something silly and soppy for this cold, miserable evening. indulge me in the vision I have of 9-5 Eddie and his gorgeous clothes. nsfw (kind of)
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I know that Eddie's messy and boyish and wears ripped up clothing and that it's all part of the appeal but I want to indulge this idea I have so just imagine that you're both in your 20s and growing up with him by your side and he, to your surprise, gets a big boy job at a record label in Indianapolis. it's a 9-5 most weeks and so you take him shopping and get him some nice shirts and fancy trousers but you make sure they're still Eddie - a couple subtle chains and metal hoops, cufflinks with the devil and DnD dice on them. he keeps the rings and the bracelets and the chain he wears around his neck, though it stays under the shirt.
and then one day you come home from work and he's already in the living room, just like most other days. you find him on the couch, your cat on his lap, in his smart, well-fitting black trousers, crisp white shirt tucked in and a pretty leather belt around his hips. he's just in socks and he's messed his hair up a little, but he looks so goddamn grown up and smart and it makes you swoon.
he beams at you as you drop your stuff and sidle over to him. like usual, you're on him like a flash, the cat politely nudged off with you taking its place on his thighs, mouths and hands all over each other. this happens often; you miss him, he misses you, you both look hot in your work clothes. your hands roam over the cotton of his shirt and soon they grasp his belt and unbuckle it, running under his waistband and untucking his shirt. his lips are warm and wet on your throat and across your face; you're like horny teenagers who can't get enough of each other. the second half is true.
and, like every time, he takes you to the bed and the work clothes come off slowly but surely, thrown in slapdash piles on the floor. before he takes the shirt off he's between your thighs, because he knows you like how he looks in it. it's glorious and he's amazing and you're coming faster than ever, with his hands splayed across your thighs, rubbing up and down and gripping in desperation to the fat there.
when he moves up your body to kiss you, he stops, head hanging over your own, because you're crying.
he's pleading baby, are you okay? please stop crying, here, let's stop, c'mon, and you're reassuring him that i'm not sad, eddie, you're so good to me, i just can't believe this is my life.
he pulls you up to sit in his arms, and as he rocks you side to side gently, you tell him that there is nothing in the world you love more than coming home to your gorgeous, handsome, loving boyfriend stroking your cat on your couch in your home. and you tell him that you're not sure what to do with all the love you have for him, that you feel like telling him isn't enough, that you have never felt so content in your life.
he just tells you that he feels the same way. he tells you that he loves that he gets to wait for you to come through the door, he lives every day for the indescribable sensation he gets when you do, the way his heart leaps every single time, how he wants so badly to wrap you up and squeeze so tight that two become one.
he says he feels silly admitting that, but you just hold him in your hands and kiss him silly, assuring him that he's not silly, he could never be silly; you wish you could put it into words the way he does. a natural writer, he's so good at giving you ways of describing how you feel, and that's just it - you feel he completes you, though you know that you don't need completing. but that makes it better, because its a wholeness you never knew you could have.
he's still in his white shirt, though it's more crinkled now. you keep saying sorry for ruining the mood but he keeps repeating that you didn't ruin anything, as his hands continue roaming and he lies you on your back. you're kissing each other all over and you feel a warm glow inside your body. it is so nice to be so loved by someone you are watching grow up and who is watching you do the same.
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thinking about laying beside simon on the bed, your head resting on his shoulder while his hands held a book that you had gifted him, his eyes fixed on the text.
your fingers absentmindedly traced over the scars on his chest, letting your soft fingertips draw over the rough sunken skin of the healed gashes — a painful story written in each of them. and you wanted to read it all, read every scar and cut, kiss all of it, absorb it so you could share it with him — a connection only you’d ever have with him.
your fingers slowly found their way to his stomach, hand caressing the muscles that had softened up ever since he had come home from deployment, your eyes noticing the stretch marks starting on the sides of his tummy that you adored so much. pale lines adorning his skin, urging you to probe them too, your hand touching him so gently — an angel soothing a wounded soldier.
simon is gorgeous, too gorgeous. he never seemingly saw it the way you did. “you’re so pretty…” you lazily whispered, pressing a soft kiss on his shoulder.
you were the warmth his cold heart sought, the fire that melted him, the sun that gave his moon the light he never thought he’d see. he needed you in the way a man needed a god, in a way a plant yearned for water. and you were happy to give it all to him, everything for your sweet simon.
“you tryin’ to tickle me, love?” his gruff voice broke you out of your trance, your eyes finding his which were no longer looking at the book, an intrigued grin playing on his lips that made you giggle heartedly and give his stomach some pats.
“maybe.”
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