#thank you for reading!! 🥰

[acacia-may]

What They See

Description: Grey's can't figure out what Gauche and Gordon's "secret project" is. She has always known that Gauche and Gordon are both much more crafty than she is, but she has never before been so confused by what they are working on. Will she ever figure it out or will her friends manage to keep it a sweet surprise?

Rating: G

Warnings: A tiny bit of Grey's insecurities and Grey being an unreliable narrator.  But mostly just fluff!

Fandom: Black Clover

Genre: Friendship Fluff, G-Squad Crafting Club, and Surprises (and just the tiniest bit of hurt/comfort because Grey is insecure and an unreliable narrator).

Characters: Gordon Agrippa, Gauche Adlai, & Grey  

Part of the Friendsgiving Event 2022 Series, But Stands Alone

Word Count: 1,847

Link to original post on AO3. Please do not repost to another site. Thank you for reading!

Grey bit her lip in concentration as she stared down at the scarf she was knitting with a sigh. She had messed up her stitching again and was seriously contemplating whether she would need to unravel it and start over. It wouldn’t be the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last either. She sighed again. Perhaps she should add knitting to the abandoned crafts pile she had been accumulating ever since Gordon had had the idea for a crafting club. Only Gauche and herself were regular members though some of their other squad mates flittered in and out if they were around. Today, however, it was just the three of them. 

“Marie, my angel. You are as lovely as ever,” Gauche cooed at the small Marie sculpture he was currently painting. Gauche’s keen eye for detail made him a wonderful painter and sculptor. Grey was often left flabbergasted by how closely his crafts of Marie’s likeness resembled her. She had tried her hand at sculpting a few months back when she was trying to decide on a craft project, but her sculpture ended up looking more like a misshapen blob than anything else. Luck had asked her for it but only so he could throw it at Magna when he ate the last of the pudding. 

Gordon had tried to reassure her by teaching her how to sew, but her stitches had ended up messy and uneven. Needless to say the handkerchief she had been working on quickly became a pot holder—then a dishrag. When Grey had thrown her needle and thread in the abandoned craft pile, however, Gordon had felt bad and "rescued" them, whispering something about how he didn’t want them to get discarded despite the fact that, as Gauche rolled his eyes and pointed out, they were inanimate objects. 

Gordon was using the end of her spool of thread now actually—tailoring what appeared to be some clothes for his dolls. Out of everyone in the squad Gordon was probably the most crafty and had a natural talent for sewing—second to only Vanessa and her thread magic. Grey couldn’t help but wish she was half so crafty, but, unfortunately, she was always left lagging behind Gauche and Gordon.

Grey sighed. She supposed it was to be expected—after all, she had spent her whole life lagging behind others, particularly her squad mates who were all stronger, braver, and more powerful than she was. They were always out doing wonderful things with their magic while she stayed cowering in the corner—too shy, embarrassed and weak to do much of anything. Though her friends tried to encourage her, she worried that she just dragged them down and could only contribute as much to their squad as she could contribute to their crafting club, which, if her tangled attempt at a knitted scarf was any indication, was not much at all.

“Done!” Gauche declared triumphantly, pulling her out of her introspection. He leaned back in his chair to admire his work with a smile. 

“That’s great, Gauche. It looks just like her!” said Gordon—quiet but enthusiastic as he shifted to get a better look at Gauche’s Marie statue.

“It’s…it’s really nice…” Grey stumbled, somewhat nervously before she buried her warm cheeks in her hands.

Gauche nodded. “They’re getting more realistic with practice.” He reached into the box of craft supplies and pulled out another block of wood and begin chiseling away. Another Marie statue, perhaps? Grey wondered, but as she kept glancing over at Gauche’s new sculpture, she noticed the figure was taller. Her brow furrowed, but she lost her nerve before she could ask Gauche who he was carving.

This continued for several more meetings of their crafting club—Gauche’s statue becoming all the more beautiful and Gordon tailoring the tiniest clothes—too small for even a doll. Meanwhile, Grey picked away at her knitting and tried to be brave enough to ask her friends about their projects. When she finally plucked up the courage and asked Gauche who he was carving, however, Gauche had just told her that “it’s a surprise” with the slightest twitch of a smile in the corners of his mouth. Asking Gordon was much the same—or so she thought anyway. She was getting much better at understanding him over time, but it still proved difficult for her when he returned to his usual quiet mumblings, like he did when he almost sheepishly told her that he was also working on a surprise project. And so, she merely sighed and returned to watching them work with a quiet contemplation and curiosity.

*-*-*

“I’ve finished the base,” Gauche declared proudly one afternoon when Grey’s scarf was nearly two-thirds complete, and Gordon clapped murmuring something about being nearly finished himself.

As Gauche rose from his seat to get his paints, Grey’s curiosity got the best of her, and she leaned over for a better look at his statue. She gasped. It was absolutely lovely—the likeness of a beautiful girl taking a step forward with her shoulders squared and resolute, arms at her sides, smiling proudly, confidently.

“Let’s try the cape on her,” said Gordon excitedly as he wrapped a tiny black cloak around the statue's shoulders. Grey could only blink at its intricate stitch-work and the embroidery of their magic knight squad emblem. Gordon had created a near painstaking replica of the Black Bulls’ robe for Gauche’s statue. Her brow furrowed—did this mean that this girl Gauche had carved was on their squad?

Grey tilted her head at the statue again. Her hair was too short for her to be Vanessa, and her frame was too tall for her to be Charmy. Noelle perhaps? Or Secre?

“You weren’t supposed to see that yet,” huffed Gauche with a twitch of his mouth as he returned with the paints.

Flushing, Grey buried her face in her hands. “I…I’m so sorry…”

She could hear Gauche sigh as he took his seat again. “It’s fine. It’s just not finished yet." He paused. "That cloak looks good though.”

“Thank you,” Gordon mumbled as Grey peeked between her fingers. Her blush deepened as she met Gauche’s eye and caught sight of his frown.

“You don’t have to keep closing your eyes...”

Swallowing hard, Grey managed a nod and stammered, “S—sorry.” Her hands shook as she found she could only fan out her fingers rather than uncover her eyes completely.

Gauche sighed again, but Gordon interjected, “Maybe she wants a big reveal?”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever…” he huffed with an eye roll. “But there’s a streak of paint in the hair now so it really looks unfinished.”

Gently, Gordon took one of Grey’s hands—pulling it from her eyes and leading her in front of the statue as a tint of pink flushed in her cheeks. “Ta da,” he said motioning to it as Grey let her other hand fall to her side and opened her eyes. Though she didn’t expect it to look any different than when she had just seen it, she intended to act as excited as she could to show her appreciation to Gordon and Gauche.

She smiled brightly, and began, “It’s lovely! Who is—?” She gasped noticing the streak of blue in the carved wooden hair. No… that couldn’t be right…she thought. It must just be the lighting or…Her brow furrowed. As she tilted her head curiously at the statue, she began to almost absent-mindedly reach out her hand towards the streak of paint before Gauche grabbed her wrist. Her blush deepened, and she inhaled sharply.

“Careful. It’s still wet,” he said curtly, and he let go of her wrist as quickly as he had taken it.

“S—sorry. Sorry…” she stumbled, fighting the urge to bury her face in her hands in embarrassment again. “I was just…um…wondering…wondering…um…”

Gauche’s brow furrowed. “Wondering what?”

Her face flushing, Grey stared at her shuffling feet and mumbled so quietly she wasn’t sure if Gauche or Gordon would even hear her, “Wondering…um…why her…um…her hair…um…why it’s…um…well…um…is it…? Is it…blue…?”

“Do you not like the color?” Gauche huffed—a bit irritable perhaps. “I’ve been trying to mix the right shade for weeks. I thought this was pretty close.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gauche grab the paintbrush in one hand and hold it up next to her.

“It looks right to me,” said Gordon. “Grey?”

Slowly, Grey looked up from the ground at Gauche’s paintbrush—its tip coated in a light blue paint. As she tilted her head at it, Gauche asked, “It’s the same color as your hair, right?”

Grey gasped. “My…um…my…hair…?”

“Yes, your hair. This is a statue of you after all.”

“Of…of me…?” Grey repeated almost incredulously. She stared at the statue again and shook her head. There was no way this was a statue of her. Everything about this girl from her pose to her expression exuded beauty, strength, and confidence—the complete and totaloppositeof her.

“Doesn’t she look just like you?” asked Gordon excitedly. “Gauche did a great job.”

Gauche huffed, but his mouth twitched with a smile before he twisted it to one side. “We were going to try to keep it a secret, but it was a lot easier to work on it when you were sitting right there and could model.”

“You think…you think this is…” Her voice hitched before it began to trail. Was this really what they thought she looked like? Was this what they saw when they looked at her—someone who could stand tall and protect her friends, who didn’t cower in corners or try to hide from the world? Did they really see more in her than even what she could see in herself? She took the wooden statue in her hands and stared at it—blinking back the tears that glistened in her eyes.

“It might be a little hard to picture now since it’s not fully painted yet and all of the clothes Gordon’s been making aren’t on yet, but…” Gauche didn’t finish that thought as his brow furrowed at her. “You okay?”

Somehow Grey managed a nod as Gordon asked with a slight, kind smile and earnest eyes, “Do you like it, Grey?”

Sniffling, Grey nodded again. “I love it! Thank you!”

As she took a step back to admire the little statue, the brightest smile spread across her face. She could never find the words to express how much her friends’ gift meant to her, but she hoped to repay them someday, hoped that someday she could be strong, brave, and confident for them—that someday she would be everything they could see in her. Grey knew that with her friends by her side, someday she would be the best she could be, and as she stood with them now as they smiled back at her, she couldn’t help but wonder if in their eyes, she already was.

[folyxfanart]

Dr. Luis Serra Navarro

[uncanny-tranny]

I love love love when trans women* give advice to trans men* about """manly""" things and when trans men* return that kindness with advice about """womanly""" things. I love the intracommunity commitment to supporting each other <<3

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[otrtbs]

here’s the thing. the absolute joy and wonder i feel whenever someone tells me they came across ahb! and are now taking an art history course / majoring in art next year / went to their local art museum for the first time in ages is exponential. when yall send me your favorite artworks and tell me about them or tell me you went to x museum to see x painting mentioned in ahb??? it’s just so so wonderful. because never did i think something i wrote out of love for art and love for art history would lead anyone else to research art or talk about it or seek it out for themselves and that’s so much more than i could ever imagine would come out of a very timid first attempt at creative writing/fandom involvement.

i wrote it out of love and y’all have all reciprocated that love tenfold and ran with it to talk about art and explore it and share it with me and those around you. and it’s just been a very special incredible thing that makes me emosh. :,)

[alexturner]

[goingxmissing]

I know like geographically it does not make any sense but I’m mashing up this costal village place I love with this highland town we used to visit in summers and getting a lando/Oscar summer au. I’m thinking about like bored, teenager Oscar who lives (?) in this tiny seaside town nd works in this old school slightly shitty arcade, fully planning on spending a sweltering summer in his glass box doling out change nd giving the machines the “turn it off nd back on” treatment before he meets city boy Lando who’s there for the summer and fucking bored out his tits with dodgy wifi & no signal. Lando latches onto him as one of the only people there over age 5 and under the age 40 nd spends ages chatting/flirting his way past Oscars deadpan, no interest but hiding a smile interactions until they get a conversation going.

Leads to Lando spending dayyss in the arcade, sometimes playing the penny drop machine but mostly leaning against the glass window chatting. (omg winning like a fucking friendship bracelet or necklace or really cliche koala key chain for Oscar who is like ?? Dude I stock the machines ((but at some point he wins/steals the matching one for Lando))

Ofc Lando has charmed every shopkeeper in the high-street (inc the dog in the sweetie shop) and they get so much freedom bc there is basically no way to get into trouble. I want a summer romance. Long days at the beach, seeing each other shirtless and doing the “boys will be boys” wresting in the (let’s still be realistic, freezing) sea, doing the “is he interested, is he gay???” internal panic. Walking the costal paths and wee lanes and forest paths, talking and laughing. Finally making out in the sand traps on the golf course (maybe they were cutting through and a greenkeeper saw them or they were sitting in the bunker drinking and got interrupted so had to dive on top of each other to hide and end up face to face, staring into each others eyes nd that’s when it happens) I want a love confession in a small, rusty kids play park at 10pm when they’re tipsy off cheap cider and it’s all summer hazy light. I actually want the whole thing in that summer evening light nd blurry sunny Polaroids. That’s the vibe (I’d say like a late 90s/early 00s setting but realistically most seaside towns still have that vibe anyway). ANYWAY that’s my Monday night thoughts ✨✨

OMG ANON 😍😍🥰🥰🧡🧡 I have to publish this because it's sooooo cute I am feeling the summer vibes so hard!

Oscar in his arcade glass box being slowly charmed by chatty/flirty Lando! The summer romance! The wrestling in the freezing cold sea! When I read out the part with the sand traps on the golf course @strawberry-daiquiris screamed! Tipsy off cheap cider 😭 I am going to think about this so long and hard thank you for blessing my inbox with this utter joy.

[koreofitall]

Your partner is known for their signature whiney and hitchy buildups, and what better way to help them along than teasily feathering soft, light kisses to their face and neck?

You're cuddling on the bed when you hear and feel a sharp intake of breathe. You get up and on top of them, your hands pinned on the bed and on either side of their body.

"Uh oh~," you coo. kiss. "Here we go again, huh?" kiss. You get a bit of a nod from them in response, laughing in between their breaths. Nose still twitching and mouth hung open.

Their expression is priceless.

kiss. "Oh look at that face." kiss. "It tickles real bad, huh?" They nod a bit more vigorously and begin to whine, brows taut. It's coming.

Endearing as all get out and sexy as hell.

"Ohohooo you poor thing." You kiss the space right next to their mouth, then work your way up. You feather a kiss to the side of their nose, then the tip, feeling every bit of movement and their breathe on your neck. It becomes erratic, your actions taking them over the edge.

"Bless youuuuu"

They breathlessly chuckle a bit to your blessing before sneezing freely into the space between the two of you a couple of times, misting your chest. You still have them pinned underneath you, so it's quite the show.

They finish and take in one big sniffle, checking to see if they're done, then sigh in relief.

You chuckle and lean in to finally plant a kiss to their lips, whispering "you're the fucking cutest" right against their mouth.

[blorbocedes]

Would love to hear your thoughts on Yukierre because folks have such different ideas of their dynamics and I feel like you might have some spicy takes

hmmm my yukierre hot takes....

I know we give Charles the Catholic guilt cultural appropriation pass for being a Ferrari driver but the real trad cath guilt ridden poster boy is pierre, sexy satyr mr tumnus looking, gasly who has a Cross necklace and does the sign of the cross before a race

I have to respect the thottery 4 jesus

Pierre is also in the business of denying himself things he wants, he talked on the podcast about how he used to have croissants everyday until he was 18 cause it's his ✨Francois Culture 🥖🇫🇷 but then after the motorsport diet restrictions made him count every calorie :( Yuki has a complete opposite approach towards pleasure, which is that he indulges in it. He has a good steak, a big rice dinner, even called a croissant good for mental calories (so true bestie!!!) 🥐

However, pierre is also the one instigates the sus shit; like saying yuki has tasted everything except French girls, how he has so many girls in his dms saying yuki is so cute and he just needs the confirmation to set them up...... which is 🤨 why do u want to get ur coworker laid . and why do u want to be involved in that process of setting it up 🤔 the whole "haha let's go to the movies I don't do this with guys btw but maybe I'll make an exception for u 😳" like WHO asked Mr Gasly. But then he is haunted by not leaving room for the Holy Spirit and gets spooked 'haha don't misunderstand/don't make it weird guys haha also yuki you can't come to my house, remember last time you tried to sleep with me'

Yuki isn't suffering from fatal conditions like Catholicism and being a former Redbull driver, so he can play back easily and unphased, 'I thought you weren't gonna tell them about that' 'having boyfriend girlfriend feelings 🥰' 'I want to go to your house' while pierre is having a breakdown trying to backtrack from the gay chicken because he always breaks first (coward)...... what does it truly mean to be liked by Pierre Gasly 😔

Why are you looking at him like that!!!!! you are NEVER beating the allegations sir!!!!

this isn't relevant but yuki is one of the few on track who has thunder thighs which I'm a big fan I hope he never stops wearing schoolboy shorts

also, the way alonso goes 'yuuki :D' makes me believe yuki has that same twinkle for chaos in his eyes, and I love a bitch on the grid.

tldr: what happens when you put a repressed French Catholic and a Japanese zoomer with no fear of god or calories together

[valaruakars]

We Have Chemistry (Together)

A bonus chapter/prequel oneshot for Let's Get Physical

Gen || Jayce & Viktor || 3.7k || Modern/College AU || Ao3 Link Tags: Baby frat boy Jayce, developing friendships, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort (shitty), hazing, underage drinking (for us USAmericans), alternating POV, no Beef!Reader today sorry babes

Help is high on the list of what people typically want from Viktor. Usually in class. Sometimes in the elevator beforehand or in the hallway after, or following a light tap on the shoulder in the library. All academic help, strictly speaking. But this wasn't about their lab report.

Sweaty palms, shaky hands—he’s got one shot at this. One phone call. He knows the landline and his mom’s cell by heart, but he can’t call her. Can’t let her see him like this. Can’t think of who the hell else to call—who even memorizes phone numbers anymore?—so maybe he’d better get comfortable with sleeping upright and a permanent wedgie. There are worse things, like the disappointed purse of her lips; the way she sighs and bows her head and makes him wonder if it’s his fault her hair’s already shot through with gray.

Except.

Area code, same as the rest. Dorm number. Cait’s birthday.

He types it out. It looks as familiar on the screen now as the first time he saw that string of numbers, when the coincidences jumped out at him as the patterns in numbers always do. Enough to make an impression, apparently. Just like the person it belongs to.

Who, in all likelihood, won’t be thrilled about this.

But he decides then and there that he’s just desperate enough for normal underwear and his too-firm twin XL bed—and, fuck, there’s a quiz in materials performance first thing in the morning so he really needs the sleep—to hit call.

It rings three times. He feels a hot surge of nausea two in, the rising urge to puke into his purple foam hat. It’s bitter in his throat like those IPAs he didn’t want to drink in the first place, but he’s never been great with peer pressure.

And on the fourth, above the rustling:

“Hello?”

He sounds annoyed.

He usually sounds annoyed, but sometimes Jayce wonders if it’s all in his head, because Viktor’s voice softens when he explains the equations to the girl that sits next to him and snaps her gum too loud and misses every other class. He’s heard it gently ask the professor for a letter of recommendation in the hall after lecture, and lilt into the phone—in what? Russian?—on the bench outside before it. It’s only when Viktor’s talking to him, which is already rare, does it get quick and terse.

But maybe he hears it wrong half the time because there’s part of him that’s been intimidated since day one. That first day of class, when he’d taken the last seat at the front and stuck his hand out to the guy beside him. He was nervous. It felt like the right thing to do. But those egg-yolk eyes had ticked curtly from Jayce’s hand to the professor he’d just introduced himself to, with a detour to his crooked pink bow tie. Maybe it was a little much with the blazer and ironed slacks in sweltering August. And in hindsight, yeah, maybe shaking the professor’s hand and explaining how this class fit into his three year plan was definitely too much, but Jesus fucking Christ *was it also too much to just come out and call him egotistical *for it.

Without even shaking his hand! Who does that?

Really, he’s just trying to make this feel like a good idea. It’s not.

It’s also too late to back out. “Hey—Hi, yeah, it’s Jayce… Your lab partner. From chemistry?” He’s already started running his mouth.

“Ah. I realize.”

He wrings the hat in his lap. The iron-on stars are starting to peel off. Glitter flakes cling in the creases of his wet palms. It’s delusional, isn’t it, to imagine that Viktor doesn’t hate him.

Only with a deep breath can he get himself to say, “I know it’s late…”

“It is.”

“But I really need your help.”

—

Help is high on the list of what people typically want from Viktor.

It’s what he’s good for—all those questions along the lines of, ‘Did you do the homework?’ which means, ‘Can I copy it?’ (No.) Or, ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ which means, ‘Can you explain it like I’m five?’ (Yes, but try to keep up.) *Sometimes it’s, *‘Have you taken any of Heimer’s classes?’ which either means, ‘Can you give me the study guides?’ (There aren’t any.) or ‘Can you tutor me, but we somehow hook up and never speak of it again?’ (Depends.)

That’s usually in class. Sometimes in the elevator beforehand, or in the hallway after, or following a light tap on the shoulder in the library. All academic help, strictly speaking.

But this wasn’t about their lab report.

If anything, it should’ve been about their lab report. Because what else could Jayce Talis—who moved seats after the first day of class and made a face like a whipped animal when they were partnered for lab work last week, who pledged a fraternity (abhorrent) and has his pick of pretty friends—possibly want from him?

It feels as though he blinks and thirty five minutes of his life have just dissolved* since he hung up the call, so lost in theoreticals of *why *and *me that curiosity itself must’ve found his pants and his wallet and led him here by the hand. Rumpled, but fully clothed. This is novel and extremely necessary considering he’s standing in a squat, brutalist building at the front desk of campus security.

All because Jayce asked, ‘Can you come pick me up?’

And Viktor simply agreed.

There’s no bail, no paperwork, no real formality here. The only requirement to walk Jayce out is to be over the age of eighteen, and he clears that easily enough. The state ID he hands though the sliding glass window of reception says as much, but he still has to remind the campus cop who flips it over three times like there’s something confusing about it that it’s just as legitimate as a driver’s license, thank you.

“Time to go, Talis,” the man bellows, snapping Viktor’s ID onto the counter with thick fingers and no further acknowledgement. As he pockets it, a metal chair scrapes across the linoleum somewhere out of frame, behind a door with a decades old pin-punch lock.

“You’re a lucky one, kid,” the officer chuckles, deep and phlegmy with the sound of black lung. “If I hadn’t laughed so hard you’d be at county intake right now.”

“Do I… Um, do I need to sign something?” Jayce asks. His voice is world-weary more than ass-kissing.

“You want this on record?”

“No, sir.”

“Then there’s the exit.”

By that point, Viktor’s already tapping his way to it. Jayce will follow, and with his long legged stride, he will catch up easily. Probably to thank him with that performative politeness that drives him to say ma’am or sir *or to *shake the hands of strangers, and then they’ll go their separate ways after has Viktor served his purpose. Like whatever this was never happened.

Behind him, a hydraulic arm shrieks, the intake door claps shut, and Jayce whispers an apology to no one for rattling the lobby’s musty silence as Viktor pushes outside. The tepid night air rushing against his face, and because he’s not rude, he holds the door open for Jayce.

But Viktor gets stuck. Or maybe stunned. Perhaps it’s flummoxed, or even transfixed. There’s no one perfect word to describe why he’s stopped, blocking the door and staring, which is rude, but happens to him with enough regularity that he’s owed a pass or five, and he’s using one now.

He blinks.

Blinks again.

Once more, and yes, Jayce is still standing in the doorway clutching a cheap wizard hat in his hand and a child sized blanket around his body. It strains around the bulk of his arms, stretching, cracking the gold vinyl stars. It matches the purple beneath his eyes, complements the tawny red his face is turning, and does not, in fact, reach low enough to cover his too small speedo.

Or the knee high boots.

A cape, Viktor realizes. Not that he’s just eyed Jayce from top to bottom with enough scrutiny to notice that he’s unnaturally hairless and his thighs are ribbed with stretch marks, or that his own face is set in a hard frown like this is all somehow unsavory. (It’s… not. Definitely not.) No, Viktor simply notices that the starry patterned blanket has a collar, which makes it a cape.

And despite this revelation, the fact that Jayce is mostly naked remains unchanged.

‘Why’ is on the tip of his tongue. It usually is; its natural habitat is in his mouth. But Jayce’s eyes flit from Viktor’s down to his pointy toed boots, then back up again, and he preemptively explains, bitterly, “Nothing in the lost and found fit.” Which actually explains nothing.

Viktor nods as though he understands (he doesn’t), and forces himself to just start walking.

Jayce tails him down the sidewalk in uncomfortable silence. It’s when they pass the parking lot that Jayce picks up the pace, falling into stride side by side. The pieces fall into place too—late night, terrible costume, and now, the acerbic smell of stale beer wafting off him. Frat party.

It’s worse on Jayce’s breath. “So…” A tight, tried sort of impatience undercuts his attempt to sound casual. It’s familiar. Understandable, too, after sitting through a scared straight experience on a weeknight. “Where’d you park?” Jayce asks.

Lack of a car notwithstanding, the implication he’d ever be swindled out of eight hundred dollars a semester to park on campus is a joke. Not a laughable one. “I took the bus,” he flatly answers.

“Oh.”

For a moment, Viktor can ignore the palpable disappointment—that he is disappointing. He can even empathize with the situation. Riding public transit dressed like that isn’t exactly ideal. But then Jayce asks, “They run this late?”

“The city ones do.”

And then Jayce says, “It’s just… I don’t have any money.”

“They’re free to students.”

And then Jayce mutters, “Uh, cool. Good to know,” because he doesn’t have to know, has never had to know. And suddenly Viktor doesn’t feel so bad for him anymore, that he gets to learn tonight that need-based scholarships don’t buy cars or taxis, and that sometimes it’s slightly inconvenient when you fuck up. Perhaps that should be more obvious to someone who just lucked out with a slap on the wrist for flagrant underage drinking.

Except they stop and Jayce takes one look at the bus stop bench; notices—what is hopefully just—dried, congealed soda spilled across one side. He asks, “Do you want to sit?” because he’s ignorant, yes, but not the worst to ever live.

Viktor says, “No, thank you,” knowing what Jayce doesn’t: the bus schedule, and that up and down in short order won’t feel particularly good.

When it grinds to a halt at the curb two minutes later, Jayce pulls his student ID out of his boot and soldiers onboard with his head down. He collapses full bodied onto the seats running parallel down the center aisle the same way he'd collapsed on the bench outside: hunched over with his face in his hands. Luckily, people are sparse at this hour, and there is nobody sitting across from them. Unluckily, someone in the back laughs openly.

With so much space, Viktor leaves an open seat between them. It feels right. But in the awful fluorescence before the lights wink out, Jayce’s skin looks waxy and his shoulders rise and fall with the deep, intentional breaths, and Viktor is struck by how alone he is—how strange it is that he’s alone in this. Where are the drunk friends that should’ve been picked up with him, or the cavalry that should’ve pulled up in a dirty Jeep with Greek letters on the bumper to save him?

He sits up as the dark bus drives on, soberly tucking his cape and forearms over his stomach, and Viktor snatches his eyes away. It doesn’t add up—not really. Jayce* does not particularly like him*, and Jayce has other friends.

He should probably ask which dorm is Jayce’s or if he knows what stop to get off at, but he knows the right question now. “May I ask—?” Viktor tries.

Only to be shot down with a clipped, “No,” which is strange to be on the other side of, but he’ll learn nothing from it.

Viktor nods and sits back quietly, the plexiglass window cool against his skull. The vibrations ghost shifting patterns behind his eyes. The silence is filled with the rumble of the engine accelerating, and the time with drafting a polite, impersonal email in his head to request they not be partnered together in the future.

At the next stop, two people get off, and when the bus drives on the silence is different. It lacks the subtle undertone of whispers and snickering, of other passengers entirely. Viktor opens his eyes to find there’s no one else left but the driver with her headphones in.

“Okay, fine,” Jayce suddenly sighs, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. “Ask.”

They don’t look at each other. Viktor watches the traffic light ahead tick to green out of the corner of his eye. “Why did you call me?”

Jayce leans back and groans, pained, into his hands. “No, about the outfit. You’re supposed to ask about the outfit, or the night, or how I got caught.” He pulls the tiny cape tightly around himself again. It doesn’t contain how badly he smells of pore-distilled alcohol and nervous sweat. “Any of those.”

He considers, briefly. “Explain the night, then.”

“I went to this pledge party…”

“On a Wednesday?” admonishes Viktor, who is known to stay out at the library until they banish him at close and sleeps the minimal amount to function most days of the week; who smokes and drinks and fucks enough for at least two frat boys, just in a wholly different context. Who is, sometimes, kind of a hypocrite.

“It’s Thursday now,” Jayce corrects as if it matters, stalling for seconds. “It was mandatory, okay?” He’s embarrassed, shrinking in his seat. “They had us drink, then confiscated our phones and gave us these costumes. I was supposed to do magic—” which explains the conical wizard hat, ”—but I wasn’t doing a good enough job, so I had to go out onto campus on a special errand,” he accentuates with limp, one handed air quotes, “to, uh, get something.”

“Is that not considered, eh…?” Viktor forgets the word. It doesn’t have much of a place in his vocabulary; was never really relevant during freshman year orientation.

“Yeah, it’s hazing, but it’s not a big deal,” Jayce snaps, filling it in defensively. He deflates just as quickly, resigning to his lot. “It’s just something that happens.”

But Viktor shrugs, “I see no benefit to the situation.” That’s putting it mildly. He’d rather amputate his own leg than be humiliated and told what to do. “Quit.”

This is, apparently, an offensive suggestion. “It’s—No, it’s about the connections.” Jayce is resolute. “Networking. Knowing the right people who can probably get me in the door at the places I want to be one day.”

One word stands out: “Probably?”

“It’s not exactly guaranteed, but if it means the odds are better…”Jayce is less resolute. Like he’s trying to convince himself, confidence in his own choices waxing and waning fretfully.

“And,” asks Viktor, “you think this is worth it?”

“I don’t know,” Jayce whispers in a small, scratchy, tired voice. He knows what this means. The heinous costume; risking his academic career; having to embarrass himself in front of a classmate he hardly knows or cares about. “I just… I thought it would make it easier to make friends, but I don’t want the whole *parties and drinking and girls and ‘haha, isn’t it funny I failed that test?’ *experience.” For a moment he looks like he wants to put his face into the hat in his lap and scream. Instead, he pinches his eyes shut. “They pushed me harder than anyone else tonight, because they know I don’t belong. My grades just bring up their stupid academic average.”

Viktor doesn’t know what to say. It’s not uncommon, this helpless sensation of floundering when confided in, when faced with the enormity of things outside his ability to change or control. He didn’t know what to say when the girl he was tutoring last year told him she lost her scholarship, or when he caught Heimerdinger’s last TA sitting shell shocked on the bathroom floor after finding out their partner cheated. He didn’t know what to say when his mother told him babička wanted to go home home to die (she’s fine, just dramatic and bitter about getting old), or when she saw him changing his shirt while they were packing up the apartment and cried for how she failed him (she didn’t).

He does know that saying I’m sorry never feels right. That it’s empty, and nobody really feels better hearing it. But Jayce is smart and attractive and also, perhaps, just dramatic too. He belongs somewhere, even if he hasn’t found that place yet. “How valuable could these, eh, connections with stupid people be, hm?”

“I mean,” Jayce mutters, “it’s not that they’re stupid—”

“Don’t argue. I’m aware of nepotism and how it functions,” Viktor huffs, tempered by Jayce’s soft laugh of the same quality. “There are always other avenues to get what or where you want. Find them. Your time is better spent than,” he gestures broadly, “on this.”

“Yeah…” Jayce nods. It’s a kinder resignation this time. The troubled creases in his face start to ease away. “Okay.”

Cars pass. Silence settles, strange in that it’s easy. Or, it starts to. But Jayce takes a breath. Hesitates. Takes another one that turns into, “There was no one I could call.” He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them again. Can’t get comfortable with himself or the admission:* *“Not because they took my phone, there just isn’t anyone else.”

“Your friends?”

“Still in high school, and she’s not even old enough to drive yet.” He finds himself on the receiving end of a curious stare, and gets the why of it wrong. “It’s not like that, I swear,” he cringes. “She’s a lesbian, Viktor.” Which is all fine and good, but has nothing to do with why Jayce is speaking in singular. He asked about the plural.

“Your roommate?” he tries.

“Dropped out two weeks ago, and please don’t suggest my mom next.” Jayce rolls his eyes, and they don’t find their way back. He stares off, down at the floor, canting his head away. There’s glitter in his hair. “Trust me on this. It’s not like I wanted someone who hates me but has an oddly memorable phone number to be my one phone call tonight.”

He would’ve been allowed multiple phone calls is the first thing that Viktor thinks. The second: “I don’t dislike you.”

Another eye roll. “You gave me a look.”

“I look at plenty of people,” Viktor hand waves.

“No, a look,” he insists. “It was this ‘if we were in a Russian prison right now, I would shank you’ kind of look.” Viktor narrows his eyes, so he specifies, “When we got assigned in lab?”

“Why,” Viktor asks slowly, “is the prison Russian in this scenario?”

“Because you’re—”

“No. Do not finish that sentence.” Wildly rude and too common of an assumption, but, “In the spirit of forgiveness, I will let that slide,” he holds up a slender finger, “once.” Jayce mouths sorry as Viktor considers the sort of look his face is being accused of. “I…” But he only remembers reading the clear disappointment on Jayce’s. “Was probably thinking about something at the time,” Viktor shrugs.

“How much you wish I’d switch majors?”

“Mm, no. It was the end of class, so probably how much homework I could accomplish before work study, or how late to my next class I could reasonably be if I showed up with coffee from the dining hall.”

“Yeah, but…” He pivots in his seat. His thighs squeak on the plastic. “But you still called me egotistical on the first day of class!”

Yes, when Jayce made a painful show of ingratiating himself to the professor before class. Jayce throws that in his face like some sort of gotcha; in reality, it ranks one of his top ten social failures. “It was a question.” He was simply asking if, in hindsight, the action could be misconstrued as egotistical. “Not a criticism.”

But Jayce scoffs, “How was I supposed to think that when you wouldn’t even shake my hand?”

“It was stuck.” Viktor lifts up his right hand. Empty, but the cane still comes with it, dangling where it’s looped around his wrist. “You took yours away before I could get it out of the strap.”

“But I didn’t know yet that you—” Jayce scrubs his hand down his face, quiet until he whispers a revelatory, “Fuck.” Then a slightly hysterical, breathy, “Fuck,” and he’s smiling, gap-toothed and too brilliant for the lateness of hour.

“Eh, still a weird thing to do, though,” Viktor shrugs. He’s smiling a little too. It’s a private, wry thing. It’s a start.

And by the time they finish, on the other side of campus, on a sidewalk, at a bus stop much like the one they came from, things are very different.

For instance, Jayce has put the horrible wizard hat on. Ironically, of course.

They meander past the library, its windows tall and dark, cutting across the quad in front of it toward the residence halls. “What was your special errand, anyhow?” Viktor asks. “You never said. I’m curious.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to forget the horrors. Y’know, of getting caught trying to break into a building with my entire ass out,” he says sheepishly, catching the hat as it starts to slip. It’s not his entire ass. Only about eighty five percent. “I had to borrow something.”

There’s a word he’s avoiding. “What, exactly, were you trying to steal?”

“Borrow,” Jayce counters. “There’s this paperweight in Heimer’s office. Looks kind of like chalcedony, but it does have these faint striations, so I think it might be agate—

“I’m familiar.”

“Anyways, that. I was supposed to get that. Probably because it was impossible.”

“Mm, no, not impossible,” Viktor hums. “You should’ve called me sooner,” he says, dragging a carabiner from his pocket, stripped of paint and utterly ancient. When he holds it up, the street lights catch on tens of little metal teeth. “I have the key.”

[acacia-may]

Ooo for you Friendsgiving event, may I request a Grey, Gauche, and Gordon fluffy or general oneshot please 🥰?

Hello, Lyra, dear! 💕Of course you can request Grey, Gauche and Gordon for Friendsgiving!! 🥰 I was so excited about this request (probably too excited since it took me awhile to narrow down what I wanted to write about 😅)! I just love the G-Squad but had never had the opportunity to write about them much before so thank you so much for that! I hope you will like what I’ve come up with for them!

As you are the Queen of Fluff, I'm not sure I can rival you in this category, but it is my hope that you will enjoy this little story at least half as much as I have enjoyed so many of yours! 🥰Thank you so much again for your support and for sending in a request for my event! Cheers, friend!! 💖🌻

[finelinegynandromorph]

pink and blue forever for @topharryficfest

harry/louis | explicit | friends to lovers | 23k | actor harry | video game designer louis | t4t

“I wanted you to know,” Harry said immediately, and he realized it was true. “As soon as I saw the estrogen,” he clarified, “I wanted to you know.”

Harry still held the bottles of testosterone clasped in his hands, and he watched as Louis extended her pill containers, slowly bumping them against the side of his.

“Cheers,” she said, looking up at Harry with a wide grin.

Harry burst into surprised laughter. He knocked his bottles back against hers.

“Cheers, Louis.”

or, harry and louis are roommates and harry is falling. hard. trans joy and tentative hope

read on ao3

[flowercrowngods]

nice to meet you, where you been? (steddie tattoo shop au)

🌷 part 1 | part 2 (or read on ao3) | T – 12.3k – 3/3 🌷

part 3: fallingforyou (5k)

in which the boys finally have that date

Eddie doesn’t even make it home before his phone vibrates, revealing a new message from an unknown number. 

Unknown: hi i was a bit dumb and didn’t ask for your number but i figured you’d be cool if i take it from the form you filled out for the tat. hope that’s fine! 👀 

Steve: oh this is steve by the way

Eddie snorts and leans against the lamp post beside him. It’s a bit stupid, the way he just essentially drops everything to text a boy; but he’s always been like that, and he sure as hell isn’t gonna change that for Steve fucking Harrington! In fact, he has a feeling it might only get worse from here on out. 

Eddie: Aw and here I thought this was Brad. I even drew a little heart beside my phone number on the tattoo form :( Steve: pff please you’d never get a tattoo from someone named brad Steve: that’s not even a real name  Steve: people named brad aren’t real Eddie: Brad is ghosting me and you’re joking about it, Harrington, I cannot believe this 💔 Steve: i’ll make it up to you Steve: are you free on saturday? Eddie: Only if Brad doesn’t un-ghost me 😔 Steve: menace :D Eddie: I’m getting your tattoo removed as we speak!!! Eddie: !!!!!! Steve: :( Eddie: That’s what you get, Stevie. That’s what you wanna take on a date.

Eddie’s heart is hammering in his chest, the wide grin faltering a little when he realises what he just said. He called it a date. Is that right? Is that what Steve wants? Is that what they’re doing? There is a chance that Steve only wants to catch up, hang out as friends. Queer friends that can’t exactly stop smiling at each other, who occasionally get lost in each other’s eyes, who flirt, who…

Damn. He’s not objecting to a friendship with Steve. Hell, it would probably be one of the best things to happen to him right after his band and the soulmate-ism with Chrissy! But the thing is, he’d have a massive crush to get over first. 

There, he’s admitting it now. He has a crush on Steve Harrington like he’s never had a crush like this on anyone before, ever, in his whole entire life. Except once, in high school, for nearly two years. On Steve Harrington. Fucking dammit, he is so cliché. He’s leaning against a lamppost, grinning down at his phone, and everything! 

And Steve isn’t typing anymore. Eddie is kind of dying. How’d this man get this much power over him in the matter of, what, like a week? 

Eddie: Not too late to back out of that by the way Steve: are you kidding me?? Steve: bro i would take you on that date right now instead of waiting until saturday Steve: but alas

‘Alas’! The boy knows words! 

Eddie’s heart is doing a somersault in his chest — and if anyone asks, no, that’s not him giggling down at his phone out on the streets like a helpless little gay boy with his first real, butterflies kind of crush. 

Eddie: Oh damn, you're a real go-getter, aren't you, Steebie? Eddie: Wait Eddie: Did you just call me bro Eddie: DID YOU JUST CALL ME BRO STEVEN Eddie: B R O ?????? Eddie: Is that what we are 😔

Steve: drowning my phone as we speak 

Steve:if you need me no you don't

And if Eddie is cackling at that, laughing, blushing, hiding his face behind his curls, no, he is not. 

Giggling, blushing, and feeling so very alive, Eddie hits the call button and hopes that Steve didn’t actually drown his phone and went to leave the country. 

But luck, it turns out, favours him today, because Steve picks up on the first ring. 

“Hi, bro,” Eddie says, still laughing. On the other end of the line, Steve is groaning, but Eddie can hear something even better. “Oh my God, is that Nobody’s Perfect you’re listening to? From Hannah Montana?” 

“Picking up the phone was a mistake,” Steve sighs without any real heat, and Eddie just wants to go all the way back and watch him. Chin on his hands and all. Just watch Steve as he closes up, listening to ridiculous songs that make him call people bro as he’s flirting with them, and tell him how beautiful he looks in clothes that are not designed to make people look this perfect. 

“So what was that about taking me on a date right now?” Eddie asks instead of saying any of that, listening as the music gets quieter over the line. 

There’s a moment of silence and Eddie imagines Steve shrugging. He’s adorable even in Eddie’s head. He lives in there now. Rent free, just pretty and sassy and not at all bro-like. 

“Stevie?” 

“Uh. Yeah, that was, uh. Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

A huff, some shuffling, and Eddie yearns. He feels it in his hands, the way they’re tingling, aching to reach out, to hold, to keep. 

Steve sighs, then speaks. “Nothing, just a whole narrative of things that make me sound like the clingiest dude, so let’s pretend I didn’t say a thing?” 

Eddie smiles before he knows it, because Steve might be saying what he thinks he’s saying, and he’s being shy about it. Shy! Steve! Eddie never stood a chance. 

“You miss me already, Mister Kettle?” 

“Maybe.” And God. How is he so charismatic even when he’s shy and most probably blushing? Steve Harrington, force of nature specifically designed to wreck Eddie’s little heart and soul and universe. 

“Say the word and I’ll come back, Stevie,” Eddie says, and he finds that he means it. He doesn’t have plans, Chrissy isn’t home to tell him he’s not dreaming, and he has this ache, this tingling in his chest, his arms, his hands. This feeling that tells him he has to go hug Steve right this second and not let go for the next five to seven business decades. 

There’s a huff and the ache only gets stronger. 

“In fact, Steeb-o, it’s actually testing every ounce of strength this mind and body possess not to jump back into the subway and make my way over to you. So, like. Say the word. I think I might literally be begging you to go ahead and say the word, give me an excuse to be annoying and clingy.” 

Steve chuckles and he sounds both relieved and stricken, and Eddie wants to know. He wants to know what’s happening inside that pretty little head. He needs to know what Steve thinks, what he wants, what he sees, what his world is like. 

This is crush of his is moving incredibly fast. And still it’s far from enough for Eddie, and he knows that’s kinda not good, not healthy, a bit dangerous possibly. But it seems to be the same for Steve. Like maybe they’re bad influences for each other. 

Like catalysts for destruction. But how would the boy who shines like gold in the sunlight destroy him? The boy who listens to Nobody’s Perfect when he’s cleaning and closing up, the boy who tapes up his shirt sleeve so Eddie won’t have to take off his shirt, the boy who has a whole binder of weird-ass tattoos and the softest touch, the quickest mouth, the sharpest tongue, meeting Eddie’s banter head-on like it’s all they’ve been doing since taking their first breath of shared air. 

It’s not destruction that’s happening. It’s something much, much more terrifying. It has Eddie’s heart beating in his throat all the same. 

“Let me take you on a real date,” Steve says then. “When I didn’t have a long day at work. When I won’t say stupid shit. Okay, Eddie?” 

The yearning doesn’t stop, not when Steve says his name like that, in that smiling way he has. Part of him wants to object, wants to insist to turn around and spend more time with Steve. He wants to kick himself, wants to apologise for just running out of the shop like that. If he hadn’t, maybe they could go on that date now. 

But Steve’s exhausted, and he deserves better than Eddie being actually clingy and annoying about this. Boundaries. No matter how tingly his arms are. 

“Of course,” is what he says. “Sorry.” 

“Not at all,” Steve hurries, that casualness back in his voice that makes Eddie want to go eat a tree. “I think I started that, anyway.” 

“Yeah, when you called me bro,” Eddie adds, snickering. 

Steve groans again. “I hate you.” 

“And for good reason, too, bro.” 

“I’m hanging up on you, Edwin.” 

“Can’t believe you continuously hate-crime me, Steve Rogers.” 

“Captain America? You won’t hear me complaining.” 

Eddie snorts. “You’re so easy, man.” 

“Goodbye, Eddie,” Steve laughs, and Eddie wants to soak it up. Live inside that laugh. 

“Bye, Stevie.”

And then the line goes dead, and Eddie finds himself still leaning against the lamppost, stupid grin on his face, face half hidden behind his hair. There is that nice sting of a new tattoo on his arm, the late summer air is breezing through his jacket, and the upbeat Powerwolf song picks up where Eddie left it when Steve called. 

It’s a good day. A great day. A wonderful, perfect, absolutely breathtaking day. 

Eddie is a bundle of nerves and anxiety by the time Saturday rolls around. He’s spent more time in Chrissy’s bed than in his own and they went over the whole, What if he finds out I’m actually the most boring person on this planet? ordeal, which has gained him a pillow to the head and a big, big hug. He’s not complaining. 

But he also is decidedly not calm when he sees Steve rounding the corner. Not when he sees the guy breaking into a huge smile that puts even the sun to shame, and especially not when he spots the flowers in the guy’s hands. Flowers for him. Flowers that make his heart skip.

God, he’s so lame. 

“Hey,” Steve says, still smiling, except now Eddie can see he’s blushing. Blushing! 

Abort mission, abort mission! Eddie cannot do this. He is not cut out to dating pretty boys that blush and bring him flowers. 

“Hi,” he says, feet rooted to the ground as he feels his own blush rising to his cheeks. “Are those for me?” 

“No, actually they’re for Brad. I’m surprised to meet you here, this is kinda awkward now.” Steve’s looking around in a theatrical manner and Eddie hates him so much, he is so lame! 

Except now they’re both laughing and Eddie is pulling Steve into a tight, warm hug. It feels so intimate, the way Steve’s face is pressed against the crook of his neck, his arms tight around Eddie’s middle. And the little hum when Steve’s laughter subsides sends shivers down his back.

He was right, actually. Holding Steve is the best thing his arms could do, and he never wants to let go. 

“Hi,” he says again after a while, closing his eyes and smiling into Steve’s shoulder. 

“Hey.” 

This is going great. Neither of them seems in the mood to let go anytime soon. 

But then Steve takes a step back and holds out his flowers to Eddie. They’re dried flowers, the same he has in the little vases in his tattoo parlour, and they smell amazing. It’s ridiculously cute. Everything about Steve makes Eddie want to explode and scream and laugh and cry and take the deepest breath of his lifetime. 

“I would have given you fresh ones, but I feel like that would have been a bit sad if they can’t get water, and these ones will probably last you a bit longer, too. I hope that’s fine?”

It’s fine. It’s so, so fine. God, it’s so lame, but it’s so fine, and Eddie wants to scream again. Instead, he takes the flowers and goes in for another hug. Steve chuckles and breathes a tiny little sigh of relief that Eddie soaks right up. 

“Thank you, Stevie,” he murmurs. “I love them, actually. Very metal, to bring me dead flowers, actually.” 

At that, Steve sputters and shoves away from him, still laughing. “Yeah, I figured you’re weird enough to enjoy dead flowers more than dying ones.” 

“Touché, Steven. Touché.” 

“You're so weird,” Steve says and then nudges their shoulders together. “Now come on, mister tough guy metal man.” 

“Oh, I’m gonna have that be my actual title. Can I legally make you address me like that?”

Steve eyes him from the side and says, in the most serious tone, “I won’t say anything without my lawyer.” 

Eddie cackles at that, feeling elated and excited and just really fucking good. Steve makes him feel all those good things that people have been talking about forever, and it’s only just the first date. He’s helpless. Can’t stop looking at Steve, sneaking glances and hiding behind his hair when Steve meets them, looking so fucking fond that it makes Eddie want to run away again. 

It’s intense in a way that Eddie has never experienced. And they talk. Oh, but they talk. About everything and nothing, and it feels so natural. He learns more about Steve’s best friend Robin, he still doesn’t know the name of his little tattoo angel friend, and it turns out walking around town with Steve is an experience, because you can’t take the guy anywhere. 

Every five minutes there’s someone waving, excited to see him, or even just nodding as they pass them on the street. It kind of adds to his sunny disposition and makes Eddie feel like he’s stepped into a parallel universe, like he’s witnessing something primal to the human experience. Something like joy, like fascination, like the universal constant that is being drawn to Steve Harrington. 

And he’s staring, smile on his lips, when Steve notices. 

“What?” he asks, sounding a bit shy underneath that amusement as he pays for ice cream and hands Eddie his cone. 

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing to me, man.” 

Eddie eyes him. “Are we entering bro territory again, Harrington?” 

“Oh fuck you,” he laughs, and then the moment is over and Eddie could go back to his musings. He could. But he’s Eddie fucking Munson, and if there’s one thing he doesn’t have, it’s a filter. And chill. Okay, there are several things he doesn’t have, and all of them come out when he’s around Steve, apparently. 

“It’s just, you’re like the sun.” 

Steve stops in his tracks, looking at him. “I’m like the sun?” 

Eddie nods and comes to a stop a few steps ahead of Steve. “Pretty much.” 

“Uh. Care to elaborate?” 

“Well, first of all you’re wearing a yellow button-up, of all things, and that just screams sun at me, no take-backs,” he points out, and Steve looks down at himself, frowning a bit like he’s only just realised the colour of his shirt. Adorable. 

Eddie continues, before his brain catches up with whatever the fuck he’s doing, baring his thoughts like that on the first date. 

“Secondly, you’re kind. Like, you’re a genuinely nice guy. And I think the term sunny disposition was coined for you specifically. Actually, I have a friend in linguistics, I can ask her if there are any etymological… Anyway, uh.” Oh, there it is. His brain is back and he realises what he’s saying, notices the way Steve’s looking at him, his head cocked to the side, looking at him. Seeing him. Understanding what he’s saying. 

Eddie swallows and goes back to eating his ice cream, looking anywhere but at Steve. 

He almost misses it when Steve says, “You’re cute, Eddie Munson.” 

His head whips up when he hears that, staring at Steve and his stupid little smile, his shining eyes, the glazed look in them, like he’s seeing Eddie and the rest of the world for the first time. 

And Eddie, because he truly deserves the title of triple high school flunkee, says, “No, you.” 

Steve huffs and shakes his head, still with that smile on his lips as he approaches Eddie again, crossing that distance. Drawing Eddie in even though his feet are rooted to the floor again. He swallows as the blood rises to his cheeks, bringing with it a heat that only deepens his conviction that Steve is a fucking sun of his own. 

They’re so close, suddenly, that Eddie can smell the sweet lemon ice cream Steve got, and he holds his breath, petrified. He begins to understand why, throughout history, people have built religions around the sun. Why they have worshipped and created mythology around her, why people have been likened and pronounced representatives of the sun herself. 

He gets it when Steve leans in and brushes the sweetest kiss to his burning cheek. His hand lingers on Eddie’s jaw even as he pulls away. 

“Cute,” Steve says with a finality that a voice as raspy as his shouldn’t possess. But Eddie doesn’t dare argue, not when Steve is so close, not when he can see the blush on his cheek, not when he only needs to turn his head and their lips would touch. “And pretty. Thank you.” 

The fingers on his jaw are moving in the slightest caress once, twice, three times before Steve pulls back. 

And Eddie sways. Honest to god sways on his feet, and he tries to mask it by taking a step back and spinning around, but Steve’s light snicker tells him he’s been found out. 

It’s unfair, though, that Steve gets to have this charm. This confidence. The courage to just kiss his cheek when it takes Eddie everything to just act normal. Well, as normal as he gets. 

It’s unfair. And addictive. He hides his face in the flowers that smell so perfectly like spring and summer and freedom that it makes him positively giddy. Everything about today makes him giddy. 

Can it really be like this? Is this really for Eddie to soak up, is this for him to keep? This kind of happiness and joy never did seem to be reserved for him.

But then Steve asks if he can take his hand, and Eddie opens his heart to the moment and links their fingers, daring to look over and catch Steve’s smile before he ducks his head away. 

As far as first dates go, this is the best one Eddie’s had. They just walk a lot, which is perfect for his restlessness. This way he can run away from Steve and let the man laugh as he catches up, shaking his head with fondness. And Steve does. He follows him, he catches up, he gives chase, and suddenly they’re kids having a perfect summer day outside, their bellies full of ice cream. 

And it turns out, Steve Harrington is not just a pretty face, a kick-ass tattoo artist, an interesting mind and a sunny kind of smile. No, he’s also a person Eddie wants to genuinely spend time with. It’s almost too good to be true and it makes him want to hide. 

So he does. But not behind his hair, no. He presses his face into Steve’s collarbone, and instead of shoving him off or laughing awkwardly, Steve just wraps his arms around him and holds him. Tight. 

“Everything okay?” 

Eddie nods, holding Steve in return. “Yep, but if you’re gonna ask me any more questions, I’m gonna be real stupid here.” 

Steve hums. “Stupid like me saying I didn’t really want to wait until today and just see you again right away on Tuesday?” 

It makes his heart jump, because, yeah, something like that. Something exactly like that. 

“Uh-huh. It’s just…” He sighs and steps back to look at Steve. “I’m having a really wonderful day. And it feels sort of forbidden.” 

“Forbidden how?” 

“Like… God, this is gonna sound very, like, thirty steps ahead, probably. But you’re, like. Man. You’re kinda perfect, and I can’t really wrap my head around the fact that we’re on this date, and that you’re calling me cute and pretty. Because people don’t do that. Not to a trans guy, not to me. And I didn’t even know I wanted that, but, boy. Boy. I do. I really fucking do.” 

Steve is smiling by the end of it, and Eddie doesn’t quite understand. He should be running, should be looking at him with pity in his eyes, or that misplaced kind of understanding that’s really just nothing else but pity, just disguised with a dash of transphobia. 

“Why are you smiling?” he asks when he’s just about to explode. 

Steve shrugs, but that smile stays. “I like that you just… Say these things. That I can ask you what’s up and you’ll tell me. I don’t know, makes me feel like you trust me.” 

“I do.” 

That smile widens a fraction, and Steve takes his hand. “Well, let me return the favour, hm? I like being here with you. I’m having a really amazing time and I don’t want it to end. I didn’t want it to end on Tuesday either, I don’t know. It just… I don’t know, it feels right. And you are cute. And pretty. And funny, and just really great to spend time with. It feels like I get to be a version of myself with you that’s just, like, all of it, you know? It’s scary, of course it is, and makes me feel a bit stupid, too, but more than that it’s just really great. I’m sorry people are weird, but believe me when I say that, yes, you get to have cutesy dates, too. I’d take you on one, like, every week if you want.” 

“Every week, huh? What, do you have a crush on me, Harrington?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?” 

And just like that, they’re laughing again. Relieved, happy, filling their little bubble with joy and sincerity and butterflies. 

Things are moving fast, but Eddie feels that if they went any slower, the world might actually end. 

They don’t kiss that day. 

In fact, it’s past midnight when Steve cradles Eddie’s cheeks outside the door to his apartment, looking at him like he hung the moon. Eddie’s not any better off, he feels. 

“Can I kiss you, Eddie?”

“I’ll bite you if you don’t.” 

Steve hums as he leans and brushes his lips against Eddie’s. It’s a good kiss. Oh, it’s a great kiss. It might just be the best kiss of his life when he feels Steve’s tongue against his lips, and he moans a little as he winds his arms around Steve’s neck, holding him there. Keeping him. 

They kiss lazily, perfectly, for so long that it leaves Eddie a bit dizzy. And when he breaks away to take a breath, Steve leans his forehead against his temple. 

“Goodnight, Eddie,” he whispers. “Thank you for today.” 

Words fail him, so he just nods before pulling Steve in again by the back of his neck, kissing him some more. Because how in the world could he not? 

“When can I see you again?” he asks, just to be a little pathetic. 

Steve moves the kisses from his lips to his nose, his cheek, his eyelids and up to his forehead, making Eddie glad there’s a locked door behind him. 

“Tomorrow sound good?” 

“Tomorrow sounds perfect,” Eddie breathes. “Best fucking day of the week.” 

Steve laughs and presses one last chaste kiss to his lips. 

“For the record,” Essie says, pulling away from Steve, a bit breathless, “when you say tomorrow, you mean today, right?” 

And Steve pauses. Steps away from Eddie. “I can’t believe I like a guy who thinks the day is over at midnight.” 

Eddie would laugh at that, but… “You like me, huh?” 

“Very much. Thought that was obvious what with the kissing and the handholding and the whole speech thing we had going on earlier.” 

Eddie is too giddy to retort and he’s only mildly petrified when he actually giggles, darting forward for another kiss. “Goof. Goodnight, Stevie. Now leave before I do something stupid like inviting you in.” 

“Oh yeah, we wouldn’t wanna do that. You’d end up seeing all my tattoos and spontaneously combust. I can’t bear that kind of responsibility.” 

“Your— Steve!” But the man is already retreating, walking backwards to watch Eddie as he laughs, giving a silly little wave that has no business being so cute. “Get your ass back here,” Eddie hisses as loud as he dares, aware of the time and the fact that his neighbours will be asleep already. And that’s not even mentioning Chrissy. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eddie.” 

“Will you show me your tats then?” 

“What? Sorry, I suddenly can’t hear you anymore, you’re so far away.” Asshole. Beautiful fucking asshole who kisses so good that Eddie’s still leaning against the door. He hates him. So much. They’re gonna have a spring wedding. 

Tomorrow finds Eddie outside of Steve’s door, fighting both nerves and a big smile as he knocks. Seconds later, the door sweeps open with a flourish and Steve is on the other side, smirking at him, looking so damn put together that Eddie falters a bit. 

“So rude of you to turn up your damn charm, Harrington.” 

“Only for you, Munson,” Steve says, taking Eddie’s hand and pulling him inside. “Only for you.” 

Eddie steps into his personal space and kicks the door shut gently. “Oh yeah? Well, I’m charmed. What’cha gonna do about it, big boy?” 

Steve hums, bringing his hands up to Eddie’s neck. “Think I’m gonna kiss it better, see if that helps.” 

And then he does. He pulls Eddie in, closing what little space was left between them and takes his breath away with a long, gentle, intimate kiss. 

“God,” Eddie breathes against his lips, his own hands landing in Steve’s hair, which earns him another hum. 

“Yup.” 

God, he’s so lame. 

“So,” Eddie says with one last kiss to Steve’s lips. And then another. And another. “Show me your tats?” 

Steve laughs and leads the way further into the apartment. It’s nothing like Eddie expected. Sure, it’s tidy and clean, because Steve just seems like the kind of guy who folds his laundry immediately and takes his dishes to the sink instead of letting them pile up or soak. But there are posters on the wall, there are little figurines and fairy lights lining the shelves, pictures of Steve and a girl that looks vaguely familiar. So many pictures actually, of Steve and the girl and other people, laughing and blurry at times, testaments of good times. 

They make Eddie smile a bit. Fucking sunny boy Steve, alright. 

Steve and Eddie end up talking for a while first, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and some stupidly delicious cupcakes. 

“Robbie made those.” 

“Your roommate best friend? The one with the fear of needles or something?” 

“The one and only,” Steve laughs. “She has a little bakery down the street, actually. Used to stress bake half her life before she turned it into a business. The night before her finals in high school, she made three cakes and dour batches of, like, three different types of cookies. She aced her finals, of course.” 

“Of course,” Eddie grins, taking another bite of the cupcake. He’ll have to stay with Steve just to get his hands on more of these, damn. Chrissy is coming with him to get more tomorrow, he decides.

“I also told her you chose her favourite little angel and she wants to marry you now. Except, I reminded her that you’re a man and she, very respectfully, passes.” 

“Shame.” 

“Very. Guess now you’re stuck with me.” 

“Damn. The hardship,” Eddie sighs with all the drama lessons he ever had in his life, and it makes Steve chuckle as he takes his hand. They stare at each other for a moment or two, just soaking up the smell of coffee and their respective smiles. 

The moment ends when Steve raises his hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles before rising to his feet and tugging him along into his room. Eddie zones out for a bit just watching Steve move in his space, talking about something that Eddie doesn’t really comprehend because he’s busy staring as Steve takes of his shirt, and— 

Oh. 

They’re wings. 

Steve has wings. Four of them, and they’re like mandalas. Intricate little things, but when Eddie takes a closer look, trailing his hand along Steve’s warm skin, he can’t help but notice that the lines are a bit like smoke. They don’t seem to follow any pattern or direction, and up close, they don’t look like wings. Up close they look like disjointed, wonky lines. Like a freestyle tattoo, almost absentminded in its ink.

They’re beautiful, covering Steve’s whole back, mixing fine line patterns with stronger, thicker, almost aggressive lines. Eddie could stare for hours, tracing the abstract lines, trying to figure them out and giving up with the fondest fascination. 

And that’s how they find themselves in Steve’s bed, shirtless, Steve lying down on his front, his head placed comfortably on his folded arms. Eddie is straddling his legs, moving his hands up and down Steve’s back, which turns into a light massage and Steve purrs underneath his touch. 

There’s nothing sexual about this — and not just because they’re both sort of ace. It’s just tender. Trusting. Gentle. 

Steve’s shoulders, his chest the insides of his upper arms, they’re all covered in tattoos. All rather abstract versions of common motifs. There are monsters, too, and it’s like someone turned Lovecraftian storytelling into a tattoo machine and used Steve as a canvas. Eddie somehow has no doubt that Steve designed most of these together with Robin or that artist friend Will he mentioned yesterday.

He wants to ask, wants to understand, wants to know it all. But words don't belong in this moment, so Eddie keeps up the gentle motions of his hands. Soon, Steve is falling asleep under his hands and Eddie joins him after a while. They’re wrapped around each other, comfortable, without a care in the world. It’s rather perfect. 

And if you ask Eddie years down the line, he’ll say that this is the moment he knew he could very well fall in love with Steve Harrington. In fact, he’s already on his way there. 

---

okay whew, we are done? i think? maybe? there might be a buckingham part to this at some point, but if y'all have anything you wanna see in this verse, i'm open to being pestered very kindly and patently please i am quite literally on the verge of an anxiety attack rn)

thank you @ everyone who was even mildly enthusiastic about this little thing, you 12 people have my whole heart 🤍🌷🥹

tagging:  @inmoonywetrust @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring @vampireinthesun @ajamlessbaby @momotonescreaming @zerokrox-blog @hotluncheddie @saganarojanaolt @eboyawstenn

[bunitivity]

Tender ZoSopp moment after a big fight with a wounded Zoro resting on Usopp's lap, and he's giving him a light massage to his temples and neck and Zoro wakes up to Usopp smiling at him because he protected them all again

"You look... safe... " Zoro says

And Usopp laughs a little "I am safe, thanks to you"

"I mean... you... safety" and Zoro falls asleep again (Chopper nearby still treating his wounds probably)

And Usopp's words caught up on his throat because being the protector's safe place means so much to him

😭😭 I'm not a writer, if you or anyone else wants to expand on that, pls do, I just always get really emotional to the thought of Usopp being (any of the Monster Trio)'s person they feel safe with, specially after a big fight

Oh this is so😭😭😭 Usopp being Zoro’s safe space is everything to me omg!!! That’s so!!! Just thinking about Usopp never having thought about Zoro romantically until that point not until getting hit with a line like that and being thrown completely off kilter like wtf is that supposed to mean?? That was a joke right right? he was just joking around he couldn’t really have meant that he Usopp was making him Zoro of all people feel safe?? But then he remembers the utter sincerity in his voice as he said it. Zoro doesn’t lie. So what does it mean??

Usopp’s heart is just a mess after that and he cannot stand being around Zoro. It might just kill him. Just a brush of their hands was almost enough to send him into a cardiac arrest and then there’s his laugh.

Usopp fears it might be enough to end him.

You would think a stoic serious guy like Zoro wouldn’t laugh that much if ever but he does and it’s often at the stupidest things. And those stupid things sometimes happened to be him. Usually Usopp wouldn’t stand for that but now he thinks he can afford to be a little stupid if it means he gets to hear Zoro laugh.

Even if it kills him.

So he cannot be around him. And so Usopp does what he does best. He runs away. Not completely. He’s still there at the fringes. Has his foot just inside the room so to speak. He will still see Zoro at the dinner table, in their room and other places on the ship as long as others are around. They just can’t be alone.

That just means that he won’t be working on the grassy deck of the sunny and suddenly find Zoro leaning into him asking him what he’s up to or just falling asleep against him. Nor will they nap together under the shade of a tree. Nor will he let Zoro use his lap as a pillow. Nor will they be shooting the shit late at night looking up at the stars. Nor will Usopp get to laugh as Zoro tries and fails to map out constellations. Nor will he get to tell him how hopeless he is and that it doesn’t matter if Zoro doesn’t know his left from his right because Usopp will always be there to find him.

He will lose a lot of things but he thinks that what he’s protecting is more important right?

It’s after another fight. Zoro is lost again. No one can find him. Usopp isn’t worried because why would he be? This is par for the norm. But then Usopp does find him and his heart drops out of his chest.

“Zoro?”

He’s on the ground looking badly injured completely still. It almost looks like he’s napping. Almost.

Usopp kneels down beside him and tries to shake him awake.

“Zoro?”

He does not answer.

“Zoro this isn’t funny open your eyes…” Usopp’s hair is loose it’s all in his face. “You’re supposed to be the strongest of us what are you doing.” He tries to brush his hair back but it keeps falling back clinging his face. “You can’t just let a chump like that take you out.” Great now it’s getting all in Zoro’s face but Usopp lets it maybe it’ll annoy him enough to make him wake him. “You haven’t become the world’s best swordsman remember? You still haven’t bested Mihawk yet so you can’t just not… Wake. Up!”

Usopp does not want his last words to him to be… when was the last time he actually talked to Zoro?? Had he been avoiding him for so long that he couldn’t even remember?? Was his last words just… nothing?

Usopp doesn’t realize he’s crying until he sees his tears splatter all over on Zoro’s face. Fuck.

Usopp regrets so much.

All the moments they had are overshadowed by all the ones they didn’t get to have because he was coward and so so afraid. Of what? Of being found out? His stupid feelings shouldn’t have prevented him from just being his friend. Just being his friend had been enough and should been enough. But now he’ll never even get that. Now all Usopp gets all the things he is left with are those moments that could have been, the ones that should have been and all the ones that will never be.

He gets nothing.

Usopp crumples. He gathers Zoro up in his arms holding him and placing his head in his lap just like that moment so long ago. And says “please don’t… not yet…”

He feels a hand on his cheek sweeping away his tears and his eyes snaps open and he sees Zoro looking grouchy and confused and so very awake and he screams.

“Zoro!”

“Argh don’t be so loud I’ve a headache.”

“Stupid you don’t get say that after making me think you’re dead!”

Zoro cracks a smile. “Is that why you’re crying? I was wondering who I had to beat up.”

Usopp grabs the hand that still on his face. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not beating anyone up the way you are now.”

Zoro just hums as he closes his eyes and just nuzzles closer and gets more comfortable. “I missed this.”

Usopp ruffles the green his hair and smiles. “Me too.”

“Finally gotten tired of avoiding me.”

Usopp’s grip tightens in his hair but he immediately lets go once Zoro bristles with pain. “Sorry.”

"Sorry for pulling my hair or sorry for avoiding me?"

“It’s not you.”

“What is it then?”

When Usopp doesn’t answer Zoro just pulls him close until their foreheads are almost touching.

“Tell me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“I want to hear it.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“It matters. To me.”

Usopp twists his lips. But there’s only so long he can lie. So long he can withhold the truth. So of course it comes gushing out when he least wants it to. The dam that’s his lie finally gives. It has been breaking for a long time now. It just takes just one nudge from Zoro and that look in his eye and that hand that’s still wiping away his tears. And he breaks.

“I love you.”

Zoro’s eyes widens and Usopp knows he’s made a mistake but then they soften so maybe not and oh he laughs and maybe just maybe this is worth everything.

“Took you long enough.”

Usopp’s eyes well up with tears again. “I fucking hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Then he kisses him. And they kiss again and again. Because they’re happy to be alive. To be here together and with each other and in love and because when Usopp isn’t busy being a coward he can brave. Usopp can be brave. And he gets to have this and all the moments that could be, going to be and will ever be. Now and forever.

“Oh before I forget.”

“What?”

Zoro smiles so softly and also so smugly because he’s a bastard and yet Usopp can’t help but love him because he’s stupid and also the smartest man alive.

“I love you too.”

Usopp smiles.

He gets to have it all.

[emry-stars-art]

OF COURSE I DID IT ON PURPOSE

THAT MOVIE IS MY CHILDHOOD IM SO GLAD YOU AGREE THAT IT SUITS THEM 🥰

[just-a-tiny-goldfish]

Can u... Tell me... About Oro's Hollow Ground? 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Ahhhh I’m not sure exactly how to answer! Only because Oro does not care about HG haha

If I haven’t answers this right! Don’t be scared to tell me tho! 😅

On a importance scale from 1–10 for Oro HG is a 3. She receives HGs letter and is probs confused for a sec until she reads it and is like…THE CASINO OWNER! She doesn’t think HG is a big enough threat to warrant her presence, which is why she sends Blue Jay.

HG: does she think I’m playing a game

Blue Jay: yeah—a real boring one 🙄 can I go home?

She’s never been good at chess😔

She didn’t care abt HG until she hurt her puppet then it became personal—because you don’t damage Orellia’s things.

However…after the whole thing comes out where they might be family. I think Orellia will reconsider, if only because she’s heard about how family is suppose to help you. And she desperately needs to feel safe, especially right now.