Usually just what's in the harness. That night with the loup garou, about seven more. Different sartorial possibilities. [ John chuckles and smiles. ] Giving you the exact locations would ruin the element of surprise. But, there is another at the small of my back and one at my ankle, so be careful.
[ John stills his breathing as Harry explores. There are a handful of scars, but less than one would expect from a former Vargassi capo. The one in his right shoulder, the puckered swirl of a gunshot wound, is the most obvious one. It's been with him since his military youth and has twinged and ached with every rainstorm and blizzard, like a physical manifestation of John's link to the city.
Harry is slighter, but solid with an alley cat's musculature, scrappy and underfed. His weight is impossible to ignore, but not enough to make John have to work to hold him up. There's something weirdly, deeply satisfying in how their breathing works in counterpoint and how John can feel Harry's heartbeat against his flesh.
John frames Harry's face, fingernails scrapping over his scalp, thumbs brushing back against his temples and over his hairline. This close, Harry's eyes look like liquid, the sort of color you'd get from melting bittersweet chocolate and mixing it with honey, a spectrum of browns and golds that can only be seen this near. ] It fits the motif of me having more than my fair share of mead. You slur and your Missouri comes through. I get recursive and reckless, it seems.
no subject
[ John stills his breathing as Harry explores. There are a handful of scars, but less than one would expect from a former Vargassi capo. The one in his right shoulder, the puckered swirl of a gunshot wound, is the most obvious one. It's been with him since his military youth and has twinged and ached with every rainstorm and blizzard, like a physical manifestation of John's link to the city.
Harry is slighter, but solid with an alley cat's musculature, scrappy and underfed. His weight is impossible to ignore, but not enough to make John have to work to hold him up. There's something weirdly, deeply satisfying in how their breathing works in counterpoint and how John can feel Harry's heartbeat against his flesh.
John frames Harry's face, fingernails scrapping over his scalp, thumbs brushing back against his temples and over his hairline. This close, Harry's eyes look like liquid, the sort of color you'd get from melting bittersweet chocolate and mixing it with honey, a spectrum of browns and golds that can only be seen this near. ] It fits the motif of me having more than my fair share of mead. You slur and your Missouri comes through. I get recursive and reckless, it seems.