Ghost and pet names: The first time you call him baby he thinks about it, quietly loses his mind over it for the better part of a week. It's a casual passing thing you said, probably meant nothing. He convinces himself it meant nothing until you say it to him again with a sly smile, and he falls apart all over again. Names are... important. To Ghost. They're important to Ghost. They measure things: rank, familiarity, affection. Names are a baseline guide for his world.
Sir/Ma'am are too military, too close to his every day. Daddy/Mummy are too... the feelings they conjure aren't good, he doesn't- he doesn't feel safe with them. Mister? Miss? Ooh when he groans out a "Please Miss" "I'll do better Mister" it's perfect. It makes him feel small, makes him feel safe and kept. It tells him exactly where he ranks, below you. It's respectful in a way he hasn't had to be since he was a kid, and it flips some switch in the back of his head that he isn't expecting. It tip, tip, tips him forward into some warm fuzzy space where he can leave the thinking to you and just enjoy the pleasure you give him. You take such good care of him, why wouldn't he give you the respect(the title) you deserve?
It doesn't help that it still gets to him when you purr "is that right baby?" every time he snarks at you. He knows he'll get it later, he's hoping for it actually. It's easier than asking, and you're always quick to pick up on what he wants. (Even when he knows he'll have to beg to get it)
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I brought the skirt I'm working on to the museum yesterday, to get some hand-sewing done at the desk between tours (a lot of my projects end up being done half-hand and half-machine, because I love working on the train or during downtime at my various jobs). you know, the one made of the God-Tier WoolTM
when I invited my coworker, a 19-year-old student, to feel the fabric- in that "OH MY GOD FEEL THIS!!!" tone -her jaw dropped
she had never felt soft, light- or even medium-weight wool in her life. she previously thought, it turns out, that all wool was coarse, heavy, and itchy. she couldn't stop stroking it with that awestruck look on her face
truly, fuck fast fashion and the modern garment industry. for depriving us of sensory richness in our clothing so thoroughly that most of us don't even know what we've lost
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Eddie’s doing some dumb trick with a couple of wooden spoons, clever hands making them move through the air in improbable ways, and Steve’s about to bite his whisk in half.
He’d thought for sure that Eddie would be going home the first week; Edward Munson, 29, bartender/musician from Brighton with mismatched tattoos and wild hair, seemed like exactly the kind of pretentious asshole who would flame out early with some ill-advised hipster experimentation. If Steve (28, social worker from Indiana, USA) had been a complete asshole, he’d have said that Eddie didn’t have the fundamentals. That he was all sizzle, no steak.
It’s a good thing Steve’s not a complete asshole, because Eddie’s been blowing the technicals out of the water so consistently it’s actually pretty fucking embarrassing. His signatures and showstoppers are making a very respectable showing too, except for the time he tried to incorporate some fresh pandan extract and fucked up the liquid ratio, leaving him with a dripping mess that Mary’d declined to even try.
Afterwards, Steve had seen him leaning against a tree and struggling to light a cigarette. Steve went over for no particular reason, flicking on his lighter and holding it out like a peace offering. Eddie looked at him warily, but bent over the offered flame.
“Can’t believe I made it through this one,” Eddie said after a moment, white smoke curling out of his mouth.
“Yeah, I feel like that every week.” Steve leaned against the tree next to Eddie. It was a big tree, the kind that’s probably been growing in this field since before England was even England.
“Nah, but—c’mon, you know what I mean.”
“You had some bad luck with your showstopper. Happens to the best of us, man. Your signature hand pies looked sick as hell.” Steve’s own hand pies had turned out pretty well, so he was feeling generous. It had only been the third week; plenty of time for Steve to snag Star Baker, though even by that point, Steve had been getting the creeping feeling that he was being a little too American about the whole thing. Everyone else seemed to think competitiveness was some kind of deadly sin. It was—actually kind of nice, to get the same kind of nerves he’d always gotten before high school basketball games, but know that he wasn’t really fighting against anyone except himself in the tent.
Anyway, the very next week, Eddie had done some kind of kickass gothic castle with a shiny chocolate dragon and gotten Star Baker for the second time. Steve had clapped him on the back, appropriately manly. Eddie had pulled Steve into a real hug, arms tight around Steve’s shoulders and his whole lean body pressed up close and warm. It had only lasted a moment, and then Eddie had bounded over to Mel and Sue, both of whom he’s been thoroughly charming since the get-go.
Steve thinks that when this season—or, uh, series—airs, no matter where Eddie places, the entire country is going to be just as charmed. Eddie’s going to get whatever kind of cookbook deal or streaming show he wants. Sponsors will take one look at that handsome face and charismatic grin, and a whole world of possibilities is going to open up for Eddie.
Steve’s not in it for any of that, of course. He’s here kind of by accident, because Robin pushed him to apply, and it’s a goddamn miracle he’s been holding his own. Hell, it’s a miracle he’s in this country at all. When Robin had started looking at the Cambridge MPhil program in linguistics, she’d said wouldn’t it be great if and he’d snorted, yeah right, like I could ever get whatever job I’d need to move to another freaking country, but then—well. Things had happened the way they’d happened, and now Robin’s almost finished with her degree and Steve is taking time off from the London charity he works at in order to be on Bake Off.
He’s told all this to the cameras, plus the stuff about how baking started as a way for him to connect with the kids he used to babysit in Indiana, blah blah blah. He thinks it’s probably too boring for them to air, but he gets that they have to try to get a story anyway.
Eddie Munson, on the other hand, is probably going to be featured in all the series promos. Steve is rabidly curious about what Eddie’s story is, but he hasn’t worked up the nerve to just ask. It should be the easiest thing in the world. They’ve got kind of a camaraderie going, the two of them; a bit of a bromance, as Mel’s put it more than once.
It’s true they get along pretty well, and the cameras have been picking up on it: on the way Eddie’ll wander over to Steve’s bench like a stray cat whenever they get some downtime, how they wind up horsing around sometimes, working off leftover adrenaline from the frantic rush of caramelization or whatever. There’s the time Eddie had hopped up on a stool to deliver some kind of speech from Macbeth, of all things, and overbalanced right onto Steve, who had barely managed to keep them both from careening into a stand mixer. Sue had patted Eddie on the shoulder and said, “Well, boys, that’ll be going in the episode for sure.”
They both get along with the other contestants just fine, of course, but they’re two guys of about the same age with no wife and kids waiting at home. It’s only natural that they’re gravitating together, becoming something like friends, Steve figures. It’s pretty great that he’s getting at least one real friend out of this whole thing.
It would be even greater if Steve could stop thinking about Eddie’s hands in decidedly non-friendly ways. With all the paperwork he’s signed, he can’t even complain to Robin about how Eddie looks with his sleeves pushed up to show off the tattoos on his forearms, kneading dough and grunting a little under his breath with effort. Steve had almost forgotten to pre-heat his oven that day.
Two benches away, Eddie fumbles the spoons he’s been juggling with a clatter, and he bursts out laughing, glancing over at Steve like Steve’s in on the joke. Steve grins back, heart twanging painfully in his chest, and thinks: well, fuck. Guess this is happening.
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i love the idea of eddie working jobs that no one expects him to. eddie as a baker, hasn't slept at all between finishing his concert and needing to get to work, so he's surviving off coffee alone because he has to start on the muffins. eddie as a barista, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail as he smiles with fake politeness at overworked jerks complaining about the price of soy milk. eddie as a grocery store bagger, taking the time to put all the similar foods into the same bags to make it easier for the shopper to unload at home and his rings turn ice cold from holding onto a carton of ice cream for too long.
eddie as a daycare greeter, throwing kids over his shoulder to march them into their classrooms with a warrior's roar as they squeal and pound at his back with grubby fists. eddie as a valet at a fine dining restaurant, opening doors with an outstretched hand to assist guests and then peeling away in a too nice car once the driver was out of earshot. eddie as a florist, wrapping smiley face bandaids around his fingers that were pricked by one too many thorns before setting out a curbside vase with free flowers for tourists to grab.
and you know what else i love? steve falling for him in every possible universe. he's first in line to get the blueberry muffins that he's grown to crave every wednesday morning, and it absolutely has nothing to do with the man at the register. he's at the end of the mid-morning rush to get his coffee and blushes when he sees the barista give him a real smile instead of the fake ones he throws around. he stays long after his bags are tucked neatly in his shopping cart so he can invite the guy who went the extra mile to pack his things nicely to his house for dinner because they both know he bought enough for two.
he's the single dad who's a little rundown but sees a future in mr. eddie as he holds his crying kid to his chest and sings something to get her smiling again. he's the guy standing off to the side in the parking lot laughing because the hot valet doesn't know how to drive stick and he has to yell instructions to him for how to put it in gear so he won't get fired. he's the new to town fireman that's looking for a fresh start who takes a flower from the free vase every day only to bring it inside and give it to the guy who's prettier than all the other flowers combined.
the idea that they can find each other time and time and again and the love story feels right. the idea that they can be two strangers or best friends or enemies or teammates and let whatever blossom between them until they're madly in love. the idea that eddie is eddie and steve is steve and that they are a match no matter the circumstances.
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