[ Poe's skin feels like he's buzzing with need, need to be touched everywhere, need to be fucked, to finally get off. It's electric, even as Peter's hands are like heated brands on his wrists, on his hip, impossible to ignore and perfect for him to revel in it. Poe's soaking up the touch as much as he's straining into it, against it, and it just emphasizes the constant demand of his nerves for more more more.
And then Peter is straightening up, and something like relief swamps Poe. He's too eager to consider Peter might be gearing up to continue teasing him, and his expectation is met beautifully as the heavy weight of Peter's cock presses against him. Poe moans with it, shuddering under Peter and no longer trying to demandingly rock against the other man as he's given exactly what he's been wanting. Peter fills him in one smooth slide, and rather than pleading and practically whimpering, Poe sounds content – for the moment, for that second of breathing room Peter takes.
A whine dies on his lips when Peter pulls out (worried Peter might just keep taunting him, just keep fucking with him—), and it's cut short by a shout as Peter drags Poe back onto his cock, the snap of Peter's hips against Poe's own catching him off-guard. Peter has been winding him up, still only giving him a taste when Poe wants the whole damn dinner, but the new pace is fucking perfect. ]
Fuck— [ The word is strangled on a groan, and this time, he doesn't pull or strain against Peter; he lets himself relax, because it's easier to move him, easier for Peter to use that handhold to use Poe exactly the way he wants. ]
no subject
And then Peter is straightening up, and something like relief swamps Poe. He's too eager to consider Peter might be gearing up to continue teasing him, and his expectation is met beautifully as the heavy weight of Peter's cock presses against him. Poe moans with it, shuddering under Peter and no longer trying to demandingly rock against the other man as he's given exactly what he's been wanting. Peter fills him in one smooth slide, and rather than pleading and practically whimpering, Poe sounds content – for the moment, for that second of breathing room Peter takes.
A whine dies on his lips when Peter pulls out (worried Peter might just keep taunting him, just keep fucking with him—), and it's cut short by a shout as Peter drags Poe back onto his cock, the snap of Peter's hips against Poe's own catching him off-guard. Peter has been winding him up, still only giving him a taste when Poe wants the whole damn dinner, but the new pace is fucking perfect. ]
Fuck— [ The word is strangled on a groan, and this time, he doesn't pull or strain against Peter; he lets himself relax, because it's easier to move him, easier for Peter to use that handhold to use Poe exactly the way he wants. ]
Fucking— Kriff, like that, like fucking that—