[ Harry doesn't like it any more than you do, John. Yet he's as unable to break away, to end it. Like the act of ending it was the proverbial weakness that neither of them could afford to show each other. Teeth worry at his bottom lip, and his eyes stray from John's to where they are nearly a bridge across the table. Barely inches apart. Who might back off? Why wouldn't he want to? Why wasn't he? ]
[ The mead is working its way through him, steady as poison, loosening his tongue, unraveling the emotions he kept knotted up and stashed under the foundations. He picks the hand up that was closest to the other man's, beckons between the two of them again, trying not to look in his green-as-green-is eyes, because when he does he can still remember the layout of his soul. Harry swallows. ] We're not anything like that. Don't put yourself on their level, and don't you compare yourself to them. Don't you dare.
[ It's right before he thinks he's going to go for Marcone's throat that the man chooses to finish off his drink, and with another faint snarl of frustration, Harry retrieves his glass and buries his nose in the bottom of it. ] Sniffer dog. It's a glorified sniffer dog with my scent, and your Title is big and fancy and important enough to serve as a big fucking clothespin. I wasn't going to have it tracking me back to anyone else, their influence isn't as strong. I made you Baron, and yeah - that was my own fault.
You didn't come cheap. And I'll get my money's worth out of you. [ He states it as low and vicious as he can, like he's capable of such ruthless actions. But the fire in his eyes doesn't back his words, and they fall flat between the pair. Such a poor liar; but he tries so hard to believe in that lie, because he makes it to himself. ]
No. [ John agrees, feeling heat run through him, from the mead, from the proximity, from the fire in Dresden's words. He can set fire to a building with them, and he can apparently set John's nerves alight just as easily. His control is unraveling, but if this conversation is about anything, it's about why that's all right. He steeples his fingers and rests them against his lips, a soft chuckle at the very back of his throat. ] No, we are not like them. I wondered if you knew. I've said before-- given enough time, Harry, you usually figure things out.
[ More mead into the tumblers. Harry looks like he needs it, and John-- John starts laughing aloud, a rumble from the back of his throat, accidentally let loose from the cage of his white-toothed smile. ] Do you know... I haven't gotten drunk since... It has to be at least five years now. Maybe longer. One of the many things I gave up. [ His smile gets wistful. ]
Our debts are getting complicated, don't you think? You must keep track as carefully as I do, given how many times we've done that dance. [ He shifts, out of his folded leg position into a recline, weight on his elbow on the table top, suddenly a predator at rest. A tiger might laze like this if you plied it with enough drink and food. ] But the numbers don't run right, do they? What is the price of my dagger's accuracy on a full moon and what's the market value of your mercy in Wisconsin? That I averted your fate to die with the ghouls, does that pay for my rescue on the island?
[ A sip, then with the glass still in hand, John waves his finger in Harry's face. ] If your signature on the Accords paperwork was so expensive, does giving you this night of safety even that score? You must have an answer; you never walk through my doors without payment in mind. What are the scales at, Harry?
I know the legacy of my position in this city, the importance of the numbers, and no one is putting me away for fucking tax evasion like Capone. [ And the idea of it is hilarious to John, the crows' feet around his eyes out in full force. ]
[ Though Harry has his mouth open to fire back, the sound of John's laughter shuts him up so fast that it's like being slapped. A stricken, wide-eyed expression pours over his face -- a question in his eyes. Something like: is John Marcone really getting misty-eyed and nostalgic in front of me? And in the meantime, he's got two hands on his drink like it's the only thing left to anchor him, because a shiver just ran down his spine and maybe he might fly apart if he lets go. ]
[ How many things did he give up? Harry's unable to pose the question (not that he expected an answer), because by the time he thinks it, it's time for another round of queries-without-answers, and he's leaning in to John's presence carefully. Trying to assert himself, use his own imposing height to overshadow the other, but he's just not able to look down on Marcone.
Where are the scales at? Where, indeed. ] Let's just say that neither of our hearts is going to be lighter than the feather. You'd agree to that. Weigh us and measure us and damn it all because I was never good with numbers, and you have an entire accounting department to handle yours.
[ If anything, those scales have been tipped in John's favor that night. There are no small feats or little graces between them. It's saving each others life, turning to each other when they're cornered, pinned down, faced with immeasurably odds. And it's what John's made of himself, wound so tight about his throat that even Harry, oblivious as can be, can see them choking him. Maybe that's the thought that breaks him, because he reaches out for John's neck, eyes focused on some distant horizon as he does so. Fuck, what was he doing? ]
[ John is not so relaxed that his instincts have quieted. His reaction is instant, stimulus to respond without so much slowing down to wave at the rest of his brain. Harry's wrist is warm in his grip except where his bracelet lies. John barely registers that as he pins Harry's arm down. ]
[ The second he's done it, he blinks, and the spell breaks. He loosens his grip, looking down like he's surprised himself. He notices now that soft scar tissue is unevenly spread over the palm. The hand he'd injured so severely, he wore a glove over it for years, even in the summertime. Christ.
It's a paltry apology, but he rests his fingers against the swell of flesh at the base of Harry's palm, touch light. On an exhale, he repeats, ] One of the many things I've given up. I didn't realize how distant I'd become.
[ He's not even going to stop, to wonder what Dresden was thinking. It likely doesn't matter now.
God, he's said too much. As if Dresden needed any more ammo against him. John should worry, but it's hard to care. With his free hand, he slides the tumbler away, to hell with the showy precision, letting it spin off the table to land with a thump on the plush rug.
He's still not looking at Harry. It's easier to look away, out the window, at the Mag Mile and the river glittering with sodium lamp and reflected moonlight.] The way I see it... you and I are either going to kill each other. Or we're not.
[ John sighs and shuts his eyes, feeling his age deeply for a moment. ] I can only prepare for one of those.
[ Well, that was going down on the "dumb shit Harry's done" list, as soon as he retrieves his hand. He'd have react just the same, with someone reaching for his throat, let alone John. Wisely, he didn't say a word when he was struck down, but his free hand wrapped around the glass (bludgeoning tool, anyone?) as though preparing to lash out in retaliation. It still hurt to get old scars manhandled like that, so perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick and so naive to think that he could go reaching for John's. ]
It's so cute that you think you're going kill me, [ Harry mutters. His tone is flippant, but he knows the reality of those words. It's not enough to keep him silent. ] But the sentiment? That's mutual.
[ It's hard to maneuver his fingers still, but he shifts his thumb over the man's pinky erratically, brushes over the knuckle in passing. Glares through a mess of dark hair and lashes as he pulls his drink back, polishes it off and flicks the glass off the table towards Marcone's cellphone, knocking both objects off. ] So then, [ Harry nods to his pinned arm, ] what are you gonna' do, Johnny? Because if you don't make your move, I will.
It's cute you think I can't. [ And it will get Harry killed. Part of him wants to tell him more. That should John ever run to the basement, Harry following would spell his doom. There there is a bullet that almost literally has Harry's name on it. That every building he renovates is prepared for their final stand off. He will be ready for the day Dresden comes for him if he cannot be ready for the alternative. ]
[ Seeing the way Dresden's scarred hand is still recovering sours John. He puts his hand more fully around the scarred mess, stilling Harry's tiny placating motion. John doesn't deserve it anyway. Without trying, he gets caught up in the strange feel of the skin there: cool, with an illusion of slickness from the complete lack of prints. The skin feels very thin. Perhaps Harry should keep wearing his glove, protect himself more... ]
That's more your field. I'm not a risk-taker, Mr. Dresden. [ Bracing himself, John looks at Harry. For the first time since they met, it's a struggle to meet his eyes. ] This evening being something of an exception.
[ Harry's got rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, but he doesn't set them off. Aimed at John's ribs as they might be, it's more the threat of his magic and John's speed that's keeping them from a Mutual Kill. ] I never said you couldn't. Just that you think it's going to be you.
[ And what if it's something else that gets me?, his eyes ask. Because Harry leads a stormy life, one of defying death far too many times for far too many reasons. He holds no grand illusions of immortality. He doubts he'll make it to his next birthday, let alone centuries. Will you be sorely disappointed, John? No mistake: Harry appreciates life, but that doesn't mean he doesn't throw himself into situations that could snuff him out on a regular basis. It's not that he's been lucky so far, it's that he's too stubborn to stop living because that's pretty much all he's got left. ]
This evening-- [ He begins, though his tongue knots around itself, and he stammers. ] It could have been worse. You fed me and gave me booze, that was more than I could have expected. Surprise me, I says. Surprise me, he does.
[ Harry leans further onto the table, practically bent in half over it, trying to get under John's chin. Trying to catch the hesitancy in John's eyes. His own narrow, simultaneously suspicious and pleased at the development - it's easier as the pursuer than as the pursued. The evening has felt like one giant game of cat and mouse. Or chicken, he thinks when he takes another look at their hands. John's absurdly warm, and he thinks he can almost feel the texture of his palm, and maybe he's imagining the calluses, and maybe that's a scar - but it's hard to know for sure. ]
[ John realizes in a peripherally way that his level of obsession with Dresden is astounding. It's not as though he thinks of the wizard daily; often, his Dresden thoughts are relegated to whenever him shows up in Gard's supernatural news briefings and the bad nights when John has been up 72 hours and is just waiting for the Ambien to kick in. But when Harry deigns to blow back into John's life like a Vesuvian whirlwind, it hits him like a hammer to the temple or a bat to the kneecaps.
And tonight has been like an onslaught.
He is a romantic, as mortifying as it is to realize that. The idea that John would not be the one to kill Harry is only as absurd as the idea that Harry would not be the one to finally put John down. John has always assumed Harry was a romantic as well-- it would explain his naivete and his narrow morality-- and maybe he is, but not in the same way John is, clearly.
Later, John will blame this on the mead. He will send a missive to Donar Vadderung to expound on just how that fucking mead has ruined his life under the guise of thanking him for a gift. For now: ] I will kill you, or you will outlive me. Those are your only options, so get used to them, Dresden. [ To hell with rationality; the thought that they will someday not be doing this dance is a disgrace. ]
[ This is high on the list of things John gave up along with his name. And this man is high on the list of people who could ruin him. But at the moment, putting himself in such danger with this particular man is worth the risk. If Harry takes this knowledge and leverages it against him, John will find the secrets Harry has collected since their soulgaze and use them to dismantle the wizard's life.
He should let go of Dresden, send the man home, something to be rid of him. He definitely should not say, ] Surprise me, Mr. Dresden.
[ Anything to get Harry to move. Just looking at him bent like that makes John's bones ache in sympathy. ]
[ Harry's face lights up when he's given his options, and oh, it's like Christmas. Twenty-five days worth of fuck you Marcone I'll take whatever option I make up because when have I ever done what's expected of me. It's rows of teeth, bared in a too-wide grin. Eyes that reflect the furnace in his soul, chewing up John's animosity and conviction as fuel. ]
Well, [ he elects to say ] at least that's one of those things about you that I goddamn count on. [ As equally irrational, but perhaps just as sentimental is his act of agreeing. Two options, and he hasn't said whether he'll take either one, but he'll accept them all the same. ]
[ It's Harry's turn to wag a finger at the man, admonishing him for administering such a dare. He turns his hand over and crooks a finger, beckoning John a little closer. ] Okay, okay. It might just be the mead talkin' but I'm going to tell you a little secret, Johnnyboy. C'mere. [ Lend him an ear, or no surprises; Harry tugs on John through their handhold, hiking a hip, a leg, onto the table. He sits at the edge so that he can lean towards John's bad ear - that one that brings up so many thoughts, even as he looks at it with a guilty grimace. Sympathy pangs for the enemy, good god. ]
jhsfkjdja you are a fucking poetic RPer do you know that
[ There is a voice, made muffled by all the mead and fiery tension and proximity. It sounds like Nathan. It's shouting at John to put this shit in reverse and get out because that's the deal with the Dresden-Marcone non-aggression pact: it's made of spit and duct tape and sheer force of will. It is a detente that wasn't built to last, and it was going up in smoke around them.
John knows all that, and doesn't care.
For one evening, Harry wants his attention and has it. He wants his open palm and has it. He wants John leaned over the table, ignoring the way the think creaks under the weight of two full grown men? Done. His neck stretched out, unguarded and ready for any act of violence Harry might have in mind? Fine.
All are worth the price of Dresden's secrets, the ones John hasn't dug up out of court documents or scoured from Unseelie gossip and pried out of a nigh-decade old soulgaze.
John breathes slowly, forcing calm as he moves in close enough to taste that tang of coiled magic that follows Dresden like a cloud of ozone and static. ]
kgddgnd what can i say you bring out the best in me? :D
[ At least mead wasn't a flammable beverage. Harry's fingers wrap around the bottle, bringing the rim to his lips to chase the drink straight from the bottom. One big swallow for courage, even though the world's already gone fuzzy around the edges and the only thing he can focus on is the bizarre, crisp lines of John's face. He drops the bottle back to the table with a dull thump, and takes a moment to comprehend the vulnerable state of John's throat.
Harry's bitten out throats before. He knows he's not above it, if the situation calls for such. And he's still an animal, whether he keeps himself bound in chain or silk ribbon, he bites hands that try to feed him if he doesn't like the debt attached to the meal. The world revolves, and he comes back to the idea of breaking fast with John once more. Subtle ironies, and damn them both. ] Okay, hang on to your shiny-ass cufflinks. This is going to blow your mind.
[ The only way this is to go down is with Harry's fingers curling against John's, his other hand curling over the edge of the table closest to the man's hip. With his mouth ghosting close to that ruined ear as he speaks one thick-voiced secret for him alone, because if they're going to continue walking in circles around each other, he might as well cycle back around to what started this. Like he's planned it. ] Sometimes, I catch myself wondering whether or not I reeeeeally hate you, or whether I just don't want to have been wrong all this time.
Funny innit? I mean -- [ It's about then that he throws himself back, laughing hard as though he's realized the punchline of a joke that's practically a decade old and started in the backseat of a car, while he was late to an appointment. Like all he's got left is to laugh it off, because if he doesn't he's going to cry, and nobody cries in front of their archenemy. Right? ] Isn't that hysterical!?
[ Watching this, it feels like more damage being done to Dresden than any of John's weapons or fail safe plans could have managed. Secrets are like bits of pebbled glass in the mouth, and the coarseness of Dresden's voice doesn't sound like it's coming from just the mead.
What a useless, pathetic thing, that Harry feels like he has to stay in this agonizing holding pattern. John's always suspected-- no matter what transpired in their last meeting, what advances they might make, by the next time their paths cross, it was as though Harry reverted back to seeing John as his arch-nemesis.
As if their relationship had ever once been so simple. Arch-nemeses only existed in comic books and movies too dull to try for anything more honest. ]
[ John's lips are dry when he licks them, hyper-conscious of the fading warmth left against his ear where Harry had spoken so close. They're still close, and it's simple to pull Dresden off the damn table before it gives out under the weight of drunken wizardly antics. ] Get down from there, [ John murmurs, simultaneously coaxing and chiding. ]
If you decided you didn't hate me, I would not mind. I wouldn't very well go to the Tribune and sell them that secret, Harry. [ Straight answers were pricey, Dresden had said earlier. So, a secret in kind is only expected. ] I have never hated you. Even when you dared to appeal to my better angels in the Deeps, when I should have hated you, I didn't.
my keywords are "don't you cry" in reference to your subject oh my gosh
Don't want to. [ Petulantly, he attempts to refuse John's motions. If the man wants him off the table, he'll stay on it, just to refute him. To cling to some idea of defiance, even in his inebriated state. Harry swings his legs over the edge of the table, leaning forwards against his knees at John's left, and that's as far as he goes. The night has brought him closer and closer, and now that he's that far, he can't take a step back. Earlier, maybe, he could have thrown himself back at the couch and pretended that nothing had gone on; returned to their frightfully antagonistic dead-end relationship and easily forgotten the small kindnesses (for whether John saw it as a requirement that he be a perfect host or not, it was a kindness). ]
The headlines: "mob boss and PI wizard not enemies; chaos ensues." [ A soft, spiteful little laugh, directed at the situation, himself, everything but John fucking Marcone and his need to match secret with secret, rescue with rescue, keep the scales balanced. Only then does he slide from the table, and braces his shoulder against the man's well-tailored jacket, his shoulder underneath. He'll chalk it up to being loony on that mead, but at least he doesn't have to look John in the eye. ] You have to hate someone to want to kill them, though. Right to the core, to put an end to 'em in some way or form. Doesn't matter what caused it, so long as you hang onto that feeling right until you're done.
If I can't hate you, John, then I don't think I can kill you. That puts me at a disadvantage, and I swear if you try anything right now, I'll cripple you.
Edited 2012-11-01 05:19 (UTC)
i can't get over him saying this considering how he kills Susan ABLOO BLOO BLOO /TEARS
[ There is that ridiculous naivete John has come to expect from Dresden. Dresden's morality comes from old movies and fantasy novels, not anything resembling the real world. John, though, has been at this for a while. He knows that hate is more complicated than that. His willful blindness of Helen Beckitt shows that well enough.
Dresden is a handful when drunk, and John isn't too steady himself. This would be much easier if-- no, no, on second thought, no. None of this would be happening without copious amounts of mead. John wouldn't let the wizard come this close. He would not put his hands on Dresden's hip, his shoulder, holding him as he sways. He sure as hell would pull just slightly, hoping Dresden would sway into him more, already addicted to that prickly static feeling pouring out of him. ]
Believe me, you don't. It doesn't have to come from hate. [ He whispers, because this isn't the sort of thing you say out loud. This is especially not what you say to a man practically in your lap whose death you have planned out to the bullet. ] I could do it. [ His hand alights up, curls so gently against Dresden's skin, where his neck meets collarbone. ] I like to think you could too. On the day I stop being your lesser evil.
[ Because if anyone has earned the right, it's you. ]
[ John cannot help the smile that takes over his face, and he ducks his head down, chuckling into Harry's sternum. ] Look at us. How goddamn morbid we've become.
kill what you love, kill love itself I BLAME YOUR FANMIX
[ Naivete's carried him this long, which is why it's so ridiculous. The balance of cynicism and naivety is so precarious that it's no wonder a little bit of alcohol loosens his tongue, and his emotions with it. Just don't ask him how he feels about Helen Beckitt, John. You confuse him enough already, and that topic isn't something he needs to start running his mouth about. ]
What the fuck else is there? [ He gets a forearm between them, balancing his weight across John's chest, barring himself from getting any closer, from being pulled any closer. He wants to be able to see that man's eyes. Not because he'd rather wax poetic in his thoughts about them, but because they're the only warning bell he gets before John goes off like a serpent. He's fast. He's in control. That's what he's created for himself, and regardless of age (how old is he, anyways?), he's always been physically superior. Hey, he's really warm too and kind of sturdy. ] No, really. Tell me, John. Losing someone you like is like losing parts of yourself. Kill them, you're killing yourself. How much of you have you lost and killed?
[ But Harry doesn't freeze when he feels fingertips curl so close to his throat. The throat is vulnerable, it's a hotbed of sensation and he's had necklaces made of bruises so often that he once could count where old layered over new. But he'd reached for John's throat as well, and in that, he can understand why his advance had been refuted. For a moment, he contemplates biting John's hand in retaliation. Instead, he leans back a little, arching his spine over his heels to see if he can catch sight of what that too-warm hand is planning on - which must have looked like a goddamn invitation, because it's what gives the other just enough room to bury into his chest. ]
[ And he should shove John off. That's what he thinks, but he leans back along the carpeting and laughs with him because everything is ridiculous: John's ridiculous and being drunk with him is ridiculous and liking the contact but maybe-not liking the company but wanting to be touched anyways is ridiculous, but Harry laughs under his breath until he whimpers. Tries to cover it up by pressing at John's shoulder, his voice a hiss: ] All right, all right, now get off me. Morbid and creepifying, just shut up about it.
it doesn't seem fair Harry would fall for the kingcraft of a meritless crown?
[ Thank god he's messaged his people to keep them away. The picture they must make, cinched around each other, simultaneously holding each other off and drawing each other in. It's as though they've become a metaphor for themselves: wrapped up in each other, locked together, resisting the whole time. It's a tragic wreck they've become, so near John can feel Harry's breath, his magic like a physical cloak settling around them, and yet they're bickering and arguing all the same.
They're against the carpet now, such a slow, gradual process, John's not sure how they got there. But the stilts Harry has for legs are hooked awkwardly over John's hips, around his knees, and the visage of Harry Dresden on his back and flushed from mead and anger hits John like a fucking depth charge. He can feel it, how his eyes dilate, all while Harry's staring right at him.
Best that he plants his hands on the carpet. Best he pushes himself up. Best he hurries up and detangles them and gets off Dresden, but first there is that snarled question to answer. ]
Straight answers will cost you, [ John can't help parroting back. ] I've lost parts of myself. I've tied them off with a tourniquet and cut them off myself. I've painted targets and stood in the line of fire to rid myself of them. I've done it for this godforsaken city and for Amanda and for you and everyone between.
There's only two things that make you that desperate and foolish, Dresden. One of them's hate.
i thought that said 'minecraft' and nodded sagely: 'yes yes he'd be burning the forests'
[ Heart, mind and body all said different things, and it was a mess of signals. Of wants, needs and the ability to deny themselves such. Harry can feel his ankle hooked around John's knee, and he knows that god, it feels nice to be so close to another human being. Even if that human being is John Marcone. And then it's because it's Marcone that he presses his hands against the man's shoulders and resists going one step further, because one step further tips the scales and he doesn't know if he'll come back from that.
The look in John's eyes takes him apart, piece by piece, deconstructing him clinically and intimately and Harry's heart's in his throat - he'd like to say out of rage, but it's just as likely to be some self-destructive urge to see what happens if he stays there, where he hates to be. Underneath another figure, vulnerable. It takes every inch of willpower not to shove John off, or at least twist them to the side, to be the one to loom over Chicago's Baron.
It's not fair that John's eyes are green. That colors were tied to emotions and manifestations of power, and to Harry, green was the color of life itself, and all the potential within it. The base of a pyramid, from which everything else would be supported. ]
[ He opens his mouth to snarl back at John, but his fingers have twisted into the man's shirt by then, and he pulls John down, closer. A sound seizes in his throat - some strangled fury that's been building all night, ebbing and flowing but never disappointing. Then he's on autopilot, and he's kissingbiting kissing and biting John's lips like he might hate him and might not but can't be without him regardless. ]
Edited 2012-11-02 06:42 (UTC)
jkdfd half-expecting Harry to punch John for this buuuut here we go
[ It should not be a surprise when Dresden snaps and crashes their mouths together. They're both full of mead and tension, and Dresden has been gravitating closer to John all night, caught in some descending orbit. The impact is hard and painful at first, teeth clicking, like Dresden only decided to kiss him and not bite him after the fact.
John would've taken either one. He is in the habit of taking advantage of any opportunity he's handed, and whether Harry wanted to hurt or not, it was all the same: a break in defenses and a mouth to be seized. Harry should taste like sulphur for all that he creates fire with his words. He doesn't, and that's a slight disappointment, but his lips and tongue are still an accelerant, and John feels like he's at last gone too far and is going to burn for his troubles.
He settles down on Harry, putting him back against the carpet, holding himself up just on his elbows. He could return this in kind: bite and scrape and cut into Harry until he bleeds. But Harry's confusion, willful or just that naive, is still ringing like an echo, and fighting him isn't the thing here.
Harry has the hate down. John's fine to leave that to him.
John opens his mouth, lets Harry attack him as he pleases, but doesn't do the same. His mouth is softer, sweeter, a balm where Harry's is a punishment. His hand is closer enough to Harry's head that John can cup his hand at the base of Harry's skull, running his thumb to and fro at the point under the ear where Harry's hard jaw melds into softer, delicate tendons and muscles.]
Harry strikes out with his teeth, and earns himself soft touches in return. He's playing Battleship and sinking all his own ships, John's playing Chess and has king in the corner pocket. Nothing matches up. The combination of booze and frustration loosens one of Harry's hands from the man's shirt, and he lashes out at John's shoulder - the angle minimizes the damage he could do, but he doesn't pull the punch. What the fuck are you doing, the gesture demand, accusing him of utter lunacy. (What sort of reaction is that? You bite the guy, and he treats you nice and soft when you most certainly do not want "nice and soft".) No matter how nice John's thumb feels running across that spot, and how easy it'd be just to melt, he won't. It's too easy, too unlike Harry, and he just plain won't. ]
No, you--. [ He draws breath to protest, but cuts himself off to start round two. The hand he'd used to beat the tar out of John's shoulder in frustration moves instead to fit the curve of his neck, fingers pressing against his pulse. The initial anger in his snapping teeth and hard kisses can't last, John's softer ministrations in retaliation may feed into his frustration, but it's been a while since anyone's been at his throat without choking the breath from his lungs. Unbidden and unwanted, Harry makes some noise of yes that's nice stop and i swear i'll take your head off you can pick which one and his angry bites blur into still-rough kisses, trying to goad John into something other than what he's doing.
John never does what's fucking expected of him either, that's the catch. ]
[ How is he going to explain those bruises to Nathan later? Probably not the line of thought to follow when Dresden was hitting him hard enough to leave marks, but once again: mead, prioritizing, they did not mix.
John was about to peel himself off Harry, unable to press the issue without Harry's willingness, when Harry stopped. It was only an indignant sputter before Harry dragged him back into the liplock.
To John, violence was a tool to be used. For Dresden, it was a force that seized him and fueled his power, resulting in conflagration and destruction. It wasn't quite under his control, from what John had witnessed. It was a release of pent-up emotions, and Gard had told John before that emotions were magic.
Harry couldn't sustain it. It was fuel, and it was consumed, and John at least subconsciously counted on that. He could hold on, take every sloppy hit and swallow every sound of frustration. Eventually, fires burned down. Even Harry's. Especially Harry's, John knew from the first look into the man's eyes.
When Harry moaned, John felt it vibrate through him, and swallowed the sound.
Easy, John mentally coaxed. He wanted to bite, to pay back Dresden's abrasiveness in kind, but throttled that urge. Not now. There could be time for that some other time. John settled a little to the side, still over Harry, but weight rested on his side and the floor. All just to free up a hand and explore more of the soft, vulnerable skin under Harry's chin. ]
[ Breaking off for a moment, John took a deep, shaking breath, drinking in the sight of Harry Dresden with bite-reddened lips and blown pupils. He'll want to remember this, in case there never is 'some other time.' ]
Like I said, [ he whispered, staring at Harry and brushing his thumb over the wizard's lips, feeling the thin scar that ran through them. ] it doesn't have to be hate.
[ 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?
[ John wasn't a young man anymore, and grunted when their positions were switched. Everything was distant, the twinge of pain fading quickly, and then John found his hands instinctively settling on Harry's hips, steadying him. They couldn't be closer, but it felt like they were, that this was much more intimate. John was so used to handling people, maneuvering them into strategic positions, and stacking the deck. Being pushed down and into position by someone else-- yes, John could get used to that.]
That depends. [ John wraps his hands around Harry's wrists, digging his thumbs slightly into the pulse points there, dragging them up and down. ] Tell me, Dresden, how does this end? Are you going to say I plied you with alcohol to get us here? Are we going to quietly go our separate ways and pretend this never happened?
[ His hand slides through Dresden's hair, the messy locks tickling his palm as he quietly encourages Harry to do whatever he wishes. ] Or would you prefer me not to ask that yet?
[ He smiles, not trying to think, Are you still going to hate me in the morning? ]
[ Sorry, Johnny. Harry forgets that with great height comes the great responsibility to be mindful of his weight. Whether he's scrawny or not, he's still heavy, and bony, for that matter. It's why he balances his weight on his knees a little more, after hearing the noise of pain from the man. It's funny, that he's so concerned with John's comfort now that he's perched atop him. If John uses their eyes as his battleground, Harry uses their bodies. To the victor go the spoils. ]
[ He thinks about the words, if only because he hasn't thought about those questions. Harry's just been meandering through this labyrinth of touches and kisses and John's center of gravity as it urged him to drift closer. He went across the table for the man, jesus christ. Actions have consequences - especially actions like, say, making out with the self-styled prince of Chicago. Harry certainly hasn't curtsied for that gunpowder-black crown; even if he is on his knees, he's still above John. That's nice, that's pleasurable, to think of things that way.
He scoffs against the man's pulse, mouth practically wrapped around his heartbeat, every nerve ending purring away the moment he'd felt fingers sink into his hair. ] It's like you can't do anything better with your mouth, John! You can keep askin' me questions, but I'm not going to answer them - not until morning, or until you make me. And we both know which is more likely to happen. Get your tie off, will you?
oh hai let me impotently try to emulate your style
[ John's eyes narrow, and someone who loved his own writing too much would compare John's tensing with a tiger shifting on its paws, waiting to pounce. It was that one still moment that came before the flick of a tail, the moment when the predator's breath stopped and so did yours in sympathetic anticipation.
John's hands are already there, and it's easy to skate his hands upward, under Harry's shirt. His nails are blunt, but press in hard, doubtlessly leaving thin trails of red flushing up against Dresden's skin, arcing with his ribs. There is an instinctive arching that come from having nails suddenly soaring along your back.
It's an uncontrollable twisting of shocked muscles and goosebumps, and John uses it. Harry's challenge demands that he either take the man and dash him against the metal grating of Michigan Avenue Bridge in the dead of winter, when the river keeps it so cold your skin would stick to it-- or this. Stripping the shirt off Dresden, pulling the man's hips in with a hard grip, and bending to show Harry how it's done.
When you have a man's neck against your mouth, you don't play sweet and coy. A magical firebrand like Harry should know that, but if not, John is fine with showing him with wide bites, sharp painful nips, and tongue.
If Dresden wants that tie off, he'll have to handle it himself. Good luck with an incensed Baron going at your neck like its free terrain waiting for a flag. ]
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freeholding) wrote2012-10-25 10:18 pm
gnrghr i can manage only inarticulate noises!
[ The mead is working its way through him, steady as poison, loosening his tongue, unraveling the emotions he kept knotted up and stashed under the foundations. He picks the hand up that was closest to the other man's, beckons between the two of them again, trying not to look in his green-as-green-is eyes, because when he does he can still remember the layout of his soul. Harry swallows. ] We're not anything like that. Don't put yourself on their level, and don't you compare yourself to them. Don't you dare.
[ It's right before he thinks he's going to go for Marcone's throat that the man chooses to finish off his drink, and with another faint snarl of frustration, Harry retrieves his glass and buries his nose in the bottom of it. ] Sniffer dog. It's a glorified sniffer dog with my scent, and your Title is big and fancy and important enough to serve as a big fucking clothespin. I wasn't going to have it tracking me back to anyone else, their influence isn't as strong. I made you Baron, and yeah - that was my own fault.
You didn't come cheap. And I'll get my money's worth out of you. [ He states it as low and vicious as he can, like he's capable of such ruthless actions. But the fire in his eyes doesn't back his words, and they fall flat between the pair. Such a poor liar; but he tries so hard to believe in that lie, because he makes it to himself. ]
/SCREAMS INTO KNEES
[ More mead into the tumblers. Harry looks like he needs it, and John-- John starts laughing aloud, a rumble from the back of his throat, accidentally let loose from the cage of his white-toothed smile. ] Do you know... I haven't gotten drunk since... It has to be at least five years now. Maybe longer. One of the many things I gave up. [ His smile gets wistful. ]
Our debts are getting complicated, don't you think? You must keep track as carefully as I do, given how many times we've done that dance. [ He shifts, out of his folded leg position into a recline, weight on his elbow on the table top, suddenly a predator at rest. A tiger might laze like this if you plied it with enough drink and food. ] But the numbers don't run right, do they? What is the price of my dagger's accuracy on a full moon and what's the market value of your mercy in Wisconsin? That I averted your fate to die with the ghouls, does that pay for my rescue on the island?
[ A sip, then with the glass still in hand, John waves his finger in Harry's face. ] If your signature on the Accords paperwork was so expensive, does giving you this night of safety even that score? You must have an answer; you never walk through my doors without payment in mind. What are the scales at, Harry?
I know the legacy of my position in this city, the importance of the numbers, and no one is putting me away for fucking tax evasion like Capone. [ And the idea of it is hilarious to John, the crows' feet around his eyes out in full force. ]
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[ How many things did he give up? Harry's unable to pose the question (not that he expected an answer), because by the time he thinks it, it's time for another round of queries-without-answers, and he's leaning in to John's presence carefully. Trying to assert himself, use his own imposing height to overshadow the other, but he's just not able to look down on Marcone.
Where are the scales at? Where, indeed. ] Let's just say that neither of our hearts is going to be lighter than the feather. You'd agree to that. Weigh us and measure us and damn it all because I was never good with numbers, and you have an entire accounting department to handle yours.
[ If anything, those scales have been tipped in John's favor that night. There are no small feats or little graces between them. It's saving each others life, turning to each other when they're cornered, pinned down, faced with immeasurably odds. And it's what John's made of himself, wound so tight about his throat that even Harry, oblivious as can be, can see them choking him. Maybe that's the thought that breaks him, because he reaches out for John's neck, eyes focused on some distant horizon as he does so.
Fuck, what was he doing?]1/2
2/2
It's a paltry apology, but he rests his fingers against the swell of flesh at the base of Harry's palm, touch light. On an exhale, he repeats, ] One of the many things I've given up. I didn't realize how distant I'd become.
[ He's not even going to stop, to wonder what Dresden was thinking. It likely doesn't matter now.
God, he's said too much. As if Dresden needed any more ammo against him. John should worry, but it's hard to care. With his free hand, he slides the tumbler away, to hell with the showy precision, letting it spin off the table to land with a thump on the plush rug.
He's still not looking at Harry. It's easier to look away, out the window, at the Mag Mile and the river glittering with sodium lamp and reflected moonlight.] The way I see it... you and I are either going to kill each other. Or we're not.
[ John sighs and shuts his eyes, feeling his age deeply for a moment. ] I can only prepare for one of those.
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It's so cute that you think you're going kill me, [ Harry mutters. His tone is flippant, but he knows the reality of those words. It's not enough to keep him silent. ] But the sentiment? That's mutual.
[ It's hard to maneuver his fingers still, but he shifts his thumb over the man's pinky erratically, brushes over the knuckle in passing. Glares through a mess of dark hair and lashes as he pulls his drink back, polishes it off and flicks the glass off the table towards Marcone's cellphone, knocking both objects off. ] So then, [ Harry nods to his pinned arm, ] what are you gonna' do, Johnny? Because if you don't make your move, I will.
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[ Seeing the way Dresden's scarred hand is still recovering sours John. He puts his hand more fully around the scarred mess, stilling Harry's tiny placating motion. John doesn't deserve it anyway. Without trying, he gets caught up in the strange feel of the skin there: cool, with an illusion of slickness from the complete lack of prints. The skin feels very thin. Perhaps Harry should keep wearing his glove, protect himself more... ]
That's more your field. I'm not a risk-taker, Mr. Dresden. [ Bracing himself, John looks at Harry. For the first time since they met, it's a struggle to meet his eyes. ] This evening being something of an exception.
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and bells on his toes, but he doesn't set them off. Aimed at John's ribs as they might be, it's more the threat of his magic and John's speed that's keeping them from a Mutual Kill. ] I never said you couldn't. Just that you think it's going to be you.[ And what if it's something else that gets me?, his eyes ask. Because Harry leads a stormy life, one of defying death far too many times for far too many reasons. He holds no grand illusions of immortality. He doubts he'll make it to his next birthday, let alone centuries. Will you be sorely disappointed, John? No mistake: Harry appreciates life, but that doesn't mean he doesn't throw himself into situations that could snuff him out on a regular basis. It's not that he's been lucky so far, it's that he's too stubborn to stop living because that's pretty much all he's got left. ]
This evening-- [ He begins, though his tongue knots around itself, and he stammers. ] It could have been worse. You fed me and gave me booze, that was more than I could have expected. Surprise me, I says. Surprise me, he does.
[ Harry leans further onto the table, practically bent in half over it, trying to get under John's chin. Trying to catch the hesitancy in John's eyes. His own narrow, simultaneously suspicious and pleased at the development - it's easier as the pursuer than as the pursued. The evening has felt like one giant game of cat and mouse. Or chicken, he thinks when he takes another look at their hands. John's absurdly warm, and he thinks he can almost feel the texture of his palm, and maybe he's imagining the calluses, and maybe that's a scar - but it's hard to know for sure. ]
I have something in my eyes
And tonight has been like an onslaught.
He is a romantic, as mortifying as it is to realize that. The idea that John would not be the one to kill Harry is only as absurd as the idea that Harry would not be the one to finally put John down. John has always assumed Harry was a romantic as well-- it would explain his naivete and his narrow morality-- and maybe he is, but not in the same way John is, clearly.
Later, John will blame this on the mead. He will send a missive to Donar Vadderung to expound on just how that fucking mead has ruined his life under the guise of thanking him for a gift. For now: ] I will kill you, or you will outlive me. Those are your only options, so get used to them, Dresden. [ To hell with rationality; the thought that they will someday not be doing this dance is a disgrace. ]
[ This is high on the list of things John gave up along with his name. And this man is high on the list of people who could ruin him. But at the moment, putting himself in such danger with this particular man is worth the risk. If Harry takes this knowledge and leverages it against him, John will find the secrets Harry has collected since their soulgaze and use them to dismantle the wizard's life.
He should let go of Dresden, send the man home, something to be rid of him. He definitely should not say, ] Surprise me, Mr. Dresden.
[ Anything to get Harry to move. Just looking at him bent like that makes John's bones ache in sympathy. ]
I just c an't anymore
Well, [ he elects to say ] at least that's one of those things about you that I goddamn count on. [ As equally irrational, but perhaps just as sentimental is his act of agreeing. Two options, and he hasn't said whether he'll take either one, but he'll accept them all the same. ]
[ It's Harry's turn to wag a finger at the man, admonishing him for administering such a dare. He turns his hand over and crooks a finger, beckoning John a little closer. ] Okay, okay. It might just be the mead talkin' but I'm going to tell you a little secret, Johnnyboy. C'mere. [ Lend him an ear, or no surprises; Harry tugs on John through their handhold, hiking a hip, a leg, onto the table. He sits at the edge so that he can lean towards John's bad ear - that one that brings up so many thoughts, even as he looks at it with a guilty grimace. Sympathy pangs for the enemy, good god. ]
jhsfkjdja you are a fucking poetic RPer do you know that
John knows all that, and doesn't care.
For one evening, Harry wants his attention and has it. He wants his open palm and has it. He wants John leaned over the table, ignoring the way the think creaks under the weight of two full grown men? Done. His neck stretched out, unguarded and ready for any act of violence Harry might have in mind? Fine.
All are worth the price of Dresden's secrets, the ones John hasn't dug up out of court documents or scoured from Unseelie gossip and pried out of a nigh-decade old soulgaze.
John breathes slowly, forcing calm as he moves in close enough to taste that tang of coiled magic that follows Dresden like a cloud of ozone and static. ]
kgddgnd what can i say you bring out the best in me? :D
Harry's bitten out throats before. He knows he's not above it, if the situation calls for such. And he's still an animal, whether he keeps himself bound in chain or silk ribbon, he bites hands that try to feed him if he doesn't like the debt attached to the meal. The world revolves, and he comes back to the idea of breaking fast with John once more. Subtle ironies, and damn them both. ] Okay, hang on to your shiny-ass cufflinks. This is going to blow your mind.
[ The only way this is to go down is with Harry's fingers curling against John's, his other hand curling over the edge of the table closest to the man's hip. With his mouth ghosting close to that ruined ear as he speaks one thick-voiced secret for him alone, because if they're going to continue walking in circles around each other, he might as well cycle back around to what started this. Like he's planned it. ] Sometimes, I catch myself wondering whether or not I reeeeeally hate you, or whether I just don't want to have been wrong all this time.
Funny innit? I mean -- [ It's about then that he throws himself back, laughing hard as though he's realized the punchline of a joke that's practically a decade old and started in the backseat of a car, while he was late to an appointment. Like all he's got left is to laugh it off, because if he doesn't he's going to cry, and nobody cries in front of their archenemy. Right? ] Isn't that hysterical!?
/creys
What a useless, pathetic thing, that Harry feels like he has to stay in this agonizing holding pattern. John's always suspected-- no matter what transpired in their last meeting, what advances they might make, by the next time their paths cross, it was as though Harry reverted back to seeing John as his arch-nemesis.
As if their relationship had ever once been so simple. Arch-nemeses only existed in comic books and movies too dull to try for anything more honest. ]
[ John's lips are dry when he licks them, hyper-conscious of the fading warmth left against his ear where Harry had spoken so close. They're still close, and it's simple to pull Dresden off the damn table before it gives out under the weight of drunken wizardly antics. ] Get down from there, [ John murmurs, simultaneously coaxing and chiding. ]
If you decided you didn't hate me, I would not mind. I wouldn't very well go to the Tribune and sell them that secret, Harry. [ Straight answers were pricey, Dresden had said earlier. So, a secret in kind is only expected. ] I have never hated you. Even when you dared to appeal to my better angels in the Deeps, when I should have hated you, I didn't.
my keywords are "don't you cry" in reference to your subject oh my gosh
The headlines: "mob boss and PI wizard not enemies; chaos ensues." [ A soft, spiteful little laugh, directed at the situation, himself, everything but John fucking Marcone and his need to match secret with secret, rescue with rescue, keep the scales balanced. Only then does he slide from the table, and braces his shoulder against the man's well-tailored jacket, his shoulder underneath. He'll chalk it up to being loony on that mead, but at least he doesn't have to look John in the eye. ] You have to hate someone to want to kill them, though. Right to the core, to put an end to 'em in some way or form. Doesn't matter what caused it, so long as you hang onto that feeling right until you're done.
If I can't hate you, John, then I don't think I can kill you. That puts me at a disadvantage, and I swear if you try anything right now, I'll cripple you.
i can't get over him saying this considering how he kills Susan ABLOO BLOO BLOO /TEARS
Dresden is a handful when drunk, and John isn't too steady himself. This would be much easier if-- no, no, on second thought, no. None of this would be happening without copious amounts of mead. John wouldn't let the wizard come this close. He would not put his hands on Dresden's hip, his shoulder, holding him as he sways. He sure as hell would pull just slightly, hoping Dresden would sway into him more, already addicted to that prickly static feeling pouring out of him. ]
Believe me, you don't. It doesn't have to come from hate. [ He whispers, because this isn't the sort of thing you say out loud. This is especially not what you say to a man practically in your lap whose death you have planned out to the bullet. ] I could do it. [ His hand alights up, curls so gently against Dresden's skin, where his neck meets collarbone. ] I like to think you could too. On the day I stop being your lesser evil.
[ Because if anyone has earned the right, it's you. ]
[ John cannot help the smile that takes over his face, and he ducks his head down, chuckling into Harry's sternum. ] Look at us. How goddamn morbid we've become.
kill what you love, kill love itself I BLAME YOUR FANMIX
What the fuck else is there? [ He gets a forearm between them, balancing his weight across John's chest, barring himself from getting any closer, from being pulled any closer. He wants to be able to see that man's eyes. Not because he'd rather wax poetic in his thoughts about them, but because they're the only warning bell he gets before John goes off like a serpent. He's fast. He's in control. That's what he's created for himself, and regardless of age (how old is he, anyways?), he's always been physically superior. Hey, he's really warm too and kind of sturdy. ] No, really. Tell me, John. Losing someone you like is like losing parts of yourself. Kill them, you're killing yourself. How much of you have you lost and killed?
[ But Harry doesn't freeze when he feels fingertips curl so close to his throat. The throat is vulnerable, it's a hotbed of sensation and he's had necklaces made of bruises so often that he once could count where old layered over new. But he'd reached for John's throat as well, and in that, he can understand why his advance had been refuted. For a moment, he contemplates biting John's hand in retaliation. Instead, he leans back a little, arching his spine over his heels to see if he can catch sight of what that too-warm hand is planning on - which must have looked like a goddamn invitation, because it's what gives the other just enough room to bury into his chest. ]
[ And he should shove John off. That's what he thinks, but he leans back along the carpeting and laughs with him because everything is ridiculous: John's ridiculous and being drunk with him is ridiculous and liking the contact but maybe-not liking the company but wanting to be touched anyways is ridiculous, but Harry laughs under his breath until he whimpers. Tries to cover it up by pressing at John's shoulder, his voice a hiss: ] All right, all right, now get off me. Morbid and creepifying, just shut up about it.
it doesn't seem fair Harry would fall for the kingcraft of a meritless crown?
They're against the carpet now, such a slow, gradual process, John's not sure how they got there. But the stilts Harry has for legs are hooked awkwardly over John's hips, around his knees, and the visage of Harry Dresden on his back and flushed from mead and anger hits John like a fucking depth charge. He can feel it, how his eyes dilate, all while Harry's staring right at him.
Best that he plants his hands on the carpet. Best he pushes himself up. Best he hurries up and detangles them and gets off Dresden, but first there is that snarled question to answer. ]
Straight answers will cost you, [ John can't help parroting back. ] I've lost parts of myself. I've tied them off with a tourniquet and cut them off myself. I've painted targets and stood in the line of fire to rid myself of them. I've done it for this godforsaken city and for Amanda and for you and everyone between.
There's only two things that make you that desperate and foolish, Dresden. One of them's hate.
i thought that said 'minecraft' and nodded sagely: 'yes yes he'd be burning the forests'
The look in John's eyes takes him apart, piece by piece, deconstructing him clinically and intimately and Harry's heart's in his throat - he'd like to say out of rage, but it's just as likely to be some self-destructive urge to see what happens if he stays there, where he hates to be. Underneath another figure, vulnerable. It takes every inch of willpower not to shove John off, or at least twist them to the side, to be the one to loom over Chicago's Baron.
It's not fair that John's eyes are green. That colors were tied to emotions and manifestations of power, and to Harry, green was the color of life itself, and all the potential within it. The base of a pyramid, from which everything else would be supported. ]
[ He opens his mouth to snarl back at John, but his fingers have twisted into the man's shirt by then, and he pulls John down, closer. A sound seizes in his throat - some strangled fury that's been building all night, ebbing and flowing but never disappointing. Then he's on autopilot, and he's
kissingbitingkissing and biting John's lips like he might hate him and might not but can't be without him regardless. ]jkdfd half-expecting Harry to punch John for this buuuut here we go
John would've taken either one. He is in the habit of taking advantage of any opportunity he's handed, and whether Harry wanted to hurt or not, it was all the same: a break in defenses and a mouth to be seized. Harry should taste like sulphur for all that he creates fire with his words. He doesn't, and that's a slight disappointment, but his lips and tongue are still an accelerant, and John feels like he's at last gone too far and is going to burn for his troubles.
He settles down on Harry, putting him back against the carpet, holding himself up just on his elbows. He could return this in kind: bite and scrape and cut into Harry until he bleeds. But Harry's confusion, willful or just that naive, is still ringing like an echo, and fighting him isn't the thing here.
Harry has the hate down. John's fine to leave that to him.
John opens his mouth, lets Harry attack him as he pleases, but doesn't do the same. His mouth is softer, sweeter, a balm where Harry's is a punishment. His hand is closer enough to Harry's head that John can cup his hand at the base of Harry's skull, running his thumb to and fro at the point under the ear where Harry's hard jaw melds into softer, delicate tendons and muscles.]
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Harry strikes out with his teeth, and earns himself soft touches in return. He's playing Battleship and sinking all his own ships, John's playing Chess and has king in the corner pocket. Nothing matches up. The combination of booze and frustration loosens one of Harry's hands from the man's shirt, and he lashes out at John's shoulder - the angle minimizes the damage he could do, but he doesn't pull the punch. What the fuck are you doing, the gesture demand, accusing him of utter lunacy. (What sort of reaction is that? You bite the guy, and he treats you nice and soft when you most certainly do not want "nice and soft".) No matter how nice John's thumb feels running across that spot, and how easy it'd be just to melt, he won't. It's too easy, too unlike Harry, and he just plain won't. ]
No, you--. [ He draws breath to protest, but cuts himself off to start round two. The hand he'd used to beat the tar out of John's shoulder in frustration moves instead to fit the curve of his neck, fingers pressing against his pulse. The initial anger in his snapping teeth and hard kisses can't last, John's softer ministrations in retaliation may feed into his frustration, but it's been a while since anyone's been at his throat without choking the breath from his lungs. Unbidden and unwanted, Harry makes some noise of yes that's nice stop and i swear i'll take your head off you can pick which one and his angry bites blur into still-rough kisses, trying to goad John into something other than what he's doing.
John never does what's fucking expected of him either, that's the catch. ]
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John was about to peel himself off Harry, unable to press the issue without Harry's willingness, when Harry stopped. It was only an indignant sputter before Harry dragged him back into the liplock.
To John, violence was a tool to be used. For Dresden, it was a force that seized him and fueled his power, resulting in conflagration and destruction. It wasn't quite under his control, from what John had witnessed. It was a release of pent-up emotions, and Gard had told John before that emotions were magic.
Harry couldn't sustain it. It was fuel, and it was consumed, and John at least subconsciously counted on that. He could hold on, take every sloppy hit and swallow every sound of frustration. Eventually, fires burned down. Even Harry's. Especially Harry's, John knew from the first look into the man's eyes.
When Harry moaned, John felt it vibrate through him, and swallowed the sound.
Easy, John mentally coaxed. He wanted to bite, to pay back Dresden's abrasiveness in kind, but throttled that urge. Not now. There could be time for that some other time. John settled a little to the side, still over Harry, but weight rested on his side and the floor. All just to free up a hand and explore more of the soft, vulnerable skin under Harry's chin. ]
[ Breaking off for a moment, John took a deep, shaking breath, drinking in the sight of Harry Dresden with bite-reddened lips and blown pupils. He'll want to remember this, in case there never is 'some other time.' ]
Like I said, [ he whispered, staring at Harry and brushing his thumb over the wizard's lips, feeling the thin scar that ran through them. ] it doesn't have to be hate.
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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?
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That depends. [ John wraps his hands around Harry's wrists, digging his thumbs slightly into the pulse points there, dragging them up and down. ] Tell me, Dresden, how does this end? Are you going to say I plied you with alcohol to get us here? Are we going to quietly go our separate ways and pretend this never happened?
[ His hand slides through Dresden's hair, the messy locks tickling his palm as he quietly encourages Harry to do whatever he wishes. ] Or would you prefer me not to ask that yet?
[ He smiles, not trying to think, Are you still going to hate me in the morning? ]
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[ He thinks about the words, if only because he hasn't thought about those questions. Harry's just been meandering through this labyrinth of touches and kisses and John's center of gravity as it urged him to drift closer. He went across the table for the man, jesus christ. Actions have consequences - especially actions like, say, making out with the self-styled prince of Chicago. Harry certainly hasn't curtsied for that gunpowder-black crown; even if he is on his knees, he's still above John. That's nice, that's pleasurable, to think of things that way.
He scoffs against the man's pulse, mouth practically wrapped around his heartbeat, every nerve ending purring away the moment he'd felt fingers sink into his hair. ] It's like you can't do anything better with your mouth, John! You can keep askin' me questions, but I'm not going to answer them - not until morning, or until you make me. And we both know which is more likely to happen. Get your tie off, will you?
oh hai let me impotently try to emulate your style
John's hands are already there, and it's easy to skate his hands upward, under Harry's shirt. His nails are blunt, but press in hard, doubtlessly leaving thin trails of red flushing up against Dresden's skin, arcing with his ribs. There is an instinctive arching that come from having nails suddenly soaring along your back.
It's an uncontrollable twisting of shocked muscles and goosebumps, and John uses it. Harry's challenge demands that he either take the man and dash him against the metal grating of Michigan Avenue Bridge in the dead of winter, when the river keeps it so cold your skin would stick to it-- or this. Stripping the shirt off Dresden, pulling the man's hips in with a hard grip, and bending to show Harry how it's done.
When you have a man's neck against your mouth, you don't play sweet and coy. A magical firebrand like Harry should know that, but if not, John is fine with showing him with wide bites, sharp painful nips, and tongue.
If Dresden wants that tie off, he'll have to handle it himself. Good luck with an incensed Baron going at your neck like its free terrain waiting for a flag. ]
oh hello let me devour it because it's that delicious
hedjkfhfdjdf TO CHICAGO, WITH LOVE /crying
if people went in search of john's birth records, that's all they'd find.
oh my god yes please /sobs over the idea of it
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precious sleeping asshole
precious stupid boys, uUGHHH!
and tbh John is stupider when sober, so
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harry jfc STOP IT
NO KIDDING.
COMMUNICATION IS KEY IN ANY RELATIONSHIP.
/SOBBING