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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 3 months

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 86

Part 1 Part 85

Eddie’s going to come out of this whole thing with a bald patch. He can’t stop pulling at the ends of his hair, feeling the sharp tug on his roots, the snap of the few hairs that can’t withstand the onslaught.

They’re all just sitting here, resting on their laurels like Steve isn’t slipping further away with every wasted second.

There’s enough frenetic energy running through Eddie to make him want to get out of the van, pace the length of the Byers driveway like a tiger in a cage. But Steve’s bound and blindfolded in the van, and the thought of taking his eyes off what little he can see of Steve’s face makes bile rise in his throat.

There’s not much else for his stomach to dredge up. He can’t remember the last time any of them ate.

So, he sits on his heels. And he waits, feet going numb beneath the weight of his thighs.

This is all becoming horribly familiar. They’re even at the Byers house again, Eddie losing his mind by inches, Steve gone.

It’s not fair. Even through all of this, no one’s priority is ever Steve, first. Steve, only. Even when it should be. No one except Eddie.

Will’s still curled into his side, looking up at Steve with that same desperate need, though. So maybe it’s not just him. They’re an island of three, always.

Eddie can live with that, will gladly subsist only to give these two his devout devotions. If Steve will just come back to them.

Eddie’s ready to scoop up Baby Byers in one arm, Steve in the other, and flee state lines if it means he gets to keep them.

Mama Byers likes him too much to let the kidnapping charges stick.

But Steve’s still gone, even as he sits placidly in front of them. So, he waits like a good boy.

For Carol fucking Perkins of all people. It’s like the Upside-Down is determined to scoop up all his sworn enemies and drag them into the clusterfuck right alongside him. First Nancy, now Carol. What’s next? Billy fucking Hargrove? Where does it all end?

Eddie yanks his hair again, feels a few more hairs snap. He drops them on the floor of the van, mind spinning off into DNA, and fingerprints, and all the things the shady government spooks could pin on him with those few loose hairs.

He pulls out a few more.

Barb’s usually an annoyingly safe and slow driver, but she must have hauled ass because her tires are skidding into the driveway well before he would have expected her to be. She stops abruptly enough that gravel kicks up around her car, tires digging grooves into the dirt beneath it.

The kids tumble out of the backseat, dirty but intact. Eddie can’t help the way his eyes stray from Mike, to Lucas, to Max, to Dustin, cataloging each of the rips and smudges along their bodies, looking for scrapes and injuries underneath.

The knee of Mike’s jeans is suspiciously ripped and bloody, like he’d taken a tumble on cement, but everyone else looks fine.

When Carol slides out, she looks decidedly less fine. Her preppy outfit’s streaked with dirt and grim, her usual blow-out hair-do caked with something suspiciously dark and viscus. Most damningly, she’s got a baseball bat clutched in her manicured hand, ready to take a swing, and are those nails? Is that blood on them?

Whatever it is, it’s not human. It’s so dark, it’s almost black, even in the overcast light of the afternoon.

Barb’s less disheveled, but there’s a smudge of the black liquid on her glasses, like it’d splattered across her face, and she’d only partially cleaned it up.

It’s seeing it there, that makes it click. It’s the same color as the Demogorgon’s blood had been when it had been painted across Steve’s face that time they’d thought it was a good idea to trap one.

Will jumps out, running up to Mike, and Dustin, and Lucus. It’s another reenactment of last year, the reunion just as fierce and life-affirming. Even if this time it’s only been a couple days since they last saw each other. Near death experiences will do that to a kid. Even Max gets pulled into the mess, arms around backs, heads tucked into shoulders.

Eddie barely sees it, too focused on Barb’s glasses, brain making connections between black blood, and Demogorgon’s and Demo-dogs, and the way the soldiers had screamed beneath the earth as they’d left them to die.

Eddie follows Will out of the van. He’s pulled into his own hug, Barb’s arms warm and shaking as they wrap around him. His hands hang down awkwardly, trapped by his sides by her hold. She drops him but stays huddled close.

“I’m never going to get used to this,” she sighs, eyes trained on the kids all surrounded together, all talking at the same time, clearly trying to fill in Will whose bemusement only grows on his face.

Eddie laughs, sharp and unhinged before he clamps his lips together to cut it off. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says. He can feel Steve in the van, still, wants to turn back and get him in his sights again.

Perkins steps in his path before he can. “Monsters, Munson?” she demands. Up close, Eddie can see the way her fingers are white around the baseball bat, the way the blood’s congealing around the rusted nails. Even at five foot nothing, she paints an imposing figure with that clutched in her hand. “You were all hiding fucking monsters?”

Eddie grimaces. “You told her?” he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth to Barb.

Perkins rolls her eyes, clearly having heard him. “She kind of had to when those fucking things cornered us!”

He’s getting really tired of so many of the things in his life having to be classified as ‘things.’ Still, he can picture their gaping maws, the way they’d open up like flowers in bloom just from the horror peeking out behind the indignation in Perkins face. This is going to upset Steve when he gets back.

“Why the hell were you even there?” Eddie demands, pointing a finger in her face. He drops it when the hand holding the bat shakes, bringing it closer to his hand.

“Blame that one!” she snarls, pointing at Dustin like he’s gum on the bottom of her shoe. “I could’ve gone my whole life without seeing one of those fucking whatever-dogs!”

“Same,” Barb murmurs, shriveling up with disgust.

Perkins doesn’t even look her way, but she still stands shoulder to shoulder, somehow made into a united front within a day. Eddie shouldn’t be surprised: the Upside-Down makes for surprising bedfellows.

He’d done the same thing, trapped in a hell dimension with Steve Harrington of all people. Steve Harrington who’d made him laugh, and shared his bed, and saved his life. Steve Harrington who’s bleeding out of himself to make room for something else.

“Where is Steve anyway?” Perkins asks, like she could hear his train of thought. “He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

Eddie can’t help the way his gaze darts toward Steve. It’s like asking someone not to look at a shooting star darting across the sky, or a lighthouse in a storm, or a compass pointing your way home. He can’t help it, and maybe Perkins can’t help the way she storms over to the van, either.

“What the fuck?” she says, less a question than an exclamation of shock as she takes in Steve’s state.

Eddie knows what she’s seeing – her friend’s washed-out face, obscured by Wayne’s flannel, and Will’s headphones, tied tightly by every seatbelt Wayne could reach without moving Steve. He knows what conclusions she’s drawing in her twisted little head as she rushes into the van and knee walks over to her reported best friend.

Eddie’s “wait, no!” is drowned out by similar sentiments from Will and Wayne and Mama Byers. None of it makes a difference. It’s too late.

“Steve?” Perkins says, and there’s the sound of her bat thunking into the ground, and then an ominous rustling. Eddie doesn’t wait to see what happens next. He bolts to the van, Wayne right behind him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

She sounds desperate enough that Eddie can’t even blame her for what she’s done. But that doesn’t change the fact that Steve’s dull eyes are uncovered, and he’s looking past all of them, through the open door and out onto the street. The flannel and headphones are both discarded on the floor as Perkins clutches on Steve’s shoulders, shaking him like that will get him to meet her eyes.

Steve’s been here dozens of times, sitting passenger side in Eddie’s van and drumming his fingers on the dashboard

“Code fucking red!” Eddie calls, head shaking at the force of his yell. “They know where we are!”

Wayne sighs, long and heavy the way he does when he’s sinking into his armchair after a long shift. All the kids are shouting over each other, demanding answers to questions Eddie can’t even hear. Perkins is staring at him like he’s insane, but Barb’s drooping where she stands. She’s been in this long enough to know what a code red means, even if she’s lacking all the necessary context.

Wayne straightens, back cracking as he claps once to get everyone to shut up. “Kids in the house!” he calls, talking louder when the inevitable protests come from that corner of the driveway. “Now!”

Wayne doesn’t yell, ever. Hearing his voice raise, angry and loud, makes Eddie flinch back, shoulder hitting Perkins where she’s kneeling. It does the job, though. The kids scurry into the house while Wayne surveys the remaining group of four, eyes skipping over Steve’s blinking eyes.

“You any good with that bat?” Wayne asks.

Perkins eyebrow is furrowed, but she opens her mouth to answer. Barb beats her to it. “I’m better.”

Wayne picks it up from the ground and hands it over to her. They all know by now that she knows better than to mislead them at a time like this. Barb clutches it between her hands, straight-backed and feet planted, like she’s ready to swing.

“Joyce, go stay with the kids.”

Mama Byers shuffles her feet, looking back at her house, but doesn’t leave. “Shouldn’t we stay together?”

“We can’t untie Harrington here,” Wayne replies. “And there’s no time to go somewhere else.”

As if to punctuate his point, there’s a familiar hungry growl, pettering off into a howl. The howl echoes off the walls of the sky, cutting in and out. Static. Reverb. The Upside-Down is calling and Eddie doesn’t want to pick up the phone.

Mama Byers runs, full tilt toward the house. Eddie hopes she makes it, can’t see her past the lip of the open door of the van. He hopes she’s got a gun in there, hopes she hands out butcher knives to too-small fingers and they all stand back-to-back-to-back. He hopes None of those things make it past Barb’s bat.

Wayne rushes to the glove compartment, limping on his bad hip with his haste as he digs around. He comes out with a gun, polished and sleek, and clearly one of the dead soldiers. Eddie hopes it’s loaded.

He stands behind Barb, blocking the open door with his body, gun raised and pointing toward the staticky sound of dogs growling.

“Close the door, Ed.” He doesn’t turn away from the threat, even as he says, “Love you.”

Eddie hiccups, something wretched and sharp boiling out of him. He wants to stand at his Uncle’s side, but his hands are fleshy and empty. Perkins is hyperventilating behind him and Steve’s not saying anything at all.

He closes the door.

He crouches in front of them both, blocking the closed door, ready to play a fleshy, second door should the first one fail.

There’s the sound of a gunshot, the wet thwack of a nail-covered bat meeting malleable flesh, then glass shattering all around him.

He raises his hand and closes his eyes reflexively as it rains down onto his face, into his hair. Something cold and meaty lands on his lap.

He opens his eyes.

It’s just like he imagined: paws and tail and hairless body. A petaled mouth that droops open, razor-sharp teeth glinting threateningly even in death.

He pushes it off, scrambling back and away from the dead thing that still somehow looks like it wants to kill him, heedless of the broken glass making mincemeat of his palms.

Eddie backs into Perkins, tries to keep crawling away until she grabs his shoulder, squeezes hard as she peers over his shoulder into the silence of the day.

He can see Wayne, still standing, Barb at his side, gorey bat raised. Had they won? A bat and a gun, and they’d won?

But, then there’s a new face, peering up through the broken window. Her eyes are solemn, but she smiles when she meets his eyes, short curls atop her head bobbing as she waves at him.

“Supergirl?”

Part 87

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie upsidedown au #will byers #my fic

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theoutcastrogue · 1 month

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[From a 2014 article by John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. He's talking about how a random spam email ended up inspiring a part of his book Wolf in White Van. Later, in 2020, the album Getting Into Knives came out, and I think it inspired its artwork too.]

"It took years for me to be able to just reflexively delete spam, or filter it so that I never see it at all. I blame the spammers for this; the quality of their work took a sharp nosedive at some point. But during whatever period of the internet’s growth you’d call the early 2000s, it seemed like you’d still get some winners: things that had been typed up by a person, sent out to a bunch of email addresses they’d bought or rented for 5 or 10 bucks from the only guy who was ever going to make any money in this particular exchange. Most of them went directly, if manually, into the trash; but once in a while, there’d be one that seemed to earn, at the very least, the minute it’d take me to read it.

The one I’m remembering here was subject-lined SUPPLY OF KNIVES. [...] The subject line opened on an all-caps email that boasted, in ornate, antiquated English appealing to the reader’s more refined sensibilities, about the high quality of the knives on offer at an external website. You shouldn’t click on links in spam email. I live my life on the razor’s edge! I clicked the link.

I want to tell you about these knives: They were beautiful. They were weird. They had elaborate designs in the handles, moons or stars of wolf heads, and special grips, and a variety of points. They were made from metals whose pedigrees were described lovingly, and had been struck — smithed? wrought? — via processes I knew absolutely nothing about, but that sounded fantastic, difficult, arcane. It’s the joy of specialized language: When you’re an outsider to it, it can’t help but sound cool.

Of course this is the whole idea of any operation like this. SUPPLY OF KNIVES could well have been, and probably was, a company in Ohio who’d stumbled across an old warehouse full of knives, and knew enough about sales to describe these things in the most exotic terms they could find. I’m pretty immune to pitches: Who likes to feel like he’s being pitched? But somebody involved with SUPPLY OF KNIVES had had just enough authorial flair — that, or true faith — to caption each knife’s mysterious, blurry accompanying JPEG with a description whose constant recourse to specialized vocabularies seemed to say, “You’re not even reading this unless you already know about this sort of thing. Let us therefore speak like the fellow travelers we are.”

It was like a trade catalog for roadside bandits in need of knives.

I can’t speak for everybody, but I know that when I was a child the life of the roadside bandit seemed like a pretty romantic way to go. I looked at all these knives and read the descriptions and was just generally delighted about the whole thing, so I saved the email in a “memorable spam” folder I used to keep that had maybe two other emails in it. A few years later, Apple came out with this robotic-arm-screen iMac you never see any more, and we were long overdue for a new computer so we got that; and then, after a while, I got myself a laptop, because I was traveling all the time, and eventually both the old iMacs ended up in the basement, and they were both asleep but alive until fairly recently, as far as I knew.

But when I went to check for the email, it was gone. The old blue iMac is dead, bricked, lifeless. Searches on the term “supply of knives” on this laptop and on good old robot-arm-screen find nothing. The backup CD for the blue iMac drive is probably in a drawer around here somewhere, but that’s like saying, “The coin I had in my swim trunks’ pocket is probably somewhere in the ocean.” There is no SUPPLY OF KNIVES. There’s only the memory."

[source]

And this is the wonderful cover art of Getting Into Knives. Back cover and promo material below. Note that "Knives International" and "Knives Wordwide" are not real companies, they appear to be a callback to that elusive spam email.

#not that I'm particularly into TMG #but it's interesting #trs #The Mountain Goats #John Darnielle #Getting Into Knives #Wolf in White Van #only knives left #tools of the trade #bandit #prison ballads #tangentially

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the1920sinpictures · 2 months

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1922 Page from the Van Cleef and Arpels jewelry catalog. From Art Deco, Avant Garde and Modernism, FB.

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genshin-impacted · 1 year

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Exchange of Rings

(Alhaitham x Reader - 2/?)

You and Alhaitham get settled into your shared home in the beginning of your year-long test run of your marriage. The both of you try to figure out how to best live together piece by piece. OR apartment shopping + eating dinner + packing lunch

Word Count: ~3.7k

Notes: afab!reader, second person pov “you”, switches pov with Alhaitham, modern au, arranged marriage, fall first/fall harder, mentions of sex, slow burn

[Previous - Next]

The first thing in order is to get an apartment that the two of you can both agree on. As the two of you are fiancés, there really is only a need for one bedroom and one bathroom. You’re almost excited to share a bed with someone else again, but temper it with the knowledge that you’ll only be sharing a bed with Alhaitham and nothing else.

For now, at least. You try to not let your mind linger on what Alhaitham said at the first meeting regarding any… sensual possibilities. Regardless, the step to share a home is something inherently intimate.

The location of the apartment is at the halfway point between your parent's homes in a cozy suburban area with amenities close by and with enough space to fit two people. For one, the kitchen is spacious, and they leave you with a nice living room for activities next to a cozy dining room. With the both of you making wages, the payment is honestly not bad at all. You agree to split fifty fifty with him.

The apartment comes partially furnished. Together, the two of you bring enough furniture to make the apartment look more like a home. Alhaitham was kind enough– or would you say, meticulous enough to share a document between the two of you so you know what is still needed and who is bringing which item. It makes it easier to determine which item belongs to whom to return to if things go sour, but it also lets you see what the two of you still need to buy together.

It’s a very efficient way of doing things, and you see that in the other ways he plans things to make it as easy as possible: You come to pick him up at the apartment so the two of you can carpool together to shop since the store is in the same direction; Alhaitham tells you that he intends to rent a delivery van for any big purchases to reduce any of the hassle of doing it yourselves. And he’s fair too– he tells you he can pay you for gas for the car ride, and though you feel like it’s unnecessary, you feel inclined to agree anyways.

Alhaitham pauses in the middle of the conversation, and you take your eyes off the road for a second to glance at him.

“Anything wrong?” You ask him, “Did we forget something at the apartment?”

“No,” he says. “I suppose I’m just surprised you’re agreeing with all of this so easily. I expected push-back.”

“Push-back for what?” You say, genuinely curious. “It all sounds good to me. You’re very organized.”

You glance at Alhaitham again to see his hand at his chin, thoughtful. You expect him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, deigning to continue the conversation where he left off. It isn’t until you’ve parked and Alhaitham is waiting for you at your car door that you decide to ask again.

“So about earlier,” you begin, walking a few steps more to match Alhaitham’s long strides. Gratefully, you see him slow down for you to catch up, and the two of you begin walking side-by-side. “You said you expected me to… say something about what we were going to do? Why would I do that? It makes sense to me: buy essential stuff, unpack what we have, go buy what we’re missing if need-be…”

“I just have contingency plans in case something doesn’t go according to plan,” Alhaitham says. Now it’s his turn to glance at you, and there are those eyes again, piercingly observant like everything you do he will catalog for future reference. “Not everyone agrees with the way I work. I anticipated something like that would happen.”

You have a small feeling that the ‘disagreements’ Alhaitham mentioned happen often. You can see it: Alhaitham has a tone that may not sit very well with other people. It’s brusque at worst and matter-of-fact at best, but you find comfort in the confidence he exudes and the instructions he provides. You also don’t take his tone personally, which is for the best, you think, for this union. You have a feeling it is hardly personal when it comes to him.

“We can work things out if we disagree, can’t we?” You tell him. “We’re reasonable people… for the most part.”

At your last words, you hear Alhaitham huff in amusement, and his lips upturn into the smallest of smiles. You try not to look so bewildered when he tells you he’s going to get a cart, but you think that’s the first time you’ve seen him really smile.

You catch up to him the moment your heart stops leaping.

It’s fun shopping with Alhaitham. It’s nice having someone to ask for their opinions or taking turns pushing the cart with your collected items. You like to think Alhaitham doesn’t mind shopping with you either, mainly because he seems like the type of person to speak his mind, and he hasn’t complained about you taking too long to decide between what type of bowls you want for the apartment yet. (He chooses porcelain over plastic– microwavable safe.)

For the most part, you aren’t a very imposing shopper, moving through aisles quickly and only glancing over the things that aren’t important. You do take some time sifting through the candles though, and Alhaitham clears through your hesitation between cranberry and peach by putting both stacks of candles into the cart.

Just take them both– that definitely solves your problem of picking between the two. You try not to laugh at how his efficiency extends to shopping as well, even if it means indulging in your purchases. You think it's kind of cute of him, but you try not to let your hopeless romantic side speak too loudly (even if it's right!).

The moment Alhaitham finds an empty table, he brings his cart over and sits himself comfortably to wait for you. You’re at the middle of the line now to buy your frozen yogurt and cinnamon bun at the little shop at the exit. He lets his eyes follow your movement for a moment before he takes out his book from his bag to get some light reading in.

Or so he had planned, but he takes the time of solitude to gather his thoughts.

Some people who don't know him well at all may say that he treats interactions with other people as though they were transactions. Tit-for-tat, this for that– but Alhaitham could care less about receiving any favors back. Truth is he will only do something if he truly wants to, so the thought that someone needs to pay him back for something he’s done that has benefitted them is unnecessary to him. He lives by his own set of rules and morals, and however everyone else does it is none of his business.

It is his business, it turns out, when it comes to his roommate and fiancé: you.

Maintaining a relationship requires equal effort from both sides. An uneven distribution of labor, for example, sharing chores and duties of the household is a one-way ticket to the destruction of a relationship. It only makes sense to him that the two of you will divvy up the workload and weigh in on decisions together. He gives back what you provide, and hopefully it will be the same when he does it as well.

Like you said earlier, the two of you are reasonable adults. Thankfully. Alhaitham knows he has spoken with you at length during the first meeting and in short snippets since then, but he never really knows someone unless some time has passed. What are you like under stress? How will you react to unexpected situations? What will you do when the two of you fight? Power imbalances, as he has read, causes a greater rift when conflict occurs, so it’s best if he sets the precedence now for shared responsibility.

Tit-for-tat, this for that– Alhaitham has never felt the need to return what is given but then again he’s never really attempted to make a relationship work now, has he?

“Here you go.”

Alhaitham looks up from the book to see you hold out an ice cream cone toward him. He glances at your other hand to see another cone and at the table to see a cinnamon bun steaming from its small container. He takes the cone and you sit across from him, tearing off a piece of the cinnamon bun before smearing ice cream onto it.

Before you take a bite out of the sweet, you look at him with growing confusion. “Oh, sorry,” you say, “did you not want the frozen yogurt? I guess I just assumed you would; I always get one when I come here.”

“I don’t mind it. I actually enjoy sweets in moderation,” Alhaitham replies. Tit-for-tat, he thinks. “Let me pay you back for it.”

You wave a hand flippantly. “Nah, it’s okay. It’s really cheap anyways. You’re already paying for my gas so it’s really not a big deal. Here-” You slide the cinnamon bun roll closer to him. “Have some of this too. I got it for both of us.”

A small wrench in his plans. Perhaps he’ll pay you back another time? In another way? Or would it bother you if he treated every favor and action like a transaction to be paid back– he hasn’t considered this yet, and hasn't taken into account your personality in regards to what he should do. To his knowledge, you are… quite honestly, reasonable. Even-tempered, adaptable, even easy-going: it may do him good to review his plan and make some changes.

Perhaps he’ll just follow after you for once.

“Thank you,” he says, turning to his frozen yogurt and taking a taste. He looks up at you right in time to see you look away, smiling. For good measure, he rips a piece of cinnamon bun and, emulating you, smears the vanilla onto it.

It’s sweet.

The apartment ends up being an amalgamation of both your styles. The bookshelves are his, the couch and television are yours, and all the utensils and cooking ware are all bought. You had taken Alhaitham with you to buy everything, but he had very little to contribute to when it came to style. He commented more on practicality and only when you had asked him to choose between two did he make a stylistic choice. You find that he is a minimalist at most except for when it comes to his books, his bookshelves specifically from his own room. You find that oddly endearing, and when you suggest he purchase bookends, he denies it only because he already has his own.

For the most part, with the apartment, it feels like any agreement with a roommate. When will each person do their chores, what chores, how frequent? What are your schedules like? You tend to stay up late while Alhaitham is more than likely to sleep earlier to get his full night's rest.

"I work at 9 AM so I'll most likely be awake by 8," he tells you, "and come home at around 5:30 PM."

"I'll let you know my schedule for each week," you offer. "It's not as consistent as yours so I might work weekends too." You laugh at the quick grimace from Alhaitham. "It's not too bad. It's not like I work weekdays AND weekends. It just depends." You check your watch. "I can cook for tonight," you tell him, rummaging through the newly stocked drawers for utensils. It's been cold lately, so you think some stew would taste nice. You glance up at him right as he nods, and you wonder if he would be open to eating together.

It would be your first meal together, and the thought makes you a little giddy.

You open your mouth to say something when he speaks first. "Thanks," he says simply. He begins to turn away when you scramble to gather your courage and speak up again.

"Um, Alhaitham- ow!" You wave your hand in pain briefly after you bump it onto the corner of the drawer.

"Yes?"

"Would it be okay if we ate dinner together?" You ask. The ladle is still in your right hand, making you feel more childish than you want to be.

Alhaitham pauses for a second, and you hold on hope that at the very least, his first instinct isn't to say 'no.' "Based on your question," he says, "I'm assuming you mean for all our dinners, not just this one?"

Passively, yes, but you had intended to work up to asking him to eat dinner with you as a routine rather than come out the door with the suggestion. "Yeah," you say, not one to play coy. "I was thinking of tonight but if we could make it a 'thing' we do together that would be nice."

A part of you who still rejects the concept of an arranged marriage roils at the thought that you have to ask to eat dinner with your fiancé. The other part finds it a welcome challenge. And the other, larger part of you just wants to eat dinner with your fiancé; you try not to look so eager.

You are very adept at masking your emotions, as Alhaitham has observed. You are careful to not react when you ask him a question about his opinions on this or that so as to not sway him one way or another. You freely express yourself any other time though, your emotions painting your eyes, brows, and mouth to convey how you feel.

Alhaitham can see the way your eyes widen in anticipation and the grip on your ladle tighten as you hope that he says yes. He doesn't particularly find the idea whichever way. If anything, it is a natural thing to eat at the same time considering how you split your roles as cooks evenly.

But, hm, eating together is more than just eating at the same time, isn't it? It means eating at the same table with your presence at the forefront. Luckily, he finds that you are not an unpleasant person to be with, so until further notice, Alhaitham finds no problems with doing this with you. It is only a matter of time for the two of you to get to know each other, if only to gauge for compatibility. Besides it's a small act for something that makes you giddy and smile all throughout dinner.

There is no conversation at the table yet; you hardly know each other to come up with any worthwhile topics. But when he compliments your food for being flavorful (much like his mother's cooking, actually), he watches you hide your smile behind another bite of food before going into depth about the recipe.

Alhaitham thinks that you may be easy to please, but he finds that he does not mind that at all.

Alhaitham offers to do the dishes and it is hard for you not to beam at him at the suggestion. You clean up the table and set away any leftovers for another day. You don't have work tomorrow on this Tuesday but you know Alhaitham does so you glance over your shoulder and ask if he would like to pack lunch.

His shoulders are broad and his back expansive when you look over. When he responds, you try to not look so dreamy.

"The leftovers?" He asks, glancing down at the bowl. "If you won't be needing it then I wouldn't mind taking it to work."

"Okay, then I'll pack it for you?"

"Thank you."

The tupperware seals cleanly over the dinner you made, and you place it into the fridge for Alhaitham tomorrow. You sneak another peek at him as he places the dishes onto the rack to dry. It's not as if you are easy to enamor, but the domesticity of him washing dishes makes your heart flutter with affection.

You're almost tempted to write a note for him on his lunch. Something cute, but not too much. Something basic to start with? You take another glance at Alhaitham before shaking your head. Best not to start off too strong; Alhaitham seems like the type of person to go at a steady, calm pace while you're the impatient one, trying to race off without preparations.

Maybe you can write him a note next time?

Alhaitham is not a heavy sleeper, so when he feels you climb out of bed at around midnight, he wonders where you went if not straight to the restroom. You pad back to the room just as quietly as you left, much to your credit, and slide back under the sheets.

The next morning, Alhaitham readies for his day at work, brushing his teeth and washing his face with only basic soap and water-- you had stared at him enviously at the lack of product he uses-- as you sleep on in your shared bed, unaware of it all. He opens the fridge when he heads into the kitchen to find his packed lunch to see the tupperware with an addition sitting on top of it: a small bag of peeled orange slices and a note that he concludes must be in your handwriting.

"Have a good day at work! The oranges are yours too. :)”

Alhaitham finds a pen on the counter and writes his own message below it before placing it onto the counter where you can easily find it.

(It's a short 'thank you' from Alhaitham. It's not much, but it is something– or at least it's enough to put a smile on your face the next morning. You pick up the paper and let your eyes scan over the words. His handwriting is neat, to the point, and somewhat elegant, much like himself.

You sigh dreamily.)

It isn't unusual for Alhaitham to prepare meals and pack his own lunch. He goes for whatever tends to be available in his fridge or opts to eat in the first-floor cafe for the sake of convenience. Having someone pack his lunch is a novelty; the last time someone has done that for him was in middle school when his mother did it for him.

It takes him the entire fifteen-minute commute to work for him to notice that he is still thinking about your note. That must be why you had stepped out last night: to write the note. Your handwriting is neat, rounded and connected as though you are used to thinking too quick for your hand to write. The note is ripped from a little notepad that you had brought over, like you're used to writing messages for little lunches that you make. Little details in the actions that he gets to find out. It gets his mind off of traffic well enough and even as he walks through the office building door.

The oranges are a nice touch. Alhaitham doesn't remember you peeling them before the two of you went off to bed, so you must have done it the same time you wrote the message. He'll be sure to remember to tell you not to put in the hassle of doing something that late at night; no need to waste time sleeping doing this for him.

Alhaitham pauses his movement as he clocks into his workplace.

For some reason, the phrasing doesn't sit right with him. He has a feeling that it will only discourage you and push you to do more, which is the opposite of what he wants. He'll need to think of a better strategy to tell you, but that's a problem for later. He manages to dodge most of his coworkers on the way to his secretarial office where he sits on his ergonomic chair he purchased himself; no need to wear himself out doing his job, after all.

He lets out a long breath as he turns on his monitor and checks his emails, only to find that he has two meetings to go to that morning that, based on the descriptions, might as well just be emails. It’s going to be one of those days, he thinks blandly and gets to work.

Though most days pass by without much event, Alhaitham, much like anyone else, looks forward to the half-hour lunch break. He normally doesn’t need an alarm to remind him, because like clockwork, Dehya will come into his office and pop her head in. "Hey, Alhaitham," Dehya says, right at noon. "Nilou was asking the office if we wanted anything from the cafe so she could go grab it."

“No, I have lunch today,” Alhaitham says, and he doesn’t need to look at her to know that she shrugs before closing the door. With how loud it’s getting, it seems to be the cue for his break as well.

The lunch he takes out from the tupperware is as good as it was yesterday. Alhaitham eats his lunch and wonders if this is the type of life he would have if he got married. So far, so good– though he supposes it's too early to say having only been living under the same room for a few days and speaking on regular terms only a few days more. The two of you are bound to find something to disagree on: it's only a matter of when. Though, for the first time, Alhaitham thinks perhaps it won't be as much of a hassle as it could be with you.

It's sweet, he thinks, popping a slice of oranges into his mouth. It seems to be a theme with you, if the past few days are of any indication. Alhaitham has yet to update his grandmother (or parents, by extension) but he can already feel the mild smugness she’ll exude when he eventually calls her and tells her how well it’s actually going. So far, anyways. The cynic in him knows they could be one argument away from dissolution, but he is anything if not a pragmatist. With how willing you are to compromise and to talk things through with him, he thinks there’s a possibility that the two of you can get through any possible conflict.

It’s a foreign feeling, he thinks, to have belief in something to last, but he supposes there is always a chance for something new, even for him. Something tells him that if you knew that was how he felt, you would be elated.

You’re easy to please in that way, with your perpetual smile and abundant laughter; Alhaitham finds he does not mind that part of you at all.

#alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham #al haitham x reader #any guesses to where they went shopping flajsdflkajsfl #oh frozen yogurt how i love u

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garadinervi · 1 year

Photo

Vera Röhm: Einblick – Überblick, «Dokumente unserer Zeit» Vol. XLII, Texts by Andreas Beitin and Dr. Dorothea van der Koelen, Chorus, Mainz e 2009 [Exhibition: Galerie Dorothea van der Koelen, May 17 – November 7, 2008]

#graphic design #art #sculpture #structure #geometry #exhibition #catalogue #catalog #cover #vera röhm #andreas beitin #dorothea van der koelen #galerie dorothea van der koelen #2000s

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kekaki-cupcakes · 2 months

Note

Heyyy can you please write something for Nico x male reader where Nico has seen reader around camp and reader is friendly and always laughing and talking with everyone. And Nico develops a crush on reader and eventually he decides to confess to reader when he sees them in the woods. Fluffy mainly but like a little spicey at the end if u do that stuff? :)

hey there bestie, let's pretend it hasn't been two months. this fic is also for @golden-boy-muda 's request for nico x transmasc reader <3

I couldn't find an idea in my empty ol head for this request but then I was looking for old oil painting wallpapers for my phone and now you have this incredibly sappy 3.2k of art references [I advise you keep another tab open for cross-referencing if you want the fUlL eXpErIeNcE]

Oil on Canvas--- Nico di Angelo x transmasc reader [3.2k] »»————-　★　————-««

Nico definitely isn’t a stalker, he understands boundaries [once Jason explains them to him, of course], but he might have a bit of a staring problem.

Sometimes he’s just eating gluten free waffles with Hazel in the dining pavilion and ends up watching you shove your siblings around and plait your little sister's hair so it doesn’t get in her face when she goes Pegasus riding.

He spooned some blueberries onto his plate.

It’s not his fault.

It’s yours, if anything. What is he supposed to do apart from feel like there’s moths beneath his ribcage when you pose, your nose scrunched, up for photos with Drew’s polaroid camera that’s covered with inappropriate stickers?

Hazel elbowed him meaningfully in the side when he couldn’t help but grin because Holy Hades, a single person shouldn’t be able to look that much like the painting Ophelia [by friedrich heyser, to be specific], just because they wore a green camp shirt and a pearl necklace.

Maybe it was his fault that he was comparing you to beautiful paintings.

He scooped the blueberries onto his half eaten waffle and reached for the maple syrup Hazel had finished drowning her breakfast in.

The Stoll brother’s mortal mum had sent a stack of paintings from art galleries all over the world last Christmas, and they’d let him pick out a few of the older more poetic ones that didn’t have enough blood and guts for their taste.

Now the oil paintings of lakes and birds and crying angels and… mainly cats, actually, hung around the dark walled Cabin he slept in.

Your laugh when you threw strawberries at Kayla and Austin while they worked in the infirmary reminded him of Angel [carl von marr, of course] and he felt like Chat a difficult catch [charles van den eycken] when you walked right past him without even glancing back.

So he’d made peace with watching from afar how you would forget daily to put sunscreen on but somehow always remembered to wear this pair of white crocheted gloves that looked like cat paws.

On a completely irrelevant note, Nico was learning to crochet.

Hazel made eye contact with him again when he looked from you to her, and he plugged his ears and glared before she started kicking him in the shins and begging him to pluck up the courage to walk over and even just make eye contact.

Not that he didn’t want to.

He may have lined up in his catalog of daydreams, this scenario where you both went down to the beach. Any beach, really. You’d collect shells and eat popcorn and grapes and lemonade and squish sand between your toes and pick up crabs with him.

PROMENADE ON THE BEACH [Charles Atamian, obviously].

There was another scenario where he’d take you to the farmers market. It had the biggest bouquets of flowers, and rows upon rows of fruits and vegetables and incense and beaded jewelry.

When he was laying in bed underneath the fluffy zebra patterned duvets that Piper forced him to use, mainly because they matched the dark reds of the cushions and browns of the bookshelves and antique lamps in the cabin so well, you were walking down the rows of little stores with him.

You were holding his hand with those soft cat paw gloves and you liked the feel of his rings [he’d read that people liked rings in a book, somewhere] and you’d filled the Studio Ghibli tote bag you had with berries.

He’d watched most of the movies after he saw your bag. He liked Arriety the best.

Clarisse stomped past the Hades table, leaving bloody footprints no one asked about, and smacked him in the back of his head. Nico went back to eating his waffles and daydreaming about your smile.

In the farmers market you would sniff candles and never buy them because Hazel had far too many for all of her spells and the such that he would never run out. And what was Hazel’s was his and what was his was hers, meaning that what was Hazel’s was yours.

Because Nico would give everything he owned, even his favorite jacket, for you to look his way.

And he would buy you flowers, whichever were your favorite.

Maybe the ones from the painting Hazel forced him to take because ‘you can’t just not hang a painting that literally is you, Neeks’.

Italian Girl with Flowers. Joaquin Sorolla. 1886.

He didn’t see the resemblance.

But it didn’t really matter, because he’d get to watch you looking at all the cool things for sale and then he’d take you to the best gelato he’d found so far [he was making a list] or just use the shadows, and take you to a proper gelato shop. Whatever you wanted to do, really.

Nico blinked. He huffed, mainly at himself, and stabbed his waffle. It fell apart on the fork.

“Why’re you angry?”

He looked up from his plate, to Hazel. She was sitting opposite him with a mustache made of orange juice. “...I’m not.”

“You’re not supposed to be pushing down your emotions, remember?” she said sternly, and started picking the green bits off a strawberry. She was eating as many berries as she could, since she wasn’t allowed lollies anymore. The perks of braces.

Nico looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re thinking about the cat glove girl, aren’t you?” she asked with a smirk.

“Cat glove boy, remember?” he muttered, and took a bite of his waffle, wiping squished blueberries off his chin.

Hazel’s golden eyes widened, “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, and was grateful for the excuse to peek your way. You were eating toast. Very pretty-ily. He felt his face heat up.

Hazel perked up, a mischievous grin he didn’t appreciate on her face. “Okay! I’ll go apologize to your boyfriend then-”

Nico stared at her. Why was she like this? She actually went to stand up, and then he yanked her sleeve, pulling her back down to the table. “No! Don’t just… you can’t… stop!”

“You didn’t deny that he’s your boyfriend,” Jason chuckled, sitting down next to Hazel.

“I hate you all,” Nico said.

It was torture.

He felt like Sleepy time potion [Vanessa Stockhard], stuck in the middle of your loveliness, unable to do anything except stare and hope that his face wasn’t too as red as the mushroom he was sitting on.

In the painting.

Not in real life.

Obviously.

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico stared down at the hat in his lap.

He’d done it. He’d actually finished one of the hundreds of projects he’d started in Piper’s efforts to find him a hobby that wasn’t sitting on the fences of cemeteries or standing in line at Mcdonalds.

He had lots of other hobbies, he just… couldn’t come up with them when she was arguing with him.

So they’d gone through writing, painting, records, sleeping, which he excelled in, and then crocheting. None had lasted very long, but he may have had an idea half way through trying to stab Piper with the crocheting stick.

And now he had a white bucket hat with cat ears.

He threw it to the end of his bed, and hid underneath his duvet. Fuck.

Repose. Malcolm Liepke. 1953.

What on Olympus was he supposed to do about the way he wanted to hold you so badly he felt like throwing up and tearing his hair out?

He lay underneath in the pocket of stuffy darkness for a moment, before sitting up, untangling his blankets and teddies from him, and then standing. He may have just had the greatest idea anyone had ever thought of before.

Hazel was still in the shower, singing, most likely, so he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack that was actually just a skeleton, and then stomped out of his cabin, the stupid hat in his fist.

His heart was beating wildly. Stupid heart.

The Wedding Dress. Fred Ellwell. 1911.

He rubbed his face and groaned at the sky. The stars were just peeking out, but it was still pink and yellow, and the sun hadn’t dipped yet. It was hidden by the trees he was trudging through, though.

Fuck.

His chest was hurting.

Nico scrunched up the stupid perfect crocheted hat that just had to stupidly perfectly match your stupid perfect cat gloves because Nico was stupidly perfectly obsessed with you.

You, who was stupidly perfect.

Fuck.

Psyche Weeping. Kinuko Y Craft. 1995.

He trod on twigs that broke underneath his boots and weaved through the tree’s that slowly became more and more laden with hanging pendants and wind chimes and ruins carved into the bark.

He stepped over a thin stream. A frog croaked at him like it was dying. As if it could ever feel like it was dying. As if it could ever fall in love.

Nico groaned at the sky again.

“Just let it all out.”

He turned, and glared. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, actually,” Lou Ellen said, raising a purple eyebrow. It matched the undersides of her curly hair. She pointed to the cabin concealed in shadows and moss and stones behind her. “This is my house. And you are yelling very loudly.”

“I’m not yelling,” Nico argued. “I’m groaning.”

She stared at him for a second. She rolled her eyes. “Just come in, what do you need?”

“I need a spell. Or a charm. Or hex,” Nico said, following her through the wooden double doors. A wind chime tinkled even though the air was still. There were a few bunks lined up against the wall to one side. “Or a magic thing. I don’t care which one.”

The rest of the cabin was filled with small coffin shaped pet beds and empty pink soda cans and voodoo dolls hanging from the roof and rugs with cats wearing strawberry hats on the fluffy material and misty crystal balls.

Lou Ellen lent back on a desk stacked high with papers and paperweights that were actually jars filled with things. “Okay. I have three rules. I don’t kill people, and I don’t make people fall in love.”

“...And?”

“I’ll break both if it’ll be fun?”

Nico frowned. “No. Aren’t you supposed to say you won’t bring people back from the dead? That’s always the third rule.”

She squinted at him. “Uh…no. I send those people to you.”

Nico squinted back at her, sticking his tongue out. He fiddled with the stupid perfect hat and looked around. There was just more creepy things and stuffed animals. “Whatever. I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to… like,” Nico started. He sighed. He looked away.

This was awful.

He was not about to admit that he might be in love, even if it was to reverse the feelings in the first place with whatever heart ripping out brain altering magic was necessary.

The Apollo cabin would find out through the witch in less than thirty seconds. He would never live it down.

Nico groaned again. “Oh for fucks sake, do you need me to fic your voicebox or something?” Lou Ellen hissed.

Nico glared at her. He groaned again, and then whirled around and stomped out of the weird mossy mushroom cabin. “Nevermind!”

“Fine! Have it your way!...weird little emo.”

Nico glared at the frog croaking at him, and kept walking through the forest.

He followed the little stream through the woods until he could hear wind chimes or Taylor Swift’s latest album anymore.

The little stream widened into a proper stream, filled with a lot more frogs. Why were there so many frogs? He nearly stood on a green one leaping across the path. Stupid frog.

Nico stuffed his hands into his pockets, along with the hat. He was tempted to just toss it into the river. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all of the silly feelings that felt like the biggest things in the world to him and his silly head full of thoughts about your lips.

Maybe the frogs could use the hat as a home.

“Here froggie… Come here… I said, come here... No I am not taking a tone with you!”

Nico froze.

Fuck. He took a deep breath, probably too loudly. He glanced to the side.

Of course you were catching frogs, knee deep in a river.

You looked over, making eye contact, and Nico realized the moths underneath his ribcage were turning into bats. You squinted at him, hands on your hips, while water swirled around and leaves drifted from the trees above. A bucket was wedged between two rocks next to you.

A frog jumped out of it and landed near your leg, on a lillypad.

“Look Albert,” you said, turning to the frog. “It’s a little Victorian ghost.”

“...I’m Italian,” Nico said quietly. He stared at you. He couldn’t help it. Wow. Fuck. Leo was right. He really was pathetic. “And I’m not a ghost.”

“Okay, Victorian ghost.”

Nico stared at you. Fuck.

After that exchange, he should be able to hate you. Right? Right. He now resented you, and the moths turned bats would stop clawing at his chest and he would go back to having a normal life.

Right?

Wrong.

You squinted at Nico, and then slowly turned to Albert. “I think the cute Victorian ghost is having a stroke.”

Nico blinked once, gulped, and then marched forward through the cold water and frogs, his shoes squelching loudly. Gods. This was so embarrassing. But you thought he was cute, even if you also thought he was a dead english boy, so he would be content with dying from embarrassment.

He shoved the stupid perfect hat into your stupid perfect hands.

And then left in about 0.3 seconds.

»»————-　★　————-««

You stared down at your pancakes. Why were they so gray looking? Had someone poisoned them? You figured that it would be a pretty good way to die, and tipped extra maple syrup onto them before you dug in.

To counterbalance the poison, of course.

You scratched at the mosquito bite underneath the strap of your binder. It had flowers embroidered into it. Your binder. Not the mosquito bite.

One of your siblings across from you kicked at your shin, probably on purpose, but you continued to eat your odd tasting pancakes and picked blueberry grit off your white cat paw gloves. They were your favorite gloves.

They also matched your new hat. The new hat that the cute Victorian but actually Italian ghost boy had given you before he teleported away with whatever dark magic he had stored in all that goth-ness.

You tossed a blueberry at Clarisse when she walked past and tried to bash you over the head.

She wasn’t allowed to ruin your new hat.

You turned to see her flicking the blueberry over at someone else, and your eyes flicked past that too. Now way. You stood up, but you’d lost sight of the mess of dark hair when the Hermes cabin barrelled past.

You clambered onto your seat and stood up there. “Oi! Victorian ghost hat boy!”

The dining pavilion went quiet pretty quickly, and everyone turned to the cute guy with a skeleton hoodie and wide eyes. He pointed at himself when you pointed at him, and then went pink.

Clarisse stuck her arm out so you didn’t faceplant when you jumped down from your seat, and you held onto your new hat as you traipsed across the cracked floor.

You’d never figured out how that crack had got there. But there were bigger mysteries.

Like this cute goth.

His face just pinker when you grabbed his sleeve and tried to tug him out of the entire camp’s curious eyes. A dark skinned girl with a lot of butterfly clips and a Steven Universe t-shirt sent a thumbs up in your direction.

It was only when you were standing by the low burning fire pit in a patch of daisies did you realize you hadn’t really planned far enough ahead.

You took off the cat-ear hat and looked down at it. “...Uhm…”

“Sorry,” the goth said quickly, and when you made eye contact he looked away even quicker. “It’s creepy. Boundaries and stuff, I just… saw your gloves.”

“It’s not creepy,” you argued, putting the hat back on with a grin. He was really cute when he blushed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name, and I have no idea who you are but your eyeliner is really really great and… Holy Hades if you smile like that again can I… please kiss you?”

The goth with no name stared at you, and then nodded about ten times too many. “Yes please. But, uh.. If you’re gonna kiss me, please, maybe don’t get my dad involved.”

“...Wut?”

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico could feel his cheeks growing hotter.

Not because of the sun, specifically, but it was hot and bright in the woods. He’d worn sunscreen though. And forced you to put it on too, once he’d found watermelon scented sunscreen, because you refused to smell gross no matter how sunburnt you would get anyways.

His face was hot and red because of you.

You, who was stupidly perfect and also possibly kind of Nico’s stupidly perfect boyfriend.

“Psst, Victorian ghost boy,” you said with a sing-song voice, quietly, and waved your hand in front of his eyes with your pink, blue, and white painted nails. He blinked. You smiled. “You zoned out again.”

“Sorry,” Nico said, and pulled a daisy out of the ground. He handed it over. “I was thinking about you.”

He hadn’t realized the effect that saying that would have on you, but it was worth it when you opened and closed your mouth like one of the frogs you kept as pets.

“I.. well, what were you thinking about?”

Nico had played his cards right. He smirked, and you shuffled forwards on the checked picnic blanket Piper had stolen from Drew, who’d probably nicked it from poor unsuspecting Demeter or Iris kid. You knocked over the basket of strawberries too, and then took your bucket hat off and stuffed it in your lap with a grin.

He tilted his head down. You were both following a very well rehearsed script. “...Kissing you?”

You launched yourself forwards then with a laugh, your cat-paw gloved hands landing on either side of his waist and probably squishing some of those strawberries at the same time.

The sun reflected in your eyes and Nico held the sides of your face as he pressed his lips to yours.

You kissed back, and once you both stopped smiling widely, you could kiss back.

Properly.

He scratched his fingernails, the ones you’d painted rainbow that afternoon after catching more frogs and complaining about sunscreen, along your jaw when you bit down on his bottom lip.

Not as a complaint, certainly not, and you knew that too because you just sat back on your knees between Nico’s lap and tilted your head to fit deeper against Nico’s bruised lips.

The ones that hadn’t had a single day off since you jumped up in the middle of breakfast with your gluten free waffles you hadn’t realized were gluten free until he had explained it to you later.

It was intensely crazily unbearably romantic but it also meant whatever cold one of you managed to catch, the other would come down with only minutes later.

And Nico felt like that smug little cat from Julie Manet’s Auguste Renoir.

»»————-　★　————-««

#pjo fandom #nico #nico pjo #nico di angelo #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #nico di angelo x reader #nico x reader #nico di angelo pjo #pjo hoo toa #hoo #nico di angelo x you #nico di angelo reader #nico di angelo x transmasc reader #lou ellen #lou ellen pjo

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nemfrog · 1 year

Text

Todea hymenophylloides. A tree fern native to New Zealand/Aotearoa. Louis van Houtte: Plantes de serre, 1875. Garden catalog illustration.

Internet Archive

#botany #nature illustration #garden catalog #tree fern #aotearoa #new zealand #nemfrog #1875 #19th century

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fandomfluffandfuck · 2 months

Note

TELL ME ABOUT THE SHOES!!!

related to this

Okay, okay, okay, first, I have to mention that every day I drive home from college, I drive past two different sex shops and one strip club and one of these sex shops has an LED sign that advertises a bunch of different spicy stuff, and the other day they had one word up--

Shoes

And upon reading that, I was hit over the back of the head with the first shoe-related thought I have that relates to fandom:

You always want what you can't have

Bucky mentioning in Captain America: Civil War how Steve used to wear newspapers in his shoes speaks to me about the depression, how he must've had beat up, worn out, hand-me-down shoes with newspapers stuffed in them to make them fit better, to make them warmer in the winter, to try and at least make them feel like there weren't holes in the bottoms of them. Steve drawing here and there throughout the Captain America movies--drawing himself as a dancing monkey, sketching buildings--makes me think of his artistic eye. An artistic eye that we see beyond drawing, with his comments about Stark Tower being big and ugly, plus, similarly with, according to Steve, the ugly brown van they use to save the world. Both Bucky's comment of the way things used to be and Steve's appreciation for aesthetic makes me imagine that Steve could gravitate toward shoes. Pretty, slim "women's shoes," as well as generally shiny, bulky "men's shoes."

The first time he notices shoes is early, when he watches his Ma slip into her Sunday best heels. Her stockings might be laddered and torn because she doesn't have enough pairs to have a special Sunday pair--she needs to use all the ones she has when she's nursing, dealing with all sorts of untold grossities at work, often throwing them out--but this pair of shoes look brand new. She takes good care of them, so much so that Steve's not allowed to touch them. Her Sunday best heels are hardly scuffed or creased because she never wears them to work or anything, just to church. They're pretty and special, and on the way, she's always careful, not stepping in puddles, on cracks, or anything.

The way his Ma treats her Sunday best shoes makes Steve investigate during church, more interested in eyeing all the other special shoes than listening to the preaching that Sunday, peering over the open Bible his Ma holds out in front of him. He's cataloging all the differences between the men's and women's shoes. Both kinds are shiny, but women's shoes are especially so. Angular and polished and bright, often with tiny details that men's shoes don't get the luxury of having--tiny buckles, little bows, patterns pressed into or cut out of the leather, etc. Women's shoes are so delicate, clicking across the floor while men's land much heavier, more of a clunk. A thunk even.

As soon as he's drawing, his interest translates there, too. It's the shine, reflective and glinting, every crease exemplified; the angles, shapely and precise; the colors, usually more muted but occasionally very bright and attention grabbing, either way, they're always saturated. It's fascinating to draw shoes. The lines are so clean that it's easy to make a mistake. And it's so challenging to capture the way the positioning of the shoes changes the shape of the whole thing! But that's what makes it interesting. Every angle holds new details. Steve discovers quickly that he can tell stories through shoes, too... where the creases are and how many there are, scuffs, rough leather, loose threads, color bright and bold or not, the angle he draws the shoes from, too--looking down at them from where he stands, lying on his belly and sketching straight on, detailing the bottoms--there are endless possibilities.

But, as Steve gets older and the more it sits in his head, the more it becomes something deeper until it's something beyond a passive, special interest. Beyond somewhere where his eyes always go when he meets someone new--glancing at their footwear just to see. It becomes something of desire.

Desired because of how forbidden it is. Women's shoes are for girls. Steve isn't a girl. He can't have them. He wasn't allowed to touch them. He's still not allowed to touch them.

There is a desire for men's shoes, too, but he knows men's shoes. He appreciates the sound of a big, tall man walking down an alleyway by the hidden bars around their run-down cold water walk-up with the swaggering thunk thunk thunk of their boots on the street. He does like that. Something about it makes shivers crawl up his crooked spine. But, he knows them. Bucky wears work boots. They live in a heap next to their front door. Plus, Steve has his own shoes. Men's shoes are familiar.

Steve buries his desire for men's shoes deeper, for whatever reason. It has nothing to do with internalized homophobia, no, why do you ask?

Women's shoes, though...

They're forbidden and unknown. The closest Steve's gotten to fancy, truly bright, and angular ladies' shoes (outside of staring at them through shop windows) was when Bucky brought home a blonde dame--Steve never got her name, she just came and left once--with a rich Daddy. Her shoes were kicked off by the door when Steve got home, sitting fallen over next to Bucky's heavy boots. Steve's heart pounded unevenly in his thin chest, just seeing them together. Darting between the shoes. The contrast.

(That dame must've been short, too, like Steve. Her shoes were so little, especially next to Bucky's. By the looks of it, they might even fit Steve. Maybe. He wouldn't dare touch them, though, not even to straight them in the way he grumbles but organizes Bucky's footwear.)

The second time Steve really comes close to the off-limit territory of women's shoes is after the serum, dragging through the USO Tour with all the chorus girls. Their glittery, flashy, short, and bright uniforms. Meant to attract, so can Steve be blamed? Because suddenly, it seems like Steve can't go ten feet without tripping over one of the girls' pairs of shiny, bright, tall heels.

Once, just once, one of the gals leaves her heels behind. She's going back home, her service done with, so...

With his heart pounding strongly in his broad chest, practically echoing through it, he swears, Steve grabs them. Hastily stuffing them under his trench coat and wisking them back to his private tent--the luxury of being a technical captain.

Alone and in private, Steve knows just looking at them, understanding space strangely well these days, that they're too small for his feet. Even if they weren't too small, Steve is sure he couldn't bear to try them on. Not here. What would he do anyway? He's never thought past getting his hands on ladies' shoes. He couldn't walk with them on. Could he? No. He would be scared of someone hearing the click click click. And he couldn't... he doesn't have anyone to... show?

So, what would be the point?

There isn't one. And Steve doesn't even try to put them on. Instead, he sets one of the pair of the heels in his lap. Cradling it, the shoe is a lot lighter than he expected it to be. The material is much thinner than he thought even though he's drawn shoes a ton. He's studied them. And he studies them again now, up-close and personal, just... looking.

He just holds it.

Without realizing it, he starts to subconsciously stroke the shiny, patriotic-colored leather. It's so smooth. It's cold to start, but quickly, it isn't anymore, warming up to him. The heel isn't as sharp on the edges as he would've thought, but it's not too soft, either.

He's more familiar, having it in his hold, but they're still exciting. Fascinating. Interesting. No matter how often he sneaks away to hold one or both of the stolen shoes in his hands, they're still so different.

They're special.

Steve loses the pair when he walks to Austria. He's not sure what happened to them, and he's afraid to ask. Did someone find them? If they did, what did they think? At worst, they probably just thought Steve spent the night with one of the chorus gals, right? They wouldn't know about... about what Steve did? (And what did he do? He just held them!?) He can't stop thinking about them, though. His hands are so calloused these days, and all his shirts are grimy and coming apart at the seams, holes everywhere, and wouldn't it just be nice to touch something smooth?

Bucky sees through him and asks him what he's missing, but he falls before Steve can say it out loud. So, the secret dies with him.

Steve doesn't let himself think about something so soft and delicate when he wakes up. He can't stomach it.

Eventually

Bucky is back.

Steve has Bucky back.

And they're both trying to heal.

Healing takes many shapes... including, apparently, the shape of a sleek, biege box with a looping, white font delivered to their front door, which contains rich, red, and shimmering tissue paper, fragile and weightless, and a pair of matching, shiny black heels with blood red bottoms.

Steve doesn't even want to know what they cost Bucky. He vaguely grasps the pop culture knowledge to understand how infamous heels like these are, how expensive they are, and he's not dumb enough to miss all the details, thoughtfulness, and exorbitant materials. Shockingly, they have money now, existing somewhere, acrewing in a bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely, and between the two of them, Steve is the one who doesn't know what to do with it. Bucky knows.

Bucky knows.

Bucky bought him a pair of heels, not so bright, save for the bottoms, but still delicate and shiny and alluring. The shoes feel more like Bucky's style than Steve's and... Steve likes that. He likes that Bucky chose them, he likes that he wants to see him in them, and he likes that they're here.

Steve's almost afraid to put the shoes on, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across the smooth, perfect surface. He's not even sure if he wants to put them on or not. He's only ever drawn or held shoes like these. He's not put them on. Does he want to cross that line? Is that even a line? After all the things he's done, is this even daring?

What if it's not special? What if it's not as good as he wants it to be? Does he want it to be good? What's good?

Should he put them on?

Steve's head is so full of questions that he can't do anything but stand there, a contemplative statue; Steve's supposed to be brave and daring, but there are moments where even he's allowed to hesitate.

Right?

Bucky isn't so hesitant. He knows his best guy is going to look killer in those heels, and he knows whatever Steve has built this up to be in his head... it'll be fine. He just has to let go and do it.

With some convincing and a few charming grins, Steve puts the red bottomed heels on and...

It's good.

It's better than he imagined.

While he's wearing them--falling apart at the seams and succumbing weakly to the fever raging through him--Bucky fucks him hard. Deep and good. Leaving Steve unable to hold back the ah, ah, ahs that pour out from inside him and causing him to put bruises, dents really, in Bucky's back with how tight his legs are wrapped around his stocky waist. He can't. Bucky's dick hits his prostate again and again. Oh, god. It's making him so weak--his dick always does. It forces Steve's brains to melt out of his ears, struck stupid with his lips falling open, bright red and wet.

With another hammering, ah, ah, ah, dick carving so deep in him, sparking and hot, desire courses through Steve so strongly that his toes curl until the soles of his feet cramp. As his toes curl, it forces the shiny heels to slip off of his feet just as he crashes through his orgasm. His moans pitching higher--shattering suddenly, shaking apart with the pleasure coursing through him.

Bucky is merciful enough to fuck him through his orgasm, leaving him a whimpering, shaking mess, all too docile and sweet, but he doesn't say merciful. He's awful. Terrible. Evil because he's slowing his hips to a filthy, deep grind. It's slow enough to have Steve's gasping, his body electric and white-hot, making him go haywire and stay achingly hard. He doesn't do anything about it, though. He doesn't reach to jack him off or touch him or do anything but--

Bucky spares one hand to grab the shoe from where it landed haphazardly on their ruffled bed before sliding it back onto Steve's foot after using his strength to uncurl his leg from around his waist, straightening his leg so the back of his knee is at Bucky's shoulder, all so he can put the stray heel back onto him.

He's so flexible.

The position makes Bucky's cock get in deeper.

AH!

Fuck, Bucky is treating him like he's delicate and cute, kissing the thick curves of his muscles and making sure nothing is out of place as he worships him, fucking him like he isn't soft or delicate or nothing. It's like he's being fucking out to make sure Steve's heated draw to heels is even worse after this!

Also, secondly, I keep thinking about:

You wear your devotion on your sleeve

By the time Steve gets to the front and gets to Bucky, pulling him from the jaws of Hell, dangling above its throat, on the cusp of being swallowed, Steve is fucking sick of...

Everything?

He's sick of being in a body that doesn't fit. Chronic illnesses first. A lifetime of rasping lungs and fatigue that follows him like a shadow, always growing taller and longer with the ever slowing dip of the sun in the sky. Then. This. Whatever this is. A body that attracts attention, eyes always dragging over his form, never leaving him alone when before no one would ever even glance his way. He was invisible and agonized; now, he's in the spotlight and burning up.

Something in him yearns to be small again.

The only refuge he finds for that is at Bucky's feet.

He finds the feeling of being small yet respected, taking up no space at all but still being seen and heard, at Bucky's feet while he's shining his boots. He knows how much appearance matters to Bucky. His hair is always done just so, even in the middle of the rain and wind and wilderness. He's always freshly shaven, no matter if there's running water nearby or not. And his boots are always shining, never mud caked like all the others.

So, when Bucky ended up with bruises shading his ribs, barely able to sit up, let alone bend over or breathe as good as he should be able to...

It's only natural that Steve offers to shine his boots for inspection for him.

At first, honestly, it's terrible. He's holding Bucky's leg as delicately as he possibly can, scared to even slightly squeeze him too hard and leave more bruises or, god forbid, break his bones, but Bucky won't have it. Bucky tugs on his hair, shaking his head to get the point across, making sure he's looking up at him before he assures him he won't hurt him. He can't. He needn't hold him so delicately, and, c'mon, if his boots are gonna be clean, he needs to put some more muscle behind it. A smile cracks across his face, and, suddenly, it's all good.

It's great.

It's so fucking nice to be staring up at his familiar face and be small and--

How does Bucky convince him to wrap himself around his leg and grind against his newly polished boots until he's messing them up, so he has to lick them clean again? 😮‍💨😮‍💨

(I wanted this to be longer, but I don't have the time right now, ughh)

#asks #fandomfluffandfuck #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky

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