[ Harry was that unbroken colt with the wild eyes and blood-flecked foam at the corners of his mouth, where someone had thought it wise to force a bit and yank his head back to see if he'd break, if he'd step in time to some beat that wasn't his own. Even looking up at John as the man hovered over him, so quiet, he was still there. Harry might have been saddled and dressed long ago, but even in that moment, he was still throwing off anyone foolish enough to pick up the reins.
He could fight anger with anger, violence shown to him with violence in turn. It was harder to resist the soft touches and John's refusal to fight back. It left him winded, breathing hard on the floor while the man he'd thought of, for a long time, as "that criminal scumbag" didn't play the game the way another might have. For that, he's grateful. ] Oh, hey. [ his voice is hoarse and thick with something that isn't just alcohol. ] I think I get it.
[ Probably not, but it sounds like the right thing to say, right before Harry shoves up against John, hooking his legs behind the the man's knees, twisting at the hip to shove him over to the side he's leaning on. That way, when all limbs have been rearranged, he's the one sitting astride John, hands pressed into the carpet by the man's temples. His turn to look: at John's eyes and his tight control, at the mouth he'd just been mangling, the length of his neck. Things he's always looked at but never looked at, not as he was then.
He picks up a hand, and imitates John's previous motions - running the pads of his fingers over the man's throat, sinking lower and lower until he's able to tuck his mouth into the crook of John's neck. Not so angry now. Not backing off either, but: ] ... but, is it okay?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 10:37 pm (UTC)He could fight anger with anger, violence shown to him with violence in turn. It was harder to resist the soft touches and John's refusal to fight back. It left him winded, breathing hard on the floor while the man he'd thought of, for a long time, as "that criminal scumbag" didn't play the game the way another might have.
For that, he's grateful.] Oh, hey. [ his voice is hoarse and thick with something that isn't just alcohol. ] I think I get it.[ Probably not, but it sounds like the right thing to say, right before Harry shoves up against John, hooking his legs behind the the man's knees, twisting at the hip to shove him over to the side he's leaning on. That way, when all limbs have been rearranged, he's the one sitting astride John, hands pressed into the carpet by the man's temples. His turn to look: at John's eyes and his tight control, at the mouth he'd just been mangling, the length of his neck. Things he's always looked at but never looked at, not as he was then.
He picks up a hand, and imitates John's previous motions - running the pads of his fingers over the man's throat, sinking lower and lower until he's able to tuck his mouth into the crook of John's neck. Not so angry now. Not backing off either, but: ] ... but, is it okay?