[Poe is so many firsts for John. He’s never been in a real relationship with a man before. Never been washed before. Never been fucked until he cried before.
The wash cloth is just the right of rough against his skin. Poe scrubs and rinses him, and John doesn’t have do anything but offer his skin. He lifts his arm for Poe, still trembling, watching as the now sudsy water slips between his fingers and travels in rivulets down his bicep. Whether it’s the lingering effects of the powder, or Poe, and everything that happened in bed, but John feels like he’s dreaming. He’s half expecting to wake up on the cold floor of a Wraith hive, post-stun.
Poe kisses his neck, and John knows this is real. Or so close to real he doesn’t want to wake up, and for his memories of this moment to fade away. Not yet. He wants to enjoy this just a little longer, until the inevitable crash and burn of all his dreams. John can’t remember the last time he slept alone, and without nightmares.
He tilts his head back to look at Poe, his eyes are still heavy, and it’s hard to keep them open, but he wants to see him.
Just to make sure it’s his face, and those eyes. John could’ve dreamed those up.]
I’m… sorry if I got weird earlier.
[Acknowledging that anything happened at all feels like a huge leap. Easier to make when it still feels like he’s flying.]
[ He sets the soap to one side and slides his hand up along John's arm to lace their fingers together, staring at the picture that makes, brown skin on white. ] Water might get cold, though.
[ Poe looks down at John's face, almost startlingly close, and kisses the man's nose. ] Weird how?
[ His mind goes to John crying out on the bed, bucking and thrashing, tears on his face, and Poe shifts so he can press his forehead to John's shoulder, bringing their linked hands down so he can wrap his arm (and John's) around the man's stomach.
He's only heard people calling his name like that before when there's nothing he can do to save them. Holding John, holding him close and letting him drift, is like a benediction. ]
[Crying. Moaning. Shaking. Begging. Coming so many times he isn't sure he stopped coming.
Their arms across his belly remind him that he's still aching inside, though not unpleasantly. The shape of Poe stamped into him, along with his release. John likes it there.
He's not a man who's ever wanted to be owned by anyone, but belonging to Poe, maybe that's different. Like he wanted his marriage to be.
John rubs Poe's leg with his free hand beneath the water, over the muscle and swirls of dark hair.]
[ The combined sensation of warm water and John's hand feeds in to the background buzz of euphoria Poe still feels from the powder. He relaxes, sinking a little deeper in to the water, lifting his head to watch tints of red floating to the surface as the powder--nonconductive now, just pigment without power--comes off their skin. Red, Poe thinks, suits them both.
There's a brief, brief impulse to tease John, but it passes as quickly as it came. He can't do it. Not when the man is so clearly uncomfortable. ]
Didn't notice. [ Poe sinks in until his head rests on the edge of the tub, shoulders just exposed enough for John to use them as a headrest if he wants to. He runs a hand through John's sweaty hair. ] Duck yourself under so I can wash your hair.
[John looks back over his scarred shoulder at Poe as his fingers go through his hair, smiling in the way that creases the corners of his eyes. Bright. Without any unspoken heaviness, or gravity at the corners of his mouth.]
Of course you didn't.
[John dunks his head between his knees, spine rounding, blowing bubbles to keep the pinkened water out of his nose. He comes back up again with a gasp, dark hair plastered back from his face. It's longer wet than dry, unevenly cut. John hasn't seen a base barber in years. He doesn't trust them not to shave his head.
It's been some time since anyone's washed his hair. The last time was probably the last proper haircut he'd ever had, sometime during his marriage, at the salon Nancy went to. She tried to make him look presentable, from time to time. For special occasions.
He can't help shaking his head, flinging water everywhere.]
[ Some of it hits Poe in the face. He puts his hand up defensively, laughing again. ]
Easy. Watch the crossfire.
[ He reaches behind him to get the shampoo, spilling some of it into his hand and then working it into John's hair. He massages the suds in, hoping John still feels the powder's buzz, hoping it tags on a little more relaxation.
Poe starts to speak. Hesitates. Bite the bullet, he thinks, not knowing exactly what that means. He's heard it used. He knows enough. ]
[John closes his eyes as Poe's fingers work the shampoo through his hair, massaging his scalp. His head hangs forward, shoulders dropping.
Powder or no powder, it's relaxing. At least when Poe is doing it. There are a lot of things Poe can do no one else can. How he's gotten under John's skin, and into his heart and head, is anyone's guess.
There's too much John likes about him to narrow it down to any one thing, but if he were forced to choose, at gunpoint, he would say it's Poe's soul.
At his core, beneath the calluses and battle scars, Poe is a good man. Like so few are. Being with him, near him, makes John want to be good, too. When Poe touches him like this, with such care and consideration, he can almost believe he is.]
I'm okay. Think I'm coming down, now.
[A pause, shoulderblades shifting as he braces his hands over Poe's knees.]
You're not getting up? I thought you couldn't feel your legs. And you have soap in your hair.
[ He's not sure how to respond to the thanks. He's not sure he's even done anything to be thanked for. He made John cry.
Exhausted is fine, blissed out is good, but he made John cry. The way he sees it, he owes John. He owes him gentleness, he owes him care and rest. He just happens to want to give those things, too.
Poe rinses the suds off his hands, leaving John's hair sticking up in a way that he finds entirely charming, and moves to massage John's shoulders. A trick to get him to stay put, a way to make this last a little longer. ]
[Poe's trick works. John relaxes again, settling back down.
It seems impossible to disobey him, anyway, so soon after he'd fully submitted. John doesn't have it in him to argue. Poe had overpowered him so thoroughly, shaken John to his core in a way he didn't think was possible.
He'd been scared at the time, but there was a strange safety in knowing Poe was strong enough to hold him down, and keep him steady, or push John farther than he was willing, to places he might need to go, but has always been too afraid to, by himself. John's never had someone behind him, giving him that push, ready to catch him if he falls, and actually capable of doing it.
John wasn't sure that person existed, or if there was anyone in any galaxy who would want to, even if they could.
There are twenty or so small, white scars dotting his upper back. Shrapnel. John sighs, and the scars move with the muscle of his back, dancing over bone.]
[ Poe runs his fingertip across those scars, connecting the dots with a trail of water like somehow it'll turn into a picture that makes sense. The longer Poe's alive, the less sure he is that the universe is under any obligation to make any kind of sense at all.
Why are there people who can't see the value of others except as tools. Why this kind of violence, common across universes.
Why would a man like John be alone.
Poe decides to let that last question alone. He got lucky, is all. Plain and simple. ]
I guess that does mean we have to get out of the tub. And change the sheets.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Poe is so many firsts for John. He’s never been in a real relationship with a man before. Never been washed before. Never been fucked until he cried before.
The wash cloth is just the right of rough against his skin. Poe scrubs and rinses him, and John doesn’t have do anything but offer his skin. He lifts his arm for Poe, still trembling, watching as the now sudsy water slips between his fingers and travels in rivulets down his bicep. Whether it’s the lingering effects of the powder, or Poe, and everything that happened in bed, but John feels like he’s dreaming. He’s half expecting to wake up on the cold floor of a Wraith hive, post-stun.
Poe kisses his neck, and John knows this is real. Or so close to real he doesn’t want to wake up, and for his memories of this moment to fade away. Not yet. He wants to enjoy this just a little longer, until the inevitable crash and burn of all his dreams. John can’t remember the last time he slept alone, and without nightmares.
He tilts his head back to look at Poe, his eyes are still heavy, and it’s hard to keep them open, but he wants to see him.
Just to make sure it’s his face, and those eyes. John could’ve dreamed those up.]
I’m… sorry if I got weird earlier.
[Acknowledging that anything happened at all feels like a huge leap. Easier to make when it still feels like he’s flying.]
no subject
[ He sets the soap to one side and slides his hand up along John's arm to lace their fingers together, staring at the picture that makes, brown skin on white. ] Water might get cold, though.
[ Poe looks down at John's face, almost startlingly close, and kisses the man's nose. ] Weird how?
[ His mind goes to John crying out on the bed, bucking and thrashing, tears on his face, and Poe shifts so he can press his forehead to John's shoulder, bringing their linked hands down so he can wrap his arm (and John's) around the man's stomach.
He's only heard people calling his name like that before when there's nothing he can do to save them. Holding John, holding him close and letting him drift, is like a benediction. ]
no subject
Y'know. Weird.
[Crying. Moaning. Shaking. Begging. Coming so many times he isn't sure he stopped coming.
Their arms across his belly remind him that he's still aching inside, though not unpleasantly. The shape of Poe stamped into him, along with his release. John likes it there.
He's not a man who's ever wanted to be owned by anyone, but belonging to Poe, maybe that's different. Like he wanted his marriage to be.
John rubs Poe's leg with his free hand beneath the water, over the muscle and swirls of dark hair.]
Embarrassing. Awkward. Uncomfortable.
no subject
There's a brief, brief impulse to tease John, but it passes as quickly as it came. He can't do it. Not when the man is so clearly uncomfortable. ]
Didn't notice. [ Poe sinks in until his head rests on the edge of the tub, shoulders just exposed enough for John to use them as a headrest if he wants to. He runs a hand through John's sweaty hair. ] Duck yourself under so I can wash your hair.
no subject
Of course you didn't.
[John dunks his head between his knees, spine rounding, blowing bubbles to keep the pinkened water out of his nose. He comes back up again with a gasp, dark hair plastered back from his face. It's longer wet than dry, unevenly cut. John hasn't seen a base barber in years. He doesn't trust them not to shave his head.
It's been some time since anyone's washed his hair. The last time was probably the last proper haircut he'd ever had, sometime during his marriage, at the salon Nancy went to. She tried to make him look presentable, from time to time. For special occasions.
He can't help shaking his head, flinging water everywhere.]
no subject
Easy. Watch the crossfire.
[ He reaches behind him to get the shampoo, spilling some of it into his hand and then working it into John's hair. He massages the suds in, hoping John still feels the powder's buzz, hoping it tags on a little more relaxation.
Poe starts to speak. Hesitates. Bite the bullet, he thinks, not knowing exactly what that means. He's heard it used. He knows enough. ]
You okay?
no subject
Powder or no powder, it's relaxing. At least when Poe is doing it. There are a lot of things Poe can do no one else can. How he's gotten under John's skin, and into his heart and head, is anyone's guess.
There's too much John likes about him to narrow it down to any one thing, but if he were forced to choose, at gunpoint, he would say it's Poe's soul.
At his core, beneath the calluses and battle scars, Poe is a good man. Like so few are. Being with him, near him, makes John want to be good, too. When Poe touches him like this, with such care and consideration, he can almost believe he is.]
I'm okay. Think I'm coming down, now.
[A pause, shoulderblades shifting as he braces his hands over Poe's knees.]
Thanks. For this.
no subject
[ He's not sure how to respond to the thanks. He's not sure he's even done anything to be thanked for. He made John cry.
Exhausted is fine, blissed out is good, but he made John cry. The way he sees it, he owes John. He owes him gentleness, he owes him care and rest. He just happens to want to give those things, too.
Poe rinses the suds off his hands, leaving John's hair sticking up in a way that he finds entirely charming, and moves to massage John's shoulders. A trick to get him to stay put, a way to make this last a little longer. ]
no subject
It seems impossible to disobey him, anyway, so soon after he'd fully submitted. John doesn't have it in him to argue. Poe had overpowered him so thoroughly, shaken John to his core in a way he didn't think was possible.
He'd been scared at the time, but there was a strange safety in knowing Poe was strong enough to hold him down, and keep him steady, or push John farther than he was willing, to places he might need to go, but has always been too afraid to, by himself. John's never had someone behind him, giving him that push, ready to catch him if he falls, and actually capable of doing it.
John wasn't sure that person existed, or if there was anyone in any galaxy who would want to, even if they could.
There are twenty or so small, white scars dotting his upper back. Shrapnel. John sighs, and the scars move with the muscle of his back, dancing over bone.]
I can't wait to go to sleep with you.
no subject
Why are there people who can't see the value of others except as tools. Why this kind of violence, common across universes.
Why would a man like John be alone.
Poe decides to let that last question alone. He got lucky, is all. Plain and simple. ]
I guess that does mean we have to get out of the tub. And change the sheets.