#museum au

[sharpedgedfool]

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

robin's egg blue

@steddiebingo fill - toys

pairing: steddie | rated: G | wc: 935 | on AO3: robin's egg blue

i wanted to make this prompt nsfw, but then an actual pipe burst at my local museum back in january and this little thing was born :o)

“Apologies everyone, this section of the alphabet tour is closed today while we repair the burst pipe,” someone is saying as Eddie approaches, “We encourage you to view our other exhibits, or take a ride on our newly refurbished carousel!”

The crowd starts to disperse, leaving a bespectacled, be-sweatervested hottie of an employee standing on what looks like a literal soap box saying his “Thank you!”s and “We appreciate it!”s to the parting crowd.

The last of the patrons depart, and the man lays eyes on Eddie and his toolbox, “Oh good, you’re here. Eddie, right?” Eddie nods, and the man hops off his little stage and plucks it up under one arm, “This way please.”

“Not much damaged Mr…?” Eddie hedges, following the man further into the museum.

“Steve, just Steve. Assistant Museum Curator.” He holds his hand out behind him, walking sideways to shake Eddie’s, “And no, thankfully our Doll exhibit was spared.”

Eddie winces to himself. “That’s… good.”

Steve holds an employee-only door open for him, “Yes, I know: “the most nightmare-inducing section of the museum” as one reviewer put it,” he follows Eddie into the concrete passage, setting his soap box just inside the door, “But some of these dolls are hundreds of years old! They’re more than just toys.”

Eddie merely smiles at Hot Steve’s enthusiasm, nodding along as he continues. “We even have early 1900s paper dolls! Can you believe that?? Paper! From more than a century ago!”

Okay, that was kind of crazy to think about; he opens his mouth to say something, but Steve continues on, “Sorry, sorry, tour guide brain..I’m sure you already know about this stuff, you’re local, right?”

“Sure am!” Eddie smiles, following Steve through the door marked ‘Utility’, “But I wouldn’t say no to a private tour with a handsome curator like yourself.”

Steve turns back to him in surprise, and Eddie wants to die on the spot, flirting with the head honcho like that while on a job.

To Eddie’s amazement, Steve seems flattered; his cheeks tinge pink under the rim of his glasses and Eddie wants to Whoop in triumph.. until:

“S–So this is you; I think I shut everything down correctly, but wanted you to check first before you and your Uncle got to work?”

Damn. 

“Yeah, uhm,” Eddie tears his eyes away to inspect the valves and pipework. Steve had actually managed to spin the right valve in what was sure to have been chaos, “You shut off everything in the Northwest section of level 1, Good job, Steve.”

He looks back at Steve and is delighted to see him even pinker. “Thank you, I–” He clears his throat and gestures back toward the door, “Shall we?”

-

Wayne arrives right on schedule and the two get their scaffolding brought in and get down to work. 

The winter's freezing temperatures caused the pipe to burst originally, but ten more feet of pipe had to be replaced in the end, due to the fissures running back from the actual hole that got punched through.

So, over the next few days, he, Wayne, and their newest employee Lucas got the pipe isolated from the rest of the system (giving the staff their bathroom and breakroom water back), pulled down drywall, pulled out the old pipe (and boy does he mean old, this sections going to need a full overhaul soon), and got the new length of pipe welded into place.

The room they were working in was small, hell of a fit for the length of pipe they needed to bring in, but they got it done. Wayne took care of sealing up the seams of the elbow they had to put in, Lucas took care of patching up the drywall, and Eddie finished up with a couple coats of color-matched robin’s egg blue.

“Wow,”

Eddie looked down from his spot on the scaffolding to where Steve was standing in the doorway. Finally, something other than creepy Victorian dolls to look at. “Hey Mr. Museum Man, how’s it look?”

Steve wanders into the small room, heading to the far end and looking up at the now-invisible seam of new and old paint as Eddie clambers down from his perch.

“It’s like it was never there! You guys are incredible.” he says, tuning to wander back toward Eddie.

“Aw shucks,” Eddie jokes, waving him off.

“There’s gotta be something more I can do for you.”

Eddie’s face begins to heat up despite himself. “No, no, we’ve already been squared up by the museum, there’s nothing more you need to–”

Steve smirks, “How about a date?”

Eddie’s stomach flips, but he makes himself play it cool. “I dunno Stevie, Lucas has a girl already, and I don’t think you’re Wayne’s type…”

“What about your type then?” Steve asks, still smirking, still stepping closer.

Jesus H. Christ why is it so hot in here?? He wipes the back of his hand over his brow.

“Uhm, well.. I think you is–ARE. You are. My type, that is.” so much for playing it cool.

Steve stops when he’s toe to toe with him. Shiny brown leather Hush Puppies to cracked, paint-speckled Bates’.

With one hand, Steve reaches up and swipes a thumb under Eddie’s bangs, reaching down to wipe it off on the chest of Eddie’s similarly paint-speckled coveralls.

Eddie looks down at it, then at the back of his hand. Damn robin’s egg blue.

“Well good,” he says, pulling Eddie’s attention back up. Hazel eyes smoulder into his. “Because I happen to be into guys who are good with their hands.”

divider from @steddiecameraroll-graphics!

[pleasuretrade]

already barely holding it together as they're getting their hand held but then they feel that reassuring squeeze and they just can't

and

holding onto a stuffed animal/pillow, imagining that it's their lover in their embrace instead (Museum au Gale...perhaps..........)

barely holding it together holding hands but then they feel that reassuring squeeze and just cant

"You look good, Buck."

They're in a disused vestry, barely bigger than a closet. One small window up high, a bench, some hooks, a table and chair, a tiny golden cross hung on the wall. Bucky straightens Gale's tie for him for the third time.

It's the same church Gale grew up going to. The same creaks in the floorboard, the same dusty smell, the same paltry stained glass in the front windows. Gale knew he'd get married in this church, ever since he was a little boy. He didn't know this is what it would feel like. He hadn't known what would happen to that little boy between then and now.

"Relax," Bucky tells him.

It makes Gale laugh a little bit, breathy and directed somewhere at Bucky's chest because he isn't looking him in the eye.

"Only a few minutes before we've gotta be out there," he says, breathes through a sad echo of his laugh. "I don't know how I'm s'posed to do this." Says it quiet because it's damning. So damning.

Bucky keeps fussing with his suit, smoothing his lapels, fixing the single stem that was his boutonniere. Gale can see his jaw shifting restlessly from under his eyelashes. The thud of Gale's heart is irregular, sometimes so violent he swears you could see it punch at his chest.

"You're supposed to do it like you've always done everything else."

The words are meant to be a comfort, Gale knows. A reminder of how strong he is, how he's taken it all like the man he is and how he'll keep taking it. Instead, they feel like an accusation, all the more terrifying for how correct they are.

And then the hands on his shoulders are sliding down, a perfunctory straightening of the sleeves, all the way to his cuffs, to his own hands. Gale's fingers in Bucky's. Hand in hand.

They're standing in the vestry like they might stand at an altar. A masculine mockery of holy matrimony. A chasm in Gale's chest widens. There's a deep, dark void there, breathtaking for its endlessness. It's where everything has always gone, into that void, dropped into the darkness like a bottomless well. This wasn't an end, because there was no beginning.

John steps closer, pressing Gale's fingers to the jut of his hips, rests his forehead against Gale's so they don't have to look at each other. They'd never held hands before. Why would they have? Why did this have to be the first time and why were they doing it at all? Bucky clenches their fingers together tight, a reassuring squeeze Gale hadn't felt from anyone but Marge since he was a child.

"God damn it," Gale says, curses helplessly as his knees weaken, tucks his face close against Bucky's to hide the tears, "god damn it, John."

holding onto a stuffed animal/pillow, imagining that it's their lover in their embrace instead (museum au flavor)

TONAL SHIFT i already told rachel this after they sent these prompts but this is actually a thing i was already planning for museum au lol. some version of this scene will be in the final fic. at this point in the au they're coworkers with benefits and gale is out of town on a business trip

tried to readmore this but website broken idk

Gale taps his keycard. The light flashes red. He taps it again. Still red. He sighs, closes his eyes, takes a breath, taps it again. Fucking red. He lets his head fall against the door with a thud. If he has to go back down and talk to the front desk...

A fourth tap yields a green light and a mechanical whirring and Gale has his shoes and button up off in record time. It had been, thankfully, the last day of the conference, which meant a closing cocktail hour he was obligated to be at as the museum's sole representative. He'd collected six cards, four instagram follows, and one promise of a place to stay if he was ever back in New York.

The hotel shower took an eon to warm up, but Gale let the cold water shock him back into his body with no complaint. Closed his eyes and felt the vessel of himself, felt the meat and bones and skin that everyone he’d schmoozed with all evening had been looking at.

It all feels new somehow, since Bucky. An awareness not just of his flesh, but that he resides in it. When Gale opens his eyes he looks at his hand, follows down his arm, looks down at his chest. There are moles there that Bucky counted. Nipples that he’d had in his mouth, between his fingers. Lower, a cock that he’d had in his hand.

Fuck. It’s been six days since he’s seen Bucky. The longest they’ve gone since they’d started fucking, or whatever it is they do. And Gale should feel embarrassed about keeping track but it’s hard not to when you’ve finally started having good sex for once in your life.

Gale hasn’t jerked off since he’s been in New York, told himself that he didn’t need to just because Bucky happened to cross his mind, and it was easy for all that travel always made things feel so disparate. But under the spray of lukewarm water, after a day of convincing people to like him, Gale feels all too visceral.

He tries to wash perfunctorily, tries not to linger with soap slick hands, doesn’t imagine it’s Bucky’s hand smoothing over the curve of his ass, won’t let himself think of Bucky’s fingers raking through his hair.

So forgive him if he devolves as soon as he hits the bed, dried off and pajama clad and not any farther away from thoughts of Bucky.

Gale thinks about the cushion of his pec, about the soft space where it met his armpit, finds himself holding a pillow and burying his face in it. Sucks down his own damp carbon dioxide and listens to the sound of his breathing and imagines Bucky is there to hear it too. Bucky would probably have his fingers in Gale's hair. Maybe he'd press his face in, smother him a little.

There'd be a thick thigh between Gale's leg to rut against, and the flat expanse of soft bed is suddenly distressing. There's a pang in his stomach that's burning up through his chest, something like panic, and he rolls over to kick and push until his sleep shorts are dangling off one ankle. He drags another pillow down the bed, overstuffed and oversupplied, and shoves it under his hips and thighs, tries to angle a leg so he can get the press and glide just right.

If Bucky were there, he’d guide Gale’s hips down into the bed, help him grind just to watch him come apart. The motion of his own body feels inadequate. Incomplete. Gale lets himself make a little noise as he moves his hips with more fervor, lets himself pretend he's doing more than fucking a pillow like a stupid dog, imagines the whimpers coming from his throat are little pleas for Bucky's ears.

Never in his life had he cared about the sensation of touching his own nipples, but now, with the thought of Bucky's mouth on them, he can't help but pinch and pluck and press with one hand under his worn t-shirt, the other wrapped around a pillow that wasn't Bucky's chest.

"Fuck," he whispers, thrilling himself in a way that felt maniacal and unlike him, "Bucky." The sound is a physical thing, alone in a hotel room. It comes heavy from his throat and settles heavier back into him, a thread of connection to something real. “Bucky.” Like if he says it again, if he says it with enough meaning, Bucky could be here.

Here, with his big hands, with his eyes that went from shining impishness to serious intent in an instant, dark for all they were blue, with his mouth and those fucking little groans he let out even when he was just looking at Gale. Watching.

Gale reaches behind himself, feels the downy softness between his asscheeks, tries to go slow and torturous like Bucky would. Feels the way his hole folds and grips every time he pushes his cock into the bed. Presses a finger into the furl of it, just the pad, remembers Bucky touching him like this.

There’s precum on the hotel pillow. Drool on the other one. Gale swears to himself he’ll clean it, he will, but he has to do this first, he has to give in to this thing he wasn’t sure really existed until now.

His cock stutters against the pillow and he shoves a hand down to press in to find a better angle, fucks into it in earnest, lets himself pant opened mouthed and whining. “Please,” he asks, lifting up onto his elbows, then his palms, agitated, remembering, “please.”

Ain’t that sweet. Gale looks down at himself, at his own body, sees the frantic movement of his own hips and remembers so clearly. He wants to be sweet, wants to be sweet for Bucky. “Fuck-“

[twenty-three-hours-to-midnight]

happy fic twofer day!! both we had forever forever ago and stay made of lightning have their final chapters posted!

[unicyclehippo]

ok im dedicated now im gonna write the damn thing

here’s the prologue for museum au

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[schestokryl]

Wait I haven’t talked about that time my brain generated me a Tozer/Morfin museum stuff modern au dream??

Well, it goes like this:

I’ve met Tozer somewhere and we didn’t get along at first, but then he invited me to hang out and I thought why not. So, next day, I arrived at the meeting spot, Tozer is there with Morfin, introduces him as his boyfriend, and tell us to hang out and then just disappears?? But turns out, John was working in the same museum as me, as a member of mounting team (basically people who hang pictures and arrange exhibitions). So, besides hanging out, we decided to do some work and went to check new exhibition space in an office building. But turns out, the landlord didn’t want to give us the keys, so we had to ask for leagal documents and we’re getting ready to speak to the manager what I woke up.

While I was hanging out with Morfin, he told me that he also played in a theatre in his free time. He also complimented my drawings of Trystan as Pharazon and said he wished he looked as good as he does??

also, Tozer walked beside us a couple of times showing thumbs up 👍

That was an interesting dream but now I can’t stop thinking about museum stuff Morfin, who loves art and does theatre and Tozer, who is a security officer in a museum

[knightsmybeloved]

David (1504) by Michelangelo // some bust I don't remember, from the Galleria dell' Accademie di Firenze, Italy.

[theprofessionalpromptmaker]

Treat! (Prompt)

Person A has a hobby of finding weird niche museums to visit, and has noticed that there is a museum that appears on the map only around Halloween and then vanishes, with no trace it was even real, once the season is passed. Person A assumes it’s all some elaborate marketing gimmick, but sets out to visit it during the season. Since it’s always in different locations every year, they have made a game of predicting where it will pop up next. When they finally attend, they meet the mysterious owner, Person B, who seems confused when Person A mentions they’ve been wanting to attend for years…apparently it’s not just wiped from the internet when October passes, the visitors and everyone who heard about it all forget it’s existence as well. Except Person A.