[John smiles down at him, fondly, finger tracing the edge of Poe's jaw. Tilting his face up to look at him.
Poe's already fighting, but John doesn't mind. Let him fight, while he still can. The man's a stallion. Rebellion is in his blood. John loves his spirit.
He doesn't want to tame him, he just wants to show him the other side. Like Poe had shown him. That there's freedom in giving up control, tool. Even more than holding on to it. ]
Take off the boxers, and stay. I'll be back.
[John crosses the room to the bathroom and shuts the door. Changes. Takes a moment to splash his face with cold water, and look at his own reflection. Some days, it's blurry. Today it isn't. Poe makes him feel sharp. Alive. Himself.
When John returns, it isn't in the gaudy leather and vinyl he'd seen on the racks of the kink expo. No costume. No lingerie. He's in partial uniform. Black BDU pants, a black tee, his boots. Gloves.
John's working, after all. So he's wearing what's comfortable. What makes him feel confident, and in control. At heart, he's a soldier. Even more than a man.]
[ That touch sets off electric tingles in Poe's stomach, alarm bells in his head. John is being... different. They've changed on and off, who's in control, who's in charge, but. John is being different this time.
He takes off the boxers, tossing them aside, wondering what on earth John is doing in the bathroom. He's not the costume type, and Poe has never really understood the appeal of pretending to be someone or something else in bed. People are interesting enough as they are.
But when John comes out, he's not wearing a costume. He's wearing work clothes. Poe gets up, somewhere between attracted and alarmed. ]
[For this to work, John has to remain in control. If he doubts himself, or loses his nerve for even a minute, everything will fall apart. John is a skilled man, and he trusts in his abilities and experience to come out of most situations on top, but he isn't a confident man in and of himself.
John doesn't have the gut strength Poe does. He isn't entirely sure he's up to this, that he can be for Poe what he is to him, a figure of strength, someone he can trust to hold him through thick and thin, but he wants to.
He crosses the room to Poe, puts one hand on his chest, and pushes him back onto the bed. Sitting or standing. Poe is heavier, stronger, but John has leverage, and Poe has the bed at the back of his knees.
Looking down at him, he plants a knee between his legs, and places one gloved hand over his throat. Eyes hard, because he has to be hard in order to go to this vulnerable place.]
You're going to listen to me, understand? I was good for you. Be good for me.
[ Alarmed and attracted has become alarmed and aroused. John's eyes are still beautiful with that coldness in them, galaxies in empty space. It's unsettling to know he likes John's grip on his throat.
He's breathing faster, instinct to fight flaring against the knowledge that John is right. John let Poe have his way with him, more than once.
John Sheppard looks at him, unyielding and without mercy, and Poe realizes he's afraid. He doesn't trust John. It hurts to know that, and he's not sure how to fix it.
[John rewards him with a kiss, rough and claiming. He wants it to linger on Poe's lips even after he pulls away.
It's true John's let Poe have his way with him, a lot more than once. Those two nights he stripped him to the bone, and all the others he'd submitted in smaller, more subtle ways. Let him choose the time and place. Set the pace. Use his body when he wants, how he wants, while still being so careful not to push him back. Because he doesn't want to lose him.
John trusts Poe, but he's afraid of him, too. What he means to John, and the iron fist he has around his heart. He's bared so much of himself, more and more, every time Poe demands. Eventually, John is certain Poe will see enough not to want him anymore. That scares him most of all.
This is another side of John, different than Poe's seen before, and even now, he doesn't know if Poe will like it, but he wants to show him. To go as far as Poe went, and see more of him, too. He doesn't want to be naked alone.
If John thinks about this too long, the why, he gets into his head, and that's a dangerous place to be. So he turns it all off. Goes to the same place he goes when he needs to take command, and can't afford to second-guess himself.
He moves back off the bed, and picks up the rope. He runs the length of it between his fingers, with a whisper of silk against leather, and winds it loosely around his arm.]
You can talk, but you can't move. I need you to be still.
[ Poe just nods. Somehow being given the allowance of speech doesn't make actually speaking easier.
Being told not to move makes him want to. He grips the edge of the bed hard, watching that rope slide over John's gloves. Goosebumps prickle up Poe's arms and tingle across his scalp. Tied up. John is going to tie him up. He'll be naked, helpless.
Poe swallows. ]
You really want to do this?
[ Focus on that. Focus on whether or not this is what John wants, if this is what he needs, and it's a little easier to deal with the idea. Make it, in his own mind, about John, instead of about Poe himself.
Yes, I do, but this isn't about me. It's about you.
[John crawls back off the bed, standing over Poe. His eyes cut up and down over his naked body. Surveying the territory. All the valleys, peaks, and slopes of his musculature. He knows Poe's body well, has spent countless hours touching it, on top of it, under it. They fuck almost every day. John's had more sex in the past few months than he has in the past five years.
It was an adjustment, at first. Then he got used to it. Now John needs it. Going days without Poe's hands on him, without his dick in him, is uncomfortable.
John hadn't realized how cripplingly lonely he was until he wasn't.
He goes down on one knee, casting the first loop of rope around Poe's ankle. The contrast of black against olive is striking. He feels the first thrill of actually doing this, making his belly go tight and hot. Stabilizing his core. He casts the next loop, and the next, rope gliding against Poe's skin.
He breathes over Poe's foot, tugging the rope between his first and second toe, around the arch of his foot, and back up to his ankle. Tension immediate with the first knot, locking Poe's foot into an elegantly pointed position.]
[ So much for the illusion. Between the words and John looking him over like that, Poe has nowhere to retreat to.
The sensation of smooth rope gliding over his skin is actually nice. At least at first. Until it starts drawing tight, pulling at his foot. His muscles tense for a moment, but there's not much he can do about it. His foot gets drawn into position and fixed there.
[Sing-song, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He whips the tail of the rope against the soft padding of Poe's toes.
There's no room for error in what he's doing right now. Every twist and knot is pre-planned. People call this rope-play, but to John? It's a mission, and he's approaching it with a strategy.
He places one hand on Poe's knee and the other on his ankle, bending his leg. Every movement of Poe's body is his to make, no matter how small. He takes a moment to admire the movement of Poe's muscle beneath his skin. Drinking in the seldom-seen underside of Poe's thigh, the swell of his hamstring, before binding Poe's ankle to his upper leg just below his ass with a figure eight of rope.
Poe can wiggle the toes of his right foot, can spread his leg outward, but that's all he can do. John gives his bared ass-cheek a slap.]
[ The flick doesn't actually hurt. Stings a little, but doesn't properly hurt. And there's something weirdly attractive about the practiced way John does it.
He lets John move him, curious now more than afraid. At least until John makes that second tie. That's when it really registers that he's on his back, being willingly(ish) trussed up.
And he wants it.
He likes it.
The slip of rope over skin. The careful attention John gives to each movement, like a one-sided dance. Poe closes his eyes, breath tremoring a little.
He's seen John helpless. He's not sure what to do with the idea that he might want that for himself.
Instead he tugs at the binding, trying to see if it will loosen, trying to see if he can move in any way other than the one he's been allowed. It doesn't work.
He digs his hands into the bed, squirming, then trying to sit up.
Apparently he can't resist a fight, no matter how futile. ]
[John grips Poe by the leg binding, yanking his leg out from under him and knocking him flat on his back.]
What did I say, Dameron? Stay.
[He swats Poe on this ass again, harder this time. Enough to leave a red mark in the shape of his hand on Poe's cheek. The leather stitching of his glove adds to the sting.
John pulls the rope under his back, wraps it once around waist, three times around his dick, and pulls. The silk rope is softer than some, but the smoothness means it moves against the skin, and the friction is hotter than a coarser, more stable rope. He barely has to apply pressure for the rope to rub around the girth of Poe's dick.]
Why does every lesson need to be a hard lesson with you?
[ The noise Poe makes when John hits him is somewhere in the dignity-range of a yelp. John moves fast, fast enough that Poe is just trying to sit up again when that first coil of rope wraps around his dick and he stills. The heat of silk against sensitive skin makes Poe hiss with a mix of pain and surprise.
Traitor that it is, his cock seems to like the attention. He grits his teeth, bracing himself on his elbows. ]
It does not.
[ Poe likes irony. He likes it for the lovely whooshing sound it makes when it flies directly over his head. ]
He slows down when he reaches Poe's left leg, working backwards from the right. Poe already knows what's coming, so he works with that anticipation. The rope slithers over his skin, aided only by the occasional brush of John's gloved fingertips. He binds the left from top to bottom. Rope wrapped around thigh, to ankle, and from ankle to foot. He ties the rope off in a decorative knot.
The tension goes from toe, to dick, to toe. With every pull of Poe's thighs, the rope around his shaft will shift. The harder Poe struggles, the more friction he'll create. Self-inflicted torture.
Call it a life lesson.
Legs pinned up and apart, there's very little of Poe that isn't on display for him. Ass. Taint. Balls. Dick. John can see it all.]
[ The brief tension as John works on his other leg, the instinct to fight, sends that silk rope chafing around Poe's dick. He winces, squirms again, hisses. As with the rest of this it's hard for him to tell if he's turned on or annoyed, but as John works the rope around his thigh, his ankle, brushes his skin with those gloves, it gets easier to tell which one it is.
Poe eases back onto the bed, letting John work, staring at the ceiling and focusing on the feeling of the ropes, his body being moved.
This isn't so bad.
At least his hands are free. ]
I can't-- [ --do much for you this way.
Poe tries to roll onto his side, maybe get up on his knees, but the rope pulls sharply against his dick and he falls back into place.
I'll take care of everything, John had said.
Poe gets the feeling this isn't everything. Not by a long shot.
[Poe's dick is hard, jutting up from between his muscular hips like a weapon, and it's tempting- almost impossible to resist. John wants to wrap his lips around it, and soothe some of that angry redness. He needs to remind himself it's not going anywhere. The ropes are tight. Tight enough to keep the blood trapped in Poe's dick for as long as John wants it there.
John picks up the next set of ropes, as sleek and black as the last, and changes position. He climbs on top of the bed, boots and all, and straddles Poe's torso. Just above his dick. His ass so close, but so far away. If Poe dares to buck his hips he might get some contact, but only at his own expense.
He makes a noose, and pulls it down over Poe's head. Knots the length of it three times while Poe watches. This work is more complicated. John has the steps memorized, but with Poe's chest heaving beneath him, and the look in those dark eyes, it takes all of his will-power to remain focused.
His eyes, sharp, vivid with concentration, dart over Poe's body, making quick checks and calculations. John's tacticians mind at work.
Finally, he drapes the length of rope down between Poe's neck, over his belly, between John's legs, once more around Poe's cock, the time under and around his balls, and then between the cleft of his ass and back up again. John is lean, and he is balanced, he performs all the movements with the steady hand of a sniper.]
[ John is breathtaking. It’s not the first time that particular thought has occurred to Poe. It comes in odd moments, at odd times, when John is soft and gentle, when he’s vulnerable, when he’s cold-eyed and brutal. Facets of a man that Poe is still amazed was alone.
He actually lifts his head to allow the noose.
It isn’t until John tries to wrap his dick again that Poe bucks, then cries out as the ropes pull sharply around his cock. It’s painful enough that Poe tears up. ]
You win. [ Poe shifts his legs back toward each other, trying to ease the pressure. He can’t sit up with John straddling his stomach, but he can try to prop himself up on his elbows again. ] Okay?
[John's conquest was never in question. Not since he started working. He's not scared of the ropes, anymore. It's just another tool he's mastered, and is utilizing to his needs, and it feels natural as it glides between his palms. The same way his rifle is just an extension of his arm, and pulling the trigger is just the same as twitching his finger.
John pulls the rope up from behind Poe's back, seemingly unconcerned by his sudden fidgeting. He splits the rope, catches it between the two halves of the central piece, pulling it into a wide diamond, then back out around Poe's torso again. It criss-crosses beautifully over his hips, above the swell of his pelvic bones, and just under his ribs, making countless knots as he works. Binding Poe's stomach and chest, spreading the tension over his body, though it all feeds back to his dick. A calculated choice.
John's gloved hands trace the sides of his body, catching over the ropes, up under his arms, dragging over biceps to elbows. He grips them firmly, and presses them above Poe's head.]
I want you tight and arched, like a bow. You've already got the arrow.
[ Line by line, knot by knot, the whisper of rope against skin settles Poe's nerves while the ache of his cock stays as a steady throbbing between his legs. His legs themselves are starting to tremor, little shivers of muscle against the silk. It's tiring to hold them close enough that his dick doesn't serve as their anchor.
Poe closes his eyes and breathes in sharply at the feeling of John's gloved hands tracing over his skin, every hitch of the ropes against them. The tag and pull of leather and silk, then leather again on bare skin. Then John has his elbows over his head, held down, and Poe snaps back to the present.
He doesn't want to want this.
The tremors in Poe's legs have traveled up to his abdomen, as he arches, trying to fight John's weight. He pushes back against John's grip on his arms, but the other man has him at a profound disadvantage.
And every time he arches, the ropes pull around that arrow of his, until Poe makes a whispered noise of pain. ]
[John sits back on his heels, the mattress buckling beneath his booted feet.
He doesn't let go of Poe's arms, though. His thumbs stroke over the soft underside of Poe's bicep, smooth and hairless. The skin there is almost delicate, turned inwards for a reason. To protect arteries. The human body is a beautiful thing, and John was trained to exploit it long before the concept of ropes crossed his mind.
John looks down into Poe's eyes, connecting.]
Do you remember what you did to me?
[For a moment, John feels a flicker of fear in his gut. What if Poe doesn't? What if it hadn't meant anything to him, and he'd just been playing? Pushing John's buttons because he could, just to see what would happen? John doesn't want to think that's what it was. Can't believe it, even for a second. Even if it were true. It would hurt too much to know his struggle, his vulnerability, his tears were just for Poe's amusement.]
[ He swallows. Can't look away from those green-gold galaxies. His answer barely qualifies as more than a whisper. ] Yeah.
[ He remembers. He can't forget. He made John cry, made him shake and buck and weep and call his name, and Poe is terrified of going to that place. He's terrified of being that far in someone else's power.
He's been there once. He's been there twice, now, been broken open and had pieces of himself dragged into the light. And both times it was cruel. It was a nightmare. It left him broken and exhausted, violated, tainted.
[ Poe doesn't say anything. He closes his eyes against the burn starting in them, hopes to stop the tears, but all that does is get them to fall. Tracing down across his temples, into his ears, into his hair.
But he doesn't say anything.
He wants to trust John. He wants to trust him more than anything, but.
But, but, but, always that word. Always that resistance.
He opens his eyes again. What was it he'd said to Finn, months ago now? The First Order and their ghoul don't get to control me like that.
Poe meets John's gaze, still crying, and stays silent. ]
Then he remembers how Poe pushed him, past the tears, past his protests, into a space that was pure and beautiful. Poe has issues. They both do. Issues that stop them from letting go. From trusting. From loving and being loved.
They don't talk about these issues. John doesn't know all Poe's suffered, and he won't ask, but sometimes his eyes are just as sad as they are beautiful. He doesn't have to know to want to take that hurt away.
He kisses the tears away from Poe's face, stroking the the wet back through his hair.
Then he moves his hands back to Poe's elbows, pushing them high over his head, and passes the rope up behind his back, tugging it tight through his ass, and wraps it around his wrists.
Looking down into Poe's eyes, with all the strength he has, John forces himself to speak from his gut. To give Poe the truth he's demanding from him, and lead by example.]
[ John is so gentle. There's nothing to be afraid of here. There's no failure at the end of this if John takes everything. There's no danger, there's no betrayal. It's where Poe took him. It's where no one else has bothered to push Poe himself, not in a way that doesn't hurt.
He feels a tug at his dick as John pulls the ropes taut and ties his wrists together. He's breathing fast, telling himself over and over again that this is all right, that it's John, that it's fine. The pull of the ropes doesn't feel good this time. It feels like a rapidly dwindling window of escape.
Then John says that. Poe looks up into John's face, the warm damp of tears still on his temples even if they've stopped flowing. He's scared. There's nothing to hide from John how scared he is, not when John is so close and Poe feels so helpless. ]
Okay. [ He closes his eyes and says it again, this time more to himself. ] Okay.
[Seeing Poe's fear only makes John want to protect him more.
John would die for this man, he knows that much. He would die for him, and he wouldn't regret doing it. Really, he couldn't choose a better way to go than sacrificing himself for the sake of someone he loves.
In a way, John almost looks forward to it.
He passes the rope over Poe's hands, winding it around his palms. The silk is smooth against his skin, only catching over calluses. This is one of the trickier areas to navigate, and requires his full attention, but it's hard to look away from Poe. He doesn't want him to feel abandoned.
A pause, thinking, he exhales in a soft hiss and returns to his work, but with a slightly different strategy. Battle plans always change. It's important to be flexible. He tugs his gloves off with his teeth, tossing them somewhere onto the floor, and what connection he can't make with his eyes he makes with his hands instead.
He grips Poe more firmly, fingers dimpling his skin, warm and tactile. He binds Poe's wrists to the opposing bicep, passing the ropes beneath his arms, so his elbows wing up and out. His fingertips brush against Poe's flesh with every movement, and especially with each knot tied, which he presses into place before moving on.
Sweat beads on John's brow, but there's no sign of exertion otherwise. In ten minutes he has Poe strung just the way he wants him, taut and arched like a bow, ready to be drawn.
John sits back on his heels, still astride Poe, arms draped over his knees. Looking down at him, and the intricate web of rope, John's struck by a strange combination of desire and accomplishment.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Poe's already fighting, but John doesn't mind. Let him fight, while he still can. The man's a stallion. Rebellion is in his blood. John loves his spirit.
He doesn't want to tame him, he just wants to show him the other side. Like Poe had shown him. That there's freedom in giving up control, tool. Even more than holding on to it. ]
Take off the boxers, and stay. I'll be back.
[John crosses the room to the bathroom and shuts the door. Changes. Takes a moment to splash his face with cold water, and look at his own reflection. Some days, it's blurry. Today it isn't. Poe makes him feel sharp. Alive. Himself.
When John returns, it isn't in the gaudy leather and vinyl he'd seen on the racks of the kink expo. No costume. No lingerie. He's in partial uniform. Black BDU pants, a black tee, his boots. Gloves.
John's working, after all. So he's wearing what's comfortable. What makes him feel confident, and in control. At heart, he's a soldier. Even more than a man.]
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He takes off the boxers, tossing them aside, wondering what on earth John is doing in the bathroom. He's not the costume type, and Poe has never really understood the appeal of pretending to be someone or something else in bed. People are interesting enough as they are.
But when John comes out, he's not wearing a costume. He's wearing work clothes. Poe gets up, somewhere between attracted and alarmed. ]
What exactly do you want to do, John?
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[For this to work, John has to remain in control. If he doubts himself, or loses his nerve for even a minute, everything will fall apart. John is a skilled man, and he trusts in his abilities and experience to come out of most situations on top, but he isn't a confident man in and of himself.
John doesn't have the gut strength Poe does. He isn't entirely sure he's up to this, that he can be for Poe what he is to him, a figure of strength, someone he can trust to hold him through thick and thin, but he wants to.
He crosses the room to Poe, puts one hand on his chest, and pushes him back onto the bed. Sitting or standing. Poe is heavier, stronger, but John has leverage, and Poe has the bed at the back of his knees.
Looking down at him, he plants a knee between his legs, and places one gloved hand over his throat. Eyes hard, because he has to be hard in order to go to this vulnerable place.]
You're going to listen to me, understand? I was good for you. Be good for me.
no subject
He's breathing faster, instinct to fight flaring against the knowledge that John is right. John let Poe have his way with him, more than once.
John Sheppard looks at him, unyielding and without mercy, and Poe realizes he's afraid. He doesn't trust John. It hurts to know that, and he's not sure how to fix it.
Maybe this is where to start. ]
Okay. Okay.
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It's true John's let Poe have his way with him, a lot more than once. Those two nights he stripped him to the bone, and all the others he'd submitted in smaller, more subtle ways. Let him choose the time and place. Set the pace. Use his body when he wants, how he wants, while still being so careful not to push him back. Because he doesn't want to lose him.
John trusts Poe, but he's afraid of him, too. What he means to John, and the iron fist he has around his heart. He's bared so much of himself, more and more, every time Poe demands. Eventually, John is certain Poe will see enough not to want him anymore. That scares him most of all.
This is another side of John, different than Poe's seen before, and even now, he doesn't know if Poe will like it, but he wants to show him. To go as far as Poe went, and see more of him, too. He doesn't want to be naked alone.
If John thinks about this too long, the why, he gets into his head, and that's a dangerous place to be. So he turns it all off. Goes to the same place he goes when he needs to take command, and can't afford to second-guess himself.
He moves back off the bed, and picks up the rope. He runs the length of it between his fingers, with a whisper of silk against leather, and winds it loosely around his arm.]
You can talk, but you can't move. I need you to be still.
Do you think you can do that?
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Being told not to move makes him want to. He grips the edge of the bed hard, watching that rope slide over John's gloves. Goosebumps prickle up Poe's arms and tingle across his scalp. Tied up. John is going to tie him up. He'll be naked, helpless.
Poe swallows. ]
You really want to do this?
[ Focus on that. Focus on whether or not this is what John wants, if this is what he needs, and it's a little easier to deal with the idea. Make it, in his own mind, about John, instead of about Poe himself.
He can do it, if it's about John. ]
no subject
[John crawls back off the bed, standing over Poe. His eyes cut up and down over his naked body. Surveying the territory. All the valleys, peaks, and slopes of his musculature. He knows Poe's body well, has spent countless hours touching it, on top of it, under it. They fuck almost every day. John's had more sex in the past few months than he has in the past five years.
It was an adjustment, at first. Then he got used to it. Now John needs it. Going days without Poe's hands on him, without his dick in him, is uncomfortable.
John hadn't realized how cripplingly lonely he was until he wasn't.
He goes down on one knee, casting the first loop of rope around Poe's ankle. The contrast of black against olive is striking. He feels the first thrill of actually doing this, making his belly go tight and hot. Stabilizing his core. He casts the next loop, and the next, rope gliding against Poe's skin.
He breathes over Poe's foot, tugging the rope between his first and second toe, around the arch of his foot, and back up to his ankle. Tension immediate with the first knot, locking Poe's foot into an elegantly pointed position.]
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The sensation of smooth rope gliding over his skin is actually nice. At least at first. Until it starts drawing tight, pulling at his foot. His muscles tense for a moment, but there's not much he can do about it. His foot gets drawn into position and fixed there.
Poe wriggles his toes. ]
I think you missed a spot.
[ The last defense mechanism he has. ]
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[Sing-song, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He whips the tail of the rope against the soft padding of Poe's toes.
There's no room for error in what he's doing right now. Every twist and knot is pre-planned. People call this rope-play, but to John? It's a mission, and he's approaching it with a strategy.
He places one hand on Poe's knee and the other on his ankle, bending his leg. Every movement of Poe's body is his to make, no matter how small. He takes a moment to admire the movement of Poe's muscle beneath his skin. Drinking in the seldom-seen underside of Poe's thigh, the swell of his hamstring, before binding Poe's ankle to his upper leg just below his ass with a figure eight of rope.
Poe can wiggle the toes of his right foot, can spread his leg outward, but that's all he can do. John gives his bared ass-cheek a slap.]
Beautiful.
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[ The flick doesn't actually hurt. Stings a little, but doesn't properly hurt. And there's something weirdly attractive about the practiced way John does it.
He lets John move him, curious now more than afraid. At least until John makes that second tie. That's when it really registers that he's on his back, being willingly(ish) trussed up.
And he wants it.
He likes it.
The slip of rope over skin. The careful attention John gives to each movement, like a one-sided dance. Poe closes his eyes, breath tremoring a little.
He's seen John helpless. He's not sure what to do with the idea that he might want that for himself.
Instead he tugs at the binding, trying to see if it will loosen, trying to see if he can move in any way other than the one he's been allowed. It doesn't work.
He digs his hands into the bed, squirming, then trying to sit up.
Apparently he can't resist a fight, no matter how futile. ]
no subject
What did I say, Dameron? Stay.
[He swats Poe on this ass again, harder this time. Enough to leave a red mark in the shape of his hand on Poe's cheek. The leather stitching of his glove adds to the sting.
John pulls the rope under his back, wraps it once around waist, three times around his dick, and pulls. The silk rope is softer than some, but the smoothness means it moves against the skin, and the friction is hotter than a coarser, more stable rope. He barely has to apply pressure for the rope to rub around the girth of Poe's dick.]
Why does every lesson need to be a hard lesson with you?
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Traitor that it is, his cock seems to like the attention. He grits his teeth, bracing himself on his elbows. ]
It does not.
[ Poe likes irony. He likes it for the lovely whooshing sound it makes when it flies directly over his head. ]
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He slows down when he reaches Poe's left leg, working backwards from the right. Poe already knows what's coming, so he works with that anticipation. The rope slithers over his skin, aided only by the occasional brush of John's gloved fingertips. He binds the left from top to bottom. Rope wrapped around thigh, to ankle, and from ankle to foot. He ties the rope off in a decorative knot.
The tension goes from toe, to dick, to toe. With every pull of Poe's thighs, the rope around his shaft will shift. The harder Poe struggles, the more friction he'll create. Self-inflicted torture.
Call it a life lesson.
Legs pinned up and apart, there's very little of Poe that isn't on display for him. Ass. Taint. Balls. Dick. John can see it all.]
You look good like this, Dameron.
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Poe eases back onto the bed, letting John work, staring at the ceiling and focusing on the feeling of the ropes, his body being moved.
This isn't so bad.
At least his hands are free. ]
I can't-- [ --do much for you this way.
Poe tries to roll onto his side, maybe get up on his knees, but the rope pulls sharply against his dick and he falls back into place.
I'll take care of everything, John had said.
Poe gets the feeling this isn't everything. Not by a long shot.
At least his hands are free. ]
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[Poe's dick is hard, jutting up from between his muscular hips like a weapon, and it's tempting- almost impossible to resist. John wants to wrap his lips around it, and soothe some of that angry redness. He needs to remind himself it's not going anywhere. The ropes are tight. Tight enough to keep the blood trapped in Poe's dick for as long as John wants it there.
John picks up the next set of ropes, as sleek and black as the last, and changes position. He climbs on top of the bed, boots and all, and straddles Poe's torso. Just above his dick. His ass so close, but so far away. If Poe dares to buck his hips he might get some contact, but only at his own expense.
He makes a noose, and pulls it down over Poe's head. Knots the length of it three times while Poe watches. This work is more complicated. John has the steps memorized, but with Poe's chest heaving beneath him, and the look in those dark eyes, it takes all of his will-power to remain focused.
His eyes, sharp, vivid with concentration, dart over Poe's body, making quick checks and calculations. John's tacticians mind at work.
Finally, he drapes the length of rope down between Poe's neck, over his belly, between John's legs, once more around Poe's cock, the time under and around his balls, and then between the cleft of his ass and back up again. John is lean, and he is balanced, he performs all the movements with the steady hand of a sniper.]
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He actually lifts his head to allow the noose.
It isn’t until John tries to wrap his dick again that Poe bucks, then cries out as the ropes pull sharply around his cock. It’s painful enough that Poe tears up. ]
You win. [ Poe shifts his legs back toward each other, trying to ease the pressure. He can’t sit up with John straddling his stomach, but he can try to prop himself up on his elbows again. ] Okay?
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[John's conquest was never in question. Not since he started working. He's not scared of the ropes, anymore. It's just another tool he's mastered, and is utilizing to his needs, and it feels natural as it glides between his palms. The same way his rifle is just an extension of his arm, and pulling the trigger is just the same as twitching his finger.
John pulls the rope up from behind Poe's back, seemingly unconcerned by his sudden fidgeting. He splits the rope, catches it between the two halves of the central piece, pulling it into a wide diamond, then back out around Poe's torso again. It criss-crosses beautifully over his hips, above the swell of his pelvic bones, and just under his ribs, making countless knots as he works. Binding Poe's stomach and chest, spreading the tension over his body, though it all feeds back to his dick. A calculated choice.
John's gloved hands trace the sides of his body, catching over the ropes, up under his arms, dragging over biceps to elbows. He grips them firmly, and presses them above Poe's head.]
I want you tight and arched, like a bow. You've already got the arrow.
[He's talking about Poe's straining dick.]
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Poe closes his eyes and breathes in sharply at the feeling of John's gloved hands tracing over his skin, every hitch of the ropes against them. The tag and pull of leather and silk, then leather again on bare skin. Then John has his elbows over his head, held down, and Poe snaps back to the present.
He doesn't want to want this.
The tremors in Poe's legs have traveled up to his abdomen, as he arches, trying to fight John's weight. He pushes back against John's grip on his arms, but the other man has him at a profound disadvantage.
And every time he arches, the ropes pull around that arrow of his, until Poe makes a whispered noise of pain. ]
John. Stop.
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[John sits back on his heels, the mattress buckling beneath his booted feet.
He doesn't let go of Poe's arms, though. His thumbs stroke over the soft underside of Poe's bicep, smooth and hairless. The skin there is almost delicate, turned inwards for a reason. To protect arteries. The human body is a beautiful thing, and John was trained to exploit it long before the concept of ropes crossed his mind.
John looks down into Poe's eyes, connecting.]
Do you remember what you did to me?
[For a moment, John feels a flicker of fear in his gut. What if Poe doesn't? What if it hadn't meant anything to him, and he'd just been playing? Pushing John's buttons because he could, just to see what would happen? John doesn't want to think that's what it was. Can't believe it, even for a second. Even if it were true. It would hurt too much to know his struggle, his vulnerability, his tears were just for Poe's amusement.]
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[ He remembers. He can't forget. He made John cry, made him shake and buck and weep and call his name, and Poe is terrified of going to that place. He's terrified of being that far in someone else's power.
He's been there once. He's been there twice, now, been broken open and had pieces of himself dragged into the light. And both times it was cruel. It was a nightmare. It left him broken and exhausted, violated, tainted.
It was nothing like John, but Poe can't help it.
He's terrified of that place. ] Please.
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[John kisses Poe's elbow, the tendon at the outside of his armpit, his shoulder, his neck, his jaw, all the way up to the corner of his mouth.
But not his lips. Poe hasn't earned it.
He catches the rope around Poe's throat with his thumb, teasing beneath the edge.
Looking down into Poe's eyes, he tries not to feel wounded.]
Please sir, I don't trust you.
If that's how you feel, say it, and I'll stop.
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But he doesn't say anything.
He wants to trust John. He wants to trust him more than anything, but.
But, but, but, always that word. Always that resistance.
He opens his eyes again. What was it he'd said to Finn, months ago now? The First Order and their ghoul don't get to control me like that.
Poe meets John's gaze, still crying, and stays silent. ]
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Then he remembers how Poe pushed him, past the tears, past his protests, into a space that was pure and beautiful. Poe has issues. They both do. Issues that stop them from letting go. From trusting. From loving and being loved.
They don't talk about these issues. John doesn't know all Poe's suffered, and he won't ask, but sometimes his eyes are just as sad as they are beautiful. He doesn't have to know to want to take that hurt away.
He kisses the tears away from Poe's face, stroking the the wet back through his hair.
Then he moves his hands back to Poe's elbows, pushing them high over his head, and passes the rope up behind his back, tugging it tight through his ass, and wraps it around his wrists.
Looking down into Poe's eyes, with all the strength he has, John forces himself to speak from his gut. To give Poe the truth he's demanding from him, and lead by example.]
All I want is all of you.
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He feels a tug at his dick as John pulls the ropes taut and ties his wrists together. He's breathing fast, telling himself over and over again that this is all right, that it's John, that it's fine. The pull of the ropes doesn't feel good this time. It feels like a rapidly dwindling window of escape.
Then John says that. Poe looks up into John's face, the warm damp of tears still on his temples even if they've stopped flowing. He's scared. There's nothing to hide from John how scared he is, not when John is so close and Poe feels so helpless. ]
Okay. [ He closes his eyes and says it again, this time more to himself. ] Okay.
[ Deep breath, still afraid: ] I trust you.
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[Seeing Poe's fear only makes John want to protect him more.
John would die for this man, he knows that much. He would die for him, and he wouldn't regret doing it. Really, he couldn't choose a better way to go than sacrificing himself for the sake of someone he loves.
In a way, John almost looks forward to it.
He passes the rope over Poe's hands, winding it around his palms. The silk is smooth against his skin, only catching over calluses. This is one of the trickier areas to navigate, and requires his full attention, but it's hard to look away from Poe. He doesn't want him to feel abandoned.
A pause, thinking, he exhales in a soft hiss and returns to his work, but with a slightly different strategy. Battle plans always change. It's important to be flexible. He tugs his gloves off with his teeth, tossing them somewhere onto the floor, and what connection he can't make with his eyes he makes with his hands instead.
He grips Poe more firmly, fingers dimpling his skin, warm and tactile. He binds Poe's wrists to the opposing bicep, passing the ropes beneath his arms, so his elbows wing up and out. His fingertips brush against Poe's flesh with every movement, and especially with each knot tied, which he presses into place before moving on.
Sweat beads on John's brow, but there's no sign of exertion otherwise. In ten minutes he has Poe strung just the way he wants him, taut and arched like a bow, ready to be drawn.
John sits back on his heels, still astride Poe, arms draped over his knees. Looking down at him, and the intricate web of rope, John's struck by a strange combination of desire and accomplishment.]
You look amazing.
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