[ 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.
[John grits his teeth, but it doesn't stop the noise of his laboured breathing, the way his breath hitches, goes higher, vocalizes, with every slap of skin against skin.
But there's a special sound when Poe fucks him just right. Hard enough, deep enough, that John loses control. Spasms. His toes curling, and fingers clenching, lean muscle twisting and arching in fits against the mattress. Something like a whimper, if Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard could be accused of whimpering.
The truth is, John could come without Poe's hand on his dick, the additional touch is almost too much, he's already so sensitive, his nerves sparking like overloaded circuitry, but he's glad it's there. So Poe doesn't know he can, that just being fucked is enough to get him off. More than enough.
John is close. Too close to pretend he's not. It's hard to hide how he's feeling, when Poe is surrounding him. Already inside of his body. Mind. Heart. Looking down at John, seeing him, hearing him, feeling him, when he can't guard himself, and can't be anything but what he is.
A man so lonely, and so broken, that the best sex is sex that consumes him, fills him, and destroys him, because to feel anything, John has to feel everything.
Another pitched, strangled cry, close to a sob,when Poe's dick punches the right spot, every inch of John's body trembling, and slippery with sweat, his hair wetted darkly to his forehead and temples. He reaches blindly behind himself, grabbing for Poe's thigh, finding it and sinking his fingers in, nails cutting into Poe's skin.
John doesn't like to beg, but he will, over and over, if that's what it takes. He's that kind of desperate, like a dying man, fighting against and yearning for release. One push away from the edge. Of darkness, or bliss.
[ That grip on his thigh sends a shock of pleasure through Poe strong enough that he almost loses his grip. He digs his nails in to John's shoulder in reply. He can feel the whipcrack tension of John's body, the readiness, and he drives forward, pushing hard, back arching as he comes.
It's damn good. It's amazing. It's like breaking free from the grip of gravity, that one tensile moment of shooting from heaviness into the stars. He lets go of John's cock, instead wrapping his arm around John's lower belly, pinning him hard against Poe's thighs, muscles straining, the strain itself an electric hum of sensation that keeps Poe hanging on even after the nova glow starts to fade. ]
[Poe comes, and John comes too. Vocally. Violently. At the same time. That's a first. He'll marvel later, when he has the brain capacity. Right now, he's gone. Blissed out. Not thinking. Just feeling. Free from self-hate, self-doubt and self-consciousness.
All there is, is Poe. His trembling body. His orgasm, and the hot spill of him inside. The smell of his sweat. His breath. His heartbeat against John's back.
John's never came harder. Never been so boneless as he is now, held up almost entirely by Poe's arm, as he slumps down against the mattress, his neck soft and shoulders rounded. He's never been fucked like that before, not while he was sober.
Not by anyone who means anything, or everything, to him.
John closes his eyes, imprinting the feeling of togetherness into his mind, while it's still fresh. So he can fall asleep with it, after Poe leaves. He doesn't want to forget this. Doesn't think he could, even if he tried.
It's possible Poe's ruined him, if there's anything left to be ruined.
His hand slides down Poe's sweaty thigh, but doesn't leave.
Then, because John can't help himself. Too weak to resist. Even if he already knows the answer.]
[ Poe eases out, loosening his grip on John slowly, breaking the connection nice and easy. Then he curls forward, stretching his sweat-soaked stomach and chest out along John's back, his mother's ring tumbling forward to dangle next to John's ear. ]
Mmkay.
[ Poe rolls sideways, tugs John with him and pins himself between John and the wall on a bed that's really not big enough for two adult men. He runs the tip of his nose back and forth along the edge of John's hairline, humming softly under his breath. ]
[Poe accepts before John can punish himself for asking. There's a moment of emptiness when Poe pulls out of him, but then Poe is wrapping him up, fitting against him, barricading himself in against the wall.
There's a blinding moment of comfort, of wordless understanding, and being understood, knowing that Poe keeps his back to the wall, too. That it's easy and natural for him to sleep facing the door, ready for anyone, and anything, that comes through.
John's forgotten what it feels like to lie in bed together with someone. Not fooling. Not fucking. Just lying. Chest to back. John's not used to being the inner spoon, but right now, it's all he's ever wanted to be.
Poe's necklace falls over his shoulder, cool against his skin, in contrast to the warmth of Poe's breath, the washer catching light, glinting through his eyelashes.]
Thanks.
[He doesn't know what else to say, how else to express what it means. Isn't sure he wants Poe to know, even if he could. John hasn't asked anyone to stay since the day his ex-wife left him, for all her extremely legitimate reasons.
He'd asked her, right before she walked down the steps of their house, the house they bought together, a fixer-upper that neither of them really had the time or inclination to fix, and climbed into the taxi, on her way to Washington, DC to follow her dreams, with just a carry on, and no excess baggage.
John already knew the answer to his profoundly selfish question by the way she held her head high, proud, and determined, stronger than he'll ever be, even before she opened her perfectly lipsticked mouth to say no.
He regrets asking then, and he's never asked since. Not in so many words, anyway. Sometimes he'll pull the person back down, convince them to stay just a little longer, with a kiss, or his lips on their neck, back, between their legs, anything not to be alone when the buzz wears off, and the world regains all its sharp edges.
He tugs Poe's arms closer around himself, up to his chest.]
[ Poe lets John maneuver until he seems comfortable, just shifting enough that he can wriggle his other arm until John's head rests against his bicep. They're that close. It feels good.
It's been a while, been a long time now since Poe spent a night with someone. He usually stays. He almost always stays unless his partner seems to want him out. He doesn't like to fuck and run. It's too intimate an act, as far as he's concerned, to not take the time to value the experience afterwards. ]
Good. [ There's a laugh in the word. ] Well, gosh.
[ He bites the back of John's neck, not hard, just enough for the man to feel teeth. ] Those noises you were making said it was a little better than that.
[John likes the warmth of Poe’s arm beneath his cheek. Even turns his head to kiss it. It’s a nice bicep.
He’s still buzzing with post-orgasm bliss. His skin tingling and sensitive. Poe bites him, and John almost jumps. There’s an immediate reaction of goosebumps pebbling his skin, the baby hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end.
But it’s the comment that earns the elbow thrown back into Poe’s kidney, just hard enough to prove a point. Payback for the embarrassed burn in John’s ears.]
Hey! What happens in Vegas, Vegas being sex, stays in Vegas! Whaddya want, a five-star review?
Ow? [ It didn't actually hurt enough to make him react but there we are. ] Is five stars a high rating, because that's not very many stars.
[ Look it's not, okay. Poe chuckles and rests his chin on John's shoulder.
Yeah, he knows he's good. He would chalk it up to practice, but it's more than that. It's empathy. It's attentiveness, it's a keen eye and ear for the way his partner's body responds.
It’s five out of five stars. People from my planet don’t like to count higher than that. And you just lost a star for being ridiculous.
[John laughs raggedly, his back moving against Poe’s chest. He’s so damn tired in the best way. His arm is half hanging off the bed and he can’t be assed to move it. If the sleep is anywhere near as good as the sex was, John might just get addicted to this.
He feels the same weary satisfaction of a battle won. Elated and exhausted. There’s no better feeling in the world than the way he feels right now, with Poe wrapped around him.
He tilts his head back to lazily kiss the corner of Poe’s mouth with soft, sleepy lips. He’s fading fast.]
I’ll show you, in the morning… Don’t get cocky.
[That's it, for him. He's gone.
And his mind didn’t stray to the gun in his bed-side table even once.]
[ Poe stays awake for a little while longer. Still humming, an old song his parents used to sing to each other in the mornings. It's peaceful, to be with someone while they sleep, and Poe has had little enough peace, even here, to take every bit of consciousness he can while it's colored with postsexual bliss.
When he does fall asleep, it's with his arm around John's waist, his other hand tangled lightly in John's hair. ]
He wakes him with a kiss. Rolls him onto his back. Touches him all over, admiring the lazy sprawl of his body in the morning sunlight with his lips and hands. More kissing, relaxed, and slow. Sloppy half-asleep kisses.
John's still slick from the night before, albeit a little swollen, and it's easy to work himself open while Poe watches, straddling his hips. Then he takes Poe's dick into his hand, positions it, and sinks down, all the way down, until his ass meets Poe's pelvis, with a heavy sigh.
He looks down at Poe, gripping onto the headboard with both hands for support, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. John starts off slow and even, making adjustments to his preference, watching Poe's face. Watching Poe watch him. He moves quicker, harder, his thighs flexing, muscle rippling in his back with each rise and fall of his hips. Taking more and more, as much as he wants from him, because he knows Poe likes it. Loves it.
They're both warriors in that way, admirers of strength.
Sweat trickles down John's scarred back, following the curve of his spine.]
[ If Poe is being honest, he's still a little tender from last night. When John rolls him over he almost protests, groaning low in his throat, but the touches quiet him. The kissing. The slow way John works him over opens the gates to arousal, and then John mounts him and Poe hisses quietly, alongside John's sigh.
It feels good to have John around him. Then John takes hold of the headboard and Poe's heartbeat kicks up, his dick starts to harden, because sometimes Poe likes to be used. He likes being a tool in someone else's pleasure. The unbroken eye contact as John picks up speed, the flex of muscles seen just out of the corner of Poe's eye--he breathes in sharply, hips twitching upward without his meaning them to.
He grabs onto the headboard over him, thinking with irony about his teasing John for making noise when he's about to start himself. Poe's eyelids flutter shut for a moment; he opens them, then John rolls against him just right and Poe's head tilts back, and he follows John in an arch as the other man starts to draw away, wanting to stay in just that spot, just for a second longer.
A smile breaks across his face, and he gasps out, ] Four stars.
[It's been a long night. A very, very long night. Rodney is exhausted, worn down to the bone, eyes stinging, back aching from hunching over a computer, mind moving sluggishly, barely able to process basic algebra let alone complex physics. It's frankly exquisite, exactly the right kind of exhaustion that leaves Rodney thinking he might actually get a few hours of decent sleep for a while, just the right mix of physical and mental exhaustion that might let him just turn off and be unconscious for a while without spinning his metaphorical wheels and thinking too much.
Squinting into the sunlight as he goes up the elevator, Rodney sighs slightly, leans against the wall, stares into the woods, then pushes away from it and shambles his way to the apartment as if he were a zombie, most of the way asleep. He's already talking as he unlocks the door, voice slightly slurred.]
For once, I'm not going straight for a cup of coffee. You can have one if you want, but I'm having an herbal tea and straight to bed, it's been a very, very long ni-
[And it's then, when he lifts his head as he steps into the bedroom doorway, that he sees it. For a moment, he's completely aghast, blue eyes wide as he takes in the whole scene. A man in John's bed who looks vaguely familiar (for all that he can see his face from this angle) and John...arching...on top of him...completely naked.]
[John isn't completely naked. He's still wearing his dog-tags, and they clatter around his neck with every slam of his ass into Poe's pelvis.
He loves the way Poe's body moves with him. His hands fall away from the headboard to grip onto the meat of Poe's shoulders, leaning down to claim a kiss from Poe's parted lips before driving himself harder, faster, deeper, because he's close and-
Oh my god. John grins wolfishly.]
Sounds like five stars to me-
[Something about that wasn't right. It takes John a moment to put two and two together, what with all the blood in his body flowing straight into his dick and away from his brain.
John's so close. He can ignore it. Ride this out, and think about it later.
But he feels a tingle at the base of his spine, the intrinsic knowing that something is wrong. A sixth sense, if that sixth sense were being half-aware of a door opening and someone talking in a perfectly normal voice. John looks back over his shoulder.
And makes eye-contact with Rodney Mckay standing in the doorway of their bedroom.
His heart stops. His jaw drops. He freezes like a deer in headlights. If that deer were doing the nasty in the middle of the highway with another deer, though since they're technically two stag, you could probably call it locking horns.
John's first instinct is to NOT be doing what he's doing, which means dismounting, but since Poe's still in him, he can't just roll off and to the side without breaking his dick in half. He attempts a vertical lift-off, like a helicopter, except helicopters aren't usually seconds away from orgasm, or slippery with sweat. And they usually have a bigger landing pad than a single bed already overcrowded with two full-grown men.
How terrible mistakes always happen in a split-second, but in slow motion, is something John doesn't have an answer to.
What John means to do is separate, roll to one side, and cover himself with a blanket. What John does is separate, fall to the wrong side, and land hard on his (already tender) ass on the floor.
That wasn't me, Poe almost says, but John appears to have already figured that out.
Poe looks toward the door, sees Rodney, sees the look on his face. And then John rolls sideways and falls off the bed, and it's all too perfect. Way, way too perfect.
Poe cracks the fuck up. He manages to get himself under control long enough to say: ] Hey, mind closing the door?
[For a few moments, Rodney is completely still, and completely silent, while his brain tries to process what's happening in front of him. To put together a dozen little flash impressions that he's pretty sure are never going to leave his brain into a coherent understanding of what's happening to him. Rodney is an intelligent man, he can run through dozens of scenarios in a few moments, like virtual simulations, but every single one of them, right now, is coming to the same conclusion.
John Sheppard is having sex with a man in their bedroom.
And then John is jerking upward like he's convulsing and toppling over onto the floor, and the other man is laughing (Dameron, he thinks his name was) and Rodney can't take it anymore. Stepping backward stiffly, moving like a robot, he grabs at the door handle, hands shaking.]
As you were!
[He yells it into the room then pushes the door shut and turns on his heel, making his way into the kitchen, where he sits down heavily on a chair and puts his face in his hands.]
[Poe laughs harder, and John slaps him hard on his sweaty thigh.]
Not helping!
[John's past the point of embarrassed. Now he just wants to die. He covers his face with both hands, shaking his head. If there was a big enough hole for him to crawl into, John would be there, and he'd be taking his gun with him.
He'll never live this down. There's no way Rodney will let it go, and even if he doesn't mention it, which John knows he will, they'll both remember.
At least he doesn't have blue balls. John's amazed his dick hasn't crawled back up into his body and died there. Never to be seen again. By anyone. Ever.
He should've been more careful. Just because Rodney's been working well into the morning most nights doesn't mean he will every night, and John could've hung a sock on the door, or something.
Finally, John starts crawling around on the floor in search of his discarded BDUs, because he owes Rodney an apology, and he really isn't in the mood to be naked. He feels plenty exposed already.
He might be giving Poe the cold shoulder as he dresses.]
[ Poe's amusement wears off as he finds his own clothes, enough that he can look at John without grinning, which would no doubt be like poking the pilot's bruises (physical and otherwise).
He has his shirt in one hand as he comes up behind John, slinging his other arm around John's shoulders and kissing his temple before he lets go. ] Come on. That was at least a little bit funny.
[ It was a lot funny. A lot.
Poe is still pulling his shirt on when he comes into the kitchen. He sees Rodney as his head pops through the headhole and what-do-you-know, he's grinning again. ]
[As far as Rodney is concerned, it's definitely not funny. Not even a little. This is the worst thing that has happened to him since he got to this place, bar none. When Poe strides out of the bedroom, he's still sitting at the tiny kitchen table with his face in his hands, groaning slightly as he tries somehow to wipe the images out of his brain.
Lifting his head a little, he squints at Poe with a slightly squinted expression of distrust and sardonic unamusement.]
Good morning...what was it? Doe?
[Shaking his head, he sighs and pushes up to his feet.]
[The kiss helps. Not enough to make the walk down the hallway and into the kitchen any less painful, or shameful, but as much as John wants to turn tail and run, it's a walk he has to make.
John enters the kitchen fully dressed, as if that might undo some of his earlier nakedness, and starts making coffee. Strong coffee. He'd be tempted to slip some whiskey into it, if he and Poe wouldn't be going back to work in a couple hours.]
His name's Poe. He's on the shuttle team. We're... co-pilots.
[That's one word for it. Truthfully, John has no idea what they are. If they're anything. They haven't talked about it yet. John doesn't know if they will. Talking isn't something John does a lot of, pre or postcoital, but he doesn't have a lot of sex with people he knows well enough to want to talk to, either.
John scrubs his hand over his jaw. He needs to shave sometime before before work. So much for a shared shower.]
I'm sorry, Rodney. I didn't think you'd be back before noon. I'll hang a sock next time.
[Assuming there ever is a next time. This doesn't exactly bode well for the future of whatever it is that's going on between him and Poe.]
What does a sock on the door have to do with anything?
[ He can guess. He definitely guessed. He is definitely, definitely being a shithead. Poe leans against the counter, still wearing that smile, arms crossed over his chest.
It's cute, their mutual horror. He can't help it. The only time he's been mortified by being walked in on (it's happened, once or twice over the years; natural result of sex in occasionally odd places) was that time when he was seventeen and his dad came walking in. Now that took some recovery time.
There's so much untapped humor potential in John referring to them as co-pilots right now, but Poe has mercy. He has at least that much mercy. ]
[Rodney says it both as if it's a completely different word than it is, and as if it's the most distasteful thing he's ever said. John's apology does very little to assuage the discomfort he's feeling, and he avoids eye contact, very pointedly, as the two of them swarm into the kitchen looking rumpled and handsome and post-coital. For a moment, Rodney very strongly feels the lack of intimacy he's been dealing with, but he pushes it aside, because that's the last thing he intends to complain about right now.]
Well, I was going to have some herbal tea because I felt like, for once, I'd be able to actually sleep in this place, but no, that's ruined now. Now, I fully intend to make waffles.
[And if it seems like he's ignoring Poe well. Maybe he is. A little.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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But there's a special sound when Poe fucks him just right. Hard enough, deep enough, that John loses control. Spasms. His toes curling, and fingers clenching, lean muscle twisting and arching in fits against the mattress. Something like a whimper, if Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard could be accused of whimpering.
The truth is, John could come without Poe's hand on his dick, the additional touch is almost too much, he's already so sensitive, his nerves sparking like overloaded circuitry, but he's glad it's there. So Poe doesn't know he can, that just being fucked is enough to get him off. More than enough.
John is close. Too close to pretend he's not. It's hard to hide how he's feeling, when Poe is surrounding him. Already inside of his body. Mind. Heart. Looking down at John, seeing him, hearing him, feeling him, when he can't guard himself, and can't be anything but what he is.
A man so lonely, and so broken, that the best sex is sex that consumes him, fills him, and destroys him, because to feel anything, John has to feel everything.
Another pitched, strangled cry, close to a sob,when Poe's dick punches the right spot, every inch of John's body trembling, and slippery with sweat, his hair wetted darkly to his forehead and temples. He reaches blindly behind himself, grabbing for Poe's thigh, finding it and sinking his fingers in, nails cutting into Poe's skin.
John doesn't like to beg, but he will, over and over, if that's what it takes. He's that kind of desperate, like a dying man, fighting against and yearning for release. One push away from the edge. Of darkness, or bliss.
This is some combination of the two.]
Poe-
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It's damn good. It's amazing. It's like breaking free from the grip of gravity, that one tensile moment of shooting from heaviness into the stars. He lets go of John's cock, instead wrapping his arm around John's lower belly, pinning him hard against Poe's thighs, muscles straining, the strain itself an electric hum of sensation that keeps Poe hanging on even after the nova glow starts to fade. ]
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All there is, is Poe. His trembling body. His orgasm, and the hot spill of him inside. The smell of his sweat. His breath. His heartbeat against John's back.
John's never came harder. Never been so boneless as he is now, held up almost entirely by Poe's arm, as he slumps down against the mattress, his neck soft and shoulders rounded. He's never been fucked like that before, not while he was sober.
Not by anyone who means anything, or everything, to him.
John closes his eyes, imprinting the feeling of togetherness into his mind, while it's still fresh. So he can fall asleep with it, after Poe leaves. He doesn't want to forget this. Doesn't think he could, even if he tried.
It's possible Poe's ruined him, if there's anything left to be ruined.
His hand slides down Poe's sweaty thigh, but doesn't leave.
Then, because John can't help himself. Too weak to resist. Even if he already knows the answer.]
Don't go.
no subject
Mmkay.
[ Poe rolls sideways, tugs John with him and pins himself between John and the wall on a bed that's really not big enough for two adult men. He runs the tip of his nose back and forth along the edge of John's hairline, humming softly under his breath. ]
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There's a blinding moment of comfort, of wordless understanding, and being understood, knowing that Poe keeps his back to the wall, too. That it's easy and natural for him to sleep facing the door, ready for anyone, and anything, that comes through.
John's forgotten what it feels like to lie in bed together with someone. Not fooling. Not fucking. Just lying. Chest to back. John's not used to being the inner spoon, but right now, it's all he's ever wanted to be.
Poe's necklace falls over his shoulder, cool against his skin, in contrast to the warmth of Poe's breath, the washer catching light, glinting through his eyelashes.]
Thanks.
[He doesn't know what else to say, how else to express what it means. Isn't sure he wants Poe to know, even if he could. John hasn't asked anyone to stay since the day his ex-wife left him, for all her extremely legitimate reasons.
He'd asked her, right before she walked down the steps of their house, the house they bought together, a fixer-upper that neither of them really had the time or inclination to fix, and climbed into the taxi, on her way to Washington, DC to follow her dreams, with just a carry on, and no excess baggage.
John already knew the answer to his profoundly selfish question by the way she held her head high, proud, and determined, stronger than he'll ever be, even before she opened her perfectly lipsticked mouth to say no.
He regrets asking then, and he's never asked since. Not in so many words, anyway. Sometimes he'll pull the person back down, convince them to stay just a little longer, with a kiss, or his lips on their neck, back, between their legs, anything not to be alone when the buzz wears off, and the world regains all its sharp edges.
He tugs Poe's arms closer around himself, up to his chest.]
That was... good.
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It's been a while, been a long time now since Poe spent a night with someone. He usually stays. He almost always stays unless his partner seems to want him out. He doesn't like to fuck and run. It's too intimate an act, as far as he's concerned, to not take the time to value the experience afterwards. ]
Good. [ There's a laugh in the word. ] Well, gosh.
[ He bites the back of John's neck, not hard, just enough for the man to feel teeth. ] Those noises you were making said it was a little better than that.
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He’s still buzzing with post-orgasm bliss. His skin tingling and sensitive. Poe bites him, and John almost jumps. There’s an immediate reaction of goosebumps pebbling his skin, the baby hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end.
But it’s the comment that earns the elbow thrown back into Poe’s kidney, just hard enough to prove a point. Payback for the embarrassed burn in John’s ears.]
Hey! What happens in Vegas, Vegas being sex, stays in Vegas! Whaddya want, a five-star review?
[John huffs, resettling back against Poe.]
Give me a break. You already know you’re good.
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[ Look it's not, okay. Poe chuckles and rests his chin on John's shoulder.
Yeah, he knows he's good. He would chalk it up to practice, but it's more than that. It's empathy. It's attentiveness, it's a keen eye and ear for the way his partner's body responds.
Poe sighs, satisfied, comfortable. ] It was good.
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[John laughs raggedly, his back moving against Poe’s chest. He’s so damn tired in the best way. His arm is half hanging off the bed and he can’t be assed to move it. If the sleep is anywhere near as good as the sex was, John might just get addicted to this.
He feels the same weary satisfaction of a battle won. Elated and exhausted. There’s no better feeling in the world than the way he feels right now, with Poe wrapped around him.
He tilts his head back to lazily kiss the corner of Poe’s mouth with soft, sleepy lips. He’s fading fast.]
I’ll show you, in the morning… Don’t get cocky.
[That's it, for him. He's gone.
And his mind didn’t stray to the gun in his bed-side table even once.]
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When he does fall asleep, it's with his arm around John's waist, his other hand tangled lightly in John's hair. ]
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He wakes him with a kiss. Rolls him onto his back. Touches him all over, admiring the lazy sprawl of his body in the morning sunlight with his lips and hands. More kissing, relaxed, and slow. Sloppy half-asleep kisses.
John's still slick from the night before, albeit a little swollen, and it's easy to work himself open while Poe watches, straddling his hips. Then he takes Poe's dick into his hand, positions it, and sinks down, all the way down, until his ass meets Poe's pelvis, with a heavy sigh.
He looks down at Poe, gripping onto the headboard with both hands for support, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. John starts off slow and even, making adjustments to his preference, watching Poe's face. Watching Poe watch him. He moves quicker, harder, his thighs flexing, muscle rippling in his back with each rise and fall of his hips. Taking more and more, as much as he wants from him, because he knows Poe likes it. Loves it.
They're both warriors in that way, admirers of strength.
Sweat trickles down John's scarred back, following the curve of his spine.]
You like that?
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It feels good to have John around him. Then John takes hold of the headboard and Poe's heartbeat kicks up, his dick starts to harden, because sometimes Poe likes to be used. He likes being a tool in someone else's pleasure. The unbroken eye contact as John picks up speed, the flex of muscles seen just out of the corner of Poe's eye--he breathes in sharply, hips twitching upward without his meaning them to.
He grabs onto the headboard over him, thinking with irony about his teasing John for making noise when he's about to start himself. Poe's eyelids flutter shut for a moment; he opens them, then John rolls against him just right and Poe's head tilts back, and he follows John in an arch as the other man starts to draw away, wanting to stay in just that spot, just for a second longer.
A smile breaks across his face, and he gasps out, ] Four stars.
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Squinting into the sunlight as he goes up the elevator, Rodney sighs slightly, leans against the wall, stares into the woods, then pushes away from it and shambles his way to the apartment as if he were a zombie, most of the way asleep. He's already talking as he unlocks the door, voice slightly slurred.]
For once, I'm not going straight for a cup of coffee. You can have one if you want, but I'm having an herbal tea and straight to bed, it's been a very, very long ni-
[And it's then, when he lifts his head as he steps into the bedroom doorway, that he sees it. For a moment, he's completely aghast, blue eyes wide as he takes in the whole scene. A man in John's bed who looks vaguely familiar (for all that he can see his face from this angle) and John...arching...on top of him...completely naked.]
Oh my god.
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He loves the way Poe's body moves with him. His hands fall away from the headboard to grip onto the meat of Poe's shoulders, leaning down to claim a kiss from Poe's parted lips before driving himself harder, faster, deeper, because he's close and-
Oh my god. John grins wolfishly.]
Sounds like five stars to me-
[Something about that wasn't right. It takes John a moment to put two and two together, what with all the blood in his body flowing straight into his dick and away from his brain.
John's so close. He can ignore it. Ride this out, and think about it later.
But he feels a tingle at the base of his spine, the intrinsic knowing that something is wrong. A sixth sense, if that sixth sense were being half-aware of a door opening and someone talking in a perfectly normal voice. John looks back over his shoulder.
And makes eye-contact with Rodney Mckay standing in the doorway of their bedroom.
His heart stops. His jaw drops. He freezes like a deer in headlights. If that deer were doing the nasty in the middle of the highway with another deer, though since they're technically two stag, you could probably call it locking horns.
John's first instinct is to NOT be doing what he's doing, which means dismounting, but since Poe's still in him, he can't just roll off and to the side without breaking his dick in half. He attempts a vertical lift-off, like a helicopter, except helicopters aren't usually seconds away from orgasm, or slippery with sweat. And they usually have a bigger landing pad than a single bed already overcrowded with two full-grown men.
How terrible mistakes always happen in a split-second, but in slow motion, is something John doesn't have an answer to.
What John means to do is separate, roll to one side, and cover himself with a blanket. What John does is separate, fall to the wrong side, and land hard on his (already tender) ass on the floor.
He has no words.]
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Sounds like five stars to me, says John.
That wasn't me, Poe almost says, but John appears to have already figured that out.
Poe looks toward the door, sees Rodney, sees the look on his face. And then John rolls sideways and falls off the bed, and it's all too perfect. Way, way too perfect.
Poe cracks the fuck up. He manages to get himself under control long enough to say: ] Hey, mind closing the door?
[ And then he's back to laughing his ass off. ]
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John Sheppard is having sex with a man in their bedroom.
And then John is jerking upward like he's convulsing and toppling over onto the floor, and the other man is laughing (Dameron, he thinks his name was) and Rodney can't take it anymore. Stepping backward stiffly, moving like a robot, he grabs at the door handle, hands shaking.]
As you were!
[He yells it into the room then pushes the door shut and turns on his heel, making his way into the kitchen, where he sits down heavily on a chair and puts his face in his hands.]
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Not helping!
[John's past the point of embarrassed. Now he just wants to die. He covers his face with both hands, shaking his head. If there was a big enough hole for him to crawl into, John would be there, and he'd be taking his gun with him.
He'll never live this down. There's no way Rodney will let it go, and even if he doesn't mention it, which John knows he will, they'll both remember.
At least he doesn't have blue balls. John's amazed his dick hasn't crawled back up into his body and died there. Never to be seen again. By anyone. Ever.
He should've been more careful. Just because Rodney's been working well into the morning most nights doesn't mean he will every night, and John could've hung a sock on the door, or something.
Finally, John starts crawling around on the floor in search of his discarded BDUs, because he owes Rodney an apology, and he really isn't in the mood to be naked. He feels plenty exposed already.
He might be giving Poe the cold shoulder as he dresses.]
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He has his shirt in one hand as he comes up behind John, slinging his other arm around John's shoulders and kissing his temple before he lets go. ] Come on. That was at least a little bit funny.
[ It was a lot funny. A lot.
Poe is still pulling his shirt on when he comes into the kitchen. He sees Rodney as his head pops through the headhole and what-do-you-know, he's grinning again. ]
Morning, McKay.
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Lifting his head a little, he squints at Poe with a slightly squinted expression of distrust and sardonic unamusement.]
Good morning...what was it? Doe?
[Shaking his head, he sighs and pushes up to his feet.]
You ever heard of hanging a sock on the door?
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[The kiss helps. Not enough to make the walk down the hallway and into the kitchen any less painful, or shameful, but as much as John wants to turn tail and run, it's a walk he has to make.
John enters the kitchen fully dressed, as if that might undo some of his earlier nakedness, and starts making coffee. Strong coffee. He'd be tempted to slip some whiskey into it, if he and Poe wouldn't be going back to work in a couple hours.]
His name's Poe. He's on the shuttle team. We're... co-pilots.
[That's one word for it. Truthfully, John has no idea what they are. If they're anything. They haven't talked about it yet. John doesn't know if they will. Talking isn't something John does a lot of, pre or postcoital, but he doesn't have a lot of sex with people he knows well enough to want to talk to, either.
John scrubs his hand over his jaw. He needs to shave sometime before before work. So much for a shared shower.]
I'm sorry, Rodney. I didn't think you'd be back before noon. I'll hang a sock next time.
[Assuming there ever is a next time. This doesn't exactly bode well for the future of whatever it is that's going on between him and Poe.]
Wait, you wanted herbal tea or something, right?
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[ He can guess. He definitely guessed. He is definitely, definitely being a shithead. Poe leans against the counter, still wearing that smile, arms crossed over his chest.
It's cute, their mutual horror. He can't help it. The only time he's been mortified by being walked in on (it's happened, once or twice over the years; natural result of sex in occasionally odd places) was that time when he was seventeen and his dad came walking in. Now that took some recovery time.
There's so much untapped humor potential in John referring to them as co-pilots right now, but Poe has mercy. He has at least that much mercy. ]
And I kinda like 'Doe'.
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[Rodney says it both as if it's a completely different word than it is, and as if it's the most distasteful thing he's ever said. John's apology does very little to assuage the discomfort he's feeling, and he avoids eye contact, very pointedly, as the two of them swarm into the kitchen looking rumpled and handsome and post-coital. For a moment, Rodney very strongly feels the lack of intimacy he's been dealing with, but he pushes it aside, because that's the last thing he intends to complain about right now.]
Well, I was going to have some herbal tea because I felt like, for once, I'd be able to actually sleep in this place, but no, that's ruined now. Now, I fully intend to make waffles.
[And if it seems like he's ignoring Poe well. Maybe he is. A little.]
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