[ It would take a complete idiot to not figure out what Poe's trying to say, what he's trying to ask for. And in spite of what many people in the galaxy might say, Peter Quill is not a total idiot.
But that doesn't mean that he gives Poe what he wants, and he keeps his hands just as they are – one curled around the hard blade of Poe's hip, the other tight around Poe's wrists as he struggles. (There are going to be long, dark bruises there, Peter knows, stark against Poe's skin. They'll look good on him, Peter thinks; he's sorry he won't be able to see them when they're settled in.)
For now, Peter keeps fucking him, keeps hitting that sweet spot, over and over and over, listening to the way Poe moans and whines and shouts with need.
His hand leaves Poe's hip after what probably seems like hours for Poe, but rather than take pity on the guy, Peter reaches for Poe's good shoulder, pulling him up to press Poe's back to Peter's front. He keeps Poe's arms trapped between them, one arm around Poe's chest like a vise, and his other hand smooths over Poe's stomach. ]
God, you're perfect.
[ And he groans it against Poe's shoulder, nosing at the line of his jaw. ]
Fuck, look at you, so fucking desperate. So fucking perfect—
[ There’s a bright, sparkling moment where Poe is sure Peter is going to have mercy on him, going to reach between Poe’s legs and finally touch his cock. Under his breath, between those moans, he keeps saying Peter’s name, keeps cursing and—
Peter hauls him upright. Poe gasps sharply, surprised, and then the strangled noise out of him is so close to a genuine sob when he realizes Peter is pinning him again and his aching cock is still left abandoned. He flexes in the iron bars of Peter’s hold, but he’s not willing to put in the effort to really fight to get his arms free. His head falls back on Peter’s shoulder, his eyes glazed, watching nothing on the opposite wall as he pants raggedly for a useful scrap of oxygen.
That broad palm is on his stomach, so close to where he needs it— ]
Peter, fuck, I need to—
[ Another loud sob as he arches against Peter’s chest, trying to coax his hand down.
(He’s too caught up to think about what Peter’s saying and how it sings through him, how hearing something that stupidly simple makes him melt.
[ If you had asked him a few hours ago, Peter would've sworn on his ship that Poe Dameron didn't have a submissive bone in his body. Peter is pretty sure that Poe was the type of guy who could lose a limb, shrug, and start firing with his remaining hand. He was the type of guy who'd laugh in the face of danger. He was the type of guy who'd stand in front of the huge, gaping maw of certain death and have the fucking gall to tell it about its bad breath.
That's all still certainly true, but now, Peter can hear the whine in Poe's voice, and he drinks in those desperate sobs like he's a man dying of thirst in a desert. Peter can hear the way Poe's voice is one hard thrust away from a plea, and—
God, Peter fucking loves it.
He mouths at the line of Poe's neck and shoulder, bites and sucks new marks to the surface as he fucks him at that same, relentless pace, finding Poe's prostate with each slide home. He glances down, sees how swollen Poe's cock is, sees how precum leaks from the tip, sees the way it twitches with every hard thrust. Poe must be fucking aching, and while Peter certainly knows how goddamn awful it feels and is a little sympathetic, it's also exactly what he was hoping to see. ]
Tell me what you need.
[ He noses at Poe's hair just behind his ear, and he slides his hand up to the base of Poe's neck, fingers splayed wide, keeping the pressure minimal – just so Poe can have the sensation of it without any of the risk.
[ The fact that Poe is letting Peter pull him apart, leave him this raw and vulnerable—
Well, it’s partially by accident. He didn’t think Peter could blast through his barriers, could push him far enough to feel this out of control. He’d held to that stubborn defiance through almost everything, thought he would (because he always has), but Peter’s thrown him for a loop. He expected to just get fucked until he was a bruised, sore, blissed out puddle on Peter’s bed. He thought that was all Peter had in store for him.
This is more than that.
(And somewhere, he remembers his safeword exists, but it doesn’t occur to him for a second to use it.)
His breathing catches as Peter’s hand closes around his throat, but he quickly realizes that Peter is just holding him there. The pressure isn’t daunting or frightening, and it doesn’t shake Poe out of the moment.
If anything, it drives him a little farther down.
He can feel Peter’s breath behind his ear, hear the rumble in his voice, and it’s so fucking good. So fucking good.
And then—
Ask for it.
Peter doesn’t demand he beg, and maybe that’s why the urge to rebel doesn’t kick in; he doesn’t feel like he has to shrug Peter off or toss back a sarcastic quip. Instead, the promise of finally coming is too alluring. ]
Touch me.
[ He sounds so far gone, his deep voice hoarse on the noises that have spilled from him like water. ]
[ Peter can't help it – a low, rough sound escapes him at the quality of Poe's voice, at that please – how thoughtless and desperate and wanting he sounds. Another part of Peter, the part of him that's managed to cling to that hard-earned sense of calm, tells him to tread lightly.
He nuzzles against Poe's hair again, the gesture strangely gentle, considering what a goddamn prick he's been to Poe so far. ]
Perfect.
[ And the praise is dark, a little awed. The arm holding Poe's chest to him relaxes. ]
Fuck, you're perfect.
Keep your hands behind you.
[ After that, he teases the head of Poe's cock, and he slicks his fingers with Poe's precum. The bottle of lube is— somewhere on the bed, but likely out of reach, and while it would certainly make things a little easier on Poe, Peter doubts he has the patience to wait the interminable amount of time it'd take Peter to find it. ]
You sure you wouldn't rather have my mouth?
[ Though even as he asks it, he curls his hand around Poe's shaft, stroking him, slowing down his thrusts to match this new rhythm – not slow, but far less demanding than before. ]
[ Peter keeps praising him, and it’s absolutely stupid how Poe thrums with it. Any other moment, he’d toss that cocky grin over his shoulder, offer up something smug and insufferable, but now, he sinks into Peter with a soft noise of his own. It sounds good coming from Peter, and Poe couldn’t even tell himself why.
But with that praise, Peter finally takes pity on him. He isn’t even inclined to intentionally be contrary when Peter orders him to keep his arms in place. He can do it, even as he wishes he could touch Peter or his own cock, but he closes his fingers around his other wrist, just to be sure.
Unfortunately for Poe, Peter doesn’t give him the immediate relief he wanted. Poe chokes on a startled moan as Peter properly wraps his fist around Poe’s cock, but it’s too slow. Poe tries to buck forward, shaking his head quickly. ]
No, fuck, I don't care— Just— don't stop.
[ Peter isn't fucking him with the same ruthless pace, but Poe is still reeling from it, still buzzing with the sparking need it kicked off in his gut. ]
[ And even is his voice is still hoarse with want and desire, he somehow manages to sound gentle, pressing his lips to Poe's temple. ]
I'm gonna take care of you.
[ A reassurance and a promise, wrapped up in one. ]
I've got you.
[ He works his way back up to that ruthless pace from before, his hand curled around Poe's cock, offering special attention to the head. He aims for Poe's prostate, over and over, and focused as he is on maintaining that rhythm, he only has mind enough to offer quick, shallow little presses of his mouth against Poe's shoulder, his neck, the line of his jaw.
Peter tends to babble when he's in the heat of the moment, and now's no different. He offers up every little bit of praise that comes to his head, heedless of his usual reluctance to inflate Poe's ego. (shit, poe— you've been so fucking good— god, you should hear how you sound— look at you, poe, you could fucking cut glass with that jawline—)
And as he gets close to that edge, his entire body tenses, and when he finally lets himself fall over, he groans out Poe's name against his shoulder. His rhythm stutters, grows frantic as he fucks Poe, as he rides out wave after golden, molten wave, and—
He relaxes, sagging a little against Poe's back, but he keeps stroking Poe, keeps up that pressure, keeps up that rhythm. He's left the guy twisting in the wind for long enough. Peter's a little sadistic, sure, but he's not a monster. ]
[ Somehow, inexplicably, Peter's reassurance soothes the desperation edging into Poe's voice. Part of him is terrified Peter is going to push him even closer to that edge and stop again, and that would be beyond fucking torture.
(Would he like it? Would it be too much? Poe has no idea.)
But Poe relaxes (as much as he can), and he just tightens his fingers around his own wrist, keeping himself in check as Peter steadily picks up the pace, fucking Poe harder, deeper, effortlessly slamming into his prostate again and again, and Poe is losing track of everything except Peter's voice and how fucking incredible he feels. He concentrates on the heat of Peter's cock, his hand slicked with Poe's own precum, those fucking words filling his senses and dragging him even deeper. Poe would say any number of those things about himself on any given day, but Peter—
Fuck, it's so stupid.
But for a heartbeat, he's barely shaken out of his own haze by the moment Peter's orgasm slams into him. Poe feels Peter throbbing inside of him, and something undoubtedly filthy accompanies Poe's groan (fucking give it to me, god, yes, fuck, i wanna feel you—), until all of the tension slides out of Peter, and Poe is still left hard and pulsing with need. As great as feeling Peter come might be, Poe's been suffering for a while.
A low noise in his throat, concern that's quickly cut off when Peter's hand resumes that level pace – not too fast, not too much friction, but just fucking right. And now that Peter's come, now that Poe has that encouragement, he lets himself focus, wholly and utterly, on the rising crest of climax. He's been waiting way too fucking long, driven absolutely insane by the torment Peter enjoyed way too fucking much, and the only thing that matters right now is finally getting off.
It's stupidly hard for Poe to writhe and buck as much as he usually would, but he still arches into Peter, his head pressing back on the taller man's shoulder, his mouth fallen open as he drags in breath after desperate breath, letting loose words and pleas and curses that would make the galaxy's crudest pirate blush. He's going to pieces and he doesn't give a fuck, as long as he gets to come.
Finally, with sweat slicking his curls to his face, with his cheeks a brilliant red, Poe finally hits that peak.
If he hadn't been waiting for so long, he might be embarrassed by how hard he comes. His orgasm slams into him, and cum spurts over Peter's hand, painting Poe's stomach, up his chest, and Poe just strains and bucks against Peter with a guttural shout, until he's finally slumping back, completely boneless. Whatever weight he was supporting on his own is immediately surrendered as his knees give out, and he sinks almost entirely into Peter. ]
[ He works Poe through it, soaking in the heat of Poe's body, feeling the way his arms tense between the press of their bodies, feeling the heat of Poe's breath as his head falls back against Peter's shoulder, as he recites swears filthy enough to curdle milk.
When Poe finally falls apart, Peter feels a distant tug low in his gut; it's way too soon, obviously, but that prickly, golden heat briefly sparks before slipping away.
God, that was worth it all. So fucking worth it.
Poe collapses back against him, and Peter lets out a breath that might be a fond, affectionate laugh. Peter rearranges them, sitting on the bed and spreading his legs to let Poe settle between them. He uses his clean hand to smooth over Poe's chest, to feel the way his heart tries to pound its way out of his chest, the uneven rise and fall as Poe takes in breath after ragged breath. Peter kisses whatever he can reach – Poe's temple, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw.
He wipes off his cum-covered hand on the far corner of the sheets, and normally he'd lament the fact that this condemns him to a reality where laundry has to happen, sooner rather than later. Right now, though, he's more than glad to resign himself to fate, considering how fucking worth it it was.
He frees Poe's arms from where they've been wedged between them, letting them fall across Poe's stomach. He carefully picks up one wrist, his thumb running over the bright marks that promise to be bruises later. ]
You're gonna have to wear long-sleeves for a while.
[ Peter would almost sounds apologetic, if it weren't for that touch of pride brightening his voice. ]
[ Poe is complete jelly. He allows himself to be rearranged without protest, sinking into Peter again on the bed with a shuddering sigh – content, blissful. His head feels like he's floating in clouds or maybe riding a really good high, and he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be in that moment.
Poe soaks up all the kisses, all the attention, finally turning his face towards Peter to knock his nose against Peter's jaw. ]
Yuh-huh.
[ Breathy agreement, and he doesn't sound the slightest bit put out about it.
(He usually wears long sleeves, anyway. This won't be much of a hassle.
[ He breathes out another laugh, and close as they are, the full effect of Peter's incredulous look is probably lost on Poe. ]
Eloquent.
[ But the warmth in his voice undercuts the sarcasm.
He keeps up the gentle attentions. Peter can't claim to be an expert in this shit, but he knows that when things get intense for him, there's always the small chance of him crashing. Peter doesn't really get why that happens to him, doesn't really know how to avoid it, but whenever it happens, he usually wishes he wasn't alone.
He has no way of knowing if that's the same for Poe or if Poe has the capacity to crash in that same way, considering this is their first time doing anything like this, but he figures a gentle transition can't hurt anything. ]
Poe is used to riding on endorphins. He's used to chasing after that kind of high with sex, and he's even used to finding it with intense sex. But not usually with the kind of intense sex that gets him like... this. However, despite how much he'd been swept up in the moment, right now, he only feels good, and he wants it to stay that way.
He half-turns towards Peter, resting his forehead on the other man's neck, breathing in the smell of him and trying to soak up his body heat and not giving a single fuck about the steadily drying cum on his skin.
When he speaks words are a little slow, but warm. ]
[ The correction is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down, letting out an almost token exasperated scoff instead. ]
Yeah, of course I'm good.
[ Peter wasn't the one who practically shattered, after all.
Peter should— probably go get them cleaned up, but he's loathe to move away when Poe seems so comfortable. He reaches up, carding his fingers through Poe's hair, enjoying the warm, damp brush of Poe's breath against his skin. ]
I mean, after a show like that, how could I be anything but good?
[ Peter lets out a quiet hum, though he sounds vaguely uncertain. ]
Maybe not now, but you’re gonna be feeling it later.
[ Which is— well. That’s what Poe wanted, admittedly, but the guy is, like, all important and shit, and as the “best pilot in the Resistance” – Poe’s words, not Peter’s (though he’d probably agree, under great duress) – he should be in better condition.
It’s why Peter brings up a hand to the nape of Poe’s neck, why he carefully starts massaging his shoulders – though he’s careful to ease up the pressure around the bruises painting Poe’s left shoulder. ]
[ Oh, hey, massages. Poe won't complain about that when Peter is so set on pampering him; he's one to enjoy the physical touch, and Peter is practically showering him in it. Poe rumbles with approval, letting his eyes close again. ]
So what I’m hearing is that I need to triple the smart-ass. Got it.
[ Poe hums thoughtfully, like this makes complete, reasonable sense. As Peter’s hands move down Poe’s arms, Poe just relaxes even more, sighing happily as he relishes every bit of attention. ]
[ With all the immediacy of someone who fully intends to follow through, but all the fondness of someone who means exactly none of it.
He keeps up his ministrations, trying to knead away the worst of what’s sure to be a persistent ache for the next few days]
Think of the Resistance, Dameron. They’ll have to get a new poster boy if all your teeth are knocked out, and your recruitment numbers will absolutely tank.
... He’s definitely had that particular private thought about Poe enough times that he would likely reach triple digits, but— that smug look on the guy’s face tells Peter that he must’ve spoken it aloud, too.
Ugh.
Ugh.
Poe will never let him live that down.
It’s why Peter’s expression sours. He playfully plants a hand on Poe’s face, just to hide that shit-eating grin from himself, and shoves him onto the bed. ]
That jawline’s gonna be a puffy mess if you don’t shut your trap.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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But that doesn't mean that he gives Poe what he wants, and he keeps his hands just as they are – one curled around the hard blade of Poe's hip, the other tight around Poe's wrists as he struggles. (There are going to be long, dark bruises there, Peter knows, stark against Poe's skin. They'll look good on him, Peter thinks; he's sorry he won't be able to see them when they're settled in.)
For now, Peter keeps fucking him, keeps hitting that sweet spot, over and over and over, listening to the way Poe moans and whines and shouts with need.
His hand leaves Poe's hip after what probably seems like hours for Poe, but rather than take pity on the guy, Peter reaches for Poe's good shoulder, pulling him up to press Poe's back to Peter's front. He keeps Poe's arms trapped between them, one arm around Poe's chest like a vise, and his other hand smooths over Poe's stomach. ]
God, you're perfect.
[ And he groans it against Poe's shoulder, nosing at the line of his jaw. ]
Fuck, look at you, so fucking desperate. So fucking perfect—
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Peter hauls him upright. Poe gasps sharply, surprised, and then the strangled noise out of him is so close to a genuine sob when he realizes Peter is pinning him again and his aching cock is still left abandoned. He flexes in the iron bars of Peter’s hold, but he’s not willing to put in the effort to really fight to get his arms free. His head falls back on Peter’s shoulder, his eyes glazed, watching nothing on the opposite wall as he pants raggedly for a useful scrap of oxygen.
That broad palm is on his stomach, so close to where he needs it— ]
Peter, fuck, I need to—
[ Another loud sob as he arches against Peter’s chest, trying to coax his hand down.
(He’s too caught up to think about what Peter’s saying and how it sings through him, how hearing something that stupidly simple makes him melt.
But fuck, it’s good.) ]
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That's all still certainly true, but now, Peter can hear the whine in Poe's voice, and he drinks in those desperate sobs like he's a man dying of thirst in a desert. Peter can hear the way Poe's voice is one hard thrust away from a plea, and—
God, Peter fucking loves it.
He mouths at the line of Poe's neck and shoulder, bites and sucks new marks to the surface as he fucks him at that same, relentless pace, finding Poe's prostate with each slide home. He glances down, sees how swollen Poe's cock is, sees how precum leaks from the tip, sees the way it twitches with every hard thrust. Poe must be fucking aching, and while Peter certainly knows how goddamn awful it feels and is a little sympathetic, it's also exactly what he was hoping to see. ]
Tell me what you need.
[ He noses at Poe's hair just behind his ear, and he slides his hand up to the base of Poe's neck, fingers splayed wide, keeping the pressure minimal – just so Poe can have the sensation of it without any of the risk.
Peter still wants to hear him, after all. ]
Ask for it.
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Well, it’s partially by accident. He didn’t think Peter could blast through his barriers, could push him far enough to feel this out of control. He’d held to that stubborn defiance through almost everything, thought he would (because he always has), but Peter’s thrown him for a loop. He expected to just get fucked until he was a bruised, sore, blissed out puddle on Peter’s bed. He thought that was all Peter had in store for him.
This is more than that.
(And somewhere, he remembers his safeword exists, but it doesn’t occur to him for a second to use it.)
His breathing catches as Peter’s hand closes around his throat, but he quickly realizes that Peter is just holding him there. The pressure isn’t daunting or frightening, and it doesn’t shake Poe out of the moment.
If anything, it drives him a little farther down.
He can feel Peter’s breath behind his ear, hear the rumble in his voice, and it’s so fucking good. So fucking good.
And then—
Ask for it.
Peter doesn’t demand he beg, and maybe that’s why the urge to rebel doesn’t kick in; he doesn’t feel like he has to shrug Peter off or toss back a sarcastic quip. Instead, the promise of finally coming is too alluring. ]
Touch me.
[ He sounds so far gone, his deep voice hoarse on the noises that have spilled from him like water. ]
Touch me, I can’t— I need to come, Peter, so bad—
[ Poe chokes on another sob. ]
Please.
no subject
He nuzzles against Poe's hair again, the gesture strangely gentle, considering what a goddamn prick he's been to Poe so far. ]
Perfect.
[ And the praise is dark, a little awed. The arm holding Poe's chest to him relaxes. ]
Fuck, you're perfect.
Keep your hands behind you.
[ After that, he teases the head of Poe's cock, and he slicks his fingers with Poe's precum. The bottle of lube is— somewhere on the bed, but likely out of reach, and while it would certainly make things a little easier on Poe, Peter doubts he has the patience to wait the interminable amount of time it'd take Peter to find it. ]
You sure you wouldn't rather have my mouth?
[ Though even as he asks it, he curls his hand around Poe's shaft, stroking him, slowing down his thrusts to match this new rhythm – not slow, but far less demanding than before. ]
no subject
But with that praise, Peter finally takes pity on him. He isn’t even inclined to intentionally be contrary when Peter orders him to keep his arms in place. He can do it, even as he wishes he could touch Peter or his own cock, but he closes his fingers around his other wrist, just to be sure.
Unfortunately for Poe, Peter doesn’t give him the immediate relief he wanted. Poe chokes on a startled moan as Peter properly wraps his fist around Poe’s cock, but it’s too slow. Poe tries to buck forward, shaking his head quickly. ]
No, fuck, I don't care— Just— don't stop.
[ Peter isn't fucking him with the same ruthless pace, but Poe is still reeling from it, still buzzing with the sparking need it kicked off in his gut. ]
Please don't stop, please.
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[ And even is his voice is still hoarse with want and desire, he somehow manages to sound gentle, pressing his lips to Poe's temple. ]
I'm gonna take care of you.
[ A reassurance and a promise, wrapped up in one. ]
I've got you.
[ He works his way back up to that ruthless pace from before, his hand curled around Poe's cock, offering special attention to the head. He aims for Poe's prostate, over and over, and focused as he is on maintaining that rhythm, he only has mind enough to offer quick, shallow little presses of his mouth against Poe's shoulder, his neck, the line of his jaw.
Peter tends to babble when he's in the heat of the moment, and now's no different. He offers up every little bit of praise that comes to his head, heedless of his usual reluctance to inflate Poe's ego. (shit, poe— you've been so fucking good— god, you should hear how you sound— look at you, poe, you could fucking cut glass with that jawline—)
And as he gets close to that edge, his entire body tenses, and when he finally lets himself fall over, he groans out Poe's name against his shoulder. His rhythm stutters, grows frantic as he fucks Poe, as he rides out wave after golden, molten wave, and—
He relaxes, sagging a little against Poe's back, but he keeps stroking Poe, keeps up that pressure, keeps up that rhythm. He's left the guy twisting in the wind for long enough. Peter's a little sadistic, sure, but he's not a monster. ]
Don't hold back.
no subject
(Would he like it? Would it be too much? Poe has no idea.)
But Poe relaxes (as much as he can), and he just tightens his fingers around his own wrist, keeping himself in check as Peter steadily picks up the pace, fucking Poe harder, deeper, effortlessly slamming into his prostate again and again, and Poe is losing track of everything except Peter's voice and how fucking incredible he feels. He concentrates on the heat of Peter's cock, his hand slicked with Poe's own precum, those fucking words filling his senses and dragging him even deeper. Poe would say any number of those things about himself on any given day, but Peter—
Fuck, it's so stupid.
But for a heartbeat, he's barely shaken out of his own haze by the moment Peter's orgasm slams into him. Poe feels Peter throbbing inside of him, and something undoubtedly filthy accompanies Poe's groan (fucking give it to me, god, yes, fuck, i wanna feel you—), until all of the tension slides out of Peter, and Poe is still left hard and pulsing with need. As great as feeling Peter come might be, Poe's been suffering for a while.
A low noise in his throat, concern that's quickly cut off when Peter's hand resumes that level pace – not too fast, not too much friction, but just fucking right. And now that Peter's come, now that Poe has that encouragement, he lets himself focus, wholly and utterly, on the rising crest of climax. He's been waiting way too fucking long, driven absolutely insane by the torment Peter enjoyed way too fucking much, and the only thing that matters right now is finally getting off.
It's stupidly hard for Poe to writhe and buck as much as he usually would, but he still arches into Peter, his head pressing back on the taller man's shoulder, his mouth fallen open as he drags in breath after desperate breath, letting loose words and pleas and curses that would make the galaxy's crudest pirate blush. He's going to pieces and he doesn't give a fuck, as long as he gets to come.
Finally, with sweat slicking his curls to his face, with his cheeks a brilliant red, Poe finally hits that peak.
If he hadn't been waiting for so long, he might be embarrassed by how hard he comes. His orgasm slams into him, and cum spurts over Peter's hand, painting Poe's stomach, up his chest, and Poe just strains and bucks against Peter with a guttural shout, until he's finally slumping back, completely boneless. Whatever weight he was supporting on his own is immediately surrendered as his knees give out, and he sinks almost entirely into Peter. ]
no subject
When Poe finally falls apart, Peter feels a distant tug low in his gut; it's way too soon, obviously, but that prickly, golden heat briefly sparks before slipping away.
God, that was worth it all. So fucking worth it.
Poe collapses back against him, and Peter lets out a breath that might be a fond, affectionate laugh. Peter rearranges them, sitting on the bed and spreading his legs to let Poe settle between them. He uses his clean hand to smooth over Poe's chest, to feel the way his heart tries to pound its way out of his chest, the uneven rise and fall as Poe takes in breath after ragged breath. Peter kisses whatever he can reach – Poe's temple, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw.
He wipes off his cum-covered hand on the far corner of the sheets, and normally he'd lament the fact that this condemns him to a reality where laundry has to happen, sooner rather than later. Right now, though, he's more than glad to resign himself to fate, considering how fucking worth it it was.
He frees Poe's arms from where they've been wedged between them, letting them fall across Poe's stomach. He carefully picks up one wrist, his thumb running over the bright marks that promise to be bruises later. ]
You're gonna have to wear long-sleeves for a while.
[ Peter would almost sounds apologetic, if it weren't for that touch of pride brightening his voice. ]
no subject
Poe soaks up all the kisses, all the attention, finally turning his face towards Peter to knock his nose against Peter's jaw. ]
Yuh-huh.
[ Breathy agreement, and he doesn't sound the slightest bit put out about it.
(He usually wears long sleeves, anyway. This won't be much of a hassle.
Also? Worth it.) ]
no subject
Eloquent.
[ But the warmth in his voice undercuts the sarcasm.
He keeps up the gentle attentions. Peter can't claim to be an expert in this shit, but he knows that when things get intense for him, there's always the small chance of him crashing. Peter doesn't really get why that happens to him, doesn't really know how to avoid it, but whenever it happens, he usually wishes he wasn't alone.
He has no way of knowing if that's the same for Poe or if Poe has the capacity to crash in that same way, considering this is their first time doing anything like this, but he figures a gentle transition can't hurt anything. ]
Feeling okay there, flyboy?
no subject
[ And Peter thought he was eloquent before.
Poe is used to riding on endorphins. He's used to chasing after that kind of high with sex, and he's even used to finding it with intense sex. But not usually with the kind of intense sex that gets him like... this. However, despite how much he'd been swept up in the moment, right now, he only feels good, and he wants it to stay that way.
He half-turns towards Peter, resting his forehead on the other man's neck, breathing in the smell of him and trying to soak up his body heat and not giving a single fuck about the steadily drying cum on his skin.
When he speaks words are a little slow, but warm. ]
Mmm... still good, starboy?
no subject
Yeah, of course I'm good.
[ Peter wasn't the one who practically shattered, after all.
Peter should— probably go get them cleaned up, but he's loathe to move away when Poe seems so comfortable. He reaches up, carding his fingers through Poe's hair, enjoying the warm, damp brush of Poe's breath against his skin. ]
I mean, after a show like that, how could I be anything but good?
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A show, huh? Lucky you, gettin' front row tickets.
[ He turns his head enough to get a look at his wrists, and his eyebrows wing up, something impressed in his groggy tone. ]
Damn, you did a number on these.
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In my defense, some of that might've been self-inflicted.
[ He casts the words as a joke, but Poe did seem to fall back into his grip a lot more often than not.
But— no, yeah. It was definitely mostly Peter's doing.
He takes one of Poe's wrists, bringing it up to his lips. ]
I can grab you some ice.
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[ He doesn't sound concerned about the bruises.
He actually kind of likes them. ]
They're not all that sore.
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Maybe not now, but you’re gonna be feeling it later.
[ Which is— well. That’s what Poe wanted, admittedly, but the guy is, like, all important and shit, and as the “best pilot in the Resistance” – Poe’s words, not Peter’s (though he’d probably agree, under great duress) – he should be in better condition.
It’s why Peter brings up a hand to the nape of Poe’s neck, why he carefully starts massaging his shoulders – though he’s careful to ease up the pressure around the bruises painting Poe’s left shoulder. ]
You sure you’re okay?
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Do I seem not okay?
[ He feels pretty fucking good right now. ]
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[ Another quiet hum, but more agreeing, this time. Poe seems good, and far be it from Peter to question it while the guy is still riding out the high.
Probably a better to check in later, when Poe starts coming down from it.
He moves on to carefully pressing into the muscles of Poe’s biceps; the guy struggled pretty hard, earlier. ]
You’re all floppy and quiet and have the smart-ass turned down pretty low. I kinda like it.
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[ Poe hums thoughtfully, like this makes complete, reasonable sense. As Peter’s hands move down Poe’s arms, Poe just relaxes even more, sighing happily as he relishes every bit of attention. ]
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[ With all the immediacy of someone who fully intends to follow through, but all the fondness of someone who means exactly none of it.
He keeps up his ministrations, trying to knead away the worst of what’s sure to be a persistent ache for the next few days]
Think of the Resistance, Dameron. They’ll have to get a new poster boy if all your teeth are knocked out, and your recruitment numbers will absolutely tank.
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Yeah, where else are they going to find another jawline that could cut glass?
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... He’s definitely had that particular private thought about Poe enough times that he would likely reach triple digits, but— that smug look on the guy’s face tells Peter that he must’ve spoken it aloud, too.
Ugh.
Ugh.
Poe will never let him live that down.
It’s why Peter’s expression sours. He playfully plants a hand on Poe’s face, just to hide that shit-eating grin from himself, and shoves him onto the bed. ]
That jawline’s gonna be a puffy mess if you don’t shut your trap.
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No, no, no. [ In between snorts. ] You've got all these nice things to say about my face. I wanna hear them, c'mon.
[ He stays where he is, grinning up at Peter. ]
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I will actually throw you out, Dameron. Literally just huck you off my ship and keep your clothes as compensation for having to put up with you.
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