It leaves John with a man with a crooked grin, one that someone dared to damage, leaving that thin scar through. If Harry fears him, John finds it hard to believe with that sort of cocksure smile. It's the smile of a man who'd take a hit to the face and laugh as he spits blood onto the sidewalk, asking for more.
But it also leaves John with a touch so warm he can feel it through his shirt. Ambient magic, he has to assume. No human run that hot unless he's fevered, and Harry's eyes are miraculously clear. It's a balm, and John swags forward when Harry takes his hand back, covering by leaning on his elbows. As if his want isn't obvious on his face. It always has been; its hardly his fault that Dresden's never cared to see it there.
Adore me. It sounds like a command more than anything, the words sharp and bright in an otherwise normal sentence. But there is the catch to it.]
It would put us here, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of blackberries. I have alcohol in the sitting room or a bed upstairs. A guest room, if you're the traditional type that doesn't put out until the third date. But I also have a safe room left over from night with the werewolves; I meant to put you there.
Let's say I adore you. [As if it is not a solid fact that's been plain to them for some time now.] And let's say that you've lost enough good sense to want a repeat of that night with the mead, minus the mead.
[John laces his fingers together, resting his hands against his mouth. His eyes are steady, waiting for the moment Dresden's face contorts with disgust or the moment when it... doesn't.] I may adore you, but I wouldn't do it very well, or like others would.
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timeasmymeasure
mind your nails
Date: 2012-11-13 06:01 am (UTC)It leaves John with a man with a crooked grin, one that someone dared to damage, leaving that thin scar through. If Harry fears him, John finds it hard to believe with that sort of cocksure smile. It's the smile of a man who'd take a hit to the face and laugh as he spits blood onto the sidewalk, asking for more.
But it also leaves John with a touch so warm he can feel it through his shirt. Ambient magic, he has to assume. No human run that hot unless he's fevered, and Harry's eyes are miraculously clear. It's a balm, and John swags forward when Harry takes his hand back, covering by leaning on his elbows. As if his want isn't obvious on his face. It always has been; its hardly his fault that Dresden's never cared to see it there.
Adore me. It sounds like a command more than anything, the words sharp and bright in an otherwise normal sentence. But there is the catch to it.]
It would put us here, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of blackberries. I have alcohol in the sitting room or a bed upstairs. A guest room, if you're the traditional type that doesn't put out until the third date. But I also have a safe room left over from night with the werewolves; I meant to put you there.
Let's say I adore you. [As if it is not a solid fact that's been plain to them for some time now.] And let's say that you've lost enough good sense to want a repeat of that night with the mead, minus the mead.
[John laces his fingers together, resting his hands against his mouth. His eyes are steady, waiting for the moment Dresden's face contorts with disgust or the moment when it... doesn't.] I may adore you, but I wouldn't do it very well, or like others would.