[ Poe makes a noise in his throat, a rumbling dismissal of John's words. His lips are just close enough to John's neck to brush the skin as he speaks. ] Tell me to stop and I'll stop.
[ His free hand comes up, snakes around the back of John's neck, barely touching the skin until Poe digs in his nails. It's accompanied by a tug at John's waist, pinning the two of them tighter together. He exhales quietly against John's throat, runs the tip of his nose up the line of skin over his jugular. ]
[That's all he has to do. As if saying 'stop' isn't a Herculean task, when Poe's voice is smudged against his skin, his nails sunk into the back of John's neck like a bird of prey.
John feels like prey right now. Trapped, and overwhelmed. Paralyzed by the offer that's not quite an offer, but a promise, of what Poe could do to him with those big hands and thick hips if John shuts up and let's him.
He doesn't know how it would go down, exactly, but his brain is all too eager to imagine it. His backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. Clothes on the floor. Hands in each other's hair. Poe's hot breath and lips against his ear as he fucks John into the mattress, his necklace dangling over John's shoulder, the washer, his mother's wedding ring-
Through the haze, John remembers Poe's pain. His despair, and his struggle to cope with that despair. The desperate call that was as close to a cry for help as Poe Dameron, a man both strong and proud, was capable of.
John feels like prey, but he isn't. Poe is drunk. Poe is vulnerable. Poe is the victim of a lifetime of war, of loss, and of suffering, and John doesn't want to contribute. Not while calling himself a friend.
He slides both hands up to brace against the back of Poe's neck, knitting into his thick, curly hair, and gently pulls his head back so he can look at him.
It's hard. Poe is so many things John wants. Needs. He's lonely, too. Wants to disappear into someone's body just as desperately, and drown his pain in pleasure.
And those damn eyes.
But John sees the hurt in them now, and won't let himself ignore it. No matter how badly he wants this, wants him.
He speaks softly, but firmly. With no small amount of affection, even though this is rejection.]
You have to stop. You're drunk, and it's not right. It would feel good, and I want to, don't get me wrong, but I don't want you to wake up wondering what the hell happened.
If you want this, really want it, there's tomorrow, and the day after. Any day you want. You've got my number. But you need to make that call sober. I need to know you really want this, want me, because I don't want to be something you regret.
I don't want to ruin our friendship because I couldn't say no when you needed me to.
He's looking Poe right in the face, kindness in his own, and telling him to stop.
Poe's eyes fill. He closes them, which doesn't so much hide the tears as force them to fall. He pulls away from John's grip, rests his forehead on John's shoulder, and tries not to let solitary tears become weeping. He already cried on Leia's shoulder. He already broke the one time.
He wants to say please. He wants to say please, let me have this.
He doesn't want to do that to a friend.
Even drunk, even this drunk, Poe doesn't want to do that to John. He said that's all you have to do. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
This is not the man his mother would want him to be. ]
I'm sorry.
[ To her, to John, to Paige, to every gunner and pilot and bombardier whose lives he lost. He hates himself for apologizing, he hates himself for having to. It's like every weeping soldier his father held on their living room couch with its little woven blanket tossed over the back. The scars of war laid bare, ugly and twisted and all at odds with the domesticity of Kes Dameron's home.
There it is: a promise he didn't keep. He told himself he'd never be one of those men.
[but John doesn’t let go of Poe. He doesn’t let Poe pull away. Won’t let Poe run somewhere, anywhere, to cry by himself, and be alone in his pain, even though he knows it’s exactly what Poe wants to do. Because it’s what John does. What he’s always done, and what he regrets doing.
Because it’s too late for John now. He’s run away so many times he can’t find his way home, and no one is looking for him. Not anymore. Because he’d convinced them, and himself, that he isn’t lost, so much as he doesn’t want to be found. So they stopped searching. Stopped holding him when he didn’t want to be held, but needed to be.
And now John’s alone, and it breaks something in him that’s already long past broken to see Poe in the same damned place, because he doesn’t deserve it. He’s a good man, and he shouldn’t be where John is, at the bottom of a dark well, where the water is murky, and the sunlight is so far away, without the strength to claw his way out.
John holds Poe to himself with the strength he can find in his heart for other people, but not for himself. Speaks softly to Poe, the way he would want to be spoken softly to.
Poe is drunk, and John will take care of him.]
You just need to get some rest. How about it? You’ll feel better in the morning. That’s always the way it goes.
I’ll sleep beside you, if it helps. Or I can sleep in Rodney’s bed. Whatever you want. But you’re staying here, with me. Because I don’t think you should be alone right now.
[ Deep breath. Exhale. Poe puts his arms back around John, this time in an embrace. ] Okay.
[ He doesn't know how to express what it means, that he tried to back away and John held on. He doesn't know how to say thank you for love he feels like he doesn't deserve, right now. Kindness he hasn't earned.
Poe turns his head so he's resting his temple against John's shoulder. Loosens his hug until he can back up a step and look over at John's bed.
Does he want someone at close quarters?
Yes. Yes, he does. He doesn't want the dreams that might come from sleeping alone. ]
Together. [ God, he's tired. He's more tired than he was in that alley, when all he wanted was to lay down beside his own vomit and drop into the black.
That wasn't the man his mother would want him to be.
One who asks for help, one who accepts it--that's the man his father would want him to be. Tears or no tears, liquor or none. Someone who gives love and receives it with equal grace.
Poe touches his mother's ring lightly. Then he leans forward and kisses John on the cheek. ]
[Poe kisses John’s cheek, and for a moment, John sees the light. Feels the warmth of it on his face, through the gentle contact of Poe’s lips. Intimacy. John almost doesn’t recognize it, at first. Every once in a while his friends remind him what it feels like. And it feels good. Better than sex. Better than speed. Better than the wall John’s built around himself, so no one can hurt him, or be hurt by him.
Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to try knocking it down. Brave like Poe is, for trusting him. For allowing himself to be helped. For accepting John’s love, when John is too afraid to accept Poe’s love, or anyone else’s.
He directs Poe to the bed with one hand on the space between his shoulders, gently pushing him to sit, and sitting down beside him. Only a few minutes ago, keeping Poe out of his bed had been one of the greatest personal challenge’s John’s ever faced, but that moment has passed, and John’s blood has cooled. All he can feel now is his heart, and how slow it’s beating, calm, and steady, as he guides Poe to lie down and lays behind him.
John kicks off his own shoes onto the floor and reaches down to yank up the blanket. After sleeping in full gear on sand and cement floor, wearing jeans and a t-shirt is nothing. He drapes one arm loosely over Poe’s waist, and settles his head on the pillow. Suddenly, John is very tired. The most tired he’s been since Rodney dragged his drunk ass home from the ball, and barely managed to wrangle him into bed. Talk about karma.
Usually, John struggles to fall asleep, but his eyelids are already feeling heavy. It’s been one hell of a night.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ His free hand comes up, snakes around the back of John's neck, barely touching the skin until Poe digs in his nails. It's accompanied by a tug at John's waist, pinning the two of them tighter together. He exhales quietly against John's throat, runs the tip of his nose up the line of skin over his jugular. ]
That's all you have to do.
no subject
John feels like prey right now. Trapped, and overwhelmed. Paralyzed by the offer that's not quite an offer, but a promise, of what Poe could do to him with those big hands and thick hips if John shuts up and let's him.
He doesn't know how it would go down, exactly, but his brain is all too eager to imagine it. His backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. Clothes on the floor. Hands in each other's hair. Poe's hot breath and lips against his ear as he fucks John into the mattress, his necklace dangling over John's shoulder, the washer, his mother's wedding ring-
Through the haze, John remembers Poe's pain. His despair, and his struggle to cope with that despair. The desperate call that was as close to a cry for help as Poe Dameron, a man both strong and proud, was capable of.
John feels like prey, but he isn't. Poe is drunk. Poe is vulnerable. Poe is the victim of a lifetime of war, of loss, and of suffering, and John doesn't want to contribute. Not while calling himself a friend.
He slides both hands up to brace against the back of Poe's neck, knitting into his thick, curly hair, and gently pulls his head back so he can look at him.
It's hard. Poe is so many things John wants. Needs. He's lonely, too. Wants to disappear into someone's body just as desperately, and drown his pain in pleasure.
And those damn eyes.
But John sees the hurt in them now, and won't let himself ignore it. No matter how badly he wants this, wants him.
He speaks softly, but firmly. With no small amount of affection, even though this is rejection.]
You have to stop. You're drunk, and it's not right. It would feel good, and I want to, don't get me wrong, but I don't want you to wake up wondering what the hell happened.
If you want this, really want it, there's tomorrow, and the day after. Any day you want. You've got my number. But you need to make that call sober. I need to know you really want this, want me, because I don't want to be something you regret.
I don't want to ruin our friendship because I couldn't say no when you needed me to.
no subject
He's looking Poe right in the face, kindness in his own, and telling him to stop.
Poe's eyes fill. He closes them, which doesn't so much hide the tears as force them to fall. He pulls away from John's grip, rests his forehead on John's shoulder, and tries not to let solitary tears become weeping. He already cried on Leia's shoulder. He already broke the one time.
He wants to say please. He wants to say please, let me have this.
He doesn't want to do that to a friend.
Even drunk, even this drunk, Poe doesn't want to do that to John. He said that's all you have to do. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
This is not the man his mother would want him to be. ]
I'm sorry.
[ To her, to John, to Paige, to every gunner and pilot and bombardier whose lives he lost. He hates himself for apologizing, he hates himself for having to. It's like every weeping soldier his father held on their living room couch with its little woven blanket tossed over the back. The scars of war laid bare, ugly and twisted and all at odds with the domesticity of Kes Dameron's home.
There it is: a promise he didn't keep. He told himself he'd never be one of those men.
He lets John go. ]
no subject
Because it’s too late for John now. He’s run away so many times he can’t find his way home, and no one is looking for him. Not anymore. Because he’d convinced them, and himself, that he isn’t lost, so much as he doesn’t want to be found. So they stopped searching. Stopped holding him when he didn’t want to be held, but needed to be.
And now John’s alone, and it breaks something in him that’s already long past broken to see Poe in the same damned place, because he doesn’t deserve it. He’s a good man, and he shouldn’t be where John is, at the bottom of a dark well, where the water is murky, and the sunlight is so far away, without the strength to claw his way out.
John holds Poe to himself with the strength he can find in his heart for other people, but not for himself. Speaks softly to Poe, the way he would want to be spoken softly to.
Poe is drunk, and John will take care of him.]
You just need to get some rest. How about it? You’ll feel better in the morning. That’s always the way it goes.
I’ll sleep beside you, if it helps. Or I can sleep in Rodney’s bed. Whatever you want. But you’re staying here, with me. Because I don’t think you should be alone right now.
no subject
[ He doesn't know how to express what it means, that he tried to back away and John held on. He doesn't know how to say thank you for love he feels like he doesn't deserve, right now. Kindness he hasn't earned.
Poe turns his head so he's resting his temple against John's shoulder. Loosens his hug until he can back up a step and look over at John's bed.
Does he want someone at close quarters?
Yes. Yes, he does. He doesn't want the dreams that might come from sleeping alone. ]
Together. [ God, he's tired. He's more tired than he was in that alley, when all he wanted was to lay down beside his own vomit and drop into the black.
That wasn't the man his mother would want him to be.
One who asks for help, one who accepts it--that's the man his father would want him to be. Tears or no tears, liquor or none. Someone who gives love and receives it with equal grace.
Poe touches his mother's ring lightly. Then he leans forward and kisses John on the cheek. ]
no subject
Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to try knocking it down. Brave like Poe is, for trusting him. For allowing himself to be helped. For accepting John’s love, when John is too afraid to accept Poe’s love, or anyone else’s.
He directs Poe to the bed with one hand on the space between his shoulders, gently pushing him to sit, and sitting down beside him. Only a few minutes ago, keeping Poe out of his bed had been one of the greatest personal challenge’s John’s ever faced, but that moment has passed, and John’s blood has cooled. All he can feel now is his heart, and how slow it’s beating, calm, and steady, as he guides Poe to lie down and lays behind him.
John kicks off his own shoes onto the floor and reaches down to yank up the blanket. After sleeping in full gear on sand and cement floor, wearing jeans and a t-shirt is nothing. He drapes one arm loosely over Poe’s waist, and settles his head on the pillow. Suddenly, John is very tired. The most tired he’s been since Rodney dragged his drunk ass home from the ball, and barely managed to wrangle him into bed. Talk about karma.
Usually, John struggles to fall asleep, but his eyelids are already feeling heavy. It’s been one hell of a night.]
How’s that? You comfy?
no subject
He makes a noise, an affirmative response, muscles going slack, eyes drifting shut.
All it takes this time is letting go.
The darkness this time isn't an enemy. ]