He doesn't want to let go. Branding with his mouth a bracelet into Harry's wrist has been the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He isn't coherent enough to think of what the marks mean. Until tonight, he has thought of Harry's Knighthood as a noose around his neck, and has silently longed to give him a more malleable chain. A cuff adorning his wrist, something that Harry willingly sits still for, is just the thing.
But John lets Harry draw his hand away, feeling the loss of it even through the thick cloying fog of arousal. It's fine, more than fine, because when he opens his eyes, he's rewarded handsomely for playing by the rules. Harry's cheeks are red with a hot flush of blood, his mouth open to suck in gulps of air, his lashes fluttering before he buries his face against John's collar. He speaks, and John takes a few seconds to realize he's been given permission, finally. Watching Harry fuck himself into orgasm isn't his only treat for being good.
John has his hands on Harry before the Knight's done shaking apart. It's all systems go; one hand coming around Harry's bony waist to grab his ass, the other hand sliding up his neck to fist into his scraggly hair. He doesn't curl away like Harry had, instead makes an effort to give Harry his eyes as he powers up into the tight heat of it. The ache in his muscles from his restraint is forgotten as he chases after completion, his face against Harry's.
Given how long John has held out for, it's over fast. His voice is shredded by sharp, shallow groans as he grasps Harry tight against him for one last thrust. It all unfurls out of him at once, into Harry, and the wash of release and rush of orgasm hits John like a blunt object upside his head. He sways sideways and, unwilling to let Harry go yet, drags him along. The pit of linens absorbs their impact with a soft whumph.
After, John relaxes his bruising grip on Harry's cheek, but his hands clench on the Knight with a clear message: don't go. Not yet. John understands better than anyone the nature of sacrifice. He has Chicago in his palm, held in a tight fist. But the harder you hold onto something, the more of the smaller things that will inevitable slip through your fingers. His eyes, dark and unfocused, blink open to look at Harry, fighting against the urge to just lay back into the pillows and blankets, and drift off. The thought of losing this particular small thing... To hell with sleep.
no subject
But John lets Harry draw his hand away, feeling the loss of it even through the thick cloying fog of arousal. It's fine, more than fine, because when he opens his eyes, he's rewarded handsomely for playing by the rules. Harry's cheeks are red with a hot flush of blood, his mouth open to suck in gulps of air, his lashes fluttering before he buries his face against John's collar. He speaks, and John takes a few seconds to realize he's been given permission, finally. Watching Harry fuck himself into orgasm isn't his only treat for being good.
John has his hands on Harry before the Knight's done shaking apart. It's all systems go; one hand coming around Harry's bony waist to grab his ass, the other hand sliding up his neck to fist into his scraggly hair. He doesn't curl away like Harry had, instead makes an effort to give Harry his eyes as he powers up into the tight heat of it. The ache in his muscles from his restraint is forgotten as he chases after completion, his face against Harry's.
Given how long John has held out for, it's over fast. His voice is shredded by sharp, shallow groans as he grasps Harry tight against him for one last thrust. It all unfurls out of him at once, into Harry, and the wash of release and rush of orgasm hits John like a blunt object upside his head. He sways sideways and, unwilling to let Harry go yet, drags him along. The pit of linens absorbs their impact with a soft whumph.
After, John relaxes his bruising grip on Harry's cheek, but his hands clench on the Knight with a clear message: don't go. Not yet. John understands better than anyone the nature of sacrifice. He has Chicago in his palm, held in a tight fist. But the harder you hold onto something, the more of the smaller things that will inevitable slip through your fingers. His eyes, dark and unfocused, blink open to look at Harry, fighting against the urge to just lay back into the pillows and blankets, and drift off. The thought of losing this particular small thing... To hell with sleep.