[ It's funny, the way Harry attributes tigers to John Marcone. It's funny and it's private, and there's so much in it that the mind could not fathom that one passing remark could mean so much. It's Chicago as an urban jungle, where the king of the beasts could only be a boy born with her roots sunk deep into his heart and stripes worn on a suit rather than on his skin. And that was the beginning of what tiger and John Marcone meant to Harry, barely the beginning, it's the credit page that says "to Chicago, with love".
It's this tiger motif that Harry sees sometimes, when John's fingers flex - when he blinks, and that speaks volumes - when the tie suits barely hide the shoulder-mounted harness - when his fingers curve around the handle of a hidden knife. He might see it even now, but he's too intent on keeping an eye on John's teeth, lest they take out his throat when he least expects it. A feeling that Harry knows all too well, it's been itching at the roots of his teeth ever since that night in the pit, the wolves, the belt. Especially John.
He hisses when John's nails score his skin, because it's those little things he likes but would never ask for. ] That's much fucking better. [ He snaps at the man, accusing him in the same breath of taking way too long to get to this point. With John's mouth bruising his neck, he's left to wrestle the tie from around his neck - the thing he has wanted to do all night: the tie, the restraint. He pursues the length of John's neck, fingers wrangling the buttons on his prim dress shirt open so that he can trace the length of his collarbone with bites and a wash of tongue. He's going to shove John's shirt off his shoulders and taste his skin and his scars, all hands and mouth against the other.
You'll have bruises everywhere, some part of him warns. (It's about time, some long-silenced part of him snickers.) ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
oh hello let me devour it because it's that delicious
Date: 2012-11-04 06:57 am (UTC)It's this tiger motif that Harry sees sometimes, when John's fingers flex - when he blinks, and that speaks volumes - when the tie suits barely hide the shoulder-mounted harness - when his fingers curve around the handle of a hidden knife. He might see it even now, but he's too intent on keeping an eye on John's teeth, lest they take out his throat when he least expects it. A feeling that Harry knows all too well, it's been itching at the roots of his teeth ever since that night in the pit, the wolves, the belt. Especially John.
He hisses when John's nails score his skin, because it's those little things he likes but would never ask for. ] That's much fucking better. [ He snaps at the man, accusing him in the same breath of taking way too long to get to this point. With John's mouth bruising his neck, he's left to wrestle the tie from around his neck - the thing he has wanted to do all night: the tie, the restraint. He pursues the length of John's neck, fingers wrangling the buttons on his prim dress shirt open so that he can trace the length of his collarbone with bites and a wash of tongue. He's going to shove John's shirt off his shoulders and taste his skin and his scars, all hands and mouth against the other.
You'll have bruises everywhere, some part of him warns. (It's about time, some long-silenced part of him snickers.) ]