#pride pieces

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

Stars

word count: 601

warning(s): yall this is so sappy. like its So Sappy, and extremely self indulgent, no actual warnings but like. this is so sappy i-

(oh also this is pre-serum steve, so like 1940s)

~~~~~

There aren't very many days when the sunlight poking through the intentionally patterned, patchy curtains looks nice against the unintentionally patterned, patchy walls, but today it does, and that means today is good, or maybe it just means Bucky is too caught up in the overwhelming beauty breathing softly against him to care much for the sunny rays warming his body.

Steve is resting his head on his chest, his breaths coming in puffs and waves, his body tucked against Bucky's like socks in a drawer, or something as equally mundane that Bucky seems to be romanticizing more and more these days. He shifts slightly so his face lines up with Steve's, and lets his eyes wander, everything so familiar and yet so new, something he hadn't yet had time to get used to.

Then Steve moves, ever so slightly, murmuring words of Irish between vague English and sleepy noises, and Bucky can't help but smile, can't help but indulge himself in this, can't help but notice that the way Steve had settled let the sun lay softly on his skin so his faint freckles weren't hidden in the dark again. Bucky shifts again, more careful than before, if that's possible, and lifts his hand to lightly trace across the dark dots dusted across Steve's nose, reminiscent of the way the fiery chihuahua of a boy likes to paint stars by flicking his brush onto the canvas, the few times he even decides to paint at all.

And now Bucky's thinking about stars because that's just how his mind works, and his fingertip moves from Steve's nose to his cheekbones, grazing the skin between each little freckle like a connect-the-dots game, connecting each one and making a constellation for it, trying to see if any of them line up the way one of the few constellations Bucky knows do. He traces back over to Steve's nose to make his way to his other cheek, but his finger freezes on the bridge of his nose as he stares into blue eyes he didn't notice were open.

"Mornin', Buck." Bucky hums distractedly, his finger still frozen as he pauses for a second to let his heart beat normally again.

"You have Orion on your cheek," he tells him in lieu of a response. Steve makes a confused noise into his chest and blinks up at him amusedly.

"What?" His words sound heavy and sleepy and Bucky almost can't breathe with how much he loves him. He draws him in a bit closer and tells him again.

"Orion. On your cheek." He pokes out the freckles that make up the pattern and Steve's eyes flutter shut again. "The constellation." He lets his hand fall back against the bed, his fingers still barely touching Steve's face, and Steve goes so quiet for so long that Bucky thinks he's fallen asleep again.

Then he laughs softly.

"I can't even begin to understand that, Buck. I don't–" He snickers again. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"Means you've got stars on your face, punk." Bucky says, slightly defensive. "Got a whole constellation on your cheek, that's what it means." Steve breathes out a laugh again.

"Means you're a sap." Bucky rolls his eyes and pulls him closer still.

"You're a jerk, punk."

"You're my jerk. And my sap." Bucky's arms wrap around him, tighter than the way his heart squeezes at those words.

It's morning, and the sun looks nice today, and Steve's so tired he's saying sappy things he would deny after a few more hours of rest in him, and Bucky's holding Steve, his Steve, so fragile, so unbreakable, and he thinks that maybe the world outside the patterned, patchy curtains can wait a little longer.

@shieldwinter @leostarkk i hope yall liked it! @coleisqueer tagging you bc youre a stucky simp you loser

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

A Storm of Silence and Wonderful Things

word count: 274 warnings: allusions to sex, allusions to trauma/past abuse, not directly mentioned though.

~~~~~

Harry didn't think that silence would be something he liked. In his early years, silence meant be alert, meant danger. Silence was the calm before the storm.

He quite liked the storm now, because it was different. The storm wasn't danger anymore, although it was just as wild (and if anyone ever asked, that wildness was all Draco). The storm was less an explosion of anger and more an implosion of passion. The storm was less lightning and more thunder.

And, Harry thought, if he liked the storm, he liked the calm, too. Because, see, silence always has something in it. Always. True silence can't be achieved unless Harry emptied his pockets for it - either of his wand, to cast a silencing charm, or of money, since the muggle world hadn't made absolute silence a reality cheaply - and in this particular silence, there was Draco's soft breathing.

He was reading, pressed up against Harry's legs like a blond kitten. If anyone asked, he was wearing his usual black clothing, but in Harry's eyes, the black looked quite like a rainbow.

Which was a whole other thing. Another storm, if you will, of colors and happiness, of pride and relief, spectacular relief. June was a hot month, and venturing outside had always been a chore for both Harry and Draco, but June also had colors, and right now, they had just left the calm before that storm, and Harry was excited to live through it.

Yes, silence was something he never thought he'd like, but sometimes silence brought wonderful things, didn't it?

"What're you thinking of?" Draco murmured.

"Oh," he smiled. "Wonderful things."

.

.

BONUS, because I'm a SAP

.

.

Draco flicked his head. "You twat. No need to flatter me." Harry laughed, the truth lighting up his eyes.

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

The Sun Knows Your Name

word count: 247

warnings: none :D (its kinda sappy tho)

~~~~~

Sometimes, when I'm pressed up against the window of my car, the sun peeks at me from behind a tree, or a streetlight, or that 7-11 we never go to, and rolls her eyes.

Unfortunately for her, and luckily for me, the sun can't speak, so she's always asking me the same question, the question of what I'm thinking of.

And unfortunately for her, and luckily for me, I'm always thinking of the same thing. I'm always thinking of you. The sun hates me, I think, because I never have compliments for her when you outshine her.

"I squint at you," I tell her, "and I can never look at you for long, but her, I can look at her forever and my eyes will never tire, never complain, because her light has no harshness, and she radiates loveliness where you just radiate," and of course, that she is you.

"You always go away," I tell her, and she laughs because you do too, but she doesn't let me finish saying that you always come back, and I don't have that certainty about her.

I know that sometimes you get lost, but the sun knows your name, and I've told her too many stories for her to forget me, so you can always find your way back, and I hope you're making your way back to me.

The sun knows your name, and she thinks it's always beside mine, and I've never told her otherwise.

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

On Guidance and Treachery

 To Marsha P. Johnson. You threw the first brick. You sparked all of this. I think you would be proud of that narrative.

I think of you when I pull on my gloves.

 To Bayard Rustin. You fade in the face of the junior King, who you worked beside. Better, maybe, but unfortunately unseen. Fighting for more, with more to lose.

I think of you when I wear out my shoes.

 To Alan Turing. I hear the echo of your name, the vestiges of your legacy. You would be proud of how open you could have been. On a well-worn, unrecognizable Christopher,

I think of you as I type this now.

 To Princess Diana. Your bravery was disregarded, Your outward beauty masking that of your soul. You held out your hand and held up your chin.

I think of you when the grass bends.

 To Sappho. Your unabashed loveliness and your traces in the world are plenty. You would have been delighted by the love pledged to you.

I think of you when my breath catches, when dresses rustle.

 Diseased gun. Gun of disease.   Our bodies were bullets in your barrel, Killed to kill, a war untold, the casualties countless and more.

I think of you when I see red.

 Ronald Reagan. When I die, whether I go to heaven or hell for my virtues or my shameless sins, I will see fear in your eyes and revel.

I think of you when I think of death.

 Mahatma Gandhi. You committed the perfect crime and covered it with kindnesses. Your horridity will not be covered by your selfish struggle.

I think of you when another girl cries.

 To my brothers, my sisters, my siblings. I am battle-weary, a veteran of a veiled war. My weapons are rusted, muscles sore, mind racing, heart pacing.

 I think of you when I stand again to fight.

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

🎵 All My Friends Are Gay 🎵

word count: 363

warning(s): none? i feel like theres something but idk, let me know if theres something i need to put in

~~~~~

All of Ron's friends were gay. And honestly, to say it was a surprise would be lying.

Hermione told him a while ago, not long after she came out and they broke up, that queer people attracted each other even when they weren't out, and Ron had told her that maybe the muggle world was like that, but he hadn't seen very many queer friend groups.

That was a mistake, wasn't it? Hermione was never wrong. Soon after she came out, Luna did as well, though she dropped in conversation rather than the important talk type of way Hermione had done it. Something about a glass closet, yet another strange Luna phrase.

And then Harry. Actually, Harry and Draco came out almost at the same time. And Seamus and Dean never came out to him themselves, but rather, Ron was told they were dating by -- guess who? -- Hermione.

Everyone liked to joke that he was in a confused stupor for days, but he only spent a few hours confused. After that, everything made sense.

When Ginny came out, that was a bit more surprising. Maybe it's different with family. Of course, everyone was accepting, and Molly had made their Christmas jumpers that year a beautiful cacophony of rainbow, so it was all okay in the end.

Yeah, all of Ron's friends were gay because queer people come together, and that was okay, but he really wished they wouldn't make out in front of him when he was trying to solve a weird Hogwarts Christmas puzzle and had nowhere else to go.

He let out a loud groan and slouched backwards, letting the puzzle fall to the floor with a low crash. A quick glance around the room showed no sign of notice, so he dropped his head back over the arm of the sofa, just as Blaise walked in, looking around and grinning to himself. Ron turned his head slightly to get a better look at him, and Blaise's gaze caught on Ron.

Hmm. All of Ron's friends were gay. Because queer people all come together. Hermione had told him that.

He grinned back up at Blaise.

Hermione was never wrong.

@captainwaffles this is definitely different than what you were probably expecting, but i hope you liked it anyway!

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

Glitter

word count: 154

warning(s): none

~~~~~

I didn't expect the sheer amount of glitter I'd find everywhere. The sun shone down aggressively, too aloof in her own glory to sink to the level of human happiness; faces, arms, flags shimmered right back up, daring her to say a word.

I didn't expect the sheer amount of glitter I'd find everywhere. It nestled in my elbows and between my lashes, dancing on the hems of clothing I've never worn, shaking onto paperwork days later, a reminder.

I didn't expect the sheer amount of glitter I'd find everywhere. It fell in waterfalls off of cheap Halloween costumes worn once a lifetime, peering out from carpets I'd vacuum later, pretending to suck up a child into a world we didn't spare time to imagine, and I'd pretend I didn't marvel at the way, somehow, the glitter found its way into her eyes; the way, somehow, I could see it shining back into mine.

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

Happier

word count: 265

warning(s): brief allusions to internalized homophobia

~~~~~

Draco knew how to fit in a mold. He knew how to be comfortable in one. He knew it was easier. Better. Happier.

Happier? Devastation clung to the air like a dying spider, but the light was always in reach. Everyone seemed to be... well, not happier. But more content. It was just easier. But everything flip-flopped around and suddenly "easier" wasn't so easy, nor was it very much wanted. Easy was bad. Easy hurt.

And in this reluctantly taken difficulty, Draco found that easy was invading more than once was thought. And hard was fun, and the thing about hard things is that they broke soft things, and the mold that was once inescapable was a lot softer than the hard things Draco had to endure.

Once the mold was broken, it seemed like everything came flooding in. The best thing though, was probably the thing that Draco knew for a very long time in the back of the mind barely listened to. It was that Draco was, in fact, Georgina. Or Hydra. She hadn't decided yet.

Georgina. For the farmer who had slain a dragon single-handed. Going from the dragon to the one who slew it. Fitting.

Hydra. A multi-headed water dragon. Still Greek. Going from a fiery, simple, one-track-minded beast to a water dragon with many minds.

Fitting.

All she knew was that she wasn't Draco anymore, not really, because she didn't want nor need to fit that mold, and being Georgina or Hydra or whoever she wanted to be wouldn't be easy, but at least it would be better. Happier.

Happier.

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

Kitchen Katastrophes

word count: 546

warnings: none, unless you count my bad writing. i suck at keeping personalities consistent with real people, so it feels a bit clunky, but thats entirely on me

~~~~~

Phil sucked at cooking and the whole world knew that for fact, but that didn't stop him from trying, as with most things in his life. If you asked him, he would tell you that if he didn't do something because he thought he sucked at it, he wouldn't be where he was today. Dan would always joke that although that was true, he would prefer to be there tomorrow as well, thank you very much, and Phil always blew a raspberry at him and the conversation would morph into something else from there.

Until today. Very ominous, yes, but that's how Dan felt when Phil put a plate in front of him. Dan couldn't... he couldn't even figure out what that was! Parts of it looked like spaghetti, maybe? Or... potato? The irrational part of his mind panicked, telling him, nonono, this is the worst thing ever, nothing will be worse than this, and the slightly more dominant, rational part of his mind told him that one bad meal wouldn't be the end of him, but then.

But then. He smelled it. It could have been worse, but it smelled like ash, like Phil had burnt it to a crisp rather than cooking it.

"I know it's a little overcooked," Phil started. "But if you don't like it, we can always get takeaway?" Dan blinked up at him.

"Wait, so... you didn't try this?" He hesitated.

"I tried it as I was making it, but not entirely, no." He looked dejected, and Dan quickly grinned.

"That's okay, we can eat it together! I'm looking forward to it!" Phil smiled, and slid into a chair next to him. Dan stuck a fork into the questionable food and shoved into his mouth before he could second-guess himself. Phil looked at him expectantly, and he chewed.

Okay. So it wasn't bad. It didn't taste like trash, just kind of burnt. It was definitely potato, not spaghetti, and the taste of ashiness was something he could get over, he thought.

"So... do you like it?" Dan nodded vigorously.

"Yeah, yep, I love it! I can't believe you cooked this!" Phil excitedly took a bite, and his face changed immediately. He grabbed his napkin and calmly pushed the bite out of his mouth.

"Dan. This is terrible."

"No, it isn't! It's, it's really not that bad, I like it!"

"Dan, oh my god," he was laughing now, absolutely losing it. "This is so burned, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between it and a log! Spit it out!" Dan snatched up his napkin and spat it out, wheezing. They fell over each other, laughing so hard their stomachs hurt, pushing the food away.

Phil calmed down first, and threw all of it into the bin nonchalantly, which only sent Dan into more hysterics. Once they had calmed down after that, Phil looked up.

"So... takeaway?"

"Oh, yes please."

Phil wouldn't stop trying to cook, and Dan was fine with that, under one condition.

"You are never, ever, allowed to cook without my supervision." Phil sighed.

"Fine! Doubt you can save the food from me, though." Dan shook his head and looked up like he was on the Office.

"The things I do for you."