We did talk about a lot of things. [Talked. Drank fucking Odin's mead down to the bottom of the bottle. Grabbed each other with no thought of kindness. Settled into each other's space without the sort of conscientious avoidance that defined all their other interactions. Drew line after line in the stand only to dash them away moments later. John did not sleep with people. He fucked them sometimes, but at no point did he leave himself so vulnerable with someone. It was for his sake and for the entire city's sake, and yet.
He'd gone to sleep with half a bottle of mead in his and Dresden's soft breaths against his chest, and he'd survived.
And then he left.
And now claims to not hate him. Right. Maybe Dresden wielded his weapons unknowingly. Didn't realize the power of revoked sanctuary and kindness. Strange, given his ties to the Courts.]
I'm somewhat confused on that matter. We did talk. And then I gave you the out, if you needed it. And you took it.
I said "ask me in the morning", when I'd be sober and nothing was lurking outside, keeping me there. Just me. [ Okay, this wasn't how he wanted it to go down between them. Opening his mouth like that was going to put them right back to the aftermath, barely a few weeks ago. Harry can already feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense up, his mood torquing into something prickly and quick-to-protest. It took him weeks to rationalize it, to file all his confusion-and-enjoyment away in another box labeled "damn it John" and stuff it in the back of his head. (He was pretty sure his subconscious had begun to style himself as king of all those box-up, repressed things - the bastard.)
It went both ways: Harry didn't drink himself senseless, not unless he was alone, behind locks. It was too easy to take that out, to rely on the drink. Plus, he didn't like the idea of being impaired by it. To have gone over the edge and enjoyed it -- to say he didn't want the alcohol to do the talking was the least of his issues.
Harry slaps his hands onto the edge of the counter, curls his fingers into (was it marble?) the surface and draws in a tight, deep breath. Use your head and not your heart, Dresden. ] Look, I get this [ Harry beckons between the two of them, between their eyes, their hearts ] but I don't always get what's going on up in here. [ And then he taps his own temple, looking pointedly at John. ] And you threw the book at me.
It's not like I was any better, because I took that out. I didn't bother; I had my hands all over you and I didn't--. Me. [ There's a certain quality to it: incredulous, bemused, like he doesn't understand his own actions. ] You unwound and didn't stab me, so that "wow he didn't shank me in my sleep" feeling extends both ways. And I can't hate you, so that's it. That's what I got.
That is what you meant. When you told me it's morning. [John is... Perhaps he should have a spark of hope in him over the misunderstanding, about the opportunity presented. But it is weeks later and has been a rough night and this dance is, for once, tiring. Perhaps it was the glimpse of contentment and soft-focus joy the dryad pushed onto him, making everything else more acute.]
[He dispassionately watches as Harry explains. And maybe he wants a few things. Wants to slide his hands up Harry's back, peel off that duster, push Harry into the island, curled against him like a comma, breathing in the sweat and ash of his hair and mouthing the rough curve of his jaw. But those are all things he is years-used to wanting.]
You are here. Sober with nothing lurking outside. I am not going to stab you. I don't hate you and you don't hate me.
[One more bite and a moment to suck the juice off his fingers, the juice darker than bloodstains.] You know what I want. It has never changed. [He'll take Dresden, by hook or by crook or by kiss or by kill. Any of it will satisfy the terrifying howling thing in his chest.] What do you want?
[ For a moment, he watches John. Just watches him as the gears whir and settle into place. How easy it would have been to have said that, weeks ago; but hindsight is twenty-twenty and anger speaks in shades of regret. When he's done watching, Harry nods - slow and deep, agreeing with John's assessment. Yes, that's exactly what he meant. Yes, he'd messed up by acting on anger and blind confusion, rather than trying to control his temper. John controlled himself so well, that Harry found himself acting as his polar opposite: uncontrollable, irascible, because maybe that was how he complimented the other.
Maybe. ] Yeah, that's what I meant.
[ Meant what I said, said what I meant - but, this elephant's not that good at faith, he thinks to himself. There's facts, laid out on the table, parroted and professed and bare. Things he knows are true, that he might be able to lean on, to think that they'll support him just enough to give in a little more. No alcohol this time, just raw decision-making skills, wary and rusted by the years.
What does he actually want though? Time granted him a small mercy in a few weeks of borrowed time, to think things over. To no avail or conclusion. Harry shifts where he sits, and lifts a hand - the ungloved one, wavering for a moment before he reaches out again, across the island, to press his fingertips softly to the place where there is a scar that aches during cold weather, where he'd acquainted himself not too long ago. He flattens the pads of his fingers there, and steels himself against what remains (cowardice) and nods softly.
Then he drops his hand and steals one of the blackberries, popping it into his mouth pointedly. He could play in circles, but he's tired too and there's really no fucking need to beat around the bush. Yeah, he's confused but that's not what's crowned here. He's known for fire and not backing down, so he chews up the blackberry, draws his mouth up into the most crooked, debonair smirk he can: ] I'm not going to get used or manipulated by you. I don't work for you. You're not going to file me away like you did back when we first met. I probably won't ever even agree with you or like what you do. You'll fear and respect and adore me the same way I will you, and you'll like it all the same.
Knowing that, if I said "I want you", where would that put us?
It leaves John with a man with a crooked grin, one that someone dared to damage, leaving that thin scar through. If Harry fears him, John finds it hard to believe with that sort of cocksure smile. It's the smile of a man who'd take a hit to the face and laugh as he spits blood onto the sidewalk, asking for more.
But it also leaves John with a touch so warm he can feel it through his shirt. Ambient magic, he has to assume. No human run that hot unless he's fevered, and Harry's eyes are miraculously clear. It's a balm, and John swags forward when Harry takes his hand back, covering by leaning on his elbows. As if his want isn't obvious on his face. It always has been; its hardly his fault that Dresden's never cared to see it there.
Adore me. It sounds like a command more than anything, the words sharp and bright in an otherwise normal sentence. But there is the catch to it.]
It would put us here, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of blackberries. I have alcohol in the sitting room or a bed upstairs. A guest room, if you're the traditional type that doesn't put out until the third date. But I also have a safe room left over from night with the werewolves; I meant to put you there.
Let's say I adore you. [As if it is not a solid fact that's been plain to them for some time now.] And let's say that you've lost enough good sense to want a repeat of that night with the mead, minus the mead.
[John laces his fingers together, resting his hands against his mouth. His eyes are steady, waiting for the moment Dresden's face contorts with disgust or the moment when it... doesn't.] I may adore you, but I wouldn't do it very well, or like others would.
[ It's more of a command than a plea, that's for sure. Harry isn't the type to beg, after all. Certainly, he'll swagger in and limp out, but he doesn't beg. Pressing his fingertips to the countertop, he balances his weight on elbows and hands, hunching his shoulders towards his ears as he leans across the island. It's honestly not that hard, everything is weighted and measured for human beings that were not particularly his height. It puts him that much closer to John when it's his turn to speak, and dark eyes flick from the man's mouth to his eyes, to his chest (ah still breathing that's good) and back. ]
You meant to put me in a cage, John? [ He practically purrs the words, frighteningly intent on that idea alone. His anger simmers, snapping through the air like static. ] The last time I was ever put in a cage, I was sixteen and helpless and swore to myself that I would never end up like that ever again. I am now an adult and decidedly not helpless. So, I highly suggest you dismantle and destroy it, and by that I mean: do not make me do it myself. Clear?
[ Harry falls silent for a measure, watching the man. Making his point with the severity of his gaze, the sudden way he's drawn himself up - before he shakes his head. Wouldn't do it well, or like others? ] You know, I never expected you to. Remember? We did that thing with the eyes and the soul-baring? And - despite the hangover in the morning, that was the best night's sleep I'd had in a month. I hesitate to use the word "safe" in relation to you, but. It'd been a while.
What I'm trying to say is: I don't think we ever fit convention, John. I've never -- you know. Am I getting this right?
A cage. A collar. Maybe just put you in a bed and make you shake apart until you can't think to move. [John matches Harry, and the island is not so big that doing so doesn't put him right in Harry's space. He puts a hand on Harry's face, letting it trace the bow of his lips, then the rough edge of his chin. It's fast when his fingers slide into the dark hair. His fingers tighten, his thumb rests lightly on the soft skin under Harry's eye, and John leans in to whisper in Harry's ear.] Maybe I could put you in the panic room's circle and see you climb the walls before breaking it from the inside. I'll let you destroy it if I can watch.
[Christ, but he is touched in the head. This is news to nobody though. His lips are against Harry's ear, kissing the curve of it, then the pulse point just underneath. He can feel the wizard's heartbeat and hums against it.]
[After lingering for a moment, John sits back, letting go of Harry and shaking the few threads of hair he managed to liberate from him. Then, another blackberry.] Well then. If that doesn't scare you off, no one can tell me I haven't gotten your completely informed consent on the matter.
[He gets up, off the stool, and stands next to Harry, waiting.] You helped me vanquish a dryad tonight, Warden Dresden. [He offers his hand.] Allow me to repay you in whatever manner you'd like.
[ While narrowly resisting the urge to reach up and readjust the worn collar of his shirt, Harry misses controlling other reactions: the way his mouth goes dry, the way he bites his lower lip and swallows hard -- Christ, John said he had central heating, but he didn't say he had central heating. (Nudgenudge, winkwink, say no more.) He might not have invaded Harry's personal space, but he certainly washes over the wizard like a goddamn heat wave. To the man who was often fashioned as the firestarter, John has clearly won the proverbial crown - fair and square.
All Harry musters is a faint noise, which is notably less to buy for time and more an inarticulate admission of just how much John affects him. Damn. ] Oh John, [ he recovers enough to grasp the offered hand ] if a little romp through the woods is enough to win me your favor, I'd love to know what the prize is when I actively try. If I knew breaking your things got you hot and bothered, I'd have made a show of it.
[ That's that, then. Despite the threat, the darkly stated intentions, he hasn't run off, hasn't even backed off. He's not happy with the idea of being caged, but he's oddly... okay with it. Harry slides off the stool, contemplative and hovering. Waiting for the other shoe to drop? No, he's more uncertain than anything. He's taken that step, and it's something more. Not unwanted, but more of a step then he's taken in a while. Pointedly, he jerks his head at the bowl of blackberries. ] Grab some more goodies, but no alcohol. Not this time. [ And in an alarmingly abrupt manner: ] Make a night of it?
You are always a show, Mr. Dresden, [John purs, lips curved in a smile. A pyrotechnics display of Navy Pier for the Fourth of July, or the sort of vibrant display of rockets and sparks and lights that shimmers in the River every year at the Lights Festival. About as noisy, too. Harry is a miracle of fire and uproar, and his fearlessness in the face of John's mildly possessive nature is a marvel in of itself. By now, Harry must know the worst of it; that John has plans to kill him, that he would if he had to, that part of him has always wanted Harry and not always in an okay way.
This though. Might be enough to appease that.
John takes Harry's hand in both of his own, grip firm. He'll always want to push the wizard into corners to see his reaction, to shield his eyes from the blaze that ensues. But tonight, he does owe a favor.] A night of it? I had no idea you were that kind of boy. [His smile goes toothy, like something that might bite if you're not careful. But all he does is play the gentleman, running his thumb over Harry's hand before bending to kiss it regally.]
I can see what I have. [John reluctantly separates to search the kitchen again, now with something more sweet on his mind. The fridge has a full bag of mixed berries, meant his post-gym yogurt-and-granola breakfast. There's honey in the cabinets, but he's seen Harry's skin under his shirt; viscous stickiness doesn't go well with hair. The dipping chocolate, though, could work.]
Bed? Or is that too formal? [John asks once he has a few things.]
Yeah, the off off-Broadway kind. [ There's something about John's smiles. Not the little, professional ones Harry has seen while they square off on a sidewalk with hands in their pockets and fingers on triggers. Not anything like what Harry swears he's witnessed in the middle of a full firefight, like the one on top of the train so many years ago. The ones that are slow like blood and molasses, silent, dark and stirring all sorts of odd emotions in Harry's guts. He wants to reach out and touch the corner of John's mouth, right about then. Stick a hand right between the beast's maw and lock eyes: bite me i dare you i triple dog dare you because i bite back.
And Harry will - and part of him wants to shove his way into John's space and put him through the nearest wall. All teeth and tongue and hands and-- ] John, [ Harry sighs, closing his eyes while the man's mouth presses a kiss to his hand like it's Harry who's the king and John who's the weapon at his right. ] We might know each other real intimately, but you have no idea what kind of boy I can be when I choose to.
[ Harry fidgets terribly while he waits - shifting his weight, messing with his hair, running a thumb over the spot on his hand that lips had just touched. He does it while John's back is turned, and his motions are steadier when eyes are on him (nothing up my sleeves, watch closely everyone). It's a Cheshire's leer that spreads across his mouth - heedless of the threat of cage, collar, death. ] That depends on whether or not you consider this the third date. The way I figure it - the Deeps, your office... yeah, this would be the third. Bed's good by me.
[That is too much of a tease to go unanswered. John puts the things down on the island and crosses right into Harry's space, hands on his hips while inching up the hem of his shirt. Standing on his toes, he says against Harry's mouth,] I believe I could make a few guesses. [He's very still for a moment, watching Harry exhale before moving fast, catching his wrists, and folding them behind his back. It's simple to lean in, put Harry's back against the island, and grin down at him.
It's a guess, but an educated one. John runs a brothel that caters to certain proclivities, and it's insightful at times. Something tells John that a young wizard who loudly, repeatedly refuses to yield for even a moment might eventually want a night to let go.
John loosens his grip, keeping Harry's hands in place with just one of his own pressing lightly down. It's more of a suggestion than a demand, and John uses his free hand to feed Harry one of the remaining blackberries from the bowl.]
If the Deeps is your idea of a successful date, I would hate to see what a bad one is in your opinion. [He'll just hold Dresden here for a moment longer, enjoying the proximity, before leading him upstairs.]
[ There's something to be said about personal space and the idea that it just didn't seem to exist between the two of them any more. The memory of lips and teeth jostle in the back of his mind, stirred up by John's sudden proximity. He's right there, living and breathing and Harry can, once again, take note of the fact that John's eyes are made of a million different shades of green - and the flush that spreads across his neck is a product of recalling drunken thoughts. The association of green and life, or something like that. Harry certainly knows he's alive, because his pulse is hammering in his throat and aching in his temples - which only aggravates the bruised and scraped-raw side of his face.
Every muscle in the wizard's neck and shoulders goes tight when he's grabbed, pressed back along the cool surface of the island. He doesn't lash out, though he could. As John hovers, the black tension drifts out of Harry's eyes and body. By the time there's a blackberry held to his lips, he's gone softer than before - a cautious estimate of John's intentions - and with an amused smirk, takes the blackberry. Bites John's fingertips for good measure. ]
Who said anything about the success of the date? It's said the third time is the charm, right? [ He waits, and when John moves away, he grabs his things from the kitchen and trails after the other man, trying not to look weak-kneed and wobbly as he does so. ]
[There is the urge to bite back. There is always the urge to match Harry in all things, especially physicality. Harry's teeth at playful when they nip John, but there pressure is a reminder of how close they are, have been, and will be. He wants the bite, the twinge of pain flirting along his muscles. Let Dresden set a line in the sand so John can test it and settle into it. He could live in that place where Harry bites the hand that feeds him, just as long as it is John's.
The want to be held down was simple to see in Harry. The food thing was less obvious, though John can pick that apart just as easily. Harry will not take any money or power from John, but something tangible like a hand-fed morsel... that might be the thing. John can work with that. Upstairs he has a large bed that needs filling, and if Harry would like to lay out and tangle himself into the sheets until he can't move, leaving John to take care of him
that is also fine.
John collects the food again as Harry grabs his things. A shame; John liked the clutter.] Come on, [he says, voice hushed now.
It feels tenuous, tentative to lead Harry upstairs. This isn't an accidental tryst on the floor of his office. There is much more purpose to taking someone to his bedroom. He thinks for one moment about detouring to any of the stocked guest rooms, but to hell with it. If this is going to be the big trust, then let it be the big trust.
It's down the hallway, and John holds the door open for Harry, the final and absolute last out John is going to give him.]
[ The house is big. Big enough to get lost in, big enough to where Harry just couldn't figure out why some people felt they needed so many rooms. It was different for John. That much he knew after looking after the memories of what made the guy tick at his core for so many years. He follows in John's wake, because while he's the type of man who's rather lead (use the physical advantage known as his legs to his advantage), this is one of the few moments he's seemingly content to trail along behind. He's not a hurricane on a leash, but he does feel that the moment has granted him the opportunity to contemplate the shapes that make up the man.
From behind. Now, he might be overthinking it, but Harry's pretty sure that John doesn't just turn his back on anyone he knows could cause him serious harm. Let alone Harry, himself. So, he covets the moment quietly - eyes zigzagging down the length of the man's body (he had nice shoulders, and that reminds Harry that John's old scar was hurting earlier), right to his ankles. It's one of the few times he's consciously gone and appreciated the way another body was put together, was aware of it - but not enough to stop him from jolting when he realized that the door was being held for him. The message clear.
Harry deliberately swans in, fumbling over his own two feet when he recognizes the lived-in state of the bedroom. Ah, so not just a guest room. John's room. And it's with that, that he casts his things out - puts his staff against the wall, throws his duster messily over whatever it lands on and proceeds to claim John's bedroom with his scattered presence in the name of 'Harry Dresden, professional wizard'. ]
Be honest with me, okay? [ Quietly, he looks over his shoulder. Then jerks a head at the bed. ] Am I going to drown if I dive into that?
[The duster almost makes it over the desk chair int he corner but slides to the floor after clinging for a moment. John looks at the puddle of ridiculous black leather.] Do make yourself at home. [It's like a bird leaving it's plumage all over the place.]
[He toed off his shoes by the closet, taking the socks with them, and came up behind Harry. In his bare feet on the deep carpet, his steps were even more quiet than usual. John smiled, meeting Harry's gaze over his shoulder and steps in to rest his hands on those narrow hips.]
Not drown, no. [It is conspicuously large. John often sticks to maybe a fourth of the damn thing, nearest to the door.]
[He's definitely planning on saying something more, but finds a spot where Harry's shirt has ridden up just a little bit over his pants. It's a sliver of skin and John can only press his thumb into the space, but it's distracting.]
Don't mind if I do. [ Harry retorts lazily, watching the way his things wind up all over the place. His hiking boots too, because he's bent over to wrestle them off his feet and roll them each towards the wall and out of the way. Unlike John, he keeps his socks on out of unconscious habit, even though the floor is carpeted and that is a luxury he likes. Soft, fuzzy carpet - like the hodgepodge of rugs he's thrown about the stone floors of his apartment. He barely resists the urge to shuffle across the carpet and pop John in the nose with a finger of static electricity, if only because by the time he's straightened up, the man is back and in his space.
John's hands are warm on his hips, and so's the rest of him - what little has brushed up against Harry's shoulderblades, and the heat of his body. The contact, the warmth - it's nice. Whatever retort had been on the width of his tongue fades when thumb meets his skin. He turns a little more, knowing it might break contact for a moment, because he wants to raise a hand of his own, reaching out. Then rethinking it. Quietly, he curls his fingers to his palm, bringing the fist to his mouth. A whisper of faux-Latin that brings a spark into his eyes, locked on the other man's.
Harry's fist then makes contact with John's torso, over the spot where the old scar is - the one he's seen with his own eyes, the one that hurt from the cold. Gradually, he spreads his fingers out over it, releasing the cupped heat across skin and into muscle, and holds it there. ]
I get cramps when I run sometimes. [ Suddenly overcome by hesitance, he looks to his hand, rather than John's eyes. ] Can't use a heating pad, so...
[John doesn't recoil away from the wizard when he hears the murmur of what is definitively not Latin. And then John is so surprised by himself, for not moving away, that it makes the touch all the more of a shock. He's off center and doesn't know what to expect.
The warmth isn't like fire, as he'd expect from Harry. It's like sunlight, concentrated into the shape of a hand. It's like the sensation of coffee heating your throat when you take a sip on a winter day. It's that press of body heat that comes right before the moment when things get uncomfortably hot. It's the opposite of the destructive inferno that Harry slings around so aptly.
There is nothing he can do to avoid groaning. The spellwork does more for his minute, persistent aches than any pain reliever ever could. John sways forward, quickly grabbing Harry's hips again to keep upright.
Damn this man, who can fell him as easily with cruelty as kindness.]
That's... helpful. [Greatest understatement of the year, and told in a voice that sounds like sandpaper on sandpaper. The wash of heat and relaxation becomes less intense and John instead feels like its slipped into his veins. Has he been ensorcelled to have fire in his blood, because it's burning him from the inside out.]
[He wants more of it, the heat, and shifts that much closer, sliding his arms under Harry's shirt to clutch greedily at the hot skin there.]
[ Harry has an obscenely honest... everything. Eyes, face, hands. If his intentions were to harm John, he'd make a show of it. Violence between them is nothing less than dramatic; Harry set the bar when he blew out the Varsity doors, oh so long ago now. He moves from the desire to bite and bruise to the tender act of soothing an old wound, something with memories that run deep, and he can't begin to contemplate them. What he thinks is: it hurts him, and he's had a rough night, and i so fucked this up the last time.
Harry's warmth is distinct from Summer glamour, and he pours it across John's scars and skin, pressing his thumb in circles over the man's shirt. ] Shh, okay? [ He hushes him. Their food is waiting for them but Harry can't bring himself to care for that right now. John's got hands up under his shirt by then, and that wipes all other thought from his brain in favor of making a soft noise or two.
His free hand tucks itself across the back of John's neck, and Harry takes the opportunity to step closer, winding his presence into John's own. His mouth tucks towards John's jawline, pressing a soft kiss there before the wizard chuckles and sings low: ] But baby, it's cold outside.
[Harry cannot have it both ways. He cannot quiet John in hushed tones and trail magic across his body. That is not fair, and is clearly asking far too much. A full-body shiver breaks over John, and he completely fails to swallow the sound clawing its way out of his chest. It may not be fae glamour, but it is ironically enough so much harder for John to shake off.
He would stay under this spell gladly. To hell with anything else; Harry's very presence is a balm John hadn't known he wanted until now. This is so risky he can feel the adrenaline fighting with the joyful heat in his blood. Magic coating him like a net, and John's fine to fall like this. He's already doomed to this wizard being his ruin, and this is the best way to go.
It's only Harry's snatch of singing that pulls John out from under his command. It's impossible to not react to that, and John's eyes pop wide, surprised at just how ridiculous Harry Dresden can be.
John laughs, low and deep, before moving. His hold on Harry goes tight and with a lift and push, John sends him back against the bed. His legs dangle off, long and gangly with endearingly striped socks on his feet.]
You are really too absurd to exist.
[Christ, and he can still feel the warmth clinging to him tangibly. That feeling will haunt his dreams for weeks.]
[ Well, why can't he? It's not for lack of trying, after all. When he hears that sound (that rather enticing, encouraging sound that trickles cold down his heated spine), Harry recognizes that he'd really like it every which way either of them pleased. Like a sudden wash of recognition that this, this between them, is sorta' nice and maybe it's not so bad to get this close to a man you thought you hated but came to understand that it was a lot more than that and a little less than what you were capable of comprehending. Harry wants to do twenty things at once, and his fingers skitter across John's neck and front -- before he regulates himself and resolves to take it a step at a time.
It's been a while, after all.
He knows he likes when John gets a little pliable, and notes that magic gets him there. While Harry can't fold sunshine into a handkerchief anymore, he takes bittersweet pleasure in the idea that he can still mimic the sun's warmth with a bit of will and the intention to heal be kind, and pour that into John's body. At least, he wants to do more like that - just wants to let his hands wander, but finds himself cast onto the bed, where he props himself up on his elbows and reaches out with his legs, hooking his feet behind John's thighs to try and encourage him to come back. He won't beg, but he'll be insistent as fuck. ]
You should speak for yourself. Grab the food and get back here. Don't just stand there. [ Nice as you are to look at? ]
[Harry's long legs have always been a point of fascination with John. They're a runner's legs-- long, lean with tight muscles. His stride would put an ostrich to shame, and John's always found his proportions somewhat amusing. Not anymore, not with Harry's legs catching him. John's pulled forward and his hands brace on Harry's calves. With more attention than is really due, John runs his hands over Harry's legs, squeezing lightly just to feel the resistance.
He takes his time doing that, sweeping his hands down to the knees, then upward, each time closer to the man's pelvis.] If you insist. [At long last, he grabs the bag of fruit and tosses it on the bed next to Harry. The condensation is going to leave spots all over the covers as the chilled fruit defrosts, but if they don't end up needing to wash the sheets anyway, John will be disappointed.
He takes the opportunity to climb onto the bed, still between Harry's legs. He bends them up so Harry's knees are bent and curled around John. He's close enough to get his hands on Harry, but first thing's first.
He fetches a strawberry, red and still partly frozen. It's hard enough to go into the chocolate and come back in one piece that John pushes against Harry's mouth, making his lips purse.
While he's busy with that, John gets his shirt off.]
[ Harry has stepped beyond the threshold where he might continue to feel odd about the rapt attention being paid to his legs. They’re legs. He’s owned them since a growth spurt during his young years. They’ve served him well, gotten him from point A to B and out of bad situations in the middle. By now, he’s assimilated the idea that John seems to have a fixation with them. The single-mindedness in those hands, a focus he – isn’t all that twitchy over. Because it’s warm, it’s human contact, it’s fucking intense, and it’s got Harry’s hands winding into the sheets below him, gathering them up in his fists as he focuses on that sensation.
Right until John quits and goes about trying to feed him again. He tucks his knees against the man’s waist, unwilling to let him get anywhere with the attempt to get his shirt off. Work for what you want, John. That’s what Harry’s eyes say. ] I'm not your dinner, you know.
[ Yeah, the apple and the roast.
The wizard continues to protest, at least until he gets an eye full of John getting his shirt off. It makes for quite the gag, because he shuts right up and grabs for the bottom of his own shirt. If he can get it off first, he'll be able to get his hands back on John as a reward. A few weeks ago, he'd had him moderately undressed - now? Well, there was a spell he knew that'd keep his hands warm, a whole lot of exposed skin and the blatant opportunity to melt John Marcone where he had settled (between Harry's legs, obviously). ]
[That is too easy an opening. John is not going to say that Harry is more of a dessert anyway; a reward at the end of a long day, something sweet and terrible for his diet. He could make Harry smile with the words. That his eyes are the color of chocolate melted over a fire, that the freckles John sees dusted over his skin under his shirt could be cinnamon to the right eye.
He'll spare them both the embarrassment and just say all that with a slow, warm smile as he lightly rests his palm over the skin of Harry's belly. He feels Harry breathe for a moment, thinking indistinctly about mouths and air and shuddery gasps.]
No eating you up, understood. I think I can find other things to do. So many ways to take advantage. [He walks his fingers up Harry's chest, measuring the disproportionate wizard by touch. All the way up, he presses two fingers to the collarbone, then sweeps his hand back down, palm wide. He could be content with just this exploration, being close enough to take in every inch of skin and looking for any sign of who Harry is in his body. There must be something to show for the wealth of power and potential, and John could catalog every dark hair, every freckle and add them to the speed of his pulse of the angle of his chin to derive whatever it is that's made this man so remarkable.
Contemplating that, John reaches for the bag and helps himself to a bite of blueberry. One drop of juice falls from his fingers and lands on Harry's stomach. When John tries to sweep it away, it only track purple upward in a crescent to the right of the belly button.]
[ There's too much space between them, Harry realizes. Even as his brow knits in confusion, he gets himself back up onto his elbows and tries to push up towards John, to curve himself a little closer, legs tightening around him. Like he's about to slither right up the man's body, latch on and not let go unless he was pried off. It's brought on by the way John looks at him (christ, there are no words to describe that feeling - like being stripped down to his soul all over again), by the way John actually touches him.
Harry reaches up and gets both hands into John's hair and lets him have it: one whammy of a kiss, where he neglects biting the man's mouth like he did weeks ago. There's some sort of need in it: to confirm? to express something other then the way his own pulse spikes when he gets that close. His thumbs pressing to John's temples, taking such care. He does work his teeth across John's bottom lip, letting him know that they're still there, that he'll still bite but in that moment, he'd like something that tastes like blueberries.
He pulls back to remark, amused, on the new stain on his skin: ] Or just make a mess all over me, why don't you?
[ He stops trying to get at John and flops back down onto the bed, leaving just his legs tucked along the man's waist and ribs, one knee jostling at John's elbow as though purposefully trying to get him to make a mess. Brat wizard, he was indeed. ]
[John beams into the kiss. There is something so rewarding about wresting a reaction like that out of Harry. He's barely begun to tease his hands over the expanse of skin and Harry just rises, desperate and sparking like a live wire. It's so goddamn sweet that John changes his mind about the ridiculousness of the words and murmurs,] Mmhm, speaking of desserts...
[When the wizard lays back down, John sees the smudge of purple has spread out and faded. He darts a look up Harry's eyes, gauging as he picks out another blueberry, squeezing it lightly. It's cold, and the drops that fall against Harry's chest must be as well.]
Apologies. Allow me to-- [John braces himself on the bedspread around Harry and bends down the clean away the juice with one bold, broad swipe of his tongue.]
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-11-11 05:00 pm (UTC)He'd gone to sleep with half a bottle of mead in his and Dresden's soft breaths against his chest, and he'd survived.
And then he left.
And now claims to not hate him. Right. Maybe Dresden wielded his weapons unknowingly. Didn't realize the power of revoked sanctuary and kindness. Strange, given his ties to the Courts.]
I'm somewhat confused on that matter. We did talk. And then I gave you the out, if you needed it. And you took it.
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Date: 2012-11-11 11:41 pm (UTC)It went both ways: Harry didn't drink himself senseless, not unless he was alone, behind locks. It was too easy to take that out, to rely on the drink. Plus, he didn't like the idea of being impaired by it. To have gone over the edge and enjoyed it -- to say he didn't want the alcohol to do the talking was the least of his issues.
Harry slaps his hands onto the edge of the counter, curls his fingers into (was it marble?) the surface and draws in a tight, deep breath. Use your head and not your heart, Dresden. ] Look, I get this [ Harry beckons between the two of them, between their eyes, their hearts ] but I don't always get what's going on up in here. [ And then he taps his own temple, looking pointedly at John. ] And you threw the book at me.
It's not like I was any better, because I took that out. I didn't bother; I had my hands all over you and I didn't--. Me. [ There's a certain quality to it: incredulous, bemused, like he doesn't understand his own actions. ] You unwound and didn't stab me, so that "wow he didn't shank me in my sleep" feeling extends both ways. And I can't hate you, so that's it. That's what I got.
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Date: 2012-11-13 02:54 am (UTC)[He dispassionately watches as Harry explains. And maybe he wants a few things. Wants to slide his hands up Harry's back, peel off that duster, push Harry into the island, curled against him like a comma, breathing in the sweat and ash of his hair and mouthing the rough curve of his jaw. But those are all things he is years-used to wanting.]
You are here. Sober with nothing lurking outside. I am not going to stab you. I don't hate you and you don't hate me.
[One more bite and a moment to suck the juice off his fingers, the juice darker than bloodstains.] You know what I want. It has never changed. [He'll take Dresden, by hook or by crook or by kiss or by kill. Any of it will satisfy the terrifying howling thing in his chest.] What do you want?
THIS THREAD EATS MY ATTENTION /claws at face
Date: 2012-11-13 05:28 am (UTC)Maybe. ] Yeah, that's what I meant.
[ Meant what I said, said what I meant - but, this elephant's not that good at faith, he thinks to himself. There's facts, laid out on the table, parroted and professed and bare. Things he knows are true, that he might be able to lean on, to think that they'll support him just enough to give in a little more. No alcohol this time, just raw decision-making skills, wary and rusted by the years.
What does he actually want though? Time granted him a small mercy in a few weeks of borrowed time, to think things over. To no avail or conclusion. Harry shifts where he sits, and lifts a hand - the ungloved one, wavering for a moment before he reaches out again, across the island, to press his fingertips softly to the place where there is a scar that aches during cold weather, where he'd acquainted himself not too long ago. He flattens the pads of his fingers there, and steels himself against what remains (cowardice) and nods softly.
Then he drops his hand and steals one of the blackberries, popping it into his mouth pointedly. He could play in circles, but he's tired too and there's really no fucking need to beat around the bush. Yeah, he's confused but that's not what's crowned here. He's known for fire and not backing down, so he chews up the blackberry, draws his mouth up into the most crooked, debonair smirk he can: ] I'm not going to get used or manipulated by you. I don't work for you. You're not going to file me away like you did back when we first met. I probably won't ever even agree with you or like what you do. You'll fear and respect and adore me the same way I will you, and you'll like it all the same.
Knowing that, if I said "I want you", where would that put us?
mind your nails
Date: 2012-11-13 06:01 am (UTC)It leaves John with a man with a crooked grin, one that someone dared to damage, leaving that thin scar through. If Harry fears him, John finds it hard to believe with that sort of cocksure smile. It's the smile of a man who'd take a hit to the face and laugh as he spits blood onto the sidewalk, asking for more.
But it also leaves John with a touch so warm he can feel it through his shirt. Ambient magic, he has to assume. No human run that hot unless he's fevered, and Harry's eyes are miraculously clear. It's a balm, and John swags forward when Harry takes his hand back, covering by leaning on his elbows. As if his want isn't obvious on his face. It always has been; its hardly his fault that Dresden's never cared to see it there.
Adore me. It sounds like a command more than anything, the words sharp and bright in an otherwise normal sentence. But there is the catch to it.]
It would put us here, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of blackberries. I have alcohol in the sitting room or a bed upstairs. A guest room, if you're the traditional type that doesn't put out until the third date. But I also have a safe room left over from night with the werewolves; I meant to put you there.
Let's say I adore you. [As if it is not a solid fact that's been plain to them for some time now.] And let's say that you've lost enough good sense to want a repeat of that night with the mead, minus the mead.
[John laces his fingers together, resting his hands against his mouth. His eyes are steady, waiting for the moment Dresden's face contorts with disgust or the moment when it... doesn't.] I may adore you, but I wouldn't do it very well, or like others would.
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Date: 2012-11-14 03:44 am (UTC)You meant to put me in a cage, John? [ He practically purrs the words, frighteningly intent on that idea alone. His anger simmers, snapping through the air like static. ] The last time I was ever put in a cage, I was sixteen and helpless and swore to myself that I would never end up like that ever again. I am now an adult and decidedly not helpless. So, I highly suggest you dismantle and destroy it, and by that I mean: do not make me do it myself. Clear?
[ Harry falls silent for a measure, watching the man. Making his point with the severity of his gaze, the sudden way he's drawn himself up - before he shakes his head. Wouldn't do it well, or like others? ] You know, I never expected you to. Remember? We did that thing with the eyes and the soul-baring? And - despite the hangover in the morning, that was the best night's sleep I'd had in a month. I hesitate to use the word "safe" in relation to you, but. It'd been a while.
What I'm trying to say is: I don't think we ever fit convention, John. I've never -- you know. Am I getting this right?
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Date: 2012-11-14 04:57 am (UTC)[Christ, but he is touched in the head. This is news to nobody though. His lips are against Harry's ear, kissing the curve of it, then the pulse point just underneath. He can feel the wizard's heartbeat and hums against it.]
[After lingering for a moment, John sits back, letting go of Harry and shaking the few threads of hair he managed to liberate from him. Then, another blackberry.] Well then. If that doesn't scare you off, no one can tell me I haven't gotten your completely informed consent on the matter.
[He gets up, off the stool, and stands next to Harry, waiting.] You helped me vanquish a dryad tonight, Warden Dresden. [He offers his hand.] Allow me to repay you in whatever manner you'd like.
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Date: 2012-11-15 01:08 am (UTC)All Harry musters is a faint noise, which is notably less to buy for time and more an inarticulate admission of just how much John affects him. Damn. ] Oh John, [ he recovers enough to grasp the offered hand ] if a little romp through the woods is enough to win me your favor, I'd love to know what the prize is when I actively try. If I knew breaking your things got you hot and bothered, I'd have made a show of it.
[ That's that, then. Despite the threat, the darkly stated intentions, he hasn't run off, hasn't even backed off. He's not happy with the idea of being caged, but he's oddly... okay with it. Harry slides off the stool, contemplative and hovering. Waiting for the other shoe to drop? No, he's more uncertain than anything. He's taken that step, and it's something more. Not unwanted, but more of a step then he's taken in a while. Pointedly, he jerks his head at the bowl of blackberries. ] Grab some more goodies, but no alcohol. Not this time. [ And in an alarmingly abrupt manner: ] Make a night of it?
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Date: 2012-11-15 06:58 am (UTC)This though. Might be enough to appease that.
John takes Harry's hand in both of his own, grip firm. He'll always want to push the wizard into corners to see his reaction, to shield his eyes from the blaze that ensues. But tonight, he does owe a favor.] A night of it? I had no idea you were that kind of boy. [His smile goes toothy, like something that might bite if you're not careful. But all he does is play the gentleman, running his thumb over Harry's hand before bending to kiss it regally.]
I can see what I have. [John reluctantly separates to search the kitchen again, now with something more sweet on his mind. The fridge has a full bag of mixed berries, meant his post-gym yogurt-and-granola breakfast. There's honey in the cabinets, but he's seen Harry's skin under his shirt; viscous stickiness doesn't go well with hair. The dipping chocolate, though, could work.]
Bed? Or is that too formal? [John asks once he has a few things.]
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Date: 2012-11-16 03:15 am (UTC)And Harry will - and part of him wants to shove his way into John's space and put him through the nearest wall. All teeth and tongue and hands and-- ] John, [ Harry sighs, closing his eyes while the man's mouth presses a kiss to his hand like it's Harry who's the king and John who's the weapon at his right. ] We might know each other real intimately, but you have no idea what kind of boy I can be when I choose to.
[ Harry fidgets terribly while he waits - shifting his weight, messing with his hair, running a thumb over the spot on his hand that lips had just touched. He does it while John's back is turned, and his motions are steadier when eyes are on him (nothing up my sleeves, watch closely everyone). It's a Cheshire's leer that spreads across his mouth - heedless of the threat of cage, collar,
death. ] That depends on whether or not you consider this the third date. The way I figure it - the Deeps, your office... yeah, this would be the third. Bed's good by me.no subject
Date: 2012-11-16 06:19 am (UTC)It's a guess, but an educated one. John runs a brothel that caters to certain proclivities, and it's insightful at times. Something tells John that a young wizard who loudly, repeatedly refuses to yield for even a moment might eventually want a night to let go.
John loosens his grip, keeping Harry's hands in place with just one of his own pressing lightly down. It's more of a suggestion than a demand, and John uses his free hand to feed Harry one of the remaining blackberries from the bowl.]
If the Deeps is your idea of a successful date, I would hate to see what a bad one is in your opinion. [He'll just hold Dresden here for a moment longer, enjoying the proximity, before leading him upstairs.]
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Date: 2012-11-17 03:06 am (UTC)Every muscle in the wizard's neck and shoulders goes tight when he's grabbed, pressed back along the cool surface of the island. He doesn't lash out, though he could. As John hovers, the black tension drifts out of Harry's eyes and body. By the time there's a blackberry held to his lips, he's gone softer than before - a cautious estimate of John's intentions - and with an amused smirk, takes the blackberry. Bites John's fingertips for good measure. ]
Who said anything about the success of the date? It's said the third time is the charm, right? [ He waits, and when John moves away, he grabs his things from the kitchen and trails after the other man, trying not to look weak-kneed and wobbly as he does so. ]
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Date: 2012-11-19 06:40 am (UTC)The want to be held down was simple to see in Harry. The food thing was less obvious, though John can pick that apart just as easily. Harry will not take any money or power from John, but something tangible like a hand-fed morsel... that might be the thing. John can work with that. Upstairs he has a large bed that needs filling, and if Harry would like to lay out and tangle himself into the sheets until he can't move, leaving John to take care of him
that is also fine.
John collects the food again as Harry grabs his things. A shame; John liked the clutter.] Come on, [he says, voice hushed now.
It feels tenuous, tentative to lead Harry upstairs. This isn't an accidental tryst on the floor of his office. There is much more purpose to taking someone to his bedroom. He thinks for one moment about detouring to any of the stocked guest rooms, but to hell with it. If this is going to be the big trust, then let it be the big trust.
It's down the hallway, and John holds the door open for Harry, the final and absolute last out John is going to give him.]
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Date: 2012-11-20 04:40 am (UTC)From behind. Now, he might be overthinking it, but Harry's pretty sure that John doesn't just turn his back on anyone he knows could cause him serious harm. Let alone Harry, himself. So, he covets the moment quietly - eyes zigzagging down the length of the man's body (he had nice shoulders, and that reminds Harry that John's old scar was hurting earlier), right to his ankles. It's one of the few times he's consciously gone and appreciated the way another body was put together, was aware of it - but not enough to stop him from jolting when he realized that the door was being held for him. The message clear.
Harry deliberately swans in, fumbling over his own two feet when he recognizes the lived-in state of the bedroom. Ah, so not just a guest room. John's room. And it's with that, that he casts his things out - puts his staff against the wall, throws his duster messily over whatever it lands on and proceeds to claim John's bedroom with his scattered presence in the name of 'Harry Dresden, professional wizard'. ]
Be honest with me, okay? [ Quietly, he looks over his shoulder. Then jerks a head at the bed. ] Am I going to drown if I dive into that?
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Date: 2012-11-21 09:52 pm (UTC)[He toed off his shoes by the closet, taking the socks with them, and came up behind Harry. In his bare feet on the deep carpet, his steps were even more quiet than usual. John smiled, meeting Harry's gaze over his shoulder and steps in to rest his hands on those narrow hips.]
Not drown, no. [It is conspicuously large. John often sticks to maybe a fourth of the damn thing, nearest to the door.]
[He's definitely planning on saying something more, but finds a spot where Harry's shirt has ridden up just a little bit over his pants. It's a sliver of skin and John can only press his thumb into the space, but it's distracting.]
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Date: 2012-11-22 07:21 am (UTC)John's hands are warm on his hips, and so's the rest of him - what little has brushed up against Harry's shoulderblades, and the heat of his body. The contact, the warmth - it's nice. Whatever retort had been on the width of his tongue fades when thumb meets his skin. He turns a little more, knowing it might break contact for a moment, because he wants to raise a hand of his own, reaching out. Then rethinking it. Quietly, he curls his fingers to his palm, bringing the fist to his mouth. A whisper of faux-Latin that brings a spark into his eyes, locked on the other man's.
Harry's fist then makes contact with John's torso, over the spot where the old scar is - the one he's seen with his own eyes, the one that hurt from the cold. Gradually, he spreads his fingers out over it, releasing the cupped heat across skin and into muscle, and holds it there. ]
I get cramps when I run sometimes. [ Suddenly overcome by hesitance, he looks to his hand, rather than John's eyes. ] Can't use a heating pad, so...
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Date: 2012-11-23 05:14 am (UTC)The warmth isn't like fire, as he'd expect from Harry. It's like sunlight, concentrated into the shape of a hand. It's like the sensation of coffee heating your throat when you take a sip on a winter day. It's that press of body heat that comes right before the moment when things get uncomfortably hot. It's the opposite of the destructive inferno that Harry slings around so aptly.
There is nothing he can do to avoid groaning. The spellwork does more for his minute, persistent aches than any pain reliever ever could. John sways forward, quickly grabbing Harry's hips again to keep upright.
Damn this man, who can fell him as easily with cruelty as kindness.]
That's... helpful. [Greatest understatement of the year, and told in a voice that sounds like sandpaper on sandpaper. The wash of heat and relaxation becomes less intense and John instead feels like its slipped into his veins. Has he been ensorcelled to have fire in his blood, because it's burning him from the inside out.]
[He wants more of it, the heat, and shifts that much closer, sliding his arms under Harry's shirt to clutch greedily at the hot skin there.]
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Date: 2012-11-23 06:06 am (UTC)Harry's warmth is distinct from Summer glamour, and he pours it across John's scars and skin, pressing his thumb in circles over the man's shirt. ] Shh, okay? [ He hushes him. Their food is waiting for them but Harry can't bring himself to care for that right now. John's got hands up under his shirt by then, and that wipes all other thought from his brain in favor of making a soft noise or two.
His free hand tucks itself across the back of John's neck, and Harry takes the opportunity to step closer, winding his presence into John's own. His mouth tucks towards John's jawline, pressing a soft kiss there before the wizard chuckles and sings low: ] But baby, it's cold outside.
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Date: 2012-11-23 07:16 am (UTC)He would stay under this spell gladly. To hell with anything else; Harry's very presence is a balm John hadn't known he wanted until now. This is so risky he can feel the adrenaline fighting with the joyful heat in his blood. Magic coating him like a net, and John's fine to fall like this. He's already doomed to this wizard being his ruin, and this is the best way to go.
It's only Harry's snatch of singing that pulls John out from under his command. It's impossible to not react to that, and John's eyes pop wide, surprised at just how ridiculous Harry Dresden can be.
John laughs, low and deep, before moving. His hold on Harry goes tight and with a lift and push, John sends him back against the bed. His legs dangle off, long and gangly with endearingly striped socks on his feet.]
You are really too absurd to exist.
[Christ, and he can still feel the warmth clinging to him tangibly. That feeling will haunt his dreams for weeks.]
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Date: 2012-11-24 06:50 am (UTC)It's been a while, after all.
He knows he likes when John gets a little pliable, and notes that magic gets him there. While Harry can't fold sunshine into a handkerchief anymore, he takes bittersweet pleasure in the idea that he can still mimic the sun's warmth with a bit of will and the intention to
healbe kind, and pour that into John's body. At least, he wants to do more like that - just wants to let his hands wander, but finds himself cast onto the bed, where he props himself up on his elbows and reaches out with his legs, hooking his feet behind John's thighs to try and encourage him to come back. He won't beg, but he'll be insistent as fuck. ]You should speak for yourself. Grab the food and get back here. Don't just stand there. [ Nice as you are to look at? ]
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Date: 2012-11-25 12:10 am (UTC)He takes his time doing that, sweeping his hands down to the knees, then upward, each time closer to the man's pelvis.] If you insist. [At long last, he grabs the bag of fruit and tosses it on the bed next to Harry. The condensation is going to leave spots all over the covers as the chilled fruit defrosts, but if they don't end up needing to wash the sheets anyway, John will be disappointed.
He takes the opportunity to climb onto the bed, still between Harry's legs. He bends them up so Harry's knees are bent and curled around John. He's close enough to get his hands on Harry, but first thing's first.
He fetches a strawberry, red and still partly frozen. It's hard enough to go into the chocolate and come back in one piece that John pushes against Harry's mouth, making his lips purse.
While he's busy with that, John gets his shirt off.]
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Date: 2012-11-25 07:30 am (UTC)Right until John quits and goes about trying to feed him again. He tucks his knees against the man’s waist, unwilling to let him get anywhere with the attempt to get his shirt off. Work for what you want, John. That’s what Harry’s eyes say. ] I'm not your dinner, you know.
[ Yeah, the apple and the roast.
The wizard continues to protest, at least until he gets an eye full of John getting his shirt off. It makes for quite the gag, because he shuts right up and grabs for the bottom of his own shirt. If he can get it off first, he'll be able to get his hands back on John as a reward. A few weeks ago, he'd had him moderately undressed - now? Well, there was a spell he knew that'd keep his hands warm, a whole lot of exposed skin and the blatant opportunity to melt John Marcone where he had settled (between Harry's legs, obviously). ]
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Date: 2012-11-26 07:04 am (UTC)He'll spare them both the embarrassment and just say all that with a slow, warm smile as he lightly rests his palm over the skin of Harry's belly. He feels Harry breathe for a moment, thinking indistinctly about mouths and air and shuddery gasps.]
No eating you up, understood. I think I can find other things to do. So many ways to take advantage. [He walks his fingers up Harry's chest, measuring the disproportionate wizard by touch. All the way up, he presses two fingers to the collarbone, then sweeps his hand back down, palm wide. He could be content with just this exploration, being close enough to take in every inch of skin and looking for any sign of who Harry is in his body. There must be something to show for the wealth of power and potential, and John could catalog every dark hair, every freckle and add them to the speed of his pulse of the angle of his chin to derive whatever it is that's made this man so remarkable.
Contemplating that, John reaches for the bag and helps himself to a bite of blueberry. One drop of juice falls from his fingers and lands on Harry's stomach. When John tries to sweep it away, it only track purple upward in a crescent to the right of the belly button.]
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Date: 2012-11-27 05:16 am (UTC)Harry reaches up and gets both hands into John's hair and lets him have it: one whammy of a kiss, where he neglects biting the man's mouth like he did weeks ago. There's some sort of need in it: to confirm? to express something other then the way his own pulse spikes when he gets that close. His thumbs pressing to John's temples, taking such care. He does work his teeth across John's bottom lip, letting him know that they're still there, that he'll still bite but in that moment, he'd like something that tastes like blueberries.
He pulls back to remark, amused, on the new stain on his skin: ] Or just make a mess all over me, why don't you?
[ He stops trying to get at John and flops back down onto the bed, leaving just his legs tucked along the man's waist and ribs, one knee jostling at John's elbow as though purposefully trying to get him to make a mess. Brat wizard, he was indeed. ]
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Date: 2012-12-01 03:54 am (UTC)[When the wizard lays back down, John sees the smudge of purple has spread out and faded. He darts a look up Harry's eyes, gauging as he picks out another blueberry, squeezing it lightly. It's cold, and the drops that fall against Harry's chest must be as well.]
Apologies. Allow me to-- [John braces himself on the bedspread around Harry and bends down the clean away the juice with one bold, broad swipe of his tongue.]
/CHANGES WRITING STYLE
From:prose > brackets aw yeah
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