[ 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. ]
oh hello let me devour it because it's that delicious
[ 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.) ]
[ Ah, so the wizard Dresden likes that hint of pain. John hadn't been sure. A man who lives in a tiny hole in the ground with no view of the city, few amenities-- that might be the sort of person who'd like to be taken in. John could see whisking a battered, tired Dresden up to the status symbol house up in Winnetka and spreading him out over fresh sheets, barely letting him move without John's hand helping and guiding, taking him apart until he was just a tangle of breathless compliance.
Maybe another day.
For now, something sharper and uncompromising is just as good. He can handle that. And if Dresden has to avoid his reflection in puddles and shop windows lest he see the dark marks peaking out from his collar, that works. ]
Careful, the buckles-- [ The harness is a simple but perfectly tailored piece of hardware stretched across John's torso, so fine it will make the lines of his suit lay perfect even if there's a fucking machete underneath. John lets Harry go long enough to start unhooking the harness, not willing to let Dresden ruin it. ]
Edited 2012-11-04 17:51 (UTC)
if people went in search of john's birth records, that's all they'd find.
[ It's complicated. Anything between he and John could never be anything but. Harry doesn't trust John as far as he could throw him (another lie he tells himself, again and again), and that's even with magical assistance, but you don't need to trust that aggression will be aggressive and violence would be violent. It just is, and that's what he's come to expect. The soft kisses from earlier have thrown him, have urged him to think twice about coming apart at the hands of John Marcone. He can't let himself, it's Too Big.
So, he chooses to grapple with the man (because you don't bite and bruise the people you actually like, he tells himself), and sits up sharply when he hears John's voice again. Fever-ridden from eyes to neck, Harry's fingers slide across the harness, making a nuisance of themselves when he tangles them through John's like he's trying to assist but more likely trying to explore this second, hidden skin that John wears. ]
Buckles. [ He scoffs, and runs his hands across exposed skin, languid and gradual. Dragons lord over their treasure less than Harry is currently lording over the Baron. ]
[ There is the reason John is changing tactics, playing hard and pushing soft. Harry won't answer the ultimate question of where they're going to go from here. Likely, the wizard isn't willing to look that far into the future; where everything for Dresden is the instant spark of the present with no foresight. Compared to him, John is a goddamn psychic.
John shrugs off the harness, hearing it clink with metal, leather creaking as he casts it off with much less care than he normally would. ] Leather duster and cowboy boots. [ Because, god, Harry was a parody of himself at times. And the warmth of the jabs are a comfort, because they are comfortable. Perhaps if this turns out well, a memory Dresden looks back on with embarrassed fondness and not shame, then John could get him again. He'll never have the man, he knows that, but renting his body and his intensity and his warmth for the price of good company and dinner may be possible.
Especially with Harry's sudden fascination with John's chest. John lies back, hands on Harry's elbows to pull him along, letting Harry indulge his new fixation.
Also, it is nice to see John's attempts to keep in combat shape are appreciated. ] Are you quite enjoying yourself, Harry? [ John asks, voice pitched low. ]
[ Harry's brow knits when John delivers the jab about his damn boots, screw him. Not everyone had an ass built for Armani. Or the bank account to support a wardrobe of anything more than a cheap tie from the nearest department store. And oh yeah, John's still got knives all over his person, so they both have their weapons at each other's throat, at all times. That's a sobering thought, and Harry tries to take it easy when he runs his fingertips down John's chest, over scars and skin and muscle alike.
Enjoying himself? ] Where the fuck do you keep all those knives? You've got more of them than I've got fingers and toes.
[ To which he wiggles a hand before John's eyes, and chews on his already-chapped bottom lip, wary of getting a mouthful of blade or something if he starts exploring with his mouth. He settles on using his hands instead, pressing John's shirt off his shoulder so he can map out the shape of him. Once more over his collarbones, down his sides until Harry's hands can wrap about his waist, and the wizard can lean down carefully. He hovers there, mouth ghosting the other's as he weighs it: the situation, the warmth of his skin against John's. ] Enjoying it? Well. I suppose "continuously asking stupid and-or rhetorical questions" fits the villain motif.
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.
[ Harry shifts, resting the remainder of his body along as much of John's as there is underneath him (which, in comparison, isn't much). He's slowing down, burning low as he languishes and listens and props his chin up on his hands. Hands that still wander across John's bare skin, tracing the old wounds with unnatural care. He makes a point not to concern himself with his own scars, he's been told they'll fade from reality, leave nothing but shitty memories - but others aren't so lucky. John will bear them all his life, however long that is.
Waxing poetic on scars now, jeeze. He ducks his head to tear his eyes from those scars, turning his face into the center of John's chest with a faint, incoherent murmur and a trail of messy kisses. An arm flails out towards the table, fingers hanging onto the edge with whatever energy is rapidly dissipating from him - warm, physical contact and the lullaby of bruises singing at his neck will do that to a guy. ]
Oh yeah, the mead. [ He can't reach the bottle, but he shifts against John and tries to. Upon shoving it further away than before, he gives up, and collapses slowly again. Blearily, he grunts: ] I was gonna' use you like a shotglass, give me a minute- [ and rubs his cheek against John's chest, nuzzling into him like he were a less-lumpy variation of the pillows in his own bed. Right before he heaves that deep breath in time with John's and fucking falls asleep on him. ]
John feels it when Dresden falls asleep and he doesn't mind the blue balls or the feeling of this being very anticlimatic. He doesn't even mind being a pillow for the night.
Any price is worth it for feeling Harry Dresden at rest. The constant volcanic threat of the mage's wrath goes out with all the suddenness of a light being flicked. In slumber, his breath is slow and even, his face slack. He even looks quiet and delicate in this way, eyelashes dark against his winter pale skin.
John can touch, if he's careful. Smooth over Dresden's brow, like brushing away the wrinkles there will soothe the thoughts beneath. Press the bisected parts of his scarred lip together like that alone will heal the damage. Even trace the thin skin of his eyelids.
He doesn't seem like the greatest threat to John's empire when he's like this. He just seems tired, the sort of bone tired that one night of sleep could never shake. And more than anything, John is reluctant to wake him.
From the floor, John can reach the suit jacket he threw over the chair. It's not a blanket, but it covers Dresden's bare back to keep the cold clear when the warmth of the mead leaves them.
John takes another few minutes, just tracing the sleeping wizard's features before succumbing himself to sleep. ]
[ Harry is a dead weight, unresponsive to all stimulus short of another apocalyptic scenario. It's a far cry from his usual sleeping patterns, light and sporadic as they are. He tucks his face in against John's neck and sprawls about his body, gradually winding his limbs wherever the hell they will fit, heedless of the state he's left John in, or what the morning might bring.
-- what the morning brings is sunlight. Damnable, noisy sunlight that splits his head in two and reminds him that he's not in the dark little cave that he claims is a livable space. It causes Harry to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes and whine, twisting his body around until he can wedge himself under the table that had hosted their dinner mere hours ago. There's shadow there, that's better. He even grabs for what's covering his shoulders, dragging it up over his face as he curses: ] Empty fucking night!
[ It's John's jacket. And there's a faint, confused warble from Harry as he shoves it back at arm's length, perplexed by how it got there. Until he remembers why his neck aches, and why he's missing his shirt, and why it tastes sweet when he runs his tongue over his lips. Carefully wrapping the jacket over his head as a makeshift hood to keep out the majority of light and noise, he begins to fumble around on the floor, looking for his shirt. ]
[ This is winter morning in Chicago from the fiftieth floor of a glass and steel building on Michigan Avenue. John's internal alarm clock went off at 6:15 AM, undaunted by the hangover. He's washed up in the executive bathroom, lights dimmed low to save his eyes and to keep the mirror there dark. He's not ready for his reflection yet.
The suit he's changed into looks fit for a funeral, and his expression is not much better. The regret, far subsumed under the stoic surface, burns him to the point of pain. The full weight of how dangerous and foolish last night was is a heavy stone in his gut.
This is going to be a hell of a thing to explain to Gard and Hendricks when they arrive. ]
[ He's already drained one bottle of water and taken aspirin when Harry finally wakes up. It's hard to miss, with that exclamation. John's always enjoyed waking up with the city, feeling his heart rate climb while watching the L rumble by, the foot traffic on Wabash and Lake slowly rise. But for Dresden, he presses the button on the wall that drops the blinds from the ceiling, covering the windows and killing the sunlight.
He can see Dresden looking for things that aren't there and sighs. ] They are on the table above you. [ Along with another bottle of water and three pain pills. ]
[ And he may as well get this over with. Rip it off like a bandage. ] The price of the protection and hospitality of the Freeholding of Chicago is paid and no recourse will be sought. Any words or actions that have transpired will be kept in confidence until such time as you break that confidence. You have twenty-four hours of assured non-hostilities. [ John recites with all the enthusiasm of someone reading aloud tax code. It's all by rote, given to him by the team of lawyers who he's paid to be experts on the Accords.
There. He's done what he's had to. God willing, Dresden will be too hungover or to taken aback to give him lip. John's not in the mood. ]
[ Harry chooses his curse words carelessly, and strings them together in new and creative ways. He hasn't been this hung over, since -- well, for a long time. Naturally, he'd rather not drink himself into oblivion, especially with a high-stress occupation that practically begs him to drown his problems in the bottom of a bottle. Can't. Won't do. Instead, he glowers in the direction of the blinds, finding that everything is so much more tolerable when the light has been dealt with. Gradually, he extracts himself from under the table and fumbles about until he can find his clothing - only giving up his makeshift hat when he has to pull his shirt over his head. He chases the pills with the provided water, and gets to his feet in an ungainly, wobbly fashion. You know, like normal people do when they're suffering a hangover. Not dressed like it's a funeral. ]
Say what? [ The world slows for a moment, with Harry clutching his temple and staring at John like he's just grown two heads and the second one isn't spitting bullshit at him. For a moment, the wizard looks... disappointed. Him, of all people. Then the words and their meaning and the tone catches up with him in one fell swoop, and Harry's disorientation turns into a scowl. He opens his mouth, and a million-and-one things are on the tip of his tongue to say, but the only thing that comes out is: ] Yeah. I guess that just about covers it, doesn't it?
[ Harry simmers, and goes to hunt down his shoes, bouncing across the floor as he yanks them on and laces them up. Grabs his duster angrily. Shoves Marcone's jacket back into his hands and slaps the twenty bucks in his pocket down on top of the wadded folds. ] For the Thai. Get your damn accounting division to make change.
[ It's about time to make like a hurricane and slam the doors behind him. ]
John takes the coat and dollar because there's not much choice. And in a moment of self-pity, feels like one of the young women working in Executive Priority.
But this is for the best. Bring it all back down to the trading of debts, make their relationship about the numbers. It'll be easier this way.
John's got a poker face the likes the world has never seen. He could bluff any denizen of the Nevernever. It's a stone wall holding back a flood.
It is, after last night, cracked and crumbling and in need of so much plaster.
So John decides it's best to show a second of weakness to save face. He looks down, away, and shuts his eyes. His breath shudders as it leaves him. ] Mr. Dresden.... [ And what? What the hell to say?
He shakes his head, silent, but picks up the twenty and holds it out to Dresden. ]
[ Harry bristles when he hears his name called out, shooting an annoyed look over his leather-clad shoulder.
Marcone looks like he's about to break into as many pieces as there are community areas and street corners, and it freaks Harry out because it's almost upsetting. John Marcone who won't back down, won't look away from anyone he's chosen to fix his eyes on, who speaks with his eyes what he won't with his voice. Subdued, sacrificing one more little thing for the greater good. Harry steps back towards him and looks at the money being given back to him. Sullenly, he quips: ] It's morning.
[ 'I'm not going to answer your questions, not until morning,' he'd said. Harry does that thing where he attempts to arch a brow like Vivien Leigh, and both of them shoot up. He looks alarmed, not coolly perturbed. The pun is a sharp barb. Harry's anger has never been merciful, and Marcone in such a state is something new that he just doesn't know how to handle:: ] But I guess we've already Accorded ourselves properly?
[ There is a sudden tension down John's arm as every muscle in it tenses. He can feel the urge to take a swing at this man for mocking him. The fact that Dresden is holding it over him, like they hadn't just spent the last night trading intimacies and secrets...
That may have been the repair that he needed.
John settles, throttling the part of himself that wants to grab Dresden and shake him or kiss him or punch him. It's just another part of himself to hold under the water until it's gone.
Steady at last, John narrows his eyes and straightens to look Dresden in the eye. ] I guess we have. So glad I've been so useful to you, Dresden. Now, if that'll be all, I believe you know the way out. If you hex my guards again, I'll buy your housing complex and turn it into a parking garage.
You didn't--. [ Now it's Harry's turn to tense up like a bowstring, eyes hot and incensed by Marcone's inability to catch on to the massive fucking hint he'd just dangled in front of his face. So damn smart, and he missed the obvious. To be fair, it wasn't as though Harry'd made himself clear - and that thought was the vice clamp in his guts and the punch in the lungs. ] You missed--.
[ He sputters out, draws himself up tight inside and bares his teeth. ] It's morning, you ass! You forgot to--! [ Harry bites of the flurry of words, because his head hurts too goddamn much for this, and it's not like he can communicate in any other way, and he might as well use that knowledge and the chill pervading from the man he'd slung himself across for warmth until a mere hour ago as reason to turn on his heel and exit stage fucking front door. Hurricane Dresden, with muttered curses and sharp utterances of ventas servitas to fling doors shut and put every barrier between himself and Baron Marcone.
He pulls his collar up to hide the marks on his neck, and slogs out onto the streets of his city with the knowledge that dawn had kicked the sniffer dog to the pit whence it came. Maybe tomorrow'd kick the stupid memories of John's warmth to the curb where they belonged. Stupid, inane, foolish, wrong again. ]
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freeholding) wrote2012-10-25 10:18 pm
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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
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.) ]
hedjkfhfdjdf TO CHICAGO, WITH LOVE /crying
Maybe another day.
For now, something sharper and uncompromising is just as good. He can handle that. And if Dresden has to avoid his reflection in puddles and shop windows lest he see the dark marks peaking out from his collar, that works. ]
Careful, the buckles-- [ The harness is a simple but perfectly tailored piece of hardware stretched across John's torso, so fine it will make the lines of his suit lay perfect even if there's a fucking machete underneath. John lets Harry go long enough to start unhooking the harness, not willing to let Dresden ruin it. ]
if people went in search of john's birth records, that's all they'd find.
So, he chooses to grapple with the man (because you don't bite and bruise the people you actually like, he tells himself), and sits up sharply when he hears John's voice again. Fever-ridden from eyes to neck, Harry's fingers slide across the harness, making a nuisance of themselves when he tangles them through John's like he's trying to assist but more likely trying to explore this second, hidden skin that John wears. ]
Buckles. [ He scoffs, and runs his hands across exposed skin, languid and gradual. Dragons lord over their treasure less than Harry is currently lording over the Baron. ]
oh my god yes please /sobs over the idea of it
John shrugs off the harness, hearing it clink with metal, leather creaking as he casts it off with much less care than he normally would. ] Leather duster and cowboy boots. [ Because, god, Harry was a parody of himself at times. And the warmth of the jabs are a comfort, because they are comfortable. Perhaps if this turns out well, a memory Dresden looks back on with embarrassed fondness and not shame, then John could get him again. He'll never have the man, he knows that, but renting his body and his intensity and his warmth for the price of good company and dinner may be possible.
Especially with Harry's sudden fascination with John's chest. John lies back, hands on Harry's elbows to pull him along, letting Harry indulge his new fixation.
Also, it is nice to see John's attempts to keep in combat shape are appreciated. ] Are you quite enjoying yourself, Harry? [ John asks, voice pitched low. ]
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Enjoying himself? ] Where the fuck do you keep all those knives? You've got more of them than I've got fingers and toes.
[ To which he wiggles a hand before John's eyes, and chews on his already-chapped bottom lip, wary of getting a mouthful of blade or something if he starts exploring with his mouth. He settles on using his hands instead, pressing John's shirt off his shoulder so he can map out the shape of him. Once more over his collarbones, down his sides until Harry's hands can wrap about his waist, and the wizard can lean down carefully. He hovers there, mouth ghosting the other's as he weighs it: the situation, the warmth of his skin against John's. ] Enjoying it? Well. I suppose "continuously asking stupid and-or rhetorical questions" fits the villain motif.
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[ 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.
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Waxing poetic on scars now, jeeze. He ducks his head to tear his eyes from those scars, turning his face into the center of John's chest with a faint, incoherent murmur and a trail of messy kisses. An arm flails out towards the table, fingers hanging onto the edge with whatever energy is rapidly dissipating from him - warm, physical contact and the lullaby of bruises singing at his neck will do that to a guy. ]
Oh yeah, the mead. [ He can't reach the bottle, but he shifts against John and tries to. Upon shoving it further away than before, he gives up, and collapses slowly again. Blearily, he grunts: ] I was gonna' use you like a shotglass, give me a minute- [ and rubs his cheek against John's chest, nuzzling into him like he were a less-lumpy variation of the pillows in his own bed. Right before he heaves that deep breath in time with John's and fucking falls asleep on him. ]
precious sleeping asshole
John feels it when Dresden falls asleep and he doesn't mind the blue balls or the feeling of this being very anticlimatic. He doesn't even mind being a pillow for the night.
Any price is worth it for feeling Harry Dresden at rest. The constant volcanic threat of the mage's wrath goes out with all the suddenness of a light being flicked. In slumber, his breath is slow and even, his face slack. He even looks quiet and delicate in this way, eyelashes dark against his winter pale skin.
John can touch, if he's careful. Smooth over Dresden's brow, like brushing away the wrinkles there will soothe the thoughts beneath. Press the bisected parts of his scarred lip together like that alone will heal the damage. Even trace the thin skin of his eyelids.
He doesn't seem like the greatest threat to John's empire when he's like this. He just seems tired, the sort of bone tired that one night of sleep could never shake. And more than anything, John is reluctant to wake him.
From the floor, John can reach the suit jacket he threw over the chair. It's not a blanket, but it covers Dresden's bare back to keep the cold clear when the warmth of the mead leaves them.
John takes another few minutes, just tracing the sleeping wizard's features before succumbing himself to sleep. ]
precious stupid boys, uUGHHH!
-- what the morning brings is sunlight. Damnable, noisy sunlight that splits his head in two and reminds him that he's not in the dark little cave that he claims is a livable space. It causes Harry to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes and whine, twisting his body around until he can wedge himself under the table that had hosted their dinner mere hours ago. There's shadow there, that's better. He even grabs for what's covering his shoulders, dragging it up over his face as he curses: ] Empty fucking night!
[ It's John's jacket. And there's a faint, confused warble from Harry as he shoves it back at arm's length, perplexed by how it got there. Until he remembers why his neck aches, and why he's missing his shirt, and why it tastes sweet when he runs his tongue over his lips. Carefully wrapping the jacket over his head as a makeshift hood to keep out the majority of light and noise, he begins to fumble around on the floor, looking for his shirt. ]
and tbh John is stupider when sober, so
The suit he's changed into looks fit for a funeral, and his expression is not much better. The regret, far subsumed under the stoic surface, burns him to the point of pain. The full weight of how dangerous and foolish last night was is a heavy stone in his gut.
This is going to be a hell of a thing to explain to Gard and Hendricks when they arrive. ]
[ He's already drained one bottle of water and taken aspirin when Harry finally wakes up. It's hard to miss, with that exclamation. John's always enjoyed waking up with the city, feeling his heart rate climb while watching the L rumble by, the foot traffic on Wabash and Lake slowly rise. But for Dresden, he presses the button on the wall that drops the blinds from the ceiling, covering the windows and killing the sunlight.
He can see Dresden looking for things that aren't there and sighs. ] They are on the table above you. [ Along with another bottle of water and three pain pills. ]
[ And he may as well get this over with. Rip it off like a bandage. ] The price of the protection and hospitality of the Freeholding of Chicago is paid and no recourse will be sought. Any words or actions that have transpired will be kept in confidence until such time as you break that confidence. You have twenty-four hours of assured non-hostilities. [ John recites with all the enthusiasm of someone reading aloud tax code. It's all by rote, given to him by the team of lawyers who he's paid to be experts on the Accords.
There. He's done what he's had to. God willing, Dresden will be too hungover or to taken aback to give him lip. John's not in the mood. ]
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Say what? [ The world slows for a moment, with Harry clutching his temple and staring at John like he's just grown two heads and the second one isn't spitting bullshit at him. For a moment, the wizard looks... disappointed. Him, of all people. Then the words and their meaning and the tone catches up with him in one fell swoop, and Harry's disorientation turns into a scowl. He opens his mouth, and a million-and-one things are on the tip of his tongue to say, but the only thing that comes out is: ] Yeah. I guess that just about covers it, doesn't it?
[ Harry simmers, and goes to hunt down his shoes, bouncing across the floor as he yanks them on and laces them up. Grabs his duster angrily. Shoves Marcone's jacket back into his hands and slaps the twenty bucks in his pocket down on top of the wadded folds. ] For the Thai. Get your damn accounting division to make change.
[ It's about time to make like a hurricane and slam the doors behind him. ]
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John takes the coat and dollar because there's not much choice. And in a moment of self-pity, feels like one of the young women working in Executive Priority.
But this is for the best. Bring it all back down to the trading of debts, make their relationship about the numbers. It'll be easier this way.
John's got a poker face the likes the world has never seen. He could bluff any denizen of the Nevernever. It's a stone wall holding back a flood.
It is, after last night, cracked and crumbling and in need of so much plaster.
So John decides it's best to show a second of weakness to save face. He looks down, away, and shuts his eyes. His breath shudders as it leaves him. ] Mr. Dresden.... [ And what? What the hell to say?
He shakes his head, silent, but picks up the twenty and holds it out to Dresden. ]
harry jfc STOP IT
Marcone looks like he's about to break into as many pieces as there are community areas and street corners, and it freaks Harry out because it's almost upsetting. John Marcone who won't back down, won't look away from anyone he's chosen to fix his eyes on, who speaks with his eyes what he won't with his voice. Subdued, sacrificing one more little thing for the greater good. Harry steps back towards him and looks at the money being given back to him. Sullenly, he quips: ] It's morning.
[ 'I'm not going to answer your questions, not until morning,' he'd said. Harry does that thing where he attempts to arch a brow like Vivien Leigh, and both of them shoot up. He looks alarmed, not coolly perturbed. The pun is a sharp barb. Harry's anger has never been merciful, and Marcone in such a state is something new that he just doesn't know how to handle:: ] But I guess we've already Accorded ourselves properly?
NO KIDDING.
That may have been the repair that he needed.
John settles, throttling the part of himself that wants to grab Dresden and shake him or kiss him or punch him. It's just another part of himself to hold under the water until it's gone.
Steady at last, John narrows his eyes and straightens to look Dresden in the eye. ] I guess we have. So glad I've been so useful to you, Dresden. Now, if that'll be all, I believe you know the way out. If you hex my guards again, I'll buy your housing complex and turn it into a parking garage.
[ Dismissed, Mr. Dresden. ]
COMMUNICATION IS KEY IN ANY RELATIONSHIP.
[ He sputters out, draws himself up tight inside and bares his teeth. ] It's morning, you ass! You forgot to--! [ Harry bites of the flurry of words, because his head hurts too goddamn much for this, and it's not like he can communicate in any other way, and he might as well use that knowledge and the chill pervading from the man he'd slung himself across for warmth until a mere hour ago as reason to turn on his heel and exit stage fucking front door. Hurricane Dresden, with muttered curses and sharp utterances of ventas servitas to fling doors shut and put every barrier between himself and Baron Marcone.
He pulls his collar up to hide the marks on his neck, and slogs out onto the streets of his city with the knowledge that dawn had kicked the sniffer dog to the pit whence it came. Maybe tomorrow'd kick the stupid memories of John's warmth to the curb where they belonged. Stupid, inane, foolish, wrong again. ]
/SOBBING
But the moment is gone, with a door slam so loud that the hinges bow out from the door.
And it's over. It's gone. ]