Watching You
Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x f!Reader
CW/Tags: voyeurism (Simon), exhibitionism (reader), masturbation, noncon recording of sex acts, fishnets, no use of y/n
Wordcount: 1.3k
A/N: not suuuuper happy w/ this but I gotta get back to my main squeeze so time to post and move on :)
Simon Riley was a sick fucking bastard. He’d known it a long time, but he was really reaching new depths on this assignment. The dumb fucking surveillance assignment – this consolation prize to make him feel better about being grounded until medical cleared him because at least he wasn’t chained to a desk.
It was funny, the difference between staring at someone through a scope and a window. Granted, the difference between 18 hours and 18 days wasn’t insignificant. Turns out, it took roughly 150 hours before his depraved underbelly began demanding sustenance.
And you…you knew how to feed a man.
You allowed Simon to gorge on you. Hell, you spread yourself out like a feast, opened legs and quivering cunt. Open curtains. Often an open window. The breeze would carry your sweet, marinating sounds to Simon’s darkened room across the street. Who the fuck could be expected to have a soft cock after seeing that?
Your self-pleasing habits had a rhythm.
Sometimes, he could barely even tell you were getting yourself off until the orgasm was already bearing down on you. You would get up, clean yourself off in the bathroom, and return to bed. He imagined it was not dissimilar to what he looked like when he jerked off.
His second favourite was when you woke up before your alarm clock, needy and half-asleep. Simon could see you half-heartedly try to collect yourself, but then you would blindly fumble around your nightstand for a toy – a dildo with about 4 usable inches and less thickness than two of his fingers. It was…precious.
He’d watch you through his binoculars as you rolled onto your stomach, both arms pressed beneath you. One to man your dildo, and the other to work your clit. Your face smushed into your pillow, eyes lidded and blissed out as your hips started jerking with the movements of your dumb little toy. You always faced the window. Curtains open. Blanket sometimes getting thrown off, sometimes staying on, masking the true delight of your ministrations. But never enough to keep Simon from timing his orgasm with yours.
What he lived for, however, made him question just how hidden he truly was from you. Because sometimes, usually after reading some steamy book, you fucked yourself like a god damn armature porn star. You moved a mirror into a corner – so you could watch yourself, or so Simon could watch you from the front and back at the same time?
Blankets were expressly forbidden. Your skin was either entirely exposed, or you wore little scraps that made you check yourself out in that mirror, hands trailing soft, supple skin. Lace, leather, perfectly placed cut-outs. You seemed to have a particular fondness for fucking yourself through ripped up bottoms. Was it the implied urgency? That someone needed you so fucking badly that they couldn’t simply undress you? They became animalistic and just ripped through whatever barrier was between them and your sweet fucking cunt? It had to be that. Lord knew that Simon felt it.
But after you were as underdressed as you needed – sometimes accomplished by a flurry of tossing clothes aside, sometimes a methodical stripping – and the music was on, deep and slow, you did everything except keep your pleasure to yourself.
You straddled that stupid fucking dildo and rode it like you were riding a man – like you were riding him. You knelt on three out of four limbs, one occupied with fucking yourself, face turned to the mirror so you could watch the toy disappear into your dripping hole. And Simon could watch you watching. You went prone, spread legs pointing directly to the window. You went up on your knees, tits heaving, and collapsing on them when you came.
Curtains open. Windows always open for those.
And fuck, the sounds. The moans and the squeaks when even you surprised yourself with something. The breathy laugh after, when your brain was flooded with every feel-good chemical it could produce. The shaky and twitching legs that eventually took you to the bathroom.
He wore a nondescript medical mask and a baseball cap low and his head when he hacked your phone, casting a mirror version of it to a blank one in his pocket. Simon had to stand close to get it done, far closer than he had before. His hands itched to reach out and touch you, to bury his nose in your hair and live off the fumes of your shampoo. You glanced back at him once, waiting in line for the cashier. He enjoyed that you had to tilt your head up to find his eyes.
You set a pair of sheer knickers and fishnets on the conveyer belt. No attempt to hide them or make it less obvious as to what they are. Thoughtfully – more thoughtfully than warranted – you grabbed a pack of gum and flipped it over to pretend to read the ingredients. It slipped through your fingers and landed at your feet.
Instead of crouching to grab it, you bent at the waist, your hips pushing back more than necessary. Your leggings turned sheer as they stretched across your ass and Simon could not be fucked in the least to pretend he wasn’t looking. You wore a scrap of a thong which did nothing to hide the roundness of your folds between your gnaw-worthy thighs.
Yes, he very much understood the taste for ripped bottoms.
Straightening, you returned the gum to the shelf and placed the divider down. Simon added a few decoy grocery items and a bottle of lube to the conveyer.
Again, you tilted your head back to catch his gaze. Only a glance this time. A glance and a blush.
God fucking bless department stores.
Simon experienced what he imagined people meant when they said they were giddy, walking back to his temporary living quarters, keeping a safe distance from you. He couldn’t fucking wait to see you fuck yourself silly in those fishnets.
What he did not expect was that you would want a better view for yourself, too, setting your phone up against a pillow, turning on the camera, and bending over in front of it with your knees spread wide. Through the window he could see your face against the mattress. You wore nothing on top, only the fishnets which you ripped open in front of the camera to reveal your already wet cunt.
You humped the air, pussy fluttering as spasms of arousal coursed through you before you slid your fingers through your folds. You held your shiny fingers out for the camera, the light catching the strings of moisture that coated and connected your fingers. Simon dropped a dollop of lube into his palm and fisted his cock, watching you slip a dainty little finger into your desperate cunt, imagining the sounds created by the lube were coming from you.
You seemed in no rush to cum, teasing yourself mercilessly and listlessly, spreading your slick, letting it collect until it literally dripped onto your bed.
Eventually, Simon finished with you, thick ropes of cum landing on the phone screen – on your weeping hole – when your fingers circled your swollen clit, and you came with a cry that carried across the street.
Thanks to your open fucking window.
When your legs stopped twitching he watched you walk to the window and pull your hands above your head, stretching, tits out on full display before you turned around to bend into downward dog. Still in those ripped fishnets and nothing else. One hand reached through your legs, and you curled a finger in a “come hither” motion.
Simon’s heart stuttered.
You pushed yourself back up, grabbed your phone which was still on the camera and walked to your flat door. You held up the phone to show yourself pulling back the deadbolt. You opened the notes app and typed out 8213.
Your building door code. Of course, he knew it already. But that wasn’t the point, was it?
You typed another message: All warmed up for you. Wear the mask :)
