Poetry Obsessed

You said his name like a question, “Simon?” and he answered without words. He pushed you against the wall, sinking his teeth against the flesh on your neck. A moan escaped your mouth as you leaned your head back, exposing your sharp collarbone. 

He noticed the shift in your breath, so he stopped, one hand on your waist and the other on your neck. “Is this ok?”  You nod gently. His lower lip, a soft, alluring curve, was bitten with intensity and desire. 

He lifts your shirt up, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing along your torso and arms. He moves slowly, with intention, committing every inch to memory. He throws your shirt aside, placing a soft kiss on your collarbone and gazing up at you, his blue eyes stormy, blue, and burning. You run your hands through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots. The sides are shaved close, warm against your palms, the sharp contrast making you feral. 

You lift his chin towards your mouth, kissing him more aggressively this time. With your hands, you unclasp his vest, hitting the floor with a thud. 

His hoodie clings to him, soaked with sweat at the collar. You push it up slowly, revealing the ridges of his spine. His skin is soft, your fingers interrupted by the jagged line at his shoulder, impossible to miss. You lean in, kiss the edge, and feel the way his breath stutters. 

He takes control now, pushing you onto his bed. His fingers curl at the waistband, yanking hard enough your pants slide down in one rough moment, like he’s been waiting weeks to do it. 

“You drive me mad, Simon. You know that?” you moan into his ear. 

He moves his lips down your chest, gently biting your skin. He is slow at first, then gradually increases the pressure. With his hand he unclasps your bra and throws it to the side. He rests his hand on your tit, his hand so large it feels like a blanket of warmth. 

Finally he trails his lips below your belly button. It is sensitive, electric, sending your back arching as you reach for his hair. He gazes at you for a moment, saliva dripping onto your clit. He goes for it, sucking and biting like he is devouring a feast. He keeps going, faster until your knees begin to shake. Your moans begin to sound like screams so you grab his hand off your breast and make him squeeze your neck, his fingers closing your mouth. 

Your eyes start to water, and your knees are starting to close. He doesn’t let your knees touch, sinking deeper into your skin. You feel yourself dripping thick mucus, Simon lapping it up like the desperation of a starving man. 

You are getting close now, your entire body on fire. 

You scream through his fingers, “Stop! I need you” You grab his chin and lift him towards yours. His cock is hard yet soft, a vein pulsating with desire. He shoves it inside of you, rough, yet gentle at the same time. You gasped. He is thrusting quickly, and you can feel his abs rub against yours. Every motion was a declaration. Every sound he made, a surrender.

He has fully taken control of your body. He is yours and you are his. The adrenaline claws at your throat, begging to be a scream. Something primal. Something unholy. You are trying desperately to make this moment last, so you grab his hand once again and roughly smash it against your mouth as if he can contain your pleasure. 

Hardly a moment passes and your back his arches, your chest pushing into his, feeling every hair like lightning. Your eyes are bulging as you feel a complete release in your vagina. Your body is shaking uncontrollably now, and he is holding you as his back arches. His semen explodes inside of you as you feel your liquid dripping out of you despite the force of him. 

The release you feel is pulsing through every cell in your body. He relaxes on top of you, his hands moving from your lips to your spine, enveloping you into the safest hug you’ve ever felt. His cock is still inside of you, and he stays not pulling away like you half expected. He leans in, head bowed, arms locked around you with a desperation that has nothing to do with sex. 

He buries his face against your neck, hot and uneven. Your hands curl around his spine. His body is heavy, all muscle and tension gone soft. Not limp. Just… surrendered. Like holding you is the only thing anchoring him to the earth. 

You don’t say anything, fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, feeling the quiet tremor in him. The kind of shake that doesn’t come from pleasure, but from everything that came before it. 

And maybe Simon doesn’t know how to ask for comfort. Maybe this is the asking, the way he refuses to let go. 

“Stay” he whispers, voice hoarse, barely audible. It's not a command, it's a plea. 

So you do. You’d stay with him until the end of time. 

It's the shittiest dive bar in London, you think. The music speaker is tinny, your alcoholic cider is definitely watered down and the bar seat is a little sticky. Perfect to drown your sorrows, and potentially find some asshole you'll never see again to drown in as well.

The footie on the TV drones low, a never-ending stream of consciousness you focus on. You let it drown out the sound of Johnny wheezing under you. The beeping of medical machines when you got to the field hospital, the pale tone of his blood-drained skin. The rasping of his intubation tube, his throat bulging because of the plastic intrusion. The rabid look in his eyes when he finally woke, irrevocably changed because of you.

The game cuts to commercial. When you drag your eyes away and to your left, the empty seat is newly occupied by a man.

Prey for the night, hopefully.

"You watchin'?" He gestures to the screen with a beer bottle in his hands. You take in his buzzcut, the way his muscles don't fully fill out his t-shirt, his worn jeans. Good enough, though when you're surrounded by military men all the time, civilians seem to pale in comparison.

You shrug. "Men yelling at each other is background noise at this point." He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised you didn't follow some unforeseen script. "That so?" He asks. You smile, thin and feline. "In one ear and out the other." You answer, turning so you face him instead of the bar. "That why you're talking to me? 'Cause I'm not yellin'." He leans closer, one elbow on the bar. You cringe to think of him putting his bare skin against the sticky faux-wood, completely unaware of his surroundings.

"I'm talking to you because I think you have something to offer me." You let your gaze fall down to his lap and trail up to his face, ending with a smirk. When he leans forward, the staleness of his Axe cologne hits you. You wrinkle your nose at the sliver of disgust in your stomach, but when you think of the empty room waiting, you decide to push through.

"I-"

A figure appears in the empty space on your left. Foreboding, like he should be wearing a dark robe and holding a scythe. You ignore it completely.

"Hey, man, we're talking. Can we get some space?" The brave, or stupid, stranger ventures, scanning your lieutenant up and down. "No." Simon grunts. You keep your head straight, refusing to engage. His presence is all-consuming, heat rolling off him like a furnace while his anger seems to heighten by the minute. "Thoughts on an offer?" You murmur, taking care to keep your voice steady. You turn your shoulder slightly towards the bartop so you don't have to keep seeing Simon in your periphery. The stranger copies you with hunched shoulders and disgust at his meekness rolls through your veins.

"You know this dude?" The stranger whispers, nodding over his shoulder. You follow his gaze, looking at Simon for the first time since he's arrived. You start at the top of his head, out in the open as he switched out his usual skullface for a black medical mask. The short blonde strands look like honey in the bar light. His eyes have remnants of eyeblack, giving the illusion that he just finished mining in a cave somewhere sinister. He's in his usual outfit of a black sweatshirt and dark jeans, but it fits him so unlike the stranger next to you. His shoulders stretch the sweatshirt impossibly thin while his thighs do the same against their denim confines. That cologne of his, a spicy scent usually mixed with gunpower or blood, is for once just that -- no heady mix of warfare to be found. You can still sense war on him though, in the hands that flex at his sides.

"Never seen him before in my life." You lie, biting down a smirk before it appears on your face. "Move." Simon orders and you sigh, turning so that you can leave the chair. Instead, a hand clamps down on your shoulder, keeping you rooted to the spot. The stranger takes the hint, scampering away back to whatever rat hole he came from. Simon takes his seat, dwarfing it with his sizeable mass of muscles and tension.

"Shouldn't lie, Sergeant. Bad look." He suggests, a mocking tone in his voice. You refrain from rolling your eyes, reminding yourself you're still in the presence of a superior, though technically as a medic, the lines are blurry. "I wasn't lying. I've never seen you as a civilian, Simon." You hum the syllables of his name, ones you've never let roll off your tongue. You've said them in your head thousands of times, ever since you peeked at his confidential medical file for some reason or another. Si-mon, haunting you with his arrogance on and off the field.

He tenses at the sounds of his name, one hand fisting against his thigh. You watch the veins pop and release as he tightens the leash he has on himself, a soldier to the very core. He breathes in then out, and suddenly it's like nothing ever happened. Simon scans the bar, the creaking of the lights and the debauchery of the clientele, before landing back on you. "Didn't expect you to be drinkin' in a shithole." He remarks. He fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, some black battered thing with a skullface. "Think that's a little on the nose, Lieutenant?" You nod to the ghostface, holding back a snort. He looks down at the lighter like it's the first time he's seeing it. "Johnny gave it to me few years ago; Christmas gift." Your heart sinks at the mention of him. The brother-in-arms that you let get shot, didn't pull out of the way fast enough. The one who's currently sentenced to six months of PT and will probably be discharged after, forced into civilian life like a square peg into a circular hole. On that note, you check your pockets for your hotel key and phone. Once you've confirmed you have your stuff, you slap down some cash for the cider and get up out of your seat.

"See you later, Lieutenant." You walk past him, your knuckles brushing his knee as you fail to control your fast-paced walk. It's a bolt of lightning, Zeus laughing from somewhere above as you're unable to control the shiver down your spine. You keep your head up, continuing past him until you exit onto the backstreets of London. Cars honk and pedestrians yell and lights blare as you remind yourself that you're in regular society and not the battlefield. You turn left towards your hotel, walking briskly so you can speed up the inevitable.

Heavy footsteps follow you the entire time.

-

You don't try to push him out of the elevator when he gets in, only trailing by a few seconds. There's no point in making a scene and you definitely don't want Price hearing about this, his subordinates getting into yet another squabble about something inane. Instead, you stand there, resisting the urge to shift back and forth on your feet like you used to do before the SAS trained it out of you. Simon stands silently on your right, having to be the one to press the button of the floor. You don't tell him your floor number and he doesn't ask.

You've learned not to question these things.

He crowds your back at the door of your room, barely giving your arm room to fish your keycard out of your jean pocket. It beeps green and you push through, toeing off your shoes. He follows and you hear the audible click of the lock, all three available. "Shoes off," you snap when you hear him try to step on your carpet with god-knows-what on his boots. They thump loudly and suddenly it's quiet.

"I'll take first shift." He declares, shouldering past you to explore the room. You can sense when he takes in the extravagance you've allowed yourself: room service menus scattered, goodies from the spa service you had yesterday, bra and underwear draped over the chair in the corner. The only other place to sit, with all your outfits spread out, is the couch.

Simon approaches the chair without caution, grunting dispassionately as he gathers lacy items in one large paw. He scrunches them in his fist, as if to feel their weight, then tosses them on the couch. "It's a hotel, Simon, not a campout." You bite out. He's still standing in front of the chair, blocking your path to the couch where your pajamas lay. He's just so big -- taking up every aspect of your life and your room, the one week he wasn't even supposed to be here. Instead of asking him to move, which he clearly won't do, you shoulder past him. It's your shoulder and arm and leg against his own, burning with awareness that this is the most you've touched in a non-medical setting. He doesn't stop you, but he doesn't move either, simply watching as you grab the t-shirt and shorts you've been wearing to bed. Alone, they made a perfect pajama set. With how the sleeve of your shirt falls off one shoulder and the tiny barely-there size of your shorts, you could almost pretend you're a regular woman with a regular job, who didn't send her coworker to the hospital.

You wash the bar grime off you quickly in the bathroom, distinctly aware of being naked while your lieutenant waits outside. Towel, lotion, change, then it's time to brush your teeth. As you stick your bright pink toothbrush in your mouth, you remember how Simon seems to be here with no supplies. The drawer contains an extra white disposable toothbrush, and you snatch it and exit the bathroom without thinking.

He's practically naked.

Well, the most you've ever willingly seen. Only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, it feels illegal to see him like this. You've seen him naked, once: a bullet graze on his outer thigh. It was medical and fast and adrenaline-driven, no time to clock the tattoos that start on his arm and the scars that make themselves known everywhere else. The mask is off and you've seen his face too, but coupled with all this skin it's like a new man. And then you remember what he said and did and you hate him all over again.

"Here." You throw the toothbrush square at his chest, your words muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth. He doesn't say thank you, just looks down like you've thrown him a live grenade. You go back to the bathroom and finish up, ready to sleep this stupid day away. The lack of sleep has finally caught up with you and it's making you delirious, imagining that Simon's eyes were locked on your thighs when in reality, he was probably just caught off-guard.

Though he never really gets caught off-guard. He's the Ghost, after all.

You exit the bathroom and immediately beeline for the bed, ignoring how he walks into it after you like that's normal. Communal showers on base aren't the same as this, him using the same aloe vera hotel soap you did.

You turn off the lights, not caring if he can't see. Then it's ten minutes of shifting around in bed until the bathroom door opens and you stiffen like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't have. The chair in the corner creaks with his weight. When you peek out behind the sheets, you can see him lean his head back on the headrest, jaw sharp in the moonlight shining through the curtained windows. You hide yourself in the mountain of blankets and pillows and by some miracle, sleep.

A ticking bomb. Johnny shouting, Price in your ear, Ghost and Gaz lost somewhere in the building. Footsteps and yelling and the click of a safety turning off and you jump out from the corner, hands grasping at Johnny's legs as you try to drag him out of the way. The thud of a bullet hitting skin and you're reaching for your gun, aiming steady like how Price taught you and not hesitating like how Ghost showed you. It fires and Makarov crumples but Johnny's in your arms, blood everywhere and you can't tell if the bullet hit his heart but he's murmuring something in a language you don't understand.

Other medics arrive and they have to pull you off him. You're apologizing to empty air and the lieutenant brushes past you. You try to grab his arm and say sorry but he shakes you off, fire in his eyes.

"It's your fault, tech." Tech, the derogatory name some less grateful soldiers call you when you get in their way. Ghost's eyes squint under his mask. "Get out of my way before you get me shot, too."

You wake up crying and thrashing, tangled in sweaty sheets.

"You're okay, you're okay. Deep breaths, dove." He's half-straddling you, one leg pinning your lap down while the other stands straight on the floor. Bare callused hands cup your face, holding you firmly in place. You blink the tears out of your eyes, vision blurry and light nowhere to be found. The clock blinks 2:08AM at you, red and oppressive. He jerks your head away from the clock to turn back to what you assume is his face, but it's hard for you to see in the dark.

"It's my fault he got shot." You admit. You shake his hands off your face so you can swipe at your tears, palms against the underside of your eyes to stave off more sadness. "'s not. Was a stupid move he made." He replies, voice low and raspy with sleep. He was sleeping and you woke him up with your stupid, stupid nightmare. "You said it's my fault." You whisper, the true root of your tears. The man you thought might like you, might do more than tolerate your existence, blaming you for the near-death of his best friend. The one he calls a brother.

"I did." It's not a question, but you nod to affirm his words anyway. "And you called me tech." You add as an afterthought, embarrassed at how much you care. "I'm sorry, dove. Was mad and not thinkin'." You might've accepted that answer years ago. But you won't take it in the dark like this, not when he didn't offer it without prompting. "I'm going to bed." You reply, ripping yourself out of his arms. As you turn, instead of going back to his chair, he lifts himself over you and to the other side of the king bed.

"What are you doing?" You whisper-yell, trying to ignore how his warmth seeps into your bones despite there being enough room between you to not touch. "Sleepin'." He asserts like he's daring you to say no. You huff and roll your eyes, turning so your back is towards him. Exhaustion washes over you and you sleep again.

-

You wake again to a heavy arm around your waist and fingers brushing against the waistband of your shorts. "What're you doing?" You slur, sleepy and comforted by the warmth of him against your back. "Thought you were fuckin' Johnny. Tha's why I was mad." He murmurs against your skin. Your shoulder is bare, shirt slipped down, and suddenly there's pressure against it. Simon mouths at your bare skin, tongue laving at the sweat that's accumulated the whole night. "I hate you," you sigh, not pushing him away but not arching into him either. His fingers slip under your shorts and find your cunt sopping. He has to pry your thighs apart slightly to have room and you find yourself unable to resist. Rough fingers slide up and down your folds, petting at the soft curls there. He runs them against the seam of you but doesn't dip down in between, content to just feel.

He kisses into the crook of your neck, running his tongue brazenly across your skin like he owns you. "No, you don't." He corrects you in his Lieutenant tone. You don't respond, neither confirming nor denying, and it's enough to make him slip down between your folds. The angle is awkward, but his thumb finds your clit anyway, rubbing small circles as you jerk under him. His middle finger teases your hole, and he chuckles as it flutters under his attentions. "I know, baby, I know. It hurts, doesn't it?" He jeers. It hurts to be so empty, his fingers right there but not going in. "Simon." You whine, giving in. You muffle the last syllable into the pillow underneath you, turning your face inward. He doesn't like that you're hiding from him, growling as he has to make out with your neck and not your lips, so you open your thighs wider to compensate.

His finger slips in and it's like heaven.

He's bigger than your own fingers, thick for you to clench around. Now that he has more room, he experiments with angles until he finds the right one. It's all-consuming, his mouth on your neck and his thumb on your clit and his finger pumping in and out like he knows what's better for your body than you do. Your nipples are hard and with every movement they brush against the soft fabric of your t-shirt, just the right amount of friction and heat.

"Turn." You refuse, mainly to punish yourself for giving in when you're just so mad. His fingers slip out and you're cursing and he's yanking off the comforter and pulling down your shorts. Simon settles himself on top of you, one hand on your jaw so you're no longer face-into-pillow. He slips in two fingers and his thumb is back on your clit and you keen, hips bucking in contentment at being filled. A streak of moonlight hits his face, giving you a glimpse of blown pupils and a set mouth. It's you who closes the difference, feeling his lips on yours for the very first time. You're not sure who's more angry but it's him who bites your upper lip a little too rough, leaving you to gasp openly into his mouth. He takes the chance to slip in a third finger.

"Fucking bastard." You breathe into his mouth, core tensing as you stretch around him. He smiles against you, feral. "Need you prepped, dove." You kiss him to shut him up, bruising as your noses brush unkindly. He rubs harder and you flutter around his fingers, orgasm creeping up unexpectedly. He leans his weight into the next kiss and you break, clenching hard as your release makes you boneless under him. A low moan rumbles through you and you sigh, forehead pressing into his collarbone. "Take my cock out, baby." You shake your head at his order, too tired to follow. His fingers slip out and you sigh discontentedly. "I can't." You complain, body not obeying his commands.

Powerful hands grip your hips and flip you so you're face down. One of the pillows smothering you disappears and slips under your hips, tilting them upwards. A massive weight presses into your back and his forearms bracket your head where your head is turned to the side for air. Some fabric shifts and he pushes in, stretching you so wide until you combust. "Simon, it hurts." He slides to the hilt and you gasp, so full you swear your insides won't ever be the same. He pulls back and pushes in again, the slide easier than the first. "Relax and it won't, dove." He grunts next to your air, warm breath rasping against your ear. You force your muscle to relax, taking a deep breath. The next thrust is good and the next one even better, stuffing you full of him further and further. It feels peculiar, that spot inside you being hit with every thrust, something that's only happened once or twice.

"Feels funny." You slur, almost drunk with the weight of him on you and in you and all around like you'll never be alone again. "So tight for me, baby. Didn't think you would be so fuckin' sweet." You moan together as he hits a particularly satisfying spot, your hips arching innately. That spot inside you pulses and you feel the crest of another orgasm gathering inside, a rush of endorphins waiting to be unleashed. Your arms are tucked under your chin and you pull one out, scrambling until you find his hand. He laces them together, sweaty and slippery and a perfect fit. One more rough thrust sends you over the edge, walls clenching around his cock as you sink into the mattress.

"Fuck." Simon swears. A moment later, you feel warm liquid between your thighs and hide your face in the mattress, embarrassed to be so fucking expressive. "So good, baby. There you are." He calms you with an easy tone, skin slapping as he increases his pace. A moment later he eases against you back as heated cum fills your cunt, dripping out around his cock and onto the mattress. He crushes you with his weight and all it does is make you clench your thighs.

He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.

-

shoutout to the post i saw about prone bone i can't remember who wrote it but it was very #inspirational