simon chuckles, standing to his fullest height and making no accommodations for you. this has been going on for at least ten minutes now – the bastard just won’t let you have your way. mask off and wearing civilian clothing, a rare occurrence, he washes the dishes in the kitchen, refusing to give in.
“si, don’t be mean. i want a kiss.” you groan when soap suds find their way onto your face. “ugh, don’t flick soap on me. please, si. just kiss me. once. once is all i ask for.”
his back muscles ripple with barely concealed laughter. “don’t be botherin’ me when i’m washin’ up, lovie. ain’t wise.”
“give me a kiss!”
glancing down at you, eyes crinkled in the corner with mirth, his lips twitch. “get it y’rself, woman. go on. come take it from me.”
you creep under his beefy arm, tucking yourself between his broad body and the cold sink. truly cruel, you know he knows that you can only reach his chin on your tiptoes, jumping a little. still, you don’t give up. brushing kisses onto his chin, his neck, his jaw, you do everything in your power to lay a solid one on his lips.
to no avail.
forehead pressed to his chest, you sigh. “fine, mean bastard. you win. i give up. no kisses for me tonight, i guess.”
soaked, fingers pinch your chin, tilting your head back. you see simon’s eyes soften, drifting to your mouth before he leans in, grazing your lips with his tenderly. he doesn’t slip a tongue in, doesn’t deepen the kiss, just lingers, like he’s absorbing your warmth, processing the softness of your skin, and rejoicing in the comfort of being at home.
“mmm, missed ya,” he says.
you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close and pecking his lips over and over again. “i missed you too, si. always.”
he kisses your forehead. “won’t have to soon. i’ll do right by ya. promise.”
“i know.”
oh, but how little do we know when blinded by love and carried through only by faith and hope.
all you wanted was to bring simon his lunchbox, but the new recruits saw you as nothing more than an joke. they learn the hard way that no one can mess with the lieutenant's wife.
tags: hurt/comfort, angsty, wife!reader, husband!ghost, hurt!reader, simon riley is a devoted husband
the clock had long since struck midnight when simon finally made his way home. he eased himself onto the bed, careful not to make any noise, not wanting to wake you up. his muscles ached, his eyes burned after sleepless nights, but none of that mattered the moment he held you in his arms.
he placed a kiss on your forehead, soft, barely there, afraid to interrupt your sleep. his lips lingered a second longer than necessary, just breathing you in.
you smelled like home.
"i'm back." he whispered into the dark, more to himself than to you. he pulled the covers up a little higher over your shoulder, tucked you tightly beneath them, and finally let his heavy eyes rest.
the following morning you'd woken up early, before the sun had even rise to make him a warm meal.
the snow had been falling for days, making it hard for you to reach the military base. you clutched the lunchbox to your chest, your fingers numb from the fierce wind.
here you were now, fidgeting with your hands, as you slowly approached the base. you had been here before, once, when simon forgot some urgent documents in his office at home and asked you to deliver them.
the guard at the gate barely glanced at you before exclaiming "training yard's to the left," he said, his voice bored "lieutenant is probably there."
you thanked him with a whisper and made your way through the gates.
you spotted some recruits as you came to the proximity of the field.
"excuse me," you called softly, clearing your throat. "i'm looking for lieutenant riley."
a young soldier turned, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, probably wondering what were you doing in a place like that. he was taller than you, double your size, but not as big as simon, and his piercing eyes made you shiver.
"and you must be?" the soldier sneered, his tone dripping with arrogance. "do you think anyone can meet him?"
"i-i'm here to bring him his lunch," you said, showing him the bag that was held tight to your chest.
the soldier turned around, exchanging a glance with his friend. "his lunch? you his personal errand girl?"
the other recruit laughed, joining the teasing. "im sure lieutenant doesn't need a little thing like you bringing him food. he's got proper food here. not whatever home cooked rubbish you've got in there."
your cheeks flushed, heat rising to your face. "it's not uhm... like that. he forgot it this morning. i just wanted to-" you began to stutter, avoiding their mocking gaze.
"you wanted to what? speak louder won't ya?" the first soldier stepped closer, leaning down to reach your eye level "a stupid girl who can't even make a simple sentence without stuttering wants to see him? you think you're special?"
"i-i'm his wife," you managed to say but you could feel your eyes begin to well up.
the soldiers stared at you for a moment, then burst into laughter. the sound was loud and mocking, echoing through the corridors. "right," the first one said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "and i'm the captain. nice try, love. lieutenant riley doesn't have a wife. everyone knows that."
you wanted to correct him but got quickly interrupted.
"look, sweetheart," the second recruit cut in, "we don't have time for this. he's a busy man." he gestured vaguely to the gates "you need to leave. now."
"b-but I'm telling you the truth," you said, your voice trembling. "i'm n-not lying."
the first soldier rolled his eyes. "you're not authorised to be here," he said, his voice hardening. "if you don't leave on your own, we'll have you escorted out."
"i-i have a pass," you said, fumbling in your pocket. "i have a visitor's pass. see?" with shaking hands, you held your pass.
the soldier snatched it from your hand, glancing at it briefly before tossing it to the ground. "probably stolen," he said dismissively.
"get the fuck out now." the second soldier said, as he grabbed your arm and began pushing you toward the gate.
you stumbled, falling down on your butt, then the gate was slamming shut behind you.
you stood there, frozen. you reached for your phone to call your husband but it wasn't there. in a hurry to leave the house, you left it on the kitchen counter.
this is why ghost always tells you to be more careful with your belongings.
"clumsy little girl." was what simon would often call you.
the snow continued to fall, piling up around you. you were going to freeze out here.
you were so cold you could barely hear a distant voice calling your name.
the voice was low and behind his mask you saw a strangely familiar face. you lifted your head, your vision blurry with tears and snowflakes, and found yourself staring at a bearded man. his dark eyes were the only thing you could see.
"oh, john." you breathed, and then you were sobbing. "i...they didn't believe me...i couldn't...i just wanted to bring him lunch and they-"
"hey, it's alright," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. he stepped forward, shrugging off his heavy coat and draping it over her shoulders. it was too big, swallowing you whole, but it was warm. "come on. let's get you inside."
he led you through the gate once again, past the recruits who had just thrown you out. price didn't say a word to them, but the look he shot them held a lot of warnings.
the captain guided you to a chair, sat you down, and knelt in front of you.
"are you hurt?" he asked, checking for any possible injury.
you shook your head, scared your voice would betray you. "j-just c-cold. r-really cold."
price's eyes hardened. "i'll take care of it."
he pulled out his phone and called simon.
the recruits were still in the yard when ghost appeared, and the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. his mask was pulled tight, but it did nothing to conceal the fury radiating from his posture.
"which one of you," he said, his voice low and threatening, "did it?"
the first recruit, the one who'd laughed at you, tried to play it cool. "lieutenant, there was some woman trying to get in, claimed to be your wife. i mean its ridiculous, uh? but i handled it."
"you handled it," ghost repeated, with a nod; his voice flat, emotionless. "you fucking handled my wife."
the colour drained from the recruit's face. "sir, i didn't, we didn't know-"
"i will deal with you later." simon spat out, not sparing them another glance.
he crossed the yard in a few long strides, his hands shaking with fury. he found you in the common room, wrapped in price's coat. you were still clutching the lunchbox, and the sight of it, the sight of you being so pitiful, nearly made him lose the control.
his hands found your waist, and then you were pulled into his arms, crushed against his chest so tightly you could feel the frantic beating of his heart. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, the fabric of his mask damp and warm against your skin, and wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you'd dissolve if he loosened his grip even a bit.
he pulled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest.
"sweetheart," he breathed, the word cracking somewhere in his throat. "i'm sorry. fuck."
"it's okay," you whispered, your fingers clutching his shirt. "y-you're here."
"no, it's not alright." he pulled back, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "i will never, ever let that happen again."
he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closed. his fingers were stroking your cheeks, trying to warm you.
he scooped you up, cradling you against his chest, and carried you toward his quarters. his arms were strong and steady, as you whimpered from the cold.
"price," he called over his shoulder, "round them up. i'll deal with them properly later."
the door to his quarters closed behind you, and simon set you down gently on his chair. he knelt in front of you, his hands working to unzip your coat, to peel off the wet layers.
"bastards," he cursed under his breath. "i'll kill them all."
you flinched, but were too exhausted to speak, so you let him wrap you in his clothes, and hold you until the shaking stopped. wrapped by simon's thick scent and his body warmth, you soon fell asleep from the exhaustion.
outside, the recruits stood shivering in the yard, watching the snow pile up around their boots.
ghost quickly crossed the yard, his face a mask of cold fury, and grabbed the first recruit by the throat.
simon's fist quickly connected with the soldier's jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the silent yard. then he turned to the second one, the one who'd grabbed your arm.
"your turn." the man tried to run, but price was there, blocking his path. ghost caught him by the collar, dragging him back, and drove his feet into his stomach. one kick, two kicks, until he collapsed, unconscious, into the snow.
"get them off my base," he said to john.
and from that day on, whenever you walked into the base, every soldier snapped to attention, avoiding looking at you, because they all knew, without a single doubt, that simon riley would kill to ensure your safety.
Description: Ghost girlfriend comes over to stay the night for the first time
Wordcount: 705
Warnings: none I think
CoD Masterlist 💀 Main Masterlist
Ghost's normally dark and sparsely decorated apartment looked decidedly more lived-in that night as he waited for his girlfriend to arrive. He'd tidied up the place, made the bed, and even bought a vase of fresh flowers for the coffee table.
As the doorbell rang, he took a deep breath, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.
Opening the door, he saw his girlfriend standing there, a mixture of excitement and nerves on her face, with her bag on her shoulder. It was the first time she was spending the night at his place, and they both knew it was a significant step in their relationship.
Ghost stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The two of them stood awkwardly for a moment, both unsure how to break the silence.
His girlfriend smiled at him, her eyes taking in the small but clean apartment."I like your place," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of a chair. "It's very... you."
Ghost chuckled, a rare sound coming from him. "I try to keep things simple," he replied. "Less chance of making a mess."
She walked over to the vase of flowers on the coffee table, admiring them. "These are beautiful," she said, her fingers grazing the soft petals.
Ghost watched her, feeling a warmth bloom in his chest as he saw her enjoying his space.
"I wanted everything to be perfect," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "It's the first time you're spending the night here, I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable."
She turned to look at him, a soft smile on her face. "You don't need to try so hard, you know," she said, her voice full of affection. "I'm comfortable as long as I'm with you."
Ghost felt the weight of her words, the honesty and vulnerability in them soothing his nerves. He stepped closer to her, close enough that he could smell the sweetness of her shampoo.
"I'm not used to this," he said quietly, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "Having someone else in my space... It makes me feel...weird."
She placed her hand on his chest, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through him. "Good weird or bad weird?" she asked, her eyes searching his face.
He took a breath, the feel of her hand on his chest anchoring him. "Good weird," he replied, his voice low. He brought his hand up, covering hers with his own. "Just... uncharted territory for me."
They stood there for a moment, the silence between them now comfortable rather than awkward. Then, a flicker of mischief flashed in his girlfriend's eyes.
"You know, now that I'm here..." she drawled, stepping even closer to him, "there are some things we could... explore."
The implication hung in the air like a promise, and Ghost felt his heart rate pick up.
"Is that so?" he said, his voice going lower, huskier. He leaned in, his lips almost touching hers.
"Very much so," she replied, her breath ghosting over his skin. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing softly over her bottom lip.
She smiled against his touch, then spoke, her voice laced with mischief. "Hey, you know what we should do?"
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Enlighten me."
Her eyes lit up, an idea forming. She placed her hands on his waist, looking up at him with a cheeky grin.
"How about this," she suggested, "we have ourselves a little pampering day. I'll give you a massage, and we can watch some trashy TV. How does that sound?"
His eyes widened in surprise, not anticipating such a suggestion. But the idea of having her hands on him, taking care of him, was definitely appealing.
"A massage, huh?" he said, feigning nonchalance. "And what's in it for you?"
She moved even closer, her hands slipping under his shirt and trailing lightly across his bare skin. "Oh, I get the pleasure of seeing you all relaxed and blissed out. Trust me, it's a win-win."
Ghost fought to keep his cool, the shivers her touch was sending down his spine betraying his nonchalance. "You're lucky you're cute," he said, his hands snaking around her waist to pull her closer.
The first time you met him, you weren’t thinking about love. You were thinking about whether or not he’d make it through the night.
The doors burst open with the slam of wheels on tile. A stretcher rolled in, soldiers shouting over one another as they rattled off vitals, none of it clear through the noise. All you saw was the man lying on the gurney, blood blooming through his tac gear, a mask fixed over his face like it was stitched into his skin.
“Patient’s crashing—shrapnel to the abdomen!” someone barked.
You stepped forward, calm where others were frantic. “Move him. Now.”
He was half-conscious, hands twitching weakly against the restraints, but when one of the nurses reached for his mask to place oxygen, his arm shot out with startling strength. His grip locked around her wrist, eyes blazing despite the pain.
“No. Mask stays.”
The voice was rough, gravel dragging over stone, but steady. Commanding.
The room hesitated. You didn’t.
“Then it stays,” you said evenly, meeting his fever-bright gaze. “Work around it. Let’s go.”
And just like that, he let the nurse go. His hand fell back against the sheets, but his eyes lingered on you until the anesthesia finally dragged him under.
Hours passed beneath the harsh surgical lights. Your world narrowed to the wound tearing him apart and the rhythm of your own breathing. Clamp. Suture. Steady hands, steady voice. You didn’t think about who he was, only about the body in front of you and the stubborn fight still pulsing in him.
When the bleeding was finally controlled and the wound closed, you stayed longer than you should have. Most surgeons didn’t hover after the procedure was done — but you did. Sitting at his bedside, monitoring the machines, listening to the steady climb of his heartbeat. Something about him refused to let you walk away.
He woke the next morning.
You noticed the shift before he moved — a flicker of awareness in his posture, a tightening in his shoulders. Then those dark eyes opened, sharp and assessing even through the haze. He saw the mask still secured over his face, untouched, and then he saw you.
“You kept it on,” he rasped, voice little more than a whisper.
“You kept yourself alive,” you countered softly, setting down your chart. “I just helped.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stared, as though he was trying to read more from you than your words gave away. Most patients were relieved when they woke. Grateful, even. But his expression was different — guarded, suspicious, but with something softer at the edges when he looked at you.
It should have ended there. Another soldier saved, another patient whose name you’d never really know. But he didn’t leave your mind when you walked out of the ward, and he didn’t stay away either.
Each follow-up brought him back to you. Always masked, always carrying the weight of something unspoken. Yet with you, his shoulders sat a little lower, his voice a little less harsh. He’d linger after appointments, just long enough to make you notice. And you, despite yourself, found excuses to check in, to spend a few extra minutes at his side.
Love didn’t strike fast. It didn’t have to. It threaded itself through the quiet spaces — in the way he said thank you without words, in the way your hand brushed his when you changed a dressing, in the way his gaze found yours and held, like he trusted you with something no one else was allowed to touch.
It began in blood and fear and a mask that never came off. But it grew, patient and steady, the way wounds heal when given the right care.
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.
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.
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.
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.
you've never felt so embarassed in your whole existence. "im sorry" you whined as with trembling legs you tried to get up from his lap.
you aren't sure how things turned out this way. one moment you're twirling a strand of hair, loudly sighing as your boyfriend didn't seem to notice your presence, even though you were straddling his lap, his gaze sorely focused on the papers spread across the desk; and the next you're leaving a wet patch on his pants.
it's not exactly your fault, he's been teasing you for the past half an hour, long fingers caressing your bare legs and inching closer and closer to the edge of your panties. you hold your breath, biting your lower lip to not let any sound come out.
you wouldn't want to interrupt him while he's doing his work, right? you're a good girl.
your foggy eyes drift to his face, scrutinizing him but he's maintaining a stoic expression. in fact, he didn't seem affected at all, not even when you start squirming intentionally, looking for some sort of friction to give you relief.
a hand holds you in place, "stay still, hm? i'm almost done." he murmured, rubbing his eyes. he has been saying that for the past hour, while riling you up. it's so unfair, you thought.
you crane your neck, licking your lips. the hickeys you left on his neck were still visible, making your cheeks heat up, recalling the night before. "si, i'm bored" you whisper, sound muffled by his shirt.
"are you?" he asked you, with a knowing smile. finally, he looks at you and your legs start to feel weak once again.
you nod your head, your eyes darting to his mouth. you gulp as he circles your waist with one arm, moving you closer to him, if possible.
simon riley is a rough man. he's a bulky, stone cold man who's been taught how to kill with his bare hands. so of course, he doesn't know how to kiss you softly. he bites your lip until it leaves a bruise and forces his tongue inside and lets you go only when you're struggling to catch air.
he finds cute how you get turned on by a mere kiss. your slick is slowly dampening his sweatpants and it's fucking hot. simon grunts as he presses his bulge against your core, making you moan loudly.
"please, si." you plead so sweetly, hand grabbing his wrist "i'm so wet." your eyes start to welling up.
"you have to ask properly, darling" his long fingers play with the band of your shorts.
"can you touch me, si? please?" you've been waiting so patiently, that a tear falls down your cheek out of frustration. but simon isn't the type of man to deny his girl anything.
his hand slides inside your panties and he groans loudly when he senses how soaked you are.
"oh honey. you made quite a mess here, didn't you." he collects some of the dampness and brings it close to your face, to show you. he's awfully pleased as he savours the taste of you, making a scene.
"stop, it's embarrassing." you cover your face but your protests fall on deaf ears, as simon licks his fingers clean while looking you straight in the eyes.
he tosses your shorts away and spread your legs apart. the cool breeze hitting your naked skin makes you shudder.
he teases your clit, circling your sensitive bud without touching it and eases one finger in. your eyes roll back in pleasure and you feel your walls pulsing around the digit. the wrist watch simon was wearing was now covered in your slick.
he adds another finger in but he's such a tease, slowing down his movements every time he hits that spongy spot that makes you cream all over his hand.
you scream, hands grasping his browd shoulders when he abruptly pinches your bud and you cum. so hard that you almost fall, if it wasn't for simon's secure hold on you.
simon hasn't pulled out yet, mesmerized by the way you were taking him in so well.
he kisses your forehead, and covers your bare legs with his sweater, worried that you'll catch a cold. "you did so well, honey."
but you were already sound asleep, safe in his arms.
A/N: Been a while since I've written or even posted anything, be nice but lemme know what you think and if you want more. (I am feral for this man.)
Warnings: Mentions of sex (nothing major), drinking/recreational drugs
𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗 "𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝" 𝚁𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚡 𝙳𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
Ghost wasn't really someone you talked about to your friends, or to anyone. He had been a shadow all the time you've known him, and you kept him private for no good reason. He never told you explicitly to, but you gave him a courtesy you felt was the least he deserved. You guys weren't a couple; not really, you served him drinks a year ago and had a drunken hook-up in the back of his truck. Since then, you just have sex, no dates, barely staying over, barely any talking, and one kiss. One. But, there was almost an unspoken loyalty that you didn't ask for and didn't bring attention to.
Like when he's there after you leave your shift at the bar. Getting you bad gas-station coffee to go wherever the car drove you guys to for the night. Somewhere dark and secluded where he could fuck you in the truck of his pick-up. Buys you your vices, even if you aren't running low. Always shadowing at night and watching from a distance in the day, with or without you knowing.
But then he leaves for weeks on end, with no notice that he'd be gone. You didn't fret because he warned you he would do such a thing. But it became apparent when you were walking at night and couldn't feel his shadow. Or when your vices ran low, and you couldn't just ask him to buy them after fucking. But when he came back, he was met with a drink and a freshly rolled joint, and a comfortable silence filled with only necessary words. He'd be grabbing you like he had never left and drink in your features, commenting on your dark circles from your lack of sleep. He'd smoke with you, drink with you, then grab the remote control to your TV, and put on a movie that neither of you was going to watch.
Then he'd fuck you for hours on end, only stopping to let you drink water and smoke, or to change the movie once it ended to another. Rough, punishing, demanding. He took his craving, and he gave you payment. Glorious payment. A subtle shadow that disappeared when he wanted and gave the company what he felt like, with no complaint. Genuinely, if you had a problem with the arrangement, you would've left already. But there is no problem. There's nothing. Just good sex and a free trip to the dispensary if he finishes as many times as you. Usually, he does, so maybe he just uses these trips as his excuse for aftercare. Maybe more time with you.
Then his routine goes back to the usual. Texting you in random hours of the night, or obscure times of the day when you'd know he was watching you for a moment of your spare time. Maybe he makes out and dry-humps you in his car, a quickie if time permits. Or maybe he wants to give you a shooter of whatever shitty gas-station alcohol he could find. Small gifts, if you could call them that. More offerings, but nothing that showed actual content. Then, he's gone. Gone to wherever he goes. Doing whatever makes him tense up whenever you ask him curiously what's wrong. 'Just work stuff. Same bull.' The same old answer, each and every time. A dark thought flashed through her mind once that she was his mistress, and he had a family somewhere, and he would go back there when he'd disappear.
Though you've known him long enough to have heard his thoughts on marriage and having a family like that. He would absolutely never, no point in his mind giving how he thinks of himself. He loathed himself and gave himself reasons to continue to do so each day. Ghost, quite frankly, contributes nothing to your life. But you keep him like a stray, and he wanders back whenever.
And in typical stray fashion, he shows up at a ridiculously late hour and notifies of his arrival with his call. 'I'm outside.' Leaning against the same black truck that brought his troubling presence into your life. Without a word, you grabbed two pre-rolls and a hard seltzer that he'll complain about but will drink for the buzz. All for you two to end back in the truck of his bed, doing the same things you always did, covering each other in secret marks in honor of your reunion. In honor of the ones that faded in their time apart.
