Ghost denying you kisses by wearing the mask, as a sort of punishment, during the act.
MDNI 18+
AO3
It could have been anything that you've done that day that got him so upset or so turned on, be that you didn't eat anything while at work, you did not hydrate yourself maybe you teased him too much with your presence or through your texts, it could have been anything, anything to get his hands on you.
You'd whimper underneath him, craving his touch and his mouth. The only thing close to a kiss would be his masked face, close to your ear, his breath touching every bit of nerve as he praised or scolded you.
His hands would touch your body, fingers tracing every inch of your skin, making your nerves so sensitive, that'd you'd whisper his name like a prayer. Wishing for him to just take you then and there.
When he'd finally find your folds, slick and so ready, he'd leave out a grunt, one that you so loved to hear, that your hips would move just to have him touch you again.
"So willing, even through punishment." He would groan out as he held your hands with a gloved one of his own, while the other slowly, agonizingly would touch your nub and folds, teasingly entering one finger before changing his mind and massaging you even more.
"Please, Simon!" Your whimpers, his name coming out of your mouth might have impressed him, but he wouldn't try to give in and would just enjoy the moment.
He would tsk you for being so impatient, shaking his head at you as his fingers teased you more, his thumb reaching your mouth for more possiveness.
His ministrations started to quicken, his fingers drawing all the nectar and sounds out of you, his ragged breath so hot against your face and ear. He would not only turn you on while he wore the mask, hell, you'd want him to fuck you sensless while he wore it and this occasion was just that.
"You want me iniside you, don't you luv'?" His words, grave as they were, made you even wetter as he fingered you. You nodded your head, exposing your neck which made Simon growl in annoyance for not being able to lick or kiss your skin.
Unbeknownst to you, he freed his member, gave it a few strokes, being so hard for you, and entered you. Another punishment he enjoyed of administering you for not being a good girl.
You lifted your head, your mouth open from the intrusion and moaned his name as he pounded into you, keeping your mouth covered with his gloved hand, shushing you, so he won't be tempted to devour your lips.
Your legs, already around his waist, trembled from all the sensations, whimpering in his hand for not being able to kiss him or talk to him. Your hands were kept above your head, Simon keeping you in place as he pleasured you in a way only he knew.
Seeing all your exposed skin, each muscle contracting, sweat beads forming, pleading eyes and the mixture of muffled sounds, made him release some animalistic growls, increasing his pace as he whispered your name.
In the end, through all your climaxes, he would finally take his mask off, leaving a trail of kisses from your chest to your so dried lips, taking you by surprise when his soft ones finally found yours. The kiss would be sloppy, all tongue and teeth as if you haven't kissed each other in months.
"Remind me to break the rules more often." You would mutter between kisses, gaining a muffled huff from Simon.
"Careful, luv," he mutters, his voice a lethal promise. "I might just hold you to tha'." You knew that he might have taken it as a challenge and you were up for it.
Adopting a dog to have a cuddle buddy while Simon is gone on deployment and him not being entirely certain it's a good idea only to become best buddies in the end.
You had just finished a quick run for necessities, though it had included an unscheduled, sneaky detour to the local shelter. Thankfully, you let Simon stay behind, allowing him a moment of respite from all the work he' has'd done to secure your home, so he occupied himself with the organization of the pantry; for him it was comforting, for you, it was a relief.
You slipped inside the apartment door, moving silently, aiming to get your little surprise into the guest room before he noticed. But he was too fast.
“Is something wrong?” Simon asked, stepping out of the kitchen. He saw how quickly you’d returned, barely thirty minutes after leaving. He was facing your back, watching for any sign of distress.
You turned, forcing a clumsy, innocent smile. The front of your jacket was visibly puffed out, and you cradled your front as if holding a baby. Before you could speak, a tiny, distressed whine escaped.
Simon went instantly rigid. His intense brown eyes snapped to the jacket, then to your face, his posture instantly turning into a defensive position.
You looked completely flustered, and when another little noise came out, your eyes widened in a caught panic. Sighing in defeat, you dropped to your knees and carefully unzipped the top of your jacket and from it tumbled a clumsy, small German Shepherd puppy, all massive paws, floppy ears, and soft, dark fur.
It shook itself off, looked around, and immediately stumbled toward the nearest threat, barking softly at Simon’s boots.
The puppy looked up at the intimidating figure, then settled his snoot right down on the boot’s toe, closing his eyes with a sigh.
“Luv, we talked about this.” Simon finally managed, his voice dangerously low, but with a tint of disappointment. He didn't move a muscle, clearly terrified of startling the tiny thing.
“I know, Simon,” you whispered, kneeling to unclip the puppy’s makeshift leash. “But I saw him at the shelter the other day, and he was tiny and looked so lonely...the space was so loud, it was so overwhelming. I just…I couldn’t leave him there.” You watched the immediate conflict play across his scarred features.
He reached down and slowly, tentatively, ran his hand over the puppy’s head. The puppy leaned into the touch, licking his fingers.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he sighed, the sound heavy. "It's not fair to him. He needs constant care, stability. We deploy for weeks at a time. Who watches him? This house is silent when we're gone." He wasn't just talking about the dog; he was projecting his own past trauma, the sense of being alone and abandoned, onto the helpless creature.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Your face was pleading as you looked at your lover. "He won't be alone," you insisted, moving closer, placing a hand on Simon's tense jaw. “We’ll find a way, but when we are here, he’ll receive the best love.” You scratched the puppy behind the ears. “And when you are gone, I’ll need someone to help me watch over our home, and a cuddle buddy to keep me safe.”
Just then, the puppy pushed himself up, scratching at Simon’s jeans as if to catch onto something, his little eyes pleading for attention, and most importantly, love.
Simon’s intense expression finally softened. He slowly, carefully, slid his huge hands under the puppy and lifted the fragile little body, holding him right against his chest. The puppy immediately snuggled into his elbow and went completely silent, listening to the deep, steady beat of his heart.
Simon looked at you, his eyes softening with a mixture of defeat and overwhelming devotion, a tenderness you rarely saw.
"He is tiny," Simon muttered, almost to himself. He turned his head to nudge the pup gently with his chin, confirming the warmth against his skin. You couldn’t help but smile, both in victory as well as seeing Simon finally be gentle with something else other than you.
"He needs a name, babe." You added, comforting him with a hand on his arm.
Simon looked down at the pup nestled so securely against him, then back to you, a slight, rare smirk curving his lips. "He's going to be massive and he will play an important role in our family. Let's call him Baron."
You smiled at him coming in closer to kiss the man you loved. You touched foreheads in a sweet, tender moment, the puppy, wanting to join in on the fun, managed to lick both of your faces at once, making both of you laugh softly. In that messy, chaotic moment, all three of you were finally, completely home.
I tend to write a lot and sometimes add unnecessary details, so any feedback is appreciated.
Simon waiting for you at the underground when you come back from work because he doesn't trust the people around him and he'd rather see you safe at home than be worried while waiting.
Every day began with him. He'd wake up beside you, prepare your lunch while you got ready, steal a kiss on any occasion, and then walk you to the underground station.
Some might think it's possessive behavior, but you'd consider it a sign of affection and care. That's how he'd show it to you. He would rarely say 'I love you.', most of the time he would show you, and you'd treasure every gesture.
If he was too busy to accompany you, a genuine frustration would settle over him, which you would soothe by assuring him you'd be safe and texting him the instant you reached your destination.
Throughout the day, you'd tease him with messages and pics of yourself, but also with complaints about your colleagues, boss or frustrating tasks. He was your biggest supporter, offering encouragement and often debating situations to give you a dose of reality, and you knew that not everything is pink.
He respected any type of labor, even your demanding office job. He knew that sitting in front of a computer all day caused tired eyes, sore knees, and a grumpy attitude, and he always knew how to make you feel better.
One afternoon, you unknowingly caught him in the middle of a mission. You were deep into a complaint about a stressful colleague when his reply finally cut through a few hours later: "What a dumbass!" Realizing he was out in the field, you immediately apologized. But he quickly assured you, "You'll never disturb me!", a promise that never failed to make your heart flutter.
You both discussed about the rule of emergency and the special device given to you to be used only in true danger. Worrying him was the last thing you'd ever do. You loved him too much to risk endangering him. When his replies were slow, it got you worried; you knew he was likely shooting, filing paperwork, in a briefing, or interrogating someone, but you couldn't help yourself into making dramatic scenarios in your head. Still, you had learned to be a patient lover, always waiting for him.
Just as he waited for you!
In the end, your work day would finish with Simon waiting for you at the tube. He'd stand there, looking all mysterious in his hood and mask, his appearance leading people to assume the worst.
The second you emerged from the tube, his eyes would lock onto yours. You’d always give him a small, private smile as you spotted him leaning against the pillar, the same one every day.
"Did you miss me?" You'd ask, letting him pull you into a fierce, tight embrace, his gestures alone making you certain of the fact.
"You have no idea!" His tone, a whisper, would soothe your ears as he slowly and carefully would lift his mask just enough for a tender forehead kiss before dropping down to capture your lips. Carefully, he would cover his face again, taking your hand to go back home, together.
"Would you like a snack?" Your voice lifted at the sight of street stands overflowing with tempting goodies, making you drool.
"Not in public, luv'." He'd tease, pulling you closer. "I can be patient enough till we get home."
"Wait, that's not what I meant." You laughed, tightening your grip on his hand to get his attention.
And you knew he was smirking underneath that mask. His eyes closing at you, that signature feature you loved, was his silent way of letting you know he was smiling.
Who knew that having a bit of fun could turn into such a challenge? When Simon turns your apartment window into a full-blown steamy scene, your neighbour, Mrs. Tibbs, mistakes it for a crime and calls the police. What follows is pure chaos as Simon doesn't aim to yield his fun time with you only to appease a nosy pedestrian so he makes her watch your every move, with fierce intensity.
CW: MDNI, will get steamy, smut, oral (both), semi-public exposure, size kink, female reader, possessive-dominant Ghost, mask kink, you name it.
Words: +4000
Side Notes:
- Idk I just find this song fitting for this gif.
- You can also find it on AO3.
You settled into the armchair by the bedroom window, absorbed in your hobby. The morning rain had left the outdoors gloomy, but now, a restless energy nudged you toward activity, a deliberate choice over spending the whole day under the covers.
Lost in your work, you heard Simon stirring in the bed, a series of grunts signaling his groggy awakening. Your absence was clearly audible in the sounds he made, and it brought a smile to your face. He, however, was less amused, clearly missing your presence beside him.
“It’s nearly noon!” you cooed, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his wrinkled forehead.
“Don’t care!” He remained face-down in the pillow, his hair a mess. He simply lifted a heavy arm toward you, a silent invitation to return.
“I can’t fall into this trap again,” you murmured, stroking his head as you backed away from the bed. You knew that particular trap: the one that ended with him pulling you under the duvet and making you scream his name for an entire hour.
You neatly packed your things into a box on the nightstand, intending to head to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea for Simon and a coffee for yourself. But your plans shattered the moment his voice came directly from behind you.
"What trap?" he murmured. The slow, deliberate push toward the window confirmed he was playing along, bringing back that stoic, unyielding soldier attitude you loved and feared.
You swallowed, your gaze instantly drawn to the powerful bulge straining the front of his pajama pants, a clear promise of what was waiting for you. The sight of his bare chest, a rough landscape of tensed muscle and healed scars, made holding onto your composure a physical battle. Unable to speak, you simply gestured toward the bed and back at him, signaling the type of trap you meant. He smirked, utterly unimpressed by your actions.
"I can take you anywhere, luv. Don't need a mattress for it."
His hand moved gently to cradle the side of your neck and cheek, pulling you closer with every slow, deliberate inch. You wore shorts and socks, your feet were always cold, even in summer, but a sudden, intense heat was rushing everywhere. Your thighs clamped together, pressing tight to hide the rising tide of excitement his simple touch unleashed.
He started kissing your neck, his free hand roaming your covered body until he hooked one of your legs high around his waist. He lifted and pressed you, maintaining that raw, core-to-core contact, until you were backed hard against the cool glass of the window.
"Si, wait," you pleaded between ragged breaths. "The curtains are not pulled."
"Fuck 'em," he growled, the words heavy and dark. "Let them enjoy the show." Your heart hammered against your ribs as his imposing frame darkened the glass. His hands slid under your shirt without hesitation, instantly finding the warmth of your breasts. You were already dripping wet from his kisses alone.
"They will see your face," you whispered in a last attempt at protest, trying to affect a pout.
He paused, a familiar flicker of seriousness crossing his features. "How am I going to kiss you then?" The objection was proven; the thought of losing contact with your lips and the taste of you was clearly unacceptable. You surrendered with a silent nod, melting into the inevitable.
As you stood with your back to the glass, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and swiftly pulled them down, leaving you in only your socks, panties, and oversized T-shirt. His massive hand immediately cupped your ass cheek, the palm perfectly mapping the curve and kneading the flesh beneath his touch. A moment later, his slow, deliberate fingers found the delicate lace edge of your panties, pulling the fabric aside to reach your slick, heated core.
"This is how much you want me, eh? Already so good for me," his voice rasped directly into your ear. He gently began to explore you, one finger sliding into your sticky warmth before he added a second. Your sharp intake of breath and soft sounds were a potent reward to his ears.
His great size kept you pinned, and you could feel the insistent, heavy heat of his erection pressing against your leg. You desperately wanted to grasp at him, to claim a grunt of pleasure from his own lips, but he sensed your struggle and stopped your reaching hands with a quick, firm lock of his arm.
A loud moan escaped you, which he muffled instantly with a rough, demanding kiss, his mouth claiming yours while his fingers worked slowly, steadily inside you until your juices were running hot and heavy. He pulled his fingers free after a long moment and brought them to his mouth, tasting the sweet, salty proof of your readiness.
"I could never get enough of this," he broke off, the rough whisper barely audible.
Without effort, he lifted you from the floor, settling you onto the narrow window frame, your legs falling open to present the clear, vulnerable view of your wetness. He knelt between your thighs, starting his ministrations with his mouth, licking and feeding from you as if he'd been starved for days.
You gripped his hair, holding on to him and the thin frame for dear life. "Ungh, Simon!" Your breath hitched in your chest, your body moving instinctively to meet every deep, consuming lap of his tongue. When he found your entrance and pushed in with swift, penetrating motions, your sharp mewls signaled your rapid approach to the edge.
"That’s it, luv'," he affirmed. The deep vibrations of his voice and the additional touch of his finger stroking your sensitive nub sent you soaring. You came hard against his face, your entire body trembling, your skin hypersensitive.
When he finally stood, you fell into his arms, weak and spent. His eyes, heavy with spent lust, fixed on you as his hands settled possessively on your waist. You felt the familiar pull to drown in his gaze, but found the strength to rise on your toes and press your mouth to his, tasting the fresh, intimate proof of your surrender on his lips.
"Let me take care of you," you whispered, reaching for his erection. The sheer power of the hard length beneath your hand drew a brief, breathless giggle from you.
"Not today, luv'," he murmured, his kiss deepening instead. He secured you around his waist, lifting you against him. Then, breaking the embrace, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a black balaclava, drawing it over his head. The fabric concealed his face from the outside world, and from you, leaving only his heavy, intense eyes visible.
You loved this shift. Being taken by him when he wore the mask, with only his heavy eyes visible to you, it transformed him into the disciplined, necessary operative you both understood. You watched his muscles tighten with every motion, ready beneath your fingertips. The transformation made you instantly desperate. You waited, letting the anticipation build as he guided his length to your entrance, teasing you with the tip, a slow, insistent pressure that drew a high, sweet sound from your lips.
The only sound in the room was a low, heavy chorus of breathing and the intimate slickness where you connected. You both looked up at one another, and in one swift, commanding motion, he thrust into you with all the power his frame contained. His thick girth claimed your space, forcing a loud, ragged moan from you as your head instinctively snapped back.
"So fucking tight," his voice broke, the sound a ragged grunt that only heightened your arousal. You met his masked expression, your mouth open, straining with pleasure as your body responded to the deep, absolute cadence of his rhythm.
He could easily hold you, there was no need for leverage, and you were pinned gently against the cool glass, his breath fogging the material of the pane. His bare chest, wet with exertion, pressed heavily against your front, the shirt on you now torn apart releasing your breasts for him to enjoy, the physical contact raw and commanding.
In a heart-stopping flicker of movement, your eyes darted behind, past the fogged glass, and locked onto the street. Your breath hitched, it was Mrs. Tibbs, standing right there, pointing toward your direction, and talking intently to two police officers.
"You think she sees us?" you managed to ask, the whisper frantic, thinking that probably you were safe on the 4th floor.
Simon glanced over your head, tall enough to confirm your sighting without flinching. "I hope she didn't!" His tone snapped to a lethal seriousness, the black knit mask suddenly feeling less like a fantasy and more like an operational necessity.
His large hand gripped your face, forcing your gaze back to his as he pounded into you, the internal pressure rocketing toward climax. You tried to cry out, but he swiftly muffled the sound with his mouth, pulling the balaclava up just enough to expose his lips for a hard, demanding kiss. Your fingers found desperate purchase on the knit edges of the mask, pulling him closer.
You were already trembling, your body hypersensitive and raw, fully surrendered to the moment. The knit of the balaclava brushed roughly against your skin with every ragged, accelerating breath. You surged upward, your climax imminent, ready to shatter against him, clenching around him, the exquisite pressure drawing a deep, guttural grunt from his chest, his beautiful sounds you so loved to hear, when all of a sudden, powerful knocks could be heard at the door.
"Open up! Police!"
The shout, amplified by the front door, froze both of you. You were paralyzed by shock; Simon, by raw fury.
"You've got to be fucking joking!" he snarled. His movements instantly stopped, and the high-pitched whine that escaped you was a frustrated confirmation of the moment they'd stolen.
Angry and unwilling to rush the moment and the climax you’ve been building, he pulled out with a low groan, offering a quick, hard kiss as his apology. He snatched a pair of pants and pulled them on, then grabbed his sidearm before checking the visor. Two uniformed officers stood at the door. He made a lightning-fast trip to a hidden shelf, retrieving his official documents for the inevitable inspection.
"Maybe it's better if I go," you suggested, starting to move. He was back instantly, gently grabbing your face for an absolute kiss.
"Stay!" The command was rough, unquestionable.
He strode out of the room, with a plain, black folder. He yanked the front door open with such abruptness that the officers instinctively took a step back. His bare chest-powerful, sweat-slicked, and exposed—was the single defiant vulnerability he offered to the public eye. His balaclava remained on, a defiant, calculated choice that immediately confirmed the neighbour's sighting while sending a clear message: he was the man she saw, and he wasn't hiding.
You quickly grabbed the duvet to cover yourself, wrapping it tight as you moved to the bedroom door to peek at the discussion.
With the smooth, practiced action of a man who dealt with local law enforcement frequently, Simon flipped the folder open. The flash of the operative badge and the official government seal was all it took. The officers' professional postures visibly deflated, their hands leaving their holsters in a gesture of resignation. They exchanged a brief look, then gestured with their eyes toward your figure.
You quickly waved your free hand toward the group in a nonchalant salute. Simon's eyes darted a sharp side-eye at you, a silent, intense communication, as he realized you had just provided the necessary assurance: no crime was committed, and the masked man was your partner, being there entirely of your own free will.
Thirty seconds later, the police officers were gone, mumbling apologies for the 'civilian error' and the nuisance call. Simon waited, ensuring they were truly clear, and then watched through the window as they spoke their final words to Mrs. Tibbs.
Without bothering to grab a shirt, he strode out into the yard, still wearing his sweatpants and the balaclava. The mask remained on, not just for operational concealment, but to ensure the neighbour fully understood the nature of the man she had just involved the police with.
"Oi, Mrs. Tibbs!" he called out from across the street, startling the old woman with his presence. “Good work on your detective work, you just caught a couple in their recreation time and decided to divert two armed officers from an actual crime to settle your neighbourhood entertainment.” He took a moment of respite to get to her own level, eyes piercing into hers; cold and heavy, his presence looming over her. “You are now officially classified as a persistent civilian nuisance. Don't repeat the mistake, Joyce.”
Even the neighbour's dog remained silent, cowering in her hands. As a final, strange act of dominance, Simon reached out and briefly scratched the dog's head before turning away, leaving a baffled and terrified woman frozen in place.
He strode across the porch and let the heavy block door close with a firm, decisive thud that cut off the chilly air and the confrontation.
You, watching from inside, wrapped in the duvet, felt a chaotic mix of awe and terror. You almost wanted to laugh at the visible wreckage he had made of the woman, yet you almost felt bad for her.
You were nestled deep in the sofa in the living room, a glass of wine resting in your hand, as you sat still wrapped loosely in the blanket. A wave of adrenaline-fueled exhaustion hit you when Simon finally entered the apartment.
Your eyes widened with that mixture of lingering, highly-strung arousal and raw relief when he appeared in the archway. "Did you really…confront her?" you asked, fighting back a laugh as you watched his every move.
He poured himself a generous measure of bourbon, taking a slow, steady sip before striding to the window. He looked out onto the street, the cold taste contrasting with the heat of the previous encounter. He set his glass down on the sill. "She won't be a problem anymore." His tone was cold and weary that it made you wonder if he did something to your neighbour. But she was a civilian, an annoying one for sure, and he would never do them any harm.
Simon turned, eyes fixed on you as he approached the sofa and knelt, his voice dropping to a low, calming rumble, a gentleness reserved only for you. "You don't have to hide." He reached out and gently slid the blanket down from you, revealing your body just as he left it: exposed, glossy with sweat, and yearning. He let out a low, guttural groan at the sight, and you instinctively closed your thighs together, a silent challenge, in a way as if to incite him.
He got up, supporting himself at your side, face inches away from yours. Your eyes glimpsed at his stubborn hardened length, raising a teasing eyebrow at him. “You went out like that? No wonder she got scared.” You teased him, your hand going to touch him briefly through the pants and you caught the brief, satisfied smirk in the corner of his eyes.
"So, can we maybe stay away from the window for a while? Maybe even close the curtains?" you asked, your hands tracing the scars on his torso, your touch a tease.
"No," Simon stated, the command absolute. "She saw what she thought was a crime. Now she's going to watch us prove her wrong. The show's not over."
He scooped you off the couch and placed your legs around his waist, holding you high. "The curtains stay open. If she's going to devote her free time to our apartment, she's going to see exactly what she's wasting her life over." He glanced toward the street one last time, a challenge hardening his gaze. "If she's watching, let her take notes."
He lifted his mask just enough to take your mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, his hand cupping your ass, pressing your back gently against the cool glass, his strong hands anchoring you to the frame. You bit his lip and, with a satisfied, quiet gasp, slid down from his grip, pulling back. You bit your lip in a tease, letting him know of your next move.
"Cheeky," he smirked, his hand finding your face. His thumb slowly traced your cheekbone and then your bottom lip. You drew his thumb into your mouth, tracing it with your tongue, and at the same moment, you subtly slipped your hand inside his trousers, taking his erection in a warm, firm grip.
He let out a low groan, his lips crashing back down onto yours in a sloppy, grateful kiss. He leaned into your touch, letting you work the slick, thick length for a brief, glorious moment before you pulled away, dropping to your knees in front of him.
You began the work easily, your mouth warm and soft against him, starting with light, teasing pecks and the slow, deliberate claim of his tip. He didn't complain this time. Instead, he let out a deep sigh of pure pleasure, his voice a guttural groan as he spoke your name.
His size stretched your mouth, causing a sharp, exquisite pressure, but the sound of his ragged pleasure was everything you needed to keep going. You would do it indefinitely just to hear him break.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head tilting back as you quickened the pace. He reached out, his hand finding your hair, holding your head gently but firmly in place and taking the hair off your face as his eyes darted down to watch your intent gaze. His rough sounds made you slick and desperately ready for his release. You wanted him to crumble completely underneath your ministrations, to make this moment entirely your domination.
But as always, he knew your game. He had you right where he wanted you to be: willingly, desperately focused on his pleasure.
"Bend over, luv!" The command was rough, coming the instant he pulled you away from the floor. You complied after gagging on his cock, grunting in disappointment.
Simon positioned himself, his huge body looming. You tried to turn your head, whimpering his name in anticipation, and you heard him give a low, satisfied snicker. One hand clamped down on your hips, the other guided his member, letting it tease your entrance for a charged, excruciating moment before he thrust deep inside you with a single, massive push. You crumbled against the glass, the sudden, total claim stealing your breath.
You were all over the window, tits and arms pressed against the glass as he pounded into you, beginning his relentless, powerful rhythm. He gathered your hair into a single thick strand, tugging slightly as he thrusted into you, anchoring you to the moment. The messy and unholy sounds you were making, probably waking even the deeper sleepers of the block.
The scent of sex, accompanied by both your moans and groans could be heard probably even by Mrs. Tibbs who was still frozen outside, with Simon shooting her glares as he made you scream for his name, deepening his thrusts into you, the confrontation, now, almost over.
With a single, smooth lift, he shifted your position, with you now facing him, making it clear to anyone watching that the show was still ongoing. His hand left your hip, trailing up your sides before settling firmly at your throat for a brief, familiar moment of cold, powerful control, a gesture that was simultaneously intimate and entirely visible through the window.
"You're crazy," you gasped out between heavy moans, watching him stare down the neighbour through the window.
"Only for you." A hint of a smile showed beneath the mask's line. “You’re mine, luv’. We get interrupted again, I promise they won't forget the mistake.” He mumbled something low and possessive against your mouth, a secret word just for you. Your fingers instantly grabbed the hair at the back of his neck, underneath the mask, pulling him closer and finally making him forget all about Joyce Tibbs.
He moved you slowly, positioning your bodies to maximize the visible intensity, yet always ensuring your face remained partially turned away or shadowed, keeping any tiny bit of your privacy while fully exposing his dominance over the situation, the dark balaclava remaining a statement piece.
“Harder, Simon, please!” You begged him and he complied, him too feeling his last draw.
"That's it, luv', come for me!" He knew you were there, and he started pounding into you with a force that felt like it could break the window you were pressed against. The cold air from the glass was a sharp, biting contrast to the immediate, desperate heat radiating off your bare skins and his hands anchored onto your skin, keeping you in place as he gave you his all.
The sounds of your shared passion, your low, raw whimpers, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart, were muffled only by the thin glass, forming a private symphony played for one single, paralyzed spectator. Every single movement was a deliberate action against Joyce Tibbs's earlier interference.
Across the street, she did not move, remaining frozen, a horrified witness of the steamy show you both put together. She remained there, in shock with her now trembling dog, unable to tear her gaze away until Simon’s victory was complete.
You were now a trembling mess as you came, clenching around him, forcing a guttural growl out of his chest as he moaned your name. His seed spread warmly over your core, a few drops even hitting the window glass, a final, explicit view that would make sure the nosy ones would abandon.
He gave you a slow, tender kiss, as he lifted the edge of his mask slightly, holding you with one arm. You chuckled together, touching foreheads. He carefully placed you onto the bed, not to make a mess, giving one last defiant look towards the onlooker before pulling the curtains in a swift motion, moving to sit beside you as you lay on your back.
"I don't think I'll ever leave the house again!" you joked.
"Nonsense. Tomorrow I’ll take you on a date, show the world who’s at my side." You pouted at him, seeing how soft he’s become, compared to moments earlier where he fucked your brains out.
"Fine, but promise me you'll behave."
"Can’t do that, ma’am." He came in for another kiss, his eyes promising a fresh wave of mischief, before he scooped you up bridal style toward the bathroom, perhaps for a well-deserved bath, or perhaps for round two.
Can't get this idea out of my head that Ghost is a starer. Wide eyes and all, expression not even flinching.
At the base, while performing simple tasks, you'd often catch his eye. His gaze would fix on you, lingering just long enough to confirm you were in his sight, that he’d been tracking your movements, before he’d turn away to continue his work or simply walk off.
You initially didn’t know what to make of it. Did he dislike you? Was he annoyed by your actions? Or was it his silent, commanding way of saying, 'I'm watching you, don't fuck this up.'
You admired the man—hell, you’d even fantasized about him: receiving a quiet compliment on a job well done, or being invited for a private conversation that might lead to something more. But you quickly dismissed these thoughts. A simple recruit had no chance with a higher-ranking officer. Besides, the man was probably married.
When assigned to the same mission, he was entirely focused on his work, rarely looking your way unless it was absolutely necessary. Yet, even then, you’d feel his stare pierce your back. You’d turn to find his eyes fixed on you, his expression unreadable behind his mask. God, you wished you knew what his face would say. Would he be disgusted by any mistake you made? Or was he simply a master of holding his expressions in, which was essential for a soldier, especially one like him.
One day, seeing him in the cafeteria, you decided to confront him. If not for an answer, then at least for your own peace of mind; his silent attention makjng you uncomfortable on occasion. You'd studied him long enough to realize he didn't stare at anyone else or if he did, it was briefly and clearly related to a conversation. With you, it was different, and you needed to know why.
“L.T., is my eating habit bothering you?” You approached him in the hallway at the base, just as he was leaving for a debrief. The question was unexpected, but not surprising.
“Far from it,” he replied simply, almost as if he’d been expecting your challenge.
“Then why do you keep staring at everything I do? Am I doing something wrong? Am I not wanted here?” You took a necessary pause, the silence thick with your sudden hesitation before you forced the final question out. “Have I done something to disgrace you?” The rush of desperate questions poured out, but that last one felt heavy, lingering in the air between you.
“Do you really want to know?” His low tone and delivery made you blush, your eyes widening instantly.
“Well, yes. I would like that very much.” You crossed your arms, bracing for a quick response.
In a sudden, decisive movement, Simon grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into a nearby storage closet and locking the door behind you. He lifted his mask slightly, just enough for his lips to find yours.
His eyes were heavy with lust, and you willingly surrendered control, not from fear, but because you wanted him to. You had imagined this moment. You wanted him to show you pleasure, to make you see stars as he took you in secrecy. The mystery of it all spun your head.
“This is what you do to me,” he groaned between kisses, making you melt under his touch and husky voice.
It was safe to say he answered all your questions that day, and you never complained about his gaze again.
Ghost cannot pick any sides when it comes to you. Every time you would ask him if he liked your new hairstyle, or the dress you were wearing, he would say “I like you, the whole you.” and you would not only blush, but feel so happy to have him love you, oh and he would show you, especially when you doubted yourself at times.
When it comes to your body, he would praise it as if it were a goddess’s. He would come from behind when you did not expect it, cupping your breasts, squeezing them ever so lightly as he kissed down your neck, jolts running through you and to your core. And he would know what he did to you, oh he already knew how your body worked.
He knew how his rough fingers touching you gently will make you shiver under his caresses and bring you the highest pleasure. You loved when he pressed his hands on your mounds, pinching your sensitive parts as he ate you out, tasting every bit of you and drawing out the sweet sounds he enjoyed to hear.
Ghost would make love to you when you felt down or needy, but take you rough and hard when you’d tease him too much, his hand prints visible on your ass checks from all the squeezing and playful slapping. He would grab your ass when you rode him good, your moans creating the perfect duet with his grunts.
He loved every bit of you and he would show that to you whenever he got the chance: in the shower, on the kitchen counter, the balcony, the couch, up the wall; and you couldn’t wait for him to come back home to you from a mission and show him how much you missed him.
As much as I like Samuel Roukin and his portrayal of Ghost in the MW series, I just can't get over his role as Captain John Graves Simcoe in Turn Washington's Spies and how much of a madman he was. I think probably because this was the first role I saw Sam in and really had an impact on me and on the series' characters.
Knowing that he is behind that mask, makes Ghost even more powerful and charming.
This was the chance of a lifetime for Diane Kirsten. As an ambitious video-photographer on an internship with a UK publication, she eagerly accepted an offer from her distant aunt, Lena Kendricks, a doctor, to travel to Nigeria. Her mission: to document the crippling plague and the harsh living conditions it created. It was an opportunity to earn her place and land the job she'd always dreamed of. But what began as a dream assignment quickly turned into a fight for survival. Trapped in the Nigerian lands, she and Lena found themselves hunted by soldiers who showed no mercy to their opposition, ruthlessly targeting women, children, and anyone who was of any other religion than their own.
Diane was with her aunt in a small village, taking refuge with a priest, two nuns, and locals in desperate need of medical aid, a fragile haven for those in need. She was outside, lost in the quiet work of documenting the day—filming the night sky, taking notes for her essay, and sketching. A sudden shadow fell over her lamplit page, and a hand covered the light. A voice, barely a whisper, shushed her, telling her not to be scared. She looked around for help, scrambling to retreat back to the hospital wing where her aunt was, only to back into another figure. Camouflaged and imposing, the second soldier loomed over her. She couldn't make out his face in the darkness, only the dim, attentive gaze of his blue eyes, her own blue green eyes, widening in shock and alertness.
Diane stepped inside and immediately saw her aunt, Lena, locked in a heated argument with another soldier, seemingly the lieutenant. She caught snippets of the conversation—an extraction mission that would take her, Lena, the priest, and the two nuns out of Africa.
"I cannot leave my people," Lena insisted, her voice tight with anger. "You can either take them with me or I won't go."
"The orders are clear, ma'am," the lieutenant replied with a firm, professional tone. "We're here to extract you, not the indigenous people."
"These people are poor refugees who deserve a chance at a new life!" Lena’s voice was a low growl. "We can't just abandon them."
As their argument raged, Diane turned to the soldier she'd just encountered. Her voice was calm despite the worry she felt. "What's happening?"
"This is an extraction mission," he explained, his eyes holding her gaze. "We have to get you out of here before the Nigerian soldiers arrive."
"It was only a matter of time," she sighed, and he gave a brief nod in agreement. As Lena's argument continued, growing more heated, Diane stepped between them. "Aunt, stop yelling. You frighten the people."
"They should know they'll be left behind for the privileged like us!" Lena retorted, not lowering her voice.
"Scaring them won't make the outcome better!" Diane whispered aggressively, her words cutting through the tension. Lena's shoulders slumped. She fell silent, her eyes darting between Diane and the military forces. She gave a curt nod toward the lieutenant, a silent agreement to let them consider her demand.
"Red," the lieutenant said into his comms, his voice low and firm, "let our people know about the situation. We’ll move out soon." The soldier who had been talking with Diane, turned at the sound of his name. He gave Diane one last, long look, his blue eyes holding her gaze for a moment, before he moved to join his team in preparing for their departure.
By morning, a consensus had been reached. They would depart with as many refugees as they could, beginning a long journey to the helicopter extraction point. Diane meticulously packed her gear—her notebooks, sketches, and cameras—the tools of her trade feeling heavy in her hands. Her brown wavy hair was pulled into two braids, and she was dressed for the road in a black turtleneck, a white under-vest, and dark green military pants. A knife was secured to her belt, easy to grab with her right hand.
Just before they left, Diane and the rest found that the priest and the nuns had chosen to stay behind, their sacrifice giving more refugees a chance at escape. She pulled the young nun, Siobhan, aside, her expression filled with hope and fear. "Sister, if you stay, there's no chance you'll survive," Diane pleaded, a desperate urgency in her voice. Red and the lieutenant were watching, their silent presence a stark reminder of the danger.
"Please don't scare her off," the older nun said, stepping in with a disapproving glance. She was experienced, but in a way she seemed selfish for not letting her go.
"It's the cruel truth," Diane countered, her gaze unwavering. Behind her, Red gave a subtle nod, his agreement a small comfort.
Siobhan's resolve was clear, even through her tears. "I can't leave them," she said, her voice filled with quiet strength. A wave of sorrow and respect washed over Diane. Siobhan's choice was one she couldn't make, but she understood it perfectly. With a heavy heart, Diane turned her back on the nuns and the priest and joined Red and the lieutenant to lead the group of refugees to safety.
He watched Diane's face as the nuns walked away. The sadness in her eyes was profound, but so was her respect for their decision. He, a professional soldier, would have just seen it as a tactical move. But she saw a sacrifice, and in a twisted way, he admired her for it.
The soldiers guided the long, weary line of people through the dense, wooden paths for hours. The journey was a struggle; some lagged behind, unable to keep pace, while others pushed forward, desperate not to become a burden. Throughout it all, Diane worked tirelessly, helping her aunt care for the people she'd saved. She carried children to ease the burden on their exhausted mothers and gently aided the injured to make their movements more comfortable.
As night fell, a quiet argument began. The doctor approached the lieutenant to request a break, but he initially refused, citing their strict schedule, but a compromise was eventually reached. They finally came to a stop for a much-needed rest. While Lena tended to a child's medication, others ate what they had or simply collapsed in a moment of relief. Diane slumped against a tree, holding a child in her arms, feeling the steady beat of his tiny heart as he slept. Closing her eyes, she savored the stillness, almost drifting towards a slumber.
While the other soldiers patrolled the perimeter, Red stopped for a moment, his gaze falling upon Diane. He stood in the shadows, completely mesmerized by the sight. The glow of the moonlight illuminated her face and the child in her arms, creating a soft tableau of peace and strength. In that moment, she was more than just a refugee—she was a living work of art, a beautiful, timeless portrait of gentle humanity, like a figure in a Renaissance painting.
A sudden wave of panic rippled through the soldiers. Lake, one of the members of the special unit, moved quickly, his low voice a sharp whisper as he ordered everyone to stay silent, with a troop of guerilla rebels taking their same path. The soldiers’ guns were raised and ready, but they held their fire—drawing attention to their position would endanger the many innocents and make their mission a failure.
In that instant, Red moved with a speed that startled Diane. He knelt beside her, his hand gently but firmly covering her mouth, the sudden touch startling her from her tired daze, leaving her more confused than alarmed, and he shushed her with a quiet gesture, then whispered her instructions: keep silent and make sure the child did the same. Without another word, he took a position on the ground beside her and her aunt, his gaze fixed on the shadows, ready to protect them from any incoming threat, a silent shield between them and the path ahead.
The relief of a successful hiding was short-lived. A straggler, a rebel soldier who had fallen behind his group, appeared from the shadows and spotted Lena. Before he could raise the alarm, the lieutenant was on him, silencing the man with a single, brutal efficiency. The man fell without a sound, shocking not only Lena, who was the main target, but Diane as well, being beside her and fearing for her aunt’s life.
Diane’s main fear was also for the child sleeping peacefully in her arms. "It's safe now, keep moving," Doc, another soldier, urged, but Diane couldn't tear her eyes from the spot where the man had fallen. She only looked away after they had reached another clearing, the fear that others might follow them, a cold knot in her stomach.
Later, when they finally came to a complete stop, Diane passed the child to another refugee who promised to hold him until morning. She found a quiet spot by a tree and leaned back, a wave of exhaustion washing over her.
"Are you alright?" a voice asked. Red knelt beside her, his gaze filled with quiet worry.
Diane managed a tired smile. "Yeah, I'm just glad Mother Nature is on our side tonight. You can never be too careful out here." She made a joke to lighten the mood, and he returned her smile with a small smirk.
"Try not to linger on it," he said softly. "You'll be safe soon." He gave her a final nod before leaving to join his patrol. She watched his back as he disappeared into the darkness, a vast forest swallowing his silhouette. She felt a flicker of intrigue. There was something about him—a cold exterior that seemed to thaw whenever he spoke to her. He carried himself with a cold, imposing presence, yet with her, he was different—attentive, almost gentle. It was a contradiction she wanted to understand.
The morning brought a fragile, fleeting hope. At the designated meeting point, Diane captured what she could with her camera, taking photos of the refugees as they moved, her lens trying to preserve their faces and their journey. The photography ceased abruptly when they were ordered to keep low and hidden, awaiting the promised helicopters.
As soon as the smoke grenades detonated, chaos erupted. The bitter truth revealed itself: the helicopters were not for everyone. They were meant only for Lena, Diane, and the special forces. Lena immediately began to argue with the lieutenant as she was forcefully guided towards the transport, her resistance fierce. Diane, caught mid-ground in the escalating pandemonium, was paralyzed. She didn't know whether to join the soldiers on the helicopter or remain behind with the very people she had risked everything to aid.
"These people are going to die! We cannot leave them here!" she cried out to the two soldiers closest to her, including Red, who, despite his usual quiet attentiveness, remained impassive, only respecting his superior's orders.
"We have to leave, ma'am!" the soldier named Flea urged, pushing her forward.
The air filled with the heart-wrenching screams of the refugees, their desperate cries for Diane and her aunt's names echoing as the two women were pushed into the waiting helicopter.
Inside, Diane wrestled with her aunt, trying to calm Lena's furious rage. "We'll find a way to bring them back!" she promised, though the words felt hollow.
"These bastards cannot be trusted!" Lena seethed, her eyes burning with betrayal. The soldiers around them watched, their expressions unreadable. Diane felt a profound sadness, a deep understanding of the impossible stakes on both sides, yet unable to assign blame. Her heart ached with the cruel reality of their situation.
Trying to find a moment of fragile peace, Diane moved to the helicopter window, her gaze fixed on the sprawling, indifferent jungle below. Red, from his seat across the cabin, watched her. Unlike her furious aunt, Diane was quiet and composed, and for that reason alone, his gaze was glued to her. He saw the profound sadness in her eyes, a quiet grief that spoke louder than any scream. He wanted to cross the bridge between them, but he knew he was supposed to keep his distance, yet an undeniable urge to offer her comfort, to protect her, was taking hold.
The lieutenant caught his gaze and Red quickly looked away, trying not to make a show of his interest, he didn't feel shame, only a growing defiance. He was supposed to focus on the mission, on the lieutenant's next command. Instead, his focus was entirely on her, on her fragile strength and the raw humanity she was trying to hide. His superior made no comment, as he, too, was quietly captivated by the doctor, her fiery personality and quiet strength equally enthralling.
A profound silence fell over the helicopter as it flew over the village they had only recently left. Below them, a scene of unspeakable horror unfolded. A massacre. Bodies of men, women, and children were scattered across the ground, a grotesque tableau of what had been lost. Circling above, a silent testament to the carnage, were the birds of prey, already beginning their grim feast. The raw grief was a heavy weight on everyone, as they all understood that this outcome had been inevitable.
In a moment of profound, detached courage, Diane raised her camera. Her hands trembled as she snapped a few pictures of the devastation, documenting the horror. Then, she collapsed back into her seat, silent sobs wracking her body, the shock amplified by her aunt’s loud, raw cries of grief. For a moment, a collective hush fell, as if everyone was silently praying for the lost souls below. In her own quiet way, Diane offered a desperate prayer for all of them.
With all eyes now on the lieutenant, a sudden, inexplicable shift rippled through the air. To the baffled, tense expressions of his subordinates, he delivered a shocking order: "Turn around!" A wave of hushed confusion and disbelief passed through the ranks. Just minutes ago, their mission had been to leave, and now, their hopes of going home shattered. It was time for a new plan, and, as they hoped, it would work out.
I have a new obsession, it's Cole Hauser in 2003's Tears Of The Sun, a.k.a. James 'Red' Atkins, and I can't get over him.
Because of this, I wrote a full story, which I will inaugurate here.
You can also find it on AO3
Pairing: James 'Red' Atkins x Original Female Character
Fandom: Tears of the Sun (2003)
Summary: In an African warzone, a jaded soldier and a struggling media intern are brought together by a mission that goes horribly wrong. When their lieutenant makes a heroic, selfless choice to ensure the civilians' escape, it leads to a devastating ambush and the brutal loss of many. Finally separated and with no way of contacting one another, a silent question hangs in the air: will they ever find their way back to each other?
Genre: Suspense, Drama, War, Romance
~~~~
Note: This is the first fanfiction I ever published, but surely more will come. Feel free to share your opinions and thoughts and ask away if you have any questions.
Decebal: I had a wet dream about you last night.
Trajan: Oh, really?
Decebal: Yes! A horse kicked you in the face and I pissed myself laughing.
Trajan: I hate you.
Alright, my dears,
I have created this playlist as an inspiration for my own writing and I made it specifically for Basim & Hytham, due to their Arabic/Turkish origins, but also Classical/Medieval specific for that time period.
My friend @ljufvina has made these playlists for nordic music, specifically Eivor. ^^ Give her a listen too!
Feel free to send me in your suggestions and I will add them to the playlist as it is under construction.
This playlist still stands, especially now that we have a younger Basim in Baghdad, surrounded by the oriental features of the cities and their people.
