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the-librarby · 1 day ago

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IN THE RING V

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

18+ MDNI

You find yourself back at the ring, not behind the bar, but in the crowd. It was finally time to see Ghost up close.

.･:★ holy fuck ok, sorry guys I’m so late but it’s here. Not proofread or edited like usual of course. Have fun, this is the final instalment of in the ring. I possibly won’t have any fic updates from here for a while due to work.

I’ll always appreciate comments and asks though should you wish to send them in. Thank you so much on all the love on this fic, endlessly appreciate each and every person who took the time to send me kind words.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

The ring is lively as ever when you approach it. Conversations are echoing off the walls as you squeeze through groups in the corridor before approaching the mouth of the venue. You don’t pay any mind to the bar, it’s not what you’re here for, and quite frankly it’s the least of your worries. The amped up anticipation feels thick tonight, but part of you rationalises that it’s just in your mind. The ring is the same as it always is, but what you’re here for has changed.

The opponents aren’t in yet, but it’s getting close to time, you can tell by the way all the men pool together either standing or sitting on makeshift benches and crates as seating. You’re not sure where this supposed saved seat is, for a moment you poke around the edges of the crowd, looking for an unnoticeable way in until a loud whistle gets your attention. Mark is barely looking your way but waves you over with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Part of you doesn’t want to approach, but you owe it to him to be honest. He’s been nothing but respectful since your employment despite his roughness, and he is your boss at the end of the day— should you still have this job. The crowd is pliable with loose limbed bodies, most barely looking your way as you push through and step over the bench until you reach Mark. Upon approach you realise there is a spare seat next to him, it’s only a fold out chair but it’s yours nonetheless by the way Mark points to it.

You smile softly and take a seat beside him, the ring look much bigger up close, your neck stretches just to get a good look at it.

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” Mark says, looking at the ring, “Thought you got scared off for good.”

You look down at your lap, picking at your cuticles as you think over your answer. Is scared the right word? You didn’t feel scared of the ring, your heart still pumped with its usual adrenaline and even though you could consider the bad experiences you had as more than enough reason to quit, you had been taken care of.

“Can’t scare me off that easily,” you reply, peeking at him through your peripheral vision.

Mark’s shoulders relax into the chair, “Good,” he nods, “Can’t have Ghost quittin’ on me,”

That makes you frown in confusion, “What’re you talking about?”

Mark turns his head and scoffs at the furrow of your eyebrows, “Didn’t tell you?” He asks before shaking his head, “‘Course he didn’t. Bastard threatened to quit the ring if you ever left, s’why I had to play bouncer for that bloody stunt that happened.”

And suddenly all the puzzle pieces fall into place. You hadn’t even noticed, so much of what Simon had done for you still remained in the shadows and would remain that way until you incidentally stumbled upon information like this. How much more was he hiding? How much of the Ring’s operations ran through him? You thought of him just as a fighter, that this was an outlet he came to when his day job got boring, but clearly he has more ties here than you know of.

You clear your throat, “Thank you,” the sincerity is a bit lost over the loudness of the crowd but you continue, “Really, Mark, thank you for all you’ve done for me—”

He waves you off dismissively, “Save it girl,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, “Show’s startin’.”

The door to the dressing rooms opens revealing tonight opponent, he’s new, someone you haven’t seen before. The crowd murmurs about his promising build, when he ducks through the ropes he doesn’t perform any theatrics to get the crowd going. You watch as he rolls his head from side to side, shaking out his arms as he awaits his match.

The door opens again not long after revealing Simon. Your eyes watch with rapt attention as he makes his swift entrance, his mask is on like it always is before a fight. Up close you can see the details of the skull more closely, you can’t imagine what goes through his opponents mind upon seeing that for the first time. He stands with his back towards you on his side of the ring, you can’t help but think it’s intentional that he placed you here as he looks over his shoulder directly at you.

You can’t gauge what his expression is beneath the mask but he’s undeniably staring at you, Mark’s curious glance your way just solidifies it in your mind. Eyes are glued to him as he reaches for the top of his mask, pulling it off his head and tossing it over the ropes in your direction. It lands at your feet with a soft thud, you don’t hesitate to reach out and grab it, holding it safely in your lap.

Ghost looks towards his opponent and reaches out with both closed fists. For a moment it’s tense as they stare each other down but his reaches out and taps Ghosts’ fists with his own before receding.

The bell rings signifying the beginning of the round.

You clutch the mask between your fingers in attempt to wrung out the anxiety buzzing through your body. It’s so much worse watching the fight up close, the cheering and shouting is deafening— especially when one of them goes down. Every now and then you catch yourself taking in big gulps of air from when you’ve unintentionally held your breath. Mark watches stoically beside you, he’s not moved since the fight started unlike your fidgeting. You’ve wanted to walk out at least twice but refuse to leave Simon unattended, doomed to think something horrible will happen without your watchful eye.

“He’s showin’ off,” Mark grunts.

At first you think you mishear so you lean closer, not taking your eye off the ring, “What?”

“Dickhead is showin’ off, draggin’ out the fight,” he says a bit louder, but annoyed nonetheless.

This makes you take your eyes off the fight, “Why would he do that?”

Mark looks at you with a raised brow, “You tell me,” when you don’t respond he looks back at the ring, “Never had somethin’ to show off for, now he does don’t he?”

The implication makes heat rise to your cheeks, and cross your arms over your chest. You didn’t think he was capable of being boastful, always so blunt and precise in terms of fighting. But he wasn’t necessarily like that outside the ring was he? The idea of this fight being a show, an excuse to prove what he could do was a downhill spiral of thoughts that you did not want to entertain until the fight was over.

You’re not sure what possessed you to stand up, mask clutched in your hand as you cupped both over your mouth, “Get the fuck on with it, Ghost!”

You didn’t expect your voice to be heard over the shouting but you swear you can see Simon’s ears perk up so you continue, taking a step closer until Mark plucks at the edge of your shirt to stop you from walking any further.

“Is this a show or a fight? Fucking end it!”

The crowd erupts with roars of agreement.

By some miracle the fight names its victor not long after that. Simon stands panting, fist raised in call-out of his achievement, his opponent, utterly battered but still managed to get in some heavy blows himself—you can tell by the way Simon breathes shallowly— accepts the hand held out towards him as he stands. Both shake hands before he exits the ring.

Simon approaches your side of the ring where you’re already standing by the edge. You watch as he crouches down before sitting, shuffling his legs off the edge and resting his arms on the lowest rope. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, blood fresh on his eyebrow and knuckles, bruises are already starting to bloom on his jaw and various other places you haven’t taken note of yet.

Few wolf whistles can be heard from the crowd but neither of you pay either mind, trapped in the bubble that seemingly encloses around the two of you. Suddenly remembering the mask in your hands you lift it and place it on the mat between his spread thighs.

“Dropped this,” you say.

He exhales deeply, still catching his breath, “Keepin’ it safe for me?”

You smile coyly and step closer until you’re just on the outskirts of his thighs, you reach out to pat just above the skin of his knee condescendingly, “Well I’d hate for you to lose it.”

Simon zeros in on the way your hand is placed on his sweaty skin, if it wasn’t clear to outsiders before it definitely was now. He’d never wished for attention before, but part of him hoped James was seeing every part of this.

He leaned out over the ropes until his face was inches away from yours, a smirk curling the corner of his lips, “That you I heard screamin’ my name before?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to avoid the laugh that’s bubbling in your chest, you fail miserably as you sink your nails into his thigh, “Might have been— do you always put on a show?”

He scoffs at the accusation, “I’m no actor,”

“Showing off then?” You raise a brow.

Simon tilts his head, gaze briefly flicking down to your lips, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Instinctively you lean back to keep his face in view, “Yeah,” you breathe out, “Can see what so many come to see you,” when he gets close enough you gently shove him back by placing a hand on his chest, “You need to shower,”

He looks briefly offended, “What’re you tryin’ to say?”

“I’m saying you need to hurry up if you want to get out of here,” you trail off, “With me.”

His eyes droop as he stares at you for a moment longer, the crowd around you starts to disperse and gravitate towards the bar but the conversations are loud drowning out your other senses. When you’re certain he won’t lean in again you remove your hand and wipe the sweat off against your jeans.

Taking advantage of your momentarily distraction, Simon ducks his head through the gap of the ropes and nudges his nose against yours, the confusion of it makes you look up until he presses his lips against yours. You’re shocked more than anything, that Simon would openly kiss you surrounded by so many people who have known him as Ghost— an unbreakable fighter.

He tastes salty from the sweat, and when it borders on metallic you pull away, now really urging him to get up through your impatience. Simon looks self satisfied and ultimately plays along with your persistence this time as he rises to his feet.

“Don’t stray too far,” he warns, “I’ll meet you by the entrance.”

You only nod as you watch him dismount the ring and head off into the changing rooms. You pick at your nails anxiously, biting at the corners as eyes scan around the room. There are still lots of people surrounding the bar and talking to each other in post celebration. While everyone is in here you decide to find a more quieter waiting spot outside, near the door to the venue.

The air is fresh against your skin making you instinctively sniffle and tug your jacket around your shoulders. There’s only a few others outside smoking under the dim of the streetlights. You lean back against the brick wall opposite the door and count by the minutes thinking about what Mark mentioned about Simon. From the start you had heard nothing but conflicting things about Ghost, it seemed cliche to think maybe it was as simple as others not knowing the face underneath the mask. But it was the only explanation you could land on that explained both statements of notorious fighter— and dare you say caring? Being true simultaneously.

The door swings open, rattling as it bounces off the brick wall beside it. When you look over, a figure dressed in a black tracksuit steps out looking around expectantly. When his head swings in your direction you step off the wall, seeing Simon’s familiar face framed by his hoodie, covered by a black surgical mask.

You smile as he falls in step beside you, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie. The walk back is quiet at the late hour, your nose and cheeks feels progressively cold against the wind, and you’re sure your fingers are frozen.

But still one question has been eating away at you, “Are you going to quit the ring?”

Simon watches as you cups your fingers over your mouth in attempt to warm them up, “Where’d you get that idea?”

“Mark said you threatened to quit after that whole—,” you gesture with your hands trying to land on a word, “incident.”

Simon reaches out for one of your hands mid air and tugs it towards the warmth of his hoodie pocket, holding it there with both of his. The temperature difference is enough to have your fingers tingling in relief.

“Said I’d quit if you left,” he clarifies, “As a threat, he’ll do anythin’ to keep me ‘round, was the only way to get rid of that dickhead,”

You laugh at his blunt cockiness, wriggling your fingers until they lace between his in his pocket. The movement pulls you close enough until your arm is pressed against his.

“Awfully sure of yourself,” you muse, looking up at him, “What if he decides to drop you because of your demands?”

Simon meets your gaze with a raised eyebrow, “I’d quit before he found a better fighter than me, love,”

You nod in agreement, “Can’t argue with that.”

Tension begins to rise in your shoulders when your apartment building comes into view. It’s anticipation that builds in your core when you slip your hand out of his pocket and walk up the stairs ahead of him. You run out of words to explain your nervousness as you unlock the door, thankfully your mind goes quiet when you feel a hand tugging at your waist. You turn around and lean back against your front door, cautiously looking around your empty hallway as Simon closes in, his mask now removed.

The expectancy in his gaze makes your skin tingle you can’t help but press your fingers against his chest to pause his downward sweep. You peer up at him through your lashes and smile coyly.

“Just here for a drink right? Cup of tea?” You offer.

He pauses, facial expression immediately morphing into forced neutrality, “If that’s what you want,”

You laugh, it’s all you needed to hear. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his hoodie and forcibly tug until he’s inches away from your face.

“I’m just fucking with you Simon.” you whisper.

He sighs in exasperation, sinking his fingers into both your cheeks within the grip of his hand. The way he squishes your face causes your lips to pout ridiculously.

“You’re a nightmare,” he mutters.

You frown, “‘M’not,” you mumble between squished cheeks.

He smiles in amusement at your slurred speech, “Stop talkin’.”

The kiss is awkward against your pouted lips making you laugh, when his grip relaxes you hum, tugging him closer by your grip on his hoodie until his weight is flush against you. It’s a comforting weight, stuck between him and the door to your apartment as he kisses the breath out of you, deep and consuming. You don’t even hear him reach with his opposite hand for your door handle until you feel the support of the door suddenly shift.

You yelp in surprise as it swings open, clutching desperately against his hoodie with both hands to stop your fall. Simon barely budges with your added weight, swooping forward to hook his hands under your thighs and pull you upwards until your legs wrap around his waist. You blink at the adjusted height, staring straight into his smug expression.

You scoff as you wrap your arms around his neck, “Got a kick out of that did you?”

“Might ‘ave.” He states, turning around so you can see into the dark of your apartment, you can hear as he nudges the door shut with his foot before balancing you effortlessly against it.

You inhale sharply through your nose as he kisses you again in the dark of your living room. Nothing can been seen nor heard save for your soft panting, which taper off into quiet moans as you thread your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Simon eventually pulls away with a groan, “Can’t ‘ave you soundin’ like that after a kiss,” you rest your head back against the door as he presses his nose just under your jaw, “Wanted to take my time with you.” He mourns, pressing a kiss agains the soft skin of your neck.

The unsaid admittance of his failing self restraint makes your gut tense, “C’mon then.” You arch impatiently off the back of your front door and grind your hips into his. The fabric of his pants offer no resistance against the imprint of his cock which you can feel throb against the seam of your jeans.

He squeezes both of your hipbones in his palms and knocks you back with the forceful thud. Simon presses his cock much more incessantly against your jeans with an upward grind, you can only clutch onto his shoulders as he drags you up and down by your hips against the imprint of his pants. It’s warm, and you can’t feel much against the denim expect for the occasional way the seam bumps against your covered clit.

Simon has his neck buried in your neck, panting breaths hot against your skin, he seems perfectly content in his dry humping until your whine reminds him of your presence.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, hips stuttering as they pause, “Where’s your room?”

“Sure you don’t want to finish?” You tease, tugging lightly at the ends of his hair.

“Don’t fuckin’ start.” His hand trails down to the button of your jeans, tugging them open harshly before burying his fingers beneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his neck when his fingers curls between your wet walls.

“Fuck,” you hiss at the unexpected intrusion, clenching tightly as it buries itself deeper, “Fuck, Simon, pause—”

A second finger joins, rough in its movements, it’s luck that you’re still wet enough to accomodate the slide in. You moan pitifully, dragging your hands down to his shoulders as you lean back against the door. The limited space between your jeans presses Simon’s hand against your cunt so close that he might as well be holding it as his palm grinds against your clit.

“What’s wrong love?” He murmurs with faux concern, you could almost see the smirk in the darkness of your apartment, “No words for me this time?”

You scrunch your nose, arching forth as his fingers curl deep into your cunt, “You’re a sore fuckin’—” you moan at the way his palm digs against your clit, dropping your hips down as much as you can for more stimulation, “Loser,”

He barks out a laugh, hoisting you up with his other hand under your ass and pressing closer as support, “You’d be the first to think that,”

You grip the wrist closest to your cunt for leverage, rocking your hips forward against his palm, “Be sure to spread the word,”

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, “Mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble, sweet’eart.”

You’re barely even listening to his chastising comments as you chase the feeling of your orgasm. He can feel it in the way your nails sink into his wrist, your hips start to stutter as they sink into deeper grinds. When you least expect it, he slips a third finger in, the stretch leaves you feeling breathless as your lips part in soundless moan.

You squeeze your thighs tighter around Simon’s waist, he hasn’t budged once this whole time while holding you— an impressive feat you could admire when not on the brink of coming. When the stretch starts to not feel like you’re going to burst you grind down once more, Simon tilts his hand slightly so you can get better friction against the heel of his palm. It’s not long until you’re seeing stars, thighs trembling as they try to close in around his incessant curling.

You let go of his wrist, holding onto his shoulder for better grip instead as he slowly withdraws his hand, finding better purchase on your hip.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he finally says, lifting you off the door.

You huff, clutching his shoulders as he moves towards the couch, “You were always the talkative one,”

He tilts his head, “Was I?”

It’s miraculous that he doesn’t knock into any of the furniture as he drops down onto the soft cushions, “I distinctly remember you being the one always starting conversations.” You reply, reaching over to flick on one of the lamps beside the couch.

In the soft glow you can see the way thinks over your comment, before he can dismiss the idea with a snarky comment you reach for the hem of his hoodie pulling it up until he hoists it the rest of the way off. Greedily you gaze down at his chest, up close and without restraint you can see all his acquired scars which litter most square inches, all having a story you don’t know of yet. Instead of raising attention, you draw your gaze over to the bruising of his ribs, it’s an array of purple and yellow in its healing process. Carefully you graze your finger tips against it.

“S’fine,” he reads your mind, “Stop fussin’ over it, I’ve had much worse,”

You raise an eyebrow, fingers paused in their assessment as you look up at from your place on his lap, “Do you ever get check ups?”

“Don’t need ‘em,” he states, his own fingers plucking at the edge of your top.

“What do you mean, don’t need them?” You ask, flicking at his knuckles when he tries to ignore your questions in favour of taking off your clothes, “You need them more than anyone, what do you do when you suffer a major injury?”

He huffs, “Throw on an ice pack, go to bed, then work in the mornin’,”

Your eyes almost bulge out of your head at his apt explanation, “Simon, that’s appalling,” you gasp, “How have you not died of internal bleeding?”

He sighs roughly and rolls his head back against the couch, “Please darlin’ I’m not ‘ere for the lecture— I’m achin’ take mercy on me tonight.”

You pause in your tangent and look down at Simon’s lap, he’s tented in his pants, possibly hard long before you came. You sigh and drop the subject, reaching for the edge of your own top you pull it off unceremoniously and drop it on the floor. Before hands can reach for your bare waist you step off his lap, and kick your shoes off. Simon watches from the comfort of your couch as you peel your jeans and underwear off in one go.

He drags his hand down his face as he stares, barely containing himself as you take your sweet time crawling back onto his clothed lap. He hikes his hips, helping you shove his own pants down until his cock springs out against his abdomen. Without drawing out any time you hover over him, free hand resting against his shoulder as the other holds his cock in place. He grabs your hips for support, and watches mesmerised in your decent as you sink down onto him. It’s a lot, the size, the position, Simon’s unconscious impatience as he tugs at your hips.

Eventually you find yourself seated back on his lap with his cock buried deep into your cunt. Simon groans at the wet heat that surrounds his, stilling himself with whatever remaining restraint he has to not start fucking into you.

“‘nough mercy for you?” You pant, gripping harshly at his shoulders.

“That’ll do, love.” He groans, cautiously shifting your hips forward.

The movement makes you clench, the threads of your last orgasm still leaving you sensitive against the stimulation. Carefully you lift yourself up halfway before dropping back down, it’s enough to have Simon sinking his fingers into your hips, urging you to continue.

It’s not an easy slide at first, despite the stretch of his fingers Simon’s cock was no easy feat, it’s thick and long enough to hit places his fingers couldn’t reach before. It’s only a small mercy that keeps you going when the shift of your hips has the head of his cock hitting that spot deep in you.

“Fuck,” it seems like the only word you can manage to utter between your panting breaths.

Simon thrusts his hips upwards, meeting yours halfway, “Keep goin’ doin’ s’well sweet’eart.” He strings.

You whimper when your thighs begin to burn, resorting to grinding desperately in his lap. He tilts his head up from where it was resting against the couch and stares down at the way your hips swivel without any rhythm, just trying to chase any feeling as your orgasm approaches.

Barely holding it together himself, he grabs your thighs and urges you to twist off his lap and lay down on the couch. There’s barely any delay as he sinks back into you, propping one knee on the couch while the other plants itself on the floor for leverage. He holds your waist, kicking your leg over his hip as he drags you over his cock. You moan at how deep he manages to thrust in, but mostly affected by the way he seems to not really account for you being human but rather a toy he can easily use to bring himself off.

You brace your hands against the arm of the couch pushing yourself harder against his hips as he pulls you closer. He groans, transfixed by the way his cock disappears into your cunt over and over again. His movements become more sloppy as he tips over the edge, holding your hips in place as he repeatedly slams home until he stills completely.

You grasp blindly at the couch with one hand while the other holds his hip. It’s hot as he comes inside you, you clench your eyes shut at the sensation. When his thumb flicks rapidly over your clit your hips involuntarily arch, already close it doesn’t take you long until you’re clenching around him in your last orgasm.

In the dim light of your apartment you can see the mess Simon has made as he slips out of your cunt dripping the last bit of his come against the mound of your pussy. You can only pant through your open mouth as taps the head of his cock against it.

You rest your arms above your head, completely boneless and only mildly uncomfortable at the dripping sensation of his come leaking out— you would definitely need to deep clean the couch later. Simon plants his hands either side of your chest before leaning down to kiss you once more, it’s soft and lazy, something you bask in with the approaching wave of tiredness you feel.

“You stayin’?” You murmur against his mouth when he parts, looking up at him with hooded eyes.

“Do you want me to?” He asks, equally sated but aware enough to pack his bags if you asked.

You smile, reaching up to cup his face. He looks tired, more tired than you’ve ever seen in all the nights you’ve spent together at the ring. You sweep your thumbs over his cheekbones in a soft caress, “Yes, I want you to.”

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #cod x you #simon ghost x reader

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the-librarby · 16 days ago

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IN THE RING IV

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

Intentions, intentions, intentions.

cw: suggestive content.

.･:★ okay. I’ve had an exhausting few days, if this is choppy. Don’t question it.

Anyway, anticipated patch up scene is here.

Part I Part II Part III Part V

Two days of recuperation didn’t feel like enough, you stood idly outside the venue you for a minute wondering if it was too late to call in sick. A rotation list of excuses filtered through your mind but your legs mindlessly walked you closer until it was too late to walk back. You just had to remind yourself that the situation had been taken care of, and he wouldn’t hurt you again.

But what if someone else gets the same idea?

Naively you believed Simon would be there to step in again, it was the only thing that provided you a sense of safety as you weaved through the crowd towards the bar. James was there once more to offer you a friendly smile, you still felt bitter about his lack of spine but tried to not let it show on your face—at the end of the day you understood why he would choose the house over you.

Simon had been on the roster a lot more lately, much to Mark’s excitement, so the bar was always full in attendance. James chattered away like he usually did, you listened quietly and replied every so often which was out of character. You could tell he wanted to say something but you didn’t give him the chance to, always moving onto the next customer until they filtered off into the crowd.

When the bell rang, he was standing idly as he stacked glasses, “Are you okay?”

You hum inquisitively as you stock the fridge below the bar, “Huh? Yeah, fine,”

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he comments.

You smile tiredly, “Just lots of stuff going on with uni.” Part of you wanted to vent about what happened just so he’d feel guilty, but you refrained.

He drops the subject altogether and you both go about prep work independently, only the sounds of the crowd and the fight filling the space. You pause to watch the end of the match, leaning against the bar top as you normally would. You hadn’t seen as much as you’d usually like but it was exciting nonetheless.

“Seen the way he talks to you,” James notes.

You barely peek over your shoulder at him before turning your attention back to the fight, “Who?”

He nods in the direction of the ring, “Ghost,”

You raise an eyebrow, “Okay?”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “Can see you haven’t taken my advice.”

You purse your lips, fighting the urge to snap at him. His pointed tone grates on your nerves, treating you as if you’re some stupid girl, “He’s been nothing but polite to me,”

The scoff you hear from behind you makes your shoulders tense, “Yeah, for now.”

The urge to leave once service is done tugs at your chest but you stick around for a little while longer. When the back door to the changing rooms slams shut you reach into one of the fridges and pull the cap off a beer bottle. It rests neatly on the bar top just in time for Simon to take a seat.

Without his mask you’re drawn in by the small uptick of his lips, “Thanks darlin’,”

The smile he pulls out of you comes naturally, it’s the happiest you’ve felt all night with just the two around the bar, “No worries, Ghost,”

The way his eyebrow raises goes unnoticed as you drop the discarded cap into the bin, “Ghost?” He questions.

You look at him in confusion, “Yes?” You ask, “Is that not what you’re called?”

His fingers tap against the glass of the bottle, “Thought we were on first names basis,”

A quick scan of the bar shows only a couple of customers hanging out around the entrance ready to leave, Mark and James are nowhere in sight either in back of house or outside you assume.

You lean against the bar top, your elbows adjacent to his own, “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be called that here,”

He shrugs, “Don’t care,”

You tilt your head, “What’s the purpose of having an alias if you don’t care for using it?”

“Don’t care if it’s you,” he clarifies.

The satisfaction that flutters through your system almost feels heady, “Oh, that how it is? Sounds like favouritism,” you accuse.

The bottle thunks down on the bar top, “It is,” he readily agrees, “Use it wisely,”

You prop your arm up to rest your head against your hand, “I’ll think of somethin’ to use it for when I need it.”

A beat passes where the two of you just sit in silence. Simon eventually looks away, his forefinger taps against the bar top in thought before he speaks again, this time much quieter and more sincerely.

“How’re you feelin’?”

You exhale deeply, looking down at your arms on the counter, “Alright,” you murmur, “Not great, but I’ll get through it,”

Simon hums with an understanding nod, “Mark has been informed, he’ll turn him away from here on out,”

You frown, having not really thought about how exactly that man wouldn’t return until now, “You didn’t have to do that for me,”

Simon’s eyebrows furrow, “‘Course I did.”

His tone is matter of fact, like there was no other option but this. It makes warmth spread throughout your chest, your smile is small, but grateful as you bump your elbow against his.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,”

He looks away with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, “S’what I’m known for, said so yourself.”

You can’t help but laugh which makes Simon look over once again, he’s got a matching humoured smile on his face. And for a moment you forget about all that’s happened, between how James is acting, the stress of uni, and that unfortunate incident, it all melts away.

It’s yourself and Simon who’s currently staring pointedly at your lips. You lick them out of self consciousness but watch curiously as his eyes zero in on the movement of your tongue. When he gazes into your eyes this time you can see the intention worn plainly on his face.

“C’mere.” He murmurs.

It’s instinctual when you lean over the bar top to kiss him. You can hear the sound of a bottle sliding across the bar before cold fingers press against your jaw in a holding grip. He’s patient and lets you lead, only taking initiative when you reply with a pleased hum against his mouth.

The only thing that pulls you away is the sound of the back door swinging closed. Heat is already rising to your face at the fact of being caught over something like this at work, but when you see James’ judgemental stare over your shoulder shame floods your core. Simon’s hand has slipped from your jaw and lightly folds over your forearm instead, it’s enveloping warmth the only thing offering you comfort.

James doesn’t say anything, opting to passive aggressively count the till instead behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut and look down at the bar top, it was stupid to do this here, where anyone could see—you were entirely at fault for putting yourself in this situation.

The squeeze around your arm pulls you back into the present, Simon is gazing at you in reassurance when you look up. You force a smile and place your other hand atop of his with a gentle pat.

“I should go,” you whisper.

He looks over your shoulder at James’ back in annoyance but withdraws his hand from yours, “I’ll walk you out.”

That night you toss and turn in your bed, feelings of regret roiling in your gut.

You called in sick the next day, and then the next, and then once more just to push your luck—Mark was not impressed nor convinced by your illness. You physically couldn’t bring yourself to turn up knowing the judgement you’d face from James— not that it’s any of his fucking business — part of you thinks. But you were very sensitive to the feeling of unease being present, you just couldn’t do it right now.

Couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t walk into that venue, couldn’t see James, and couldn’t face Simon.

God. Simon.

You couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss most of all. It’s the one thing that stopped you from searching for a new job altogether. You’d have to see him sometime, as much as you’d like to avoid the whole situation altogether you knew it wasn’t fair. Deep down, between all the rationalising, you entertained the idea of whatever was between you going further. But you just didn’t see anything further with Simon as an actuality.

Eventually you forced yourself to have a shower, turning up the temperature as hot as you could stand until the bathroom fogged up. The brief knocking from the upstairs neighbours makes you look up in annoyance, with a huff you turn on your hairdryer to drown out the noise.

The knocking can still be heard over the dryer which doesn’t fill you with confidence about having a quiet night in. You shake your head and try to ignore it as you finish drying your hair. It’s not until you step out of the bathroom, almost filled to the brim with agitation that you realise the sounds are not coming from your inconsiderate neighbour, but actually within your apartment. When you step into the living room, you can hear the frantic knocking coming from your front door.

The aggressive nature of it gives you pause, reluctantly you look into the peephole as you weren’t expecting anyone. The familiar sight of a black surgical mask makes you unlock the door instantly. When you swing the door open, Simon is leaning his arm against the doorframe, his head resting against his forearm as he twists awkwardly favouring left side—he must have been knocking for awhile because when he sees you he straightens up in shock.

“Simon—”

“Where the fuck have you been?” He drills instantly, yanking his mask down.

You’ve barely registered his question— “You’re bleeding.”

Blood is crusted all down the side of his cheek and chin, his lip already swelled from the split down the side of it. You’ve never seen him so worse for wear after a fight.

“Answer my question,” he demands.

You frown, shaking your head, “I’ve been sick.” It’s weak and you know it, you wrap your arms around yourself self consciously.

Predictably, he doesn’t buy it for a second, “Don’t bullshit me with your convenient excuse sweetheart, won’t work here.”

You sigh and open the door wider for him, he cautiously takes your invite and walks inside. You don’t miss the way he cradles his ribs as he takes in the surroundings of your apartment.

“Sit.” You insist, pointing to the chairs at your small dining table.

He eyes you warily but follows, the strained exhale that punches out of him is worrying, but you don’t comment on it as you make a beeline for the bathroom once more in search of a first aid kit.

When you return you gently place the kit on the table beside him before flicking on the overhead lights. It’s a harsh lighting change from the soft glow of your lamps and takes you a few blinks to adjust but when you do, the sight of Simon makes you grit your teeth in concern.

“You look like shit,” you comment.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Bastard played dirty,”

“Did he or were you not focused?” You ask.

The pointed look he sends you as you walk over makes you purse your lips. He stays staring as you open the first aid kit, his hands—still wrapped in tape you realise— stay resting against his knees.

“You’re favouring your left side,” you note as you reach for the stack of cotton pads, “Ribs giving you pain again?”

Simon breathes out through his nose, stretching at a certain point to avoid the pain that spikes up his side, “Aggravated old injury.” is his explanation.

You nod in understanding as you dampen the pad in saline. With saturated pad in hand you turn to face him and tilt your head to the side in gesture, “Show me,”

He eyes the pad warily as he tilts his head, exposing the bloodied side, “What is that?”

You balance his chin between your thumb and forefinger and grip his face gently for handle, “Saline, it’ll get rid of the dirt.”

He doesn’t say much more, his gaze flickering between you and the contents of your lounge room behind while you clean around the wound—a smaller cut on his cheekbone you realise, once it’s clean. The silence is peaceful as you work away, brain only focused on the task at hand. You swap out the pad for a new one once it’s soiled until his face starts to look recognisable.

Simon breathes softly, fingers tapping ever so often against his leg. When you swipe at the cut with an alcohol wipe he jerks away instinctively, luckily your hand is there to keep him still. You murmur an apology and apply lighter pressure.

Simon has decided he’s had enough of the silence when you reach for his split lip, “Why haven’t you been coming in?” He asks again.

You sigh, still focusing on the cut, “Because I needed a break—from James, and uni, and everything else,”

The mention of James makes his teeth clench in annoyance, you can feel it by the way his jaw tense beneath your fingers, “Why does he bother you so much?”

You roll your eyes, “Because I can’t stand judgement, and I don’t need it from him of all people—”

“Then don’t let him—”

“Stop talking,” you cut him off, “Can’t focus when your mouth is moving,”

He jerks back with a smirk on his face, “My mouth distracting you, doll?”

“No,” you shoot back, purposely pressing the alcohol pad against the open split in retaliation until he hisses, “It’s just incredibly hard to clean this when you’re talking so much,”

“Don’t talk enough, now I talk too much. Which one is it?” He asks, grabbing the wrist that’s holding the wipe and pulling it away from his face.

You gaze at him with what you hope is a neutral expression concealing your true feelings of want. Your other hand is still cradling his jaw as he stares right back, seemingly seeing straight through you.

“I need to finish this, will you let me?”

He stares for a moment longer briefly flicking down to your lips, its seems subconscious as he drifts closer, you almost think he’ll kiss you again but instead he drops his grip and looks away. You take that as your chance to grab the small bandages out of your kit, tearing them open and applying each to his cheek and lip.

When the injuries are sorted there’s nothing else to distract you, all you can see is Simon sitting at your table, legs bracketing yours as he gazes at you somewhat imploringly— like he’s dying to have his answers.

You drop the empty bandage wrappers on the table and zip up the kit when taped hands reach forward to hold the outside of your exposed thighs. It’s gentle, and cautious, the texture of the tape is rough against your skin but his fingers are warm as they hold.

When you look back, he’s hunched forward in concentration as he looks up at you, “Do you want me or not?”

You frown, “What?”

“Do you want me or not?” He repeats.

Your mouth gapes, momentarily speechlessly as you try to wrap your head around the loaded question, “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one,”

You look at him incredulously, “That is not simple Simon, want?” You ask in clarification, “What if we have different meanings of want? What do you want?”

“Everything,” he breathes out, stroking his hands up and down softly, “I want to be here, with you, do you want that?”

Simon watches as you lick your bottom lip in thought, “Yes, I want that,” you murmur, “But—”

“Don’t fucking think about anything else,” he exasperates, “This is between me and you, no one else,”

Your lack of response brings doubt to the surface, “Do you not have faith in me?” He asks.

You think back to James’ comment about Simon’s intentions, you can’t bring yourself to look at him, “I can’t do casual, Simon,” you whisper, heart aching to even think about it, “So I need to know if you’re going to stick around now before this goes any further,”

He shakes his head in disbelief, “What the fuck have you heard about me?”

You peek at him through the corner of his eyes, he almost looks hurt at your accusation, “I just heard that relationships aren’t really…your thing.” You finish lamely.

The hands caressing your thighs turn into arms wrapped around your legs, instinctually you grab onto Simon’s shoulders as he hoists you up onto your dining room table. You wince in sympathy as he grunts in pain from his strained side but he doesn’t give you a chance to fret over it as he stands between the space of your legs.

“When are you going to realise that fuckwit is jealous of me?” He mutters, bracing taped hands on the table either side of you.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s talking about James, still, you look at him confusedly until he elaborates.

He’s inches away from your face, frustration exposed in all in glory as it’s etched onto his features, “What’d he say? That I just want to fuck you? That I’m dangerous?”

You try to look away but his fingers on your chin direct you back towards him, “It was insinuated…”

He sighs and shakes his head, removing his hand from your chin. You feel guilty as he looks down at your lap, it wasn’t fair to let others’ opinions affect this, but you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t bring it up.

“I want you,” he states unshaken, “More than I’d like to admit. Is that enough for you?”

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth before letting it go. He stares, open and honest, awaiting your answer.

You nod, “Yes, that’s enough.”

Simon wastes no time as he cradles your jaw, the tape scratches against your cheek as he leans forward to kiss you. It’s much more urgent than the last one, but it feels like everything picks up exactly where it left off. You reach out with one hand to hold onto his neck, and hook your leg around the back of his knee to pull him closer.

He obliges, grasping your hip with his other hand and tugging you close until you’re flush against him. It’s desperate, and consuming the way he controls the pace, leaving no more room for question about his desire.

It’s only an afterthought when you feel the scratch of the bandage against your mouth, “Shouldn’t—” you murmur against his lips, “Disturb that,”

Simon looks thrown off by your comment until he sees you staring at his lip, “Really?” He asks, “I can handle a split lip, love,”

You scrunch your nose, gently swiping your thumb underneath it, “It’s not healed, it’ll get infected,”

He pokes his tongue out to lick the tip of your thumb, it makes you smile. He sighs in defeat, “Fuckin’ lip ruins it, ‘uh?”

You withdraw your hands, leaning back against the table, “‘fraid so, love.” you murmur, only slightly apologetic.

Simon can’t feel that much loss when he can see the way your nipples poke through your sleep shirt, immediately drawn in by how noticeable they are against the grey fabric. He suppresses the groan in the back of his throat, and kisses your cheek. When you don’t respond, he pushes his luck and leads a trail further down towards your jaw.

“This alright?” He mumbles against your skin.

You can only hum approvingly, eyes slipping closed as he keeps going until he reaches the junction between your neck and hemline of your shirt. You open your eyes when he lands one last gentle kiss against your lips.

“You should go,” you say softly, “Before I change my mind,”

He smirks, “Find me irresistible do you?”

You roll your eyes, and hovering your hand threateningly over his injured side, “I can make that hurt if you’d like,”

He flinches reactively and shuffles back, “Fuckin’ cunt of a match, glad you missed it.”

You laugh as you hop off the table, Simon trails behind you as you lead him back to the front door. He knows his split lip is an excuse for you to gain control, but he allows it so long as you’re not pushing him away. He’ll have you next time.

When you open the front door, he’s beside you, stroking the side of your face with his thumb. You lean into the warm touch gratefully, feeling much lighter than you have all week.

“Come and see me next week,” it’s not a question, as so much as a forced suggestion, “I’ll save you a spot,”

You frown, “In the crowd?”

He nods affirmatively, but instead of questioning it you just concede, trusting him to figure it out.

“Sure you won’t lose?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Positive.”

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #cod x you #simon ghost x reader

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