#this is mostly fluff

Javi’s alarms woke you up, your boyfriend snoring away beside you, and it took a minute for you to realize you were in one of the guest rooms as you grabbed the device and dismissed the alarm before Javi was disturbed. You wanted to treat him to breakfast, and clean up your mess, so you took the device with you since you could play some music with it while you cooked given that your phone was dead after not getting charged the day before. One of the curses of Bluetooth tech, a sour reminder, was that your phone battery had been drained to and from the little get together.

You also kind of wanted to go back in time and tell yourself to punch Paulina, just once.

Knowing what happened to Javi, what he’d thought was okay for her to do, had only made it that much more infuriating when she’d tried to act like she was somehow better than you. With those storming thoughts floating around your head it was a bit of a surprise to see that the door and the spot in front of the door were already clean, Javi definitely had done it since Lorna used the kitchen entrance whenever she was here, and you set the device on the countertop carefully before unlocking it. Javi’s music library was pretty extensive, sure, but there were a few things you wanted to hear that he didn’t have in his Spotify library.

Instead of logging him out of the app or anything you popped open the browser to log in there and blinked for a moment as it opened the prior session tabs, you had to giggle at Javi for not closing things out properly since it was something he was notorious for doing. But as the page loaded you felt your chest tighten, felt every little muscle in your body seize up, the sight of your Spanking ficlet on Javi’s screen making you suck in a sharp breath.

It had to be a coincidence.

This was an old session, from days ago, there was no fucking way he’d figured you out.

Unless he’d known from the beginning.

But you paused when you noticed, in the bottom corner of the screen, your Tumblr icon with a little gray circle. This was someone you talked to, someone you messaged, and you paced around the kitchen to grab the ingredients for breakfast as you tried to figure out just who it was that Javi could be without invading his privacy and looking.

Fuck.

You nearly dropped everything you had grabbed, chest tight as you caught barely managed to throw everything on the counter and stared at the doorway for a minute. It only made sense, it made so much sense, the username and the way he spoke?

Javi was also Amigo-con-Cage.

Friend of Cage.

Friend of Nic-fucking-Cage.

A loud chime from his tablet ripped you out of the spiral of panicked thoughts, wondering how long he’d known -if he knew at all- just who you were on Tumblr, and you buried your face in your hands with a low groan. This wasn’t a bad thing, it couldn’t be a bad thing, he was so supportive of you on Tumblr itself and he hadn’t outright dismissed you being a fanfic writer.

All you had to do was find the courage to tell him who you were.

A loud call of your name made you nearly panic, opening Spotify in a new tab of the browser and turning your music on low.

“In the kitchen, Javi!”

Hurrying to get to work on food, the prep blessedly minimal, you could hear the sound of Javi’s bare feet padding along the tile floor. Your boyfriend pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulders and hugged you from behind, draping his body over yours as he hummed along to the song playing.

“I am being spoiled, a beautiful woman making me breakfast?”

“You spoiled me this morning, and cleaned up after both of us, this is the least I could do to show you how much I appreciate you Javi.”

“Cute thing.” His rapid, chaste, kisses were sweet as he peppered them along your temple and the side of your face, making you giggle as you tried to keep cooking; but Javi did relent when you reminded him you were currently in front of a stove, going to make coffee instead of trying to distract you.

Working in tandem with Javi was easy, he just made everything easy, and your mouth opened and closed a few times as you tried to make the words come out. Tried to just confess so that this twisting feeling in your tummy would go away. It wasn’t until you were sitting beside him, when Javi reached for his tablet to turn the music off, that you realized he was going to see what you had seen too if he closed the tab out.

But you watched him do what he always did, the way he pressed the pause button and just put the browser session to sleep, and instead of relief that nervousness only got worse.

“Javi I need to tell you something.”

His eyes lifted to you, both worried and curious, and you pushed your breakfast around on your plate before finally finding the nerve to risk everything.

“I uh, part of why I don’t mention my writing around you is because I… I’ve written about Joaquin. About you.”

He whispered your Tumblr username- your private one- quietly into the space between you both and you nodded since words just weren’t happening.

“Then I should confess that not only have I read your work but… but I’ve also suspected since Wednesday. When you had that meeting with Maxie, I wanted to turn on a film but you’d left your document up and when I minimized it your Tumblr page was loaded.”

The fact that his immediate reaction wasn’t outright rage had you staring at him, that he was so calm about this, and hope burned lightly in your chest at the idea that it wasn’t going to be something he tried to hold above you.

“I am sorry, for accidentally invading your privacy, Solecita, can you forgive me?”

He was apologizing, to you, even though you felt like you had more of a reason to apologize to him in this situation.

“Only if you can forgive me for still writing fanfiction about you without actually, uh, telling you first or getting your consent.”

Javi’s brows furrowed.

“Soleciata, you have said it yourself in your notes and warnings, your stories are about the character of Joaquin and not me as a person. I know that you have separated he and I, it is not a matter to forgive at all.”

Every little ounce of tension disappeared, leaving you feeling weightless and more in love than you thought possible, and Javi leaned over to capture your mouth in a kiss that both of you were smiling into. You couldn’t help the tears of relief that pooled in your eyes, that Javi kissed away, and breakfast was put away in the fridge untouched as he pulled you to the main floor lounge and just laid there with you as he told you about how he’d even found your stories on Tumblr to begin with.

About how long he’d been a fan of yours.

About how relieved he was that it was you.

By the time you’d both managed to get all the words out, all the feelings, about how convoluted your entanglement actually was you both opted to eat breakfast cold and just spend the day lying in bed together.

Javi was curled around your back and you had your laptop open, reading him excerpts from your stories and notes of research you’d done for different stories of yours, and in return he shared how accurate or far from things you actually had been.

“Even before I met you, actually met you at that workshop, it felt like you knew and understood me.”

His whispered confession made you turn around in his arms and kiss him, nothing more than just languid affection, and by the time he convinced you to shower with him you were positive that you would propose to this man yourself. You’d use a damn ring pop if you had to, but there wasn’t any way you were letting him go.

Javi groaned softly as you began shampooing his hair for him, scratching and massaging his scalp as the suds were lathered up, all while he just held your waist and pressed soapy kisses to your cheeks. He only laughed when you shoved his head under the spray after he tried to kiss you on the mouth with soapy lips before you were pressed into the heated tile walls of the shower after his hair and face were rinsed off properly.

Hands wandered, slick from the water as he played with your breasts and you began kissing the fading marks on his skin, and it didn’t take long for him to have you panting and begging him to fill you. The feeling of his cock sliding into you made you sigh and Javi groaned when your muscles fluttered around him.

“So good to me, Solecita, thank you for trusting me. For being vulnerable and open to me.”

“Thank you for loving me, Javi, for not judging me and letting me just be me.”

The softness faded to hunger, to his hips rolling against yours, it wasn’t fast or hurried but sloe and intense. The roll of his hips grinding deeper, stroking that spot that made your body ignite like wildfire, and you fell apart with him whispering how much he loved you and how he would never let you think he was against what you did.

All Fics Taglist: @hardc0rehaylz @wordsnwhiskey @pagannightwitch @radiowallet @musings-of-a-rose @amneris21 @trickstersp8 @practicalghost @rominaszh @alwaysdjarin @alexxavicry

Just Pedro Taglist: @maievdenoir @beecastle @littlemisspascal @writeforfandoms @AynsleyWalker @lovesbiggerthanpride @mswarriorbabe80

Alt Taglist: @imtryingmybeskar @fan-of-encouragement @grogusmum @sizzlingcloudmentality @deadhumourist @prostitute-robot-from-the-future

Adora had stamina - even as a kid, she could run any of the assigned drills three times over if she wanted to. She could chase Catra for longer. And that's why Catra was fast, and agile, and smart (Adora called it cheating). It was why she was always cataloguing weaknesses, or opportunities for a trap - every potential opening to go for the jugular. Incapacitate before she could be overtaken. They were taught to think like that, to constantly evaluate their chances - it was beaten into them.

(Adora took corporal punishment like it really was a way to cleanse her of her failures. Catra scratched her disciplinarians' eyes out. That is, until it got Shadow Weaver's attention.)

Adora knew to assess and plan for a fight - but she didn't have to - not like Catra.

Catra knew that a single strike could count for everything, so all she focused on was how to do the most damage.

And how to hide.

Her attempts had been juvenile at first, hiding behind supply crates and under blankets. Even Adora had managed to find her. Though Catra supposed that, back then, she had wanted to be found. She quickly learned that few could see as well in the dark as she could - or lodge their nails into sheer steel. Dark hallways were safe, and by the time she was 14 she had memorised every bot patrol in the Fright Zone. Better yet, she could scramble up walls to nooks and crannies that no one even knew existed. Being high up gave her a good advantage - neither bots nor people were programmed to look up.

Now.

The world was no longer made of steel - it was made mostly of green, billions of plants having sprung explosively from suddenly ripe earth - hundreds of years overdue. Magic tingled on her tongue every time she took a breath. It filled her with energy, made her muscles work better, made her leap farther, surer. As she ran and jumped, the woods whispered faster, faster, as if in pure joy at Catra's presence. Fireflies lit her way, and it was easy to find purchase in the trees, to hide between the leaves.

Not that she needed to, wrapped up in Melog.

It hadn't questioned her when she left Bright Moon, had simply felt her desire for secrecy and enveloped her in its magic.

It was soothing, and familiar, like a second layer of fur. She'd never thought that magic could feel like that.

The sky had brightened in the east when Catra reached the top of the overhang, climbing up from the outside along new growth and old handholds. Thousands of stars paled just slightly against the growing light. Newly awoken magical bird creatures had started to sing.

The Fright Zone had changed. As the sun crept over the once-desert, still-jagged mountains, the place became a riot of brightest colour. The reds and oranges and pinks of the sky reflected off whatever steel surfaces still poked from between leaves and flowers. Scorpia had decided to give most of the buildings up to the embrace of time and the inexorable crush of plant roots, but others she had refurbished, with help from Perfuma's insanely powerful magic - to house ex-Horde soldiers of both clone and Etherian variety. The living floral arrangements that marked these towers made them look like crystallised rainbow puke, in Catra's opinion. But she guessed it was Scorpia's kingdom now to do with what she wanted. The fire of industry burned softly in only a few places, less like factories pumping out an endless supply of war machines and more like hearths nestled in the depths of a forest. Entrapta must have started on the last parts for Carla - Darla's new 'sister'.

Melog lay down beside a shrub, letting out a soft mraow. Let's nap, it said.

Catra sat back against its side, one hand on its head for scritching. She breathed, as Perfuma had taught her to, trying to let thoughts and memories pass her by like clouds. It was stupid, but it also worked, sometimes.

Catra had only just joined Melog in that state between waking and dreaming, her fur warmed by the sunlight, her eyes half closed, when a grappling hook finally clanged over the balustrade.

It was like a second, glorious sunrise, Adora climbing up and over the railing. The sight of her against the riotous sky made her breath stall for just a second. She allowed herself the feeling - the skipped heartbeat, the pleasant burn in her chest that followed.

Worry sat in the depths of Adora's pale-blue eyes and Catra felt a stab of guilt. It messed up the delivery of her line.

"Hey, Catra," Adora said quietly into the silence, shifting with uncertainty and withheld emotion.

"Finally!" Catra managed at last, "I bet a snail could have got here faster!"

Adora bristled, affronted, and Catra felt relief.

"It's not like you made it easy! I had no idea what happened to you - and you didn't even leave a note!"

Catra blinked slowly at her, smirk on her face.

"Oh poor Adora," she singsonged, "can't follow a simple trail. How does it feel to have the worst nose in the world?"

Adora let out a sound of annoyance and rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth had quirked up.

"I got here, didn't I?"

She stepped closer, stopping right in front of Catra - still sprawled against Melog's side.

Catra tilted her head.

"Wasn't that hard, was it?" she said, a small waver slipping into her voice. A lick of anger flared at the blatant sign of weakness - but she let it die down. She was safe.

Adora crouched in front of her. Her face melted into that stupid expression that made Catra feel fluttery and agitated and good. Her tail lashed.

"No," Adora agreed.

(She had always known to find Catra here.)

Suddenly Catra wanted. And it was allowed. She was allowed. She grabbed Adora by the lapel of her jacket and pulled.

"Wah-" Adora fell forward onto Catra, catching herself against Melog, who gave a sleepy little mraow-grumble.

Catra's stomach flipped when she put her lips on Adora's. Adora's.

Sometimes it felt like this was the answer to everything, everything that had happened, every feeling she had ever felt for her. Adora. Strong and soft and awful and amazing and ridiculous and wonderful and smug and noble and dumb and annoying and kinda...really hot.

Her stomach flipped again when Adora carefully put a hand to the back of her head and firmly moved her lips against hers.

And Adora wanted her.

Just when Adora relaxed, let her warm weight settle, Melog stuck its nose in and started licking her face.

"UGHH Melog!" Catra complained as she tried to push it and its slimy blue tongue away.

"Awww," Adora laughed, petting its head. Annoyance flashed through Catra and she shoved so hard that Adora lost her balance the other way, landing on her back with a muffled 'oomph'. She jumped her, pinning her shoulders.

Pay attention to me, idiot.

She'd miscalculated. The moment she perched on her hips, Adora flashed a smirk and put an elbow into her face, grabbed her arm and used her freakishly brute strength to flip them into a roll. Catra let out an outraged squeak when Adora pinned her. She giggled, but Catra wasn't going to let her win just because she was cute - or because having her on top of her felt kinda nice. She lifted her hips to loosen Adora's stupidly firm grip on her wrists, then slipped from between her thighs, tipping them over again. She realised she was laughing herself - high and excited. Like they were having fun, like they were just playing.

And they were.

Catra couldn't really tell what the feeling was that burst in her chest - kind of painful, kind of not.

After a lot of growling, straining, hands in faces, trying not to fall off the platform, and reversing positions - they came to a stop, Catra on top, panting into each other's necks.

Catra subtly rubbed her cheek into Adora's shoulder, though Adora's soft snort suggested that maybe it wasn't so subtle. Whatever.

Her pulse wouldn't stop racing, and she couldn't quite catch her breath. She'd never felt like this when they'd played as kids - not quite. It made her think of late nights, whispering after lights out, shadows finally banished by the dark.

She smelled really good.

"Are you sniffing me?" Adora teased. The impulse to deny it came screaming from the depths of her brain. Then she grinned.

She lifted herself up to look into Adora's eyes.

"So?" she purred, their noses inches apart.

Something went slack in Adora's face, while the muscles in her abdomen tensed almost imperceptibly. Heh.

Adora slipped an arm past her shoulder to thread her fingers through Catra's scruff, palm warm against her scalp, the simple weight of her hand inviting her down. Catra closed her eyes and let their lips meet. Soft. So recently, that would have infuriated her, it would have made her spit with disdain, with pain, the overwhelming desire to hurt.

Now, she languished in the feeling of Adora underneath her, lean and solid - squishy and perfectly knead-able in all the right places. Healthy - alive. Catra shifted, and Adora's hips bucked.

Then Adora slipped her tongue into her mouth and she couldn't muffle a groan. She realised that she was purring - had been purring for a while. She couldn't help it.

A warmth started from all the places where they touched, pleasantly suffusing her muscles and bones, tingling up her spine - and a blaze of magic painted her eyelids golden white.

Pulling back, she was greeted with a flustered She-Ra. Oh - this was too good.

"Did you just -?" Catra sniggered.

"Shut up!" Adora said, blushing. It suited the electric blue of her eyes perfectly. Catra gently flicked her claws out into her giant super-powered biceps. They were both still bleeding kaleidoscopic light into the steel floor - making grass grow where it shouldn't be able to. Leftover magic returning to Etheria, like She-Ra was a magic sponge that hadn't been fully wrung dry yet.

"I just felt..." Adora mumbled, not looking at her, but incapable of keeping from smiling, "really happy..."

Something squeezed deep inside Catra's chest and she swallowed. She carefully grabbed the gold wing-mask-thing and tossed it to the side, bracketing Adora's face with her own hands, fingers buried in her magically shiny hair. She pressed quick, hard kisses to Adora's cheekbone, her temple, her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her throat - feeling kinda achy. Adora made a choked little noise. Hmm. She nibbled a little.

"I really don't mind it," she breathed into her ear, putting as much suggestion into her voice as she could.

Adora went red. Catra grinned. She would never get tired of that - being the cause of that - it felt like winning, but good.

She meant it too. She'd hated She-Ra once. Not anymore. Even Catra could admit that she was beautiful. She was a part of Adora.

The new form helped. She looked like Adora, like a massive, fantastically powerful version of her. Not the ridiculous golden hero princess who'd stolen her away.

Adora's arms came up to loop loosely around her, powerful hands tracing feather light patterns on her exposed shoulder blades. She couldn't help the shiver that worked its way down her spine - couldn't help melting into She-Ra's warm body and nuzzling her face in under her chin as Adora moved her fingers up to the base of her ears. Her arms were a comforting weight on her. Weird, to feel so safe in a grip that could crush her, that once might have done just that, a grip she had countless times clawed herself out of before it could.

It made her feel small, but....not bad.

She purred, suddenly sleepy.

"When did you get here? Did you sleep at all?" Adora murmured.

Catra stiffened, and Adora stopped moving. Catra felt  the apology humming on Adora's lips - and she exhaled slowly. For asking a simple question. She tried to make herself relax.

"I couldn't," she said, a hand travelling halfway up to the back of her neck before she could stop it. "I couldn't breathe," she said quietly.

The arms around her tightened just a bit.

The feeling of drowning - it just - wasn't a feeling that was easy to forget. When trying to sleep - with her defences lowered - the worst things managed to creep in like shadows and strike, again and again and again. Adora could only do so much, could only soothingly murmur into her ear for so long, could only stroke her back for so long, could only stay awake for so long. Sometimes she was sick of trying, sick of the bombardment - all the ways she'd been hurt and all the ways she had hurt others. Sometimes, if Adora was sleeping peacefully, she gave up and left the bed to roam the halls, map out the best places to hide, try to climb the spires without wrecking the stonework, memorise the night guards' patrols, count the unnecessary waterfalls, check again where the food was stored, guess at what absurd princess functions different rooms served.

This night, she had wandered into the council room.

Well, that's what it was called now that the war was over. She'd played with the map projection on the table a bit in the dim. Horde and Rebellion positions had been wiped - all that was left were trade routes and markers for rebuilding efforts. Then she'd messed something up and the room lit up. Hissing under her breath she'd ducked under the table - and spotted the wall, aglow. Then she'd stood there for what felt like hours.

"The mural," Catra spat out.

She instantly regretted it.

Adora hummed, waiting for her to go on. Catra gritted her teeth. Was she stupid? She knew what was on that stupid wall.

"The Queen - Glimmer's mom," she ground out - throat tight.

Adora inhaled sharply.

Spite lanced her heart. You asked for it!

Adora kept silent and perfectly still.

The familiar flames of fury rose and seared her, protective - destructive. They burned and burned and then burned out.

Adora did not speak or move.

Unbearable doubt and self-loathing rose up in place of her anger  - she had to - she had to get away  -

Adora grabbed her tightly as she tried, as she struggled in acute panic.

"Stay," Adora said, pressing their cheeks together. Catra whined in pain, quietly.

But she stayed.

Focusing on her breathing, on Adora's breathing, on the fact that they were alive.

"Sometimes I wake up and everything is so perfect," Adora said slowly. Catra blinked at the non sequitor, chin lodged in the hollow of Adora's shoulder.

"I - I mean! I mean that, the war is over, and you're right there, in bed, next to me. And...and we're not trying to - we're not fighting anymore. We're all friends. I - " Adora's voice cracked a little, "for the longest time, I wouldn't even let myself hope for a future like that."

Catra hadn't ever let herself consider it - decimating any thought that strayed close. Not until she'd already found herself in that future. Until it had saved her. Until it had saved Adora.

"And so...sometimes I think..." Adora stopped.

Catra waited, her claws burying into the steel beneath them, grass soft against her palms.

"What if it's not real?" Adora whispered, like it was a confession.

Catra frowned in surprise.

"What if everything starts slipping, disappearing - collapsing...?"

Understanding spread in her veins like poison. She wanted nothing more than to rip herself free now - but her muscles wouldn't listen, her limbs lead. She was a pathetic, paralysed sack of shame and guilt in Adora's arms. Adora's grip only tightened further. Her voice trembled.

"What if everybody disappears, one by one, and nobody even remembers them but me? Glimmer, and Bow, and...and you. And I can't fix it. I can't fix any of it even though I should have, it was my job, and - "

Catra was crying. She was sobbing, actually. Adora jostled them sitting up.

"Catra, Catra, Catra, I'm sorry," she said, which was the stupidest thing she'd ever said.

Catra tried to tell her that but she couldn't, all the air she managed to gulp into her spasming lungs came instantly rushing out in pathetic, ragged yowls. She hadn't cried like this since she was a kid, a baby, before she'd learned that blatant, loud weakness yielded punishment. It was absurd, it was humiliating. She couldn't stop.

Adora was trying to peel her face out of her shoulder but she wouldn't let her. There was just - no way -

So instead Adora crushed them closer together, a hand on the back of her head, a litany of sorry's landing in her hair - a clear note of panic in her voice and Catra wanted her to stop - stop saying that. It was like there was a giant ball of pain in her chest that just wouldn't quit throbbing.

It kept her crying for ages. Crying until she was simply too exhausted to, weak hiccups stuttering in her chest - until her throat was raw and snot and tears had soiled near half of Adora's jacket. She hadn't even noticed the de-transformation, hadn't  noticed how they'd crumpled back to the floor. She realised with a shock that Adora was crying too, more calmly, deep trembling sobs, petering off into frayed breaths. That almost started her up again, but she was too tired.

They simply lay together for a while, a long while, breathing growing more and more in sync.

"What the fuck was that?" she croaked, eventually.

Adora's chest jolted with a single soundless laugh.

The corners of Catra's mouth quirked up in automatic response.

She switched to Adora's dry shoulder, burying her disgusting face into the last patch of clean jacket. Another inadvertent purr started and stopped and started in her chest. The ball of pain had become a deeply rooted ache.

Adora sighed very very deeply.

"But it's real," she whispered. Then she hugged Catra really tightly.

"Duh," Catra mumbled, "dummy."

She was falling asleep. She wiggled until Adora let go and rolled off and onto her side, pulling at Adora until she rolled with her, turning her back into her chest and grabbing her arm, wrapping it around herself and clutching it tight. The grass made the steel feel about as comfortable as a Horde bunk. Melog appeared and circled them, shrinking and lying down so Adora could use it as a pillow. Adora moved around a bit before satisfied with how they slotted together. She pressed a long kiss above Catra's ear. It was Catra's turn to sigh very very deeply.

"I love you," Adora said.

That never ever failed to summon a sense of wonder - a thrill of near-disbelief and obvious incontestability that filled Catra up to the brim with a warmth that burned.

"I love you too," she said.

She closed her eyes.

Hermann stares at him flatly.

“No, I—I, yeah, um,” the man looks down; fingers fidgetting, and then blurts out, “this is my first time in any sort of tailor’s shop, nevermind a, uh, a bespoke shop. I just...I don’t know what I need? I mean, I just, um, I just got invited to this huge family thing, and it’s, like, uber-formal, and I don’t, um, I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear...” he trails off.

Hermann sets his pencil down. “Well, then,” he says, “you’re in the right place. Black tie?”

The man shakes his head. “No, um, I don’t think so...the letter just said—here—” he digs it out from his jeans pocket; unfolding it, and makes his way over to Hermann, holding the paper out.

Hermann looks it over; raises a brow. “A Geiszler family function?” he says, “the Berliners?”

The man purses his lips. “Apparently I’ve got relatives who are upper class,” he says. “I, uh, I inherited some money recently and bam, suddenly everyone wants to meet me. The point is, I need formalwear, and they recommended I come to you, so...” he shrugs.

Hermann nods. “Alright,” he says, “well, I’ll need to take your measurements—do you have any sensitivities to cashmere?”

“No, why?”

“That’s what I was thinking to use,” Hermann explains, and comes out from behind the counter, brushing past the man to get to the cabinets where he keeps his notepads and measuring tapes. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind following me into the back room so I can take your measurements, I’ll be able to get something drawn up for the next time you come in.”

“Next time?” the man squawks.

Hermann gives him an impatient look. “This will take multiple visits, Mister...”

“Newt,” the man says. “Um. Newt Geiszler—”

“—Mister Geiszler. First, I will take your measurements; after that, I’ll sketch a rough draft of the finished piece, which you’ll then either accept or reject with suggestions on how you’d prefer it, and then, once we’ve come to an agreement, I shall create the piece for you.”

“...right,” says Geiszler.

Hermann nods to himself. “Right this way, Mister Geiszler,” he says, leading the man towards the back.

Once he’s got Geiszler there, the man finally stops fidgeting; which is good, because Hermann really does need these measurements to be precise, as he informs Geiszler as he takes the measure of his inseam. “Otherwise,” he says, “the piece would be—well, ruined, frankly. A waste of everyone’s time.”

“R—right,” Geiszler says, an odd pitch to his voice. Hermann inspects the measure, notes the number, and then rises; begins to measure Geiszler’s inner arm. “You, uh, you seem kind of young to be a tailor,” Geiszler says, in what’s obviously an attempt to start conversation.

Hermann hums. “It’s been a long-time passion of mine,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate; marks down another number. “Ah, for the next measurement, I’ll need you to at least take off your coat,” he says, “otherwise, we risk the shirt being too large...”

“Huh—oh, yeah, sure, man,” Geiszler nods, springing, suddenly, back into action; shucking off the coat. Beneath it, he’s wearing a thin t-shirt, vibrant tattoos clearly visible on his skin. 

Hermann swallows thickly, wondering why the room suddenly feels so much warmer, and begins to take the measure on Geiszler’s chest. He ends with the tape between the man’s shoulders, trying not to stare, cross-eyed, at the tattoos creeping slightly up the exposed skin of his neck.

He drags his gaze away; remembering, barely, to note the measurement down on his notepad. “Alright,” he says, taking a step back.

“Right!” Geiszler says, tugging his coat back on. “Um—here, I should probably give you my number so you can get ahold of me when the sketch is done...” 

“Here,” Hermann says, and offers him the pen and notepad.

Geiszler takes them and flips a few pages; scribbles down a set of digits and hands them back to him. “There,” he says. “Um. Thanks, uh, for. For everything. Um. I should probably get going.” He offers an awkward smile and shoves his hands into his pockets, turning to go.

Hermann watches him leave, mouth unusually dry.

The next few days, he works on a few different pieces—there’s the one for Mister Pentecost and his husband, matching suits for some formal event, and the piece for the youngest Wei-Tang brother, and a few other smaller pieces like vests.

Geiszler’s, though, is the one that his mind keeps getting caught up in; he’ll spend hours staring blankly at the page, mind’s eye filled with images of vibrant tattoos and soft, light brown hair.

Finally, though, he manages it—grey shirt and a pair lightly pinstriped grey trousers and blazer. He hopes Geiszler agrees with his choice—the man will look quite...nice in the outfit. For a second, he allows himself to imagine it—the fit of it around his shoulders, the soft of the cashmere...

He cuts that train of thought off quickly; scolds himself. That’s absolutely the last thing he ought to be thinking about.

It takes a while to find the paper Geiszler left his number on; but eventually, Hermann does, and sends off a quick text letting him know that the sketch is done and he can come in tomorrow to see it, if he’d like.

He does. This time, he’s wearing low-rise shorts and a painfully short shirt that keeps riding up to expose the soft skin of his stomach, and makes Hermann’s mouth go dry every time. That’s made even worse by the fact that he realised the night before that he had misread the tape measure the other day, and Geiszler’s inseam measure is incorrect.

“I’ll have to take it again,” he says, hoping his voice is level. “Ah, it shouldn’t take me more than a quick moment.”

“Sure, man, whatever you need,” Geiszler replies, “do you need me in the back again, or...?”

“Ah—no, no, here is fine,” Hermann says, and curses himself for stammering slightly. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything else as he takes the measurement. When he gets back up, picking up his cane from where he’s set it up against the counter, and leans on it as he takes the measurement down, though, he comments, off-handedly, “You really do favour rather revealing attire, don’t you?”

Geiszler rolls his eyes. “Nah, man,” he says, “I think you’re just not used to hanging around people who don’t dress like my grandpa.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, necessarily,” Hermann says, before he can think better of it. “In fact, I can think of a number of outfits you’d look stunning in that would require even less fabric than your current one.”

Oh God.

His heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s pretty certain that if he squeezes the head of his cane much harder he’s going to—he’s going to crack it.

“...thanks?” Geiszler says, finally, and then: “uh—the sketch looks good, by the way.”

“Great!” Hermann says, and hopes to God that his face isn’t as red as it feels. “I’ll—I’ll let you know when it’s done!”

He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose; practically fleeing back behind the counter, gripping his cane like a life-line.

Geiszler, apparently getting the hint to some degree, takes his leave.

Hermann lets his head drop into his hands with a groan and hopes very, very, very ardently that this passes quickly.

It absolutely doesn’t, and isn’t going to, he realises, two days later, sitting with one leg stretched out on the sofa in his small flat, a drawing pad and a pencil in hand, poised, mid-sketch, over what is most certainly not in any way, shape, or form, a suit, but rather what one could, quite frankly, call lingerie.

This is in no way, shape or form related to Geiszler.

Sure, the general shape of the figure he’s sketched may be proportionally similar, but this figure has neither a face, nor tattoos, and Geiszler does have a face and a copious number of tattoos.

Hermann wonders, idly, how many, exactly, he has, and how far they extend—

“Do not think about that,” he says, sternly, and sets the pencil down; sets the sketchpad to the side, refusing to look at it, and then, after a moment, turns it over so that the sketch is facing down and no longer visible.

It does, however, unfortunately, awaken him to the painful reality of the fact that he is quite irresistibly attracted to Geiszler.

Bugger.

Finally, it’s done; the fabric all pieced together, the stitching expertly hidden, the seams smoothed; dusted over with a lint roller to make sure that there’s no stray pieces of thread sticking to it anywhere.

That done, he picks up the phone and gives Geiszler a call. 

The line rings thrice, and then it picks up. “Hello?”

Hermann swallows. “Mister Geiszler,” he says. “This is Hermann Gottlieb—I was just calling to let you know that your suit is done.”

There’s a rustle—papers? And then Geiszler says, “Sweet! I’ll come pick it up at, like, seven-thirty?? My office hours end at seven, so...”

Hermann nods, even though he knows the other can’t see it. “Alright,” he says, “ah. Good day. See you later.”

“See you later,” Geiszler echoes, and then the line goes dead.

Hermann spends the rest of the day only half-present; he assists a few customers in finding things, and takes measurements for a few others, and puts in an order for a few bolts of fabric he’s running low on, but mostly, his mind is occupied by the thought of Geiszler’s impending arrival.

Seven-thirty comes and goes without the other man’s appearance; and Hermann can’t help but look up every time the bell on the door jingles. Finally, around ten to eight, the bell rings again.

Hermann glances up; sees Geiszler.

“Sorry if I’m running a bit late,” the other says, and digs out a chequebook and a pen from the messenger-bag he’s got slung over his shoulder. “One of my students needed some extra help—uh, how much do you want me to make it out for?”

Hermann pulls out his notepad; names the amount and watches as Geiszler signs the cheque with a flourish. “Two n’s, right?” he asks; and Hermann nods.

“Yes,” he says, and passes Geiszler the parcel with the suit in it. “There’s a changing room in the back as well, if you’d like to try it on.”

Geiszler brightens. “That’d be great,” he says, “thanks, man.”

With that, he disappears into the back, leaving Hermann with the cheque and the lingering image of bright eyes and a quick smile.

A few moments later, Geiszler’s voice comes from the back. “Do you, uh, do you have a mirror...?”

He does, in fact—sitting behind him. Hermann curses himself slightly. He must have forgotten to put it back in there after he brought it out to clean it. “Yes,” he calls back, “it’s, ah, it’s out here, though.”

“That’s fine!” Geiszler says, and appears, a moment later.

Hermann tries not to stare at him and probably fails.

The jacket fits him perfectly, and the soft shirt goes with it wonderfully, and, in truth, he looks—well, he looks fantastic. “The mirror’s back here,” he croaks, finally. “By the—by the register. Let me get it for you—”

He rises; one hand on his cane, and grips the mirror; lugging it, a bit awkwardly, out from behind the counter. Geiszler’s short enough that he can view himself fully in it, and he takes a moment to; turning from side to side to get a better view.

Finally, he looks up at Hermann. “It’s great,” he says, “thanks. Really.”

“Of—of course,” Hermann says; not meeting his gaze.

There’s silence, for a moment, and then Geiszler says, “Um—so, about the family gathering thing...I kind of need a date, and, stop me if I’m reading this wrong, but, um, would you—go with me? Maybe?”

“What?” Hermann nearly squeaks.

“Oh, okay,” Geiszler deflates slightly, “um—”

“No, no, not—just surprised,” Hermann says. “I’d—I’d love to. Um. I’m sorry, you never did tell me your first name...”

Geiszler laughs slightly. “Newton,” he says. “Newton Geiszler.”

“Newton,” Hermann repeats, and smiles. “I’d love to go with you, Newton.”

“Great!” Newton says, “um, I kind of need your number, though—”

“Right!” Hermann says, shaking himself a bit, and jots his number down on a piece of paper, thrusting it out to the other. “Ah. Text me?”

“Yeah,” Newton says, a smile curling at his lips. “I will.”

The family event is three months down the line, according to Newton, so Hermann has plenty of time to get his things in order. When he’s not working, he’s texting Newton; they bond easily over text and Hermann often finds himself staying up later than is probably strictly advisable in order to talk to him.

Finally, the day of comes; Newton picks him up at nine after Hermann closes up the shop, and they drive for a few hours.

“So you’re going to this why exactly?” Hermann asks, looking out the window. It’s not the first time he’s asked it—Newton’s complained about this repeatedly.

Newton hums; turns on the radio to something that’s thankfully not rock music. “Appearances,” he says, “also, I wasn’t sure how to say no without getting like, lowkey disowned, and a lot of them are in the academic world, which would be...not great.”

“Hmm,” Hermann says, “fair enough.”

Newton couldn’t bear to take a hit to his career; the man loves his job almost as much as he loves bizarely-named, multi-coloured drinks. It’s really quite admirable—and the man is good at what he teaches; a forerunner in his chosen field.

Outside the window, the trees fly by. Hermann rests his head against the headrest and lets his eyes slip shut.

“Hermann?”

Hermann blinks groggily. “Are we there?” he asks, adjusting his glasses; they’ve slipped in his sleep.

Newton nods. “Yeah,” he says, “you’ve been asleep for like three hours.”

“Ah,” says Hermann, and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Well, then.”

Newton gives him a soft smile. “Thanks for coming with me,” he murmurs, and open his door. Hermann repeats the action with his own door a moment later.

The event goes fine; Hermann’s well-versed in socialising in such environments, and he coaches Newton through it without being obvious with what he’s doing when the other freezes up. He’s just as glad as Newton is, though, when it finally is acceptable to leave.

“God,” Newton groans, as they walk back towards the car. “I feel drained.”

Hermann gives a sympathetic hum; settles a hand onto the other’s shoulder. “It doesn’t get any easier, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Can I get, like, blacklisted from these things without it having ramifications on my career?” Newton grumbles; leaning into Hermann’s touch; and then sighs. “Seriously, though, thanks for being there with me. I don’t know if I could have gotten through it with my sanity intact without you.”

Hermann offers a small smile. “Of course,” he says.

He doesn’t fall asleep on the way back; instead winds up talking with Newton about, of all things, the stars. The other knows quite a bit about them, to Hermann’s surprise, and Newton gives a sheepish shrug. “I kinda have a hard time picking things,” he says, “so I bounced around a lot between majors. I’ve got a bachelor’s in astronomy.”

Once they get back within city limits, Hermann gives him directions to his flat. 

Newton walks him to his flat, which is quite charming of him, and makes Hermann’s stomach twist and flutter not unpleasantly.

“Goodnight, Newton,” he says, after he unlocks the door, and when he meets his gaze, Newton’s eyes flick down to his lips and back up again, and, oh, what the hell. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” says Newton, and so Hermann does; gripping him by the lapels. Newton has to tilt his head up a bit because of the height difference, but really, it’s quite nice.

When Hermann breaks away, the other’s looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, and Hermann says, after he catches his breath, “Would you like to—come inside? Tomorrow is Saturday,” he adds, after a beat.

Newton nods. “Yeah,” he says, and follows Hermann inside.

They’re both too tired, frankly, for anything; so they end up curled together on Hermann’s bed, Newton in one of Hermann’s extra pairs of night-clothes, watching one of the movies Hermann manages to get to work on his frankly embarrassingly old laptop.

Once it’s over, Hermann finds he’s rather famished; and a quick conversation with Newton lets him know the other is as well; so Hermann rises and pads into the kitchen to make them something to eat.

Newton follows him out, but winds up poking around in the living room. Hermann lets him—really all he has in there are books and a few board games and sketch-books and such, and a few boxes of fabric scraps.

He’s just gotten done plating the omelettes when he looks up to find Newton scrutinising one of the sketchbooks. “Is this me?” he asks, looking up at Hermann.

Hermann does his best to not drop the plate he’s holding.

“Pardon?”

“Is this me?” Newton asks, again, and turns the sketch-book so that he can see it. “I mean, there’s no tattoos, or anything, but I’m like, seventy-two percent sure that’s me, in, uh, significantly less fabric than I usually wear. Which is, like, flattering, but also, dude, uh, what?”

Hermann hopes he’s not as red as he feels, because his cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

“I...the model may be inspired,” he allows, hoping his voice doesn’t crack. 

Newton cackles. “Dude,” he says, “you were, like, so fucking gone, oh my god. I mean, so was I, so am I, but like—shit, man,” he laughs, again.

“Shut up,” Hermann grumbles, and sets the plates onto the bar counter. Newton, though, isn’t paying attention; he’s pulled out a—ah. Right. Hermann had forgotten he’d actually made it.

“I’m going to put it on,” Newton announces, and disappears into the bathroom. Hermann does his best to control his embarrassment, though probably not to any real degree.

A few moments later, Newton reappears. “You know, dude,” he says, conversationally, as if he’s not wearing a scandalously scarce amount, “you should, like, start a line. This is actually really nice? I mean, seriously, dude, people would pay top-notch for this shit.”

“Glad to see you’re enjoying,” Hermann deadpans.

“As if you’re not,” Newton shoots back; which, alright, technically fair.

Hermann stares very hard at the plate before him. “You ought to come eat,” he says, “it’s not going to get any warmer.”

“And that,” Hermann says, inclining his head, “is my father.”

They’re at another formal family function; this time, Hermann’s. Newton raises a brow. “Him?” he says, “you guys are related? I can’t see it.”

“Thank you, darling,” Hermann says, drily. “Please do try and behave, he’s going to come over here at some point before we leave, and I’d rather this not devolve into the two of you screaming at each other.”

Newton huffs. “Have a little bit of faith in me,” he says.

“I do. I am not, however, blindly optimistic,” Hermann retorts. “Now: please?”

“...alright,” Newton says.

Hermann lets out a sigh. “Thank you,” he says.

Lars comes over sooner rather than later; glares at where Newton’s holding onto Hermann’s arm. “Father,” Hermann greets, cooly, hoping this stays civil.

“Hermann,” Lars returns, “I see your class hasn’t improved.”

Hermann sighs. “Must we do this every time?” he asks, but Lars is already talking over him.

“Really, Hermann,” he says, “pursuing tailoring was one thing, but you really must abandon this foolishness—there’s so many better things you could be doing.”

“Hey, dude,” Newton snaps, from Hermann’s side, “I’ll have you know, he’s doing—”

Hermann hits his leg with his cane. “Thank you for the advice, father,” he says, tightly, “but the only folly here is your belief that you can control me. Now, unless you’ve got something else to say to me, I suggest you get gone.”

Lars scowls at him; but, thankfully, takes the hint.

“He’s a dick,” Newton says.

“Tell me about it,” Hermann grumbles.

Newton squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry you have to put up with him,” he says, and presses a quick kiss to Hermann’s cheek. “D’you want to watch a movie at my place and eat ice-cream from the carton when we get done here?”

Hermann smiles, slightly; a bit of the tension draining from his frame. “That sounds lovely,” he says, “thank you, Newton.”

“‘Course,” Newton grins, “whatever makes you happy.”

“Hermann?”

Hermann doesn’t look up; he’s busy taking measurements; but he calls, “Yes?”

“You forgot your nice shears at home!” Newton says, from the front of the shop. “I brought them down for you. Also, there’s some of those cookies you like from that one bakery—you didn’t eat anything before you left this morning.”

Hermann smiles softly to himself. “Thank you,” he says, “ah, just put them behind the counter—you know where.”

“Will do,” Newton replies.

“Sibling?” asks the man he’s measuring, whom Hermann had, quite frankly, almost forgotten about. Hermann lets out a sharp, startled burst  of laughter at the words.

“No,” he says, once he catches his breath. “No—no.”

There’s a moment of silence and then the man says, as if he’s just realised something mildly horrifying, “Oh. Jesus—okay. Well.”

“I’ll have it ready for your review in two week’s time,” Hermann says, curling the tape measure back up; sticks it in his pocket.

Hirschel takes a step back; opens his mouth, seeming to want to say something, and then, apparently, thinks better of it; instead just picks up a set of pocket squares and takes them to the front. Hermann follows after and rings him.

After Hirschel leaves, Hermann sneaks a glance beneath the counter, and smiles when he sees the brown paper bag Newton left there, and pulls it out.

There’s the pair of shears he likes, and he takes those out and sets them on the counter, and then takes out the package wrapped in parchment; undoes the twine and takes a moment to bask in the scent of the still slightly warm cookies.

He eats one, and then another and then, because he can, a third; silently thanks Newton, because he was, in fact, rather famished. After that, though, he wraps them back up and puts them back beneath the counter for later and checks his calendar.

There’s a few things to do, and tomorrow the bolts of fabric he ordered will arrive, and—

He groans as he catches sight of, in his own handwriting, the weekend. Right—they’ve been invited to yet another Geiszler extended family function, to which Hermann knows for a fact that his father and siblings have been as well—high society and such.

Lovely.

Well, at least he has Newton by his side for this.

That, actually, turns out to be almost more of a hindrance, actually.

It was fine at first; Newton’s picked up some of the manners expected, and as such, hasn’t made too much of a fool of himself; but about an hour in, one of the caterers—several of whom have been going around the ridiculously large ballroom with trays of drinks and small plates of food—comes by and offers Newton some cake.

That would be fine, if it had just been cake.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t, a fact which neither of them noticed until Newton had already eaten multiple pieces, at which point he turns to Hermann and says, “Hermann, I think these are acohol cakes.”

“What?” Hermann hisses.

“Yeah,” Newton says, and takes another bite, “yep, I’m pretty sure these have been doused in some sort of liquor.”

“That’s...disgusting,” Hermann says. “You only just noticed?”

“I wasn’t paying attention!” Newton protests. “And they taste pretty good, actually. You should have one.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose. “I’ll pass,” he says.

Newton shrugs and finishes off the piece.

Now, if that had been it, it would have been fine. However, in what could only be Geiszlerian luck, when Hermann had gone off to use the restroom, Newton had elected to stay behind in the ballroom, and now, Hermann can’t find him.

“Gottlieb!” calls a voice, and he turns to see a portly man making his way over to him—Albert...Vance? He’s fairly certain, anyway; the man’s been in his shop once or twice, if he remembers correctly.

“Yes,” he asks, hoping it doesn’t come off too curtly; he really would like to find Newton. 

“Gottlieb,” Vance says, again. “M’boy, you would not believe the things I’ve been hearing about you!”

“Oh dear,” Hermann murmurs; but Vance is already continuing.

“Ryan, you know, Ryan Hirschel? Well, he’s been going around saying something about how he saw a man wearing a tie-dye shirt and sweatpants come into your shop,” he gives Hermann a critical look. “Really, Gottlieb, you ought to have some standards. And all this nonsense about the lingerie line—why, I don’t know what to think!”

“He’s way beneath your league,” chimes in the young man—his son, Hermann’s fairly sure—who’s come over.

“I suggest you reserve your judgement,” Hermann snaps, “considering your own subpar attire—is that jacket off the rack?”

The man goes bright red; sputtering. “Still—!”

“And if you must know,” Hermann adds, “he was only dressed in my clothing because he didn’t have classes to teach that day and had stayed over at my flat. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find my boyfriend.”

He does find Newton in the end; in fact, the man’s with Bastien, who looks like he regrets everything in his life that has led up to this moment. Newton’s saying something about the labs that he’s having his students do. Hermann stifles a smile.

“Hello, brother. Newton,” he adds, “how about you stop bothering Bastien—it’s getting late and we ought to get going.”

Newton’s face brightens; he turns and presses a kiss to Hermann’s cheek. Bastien makes a face, and Newt rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, he’s your brother. It’s gross. Get over it.”

Hermann coughs in an attempt to hide the laughter that bubbles out of him involuntarily. “Let’s get going, Newton,” he says, putting a hand on the other’s arm, “I’m sure Bastien has things to be doing as well.”

“Literally anything,” Bastien mutters.

Newton grins at him. “Hermann does—”

“Good night,” Hermann says, loudly, and steers Newton towards the exit.

“And that’s how we got blacklisted from like 75% of all Geiszler extended family events,” Newton finishes smugly.

Jacob raises a brow; though the bad quality of the video call means that it looks more like a smudge of brown rises on his face. “I need to get a boyfriend to annoy my family into not inviting me to these stupid things,” he muses.

“You’re in luck, then,” Hermann deadpans, “one of my customers needs an excuse to get out of some event of his own—I’ll give you his number and the two of you can work it out.”

The elder Geiszler brightens. “Sweet,” he says, and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.

After the call ends, Newton shakes his head at Hermann. “I can’t believe you set up my dad with Herc’s brother,” he says; bemused.