"And you have absolutely no idea how you look to me, do you?" Harry replies, but only after they've both settled down and back into their respective positions. Of course, he’s far more flexible than this, and to deny that John’s loss of control (the way he'd surged up and grabbed handfuls of harry’s body and the warmth of his breath against harry’s chest fuck he’d wanted to cry from it it was just so nice but no not this time he couldn't this time) was the point at which he felt he'd fumbled something important. Maybe it hadn't shattered, but it had bruised. He won’t spend the night making up for it, not with soft words and apologies. He will remind John that yes, he’s wanted him – all night. Even now.
Harry traces the line of John's brow with his fingers and says: "I wanted you the moment I saw you out in the snow." There’s something genuine in his gesture, in his voice, even if his body hasn't relented. He keeps fucking himself down on John’s cock, matching him bounce for thrust, meeting him halfway so that they collide and it sounds like thunder and makes him bite his lip for a moment when he arches because John’s cock hits him right there. A hand twitches towards his own dick, but god, he is the sight of resistance, because he won’t touch. The night is all about what he wants and he wants a lot, but most of all he wants— "I wanted to take you away and spread you out underneath me so I could watch you come."
And because it's just so terribly romantic and sappy of him, he grinds his teeth a little and blushes to his shoulders. Christ, it's not a schoolboy's confession of love, that's not exactly what’s between them because That is way too complicated for words alone. But he’s missed John. Not just missed his presence, but missed the point of him since day one, and it took over a decade and a half and an apprenticeship to the Winter Court for Harry to realize shit there is something to john marcone that’s been there for years. And he hopes John remembers earlier, when he’d cut through the bullshit and put words in his mouth: "I missed you too, asshole. You say anything but 'please' and I'll wax poetic about 'as you wish' in the context of 'The Princess Bride' and then you'll be sorry you ever decided to set foot in my lair."
Harry grumbles, but throws his head back and goes to town with his hips, with half-broken and decidedly pleased noises and peers down the length of his own body to where he's got a hand stroking the inside of his own thigh, but no closer, and further still, to John.
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Harry traces the line of John's brow with his fingers and says: "I wanted you the moment I saw you out in the snow." There’s something genuine in his gesture, in his voice, even if his body hasn't relented. He keeps fucking himself down on John’s cock, matching him bounce for thrust, meeting him halfway so that they collide and it sounds like thunder and makes him bite his lip for a moment when he arches because John’s cock hits him right there. A hand twitches towards his own dick, but god, he is the sight of resistance, because he won’t touch. The night is all about what he wants and he wants a lot, but most of all he wants— "I wanted to take you away and spread you out underneath me so I could watch you come."
And because it's just so terribly romantic and sappy of him, he grinds his teeth a little and blushes to his shoulders. Christ, it's not a schoolboy's confession of love, that's not exactly what’s between them because That is way too complicated for words alone. But he’s missed John. Not just missed his presence, but missed the point of him since day one, and it took over a decade and a half and an apprenticeship to the Winter Court for Harry to realize shit there is something to john marcone that’s been there for years. And he hopes John remembers earlier, when he’d cut through the bullshit and put words in his mouth: "I missed you too, asshole. You say anything but 'please' and I'll wax poetic about 'as you wish' in the context of 'The Princess Bride' and then you'll be sorry you ever decided to set foot in my lair."
Harry grumbles, but throws his head back and goes to town with his hips, with half-broken and decidedly pleased noises and peers down the length of his own body to where he's got a hand stroking the inside of his own thigh, but no closer, and further still, to John.