There is obvious and then there is obvious. One which Harry knows and one that tends to fly right over his head. Slowly, he's warming up to the potential idea that - gee, maybe John Marcone's hands were all over him for a reason other than to just be there. That's a interesting thought, and it garners an interesting reaction from Harry, as he begins to mull it over. Also, the wet heat just below his ribs makes him twitch. Not to move away, but with flickers of pleasure. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest and giggle hysterically because it tickles as much as anything else.
God, his pulse is hammering away in his throat. Just from the idle painting and the proximity of John's own body, the hand - especially the hand spread out along his back. He can't place why he likes it so much. Maybe because he's never thought of someone's hands fitting along his bony spine and dipping into the small of his back, and John's trying to do both at the same time. Sensitive. That's it, he feels sensitive, like he's starting to burn up all over.
And half of him hasn't even begun to be touched! At least until he thinks that, and then John's hand is drifting lower on his body. To his credit, he keeps his hands above his head, although he gets bedsheets twisted up into his fingers and he half-curls his body so that he can see what the hell is going on oh. Oh. His mouth is dry, and he swallows hard, licks his lips and watches like a hawk.
He could say no, to be honest but that would defeat everything they'd just done - and Harry hadn't had a few weeks to think without coming to the conclusion that at best, he wanted to try it. He'd walked in willingly, albeit nervously. "Yeah, that's good," he scratched out, eyes wide and pulse fluttering. Gradually, he settled back down and dropped his head to the mattress. "Just a heads up. It's been a while."
Harry's pants have never fit especially well, and it's simple to tug down just enough to get the sharp lines of his hipbones. John touches them, then traces them with one fingertip from the waist down to where the jeans are clinging on. He can feel the racing pulse there, strong enough to count the beats. John hums, pleased. "In general, or with men?" He asks, and it's a loaded question, but completely devoid of judgement. If the rumors about Harry and Raith are true, that's fine. If they aren't, that's fine as well, but John would like to know.
He'd like to overwhelm the man, but from pleasure, not inexperience. The hands wound tight in the sheets seem to be a good sign more than anything. And Harry responds beautifully; shifting around every time John touches him, restrained because John asked that of him, but otherwise eager.
He works the pants down slowly, the hand on Harry's back sliding down to help (and taking in the curve of his ass, that too). The boxers come too, and when Harry's cock comes free, John smirks and kisses the head smugly. He'll come back to it later. He has to move to pull the jeans the rest of the way off, lifting upward just to see the stretch of Harry's legs, the way the fold back down onto the bed with soft flumps.
John would be happy with just this, seeing Harry bare and long limbed and on his bed.
"Either way, I can be gentle," he soothes, hands sliding up from Harry's feet, up his legs, settling back between them.
Harry almost misses the question, because his breath hitches and his body twitches when John runs a finger along his skin. It might tickle, but there's this heat that spreads outwards from the light touch and sinks into his guts and coils up right behind his navel. When his mind finally catches up in the wake of the sensory fit, he notes that his voice is hoarse, but his mouth is fucking watering like this is a delicious treat (really, he doesn't even look twice at the berries because John prowling around is a heck of a lot more attention-grabbing).
"Uh?" Come on, Dresden, do something other than watch with wide, entranced eyes and fight against the desire to shiver, again. "In general?" Fuck, there went that. He's quick to look up from John's hands to his face and add: "But, I sort of figured that - this was some part of me I'd ignored and - I don't know, I guess I was tired of ignoring it." No shit, he'd stormed out of Marcone's office and spent the next couple weeks poking and prodding and shivering at the bruises all over his throat, pretty much languishing in memories of the night before deciding that yeah, it was okay with him in the end.
He'd had a stern talking-to with himself after a minor freak out -- and here he was again. This time without pants. And John was fucking kissing him right on the dick! "Ah," he gasped in retaliation, because well, that was interesting and new and talk about electric.
It was the pass of John's hands back up his legs that settled him back into the mattress, and his hands loosened just a little in the sheets. "You're the one that got slapped around by a tree." Harry had escaped with the bruising and abrasions on his face. "Maybe I ought to be gentle with you." A really bad attempt at teasing, but his legs did tighten around the other, just a little.
John is perfectly fine with seeing Harry in such a state. His eyes are open and dark, watching John like he's something so very worthwhile. That makes him want to do more, seeing Harry like this. There's a flush working its way over Harry's skin, and John wants to push and coax until the man is blushing red everywhere, bright-eyed and overwhelmed.
But he should go easy, it seems. Harry deserves that. And only the brush of his lips makes Harry start. John chuckles and pets Harry's cock idly, like its not hardening in his hand insistently. "Shush," he whispers, squeezing once, a light tug, just to make Harry's hips lift a little before he lets go.
If Harry thinks John needs a soft touch-- John smirks at the thought. "Who says I like things gentle?" Even as he speaks, his hands keep soothing Harry's legs, spreading them a little wider. There's enough room for John to undo his pants and push them down. The belt clacks loudly when the rest of John's clothes hit the floor. Now, it's an even playing field.
Or not, really. John cannot stop his eyes from tracking up the long arrow lines of Harry's body, the way the sheets crease in his hands. He can see the wrinkles set into the linens, where Harry has needed to hold on. John would much like to see how far Harry can go. How long can he just hang on and enjoy the ride without touching? What will it take to have him break?
He starts with another piece of fruit that he lets drip down the slope of Harry's leg, along his thigh. It's slow, and John raptly watches the trail of red-purple as it goes. He waits for it to run all the way down, watches it follow the contours of Harry's skin, bending and curving until it pools in the crease between his leg and hip. It begins to slide back, onto the bed, but John is there. He laps it away, holding Harry's leg in place, smearing the line of juice his tongue doesn't clean up.
It's messy and sweet and warm with his face tucked into Harry's pelvis. With the juice gone, he keeps going, exploring this tender, vulnerable area with his mouth. Belying his words, there's nothing gentle about how he drags his tongue over Dresden's skin, eventually painting a way to his dick. It's calculated seduction, pushing Harry to his limits if only to find where said limits are.
Oh, do think more about what he deserves because whatever it is, John, he seems to like it so far. In that wide-eyed, disoriented way that has overtaken him. He's tongue-tied, stammering for a moment as though to protest being told to shush, and then his hips bounce into John's hand as he tugs. Naughty hips, stop betraying him with your immediate reaction to pleasing stimulation. "Shit," he breathes, and almost doesn't realize that his mouth has gone and run off with his hips and left his brain behind.
Harry knuckles aren't white yet, but the way he clings to the sheets and digs his nails into the mattress just a little more leaves no doubt that he will be. Probably sooner than later, because now there's nothing between them but air. And then there's nothing between them, because hell if Marcone's eyes aren't cutting him into pieces and sizing him up. And it's not bad, being watched like that, being taken apart and regarded like something... something someone wants. So, he works with John, because while hands on bare flesh are nice, it's being watched that's doing it to him right now. For a moment, he rolls that thought around, weighs it - i like being watched? - he stills, because his brain protests and tells him that he's wrong - and then he ignores that and accepts. Yeah. He's good with John's eyes on him, that's nice. That'll do. Don't look away.
Hell, he hitches his legs apart - not shyly, but slowly, and watches John in return. The fruit's bleeding down his thigh, cold and slick, and the muscle under that trail jumps and tightens a little, while Harry's eyes follow it. Just when he can see it vanish, and he thinks it's going to hit the bed and leave a stain (fuck, why is he worried about messing the bed up again?), John's damn tongue is there. Harry hadn't realized he'd tried to sit up, to see where the juice was vanishing to, not until he feels John's mouth, and bashes his head against the mattress when he tosses it back with a muffled noise. He's gone and bit his lip.
Harry's not going to let go of those sheets, even as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tighten and his hands fist harder in the sheets while John's tongue busies itself. Some part of him won't let go, has to keep himself locked down no matter if he actually likes this or not. Besides, John put his hands up there and the other part of him wants to fight the Baron in a way that doesn't involve blood and bruises and burns. Despite the way in which his body trembles, Harry's teeth bite into his lower lip and he grins out of one corner of his mouth. Oh, okay, that smile says, is that how we're playing?
Harry's hips bumping up against John makes the man laugh. He's so glad for it, seeing Harry like this. The man needs touch, that much is obvious, and John is glad to give it to him in return for such vibrant reactions. He could tie Harry to the bed and spend a week cataloging each flex of his muscles, each hoarse sound, and exactly how to pull each one out of him. The thought of keeping Harry in this bed like a prized thing is so tempting. Unrealistic, but still appealing. He'll box that up, keep it for a lonely night.
When Harry sits up to watch, John lifts up himself, kneeling in against Harry until they're flush and then just tipping himself forward. Their hips cup together, the curve of Harry's ass on John's legs, lifting him just slightly and pressing him down onto his shoulders. Holding himself up with one hand, John runs a finger over Harry's lip, smoothing the teeth marks there. "I'm sorry, were you getting lonely up here?" He asks with rich humor, staring at Harry with a smile in his eyes. "Can't have that."
The bag is barely in his reach, and grabbing it rocks his hips against Harry's. It's impossible not to feel every tiny movement in extravagant detail, from the thrum of Harry's pulse to the way his cock twitches. Maybe John notices and takes his time settling in, shifting around. Hello there.
A cool raspberry is dragged over Harry's bitten lower lip, meant to soothe and to entice. The red it leaves is painted imperfectly, dripping down the corner of Harry's mouth, but John is quick to clean up his mess; a quick swipe of his tongue collects the stray drops before he sucks the juice off Harry's mouth.
He pops the berry into his mouth, carefully watching for Harry's reaction.
If he needs physical contact, he asks for it in a way that includes the slow arch of his body into John's hands and the way his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. John shifts against him, molding him into a position he swears he's never contemplated before. Harry goes with it; his legs bending so that he can set his heels against the edge of the bed and lift his hips, just a little, so that John can fit against him.
Afterwards, he has to unwind. Inch by gradual inch, he loosens the muscles in his legs and lets them each down in turn. One, then the other; tucking them back alongside John's hips. He does so with purpose, concentrating on proving to the part of him that must have decided you've got traction now get the fuck out of this that he was okay. He doesn't liquefy when John's finger makes a pass over his mouth, but it does encourage him to settle and brings him right back down.
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry laughs. He'd like to reciprocate (he'd like to touch, to flatten the palm of his hand against John's stomach when he moves just to feel his muscle shift under skin, or get a hand on his back and feel him flex, or grab his biceps when he leans over and cages him with his body), but if he lets go of the bed... well, he doesn't know which direction he'll go. So he clings to the sheets and digs his fingers into the bed and watches. Harry watches until John paints his mouth, cleans him up and then taunts him with the berry.
With the brief warmth and the stray thoughts of kissing John Marcone senseless, and that's all that it takes, because his legs tighten around the man's waist so help him fold in half and lunge for John's mouth. This time he's sweet with his kisses, and maybe it's because the prize is as much a tender berry as it is the chance to tease another laugh, another noise for fucks sake, from John.
If it's sound Harry is seeking, then John provides it: a warm chuckle when Harry proves he's got elastic for bones, arching up. John urges him back down, digging his fingers into Harry's shoulders with a questioning hum, unsure if holding his arms up for so long is taking its toll. It's when Harry tries to steal the raspberry from his mouth that John makes a low, purring, "Mmmnh," chasing Harry's tongue and kissing back hard enough to press the wizard's head into the bed.
John eases up, laying separate, soft kisses against Harry's mouth. "You are so perfect like this." His hand slides down Harry's leg, where its wrapped around John's waist. "Just like this," he murmurs like a secret. His hand curls under Harry's back, holding him up just a bit further.
"I could do this all night," he says into Harry's jaw, worrying at the rough curve of it. "Hand feed you and keep you like this," and here he uses that leverage of his hand at Harry's back and crushing them together for a beat before letting go. It's reluctantly that their skin pushes together, a lingering stickiness that John's tongue couldn't entirely clean away.
He lifts his head, looking down at Harry, at the long stretch of his arms. Around John's mouth is red, smeared from when Harry crushed their lips together. "Or you can ask me for whatever you'd like."
The raspberry tastes good. Iit's a goddamn raspberry, and they're practically his favorite. Oh, and by the way - apparently, so does the man he stole it from, because even after Harry's taken that small prize, he takes the rest of the time to leisurely (oh god nevermind there's a little frenzy in there) explore John Marcone's mouth and what it's like to kiss him. He skims the edges of his teeth over John's tongue, barely threatening because he knows by now that his oral fixation is obvious. He talks too much, too fast and bites and kisses like he's drowning and the pair of them need to fucking buddy breathe.
Maybe he just can't get enough of the thought that he's being kissed because someone wants to goddamn kiss him, someone lured him into it because they wanted his mouth just as much as he figured they wanted his which is freaking fantastic, the less he thinks about it and the more he just reacts to John's body and John's voice and his stupid, gorgeous eyes. Wow, getting pretty fixated there, Dresden. Either reign it in or embarrass yourself by writing some goddamn poetry most likely titled Ode To The Color of John Marcone's Eyes. (It's just that he's so used to fighting tooth and nail when he's under someone, because when someone asks you about fighting and so what do you do when someone's got you on your back the answer is a resounding chorus of don't let them get you on your fucking back!) But there he is.
Perfect. There's a word he's never heard before. Especially not when it's attached to his gangly limbs and torn-up face and all his goddamn issues and inhibitions. Harry's face contorts for a moment, real confused and full of all sorts of questions, like for starters: what the hell are you smoking and are the side effects permanent because i could totally use some. He chooses to bypass the words, but the questions are there in the corners of his eyes and in the set of his teeth and the way he turns his head away just a little more because okay, maybe his scrawny bicep will suddenly explain everything. It doesn't. He's not surprised.
"I want..." He doesn't know. He's got his hands so twisted in the sheets he's sure he's practically dragged the pillows into reach, his fingers are hidden in the fabric, the muscles in his neck stand out when a wave of heat rushes through him from toe to face (which is a fabulous shade of red that totally indicates he's as flustered as he is aroused) and he even makes a noise that sounds sort of like a strangled nngh when John's hot and hard against him for a beat. When John invites him to ask for what he wants. Fucking invites him to admit things to him, and all of Harry's words choke him.
He wants a lot of things. He doesn't know if he's able to say them all, because he's yet to untangle them - this one from that one and this one from them all. For a moment, he stills under John, looking up at him with some distant, thoughtful, obscure emotion on his face. Then he does the only thing he can do when he can't find the words - he starts making cultural references to get his point across. The only point he can make, and it sounds a lot like he's singsonging along to Cheap Trick: "I want you to want me--"
That flustered splash of red is a delight to see. It is not so much that John is good at reading people (though he is), but Harry is such an open book, practically broadcasting his trepidation and worry from every shift of his long frame, the way he averts his gaze, and the darkening flush over his skin. Perfect is not easy to hear, it seems.
And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."
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freeholding) wrote2012-10-25 10:18 pm
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God, his pulse is hammering away in his throat. Just from the idle painting and the proximity of John's own body, the hand - especially the hand spread out along his back. He can't place why he likes it so much. Maybe because he's never thought of someone's hands fitting along his bony spine and dipping into the small of his back, and John's trying to do both at the same time. Sensitive. That's it, he feels sensitive, like he's starting to burn up all over.
And half of him hasn't even begun to be touched! At least until he thinks that, and then John's hand is drifting lower on his body. To his credit, he keeps his hands above his head, although he gets bedsheets twisted up into his fingers and he half-curls his body so that he can see what the hell is going on oh. Oh. His mouth is dry, and he swallows hard, licks his lips and watches like a hawk.
He could say no, to be honest but that would defeat everything they'd just done - and Harry hadn't had a few weeks to think without coming to the conclusion that at best, he wanted to try it. He'd walked in willingly, albeit nervously. "Yeah, that's good," he scratched out, eyes wide and pulse fluttering. Gradually, he settled back down and dropped his head to the mattress. "Just a heads up. It's been a while."
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He'd like to overwhelm the man, but from pleasure, not inexperience. The hands wound tight in the sheets seem to be a good sign more than anything. And Harry responds beautifully; shifting around every time John touches him, restrained because John asked that of him, but otherwise eager.
He works the pants down slowly, the hand on Harry's back sliding down to help (and taking in the curve of his ass, that too). The boxers come too, and when Harry's cock comes free, John smirks and kisses the head smugly. He'll come back to it later. He has to move to pull the jeans the rest of the way off, lifting upward just to see the stretch of Harry's legs, the way the fold back down onto the bed with soft flumps.
John would be happy with just this, seeing Harry bare and long limbed and on his bed.
"Either way, I can be gentle," he soothes, hands sliding up from Harry's feet, up his legs, settling back between them.
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"Uh?" Come on, Dresden, do something other than watch with wide, entranced eyes and fight against the desire to shiver, again. "In general?" Fuck, there went that. He's quick to look up from John's hands to his face and add: "But, I sort of figured that - this was some part of me I'd ignored and - I don't know, I guess I was tired of ignoring it." No shit, he'd stormed out of Marcone's office and spent the next couple weeks poking and prodding and shivering at the bruises all over his throat, pretty much languishing in memories of the night before deciding that yeah, it was okay with him in the end.
He'd had a stern talking-to with himself after a minor freak out -- and here he was again. This time without pants. And John was fucking kissing him right on the dick! "Ah," he gasped in retaliation, because well, that was interesting and new and talk about electric.
It was the pass of John's hands back up his legs that settled him back into the mattress, and his hands loosened just a little in the sheets. "You're the one that got slapped around by a tree." Harry had escaped with the bruising and abrasions on his face. "Maybe I ought to be gentle with you." A really bad attempt at teasing, but his legs did tighten around the other, just a little.
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But he should go easy, it seems. Harry deserves that. And only the brush of his lips makes Harry start. John chuckles and pets Harry's cock idly, like its not hardening in his hand insistently. "Shush," he whispers, squeezing once, a light tug, just to make Harry's hips lift a little before he lets go.
If Harry thinks John needs a soft touch-- John smirks at the thought. "Who says I like things gentle?" Even as he speaks, his hands keep soothing Harry's legs, spreading them a little wider. There's enough room for John to undo his pants and push them down. The belt clacks loudly when the rest of John's clothes hit the floor. Now, it's an even playing field.
Or not, really. John cannot stop his eyes from tracking up the long arrow lines of Harry's body, the way the sheets crease in his hands. He can see the wrinkles set into the linens, where Harry has needed to hold on. John would much like to see how far Harry can go. How long can he just hang on and enjoy the ride without touching? What will it take to have him break?
He starts with another piece of fruit that he lets drip down the slope of Harry's leg, along his thigh. It's slow, and John raptly watches the trail of red-purple as it goes. He waits for it to run all the way down, watches it follow the contours of Harry's skin, bending and curving until it pools in the crease between his leg and hip. It begins to slide back, onto the bed, but John is there. He laps it away, holding Harry's leg in place, smearing the line of juice his tongue doesn't clean up.
It's messy and sweet and warm with his face tucked into Harry's pelvis. With the juice gone, he keeps going, exploring this tender, vulnerable area with his mouth. Belying his words, there's nothing gentle about how he drags his tongue over Dresden's skin, eventually painting a way to his dick. It's calculated seduction, pushing Harry to his limits if only to find where said limits are.
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Harry knuckles aren't white yet, but the way he clings to the sheets and digs his nails into the mattress just a little more leaves no doubt that he will be. Probably sooner than later, because now there's nothing between them but air. And then there's nothing between them, because hell if Marcone's eyes aren't cutting him into pieces and sizing him up. And it's not bad, being watched like that, being taken apart and regarded like something... something someone wants. So, he works with John, because while hands on bare flesh are nice, it's being watched that's doing it to him right now. For a moment, he rolls that thought around, weighs it - i like being watched? - he stills, because his brain protests and tells him that he's wrong - and then he ignores that and accepts. Yeah. He's good with John's eyes on him, that's nice. That'll do. Don't look away.
Hell, he hitches his legs apart - not shyly, but slowly, and watches John in return. The fruit's bleeding down his thigh, cold and slick, and the muscle under that trail jumps and tightens a little, while Harry's eyes follow it. Just when he can see it vanish, and he thinks it's going to hit the bed and leave a stain (fuck, why is he worried about messing the bed up again?), John's damn tongue is there. Harry hadn't realized he'd tried to sit up, to see where the juice was vanishing to, not until he feels John's mouth, and bashes his head against the mattress when he tosses it back with a muffled noise. He's gone and bit his lip.
Harry's not going to let go of those sheets, even as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tighten and his hands fist harder in the sheets while John's tongue busies itself. Some part of him won't let go, has to keep himself locked down no matter if he actually likes this or not. Besides, John put his hands up there and the other part of him wants to fight the Baron in a way that doesn't involve blood and bruises and burns. Despite the way in which his body trembles, Harry's teeth bite into his lower lip and he grins out of one corner of his mouth. Oh, okay, that smile says, is that how we're playing?
no subject
When Harry sits up to watch, John lifts up himself, kneeling in against Harry until they're flush and then just tipping himself forward. Their hips cup together, the curve of Harry's ass on John's legs, lifting him just slightly and pressing him down onto his shoulders. Holding himself up with one hand, John runs a finger over Harry's lip, smoothing the teeth marks there. "I'm sorry, were you getting lonely up here?" He asks with rich humor, staring at Harry with a smile in his eyes. "Can't have that."
The bag is barely in his reach, and grabbing it rocks his hips against Harry's. It's impossible not to feel every tiny movement in extravagant detail, from the thrum of Harry's pulse to the way his cock twitches. Maybe John notices and takes his time settling in, shifting around. Hello there.
A cool raspberry is dragged over Harry's bitten lower lip, meant to soothe and to entice. The red it leaves is painted imperfectly, dripping down the corner of Harry's mouth, but John is quick to clean up his mess; a quick swipe of his tongue collects the stray drops before he sucks the juice off Harry's mouth.
He pops the berry into his mouth, carefully watching for Harry's reaction.
no subject
Afterwards, he has to unwind. Inch by gradual inch, he loosens the muscles in his legs and lets them each down in turn. One, then the other; tucking them back alongside John's hips. He does so with purpose, concentrating on proving to the part of him that must have decided you've got traction now get the fuck out of this that he was okay. He doesn't liquefy when John's finger makes a pass over his mouth, but it does encourage him to settle and brings him right back down.
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry laughs. He'd like to reciprocate (he'd like to touch, to flatten the palm of his hand against John's stomach when he moves just to feel his muscle shift under skin, or get a hand on his back and feel him flex, or grab his biceps when he leans over and cages him with his body), but if he lets go of the bed... well, he doesn't know which direction he'll go. So he clings to the sheets and digs his fingers into the bed and watches. Harry watches until John paints his mouth, cleans him up and then taunts him with the berry.
With the brief warmth and the stray thoughts of kissing John Marcone senseless, and that's all that it takes, because his legs tighten around the man's waist so help him fold in half and lunge for John's mouth. This time he's sweet with his kisses, and maybe it's because the prize is as much a tender berry as it is the chance to tease another laugh, another noise for fucks sake, from John.
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John eases up, laying separate, soft kisses against Harry's mouth. "You are so perfect like this." His hand slides down Harry's leg, where its wrapped around John's waist. "Just like this," he murmurs like a secret. His hand curls under Harry's back, holding him up just a bit further.
"I could do this all night," he says into Harry's jaw, worrying at the rough curve of it. "Hand feed you and keep you like this," and here he uses that leverage of his hand at Harry's back and crushing them together for a beat before letting go. It's reluctantly that their skin pushes together, a lingering stickiness that John's tongue couldn't entirely clean away.
He lifts his head, looking down at Harry, at the long stretch of his arms. Around John's mouth is red, smeared from when Harry crushed their lips together. "Or you can ask me for whatever you'd like."
no subject
Maybe he just can't get enough of the thought that he's being kissed because someone wants to goddamn kiss him, someone lured him into it because they wanted his mouth just as much as he figured they wanted his which is freaking fantastic, the less he thinks about it and the more he just reacts to John's body and John's voice and his stupid, gorgeous eyes. Wow, getting pretty fixated there, Dresden. Either reign it in or embarrass yourself by writing some goddamn poetry most likely titled Ode To The Color of John Marcone's Eyes. (It's just that he's so used to fighting tooth and nail when he's under someone, because when someone asks you about fighting and so what do you do when someone's got you on your back the answer is a resounding chorus of don't let them get you on your fucking back!) But there he is.
Perfect. There's a word he's never heard before. Especially not when it's attached to his gangly limbs and torn-up face and all his goddamn issues and inhibitions. Harry's face contorts for a moment, real confused and full of all sorts of questions, like for starters: what the hell are you smoking and are the side effects permanent because i could totally use some. He chooses to bypass the words, but the questions are there in the corners of his eyes and in the set of his teeth and the way he turns his head away just a little more because okay, maybe his scrawny bicep will suddenly explain everything. It doesn't. He's not surprised.
"I want..." He doesn't know. He's got his hands so twisted in the sheets he's sure he's practically dragged the pillows into reach, his fingers are hidden in the fabric, the muscles in his neck stand out when a wave of heat rushes through him from toe to face (which is a fabulous shade of red that totally indicates he's as flustered as he is aroused) and he even makes a noise that sounds sort of like a strangled nngh when John's hot and hard against him for a beat. When John invites him to ask for what he wants. Fucking invites him to admit things to him, and all of Harry's words choke him.
He wants a lot of things. He doesn't know if he's able to say them all, because he's yet to untangle them - this one from that one and this one from them all. For a moment, he stills under John, looking up at him with some distant, thoughtful, obscure emotion on his face. Then he does the only thing he can do when he can't find the words - he starts making cultural references to get his point across. The only point he can make, and it sounds a lot like he's singsonging along to Cheap Trick: "I want you to want me--"
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And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."