[John looks into Poe's eyes dazedly, still reeling. He doesn't even remember the stumble backwards into the bedroom, or losing his beer.
Just Poe's hands. His mouth. The crush of his body, and how solid he is. The distinct lack of alcohol on his breath and tongue. John's already panting, and half-hard.
That was a hell of a kiss.]
Hi. Uhm, you're here. I didn't-
[John didn't think Poe remembered his open invitation, and if he did, wouldn't have predicted he would take him up on the offer. He'd chalked up Poe's interest in him as "drunk, lonely, and more than a little desperate".
John could've been anyone. It hadn’t been about him. All that mattered was he was warm, present, and willing. In the right place at the right time.
Or wrong time, considering the circumstances, and that John couldn’t have said yes, no matter how badly he’d wanted to. And he’d wanted to. More than badly. Had spent some quality time in the shower the morning after, to that effect.]
[John slowly shuts his mouth, silenced by the look in Poe’s eyes. A sharpness he’s not used to in the easy-going pilot. An intent
It’s different, this time around. And not just because Poe is sober. Because he chose to be here, when he could be anywhere else, with anyone else. It makes a difference. It makes John shy, suddenly. If he weren’t pinned by Poe’s body to the dresser, he might try and put space between them. Find some way to position himself so he can gain his bearings, and regroup. The best he can do is look away, and remember to breathe. When he looks back again, it’s through the safety of his eyelashes.
He doesn’t know where to put his hands, but he knows what he wants to do, which is run his fingers through Poe’s hair. So he does. It feels just as good as he imagined it would. John doesn’t realize he was tense, so tense he was practically vibrating, until he relaxes into Poe.]
[ Poe closes his eyes at the feel of John's hands in his hair, relaxing against John as John does the same. In truth he's thought more than once about John doing this, over the past week. Tracing his hands through Poe's curls. But he wanted to give them time, both of them, Poe to clear his head and John the distance needed not to think Poe was coming to him out of gratitude or debt.
Low voiced: ] Good.
[ He kisses John again, slow and tender this time. His tone is gentle. ] You move your hands from where they are right now, and I'll stop.
[ A second, harder kiss. A knee pushed between John's legs, rubbing against one of John's thighs with the methodical slowness of someone who knows from experience the way that contact will vibrate through John's pants. He teases his other hand up under John's shirt, fingertips barely touching the other man's skin as he follows a scar up John's ribs, follows John's ribs around to his back. He digs his nails in sharply, then smooths his hand over the same spot, shifts his grip, digs in again. ]
[Poe's every kiss is tenderizing. Mentally, physically, and emotionally. Each touch softening John's control, the iron grip with which he holds himself up, as a commander, and as a man, until he can't hold himself up anymore. Until he's helpless, and reliant. Two things That's hates to be, but have never made him harder than right now. Held up solely by Poe's arm and the knee between his legs.
His hands don't leave Poe's hair, because that sounded like an order, and sometimes even John Sheppard likes to take orders.
He makes a sound against Poe's mouth he'll be ashamed of making when this is over, his spine buckling inwards with ever catch and release of Poe's fingers.]
[ Poe chuckles against John’s mouth, a little surprised (a little pleased) by how quickly John comes undone. Now it’s up to him to use it well, and gently. ]
Good. [ Repetition, yes, but this time with a note of approval. ] Arms up.
[ If John obeys, Poe will lift his shirt, pulling it up and out of the way, casting it off to the side. He was right: John has scars. A lot of them. A body riddled with the leavings of conflict. Poe kisses John’s neck, sliding his hands up along John’s arms until he can lace their fingers together and draw John’s hands down to the man’s sides.
Poe knows the kind of man John is. Or at least he recognizes one facet. Humor, deflection. The easy way he keeps people at a distance. John is good at what he does. And what he does is lie. Poe learned more about the Sheppard hidden in the dark while he was drunk than he learned about the man in all the sober weeks they’ve known each other.
He kisses John’s chest. On one side of John’s dog tags, then the other. He tongues the metal and the skin underneath, sweat-salt and copper filling his mouth. He keeps his lips against John’s chest when he speaks again. ] Don’t move your hands unless you want to be punished for it, Sheppard.
[A smirk that trembles if Poe looks at it for too long. John's last ditch attempt at resistance, if only to keep up appearances. To try and maintain some semblance of control, even if they both know it's pointless. Poe threw him off his game when he showed up unexpected.
When he wanted John, like John wants him.
John's fingers curl into fists, digging crescents into his palms. When Poe goes for his fly, he has to remind himself to keep breathing.
He wants to sink his fingers into Poe's hair, and pull him up for a kiss. Turn the tables somehow. It's been years since John's been so out of his element, been anything but a man who knows what he wants, when he wants it, and how to get it. He's had to be that man. Sometimes smiling, sometimes shooting, but always in control.
It scares John to let go. He doesn't know what will happen when he does, what he could do- or what could be done to him.
He's breathing too hard, too fast, but he can't stop himself. Just standing still is taking all his limited concentration, and sweat is already trickling down the hollow of his spine to pool in the shallow dip at the small of his back.]
[ Poe looks. He studies John's face, first from the low angle of lips on chest, then straightening up, so they're almost but not quite eye-to-eye. ] You want it too much.
[ Poe kisses him again, exquisitely gentle, even as he hooks his thumbs over the edge of John's pants and yanks downward, pulling clothing and underwear down past John's ass in one go.
He shifts his lips to John's neck, kissing his way down to collarbone, up again toward John's ear. Poe sinks his teeth lightly into John's earlobe, tugs, then folds his lips around it and sucks, pain and pleasure. He lets go to long enough to speak. ]
We're all just flyboys here. Remember?
[ Then he's kissing John's neck while he explores the curve of the man's ear with his fingertips. ]
[Poe nearly sinks John with that last sucker-punch, but before he can double over, Poe is kissing him better. Keeping him in the ring, but on the ropes. Right where he wants him.
He knows exactly what he's doing. John underestimated him. The sweet, simple boy from Yavin isn't so simple, or sweet. Or a boy. John has never been more aware of Poe's masculinity as he is right now, hyper-sensitive to the rough of his fingertips and cut of his teeth.
John's ears are a weak spot. He doesn't like it when people touch them, mostly because he likes it too much. He shivers, biting back noise, his nipples and dick already harder, and more sensitive than is comfortable to ignore.
He's mostly naked, and Poe is still dressed. John's hands go thoughtlessly to the hem of Poe's shirt, tugging at it. Demanding his equal participation.
John hates being he centre of attention. The focus. He knows if people look at him long enough, hard enough, they'll see the cracks. That he isn't as smart, strong, or worthy of respect as they think he is, and will be angry at John for tricking them into believing he's something he's not.
Sooner or later, they'll catch him. Realize he's not a hero, or even a decent man, and strip him of everything he holds dear. Which isn't a hell of a lot to begin with.
Just his purpose, and his friends. His pride is already dead and buried. Poe probably knows that much, with the way John shakes just to be touched. How easily he breaks at the prospect of affection.
It all seems obvious to John, but most days he can't look in the mirror. He hates the sight of himself.
He feels panic clawing upwards out of his throat, and it manifests in the dig of his nails against Poe's taut belly, and the sharp increase of his breath.
[ Poe's hand drops from John's ear to his wrist, gripping it hard. He bites John's neck hard enough to leave the kind of mark people will notice. Murmured against the mark of his teeth: ] What did I say?
[ He takes John's other wrist and pulls the man's hands away from his shirt, placing John's hands almost gently back at his sides. John doesn't get to hide, here. He doesn't get to run away. Poe is too familiar with the impulse, the ducking behind a blaster or a laser canon and a quip.
He's more emotional than John, he doesn't hide it as well as John, lashes out or invites people in more readily than John, but there comes a point where it's still easier to be the hotshot flyboy with a dumb sense of humor than it is to be honest with himself or anyone else.
Poe runs his thumbs gently over the callouses at the base of John's palms. He presses his cheek against the roughness of John's own and murmurs into his ear: ] Keep your hands where they are, John.
[John doesn't like this. He doesn't like not being able to touch Poe, to make it just as much about him as it is about John. He's uncomfortable, right now. Crawling out of his skin with the need to move. To do. If he can't direct his energy into making Poe feel good, it rattles around violently inside of him like a loose screw in a turbine.
His stomach twists with anger, fear, and arousal, all at once. He wonders if Poe can smell it in his sweat. Taste it on his skin.
He's only slightly mollified by the touch of Poe's cheek, his neck still stinging. His dick still hard. He can't even think about tomorrow, what this could mean for their working relationship, or what the people around them might think, if they find out. John isn't sure he'll make it through the night. He'll be lucky if he makes it through the hour.
John wants nothing more than to laugh this off. To play it the way he's used to playing it. Like a game. Because John wins games.
And right now he feels like a loser. He feels small. He feels unworthy of Poe's attention, of Poe's lips, and the heat of his eyes, and the weight of his hands. People don't like John for John, they like him for what he can do, and right now, he's doing nothing. Just standing. Naked.]
C'mon, at least let me- I want to touch you.
Are you enjoying this? [John really, honestly wants to know if he is, or if Poe's just... Taking him apart for the hell of it. Because he can.
Don’t worry about it. [ He looks into John's face, his own expression steady enough as to be almost unreadable, eyes soft and bright.
Poe kisses him again, lips and tongue, mild, then rougher. Teeth. He pushes against John, holding the other man's hands at his sides, squeezing his wrists against just to prove a point before he lets go and splays his fingers lightly against the length of John's dick. Runs his thumb over the head, slicking his own skin and rubbing circles with his thumb until his hand sinks into the hair at the base. He cups John's balls, raking his thumbnail lightly against the cleft of skin between them.
He never stops kissing John, not for a moment. Doesn't give him a chance to breathe, never mind think. Poe wants to push. He wants to take John over the edge before he pulls him back, drive him to the brink and take it away. Force Sheppard to exist in a state of suspended stimulation until he stops worrying about anyone else and just wants his own release. ]
John wants to bite back. To knock Poe off the pedestal he must have found some magic shortcut to, after falling so hard only just a few short days ago. He hates being told what to do. Hates being looked down on. Hates to be pried at, and studied, as if what he's thinking and feeling is anyone's goddamn business but his own, so long as he's getting the job done. Which he always does. One way or the other.
Hates even more that Poe's right, because he does worry, he worries a lot, and John isn't used to people being right. He's used to them seeing what he wants them to see. What he's comfortable showing them. What's safe.
Hates himself, for turning something that should be enjoyable, with a person he likes, likes a lot, into a nightmare because he's so afraid.
He felt safe, somehow, when Poe was holding his wrists. Grounded. John isn't sure he likes that either. As a man who's always been obsessed with freedom and independence, he's never understood his oppositional urge to be tied up, and held down. Married. Locked into a military contract. Commander.
He doesn't know how he can be so angry at Poe, so scared, his heart hammering, nerves shot, blood spiking with adrenaline, and an almost willing slave to his kiss at the same time.
Why he only feels safe right now, helpless, when his brain isn't calling the shots.
His hands spasm uselessly at his sides, a sounds something like a whimper escaping his lips and into Poe's mouth. John could come right now, if Poe let him. His body's release and escape from the almost painful buildup of tension shaking him from head to toe.
John tilts his head back, opening his mouth more, giving Poe everything. Trying to force himself to relax. Changing his tactics. He just can't stop himself from grasping for control, even when he doesn't want it.]
[ And Poe eases up. He winds down. Gentles his kisses, eases his hand back up John's cock.
Then he kneels.
Ignores John's hard-on.
Starts unlacing John's boots, one, then the other, taking his time. He cups one heel and draws off boot and then sock, forcing John to lift his foot. He smooths his hand over the top of John's arch, leans down to kiss the spot. Poe gives John's other boot, his other foot the same attention.
He isn't going to make this easy. John doesn't need easy. He doesn't need brief, rough, fun. It's one-half instinct and one-half self-knowledge on Poe's part. They're similar. In some ways they're exactly the same.
Cassian knows the fractures in his spirit. Finn knows the fear that runs along the fault lines of his heart. Leia... Leia knows his soul. John has Rodney, here, but sometimes one person to lean on isn't enough. Isn't nearly enough.
John has lost enough people to state that fact calmly. He's suffered enough to offer comfort without emotion, without getting himself involved. Steady and unselfish. Speaking from the top of a wall.
He kisses John's inner thigh, tongue and teeth, working his way up. His temple brushes John's erection and Poe shifts back, taking John's dick in his mouth, easing the head up against the roof of his mouth and running his tongue in circles along its underside. ]
[There’s something in the way Poe takes John’s boots off and touches John’s feet that makes him want to cry. John can’t put words to the feeling, or pick it out of a line-up. It’s too much, too fast, and all at once. Everything bungling up into an impossibly complicated knot of emotion he can’t find the start or end of, to even begin unraveling it. All he can do is hold on.
Tears prickle in his eyes. Burning his eyelids when closed against them. Almost crying. John does a lot of it. He almost sobs when Poe kisses his inner thigh. He catches it in his throat. Then Poe’s lips wrap around his dick, and he almost sobs again with relief. Almost.
His hands go almost immediately into Poe’s hair, tugging, and knotting, twisting thick curls around his fingers. Comforting himself with the touch. John’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, because his balls don’t care how he’s feeling. Their priority is to bust down the back of Poe’s throat. It’s not a bad priority, and if John concentrates on it, on coming, his can almost breathe.]
[ Once again Poe reaches up and wraps his hands around John's wrists. He draws his mouth away from John's penis and eases to his feet, tugging John's hands out of his hair, even though it stings a little, tangled up as John's fingers are. ] No.
[ A kiss that's just the gentle press of lips against John's cheek. He lets go of one of John's wrists, keeping his grip on the other.
Poe leans down and tongues one of John's nipples, pressing the thumb of his free hand against the other, rotating it gently under the pad of his thumb. He squeezes John's wrist, speaking against the man's skin. ] Not yet.
[ Reel in, let out. He trails his fingertips down along John's ribs, pausing and exploring each scar he finds on the way. Poe knows what's happened to his own body. He wonders how many of these are from torture, how many from battles that cost John dearly to win.
He rests his chin against John's pectoral, looking up at him from under long lashes. A tiny, tiny smile twitches the corner of his lip. ] You don't get off that easy.
You… [Those eyes. Those lips. That smile. John’s mind goes blank. Whatever he was going to say, it wasn’t that important. Not in comparison to the vice of Poe’s fingers around his wrist, and the way he feels right now. Scared, but safe. Anxious, but alive. Alone, but… Not alone. He doesn’t feel alone.]
I could push you out of an air-lock.
[John’s smile, his real smile, not the smile he wears for everyone’s benefit but his own, is just as scarred as the rest of him. Faded and fragile. A little shy. A lot shy, upon closer inspection. John’s armor is carefully crafted, but Poe’s assault is relentless. Layer after layer stripped away until he’s wearing nothing but skin.
Maybe that’s why John feels so light. Why he can laugh, even though he still feels like he could cry, and almost does both at the same time. His chest rises and falls steeply with something between a chuckle and a sob, and the truth is somewhere in between.]
[ Poe sees the difference. He likes this smile. He'll hold on to it, that tentative honesty. It also tells him that finally, finally, John is being real. Finally, he's past pretending. Or maybe it's that Poe has scaled the walls. He knows better than to think he's knocked them down.
You'd deserve it, John says, and Poe's own small smile spreads into a grin. ]
Probably.
[ He eases upright again and kisses that smile, one corner of John's mouth, the other, then tongue, teeth, deepening intensity that Poe pauses just long enough to murmur, ] Now you can touch me.
[John sighs with relief against Poe’s mouth, melting against him. He should be ashamed of himself, and angry at Poe, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but gratitude. Humbled by Poe’s generousity. John would thank him, if he could stop kissing him. He can’t.
His hands go straight to Poe’s hair, petting it back from his forehead and temples as they kiss. When John’s had enough of that, his hands roam indulgently over Poe’s broad shoulders and chest, both of which earn a steady hum of approval. His callused palms grate against Poe’s nipples on their way down to the front of his pants. John gropes him roughly through the canvas, too impatient to unbuckle his belt, because he’s been wanting to do that since the first night Poe had nearly broken him.
[ God but it feels good to turn John loose. Those hands tugging at the cloth of his shirt, that approving noise. Poe hisses at the grind, then the hand on his half-erect penis through the cloth. He bites John's lower lip. Loosens his grip and runs his tongue over the spot. It's a favorite trick, the rough and the sweet. ]
Take your pants off.
[ They're still there, half-way down John's legs, now nothing but in the way. ] Then undress me, Sheppard.
[ He runs his hands through John's hair, looking the man dead in the eyes. ] Please.
[As if John could deny those eyes. He wants nothing more than to satisfy Poe. To earn his pleasure, and his praise. John's happiest when he's working, and now he has a job to do.
His hands fall away from Poe's crotch, but only so he can shove his pants down to his ankles and kick them off.
Then comes the moment he's been waiting for.
John's eyes stay on Poe's eyes as he grabs at the hem of his shirt, and pulling it up over Poe's head and soon as he lifts his arms, Poe's necklace catching in the collar before dropping back down onto his chest.
He can't help but lean down and kiss a line down Poe's throat to the centre of his chest, following the line of the chain all the way to the washer sitting squarely between Poe's pecs. John loves the story of that washer. It appeals to the romantic in him. Reminds him that there's always love, even at war. Something that's easy to forget, when you're knee-deep in blood and regret.
His fingers play at the buckle of Poe's belt, flicking it open with just his thumb, and yanking it free of the loops with one pull. Practice makes perfect.
He mouths at the corner of Poe's lips hungrily, more than a little greedy as he sinks his fingers into the meat of Poe's hips, edging his pants down his ass, and taking his time doing it. Savouring the reveal. Taking advantage of Poe's generousity.]
[ That's part of the reason Poe wears the ring, that reminder, that bit of hope. There aren't that many people who know what it is. Either they haven't seen it or they don't have the courage or curiosity to ask.
Poe is fine with that. It might be the gift he plans to give the right partner some time down the line, but right now--right now it's a tether, a private link to the mother the New Republic recognized as a true hero. The pilot who saved more lives than she ever would have admitted to, herself.
He doesn't think he's in love with John Sheppard--he doesn't think this is what love feels like. It's a different kind of affection, the kind of love where broken pieces match up well enough to maybe rub the sharp edges away from either side. Still broken. Less painfully so.
He gives John the reward of a moan as his belt whips free of the loops, turns his head to present ear and throat as John works his pants down slowly. He's going to have to dip into those pockets before they move to the bed--he brought a local lubricant, something that makes the skin tingle, and he's not about to waste the chance to use it.
Poe grips John's wrists tightly, not pulling, not pushing, just hanging on, hard enough to leave the possibility of a bruise. With a ghost of amusement: ] Taking your time.
[John squeezes Poe's ass with both hands, and takes his time with that too. He's the one Poe's been making to wait, after all. Has been chomping at the bit ever since Poe reined him in.
When he's had his fill of skin, he drops Poe's pants and boxers down around his ankles, and bends down to pick them up.
Eye-level with Poe's cock, he can't help biting his lip. Hard. There's a lot. Some might say too much, but John's always been a believer in the saying 'go big or go home'. Length he can give or take, but thickness? His eyes dart from Poe's cock, to his face, and back again. John swallows.
Can he get away with it? It's worth a shot.
At the very least, he'll get a lick in, all the way from the root to tip. And since he likes to live dangerously, he gives that a suck too. Poe can't blame him from wanting a taste.]
[ Goosebumps roll up Poe's back along with the sensation. Poe sinks his hands into John's hair and tugs softly, then moves his hands to the tops of John's ears and pulls a little less softly. ]
Nuh-uh.
[ Even if he's getting hard from the attention. Even if it would be easy to let John have what he wants. That isn't what this is about. Yeah, it's going to end up with both of them getting their fill, but right now, it's not about letting John do things his way. ] Left hand pocket. My left.
[ Hey, the guy is down there, he might as well get the lube out. ]
[John nearly chokes when Poe pulls him back by his ears, which are very sensitive, and also attached to his goddamn head. He narrows his eyes, somewhere between pouty and rebellious, but it's hard to concentrate on Poe's face with his dick getting hard just inches away.
John's not used to not being in charge, and he keeps forgetting the shots aren't his to call. Would already be doing things his way, on his terms, if Poe weren't constantly reminding him.
Frustrated. Excited. Annoyed. Aroused. Scared. He's all of those emotions, and more. The polar opposite of the sex John's used to having. Simple and safe, with so many layers of protection between him and the other person, that nothing short of teeth can hurt him.
He's half expecting a condom when he reaches into Poe's pocket, but pulls out lubricant instead. He's surprised to see it. Knowing Poe thought that far ahead, that this really was pre-meditated, and not just a spur of the moment decision on a rough night makes John's chest tight, his breath skipping, desire knifing him so violently in the gut he's almost dizzy.]
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[John looks into Poe's eyes dazedly, still reeling. He doesn't even remember the stumble backwards into the bedroom, or losing his beer.
Just Poe's hands. His mouth. The crush of his body, and how solid he is. The distinct lack of alcohol on his breath and tongue. John's already panting, and half-hard.
That was a hell of a kiss.]
Hi. Uhm, you're here. I didn't-
[John didn't think Poe remembered his open invitation, and if he did, wouldn't have predicted he would take him up on the offer. He'd chalked up Poe's interest in him as "drunk, lonely, and more than a little desperate".
John could've been anyone. It hadn’t been about him. All that mattered was he was warm, present, and willing. In the right place at the right time.
Or wrong time, considering the circumstances, and that John couldn’t have said yes, no matter how badly he’d wanted to. And he’d wanted to. More than badly. Had spent some quality time in the shower the morning after, to that effect.]
Right now?
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I could always come back later.
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[John slowly shuts his mouth, silenced by the look in Poe’s eyes. A sharpness he’s not used to in the easy-going pilot. An intent
It’s different, this time around. And not just because Poe is sober. Because he chose to be here, when he could be anywhere else, with anyone else. It makes a difference. It makes John shy, suddenly. If he weren’t pinned by Poe’s body to the dresser, he might try and put space between them. Find some way to position himself so he can gain his bearings, and regroup. The best he can do is look away, and remember to breathe. When he looks back again, it’s through the safety of his eyelashes.
He doesn’t know where to put his hands, but he knows what he wants to do, which is run his fingers through Poe’s hair. So he does. It feels just as good as he imagined it would. John doesn’t realize he was tense, so tense he was practically vibrating, until he relaxes into Poe.]
Right now... is fine. It's good.
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Low voiced: ] Good.
[ He kisses John again, slow and tender this time. His tone is gentle. ] You move your hands from where they are right now, and I'll stop.
[ A second, harder kiss. A knee pushed between John's legs, rubbing against one of John's thighs with the methodical slowness of someone who knows from experience the way that contact will vibrate through John's pants. He teases his other hand up under John's shirt, fingertips barely touching the other man's skin as he follows a scar up John's ribs, follows John's ribs around to his back. He digs his nails in sharply, then smooths his hand over the same spot, shifts his grip, digs in again. ]
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His hands don't leave Poe's hair, because that sounded like an order, and sometimes even John Sheppard likes to take orders.
He makes a sound against Poe's mouth he'll be ashamed of making when this is over, his spine buckling inwards with ever catch and release of Poe's fingers.]
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Good. [ Repetition, yes, but this time with a note of approval. ] Arms up.
[ If John obeys, Poe will lift his shirt, pulling it up and out of the way, casting it off to the side. He was right: John has scars. A lot of them. A body riddled with the leavings of conflict. Poe kisses John’s neck, sliding his hands up along John’s arms until he can lace their fingers together and draw John’s hands down to the man’s sides.
Poe knows the kind of man John is. Or at least he recognizes one facet. Humor, deflection. The easy way he keeps people at a distance. John is good at what he does. And what he does is lie. Poe learned more about the Sheppard hidden in the dark while he was drunk than he learned about the man in all the sober weeks they’ve known each other.
He kisses John’s chest. On one side of John’s dog tags, then the other. He tongues the metal and the skin underneath, sweat-salt and copper filling his mouth. He keeps his lips against John’s chest when he speaks again. ] Don’t move your hands unless you want to be punished for it, Sheppard.
[ And then he pops the button on John's pants. ]
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[A smirk that trembles if Poe looks at it for too long. John's last ditch attempt at resistance, if only to keep up appearances. To try and maintain some semblance of control, even if they both know it's pointless. Poe threw him off his game when he showed up unexpected.
When he wanted John, like John wants him.
John's fingers curl into fists, digging crescents into his palms. When Poe goes for his fly, he has to remind himself to keep breathing.
He wants to sink his fingers into Poe's hair, and pull him up for a kiss. Turn the tables somehow. It's been years since John's been so out of his element, been anything but a man who knows what he wants, when he wants it, and how to get it. He's had to be that man. Sometimes smiling, sometimes shooting, but always in control.
It scares John to let go. He doesn't know what will happen when he does, what he could do- or what could be done to him.
He's breathing too hard, too fast, but he can't stop himself. Just standing still is taking all his limited concentration, and sweat is already trickling down the hollow of his spine to pool in the shallow dip at the small of his back.]
Is this any way to treat your commanding officer?
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[ Poe kisses him again, exquisitely gentle, even as he hooks his thumbs over the edge of John's pants and yanks downward, pulling clothing and underwear down past John's ass in one go.
He shifts his lips to John's neck, kissing his way down to collarbone, up again toward John's ear. Poe sinks his teeth lightly into John's earlobe, tugs, then folds his lips around it and sucks, pain and pleasure. He lets go to long enough to speak. ]
We're all just flyboys here. Remember?
[ Then he's kissing John's neck while he explores the curve of the man's ear with his fingertips. ]
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He knows exactly what he's doing. John underestimated him. The sweet, simple boy from Yavin isn't so simple, or sweet. Or a boy. John has never been more aware of Poe's masculinity as he is right now, hyper-sensitive to the rough of his fingertips and cut of his teeth.
John's ears are a weak spot. He doesn't like it when people touch them, mostly because he likes it too much. He shivers, biting back noise, his nipples and dick already harder, and more sensitive than is comfortable to ignore.
He's mostly naked, and Poe is still dressed. John's hands go thoughtlessly to the hem of Poe's shirt, tugging at it. Demanding his equal participation.
John hates being he centre of attention. The focus. He knows if people look at him long enough, hard enough, they'll see the cracks. That he isn't as smart, strong, or worthy of respect as they think he is, and will be angry at John for tricking them into believing he's something he's not.
Sooner or later, they'll catch him. Realize he's not a hero, or even a decent man, and strip him of everything he holds dear. Which isn't a hell of a lot to begin with.
Just his purpose, and his friends. His pride is already dead and buried. Poe probably knows that much, with the way John shakes just to be touched. How easily he breaks at the prospect of affection.
It all seems obvious to John, but most days he can't look in the mirror. He hates the sight of himself.
He feels panic clawing upwards out of his throat, and it manifests in the dig of his nails against Poe's taut belly, and the sharp increase of his breath.
As always, he suffers in silence.]
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[ He takes John's other wrist and pulls the man's hands away from his shirt, placing John's hands almost gently back at his sides. John doesn't get to hide, here. He doesn't get to run away. Poe is too familiar with the impulse, the ducking behind a blaster or a laser canon and a quip.
He's more emotional than John, he doesn't hide it as well as John, lashes out or invites people in more readily than John, but there comes a point where it's still easier to be the hotshot flyboy with a dumb sense of humor than it is to be honest with himself or anyone else.
Poe runs his thumbs gently over the callouses at the base of John's palms. He presses his cheek against the roughness of John's own and murmurs into his ear: ] Keep your hands where they are, John.
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His stomach twists with anger, fear, and arousal, all at once. He wonders if Poe can smell it in his sweat. Taste it on his skin.
He's only slightly mollified by the touch of Poe's cheek, his neck still stinging. His dick still hard. He can't even think about tomorrow, what this could mean for their working relationship, or what the people around them might think, if they find out. John isn't sure he'll make it through the night. He'll be lucky if he makes it through the hour.
John wants nothing more than to laugh this off. To play it the way he's used to playing it. Like a game. Because John wins games.
And right now he feels like a loser. He feels small. He feels unworthy of Poe's attention, of Poe's lips, and the heat of his eyes, and the weight of his hands. People don't like John for John, they like him for what he can do, and right now, he's doing nothing. Just standing. Naked.]
C'mon, at least let me- I want to touch you.
Are you enjoying this? [John really, honestly wants to know if he is, or if Poe's just... Taking him apart for the hell of it. Because he can.
It terrifies John that he can.]
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Poe kisses him again, lips and tongue, mild, then rougher. Teeth. He pushes against John, holding the other man's hands at his sides, squeezing his wrists against just to prove a point before he lets go and splays his fingers lightly against the length of John's dick. Runs his thumb over the head, slicking his own skin and rubbing circles with his thumb until his hand sinks into the hair at the base. He cups John's balls, raking his thumbnail lightly against the cleft of skin between them.
He never stops kissing John, not for a moment. Doesn't give him a chance to breathe, never mind think. Poe wants to push. He wants to take John over the edge before he pulls him back, drive him to the brink and take it away. Force Sheppard to exist in a state of suspended stimulation until he stops worrying about anyone else and just wants his own release. ]
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John wants to bite back. To knock Poe off the pedestal he must have found some magic shortcut to, after falling so hard only just a few short days ago. He hates being told what to do. Hates being looked down on. Hates to be pried at, and studied, as if what he's thinking and feeling is anyone's goddamn business but his own, so long as he's getting the job done. Which he always does. One way or the other.
Hates even more that Poe's right, because he does worry, he worries a lot, and John isn't used to people being right. He's used to them seeing what he wants them to see. What he's comfortable showing them. What's safe.
Hates himself, for turning something that should be enjoyable, with a person he likes, likes a lot, into a nightmare because he's so afraid.
He felt safe, somehow, when Poe was holding his wrists. Grounded. John isn't sure he likes that either. As a man who's always been obsessed with freedom and independence, he's never understood his oppositional urge to be tied up, and held down. Married. Locked into a military contract. Commander.
He doesn't know how he can be so angry at Poe, so scared, his heart hammering, nerves shot, blood spiking with adrenaline, and an almost willing slave to his kiss at the same time.
Why he only feels safe right now, helpless, when his brain isn't calling the shots.
His hands spasm uselessly at his sides, a sounds something like a whimper escaping his lips and into Poe's mouth. John could come right now, if Poe let him. His body's release and escape from the almost painful buildup of tension shaking him from head to toe.
John tilts his head back, opening his mouth more, giving Poe everything. Trying to force himself to relax. Changing his tactics. He just can't stop himself from grasping for control, even when he doesn't want it.]
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Then he kneels.
Ignores John's hard-on.
Starts unlacing John's boots, one, then the other, taking his time. He cups one heel and draws off boot and then sock, forcing John to lift his foot. He smooths his hand over the top of John's arch, leans down to kiss the spot. Poe gives John's other boot, his other foot the same attention.
He isn't going to make this easy. John doesn't need easy. He doesn't need brief, rough, fun. It's one-half instinct and one-half self-knowledge on Poe's part. They're similar. In some ways they're exactly the same.
Cassian knows the fractures in his spirit. Finn knows the fear that runs along the fault lines of his heart. Leia... Leia knows his soul. John has Rodney, here, but sometimes one person to lean on isn't enough. Isn't nearly enough.
John has lost enough people to state that fact calmly. He's suffered enough to offer comfort without emotion, without getting himself involved. Steady and unselfish. Speaking from the top of a wall.
He kisses John's inner thigh, tongue and teeth, working his way up. His temple brushes John's erection and Poe shifts back, taking John's dick in his mouth, easing the head up against the roof of his mouth and running his tongue in circles along its underside. ]
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Tears prickle in his eyes. Burning his eyelids when closed against them. Almost crying. John does a lot of it. He almost sobs when Poe kisses his inner thigh. He catches it in his throat. Then Poe’s lips wrap around his dick, and he almost sobs again with relief. Almost.
His hands go almost immediately into Poe’s hair, tugging, and knotting, twisting thick curls around his fingers. Comforting himself with the touch. John’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, because his balls don’t care how he’s feeling. Their priority is to bust down the back of Poe’s throat. It’s not a bad priority, and if John concentrates on it, on coming, his can almost breathe.]
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[ A kiss that's just the gentle press of lips against John's cheek. He lets go of one of John's wrists, keeping his grip on the other.
Poe leans down and tongues one of John's nipples, pressing the thumb of his free hand against the other, rotating it gently under the pad of his thumb. He squeezes John's wrist, speaking against the man's skin. ] Not yet.
[ Reel in, let out. He trails his fingertips down along John's ribs, pausing and exploring each scar he finds on the way. Poe knows what's happened to his own body. He wonders how many of these are from torture, how many from battles that cost John dearly to win.
He rests his chin against John's pectoral, looking up at him from under long lashes. A tiny, tiny smile twitches the corner of his lip. ] You don't get off that easy.
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I could push you out of an air-lock.
[John’s smile, his real smile, not the smile he wears for everyone’s benefit but his own, is just as scarred as the rest of him. Faded and fragile. A little shy. A lot shy, upon closer inspection. John’s armor is carefully crafted, but Poe’s assault is relentless. Layer after layer stripped away until he’s wearing nothing but skin.
Maybe that’s why John feels so light. Why he can laugh, even though he still feels like he could cry, and almost does both at the same time. His chest rises and falls steeply with something between a chuckle and a sob, and the truth is somewhere in between.]
You’d deserve it.
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You'd deserve it, John says, and Poe's own small smile spreads into a grin. ]
Probably.
[ He eases upright again and kisses that smile, one corner of John's mouth, the other, then tongue, teeth, deepening intensity that Poe pauses just long enough to murmur, ] Now you can touch me.
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His hands go straight to Poe’s hair, petting it back from his forehead and temples as they kiss. When John’s had enough of that, his hands roam indulgently over Poe’s broad shoulders and chest, both of which earn a steady hum of approval. His callused palms grate against Poe’s nipples on their way down to the front of his pants. John gropes him roughly through the canvas, too impatient to unbuckle his belt, because he’s been wanting to do that since the first night Poe had nearly broken him.
A man only has so much self-control.]
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Take your pants off.
[ They're still there, half-way down John's legs, now nothing but in the way. ] Then undress me, Sheppard.
[ He runs his hands through John's hair, looking the man dead in the eyes. ] Please.
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His hands fall away from Poe's crotch, but only so he can shove his pants down to his ankles and kick them off.
Then comes the moment he's been waiting for.
John's eyes stay on Poe's eyes as he grabs at the hem of his shirt, and pulling it up over Poe's head and soon as he lifts his arms, Poe's necklace catching in the collar before dropping back down onto his chest.
He can't help but lean down and kiss a line down Poe's throat to the centre of his chest, following the line of the chain all the way to the washer sitting squarely between Poe's pecs. John loves the story of that washer. It appeals to the romantic in him. Reminds him that there's always love, even at war. Something that's easy to forget, when you're knee-deep in blood and regret.
His fingers play at the buckle of Poe's belt, flicking it open with just his thumb, and yanking it free of the loops with one pull. Practice makes perfect.
He mouths at the corner of Poe's lips hungrily, more than a little greedy as he sinks his fingers into the meat of Poe's hips, edging his pants down his ass, and taking his time doing it. Savouring the reveal. Taking advantage of Poe's generousity.]
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Poe is fine with that. It might be the gift he plans to give the right partner some time down the line, but right now--right now it's a tether, a private link to the mother the New Republic recognized as a true hero. The pilot who saved more lives than she ever would have admitted to, herself.
He doesn't think he's in love with John Sheppard--he doesn't think this is what love feels like. It's a different kind of affection, the kind of love where broken pieces match up well enough to maybe rub the sharp edges away from either side. Still broken. Less painfully so.
He gives John the reward of a moan as his belt whips free of the loops, turns his head to present ear and throat as John works his pants down slowly. He's going to have to dip into those pockets before they move to the bed--he brought a local lubricant, something that makes the skin tingle, and he's not about to waste the chance to use it.
Poe grips John's wrists tightly, not pulling, not pushing, just hanging on, hard enough to leave the possibility of a bruise. With a ghost of amusement: ] Taking your time.
[ He doesn't sound bothered in the least. ]
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[John squeezes Poe's ass with both hands, and takes his time with that too. He's the one Poe's been making to wait, after all. Has been chomping at the bit ever since Poe reined him in.
When he's had his fill of skin, he drops Poe's pants and boxers down around his ankles, and bends down to pick them up.
Eye-level with Poe's cock, he can't help biting his lip. Hard. There's a lot. Some might say too much, but John's always been a believer in the saying 'go big or go home'. Length he can give or take, but thickness? His eyes dart from Poe's cock, to his face, and back again. John swallows.
Can he get away with it? It's worth a shot.
At the very least, he'll get a lick in, all the way from the root to tip. And since he likes to live dangerously, he gives that a suck too. Poe can't blame him from wanting a taste.]
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Nuh-uh.
[ Even if he's getting hard from the attention. Even if it would be easy to let John have what he wants. That isn't what this is about. Yeah, it's going to end up with both of them getting their fill, but right now, it's not about letting John do things his way. ] Left hand pocket. My left.
[ Hey, the guy is down there, he might as well get the lube out. ]
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He narrows his eyes, somewhere between pouty and rebellious, but it's hard to concentrate on Poe's face with his dick getting hard just inches away.
John's not used to not being in charge, and he keeps forgetting the shots aren't his to call. Would already be doing things his way, on his terms, if Poe weren't constantly reminding him.
Frustrated. Excited. Annoyed. Aroused. Scared. He's all of those emotions, and more. The polar opposite of the sex John's used to having. Simple and safe, with so many layers of protection between him and the other person, that nothing short of teeth can hurt him.
He's half expecting a condom when he reaches into Poe's pocket, but pulls out lubricant instead. He's surprised to see it. Knowing Poe thought that far ahead, that this really was pre-meditated, and not just a spur of the moment decision on a rough night makes John's chest tight, his breath skipping, desire knifing him so violently in the gut he's almost dizzy.]
You... really thought this through.
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