He'd just lay still, didn't know why to this day. Didn't jump when he felt a sudden warm, soft touch, a hand threading slowly through his hair. Fingertips delicately traveled the contours of his face, the pad of a thumb brushing over his cheekbone, his lips, catching on day-old stubble. Hands wandered down the expanse of his chest. Slowly. Reverently. It had been ages since anyone had touched him beyond a quick, sloppy hook-up behind a bar, and he couldn't be entirely sure he'd ever been touched quite like that. He could hardly be blamed for arching into the contact.
The hands froze, and leapt off his body like they had been burned. Simon could hear the first shuffle of retreating footsteps. Instantly he grasped in the dark, landing on an arm, firmly muscled and hairy. The intruder paused, and Simon groped down the arm until he found a hand. Felt it in his fingers, the meaty bowl of the palm, the thick flat of the thumb, that strange craggy burn scar he would grow to learn every dip and pucker of in the months to come. He tugged on the hand, placed it over his heart. Silently asking the stranger to feel the way it was racing.
It raced faster as he felt the sag of the mattress as the weight of another body was added to it. As another's heat joined his own. As lips tenderly brushed against his.
It had been clumsy, at first, trying to maneuver around one another in the complete darkness. But the hot brush of skin against skin, of hands and mouth slowly exploring his body, of thick spitslicked fingers pressing into him, working him open, everything, all of it was intensified in a way Simon hadn't even known existed. Something about not having his vision, about the near complete silence, making everything feel heightened, he figured later. He wasn't exactly searching for explanations for his overwhelming ecstasy when he was wrapped up in a pair of strong arms, his legs wrapped around his visitor's waist as he completely surrendered, letting go of any reservations he may have had left as the stranger rocked into him, kissing at his throat, his jaw, his cheekbones.
After they had both come the stranger just stayed for a moment, still wrapped up in him, kissing him languidly. Simon had reached for his wrist again as he felt the weight leaving the mattress, and said the only words they'd shared: "Please don't go."
The stranger's hands navigated up his arms, his shoulders, his neck, to cup his face, leaned in and kissed him soundly, first his lips, then his forehead, right by the knotted scar at his hairline. Like a promise. And then he left.
He returned, of course, somehow finding Simon's camp a couple of times a week. Sometimes more. And Simon was always aching for him, his heart racing like the first time every time he heard soft footsteps approach wherever he had made his bed.
It wasn't healthy. But he had been shot in the head over a fucking poker chip. Had been dragged into a war he had no stake in. Spent each day sacrificing his body for strangers. He didn't know from healthy anymore.
The visitor had even come a few times when Simon's companions were sleeping nearby. He remembered the first time he had heard the footsteps, done the ritual of the scars, and whispered as hands ran down his body, "We're not alone." If his lover had heard, he didn't care, gently but insistently rolling the courier onto his belly, and so Simon buried his face into his pillow, covered his mouth with his hand and did his best to muffle his panting as his visitor spread him open and lapped at his hole. He remembered letting out a dangerously audible whine as he came into his hand and felt his fingers pulled into a searing hot mouth, sucked clean. Being gently tugged up until he was sitting at the edge of his bed, his hands being led to a button, the front catch of a pair of trouser, the barest brush of his fingers feeling the hard bulge underneath. Worrying that even the sounds of him sucking were going to wake someone up, and then losing himself in the feeling of hands in his hair, of the heady taste of the stranger, of memorizing his smell. The sound of his barely stifled moans.
M!Courier/? - Remain Nameless [1b/?]
The hands froze, and leapt off his body like they had been burned. Simon could hear the first shuffle of retreating footsteps. Instantly he grasped in the dark, landing on an arm, firmly muscled and hairy. The intruder paused, and Simon groped down the arm until he found a hand. Felt it in his fingers, the meaty bowl of the palm, the thick flat of the thumb, that strange craggy burn scar he would grow to learn every dip and pucker of in the months to come. He tugged on the hand, placed it over his heart. Silently asking the stranger to feel the way it was racing.
It raced faster as he felt the sag of the mattress as the weight of another body was added to it. As another's heat joined his own. As lips tenderly brushed against his.
It had been clumsy, at first, trying to maneuver around one another in the complete darkness. But the hot brush of skin against skin, of hands and mouth slowly exploring his body, of thick spitslicked fingers pressing into him, working him open, everything, all of it was intensified in a way Simon hadn't even known existed. Something about not having his vision, about the near complete silence, making everything feel heightened, he figured later. He wasn't exactly searching for explanations for his overwhelming ecstasy when he was wrapped up in a pair of strong arms, his legs wrapped around his visitor's waist as he completely surrendered, letting go of any reservations he may have had left as the stranger rocked into him, kissing at his throat, his jaw, his cheekbones.
After they had both come the stranger just stayed for a moment, still wrapped up in him, kissing him languidly. Simon had reached for his wrist again as he felt the weight leaving the mattress, and said the only words they'd shared: "Please don't go."
The stranger's hands navigated up his arms, his shoulders, his neck, to cup his face, leaned in and kissed him soundly, first his lips, then his forehead, right by the knotted scar at his hairline. Like a promise. And then he left.
He returned, of course, somehow finding Simon's camp a couple of times a week. Sometimes more. And Simon was always aching for him, his heart racing like the first time every time he heard soft footsteps approach wherever he had made his bed.
It wasn't healthy. But he had been shot in the head over a fucking poker chip. Had been dragged into a war he had no stake in. Spent each day sacrificing his body for strangers. He didn't know from healthy anymore.
The visitor had even come a few times when Simon's companions were sleeping nearby. He remembered the first time he had heard the footsteps, done the ritual of the scars, and whispered as hands ran down his body, "We're not alone." If his lover had heard, he didn't care, gently but insistently rolling the courier onto his belly, and so Simon buried his face into his pillow, covered his mouth with his hand and did his best to muffle his panting as his visitor spread him open and lapped at his hole. He remembered letting out a dangerously audible whine as he came into his hand and felt his fingers pulled into a searing hot mouth, sucked clean. Being gently tugged up until he was sitting at the edge of his bed, his hands being led to a button, the front catch of a pair of trouser, the barest brush of his fingers feeling the hard bulge underneath. Worrying that even the sounds of him sucking were going to wake someone up, and then losing himself in the feeling of hands in his hair, of the heady taste of the stranger, of memorizing his smell. The sound of his barely stifled moans.