him. His mind races, his heart races, time seems like it’s elapsing faster than the speed of light —

He breaks out of his trance. The drops of sweat trickle down his scrawny biceps and a wet stain darkens the front of his dirty, yellow and faded wife-beater. He’s alone. It’s just him as he glances around his disgusting, cluttered studio. Musty, dusty, he peers at the ivory, canvas curtains by the window, and watches the specks of dirt and grime waft through the air in the beams of light peeking through the cracks. He sits in silence, redirecting his eyes to his easel once more. Trash, he thinks at first, looking at the mess of paints and lines, how there’s no depth and no character. The brown he chose doesn’t match… it’s not the right shade. Absolute trash.

Blinking, he thinks again. He does not know what day it is, or month even. Now that he no longer works in that dingy office, contact with the rest of the world has vanished. He makes his way out of the studio, trudges down the hallway and walks right past the master bedroom. The master bedroom that has been tightly shut for more than a year. All the blinds, everywhere, in every window, they are closed. Ready to-microwave meal boxes pile in the trash bin and even fleck across his kitchen floor and countertops. Not a dish in sight, except for used scotch glasses with empty bottles not too far behind. His bed, the couch, has multiple blankets sprawled across it and a coffee table in front full of trash. His eyes focus on the trash, or more specifically, the crumpled up balls of his sketch pad paper. The balls of paper could be found as far as the corners of the kitchen floor, behind the counter and by the fridge.

He has quite the arm, although he appears thin. His strength multiplies with his frustration and anger. He sits himself in a rather indented spot on the couch, less cushioned than the rest of the sofa from months of his weight pressed in this one area. His hand reaches for the remote and turns on the television, afterwards he fixes himself a glass of scotch in a used glass nearby and his fingers shimmy their way into his back pocket. From within, his index and middle fingers pull out a cigarette box. He shoves a smoke between his dry lips and lights it. Between the alcohol and the nicotine, it’s just enough.

Just enough to get the taste of her out of his mouth. For now.

He sits back as he watches the afternoon news. He stares at the journalist’s lips, sees how they curve into coy smiles as she laughs at the corny jokes the daily anchorman voices over into her ear. Just another normal girl, reporting normal things, in her normal life, he observes. Disgusting, he reflects, a normal life is disgusting.

He huffs the cigarette smoke towards the living room ceiling, shutting his eyes. Reminiscing the day he first moved into the home, how bright, clean, and airy it felt then. It’s almost as if everything else in the house is a shell of its former self… including him. A couple envelopes shoot through the golden lips of his front door — today’s mail has arrived — he thinks about the stacks of mail piling by his front door. He makes a faint guess she has not changed her mailing address on some things yet, which gives him false hope on good days or this burning misery that perhaps she has moved on in more ways than one. Changed her name? Married? Then again, she never came back for any of her other belongings. Maybe she already had a back up plan set in motion.

But the truth is, he never saw it coming. Perhaps that is what makes the stinging pain after all this time feel so fresh. What was that, she said a long time ago? That she loved him? He sniggers at himself, at his stupidity, at his unfulfilling life that he tirelessly plays out everyday. At the end of his frumpy sofa, his cellphone rings. Or, at least, he feels the vibrations.

In foolish—hopeless—optimism, he shoves his fist into the edge of the couch digging around for the device. Frantically, he drudges it up from the crevice, along with stray hairs and crumbs, and his eyes yearningly glance over the caller ID. His heart falls beneath the pits of his stomach. It’s just his PR agent. Disappointed, he declines the call and tosses his phone onto the coffee table. He stares at it, somewhat in disbelief and somewhat dismayed with himself for even hoping for it. For her.

By the moment the sun sets, he fiddles with his phone, his finger hovering over the dial button on her number… Of course, he does not call her. He shoves the device into his back pocket. Of course, by the moment the sun sets, he has finished another bottle and another pack. And he has passed out on the living room sofa, again. In a drunken stupor, he awakens, angry, and storms the hallway to his studio. Throwing a blank canvas to the easel, he begins his work once again until dawn. And in this instance, he allows the idea of her to drown him, flood his lungs like the oils and acrylics starting to spatter his body, until all he breathes is the image of her. An exposé of his love, his hatred, his loneliness. They have banned nudity everywhere except the museums.

Wasn’t that their first date? A museum? He stops mid-stroke and clutches his brush a little tighter. He tries to remember, when was the last time he was in a museum?

…Just like the day before, the sun begins to peak through his blinds, but this time, the work before him satisfies. His paint covered fingers nestle their way into his pocket, he presses the dial key and lifts the phone to his ear. The recipient of his call picks up.

The voice on the other end starts, “Hey, dude, I’ve been trying to reach you—”

“I’ve got something good,” the artists interrupts.

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?! I’ll be over later to check it out.”

----

“And, that’s all the time we have for today, love,” her producer tells her from the side as the cameraman lowers the device from his shoulder.

She sighs, scratches the back of her ear, and smiles in unison with a nod. A small drop of sweat trickles from her temple, why does she have to be the on-scene reporter today? She saunters to the news channel’s van and with its open side door, she scoops a cold water bottle from the mini cooler. The sun continues to beat down on her rose-tinted cheeks. The buzzing of cicadas whiz through her ears and into her thoughts… some guy from work had asked her out for drinks later tonight, but suddenly she’s feeling a raincheck about to be typed on her phone.

She’s not ready yet. How can she be? Her right hand absentmindedly finds its way to her other hand, brushing over her now naked ring finger. A shame, really, that it didn’t work out. She really wishes it would have.

“You can head home now, of course,” her producer begins. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” she respectfully declines. “I think I’ll walk home.”

The staff executive eyes her in confusion, as she clearly does not enjoy the summer heat. He shrugs his shoulders in defeat, “Whatever floats your boat, honey.”

The young brunette collects her bag from the van and stuffs her hand into it, rummaging for make-up remover wipes. She takes out her compact and begins cleansing her face. If she plans to walk home, she would rather not be recognized. However unfortunate people may see it, her occupation does come with some less than desired fans. To top off her “disguise,” she removes the hair clip, lets her hair down and places a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.

On her way home, she stops by a local café for refreshment and a boost of energy. Sitting for a moment in the air conditioned shop, she takes frequent sips of her hazelnut iced coffee.

“Have you seen the new exhibition at the museum yet?” She overhears two young students chat with each other. “It’s honestly incredible.”

“Really? I guess I’ll have to check it out later today. Who’s it by?” The other voice asks.

She finally takes the last sip through the straw, and the liquid slurps from the leftover ice.

“Oh, uh… I forget his name… He was really popular a few years ago, though,” the first voice falters.

The young reporter stands up, slugs her bag strap over her shoulder, and heads for the door.

“Uh, Silver, something?” The first voice remembers. “He’s actually supposed to be at the exhibition today, doing an expository with some press over his inspiration and meaning.”

As the bell rings with her opening the door, she throws her empty cup into the trash followed by an exuberant “thank you for coming!” from the barista behind the counter.

She did not hear the last part from the student in the café.

In her trek home, she stops in front of the museum. In the pit of her stomach, she feels bubbling. Her intestines become upset from anxiety and emotions she wished to never feel again flash back into her senses. That feeling, of dread somehow turned into addictive ecstasy, floods into her veins, and her feet compel her to enter against her better judgment.

As she passes through all the marble walls, the scent of the canvases and oil paintings make her heart race and palms sweat. She anticipates something bad will happen, as something bad always happened when they were together.

All his rough yelling, all their petty disagreements over the things she wanted and the things he did not want, all the noise of hatred bred from what she promised to be forever with him. Stopping to admire a piece, she realizes that has become far from reality. Forever with him… part of her wishes she could go back and part of her desires ever so strongly to never see him again.

In the depth of these paint strokes, she observes and ruminates. What if she were to return and to feel his cracked, warm lips against hers? The sweat of his red hairs behind his neck as they pressed their bodies together, hearing his grunts.

She swallows. She’s warm at the thought of someone she hasn’t touched in almost three years. Being his wife isn’t the worst thing she has done when she thinks about the things they have done together in bed… Her tongue wets the bottom lip and she bites down. This is wrong, she thinks to herself, she left him for a reason. A good reason.

All the miserable nights, the crying, the loneliness. She cannot see him again. If she sees him again, it might sway her. She may want him back. She cannot see him again.

She wants him back.

—--

Here he stands, a month after the original piece he produced in a drunk, inspired stupor, with a brand new exhibition. His agent clinks a glass of champagne to the drink in his own hand, a smile plastered all over his consultant’s face. Of course there is a smile all over his face, the work he has promoted to the city has doubled the money in his pockets. Although the actual artist himself could care less for the revenue. He glances around the section of the gallery that has been sectioned off for exclusively his exhibition and the expository conference.

In his mind, the worst part of this event has ended. The few cameras and interviewers have left and now only art dealers, consultants, and critics remain. The moment he realizes he can slip away to breathe on his own, without being bombarded by awful, intrusive questions he can’t be bothered to answer, he does so. The other areas of the museum are far quieter and the company of the crowd makes his scotch taste bad. As he takes small, frequent sips with each step, he would much rather be drunk at home away from all these people.

He has finally done something he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do again: create art inspired by her. That alone makes him want to become blackout wasted. Or so he thought. He stops in his tracks as he downs the last drop of his drink. I should have just grabbed the damn bottle.

Standing a couple feet from him, peering into a painting, the nightmare from hell that dragged him down under and left him there. Dropping the glass in his hand, he doesn’t think much before his body moves towards her—all the anger manifested inside of him—she quickly becomes aware of his on-coming presence, surprised by the sound of broken glass and his person, and he grabs her by the shoulders.

Forcing her against the wall, she still stares wide-eyed in shock and he does not to hesitate to press his mouth against hers with ferocity. Her eyes still agape, he slips his tongue in quickly and gruffly releases her from his grip. He stares down into her eyes with disdain and she stares back with confusion.

“Silver, I—“ she begins, her voice somewhat hoarse from surprise.

But his expression silences her. He brutishly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns away from her. He starts walking away.

In that swift instance, he realizes.

He does not want her back.

#soulsilvershipping #soulsilver #hgss #rival silver #Trainer Kotone #trainer lyra #pokemon

[starlitwhispers]

meeting minutes wikierrorshipping; 550 words

@silverbuttercups

And it occurs to them, there has not been much time in between. In between the conferences, the new champions coming to battle them, various evil organizations attempting to take over regions (or the world), and just not enough time in between being together. But so is the life of adults… or so is the life of them. The whole ‘thing’—which they truly have not named—came about so rashly, so childishly, and what she had hoped to be more… classy.

She’s a lady and he’s a gentleman. He’s this and she’s that. She looks back on it, laments for a moment, over a second in time that has changed the rest of her days, and likewise his. A second in time where she thinks lesser of herself than usual, where the liquor may have been stronger; and the loneliness and stress of her life was strongest. And his presence, his regal, seemingly godly or whatever charm he has, just tipped her scale. And slid right into her sheets.

Oh, she shakes her blonde hairs in thought, I am an embarrassment. Their quick tryst of champions turned into a series, a series of late-night drinks and drunken promises that when she wakes in the morning, she hopes they are fulfilled. But hopes like that, they could never be. Not with so little time, not with their lives separate and the doubt she can see in his eyes reflect back into hers. Her mind stirs, frantic with worry he may be settling, he may take simple pity on her, he may just be satisfying his desire for the flesh.

She places fingertips to her chest, it beats forcefully at the thought of his touch. In anticipation of his near arrival, the past year looms on her. The first time they… joined together. The time after that had not happened for some time afterwards, he apologized profusely as if he could say nothing more for the first occurrence, it makes her tingle with suspicion. Perhaps he doesn’t want her? Perhaps, he has never wanted her?

Although he still tells her, when she asks if he would like to continue seeing her, “I don’t regret the first time.”

And she could fall to her knees, at the sight of him, knowing that he wants her just as she lusts for him. They no longer serve a physical purpose, the intoxicated sonnets they moan to one another throughout the night, they’ve filled a void within their hearts — maybe love has not been lost for either of them. Maybe the fruit of their labor, the goods of their hard work, has come around, and all the quiet nights have paved the way for these few impassioned rendezvouses.

He arrives, gingerly caresses her cheek, and asks about her week. All at once it feels they share a home, although they have spent so little time together. After a relaxed dinner, they talk about him. And for some odd reason, this time, it is not her throwing herself at him. But the other way around.

“You are my equal,” he whispers before he bites her ear softly. “And I have never wanted a woman so much before in my life.”

There has not been much time in between at all. Not enough time in between to know the other, to have expected this. Not enough time in between to kiss.

#wikierrorshipping #Champion Lance #champion cynthia #wikierror #pokemon #legitimate nod to stella begging for this :))))))

[starlitwhispers]

forgiving tree soulsilvershipping; 500 words 

He remembered.

It was violent. And loud. Difficult. He cannot remember a moment in his past where what he felt could not be described by the word ‘struggling.’ Always struggling. Struggling to sleep, to eat, to wake up in the morning and breathe throughout the day. A struggling orphan boy who would never follow the way of his gangster father; and yearned for the warmth of his mother who laid rest six feet under the earth.

In a way, in a series of anger and grief formed from loneliness, he thought he had grown so strong and so big, that his roots ingrained themselves deep into the soil where the sun may never touch them. But then she came. She was the harshest summer he had ever encountered. And he found himself struggling more than ever before.

He found himself more angry, more hungry, and more lost than ever. He waited for the nights to come as he felt the darkness was his only shelter from the bright beams she shone over him. He waited for the cold, for the silence, for the world to slow down; everywhere she walked she brought the sound of light and he cowered and grimaced. Her ugly, brown pigtails and ugly, chocolate eyes, her stupid, joyful face, her gentle voice.

Her everything shook his very core up to the top of his branches, and he felt his progress stinted. He felt his trunk begin to hollow and his leaves whistled with holes. And like his father always told him, he would never bear fruit. In the moonless nights, he wondered if perhaps this was the way of life, to be selfish, unforgiving, and cruel, and then die.

Die knowing that someone else had taken his moment to bloom, to be strong, to supplant the world with a greatness that even his father could not achieve.

And then it happened.

Amidst the flowers, ponds, and caves, atop the mountain, in the silver lining of the full moon that night, she said “No one becomes strong on their own.”

After many nights of rage, the sun glowing within her radiated into his veins, his roots, and he felt himself to be taller than ever before. He thought to touch such a light must be a sin, after all his calloused hands are as rough as split wood, but her soft, bright skin invited him in. Her airy, delicate frame melted all the façades of a strong chestnut tree to reveal the small seedling he truly was.

The small seedling, starved for water and light, now grew to blossom amongst the bitterest winters.

The redheaded boy felt the same warmth once more. The same warmth of his mother breathed from the jolly girl beside him. The happy girl full of smiles who was everything that defied his way of life, the happy girl who was selfless, forgiving and kind… and alive.

He did not have to be alone anymore, there was no more violence and hatred and chaos, only her. And as long as he had her to nourish him, he would grow.

#soulsilvershipping #soulsilver #Trainer Kotone #Trainer Lyra #rival silver #rival #pokemon #hgss

[starlitwhispers]

For Writers:

Reblog if it’s okay for your followers to leave you an ask telling you what the one thing is they remember you for as a writer.  Is it a scene or a detail or a specific line? Is it something like style or characterization?  Is it that one weird kink they never thought they’d be into, but oh my god wow self-discovery time?

[starlitwhispers]

come in closer, like the tide hoennchampion - 3000 words A/n: hi everyone, I’ll be moving to ao3, I’ll still post to Tumblr when I write, but it’ll be more frequent over there!!! Also mermaid au bc its freaking summer and I’m not in uni anymore!!!!!!!

So, the salty waves crash against the sides of his small, humble boat, while little pieces of duct tape attempt to hold broken bits together as the adhesive loosens from the moisture. He really should buy a new boat, after all, money is no object for him. But he prefers this one which he proudly names June, his favorite month. She’s good luck, he thinks, he’s had her since the first valuable fish he found. A master fisherman, he also thinks, fascinated by all the different fins and tails a fish can have. His mind becomes determined to find every rare one possible, collectibles he keeps for himself no matter the value. To him, its rarity becomes its value, not the monetary weight that may come along with it. Yet, with his collectibles, he becomes a slave to the sea, constantly searching and never-ending his hunt.

As the sun kisses the horizon and begins to paint the waters tangerine, he wipes his hands clean of dirt from the can of worms, admiring the view. And his ears catch a slap against the surface of the ocean. His head whips to the south end of his boat, his own feet tumbling across the small distance to find where the noise came from. Such a noise would definitely be a fish of some kind. Lo and behold, his eyes become full with the image of the most beautiful tail he would ever see. And such a tail of that size would mean an even bigger fish. He could not wait to display such colors on his wall.

But the tail returns to the waters and he frantically breaks out of his stupor in attempt to follow this newfound treasure.

He revs up his engine, pulling the handle with minimal strength. He trails this fish for another mile or so until finally, it disappears. The boat abruptly stops in order to keep to the place, in case the animal returns again, which he hopes it will, or else he will have just lost something he would vow to search for forever. In the meantime, he sits and waits while the moon takes its place in the sea above. He’ snacks on crackers when his stomach lurches and sips warm Earl Grey in order to calm his excitement. A small smile cracks the corner of his mouth, he just knows this new fish will be a fantastic find, he can feel it.

While he plans and wonders about his new chase, beneath him swims the wonder mankind has no knowledge of. The tail he so fondly thinks of belonged to not the month of June, but the month of May, so to speak. And this month, well, she was known to have the most beautiful tail of the merpeople. It only made her the most sought after among the mermen, but she would never reciprocate for some reason or other. Perhaps he was too muscular or he tried making his tail too flashy, or maybe he had bad fin maintenance. But she could not commit and her mind always seemed to be elsewhere, seemed to be above the surface, with the sky and the birds and the air.

She also does not fear the air, as the others do. Their tails cannot withstand the air for too long, but she adores the occasional breezes to be felt with the tides and spends more time than she ought to near the land. She combs her floating hair in the water with her hand, waiting for the sun to come back up, that way she may go back to the surface. Her people have only one condition about going to the top: never go at night. For this reason, if they are atop the ocean at this time, their bodies experience tremendous harm, especially if the moon is full. They do not know why this happens to be the case, but for the most part, they avoid the nighttime to avoid any kind of impairment.

In this way, the elegant and curious mermaid she is awaits the sunshine, and after hours peeking from her coral home, finally caught glimpses of the golden rays. And with all her might, she wags her tail so that she may reach the surface as fast as possible. Her eyebrows furrow though as the sunlight begins to go away quickly, the shadow of some larger object covering her sweet golden time. As she nears the top, she cannot slow her tail down in time and she realizes she will hit whatever great device that has floated in her way. She braces herself, closing her eyes and attempting to swim towards the end of it—

Bam!

Just as she began to break into the air, her head hit the far end of the hard, wooden object that she now identifies as a boat, a man-made item, and a loud “Ow!” releases from her whimper in pain. Her impact rocks the boat that also rocks the silver-haired fisherman awake. The young man groggily jots up and wipes his five o’clock shadow with his hand. He turns toward the direction his boat began to tip and sees the one thing he has sought since yesterday. His eyes become full of the image of golden scales and translucent fins at the end of the tail, almost as if the sun has personified itself in the body of a fish.

He wants this tail. More than anything. So, he goes after it. Immediately his body moves as fast as possible towards the large net, which he quickly casts overboard atop the floundering “animal.” Beneath the water, the mermaid feels her bottom half tangled in something as she tends to do her throbbing head and suddenly, her entire person has been pulled out of the ocean. Her body drops onto a hard surface and she’s no longer water-bound but flapping around on a small, wooden floor. In his hands, he has ready a spear to kill the animal. The fisherman stops extremely bewildered and fascinated.  He cannot comprehend what sits in front of him, a half fish, half woman underneath the net which he had just pulled with all his strength from the water.

Sweat still covers his forehead from the effort he put in to acquire this “animal,” and he marvels in curiosity and enamor. Once the mermaid has stopped squirming underneath the net, she keeps still and peers through the holes at the man before her, also marveled by his presence. They stare at the other, never having experienced this kind of interaction before. He comes down to his knees and reaches for the net, taking it off of her. She does not lose eye contact.

He attempts to speak to her, but they soon come to realize, their languages are different. She cannot understand him and he cannot understand her. And while half of their bodies are not the same, he knew the other parts are, so he approaches her slowly and gently extends his hand to her to show that he no longer means no harm. How could he harm her? She is utterly beautiful and mysterious. She stares at his hand, realizing it to be the same as hers, and places her fingers atop his. His hand is drier, it feels as though his skin has more lines to it, while hers gives the impression of a more mucous-like texture. No matter, he does not seem to care, he only wishes to know more about her, to know everything. He tries to speak again, but she just turns her head to the side in confusion. So he softly releases her hand and walks away for a moment to his quarters below deck. He returns with a notepad, perhaps she can read but not speak? He writes ‘hello’ in several different languages, but she knots her eyebrows at the sight of all of them. It seems they shall never find a way to properly communicate with the other.

Then a thought occurs to him, perhaps it’s not that she cannot speak, but that she cannot hear? Maybe his words fall upon the deaf, and his assumption becomes true. Above the water, the merpeople cannot hear anything except the ocean and the animals that it inhabits. Not to mention that she cannot read because they do not write beneath the water. The two creatures become stuck in this position, and he tries in every way possible to tell her to come visit him whenever, as he would not leave until he learned more about her. He wants to convey to her that he will stay in this one place so that she may know where he is when she wants to visit if she desires in the first place (which he really hopes she does).

He somehow explains all of this through gestures, which she somehow understands, slightly. Well, very little of the message she understands, but she clearly grasps that he would like her to return, as he places her palm to his chest, above his beating heart, and with his free hand motions a ‘come here.’ Her cheeks inflame as she observes he has a very pleasant face and upper half body, the bottom half she still cannot wrap her head around. In the meantime, in the notepad he currently has, he writes his thoughts and impressions of the mermaid, along with a few sketches. She just continues to stare but also plays around with all the foreign objects around her. They do enjoy the other’s company but it remains painfully obvious to each other they would like a means of communication.

Suddenly, the daylight seems to have passed rather quickly, and the sun begins to set. She becomes frantic and he does not understand why. She flops in strain, trying to bring herself overboard to the water and he displays a great deal of concern that she might be in pain of some kind. He picks her up by her waist and his touch strangely calms her. He helps her overboard and the big splash of her body returning to the water bathes him. His person peers over the ledge as she fixes herself in the water and faces him.

She smiles.

And he knows.

He knows from her gentle gaze that she will be back again. The sun begins to rapidly set pulling under the horizon. She turns around to go back into the ocean and the moon barely starts to glow. And though he knows she will not be able to hear him, he says “goodbye” kindly from the ledge. She stops abruptly from going beneath. She heard him? She turns to him in confusion and he registers that his word may have reached her ears. But why now? Why not hours ago or five minutes ago? The sun is finally gone and the stars have illuminated the night sky. Her eyes pop widely at the observation the moon is out and night has come and she panics.

A gasp releases from her mouth as she plunges herself back underneath the water without warning to the fisherman, but when she is back in the ocean, she quickly realizes that the moon did not cause her any pain at all and she slowly resurfaces to the bewildered man. He speaks to her once more, to see if what happened previously may happen again.

“Where did you go? If I may ask.”

She stares once again, surprised she can hear his words so clearly, as well as confused that the night is not hurting her. She opens her mouth to reply.

“Beneath the water, I can’t be at the top when it’s nighttime, or else I’ll be hurt.”

He now stares at her in return, bewitched by her lovely voice as he could not imagine what it would sound like until now. He’d like to know more, so he continues to ask.

“But you’re not hurting now, are you?”

“Strangely, no. I’m not sure why.”

“Would you mind telling me what you are called?”

“May.”

May. Like the month. His boat becomes short by one month, and he thinks for a second whether or not he should rename his boat. Or buy a new one and name it after her. He cannot help but gaze upon her, her beautiful eyes and hair and skin, he’s no longer infatuated with her tail but her whole being.

“May… My name is Steven, I’m truly lucky to have met you.”

His words flatter her and while she does not understand how she’s not under any type of pain, she likes hearing him speak.

“Steven, tell me what you do.”

So, he tells her. He tells her his position makes him a collector of the sorts… but he explains he’ll most likely stop collecting now that he’s met her. She does not understand what he means by this but remains focused on him, hanging onto every word that leaves his handsome mouth. They converse for a good while but later say goodbye for the night as he does need his rest. She promises to come back the next day and neither can wait to meet again.

She meets him in the late morning and they find she cannot understand him any longer. They spend the day learning to communicate in other motions, learning the other more. However, when the night falls again, she does not experience pain this time, either. And a connection is made in both their minds when the moon comes out she can hear him once more and speak to him. They talk through the night and she still remains unchanged by the moon.

They continue this endeavor for a couple more nights and days, growing closer… more intimate. For the first time in a long time, he finds himself talking about his mother to her, although she does not understand what a ‘mother’ is. A few nights in, her skin no longer feels slimy and he’s able to hold her hand or sit closer to her when she comes overboard. In other times, he completely forgets her bottom half exists because she seems so human to him in comparison to all other women he’s been with. And in a lot of ways, he so dearly wishes for her to be a woman. To walk with him on land, to see the rest of the land that is out there and discover what she had no idea could possibly exist out there.

He wants to show it all to her. But finally their time comes to an end on another night and she returns to the deep blue beneath his boat. Deep anguish washes over him like the tide crashing against the sides of his boat, he cannot fall for a mermaid. She has nothing to offer him, she could not be the mother of his children or the wife he never thought he’d yearn for. Yet, she has become all these things in a matter of weeks, but she remains a mermaid.

Half his, half the sea’s.

He spends the rest of the night conflicted, and the rest of the day upset. He comes to the conclusion he must end this little rendezvous and release her back to the ocean. His heart tells him to stay with her but he could never be moved more than by his mind. Intellectual thought outweighs the strong feelings he may believe to be temporary (although he knows inside the memory of her will never fade). He decides, when she comes back to him the following night, he will end things.

That night will be a full moon.

She rises above the water to meet him, noticing the unhappy countenance he displays. She asks him what might be the matter, her voice and face becoming more human and personable by the second. He tells her it is nothing of importance, extending his hand out to her so that she may climb aboard. Her tail flops onto the deck, water trailing along with it. They begin talking. As they begin talking, with the silver-haired fisherman about to reveal his intentions to leave, the mermaid points out that it is a full moon.

“It’s strange nothing has happened to me,” she says. She turns to him in bliss, having grown fond of his company. “But it also makes me happy because then I can spend time with you.”

He swallows. Just as he opens his mouth to break the news, he stops. He observes her skin and that it is… glowing? She sees the confusion on his face and also notices her skin. And by some odd, cosmic force, she feels compelled to stare at the moon. The white light in the night sky seems to be the same iridescence shining off the mermaid’s body and tears stream from her eyes. She does not experience pain but rather experiences a change, she feels herself changing. Her large, gorgeous tail begins to shrink and she becomes frantic, unable to move during her transformation. He watches her fins dwindle into nothingness and finally the scales of her tail fall off, almost as if a snake shed its skin. And underneath the skin, a pair of legs.

Her body stops glowing after her tail has become completely nonexistent and legs take its place. She can move once again but no longer as a mermaid. She sits on the deck of his boat, nude, with a body she does not understand. The tears still stream, she has lost her ability to return to the sea. And just like that, it seems as if all his prayers had been answered. She could now be his, but would she be? He gazes upon her, still finding her the most beautiful marvel he has ever found.

She turns to him. “Steven, what will I be without my tail?”

He closes the distance between them, taking off his shirt and wrapping it around her exposed body. “I think, perhaps, starting today, you will be mine and I will be yours.”

The once-mermaid looks at him endearingly, but also still a little lost as to understanding how legs function. It would be no matter that she could not live beneath the ocean anymore, she always preferred the surface to begin with. And she is sure, that with this no-more fisherman beside her, he will teach her the ways to be, the ways she thinks she should have always been living.

He places a hand around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Resting his forehead against hers, he cups her jaw in his other hand, explaining to her that the world is a beautiful place to explore but that she is by far and always will be the most beautiful spectacle he’s known to exist in mankind. He takes her gentle face in the soft glow of the full moon and brings their lips together.

She no longer belongs to the sea and neither does he.

#hoennchampionshipping #daiharu #Steven Stone #trainer may #trainer haruka #daigo tsuwabuki #pokemon #mermaid au #rse #Oras

[starlitwhispers]

do you have a main account we could follow? btw i absolutely love your content!!

hiiii!!! Omg anon ur soooo sweeet!! This account has been so inactive but im rly happy to announce ive started writing again!!! Ull see more stuff from me soon hopefully hehe... but as for my main (which is also inactive but slowly getting back up to speed) it’s @starrydownpour !! By my usernames u can see im super into the stars...

#anonymous #asks

[starlitwhispers]

2 tin cans and a red string @alolei ‘s ocs mochi + lime - 1500 words i tried to do my waifu’s ocs bc i know she loves them v much (based off hcs in this post) 

He likes the little witch next door, but he won’t tell her that. He has just entered teenage-hood, a very good age of thirteen, so he must act like a cool guy. And cool guys don’t tell cute girls that they’re cute. So he pushes it aside in his thoughts… but deep down he cannot help but wonder what she’s like. He cannot help but think about the sound of her voice, her interests—what she thinks of that new Pokémon game that just released—wait, does she even play video games? His fingers scratch through the orange hair on his head.

Soon enough, Kiwi tells him to come downstairs, to meet their new neighbors. His abdomen simmers at the thought of the little witch, maybe asking her to do a spell or two for him. Wait, cool guys don’t do that. He has to be the one to cast some kind of spell on her—figuratively, of course. He scrambles down the stairs while he tucks his baggy t-shirt into his khaki shorts. His feet slip into a pair of sneakers and they promptly follow his sister to outside the house next door. The witch’s mom (he assumes she’s her mother) stands with a smile while greeting his sister, and the little witch of his thoughts stands next to her with a black kitten in her arms.

They don’t talk. His sister and her mother make introductions, but neither the witch nor the boy can find words for some odd reason or other. He rubs the ridge of his nose through the awkward situation, and she hides behind the dark animal. The adults, concerned by the interactions (or lack thereof) of the children, say their farewells separating them. While they leave, he turns his head back to watch her go back into her new home, and she stops outside the door looking back at him. She smiles, waving the kitten’s paw at him before she returns inside.

His cheeks flare.

The next day he grapples with afflictions he does not understand. He lies on the floor of his room staring at the white ceiling, and his legs and arms sprawl out in every direction. That little witch, Mochi’s her name, seems… interesting. He wants to talk, but he’s not sure how. He could call, but he does not have a cell phone as of yet, and cool guys do not use house phones, he thinks, how lame!

And suddenly, it strikes his thoughts. He knows now what to do. His body jolts up and he rushes down the stairs into the kitchen rumbling through the pantry for… two cans. A large smirk stations his mouth as he quickly uses the can-opener and dumps their contents into tupperware. After drying them out, he grabs a screwdriver to punch a hole at the bottom of each. Finally, his fingers tie a red string between both tin cans, and he triumphantly stands before his bedroom window.

Just his luck, her bedroom window is on the same floor, exactly straight across. He just has to make sure he can throw it over into her room. He extends his arm out readying the throw. He’s thinking, what will he say once he has it over there? In a slow-motion fashion during his thoughts, his arm goes forward and he realizes he hasn’t planned any sort of conversation. He begins to regret his current action.

Before he can stop himself, the piece of tin has left his hand and soar over through her window. A clean throw. He immediately holds his head between his hands, panicking over the inevitable conversation that would happen soon enough, and without any time to recollect himself, he hears a voice.

“H-Hello?” the tin can vibrates her voice.

His hand hesitantly reaches for the can, he licks his lips and takes a deep breath a moment before he replies. “Why,” he begins, telling himself to stay cool because he’s a cool guy, “hello there, witch.”

The young girl blinks in confusion while staring back at him through the open window. “Um, hi.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” he carries on arrogantly. “You’re a witch? Can you do awesome spells?”

Her eyebrows knot at his conceit. “Maybe you can tell me what this can is doing in my room?” she breaks over his insistences.

He does not know how to respond. He hasn’t thought of an excuse as he did the whole thing spur of the moment, so he rubs the ridge of his nose again in the awkwardness. A few moments pass before she says something again.

“Uh, I see you sitting right there, you know.”

He blurts out whatever he can think of. “You caught me red-handed! I was just doing a little science experiment, to see if they work,” he laughs off.

She sits there, quietly. He sees her still confused expression, so he continues. “So, since we’re here, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, witch?”

“Okay, well, first, if you want that — stop calling me witch, I have a name, it’s Mochi.”

“Right, right, Mochi.”

So she maintains a conversation with him. He cannot tell if she’s interested in him or what, but what he will not admit to himself is that he’s certainly interested in her. They talk from that afternoon into the dark summer evening, watching fireflies come out. The sound of her voice makes him feel something different, but he enjoys the feeling, therefore he would like to hear it more. And he does.

They speak almost every night, up until school starts. But even then, on school nights, he would make up an excuse to call her on that tin can, anything, saying something preposterous like he needs help on science, although he has straight A’s. And what he finds more delightful, even though he won’t admit it, is when she calls him on her own volition. There’s a little vibration of her “Hey Lime?” and he waits for it.

They become the best of friends as well as worst of enemies over the next three years. Of course, as they age, they upgrade to their own cell phones. They can send each other messages throughout the day, and phones have much better audio quality than a tin can and string. They’re sixteen and he’s still not able to have her cast a spell or two. She claims she uses magic ‘responsibly’ but he thinks she just keeps all the fun to herself.

But no matter what, he must keep his cool guy persona. And he usually does, until he talks to her late at night watching her through his window. She looks back at him while conversing, giving him all her happy, relaxed smiles as she reads him the syllabus for chemistry (he’s still pulling the science excuse). And out of nowhere, observing her brown hair and listening to her soft but fine voice, he interrupts her.

“It says the lab is due on—“

“You’re beautiful.”

Shocked, she stares back at him, and he can see from the light of the street lamp that pink tints her cheeks. His amber eyes look serious and his mouth does not smirk as it usually does in a joke, but something told her no jest covered his words.  Her throat finds it hard to swallow but it does and she clears it as well.

“Lime?” she asks. She does not know what exactly she asks from only saying his name—whether he means it, or what he means by it, or what made him say it at all—she has not the slightest clue.

“I mean it,” he responds decisively. His eyes look down at the red string which still extends between their windows. He picks up his rusty tin can, which she sees, so she does the same. She puts it to her ear and his voice echoes through it. “I find you… attractive. Go out with me, witch?”

Her face burns, but she collects herself with her reply. “Wait, does this mean you like me?”

This question flusters him, and he breaks from his serious disposition. Not only is the person on the other end of the red string turning pink, he starts to as well.

“Well, doesn’t what I said kinda’ answer that?!” He says defensively, rubbing his nose with flushed cheeks. “And, well, what about you?”

“Me?!” She rasps in panic. Her insides boil. “There’s no doubt…” she murmurs in return.

“No doubt what?!” he demands.

“No doubt I like you!” she says, visibly uncomfortable displaying such vulnerable emotions.

He grins, and she knows what that grin means. It means he thinks he’s accomplished something cool. She rolls her eyes in thought of his coolness fixation. She picks the can back up, hearing him ask her out again. He watches her nod in reply and he looks back down at the can and string. Perhaps she’s a witch and can use magic, but he thinks when he threw that can he cast a spell on both of them. What kind of spell? He’s unsure, but he believes he’ll find out someday by staying with her. Only cool guys can cast spells on girls (even witches)—figurative ones, of course.

#ocs #the misc adventures of mochi & lime #can i use that tag #if not i am sorry ashfrkrgh #mochi #lime #alolei #musubiki #i love u steph i hope this is ok.... #i have never written ocs before so i rly hope i didnt butcher them adhfhkhgj

[starlitwhispers]

worth my while conflicting au - 2000 words hello hello for @ayarou because i really love reading her tags when she reblogs my fics, they motivate me to be better :) I hope you have an awesome birthday cutie patootie!!!! i hope u like this also its an au bc I was rly feelin it

For some time now, he’s been receiving these letters at his new place. Every time he opens the auburn door and reaches into his mailbox, there’s some name in the spot where his name is supposed to appear as the receiver. He assumes it’s a girl’s name, because who names a man Leaf? His chestnut eyes roll over from one side to the other, and he tosses the newest letter onto the pile that slowly grows each week. The sender, he notices, has the same last name as the receiver. Some pushy relative, he imagines.

His fingers scratch the back of his neck while he steps into his kitchen. He glances at the coffee pot, then the window above the metal sink. The sun does not seem to peek through to give natural light, it must be cloudy today. It might rain. He remembers the humidity when he retrieved his mail. If it rains, he prefers to have tea than coffee, and he decides he might as well work from home, too. He places the blue kettle on his stove and turns the knob.

A fan whirs in the background, he cannot sleep without white noise, and even when he’s awake he despises the city sound — car horns, people yelling, occasional music somewhere in the distance. So, he leaves the small electric fan on. He favors a countryside, much like Pallet where he comes from, but his job brings him to Saffron, it’s the only place for writers of his kind to make a good earning.

In his charcoal sweatpants, he moves past his messy kitchen table and into the living room, pulls out the chair in front of his sticky note plastered desk, and plants himself before his worst enemy, the laptop. For the next 10 minutes he stares at a white, blank document with no title or even file name, his soft fingers rest above the keys. He hears thunder. A moment later, rain plunges hard onto his ceiling, streaming down. The only sounds falling into his ears are the pitter-patter of the present tempest and his tiny oscillating fan.

Since it’s the summertime, he has the air conditioning on. The floor beneath his cold feet chills, and shivers climb up and down his spine. Suddenly, he knows what he wishes to discuss in his next article. As he lifts his hands to begin typing, a knock on his front door penetrates his concentration. Frustration tightens his chest. He stands up embittered at the interruption, his only thought—who bothers to come in the middle of a storm?

His hand around the knob swings the door open with an expression of resolute irritation but immediately loosens into astonishment while he peers into the reddest eyes he has ever encountered. A young woman with wet and dark sandy hair, her cheeks rosy and water dripping from her chin and nose, stands before him staring back.

The rain spatters behind her in the streets. His blue kettle screams.

The screeches of his teapot break both of their trances, and he asks, “How may I help you?”

She clears her throat in recollection of her thoughts and wipes some water off her bag. “Uh, yes,” she begins, extending a hand out to him. “My name is Leaf, I used to live here before you and I was wondering if you had any mail of mine, possibly?”

Still partially entranced by her beauty, he scratches the back of his neck in the realization of her identity and as well of the still screeching kettle in the background.

“Would you like to come in?” he invites her in, noticing her wet appearance and hoping to take the pot off the stove as soon as possible. The young woman blinks with her long eyelashes and obliges with a grateful smile. His chest pounds, a beautiful girl has come into his apartment? He mentally tells himself to ‘stay smooth.’  

He hurries into the kitchen, removing the teapot from the burner and turning it off. His tongue quickly wets his chapped lips and he recalls he never brushed his teeth. Quickly, he raises a cupped hand to his mouth, releases a swift breath into it, and sniffs. He grimaces. The morning breath has not worn off. His mind flashes back and he moves into the living room where she turns around to face him.

Her figure is mature, her hair is long, her features are gentle. “I’m sorry to ask about this again, even after you invited me in, but is it possible you’d received mail that’s mine?”

Her question reminds him of her original purpose. “O-Oh, yeah, it’s all on the table,” he explains, returning to the kitchen to grab two mugs from his cabinet. “Would you like a cup of tea?” His voice calls her from the counter by the stove.

She wipes her wet cheeks and nose, approaching his small, round and cluttered table. “If that’s okay with you, I love tea,” she replies ambivalently. She realizes quite a pile of her mail has accumulated on his table, and she feels somewhat guilty for never telling her mother she moved. Her fingers gingerly pick up an envelope, a coffee stain blotched a corner. She sets it back down and joins him in the kitchen.

The girl stands at the end of an island while he stirs sugar into his mug on the other end. He catches notice of her presence and inquires, “Do you want sugar or cream in your tea?”

“No, I take it with nothing in it,” she answers. “Thank you.”

He walks towards her with a mug in each hand and places one in front of her. The white steam wafts from the cup into the air, disappearing.

“I’m sorry you’ve been getting my mail,” she continues. “I moved from Saffron to Celadon a little while ago but forgot to tell my mother I’d left. I’m really grateful you didn’t throw them away… You know, I never caught your name?”

“Oh, uh, the name’s Green, and it’s really no problem,” he starts. “But who doesn’t tell their mom they’re moving? And wow, Saffron to Celadon, you must love cities.”

“Actually, no,” she laughs, picking up her mug and taking a sip. “I left Saffron because I hate cities, and sure, while Celadon’s a city, it’s actually got greenery to it. I prefer flowers and trees, I’m from Pallet Town back west, so—“

She stops speaking, inhales while tilting her head up, places a hand to her slightly opened mouth, and sneezes.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles. “It’s probably because I’m all wet. Which reminds me, I should probably get going soon, I’m so sorry I intruded. I mean, what idiot decides to travel during a big rainstorm?”

In that moment, a big flicker of happiness flashes within his mind. His eyes blink, and the first thought to spark a fire in his mind is ‘I don’t want her to leave.’ So, he does what he can to make sure she does not.

“Oh, really?” He asks, his hands flittering about trying to find an excuse. “You know, I could lend you something to wear and dry your clothes for you before you leave? I mean, why travel now, too? Why not wait until it stops raining?”

He rests his elbow on the counter near his mug, attempting to lean against it. However, his elbow moves across the sleek black granite, knocking the mug onto the floor. The cup breaks and the tea becomes an amber puddle. He mentally curses himself for being lame as they both bend down onto the ground. The man tells her she doesn’t have to help, but she laughs in reply.

“You know, I can help, and I think what you just said sounds lovely,” she replies, her eyes staring straight back into his with a small smile curving her soft mouth. He does not realize it, but his own lips move upwards, his delight showing through. She catches a hint of his happiness and feels her cheeks warm up.

Quickly, the two clean up his mess and he brings her a new change of clothes. He shows her how to use his dryer, and they return to his living room. She sits on the end of his couch as he sits on the other end with a new mug of tea in his hand. They talk, and he divulges to her Pallet is also his hometown. Her eyes enlarge in surprise, and the two of them discover they attended the same high school, but never met because of different interests and schedules.

She confesses, she played too many sports in high school, and he tells her he spent too much time in the library and always went straight home after school. They discuss exes, how her first and only boyfriend was too outgoing for her, and he feels awkward disclosing the many flings he used to have in college. The rain taps against his roof and the fan still whirs. Only, their voices join together to make sounds he finds more comforting than his fan. They slowly move closer to the other.

Just as the rain begins to quiet down, and she laughs, “well it’s no surprise you’re a lady killer!”

He cannot help but feel complimented, it means she finds him attractive. Now, it’s his turn. “Well I’m surprised you’ve only had one boyfriend,” he says enjoying her voice. By now, they’re sitting next to each other.

Her finger circles the rim of the empty mug in her lap. “I mean, I just haven’t met the right person, I know it sounds like I was Miss Popular in high school, but that was only because my brother Red was into all of that. I enjoy really simple things, like walking in nature, reading, sitting home on a rainy day drinking tea… I want someone to do things like that with.” Her deep red eyes gaze up at him in earnest, and his heart batters.

“You mean, like what we’re doing right now?” He asks, not breaking their locked eyes and moving closer.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she answers faintly. The two of their faces come near, and her eyes begin to close. The rain lets up. His dryer buzzes. And in the silence of only his electric fan, they move away from each other. He runs a hand through his hair and she weakly laughs it off. “Well, um,” she starts, standing up from the couch. “I’m going to go get changed, thanks so much for giving me tea.”

In the next five minutes, she changes her clothes, packs the pile of letters into her bag, and stands in front of his door, saying goodbye. She puts her damp hair into a ponytail, giving her thanks once more. “Again, thank you for keeping my mail, lending me clothes, and offering me tea, I really appreciate it.”

Both of the young adults stare at the ground, avoiding their eyes. He tells her, “It’s no problem really.”

She nods and steps outside, raising her head to say goodbye. “I really enjoyed today, bye Green.”

Her back turns to him and doesn’t even allow for her to take a step before he says, “Leaf! Can I get your number?”

The young woman turns around and a smile dresses her lips. “I’d love to give it to you.”

“And, while you’re at it,” he smirks, “Stay and watch a movie with me?”

Her head nods and she steps back inside, sitting back down on the couch with him. They spend the night laughing, and even bickering about which actress is better than which. And for once, he doesn’t need the electric fan on to go about his day, so he unplugs its cord. She helps him make dinner, plants a kiss on his cheek when she says goodbye, but that’s not enough for him. He takes her hand and gives her a real kiss, tells her “Don’t be stingy,” and to let him know she arrives home safely.

He doesn’t have white noise whenever she comes over, because all he likes to hear is her voice.

#ayarou #conflictingshipping #pokemon #frlg #trainer leaf #rival green #happy birthday!!!!<3 #yes... i was that anon who sent u an ask abt ur otp...

[starlitwhispers]

free (dawn/riley) ironwillshipping - 550 words They were always together. a/n: Im back from the dead... enjoy...

One time he said to her, “I’d have to agree with you, it’d be the people with too much time on their hands training here…” or something like that. She couldn’t remember, it’d been too long since then. A small giggle ruptured inside her chest as a closed smile curved on her mouth. It’d been years since they had met. She sat while her legs sprawled out on the entire couch in his small home.

Her arms reached upwards to the ceiling as she stretched, and she closed her eyes. Perhaps it’d been time for an afternoon snooze? Suddenly, she heard the front door open, and his evident steps came across the floor. She hadn’t fallen asleep yet, instead she decided to pretend sleeping while guessing what he was doing. First, he walked towards what she assumed was the kitchen, after a minute he came close to her, standing behind the couch. She felt his person stare down on her, and promptly a blanket laid over her body.

She snuggled into the covers with a pleased smile, which triggered a chuckle from his lovely voice. Her mind slowly relaxed—his presence had induced a comforting sense of security, and she now noticed herself actually lulling to slumber. All the wonderful things about him flooded into her thoughts, all the little selfless and considerate gestures, the gentle caresses, the beautiful words, and just who he had become to her.

He came around to the front of the couch, moved her legs up as he sat down, and placed them on his lap. His soft hands tenderly grasped her free left hand, stroking the back of it. She began to fully drift away in absolute bliss. Their story unfolded in a supercut as she reminisced, and how their love transpired. She had come into his life and took all that free time away, or rather, they found they only made free time for each other. No matter where business had called him, or what she had to do, they discovered ways to be free together.

In any case, this moment, such as the one they lived now, was normal. It was something usual and often, and his tiny home on Iron Island would always be the default meeting place. The idea had struck her once that maybe she wouldn’t meet him anymore, or his home would be locked one day. But in this moment—such valuable free time—while he stroked her hand with his fingers, she croaked quietly in her half-asleep voice, “Riley, I love you.”

The stroking stopped. Her heart pounded, she had never said that before to him. She now worried about her situation, and could not fall back asleep without his gentle touch. Her eyes still hadn’t opened, but she could tell he’d been moving around on his side. Finally, he settled back into his previous position. His other hand propped up her fingers, and onto the penultimate one he slid something cold… he slid a ring.

The young woman slowly sat up in surprise, wondering if the reality before her had been the opposite. He smiled, brushed hair behind her ear, and brought her forward into a kiss. She would never have to worry about his home being locked, or never visiting him again, because it had become their home. And they would now have free time together forever.

#ironwillshipping #dawn #riley #trainer riley #dppt #pokemon #hikari #platinum