obsessed with the idea of simon 'ghost' riley not being used to having someone else to come home to. for him to open the door to his flat, his senses heightened when he sees a pair of shoes at the entrance that aren't his.
he's so used to being lonely he forgets you're there waiting for him. but the reminder does him well, and he sets his things on the floor before quietly looking around for you. he forgets to take off his balaclava, as he always does, accustomed to it as though it's etched onto his skin, an extension of him until it's not, until you remind him by trailing your fingers on its edges and lifting it up when he's sitting on the couch next to you.
and he's not sure whether to be on alert when the pads of your thumbs wipe off the black smudges around his eyes so gently when he's used to grabbing a rough tissue and scrubbing it off because he had no idea he could be treated with care. no one was there to teach him or show him otherwise.
bulge worship sounds so good, like please let me press my face against it over your pants until i’m panting and drooling and whining for you to pull your cock out so i can shove it down my throat