Resident Damien Girl

You could hear him turning the shower on as you stretched your limbs, waking yourself up and shaking off the sleep. Something as simple as hearing him pull back the shower curtain made you feel indescribably at peace.

Simon was home. He was safe.  

It hadn’t been a long deployment—it had actually been one of his shortest in recent memory—nor had it been a very high stakes one, as far as you knew. But his absence always left you feeling perturbed, no matter the circumstances or the duration. 

You knew he felt the same, though Simon’s ability to mask his feelings—and you meant that quite literally—often meant you didn’t hear it from him. Still, you knew him well enough to know that he always left feeling an acute sense of worry, and came home relieved. 

You could read it on his unmasked face, the heaviness in his eyelids that said ‘I’m home’ and the way his gentle caresses and tender kisses turned into something much more passionate the moment you tugged him closer. 

From your spot on the mattress, refusing to get out of bed and truly wake up just yet, you could see faint wisps of steam trailing beneath the closed bathroom door, poking their way into the open bedroom before fading out in the sunbeams that flooded in through the window. 

Simon kept the water too hot, though he never seemed to realize it. He’d come out with red splotches on his pale back, and you’d press your fingertips against his skin until it turned white again or he swatted you away with a quiet laugh. 

You had so deeply missed the domesticity, the docile nature of your husband in a towel around his waist, short hair dripping over his eyes while he wrestled your hand away from his wet, warm skin with a smirk on his face. That image was enough to wake you up a bit more; to motivate you into slipping out of bed and into the shirt he’d left draped over the foot of the mattress in anticipation of you stealing it, only for him to take it off of you again. 

Something caught your eye just before you got the shirt over your head, fabric falling around your waist. You pulled a pair of panties from your dresser, pulling them on as you continued to stare off at the one thing that remained out of place.

Whenever he returned, after however many weeks, Simon always had with him the same, singular bag he’d left with—sometimes lighter than before, sometimes heavier, depending on how many things had accidentally been traded between himself and Johnny and Kyle during their deployment. 

And then he just…carried on living out of it, until all the clothes had been transferred into the laundry basket, and he could properly restore order to his dresser drawers without fuss.

You weren’t stupid; you understood his unspoken reasoning. It was a way to ease back into civilian life, a way to make things feel normal again without being flung haphazardly back into the tranquility after being part of the chaos. He was trying to maintain the order he so craved. 

It wasn’t that the duffel on the floor bothered you. It didn’t take up much space, what with Simon’s apparent inability to hold onto any material item for too long, and he kept it incredibly neat, like any good soldier would. What bothered you was the way the balaclava seemed to taunt you, perched atop his other, albeit minimal, possessions in the duffel bag he’d left unzipped in preparation for when he returned from the shower.    

You had never met Ghost. You considered Ghost an entirely separate entity from Simon. 

Simon thought the same, and perhaps his understanding had influenced your own. 

Simon was one man. He was your man; the one you slept next to at night and worried for while he was away. Simon was the one who had placed the ring on your finger so delicately, who fucked you so good you saw stars every time, and kissed every inch of your skin in an attempt to demonstrate just how immense his love for you was.

Ghost, though, was a boogeyman. Cold and calculating and scary; the embodiment of all the trauma and rage Simon himself kept hidden away. Ghost couldn’t love—he couldn’t feel. 

Simon had no interest whatsoever in introducing you to a boogeyman. 

Ghost was something—someone?—he kept close to his chest, like everything his job entailed, and he had no desire to drag you into the darker aspects of what he did. 

And, really, you had no interest in being introduced. It was just the nagging curiosity, the mystery of it all, that intrigued you so much. But you weren’t curious about the man as much as you were about the mask itself.

One ratty balaclava apparently held so much power over so many people—Simon included—and while you knew it mostly had to do with the ability the fabric had to cover Simon and allow him feel comfort enough to let the anger he kept bottled up release itself as Ghost, the stories you’d heard made it seem as though it really did cause your husband to become a different person entirely. 

And now, with him distracted by the warmth of the shower, you couldn’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you.

You didn’t go through his things—never would you invade his privacy like that—but it was right there, skull print teasing you as it popped out against the other black fabric that was contained within the bag.

You bit your lip, and bit the bullet. 

It was soft, worn, and when you pulled it over your face you were flooded with the scent of Simon, and a fainter aroma of smoke and something coppery. 

You almost rolled your eyes when you looked at yourself in the vanity mirror. This was what struck fear into the hearts of men? 

Maybe it was because you were smaller, lacked the eye-black and the bulk and the weaponry that was meant to pair with the mask, but you felt silly. Still…that didn’t stop you from admiring the way the black fabric made your eyes pop, the way the white print of the skull stretched to fit your own facial structure. You could see how it might terrify those who didn’t see the man behind the mask, but the symbolism in it. 

Staring at yourself and making a poor attempt at seeming intimidating, you tried to carry yourself like Simon did; back straight, shoulders rigid, arms folded over your chest. You scowled beneath the fabric, glaring in the mirror—trying to embody the man Ghost apparently was. 

“S’at mine?”

Simon didn’t sound upset—granted, his gravelly tone never made it easy to pick up on how he was truly feeling, but the gentle lilt in the question made it clear to you that he was ready to tease you for playing dress up with his clothes. 

You jumped back from the mirror, shoulders going loose and arms going slack at your sides as you registered his sudden appearance. You hadn’t heard the shower stop running, the door open or his footsteps as he trod back into the room. 

Fucking snipers—never gave ample time to pick up on their presence. 

Simon ran a hand through his hair, keeping his feet planted on the other end of the room. You played coy, and he watched as you shifted on your feet, your gaze pointed at the floor, decorated in his shirt and his mask. 

“Not a fan of you goin’ through my things, love.” You knew he wasn’t talking about the shirt draped over your body. 

“Not yours,” you mumbled, “Ghost’s.” 

He smirked; canines just barely peeking out over his bottom lip as he made his way to you. 

“Fair…” 

Simon analyzed you, looking down at you with a half-lidded gaze, calmed by, and still wet from, his shower. 

“Looks good on ya, sweetheart. Make a proper li’l soldier.” 

“Yeah?” You glanced up at him.

“Yeah.” 

He reached up to tug at the hem, and you let him, though you were careful to pull back when you thought he’d pull it off. 

“Mm—” You grunted softly in protest, and he dropped his hand. 

“S’at right?” He raised his brow, “Keepin’ it?” 

“I like it…” You pouted, and you were certain he could the expression through your eyes alone, despite the fabric covering your mouth, “Soft…” 

“S’got blood on it.” He tilted his face down.

“Maybe I like that.” You shot back. 

“Not my blood.” Now he was nearly nose-to-nose with you, and you felt emboldened to go a haughtier route. 

“Maybe that’s what I like about it…” 

Simon’s expression shifted at your words; eyes flashing with something eager even as his smile faded.

“Like thinkin’ ‘bout your husband bein’ a killer, sweet girl?” Now his voice was pure heat, heavy and hoarse, as if saying the words should have been painful, rather than greedy. 

You bit your lip, looking up at him coquettishly. But there was a telltale glint in your gaze, one you knew he would pick up on. 

“Like that I’m the one wearing it.” 

You reached out to trail your fingers over the towel around his hips. Not tugging—barely even grazing—the cotton fabric; you left the rest up to his imagination. And when you bothered to give in a bit more and dip one finger beneath the loosely wrapped garment, he exhaled through his nose, a sound you knew was meant to be a laugh—a sign of amusement, of calling your bluff. 

“Enjoyin’ the power trip?” 

You grinned, not caring that it would go unnoticed beneath the balaclava.

“Take the towel off.” 

“Askin’ me?” Simon didn’t stop you when you added a second finger beneath the fabric, your knuckles pressed against his lower stomach as you teased him. “Didn’t hear a please.” 

“Cause I’m telling you,” you glanced up at him with a cocky expression. “Take it off, Si.” 

He’d fucked you just last night; made you tremble on hands and knees as he took you from behind and pressed his hips flush against your ass. He’d made you cry out for him, sore and overstimulated, while he lapped his own release from your aching, abused cunt. And only several hours later, while you were both malleable, half asleep in the middle of the night—or maybe early in the morning, but who could remember—he held you tight against his chest, letting your head fall back against his shoulder as he rocked himself into you, thick fingers toying with your clit while he mumbled praises and affectionate phrases in your ear until you came around him with a sigh. 

You loved it. You loved every single moment, every method he had of making you come undone.

And you were just as eager now, but for something else entirely. Something different than the submission you consistently showed for him; something that would let you make him feel the same sort of satisfaction he always gave you. 

His gaze didn’t waver as he leaned away from you, stretching to his full height as he slipped the towel from his waist, letting it fall to the floor around his feet.

“Gonna be in charge now, s’at it?” You could tell it was taking a great amount of effort on his part to control himself. “Mask makin’ you feel like a big girl?” 

“Shut up…” You muttered halfheartedly.

“Sounds like y’don’t mean ‘at, sweetheart,” he purred, hands still at his sides as he goaded you. “Could always take it off—turn ‘at pretty brain off, while we’re at’t, ‘nd I’ll fuck ya nice…” 

“Shut up, Simon,” you spat the words without really meaning to, feeling a spark ignite somewhere behind your stomach. “Behave.” 

Never before had you taken on a dominant role; never before had Simon taken on the role of brat. And it was sort of terrifying, in a way, thinking that he’d be waiting for you to misstep—to give up and lose the battle between this new role and your desire to let him treat you like a rag doll. For him to put in the work. But it was thrilling, too, in that he allowed you to do it, that he was letting you boss him around and speak to him in such a way without him immediately hauling you off your feet and spearing you on his cock. 

You didn’t think dominance would be so convoluted, but here you were.

Simon threw his hands up in a gesture of concession, and then he waited. 

“Get…get on the bed…” You glanced in the direction of the mattress before looking back at him, finding the courage to be the boss: “On your back…now.” 

He sort of smirked, clearly trying to let you have this despite his own hangups, and made his way to the mattress. Sitting on the edge, he let himself fall back, and you watched on as he pushed himself up to lean against the pillows at the headboard. 

“S’is what y’want, love?” He folded an arm behind his head, his free hand coming to rest on his stomach. “Do I look pretty?” 

He was teasing you, using your own common phrases against you, and the way his hand slipped lower over his abdomen until his thumb just barely brushed over the base of his hardening cock made it obvious that he knew what he was doing.

You just couldn’t tell if he was trying to get you to cave or to snap. 

“Stop talking.” You swallowed, making the decision to finally join him where he lay spread out. You stumbled over your own legs, crawling to him and making an effort to loom over him without having to put a hand on his chest for support.

“Aw, but you never do, sweetheart,” he was grinning—and it became more apparent now that he was goading you, waiting for you to do something. He leaned forward, “Not ‘less you got a cock in’at pretty mouth.” 

You swallowed thickly, trying to remind yourself that you were in control. But, Christ; it was hard not to crumble and beg for him when he taunted you like that.

“Is that what you want?” You breathed, “Wanna taste me?” 

“Love to. F'ya offerin’.” 

“I’m not,” you pushed his chest, and Simon let himself fall back against the pillows, “Now shut up—I’m serious. Unless you’re talking to me nicely.”

You thought for a moment, considering your next words and smiling lecherously when you decided to throw his taunts back in his own face.

“Wanna hear you say please.” 

His grin faded, but the obvious glee was still present in his eyes as you made your way down his body, positioning yourself between his legs and leaning down to rest your head on his thigh. 

“Love to go down on you right now,” you mumbled, “Mask is in the way…”

“Could pull it up,” Simon’s breath hitched when you spread your hand out over him, letting the base of his cock rest on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger. “Could take it off.” 

“Wasn’t asking for suggestions,” you shot a glance up at him, and he breathed hard through his nose. “Just thinking out loud.” 

You took the opportunity now to wrap your hand loosely around him, keeping your touch light and just barely stroking him. 

“Can’t even feel me breathing, can you?” You cooed, watching your hand, “Can’t feel how hot I am for you.” 

“Can’t…ah, fuck” 

You heard Simon swallow hard when you finally gave his cock a squeeze, stroking him dry from base to tip and then removing your hand altogether. 

“Told you to stop talking unless you had something nice to say,” you hissed, hands coming to rest on his hipbones. “Do you have something nice to say, Simon?” 

The muscles in his jaw tensed, but he stayed silent as he stared down at you. It was a struggle for power, a question not really of if he would give in, but when. 

You just hummed, feeling more and more comfortable in this newfound position.

“That’s a shame,” you rested your head beside his cock, watching it twitch when you ran a finger up along the underside, “Might’ve let you feel me breathe, if you asked nice.” 

You smiled beneath the mask, leaning forward to press a kiss to the head of his cock through the fabric of the balaclava and relishing in the way his breath stuttered just so. 

“But I guess you’re playing hardball,” you kept talking to yourself, “Don’t wanna feel me? Don’t want my pretty mouth wrapped around you, taking you til you hit the back of my throat? You don’t wanna make me choke on it, Si?” 

You shot him a look of pure innocence, pressing your fabric-laden lips against the underside of his cock as you whined.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if you could cum down my throat like you did the other day in the shower? Watch me swallow it all, let me lick up what I missed before you pulled me up to taste yourself on my tongue? Felt so good, Si—feeling you shoot down my throat like that.” 

His hips bucked.

“Yeah, sounds fun, doesn’t it?” You teased, cupping his balls lazily, “Too bad you can’t.”

“Baitin’ me, love.” He chuckled, but the disappointment was there.

You pouted, pulling your hand away and sitting up.

“You know, most soldiers take orders well,” you chided, “But you really just won’t shut up, Simon.” 

He made a low noise of protest when you pulled back, but made no effort to chase you.

“M’sorry,” he lied, “But my pretty girl between my legs—not somethin’ I wanna be quiet about.” 

“Is it distracting?” You feigned innocence, “Thought you said something about wanting to taste me.” 

He eyed you as if to figure out whether he was walking into a trap, but he replied anyway.

“I did,” he sighed, “I do.” 

“Mm…” You pretended to consider, “Think we can figure something out.” 

“S’at right?” Simon didn’t perk up physically at the thought, but his voice certainly did, “Gonna sit on my face, sweetheart? Bend over to take me down your throat?” He was clearly preparing to get his way—to see you finally bend to his will. 

You shot him a Cheshire grin that he could only see in the way your eyes narrowed.

“No.” 

You stood up before he had time to groan in defeat, slipping away from him to wriggle out of your panties. 

“You won’t listen, Si. And you’re not being nice—for all the talking you’re doing, I still haven’t heard you say please,” balling the panties in your fist, you moved again to lean over him. “Open.” 

He stared at you—not glaring, not even remotely startled or upset by the notion—as he let his lips part, jaw hanging slack for you to slip the wad of fabric into his mouth. And when you used two fingers to make sure they were properly secure, snug between his teeth, he moaned.

Maybe he wasn’t getting what he’d expected, but when the taste of you on the fabric seeped over his tongue, you saw his cock bob against his stomach.

“Now shut up,” you muttered, reaching down to give his cock a squeeze, “And let me play.” 

Simon nodded, eyes heavily lidded as he watched you once more find your spot between his legs. 

And you did play; you played with him to your heart’s content, watching his chest heave when you nuzzled against his shaft, watching his eyes squeeze shut when you rolled your wrist up to toy with the head—you used the beads of precum that dripped into your hand to your advantage, moistening the slow, dragging motions you performed, still refusing to take the mask off and not at all ready to take the makeshift gag from his mouth to let him spit into your palm. 

Maybe it was ten minutes, for all you knew it had been five, and Simon surely thought it had been at least an hour, but eventually you grew eager to see where you could take this—how far he would be willing to submit. You hadn’t bound him, hadn’t even told him he wasn’t allowed to touch you, but he remained still, at attention, as if afraid that any further missteps would lead to a loss in contact.

He seemed much more agreeable now that he’d been gagged, and his hands remained at his sides even as you shifted to move up his body, straddling his abdomen. 

He learned fast. Maybe he realized you were using his usual rules to his own detriment. 

“You can touch, you know,” you took on a gentler tone, “Want you to touch, Si—want your hands.” Your coy smile was lost beneath the mask, but you knew he would manage to pick up on the subtext, regardless.

He didn’t hesitate to follow instructions now, hands immediately finding purchase on your hips, pushing the shirt you still wore up your waist as he chased the warmth of skin-on-skin contact. You huffed, maintaining the saccharine tone you’d taken on.

“Didn’t say you could take it off,” you crossed your arms, halting his movements, “Said I wanted you to touch, I didn’t say how or where.”

Simon groaned, eyes closing and head falling back against the pillows in frustration as he withdrew has hands. All you could do was grin. It was nice—sort of rewarding to see him in this state. To see him wanting, needy, in a way he could do nothing about. 

There was a moment when he opened his eyes that you thought, perhaps, the game would be coming to a swift end; he swallowed hard, jaw tensing around the fabric in his mouth, fingers fidgeting in a way that made it clear just how prepared he was to lift you up and drop you down onto his cock. 

He could. He would. And you would let him.

But he managed to reign himself in, seemingly enjoying this switch just as much as you were, if the attempt to buck his hips against the pillowy flesh of your ass was anything to go by. 

You tsked softly.

“Above the belt,” you spoke up, “Over the shirt.” 

He breathed deeply through his nose in futile protest, but obeyed nonetheless. His hands moved up again, one falling to your waist while the other groped your chest with eager squeezes that made your breath pick up a bit. You rolled your hips, and he growled deep from his chest in encouragement. 

But that wasn’t really his job right now—encouraging you.

“Finally listening,” you cooed, as if to remind him of his place. “So good for me, Simon.”

He moaned again, hips bucking lazily as he moved both hands to your chest.

“Gonna listen again now?” You continued, “Gonna do what I tell you to do?” 

He nodded leisurely, eyes still half-lidded.

“Good.” You smiled down at him.

You brought one hand to the hem of your t-shirt, tugging it up just enough to reveal your core, your thighs, and the plush skin of your lower stomach.

“Hold it for me?” Your tone made it seem like a mere suggestion, a gentle request, but you were both well aware it was far from that. 

Simon acted accordingly, letting one hand drop to hold the fabric in place over your stomach.

“Good, Si,” you repeated the praiseful words, “Now watch.” 

Leaning back to support yourself with a hand on his thigh, you made a show of dragging your other hand down over the exposed skin of your stomach. 

“Just need—” your breath caught when your fingertips grazed your clit, finally experiencing some relief after holding out for so long, “Mh…” 

There was hardly a need to move your hand at all; the simple pressure of the pad of your middle finger against your clit was enough to make you clench around nothing. The careful touch was just what you needed, and the pleasure was apparent in the way your chest rose and fell with stuttered breaths as slick pooled at your entrance—eager and willing. 

You whimpered quietly, hips tilting to meet the soft touch of your own hand, and Simon groaned beneath you, his hips still attempting to thrust upwards into nothing, chasing unattainable relief. 

“It feels good,” you whispered, head tilting back when you began moving your fingers in tight circles over the stiff bud, “It feels so—fuck…I—I should…” 

Your voice trailed off into a deep moan when you pushed two fingers into your cunt, soaking the digits down to the knuckle. The stretch was minimal, but the satisfaction was immense. 

And Simon whined. Eyes squeezing shut, he whined loudly enough that even the makeshift gag couldn’t hide the desperate sound—and he certainly had no way to hide how his fingers tensed against your stomach where he held the bunched up t-shirt. 

His chest heaved, his cock leaking against your ass, and with his eyes closed like this, he looked so defeated under you. This big man—your big man—helpless and desperate and willing to let you do anything if it meant he might eventually get to take an active role in your pleasure. 

You stared down at him with a crooked, lust-tinged smile, the balaclava stretching across your lips. Leaning forward, you brought the hand you’d previously perched atop his thigh up to tug at his hair, pulling his face back up until he had no choice but to stare directly at the way you worked yourself open. 

“Told you to watch,” your breathing was growing heavy, fingers nudging the spot Simon always claimed as his, “Don’t you wanna watch? C’mon, look at what a pretty mess I’m making on your chest.” 

He bucked his hips again, and you pulled his hair tighter, eliciting a groan from him, but he kept his gaze steady, watching your fingers disappear into your core. 

“There you go. Be good just like that—be nice. Maybe I’ll let you clean me up.” 

You watched him nod, eyes wide, as his lips curled around the fabric still bunched in his mouth; grunting, he clearly wanted to speak, and maybe you would allow it, if he could handle just a little more. 

“What’s wrong, hm?” You teased, removing your grip on his hair to stroke his cheek, “You wanna be nice to me? Want me to take this out so you can talk to me nice? Give me a please?”

You dropped your hand to his mouth, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip. He sighed, soft breath from his nose fanning your hand, and you acquiesced; pulling gently at his chin, you got him to open wider, taking the fabric from his mouth and watching him swallow dryly in an attempt to regain the moisture the panties had soaked up. 

“Alright,” you encouraged, dropping the spit-soaked panties behind you, “Say something nice.” 

“Please,” it was an urgent appeal, his voice hoarse, “Wanna make you cum, sweetheart. Been good, yeah? Askin’ nice, now. Please, cum in my mouth—let’cha do anythin’, jus’ gimme a taste.” 

He rambled on, desperate and starved for you, and you felt a sort of pity for him that made your hips roll a bit more enthusiastically, hurtling towards the edge as a result of the intense, vulnerable need, the likes of which you had never seen from him in this capacity.

“Any—anything?” You stammered, fingers reaching deep as the hot feeling in your stomach began to spread. 

“Please.” 

That was his confirmation; his ardent, but controlled, voracity limiting him to the single word that had been the source of so much contention during this romp. 

And, Christ—it made you feel powerful. 

He always did manage to make you feel as though you were the most important person in the world, be it in circumstances that mirrored the current one—albeit with roles reversed—or in the simple, domestic context of your lives together. But there was something so genuinely gratifying in hearing Simon Riley say the word ‘please’; to watch him beg like a dog, at the end of his rope, waiting to see if he might get the opportunity to lick into you just once before you came. 

And you would be an absolute fool—dominant or otherwise—to deny yourself the satisfaction of allowing him to help you to the finish line. 

You pulled your fingers from your core, clenching around the new emptiness and breathing hard even as you inched yourself further up his body. 

Perhaps faster than even you had anticipated, you had squirmed your way up to his face, knees sitting on either side of his head. You took a moment to stare, to relish in the pure want in his eyes as your core teased his lips—somewhat astonished that he was patient enough at this point to keep his tongue in his mouth despite how easy it would be for him to lick a stripe up your slick cunt.

Out of pity, or more likely your own impatience, and with your hands placed firmly on the wall behind the headboard, you let your weight drop. 

Simon grunted, the soft vibration sending a jolt through you as his tongue parted your folds and thrust desperately into your entrance. His hands flew up to rest on your hips, blunt nails digging into your skin as he lapped at you, groaning with every flick of his tongue up into your cunt. 

Unwilling to allow him even a moment of control, you rolled your hips forward; clit bumping his nose, his mouth lost contact with you momentarily and he all but growled. The urgent sound was cut short when you straightened and let him delve back in with his tongue. 

You could feel the hollow tug in your abdomen; the squeeze that seemed to tighten with every sloppy, wet noise Simon made against your soaked core. It came on fast and unforgiving, and while there was a part of you that wanted to credit your own work—to ascribe the imminent orgasm to the way your own fingers had moved and gotten you right to the edge—you knew it was the prolonged wait and Simon’s skilled knowledge of your body that was making your toes curl and your breath catch.

“S—fuck,” you swallowed, breath coming out in weak puffs, “Like that—doing s-so good, Si, gonna make me cum.” 

He moaned into you, a wordless response to your praise, and gripped you tighter, pulling you further against his mouth as he worked his tongue over your clit with unrivaled zeal. Wrapping his lips around the bud, he sucked in hard, opening his eyes on time to look up and see you fall forward, forearms pressed against the wall and jaw slack with pleasure. 

One more rough suck and a flick of his tongue over the swollen bundle of nerves was all it took to push you into that familiar white heat, and when your thighs started to tremble against his cheeks, he smiled against you, licking up the slick that leaked from your cunt. 

You huffed, trying to collect yourself—trying to remain authoritative despite the mind-numbingly powerful orgasm he’d given you and the languid way he continued to lick you through the aftershocks. You removed yourself from his face once your legs felt more solid, and though your muscles were still loose with satisfaction, you managed to inch your way back down his body.

With little trouble, you positioned his cock beneath yourself; the hard length, pressed against his stomach, twitched when you lowered yourself atop it, rubbing your soaked core up and down the underside of him with lazy rolls of your hips. 

Simon tried not to whine, but his hips bucked with every soft pass of your folds over his cock, breath hitching into a low hum.

“You look pretty, messy like this” you purred, eyes flicking over his pinkened lips, his mouth and chin wet with your release. “I’d offer to clean you off, but—”

“Gonna burn that fuckin’ mask…” Simon glared halfheartedly at the fabric that remained stretched over your face.

“C’mon,” you pouted, though it was lost on him, “Thought we were being nice now—you were doing really well, Si.” 

He gasped when you suddenly brought your pointer finger down to stroke the underside of the tip of him. 

“Was even gonna offer to…y’know—nice reward for being so patient,” you cooed, “Unless you don’t want to finish”

“Please, sweetheart,” Simon groaned, pushing his head further back against the pillows as if to bury himself in the bedding. “Anything.” He reiterated his prior sentiment, content to let you do whatever it was you wanted, especially if it would allow him to satisfy his own debilitating needs. 

“Yeah…” You sighed, lifting yourself again to reach down between your bodies and touch him properly. 

The glide of your hips over him had had the desired effect; his tip wept small beads of precum, you stroked down his shaft, letting his own secretion mingle with the slick you’d coated him with. Lining him up with your entrance, you made a point to look at him, to watch his eyelids flutter, to see his lips part to let slip a quiet moan. 

“Anything…” You mumbled, gaze still stuck to him as you let yourself sink down. 

Simon’s hoarse groan of overstimulation paired well with the stretch of his cock as it bullied its way into your cunt, and your eyes rolled back before you could stop the subconscious display of pleasure. 

With a breathless curse, you found it in yourself to sit straighter, the head of his cock settling deep enough to kiss your cervix with a slight sting. You found a gentle rhythm; leaning back slightly and placing your hands on his legs, you pressed your hips down until your clit rolled against his lower stomach.

You repeated the motion when it pulled a moan from him. 

“Fuck, s’good,” Simon was hardly able to keep his eyes open through the satisfaction, though it was obvious he was trying—desperate to watch you work his cock, to see your tits bounce with every slow, deliberate movement of your hips. “S’good—feel…” 

“Nice?” You breathed out, trying to fill the gaps in his sentence for him, “Do I feel nice, Si? Got a taste and now you wanna fill me up?” 

“Nice…yeah, nice,” He choked on his own breath when you leaned forward, hands moving to his shoulders so that you could lift yourself higher, angling yourself so that when you did sink down again, his cock nestled deep. “Christ, sweetheart—” 

His hands settled on your hips again, just for the proximity, to heighten the feeling of your movements against him, and you tilted your head back lazily, arching in appreciation for his touch. 

Leisurely, as though it were an afterthought, you stripped yourself of the shirt you still had on. Pulling it off and tossing it carelessly to the side, you arched your back further just to ensure that Simon got a proper look at the way your hands wandered your own body; palms cupping your breasts, fingers rubbing, then pulling, the peaked buds of your nipples. You had him watch you take him with nothing but his own mask adorning your face.

“Want it, Simon," your head fell forward again as you moved a hand from your chest to cup his jaw, “Been so good for me, baby. I want you to cum.” 

His jaw seemed to tense in realization, his gaze soft and making him look totally exposed. When you moved your hand to offer gentle pressure against his neck, fingers barely squeezing the sides of his throat, he bared his teeth and let out something like a growl.

You had managed to do the unthinkable, turning predator into prey. The feeling was remarkable; rivaling the satisfaction of the orgasm you could feel building in your lower stomach. 

“Cum in me,” you could hardly hear your own words above the hot sounds of sex, “Give it to me, Si, let me feel you—let me take it all.” 

You squeezed his neck again, just a bit harder this time, and suddenly he was thrusting up into you, a man on a mission to satisfy.

“Give you anything,” he groaned out in a hot breath, “Give you anything, sweetheart—want me to cum for you? Yeah—wanna see it fuckin’ drip from ‘at pretty cunt?” 

“Oh—fuck, that's...” You moved your free hand to press down on his stomach, just a tender reminder that you were still intent on taking charge. “So fucking good, Si, just like that. Nice and deep.” 

Encouraging him, you matched his intensity, bouncing on him breathlessly. You changed the position of your legs, knees braced against his hips to keep some semblance of balance while you moved, before dropping yourself down to grind against the intrusion of his cock. Leaning closer, you removed your hand from his neck and opted to run it through his cropped hair while you nosed at his jaw.

“Right there, baby,” you purred, letting him move while you pressed your body down on him; letting him work for it, “S’where I want it. Right there.” 

You could feel the muscles of his stomach contract as he groaned against your temple, his sounds swallowed by the fabric of the mask. 

“Please, sweetheart, I ca—” Simon out groaned a gruff plea, “Need t’feel you. Please. One more f’me, love, s’all I want, gimme one more.” He wavered between a tone of hesitant confidence and downright whimpering. 

“Want me to cum first?” You mumbled, eyes falling closed as the pleasurable pressure in your abdomen became almost too much to bear, “Being such a g–entleman…” 

You struggled now to hide the desperate stammering in your own voice, but it seemed only to serve as more motivation for Simon. 

“Need it,” he panted, “Please, jus’ need—” 

Simon cut his sentence short, dropping his hands from your hips and squeezing your ass in two handfuls. He pressed you down until the head of his cock threatened your cervix with a satisfying pinch. You could feel the coarse blonde hair of his happy trail rubbing against your clit, and it became impossible to ward off your high any longer between the overwhelming physical pleasure and the way he worked so desperately for what he wanted.

Mewling, you came with a full-body twitch, muscles locking before finding ease in the satisfactory feeling that spread outward from your core. Simon moaned, head tilting back against the pillows again to find more leverage for his hips, eagerly bucking up into the tight, wet heat of your cunt. Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you struggled to catch your breath between waves of searing pleasure and the vice-like grip he kept on you. 

Pulling yourself together after a prolonged moment of allowing him some control, you shifted your hips one more time, clenching around his length in silent urgency. You were still in charge, but you felt more fucked out by the second. And you needed him; needed to feel his release, that blossoming of cozy warmth that showed you how well you had done, to emphasize your own satisfaction. 

Wrapping an arm around his neck, you found the strength to sigh against him:

“Simon—” 

You could feel him throbbing. The rhythmic pulse of his cock seemingly worked in tandem with the contractions that wracked your muscles post-orgasm, serving to make you feel tighter around him, and squeeze him in further with every sloppy thrust he delivered. Your free hand struggled to tug the mask up enough to expose your mouth, but when your lips had been freed, you exhaled against his skin in a soft puff before dropping a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Cum, Simon.” 

He made a choked sound, like he had tried to swallow a gasp when your lips had brushed his face so unexpectedly—too caught up in his own movements to realize you had bothered to move the balaclava. Wrapping your other arm around him, you melted into the final stage of your tryst.

Simon’s hips were bucking so wildly you thought the backs of your thighs might bruise. No longer did he bother to keep his hands perched below your waist, opting now to hug you against himself, savoring your weight atop his body. 

His breath turned heavy, taking on the lull of a primal growl, and within seconds of your request, he was cumming; flooding you with his release, with a deep sigh that seemed to remove any and all tension from his muscles as his arms went limp and heavy around you. 

You stayed on top of him, listening to the slow pattern of his breathing. Your ribs dug rather uncomfortably into his, and the mask had become moist with sweat and itchy against your cheek where you laid against Simon’s shoulder, but the contentment you felt in being close to him—full of him—outweighed everything else. 

Gently, and with a grunt that offered a brief warning, Simon shifted; hands moving down to your hips again, he eased you onto your side, groaning quietly when his softening cock finally slipped from you. 

He wanted to look at you. Even with the balaclava on, you wore obvious signs of exhausted glee; eyes wet, eyelids heavy, and the exposure of the bottom half of your face made it clear that you had been drooling at least a little bit. 

Simon reached for you when he’d gotten a good look, dipping a finger beneath the hem of the mask and slowly peeling it off. You made a face at the squeeze of the fabric against your skin, the light tug of your hair that had tangled in the material, but you let him remove it all the same.

You grinned at him when he tossed it towards his duffle in the corner of the room; face flushed, it was an expression of complete and utter pride. 

“Real proud o’yourself, huh?” Simon shook his head lazily against the pillows, draping an arm over your waist and splaying his hand over the small of your back. 

“Why shouldn’t I be?” You giggled, and he reached down to pat your ass. 

You leaned in closer to him, burying your face in his chest and breathing him in—a feat made much easier without knit fabric in the way. 

“Didn’t think y’ad it in ya, sweetheart.” He brought his hand up from your back to stroke your tangled hair.

“I didn’t think I did, either,” you mumbled, “Think I might believe you, now—all the things you say about Ghost.” 

“Didn’t before?” He chuckled, and you felt his chest move against your face.

“It’s a ratty balaclava, Si.” You tilted your head back to look up at him blankly.

“Yeah—’nd it sure got you excited, didn’t it?” 

He quirked a brow, pushing against the back of your head so that you would return to your hiding place against his body. You let him guide you forward again, pressing a kiss to him and closing your eyes.

“Was I mean?” You questioned.

“No.” You could hear the smirk in his voice. 

“That’s a shame,” you giggled into his skin, “I was trying to be.” 

“S’at right?” 

“Little bit…”

Simon grunted, amused.

“Mask’s not magic, sweetheart.” 

He shifted again, wrapping both arms around you as if attempting to pull you even closer. 

“Still my sweet girl, even when you’re actin’ tough,” he kissed the top of your head, “Come up ‘ere ‘n give us a kiss.” 

You did, more than happy now to be the one following instructions.