jackactuallywrites

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 29

Summary: Ghost tricks you into doing housework because he’s literally just a poor injured baby

Warnings: Ghost’s history of him being sexually assaulted and such is referred to but only vaguely

Word count: 2,195

ao3 link

“Simon.”

He grinned devilishly at you.

“What? You said you would have liked to meet my family.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which only served to make his grin widen, and he gestured to the box of cardboard tubes containing the cremated remains of his family, “That’s mum, my brother Tommy, ‘is wife Beth, and little Joseph. I was best man at the weddin’.”

“No dad?”

He gestured to a darker corner of the attic, “My old man’s somewhere over there. Prick can stay there.”

“You know, occasionally you pass as normal. Then you do this and pull me right back to reality.”

He looked far too pleased with himself, “Well, you wouldn’t like us if I was normal, would you now?”

“Is this the whole reason you dragged me into the attic for? Because I will take the ladder away and leave you up here.”

He picked up the smaller tube containing his nephew’s remains and held it in his arms, “I thought women liked a man who was good with kids?”

Would it be blasphemous to beat a man with a tube of his own mother’s ashes? Probably. You shifted over the thin boards laid across the attic rafters and back to the hole where the ladder was, and he laughed.

“Love! Come on. I was being honest when I said I needed a hand in the attic.”

Your foot stilled on the ladder, and you turned to stare at him suspiciously. He’d placed the remains of his family to one side, and now he was pushing vacuum-packed bags towards you, filled with bedding. You’d half expected another tube of ashes. How old was this bedding? God, you really hoped it was just a thin layer of dust on the plastic, and not any other relatives. You tossed the bags down the hole, letting them flump onto the landing below, watching the dust dance in the air, “So, no Johnny up here?”

“Nah, we spread his ashes up in Scotland.”

“Ah.”

“Well, we tried to. That’s the thing with ashes, they’re not really all ash. There’s ground-up bone and the like. So, y’get the fine powder that comes out all nice and cinematic like, and then there’s still a bunch of thicker powdered Johnny left over. Got in our eyes, all over the grass, and our trainers.”

You snorted, looking over at him as he slid a packed duvet over to you, “No way. Really?”

“‘M sure I��ve still got a little bit of him in my lungs somewhere.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“He’s sat in there with about half a kilo of tar. Probably the healthiest thing in there. If I cough enough, you might get to meet him.”

You rolled your eyes as you tossed the duvet down, and Simon cleared his throat repeatedly, “Hold on, let me get him for you.”

You didn’t bother responding, quickly hustling down the ladder, then flicking the latches on the side so it retracted, trapping Simon in the attic. It served him right.

“You can stay up there and think about what you did.”

You laid the ladder beside his crutches, watching as his legs dangled over the edge of the attic opening, looking down at you, “You gonna torture a poor injured soldier?

“Absolutely.”

Perhaps you should have known that it wouldn’t be so easy to trap the man. He simply twisted around, bracing his hands on the edge of the trapdoor, then carefully lowered himself, letting his body dangle in the air, his top lifting up slightly as he did so, showing off the trail of blond hair over his stomach and the lines of his muscles. Slut. It was unfair that he was tall enough to touch the floor with his tiptoes while still hanging on the edge of the trapdoor.

“Like the view?”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no point in lying,

“Obviously.”

He grinned, crossing one leg over the other as he started doing pull-ups, now clearly showing off for the sake of it. Ah, why deny yourself the sight of him? Even in his long-sleeved top, you could see the bulge of his muscles, the sheer power in them every time he lifted himself up. He paused, then beckoned you with a jerk of his head, “Bet I can do one with you hanging off me.”

“Is that safe?”

“‘Course it is.”

“You gonna risk pulling something just to impress me?”

“Always, darlin’.”

You wrinkled your nose, “I take your health a bit more seriously than you do, clearly.”

“Did you not just try trap us in the attic?”

Instead of answering, you just handed him his crutches, “Come on, help me make the bed. You might be able to sleep on the floor, but I’m not gonna.”

He took the crutches from your hands, leaning down to grab a pair of vacuum-sealed pillows, “Yes, ma’am.”

It only took about five seconds for you to give up on making the bed; after all, Simon was a soldier, and clearly, a great part of that experience had been making a pristine bed, something you couldn’t even pretend to care about. He smoothed out the duvet with his hand, having lectured you every step of the way, “See? Not that hard.”

“Keep talking like that, and you can sleep on the floor.”

He looked up at you, tilting his head slightly, “You gonna make a poor-“

“Yes, bitch, I’ll make the poor injured soldier sleep on the floor. Try me.” You flopped on the bed, ruining the pristine white sheets already, “I’ve got half a mind to make you sleep outside.”

Simon narrowed his eyes at you, stepping closer to where you were sprawled out, “I just made that bed.”

“I’m sure you’re capable of making it again.” A half-baked impulse came to mind, and you pushed yourself up onto all fours, knees at the edge of the bed as you looked back at him, wiggling your arse at him, “Were you not planning on messing it up with me?”

Oh, how you loved the way his eyes darkened, that muscle in his jaw twitching as he fought his base desires. His hand reached out to caress the curve of your bum, his rough hands stroking over your bare skin, sliding up to gently hold your waist, thumb making small circles on your spine.

“Fuckin’ tease.”

“Not teasing if I’d shag you right this second.”

His fingers dug into your skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath, clearly considering your words, before he thought better of it, shaking his head and giving your arse a swift smack, “No. Not like this. You can wait ‘til I’m back at peak performance.”

You weren’t sure you agreed with that; you’d have ridden him if he were in a wheelchair.

“Besides,” he continued, “Can’t afford to get distracted. Got to get the house livable again.”

“Or, and hear me out, we could spend the next week fucking like rabbits. I’ll even be on top.”

Simon raised a brow at you. There was no denying that you’d piqued his intrigue with your suggestion, but then he grabbed your hands and yanked you up so your back was pressed against his chest, the crooks of your elbows resting on his shoulder. “Darlin’,” he began, leaning down to murmur in your ear, his free hand trailing patterns over your hip, “I’m a squaddie. You really think you’ve got enough stamina to keep up with me?” His fingers dipped down to the hem of your dress, grazing against your bare thigh, “It won’t be a quickie, love, nor just one. Delicate little civvy like you?” He punctuated his sentence with a gentle nip at your neck, “Need to be treated like a princess. Let you lie back while I do all the work. Can’t have you getting worn out after one shag.”

You were half convinced that both your stomach and heart had melted into your knickers. It was impossible not to daydream about how it would be, how it would feel when he was finally inside you, how rough he would be, how gentle. And Christ, how many times was he planning on? You had grand ideas, but he had the strength and stamina to follow through on that. You should have exercised all those times you thought about exercising instead of continuously lounging on the sofa. His hands shifted to wrap around your waist, his nose rubbing against your jaw, “Now quit being a tease, and come help me clean the kitchen, aye?” You sighed, and he pressed another kiss to your neck, his voice soft, “Please?”

Fucker could melt butter with that voice.

Several hours later, you collapsed on the bed in exhaustion, your damp hair wrapped in a towel, but you were still unfucked. For Christ's sake, Simon had refused your offer of showering together. The man really was insistent on not shagging until his leg was healed, which would take a good few weeks still. Clearly, he was a demon sent to test your self-resolve.

As a result, your exhaustion was from mere hard labour, vacuuming, dusting, mopping, and the most difficult task, bickering with Simon when he tried to overexert himself. You still couldn’t believe he was considering cleaning the gutters in his state.

He came in as you got comfortable in the bed, thankful that his sheets weren’t the typical cheap grey and yellow job, though you weren’t convinced he hadn’t nabbed them from base.

“You look tired, love. One day of hard work too much for you?”

“Fuck off. I wouldn’t have to graft so hard if you weren’t constantly trying to put yourself in danger.”

He grinned, “Right little health and safety nut you are. Can’t imagine how you’d react to seeing me out in the field. Flew a burning helicopter with a broken rotor once.”

You narrowed your eyes, “You’re telling me you landed it?”

“I made an unscheduled emergency landing.”

“So you crashed it.”

“More or less, aye.”

“Dickhead.”

He grinned at that, setting his crutches to the side as he sat on the bed and began taking his trousers off, “Your dickhead.”

You rolled your eyes, and he crawled up the bed to you, reaching out to cup your cheek, “You’re in too deep to start having regrets now, love.”

“My only regret is my idiot boyfriend broke his leg, so I can’t fuck him.”

His smile widened, “Patience is a virtue. I guarantee I’m worth the weight.”

“God, your ego’s as big as your dick.”

He laughed, stroking his thumb across your cheekbone, “Bigger.” He pulled the duvet out from underneath him and then over himself, settling in bed next to you, pulling you close against his chest, arms like a steel vice around your back. You were so close to him now you could see the little flecks of hazel in his green eyes, the silvery scar across his nose, as well as the dozen other scars marring his skin.

“Are you avoiding fucking me?”

Your question surprised the both of you, but you couldn’t take the words back now.

A troubled look crossed his face, and you could feel his arms tense around you. He looked away from you, leaning away, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He withdrew his arms, rolling over so he was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. You could see the muscles in his jaw working overtime as he clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

“‘M afraid I’ll hurt you. Make you look at me differently.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that, love. I’ve had- I was made to-“

When you looked over at him, his eyes were slightly glossed over, as though he wasn’t really there with you in that moment. You sat upright, giving him space, but still gently poking his shoulder, “Hey, we don’t have to dig up every skeleton in your past.” You were sure you even wanted to tug at that thread.

Simon gave out a heavy sigh, dragging his hand over his face, “We’d be here all night if we exhumed that graveyard.”

“So we don’t fuck for a bit. Whatever. You eat pussy like a champ, we’ll make it work.”

He snorted, “Like a champ?”

You raised your hands as though you were unfurling an imaginary banner in the air, “Oh yeah, Simon Riley, world champion pussy eater.”

He smiled, though his eyes still looked tired, withdrawn, “You reckon I can get a medal for that?”

“I’ll make you one. You can wear it on your uniform and all.”

At that, he laughed, “Don’t think they’ll approve of that, love.” He let out another sigh, reaching out to pull you back against him, letting you lay your head on his shoulder, “What did I do to deserve you, eh?”

“Big dick, big heart, big nose.”

He frowned quizzically, “That last one a good thing?”

“Did nobody ever tell you? Girlies love a man with a big nose. Especially if it’s broken.”

He tilted his head at you, “Really?” He laid his head back on the pillow, “If I’m the dream, the girlies have terrible taste.”

“You’re telling me.”

[jackactuallywrites]

Just want to say I love your All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving chapters. This is probably the first CoD fanfic I read that's so good. Love the chemistry between Simon and the Reader. Can't wait for the next chapters.

This is so sweet! 🥰

Although damn there’s a lot of CoD fics out there that are spectacular! I’ll have to start doing recs 🙂‍↕️

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 28

Rating: Sex scenes

Warnings: Eating pussy 😌

Summary: ^

Word count: 1,608

ao3 link

You didn’t have any expectations of what Ghost’s house would look like, but when you saw the solitary, grey stone house, standing guard over the dark valley, you didn’t know how you could have pictured anything different.

Of course, Ghost would live in a place like this. It looked haunted. You half expected bats to come flying out of the windows, and rabid dogs to be snarling at the gates. Even the path up to it was lonely, a tiny one-track road, the hedges on each side scraping against the sides of the car.

“Go open the gate for us, will you, love?”

You looked at the leaves pressed against your window, “How exactly do you imagine I get out?”

“You’re a smart woman. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

You grumbled, but did as you were told, unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing into the backseat. The second you were halfway into the back, hands on the cushions, hips wedged between the two front seats, you felt Simon’s hand smack against your backside.

“Did you ask me to do you a favour just so you could do that?”

“Might have.”

Your eyes flitted to the crutches laid across the backseat. Hm. Yeah, you figured he was more likely to make a sex joke rather than admit he needed anyone’s help. Though it wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy it. After all, you were wearing a fun summer dress to match the godawful British heat, and his hand was lingering on the back of your bare thigh.

Oh yeah, you couldn’t resist the joke.

“Oh no, step-bro, I’m stuck!”

His hand paused, fingers stopping their slow trail across the back of your thigh.

“Beg fucking pardon?”

Oh for fucks sake. Of course he was too chronically offline to get the joke. Your cheeks flushed red, “You know, like the porn?”

Perfect.

Simon snorted, “First masked men, now you tryna tell me you have an incest fetish?”

“Oh my God, no! It’s like a meme, you know? ‘Cause it’s a super common thing in porn where the woman gets stuck in the washing machine and then her ‘step-brother’ shags her.”

“How much porn have you watched with that in?”

You groaned, “No, it’s like-“, yeah, no, there was no explaining this one. “Forget it. You’re too much of a grandpa to understand.”

“Step-bro, now grandpa? You gonna start calling me daddy next?”

You could feel the blush all over your face, and you did your best to wriggle away, unable to have a serious conversation with your arse in the air, but Ghost grabbed your ankle, preventing you from escaping.

“‘M not saying no, love. You wanna roleplay some filthy shit, you just tell me.” You could hear the sound of him unbuckling his seatbelt, followed by him shifting behind you, but you couldn’t see what he was doing. It was impossible not to feel vulnerable like this, your heart beginning to thump in your chest.

Simon’s lips grazed against the back of your calf, and you tensed, feeling his other hand slide up your leg.

“All I want is to make you feel good, sweet’eart. I’ll wear a mask,” he punctuated this with another kiss, further up your calf, “let you call me daddy,” his hands shifted to the front of your thighs, pulling you back a little, “dress how you like,” his lips were at the bottom of your thigh now, hands shifting up so they were beginning to push your dress up, “act how you like,” his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down as he kissed up the back of your thigh, “‘ll be your fucking slave. S’long as you want me.”

He could have said anything in that moment, and you would have agreed. His lips were so close, grazing across your upper thigh, and you swore your heartbeat was in your clit, desperate to be touched.

But Simon was a tease.

Rather than going straight for your clit, as you would have desperately wanted, he was taking his time, lips finally brushing against your labia, pressing another soft kiss there, as though you were precious, delicate. Oh, how you wanted to shove your pussy in his face, but you didn’t dare break the spell, digging your fingers into the fabric of the backseats.

He rested his forehead against your bare arse, trailing patterns with his fingertips over your thighs, “Do you want me?”

It was the stupidest question he’d ever asked.

“Yes.”

“Even like this?”

“Like what?”

You could hear the bitterness in his voice, even as he caressed your legs, “Useless. Crippled.”

You would have liked to have comforted him in that moment, but he still had you stuck between the seats. No doubt this was part of his master plan, to only be emotionally vulnerable when you were physically vulnerable. Especially considering you could barely think about anything other than getting him to shove his face between your legs.

“Even injured.”

He rewarded you with his tongue, running the tip of it over your clit and then up to your hole, tasting you, as though you were his personal gourmet meal. His tongue explored every inch of you, as though he was trying to map your pussy out in his mind. One of his arms snaked around the front of your thighs to hold you against his face, and you could feel the ridge of his nose pressed against you as he worked his tongue back down to your clit. He paused, pressing a gentle kiss there, “Tell me again.”

His other hand slid up the back of your thigh, and his thumb moved over to press against your pussy, yet not slipping in until you told him what he wanted to hear.

“I want you, Simon.”

Very gently, he began pushing in, his calloused thumb delightfully rough against you, and you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, muffling your moans. He kissed your clit again, running his tongue over it, his voice a soft murmur, “Let me hear you. Please.”

It was all you could do to not force yourself back against his face, so desperate for his touch, but then, wasn’t that what he wanted? You gave in to your baser impulses, bracing your hands against the backseats so you could push yourself against his face, desperate for his touch. He groaned, and held you firmly in place, beginning to run his tongue up and down over your clit, his thumb pumping in and out of you, your hips beginning to rock back against his hand and tongue, feeling that familiar tingle rising in your core, and you let your moans run free, his name spilling out of your mouth over and over, until you could feel yourself clench around his thumb, a shuddering orgasm flooding through you. He replaced his thumb with his tongue, pushing it deep inside you as you finished, desperately wanting to taste your climax, arm a vice grip around your legs, pinning you to his face.

In that moment, you could have died happy. His tongue shoved in you, arms wrapped around your legs, riding out the last tingly waves of pleasure. But that wasn’t your fate. Ghost pulled his tongue out of you, pressing another soft kiss to your labia before he covered you back up with your knickers, bringing you back to earth. You’d just got your pussy eaten while wedged in between the front seats of his car, in broad fucking daylight. Was there a name for the depths of perversion he dragged you to?

His arm shifted, going up from your legs to wrap around your waist, pulling you out from where you were wedged and then sideways into his lap, curling his arms around you and holding you tightly against his chest,

“You taste fuckin’ amazing.”

His voice was a sultry purr in your ear, but still, you laughed and rolled your eyes, shifting so you could look up at his face, “Give over. Pussy tastes like pussy.”

He smiled, his lips still a little wet from you, “Maybe I’m biased. Knowing it’s you I’m tastin’ makes all the difference.”

You gestured at his mouth, “Not gettin’ any kisses from me while you’re like that.”

Ghost ran his tongue over his lips, removing what remained of you there, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips where he’d rested his hands, a strangled groan in his throat.

“If I weren’t on crutches right now, I’d be takin’ you in that house and breaking the fuckin’ bed.”

You tilted your head at him, trailing your fingers up his chest, “I can always be on top.”

He caught your fingers, pressing a soft kiss to the back of them, “Nah. Not givin’ you anything other than my best.”

Typical. You just wanted to get your back blown out by him, but he was a romantic. Sort of.

“Christ, you’d think I’d killed a puppy, that expression. How desperate are you?”

You thumped his chest lightly with your fist, “Fuck off. You want me to open that gate or not?”

He grinned, clearly amused at how easily he could get under your skin, “Aye, go on then.”

The hedge didn’t press in as aggressively on his side of the car, so you opened his door and squeezed out, pointing back at him as you went to open the rusty gate, “Remember, Si, piss me off enough and I will steal your crutches. See how smug you are when you’re crawling on all fours, begging me.”

“That one of your fantasies?”

Yeah, there was no winning with him.

[jackactuallywrites]

So very much loving All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving! I get excited every time I see an update. Thank you so much for the time and energy you put into it to then choose to share it here. The whole cast of characters is so fun; the dialogue is natural and flows wonderfully, and no one comes across like a caricature or one dimensional. The development of the relationship made sense and hasn't been rushed, and it's just--it's so good! Thank you again!

You put so much thought into this comment I’m genuinely so touched 😭

I’m so complimented you think it’s so good! I just try to focus on having fun with it, so I’m glad it still turns out well!

It’s so aggressively readers like you that keep me going so thank you so much for this! I will screenshot this and keep it forever ☺️

Love you!! ❤️❤️

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 27

Warnings: Ghost backstory (it’s heavy)

Summary: You’re in Ghost’s car on the way to his actual house! That means yapping in the car 🙂‍↕️

Word count: 1,793

ao3 link

When you were in Ghost’s car, you realised what a typical lad he was.

Granted, he didn’t have the usual empty cans of monster or red bull scattered in the footwells, and there weren’t any subwoofers installed in the boot, but he did have the old house classics blaring out the speakers in the front, and it did stink of cologne— not that you were complaining.

You’d taken it upon yourself to educate the man. Not that you didn’t respect the old gods that were Prodigy, but Ghost’s playlists needed a bit of an update. His Gaga knowledge didn’t go past her fame era, a travesty! That was the first educational lesson; you didn’t have enough time to really dive all the way into each bop, so you just played a few hits from each era. Then, it was time for his introduction to slut pop, Petras, Ayesha Erotica, and strangely enough, Rebecca Black. You still weren’t over her comeback, but by God, the woman had turned out to be a phoenix.

You’d never expected to be driving down the motorway with Ghost, blasting Encore like he was one of the girlies, listening to his rough voice singing along, off-genre for what you expected he’d sing usually. Though he confessed to liking this ‘new’ genre, you weren’t convinced it was really his speed, so you switched over to another genre within the same sphere.

“So,” you explained, “Sleep Token is like, slut pop, but for metal. Baby-making metal. For getting your freak on in a graveyard, you know?”

He snorted, “Sensing a theme with your music love. Slut pop, slut metal, you tryna tell me something?”

You arched a brow, “There a problem with being a slut?”

Ghost laughed, “When did you hear me say that?”

You dropped your defence again, smiling, “I mean, it’s mostly a slut in theory rather than in practice.”

“You a poser, then?”

“What?”

“Looks like I’ve got more of a claim than you.”

You tilted your head at him, a little puzzled, “We being sneaky about prying into each other’s pasts?”

“Got no secrets from you, love. Well, no civvie secrets.”

You clucked your tongue, “Damn, and I was really hoping for the locations of those nuclear weapons.” You shifted in your seat, adjusting the seatbelt over your chest, “Alright, let me pry then. What’s your magic number?”

That earned a full belly laugh from him, and he shook his head at you, “Christ, the blokes you’ve been with give you numbers? Notches on their bedpost? Fuckin’ juvenile, that is.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “You telling me you lost count?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, teenage Simon was a bit of a dog.”

Your intrigue was piqued, “Really?”

He glanced away from the road for a brief second to give you a dazzling smile and a wink, “You’ve seen my face, what d’ya expect? The ladies loved me.”

You rolled your eyes at him, and he placed his hand on your thigh, “All in the past, love. Long in the past. Can’t really pull when I wear the mask. That and the whole, legally dead, family annihilator thing. Kind of a dampener on the ol’ love life.”

It was so typical of him to drop serious lore in a light conversation. You shifted so you could look at him better, brows skyrocketed upwards, “Beg pardon? Legally dead? Family annihilator? What the fuck?”

He looked straight ahead at the motorway, his fingers starting a light drumming on the steering wheel, “Ah. You didn’t look us up?”

You blinked, “Well, no. I figured what with you being all mysterious SAS and such, you wouldn’t have any presence online.”

“Oh, I got a presence, alright.”

You frowned. Did you really want to open Pandora’s box? Fuck that, you weren’t going to get your information from secondary sources online, not when you had the man himself in front of you.

“I want to hear the story from you.”

“S’not a nice one.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that from the family annihilator thing. Nice stories don’t tend to include that.”

Ghost gave a sigh, his hands tightening and then loosening on the steering wheel, “Long and short of it, some cartel cunt killed my family. My mam, my brother, his wife, and my nephew. Framed me.”

You didn’t really believe stories like that existed outside of comics. Jesus fuck. Ghost shifted, resting his back against his seat, as though he was trying to get comfortable, like he hadn’t just revealed a nightmare of a life. It seemed more that he was trying to appear blasé about something that had no doubt left some deep scars on his psyche.

You wanted to comfort him, but you knew he wouldn’t want your soothing touch; it would mean acknowledging how deeply hurt he was, embracing those feelings once more. So, you glossed over it with a joke, allowing him an exit.

“I mean, no reason why you can’t pull. Bundy and Manson got love letters in prison. Maybe you just got no game.”

That caught him off guard, his stony expression lightening up, and he choked out a laugh, “You what?”

“I mean, I love the girlies, but some of us are very dumb. You definitely could have pulled. Fuck, you could have a whole little cabal of freaks after you. Clearly, you just have negative game.”

He chanced a sideways glance at you, “You tellin’ me I can’t pull? I pulled you, didn’t I?”

“Well, I think a smarter woman would have called the rozzers on you the second they figured out you were breaking into their flat.”

“What, and you’re not smart?”

“I mean, my survival instincts are clearly absolute dogshit.”

“Can say that again.”

You smiled, “What can I say, I got a thing for freaks. And, maybe a little thing for masked men.”

He raised a brow, “Really?”

“All the baddest bitches do. Everyone knows that, Si.”

“You fucked masked men before then?”

A blunt question deserved a blunt answer, “No. Could never get the lads to wear one in bed.”

Laughter bubbled out of him again, and he shook his head, “Freak.” He tapped on the steering wheel, “So, uh, that mean you want us to wear the mask for you?”

The excitement in his tone was palpable, and you glanced over at him, seeing that familiar look of lust on his face. That surprised you. “Really? I talk about shagging other lads and you’re still turned on? No jealousy or anything?”

He grinned, “What, you want me to get all possessive and controlling?” He shook the thought off, “Not my style. Don’t give a shit about who you fucked before me. Not my business. S’long as you’re loyal to me now.”

“You know, you’re weirdly progressive for a military lad.”

He laughed again, “Love, ‘ve been in therapy for a decade and some change. What did ya expect?”

Sometimes you wondered if he was real. A gorgeous man, with a strong body, a big dick, and for once, a solid personality. Usually you could only get two of those, maybe three if you were lucky, but four?

“How long till the house?”

“Why? You want to stretch your legs? I can stop at the next services if you need.”

“No, I just want to sit on your face.”

The engine revved as he pressed down on the accelerator, indicator ticking as he got into the fast lane, speeding down the road for a minute before thinking better of it and dropping back down to the speed limit, and moving to the far left once more. He groaned, adjusting himself with one hand, “You are a bad influence, gorgeous. Got me driving like a boy racer.”

It was impossible to not have an inflated ego with the way he reacted to you, and you grinned, impossibly smug. He reached over to squeeze your thigh again, “‘Bout another hour to go, darlin’.

“We could always find a lay-by.”

“You seriously talking about doggin’?” He thought for a second, before groaning, “Got me seriously considering it and all. Dirty girl.” He shook his head, “Change the subject, love, ‘fore all the blood leaves my brain.”

It was tempting to continue teasing him, but it did have the annoying side effect of getting you wound up as well, and there was no prospect of release for another hour. His hand on your thigh was torture enough.

“So, what’s the plan for the next couple days?”

Simon answered without thought, “Bend you over every surface in my fuckin’ house.”

You laughed, though you refused to dismiss that tantalising idea entirely, “Yeah, and after that?”

He tapped on the steering wheel again, “Dunno. Imagine the house will need a bit of a clear out.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Have you lured me here with the promise of a holiday only to use me for free labour?”

He grinned, “Aye, maybe a little.”

You booed him, and he shook his head, still smiling, “Don’t worry, it’s not hard graft. Just dusting and vacuuming and that. The hard bit will come when I make you climb the Pen Y Fan with me.”

You raised a brow, “You’re making me go walking with you?”

“Aye. Want to show you where I did some of my training.”

“You’re joking if you think I’m doing SAS shit.”

He laughed, “You won’t have full kit on, and you don’t have to go full pace. It’ll be a leisurely walk for you. ‘ll even carry you if you get tired. Can take a pack up and all.”

You looked down at your trainers, “I don’t have the right shoes for walking!”

“We can go shops.”

“You seen how expensive hiking boots are? I don’t have £200 to drop on new boots.”

“I’m paying.”

“Si-“

“Don’t. My money, ‘ve got nothing better to do with it.” He gave you another sideways glance, “We could buy you all sorts of fun stuff to wear.”

You crossed your legs, “Don’t go broke on my account.”

He snorted, “Darlin’, I live pretty fuckin’ frugally. Could buy you a whole new wardrobe and not make a dent.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, biting it for a second, “Not a bad idea, now you mention it. There’s all sorts I’d like to see you in.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes, “We’ll see. Let’s just stick with the boots for now, if you insist on getting me up that mountain.”

He shifted his hand from your thigh to your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours and bringing your hand to his lips so he could press a kiss to the back of your hand, “That’s my girl.”

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 26

Rating: Mature, sex scenes

Warnings: Sucking dick and swallowing :)

Summary: ‘she should suck him off till his stomach look like an empty caprisun’ - my co creator

Word count: 2,559

ao3 link

Ghost wasn’t there when you woke up the next morning.

Clearly, you’d slept through his departure; his crutches were no longer discarded on the floor, but he hadn’t left you any sort of note, and there was no text waiting for you when you picked up your phone. Christ, you’d slept in; it was already past ten. Then again, you’d been up late.

The whole room smelled like Ghost, and you basked in it, sprawling out in his bed. Fuck, you’d missed him. You buried your nose in his pillow, taking a deep inhale of his scent, pulling the duvet tight around yourself as though he were hugging you. You stayed like that for a while, surrounding yourself with him, and then you decided to look around his room.

You should have expected that it would be sparse; he was a pretty secretive man; he didn’t exactly seem like he was the sort for creature comforts. It did take the piss to even find the tiniest bit of information out about him; you’d had to steal his damn drivers license to find out his name. And now you were in his room. Would it be wrong to rifle through his things? Probably. But it wasn’t like the two of you had a normal relationship; he broke into your flat, you rifled through his glove compartment, he stole your underwear, you broke into his military base. You decided on your own rule; if it was locked, it was out of bounds.

There was no point in getting redressed just yet; you had no plans on leaving, so you rolled out of bed in just your T-shirt. First on the list of prying was the desk. As expected for a man, there was a box of tissues. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out exactly what he used them for. The top drawer was open, so you pulled it out to have a rummage.

There was a picture of you in there.

Right at the front of the drawer, on top of everything else, there was a small Polaroid of you. You remembered taking that one; you were really feeling yourself, a little tipsy in the toilets of Revs, your dress short, your hair tousled, and you’d struck a pose and taken a picture. It had been your profile picture on practically everything forever. And there it was, in his drawer. You snorted, remembering what his mate had said on that night out. Was this one of the photos he used to get off? There were two more of you underneath, another one of them you’d taken yourself, and then one he must have taken of you. Creeper. You were asleep in that photo, wearing his T-shirt, curled up in bed. Equal parts romantic and perverted.

The next photo wasn’t of you. It was a group of men, soldiers. You recognised Ghost; it was hard not to with him wearing that daft mask. Then there was Price, and next to him, Gaz. There were half a dozen other men you didn’t recognise. You flipped the photo over, but you should have known there wouldn’t be any writing on the back to tell you who any of them were. Was one of these men Soap? Roach? Hang on; Ghost had told you he kept these photos in his wallet. You looked at the photos again, turning them over to see if there was anything on the back. Nothing. You went back to the drawer, but the only thing left in it was a bunch of generic military manuals, as well as a few packets of gum and a box of tictacs. You carefully lifted the manuals up to see if there was anything more interesting hidden underneath.

Ah, shit. He’d left you a note.

‘Caught you.’

You had a sneaky feeling that he would have put some sort of sensor in his drawer that would alert him as soon as you opened it. At least all you had to do now was wait. No doubt he’d be coming back soon enough to rub your face in it. Then again, he hadn’t been his usual playful self recently. Ugh. You really hoped you hadn’t completely destroyed your strange little bond.

Ah well, you’d already been caught snooping. In for a penny, in for a pound. The other drawer in the desk was locked, so that was a no-go. In the empty space underneath the drawers, there was a black case, also locked. Weapons, you imagined. Both cabinets beside the desk were locked, as well as the rest of the drawers on the other end of the room. Ugh. You trailed your fingers over the blue fabric of the chair at the desk. Grim. Everything was a shade of blue: the carpet, the curtains, the bedsheets. No doubt it was the cheapest bidder who’d won the contract for furnishing the base. You’d exhausted all the intrigue in his bedroom, so you went for the bathroom, the white door slightly ajar. If everything in here were blue as well, you might kill yourself.

Ah, they’d switched it up a little. White. There was only a tiny shower cubicle, no bath. At least he had a heated rail for towels, an unexpected luxury. Maybe gas was cheaper than buying new towels; soldiers were pretty grotty; it could have been a calculated risk to extend the life of towels so they didn’t go mouldy. Everything was surprisingly clean, even the toilet seat was down. Did you just have an extremely low bar for men? You shook the thought off, instead reaching for the mirrored cabinet above the sink. How on earth had he locked that? Or was it stuck? You weren’t about to break the damn thing trying to get a butchers at its insides, so you left it. There was nothing else for you to poke around in, so you just went back to bed, curling up on your side and endlessly scrolling to keep yourself entertained.

It had only been about ten minutes before you heard him. Bless: he couldn’t be sneaky anymore. Those crutches could be heard a mile away, the soft thump of them plodding on the ground, then the creak as they bore his weight. Thump, creak, thump, creak. You got to the door before him, pulling it open from the inside as he approached, only thinking afterwards that you should have confirmed he was alone before you didn’t bother with your leggings.

Thankfully, it was only him. He still had a face like a smacked arse, a deep frown seemingly now permanently etched into his features. You held the door open for him as he hobbled into the room, noticing that he was no longer cheering up when he saw you. He was wearing that same outfit yet again, though these trousers were a slightly different shade of green. Clearly, he just had an infinite supply of cargo trousers and plain, long-sleeved military T-shirts. You let the door swing shut behind you as he went over to the desk, gingerly sitting down in the chair, leaning his crutches beside him. He dug in his trouser pocket and brought out a slightly crumpled paper bag, offering it to you, “Breakfast.”

Well, at least he still loved you enough to get you breakfast. You took the bag, but placed it to the side, leaning your bum against the edge of the desk and looking down at him.

“You alright?”

He frowned, taking out a small bottle of juice and putting it beside the bag, “Couldn’t get tea. Fucking crutches ‘n all.” He shot the crutches a dirty look, as though it was their fault.

“You really don’t like being injured, do you?”

“Stupid fuckin’ question. ‘Course I don’t. ‘M useless like this.”

Even though the words were oozing with bitterness, you thought you could detect an edge of despair. He wanted to be useful, to be used. From that, he derived purpose. What you would have given to be able to take some of that pain away.

Well, there was something you could do.

You shuffled across the desk, leaning over on your hand so your face was closer to his. His brows were still furrowed, his eyes flicking over your face to try and discern your intentions.

“That offer still on?”

“What offer?”

You let your eyes drop to his crotch, then back to holding his gaze. Then, you gave him a wicked smile.

It took him a second to catch on, the gears in his head almost audible to you as they clicked into place, his brows raising. The effect of your words was instantaneous, a touch of that confidence seeping back into his body as he leant back in his chair, his legs spreading just a touch.

“You still interested?”

You answered with his own words.

“Stupid fucking question.”

It was as though you could see the lust settle over him like a haze, the way the tension went out of his body, the anger falling away from him, his features relaxing. His fingers shot to his belt, unbuckling it, then undoing the button on his trousers, followed by the zip. A brief flash of frustration flicked across his face as he realised he would struggle taking his trousers off with a cast on, but you’d already crouched down in front of him and grabbed the waistband, allowing him to lift his weight with his arms. You could see the outline of his cock already, pressing up against the fabric of his boxers as it hardened for you. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you hooked your fingers in the waistband of his boxers; you’d never been so up close and personal with him before. He lifted his weight for you again, and you gently tugged his boxers down, finally revealing his cock to you.

Your mouth worked faster than your brain could filter.

“Natural blond. Nice.”

That made him laugh. You’d missed the sound. So, naturally, you rewarded him by shoving his dick in your mouth.

The second his tip passed your lips, his entire body twitched, his fingers digging into the black plastic armrests of the chair.

“Jesus fuck, love.”

You shifted so you weren’t crouching, instead sitting on your ankles, unwilling to get a cramp mid-blowjob. One of your hands slid up his thigh to rest there, helping your balance, the other wrapping around his shaft to stroke him as you began to properly suck him into your mouth, running your tongue around the head. Thank fuck he didn’t taste bad. Not good either, but dick was gonna taste like dick. The sweetness for you came from hearing him curse under his breath, feeling his thigh tense under your hand, hearing the way his breath hitched. Was it possible to pour love into sucking dick? You were certainly doing your best, caressing every part of him with your tongue, as though you were memorising the shape, engraving the sounds he made when you ran your tongue up and down his frenulum into your mind.

It didn’t take long for his head to fall back, almost on the edge of losing himself completely, but not yet. When you glanced up at him, you could see his eyes were completely fixated on you, as though you were a heavenly succubus, come to lift him from the depths of despair. He reached out to brush the hair out of your eyes, holding it with his fingers as he cupped the back of your head. You’d expected it, but he didn’t push your head down; he only held your hair out of the way for you, pinning you in place with simply his gaze, dark eyes locked in on you. It was impossible to not want to please him more, the gentler he was with you, so you tried to fit as much of him in your mouth as your gag reflex would allow, running your tongue out over his shaft, sucking in so the soft insides of your cheeks rubbed against him.

For the briefest moment, his hand tightened in your hair, and his words came out in pants,

“Fuck, love, ‘m getting close, let me get-“

He reached over for the tissue box on his desk, and you responded by running your tongue over his frenulum again, managing to hum out a ‘mm-mm’ of disagreement. His brows knitted, confused, desperate, and you took him as deeply as you could again, trying to convey your meaning.

“D’you want me to-“

You cut him off, stroking him faster, in time with the way you worked your lips up and down his shaft, letting your tongue caress him as you did so.

“Fuck me.”

His words were a whispered prayer, as though he couldn’t believe you, but was desperate not to break the slutty spell you were under. His hips were beginning to buck slightly, and he bit back a moan,

“Love, sweetheart, you sure? Tell me you’re sure.”

How you were supposed to say that with a mouthful of dick was beyond you, so you just gave him your best pleading eyes, desperately stroking and sucking him, spoiled with the sight of him practically falling apart above you.

Your name was the last plead to leave his lips as he came.

Spurts of hot, salty cum filled your mouth, and you did your best to swallow quickly, not wanting it to linger on your tongue, sucking him dry. He looked at you as though he was still in disbelief, eyes adoring, worshipful.

“You are a dirty fucking bird.”

He grabbed the juice off the desk and offered it to you, a gentleman, allowing you to take a few swigs to clear the taste away, though it still lingered in the back of your throat.

You helped him redress, and once his trousers were back up, he pulled you to your feet, his hands cupping your cheeks, tugging you down so your forehead was pressed against his.

“You are exactly what the doctor ordered.”

“Doctor ordered you to get your dick sucked? Bit strange.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, “I’d let you break my ‘eart more often if it results in this.”

You pulled back at that, frowning, “I broke your heart?”

He shrugged dismissively, as though it was nothing, “Thought I’d lost you, didn’t I?”

You must have looked sad, because he pulled you back, sitting you on his good leg, “C’mon, don’t look so sad. Had to take time to figure it out, didn’t ya? I don’t hold it against you.”

You nestled into his arms, “You forgiven me, then?”

“There was never anything to forgive, not really.”

You weren’t entirely sure of that yourself, so he continued,

“If you’re that into earning ‘forgiveness’, you can do us a favour.”

That piqued your interest, and you looked at him curiously.

“Come home with me.”

“This isn’t your home?”

“SLAM? Nah, this is just on base, innit? Got a place out near the Brecon Beacons. Nice views and all. Good memories too. Needs a bit of TLC, been away for a while.”

That was tempting. A little holiday with Ghost in Wales? Granted, it would be full of hard graft cleaning, and, god forbid, the Welsh, but still, it was impossible to turn down.

“I’d love to.”

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 25

Rating: No explicit sex or violence

Summary: you’re soulmates ofc I wouldn’t make you break up

Word count: 2,261

ao3 link

Helen had always been the staunchest man-hater of your little group, but even she wouldn’t defend your actions.

“I mean, he just got back from wherever the fuck, and you go off on him?”

“I didn’t go off on him!”

“To be fair,” Kate argued, “you did snap at him.”

If even your girls weren’t feeding your delusions, you were clearly quite deep in the shit. You poked at your Chinese with a fork, twirling the noodles around the tines. Nobody liked to admit that they were wrong, and you were no exception. Granted, you were lucky that you had friends who would call you out and bring you back to earth, but that didn’t mean you liked it.

“Yeah, you are gonna have to pull your head out your arse,” Helen commented, “suck it up, put on your big girl pants, and apologise. You throw this away based on your ego, and I will, in fact, belt you.”

“You two are my mates. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

Kate snorted, “Being on your side involves calling you a dickhead when you are being a dickhead.”

You waved away their words, not wanting to confront that truth just yet, “Alright, never mind my relationship drama. It’s film night! What we watching?”

It was a poor attempt at changing the subject, and they shared a glance, but allowed you to put it aside for now. You gave Helen the remote, allowing the pair of them to bicker while you stared somewhere past the TV, your mind on Simon.

Kate and Helen were long asleep as the credits of the last film rolled, but you were still wide awake. You’d tried in vain to get comfortable for the last hour, but all you’d done was shift from one side to the other, rolling to and fro like a pig over a spit. You would have liked to have pretended that this was due to the fact that the other two had taken each side of the sofa, leaving you awkwardly in the middle, but there was no point. It was solely due to the fact that you hadn’t spoken to Simon in days. This wasn’t unusual, of course, you’d spent the last few months barely speaking, yet this time, it was a choice.

It didn’t take you long to get sick of it. Very carefully, you extricated yourself from under the duvet and walked over to the hallway, where you’d left Price’s receipt on the side. You weren’t sure how many times you’d looked at it over the last few days, more than a dozen at the very least, but you’d never actually managed to suck it up and call. Sometimes, you’d gotten so far as to type in the numbers, but you’d never actually called.

Fuck it.

Tonight was the night. You grabbed your coat, sticking the receipt in your pocket, slipped your daps on, and slunk out into the hallway, taking your keys and locking the door behind you. Where you were going, you weren’t entirely sure, you just aimlessly wandered down the hallway until you got out to the stone stairwell, and you sat down on the cold concrete, digging the receipt out of your pocket and then typing the numbers in your phone. God, what you would have given for the old phones, with the cords, so you could soothe yourself by wrapping your fingers around the coils, playing with the twisted plastic. Unfortunately, you had a modern mobile, so you just fiddled with the receipt.

“Price.”

He’d picked up on one ring. Considering it was two in the morning, you were surprised.

“Price? You told us to give you a ring?”

“You made your mind up, then?”

“No.”

“What do you want then?”

“I want support, Price. Someone who actually knows what I’m going through, so I can actually sort my shit out.”

“Kingy will give you a ring. Sit tight.”

With that, he abruptly hung up. Prick. Even if he was helping, he could have had a bit more bedside manner. Well. It was two in the morning; if he was awake at this time, he probably had something serious going on.

It didn’t take long for Kingy to ring you, your phone buzzing with an unfamiliar number, and you picked up with a heavy sigh,

“Hello?”

“Alright, duck? Price said you wanted a ring?”

“What I wanted was support, with the whole ‘my boyfriend might die’ thing.”

“Ah. Gotcha. Still reeling after the whole hospital thing?”

“I mean, he was blown up. How am I supposed to take that on the chin?”

“He’s been blown up plenty, to be fair. It’ll take more than that to kill him.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Kingy.”

“Well, what do you want? I won’t lie and say it’ll be easy. My husband still worries every time I deploy, and he’s had to deal for a good few years now.”

You hadn’t realised anyone else even had a relationship. They all seemed like permanent bachelors to you. You folded your coat underneath you to take away some of the coldness that was seeping up from the concrete into your skin.

“How does he deal with it?”

“I dunno. Faith, I ‘spose. Faith that I’ll come back to him, that my lot will take care of me. Ultimately, I think it comes down to the person. He can deal with me being in danger. He doesn’t love it— who would— but he manages. And I think that’s about the size of it. You think you can manage it?”

It was a hard fucking question, and one you didn’t have an answer for.

“Tell you what. How about me and you get summat to eat? There’s a late night kebab place near you.”

You were well aware of that place, having ended many a drunken night trying to convince the manager to call you ‘boss man’. It hadn’t worked, but you’d never stopped trying.

“Alright, I could go for a kebab.”

Half an hour later, you were sat in the car park with Kingy and his husband, picking at chips as you listened to Danny,

“What Kingy forgets to mention is the therapy. A lot of therapy. Which is a weird, innit, you’d think it’d be them over there with the shrinks, but apparently they’re good for us waiting at home too.”

“And that helps?”

“Well, that and a bit of fluoxetine to take the edge off.”

You chewed on the chips thoughtfully as you considered Danny’s words. His husband was in just as much danger as Simon on the regular, but he seemed content with the situation, happy, even. Could that be you? Would there ever be a point where you wouldn’t have nightmares about Simon dying somewhere awful?

“-and there might even be a little one on the way next year.”

You tuned back in to the conversation, “You two having a baby?”

Danny grinned, “If they tire of making us jump through hoops. Honest, they talk to our mums, our mates, our bosses, I’ve got reference letters coming out my arse at this point.”

Kingy snorted, “Yeah, it is a bit full on. But we make it work. If you’re right for each other, you’ll figure it out. Don’t get me wrong, there’ll be some hard graft, but you’ll come out the other side stronger.” He put down his coke to look at you, “I really think Ghost would put the work in.”

“She dumped Ghost?” Danny cackled, “Fuckin’ hell. No wonder he’s been such a cunt lately.”

You arched a brow at Kingy, and he elaborated, “Our man might have been a bit on the grumpy side lately.”

“He made a recruit faint. And then bollocked him for fainting.”

“I think it’s more the crutches than anything. He doesn’t like being anything other than peak physical fitness.”

You must have looked guilty, because Kingy immediately lectured you, “Now, don’t be going back to him out of obligation. Nor pity, either. Ghost’s a big boy. The only one responsible for his mental health is himself; don’t you be taking that on. Not to be harsh, but he’ll be perfectly fine without you.”

You tossed a chip to a nearby pigeon, pondering Kingy’s words. What did you want? Well, dumb question; you wanted Simon. The dilemma was how much heartache would you be willing to go through for him? Would it be worth it? There was no comparing him to anyone else. He’d brought you stunning flowers, he’d given you cats, driven out in the middle of the night just to give you a lift home, watched Twilight with your girls, even called in the middle of a damn battlefield just to wish you a merry Christmas. Fuck. You’d never even come close to having that level of dedication before, and here you were about to throw it all away.

Kingy stopped bickering with his husband about mushy peas so he could instead prod you with his wooden fork, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I think I made a huge cock up by leaving him.”

Danny muttered ‘I’ll say’ under his breath, and Kingy elbowed him in the ribs before continuing, “It’s not too late to fix things. Ghost’s been discharged to the watchful eye of the medics on base. Just say the word and I’ll take you there.”

Would it be rude to ditch Kate and Helen at your house? Probably, but they did both own keys to it, and were more than happy to make themselves breakfast rummaging through your cupboards.

“Alright. Take me.”

The base felt a lot spookier in the dark. You’d only ever been here during the day, when it was creepy enough, but now you half expected demons to leap out at you from every corner. Kingy didn’t seem so bothered, whistling to himself as he keyed in the code to the building, covering the keypad with his hand as he did so. You might have been offended if you hadn’t already broken into this very base twice before. Kingy pulled the door open, then ushered you through, his voice quiet, “Fair chance he’s asleep, given it’s about three in the morning. Mind you, he has been pulling all-nighters.”

He hovered at the door, and you looked down the hallway, then back at him, “Not coming?”

“He’s the only one sleeping in this building. Wakes at the drop of a hat, so he banned everyone else from sleeping anywhere near him. Guarantee he will have woken up just from me opening this door.” He pointed down the corridor, “Last door on your right. Have fun.”

With that, he left you, the door slowly swinging shut, leaving you alone with only the quiet sound of the halogen light bulbs buzzing overhead. You swallowed your nerves, walking down to the last door, wishing you were wearing something a little nicer than an oversized T-shirt and a pair of old leggings, as though you’d leapt right out of the late noughties. All you were missing was a statement owl necklace and a pair of uggs.

Simon’s door opened before you got to it. He hobbled out on his crutches, still wearing his cargo trousers like he had been in the hospital, though now his cast was decorated with both signatures and knobs. Typical. At least his arm wasn’t in a sling anymore, though now that he was wearing a regular T-shirt, you could see the bruises and scrapes decorating his tanned skin. His eyes were narrowed, a scowl playing on his lips already as he struggled with the door. For once, they didn’t soften as soon as he caught sight of you. You could practically see his guard being up.

“Simon. I came here to apologise.” Your voice sounded stilted and formal to your own ears, so you overcompensated, “I mean, I was such a dick in the hospital ‘cause you were injured and I was stressing about you being injured and I was tired, and they shut down the Greggs near me for refurb so I haven’t been able to just have a steak bake instead of cooking and I’m so knackered because-“

“Come to bed.”

“You what?”

He sighed, “I’m tired, love. My fuckin’ leg hurts, my arm hurts, and my sodding ribs too. Don’t make me stand around.”

Christ, he really was in a mardy. Not that you were going to turn him down, though. You took the weight of the door from him, letting him toss his crutches to the side and limp back to bed. You quickly took your shoes off and hung your coat over the back of a nearby chair, then pulled your leggings down, tossing them aside for now. He was already getting back in bed, pulling the duvet back up around his shoulders, eyes already closed. You hesitated for a moment before deciding to just go with it, slipping into bed beside him. Immediately, his arm snaking around you to gently pull you back against him, lips pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. The tightness went out of your stomach as he buried his face in your neck, his fingers linking with your hand as he held you against him. You couldn’t help but speak again, not quite believing you’d been forgiven so easily, “I really am sorry, Simon. I do love you.”

His voice was soft and a little muffled, already sounding half asleep. “Suck my dick and I’ll forgive you.”

Shit, you’d take that.

“Deal.”

Simon’s snore was your only answer.

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 24

Rating: Injuries, hospitalisation (for Ghost obvs)

Summary: Ghost gets injured, and this makes you very angry:)

Notes: Yeah it was supposed to be a mushy reunion and it turned ANGST

Word count: 1,995

ao3 link

Of course he’d call when you were in the middle of shaking arse on the dance floor. Luckily for him, you’d shoved your phone in your bra so you could feel it vibrating against your ribs when he rang.

You quickly slunk out into the smoking area, neither Helen nor Kate needing to ask to know what you were doing, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you picked up.

“Si?”

“No.”

You held the phone out, looking at it to double-check. It was Simon’s number calling you. You held it to your ear again, “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Kingy. That is, Sergeant James King. This Simon Riley’s partner?”

You could feel your heart drop through to your stomach,

“Tell me he’s not dead.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry. Not dead. Just in the hospital. Sorry about that!”

The tears running down your cheeks didn’t seem to stem, and you brushed them away with the back of your hand,

“Fucking hell, start with that next time, would you?”

“Yeah, yep, that’s my bad, sorry. Price told me to get a hold of you now that Ghost’s back in the country, see if you wanted picking up.”

“He’s back in England?”

“Aye, in hospital.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Would you start with, you know, the actual start of it? Please?”

“Right. Three days ago, Ghost was injured. Not severely, but serious enough that he’s been flown into QEHB.”

“I don’t know what QEHB is, Kingy.”

“Right, right. Hospital, down in Birmingham. Got a military ward there.”

“How serious is serious?”

“Uhh, lost a decent bit of blood, got a bit of a hole in his leg, body’s a bit battered, but he’s hanging in there.”

“Like, death’s door hanging in there?”

“No, no, he’s not at death's door now.”

“So he was?”

“I, uh, well, why don’t we come get you, and you can come see him for yourself? Gaz has offered to drive you if you like.”

“Right, yeah. When will Gaz be here?”

“Ehm, well, we figured you’d want to be here, so he’s already on his way. ETA about an hour.”

“An hour? Right. I best get myself going then if Gaz is gonna be up here soon.”

“Aye, we’ll be seeing you soon. Don’t worry, he’s in good hands.”

“Cheers Kingy. See you later.”

Well, that had put a fat fucking damper on your night out. You’d put aside all the anxiety and loneliness and managed to drown out all those negative thoughts with a decent amount of alcohol and dancing, and now they were right back, hammering into you like a freight train. You weren’t sure how long you’d actually been standing out there with your phone in your hand, staring out in front of you, all the worst-case scenarios running through your head. It was only when Kate called your name for the second time that you finally came back to. “- you alright, love?”

“What?” You ran your hands through your hair, blinking a few more times to get your head straight, “Yeah, no, I’m alright, just got to get to Birmingham.”

“Birmingham?”

“Yeah, Simon’s been injured, and Gaz is going to pick me up to take me to the hospital.”

Your voice felt robotic, the words coming out of your mouth as though you were on autopilot, not quite connecting with what you were saying.

Kate didn’t feel the same way, her face paling,

“Fuck me. Is he alright?”

“Kingy says he’s hanging in there. But I’m gonna try get down there.”

“You want us to come with you?”

“No, no, I don’t know what the rules are in the hospital and all, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be reet, go back to dancing, I’ll just get a taxi or something.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll get you to the taxi and back home, yeah?”

You didn’t remember much of how you’d got home, or getting changed into more sensible clothes, though you thought that Kate helped. Before you knew it, you were in the car with Gaz, hurtling down the M6. You felt as though you were a ghost, your mind replaying every horrible scene in every military film you’d ever seen, every tearful goodbye in a hospital bed, the time seeming to slip away from you, no matter how many times you told yourself to get yourself together.

“How you feeling? Need a drink? Tic tac?”

Gaz kept checking in with you periodically, rattling the tic tac box at you every time he thought you’d spaced out for a bit too long.

“Same as before, Gaz. I’ll feel better when I see him.”

“He’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true!”

You shifted in your seat as you began to see the signs for the hospital, feeling the anxiety pulsing in your chest again. Gaz had been able to give you a little more information than Kingy had; Simon had fallen from some height, broken some ribs, as well as been impaled through the leg, which had caused all the blood loss, and the fall had fractured his tibia. Every time you thought about it, it gave you a stomach ache.

“Look a bit green, mate. Drink some more coke.” Gaz said, and you did as you were told, cracking the lid and taking another sip, hoping the carbonation would settle your stomach as Gaz drove you to the hospital.

Like with all NHS parking, it was a fucking nightmare, but you didn’t complain. After all, nobody was here because they were having a great time. Gaz let you hold onto his arm as you walked into the hospital together, and you could feel how tight your chest was as you waited in the lift.

“Chin up! You’ll be seeing him in a moment. You’ll see, he’ll be right as rain.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

You spotted Kingy at the end of the blank white hallway, and he raised his hand, “Alright? Giz a second.” He turned down another hallway, “Price, Ghost’s bird’s here.”

You took a deep breath, steeling your nerves. Why were you so anxious to see him? Nobody else seemed on edge. That was surely a good sign. Or were soldiers just good at compartmentalising? A bit of both, perhaps. Fuck. He was back in the UK; that must have been a good sign. Wasn’t it?

Price came out, and you tried to read his face. He looked serious, but when he saw you, his face softened, and he gave you a smile. Was that a good thing?

“Ghost’s waiting for you. We’ll give you some privacy.”

You steeled yourself for the worst as you walked into the ward, your eyes landing on Simon, lying in bed. He was propped up, left leg in a cast, wearing a pair of zip-off cargo trousers with the left trouser leg zipped off, and a generic green long-sleeved military t-shirt, with his right arm in a sling, an IV going into the undamaged left hand. You wondered if the clothing had been a deliberate choice, to cover up the worst of the damage. After all, he had been here for three days already; no doubt they’d cleaned the worst of it up. Regardless of the severity of his injuries, seen and unseen, Simon’s face lit up when he caught sight of you, “There she is!” He reached out with his good arm, beckoning you over, “Been waiting for you to turn up.”

You didn’t waste time, swiftly making your way to his side, yet hesitating before you made any further moves, your eyes flicking over his body, as though you could see the injuries underneath the fabric. What you really wanted was to leap on him and bury your face in his chest, but you didn’t want to exacerbate the damage done. So, you settled by carefully holding his hand, feeling the scabs crisscrossing his palm. You finally met his slightly bloodshot eyes, his gaze soft, his voice softer, “Hey, come on. I’m alright. I’m in one piece, aren’t I?”

“You look a bit.. fucked up.”

He smiled, “Aye, a bit. But I’m here. Might have left a bit of claret back over there, but nothin’ I couldn’t handle.”

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, “I swear, I’m alright, darlin’. Promised to get back to you, didn’t I? Wouldn’t break a promise to you.”

It was hard to put a finger on exactly what you were feeling. Of course, there was the deep sadness and pain at the sight of him, so broken in a hospital bed, accompanied by the artificial, bleached smell of the ward, but then there was the anger. Anger that he’d gotten himself injured, that he had chosen to put himself in danger, that he was so vulnerable out there. That was what surprised you, the bitter choler that seethed in your gut. He’d survived, and you could kill him.

“Won’t do you no good to keep everything inside, love.”

You pursed your lips, and Simon tilted his head, “You’re angry with me.”

“Furious.”

“Because I’m injured?”

“Because you got yourself injured.”

He raised a brow at that, “Didn’t realise I was responsible for that IED. Best warn Price.”

“Why do you have to be there? Why do you have to be the one putting yourself in danger?”

His grip on your hand loosened, neither of you holding on tight, “It’s my job. You knew this.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

His soft eyes hardened as his brows knitted together, “And you bring this up now?”

“You’re lying in a hospital bed, Simon. Kingy told me you could have died.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’ll stop and go back to a regular civvie life with you? Don’t make me a liar, love.”

Anger was a secondary emotion; you knew that. You knew that it was just masking the fear, the pain, but the higher functions of your brain had been smothered by the flames of the easier emotion to deal with, “Right, I’ll just wait for the day you turn up dead, and then mourn your loss like a dutiful fucking widow.”

Simon didn’t have an answer for that. His jaw was clenched, his mouth set into a hard line. “This is the life I chose. If I die trying to make the world a safer place for you, so be it.”

Your hand finally slipped out of his grasp. It was too much. You were underfed, overtired, and underfucked, and it was only fanning the flames. Any other word out of your mouth would have only served to rip open the gulf that was rapidly widening between you, send you further along a path that couldn’t be untread.

So, you said nothing. When it came to fight or flight, you fled, out into the corridor on wings of rage, politely requesting that someone take you home through gritted teeth.

It was Price who chose to drive you home. The journey was silent, the man far quieter than Gaz, allowing you the dignity to stew in your own roiling emotions, anger and outrage far easier to ruminate on than the choice of vulnerability. Only when he pulled up outside your apartment did he break the silence.

“Don’t make any rash decisions. Take some time, get it sorted in your head.” He grabbed an old receipt from the coin tray in the car, taking a pen from his pocket to scrawl down his number, “You make up your mind, you let me know. But don’t take it out on Ghost.”

You could have balled up the receipt and thrown it at his face, but you didn’t. You just folded it away into your pocket and thanked him for the lift through gritted teeth.

Only when you were safe in your bed did you allow yourself to weep.

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 23

Rating: Mature (phone sex)

Summary: Ghost is deployed so you know what it’s time for? Phone sex! And then some emotions afterwards because post nut clarity

Word count: 1,755

ao3 link

Was this the reality of dating a soldier?

You had liked it initially, the well-built body, the casual confidence, the no-bullshit attitude, even if you had reservations about the imperialistic role of the British military overseas. But this part of it, the waiting at home while he was over there risking his neck? It sucked. You would never ask him to give up that part of his life, but it would be a lie to say it didn’t constantly play on your mind.

The texts had been sporadic at best, and you knew that Ghost was trying his hardest, but as the days went on, the gaps between messages grew until you were going whole weeks without hearing a word from him. At that point, you’d had to stop watching the news; you were seeking out information about soldiers almost obsessively, as though a simple Google would give you access to top-secret military intelligence. So, you just did your best to go about your life as usual, going to work, going on nights out with the girls, cuddling up with Soap and having film nights with him, having Roach curled up at your feet.

It had been a month of silence before you got a text from Ghost, a single sentence at 03:46.

‘Ghost: Are you awake?’

You hadn’t been, but you’d had his texts on loud, unwilling to miss a single opportunity to talk to him. It was impossible for you to put in text how much you missed him, and you weren’t about to waste any time sending long paragraphs.

‘You: Yes! Everything okay?’

Practically the second you sent the text, your phone screen lit up with his caller ID. You picked up immediately.

“Si?”

“You’re up late.” The exhaustion in his voice was palpable, and you heard a rustle of fabric as he shifted. Was he in bed?

“So are you. Or are you? Is it morning or evening where you are?”

He responded with a yawn, “Makes little difference, ‘m up all hours anyways. How’s you? How’s Soap ‘n Roach?”

He was always quite tactful in avoiding giving any information about where he was in the world away. You’d read about that in your googling, OpSec, operations security, and by God, Simon was a master of it.

“All quiet over here. Soap’s asleep in his bed, and Roach is sleeping under the sofa again. Think he misses you.”

“Aye? What about you, darlin’, you missing me too?”

“Of course I am. Barely a day where I’m not thinking about how much I miss you.”

“Oh yeah? You thinking about me every night?”

You pulled the phone away from your ear, looking at the screen as though he could see you on the other end. Was he talking about what you thought you were talking about? You shifted in bed, getting more comfortable.

“Yeah, I think about you every night.”

“Not found some young stud to replace me?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. He was insecure? You hadn’t expected that.

“What? Dickhead. Of course not.”

“Still happy with your older man?”

“Older man? I don’t even know how old you are. You’re very secretive.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, before he answered, “Thirties.”

“Thirties?”

“Late thirties.”

You shrugged before remembering again that he couldn’t see you.

“You’re not that much older than me. Is that what’s bothering you?”

There was fabric rustling on the other side of the phone again before he answered, “Just never had a missus waiting for me back home, is all.”

“Never?”

“Didn’t seem fair, considering how much I’m away and all. ‘Specially ‘cause I can’t say how long I’ll be or where I’ll go, or even if I’ll come back.”

“It’s new for the both of us.”

“Never shagged a soldier before?”

“Never dated one.”

He snorted at that.

You shifted again, wondering whether there was something deeper he wasn’t saying.

“You alright, Simon? Everything okay over there?”

There was a heavy sigh before he answered, “Yeah, yeah, ‘m fine. Just knackered.”

“Busy day?”

“Like you can’t even imagine. First time I’ve had a good sit down in weeks.”

“And you chose to call me?”

“Needed to hear your voice.”

You could feel the butterflies in your chest at that. He was somewhere in the world, exhausted and no doubt in fear for his life, yet he needed you. It was impossible for you not to feel touched. So, of course, you avoided expressing how deeply that touched you by making a joke.

“Spoken like a man who wants to get his dick sucked.”

That earned a laugh, “Christ, dirty bird.” There was a moment of pause, before he continued, “You’d do that, would you?”

“Would it make you come home earlier?”

“Fuckin’ might do. Jesus. You, uh, you into this? On the phone and all?”

The excitement in his voice was palpable, and it was impossible not to be a little excited yourself.

“Phone’s all we got. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Right. Alright then. Gaz’ givin’ us a dirty look, give us a second.”

Jesus wept; you’d forgotten about the fact that Simon was very likely to be bunking with half a dozen other soldiers, and there you were, talking dirty. Ah well, it was his shame, not yours.

After a minute’s silence, his voice came back on the phone, “Still there, darlin’?”

There wasn’t a chance in hell that you were going to miss this opportunity, so you’d pinched yourself to keep awake.

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“So, uh, you were telling me?”

You stretched and then got comfortable in bed, idly thinking about getting your vibrator out of the drawer, “About me sucking your dick if you come home safe?”

He groaned, “God, the image of you, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

“You like thinking about my tongue wrapped around you? Getting me on my knees?”

“Jesus fuck, you dirty bird, yes.”

You stifled a yawn, trying not to sound too tired, not quite horny enough to be fully awake, “Might even swallow if you’re lucky. Let you cum down my throat or on my tits if you like.”

“Fuck, I don’t give a shit, wherever you let me.” His voice was breathy now, and you had no doubt that he was wanking in some toilet or broom closet. It was impossible to not be a little aroused by that, and you reached over to grab your vibrator, clicking it on the lowest setting and holding it to your clit. It didn’t take long for the pleasure to begin rolling through your body, and you let out a tired sigh, “You want to hear me getting off?”

“Oh, fuck, love, God yes.”

You pressed yourself against the vibrator, enjoying the sensations rolling through you, allowing yourself to moan, letting him hear your pleasure. He groaned in response, your name hot and heavy on his breath, his words turned to muttered pleads, “Need to hear you come, love, please, please come for me.”

You pressed the vibrator harder against yourself until you felt your core tighten, clutching your phone as though it was him, your thighs tightening, grinding desperately until you finally finished, moaning his name. He grunted, “Fuck, love, I’m, fuck-“ his words turned into a strained moan as he finished, no doubt desperately stroking himself in some hellhole across the world.

You clicked off your vibrator and tossed it to the side, sighing as you relaxed back in bed, closing your eyes and resting your head more comfortably on the pillow. Simon let out a heavy sigh, and you could hear rustling on the other end of the phone, no doubt him tidying himself up.

It was hard not to fall asleep now, but you did your best to keep your eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, your mind idly wandering,

“Where are you?”

“You know I can’t say, darlin’.”

“I mean where in the building, or base, or whatever it is.”

He chuckled, “Oh. The wank shack.”

“You what?”

“Storage cupboard. Only place ‘round here a man can get a little privacy.”

“Oh. Sexy.”

“Best I can do.”

“I mean, if it works, it works.”

He yawned, “Aye, you take what you can get. You should get back to sleep, love. Don’t need to be awake for me.”

“Miss a chance to hear you wank for me on call? Not on your nelly.”

He laughed, soft and quiet, “I really do love you, you know.”

Neither of you had said it since that very first time, and though touched, it still sent a deep wave of sadness through you. You loved someone who was in mortal danger. The very fact that you were in love made you fragile, but being in love with someone like him? That was basically asking for heartbreak.

“I love you too, Si.”

You wanted to tell him how worried you were, how you were having trouble sleeping, you were so full of anxiety over him, but it would have been selfish. What good would it do for him to know you were struggling?

“What’s on your mind, love?”

“I just miss you, is all.”

“Come on. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

A heart-to-heart after a wank session was not exactly what you’d been planning on, but the man was weirdly emotionally intelligent.

“I just worry.”

“You know I’ll come back safe. Through hell or high water.”

“I guess.”

“I know. I’m over here in danger, and nothing I can say can get rid of the fear you have. I won’t lie to you, it’s dangerous. But I’ve got some good boys here with me, yeah? They’ll keep me safe.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“I promise.” He let out a sigh, “I should get back. Need to squeeze in as much sleep as I can. You take care of yourself for me, alright?”

“I will.”

“Good. I’ll feel better knowing you’re taking care of yourself back home.”

“You’re in the shit, worrying about me?”

“You’re my missus. ‘Course I’ll worry. Now get some sleep, aye?”

“Alright, alright.”

“Sleep tight, darlin’. I’ll talk to you when I next get a chance.”

“Goodnight Si.”

When the call beeped off, you felt the silence descend on you, suffocatingly heavy. Your heart ached. Ugh. You tossed your phone aside and buried your face in the pillow, desperately trying to force the thoughts of Simon in danger out of your head, but ultimately ready for another sleepless night.

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 22

Summary: Night out with Ghost and his mates!

Notes: Yes I know it took forever and it’s very mid pls forgive me my loves x

Word count: 2,871

ao3 link

What the fuck were you supposed to wear on a night out with Ghost’s mates?

Almost the entire contents of your wardrobe were on the floor, with the pile of rejects growing larger by the second. It had been too long since you’d had to dress up to meet a man’s family. At least this time, it was easier; his family were his squaddie friends, which was a lot less daunting than meeting the parents, a last hurrah before they were deployed again. It didn’t make finding an outfit any easier, though. In fact, it was harder. With parents, you’d dress conservatively, like you didn’t slut up for the weekends, and act like you were a bright, professional young woman. You wanted Simon’s mates not to think you were a premature grandma. There must be a middle ground somewhere between slut and grandmother.

Ah, fuck it. If they had a problem with you dressing up, Ghost would have to put them in their place. You liked your short, skimpy dresses; they were comfy, and a dress meant you didn’t have to put as much effort in everywhere else; your tits were their own accessory. Sod bandage dresses being ‘out of style’, you liked that they squashed you tightly enough to force your body into an hourglass shape, even if you did have to babysit the hem all night. Bright red, fuck it, you were going all in, with a red lip too, and sky-high black heels, no trainers for you tonight! Your phone pinged as you were scowling at your eyeliner in the mirror, trying and failing to get the wing sharp enough. If you kept making them thicker every time you ‘evened them out’, you’d end up looking like a panda.

‘Ghost: Are you ready? Heading out from barracks now. :-)’

You could feel your heart beating in your stomach. Should you have gotten a proper dinner before going out drinking? Probably. But you could always just get a kebab later; there was no doubt the lads would.

‘You: Will be ready when you get here!’

After a quick google to see how far away the barracks were, giving you an estimate of how long you had until Simon showed up. You could fit a little panic attack in that time. You’d have to be quick about it, though, so you ran through the fears in your mind.

Fear 1: his friends wouldn’t like you.

Well, off the bat, that made no difference. Ghost seemed to need you like he needed water.

Fear 2: everyone would hate your outfit.

Again, pointless. Ghost and his mates had already seen you slutted out in town before.

Fear 3: you’d make a tit of yourself.

Hadn’t you been doing that since the very start of your relationship?

Fact-checking really did have a way of calming you down, even if you were loathe to admit that to your therapist. With the allotted time to freak out over, you took a quick outfit selfie to send to the girly group chat for a bit of motivation.

‘Helen: A man cannot possibly deserve this outfit. LET ME HIT x’

It wasn’t like it was particularly hard for you to get such a compliment from Helen, but it still bolstered your confidence. You were hot. Scratch that; you were gorgeous, sirenly, able to lure an entire armada onto the rocks if you so chose.

All you needed to do now was avoid getting any cat hair on your dress. Easier said than done, given that the pair of them had seemingly managed to get a thin layer of fur on every single thing you owned. Soap was still yowling his distress outside your bedroom door, having been banished after he’d headbutted your mascara while you were in the process of doing your lashes. Damn cat. You could see his little paws swiping under the door, claws raking at the carpet.

“Soap! Fuck off! Quit scratching the carpet!”

Of course, he didn’t stop, continuing to yowl the song of his people as he lifted up the edge of carpet with his claws. You tidied away all your makeup and stuffed it in your drawer before you went to open the door, not taking a single chance with the furry little heathen.

The very second the door creaked open, Soap shoved himself through, winding around your ankles, his throaty yowls back to a regular cat meow.

“Christ alive, Soap, I was literally in my room.”

He chirped, his tail curling around your calf. Clearly, he took after his father, clingy bastard. Your phone buzzed again.

‘Ghost: Can the lads come see Soap and Roach? :-)’

Fuck. You hadn’t planned on that. You still had half a dozen knickers spread out over your bed from where you were picking the most appealing ones for Simon to take off with his teeth. You nudged Soap into the living room with your foot, closing the door behind you. They wouldn’t go in your room, right? If Come Dine with Me was anything to go by, they’d go through every single drawer in your house specifically to find things to make fun of you.

At least the place was fairly clean from when you’d done a panic tidy earlier today. Ugh, you couldn’t be bothered to panic that much.

‘You: Sure!’

In the time it took for you to decide on a pair of heels, they were already knocking on your door, the orderly rapping of a soldier instantly recognisable to you now. Soap was at the door already, ready to greet intruders into his home, whereas Roach was.. somewhere. You nudged Soap out the way as you opened the door, given only a second to get a brief glimpse of the men in your doorway before Simon yanked you into a bear hug, crushing you against his chest, and the warm fabric of his dark jumper. Did he own any other clothes? You didn’t need to see the men behind him to smell them, the clouds of cologne practically forming a thick, choking fog. At least Simon smelled nice, familiar and comforting. He wrapped an arm around your waist to lift you up and place you to the side, his hand dropping to your arse for a quick squeeze before it moved to your lower back. With his other hand, he gestured to the men loitering, “Baz, Kingy, Derry, Gaz, Price, and James.”

You felt as though you had a vague memory of Baz; wasn’t he there when Helen was puking in the gutter? Price and Gaz you knew— though again, the circumstances hadn’t been great. The other men were a mystery to you, all a generic mix of men, the type you’d avoid on the train after a football match. Regardless, you gave them a polite smile, and gestured to Soap, who was currently wrapping himself around Simon’s ankle, purring as loud as a helicopter, “Right, so that’s Soap, and Roach will come out the second he realises Si is here.”

Gaz crouched down to greet Soap, who seemed more than happy to trot over for fuss, and, as expected, Roach came slinking out from under the sofa. You were pretty sure he’d dug himself a little nest under there somewhere. Ghost let go of you to scoop up the little creature, pressing kisses to his fluffy cheek, “Alright Roach lad? Taking care of the missus for us?”

Kingy smiled, reaching out to stroke Roach’s head, “Does look a bit like Roach, doesn’t he?”

There was a vague murmur of agreement, and you felt a little left out for never having known the soldier. You assumed he was dead, what with him not being around, so it wasn’t like you could start asking questions, but occasionally it itched in the back of your mind.

Ghost dropped Roach back to the floor, “Right, you’ve met the boys, now get your mucky selves out the missus’ flat. Only soldier allowed here is yours truly.” He winked at your rolled eyes, and the men trooped back out into the hall, though unfortunately not taking the stink of cologne with them.

“You got everything?” Ghost asked, and you grabbed your purse, giving it a quick pat down, “Phone, purse, keys. Grand.”

“Off we go then.”

About an hour later, you were sandwiched between Ghost and Gaz, the latter of which was quickly becoming your favourite of his friends. The man had a quick wit and a painfully charming smile, managing to get several digs in at the other lads before they clocked on. It probably helped that he was slow on the beer while almost every other bloke was practically drowning themselves in cheap shots, including your own Simon. Thankfully, he wasn’t an obnoxious drunk, nor an aggressive one, though he did lean on the side of overly affectionate, his arm always around you, constantly falling over himself to get you drinks and snacks, a dog at your command.

“Got him well trained, you have.” Gaz gestured at Ghost as he trotted over to the bar to get you another water, you carefully balancing alcohol with hydration. With Ghost out of earshot, you turned to Gaz, “Is he normally like this?”

Gaz snorted, “No. He’s usually terrifying.” He gestured at Price, who was nursing a whiskey in the corner, watching the others, “More like him. Yet even more brooding and mysterious.”

“He never!”

Gaz nodded, “Not a word of lie. He’s been all Mr. Cheerful since you turned up. Before that, he was fucking terrifying. More tightly wound than a watch.”

You took a sip of your vodka lemonade, “In that case, you’re welcome.”

The thought that had been lingering on your mind ever since Simon had told you came to your lips, “Is this deployment gonna be dangerous?”

Gaz went quiet for a moment, clearly thinking about his answer carefully. Damn secrets act. “All deployments are dangerous to a certain extent.” What a diplomatic answer.

“Well yeah, I know that much. But, like, is it more dangerous than usual?”

He sighed, “Can’t tell you. But what I can tell you is that,” he pointed to Ghost, who was dutifully bringing over your water, “he definitely should have died at some point. Not entirely sure how he’s even still breathing. The suspicion is that he’s not entirely human.”

You raised a brow at him, and he clarified, “What I’m saying is, he’s a tough bastard. Wherever we are, you can guarantee he’ll come out alive.”

Ghost slipped back into his seat beside you, sneaking his arm back around your shoulder, an easy smile on his lips as he leaned in, “You know you gotta pay for this before I give it to you.”

He’d done this routine five times already, but you obliged, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before he handed over the drink. It was clear he was sloshed, a slight unsteadiness to his posture, and he didn’t quite make his voice quiet enough as he leant down to your ear, “Rock fucking hard, darlin’.”

Gaz grimaced, “Gonna pretend I didn’t hear that, LT.”

“Fuck off, Kyle.”

Price broke his silence, beckoning Ghost, who grumbled loudly about being taken away from you, but did as he was bidden, leaving you yet again. You looked at Gaz again, “Kyle? I thought your name was Gary. You know, Gaz, Gary.”

He grinned, “That would make sense. But it’s the last name. Garrick.”

You rolled your eyes, “Army and their nicknames. What about the other lot then? Is Baz not even a Barry?”

He shook his head and laughed, “Nah, that one’s a Barry. James is a James, and Kingy’s last name is King, same with Price. Then Derry is from Derry, his real name is Connor. It’s fairly simple.”

“And Ghost?”

“Well, the mask.”

You shifted in your seat, “Soap and Roach?”

Gaz’ bright smile faltered a little, and he took a thoughtful sip of his beer before he answered, “Roach, I didn’t know. Just knew he was an old soldier mate of Ghost’s, but he died before I came on the scene. Soap, I knew. Sprinkled his ashes with Ghost and Price, actually. Good man. Ridiculous Scottish accent. Him and Ghost were thick as thieves.”

You listened silently, curious, but Gaz shook his head, “Soap isn’t my story to tell. Ghost’ll tell you when he’s ready. Took him long enough to even speak his name aloud after he died.”

Ghost and Price returned, ruining your chance at learning anything more, and you could see some of the carefree joy had fled from Simon’s expression. He rested a hand on Baz’s shoulder, gesturing to the door with a nod, “Chug ‘em, we’re off early.”

There was a chorus of groans, and the remainder of the drinks were quickly guzzled before the lads got to their feet and reluctantly trudged out. Gaz clucked his tongue, “Looks like our lads holiday got bumped up.”

Ghost swerved through the chairs to come to your side, offering you a hand to help you to your feet, and you took it, looking up at him questioningly, “Off already?”

He looked at Price before he answered, “Time to drop the missus off?”

Price checked his watch, “If you’re quick.”

Ghost draped his arm around your shoulders, “Come on then, darlin’, let me walk you home.”

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily for you, they’d picked the pub down the road from yours to get hammered at, so it wasn’t a long walk back. You fiddled with Ghost’s fingers as he walked in silence, the joy of the evening having been sucked out. You broached the question first, “How long are you gonna be gone?”

He sighed, “Not sure, love. I can’t give you much detail, much as I’d like to. S’all classified.”

You weren’t convinced that he just didn’t want to alarm you with details. Then again, he was special forces. It was all frustratingly vague. Already, you were walking down the hallway towards your front door, your time with him almost up already. You would have liked to drag him into your home and lock the door, but you had a feeling that the lads wouldn’t approve of you kidnapping their lieutenant. He leant against the wall as you unlocked the door, and you could see a touch of resignation in his eyes, one that was no doubt mirrored in yours. Soap slunk out as you opened the front door, and Ghost picked him up, pressing a kiss to his furry forehead, “You keep my girl safe, aye? Make sure she doesn’t get lonely.”

Roach bounded over to Ghost, and he crouched down to fuss him, “Goes for you as well, mate.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, looking up at Ghost, “Never mind about me. Who’s gonna be taking care of you?”

He chuckled at that, dropping Soap onto the carpet and pulling you into his arms, his hands knotting around the back of your waist, “Darlin’, you have nothing to worry about.”

You pursed your lips, and he leant in to rest his forehead against yours, “Nothin’ on Earth can keep me from coming back to you. I’ll crawl back on broken limbs if I have to.”

His tone was playful, but you could see the solemn promise in his eyes. You groaned, still reluctant to let him go, as though you had any choice in the matter, “Just, keep yourself out of danger, yeah?”

He snorted, “I usually go where the danger is, love. Big theme of my job, yeah?”

“Dickhead. You know what I mean.”

He smiled, “I know.” His eyes flicked over your face, and his smile turned wicked, “I’ll make a deal with you. Promise me I’ll get to bend you over your sofa, and I’ll promise to avoid risking my neck.”

“Come back in one piece, and I’ll ride you til you can’t remember your own name.”

Ghost visibly shuddered, “Fuck me, love.” He took your hand and placed it on his crotch, allowing you to feel how hard he was, “See what you do to me? Try stop me from coming home to this.”

His phone pinged, and he grumbled, “I’ve got to go, love.”

You would have begged him to stay, but you knew it wouldn’t make a difference. So, you bit back your pain and nodded, “I’ll be waiting for you. You owe me a kebab, and some dick.”

Ghost shook his head, and let out a heavy sigh as he smiled, shifting his hands so they cupped your face, “I fuckin’ love you, darlin’. My dirty little missus.”

It wasn’t quite how you’d imagined that confession, but it still sent butterflies fluttering through your chest. The big brute of a man, holding your face as though you were the most precious thing in his life, loved you. If anything, this would have been the most perfect time to fuck each other’s brains out, yet fate was being a cunt. So, you just placed your hands over his. “I love you too. Come home safe.”

With a final kiss to your forehead, Simon turned and left you.

No Ghost, and no kebab. What a shit ending to the night.

[jackactuallywrites]

Coping Methods

Pairing: You x Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Funerals, Wakes, Cancer, Death

Summary: You and Ghost meet at a funeral and fuck the feelings away

Notes: ‘Jack r u ok’ read the fic and guess what I’m dealing with 👀😘

Word Count: 5,148 (it got away from me a bit)

ao3 link

Fuck the sun.

What right did it have to shine? The entire world should be dark, carpeted in black, the twinkling stars suffocated by smog, and the bastard star at the centre of your galaxy should die out, plunging everything into a cold, eternal night.

But there it was. High up in the sky, not a single cloud to trace white across the blue. Even the fucking birds were singing, happily twirling and dancing in the trees, their songs sweet. It pissed you off. It pissed you off that people were still breathing, walking, working, fucking and loving and living. There should be rain, thunderstorms, the cry of the heavens spilling tears onto the ground, wailing rivulets on the streets, not this bullshit blue skies and sunny weather. How dare the Earth still move, the universe carry on, uncaring, unaware.

But, that was the way of the world. The centre of yours meant so little in the grand scheme of things. So, you allowed the sun, the birds, and every bastard that was enjoying the day. Begrudgingly.

Besides, what right had you to grieve? You were still walking on Earth, air in your lungs, blood pumping in your chest, even if you did feel like you were suffocating. Sure, pain was a reminder of life, from the strangling pain around your ribs to the slight pinching in your toes from your heels and the discomfort of your new clothes, still stiff on your body, but you didn’t relish it. ‘Character building’, bollocks to that, you’d cherish an easy life, where the hardest thing you had to do was pick what you were going to eat that day.

The cold stone walls of the church began to blur again. How did you still have any tears left in your body at this point? Christ, by all means, you should have been a worn-out husk, dedicated, drier than silica, but there they were again, fresh tears spilling over your lashes and down onto your cheeks, leaving a warm trail as they ran down over your skin, over your jaw and down your neck. Fuck, you were out of tissues. A whole two packets of them stuffed in your handbag hadn’t been enough. A whole damn warehouse of them wouldn’t stem the grief that was flowing out of everyone you’d spoken to, wept with, clutched at. Talking to his mother had taken up a whole fucking packet in itself. It had only been earlier on that very day, but it could have been centuries ago. Hours had stretched into years, decades, millennia, the worst day of your life stretched out like you were approaching a black hole, spinning out until everything became meaningless.

Shit, you hadn’t even heard the invitation to the wake. It had taken you a minute to even realise people were getting up from the pews around you, a solemn shuffling of shoes on the flagstone announcing the end of the funeral, punctuated by sniffs and choked sobs. You couldn’t deal with that. Every day leading up to this had been suffocating enough; you couldn’t deal with a single drop more of that grief. The back door was your saviour, and you snuck out like a thief in the night, balancing on your tiptoes so your heels didn’t clack on the floor. Thank fuck someone had been diligent with oiling the hinges around here, the door must have been a good century old at least, but it was quiet as you gently lifted the handle, pulling it out and fleeing out into the infuriatingly warm weather. A funeral in the spring. Unnatural. Flowers were budding in the very grass in front of you; you wouldn’t have been surprised if a damn bunny came frolicking through the meadow, a bastard cherry on top of this cunt of a day. You could have torn those damn primroses up and trampled them into pieces. You’d seen enough flowers today, blanketing the coffin, like their love could possibly penetrate through to the afterlife. Of course, you’d placed some there yourself, a bright spray of tulips, but it hadn’t made you feel any better. Nothing had.

You had been quite content to have the fresh air to yourself, hunched over on the ancient wooden bench, but as of late, life hasn’t been that kind. No, of course, there would be someone else wandering around from the front of the church, interrupting your peace and quiet, denying you the ability to wipe your nose on your sleeve. Black shoes, black suit, forlorn expression, oh, another funeral-goer for sure. If he tried to give you condolences, you might kill him. Or burst into tears. There had really been no telling lately. After all, anger was far easier to deal with than grief.

There was a split second where you thought he might leave, a moment’s hesitance in his gait, but then he’d plonked himself right down on the bench beside you. Great, now you’d have to grit your teeth and be polite yet again like you hadn’t had enough of that today. Bastard British manners. At least you had it down to a science now, even if you were too tired to plaster fake nicety into your tone, keeping your eyes firmly on the grass as you focused on keeping your voice stable.

“Funeral?”

“Aye.”

You unzipped your purse, digging around within, half for gum, half just to have something to do with your hands, voice continuing on autopilot,

“How did you know him?”

“Forces. You?”

“College.”

He just grunted at that. Your fingers finally found a familiar object in your handbag, an empty tobacco pouch. You didn’t need to take it out to know that it only contained one thing, a piece of paper that just said, ‘don’t be a dickhead’. Was that the last thing he’d ever written on? You traced your thumb over the cheap plastic. You’d given up the second he’d gotten his diagnosis, but Christ, you did crave just a single smoke.

“You rolling one?” The man next to you asked. Nosy bugger.

“No. Gave up last year.”

He tutted, leaning back on the bench, “Aye, so did we. Still absolutely gasping for one.”

You dropped the pouch back in your handbag, searching now in earnest for gum: “I’ve got some Nicorette somewhere in here if you like.” Even as you said the words, all you found were the empty cardboard boxes: “Well, I did have at some point.”

That earned an amused snort, “Nah, love, don’t worry yourself.”

You rummaged around for something else to offer, “I’ve got lollipops, mints-“

“Honest, don’t worry.”

You frowned at your bag, feeling a lot of mints at the bottom. The bastard packet had split. Typical. You sighed, leaving them for yourself to deal with later. “Yeah, the mints are raw dogging it in that bag. Good choice.”

At that, he laughed. “Are you where he got that from?”

You looked up from the chaos that was your bag, eyes finally coming to meet his. Oh, he was the most typical military lad you’d ever seen. Buzzed short hair, blond by the looks of it, bags under his eyes, and a nose that had clearly been poorly reset on the field.

“I’m sorry?”

“He came back from civvie street suddenly all ‘rawdog’ this and ‘rawdog’ that. Drove us absolutely mental.”

It would have been a lie to say it was your first happy moment of the day; your moods were absolutely unpredictable lately, but for a second, you weren’t so angry.

“Christ, is that what I’m known for over there?”

“There’s worse things to be known for. Could have been the lad who gave him the clap.”

You almost choked on your own spit, a genuine laugh bubbling up out of you, “He told you about that?”

“No secrets between brothers.”

You tilted your head, curious, “Which one are you?”

“Simon.”

You racked your brain, “Which one? Short Simon or Spooky Simon?”

He snorted, “Spooky Simon, I imagine.”

For a moment, it felt as though the dour day faded, a new brightness in the air, “So you’re the one who runs around with that daft skeleton mask on?”

“Called it daft, did he?”

You smiled at him, noticing the way his eyes were a little brighter. You’d still refuse to believe anything good could come out of a day like this, but you’d found some relief, at least, in one of his mates.

“No. But I did.”

“That so?”

“You telling me people actually take you seriously with a Halloween mask on?”

“Aye.”

“Bollocks.”

“I swear on-“ his voice faltered.

It was obvious whose life he was going to swear on. The problem with that is that he was dead. That wonderful little bubble you’d been sitting in had popped, the gravity of the situation washing over you again, stealing the breath out of your lungs. Yet again, tears were springing to your eyes, which pissed you off. You’d cried enough to fill Lake Baikal twice over.

“Tissue?”

Clearly, Simon was more prepared than you. He already had a packet of tissues in his hand, holding them out to you. A nice gesture, but you still would have preferred not to cry in front of a stranger. You took one, wiping your tears with your hands and then using the tissue to blow your nose. Not exactly the most attractive you’d ever looked.

“Sorry,” why you felt the need to apologise for crying on the day of a funeral was beyond you, but it came out unbidden, “I don’t usually cry this much.”

“Nothin’ wrong with crying. Probably’d be weirder if you didn’t.”

You shrugged, sniffling, “I could do without all the gross snottiness. Kind of disgusting, to be honest.”

“Give over. It doesn’t kill you.”

Well, that was a change from ‘it’s okay to cry’ and ‘let it out’. In a way, you preferred the blunt, no-bullshit version rather than the niceties you’d been subjected to. You knew people meant well, but it didn’t make all that sympathy any easier to swallow. You let out a big sigh, crumpling the tissue in your hand, “You going to the wake?”

“Wasn’t planning on. Yourself?”

“Nope. No offence to his lot, but I can’t stomach any more of it.”

“You’re more than welcome to join mine.”

You eyed him suspiciously, “Where is it?”

“You’re looking at it.”

You looked around the church grounds. It was just the two of you in the sun, occasionally shadowed by the swaying leaves of the willow tree in front of you. It was a far sight better than being surrounded by weeping family members in the shitty pub with overpriced drinks.

You nodded, “My kind of wake.”

“It gets better.” Simon added, bringing out a fairly large flask, offering it to you, “You a fan of bourbon?”

You took it without complaint, taking a swig, wincing at the unpleasant flavour as you handed it back, the bourbon burning on the way down, “My favourite type of alcohol. Free.”

He smiled, then shifted on the bench, “You live nearby?”

You raised a brow, suspicious, “Why you asking?”

He gestured with his flask, “You got a lift home?”

Ah. That made sense. Though you still weren’t about to tell him you only lived down the road from the church, “Yeah, I’ve got a lift back. Do you?”

He shrugged, taking a drink himself, “Taxis exist.”

You hadn’t expected that you’d spend Adam’s wake drinking in the graveyard with one of his army mates. Considering that all you knew of the man was that Adam called him ‘spooky Simon’ and occasionally told stories of him shitting up other squaddies, you found him surprisingly good company; he had a seemingly unending supply of stupid military anecdotes, confirming what Adam had told you about all the ridiculous ways soldiers were punished. You’d even ended up breaking out the emergency mini bottles of limoncello you’d saved in your handbag for a special occasion, splashing a fair amount on the floor in his honour and the rest straight down your gullet. The sky had darkened, but the sun still shone, bathing the graveyard in warm golden light, shining beautifully through the waving branches of the willow, casting dappled patterns on the grass. You had a good view of it from your vantage point on the ground, having eschewed the uncomfortable wooden bench in favour of the grass, sprawled out underneath the tree, watching the leaves dance on the wind.

The alcohol was warm in your blood, strong, no doubt due to the complete lack of food you’d had that day. You weren’t hammered, but you had a good buzz going, the textures on your skin delightful, from the slight dampness of the grass to the sweet smell of flowers. Simon was flat on his back on the ground, one hand splayed over his stomach, and he had been gracious enough to stretch his other arm out, letting you use his bicep as a pillow. How many times had that man slept on hard ground, you wondered. At any rate, he hadn’t complained about the grass his head rested on. You rolled onto your side, looking up at him, “You ever slept on straight-up rock?”

His eyes remained closed as he answered, “Aye.”

“Not even a backpack as a pillow?”

“Not even a backpack.”

“Like no pillow at all?”

“No pillow at all.”

You could feel that your intelligence had dropped a few points, as the only word you could think to respond with was, “Bruh.” Not exactly eloquent.

Though the sun was still warm, there was a slight chill to the air the further it dropped in the sky, and the ground you were lying on was nothing more than a massive heat sink.

“Simon.”

“Mm?”

“You cold?”

“Not particularly.” He cracked open one eye to look at you, “You cold?”

“Bro. It’s cold as shit.”

“Is it?”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you acting hard in front of me?”

He grinned, “Depends. Would that do it for you?”

“No.”

He shifted, moving his arm out from underneath you, letting your head fall back to the grass as he sat up, “When’s your lift coming then? You’ll be wanting to get home soon.”

You reluctantly sat up, stretching, “Oh, I live nearby.”

“Want us to walk you back?”

You weren’t keen on ending the wake so soon. Going home meant facing all the emotions of the day, seeing the pictures of him in your house, the sympathy cards that littered the sides of your kitchen. It had to be faced at some point.

“Is no an option?”

He’d already picked up your heels from where you’d kicked them off, holding them out to you, “You always have options. But no.”

You groaned, taking the heels and pulling them back on, fastening the strap around your ankle once more. Simon waited patiently, then offered a hand, which you took without complaint, allowing him to pull you to your feet.

The walk back to your home wasn’t as painful as the walk to the church had been that afternoon, no doubt helped by the man at your side, a silent companion, his blazer draped around your shoulders. You hadn’t asked for that, but he’d insisted, and you weren’t about to complain. After all, it was strangely comforting to have it wrapped around you. You kept your arms folded over your chest as you walked, trying to keep the thoughts at bay and failing. Then again, a burden shared was a burden halved. Theoretically. So, you posed the question, “D’you think it ever stops sucking?”

“What?”

“Your mum.”

Hadn’t been the question you wanted to ask, but it was too easy, and you sniggered to yourself, easily amused.

“My mum’s dead.”

Fucking hell, you’d stepped in it. You snatched a glance at him, only to find him grinning. The dickhead. You smacked his arm with the back of your hand, “Cunt!”

He smiled innocently, “What? She is!”

You shook your head, repeating yourself, “Cunt.”

“To answer your question, no. It’ll never stop sucking that he died. Just won’t be as…” he paused, searching for the right word, eyes straight ahead as he spoke, “all-consuming.”

You thought on that for a moment. “I don’t think I want to get over it. Don’t want to pretend it’ll ever be okay that he’s gone.”

“So don’t. Deal with it any damn way you choose.”

“Is that healthy?”

“No right way to deal with grief. Lotta wrong ways, but no single right way.”

“You’re like a wise old owl.”

He snorted, “Freak.”

“Proud of it.”

You were at your front door now, and you made Simon hold your handbag as you fumbled for your keys, eventually finding them tucked away in the corner. He watched quietly as you unlocked the door, then stood on the front step as you crossed the threshold into your house. Those bastard cards were waiting for you; you could see the ones that had just been delivered, unmistakable as sympathy cards; the only ones you ever got handwritten were on your birthday, and that was some time away. You picked them up reluctantly, stashing them on the stairs for now.

Simon shifted in the doorway, “Right, I should be off.”

Were you that desperate not to be alone?

“Want to come in for tea?”

Apparently you were.

He leant against the door frame, looking you up and down. You didn’t dare imagine how rough you looked; you hadn’t bothered with even a stitch of makeup, knowing you’d just end up crying it off.

“Be straight with me. You offerin’ me a coffee for the road or summat more?”

Well, he didn’t beat around the bush. You considered him more critically. Did you really fancy him, or were you just doing anything to smother the grief?

“Depends what you’re up for.”

“Tell me what you want.”

Christ, he wasn’t going to let you be subtle about this, was he? Ah, fuck it, your best friend was dead, you needed to feel something.

“Wanna shag?”

Probably the worst way you’d ever propositioned anyone, but it seemed to work. He’d crossed the threshold into your home, closing the door behind him. Had he always been that tall?

“Bedroom?” He asked, loosening his tie, and you gestured with your head.

“Upstairs.”

How quickly the vibe had changed. Mere moments ago, he’d just been a companion in grief, but now there was a whole new lens over your eyes. You saw the silent confidence with which he carried himself and the way he looked with his tie loose around his neck, a few buttons undone at his throat, revealing blond chest hair and tan skin. Yeah, being horny beat being grief-stricken every time. You decided not to waste time, kicking off your heels as he took off his shoes, taking your earrings out and ditching them on the side as he stacked his lace-ups on your shoe rack.

There was no point in denying your underlying curiosity now, and you reached out to untuck his shirt as he straightened up, your fingers just grazing against his belt before he turned around, catching your hands in one of his, holding them above your head as he backed you into the wall. The second your back hit the wall, his other hand was at your thigh, lifting you up off the floor, and you followed his move, wrapping your legs around his waist as he pressed you into the wall, his face tilting down to look at you, hand dropping yours to cradle your face, eyes dark as he leaned in, his lips crashing against yours. It was far more obvious how much the man repressed now, you could feel it in the desperate way his fingers clutched at you as he kissed you, as though you were a balm to his very soul. You made quick work of his shirt buttons, fingers flying as you revealed more of his chest, feeling the tight muscles underneath your hands. The moment the last button came undone, he pulled you away from the wall, carrying you up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, clearly as impatient as you were to get into bed.

Thankfully, your bedroom door was already ajar, and he barged through, bracing the two of you with an arm as he dropped down onto the bed, trapping you underneath him, his face firmly buried in your neck, his teeth gently nipping at the skin there as his hand began to push your dress up. You tapped his shoulder, and he immediately shot back like he’d been zapped, his breath heavy as he sat back on his legs, running one hand over his head, “You alright?” You laughed, a little amused at how quickly he’d gotten off you, rolling over to get onto all fours so you could reach out to pull open your drawer and rummage within, “Condom.”

As you found the box, Simon shifted on the bed behind you, grabbing the hem of your dress and throwing it up over your back, baring your arse to him. God, you hoped you didn’t have only holes in your knickers. It didn’t take long for that thought to be completely forgotten, as he’d already pulled them to the side and ran his tongue down the middle of your cunt, sending shivers up your spine. The condoms were forgotten for the moment as he quickly laid flat on his back, wrapping his hands around your thighs and pulling you down onto his face. He ate like a man starved, kissing his way up from hole to clit, then sucking you into his mouth so he could flick his tongue back and forth over you, his hand shifting towards your inner thigh, thumb skating against your cunt, before he began to gently push it into you, tongue still flicking insistently over your clit. You could barely remember what your name was, all you could focus on was the building pleasure between your legs, beginning to rock yourself back and forth against his tongue, only the slightest bit conscious of the risk of suffocating him. Simon didn’t seem to care. The hand around your thigh pulled you tight against his face, and the thumb fucking you was replaced with a finger, and then two, firmly thrusting in and out of you as you began to ride his face in earnest, feeling that familiar tightness building, and the desperation mounting as you tightened your thighs around his head, teeth sinking into your lip. It was all you could do to hang onto the edge of the bed as you came on his face, letting your entire weight drop onto him, feeling his fingers deep inside you as you finished, barely managing to utter a short string of curses.

You barely had a second to recover as he lifted you from his face and rolled you onto your back, gently pulling his fingers out of you, immediately shoving them in his mouth to get a taste of you, groaning in pleasure as you took a moment to catch your breath. The man was a little bit of a freak. He was already pulling a condom out the box as you took a deep breath, pushing your hair out of your face. Simon took your hand, kissing your knuckles, his eyes soft, “Love, you sure you want this?”

Words were a little beyond you, so you just let out a mumbled ‘mhm’ and nodded as you reached out to tug at his belt, pulling the end free from the loops. He assisted, quickly unbuckling his belt with one hand and pushing his trousers down, the other holding the condom packet as he tore it open with his teeth. He checked it before shoving down his boxers and letting his cock bounce free, pinching the tip of the condom as he rolled it down over his considerable length. He leant over you, one hand next to your head, eyes flicking down over your face, the other holding his dick. “How do you want me?”

You hadn’t been thinking about positions, only focused on getting him inside you, and you didn’t fuck about, wrapping your legs around the back of his thighs and pulling him against you, groaning when you felt his tip grind against your sensitive clit, shoving your hand down and grabbing his dick so you could push it down, desperate.

Finally, his tip pressed against your hole, and you tightened your legs, trying to pull him in, but he forced you to take him slowly, one inch at a time, his eyes focused on every little expression on your face as he slowly sank into you. You didn’t even recognise the pleading words falling from your lips, your hands pulling at him, but he was in control, moving torturously slowly, until he was finally fully inside you. He let himself fall closer to you, forehead on the pillow, his lips right next to your ear, allowing you to hear the uttered curses he breathed out. He shifted to press a kiss underneath your jawline, his hand stroking your hair, the other moving from his dick to your thigh, pulling you against him, grinding into you.

You couldn’t bear the torture, and you shifted your hands to cup his face, forcing him to look at you, “Please, please fuck me.”

His jaw tightened, and he moved his hand away from your hair, grabbing one of your pillows, lifting you up and shoving it under your lower back, before he finally pulled out a little, giving you just time enough to miss the feeling of him before he slid back in, oh so gentle, as though you were made of porcelain. You craved him, but he would only go slowly, letting your wetness spread over him entirely before he finally upped the tempo, still fucking you gently, still torturously slow, pulling himself out almost entirely before he’d slide all the way back in. He seemed to savour your desperation, eyes devouring your face, the only hint of his desire in his grip, both hands tight on your thighs, pulling you onto him.

The second you couldn’t bear the slow rhythm, he suddenly sped up, his hips now beginning to slam into you as he fucked you properly, one hand on your stomach, pushing you down onto the bed as the other grabbed at your thigh. He pulled out of you, leaving you empty, pulling at your thigh, “On all fours.”

You had no problem obeying, quickly rolling over onto your front, sticking your arse in the air, splaying your hands out over the bed, digging your fingers into the duvet as you waited impatiently. His hand reached out to rest on your arse, voice soft yet commanding, “You got a vibrator?”

Shame had been left at the door, and you gestured lazily at the drawers, “Second drawer. Pink.”

You heard him rummaging and then the familiar buzzing vibration as he clicked on your vibrator and shoved it in your hand, the demand clear. You weren’t about to argue, grabbing it and placing it against your clit, the lowest setting still insanely pleasurable against your sensitive body. He slid back into you easily, his hands grabbing your hips and pulling you back against him as you pleasured yourself with your vibrator, deciding that the man was a devious succubus sent to drag you out of depression. The second climax came harder than the first, Simon fucking you hard from the back as you threw yourself back against him, moaned words incomprehensible as you rocked back on him desperately, trying to get every last inch of pleasure from him.

Your arms collapsed underneath you, sending you face first into the pillow, and Simon pulled out, flipping you onto your back so you could sprawl out on your back, relishing the waves of pleasure rolling over you. He pulled you back against him, sliding into you again, pulling your legs back around his waist as he began to thrust into you desperately, his speed increasing until he was slamming himself into you, his heavy breaths broken up with growled curses, steady rhythm beginning to break as he thrusted deeper, staying inside as he finally came, collapsing down onto you, his head crashing on the pillow beside you, arms cradling your head.

It took you a good few minutes to recover, your hands resting on his back as he caught his breath. With a heavy groan, he pulled out of you, rolling onto his back as he carefully removed the condom, tying it in a knot.

“Bathroom?”

You gestured with your arm, sweaty and exhausted, “First door.”

He did up his trousers and crawled off your bed, leaving you absolutely spellbound. The man fucked like it was his last night on Earth. You had just enough presence of mind to turn the vibrator off and put it on top of your drawers, still feeling a little too wobbly to actually do anything.

Simon returned before long, glass of water in hand, holding it out to you, “You good?”

It was impossible not to laugh at the question, and you shook your head at him, “Yeah, I’m good.”

He was already doing his shirt back up, and you held your finger up to halt him as you took a drink, “You don’t have to clear off. Spend the night if you like.”

He paused, “You sure?”

You smiled again, shaking your head, “Honestly, I’m trying not to offer you the keys to my house.”

A wide smile spread across his face, and he tilted his head, looking you up and down, “That good?”

“Like you don’t know. Slut.”

He winked at you, clearly smug as he undid his buttons again, getting out of bed so he could hang his shirt on the back of your chair, doing the same with his trousers and tie. You left him to it, gingerly getting out of bed, feeling like Bambi on ice as you staggered to the bathroom.

When you’d cleaned yourself off, tossing your dress and knickers into the laundry basket, you headed back to your room, finding Simon sprawled out on your bed, already half asleep. You didn’t disturb him, grabbing a fresh pair of underwear from your drawer and a t-shirt to sleep in, carefully climbing in bed beside him. He rolled over to look at you, reaching out under the duvet to trace his fingers over your waist, “What d’you think he thinks of us hooking up at his funeral?”

The sadness in your chest wasn’t as sharp, even though it still hurt, and you allowed him to pull you against his chest, enjoying the warmth of him in your bed, “He probably thinks it’s funny as fuck.”

“Aye, bet he does.”

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 21

Warnings: Smut

Summary: Being wine drunk makes you horny. Also you make Ghost watch twilight

Notes: Yes it took forever no there isn’t an excuse I’m just lazy xx

Word Count: 3,221

ao3 link

“You haven’t fucked yet?”

How you’d missed hosting girls' night. There was nothing like being interrogated and scrutinised by Kate.

You sighed, shifting on the sofa and swirling the wine around in your glass, trying to think of a good answer for her that wouldn’t make you seem like a pussy. “There’s just not been a good opportunity.”

“Pussy. Just take him into the bedroom next time he turns up and ride him until you forget your names. Easy.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite my style, Kate.”

“News to me.”

You shot her a look, and she gave you a shrug in response, unbothered by your glare. You were quite far from being a virgin, but damn. Helen returned from your kitchen carrying a plate filled with toast sticks, as well as a melted Camembert in the middle. God, you loved that woman. She set the plate down on the coffee table, and then took her place on the floor, grabbing her wine as she looked at you, “What we yapping about?”

Kate answered for you, “Simon.”

Helen hummed, “She still hasn’t fucked him yet?”

“Nope.”

“Can we please talk about something other than my love life?”

“Alright,” Helen said, “We going for Twilight or Bridget Jones?”

Both you and Kate answered at the same time. “Twilight.”

Your discourse around the film hasn’t changed since the very first time you’d watched it in the cinemas; you liked Edward, Kate believed that Bella should have a threeway with Edward and Jacob, and Helen couldn’t understand why Bella would go for either man when Alice was right there. The years that had passed since that first viewing had only made you all further entrenched in your positions, although you had always seen the reason in Helen’s argument. She was arguing just as passionately now as she did then, though she was wearing significantly less eyeliner this time, “And I mean, Edward is a full-on stalker! Like, he broke into Bella’s room multiple times. She should have staked him the first chance she got.”

You weren’t sure how much of a pedestal you had to stand on, considering the Ghost of it all. Thankfully, Kate was arguing for you, allowing you to be quiet.

“It’s hot in fiction, Helena. If we apply real-world logic to vampire fiction, then the whole thing falls apart.”

Helen didn’t have a good answer for that; her argument dismantled before you’d even started the film, wanting to get the debate out of the way first.

Before you’d even seen Edward murder a sweet little deer, there was a bang at the door, which reminded you that, given the right pacing and a different soundtrack, Twilight would make a great horror film. What was more horrifying though, was the fact that you were pretty sure you knew what that bang was. Your own stalker. For all you knew, he very well could be an ageless vampire; you didn’t really know much about his personal life, never mind his age. You should really find that out before shagging the man.

“You gonna answer the door?” Helen asked, an amused look in her eyes. She knew, and she communicated this knowledge to Kate with a single look. It wasn’t like you could ignore Ghost; if you did, he was likely to just break in.

Very reluctantly, you pushed yourself up from the sofa and walked over to the door. You weren’t quite over the last time you’d seen him; you’d kissed, and he’d been insufferably smug about it all night, to the point where you considered smothering him to death with a pillow. Ugh. This wasn’t how you’d wanted him to meet Kate, and sober Helen. You’d wanted to put that off for as long as possible, and continue existing in your little bubble.

“Baby, you gonna make me huff ‘n puff?” Ghost purred through the door, and you groaned, dragging your hand over your face. You had to steel yourself for this one.

Carefully, you opened the door, not wanting him to fall through the doorway again. He was in his usual civvies, dark blue jeans, and a black waterproof, the bruises on his face almost completely faded, though the scabs across his cheek hadn’t entirely healed just yet, and the new scar across his head was still visible in the shorter hair. Rather than flowers, this time he held a giant portion of chips in his hand, still tightly wrapped up in paper, still fresh. You knew this, because Ghost had immediately brought you in for a tight squeeze, and you could feel the warmth of the chips radiating through the fabric of your top, which just so happened to be the T-shirt he’d left behind.

You cleared your throat, gently trying to put some space between you, “Simon, you remember Helen? And I don’t think you’ve met Katie.”

Ghost’s eyes finally shifted away from you to the other two women in the room, his back straightening. He looked at them, then back to his chips. “Fuck. I don’t have enough for the four of us. Want us to go back out and get more?”

You could see the amused look in Kate’s eyes, and she smiled at him, “We’re all good on dinner, ta.”

Was that Ghost feeling awkward? There was a certain stiffness in his posture, a vague look of unease on his face. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen the man feel anything other than confident, whether it was in lust or anger. Either way, you couldn’t just leave him hanging.

“We’re watching Twilight. Wanna join?”

Ghost shifted on the spot, running his hand over his head, “Which one’s that?”

Helen answered for you, “Sparkly vampires.”

Katie chimed in, “We have wine!”

Ghost looked down at you, leaning on the doorframe, “If you’re sure I’m not interrupting.”

You glanced between Ghost and your girls, and Kate heard your silent question, patting the sofa next to her, “Come on, the more’s the merrier.”

You’d thought it had been about 30/70 if Ghost would join ladies night, but apparently his dedication went deep enough to spend his night watching a teenage romcom. He followed you into the living room, like an oversized guard dog at your heels, and you sunk into the middle seat of the sofa, letting him take the corner. Kate grabbed the remote, taking a glance at Ghost, “You really never seen Twilight? Was pretty big when it came out back in ‘08.”

He shrugged in response, “Was deployed overseas.”

She grinned, “So we’re taking your Twilight virginity? Special night for us. It’s so rare to find someone who’s not seen even bits of it.”

Oh, you loved Kate. You could already see the slight twitch of Ghost’s lips, and the way he settled back into the sofa, his arm sprawled out across the back behind you as his other hand undid his chips, “Bring on the vampires.”

Two hours and two bottles of wine later, Ghost was the centre of attention, being interrogated on his thoughts on the film. Of course, the most important question had come first, and he’d answered without much thought.

“Jacob. Bella’s a kid, and Edward’s a creep.”

Kate cackled, “Yes, Simon! She should have staked the cunt the second he confessed to stalking her.”

You leant away from Ghost to look at him curiously, “Really? You think Edward’s a creep?”

“He’s a hundred years old, she’s ten.”

Couldn’t argue with that. Well, you could, but you didn’t want to. Ghost didn’t seem keen to drop the subject just yet, “You tellin’ me you like the stalker?”

The bastard.

“It’s romantic. Bite me.”

Ghost grinned widely, and you knew exactly what he was smug about. Thankfully, Helen interrupted before his ego could consume you all, “Enough about the boys; how about the women?”

That, Ghost had to think about, and he stared up at the ceiling as he thought, his head hanging off the edge of the sofa, “What’s the mum’s name?”

Kate answered, “Esme?”

Ghost sat back up, “Only one remotely in my age range.”

You rolled your eyes, “They’re vampires, Simon.”

He shrugged, “They still look like kids.”

You scoffed at him, “Well yeah, if we’re being factual, we’d go for Charlie or Carlisle, but it’s if you were also a teen.”

Ghost thought quietly for a moment, “Teen Simon?” He seemed to be carefully considering the question, “Alice.”

Helen laughed, “Get in! Man of taste right there.”

He actually smiled at her. It wasn’t the same way he smiled at you, smug or slutty; he just looked happy.

Katie yawned suddenly, looking up from her phone, “Uber’s here.”

That was news to you.

“You ordered an Uber?”

She pushed herself up off the floor, “My sister gave me a curfew.”

It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for Jess to give her a curfew; the woman could have finally reached her breaking point with Kate constantly stumbling in drunk. But you didn’t believe her in the slightest. The plan had been for a girly sleepover, not for the girls to go home after one film. The sly bitch was probably plotting again. Oh, this had her stink all over it. She pulled Helen to her feet, “Come on, you’ll sleep at mine. As long as you don’t hit on my sister.”

Helen grinned at that, “No promises.”

There was no time for you to protest; they were out the door the second they’d given you a hug goodbye, leaving you alone with Ghost. Crafty bitches.

With your girls gone, that familiar aura began to creep in again, the unspoken desire, a quiet whisper of excitement and potential. Simon was in the kitchen, tidying up as per usual, leaving you to sprawl yourself out over the sofa as you waited for him to return. What was it about being wine-drunk that made you feel so slutty? Vodka made you stupid and playful, but wine made you want to take your knickers off and grind. It was as though your very skin was alight, desperate to be touched, craving intimacy. Kate knew this, and she’d deliberately made herself scarce, so it was only you and Ghost alone in the flat while you were off your tits on Merlot. How much of this had she planned? She had bought the drinks, after all. Oh, you were too tired to play detective. You needed all of your cognitive faculties to focus on not taking your top off. Already, your fingers had started to play with the hem. Get ahold of yourself!

Ghost came back into the room, sleeves rolled up, and you beckoned him over to you, rolled on your side with your back against the cushions, unable to keep yourself from resisting temptation. He seemed steadier on his feet, but there was a slight glaze to his eyes as he crawled onto the sofa beside you, a certain looseness to his smile as he stretched out opposite you. Already, your hands were reaching out to slide over his chest, desperate for the touch, enjoying the softness of his top, the warmth of his bare chest emanating through the fabric. Oh, you knew what you wanted. You tugged at it insistently, your lips moving of their own accord, “Take it off.”

Clearly, he didn’t need much encouragement. He wasn’t exactly graceful, struggling as he tugged it up over his head, but eventually it was tossed aside, revealing that beautiful body to you once again. Sober, you might have noticed the two large puncture marks, where he told you he’d been hung from, but you were more interested in the simple fact that his skin was bare, fingers already reaching out to touch him. He was beautifully warm, soft, and a little fuzzy, his chest lightly covered by soft blond hairs. As you trailed your hands over his skin, he watched you, one arm propping his head up on his elbow, the other lazily resting on your waist, having found its way under your top to lay against your bare skin. You let your hand shift to his shoulder, gently pulling him closer, and he didn’t resist, leaning in until his forehead was touching yours, his eyes flicking over your face. He was strangely quiet, not that you noticed, as though he was terrified to break the spell, afraid that if he spoke, he’d ruin the moment. His hand shifted from your waist, sliding up over your body until his fingers were cupping your cheek, thumb grazing over your cheekbone. Your hand was on the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the buzzed hair, and it took only the slightest pull for him to come crashing against you, his lips pressed against yours, body caging you in.

This time, he didn’t break away, instead pulling you closer to him, his arms reaching out to embrace you, one curling around your neck, the other around your waist again, his fingers digging into the back of your hipbone as he kissed you, pressing you into the cushions with the desperation of his kisses. You could feel butterflies dancing in your stomach as your arms snaked around his neck and the familiar tingles in your core as you felt Ghost grind against you, bulge straining at his jeans, the denim rough against your soft body. It was torturously pleasurable, and you couldn’t help but roll your hips back against him, earning a guttural growl from his throat and the slightest nip of his teeth on your bottom lip, a warning. His knee pushed in between your legs, his thigh pressed up against you, and you shifted a little so you could press your clit against him through two layers of fabric, angling yourself perfectly to get the maximum amount of pleasure. With the next kiss, he ground you against his thigh, and it was impossible to quiet the moan that left your lips, your fingers digging into the back of his neck.

It seemed as though Ghost hadn’t been entirely aware of what he had been doing to you up until you made that noise, breaking away from your kisses, his breath heavy as he looked at you, his eyes dark, pupils like two black holes. He only paused for a second, renewing his efforts in earnest, though now his lips were at your neck, kissing and sucking the skin, no doubt leaving little marks behind, not that you were in any position to protest, entirely focused on the way he was grinding his thigh up against you, beginning to coax forth your pleasure. It was becoming impossible to stifle your moans now, and the louder you became, the more insistent Ghost was, breaking away from your neck to kiss you properly, his tongue dancing with yours, and you could feel yourself beginning to peak, that familiar tightness building, and your fingers dug into the back of his head, breaking away again, “Simon, fuck, Simon, I-“

He actually looked a little surprised, his face curious, excited, eyes scanning over your face, flicking down to where you were pressed against him, then back up, “Are you gonna-?“

There wasn’t enough time for you to retort, everything released like a burst dam, nails digging into his skin as you finished, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. He rushed in to kiss you again, holding his thigh firmly against you, as he whispered against your lips, “Fuck me, that’s my girl.”

You’d cum from dry humping. Jesus Christ. That was a throwback. Ghost looked utterly delighted with himself, but at least he had the decency not to tease you about it, even if his voice was insufferably smug as he murmured into your ear. “You do wonders for a man’s ego, love. Don’t think I’ll ever be forgetting this.”

Yeah, you couldn’t leave it at that. You moved your hand from his neck, shifting down over his chest and following the trail of hair down to his waistband, immediately fumbling with the button of his jeans. As soon as he clocked what you were doing, Ghost tensed as though he wanted to tell you to stop, to be the gentleman, even if every part of him screamed otherwise. The button came undone in your hands, and you looked up at him, eyes asking permission, “Only fair, isn’t it?”

He answered you with a kiss, his hips bucking up into your hand, and you took that as a yes. Your fingers brushed against him through his boxers; he was hard as a rock, the tip already dampening the cotton, clearly just as desperate for release as you had been. You slipped your hand into the hole in the front of his boxers, pushing aside the fabric so you could wrap your hand around his cock, feeling the girth of it in your fingers, the way it seemed to pulse the second you touched it. He thrust into your hand as you stroked him, breaking the kiss to bury his face in your neck, quiet as the grave but for his breathing, hot and heavy on your skin, and you could feel his fingers tighten on your body as you quickened your pace. Already, you could feel his body tensing, and his voice was a strained whisper in your ear,

“Jesus fuck, love, I can’t-“

The rest of his sentence was lost in a string of muffled curses, his face buried back in your neck as he finished in your hand, his arms tightening on you like a vice, crushing you in his grip.

For a moment, neither of you said a word, basking in each others pleasure.

Simon broke the silence first, letting out a dry chuckle, still tightly embracing you, “Not exactly what a lad wants to show his girl. One minute man.”

You grinned at that, carefully removing your hand from his boxers, having managed to get his come only on himself. He grimaced, pulling away from you, “Need to get cleaned up. Back in a ‘mo.”

You allowed him to extricate himself, stretching out on the sofa. Both of you had cum tonight, and you didn’t even fuck yet. God, if he could drive you crazy with just his thigh, what was the rest of his body capable of? You couldn’t wait to find out. While he cleaned himself up, you headed to bed, stripping down to just his tshirt, quickly replacing your damp knickers with a fresh pair before you climbed in between the sheets. Kate was a fucking genius. You’d have to buy her some flowers.

Ghost returned to you after a few minutes, following your lead and stripping down, then joining you in bed, immediately wrapping his arms around you. He cradled you against his bare chest, his fingers stroking through your hair.

“You are a dirty bird, you know that? Got me fuckin’ addicted already.”

In contrast to his words, he pressed a gentle kiss to your head before he rested his chin atop it, letting out a heavy sigh, “Come on. Sleep before you keep me up all night.”

Tempted as you were, cumming did make you sleepy, so you did as you were told, curling up into him and letting your body wind down, still wonderfully relaxed and loose, resting your cheek on his bicep as you slowly drifted off.

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 20

Warning: Mentions of Ghost’s traumatic background + he’s a big fat tease

Summary: Consider this a valentines present from me to you 😙

ao3 link

Fortunately for you, Ghost didn’t spend the whole day at your apartment. You didn’t think you would have been able to handle him interfering with your usual hungover plans; he’d been quite insistent that you not go back to bed and try to stay awake and stay hydrated. Of course, as soon as he’d left to go to the pub with his mates, you’d slunk back to bed, turning all the lights off and hiding under the covers from the relentless sun, only coming out to drink your smoothies.

Shockingly, you recovered a lot faster than you usually did, so you threw yourself into the shower, steaming what alcohol remained out of your body and doing your best to scrub the shame and sweat of last night off of your skin. The sweat came off easily, but the shame didn’t; it was only masked with the smell of vanilla, paired with after-tones of regret. Ugh. You’d thrown up in front of Ghost. That was not exactly the kind of vibe you wanted to put out. At least you’d seen what kind of man he was; a good one. Still, you would have liked to have put that revelation off for a few months at least so you could at least pretend you were all glamorous all the time.

You hadn’t intended to fall asleep immediately, only meaning to lounge in bed in your pyjamas for a few minutes, but the moment you decided to just huddle under the duvet was your downfall, your quest for a little more warmth sending you straight to sleep.

That was how Ghost found you, several hours later, curled up under your duvet, still wearing his T-shirt, Soap sleeping by your head, and Roach by your feet.

Of course, he didn’t appreciate how comfy you were.

“Rise and shine!”

At least he didn’t pull the duvet off this time. You grumbled at him, “What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Six?”

Christ, you really had slept in. Yet you still felt like you had barely gotten any sleep. You ran a hand through your hair, groaning, “Don’t make me get up.”

Ghost walked over to your side of the bed, “You know I’m gonna.”

“Alright, alright! But I’m not moving from the sofa after that.”

Surprisingly enough, Ghost didn’t run you ragged; he actually let you curl up on the sofa wrapped in your duvet, attending to your every need, which for the most part was just cups of tea, and him getting up to get the curry when it arrived. You quite liked Simon the servant; not only was he obedient, but he was nice to look at, pleasant to listen to, and the occasional touches he gave, fingers brushing across your cheek or shoulder, were delightful. It was tempting to see how much you could get away with, but you decided not to push your luck. Well, not until after he’d finished the washing up.

When he returned from the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, hands still slightly damp and red from the hot water; you had sprawled yourself across the entire length of the sofa, a very low-energy trick to force him to touch you. By God, you were going to get some affection out of that man. He raised a brow at you, gesturing toward your body, “Shift.”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t we already play this game this morning? You lost. You will lose again.”

“Mm, I’m not so sure about that.”

“Suit yourself.”

You hadn’t quite expected him to grab your ankles again and yank you down the sofa so there was space for him to sit at the opposite end. Perhaps you’d seen too many romcoms with more delicate men in them who would sweep you up into their arms. British men didn’t really exist like they did in the films. Fifteen years of dating had proved that.

You straightened up from where he’d unceremoniously dumped you, shifting over to the middle seat, resting your elbow on the back of the sofa as you looked at him. He paused in his flicking through films on your TV, raising a brow at you, “There something you want, love?”

You tilted your head at him, “You’re not very cuddly, are you?”

He snorted, “Army doesn’t teach us to be cuddly, darlin’.”

“I’m not the army though, am I?”

He looked at you a little suspiciously, “That what we’re doin’ tonight? You tryna psychoanalyse me?”

“I’m just curious why that is.”

Ghost sighed, running a hand over his buzzed head, something you’d started to realise he did whenever he felt uneasy, “Look. I’ve been shot, stabbed, beaten, burned alive, and hung from meat hooks. I could tell you stories that would stop you from sleeping for weeks, and you’ll get your answers for why I’m not very touchy-feely. Or, we could watch a film. What do you want to do?”

You figured there had been something behind the distance he always put between you, but Jesus fuck. Hung from meat hooks? Even in a military situation, you couldn’t imagine that happening. The man had been tortured. You swallowed nervously, your voice small, “I’d like to watch a film.”

How you were supposed to relax and watch a film now was beyond you; you could feel the tension radiating out from Ghost, the stiff way he sat, the way his jaw was clenched, his hand balled into a fist on his thigh, the other clenching the remote so hard you were surprised it didn’t break. After a moment, he placed the remote down on the sofa, his voice very controlled as he got up,

“I’m going t’ shops.”

It was as though you could see the anger rippling off him in waves, so you said nothing, just watching quietly as he put his shoes on and walked out your front door, closing it quietly, every movement measured and controlled.

You were beginning to question whether he was ever planning on returning; big Tescos was only a five-minute walk down the road, and he’d been gone for forty-five minutes at this point. Maybe you’d pushed him too far. There wasn’t any amount of doomscrolling you could do that would take your mind off of what he’d said to you, the sequence of words rolling around in your head. You really didn’t know anything about the man you’d been sharing your bed with. Most of all, you couldn’t fathom how he was still alive and functioning.

Ghost returned after a full hour away, and the bags under his eyes seemed heavier. Even from a distance, you could smell the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes, Christ alive, it smelt like he’d been through a whole pack. You didn’t say a word, just watching silently as he walked over to you, the shopping bag in his hand clinking with the sound of bottles as he took a seat next to you on the sofa, resting his forearms on his thighs and staring at the floor. He was quiet for a moment, before speaking in a low, tired voice, “Just don’t wanna talk about my past or my psyche, alright? Already know I’m fucked in the head. Don’t need you looking at me like I’m broken.”

Shit, he’d called you out there. Already, your brain had been going into overdrive, seeing him as a lost, broken man, trying to figure out how you could save him, fix him. But his problems weren’t yours to fix. You chewed on your lip, trying to figure out the right words to say. Yeah, there were no right words for this situation; it was beyond unusual. So, you did what British people did best and glossed over it.

“Wanna watch Hot Fuzz?”

He looked up at you, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes searching. After a second, his face smoothed, and he reclined back into his seat, taking a beer out of the already opened six-pack in his bag, “Yeah, go on then.”

You didn’t say anything as you settled into your corner of the sofa, your knees tucked up underneath you, a pillow held tightly in your lap, eyes firmly glued on the screen. There was still a heavy feeling in the air, cold and joyless, having broken the bright little bubble you’d been enjoying. You didn’t even want to look at Ghost, too anxious that he’d see the concern in your eyes, the worry that you couldn’t rid yourself of.

“Come here.”

You risked glancing over at him, seeing him looking over at you, eyes tired, but one arm stretched out, beckoning you over to him. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, but you did as you were told, dropping the pillow and shifting over on the sofa toward him until your legs were touching his, still feeling a little unsure about how much contact he would allow. He leant forward to place his beer on the floor, then placed his hands on your waist to lift you up, plonking you down in his lap. He grabbed his beer again, then leant back against the sofa, his arm curling around your body to pull you with him, gently crushing you against his chest. You were still for a second, unsure, but you let yourself relax into his grip, resting your head against his chest, hearing the soft, steady beat of his heart underneath his jumper. His fingers trailed over your bare arm, stroking up and down, and he rested his chin atop your head. “I promise I’ll tell you all about it someday, love. Just not today, alright?”

You nodded, and Ghost shifted so he could look down at you, using the neck of his beer to push your chin up so you were looking straight at him. “Talk to me. What are you thinking?” You swallowed nervously, “Honestly? I’m still caught on the whole meat hooks thing.” He frowned, and you continued, unable to stop yourself, “I mean, dude, what the fuck? How are you even alive after that?”

A strange smile twisted Ghost’s features, and he shrugged, “I’m very hard to kill.” You could feel a slight stickiness under your chin from where he’d use the neck of his drink, and you scowled at him, “Plus, you got beer on me!” “Did I?” “On my fucking neck!”

Ghost shifted, his head dipping down so his tongue could snake out and lick across the sticky patch on your neck, not something you’d seen coming, your heart fluttering in your chest. He grinned at you wickedly as you tried to get a hold of yourself, “Not a fan of beer?” You were sure you could feel your cheeks burning, and you huffed, “Not particularly.” He tilted his head at you, drawing closer, and you could smell the beer and cigarettes on his breath as his eyes flicked down to your lips and over your face, “The taste enough to put you off?” Your heart hammered against your ribcage like it was trying to escape. You were certain he just wanted to distract you from the previous topic of conversation, but fuck, it was effective.

He’d pressed his lips against yours before you could even begin to formulate a response, the softest kiss, a level of delicacy you’d never have expected from a man like him. You didn’t even care about the cigarette taste on his lips, your fingers clutching at his jumper to bring him harder against you, every single part of you alight with excitement, everything else fading into obscurity.

Simon was the one to break away first, resting his forehead against yours, a very self satisfied smile on his face. “So, hot fuzz?” It took you a good second to figure out what he was on about. “What?” He pulled away from you, squeezing you tightly as he took another sip of his beer, “Wouldn’t want to miss the film, would we darlin’?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

He laughed at that, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Nobody’s managed yet. What makes you think you’ve got a shot?” You bit your tongue, doing your best to ignore the smug aura radiating off the man.

Simon Riley had bested you. Again.

[jackactuallywrites]

how i look reading the chapters (why is there no option to send images in the comments omg)

GOD YES WHY CANT WE IMAGE IN COMMENTS

This is quite literally me writing this fic 😎

[jackactuallywrites]

Have you ever watched Brooklyn 99?

There's an episode where these 2 characters are flirting real hard. And the dude is like this crazy "tough" guy that was undercover in the mob for years so he's totally messed up. Anyway, so Rosa finally asks "so, when are we gonna do this?" And he gets this super scared look and stutters out something like "never!!" And runs away.

Anyway, that's the vibe I'm getting from Ghost in your fic! 😆

(Its so funny and good and every chap leaves me eager for more!)

YES I HAVE SEEN!!!

I did not think about yes but yes Rosa and Pimento in that are so giving MC and Ghost 🥴

Although Ghost would like it to be known that he never runs away, he just conveniently has super secret army stuff that he has to go to!!

Ghost be like:

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 19

Warnings: Ghost makes you get out of bed when you’re hungover

Summary: 2

Notes: My grammarly broke and deleted a bunch of text and I’m too salty to rewrite so ENJOY xoxo

Word Count: 1,751

ao3 link

When you awoke again, you were alone. 

Sunlight was beginning to filter through the curtains, not that you appreciated it in your hungover state, and when you shifted away from it, purring immediately started. Soap had noticed you were awake, and had now decided you needed a head massage, his claws digging into your scalp. You rolled away from him, searching for your phone and finding it on charge on your bedside table, alongside a pint of water, a pack of ibuprofen, and your mini whiteboard. Clearly, Ghost had been busy. 

‘Gone to shops. Be back soon. Drink water. - S’ 

Soap walked onto your chest, demanding your attention, and you grumbled, shuffling to sit up in bed, wrapping the duvet around yourself as you grabbed the water and chugged it, desperate for hydration, following it with two ibuprofen. God, you hoped it kicked in soon. It felt like someone had put a vice on your head. You settled back down in bed, letting Soap nestle by your side as you got your phone, lazily scrolling through it as you fussed Soap’s head. 

A short while later, you heard the front door go. That would be Ghost back, you imagined. How he’d managed to get up and go shopping after a night out like that was beyond you. You should have gotten up to help him put things away, but you had no desire to get out of bed while your head still throbbed. After a minute, he came to you anyway, peering his head around the door and then coming in once he realised you were awake. 

“How you feeling?”

In the daylight, you could see that he didn’t look quite as chipper as he had the night before, a certain pale quality to his skin making him look sickly, the bruising on his face only adding to the effect, complimenting the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t changed his outfit, still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. At least you weren’t the only one who was hungover. 

“Like shit. You?”

“Been better.”

“The almighty Ghost finally brought down to the level of the rest of us?”

He snorted at you, “Could still take you down in a flash, darlin’.”

You yawned and spread out on the pillows, “You should come back to bed. Sleep it off.”

“You’re getting up.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Either you get up, or I get you up.”

God, you could really see the Lieutenant in him. No doubt he was a complete hardass to the soldiers unlucky enough to be underneath him. You folded your arms across your chest, “I’m not one of your little underlings. My house, my rules.”

Clearly, that had been a mistake. In one fluid motion, Ghost had reached forward to grab the bottom of the duvet and then whipped it off the bed, rudely interrupting Soap’s snooze, who went running into the living room and leaving you exposed in just your knickers. You grabbed a pillow to hide your chest, scowling at Ghost, “You prick!”

“You getting up?”

“No!”

“You gonna make me come over there?”

“Try it!”

You’d been betting on his being hungover to deter him, but that had clearly been a poor choice. He reached out to grab your ankles, pulling you down the bed with ease until your ass was at the very edge, your feet on the floor either side of his. There was no real point in resisting, but you were too stubborn not to, clutching the pillow tightly to your chest as you scowled up at him. He reached out to grab your wrists, pulling you slowly upright into a sitting position as you did your best to be a dead weight. Ghost looked down at you. “You have two options. You can get up and get dressed, or you’re having breakfast in your knickers.” The second you took to consider your options was apparently your answer, and he lifted you from the bed, holding your wrists up above your head and letting the pillow drop to the floor as he turned you around, pressing your back to his chest and then marching you into the living room. There was nothing you could do in protest, so you just stumbled forward at his insistence, letting him lead you to the sofa. 

Ghost had laid out a full buffet for you on the coffee table; there were bacon butties from Greggs, and two mugs of tea, alongside several bottles, a milkshake, a green smoothie, a pink smoothie, a lucozade and a Powerade. It was a hungover paradise. It was almost enough for you to forgive him for dragging you out of bed. Almost. As you reached the front of the sofa, Ghost dropped your arms, letting you cover your chest, and he pointed to the sofa, “Sit.” You did as you were told, sinking down into the cushions, glaring up at him. He was entirely unbothered by your fiery gaze, sitting on the other end of the sofa, “Nobody likes losing. Pick a fight you can win next time.”

There was no way you could comfortably eat and cover your chest at the same time, so you gestured at him, “I’m not eating breakfast with my tits out. Give me your top.”

“What do I get out of this?” He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back on the sofa as he looked you over appreciatively, “I quite like the view as it is.” 

What would Ghost want?

“I’ll give you the keys to my apartment.”

“Don’t need ‘em.”

Of course he didn’t.

“I’ll let you pick the film tonight.”

“Pass.”

You scowled at him, and he grinned back at you, clearly enjoying the little game he was playing.

“Please.”

“Took you that long to remember your manners?”

It had been that easy, apparently. Ghost reached down to grab the bottom of his top, pulling it up over his head in one fluid motion. You could see his torso now, purple and green bruises dappling his skin in the same way they were spread across his face, as well as several healing scabs spattered across his ribs. The burn scar you’d seen on his thigh clearly continued up over his hip to his waist, the skin taut and shiny. You’d never seen such a battered body before; someone clearly had an issue with him. Several somebodies, by the look of it. Battered, and yet undeniably beautiful. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a ‘slutty rugby men’ calendar, his chest well built, biceps huge, and the ridges of his abs clear on his stomach. It was all entirely too distracting. You held your hand out for his top, but he kept it in his hand, dangling it out of your reach. “You have to come and get it.”

“Seriously?”

He simply grinned in response.

It was bait; you knew it, but you still took it, hook, line and sinker. You shifted across the sofa toward him, and as soon as you were close enough to snatch the top from his hand, his hand flashed upward, holding it high in the air above his head. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he just tilted his head and smiled. He was having too much fun. Still, you played along, shifting one leg over his so you were straddling his lap, keeping one arm pressed tight over your chest as you reached up to try and grab the T-shirt from him. As you stretched up, his other hand reached out to steady you, holding your hip, his thumb skating over your hipbone. Your fingers were so close, fingertips brushing against the fabric, and Ghost’s hand moved from your hip to your lower back, his trailing fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You did your best to ignore him as you finally grabbed the top. At the slightest tug, he let it go, and you looked down to give him a very sarcastic thanks.

Your face was too close to his. His nose was inches away from yours, his lips parted, letting you feel his warm breath fanning out over yours. At this distance, you could see every detail, the myriad of green and grey shades in his eyes, the scar on his eyebrow, the bump of his nose, the gentle curve of his eyelashes. If you leant forward, you could kiss him. Your brain couldn’t seem to think of anything else in that moment, utterly transfixed.

“Food’s gonna go cold.”

The haze that had crept around your mind slowed your response, and you blinked a couple times as you tried to think. How could he think of food at a time like this? He didn’t give you time to respond, taking the top from your hands and quickly yanking it down over your head, breaking the connection between you. You shoved your arms through the holes, and he picked you up, shifting you to the side so he could lean over and unzip what must have been an overnight bag, taking out a fresh t-shirt and pulling it over his head, covering himself back up. He leaned forward to grab his mug of tea and a bacon butty, leaning back against the sofa as he took a sip, looking at you over the rim of his mug. Again, he gestured at the food.

“Eat.”

You were beginning to realise some things about Ghost. For one, he really was quite strict. Probably the soldier in him. Secondly, he cared, and he cared a lot. He could have just brought you tea in bed, but he’d gone out and gotten every drink a hungover person could possibly want, even when he was clearly suffering himself. Yet, the most interesting discovery was how adept he actually was at avoiding intimacy. Sure, he’d flirted with you, teased you, felt you up a little, but he didn’t let you touch him in the same way. Any second there was a chance for real intimacy, he would back off, using some convenient excuse to play off his avoidance. He watched you as you took your tea off the coffee table, clearly noticing the way you were looking at him.

“Fantasise about me later, darlin’. Eat.”

You did as you were told, grabbing your bacon butty off the table and tucking in, the salt and grease an absolute balm to your troubled stomach, but you continued to quietly plot in your head. Payback was a bitch, and so were you.

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 18

Warnings: Vomiting!

Summary: You drank too much and puke it all up in front of Ghost because you’re a classy chick

Word Count: 1,991

ao3 link

Uh oh.

You were going to throw up.

You could feel those tell-tale signs, the pain in your stomach, the watery saliva at the back of your mouth, that tightness in your throat. Shit. You had about ten seconds to get to the toilet; otherwise, it was going to happen in your bed.

At a speed only matched by an Olympic sprinter, you flung yourself out of bed and ran to the bathroom, already beginning to gag as you lifted up the toilet lid, hugging the porcelain as you chundered into the bowl. Ugh. You thought you’d been lucky and avoided this after a night of binge drinking, but clearly, it had only been lying in wait. At least you hadn’t puked on Ghost.

Christ. How unappealing must you be to him now? You sounded like a damn plague victim. God, your stomach hurt. That was it; you were never drinking again. This was the last time you were going to allow yourself to get to this state again. At least the bathroom floor was nice and cold. You were still wearing your tights, the waistband digging into your stomach, which was not exactly helpful in your current situation, so you pulled them off, careful not to take your head away from the toilet for too long. Motherfucker, how had you puked on your own hair? It was so gross you almost wanted to cry. At least the vomiting had stopped for now. You flushed the loo, then gingerly pulled yourself to your feet using the sink as a crutch, your fingertips brushing against something fluffy as you did so. Ah, yeah, Soap was sleeping in the sink again. You still didn’t understand what his affinity for it was, and you gently scooped him up out of it, apologising, “Sorry, babe, I need the tap.” He was floppy in your hands, dead weight, a pain in the ass to shift, and you dropped him on the bath mat before turning back to the taps so you could rinse the bile out of your hair. You didn’t dare look at yourself in the mirror, slumping down to the floor and resting your back against the bathtub, praying that Ghost was still asleep.

“Feel better?”

Of course he wasn’t. You cracked open an eye to look at him, finding him standing in the doorway to your bathroom, illuminated from behind by the lamp in the living room, leaning against the doorframe, a glass of water in his hand. You shut your eyes again, leaning your head back over the bathtub side, wrapping your arms around your middle, “Not really.” You heard his footsteps approach, and then the soft touch of his thighs against yours as he sat next to you, and the cold touch of the glass on your skin as he placed it on your leg. Wait a second. Ghost wasn’t wearing trousers. Your eyes snapped back open, and you took a good look at the man beside you.

Ghost was only in a plain green t-shirt and white boxers. That was something. Now you could see his legs; his thighs were thicker than yours; he could crack a fucking watermelon in half with them! His skin was tan for an Englishman and covered in scars and dark blond hair, like the rest of him. On the top of his right thigh, the skin looked strange, bald and shiny, pulled taut. Was that a burn scar? It was fucking massive! Had someone tried to roast the man like a joint of beef?

The very thought of food made your stomach roil, and you groaned, pushing the glass of water over to Ghost as you crawled over to the loo again, cheeks beginning to burn in shame as the bile crept up your throat. Why did he have to come across you this night? Why couldn’t it be a night where you looked sophisticated and sexy, and he railed you over the kitchen counter rather than watched you puke your guts up? You weren’t a quiet puker either; Katie could throw up right next to you, and you’d never know, whereas you sounded like you were expelling demons.

And yet, Ghost was kind. Sure, you could hear him suppressing his sniggers, but he held your hair back for you and rubbed your back, much like you’d done for Helen. Christ, you hoped that wasn’t how Ghost saw you; as a friend. You finished retching, hoping that was the last of it for tonight, resting your cheek on the seat as you pressed the flush again, thankful that you were neurotic about keeping the bathroom clean. Ghost held out the water insistently, and you took a sip, swishing it around in your mouth before spitting it out. You groaned and went to sit back, finding that Ghost had shifted to be right behind you, so you sat between his legs and let yourself fall back onto his chest, resting your free arm on his thigh.

“You can’t hold your booze, can you?” Ghost teased, and you grumbled back at him, “Bite me.” You didn’t really want to think about anything; your head was beginning to pound, and trying to recall things only seemed to make it worse. But there was one memory you couldn’t shake.

“Did you seriously wank in my bathroom?”

You felt Ghost laugh behind you, his chest shaking, and he reached up to run his hand over his buzzed head, “Man has needs.”

You twisted in his lap so you could look at him, seeing the mirth in his eyes and the smile on his lips. There wasn’t an ounce of shame on his face.

“Do you really carry around photos of me?”

You would have thought that would have made him even the slightest bit defensive, but he was an open book.

“Keep ‘em in my wallet.”

“Okay, more pertinent question, where did you get printed photos of me?”

“Took ‘em off your phone.”

Yeah, you should have expected that. The man already had a track record of stalking, theft, breaking and entering; the list went on. You looked at him suspiciously, “Do you have naked photos of me?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“I swear on Johnny’s life.”

Strange. You regarded him inquisitively, but there wasn’t a hint of lie on his face. Not that there would be; he was a special forces soldier, no doubt he was great at lying.

“There were a lot of photos of me naked on my phone. You’re telling me you didn’t save a single one?”

He looked down at you, his eyes strangely intense, “I need to earn those. Couldn’t even look at them.”

It didn’t seem like the type of thing a man would do, but then again, Ghost wasn’t a typical man. Nothing about the situation was typical or normal. Perhaps you’d been ignoring that for too long.

You shifted out of his grip, crawling to the opposite side of the bathroom so you could sit with your back against the sink cabinet and look at Ghost properly.

“What are we?”

It sounded painfully cliché even as it left your lips, but you had to know.

“What do you want us to be?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, pursing your lips, “Don’t answer a question with a question.”

Ghost grinned, but you poked his thigh with your foot, “I’m serious!”

He opened his mouth to make another joke, but you scowled at him, and he thought better of it. He sighed, resting his arm along the side of the bathtub, tilting his head back as he looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. You didn’t interrupt, your stomach tense in a different way as you awaited his response.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he began, still staring at the ceiling, “I’m all yours. Have been for months.”

You raised a brow at him, even though he wasn’t looking at you, “Exclusively?”

“I haven’t touched another bird since I met you.”

It was hard to tell if the feeling in your chest was nausea or butterflies.

“That why all your army lot keep calling me your missus?”

He laughed, finally looking over at you, running his hand over his buzzed hair again, “Aye, well, it’s not like I keep you a secret.”

Apparently, you’d been in a relationship without knowing. For months. Well, Ghost had said he was yours; he hadn’t said anything about you being his. Maybe that’s why his eyes had what looked like a slight hint of insecurity to them.

You fiddled with the hem of his jumper, “I’m sure you’ve stalked me enough to know my feelings on the matter.”

“Wanna hear you say it.”

“Come off it. You know I’m yours.”

It was impossible to miss the way his eyes lit up, a wide grin spreading across his face. He reached across the bathroom to grab you, his arms encircling your waist so he could pick you up and pull you close to him, holding you against his chest. It was impossible not to feel how hard he was; it was practically jabbing into your thigh, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity, “Seriously? I’m all sweat and puke right now, and that makes you hard?”

“As a fucking rock. ‘d take you to bed right now if I didn’t think you’d puke on me.”

“Yeah, I think the motion might kill me.”

Ghost practically purred into your ear, “I could be gentle. Take it slow.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t.”

That made him groan, and he shifted you slightly so he could reach down to adjust himself, “Christ, the things you do to me.”

You snorted and stifled a yawn, and Ghost sighed, “You done puking for the night?”

“Unlikely. But for now, at least, yeah.”

He shifted underneath you, lifting you as he got to his feet, carrying you back through the living room into the bedroom. Soap had snuck in while you were throwing your guts up, having taken your pillow as his bed, so Ghost put you on his side of your bed, leaving Soap undisturbed. You looked at him questioningly as he went to leave again, “You’re not gonna wank in my bathroom again, are you?”

“Why, you wanna watch?”

“Yes.”

He froze in his tracks, letting out a breathy laugh, “You’re testing my resolve, little love.” He shook his head, “I’m fetching you a bowl, just in case.”

You were about to tell him where they were, but he’d already gone. Right, the man knew where everything in your house was. Instead, you just made yourself comfortable underneath the duvet again, shifting the pillows around until they were the right level of cool. The jumper, though cosy, was a little too hot for bed, so you pulled it over your head and tossed it on the floor. That would be a fun surprise for Ghost.

He returned quickly, placing the bowl on the floor next to the bed and the glass on your bedside table, then carefully climbed over you, slotting himself in between you and Soap. As his fingers reached out to pull you close, they hesitated, and he lifted the duvet slightly, looking at your bare back. You heard his sharp intake of breath, and the controlled way he exhaled, his fingers carefully wrapping around your waist as he gently pulled you back against his chest, the fabric of his T-shirt soft on your skin. His voice tickled your ear as he spoke. “You’re an evil little bitch, you know that?”

That made you smile, and you settled with your back against him, linking your fingers with his and bringing his hand up to your cheek, his arm snugly wrapped around your chest. You could feel how tense his muscles were and how hard he was, and it did wonders for your ego as you settled down into the pillow, smug as a cat that got the cream.