This Happens To Me At Least Three Times On A Daily Basis

oi mate

saltwater

He’s there in the room when the terrible thing happens.

Or: You and Ghost trauma bond over weeks and months.

17k, rated E, one-shot

[READ ON AO3]

the floorboards creak under his weight, his knees burning n his joints aching from the weight of his muscles being pressed against the hardwood.

“baby,” his voice comes out low, but not low with its usual rasp and usual deep tone, its whispery and whiney. you can see the pout in his lips from where you sit at the edge of his bed, the slump of his broad shoulders, he looks so pathetically desperate.

“what is it, si? hm?” you cock your head at him, the gloss of your lips shining under the dim bedroom lights as they tug into a sweet unknowing smile.

he sighs, eyes slipping downward n he fidgets with his fingers softly fighting to come up with words. simon can feel his cheeks burn in a blush, embarrassment trickling into his bloodstream.

“give me something, anything,” he laughs, voice cracking under the need that stirs low in his stomach. “please, i need you.”

you nod slowly as if processing his sweet words, yet you know exactly what he deserves. and he’s not going to like it very much, but what comes easy? without pain there’s no pleasure.

“come here then, love.” you grin, eyes never leaving the big hunky man kneeling at the floor.

he’s a good boy, palms pressing against the wood as he crawls his way to you slowly. his knees drag the floor, neck arching to peer up at you as he continues his journey forward.

you can see the tendons in his neck stretch and flex, and with the way his lashes flutter you can’t help the excitement that fills your belly and soaks the cotton of your panties.

“right there’s perfect, honey,” n on command simon comes to a stop a couple feet in front of you, settling back on the heels of his feet as he watches you impatiently.

“unbuckle your belt.” he follows your instructions, hands pulling and tugging until he can feel the material hugging his hips untighten. “show me yourself.”

his jaw ticks as if he was shy, but course he listens and pulls his jeans under his ass letting his cock fall free and brush against the pretty blonde trail that lines under his bellybutton.

“being so good for me today,” you giggle softly letting the words hang in the air between the two of you. “touch yourself, simon.”

his smile from the sweet praise falls, brows falling into a deep furrow that wrinkles the skin between em. “w-what? no, no-”

“do it.” you warn slicing through his voice, the soft of your voice turning stern as your lips scowl ever so slightly.

his face reads nothing but disappointment but he’s a good boy n he’s going to listen no matter what, even if the night took a terrifically depressing turn of events for him.

his hand wraps around the length of himself slowly, shoulders dropping in a deep breath as his begins to stroke his cock slowly. he can’t help the way his skin warms under your eyes, this is deeply embarrassing, yet he complies and continues.

his free hand balls up against his thigh, eyes fluttering as he catches your gaze within his. his eyes flicker across your face, the pretty red of your lips, the lively look in your pretty eyes and its sad how he can already feel the twist of his stomach.

his stomach collapses, chest rumbling as a soft groan purrs off his lips. his head drops back slowly, eyes rolling into the back of his head. he’s been pent up all day and the feel of finally being able to get off has him folding.

you watch his hand speed up, pretty pearls of precum beading up at the angry red tip of his pretty cock. you unbutton your shirt slowly, the fat of your breasts concealed under the thin lace of your bra.

“look at me, simon.” you whisper and he complies, head falling forward wide eyes scanning down the tanned skin of your supple tits and the smooth skin of your belly.

his lips curl as he chokes out a sweet whimper that hits your ears and tickles in your lower stomach. “fu-huck… you look so beautiful.” his mind is all over the place, picturing and painting pictures that have his balls drawing up with an impending release.

“goddamnit, please, baby. help me,” his pretty begging makes you laugh softly, you can tell how close he’s getting, hand moving quickly against himself, from tip to base with soft squelches that follow his rapid hand.

you pull your bra under your tits, letting them spill out for his greedy eyes before you set your perfectly polished foot along the length of his flexing thigh. his fingers wrap around your ankle before you can feel his nails pierce through the skin, leaving small crescents in the wake.

“i’m so close, c’mon,” his words come out in a deep growl before they end in a pitch that heightens into a sweet whine. “let me cum, mama, please.”

you can’t say no to whiney begging that leaves his bitten lips, eyes darkening as you peer down into his flooding eyes, tears lining his waterline. “go on, baby, you gonna cum for me?” ⊹˚ ₊‧ 𝜗𝜚

think sum1 needs help… ✌️

perhaps if we all try hard enough we can blame everything on timothee chalamet

it is so vital to my well-being to have more possessive, delusional gaz. like.. having a one night stand w him and you accidentally blurt out that you love him while you're in the middle of a life-changing orgasm.

albeit awkwardly, you manage to send him off in the morning without any issue. he was cute but you couldn't see yourself in a long-term relationship w him, so you've already made up your mind to ghost him. then the texts come. he's hounding you for days after, ranging from casual invitations to dates, to possibly half-naked selfies. it's like he doesn't understand why you wouldn't be responding.

you finally glimpse one of the messages on your homescreen (you've been leaving him on delivered, not daring to open the messages) where he says you "confessed your love” to him, which means you two must be serious.

inwardly cursing yourself for the slip, you realise you just need to block him before this escalates further.

he's concerned that he can't reach you, but luckily remembers your address from your first night together. maybe he'll just need to teach you how to accept a loving and caring man into your life <3

Steve Huston, 'Ghost Boxers'. 2010.

“i can fix him” “i can make him worse” i can imagine him in little scenarios every night as i’m falling asleep

✷ Your Last Embrace ✷

Twitter art dump! A Big angy boy

the ghosts of the past were the only thing that truly scared the ghost, the man who if someone'd seen him walking towards them from across the street at night, they would've started calling the first helpline number available and saying their prayers, even if they weren't believers .

in truth, ghost wasn't a troubled man, he barely was what was left of one, simon.

ghost wasn't a troubled man, but he was all that was left of one. every time the thick balaclava slipped on simons face, he'd turn off the few emotions that were still left in his body, mind running on autopilot as he coldly shut off his scarred heart. simon needed that, both a relief and a way to turn everything off, he needed to know it wasnt him killing people. it made his heart rest better to know it was ghost, not simon.

simon, who'd gone through hell and back, watching his friends, honourable soldiers, fall by the hand of a simple yet fatal mistake.

simon, whose family was slaughtered and he felt so helpless and unworthy, because why join the military and train to fight when he couldn't even protect his three years old nephew?

feeling so low he could barely keep his brown eyes open, he didn't think he was a man who deserved to live. why, when nobody was there to live with him? sure, johnny and kyle could try to cheer him up and distract him as much as they wanted, but they couldn't follow simon to his flat by the railways, in front of the man united stadium. price regularly called him: every other day to check up on him, ask him if he fancied a pint. simon rarely said yes, but he was grateful price didn't forget about him the moment they left base, it made him feel like he was, after all, someone. more than once even kyle booked a cheap hotel room near simon's place so he could spend time with him. forcing him to go outside and meet up with him and price. sometimes even johnny could make it, hopping on the first train from glasgow to see his lieutenant.

simon studied the pub. ironically, kyle always decided to drag him to the pub where simon spent his late teens with his mates from the time. that was, of course, before simon turned eighteen, and without speaking a word to anyone, left to join the military a week after his birthday. when he'd first come back, almost a year later, all his friends had either moved out of manchester or thought he'd moved out too, cutting off contacts. it was a shock for the few ones left to see his dog tags underneath his shirt when he first showed up again.

it was meaningless.

he was meaningless. flesh on bone, a heart pumping his veins full of life without him being able to stop it.

simons complete view of life was of suffocating suffering, a meaningless amount of time he had to spend on this earth for what he used to believe was for a greater good. there was not such a thing, simon was sure of it now, a bottle of beer in his left hand as his right one brought his cigarette to his chapped, pale lips. he looked down the river irwin, the city noise muffled out by the quiet and calm chatter of people walking past him. he felt almost envious. they had someone to talk to.

but he'd never been the loquacious type either, tommy always did the talking, simon usually dragging both of their arses out of the messes tommy brought them in. that's how it worked, their dynamic. his brother talked, too much sometimes, even for him, and he made sure nothing happened, as easy as that. simon was the one who stepped in when things got bad, in any situation: outside of the pub with a drunk man that tommy'd pissed off with his witty remarks, older boys at school when they were children, or at home, with their father. needless to say, simon got the most of the beatings, scars adorning the skin of his back even before stepping on the field. the cigarette burns on his arms and legs itched every time he'd think too much about it.

ever since finding his brothers corpse on the stairs of his own home, front door unlocked, his wife and son dead on the master bedroom's bed, he'd been craving what it felt like to love someone again. he craved loving someone, craved the feeling of something so strong it would change every fiber of his being, that would alter the chemistry of his brain. it was almost visceral, the need he had to satisfy. he despised everything good there was in life, anything that should bring happiness bothered him, but he was still a human being, and being human meant longing for someone else, another half.

throwing the cigarette butt in the river, he turned around, not ready to be home in less than fifteen minutes. the feeling of getting swallowed in the darkness and silence of his own home made him almost paranoid, he was driving himself crazy. simon would have chosen to throw himself in the river if given the choice to pick between that and going home, but the early rays of the dawn started blinding him, and the shadows under his eyes were becoming darker by the second. maybe he'd take a longer route.

simons restless nights became quickly part of his life, following him everywhere around the globe during the years. he found in the lack of sleep a way to control his life, he desperately needed control. when all was to shambles, control was all he needed. sleep, exercise, food, sex, attitude and performance were things he could control, and the less he let himself slip into, the more in control his tired body felt.

"five hours of bad sleep every two days won't keep you alive." price'd told him, and simon groaned.

"good then."

"we need you alive, simon."

"ya need a soldier, not me."

"we need you, simon." price insisted, shaking his head. "you're a good man, we need you."

"i'm not a good man."

until his seventh year of mourning, simon never thought he would find peace of mind, but he found it coming along with spring's sweet scented flowers and chilly breezes; you.