[ 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. ]
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. ]