#tfone4one

Why don't you want minors/ageless blogs interacting with your entire blog even though you write a lot of SFW content?

Because I also write a LOT of NSFW content, and I'm also an adult who just does not wish to have minors/possible minors interacting with my work. By choosing to not allow ageless blogs interact with my content (I stop it where I can), I get rid of the risk of minors hiding behind blank blogs interacting with my content.

Can I be added to a taglist?

No. I used to do taglists when I was still a Haikyuu blog, and I found that they were very overwhelming. There's not really a good system to getting people to add themselves to it (i.e. I used to have a Google Form that people would just ignore all the time, and so my ask box was just full of taglist requests), and even after limiting the amount of people on the taglist, even just 20 people became very overwhelming for me to keep up with. I've also found that a lot of people who signed up for my taglists would either change their usernames without notifying me or their Tumblr settings wouldn't allow them to be tagged. There was also a point where I was doing taglists, and they were either getting flagged as spammed, or I just noticed that it was killing my post engagement in general, and that can be a bit discouraging for a writer.

What are your politics? Why haven't you spoken on (insert issue here)?

My favorite video game is Cyberpunk 2077, and my idols are Morgan Blackhand and Johnny Silverhand. You can use that information to figure out my politics. I will speak on politics where I see fit. The truth of the matter is that I'm just not very vocal on my politics on this specific platform. People who know me in real life know that I am very vocal about what I believe in. A lot of my beliefs align with punk values. Like actual punk. Not any of that bullshit hateful or poser shein punk. If it really matters to you, feel free to ask me for my opinion on a certain subject. I usually just don't talk about politics here unless there is something I feel super strong about or if someone else brings it up. But for the most part, I'm just here to post my work and go. I don't spend a lot of time on Tumblr outside of just posting my work. I rarely read on here anymore since work takes up so much of my time.

Your CoD fics aren't lore accurate/That's not how the Military works/That's not how things are done in (insert country here).

Argue with a wall. I'm always down to learn about the different cultures of a country and how things actually work in said country, but I don't give a fuck about being "lore accurate" or military accurate. There's bigger fish to fry. I'm writing about fucking people made of pixels. Don't read my stuff if it really bothers you that much.

Why don't you write for (insert character here)?

I don't want to. There is really nothing more to it. Either I just don't want to or I feel as though I don't know that character well enough to write them. That's all :)

When are you going to update (blank)? Will there be another part of (blank)? Please tell me you're gonna write more of (blank)!

I know that these comments have good intentions, so I am not going to try to villify those who leave them, but for a lot of writers, including myself, these comments can be kinda... Well, annoying. It also kills my motivation more than you could ever know. It puts a lot of pressure on writers to deviate from what they want to write to appease to their audience. For those of you not familiar with fandom culture-fan art, fanfics, etc. are meant to be seen as a gift to the community. Please treat it as such, and try to keep yourself from demanding more. If you want a writer to continue a piece of work or a series that you really enjoyed, reblog it, share it, and provide real feedback. Tell us what you enjoyed about the fic. Tell us what you want to see in the next possible part. A million "where is the next part?" and "Will there be another part?" comments aren't helpful or motivating. I appreciate that you loved my work and want to see more of it, but please be considerate to your writers.

It took Johnny six dates before he would touch you. Even then, you practically had to fucking beg for it. You tried. Really, you tried. Every kiss, every slip of the tongue, every grab at his waist near his stupid fucking belt–it went ignored. You weren’t sure if Johnny was doing it on purpose or if he was just that oblivious to how fucking bad you wanted to fuck him. It’s not until your seventh date that you confront the bastard.

It’s a late night, and you’re both on leave. You just happened to get that lucky. Fat and heavy raindrops smack against the glass of your tiny apartment’s windows. Music plays softly from a speaker as you lie with Johnny on the couch. You’re in between his legs, on top of him. His large, calloused hands massage your scalp as your head rests on his chest. You’d just spent the evening out to dinner, and you’re absolutely soaked from walking from the driveway to your door. Thunder booms occasionally, but you’ve never felt so relaxed as you lay with the man you were beginning to fall in love with. 

Eventually, though, you sit up. “We should probably shower,” you suggest. “I feel gross.”

Johnny smiles down at you. “But you look gorgeous,” he replies. He laughs again when he can see the way you roll your eyes with amusement. 

Now, you think to yourself. This is my chance. 

You finally stand up, ignoring the way Johnny whines and reaches for you. “C’mon,” you mumble softly. Your head tilts in the direction of the bathroom. “Let’s go.” 

That’s when Johnny gets quiet. He shifts around a little bit, perhaps uncomfortable. “You go first, bonnie,” he insists. “I’ll catch one after, alright?” 

It stings. It fucking burns. You can feel it in the way your jaw tenses up as if you’ve just swallowed the most sour pill to exist. It’s felt in the way your ears tingle with rejection. What the fuck were you doing wrong? That’s all you wanted to know. 

But instead of saying something, you just nod. “Alright,” you say in a whisper. Nothing else is said as you turn away and take off towards the bathroom. Your eyes don't catch that Johnny frowns–the way he groans, head in his hands as he throws himself back on the couch. You don’t hear him cursing at himself when the water starts running. The water is hot, and it should have been soothing. Instead, it feels like it burns. Then again, maybe that’s just the tears that are running down your face. 

Once you’re done with your shower, brush your teeth and do your skincare routine. You’ve found yourself with a sudden aversion to the mirror. You can’t look at yourself without wanting to break down. Why do you feel this way? You know that he likes you. Clearly, he does. 

That’s what I thought about Simon too. The thought crosses your mind as you scrub at your skin. His words ring clearly in your head. So fucking good. You feel so fucking good. You were made for this. Made for taking cock. Made to take me. That’s all you’re good for. 

That’s all I’m worth. You splash the cold water on your face, rinsing yourself free of your face wash. Hopefully, it would rinse you of your thoughts of him for the rest of the night. Why were you even thinking about him? You have a gentleman here with you in your home. He had just taken you out for a fancy steak dinner and massaged your scalp for ten minutes. Quit thinking of another man! 

Finally, you step out of the bathroom and change into your night clothes–a simple t-shirt and your comfiest pair of sweatpants to keep you nice and warm. When you leave your room, Johnny is grabbing a towel from the closet. You can’t see it; you’re too blinded by your insecurities. There is a softness in his bright eyes. He looks at you as if you’re the only woman on earth–like nobody else matters. 

His lips press against your forehead. “I’ll be as fast as I can, hen.” 

You don’t say anything in response. Only a weak nod is given. Once he’s in the shower, you open your favorite bottle of red wine and pour yourself a glass, and that’s how he finds you–freshly showered, wine glass in hand, curled up on the couch, and music still playing. You look so fucking soft, and god, he fucking wants to. Just Like Heaven by The Cure plays gently through the speaker, and he finds it to be fitting for this moment. He wishes he could freeze time and stay here forever. God, he needs it. 

But he controls that urge, and he joins you on the couch. He gives you a smile before he leans forward to kiss you again. Your lips taste like red wine–notes of dark plums and blackberries, the slightest hint of cinnamon. It’s earthy and warm, like the embrace of eternal love. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers to you. 

Carefully, you set the glass of wine down. Then, you crawl into his lap, your lips finding his once more. It grows hot and heavy. There’s a hunger in you that you feel will never be satiated. You could eat him alive, and that wouldn’t be enough; you’d always yearn for more. You’re whining and whimpering as you claw at the fabric of his shirt, leaning further into him. “John,” you beg. “Please.” 

It’s hard. He’s hard, and by what he believes is a miracle, he manages to pull back. “Wait, bonnie,” he gasps between kisses. His strong hands find your shoulders, and they gently hold you back. He can see the way you look at him as if he were starving you of the greatest meal to be had. It’s no secret that you’ve been wanting him. He can feel it in every kiss you give him after a date, in the way you pull on his hand to drag him away from his tasks when you’re on base, and in the way that you were grinding yourself into his lap just now. “Not tonight,” he breathes out. 

Your shoulders sag, all the sexual energy and tension releasing itself as another wave of rejection crashes over you. There it is again: the tingling in your ears and the pain in your jaw. Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and your eyes burn with tears that you try to keep from falling. You crawl out of his lap, and without another word, you stand up. Your jittery hands grab the wine bottle and your glass, and you go back to the kitchen in silence. 

Johnny watches you with sad baby blues. He wants to say something, but he struggles to find the right words. Instead, he sits on the couch, his stomach twisting and turning into all the knots they teach you back in basic training. The guilt gnaws at him. It chews him up and spits him out. When he hears the music from the speaker change, he realizes that it’s been five minutes since you’d gone into the kitchen–five minutes that he’s left you alone to sit in a pool of insecurity, and fuck–now his heart is in his stomach. 

He finally gets up, and he heads to you. He finds you standing before the sink, hands braced against the cold countertop. Sniffles leave your nose as you look down, crying into the sink. The sight of your shoulder shivering and shaking with each sob you hold back does nothing to ease the guilt he’s feeling. Softly, he speaks your name as he reaches for you. He flinches when you jerk away from his touch. 

“Why?” You question. “I don’t get it. Why won’t you touch me? Why won’t you sleep with me?” Then you turn around, revealing your tear-stained face. “What am I doing wrong?” 

Frantically, he shakes his head. “What?” He says. “You’ve done nothin’ wrong, hen. Why would you think that?” 

“John, please,” you sigh, wiping away your tears. “I’ve been dropping so many hints. I’m practically fucking begging for it, and every time we get close to it, you stop. You just… You pull back!” You sniffle. “So I’m asking you why!” You look down at your feet. It’s so humiliating–begging to know why the guy you’ve been seeing won’t just fuck you. “Are you just… not into me like that?”

Johnny looks at you like you’ve gone mad. “No!” he almost shouts. He steps forward, resting his hands on either side of your face. A frown tugs at his lips when he notices how your eyes avoid his gaze. “Please,” he says, his voice full of heartache. “Love, look at me.” He sees the hesitation. He can feel the fear of rejection, and he hates that he’s been doing nothing but cause that fear to grow stronger. However, when you finally do look up at him, he feels the weight of the world lifted from his strong shoulders. Only the thought of hurting you could ever make him crumble. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “You have…” He lets out a big sigh. “Fuckin’ no idea how bad I want this–want you. You’re all I think about.” 

“But then why–”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m only stickin’ around to have sex with you,” he interjects. “I promised myself that I’d take it slow–show you that you are worth more than your body, more than what he made you feel like.” 

The words ring in your head. You are worth more than your body, more than what he made you feel like. “You don’t…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “I don’t understand. How’d you–?”

He interrupts you again. “I can just tell,” he answers with a shrug. “I just…could feel the way that you felt after every night you spent with him. I don’t ever want you to feel that way with me,” he explains. “I want you to know that this… We are real. I’m in this for the right reasons. I want you so fucking bad, bonnie. You’ve got no idea,” he says. “But I also want forever with you. I don’t just want your body. I want early mornings and late nights with you; I want grocery runs; I want to be the one who holds you after a bad day; I wanna argue about how many times I have to be told to take out the fuckin’ trash–all of it.” He brings you closer, resting his forehead against yours. “And I want you to see that before I even think about getting in bed with you.” 

God, he must have a talent for making you wanna bawl your eyes out. At least this time, though, you were on the verge of tears for the right reasons. “Do you promise?” You breathe out as if you were scared to let the words leave your lips.

He nods without any hesitation. “I promise you,” he confirms. “I’d move a fuckin’ mountain for you if it was blocking your view of the sunset. I’d fuckin’ die for you.” 

You let out a watery chuckle, shaking your head. “Considering what we do for work, I hope I never have to see that day. Let’s not put that out into the universe, alright?” 

He laughs with you, and he nods. Once the two of you settle your giggles, his hands move down to your hips. “Can I kiss you?” He asks. 

“Yes.” 

He immediately shoves his lips to yours. It’s soft yet passionate. It’s filled with all of the words he couldn’t find to describe just how much you meant to him. Before he knows it, it grows hot and heavy again–just as it did on the couch. However, this time, he thinks you’re ready. He’s ready. 

Without a second thought, his knees bend slightly, and his thick, muscular arms are under your thighs. He lifts you gently to set you down on the counter. He stands between your legs as he continues to kiss you. A hearty groan is falling from his lips as he feels your tongue push into his mouth. “Fuck,” he moans. “Christ, woman, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me. I can’t get enough of you.” His hands are running all over your body. He grasps at anything he can, savoring the feeling of your flesh. 

“John,” you whimper. “Please. Been waiting so long. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

He pulls back for a moment, hands still on you. He looks you dead in the eye with a love so sacred that you can’t even begin to describe it. He wants to say it; he wants to tell you so fucking bad, but it’s just not the right time. It’s far too soon, isn’t it? 

So instead of uttering the three words his heart aches for, Johnny merely nods, and he picks you up again. He gives you one last soft and sweet kiss before he begins to carry you to the bedroom. When he places you on your bed, comfy duvet surrounding your body, he’s so gentle. He treats you like you’re made of the finest porcelain. He helps you move a couple of pillows out of the way for your comfort. 

As Johnny lies on top of you, his arms on either side of your head, you look up at him and cradle his face. You allow yourself to feel the prickle of his facial hair beneath your fingertips. He looks like he’s in absolute awe of you. You can’t help the smile that forms on your face. “Thank you, John,” you whisper. 

Johnny looks so fucking soft as he peers down at you. The feeling of your hands on his face released any tension he was holding in his body. It was so easy to feel at ease whenever he was with you. Vulnerability was never something he shied away from. “For what?” He asks. His fingers find their way into the ends of your hair to gently play with them, sending tingles up your spine. 

“Everything,” you answer, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You make me feel safe–cherished… I haven’t felt this way in so long.” You lean up and kiss him. “I…” You can’t finish your sentence. Though you feel safe with Johnny, that doesn’t absolve you of all the anxiety you feel surrounding relationships. “I…”

“I know, hen,” he declares. “I know.” 

He finally leans down again, lips against your neck. He sucks onto a couple of spots before licking at them, bathing in your soft little moans. Eventually, he moves to take your shirt off. His lips trail down your body, and he takes his sweet time to worship you. You deserve it after all. When he gets to your waist, he can’t help but give you a little nip–like a goddamn dog. A chuckle slips past his lips when he hears you let out a squeak. 

“John,” you whine. “Come on.” 

“Alright, alright,” he digresses. He pulls down your pants, and he groans at the sight of your cunt. “Fuck, hen,” he curses. “You really did want it, didn’t ya? No bra–I get, but fuck me, no panties either?”

“Thought it was obvious how much I needed it,” you shoot back. Your eyes watch as his hands travel over your thighs, squeezing at the flesh. He takes a moment to feel you up. Then, he leans in to kiss up your thighs, occasionally biting here and there. “John, stop teasing me.” 

He listens. He dives right in between your legs. His tongue swipes back and forth between your folds, and he lets out a moan the second that he tastes you. His hands are gripping your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you closer to his mouth. As he goes to work with his tongue, you can feel his nose bumping against your clit. He shakes his head back and forth, and you can see the way his eyes twinkle when you squeal with pleasure. 

Your hands reach down to get a tight hold of his hair, pulling him towards you. The pleasure is too much. Without thinking, your legs begin to close around his head. He pulls away from you, and you whine. “Wha–?”

His muscular hands forcefully push your thighs apart, holding them against the bed. “Stay still,” he says. “Keep ‘em open. Need you spread nice and good for me.” As he speaks, he’s looking right at you, and with the help of the moonlight, you can see your slickness all over his face. He eats like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have like you’re the only thing that is keeping him alive. Before he dives back in, he takes a hold of your hands. His fingers slot between your own, and he gives them a gentle squeeze. He keeps a hold over your hands as he continues to lick and slurp at your juices. Every time he feels your hands squeeze his own, he groans and squeezes them back. 

This felt different. Everything about this was different. Simon didn’t ever prep you like this. Sure, maybe he’d stick his hand down your panties and rub at your clit until you felt wet enough for him, but never did he do anything like this. More importantly, Simon would never even dream about holding your hand. Every time with him was quick, rushed, and rough. Johnny though–he was gentle yet firm. He was making it very clear that he was there to please you, not vice versa. 

Before you know it, your thighs are quivering as you cry out Johnny’s name. Your hips lurch off of the bed, and your back arches as you writhe in pleasure. You don’t let go of his hands as you come undone. You can feel him groaning against your cunt as he laps at your juices, catching every drop on his tongue. Once he’s decided you’ve had enough, he finally pulls back with a smile. 

“Tastes like heaven, babe,” Johnny says. He maneuvers his body so that he’s on top of you again, face to face. He’s still clothed, and he chuckles when you whine and tug at the shirt he’s wearing. “Alright, alright,” he digresses. 

He reaches behind him, grabbing at the fabric on his back, and in one swift movement, the shirt is pulled off of his body. There he is before you–his toned body, muscles on display. He’s fucking glowing in the moonlight. You’re so distracted by how beautiful he looks that you don’t realize he’s completely undressed by the time he’s back on top of you. 

You can feel his hard cock brush against the inside of your thigh, and you jump slightly at the contact. You look down and see the pre-cum leaking from the tip. He’s quite thick. You start to have doubts about being stretched so much, thinking that you may need additional prepping. He must catch on because he leans down and kisses your cheek. “Hey, it’s alright,” he reassures you. “We’ll go slow. Won’t move ‘til you’re ready.”

“Okay,” you whisper, holding onto his biceps. 

He clears his throat. “Uh, you’ve got, uh, you know…” He gives an awkward cough. “Protection…? I didn’t bring anything…”

Your eyes widen. “Oh!” You realize. “Uh, shit, right!” You turn slightly towards your nightstand.

It should be awkward and embarrassing, but it isn’t. Okay, maybe you're a little clumsy. Your hands are fumbling around in the bedside drawer for the box of condoms that have been sitting in there. You haven’t touched them since you bought them after your third date with Johnny. You’d tried to lure him into your bedroom that night. Of course, he denied being the gentleman that he is with you. 

When your fingers finally grasp the foil packet, you hand it over to Johnny. He takes the time to carefully tear open the package and slide the rubber onto himself. Once he does, you turn over onto your stomach before holding yourself up on your hands and knees. 

“What are you doing?” You hear him ask.

You look back at him, a bit lost and a bit embarrassed. “I thought… Don’t you want to…?” Your face feels warm, and that tingle in your ears begins again. You lower yourself back on the bed and turn around, face falling into your hands. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just messed this whole thing up, didn’t I?” You ramble. “Fuck!” 

Johnny immediately shakes his head, his confusion only increasing, and he reaches out for you. Slowly, he removes your hands from your face. “No, I’m sorry,” he tells you. “I shouldn’t have said it like that… I just mean–I wanna look at you.” 

It hurts him. It feels like he’s been shot right in the fucking gut when he sees the confusion and the tears in your eyes. It’s as if you’ve never even thought about the fact that he would want to see your face when he had sex with you. Simon never did. The only time Simon ever looked at you while he fucked you was the first time it happened. No, Simon was so cold and harsh with the way he fucked you. Always, he shoved your face into the pillows, the mattress, up against the wall, or wherever else he was fucking you. It was like he couldn’t stand to look at your face. 

But here Johnny was–ready to hold you, to look right into your eyes as he thrusts into you. Every time he looked at you, he looked like he thought you were the creator of the fucking universe. It was different. It was something you had never known with Simon. 

Johnny takes his time to lay you back down on the bed. “I wanna look at you. I wanna see you,” he declares once more. “Just gonna start slow, okay?” He says. “Tell me when you’re ready...” After he gets a nod of confirmation, he grabs his cock and lines himself up with your entrance. He swipes it between your folds for a bit before finally pushing in slightly. 

You gasp as you feel him enter you. He takes his time, slowly working every inch in. He listens to each sound that leaves your lips, and he watches your body language, looking out for any signs that you might be feeling discomfort. Eventually, he bottoms out, and he moans. “Oh, god,” he gasps. He has to brace himself against the mattress. “You feel so good already,” he nervously chuckles. He is doing his absolute best to not go completely feral with you. The feeling of you wrapped around him makes him dizzy as he white knuckles the sheets beneath you. 

You look up at him, stars in your eyes as your eyebrows pinch together in pleasure. “Okay,” you whisper after a couple of seconds. Your hands slide up his bare chest, thumb running over his collarbone. “I’m ready.” 

He nods back at you and leans down to kiss you once more. Then, he begins to move his hips in a slow and steady rhythm. His eyes keep their focus on your face. If there was any inkling of discomfort written on it, he’d stop. However, he doesn’t see it; he only sees bliss, and when more moans fall from your lips, his hips move faster. 

“John,” you whine, your arms reaching forward to wrap around his shoulders. You can’t take your eyes off of him. He’s looking deep into your eyes, and any time they begin to fall shut, he shakes his head and tells you to open them again. 

The sound of his hips smacking between your thighs fills the room as you both grunt and groan in pleasure. Every once in a while, he’ll kiss you until you’ve run out of air. He feels your fingernails digging into his skin, which only spurs him on. His hips move faster and harder, and he pulls your arms away from his shoulder. He takes each of your hands and pins them against the mattress. He holds your hands with a steel grip as he continues to thrust into you. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you’re almost there,” he begs. “Because you feel too fuckin’ good. Not gonna be able to–”

“Yeah,” you grunt back. “Almost there. Just don’t stop,” you huff out, back arching with pleasure.

He lets go of one of your hands, and you want to whine. You want to grab at him and tell him to put it back, but that thought is quickly forgotten when you feel his calloused fingertips rubbing at your clit. You mewl and moan like a bitch in heat, and your legs begin to wrap themselves around his waist. Your hips move back and forth, craving for as much friction as you can get, and it makes him let out a small chuckle. He likes you like this. He likes that he can physically feel that he’s making you feel good–from the way your legs lock him in to the squeezing of your cunt around him, gripping him, like you’re trying to suck him in deeper.  

Before you know it, you’re gasping for air and your back arches off of the bed once more. Your entire body begins to shake and quiver as you moan his name out. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and there’s a searing feeling in your tummy. You’d just had the most toe-curling orgasm of your life that you can’t even hear the way that he moans your name and spills into the condom. 

What a waste you both think, but maybe next time. Perhaps he’ll drive you to the clinic in the morning so that you can get on the pill. Maybe, you’ll go for another round in ten minutes, and he’ll just pick up a morning-after pill. It doesn’t matter; just know that it’ll happen one day. 

Johnny soon pulls out and is quick to dispose of the condom. Then, he leaves the room. There’s a hammering in your heart when you come down from your high and realize he’s no longer in the room with you. When you sit up and look around the empty room, you can feel the tears coming on, and you expect to hear the front door slam shut. 

But you hear something else. You hear the sound of the bath tap running, the sound of the water crashing into the tub, and suddenly, you can breathe again. Soon enough, Johnny is in the room with you again, and he’s lifting you up into his arms. He kisses the top of your forehead, and you’re off to the bathroom. 

While the tub is filling, Johnny has you sit on the bathroom counter. He puts down a towel beforehand so that your skin doesn’t have to touch the cold stone. You’re quiet as he rummages around your cabinets, looking for some bathtime accouterment. He lets out a soft “ah-hah” once he finds your stash of bubble bath liquid and bath bombs. He puts both in the warm water before turning back to you. 

There’s a faraway look in your eyes as you gaze down at the floor. He notices it. “Hey,” he calls to you softly. He moves a bit of hair away from your face. “What’s going on?”

Finally, you look up again. When you see him, you reach out to him. It’s like he can read your mind because he immediately wraps his arms around you, and he just holds you close to him. “I’m just really glad you’re here,” you whisper. Your voice is shaky as if you’re reluctant to tell him. “I’m glad that this… this is real.” 

He understands what you’re trying to say, so he nods. “I’ll be here,” he says. “Always.” He kisses your forehead again and helps you off the counter and into the water. He joins you not long after. He insists that you relax against him. Your back rests against the front of his torso, and he begins to help you lather up. “I like the smell of your soap,” he mumbles. “S’like I’m at the spa.”

You chuckle and shake your head. “Dork.” 

He helps you with everything–the bath, getting you dried off, getting dressed. He even makes sure to shove a glass of water in your hands, and he watches as you drink it before he helps you under the covers. Then, he gets in with you. There’s no hesitation in the way that he pulls you into his arms, letting your head rest on his bare chest. It’s warm, and it feels like home. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep. 

However, when you wake up, that feeling is gone. His warmth is gone. The other side of the bed is a mess of sheets and nothing more. There’s no note explaining where he’s gone. The clothes he’d worn last night are gone as well. It’s like he’s left without a trace, and though you know that after last night, you shouldn’t have doubts about his intentions, you can’t help it. You don’t heal from the sickness of being used overnight. 

Then, it hits you–the smell of something burning. Frantically, you crawl out of bed and rush out of your bedroom door. Your feet carry you to the kitchen, and that’s where you find him. In all of his glory, as the sunlight pours through your windows, there’s John Mactavish in nothing but his boxers. He’s standing over the stove, the smell of burnt pancakes wafting through the apartment. His attempt to scrape the burnt batter off of the pan is pathetic. “John?” You say. 

He looks over at you, panics in his eyes. “Aw, shite,” he groans. He quickly turns the stove off, and he hangs his head like a guilty dog. “I’m sorry… Wanted you to wake up to something nice, so I started the laundry and wanted to cook for you,” he explained. 

You can’t help but smile at him. It’s a big, kiddish grin. The type of joy you experience when you still think Santa is real and has left you gifts. Without a word, you bound over to him, jumping into his arms. He catches you without any uncertainty. He laughs when you begin to kiss him all over. “How long ‘til the laundry is done?” You ask between kisses. 

He kisses you back, holding onto you tightly. “Just stuck it in the dryer,” he answers. “Maybe an hour.” 

“Means that’ll give us an hour to play,” You suggest. “And then when we’re done, you can put your clothes back on, so we can go out and get some food after. Then, I’ll take you to the store so that you can buy me new pans.” You’re teasing him, and he loves every bit of it. He loves all of these silly moments with you. 

“Alright, alright,” he accepts. He carries you out to the living room and playfully tosses you on the couch. “Why don’t you show me what you wanted to do to me last night before I reacted like an idiot then?” 

You crawl into his lap, smirking at him. “With pleasure.” 

You weren’t completely healed from what Simon had done to you, not by a long shot. However, as Johnny held onto you while you sat in his lap, his lips attacking every inch of your skin, worshipping you as if you were a goddess sent from above specifically for him–you knew that he was the cure. You were going to be alright. 

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that this man knows how to fucking cook. First of all, this man gives “line cook” energy, and if you know anything about what it takes to run a line, you know that it takes skill. Maybe I’m biased because I have a thing for line cooks, but I need you guys to trust my expertise on this.

That aside, like, just think about it. Logically speaking, it makes a lot of sense for him to not only know how to cook but cook well. I imagine that because his dad was such a deadbeat, his mother was probably depressed most days. Didn’t want to move or none of that, so Simon was left to fend for himself. He had to learn how to be self sufficient.

It’s sad to think about, but sometimes, there were days where Simon snuck out of the house and into the woods to cook himself a real nice meal. His butcher apprenticeship had meant that he’d get a good cut of steak every once in a while. On those nights, Simon would shove the steak in his backpack, along with a potato and a tiny bag of homemade bread dough, and he’d march out to the woods.

He’d learned how to build fires long ago, and it was on those fires, a nice bed of coals in the dirt, that he’d cook him up a nice juicy steak. He’d season it well, and he’d throw a slab of butter onto his potato once it was well cooked in some tin foil. He’d cook the bread on a rock he cleaned with a bottle of water, and he’d top it off with some butter and a tiny bit of honey he’d brought. Nothing but the sound of the crackling fire kept him company as he savored his meal.

When he started helping his brother get back on his feet, Simon taught him how to cook and provide for himself as well. He probably would have been there to teach Joseph too.

Cooking is one of Simon’s forms of therapy. He likes to experiment with ingredients, but he’s also got a good memory for different flavor profiles. It’s like an algorithm in his head. He just knows what works.

And nobody really knows this. Sure, the task force had seen him find creative ways to amp up those god awful MREs they were given to consume on the field, but they didn’t know just how well Simon could cook. He’s a pretty quiet, private dude after all.

That’s why they’re so shocked when they get invited for dinner over at Simon’s house. Their jaws drop and their mouths water at the gourmet looking spread on the dining room table. A pretty little thing sitting at the end of the table in a dress, showing off all the right things, her legs crossed. A glass of red wine sits in her hand, her lips wrapping around the edge to take a sip.

“Christ,” Soap says under his breath as he sits down.

The steaks look juicy. Cooked to a perfect medium rare. A perfect crust sits on the surface. The smell is absolutely heavenly. Next to the steaks is the biggest bowl of mash. It looks so smooth and buttery and creamy. The perfect texture.

And then there’s a basket of homemade bread rolls. You could just tell that they were made and kneaded by hand. It sits next to a bowl of the prettiest salad the men swear they’ve ever seen. The colors of the vegetables are nice and vibrant, bring a lightness to such a heavy and hearty meal.

“You’re a lucky man, Simon,” Price comments. “Need me a missus who can cook like this.”

“Seriously, he won the lottery with you,” Kyle adds on.

The woman at the end of the table scoffs, shaking her head. “Oh no,” she says. “All I did was toss the salad with the dressing. This is all of Simon’s doing.”

Their jaws drop again as Simon emerges from the kitchen, an apron tied around his body. The woman stands up and walks over to him, untying it and hanging it up out of the way. She presses a kiss to his lips. “My iron chef,” she compliments. “Come on, sit down. I’ll make your plate since you’ve been slaving away all night.”

And Simon, of course, is smug. He likes when people are in awe of his skills, of course. He can’t get over the way his team is drooling over his work.

But what he loves more is his woman. The woman who appreciates his hard work, and the woman who is glad to let him show off as she serves him a plate of the food he’s made. No one misses the way he squeezes her ass as she sets it down in front of him.

“It was nothing,” he says nonchalantly. “Besides, M’nothing without my pretty little sous chef.” He presses his lips to her cheek as she sits down. “Dig in, lads.”

Of course, he’d never admit it though. As his large hands cut into his steak, as his teeth tear through the flesh, and as he watches both his wife and his team feast on his food, there is a warmth in his chest—there was always passion in the food he’d made. However, this is the most love he’s ever put into his cooking.

Sure, it took him all fucking day. Sure, he was stressing about the cream to butter to potato ratio earlier. Sure, he spent an hour trying to figure out which wine was going to complement the flavor profile of the steak the best, and sure, he was losing his mind trying to keep the steak sauce from splitting, but it was all worth it.

Simon didn’t have to hide in the woods to eat his steak and potatoes and bread anymore. He didn’t have to fear that someone would take his food from him, get angry at him and call him selfish for hoarding it away.

Now, Simon could cook this food in a house with a stove and an oven and a grill. He had more company than the wind and a fire made in the dirt. He had a family—one he could share his food with. A family he would keep fed so long as they let him do it.

Simon isn’t very good at saying he loves someone, and he’s not very good at showing affection, but he’s a damn good cook. That said enough.