AKA Left Charlie18+ I'm Old (30) Likes and Follows from BlueMoonRoverAO3 - KO-FI
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From Scratch
Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny
No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.
One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.
He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.
Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones.
Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.
From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.
You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.
A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to.
Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour.
You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.
That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.
You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.
“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.
That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.
“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”
“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”
He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”
You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.
After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching thoroughness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.
Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”
“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together.
You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier.
“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”
You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.
There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.
You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.
Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.
He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.
Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?
So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.
You're not cooking, but he's still here.
You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.
He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.
So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.
Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours.
It doesn’t move away when he sits back.
Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.
You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.
…You’re not stupid. Right?
After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge.
You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.
He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.
He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.
You fall asleep there. So does he.
Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.
You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.
You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.
Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.
But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely soon going to be swept away by someone else too soon.
You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.
Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth.
You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–
–his mouth is just there, on yours.
He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once.
Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.
After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.
He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.
“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.
“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.
He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”
“Oh?”
That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.
His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”
You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.
And just like everything else about him, this fits.
His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.
His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.
His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.
When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.
His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.
You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–
“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.
…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.
“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.
You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”
His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”
You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.
He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.
You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”
You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.
“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?”
Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.
Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.
He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.
“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”
Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”
He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”
You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.
“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”
His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.
“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.
It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.
“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.
You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”
He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”
“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”
His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.
“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”
And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.
“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”
“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”
He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”
When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You don't want to rush this.”
He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”
Masterlist
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“As you read a book word by word and page by page, you participate in its creation, just as a cellist playing a Bach suite participates, note by note, in the creation, the coming-to-be, the existence, of the music. And, as you read and re-read, the book of course participates in the creation of you, your thoughts and feelings, the size and temper of your soul.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin
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I thought I was done, but no, like Lewis Black I return to shout again.
I feel like a lot of you are upset because Veilguard raised a lot of complicated questions about how history is indeed actually unreliable and religion can be based entirely on a lie, and maybe gods or a creator doesn't exist and the universe could be unfeeling and unthinking and how do you square that with the need to be good people who take care of each other, especially knowing that in the past people WEREN'T and DIDN'T and it makes you uncomfortable.
And it's not the job of the developers to answer those questions for you. They presented them in the form of banter and cut scenes between companions and you are supposed to interrogate that with yourself. In the outside world. The game is merely telling a story. And it tells that story well. The rest of it is literally up to you.
I did see right after release that people were upset about how questions about the elven gods and Harding's questions about the Maker were handled but the game is not obligated to make you feel like there are answers to these complicated topics. You actually have to do some thinking, and some of it applies to the choices in-game, but the rest of it is meant for your own brain.
And even then. Veilguard is ultimately not about these complicated questions, even though they inevitably get asked because they're part and parcel with what the group is dealing with philosophically in the immediate.
Veilguard is a story about a strike force trying to prevent two absolutely insane beings from taking over Thedas, and preventing a third from letting his grief and regret destroy it afterwards.
*Inquisition* was a story about building a religiously motivated army to handle an event no one had any information on, and because it happened in a religious nation at a religious site, it was treated as a religious event. Maybe if it had happened in Nevarra, a Fade expert like Emmrich would have said "wow, so, not so much Andraste but x, y, or z” but that's not what happened, and Solas kept his lying liar's mouth shut and a religious army built itself up and gained political power (by the way Rook has zero armies or clout, Rook is not an Inquisitor) and now a lot of you are comparing two completely different games with two completely different regions and two completely different events.
Why are you comparing religious notes. Why do you care if Veilguard has many fewer mentions of the Maker or lady Jesus. It's literally a different story, about a scrappy bunch of weirdos, and they talk about their relevant religious nonsense *when it matters*.
#DAV#DA4#Im not even through the game yet and im really enjoying these differing perspectives#i could fucking write an essay in the tags I stopped and started like six different sentences lmao#I look forward to seeing how it all shakes out#Dragon age
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how to spot a writer:
unhinged google search history
crying over fake people
owns 200 notebooks (they're all empty)
#i only have 4 unfillex notebooks! (lying but I have a prefered notebook style and only 4 left)#unfilled**#my eyes don't want to be open yet.#i love writing in notebooks though ive filled about ten over the last 4 years#the rest is true though
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Simon Riley loves Sundays.
He doesn’t experience the Sunday scaries. Quite the opposite. Instead he views it as a golden day, one spent pottering around the house with you. Lazing for far too long in bed, having to be dragged out of it by the hand, tousle haired and relaxed, as the afternoon creeps slowly towards you both.
Sometimes you go walking together, count how many happy dogs you see on the way to grab a coffee. Simon always lets you win that game, because it makes his heart ache with happiness to hear you teasing him about losing. He’s got the eyes of a hawk, yet he missed the little dachshund with a jumper on the sunlit park bench. Must have been a blind spot.
It’s either a quiet pint and roast in a small pub nearby, or one you make at home. Side by side you wash up together, then collapse on the sofa to watch a film. Simon’s head always ends up nodding onto his chest in the warmth of your company, until you start to fall asleep too and he knows the day is drawing to a close.
It makes him melancholy when Monday morning rolls around. The shiniest part of the week is a whole six evenings away. Worse when he leaves for work, and you spend Sundays alone.
It’s not glamorous, not filled with excitement and exuberance. Sundays with you are peaceful, they fill him up with a wholesomeness that’s cherished. Kept close as a flickering match is during a howling storm, sheltered between large paws and bloodied knuckles.
You make Sundays his favourite part of the week.
#Sundays sound really nice#im gonna have this kind of sunday today#sumon really clings to whatever good things he can get#and I think it's lovely
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i bet daniel craig and rachel weisz are engaged in forms of full time kink we can't even comprehend. like if he leaves even one speck of crust on her tea sandwiches she puts him in a christening gown and hunts him on their estate
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hey so this is just a reminder that your one shot doesn’t have to have smut to be “good.” every chapter of your series doesn’t have to have smut to be “good.” your smut doesn’t have to be kinky smut to be “good smut.” you’re allowed to participate in fandom and fanfiction without ever writing or engaging with smut if that’s what you desire, and i promise it’s still just as valuable.
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every time the wardens do something fucked up i like them even more. this isn't about any game specifically but all of them. i fucking love the knockoff night's watch, i love that they guzzle nasty ichorous darkspawn blood that you'll die from 1) now or 2) in thirty years and how they don't tell their recruits until it's too late and the damage is done. i love their secrets and corruption and their heroism in the face of primordial darkness. i love warden leaders and warden recruits trying their best and the infighting that inevitably happens when they disagree.
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immeasurably self indulgent,,
just got a retainer so i had to make the experience a little kinky. enjoy this john x reader meet cute
you weren’t meant to smoke with your retainer in, but you’d left the case at home and holding it in your palm while you you fumbled with your lighter outside didn’t seem like a viable option either. so instead you made a solemn promise to your dentist in your head to floss extra thoroughly that evening to make up for it.
and you couldn’t be too mad at yourself really. not when you might not have bumped in to john at the pub otherwise.
he’d joined you after raising a brow at the empty spot next to you on the bench and huddled in closer than socially acceptable after a moment when you shivered from the winter chill in the air, even wrapped up in your big puffer coat.
heat seemed to seep from him like the heavy smoke from his lips as he pulled on his cigar and you happily and greedily soaked it up from where his arm and thigh lightly sat against yours. you smiled thinly but politely as you lifted your cigarette to your lips.
the smell of his cigar was cloying, too thick and earthy for your tastes, even as a long time smoker, but you didn’t say a word as he blew it into the wind, unwilling to ruin the little bit of peace you’d found.
it felt intimate sat there just the two of you in the dark early evening; your friends just a hairbreadths away inside but none the wiser to the silent, temporary companion you’d made on the rickety bench.
you were the designated driver tonight, decided when you’d gotten to your friend’s house and realised you’d kept your retainer in by habit and wouldn’t be able to drink without damaging it. the group had encouraged you to go ahead anyway but the price of the bloody thing had you hesitating and offering to drive everyone home instead in your friend’s beaten up ford focus.
and yet despite the precautions you’d taken early on in the evening, here you were anyway.
you’d just have to get yourself some good dental cleaner tomorrow for it and hope dr singh didn’t notice any staining when you next saw her; mouthwash would have to do for tonight to freshen it up again.
“don’t think i’ve seen you around before,” your companion spoke as you dotted out your tab end against the ashy brick wall to your left, an unspoken ashtray going by the litter of filters gathered on the floor at your feet. “i’m john.”
“i’m here celebrating a friend’s engagement,” you said with a small smile. “it’s not my usual haunt, but she likes it and the ciders cheap enough.”
john winced. “don’t tell me you drink that swill.”
“not tonight, at least,” you snorted. “not good enough for your… acquired taste?” you paused to nod at his cigar with a wrinkled nose. pungent.
john huffed, biting back a smile.
“what are you drinking tonight then? said you’re celebrating, so you on the champers?” he asked.
“last time i checked they were ordering shots,” you recalled with a grin.
“aye? wanted to be able to buy you a drink when we got back inside, maybe convince you to talk to me a little longer where it wasn’t freezing cold. but i can do a round of shots for you and your mates instead.” at the mention of the chill you felt your hands ache and your legs clench to halt your shivering. john was warm, but without the distraction of a cig, you were suddenly a lot colder.
“that’s kind, but im on the lemonade. staying sober for the night so we can avoid taxis since this was all a little last minute.”
“ahh,” john nodded. “so no chance of you finding me charming enough to come have a cuppa back at mine later then.”
“oh that was supposedly in the cards for you tonight, was it?” you laughed, taken aback by his confidence and assumption.
“i’ve been told i’m pretty convincing,” he winked and took another puff. “shame though.”
“mm, is that so?”
“aye. for you in particular,” he continued to tease. “because i’ve also been told i’m a great kisser.”
“have you ever been told you’re a bit of a brag?” you asked.
“is it bragging if you can back it up?” he asked seriously. his eyes dropped to your lips before looking back up again. “and i do make a great brew.”
“coffees more my thing,” you said, leaning into his arm.
he took a deep pull with a shake of his head. he let the smoke go as he spoke, curling in the air like you could touch the humour lacing the words on his tongue. “cider and coffee. not sure if this is gonna work out between us after all, love.”
you couldn’t help but giggle, kicking yourself for falling for his charms as easily as he said you would.
he smiled as he looked at you.
“alright, so i can’t prove that i can make a proper brew, but i can prove the other thing if you’re interested,” he offered. his cigar was close to a stub, half burnt down from all of the talking. you’d imagine he’d be angry at the waste if you weren’t so caught up in his trap, readily hitting each mark he laid out for you perfectly.
“hmm, going to warm me up?”
“like you’re not already hot ‘n’ bothered,” he scoffed under his breath, though you were close enough to catch it, and slipped one arm around your back. he pulled you closer by the hip and leant down so your noses touched. “are ya gonna let me?”
you nodded minutely and in the next breath he was cupping your face to tilt your chin up ever so slightly. you don’t know where he dropped his cigar stub but it was far from your mind as his rough beard caught on the sensitive skin of your cheeks and lips, chapped from the cold.
your writhed in his hold on the small bench, eager for more before giving him the chance to get started. begging for his heat and touch and tongue.
your breath hitched when one of his hands slipped beneath your thick coat and wiggled its way under your shirt, squeezing and palming at you fervently, like he was just as desperate. he bit at your lip and you whined, digging your hands into his shoulders where you held on tight, tugging him closer as your thighs clenched and shifted, knocking his own.
he smiled as he ducked back in to kiss you, pleased at your reaction, skimming his thumb beneath your bra and slipping his tongue passed your lips when you moaned.
your tongues brushed and you opened up wider when his hand pressed gently - just a suggestion - at your jaw, before using his height to angle over you and kiss you deeper.
“john,” you breathed out, barely able to speak as he dove back in with a heated groan.
he licked at your teeth and suddenly you both froze. you’d never felt so aware of yourself as you felt his tongue prod at your lower teeth once more, quick sharp, before he pulled back.
you felt red hot embarrassment fill you head to toe as you suddenly recalled your retainer. you prepped yourself, ready for his disgust confusion or pity, and pulled back reserved. frustration prodded at you as you saw john lift his fingers to his tongue with a frown, checking his fingertips for blood when he pulled them back.
“i’m so sorry,” you blurted. “i forgot i had my retainer in.”
his eyes widened in understanding and his frown disappeared. “caught my tongue on the edge i think, woulda been more careful if i knew,” he laughed. you were happy to realise it wasn’t at you. it was at himself. “too bloody eager, wasn’ i? slobbering on you like a dog.”
“i liked it,” you admitted quietly, your shoulders high out of bashfulness instead of embarrassment now.
“aye?” his grin was slow but satisfied, eyes hooded as he pressed closer again. “wanna do it again?”
you grinned back but before you nodded you bit your lip and lifted a hand to touch a tooth covered by your retainer with a finger.
“i don’t have the case with me, i can’t take it out,” you said, worried you were rapidly ruining the mood after somehow managing to keep john interested.
he shrugged, unbothered. “keep it in.”
you blinked, taken aback. “o-ok.”
“what d’you need it for anyway? used to have braces? got a cute photo of you grinning with a mouth full of metal?” he teased.
you rolled your eyes. “i clench my jaw all the time, cracked a tooth because of it. my dentist is hoping this might help,” you explained.
john licked his lips as his gaze dropped to your mouth. you could’ve sworn his own breath seemed suddenly laboured and that his hand felt heavier when it rested high up on your thigh.
he dragged his eyes back up to yours and smiled a little lecherously, eyes darker than they’d been all night. “i can think of a way to train y’out of that.”
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I just don’t caaaarreee. I don’t care. But I care a lot though I care SO much. But also I just don’t care at all and never have. But also I do and always will. Hope that helps
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DA2 ruined me because I routinely think to myself, "It sure is a nice night for an evening," and I am right. It is a beautiful night for an evening. I'm with you, Aveline, I get what you were trying to say and the evening could not have picked a better night to be an evening on
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unedited brain dump about ghost having a freakout about wanting rough cnc sex with his sweet, doting, fat gf
cw: cnc scene negotiations, possessiveness, mentions of rough sex, abrupt ending per my usual
all simon can see when he looks across the kitchen table every morning is an angel. someone infinitely kinder, holier, more pure than he has any right to be around. when gaz had set him up with you, he was sure he was in for more of the same old same old; nervous looks, shrinking body language, and a stuttered excuse to leave the restaurant early... but you'd done none of that. you smiled so easily at him, didn't seem put off by extended silences, and laughed so prettily at his stupid jokes. when you gave him your number at the end of the night and asked him so sweetly if he'd like to get dinner again sometime, he knew he'd be keeping you for the long run.
now here you two are, years later, and he's just as infatuated as ever. he's gotten to know every curve of your soft, round body, and you've gotten to know every scar on his. being around you is comfortable, relaxing, cathartic. as far as he's concerned, everything between the two of you is wonderful... which was why he is so fucking afraid to ask this of you.
he's a monster for wanting these things, he's convinced of that. he's not the type to lay a hand on a woman, and yet he keeps having dreams about slapping your face, fucking your throat, mocking the tears that run down your face as he pins you down and fucks you roughly against the floor. he wakes up harder than he's ever been in his life and is upset with himself every time, sneaking away to the bathroom to have a guilt-ridden wank over the toilet as he imagines you crying and covered in his cum.
it feels like he's got himself on a mental leash of sorts, the way he feels the need to hold back, to not play too rough, to let you take the lead. it's been years of being good, of being proper and sweet so as not to scare you off. it's not a burden, per se, being good to you never is, but like any leashed mutt, he can't help but dream about being allowed to do as he likes without restriction.
it's just that he wants you so fucking much all the damn time, and in his warped mind, the proper way to express that is to chase you down, hold you still, and fuck you stupid. he always has to hold back, to not push you to the floor and take you from behind when you bend over, to not sink his teeth into the fat of your ass and hips and belly, to refrain from sinking his fingers into the plushness of your body with bruising and possessive pressure. all he wants is one opportunity to indulge the animal inside of himself, the one that drools and pants and howls at the mere sight of you.
simon can't bring himself to even say the words until he's sat on the couch with you standing between his legs, his arms wrapped around your waist as he presses his face to your soft stomach. it's impossible to look you in the eye when he says he wants to hunt you down in your shared home, to force himself on you, to take and take and take as brutally as he can without causing injury. there's a simmering fear that voicing this desire will be the deathknell of your relationship- the only good thing he has going.
when he finishes telling you what he wants, he waits for your response with baited breath. you've only ever been understanding, patient, and sweet to him- and that's what gave him the courage to ask in the first place. he's an odd man, more intimidating than most, he knows that- but you've always dealt with it with a sort of grace and ease that he hasn't experienced since his mother passed. you've always been able to see past it all, to see the real him and appreciate him for the man he is deep down. it's what has him clinging to hope that this won't be the last time he has you in his arms, the last time he gets to press his face to the softness of your belly, the last time he is allowed to touch you.
the feeling of your fingers gently running over his buzzed head damn near makes him jump out of his skin and burst into rare tears. even after his confession, you're still voluntarily touching him, not fighting to get away, working your fingertips gently over his scalp to soothe his frayed nerves. this solidifies it- you really are an angel of some sort, you must be, a kind and beautiful creature that sees him as he is and has deigned to be kind to him despite it all.
"thank you for telling me, simon. will you look at me?" you ask, tone gentle without sounding forced. slowly, he slides his gaze upwards, not loosening his grip on you in the slightest. to his eternal relief, you're smiling softly down at him, your face made even rounder by the upturn of the corners of your mouth.
"let's plan something for next weekend, okay? gives us plenty of time to plan things out." you tell him, your face as serene as ever. the words to respond stick in his throat, and he's unable to do anything but nod as his eyes water in relief. you aren't leaving. you don't hate him. you're agreeing to let him do this, and all with a smile on your lovely face.
"my safeword is 'apple'. what's yours?" you ask, and it makes simon's heart feel too big for his chest to hear you inquire about it. the question makes it feel more real, like you're not going to blow him off or take this lightly, that you're determined to do this right.
"christmas." simon clears his throat so he can say it again without the softness and wobble in his voice. "my safeword is christmas."
"ok. i can remember that." you cup his cheek and graze a thumb over his scarred face, looking at him with such love that it feels almost painful to receive.
"i love you." he blurts out, voice muffled by your stomach as he presses his face back against it in a self-soothing gesture.
"i know. that was never in question." you reply easily, fingers tracing circular patterns against his scalp again as you let him enjoy your softness, warmth, and acceptance.
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once I start taking my vitamin D we’re gonna be SO back.
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