A/N: Just something sweet. I've a bit bummed this week, and I made myself (and my readers) a little pick-me-up out of a couple I have not yet written about! ENJOY :)

A/N: lyrics from John Mayer's "My Stupid Mouth"

My Stupid Mouth

My stupid mouth has got me in trouble

I said too much again to a date over dinner yesterday

Oh, how could I forget? Momma said, "think before speaking,"

No filter in my head: oh, what's a boy to do?

I guess he'd better find one soon.

.

.

Tsubaki looked so nice that day, that the words just plumb fell out of his mouth, all jumbled and mumbled, and not romantic at all:

"Iloveyou."

There it was—stark and uncomfortable and real and revoltingly irrevocable.

He hadn't been keeping it a secret, persay; it was just a fact of life that he lived with, had been living with, for years—no different from having a liver or a pancreas, really. He was no youth bent on keeping his emotions to himself either, like a depressed girl. He was going to be better than God, dammit! So why shouldn't he just say what was on his mind, a big guy like him? There was no reason to be quiet when he liked a gal, no reason at all.

She looked at him, sitting at their shared kitchen table, in their shared kitchen, in their shared apartment. She glanced around real quick, as if unsure he was speaking to her. Then she pointed a pale finger at herself. "Me?"

Black Star was a little taken aback at himself anyway, sitting at their kitchen table. The kitchen table that she cleaned day in and day out, without much help from him at all. He was always working out, always came in and wolfed down whatever she made, usually without complaint and frequently with compliments, then raced back to their mini gym in the basement. He was eating a late Sunday breakfast that day, dressed in his athletic shorts and muscle shirt. She across from him, in a tank top and sweats; she was probably going to clean all day or something. Black Star suddenly felt awful.

"Uh, yeah." He rubbed the back of his head and grinned a bit sheepishly to cover up his guilt. "I mean, c'mon, who wouldn't? Tsubaki, you're like, the best partner ever, and with me to complete the team, you'll be a Death Scythe in no time!" He paused and glanced at her, but she was sitting at the table, completely still. He kept on, "Yeah, and you're really nice, and you're smart, and you're strong, and you never give up, and you're…" he sought for another word. "Hot!" he snapped his fingers suddenly. "Tsubaki, you're like, drop dead sexy!"

Now she was scrutinizing him, brows drawn together in a line, disbelief all over her face. Black Star stared back, grinning, trying to decide if his wooing had worked. He'd never really thought about how to go about winning over Tsubaki when he wanted to: he just kinda figured it would happen. But the look on her face was making him nervous—what could he say now, to make it better?

But she spoke first. She sighed heavily, took off her glasses and cleaned them with her shirt. He noticed the way her stomach looked when she lifted the hem of her shirt—the pale strip of skin just briefly revealed to him before she replaced her glasses on her nose.

"Okay, Black Star. What made you say that?"

He blinked, surprised. What made him say it?

Well, wasn't it the way she looked when she just got out of the shower? Oh, gawd—there was nothing quite like a girl just out of the shower, all fresh pink skin and sinful curves, little strips of dark hair falling down her neck and around her face; skin glowing and eyes bright, lips full and soft from the steam; and a towel. Just a tiny towel around that body.

Or, the sweet way she came to wake him for school in the mornings, pulling the sheets away from him gently and patting his hair and whispering, in that husky, Tsubaki-way: "Morning, Black Star. It's time to get up now." And oh, man! He just wanted to throw his big hands around her little waist and roll her around in his bed for hours and hours and hours.

Ah, and the way Tsubaki looked, bent over an assignment. He could not imagine doing the homework that was assigned them, but he knew Tsubaki labored over her homework every evening, oftentimes with Maka. Gawd, she looked so adorable, biting her bottom lip and scribbling nonsense on papers, bent in a dramatic arch over her homework. Struggling to understand something—then: there! That beautiful illumination on her face, when the fog has cleared, and she knows.

And mornings like these, eating a quiet, friendly breakfast together in their apartment, she in her comfortable clothes and he in his; when she's still so radiant even in sweats just because of that special light in her eyes and the way her hair, not yet put up for the day's tasks, falls past her shoulders in a gentle wave, so different from his own unruly locks.

And especially: there was that critical moment in battle, when he was panting, breathing in heaves through his mouth, muscles aching, bones weary—and, against everything he's ever said about himself—hope dying. And then, then: his soul would flutter a little bit, as if it were as light as a bird, a tiny little beautiful thing that suddenly flew into the palm of her hand like flying south for the winter. And she'd say: "Black Star! You have to do this! You have to beat God, don't you?" She was his biggest fan, and he couldn't disappoint her, defeat God or no.

He slumped in his chair a little bit and sighed. He cast his eyes to the left for a second, then looked straight at her, and did not take his eyes off of her, nor did his small smile fade.

"Sorry. I dunno how to be all fancy about it, I mean, I'm just a normal guy. I don't know what you want in a guy or anything, and I don't pretend to know all the answers, but I do know that I love you." He blinked again, slowly, languidly, as if his entire being was adjusting to saying it aloud. "I love you, Tsubaki."

The way he said it this time was different: something had entered his youthful voice, instilled suddenly in his normal vigor was a self-assurance she had not yet experienced from him. Tsubaki's cheeks suddenly filled with color, and her mouth dropped open a little bit. He thought she looked about to cry, and he kept thinking, oh god oh god oh god please don't let her cry, not here, not now, not ever, never again let her cry-

Then she smiled, and it was like the first bloom of spring. He wished he knew poetry so he could spout it to her and make her happy—and he detested poetry. Black Star sat back and wondered at it, this light thing that had suddenly bubbled to his lips.

"So what comes after this?" he asked.

She shrugged, then grinned an impish grin. "I guess I tell you that I love you too, Black Star, and you go on to defeat God, and we live happily ever after. Or something."

"Hey!" he cried. "Don't forget that I'm gonna make you into a Death Scythe too!" and he launched into strategy about how to go about that goal, including training for the both of them, studying (on her part), working on technique together—

And she laughed, and that poppy-pretty blush stayed on her cheeks. He noticed, and mumbled to himself again, that special spell that had cast a new magic over them:

"I love you."

A/N: d'awww, lookitthefluff, har har har. Again, nothing really heavy or thought-provoking, but a nice little light reader for a nice afternoon when you're down in the dumps. Review it, guys, me loves reviews :D