[John grits his teeth, but it doesn't stop the noise of his laboured breathing, the way his breath hitches, goes higher, vocalizes, with every slap of skin against skin.
But there's a special sound when Poe fucks him just right. Hard enough, deep enough, that John loses control. Spasms. His toes curling, and fingers clenching, lean muscle twisting and arching in fits against the mattress. Something like a whimper, if Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard could be accused of whimpering.
The truth is, John could come without Poe's hand on his dick, the additional touch is almost too much, he's already so sensitive, his nerves sparking like overloaded circuitry, but he's glad it's there. So Poe doesn't know he can, that just being fucked is enough to get him off. More than enough.
John is close. Too close to pretend he's not. It's hard to hide how he's feeling, when Poe is surrounding him. Already inside of his body. Mind. Heart. Looking down at John, seeing him, hearing him, feeling him, when he can't guard himself, and can't be anything but what he is.
A man so lonely, and so broken, that the best sex is sex that consumes him, fills him, and destroys him, because to feel anything, John has to feel everything.
Another pitched, strangled cry, close to a sob,when Poe's dick punches the right spot, every inch of John's body trembling, and slippery with sweat, his hair wetted darkly to his forehead and temples. He reaches blindly behind himself, grabbing for Poe's thigh, finding it and sinking his fingers in, nails cutting into Poe's skin.
John doesn't like to beg, but he will, over and over, if that's what it takes. He's that kind of desperate, like a dying man, fighting against and yearning for release. One push away from the edge. Of darkness, or bliss.
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But there's a special sound when Poe fucks him just right. Hard enough, deep enough, that John loses control. Spasms. His toes curling, and fingers clenching, lean muscle twisting and arching in fits against the mattress. Something like a whimper, if Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard could be accused of whimpering.
The truth is, John could come without Poe's hand on his dick, the additional touch is almost too much, he's already so sensitive, his nerves sparking like overloaded circuitry, but he's glad it's there. So Poe doesn't know he can, that just being fucked is enough to get him off. More than enough.
John is close. Too close to pretend he's not. It's hard to hide how he's feeling, when Poe is surrounding him. Already inside of his body. Mind. Heart. Looking down at John, seeing him, hearing him, feeling him, when he can't guard himself, and can't be anything but what he is.
A man so lonely, and so broken, that the best sex is sex that consumes him, fills him, and destroys him, because to feel anything, John has to feel everything.
Another pitched, strangled cry, close to a sob,when Poe's dick punches the right spot, every inch of John's body trembling, and slippery with sweat, his hair wetted darkly to his forehead and temples. He reaches blindly behind himself, grabbing for Poe's thigh, finding it and sinking his fingers in, nails cutting into Poe's skin.
John doesn't like to beg, but he will, over and over, if that's what it takes. He's that kind of desperate, like a dying man, fighting against and yearning for release. One push away from the edge. Of darkness, or bliss.
This is some combination of the two.]
Poe-