[There’s something in the way Poe takes John’s boots off and touches John’s feet that makes him want to cry. John can’t put words to the feeling, or pick it out of a line-up. It’s too much, too fast, and all at once. Everything bungling up into an impossibly complicated knot of emotion he can’t find the start or end of, to even begin unraveling it. All he can do is hold on.
Tears prickle in his eyes. Burning his eyelids when closed against them. Almost crying. John does a lot of it. He almost sobs when Poe kisses his inner thigh. He catches it in his throat. Then Poe’s lips wrap around his dick, and he almost sobs again with relief. Almost.
His hands go almost immediately into Poe’s hair, tugging, and knotting, twisting thick curls around his fingers. Comforting himself with the touch. John’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, because his balls don’t care how he’s feeling. Their priority is to bust down the back of Poe’s throat. It’s not a bad priority, and if John concentrates on it, on coming, his can almost breathe.]
no subject
Tears prickle in his eyes. Burning his eyelids when closed against them. Almost crying. John does a lot of it. He almost sobs when Poe kisses his inner thigh. He catches it in his throat. Then Poe’s lips wrap around his dick, and he almost sobs again with relief. Almost.
His hands go almost immediately into Poe’s hair, tugging, and knotting, twisting thick curls around his fingers. Comforting himself with the touch. John’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, because his balls don’t care how he’s feeling. Their priority is to bust down the back of Poe’s throat. It’s not a bad priority, and if John concentrates on it, on coming, his can almost breathe.]