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beanlot · 1 year

Text

MISTRESS

sevika x maid!reader

at first, you were her maid. but master liked you just enough to make you her mistress.

word count: 4.0k

genre: smut

warnings: amab!sevika, age gap, sevika cheats on her wife, slight spanking, spit, vibrator use, master/servant relationship, breeding kink

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“what a gorgeous colour.” her fingers ironing the corners of her lips, mahogany lipstick cleansing from the cedar skin in superlative fashion. she was objectively sumptuous, a classy woman surrounded by old money and platinum basin sinks; an easy life enough that she didn’t even have to raise a finger to apply honeydew exfoliation masks to her glistening skin. “don’t you think?” she stares at you through the mirror, umber eyes fanned by silky lashes - lids glossed with everlasting lustre of golden butterscotch, tempted to believe you could see your reflection if stood close enough.

“yes, madam.” you nod, fingers clasped onto a hanger, vintage dress glittered with merlot gemstones fluorescent against the sapphire tiles of the floor. you weren’t lying, it was a gorgeous colour. and madam wasn’t particularly sinister against you, or even sinister at all..

“you filthy pig.”

“don’t you dare touch my antiques.”

“look at you, fix this messy hair. i will not have guests over whilst you look like a disgusting hooker.”

mostly.

“vika loves this colour.” she sighs, french-tipped nails tapping against the argyle jewellery around her neck. her scent of prevailing pumpkin spice suffocating you momentarily when she turns around, taking the hanger from your grip; you’ll watch as she lays the dress against her body, feminine curves of her hips accentuated through the garnet jewels as she subtly twirls around. she hum, lashes batting through the scrutiny before she shoves the hanger into your chest hurriedly. “be a dear for me and tighten the waist.”

and sure, you don’t expect the best of treatment regardless. you were on the back burner, disposable in every aspect with your dull shirt collar; onyx skirt tucking in your buttons and the driest of hands from the constant polishing. “yes ma-“ a shrill bark interrupts you, and it’s when you turn around that you see a woolly poodle, pastel frilly dress, wiggling through the door.

“ugh, pinkiebear! what are you doing, my baby snuffles?” and just like that, as madam scoops the pup into her arms, you’re left alone in the bathroom. moroccan rose handwash beside her gold-plaited cosmetics, pomegranate face serums and emerald earrings; you’d wondered what the oils would feel like on your fingertips, the creaminess against your skin soaking with pulchritude. it feels like bait when you see that one tub is already open, pale watermelon serum calling your fucking name - she won’t notice, there’s no way.

so you tenderly swab at the surface, the velvety touch on your skin.. it already makes you feel pretty, glammed up, like her. and the dysphoria only amplifies ironically when you massage the pearly ointment into your cheek, the winsome highlight when you turn your head not going unnoticed.

wine glass and plate in hand as you approach sevika’s master’s study, nudging the door with your shoulder. it was smoked salmon and caviar, and if you weren’t so fond of her, it would be rational to believe she was intentionally inflicting the purgatory of starvation onto you. but she was not resentful, her muffled tone of come in prompting you to amble inside; the air murky from her cigar smoke, illuminated by dim apricot from the scattered lamps. and she’s there, with every inhale, you can decipher the ocherous flame between her lips - her fingers clearing her desk when she sees the wine bottle tucked under your arm.

“thank you, darling.” she murmurs within the fever dream, fumes seeping through her lips to which she fans out when you’re beside her desk. it’s elixir to taste, and although it’s toxin on your tongue, it’s contradicting - plate and wine glass settled against the oak, careful to avoid her disarray of books and orderly inklings when you pour the currant. she examines this, raising an eyebrow before tapping the tobacco against an ashtray. “are you hungry?”

fuck, you have no idea.

“no, master.” you shake your head, because even though you could feel your organs internally booing inside from the withering, you were under an obligation of being polite. and hell, it was reasonable for her to concern herself with your wellbeing per se: she was older, much older; yet you merely took it as manners, sympathy that you weren’t born into such opulence. so when you finish pouring, tenderly placing the bottle beside master’s glass - it’s paralysis when her coercive words refrain you from leaving the room as you intended. “come here.” she instructs, virescent globes eclipsed with hues of oxblood when you maintain eye contact from your awkward distance. she’s manspreading, white button-up loose against her chest, and the uncertainty only amplifies when master’s tone becomes demanding. “come.. here.”

so you shuffle towards her, and you’re not sure if it’s the nicotine or the peril brunt of her influential stare, but your blood pressure raises when you stop - that maybe you’d said something wrong, gotten a wine she didn’t like, or you were vicariously responsible for the chef’s error. but the neurotic thoughts plummet when you see her slice an intricate cube of the salmon, fork held out to you with sincerity.

“try it, it’s good for you.” she advises, and you’re under automatism to obey - her fingers scraping against yours when you take the fork, examining the glassy block. you’re not sure what it’s seasoned with, only able to distinguish the honey glaze and sprinkle of pepper; you couldn’t even fucking describe what salmon tasted like, a luxury that your flimsy uniform never got to see up close. and you feel emotional when it finds itself between your teeth, erupting with foreign rich oils and glacé syrup.

you want to appreciate it, had you not interpreted the investigative glances she’s giving you. skeptical eyebrows dipping in, defining the droopiness of her lids and the eclipse of gunmetal in her narrowed pupils - they search your face, because there’s something about you that master just can’t pinpoint. “you’re glowing.” she mumbles, fingers branching out toward you and framing your jaw ever so tenderly; thumb stroking along the curves of your cheekbone, the familiar and velvety texture of your skin no stranger to master. “you’ve been using my wife’s stuff, haven’t you?”

great.

of course, how could you have been so recklessly fucking dense? you’d just swabbed a few thousands onto your face and expected that nobody would’ve been able to put two and two together, and now you’re stood here like a fucking embarrassment whilst her conquering globes assess you. master was going to obliterate you for even contemplating putting your filthy wilted fingers on her wife’s belongings, and you’re just waiting for her to call the chef over to slice you into little pepperonis and use your torso as a fucking piñata for her fancydancy din-

“looks good on you.” she mumbles, and the harmonising words nosedive into your stomach with more adamantine force than waiting for her to beat you to a pulp. her fingers streamlining down your jaw before she picks up her plate, ludic smirk concealing the mulberry on her lips as she offers her plate towards you. “don’t tell.”

you look back and forth, and it’s only when she nudges the porcelain into your stomach that you realise what she meant. she was only really interested in the wine, and within her hospitality, gave you something to eat for the night.

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“your muscles are all contracting, just relax.”

“i’m trying..”

“you should really look into tai-chi, saves me hours of making these for you.

i’ll be back tomorrow,

ice or magnesium for any muscle pain,

is that a chip in the wall?

anyway, i’ll see you tomorrow, my lovely~.”

you’d been waiting outside her room for about forty minutes, folded blouse and dress shirts in hand; although you liked to consider yourself respectful of master’s private conversations, not even the bricky walls and thick interior of the hallways could muffle the massage therapist’s jarringly piercing voice - one that only amplifies when master’s door opens, a tiny woman pootling herself down the hall with a bowl of water, peppermint leaves floating within the misty pool.

it’s rosemary and eucalyptus when you inhale, frissons of sweltering air blossoming your way as the door closes over only slightly. but you’re prudent, you’re conditioned to be, waiting outside her door for her to have her few minutes of privacy - but she calls you in when she identifies your shadow against her marble tiles, eyes absentmindedly tracing the silhouette of your hips.

and when you walk in, nudging the door ever so slightly, she’s face-down on the master bed; surrounded by canary silk pillows and lime basil candles, her wine cellar visible from where you stand. you approach the palladium drawers, and whilst your job was plainsailing, the difficulty of having to avert your eyes from her bare back did it’s due diligence to make it just a little harder for you. but you stay silent nonetheless, the palatable glimmering against her burly shoulders, one that made you envy a massage therapist’s expertise as you organise her shirts.

“you have pain, master?” you mumble, clearing your throat when it starts to disintegrate at the mercy of her tensing shoulders, glorious muscle twitching. “my shoulders, darling. it’s not so bad.” she doesn’t move, and although you seem satisfied with the composed silence, the thought of leaving in it made your stomach sour.

“is there anything i can do?” you offer, graphite eyes piercing into your body when she turns her head against the pillow - you can tell she’s engrossed in those retrospective thoughts of hers by the way she’s zoning out, clouding globes that flutter over you before she pats the mattress.

“lay with me..” she mutters, black pepper fragrant when she inches away, leaving you a temptingly delectable space beside her. it feels wrong, and your ears can already feel the wrath of madam’s scream when she finds out you dared even the slightest courage to lay in her bed, beside her wife.

but master was at the top of the food chain.

so you reluctantly obey, not oblivious to the raw sensation of eagerness when her bare abdomen raises slightly from the mattress - she’s toned, noir curves that only excite the vim when you’re slithering into the space she’d left you. but it’s not enough to dilute your inhibitions, your body rigid when her fingers flutter against your waist; she notices this, intoxication when her whisper caresses against your ear. “relax, relax.” she whispers, the suggestive timbre diminishing you - she waits until you slump into the satin, plumose textures under your fingertips, before her arm cases over your waist and trails you against her bare chest. it’s morally profane, warmth from her breasts contagious on your spine, skin sweltering idyllically - kittenish and lewd and wow you’re getting horny.

it’s silent for a few minutes. but you feel dirty, her vanilla comfort something you ruined.

“you remind me of my wife when we first met.” the vanilla wisps against your jaw curdling into vulgarity when her fingers tenderly clutch at the hem of your skirt, and although one part of you feels like nothing more than a doll for her to use the one night her wife is out attending a dinner, another is relieved when the wintry air strikes your thighs.

“young,” her fingers lifting the skirt enough that her perverted eyes can search your hips, the way they embrace the black straps of your underwear.

“pretty,” her nails glissading against your inner thighs, forefinger sinking between them enough that they’re under automatism to separate. you try to convince yourself that it’s because you don’t want to get into trouble, disappoint that streak of high expectations you managed to leap over the past few weeks - but by the vim in your clit, it was disgustingly undeniable it was because fantasy was becoming reality.

“fertile.” she delicately taps your clothed clit, subtle sensitivity that already gets your hips rolling into her crude touch. her engagement ring flaring in your peripheral when her left hand slinks around your body, black opal glinting as her palm rests against your breasts. “look at me.” her lips tickling against your cheek as you turn to her, hues of predatory oxblood glossing over her lead pupils. she likes that she owns you, conditioned you to be her little pet, dominated your identity to nothing more than her servant.

so the overly obscene taste on her lips when she’d pressed her forehead against yours, skin searing with wealthy indecency was no shock. she was impulsive, lips against yours, unseemly sounds of anticipated smooches as you drink up the taste of peppermint. she wants to be delicate for you, but the instinct outlasting the grace when she hears you hum. you’re heedless of your sloppy grinding, shaky exhales which only worsen when she pulls away; her thumb draping your bottom lip down only slightly. jewels of her spit streamlining into your mouth, your tongue absorbing the droplets filthily. “pretty girl.” she swallows, eyes darting along your jaw, her spit slowly drizzling down your neck.

you want to tell her that this is wrong, that she’s a married woman, but the night already feels drilled into stone when her fingers manipulate the buttons on your chest, cleavage satisfying her sadistic eyes with every one coming undone. your shirt loosens, sinking down your back and accentuating the feminine enticement master was under whilst her fingers revel in the linen cotton of your bra, the straps cunningly draping off your shoulders. “aren’t you gorgeous, look at you.” she whispers, your breasts tingling when there’s nothing there to cover them anymore, her fingers folding your bra down to your stomach.

admiring the way your nipples harden under her fingertips, delicately pinching the responsive buds. you nod, because you expect her to want you to, flinching when you roll your hips against her sturdy thigh; thick imprint of her veiny cock paralysing you momentarily.

“lean over in that drawer.” she gestures to the bedside cabinet, and you’re sceptical when you lean over, your skirt hitching up ever so slightly. and if the humiliation of having your ass presented to her like a fucking showpiece wasn’t degrading enough, the barbaric strike of her palm against it was. you squeak, flinching necessarily - her palm easing the inflamed area intricately, before walloping back down onto your skin. you want to fucking weep, blinking through the blur of your tormented tears, opening the drawer to which a plaited vibrator lays.

“that’s the one.” she confirms, taking it from your fingers as you lay back into the mattress, ass ignited with scorching goosebumps from the brutish force behind her arms. you go to defend yourself, because honestly, you feel lower than the bottom of the food chain - you were no blossoming mighty oak, but rather a withering sunflower under her assertion.. but she knows what you’re about to say. “master, i haven’t do-“

“you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. i’ll make you feel good.” she sits up, and although she intends to comfort you, it only intimidates you further when her tongue wets her lips; fingers slewing the fabric of your underwear to the side and leaving your slit prey to her predacious stare, only amplifying when she unveils how truly drenched your folds are. but she doesn’t say anything, only leaning over whilst a bullet of her spit seeps between her lips and missiles itself against your clit.

you already feel numb, the heavenly pressure of seventh heaven when you hear the whirring of her vibrator, your thighs quivering with the company of your stimulated whines when the tip purrs against your clitoral hood. “that’s it, atta girl.” she praises, her breasts pressing themselves against your bare spine when she situated herself beside you again. it’s nirvana, humping against the vibrator so primitively, erogenous arcady to hear your incessant whimpers echo throughout the room. you’re sweating by now, at peace with the fire and brimstone breeding on your skin - but you want more, your fingers grazing over the stiff imprint of her desperate cock.

her breath is jagged, submerging the vibrator harder onto your clit, your ankles starting to twitch at the susceptibility. you’re not sure if it’s enough to make you come just yet, but that thought deteriorates when her finger glissades down your slit and streams itself inside of your hole. “fuck.. you’ve made my cock all hard.” she sighs against your cheek, your walls greeting her indiscriminately; spasming with every hum against your clit. she’s testing the waters, fingertips taking a liking to the spongy textures when she tenderly twines it upwards, the pornographic desire in your clit to orgasm more reckless than ever. but you’re not the only one suffering, because sevika is finding that her cock is actually starting to fucking hurt from the distress of not being able to just have her way with you again and again and again.

but she’s patient, finger gliding itself in and out of you; assaulting that carnal pit in your walls as your thighs tremble as she fucks you with them. instinctive sobs leaving your throat unmonitored, and honestly, you wouldn’t be able to describe it even if given a fucking thesaurus - sneezelike corkscrew ballooning itself inside your hips when she hooks another finger inside, arousing squelching with every hammer against your folds. “please..” you whisper, unbeknownst to the soreness in your fingers as they lock, clenching tightly on her belt.

and when she’s satisfied with how vulnerable you are under her, the sensitivity just right, she’ll admire the quavering of your hips and the tightening of your thighs before dragging the vibrator away from your clit. “huh?” you squeak, cunt clenching around her fingers at the sudden loss of her manipulation. you’re about to complain, wail about how much of a fucking tease she is, but she relieves the anguish by leaning over your thighs; her tongue replacing the device and doing its dirty work when it swipes over your hood, delving between your folds and schemingly flicking over your erect bud.

just like that, you’re shaking again, thigh hoisting itself up and planting itself on her bare, burly shoulder. your mewls of master twirling repeatedly in a rabbit hole of ecstasy when her damp lips envelop your clit and suck with cruelty, fingers maintaining their agonising operation; battering into you with precision and artsy discipline, like she’s done this too many times before.

but it’s dispiriting for her, because she wants to be a lovemaker for you, wants to appreciate you for the fine young woman you are - yet the throbbing in her cock conquers that yearning, and it’s then that she pulls away with such self-hatred. “are you gonna let me put my cock inside your cunt, darling?” she exhales, fingers slewing out of your brimming hole, selfishly drizzling your discharge over the mattress and coating over the sable leather of her belt when she goes to unbuckle it.

“yes. yes, master.” you comply, ultramarine daze when you blink; pixels of orchid blooming in your vision when you even did as much as look down to her belt. fingers tackling the every latch, submerging as they frame her veiny shaft - cock springing out and admittedly, inciting nothing more than disruptive thoughts of am i going to fucking live to see tomorrow after this.

she’s thick, and monumental.. fucking handcrafted by gods with such clarity. enough that all of that internal envy becomes more.. not envy, because you know this is gonna really fucking hurt, and you’re not liking how much she exceeds your expectations at the expense of what’s gonna happen to your poor fucking vagina. “do you still want this?” she murmurs when she notices the hues of uncertainty in your eyes, superficial doubt that she interprets easily - it’s an ego boost, artificial concern to conceal her everlasting inclination to ruin you. but you blink at her, flickering between her eyes and the slightly palatable mulberry tip of her cock, before you nod.

it would be cruel for her to nosedive straight into you, and even she knows this, her tip glissading through your folds and lubricated with your slick. she’s slightly sensitive, the warmth of your cunt only amplifying the immense throbbing, but she’s consistent this time - your clit rubbing against her head only instantaneously as she accustoms herself with your textures.

“this might hurt, my love, just a little.” she whispers against your jaw, fingers grappling at your hips as her own angles forward, tip insidious as it skims into your walls; your body merely a betrayal of your conscience when your walls welcome her. but it’s smooth, as she pushes herself in with such fucking entitlement, your insipid moisture coating her cock.

because she owned you, every little fragment.

her mindless breaths against your bare shoulder, the subtle rocks in her hips purely intuition. she hasn’t felt this in years, the vehemence of her girth wrapped around such a fine woman, and it motivates the urge for her to start thrusting your hips back into her. your whimpering sobs with every cudgel of her skin against yours, the indignity of her abdomen pounding against your spine and the raunchy heat of her cock assaulting your cunt.

influx of adrenaline when she hears you mewl, her sloppy kisses on your nape sultry and blistering. “i know, i know it feels good..” she sighs, both hands clenching at your thighs, your hips, your waist- anything to feel herself become adaptable inside of you, anything to get a taste of the rapture inside of herself.

“pretty.. pretty girl..” her muffled groan echoing in your ears as she gets herself off into you. she was dictating your self-worth, dictating your fucking life.. and although some of it felt as if it was just pulling the pieces together, another felt it all shatter into irreversible ruins as her left hand compressed itself onto your clit; engagement ring ever so slightly abrading itself against your wet folds.

and that’s when you feel it.

the sheer pinnacles of rhapsody so distinct as her fingers roll your clit in circular motions superlatively, cock swollen and erect. “please.. please..” you sigh, the jagged timbre exposing how receptive your bundles of nerves were; fingertips touching the very eminent icicles of orgasm when she speaks her foul language in your ears.

“i’m gonna come inside you, do you want that?”

“uh huh.”

“gonna make you the mother of my kids..”

“mhm-hm, master please..”

and then it erupts inside, whirlwind of frenzy that you could only compare to what felt like being edged for hours. your clit numb and jaded, the overstimulation aggravating as your walls pulse around her cock so tightly that she doesn’t even need to continue pummelling into you. conclusively, you were a mess - her palm sealing itself over your lips to repress the uncontrollable cry, tone it down ever so slightly, arms that confine your body as you tremble and do your upmost fucking best to recover.

and after a few minutes of her rocking a few inches back and forth into you, the dishevelled grunt and adhesion of her bangs against your cheek; quivering fingers against your lips and hips that airbrush themselves to divinity let you know that she’s just came.

and something feels off, seriously off. so full and saturated, and it’s when her cock slews itself out of you that you know there’s no way you’re the only one behind all the mess; looking between your legs and flinching at the pearly cream drizzling out of your hole, thick and balmy. your juices meshing together in such harmony that you feel disgust, and yet hypnosis. because she never wanted a maid,

she wanted a mistress.

#sevika x reader #sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #arcane x reader #sevika smut

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thetravelingtyper · 27 days

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On The Same Page pt 6(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

Stuck in by the rain, you, Simon, and Sam receive important news over dinner...

Part 5, Part 7, Masterlist

Image from GIF by tana-the-dreamchaser

Simon followed you up the stairs like a shadow, his steps even but quiet. If not for his hand seeking yours you would have thought him a ghost. He seems to seek you like a moth to starlight and you find yourself relaxing with his close presence. You reach the door at the top of the stairs and push it open to be met with the smell of a simmering spice. You perk up instantly and call out for Sam. His curls pop out of the kitchen and seeing your entwined hands he smiles.

“Are you making what I think you are making?” You ask hopefully, eyes softened towards your friend. You step into the living area and release your hand from Simon’s. He abides by it but lingers close to you, choosing to take in his surroundings.

The vibes of the apartment are, well, eclectic. Amongst the thriving house plants, SImon can see little bits of you and Sam. The worn love seat a dappled plum color, a plush leather couch, and, he looks at the floor and chuckles, a fox in a sweater welcome mat. You move to the kitchen after asking Simon to make himself comfortable. He nods and moves to the loveseat, taking your backpack off and setting it to the side before taking a seat. He observes further as you step into the kitchen to talk to Sam.

On the coffee table, there is a vase of sunflowers, the TV stand is an old steamer trunk, and lining the far walls across from the door are books. Upon four shelves is a library’s worth of books and Simon stands and approaches them. Upon further expectation he cracks a smile, the inner panel of the bookshelves are painted the same as the ceiling of the bookstore. A rough hand comes up and he traces the spines of some of the leather-bound books. There are books of all kinds roughly categorized by genre. Littered amongst the shelves are other things, among them, Simon finds things like a cow teapot, a Union Jack mug holding pens, leather-bound notebooks, a dragon beanie baby, and something else that pauses his searching.

On a desk in the middle of the two sets of shelves is a collection of mechanical parts. The smell of gun oil and steel pulls memories from service and he leans down, turning on the desk lamp to examine it closer. In the middle of the desk is a typewriter. The carriage is set aside from the body of the typewriter and the smell of oil gets stronger. He looks around the table and finds a myriad of cases, some big and others small, mostly belonging to what he assumes to be typewriters.

You pop your head out of the kitchen to call for SImon but you find him engrossed in his examination. You smile, unsurprised at his curiosity, most visitors are drawn in by the book before stumbling upon your workstation. You step out of the kitchen and call to him. He looks up and turns to you in question.

“Dinner is ready.”

You say it with a growing grin as Sam had made enchiladas in a Tex-Mex style you missed. Simon looks back to the disassembled typewriter once more before he approaches you and follows you into the kitchen. If the living area was eclectic the kitchen was more so. Along the walls of the modest space hung pictures of every kind. Along the side wall, under a window was an old dresser or antique buffet that held a beaten-up record player. Along the wall were art prints, old diagrams, and book posters. On the buffet, next to the kitchen table was a collection of tabletop books, big glossy things meant as eye candy. He huffs a laugh at the selection: fox photo collections, Jules Verne releases, and typewriters.

He turns his attention to Sam who is already sitting at the table, three places set for you guys to eat. Even the cutlery and plates are a mix of wild colors and subtle finery. You move to the stove where a baking dish holds something excellent smelling. Grabbing some oven mitts (fox chefs of course) you take the dish and set it on some ceramic pot holders on the table.

“I hope you like enchiladas.” You say it with a pleased expression before shooting Sam a nostalgic smile. You motion for Simon to sit and he does before you take the seat next to him.

You all begin to eat without much fuss, conversation passing in softer words between you and Sam while Simon chimes in every once in a while. However, after about 15 minutes in, Sam pauses as if remembering something.

You see a look pass over his face before he reaches behind him and picks up a letter off of the counter behind him. He offers it to you and you recognize the handwriting.

“Sofia was here earlier, she looked urgent and dropped this off mentioning for you to read it. Something about a collaboration of some kind for a release over here. She wouldn’t give me more details than that before she was rushing off to her next appointment.”

“Huh,” You work on prying the envelope open gently, “she would normally call.”

Sam shrugs but watches with curiosity as you pull out a typed document. The paper at first touch is heavy, almost a thin cardstock, and the smell of ink and paper is crisp. There is even a wax seal holding the paper close and you want to roll your eyes. The sneaking familiarity seeps into your bones as you swipe a finger under the seal breaking it and unfolding the paper. When you read the heading your stomach clenches. It was from your old company. Something in your demeanor must have changed as you lean back in your chair feeling suddenly winded. Sharp eyes turn to you and Simon and Sam both stop eating.

“What is it? Sam asks with concern, leaning forward in his chair. Simon next to you frowns as your eyes skim the letter, your shoulders getting tenser and tenser. At the end of the letter, you bite your lip before slowly closing the letter and handing it across the table to Sam without a word. He about tears it open and reads it himself.

“This is bullshit.” These are the first words out of his mouth and he tosses the letter onto the table. You don't reply, instead pushing your almost empty plate aside and putting your head in your hands with a sigh. Simon’s hand finds your knee under the table instantly and you eye him through your hands. There is exhaustion in your eyes, one that is familiar to him. You move to lay your head down with a sigh, leaning towards Simon naturally for comfort.

“What is it, Dove?” He asks, voice low.

“Read for yourself.” Is all you offer and he does so, reaching a long arm for the letter before reading.

The letter begins with a ‘greetings’ in a faceless text. Following are niceties and a “wish you are well’. One that you wanted to scoff at, given your last encounter with your previous publisher. He continues over the unnecessary and gets to the meat of the letter.

… due to the raving success of your last book under our services, we have decided to do a release tour and event of James’s new book under your direction. We have already reached out to Sofia for contact with you. Given both books' American popularity, we expect such a collaboration to benefit not only you but also White Owl Publishing. We expect James’s arrival in London this Sunday. If you have any questions please reach us at…

Simon frowns and looks at you.

“When the hell did James start writing?” Sam asks you but you just groan and pull yourself up, a hand reaching under the table to squeeze Simon’s in silent thanks. Something serious settles over you,

“I don’t know. Maybe when he started sleeping with the CEO’s daughter.”

You bite it, voice sharp as a knife. The woman was an accomplished author under her fathers' direction and specialized in YA and new adult romance novels. You used to hold a lot of respect for her when you first joined the company but she soon, after learning of your specialization in children's literature, became downright dismissive. That dismission partnered with a giggly fascination with James, turned you away from her and towards the more quiet of the other authors and editors. However, given her status as the CEO's daughter, there was no escaping her influence, thankfully Sofia was always with you, and due to your focus on children, you didn't have to interact with her much. Other than events like the Publisher’s Gala, and well you know how the last one turned out.

After the gala, you had learned from one loyal person, a fellow children's author named Sarah that the affair had been going strong for months. She hadn’t known until a drunk Sabrina had bragged on his arm at an after-party that faithful night. She called the moment she discovered your plans to leave and wanted you to know.

Back in the moment, you debate your options. Given the publication’s no doubt about you after the Gala, you couldn’t risk saying no to this. Why they wanted to associate with a ‘failure and second rate nobody’ you didn't know. You look to Sam, his family's business was now connected with one of the largest publishers in America, and you weren't going to risk their skins because of disgust and fear. A silent resolution lit up your face, Sam, seeing this, grins.

“You're going to go with this.” It's not a question out of his mouth. A shaky smile hits your face at that. Simon just looks to you, something about your determination makes him want to smile. His hand turns to entangle with yours under the table and you look at him, taking this as his support.

“Johnny will want to knock some heads” His voice surprises you and laughter bubbles out of your chest. It quiets down to giggles a moment later and you pull your plate back to you. He wasn't wrong. A few tea times after meeting the man you had told the Scot the story of why you ended up in London. His brows furrowed and looking at you he cursed.

“Cheat? On a prize like you lass? Need me to do him in?”

You mention this to Simon in a giggle. He smiles.

“Good man, Johnny is.”

He runs his thumb over your knuckles and you breathe out as your heart skips a beat, tension draining from your form as you take another bite before nodding in agreement. Simon gives you a small smile before he turns back to his food with a hum, but his hand remains in yours through the rest of dinner.

---

After dinner, you stand up to collect the dishes. Sam gives you a look before shooting up to race you to the sink. You beat him by a foot before splashing him with cool water. He chuckles at you, eyes brightening at your mirthful expression. You hear the sound of a chair and Simon stands. Sam looks at you with a grin and a raised brow before he pulls himself into a stretch.

He looks at Simon and then back to himself.

“I may have a shirt and some sweats if you’d like to change Simon.”

The taller man moves around the table and pauses, looks down at his jeans, and gives a nod. With the confirmation, Sam winks at you and leaves the kitchen for his room. You shake your head fondly before going to wash the dishes, but a hand stops you. Simon is next to you then, the proximity quickening your heart once again.

“I’ll do ‘em,”

is a statement and he nudges you aside gently with his large frame. You realize then just how big he is. While you were by no means tiny, Simon was tall. Sam was easily 6’ but you had to tilt your head to look up at Simon. He started dutifully washing plates without any more comments so you studied the side profile of his face. With a strong jawline cut with a few scars, your eyes focus on his eyes, focused and quiet as he works. The action, so domestic, calms something in you. While you loved being with Sam, you missed being with a partner sometimes, the attraction and the comfort. You loved Sam like a brother and that came with the typical roommate squabbles sometimes, you laugh mentally. You missed James some though despite everything. Having another person to hold was a human element absent in your life.

But, your heart murmured, there is Simon.

You sigh inwardly, your heart skipping a beat as you envision his smiles. They lit up his face in a way that took the weight of his service, the exhaustion, off his shoulders for even a brief moment. He had seemingly been open, but respectful about some sort of feelings towards you, and you cherished his careful support.

Your hand on his arm pauses Simon, and his eyes flicker down to yours in question. Without much thought your hand traces what is exposed of his forearm, fingers swirling around the inked skin, you linger a moment. Then, with a steady exhalation from Simon, your hands follow up his arm and over the sleeve, feeling the strength of his bicep Simon stills. His other hand reaches for the hand towel and setting the plate down he pulls back from the sink and turns his attention fully to you.

You look engrossed in your study of him, like a jeweler over a diamond or precious stone. You lift for a moment seeing the towel and step back, allowing the man to dry his hands before he takes the next step to follow you. Your eyes widen in realization when your back hits the side counter and Simon steps comfortably, naturally even, into your space.

Your breath catches in your throat when he raises a hand to your face, it ghosts over your cheek before, heart pounding, you lean into his palm. It is rough, worn from years of work, but it's warm, and something deep in you preens at the touch. Honey eyes find yours, widening a moment as you lean in, before lowering in reverence. Here you were, he thought,

“Sweet thing.”

It comes out in a whisper and your heart clenches. You close your eyes, raising a hand against his, cherishing the feel of the touch. His heart stutters then when you reopen your eyes and give him a sweet smile. Your hand runs down his arm and the other wraps around his abdomen and you close the space between the both of you with an embrace. His arms drop in surprise, but as your head comes to rest against his chest, they soon engulf you in the scent of leather and smoke.

With your ear against his sturdy chest, you can hear his heart pick up, you smile to yourself then, happy the effect is mutual. Simon inhales the scent of old books and baked goods and hums, the sound reverberating through you. He chuckles before setting his head on yours just enjoying the feeling of you in his arms. You mutter something and he questions you with another hum. You repeat it a bit louder.

“Want dessert?” The question incites a chuckle from him and his arms loose to look down at you. Something swirls in his eyes, warm like syrup, and his lips quirked up in a smile.

“Sure, Honey.” The two syllables of endearment are languid and you bask in them like a noon sun. His eyes flicker down to your lips a moment and your breath catches, but the sound of footsteps alerts you to Sam. You know him well enough, he doesn't want to interrupt so you smile at Simon and run your hands up his arms before stepping out of his grasp. Sam enters a second later with a bundle of clothes. His eyes are lit up and after glancing at you he grins at Simon.

“Here you are, Mate.” He gives a mock British accent and hands the bundle to Simon. You then pat the taller man's arm.

“Guest room is down the hall, Sam will show you. There's a bathroom too. I hope you eat cheesecake?”

You ask him and he just nods before Sam motions to him to follow. Simon gives you one last glance then heads after Sam. Once both men are out of the kitchen you grasp at your pounding heart as your stomach flutters. You felt giddy, a childish wonder in your heart at the affection. Simon was so warm and you felt safe in his arms. You hum to yourself as you pass to the fridge, opening it and examining the inside.

Beside produce and leftovers sat your quarry, made a day or so ago. There sat a glorious strawberry shortcake cheesecake, made by you. Albeit there was a slice missing courtesy of Sam but the cake was an absolute unit. You pull the covered dish out carefully as Sam pads into the kitchen alone. He leans against the counter as you work and regards you.

You hum more as you work, relaxing further in his presence, reaching to grab three plates. You then cut modest slices for each of you before sticking the rest of the cake back in the fridge.

“You’re thinking too loud Sammy.”

You then turn to him, a knowing look on your face. What surprises you is the serious look on his, Sam’s arms are crossed as he leans. You set the plates on the table before approaching your friend.

“What’s wrong?”

Green eyes turn to you, dark as English ivy, and they flicker down to you.

“I think James means trouble.”

It is all he offers. You sigh, taking a seat at the table. You think a moment. You wondered why your manager, Sofia wouldn't have called you, but this seemed like such a sudden onset by your old publisher. Given her sudden rush to leave you wondered where this put Sam’s family. Hearing your story the small publisher was happy to take both you and Sofia under their wing. White Owl Publishing was small, but they had cherished new classics under them. Your eyes flick up to meet Sam’s.

��We can’t risk your family’s reputation. Not after everything they've done for me and Sofia.”

Sam’s jaw clenches and you are taken aback a moment when his muscles tense. Sam had always been the most level-headed person you know.

“I don’t give a shit after what he’s done to you.” It is firm, Sam stands taller at the statement. You think back to the firm grip on your neck. Showing up at Sam’s door with tears streaming down your face, the choked sobs. It was the first but not the last time the man had laid hands on you. Weeks before the gala was marked with a possession like no other by James. In hindsight making up for his affair but you didn’t and still don’t understand why Sam triggered it.

“I should have knocked his teeth in the first time he touched you.”

Sam’s voice is even but you can sense the rage simmering. You get up and go to him seeking to comfort him but you jump when you see the form of Simon at the entrance of the kitchen. Your surprise has Sam turning as well, the simmer broken.

“He grabbed you, Dove?” Simon’s voice is ice. If you thought Sam was simmering rage, Simon has the look of a soldier. His eyes are dark and his lips are up in a snarl, but he is collected, with a refined rage, trained to kill. You gulp. You nod slowly.

“In the past month or so before the gala, when I found out he was cheating. James got possessive.” You say it calmly but there is a bubble of anxiety, black and vile, in your stomach. You try to shake it off, but the shadow of the experience hangs over you. Simon, fresh from the shower steps into the kitchen, hands open in an offering. Sam watches as you glance at Simon before stepping into the man’s embrace, something in his chest settling with firm contentment.

Simon on the other hand wraps you in one arm and uses his hand to smooth down your hair. He rocks you slowly and you melt in his arms. You calm in his arms, staying a quiet moment before running a hand over his shoulder and reluctantly pulling back. You look up to Simon with a shy smile,

“The cake will get warm.”

He lets you go slowly and follows you and Sam to the table. He takes the same seat and is met with a heavenly smell. The smell of vanilla and strawberry draws his eyes to the masterpiece in front of him. Sam offers him a smile before taking a large bite out of the cake that makes you giggle. You look at Simon before taking your own, albeit more modest bite. Simon follows and is met with heaven. Strawberry bursts on his tongue as the combination of heavy cheesecake and fluffy shortcake mix into a powerful combination.

“Fucking hell Love.” Is all he offers and you laugh, not expecting such a reaction from the stoic man. Your laughter is music to his ears,

“Glad you like it, Simon.”

He could get used to the sound of his name rolling off your tongue.

End Chapter 6

Taglist!

@ghostlythots, @tapioca-milktea1978, @cmbghost, @nexthyperfix

#cod mw2 2022 fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap and reader #simon riley fluff #fanfiction #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #on the same page #Simon riley x you #Simon riley #cod mw2 2022 #john soap mactavish #Protective ghost #Protect

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thekingofwinterblog · 2 months

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There is no established way that elves dressed.

Don't know why you feel this strongly about it, but as it happens, you are wrong, we know pletora of ways Tolkien's elves dressed.

Tolkien himself drew a picture of Beleg Strongbow from the first age, and from it we can see that the Elves of Doriath dressed in pointed shoes with what seems to be long white socks, knee length pants, and what looks like a black doublet.

In other words, the male Elves of Doriath dressed in a style clearly inspired by Tudor england, only a bit toned down, and seemingly withouth it's more outlandish/silly features(Codpieces and those frilly necks for example).

We also know that elves seems to have prefered shoes over boots, though some elves(The ones of rivendell at the very least) used boots, though wheter it was the prefered footwear even then is another question.

Many elves also were clearly described as "Robed" in the sense of wearing actual robes, though what sort of robes and how fanciful they might be is not specified.

Famously they are also known to use enchanted cloaks, which we can presume looked pretty similar to the movie version.

Overall though, Tolkien made it clear that all of his various people dressed in a variety of styles, depending on their climate and their ancestral heritage. An elf from Doriath would probably not much resemble an elf from Mirkwood for example.

As for war, there would be a bit more overlap(though some differences as i'll go over below), as all elves dressed the same way for war, given Plate armor is not a thing in the book legendarium.

Namely iron/steel hauberks of interlocked metal rings, aka Mail/Chainmail.

All elves wore these though there is some question wheter they wore a surcoat above it as well.

It is possible that the elves did wear coats of arms above their mail shirts, but there is nothing in text as far as i can tell that auggests this, and all description of family crests and symbols suggests they carried such on their shields, not their armor.

As for their helmets, we dont know the exact style, but from what i can tell, there doesnt seem to have been any mentions of a full helmets amongst them, so there seems to have been a tradition of helmets with open faces, with fully closed off helmets being more of a dwarf thing.

Finally, there is one bit of Armor speciffically noted to be unique to Earendil, so there is a question wheter this was from his elven side, or his Human heritage, so this style would either have been the style of Gondolin, or the house of hador.

That of course being what Bilbo describes as "Panoply of ancient kings".

Now a Panoply has several meanings, as it can be used to describe "a full suit of armor", but this is a later meaning, speciffically refering to a suit of full plate armor. The older meaning, and far and away the more obvious one when you take into consideration thst Earendil's son would found numenor, which was inspired by ancienct Greece and Rome, is the the breast armor worn back during antiquity.

Now, as Tolkien made clear there was never any true plate armor in the legendarium, this rules out the early breastplates from the bronze age and the greek golden age, and instead means that Earendil either wore a greek suit of scale armor around his chest(and some form of band armor over his shoulder, be it scales, or boiled leather), or Linothorax, the kind of paper armor that Alexander the great used to conquer the known world.

While the latter is possible, there is no mention of such kind of armor anywhere in the legendarium, but plenty of references to scale armor, so i find the first much more likely.

Which means that the Elves of Gondolin(or if we're being completely literal, only it's kings) may or may not have had breast armor similar to the kind of scale armor sometimes used by the hoplites of ancienct greece.

#tolkien elves #fashion #meta #armor #j r r tolkien #tolkien's legendarium #clothing #questions and answers

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bird-slayer-brainrot · 4 months

Text

Who? - Ineffable Husband watch Doctor Who - crack, fluff

"Mr Bond, you're truly a hero." the blond, bespectacled women said to him. It had been quite a victory, that much was true. The girl clutched Bond's arm, blushing up at him. "Mr Bond, it was ever so brave of scramoush scaramoush will you do the fandango.......

"Crowley, is that you?"

Crowley groaned. Blinking into awareness, Crowley pressed the phone to his ear. He really should change his ringtone. Leave your phone in the Bentley once and it thinks it has the right. "Yes, yes, hello Aziraphale."

"Oh dear," the angel paused for a moment, and Crowley pulled himself out of his covers and sat up. "Were you asleep? I'm so sorry for interrupting you. I'll let you get back to it."

"No, no." Crowley cleared his throat. The angel, to his credit, sounded genuinely distressed by the prospect of accidentally waking Crowley from his sleep. Crowley grimaced. "I was just getting up. What's the matter?"

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. The static buzzing of a tea kettle, knowing him, transferring through his end was all that could be heard.

"I'm afraid it's rather silly." That got Crowley's attention. He performed a quick miracle and he was dressed. Black sweater, black sweatpants (even demon's had lazy days, and he planned on gardening) and combat boots (to make up for the sweatpants). Aziraphale made a noise over the phone. "It's really not important. There was just something I wanted to show you, if... if you're not busy."

Crowley, of course, had nothing on. But Aziraphale wanted to see him so he was obviously free. Even if he had something on, he'd try and get... okay, no, that line of inquiry is well worn. He just wanted to see Aziraphale. He was bored yada yada.

"I'll be there." Crowley said into the microphone.

"Oh, good." Aziraphale's sigh transmitted through, and Crowley really had no clue then what it was Aziraphale wanted to see him for, and the angel wasn't telling him. "I'll see you soon. Safe driving."

"Never," Crowley responded, as usual. Aziraphale hung up the phone and Crowley sprung up and grabbed his keys.

Aziraphale was pacing.

Perhaps he shouldn't have called Crowley. It was ridiculous, this whole thing. But he couldn't, in good conscious, not tell the demon. It would be simply unfair not to. And Aziraphale was an angel, so he should be the one to tell him.

The bell at the door chimed. Crowley stepped inside, miracling his clothing dry. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.

"Crowley," he approached his friend, smiling as the demon propped himself a bookshelf. "You look cozy. How was the drive?"

The demon tilted his head and put a hand on his hip. "Uhh, fine." he finally spoke. That was good. That was very good. "So do you mind telling me what's going on?"

"Ah, yes." Aziraphale shifted, adjusting his cardigan, "Well, I stumbled across something that might be rather interesting to you. On..." Aziraphale paused, but Crowley, who knew Aziraphale's mannerisms as well as his own, waited. "the television."

Crowley smiled.

"Aziraphale..."

"Crowley."

And the demon laughed as Aziraphale led him upstairs.

It was unexpected.

They were in the small sitting room in the flat at the top of Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley had only been up here on occasion. The room was like the rest of the space. There was a small, brown couch with a blanket and several homemade cushions; an antique coffee table covered with books, a newspaper, two tea cups and a half finished plate of biscuits; and a slim and small TV on the bureau. The curtains were drawn.

"This is cozy." Crowley said as Aziraphale sat on the couch and reached for the remote. Crowley took that as invitation to join him. And waited.

The theme of Doctor Who began to play, and at this, Crowley looked over at the angel. Aziraphale was watching the screen, adjusting his cardigan again. Several names flashed across the screen, then, the title, The Christmas Invasion.

The episode started to play. Ten minutes in, Aziraphale paused it, and slowly turned his head to face Crowley. Crowley was already looking at Aziraphale.

"That." was all Crowley said.

"I know." Aziraphale flinched. "I was just as surprised as you."

"David Tennant?"

Aziraphale shifted. "I was meaning to catch up on the series, before it got too far away from me." he tried to explain. "And, well, there's this." he gestured towards the screen, where a still image of David Tennant's sleeping face. The resemblance to the demon at his right was uncanny.

"And you thought this was my doing?"

"Well," Aziraphale shrugged. "I didn't know what to think, but you seem just as surprised by this information."

Crowley leaned back into the couch, pondering this for a moment. Then he shrugged, and got up.

"Wait, where are you going? You can't hurt him!"

Crowley spun around on his feet. The expression on his face was incredulous.

"Aziraphale." he said in a measured tone. "That is a human man. You want to watch Doctor Who, and so do I. I'm grabbing wine." then he turned away again, and walked out of the room.

Several hours later...

Aziraphale turned the TV off. They stared at the black screen.

"That was..."

A noise broke through the silence. Aziraphale turned his head, and Crowley turned his away.

"Crowley." he said gently. "Are you... crying?"

Crowley sneered at this and turned back to face Aziraphale. His face was dry, miraculously, and Aziraphale felt a wave of tenderness wash through him.

"Well," Aziraphale's hand itched to reach out and comfort the demon. On the screen, the Doctor walked away from the wall dividing him and Rose. Well, the wall that was actually a gap in the void. The theme swelled, and Aziraphale's heart clenched. He paused the episode.

"Next one?" Crowley said gently, and Aziraphale obliged.

Later, Crowley would deny ever crying at that episode. It was not brought up again.

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revasserium · 9 months

Text

we carve up the world all the time

dazai; 795 words; domestic fluff, g!n reader but implied that they wear heels, tw for normal dazai things but i promise it's mostly played for comedic effect

a list of things that could be used as weapons around an average household, but neither you nor dazai want to talk about it:

the knife in the kitchen that neither of you ever use, the handle made of good, solid wood, the blade sharpened to a gleaming, moon-bright edge; occasionally, your hand will skim over it’s stained ironwood and pause, something thrumming like possibility beneath your skin. but then dazai wraps his arm around your middle, hooks his chin over your shoulder and asks when dinner will be ready; your hand skims over the handle and it settles on another knife, a smaller knife, a duller knife. you smile and tell him soon.

the memory foam pillows dazai had brought home one evening, hollering about the 50% off sale at the market across the street, even though you’d told him that morning that you guys didn’t need anything else, but he pouts and whines and sighs and throws himself onto the vintage chaise lounge (snagged at a yard sale, you know), all drama and sensitivity till you’d conceded that they were really nice pillows and your neck had been hurting a bit more than usual

the curtains — they’ve got such nice, long, tassels.

the curtains — they’ve got such nice, thick, blackout backs that coincidentally make them impossible to breathe through.

the pair of antique book ends that kunikida had gifted the pair of you the week you’d moved in, made of solid bronze, and carved into owls with their huge, dessert-plate eyes and their tiny, hooked beaks. dazai had alternated between loving them and hating them, but finally, he’d settled on saying that at least, if nothing else, they’d function as a good, matched pair of weights for a drowning attempt

the belt to dazai’s coat

the bottle of bleach sitting under the kitchen sink

your favorite pair of stiletto heels, with points sharp enough to pierce through a man’s heart; though dazai insists that you’d never need a pair of heels to pierces his — it was already yours to begin with

the handguns in the bedside table

the handguns hidden under the sofa

the handguns in the cupboards

the handguns in the bookshelf’s secret compartments

your favorite set of beige linen sheets, the material just soft enough to be breathable, but strong enough to last — they’d regrettably not been on sale, but even dazai had to agree that it was a worthy way to spend some cash. once, with the curtains thrown open and the moonlight spilling in great silver reams across the bedroom floors, dazai had pressed a hand to your cheek and told you that you’d make a beautiful corpse, to which you’d rolled your eyes and curled in closer and told him that if he got blood on the sheets, you’d make sure his own death was slow and most certainly painful

the whiskey rocks in the freezer, which, if thrown hard enough and fast enough, would be so much more deadly than bullets, but why waste perfectly good whiskey rocks when there’s still half a bottle of whiskey left?

your hands, with their soft, soft palms and their long, thin fingers; dazai spends too long thinking about your hands and the variety of different ways you might use them, and use them, and use them

his hands, with their neatly trimmed nails and bandaged wrists and the endless trail of blood that had long-since seeped it’s way beneath his skin, staining him till he’d believed salvation was a mere, distant fantasy. but then he’d met you and somehow, through some impossible, divine, dark magic, you’d made it all just a bit more worthwhile — still, he can’t deny the weapons that are his hands, his touch that negates so much else, but seems to only draw out the best in you. once, he’d dreamt that all your love had been nothing but an ability, and that as soon as he touched you, the spell might shatter, and you’d leave him, just like so many people had left him before, and as he had left so many other people. but then he woke up to find you sleeping next to him, your breath measured as the ticking metronome of the earth, as the certain passing of days and years, certain as the sunlight threatening to pour through the sliver of open curtain — and he dared to reach out and touch you, to trail a finger along your cheek, to watch your eyelids flutter open like a pair of moth wings to his hidden fire. and, you smiled, leaned in, and kissed him instead.

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corrodedcoughin · 1 year

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Thinking about steddie future where they're both just average guys. No rockstars, no basketball players just two Normal men living a normal life because honestly? they deserve it. They deserve soft domesticity and happiness.

They both have jobs they like but don't love and they're happy with that. Eddie maybe becomes an electrician, working for someone else's company. His coworkers are chill, he gets to get out and work with his hands and that's more than he could have asked for. Steve is a physical therapist, or a manager in some business. He likes his team and the steady hours. He's not working for his dad which is a plus.

They buy a house together, that's not a mansion but it's not a trailer either. Steve does a lot of the dishes because Eddie hates it, hates the feeling of old food on the plates and cutlery. So Eddie will kiss Steve on the cheek and does the laundry because Steve fucking hates laundry. And sitting on the floor watching TV while he folds clothes is honestly sort of relaxing?? Love is doing the chores your partner hates.

Steve and Robin go out for brunch at least once a month, where they catch up and gossip for hours and hours and Steve comes home lighter with updates on Robin and Vickie. Eddie will have nightly phone calls with Wayne, where they talk and laugh and Eddie will eventually hand the phone over to Steve so he and Wayne can talk sports together. When he's in town Dustin will come over and stay in their spare room and they laugh and joke so much it's just like old times. They go over to Jeff's house for dinner on a semi regular basis, and it's nice having normal friends.

They adopt a very annoying cat who will climb all over them in bed and meow in their faces when they don't wake up to feed it breakfast in time. Steve will go for jogs on a Saturday morning, coming home to Eddie reading in bed. Some old western book Wayne recommended to him. There's a steaming cup of coffee waiting on their bedside tables that Eddie's prepared.

They take time off of work and go on a week long vacation because they can do that now. They do dorky touristy things and Eddie buys a mug to send to Wayne. Steve takes a lot of dorky photos of the two of them.

Idk they deserve to be normal and alive and happy with no upside down anymore <3

Oh I love this! I had actually been thinking about tradesman Eddie for a little bit I am so, so glad you’ve come up with this!

I can so completely see him learning a trade and just getting employed and put through his time by a small local employer! He has to go through his exams and that part of it worries him when he first gets the job but his team end up being really supportive and Steve stays up late with him, practicing circuits and wiring and quizzing him on currents and volts. Eddie returning the favour, letting Steve mark up his muscles and be a living anatomy dummy. Sure it gets a little sexy from time to time but more often than not it’s just them testing each other as Steve identifies bones and Eddie talks about parallel circuits.

The monthly brunches mentally and physically revive Steve after working extended hours with patients that he really does want the best for but a jobs a job and it can get pretty tiring. They joke that they rebalance each others chakras but they really do feel realigned after their meet ups. Eddie can see it to, sometimes he’ll come pick them up when it’s been a boozy brunch and delights in seeing them happy and light, clambering over each other to tell Eddie something about one of the waiters or an especially good dish they ordered. When he drops Robin home Steve sits in the front and looks at peace and Eddie feels the same way.

Their weekends are for them, sometimes that means staying home and cleaning the whole place between ordering food in and sometimes that means going on a day trip and taking Wayne around all the antique spots around the county and seeing what horrors they can uncover. Top spot currently sits with Wayne’s find of a doll whose limbs had been replaced with horse legs and had the head of a fish. Of course they bought it.

Every time they go on a holiday they make sure to send postcards to everyone, including themselves, seeing if they’ll get home before the postcard does. Steve keeps them in a photo album, each with a Polaroid of them next to it. Sometimes taken by a stranger, sometimes just a close up of their faces squashed together. It’s Eddie’s favourite thing to go through on their anniversary, or any day really, just loves being reminded that this is the life they get to have.

It’s mundane, dare say even normal, but they love it. Steve comes home every night, happy to put his scrubs in the washing machine next to Eddie’s uniform, happy to be where he feels loved.

#momo :((((( you never put a foot wrong and your words are Art #I honestly feel very lucky to receive them #cat dads is so painfully true. they buy it the best food they can afford and toys and cat nip and pander to its every need #and it just loves them so aggressively for it. they have one of those baby slings for it #I love them doing dorky tourist stuff!!! I want them messing with perspective to create funny photos like holding buildings #Steve being on the phone with Wayne for the entirety of the game so they can discuss it real time. sometimes it’s just silence and Eddie #will go to speak and both Steve and Wayne will stress shush him so he goes off to meet Jeff and the guys #sometimes the guys come over and they have a night of whatever movie has come out on tape #it’s domestic and normal and they get old and happier #they go to whatever gig eddie gets tickets for. they go on their first trip abroad. they host Christmas.#(only the once though. neither of them have recovered from that experience)#idk you are just so right they can just be normal guys in love and being happy #sorry this isn’t the best reply I’m very rusty. I just love your ideas #thank you so much I really mean it #momo #stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #steve harrington #ask

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