7 Works by greeniris
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Jahoda smelled as she always did: strawberry and cyclamen, spun sugar and the faintest note of oil from prosthetic maintenance. She stopped them short before Nefer’s door, dropping her grip around Nefer’s waist to hassle with the crowded key ring.
“Give me a second, Boss. I’ve got you,” Jahoda said, so quiet, a rather welcome gentleness.
Temperate winds coursed through with the runoff of vendor savor, and so, too, the indelible tang of Nefer’s blood. She teetered at the recall, jaw clamping down in roused disdain, catching herself with a tightened cinch around Jahoda’s neck. Nefer lolled into her nearby slouch, and pressed her nose flush to the shell of Jahoda’s ear, breathing gone ragged for the briefest of moments.
A balm. Strawberry—sweet, sweet, sweet. Jahoda promptly dropped the keys between her feet.
“Shoot, sorry.”
Or, Jahoda always did house an unassuming reliability; and something much sweeter.
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“You’ve been looking at me,” Stelle said at last—quiet, voice so terribly small.
Kafka raised a brow, straightening out of her slouch. Her stomach churned with something anticipatory, altogether unknowing. “I’m always looking at you.”
“No… well, yes—” Stelle shook her head, outward stoicism toppled with a sigh. She turned to face Kafka, gravitating so closely their noses nearly brushed. “I mean you’ve been looking at me. Touching me. Toying with me.”
For all the ruminating Kafka had lost herself in, that final assertion—rasped with retracted eagerness—sent a bolt of thrill straight through her. Kafka blinked, feeling at once so visible. Had anyone ever looked at her this way?
A heady train of the eye, the subtle part of Stelle’s lips, pearly teeth just behind. A confession so bold in its silence.
Or, Stelle is an anomaly, a novelty yet undiscerned. Kafka can hardly tear herself away.
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When Sara was but a fledgling, sable hair adorned with nettles of the pine, she knew well the upper limits of the sky. Vague memories of a mother who sang to herald the morning—a throaty trill, a crow’s caw with the body of a human hymn—and a father who taught her to be steadfast and true… they’d all left her in smoke.
Sara returns from a mission, dazed and badly injured. Ei patches her up.
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“Easy, Cifera.” Aglaea pried the brew from Cifera’s hand, catching a stray droplet from the edge of her lips. She licked the excess clean, and Cifera swayed.
She wanted to bite that finger. Maybe those lips, too.
“No need to drown yourself.”
“Lucky I have you here to fish me out, right?” Cifera leaned forward, woozy. Not yet drunk, but markedly daring.
Though, Aglaea did not answer straight away, gulping down enough to match Cifera’s hurried pace. She set the half-empty bottle down with a decisive thud, chair skittering out behind her when she rose to her feet, and extended a hand.
“Dance with me.” Aglaea was deadly serious, eyes a vivid emerald-jade. How enchanting, her sincerity; Cifera could only sit and stare.
Or, above the shuttered weave shop, they lived as common folk should.
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tell me something true, or tell me nothing at all by greeniris
Fandoms: 崩坏：星穹铁道 | Honkai: Star Rail (Video Game)
20 Jun 2025
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There was a wealth of ageless trust between them. Trust in what the eyes could not see, trust in the other’s word above all else in this dying world. And Cipher had sullied that trust, had used it as kindling to torch the keep of Aglaea’s very human heart.
If Cipher acted so fiendishly, then she was a fiend. Aglaea could not differentiate, though she agonized with the incongruences of the past and present. Let nostalgia and fascination turn her diffident.
Cipher could never grant her true relief. Could not tell Aglaea that she’d never changed, that she still wrote their names entwined in every dirt patch she happened upon, that she nabbed cut emerald and thought only of Aglaea’s eyes. That she slept alone and woke often in a fuss, fire between her thighs only quelled by the vivid recall of their last encounter.
Cipher could not tell Aglaea. But she could give her this.
Or, Aglaea had always been a giver; pilfering was Cipher's job.
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They faced each other now before the figural crossroads—to waver or not to waver—and Furina clasped her hands before herself, breathless when she guided them down the untrodden path.
“Would you like to come inside?”
To be so daring at such a late hour was unexpected; Furina swayed, winded, made curious all the more by the responding incline of Arlecchino’s head.
Or, Arlecchino is but one temptation Furina cannot shake.
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She wound her arms around Dehya’s neck, urging their lips to brush when she spoke. “If this is what you want, then I have no reservations with you taking.” Dunyarzad slid a hand down to the dip of Dehya’s back, breath catching when their bare skin touched. “I want you to make me feel alive.”
Or, Dehya is there, blindingly brilliant, and Dunyarzad yearns despite it all.