[ 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.
[ He gives the guy a considering look, as if to size him up and do a bit of mental math.
Then, decisively, ]
Actually, I probably could.
[ Admittedly, not that high or far, but enough of a distance to definitely call it throwing.
Peter works out. It helps pass the time when he’s going from one job to another. Plus, it helps give him an edge when he has to fight his way out of a shitty job. People tend to underestimate him, which he hates, but he uses it to his advantage when it comes to caving in faces. ]
[ Poe considers him through narrowed eyes, pausing for a second or two...
And then he seems to decide that Peter is mostly accurate. Peter is strong, and trying to argue that would be dumb as hell, and he's also got Poe on a few inches up and around. Poe's definitely got strength in the right places and when he needs it, but he's also probably light enough that Peter could haul him up and give him a good toss.
Another pause... ]
You know, if you just complimented me outright, we wouldn't even be talking about throwing people.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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(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. ]
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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. ]
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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.) ]
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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?
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[ 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?
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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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Psh, you couldn't throw me.
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Then, decisively, ]
Actually, I probably could.
[ Admittedly, not that high or far, but enough of a distance to definitely call it throwing.
Peter works out. It helps pass the time when he’s going from one job to another. Plus, it helps give him an edge when he has to fight his way out of a shitty job. People tend to underestimate him, which he hates, but he uses it to his advantage when it comes to caving in faces. ]
So you really shouldn’t tempt me.
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And then he seems to decide that Peter is mostly accurate. Peter is strong, and trying to argue that would be dumb as hell, and he's also got Poe on a few inches up and around. Poe's definitely got strength in the right places and when he needs it, but he's also probably light enough that Peter could haul him up and give him a good toss.
Another pause... ]
You know, if you just complimented me outright, we wouldn't even be talking about throwing people.
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[ ... not that Peter reacts any differently, but, hey. It's different, on account of it being Peter.
He reaches out to tousle Poe's hair, making a bigger mess of his already wild curls. ]
If your head gets any bigger, it'll break your neck.
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He should probably get a haircut. ]
Hey, gotta enjoy it now, and you never know...
[ He pushes his hair back, and then rests a hand dramatically on his chest and with a lofty tone, ]
Your sweet words could be the inspiration I need to get me through another firefight.
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