addie

simon eats you out like a champ — urged even more than usual by new eyes watching. simon has a point to prove.

you're whining and moaning, twitching in the cute way you do when simon rolls his tongue over the hardened bud of your clit and fuck, he's drooling. literally. it mixes with your juices and makes you even wetter and messier and he loves it.

he makes you cum on his tongue alone. hard. you gasp and sob, legs sweetly kicking out as he feels you throb on his tongue. usually he adds some fingers into the mix to prep you but not today. he wants you to feel the full stretch of him this time.

he thinks he hears the guy make some comment about how lovely you are and how he can't wait to have a turn with you.

'in your dreams maybe' simon thinks bitterly. he can't believe the guy thinks he can compare to him. simon knows for a fact the dude wouldn't even be able to make you cum — simons taken the time to learn your body, learn what you like and what you need before you even say it. simon has devoted himself to you and no one could ever compete with that.

simon turns you over and manhandles you into position on your knees, gently pressing down on your back so you lean down onto your chest. you're still trembling and twitching occasionally from the orgasm he can still taste on his tongue. he thinks it's adorable.

the guy pipes up, complaining and asking when he's gonna get a turn because his cocks so hard it hurts.

simon decided it's as good a time as any to break the news to him — you're not gettin' a turn mate. just enjoy the show, yeah?

the guy starts whining and complaining as simon slowly and carefully sinks into you. you're so wet and tight around him that he feels the breath punch out of his lungs.

his hand is careful as it wraps around the back of your neck, using the grip as leverage as he begins to rock into you. you're still getting used to being full of him — he hadn't prepped you properly so he knows it stings a bit.

you still sweetly coo and whimper as he moves slowly and carefully. before long you're grinding back against him, a silent request for more. and he's more than happy to provide.

soon enough he's fucking you like you deserve. you're crying out into the bed and creaming real nice around the base of him. you have the blankets wrapped tight in your firsts and you're so loud about how good he's making you feel.

simon chances a glance at the idiot in the room and see how intensely he's staring at you, mouth slightly agape and eyes lidded.

simon nearly puffs up in pride — you're his and he's fucking you so well for his audience.

he picks up the pace, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against your tender clit is intoxicating. your body trembles and twitches at the onslaught of stimulation. you cry out his name, praise him for making you feel so good.

simons grip changes to the front of your neck, carefully urging you up onto your knees with your back to his chest. he feels you clench around him when you're reminded of how fucking big he is compared to you — broad shoulders and huge hands that dwarf your own. he's built and firm against you, sturdy and safe.

in this new position, he can freely grope your bouncing tits as he resumes fucking you. he make sure to angle his hips to hit that sweet little spot inside you that makes your back bow against him and your eyes roll back in your head.

"look at me, love," he orders when you close your eyes.

when you do as he tells you, your eyes are teary and dazed — a testament to how well he's fucking you. how well he always fucks you.

you desperately reach for one of his hands, dragging it down your body to the apex of your thighs. simon wastes no time in pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. your thighs twitch the second he starts circling the little bud, his fingers getting wet with your juices.

he can't resist craning his neck down to press his lips against yours. simon isn't big on kissing — he finds it to be almost too intimate. it's different from sex. it makes him feel a little too vulnerable for comfort. but in that moment he craves it. he needs to kiss you.

you give no warning when you cum. your nails bite into his arm but he barely feels it over the right vice grip your cunt has around his cock. you tremble and whine into his mouth, unwilling to break the kiss he had bestowed upon you.

you drench his cock, creaming and soaking him in your cum. it drops down his balls and your thighs and drives him to his own end.

"where do you want it?" he asks, although he knows the answer.

he just want s your guest to hear you say it. he wants him to hear how you beg to be filled with cum, how you whine to be stuffed nice and full.

"i-inside!" you gasp so sweetly for him that it melts his cold heart, "please, simon. want it inside!"

simon's head drops to your shoulder, burying his face in your neck as he gives you a few more mind-numbing thrusts into your still twitching pussy before he groans through gritted teeth and spills into you just like you wanted.

he pulls out quicker than he usually does just to watch his load drip out and soil your thighs that were covered in your own cum.

simon catches you when you slump, carefully lowering you onto the bed while you catch your breath.

the guy is still sitting there. they meet gazes and simon jerks his head to the side, indicating towards the door.

the guy huffs and stalks away, blue balled and unsatisfied but clearly he enjoyed the show if the bulge in his jeans was any indication.

The damage is seemingly already done. He’s aware it’s his fault. He’s aware he’s a being a fucking cunt and that he’s fucking things up. 

In his defence, he’s not entirely sure how to be anything but. 

He’s stoic and distant. It’s who he is. With or without the mask. 

He’s let few in, few past the many walls and layers he’s built over the years. It frightened him he’d wanted to tear them all down when he realised that she fit perfectly between the crook of his arm and chest. 

“I’ll scope it out,” Mouse says, walking away from him before he can protest. 

His eyes watch her form, running his tongue over the front of his teeth as he reminds himself to unclench his fists. He preferred her talking his ear off. He misses her telling him useless facts about nothing and anything. 

Fuck, he just misses her. 

He misses how it was before he made her sleep in his bed before he handed her the fuckin’ scrunchie and kissed her. He misses how he didn’t feel conflicted before he’d felt how soft her thighs were, how delicious she tasted and how sinfully poetic her moaning his name was. 

“Sir.”

He’s thankful the mask is covering his fucking face as he smirks instantly. She likely knows it, just from the way she’s stood, all cocky like she’s got the fucking keys to the castle. But, as he reaches the door, he sees that same stern look—the one blended with ice and fire simultaneously, like a flamin’ tequila shot which’ll burn him from the inside out.

He’d suspected the safe house would be worse on the inside. 

As bad as he suspected it to be, he didn’t expect the electricity to be out. He didn’t expect the leak in the cupboard he supposed was a bedroom, and for it to be directly above the moth-infected mattress and poorly-made metal-frame bed.

Not that he’d sleep. 

He highly suspects she isn’t about to either. 

In another moment, he’s sure she’d be making light of the situation. Likely flirting, something she used to do more of before she was taken from him. When her heart was lighter, her fears never realised. 

I’ll let you be the big spoon, Simon. 

He conjures her voice with such ease he has to look around to check she hasn’t actually spoken. No. She’s still ignoring him, in her own personal hell-ish way, where she manages to both acknowledge and ignore him all at once. A skill he thought he was alone in mastering. 

He doesn’t comment when Mouse drags a chair to the door, hooking the back of it under the handle. He wants to comment that the chair will do fuck all to stop us being killed. That one measly push, and it's likely the whole fucking cabin will come down.

But, he doesn’t. 

Quickly suspecting the act makes her feel better. Noticing the slight tremble to her fingers, the way she keeps trying to busy herself, looking from window to window, door to ceiling. He tries not to look, to make things worse—not that he’s sure he can—however, the sound of her helmet unclipping makes his neck snap. Watching her ungloved fingers hook it onto the chair. Those same fingers that stroked his arm when she lay on his chest, the same ones he clutched between his when he knew her dreams had taken her. 

Then, all he saw was her back. 

Her frame looking smaller than she has done since the day in the med bay. 

He studies her a lot. More than he’ll ever admit.  

Whenever his eyes aren’t on what is needed, he allows them to find her. Seeking her out, like he is now. All eyes tracing her back, wondering if he can find the places he’d bruised when he filled her and stole her gasp. When he’d slowly rocked inside of her, gripping her sides as he pressed his forehead against hers. 

Then he sees it: the damn scrunchie. 

He both loathes it and misses it. 

Having wished he’d never returned it, even if it meant he gained the memory of her lips on his. When she’d been full of desperation and need, fingers so soft against his stubbly, rugged skin. 

The trade had been worth it, even if it had changed everything. 

Even if he’d awoken feeling lighter than he had in a long-time, almost content. He’d let his eyes roll over her features, capturing them all to mind until she’d stirred and he’d half-pretended to do the same. Knowing, deep down, the moment had to end—that things wouldn’t, and couldn’t, be the same. 

How could they be? His heart beat too quickly when she was around, his stomach almost bruised from how it fell to his feet whenever he thought she’d been hurt. He couldn’t control himself, barely think, barely functioned when she wasn’t in plain view. 

It would ruin something, a mission, a stakeout. Something.

Because she’d gotten under his skin. 

Mouse had scurried herself into another place she shouldn’t have, even if he’d been the one to let her in. Practically throw open the doors and be damned with the walls.   

When he thought about it, it made no sense. Not the feelings which simmered, bubbled and exploded within him, not the way everything seemed to brighten when her eyes landed on him. Not that fact that he had needed her to sleep, he had needed her to rest—not as her lieutenant, but as something else entirely. 

Now, she’s purposefully keeping her distance. Her hand rubbing her side, her foot kicking open cupboard doors, stepping back in case something which wasn’t welcome comes out. 

“You hurt?” 

Silence. But her body freezes, tenses. Slowly, in time, her head shakes, her eyes unwilling to look over her shoulder to him. Even if he’s pleading internally for her to do so. 

“Words, Mouse.” 

She huffs, shooting him a glare over her shoulder. “No, sir.” 

He expects it—the tone. Almost braced for it. 

Ghost doesn’t expect the pacing which follows, the way she switches from silently moving around the cabin to needing to move more purposefully. 

Three steps forward, three back. 

++

Once he’d been sure no one had followed, he began the fire. 

He found blankets, not bad ones, considering the rest of the place. 

There even more important since the warmth from the flames barely touches all of the corners of the room, his back against the dusty armchair he refuses to sit in as he watches her continue to pace.

She had paused for a brief moment, having searched the decrepit kitchen until she found beans, handing him a can and a half-rusting fork and began pacing once again. Her teeth nip at her bottom lip, her eyes unfocused on anything but where she moves them for a step. 

He’s not sure what it means.

Half-wishing Johnny was here to translate. He understands her, has been let in too. Not in the same way—never in the fucking same way. But, he’d be able to answer, even tell him the reasons she chose shapes over lines.

Occasionally, she stabs her beans with the fork—the only other sound than the cracking of the fire and her boots. 

He won’t admit it, but he likes the sounds of her boots on the safe house floor. How it echoes through the shit wooden walls and across the shit wooden floor. It’s as close to communicating with him as she’s gotten since the team had split up, and she’d no longer felt it necessary to respond through radio. He’d have been content to listen to it for longer, but watching her in the corner of his eyes was beginning to make him dizzy. 

“Mouse. Sit down.” 

Mouse pauses, not lifting her eyes. Seemingly thinking, deciding. Knowing her, she’s weighing up whether it’s worth ignoring his demand or not. Eventually, moving to the fire, sitting down, glaring into her own tin can. 

And it’s tense. 

Her silent treatment is more palpable now she’s sat in front of him, all red-nosed and anger-filled eyes.

“You cold?” 

“No.” 

He lowers his chin, purposefully ensuring his voice isn’t as sharp, as bruttish as it has been. “Mouse. Are you cold?” 

The look she gives him wounds him. It’s all pitiful, pleading and mixed with tight lips. One which screams for him to let it go. 

It’s worsened by the fact he can tell she’s holding back everything inside of her, not wanting a single shiver to show, a whimper or displeased groan at how she couldn’t warm herself. 

“Yes, Simon. I’m fucking cold.” 

Something both curls and unfurls in him at once at the sound of his name. 

The way she spits his name stains the air, making it buzz around him. It punctures and breathes life into the tension, making it double, triple. It’s stifling, mixing with burning wood and damp as he grits his jaw. 

“Come here.” 

“So you can avoid me again?” 

There it is. 

Her words were even accompanied by his least favourite expression: the angered glare.

“I said—“

She groans, loud, purposeful. Slightly edging forward along the dusty floor, shooting him a glare which he supposes should mean “happy, now?”—but he’s not fucking happy, not even close to it. 

He weighs up his options, considering both the fallout and the payoff before he grabs her ankle and pulls. He’s surprised at the lack of resistance, her body sliding with ease across the short distance until she is closer, almost entirely between his legs. 

“Fuck sake…” she whispers, deep under her breath.

Rolling her head on her neck, letting her eyes land on the fire and her grip remain iron-like on the can. 

“You gonna ignore me all night?” 

“Yes.” 

He rolls his eyes, placing the can down on the floor as he stares at the fire too. He watches them dance, the flames. Almost losing himself in it before he hears her can be placed down too. 

Heavier, more filled than his.

A swirl of worry rose in him, wrapping itself around important organs and sensibility as she let her face turn, letting him see her. 

“I hate beans.” 

“Course you do,” he replies, studying her. 

He lets his eyes fall over her, from her bent knees to her face, back down to her boots pressed against the floor. 

If he could, he’d leave this place and find her something. Bring her back greasy food, and a milkshake. Hell, he’d even find her a plate of curry and rice from that place she always talks about near her home. 

Not realising until now his hand is still on her ankle, something she’s too becoming aware of as she wiggles it—attempting to free herself from him.

“Why are you doing this?” Why did you let me in, to freeze me out, Simon. 

The words, both said and unsaid, dance to him, all broken and sad as soon as they leave her lips.

I don’t know. 

That’s the honest answer. He’s not sure why he let her leave that morning without explaining what he was thinking. He’s not sure why he just stared when she asked him a question—a simple, normal fucking question. Ghost isn’t even about a lot right now, other than he misses her.

And she must sense it, the shift. 

She must understand him, and see his thoughts all of a sudden as if they were being painted onto the walls. 

Because truthfully, he feels better when she’s close and feels almost whole. He could almost let himself imagine watching mundane television with her, doing a food shop at a supermarket with too many choices. He can also imagine ruining her over and over again. Desperately needing her fingers to snake through his hair as he takes her apart with just his tongue. Never wanting another mouth to wrap around his cock ever again, finding her the most terrifyingly intoxicating thing he’s ever met in his entire life. 

Her arms push her up, quickly distancing herself from him. 

“Mouse…” 

Shaking her head, taking strides to the pathetic kitchen as his chest tightens, knowing he should move; it feels harder to breathe as he watches her, especially when she leans over the poorly made counter—back to him.

Don’t leave. 

Don’t leave me. 

The same words which he thought of when she’d fallen asleep against him, her ear close to his heart. Not wanting her, and yet wanting every single part of her all at once in some confusing turn of events.

Because he’d never banked on her agreeing to come back with him. 

Not even just to sleep. 

He’d not planned or expected to hand her the scrunchie, and her kiss him. He hadn’t banked on it being the key to unlocking everything he’s been carefully stuffing down inside of him, desperately trying to lock it all away so he doesn’t ruin things, so he doesn’t change things. 

She turns, all so suddenly. 

Again, as though hearing him, and the look she gives him—fuck, it would have floored him if he wasn’t already sat down. It knocks the wind from his sails, the cockiness from his confidence. He almost feels stripped back, no mask, no uniform. 

And, it commands him to stand up. 

An order that he gladly answers as her eyes scream, now or never, Simon. Last fucking chance.

He stands, striding, closing the gap in half the steps it had taken her—stopping just short of her. Allowing her one more moment to glare at him, to inject her eyes into his skin, to feel anger, to feel hate towards him before he makes sure he takes every last bit of it away. 

If she was brave enough to ask, he’d tell her his favourite part of her is her eyes. 

Not the thighs she thinks he adores, not the smile he finds lights a room. 

Right now, he’s got a front-row seat to watching them thaw. Slowly, bit by bit, waiting until the right time before he swallows, hand hovering over her jaw. 

It’s hard not to struggle for breath when he stares into them when he loses himself in the shades that make up her eyes. The thousands of mini-expressions they show, let him in, just enough to read her. 

He half wishes the wind was howling or the house creeks. Because Mouse doesn’t speak, the silence is so thick he’s adamant she can hear how quickly his heart is beating. As though she thinks the entire moment is fragile, and at risk of shattering. 

Ghost knows why that is. He let her think that.

He’d let it be that way. 

He’d acted coldly, filling her mind with thoughts of him regretting it. But he didn’t. If anything, he felt as though he’d been resuscitated, while not knowing he’d been dead. That in one night she’d ruined him, and all she did was count sheep. 

“Lift my mask.” 

His words leave his lips softly, less gruff than he’s used to speaking. He’s sure it’s the reason she holds his stare for a beat, likely focusing on every expression dancing in his eyes. 

Mouse had told him, in her half-lucid, sleep-filled way, he said more with his eyes than he thought. Those words had swirled around his mind all night and ever since. Always wondering if they’re doing it, just like he is right now. 

He hopes they are. Hopes she can see how much he needs her to lift the mask, how much he needs her to do so he knows he can kiss her. Because words are not his strength, but action is. 

How can he make her forgive him if he can’t kiss his apologies into her lips, into her skin? He’d get onto his knees for her, if needed, but he needs her to lift his mask first. Silently commanding her to do so as her hands slightly shake, moving tentatively to the fabric at his neck. 

But she does lift it. 

Fingers lightly pulling it free from his neck, the fabric pulling at the tiny hairs and over his stubble. A cold finger and thumb slide either side, brushing his skin, leaving scorch marks he hopes burn forever as he watches her eyes.

Showing her he’s okay with it, all of it. If he could get the words out, he’d tell her as much. That the first day when she didn’t cower from him, when she stared him straight in the eyes, nodded and called him sir, he’d been fucked. When she was taken, stolen from him, he’d almost lost it—a gnawing inside of him which only stifled when he knew she was back safe. 

He doesn’t think she’ll ever understand the effect on him, likely never believing him.

The cold, six-foot-something soldier who has more hidden and confidential in his file than information has fallen. 

Fallen so far he doesn’t care he’s without any means of being saved, if she decides to not catch him. 

She’d never understand it, the effect she had on him. Likely suspecting he’s not capable of it, just because he’s silent, because he’s practical. But he feels, just not on the surface. And sometimes, that’s a bigger burden to carry. 

Nails drag over his stubble, the fabric lifting, rolling over the hair at the back of his neck. It almost makes him shudder—catching the scent of the sweat on her body mixing with her shampoo. A scent he can’t rid from his pillow, not that he wants to. 

It’s only as the mask clears his nostrils does he realise how much he loathes this place, hates the smell of it and the sight of it. But it’s a small blessing. A quietness in the middle of nothingness where this moment can exist. 

And then her fingers stop, letting the mask sit just above the base of his nose, resting on the bridge. 

“Lift the mask.”

She swallows. Her eyes flicking down before meeting his, sliding it up the last bit—freeing the skin around his eyes and his forehead. The cool air dancing over perspiration. 

It’s intimate, so much so that he’s not sure if Mouse knows she’s holding her breath as he cups her jaw and cheek. He makes his touch feathery, and gentle. Soft and slow as he slowly tilts her head up, watching her eyes focus on him as she allows her arms to fall back to her sides. It’s cautious all of it. Not his or her usual quick, determined, and efficient movements. 

He wonders if Mouse can tell his cheeks are on fire, whether she knows his stomach is doing flips as he strokes her cheek. 

And then she sighs. “It’s because you’re my lieutenant.”

His mind silences.

Empties. 

Her eyebrows rise, waiting before she smirks. “Words, sir.”

“Yes.” 

Because he is her lieutenant. Her superior. 

It’s fraternisation. Prohibited. Even if Price isn’t fucking bothered, even if Soap told him to find her. Some part of him knows it's more than wrong—knows it can put her at risk, from others, from higher-ups… from enemies. 

And then he feels it. 

Her catching him.

Small hands on his waist, holding him tightly. His free hand moving up to the back of her head, fingers sliding over her neck, up her hair, before he pulls, feeling bobbled silk-covered ghosts. 

“Mouse…” 

She stiffens as if waiting for him to move, but he doesn’t. Not this time. Not now.

Even if he should. Even if it would make sense too. 

Instead, his lips descend until they find hers gently, almost experimentally—fearful she’ll pull away. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, holding him more firmly, more determined at his waist. He feels her pull, tug at him to move closer, as his tongue presses against her lips before things turn more desperate, hungry, and needy. 

She makes the blood rush through his veins and silences his heartbeat from his ears. That’s when his apologies really begin—when they begin searing themselves against her lips, then her jaw, and then her neck. 

His hand clutches the scrunchie to her lower spine, keeping her flush to him, showing in all the ways he can that this is what he wants. Not distance, not space or avoidance—as much as his behaviour has said otherwise. 

Ghost slides his hand down and around her thighs until he lifts her onto the counter—the one which groans at the intrusion of someone who dares use it for something other than letting it sit there—nudging her thighs apart, sliding as comfortably as he can between them as he grips her waist, feels her skin on his. 

He doesn’t mind that their lips part, her breaths mingling with his. He gets to watch her eyes, all wild and full of something he can’t describe.

He lets her hand brush over his cheek, smudging the black from around his eyes into her nails, and he whispers her name—so careful with it, like it’s something he could break. 

“Do that ever again—” Don’t ever hurt me. 

“Never.” I couldn’t. I’m sorry.

She waits for a beat, before nodding. 

He wants to lift her, move her somewhere more comfortable, although he’s not sure where that’ll be. The floor is their best bet, he could pull her flush against him all night, turn her legs to jelly, and let his palm slide down her stomach until she’s gasping his name and he feels how slick she is on his fingers. 

“No. Not here. I'm worried the walls'll come down.”

Rolling his eyes, he snorts, burying his head into her neck, silently agreeing.

His fingers drawing soft circles on her waist, not sure how to tell her he's happy with this. He's just wanted this. To hold her. Breathe her in and have the chance to explain.

“Simon…”

He pauses, both his hand and his thoughts. Lifting his head, sliding a hand over her cheek, feeling her curl into, just like she did in his bed. 

“...I feel the same…”

Good. That's good.

"So... don't let me fall. don't let this continue, if you're not going to catch me. If you're going to leave. If you'll ignore me—"

"Stop."

It's sharp, leaving his tongue gruffer than he'd hoped.

The words, the ones he wants to say sitting on the tip, sat right at the edge of his lips, unwilling to fall through into the air. So, his lips answer her in the only way he knows how. Not sure how else to show her he'd catch her. He'd catch her every single fucking time.

It’s all he thinks as he slides the metal edge along the throat of the last one. The one who is hissing at him in a language he doesn’t even care to translate. 

Ghost cares about one thing, and one thing only: getting that radio message out of his head. 

It’s an ambush. Do not proceed. Get out—

It has been on a loop since he heard it.

Your radio message. 

The one which made Soap shout, calling for you as the static and crackle came back. The sound which made his blood run cold. The one which made him charge across the base grab the person who confirmed the intel by the shoulder, and made them piss themselves. Accidentally, of course.

It had been Soap who suggested sweeping the place, but it hadn’t been far from his mind.

They found your radio stood on, crushed—likely by your own boot. You’d always been thorough—you also usually wiggled your way out of these situations, 

It’s how you’d earned the moniker Mouse to begin with. 

His eyes caught the dried blood, hoping it didn’t belong to you as his flashlight followed its path until his jaw locked, his muscles tensing. 

Your scrunchie. 

That ridiculous one you bought months ago. The one which you’d found hilarious, and he had found anything but. Black, with tiny ghosts on it, for Halloween. No other reason, you’d said with a smirk. Unless you want to borrow it, sir? 

It’s in his pocket now. 

Has been since he found it. 

As he lets the last man fall, he brushes the pocket with his hand before wiping the blood on his thigh, sheathing his knife.

Turning, nodding in the direction of the other men as they checked them as he moved across the room to you, sliding his gun behind his back, and dropping to his knees. 

We bring Mouse back. By any means necessary. 

He’s thankful you’re alive and breathing. Watching as your head tilts —trying to work out who it is. Cautiously, both for the fact he’s considering it and for the knowledge he could hurt you, his gloved hand slides up your cheek, watching you tense before he pulls down the blindfold with his fingers. 

One eye is swollen, horrid, and puffy. Something which makes him want to put extra holes in each of the men for it. But, he can’t take his eyes from the one of yours, which blinks, and stares at him, taking him in. 

“I’m undoin’ this cuff.” 

You swallow, nodding, trying to keep the eye fixed on him. The handcuff releases from your wrists as your arms drop weakly. 

It’s then he can see the bruises. 

The ones which have formed and the ones about too. 

How the colours vary in spots along your exposed arms, neck and cheeks. Dreading to think of how deep they go, how far they spread under your clothes. 

“Sir…” you whisper, his head moving closer. “You’re a piss poor listener.”

“Almost as bad as you, soldier.”

Cautiously, he moves closer, his knees hitting against your legs as his hand slowly brushes over your arm. 

He’s aware the others have their eyes trained on him, Soap giving orders, busying them. It doesn’t stop him from moving his arm around your shoulders, bringing you close until his chest is close to your side.

“Do you want me to close my eye, make it easier for you?” you cough—sounding like a deflated lung. “You seem the type to hate touching people.”

“Enough.” 

It comes out gruff, but he knows that you don’t take it that way. The side of your busted lip twitching as he pulls you over his lap. 

He’s pretty sure it’s the gentlest he’s ever been, even more so with someone. He doesn’t mean to press his forehead against the side of yours. But, he thought he’d lost you. 

The annoying girl who talked too much, who smiled and had no issues with personal space. Unless you were on the battlefield. Then, you were different—quiet, tactile, mouselike. You scurry, you don’t miss, with a gun, a knife or a computer. 

Ghost knew he was fucked before today. 

But, this confirms it. 

The sharp pang in his chest is a horrid, bitter reminder of how fucked he is—especially with how his heart skips a beat when your hand shakes as it brushes against his mask.

He should look away as he lifts you, breaking the stare he has with you, but you move closer, whispering for him—and him alone. “I knew-w you’d find me.” 

He tightens his jaw, feeling a lump in his throat as he gives a curt nod. “Always.” 

“Always,” you repeat softly, eyelashes fluttering, desperate to close.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he says, and you do your best. You hope he knows that. “Good girl.” 

You hear someone shout for a medic, but it’s not him. 

He’s saying very little, just letting his breath dance across your neck and cheek as he holds you to him.

+++

The next time he sees you, he's visiting you when you’re in recovery.

He’s heard from others you’re improving. Soap nudging him, ensuring he’s heard him—thinking he knows more than he does.

He does go, though. 

You’re smaller than him, but you look so much smaller in the bed. Your face finally regaining some colour, an expression not twisted up in pain. The bruises faded, eyes unswollen. 

It’s a welcomed sight after the last time he saw you.

He crosses the recovery room floor, the room slowly emptying around him. He was glad that the rest of the med bay was without patients. 

His chair squeaks with protest when he sits beside you, eyes glancing over your face, over your arms, checking and checking that everything is where it was supposed to be. 

You say nothing. 

He says nothing. 

He just sits, staring at you, letting his eyes roll over your face. You seem to let him, likely basking in the fact that you’re currently not being boiled alive by him. 

It’s nice. Quiet. 

It’s helping to drown out the whimpers and groans you’d been making all the way back here from your injury. 

Until the tension reaches such a height even if you can’t stomach it. 

“What you doing here, Lt?” 

“Ensuring you don’t act recklessly.” 

“I think I can behave for one night.”  

“Doubtful.” 

You play with the sheets on the bed, rolling them between your fingers as he watches you, knowing what’s coming before you’ve even opened your pretty little mouth. 

“I’d behave for you, if you asked.” 

Sometimes, your brashness even surprises him. 

“I have asked,” he says, stretching his leg out as he watches you smile. “You still disobey me.” 

You nuzzle down into your pillow, not taking your eyes off him. 

“Sleep, Mouse.” 

“With you watching me?” 

He clicks his tongue. “Sleep.” 

You smile softer, eyelashes looking heavy. “Okay.” 

Nodding, he interlocks his gloved fingers over his lap. 

+++

You’d been silent. 

Too silent. 

He knew how you got your Codename. He’d read your file, after all. You sneaked through impossible holes figuratively and literally. Price had informed him how good you were with computers, he hadn’t known how good until he read it himself. 

You were good, capable, and able. 

He knew you could handle yourself, which is why it wasn’t that which concerned him. It’s the silence. 

You’ve been quieter overall since you came back—since he brought you back. Since he helped carry you back to the truck till he watched you get patched up. 

Something inside of you, that annoyingly cheerful part of you, had withered. He knew it, Soap knew it. 

“You following me?” 

“Could say the same to you.”

“Can someone even stalk a ghost?” 

You’d tried to hide it, more so from him than the others. Your body trying to twist from him, but his arm had stopped you.

“Something you need, Lt?” 

“No.”

You’d given him a curt smile. “Goodnight then, sir.” 

He didn’t miss the way you added the sir.

Not that he expects he’s supposed to. Shifting his jaw from side to side, having watched you walk down the corridor, not even bothering to turn to look back at him. 

That had been two days ago. 

Today, you had dark circles around your eyes. A tenseness in your shoulders as you were all briefed. 

He waited, seeing if you approached him, and asked him to stay behind—not entirely sure what his answer would be if you requested it. 

But you didn’t. 

It should have been a warning, your demeanour shifting, darkness descending down over you the closer they got to the location. 

“Mouse, you copy?” 

Silence. 

Even to Soap. 

Often, Ghost knew he warranted your anger. 

He was colder with you, more stern. Especially since he’d allowed himself a moment—when he’d been able to hold you, carry you. When he’d felt your heartbeat and watched your eyes fix on him—warming him. 

He had wanted distance and walls. Many of them, more so. 

Now, he wishes he hadn’t. 

Because with Soap, you were light, never ignorant. And maybe he’d have recognised how your anger and hurt had consumed you. That what happened between you being taken and being found had festered and eaten everything good inside of you.

He could relate. 

More than most. 

“Mouse,” Ghost radios, gruff voice and all. “Fuck.” 

He taps Soap, heading in your direction, almost charging. He knew it before he saw it before his foot kicked open the door and witnessed it with his own eyes. 

He even freezes for the briefest second. 

Half impressed with the number of bodies on the floor. 

But then he reacts, hooking an arm under your hips as he both lifts and moves you against the wall. The knife falling from your fingers, clattering against the stone, the only other sound is your panicked breaths and Soap exclaiming, “Steaming bloody Jesus…” as he enters the room. 

His forearm presses into the wall beside your head, caging you in as his other palm presses into the wall next to your hip. 

Because it was the mission to kill him—once they’d got the information. 

The information he couldn’t currently prove you had—but he’d hoped you did. Because otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to contain his anger, his fury. Right now, it simmered, being kept back by that vacant look in your eyes he doesn’t recognise. Not in you, at least. 

You’re not looking at him. Not meeting his eyes. 

Too busy staring at the body on the floor, the one which has scarlet seeping from each hole you’d inflicted with a knife. His knife. 

“Mouse.” 

You don’t move, staring as if transfixed in the knowledge he’s dead. 

So he whispers your name. 

Your real name. 

Your eyelashes flutter into a blink, head-turning, finally pulling from the man who kidnapped you on the floor. 

“Got the drive,” you say in a tone void of emotion. 

+++

Ghost didn’t want to shout, he didn’t want to scream at you, but he did all the same. 

Both in anger that you disobeyed an order and in a panic because he couldn’t stop the way his mind unravelled when you didn’t respond. 

That it took him back to that moment all over again. Where you were taken from him. Where he lost you. Where he should have protected you. 

“You wanna explain what the fuck happened back there?” 

You don’t look at him, folding your arms over your chest, suddenly finding the floor interesting. Pressing the sole of your foot against the wall as you leant, seemingly unbothered.

“That’s an order, Soldier—“

“I collected the information, and I stabbed him. Mission complete. Sir.” 

Sir. 

Fucking sir. 

He hated how it made him hard. Little bitch. 

“You disobeyed a direct order—“

“—The mission—“

“—You were supposed to wait for backup.” 

“I couldn’t risk it.” 

He rounds on you, forehead pressing against yours. “You couldn’t risk it?” 

Your eyes don’t soften. They hold his gaze, full of fire, ash and destruction. “Well. We’ve both seen the evidence of bad intel, haven’t we?” 

He stills. 

Blinking, staring into your eyes, seeing the darkness still swirling. The anger has lessened but still remains. 

“You need to let it go.” 

“I need to… what?” You look hurt, more than he thought you could, and then it vanishes, swept away by anger. “…fuck you, Ghost.” 

Moving from him, turning your back on him 

“Fuck me? If you continue down this path—“

Then you turn, your eyes burying into him. “It’ll what? Keep me up at night? Consume me? Well, guess what, Simon, it already has.” Your chest rises and falls rapidly, a tremor to your outstretched arm before you snap it back to your side. “For days, they asked me who we were. They had ideas. They did… inklings. But, they… they knew my fucking name, Simon. They…told me what they’d do, and I had nothing, not a single thing to drown it out as they described all the ways they’d kill Johnny, how they’d break Gaz, how they’d hurt…” 

You. 

The unspoken word hanging in the room. 

“I got it before, I did,” you say, words shaky at your almost declaration, “but I understand why you wear that mask—why you keep people out…” 

Your eyes fill with tears, one’s he wishes he could wipe away before they even meet your cheeks. 

“People you know can hurt you the most… right? That's what you said.” 

His head reeling back an inch, but it feels like he’s been hit. And then you leave, storming out of the room, and he doesn’t stop you. 

Because he knows he shouldn’t. 

Because you’d called him Simon. 

Not Ghost. 

+++

He hates that you’re not here. 

You’ve been avoiding him. Outside of briefings and necessity, you’re nowhere else to be found. 

The rest of them are around a table, beers in their hands. His mask lifted just enough to enjoy his—if it didn’t taste like nothingness. 

Because there were no kind eyes on him. No jesting coming from a soft, sweet voice. 

Especially right now, when it’s needed as they discuss who they’re currently fucking their fist over. He hears someone ask him, something he ignores. 

And then Soap speaks for him. “I think Ghost here has his eyes on—“

“That’ll do.”

The others snigger, mumbling about getting some air as he cracks his neck. Hoping if he ignores Soap enough, he’ll vanish too. 

“Talk to her.” 

Ghost rolls his head on his shoulders, meeting his sergeant's expecting face.

Soap slaps his hand on his back. “Trust me, Lt, talk to her.” He tries to think of something, anything, to respond with. He hasn’t got anything until he continues, “Didn’t think you had a heart.” 

“A cold one. I have a cold one.” 

Soap smirks. “I doubt it’ll remain that way.” 

It doesn’t take him long to find you, seeing you huddled over papers and a computer. 

He considers watching you, but he steps in before he’s caught, offering you a mug, one you stare at suspiciously before taking it. 

You prefer a milky tea, one sugar. 

A person after his own heart. 

Right now, he imagines you need something different, so he chose coffee.

“What’s this?” 

“A boost. You need it.”

“Thanks?” 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

Letting himself see how dark the bags under your eyes have gotten. 

“You’re not sleepin’.” 

“Can’t.” 

He taps the desk with two fingers, your eyes lifting up to face him. Slowly, he retracts his hand, holding your stare as he takes his glove from his hand. He knows his sleeve has risen, the ends of his tattoo showing as he offers you his hand.

“You made me a drink, and now you want me to what, leave it?” 

Slowly, he nods. 

Your huff sounds before you stand, slapping your hand into his. It isn’t until your fingers are in his does he watch your eyes flicker, realising that you're touching him—really touching him. 

“Ghost…” 

“C’mon. Now.” 

He doesn’t let go or lessen his hold, not even when you slide your fingers between his. Not when everything inside of him tells him to run, to tell you to run. 

His mouth doesn’t open, it remains shut as he brings you to his room, opening the door, letting it swing open before he lets his eyes meet yours. 

Letting your eyes take it in before he nudged you forward. 

“Ghost…” 

“Simon,” he says gruffly. “My name is Simon.”

He shuts the door slowly behind the two of you, releasing your hand, moving it to his neck. 

Your eyes follow him, the air thickening—he can feel it. The hairs on the back of his neck standing, the ones on his arms standing. He’s even sure time is ticking slowly. 

Especially when he begins to slide his mask up, slowly showing you his chin, his cheeks, and his nose. 

Your lips parting, mouth falling open as he pulls it off that last bit. Nothing hidden, not from you. 

Swallowing, you make a noise, a squeak as if you’re about to say something, before clamping your mouth shut. 

“Hi.” 

Your lips twitch. “Hi.” 

His fingers brush yours ever so slightly, forcing your eyes to dip before landing back on his with so much adoration—he’s not sure how he deserves it. Any of it.

“What does this mean?” 

“It means you go to sleep. Here.” 

You raise a brow, and he almost smirks. Almost.

“Not like that.” 

Shrugging, you smile. “Coulda fooled me.”

Sighing, he lets go of your fingers. “You can’t sleep because you’re alone. But, if I’m here—“

“You’ll keep the ghosts away?” 

He runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. 

“Anything else this… declaration means? 

“Means you can trust me.”

He watches your head tilt, a scrunch to your brows and your forehead as you look at him. “I trusted you anyway.”

“Then get in bed.” 

He wonders if your cheeks are warm if they’re full or blush. More so when your eyes land on the floor, and he turns his back, moving to his things, finding you a t-shirt. 

On you, it’ll bury you. 

Which makes it perfect, just as perfect as the sound of you undoing your belt is to him and the faint sound of your trousers hitting the floor. 

“Here,” he says, holding the T-shirt behind his back, not wanting to look. 

Not even when he feels your fingers slide down his forearm, over his ink. When he feels your index and middle slide along his pulse, over his wrist and palm before taking it. 

It’s not until he feels your hands on his sides does he turn, your eyes looking up at him—somewhat close to the eyes he knew, the ones which first had his heart pulsing furiously as it is now. 

“Do you snore?” 

“Don’t think so.” 

“Sleep naked?” 

“Not all the time.” 

“Good,” you comment, loosening your grip as he turns to face you. “Hate for you to have gone to all this effort to not let me get a wink of sleep.” 

The double meaning of your words isn’t lost on him. 

Especially when he sees the twinkle in your eye, the grin desperate to blossom over your lips. 

“Unless…”

“Another time,” he says, even if he hates himself for it just a bit. “Now, get in bed.” 

You nod, smiling, “Yes, Sir.” 

Fucking hell. “Less of that.” 

“Any reason?” 

He snorts, turning to watch you climb into his bed, slowly pulling his T-shirt over his head, hearing you inhale as if your mouth was next to his ear. 

“I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman.”

He flicks the light off, wondering if your heart is hammering as much as his. Each step towards you feels like a mile, but he’d do it again and again. Feeling for your hand and the sheets you’re offering him, sliding in beside you.

For a moment, he’s tense. 

Just as you are. 

Especially as his bare legs find yours, your back to his chest, hair tickling his nose. He waits, letting you make the first move for comfort, feeling you breathe heavily before shuffling against him. Fingers trying to keep your hair out of his way, pulling it, twisting it.

And he remembers sliding his hand under his pillow, pulling it out slowly, the fabric rolling between his thumb and finger before he finds your hand over the sheets. He feels you tense, likely recognising it instantly, slowly taking it from him as you move, turning to face him.

Even in the darkness, he makes out your features. 

His hand reaches up, touching his chin before fingers spread up your cheeks. His thumb rolls over your bottom lip, wanting to kiss you desperately. 

“You found it?” 

He says nothing.

“You kept it?” 

He breathes out. “I did.” 

You must feel his heart hammering. You have to. 

Your body slowly comes down, arms sliding around his chest before hands find themselves on the back of his neck. 

His head turns as you let hug him, as your body says everything without so much as speaking. And all he can think is he’s an inch away from your lips. 

He’s within reach. 

He could. He should. 

“Simon…” you whisper. 

His throat goes dry, and then you kiss him. 

Silencing his mind, silencing everything that doesn’t matter—doubt, worry and the sound of that radio message—as he runs his hands over his T-shirt that covers your body. 

Pulling you close. 

Keeping you close.

——————————

♡ you stood on your tiptoes pressed against him near the cafeteria, two fistfuls of his hellfire shirt gripped tightly in your hands as you stared up at your best friend hopefully, glossed lips pulled into a grin. “oh please come, eddie!” you begged, fully aware of the double entendre. “i have a free house! you can even sleepover! please please please i hate sleeping alone.” you pouted and he held his hands up before placing them either side of your face, squishing your cheeks. “yes, alright i’ll come. now get off me you little hamster.” he chuckled, playing it totally cool. he gave you anything you wanted when you whined like that, mainly to shut you up — because if you were to continue his pants would grow a little tighter and he didn’t wanna have to deal with that in public.

♡ he just can’t fathom that you’d ever like him back so he’s completely oblivious, and pushes that notion to the back of his mind— using his efforts on being there for you and protecting you like a good friend should.

♡ he turns up to yours that friday evening, for once in his life perfectly on time because he honestly loves hanging out with you. he’s not even finished knocking when you’re swinging the door open, grabbing him and pulling him excitedly upstairs in your little robe. he blows his cheeks out as he steps into your room, a concrete wall of heat slapping him in the face.

♡ he sits down on your bed, kicking his shoes off and getting comfy before leaning against the headboard, relaxed. you can’t barely seem to contain your excitement, bouncing around the room. “im sorry it’s so warm eddie, my heater is broken.” you pout. a total lie of course.

♡ “ah, you’re good. you want me to take a look at it though? i know how to —”

“no!” you cut him off abruptly before clearing your throat. “sorry, no. we have someone coming to look at it on sunday. s’fine.” he nodded, looking around.

“you’re not warm?” he asked and you smirked. a fly in your trap.

♡ reaching for your robe you pulled at the drawstring and slipped it off you, feigning casual. “yeah i am eddie.” you were wearing the tiniest pink loungewear / underwear set— fanning yourself to further the point. his brows shot up and he didn’t know where to look, sitting up a little straighter on your bed.

♡ “you don’t mind do you?” you looked at him innocently from beneath your thick eyelashes and he shook his head so hard you were surprised he didn’t snap his neck.

♡ “god, no.” he accidentally let slip and you smiled. “i mean it’s your palace, who am i to tell you what you can and can’t wear.” he pulled a pick out his pocket, nervously fiddling with it in his lap. you grinned, nodding before coming to sit on the bed opposite him.

♡ “good, because then i’d have to take it off.” your eyes widened feigning innocence before eyeing the magazines you’d left strewn across your bed. “oh, sorry. let me move these.” you gathered them before leaning over on your knees, stretching to put them on the bedside table, arching your back a little for display and groaning quietly at the stretch.

♡ now eddie wasn’t an idiot. usually, with any girls in the past that he’d bring back from a gig or wherever he’d found them if they were slutting themselves out to him like this they’d be bent over in no time — but you were different. if one of those girls were to reject him (not that they ever did.) that would be fine, he’d step aside and then drive her home or to wherever he found her. if you rejected him, or if he somehow totally misread the situation and over stepped a boundary — his world would crumble. not only did he really like you, but you were really just his best friend on top of that. losing both would destroy him. and plus— you told him everything, he made you feel as safe as possible. if you really wanted him, you would have said something right? shit. maybe he was overthinking it.

♡ eddie stayed as still as a statue until you returned to your original position, trying to will the blood not to shoot into his dick. it twitched none the less, but eddie has become a pro at keeping his cool around you. maybe that’s why you were testing him.

♡ “so you enjoying the free house?” he shucked his jacket off, beginning to feel the effects of the heat in your room. you laid down on your side, resting the side of your head on your hand as you gazed at him. “yeah. can make as much noise as i like.” you grinned and he swallowed thickly. god, you were just full of innuendos today, huh.

♡ “you been playing music?” he tried, cool as a cucumber to his relief and you blinked at him.

“sure.”

“what kind?”

you giggled. “just usual girly stuff that you’d hate.”

“try me.” he smirked and your eyes grew heavier at how handsome he looked in the moment. you were in heat bad.

“no.” you delivered breathlessly before changing your position, suddenly a lot more flustered than confident. “you’ll just make fun of me.”

♡ eddie placed a hand on his chest, dropping his jaw pretending to be scandalised. “me? sweetheart, you know i’d never make fun of you.” he tilt his head sickly sweet with a grin and you swallowed, a pout rising on your lips.

♡ how was this fair? you invite him over, try and seduce him, and all it takes is a little light teasing and he’s reduced you down to a nervous wreck. you wanted him to ruin you, you wish he’d just get the hint and make a move on you, instead.

♡ “m’gonna fight you.” you huffed, bottom lip protruding as you threw a weak fist in his direction. he caught your wrist in his hand and laughed heartily seeming alot more relaxed that 20 seconds ago.

“with those little fists? oh, i’m petrified.” he was smiling so hard his lashes were kissing at the corners only deepening your spoilt pout, nose crinkling a little.

“i could so take you.” you rolled your eyes and he mocked you, rolling them back with exaggerated attitude, before breaking out into another infamous smirk.

“yeah, i bet you could take me.” he spoke, before freezing for a millisecond— very nearly dropping his cool act. you shared a look, finally acknowledging the innuendo and you giggled, unsure of what to say. all you knew was, the deep yet boyish tone of voice he said it in was causing a wet patch to form in the pink material of your panties. you could feel it. you opened your mouth to say something equally filthy and he cut you off with a playful look. “so how would you fight me then?” he challenged.

♡ now was the time to take your power back. remember, you invited him round to seduce him— and seduce him was what you’d do. seriously, if this night didn’t end with your panties round your ankles you might just kill someone.

♡ you dived at him, shaking his shoulders a few times and he laughed before you straddled his lap— sitting down right on his crotch. you had to remind yourself you were meant to be the confident one when you felt his bulge pressed straight into the centre of your covered pussy lips, spreading them a little over it. your smile slid off your face for a second as did his as you glanced between eachother eyes analytically before you got straight back to pretending to punch him in the face, never actually grazing his cheeks once.

♡ he chuckled calmly, which made you stop and break into a giggle. he didn’t miss the hitch in your breath when you wiggled on him slightly and felt him press a little harder into you. he stared at you with a knowing smile, almost expectant as if he were waiting for you to out yourself with a confession. you stayed silent, eyes owlish and a little nervous — so he spoke. fuck it, he thought. she is on my lap after all.

♡ “now, you can totally slap me if i’m wrong…” he held his hands up defensively, eyes as wide as yours. “but, are you… you seem a little… frisky today.” he raised an eyebrow, squinted eyes dropping down to your current position, taking a detour to glance at your hard nipples through your top before looking back at you. shit, you thought. whatever little game you thought you were playing with him, he was so winning — and you didn’t really mind.

♡ you inhaled slowly, preparing yourself to confess that you wanted him and needed him to help you get yourself off— when the doorbell rang. the fucking pizza guy you’d called before eddie arrived. you must say, his timing was impeccable. you smiled in disbelief at the timing, twirling one of eddies curls round your finger sweetly.

♡ “you should probably get that, it wouldn’t be very polite of me to answer the door to the pizza delivery guy dressed like this huh?” you pout, mock innocently before climbing off him, nodding at the bedroom door signifying for him to go. he stared at you in disbelief for a moment before the bell was rung again and he groaned, heaving himself off the bed and grumbling out your bedroom door. “would be his fuckin’ lucky day.” he sighed, just loud enough for you to hear.

♡ you left it for a little while. when he went downstairs you jumped up and turned your heating back down, already growing annoyed with it. you ate your pizza together, laughing and chatting with playful flirting laced through it but nothing too intense for the moment. what really kicked it all off was when the lights went off at the end of the night, eddie in an old band shirt and sweatpants that were pulled out of his rucksack and you still in your little pink two piece beneath the covers.

♡ “you’re making it hard to sleep when you keep make me laugh.” you giggled, accusatory as he laughed back, the two of you laying side by side, looking up at him from where you lay lower on your pillow.

♡ “get outta my face then, punk.” he teased in a hushed voice and you giggled once more before turning around, laying the other way. the laughter died out, and as silence filled the room you figured he might actually be trying to sleep now. you felt warm and tingly inside, having spent the night with eddie essentially looking after you.

♡ “eddie?” you called in a more timid tone, not turning to face him.

“yeah?”

“can you… can you cuddle me a little?” your voice was small and you could sense the large smug smile that spread across his face.

“course i can, sweetheart.”

♡ he shuffled closer, easily manhandling you where he needed you as he pulled your back to his front, letting the curve of your ass press into his warm crotch. you shuddered at how comfy and protected you felt as he settled, before filling the silence with. “jheez, talk about clingy.”

♡ you whined and he laughed in your ear, hair tickling you and you squirmed, trying to get even closer to him— not quite caring that you’re proving his point. you pushed back, eyes widening a little when you felt his cock through his sweatpants pushed upwards between your ass cheeks, making him gasp a little, hands tightening around your waist. “careful.” he choked out quietly and you slowly turned your head around over your shoulder to look at him, trying to gauge how he felt.

♡ his brows were pinched and his chest moved up and down a little from his breathing, big brown eyes staring right into yours in the dark. you stared back for a moment, keeping your eyes on him when you experimentally ground back on him — soft, but with purpose this time. the lights being out made it easier to be confident, and it paid off hearing him release a breath he seemed to be holding with a quiet groan, cock stiffening.

♡ “you sure you wanna go there?” he questioned, needing clarification that he hadn’t already fallen asleep and was having some kind of sick dream whilst rubbing up against his poor best friend.

♡ “why’d you think i invited you here?” your voice came out as a strained sort of whimper as you turned back around in frustration, grinding back harder into him making him curse under his breath.

♡ “god, fuckin’ thought so. you know you’re the biggest tease, right?” he spoke between grit teeth as one hand snaked up to gently hold your neck to tug you closer, and another hand slot between your thighs cupping your covered yet soaked mound, making you gasp.

♡ “please do something about it.” you whispered, all the sexual frustration hitting your body at once— already totally boneless as he found your clit through the material, rubbing expertly.

♡ “hm, turn around n’kiss me first. it’s only polite.”