Your tongue was tucked between your lips, concentration was paramount. “Fuck-“ you muttered as the end of your ballpoint pen rolled out of the lines of his ink work. This earned a deep throaty chuckle from him. You squeezed your hand that rested against his thigh, a non-verbal way of telling him to shut up. You noticed how the warmth of his body seeped through his jeans into your palm, it was nice. Comforting in a way. In missions Simon was like a robot, cold and quiet. But moments like this reminded you that he was a person, a friend, human. He parted his thighs a little and shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the wall. You rolled your eyes at his movement, you had spent months pleading to him to let you color in his tattoos and now he couldn’t sit still for five minutes? That ofcourse wasn’t the reason but you didn’t know. You gently blew on the wet ink that covered his skin, then you stood up, smirking as you admired your work. “Done!” You announced, “you sure about that?” He sounded in a taunting manner. You glanced at him, one eyebrow raised as you shot him a confused look. As he pulled his mask up his neck a little with a gloved hand, he gestured to the few tattoos it showed. You quickly bent down to gather the pens you left on the floor. As you made your way to his side his eyes followed you, once again he adjusted as your hand landed on his warm neck, he almost choked at the sensation. Although he tilted his neck back for you, you held his jaw and pushed it further. As a light hand trialed down his neck assessing his artwork, a deep grunt that you mistook for pain (and apologized profusely for) escaped him. It wasn’t. With a sigh he planted his gaze back on the wall, terrified to look at you. But god as your warm breath hit the sensitive skin on his neck, he did want to take you right there. The way you were sitting was clearly uncomfortable, pressed against his shoulder, he rolled his eyes and grabbed your waist, lifting you and placing you in his lap so you straddled him. “Better?” His voice gruff.