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.]
[ Poe kneels, carefully, bringing himself eye to eye with John. He smooths his thumbs over John's eyelids, forcing the man to close his eyes, so Poe can kiss one eyelid, then the other, then his lips, just the brush of mouth on mouth. ]
Yes, I did.
[ There's so much in John's words. The surprise. It breaks Poe's heart a little bit, for reasons he can't quite name. As though someone wouldn't think through a night with John. As though it's a novel experience.
Poe makes a silent note to do this again, to think it through again, to show somehow that he did so.
He kisses John more firmly, gripping his upper arms to guide John back to his feet. He takes the little tube from John, twisting off the cap, smearing a generous dose of the gel across John's fingertips. ] I've been thinking about this for, oh, a week or so.
[ Another kiss. He takes John's wrist and pulls the man's hand down to touch Poe's dick. ] Give or take.
A week. [If John sounds mystified, it's because he is. It's mind-boggling, really. A week to mull it over, and Poe still thinks this is a good idea. Still wants him. If John had a week to think sleeping with him over, he would've packed his bags and taken the next flight to the farthest place away from himself.
He doesn't open his eyes until they standing, because he doesn't want to lose the memory of those kisses, and how soft they were. Tender. Like maybe he's something delicate. It should both him more than it does, to be seen as anything but unstoppable. Anything less than resilient.
But behind closed doors, naked, he's just John Sheppard. Commander of no one. Without his gear, and his guns, he's not so big. Just fragile as anyone else made of flesh and bone. Moreso, if his heart is brought into the equation.
Which it is. Kicking and screaming. Against his better judgement.
John slicks the length of Poe's dick, hard as a rock beneath his fingertips. He shivers, tongue darting out over his lower lip, working the lube into the skin, until he's wet with it. Glossy. If John could take a picture, he would.
Then Poe pops the question, the other question and his brow shoots up in surprise. John's not used to be asked so bluntly. He's never really been asked before, it always just... happened. Having to put words to what he wants, to ask for it, he can already feel his throat getting tight, heat sweeping from ear to ear across his nose and cheekbones.]
What? I, uh- I'm not picky, I mean, I guess if I had to choose- what do you want to do? You're the one who's had a week to think it over- Hell, I don't know! [His voice raising at least an octave. John gets pitchy when he's put on the spot. He does know, he just doesn't want to say it.]
[ Poe gives him a blank look for a second. Then enlightenment dawns. And he cracks the fuck up. He puts his hand on the back of John's head, pulling them together until their foreheads touch, still laughing. ]
Give or take a week, John. Give or take a week.
[ He laughs into another kiss, suddenly enamored of this man in an entirely different way. There's a strange sweetness to John's reluctance to say one way or the other, miscommunication or no. He pulls John close enough that they can feel each others' erections. ] You're going to take it, and you're going to like it.
[John's painfully embarrassed, cringing at himself, but then Poe has such a laugh. How has John never noticed? Thinking back on all the time they've spent together, in the hangar, cockpit, around town, Poe doesn't really laugh that often, and it's a damn crime. John will make Poe laugh each and every day, if it means he gets to hear it.
Poe's laughter is sweet on his lips, John inhales it deep into his lungs. Stores it inside of himself for later, for an emergency. When oxygen isn't enough of a reason to keep breathing.
John should never have let Poe in. He screwed up. Big time.
Because he was fine without this, before. At least that's what he told himself. Now he's desperate for the next kiss, desperate for the next shared breath, desperate for this man to touch him, to want him, to be inside of him.
John shudders, because Poe knows him, somehow. Knows what he wants, even though John doesn't know how to ask. Is afraid to. He'll take it from Poe, and he'll like it too damn much. More than he should.
Forehead to forehead, his nose brushes against Poe's nose, and he thinks back to the Pegasus Galaxy. It's a taste of home. Right here, right now, is the first time he hasn't missed it.]
Okay.
[In the end, his submission comes down to a single word.]
[ He takes the lube from John. Puts a hand to John's hip, turns him gently so John's back is to him. Poe slicks his fingers with the lube, traces them from the top of John's ass down between his cheeks until he brushes John's hole. He runs his finger gently along the outer edge, then penetrates, slicking his fingers against John's inner walls.
Poe tosses the little lube tube onto John's bed, just in case they need it. He kisses the back of John's neck along the hairline, down to his shoulder blades, tonguing down further until he's at the small of John's back and seems like he might, might just lick his way down John's ass.
Then he's straightening up, arm around John's waist, dick pressed gently against John's cheeks.
It's odd, to feel this kind of ownership of a man he's known for so little time. It's odd to feel that ownership when they're so new to this kind of intimacy. Poe isn't used to it. He's used to easy sex, friendly sex, sex without commitment. This feels like a pact made, somehow, but he doesn't have it in him to be afraid of that just now.
[John doesn't argue. He's on cruise-control while his brain lags, easily directed by the pilot. Still hung up on the press of Poe's fingers inside of him, and those kisses scattered from his neck to his ass like so many stars in a constellation.
He's been with men before. Men in college. Men in bars. Men in the military. Men at war. John prefers women, because who doesn't, but there have always been men. Men are quicker, easier, and more casual than women. Men don't ask what he's thinking or feeling. Men don't tell. Men fuck him and forget him, and John forgets them, too.
Then there's Poe, who is unequivocally a man, by the press of his dick against John's ass, and the thick of his forearm across John's ribs, heavy on top of him when John climbs onto the bed, on his hands and knees, but unlike any man he's ever been with.
Unlike any person John's ever been with, in that he pushes John, like no one dares push him, and asks more of John than he's ever willingly offered. And John can't help but give it to him.
John's belly moves with the depth of his breathing as he prepares himself, mentally accepting what's coming, surrendering, like he's been wanting to surrender since Poe looked at him in the doorway to his apartment with dark, clear eyes, that know what they want.
[ Poe has no idea, the effect he's having. What he knows is that he likes this version of John, this charming and vulnerable man he's never seen outside of this room. He knows that seeing this vulnerability is fragile and precious and something he'll think about when he's trying to fall asleep.
He's not sure what to feel about that, thinking of someone while he falls asleep.
Poe settles in behind John, rolls his hips to rub his erection across John's crack. Deeper. Guiding his dick into John's hole with one hand, giving the spot another light fingertip touch before he penetrates.
Then he's leaning over John's shoulder, his hand still slick with lube, taking John's cock in hand and gliding his grip from root to tip along with the slow rhythm of his hips. He kisses John's back, one scar, then another.
It seems important, to touch those places. That's where Poe would want to be touched. Each little bit of contact telling him (telling John) that those places don't mean he's broken. Poe feels broken often enough, feels it more and more acutely the longer he's trapped in Riverview. The longer he's away from his purpose, his war. Sometimes he wakes up in the night afraid that he's got nothing left but scars.
He thrusts hard, goes soft again, then hard, then harder. Intervals of gentleness punctuated and slowly replaced by a rough, hard fucking. ]
[The initial penetration makes John's head spin, with just enough pain to make John almost come when Poe's hips press flush against his ass. He sags beneath him, only held up by Poe's strong arm around his waist. It's been a while for John. His body is conflicted, at first. Tight, and defiant. Then Poe sinks in, all the way in, his hand working John's dick, and John's body yields with a shudder Poe will feel.
Sweat drips from John's brow onto the bed, stinging his eyes. His breathing is sharp and vocalized, only as deep as the space between their bodies, and forced out of him with every thrust. He's already moved onto his forearms, fingers twisting up in the sheets, knuckles white with strain.
John falls apart with every slam of Poe's hips, slave to the friction of skin against skin, the raw heat and hardness of Poe's dick scraping inside of him, hitting deep in the way John loves, so deep the emptiness of inside of him is filled, if only for a heartbeat.
Poe builds him back up with every kiss, gentle, and searing against his sensitized skin. John's never been kissed like that, while being fucked like this. More than anything, that's what has his knees buckling, his spine softening, his breathing becoming softer, and more pitched.
John could get used to it, would like to get used to it, to this, if Poe would give him the chance.]
[ He slows again, dick starting to throb with stimulation, a heartbeat pulse that makes it hard not to bust right there.
Not yet.
Poe is not a selfish partner. He's not going to come if his other half hasn't. So he takes his time, each thrust slow and hard, his necklace swinging, brushing John's back whenever Poe leans in for a kiss.
He can feel the shivers, the lurches, the way John is going loose against him and Poe likes it. He loves it, he's grateful for it. John needs this. He needs it as much as Poe needed him to say no when they were here before. Poe tightens his free arm across John's stomach, pushing that much deeper with each plunge.
He rolls his thumb over the head of John's dick, pressing harder than there's any need to, intending to hurt, but only a little. He's gotten good reactions to that kind of treatment so far. With his mouth against John's spine: ]
Do you like that?
[ One hard thrust to accompany the words, pushing hard enough to shift John forward a fraction on the sheets. ]
[That first night in his bedroom, only a week ago, John had fantasized about this. What it would feel like for Poe to push him down, and split him open. Fuck him raw.
Raw. John registers the lack of condom in a haze, caught between the roll of Poe's hips, and Poe's hand on his dick. If he concentrates, he can feel the difference. The intensity of friction. The tug and pull of Poe's skin against his skin, the texture of Poe's dick, uninhibited by latex. His mind strays to the scenario of Poe coming, if he'll pull out and do it on his back, or inside of him. That would be a first, something John's never allowed anyone else, and he can't bring himself to enforce that boundary. To say no. To want to say no.
Maybe that will make the difference between him feeling together, or alone, after all this. When Poe goes, and John is left with a sore body, and sweaty sheets he'll change in the morning.
Poe's voice, and the squeeze around his dick, bring John back. The thrust, harder, deeper, striking that hot button inside of John that makes the room spin, his shoulders going down, and his hips lift up, pulls a noise from his throat. High, and thready. Nothing anyone would expect from a commander of men, who has won countless battles, waged multiple wars, and killed more than any man ought to.
John turns his face into the sheets, dizzy with a shame that makes his dick twitch, and hole spasm in cringing response. The best he can muster to answer Poe's question is a nod.]
[ It's permission granted. Poe moves his hand from around John's waist up to John's shoulder, so he's pulling on him, dragging him deeper as Poe picks up the pace again, each forward thrust hunting that spot that made John whine.
Poe's attention to John's cock changes, too, a prick of nails at the base sliding up to a gentle squeeze and the circling of Poe's fingertips against the head.
He felt that physical response, that moment that came after John's helpless sound. Poe wants to hear that sound again, feel John's cock move under his palm. He's building, starting to slide into that heat-blind place where the world narrows to nothing but the physical, everything else forgotten for one long breath of suspended pleasure.
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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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Yes, I did.
[ There's so much in John's words. The surprise. It breaks Poe's heart a little bit, for reasons he can't quite name. As though someone wouldn't think through a night with John. As though it's a novel experience.
Poe makes a silent note to do this again, to think it through again, to show somehow that he did so.
He kisses John more firmly, gripping his upper arms to guide John back to his feet. He takes the little tube from John, twisting off the cap, smearing a generous dose of the gel across John's fingertips. ] I've been thinking about this for, oh, a week or so.
[ Another kiss. He takes John's wrist and pulls the man's hand down to touch Poe's dick. ] Give or take.
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He doesn't open his eyes until they standing, because he doesn't want to lose the memory of those kisses, and how soft they were. Tender. Like maybe he's something delicate. It should both him more than it does, to be seen as anything but unstoppable. Anything less than resilient.
But behind closed doors, naked, he's just John Sheppard. Commander of no one. Without his gear, and his guns, he's not so big. Just fragile as anyone else made of flesh and bone. Moreso, if his heart is brought into the equation.
Which it is. Kicking and screaming. Against his better judgement.
John slicks the length of Poe's dick, hard as a rock beneath his fingertips. He shivers, tongue darting out over his lower lip, working the lube into the skin, until he's wet with it. Glossy. If John could take a picture, he would.
Then Poe pops the question, the other question and his brow shoots up in surprise. John's not used to be asked so bluntly. He's never really been asked before, it always just... happened. Having to put words to what he wants, to ask for it, he can already feel his throat getting tight, heat sweeping from ear to ear across his nose and cheekbones.]
What? I, uh- I'm not picky, I mean, I guess if I had to choose- what do you want to do? You're the one who's had a week to think it over- Hell, I don't know! [His voice raising at least an octave. John gets pitchy when he's put on the spot. He does know, he just doesn't want to say it.]
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Give or take a week, John. Give or take a week.
[ He laughs into another kiss, suddenly enamored of this man in an entirely different way. There's a strange sweetness to John's reluctance to say one way or the other, miscommunication or no. He pulls John close enough that they can feel each others' erections. ] You're going to take it, and you're going to like it.
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[John's painfully embarrassed, cringing at himself, but then Poe has such a laugh. How has John never noticed? Thinking back on all the time they've spent together, in the hangar, cockpit, around town, Poe doesn't really laugh that often, and it's a damn crime. John will make Poe laugh each and every day, if it means he gets to hear it.
Poe's laughter is sweet on his lips, John inhales it deep into his lungs. Stores it inside of himself for later, for an emergency. When oxygen isn't enough of a reason to keep breathing.
John should never have let Poe in. He screwed up. Big time.
Because he was fine without this, before. At least that's what he told himself. Now he's desperate for the next kiss, desperate for the next shared breath, desperate for this man to touch him, to want him, to be inside of him.
John shudders, because Poe knows him, somehow. Knows what he wants, even though John doesn't know how to ask. Is afraid to. He'll take it from Poe, and he'll like it too damn much. More than he should.
Forehead to forehead, his nose brushes against Poe's nose, and he thinks back to the Pegasus Galaxy. It's a taste of home. Right here, right now, is the first time he hasn't missed it.]
Okay.
[In the end, his submission comes down to a single word.]
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Poe tosses the little lube tube onto John's bed, just in case they need it. He kisses the back of John's neck along the hairline, down to his shoulder blades, tonguing down further until he's at the small of John's back and seems like he might, might just lick his way down John's ass.
Then he's straightening up, arm around John's waist, dick pressed gently against John's cheeks.
It's odd, to feel this kind of ownership of a man he's known for so little time. It's odd to feel that ownership when they're so new to this kind of intimacy. Poe isn't used to it. He's used to easy sex, friendly sex, sex without commitment. This feels like a pact made, somehow, but he doesn't have it in him to be afraid of that just now.
Later, later it will scare him. ]
Bed.
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He's been with men before. Men in college. Men in bars. Men in the military. Men at war. John prefers women, because who doesn't, but there have always been men. Men are quicker, easier, and more casual than women. Men don't ask what he's thinking or feeling. Men don't tell. Men fuck him and forget him, and John forgets them, too.
Then there's Poe, who is unequivocally a man, by the press of his dick against John's ass, and the thick of his forearm across John's ribs, heavy on top of him when John climbs onto the bed, on his hands and knees, but unlike any man he's ever been with.
Unlike any person John's ever been with, in that he pushes John, like no one dares push him, and asks more of John than he's ever willingly offered. And John can't help but give it to him.
John's belly moves with the depth of his breathing as he prepares himself, mentally accepting what's coming, surrendering, like he's been wanting to surrender since Poe looked at him in the doorway to his apartment with dark, clear eyes, that know what they want.
Eyes that want him.]
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He's not sure what to feel about that, thinking of someone while he falls asleep.
Poe settles in behind John, rolls his hips to rub his erection across John's crack. Deeper. Guiding his dick into John's hole with one hand, giving the spot another light fingertip touch before he penetrates.
Then he's leaning over John's shoulder, his hand still slick with lube, taking John's cock in hand and gliding his grip from root to tip along with the slow rhythm of his hips. He kisses John's back, one scar, then another.
It seems important, to touch those places. That's where Poe would want to be touched. Each little bit of contact telling him (telling John) that those places don't mean he's broken. Poe feels broken often enough, feels it more and more acutely the longer he's trapped in Riverview. The longer he's away from his purpose, his war. Sometimes he wakes up in the night afraid that he's got nothing left but scars.
He thrusts hard, goes soft again, then hard, then harder. Intervals of gentleness punctuated and slowly replaced by a rough, hard fucking. ]
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Sweat drips from John's brow onto the bed, stinging his eyes. His breathing is sharp and vocalized, only as deep as the space between their bodies, and forced out of him with every thrust. He's already moved onto his forearms, fingers twisting up in the sheets, knuckles white with strain.
John falls apart with every slam of Poe's hips, slave to the friction of skin against skin, the raw heat and hardness of Poe's dick scraping inside of him, hitting deep in the way John loves, so deep the emptiness of inside of him is filled, if only for a heartbeat.
Poe builds him back up with every kiss, gentle, and searing against his sensitized skin. John's never been kissed like that, while being fucked like this. More than anything, that's what has his knees buckling, his spine softening, his breathing becoming softer, and more pitched.
John could get used to it, would like to get used to it, to this, if Poe would give him the chance.]
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Not yet.
Poe is not a selfish partner. He's not going to come if his other half hasn't. So he takes his time, each thrust slow and hard, his necklace swinging, brushing John's back whenever Poe leans in for a kiss.
He can feel the shivers, the lurches, the way John is going loose against him and Poe likes it. He loves it, he's grateful for it. John needs this. He needs it as much as Poe needed him to say no when they were here before. Poe tightens his free arm across John's stomach, pushing that much deeper with each plunge.
He rolls his thumb over the head of John's dick, pressing harder than there's any need to, intending to hurt, but only a little. He's gotten good reactions to that kind of treatment so far. With his mouth against John's spine: ]
Do you like that?
[ One hard thrust to accompany the words, pushing hard enough to shift John forward a fraction on the sheets. ]
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Raw. John registers the lack of condom in a haze, caught between the roll of Poe's hips, and Poe's hand on his dick. If he concentrates, he can feel the difference. The intensity of friction. The tug and pull of Poe's skin against his skin, the texture of Poe's dick, uninhibited by latex. His mind strays to the scenario of Poe coming, if he'll pull out and do it on his back, or inside of him. That would be a first, something John's never allowed anyone else, and he can't bring himself to enforce that boundary. To say no. To want to say no.
Maybe that will make the difference between him feeling together, or alone, after all this. When Poe goes, and John is left with a sore body, and sweaty sheets he'll change in the morning.
Poe's voice, and the squeeze around his dick, bring John back. The thrust, harder, deeper, striking that hot button inside of John that makes the room spin, his shoulders going down, and his hips lift up, pulls a noise from his throat. High, and thready. Nothing anyone would expect from a commander of men, who has won countless battles, waged multiple wars, and killed more than any man ought to.
John turns his face into the sheets, dizzy with a shame that makes his dick twitch, and hole spasm in cringing response. The best he can muster to answer Poe's question is a nod.]
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Poe's attention to John's cock changes, too, a prick of nails at the base sliding up to a gentle squeeze and the circling of Poe's fingertips against the head.
He felt that physical response, that moment that came after John's helpless sound. Poe wants to hear that sound again, feel John's cock move under his palm. He's building, starting to slide into that heat-blind place where the world narrows to nothing but the physical, everything else forgotten for one long breath of suspended pleasure.
Not yet, Dameron.
Not before John. ]
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