Oh, do think more about what he deserves because whatever it is, John, he seems to like it so far. In that wide-eyed, disoriented way that has overtaken him. He's tongue-tied, stammering for a moment as though to protest being told to shush, and then his hips bounce into John's hand as he tugs. Naughty hips, stop betraying him with your immediate reaction to pleasing stimulation. "Shit," he breathes, and almost doesn't realize that his mouth has gone and run off with his hips and left his brain behind.
Harry knuckles aren't white yet, but the way he clings to the sheets and digs his nails into the mattress just a little more leaves no doubt that he will be. Probably sooner than later, because now there's nothing between them but air. And then there's nothing between them, because hell if Marcone's eyes aren't cutting him into pieces and sizing him up. And it's not bad, being watched like that, being taken apart and regarded like something... something someone wants. So, he works with John, because while hands on bare flesh are nice, it's being watched that's doing it to him right now. For a moment, he rolls that thought around, weighs it - i like being watched? - he stills, because his brain protests and tells him that he's wrong - and then he ignores that and accepts. Yeah. He's good with John's eyes on him, that's nice. That'll do. Don't look away.
Hell, he hitches his legs apart - not shyly, but slowly, and watches John in return. The fruit's bleeding down his thigh, cold and slick, and the muscle under that trail jumps and tightens a little, while Harry's eyes follow it. Just when he can see it vanish, and he thinks it's going to hit the bed and leave a stain (fuck, why is he worried about messing the bed up again?), John's damn tongue is there. Harry hadn't realized he'd tried to sit up, to see where the juice was vanishing to, not until he feels John's mouth, and bashes his head against the mattress when he tosses it back with a muffled noise. He's gone and bit his lip.
Harry's not going to let go of those sheets, even as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tighten and his hands fist harder in the sheets while John's tongue busies itself. Some part of him won't let go, has to keep himself locked down no matter if he actually likes this or not. Besides, John put his hands up there and the other part of him wants to fight the Baron in a way that doesn't involve blood and bruises and burns. Despite the way in which his body trembles, Harry's teeth bite into his lower lip and he grins out of one corner of his mouth. Oh, okay, that smile says, is that how we're playing?
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Harry knuckles aren't white yet, but the way he clings to the sheets and digs his nails into the mattress just a little more leaves no doubt that he will be. Probably sooner than later, because now there's nothing between them but air. And then there's nothing between them, because hell if Marcone's eyes aren't cutting him into pieces and sizing him up. And it's not bad, being watched like that, being taken apart and regarded like something... something someone wants. So, he works with John, because while hands on bare flesh are nice, it's being watched that's doing it to him right now. For a moment, he rolls that thought around, weighs it - i like being watched? - he stills, because his brain protests and tells him that he's wrong - and then he ignores that and accepts. Yeah. He's good with John's eyes on him, that's nice. That'll do. Don't look away.
Hell, he hitches his legs apart - not shyly, but slowly, and watches John in return. The fruit's bleeding down his thigh, cold and slick, and the muscle under that trail jumps and tightens a little, while Harry's eyes follow it. Just when he can see it vanish, and he thinks it's going to hit the bed and leave a stain (fuck, why is he worried about messing the bed up again?), John's damn tongue is there. Harry hadn't realized he'd tried to sit up, to see where the juice was vanishing to, not until he feels John's mouth, and bashes his head against the mattress when he tosses it back with a muffled noise. He's gone and bit his lip.
Harry's not going to let go of those sheets, even as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tighten and his hands fist harder in the sheets while John's tongue busies itself. Some part of him won't let go, has to keep himself locked down no matter if he actually likes this or not. Besides, John put his hands up there and the other part of him wants to fight the Baron in a way that doesn't involve blood and bruises and burns. Despite the way in which his body trembles, Harry's teeth bite into his lower lip and he grins out of one corner of his mouth. Oh, okay, that smile says, is that how we're playing?