[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.]
Well, it's certainly all John's fault when Harry goes taunt as a bowstring and all but shivers against the bed. "You're not sorry at all." Liar, his words are practically a dare for John to come back with something - whether more of the damp heat that was his tongue, or a flash of teeth. The teeth he remembers with abrupt clarity. Harry's neck is still a fading motley of yellowing bruises, and the color of blueberries remind him of how stark the bites had been when he'd turned his head to look at them in the shop window.
Self-destructive, he thinks of himself, and chooses to wrap his legs back around John's waist. "You make a mess, you better clean it up." The reminder is faint, low in Harry's chest as he watches with curious, quick eyes. His gaze darts: John's eyes, his mouth, to the bare skin of his chest and the bullet wound and the solid, broad width of his waist and over to the defrosting fruit - back - forth. "Okay," he breathes. "Do that again?"
"I believe I've been said by some to be a remorseless bastard," John admits freely. His eyes alight to the marks around Harry's neck. It's a gorget of discoloration, potentially ugly if not for the recognizable shapes of the bruises. They aren't from hands or cruel fingers. If he wanted to, John could lean down and renew each one with his mouth. But he imagines that's nicer in theory than actuality-- it'd hurt.
That Harry asks, John closes his eyes, committing the sound of the words and the rasp of his voice to memory. Then he looks at the man again, determined. "I can do that."
He first takes Harry's wrists in his hands and stretches them up, pushing them against the bed above Harry's head. Not in a solid hold, but enough that there is a suggestion: stay like this, for me. Then, John picks out another fruit at random, another strawberry, and sets it against Harry's skin. It starts melting against the heat, and John drags it fast enough to keep the cold from really biting into Harry. It leave a dark line of almost blood red that fades to pink when John licks away the excess.
Pleased with the result and the inevitable play of hot and cold, John pops the fruit into his mouth.
"You're a lot of things," Harry mutters, "especially for just one guy."
It's like playing a game of table tennis, the way they trade sentences. John plays an easy, patient serve and Harry returns it sharply, with energy to spare. Though he relates their conversation to that, his tone is idle, focused not on acerbic retorts but on the way John fucking absorbs his request like it's a delicacy. Well, to a man as multi-faceted as him, it must have been. He did get off or something when demanding a 'please' or two from Harry's lips. Was it something about his asking, rather than commanding, that did it to John?
The idea itself wasn't bad. While Harry would pick waterboarding over begging, briefly contemplating how using manners and requests in a controlled environment wasn't something he just discarded. No, it settled in his eyes and in his brows as they knit thoughtfully - then he tucked it away for later reference, as his hands were pressed above his head. He elects to keep them there, for now.
There's a hiss wrung from him, not in warning, but in surprise - frozen fruit against his skin, followed by the heat of a tongue - he heaves a breath in, holding it until the sensation has begun to settle into his nerves. Harry almost says something, his fingers curling into the bedding. He refrains; instead, he watches with sharp, studious eyes. Cataloging the night in a personal way, one that is as much his years spent as a PI as it is a human being.
"Easy," John hushes quietly, rubbing his hand against the very slight swell of Harry's stomach. The man needs to eat more, but there is still softness. He waits, rubbing in a leisurely circle, until Harry calms.
Then John settles in, shifting into a recline with his elbow planted next to Harry's side, his hand tucking under the wizard's spine. He lays across one of Harry's leg, curled up against his pelvis and looking up over the canvas of Harry's skin, extra pale from the lack of sunlight Chicago is graced with this season.
He finds a raspberry this time and lets the fruit roll between his fingers before dragging it against the extra-sensitive bit of flesh next to the navel, painting a swirl there. He leaves the berry there for a moment, licking his fingers clean before bending down and mouthing it away, letting his teeth scrape against Harry.
The color is just as vibrant as the strawberry's. "You would hex me into the new year if I drew my name, wouldn't you?"
The weight on his leg ought to alarm him, because it means he can't get away fast if something went wrong - but even Harry's paranoia had its limitations, and rather than glower at John, he softened under the man's weight. Nice. Warm. A physical body that he'd gone and made himself pretty familiar with a few weeks ago, and now it was back and close and drawing stupid patterns on his skin.
He doesn't get the fascination with his body though. With John's, he can see it. John is made of firm muscle and smooth planes, he's got biceps that Harry actually understands he wants to run a hand over and a neck he wants to keep on kissing, just to feel what it's like when John swallows-- but him? He's nearly seven feet of scrawny, disproportional human being. But the mouth on him tells a different story. Either the fruit is really good, or John just likes how he tastes.
"I'd start with putting you through the wall first." Harry opens an eye to glance at the other man, lest he start doing what he'd just suggested. Names? Drawn on his skin? Regardless of how temporary it'd be, he's not going to let John Marcone start walking down that road. He's not dumb enough to ignore what he'd seen during their soulgaze, that pristine power and the quiet obsession tucked away under a rug, just waiting and lurking.
Harry shivers though, because the teeth scraping against his skin are too nice and just enough of a reminder that he's bare up top and has another man - an undeniably dangerous man - half-pinning him down. Okay, maybe for a little bit longer. He can relax under John's hand and mouth and... let this happen. "Do I just--?" Stay here? Supine, with toes curling a little more whenever cold berry and hot mouth are exchanged? He's not used to inactivity, though it's not a bad feeling.
John cannot make it much more obvious, how much he would disagree with Harry's assessment. His hand against Harry's spine is spread wide, trying to touch as much skin as he can. He's a gift slowly unwrapped, peeled out of that duster and too-big shirt, revealing so much to explore and mark. And Harry is letting him, is the most remarkable thing.
"Some other time," John bargains, and before Harry can counter that, he curves into Harry's body, his mouth finding a hollow below the ribs. What he does is only kissing in the sense that it involves lips and contact; he mouths at the little dip, learning the shape of it with his tongue, scoring the hot skin with his teeth. He only means to do it for a moment, until he's spread heat into this small point. But he tastes salt, left from the sweat worked up while battling a dryad.
When he's had enough at last, he leans up on his elbow again and starts painting again. "Believe me when I say that you are free to do whatever you like here. Though I rather enjoy you this way," John says. Yes, supine, yes, leaving himself in John's care. He smiles, tracing three loops like a Celtic knot, fond of the way the color stands out even against the new bruise John's just made.
His hand runs up and down Harry's side again, always quick to calm the man. His reticence is obvious, like he's never just let go in bed and been taken or cared for. It's not hard to believe that. Harry Dresden has control issues; John knows the signs from his own mirror. He'd love the man to relax and let John slowly wind him up until he can't take it any longer.
That would be easier with more room to work. In particular, John wants the deep, curved lines of Harry's hips. He lets his hand drift down Harry's belly, direction clear, before unzipping his pants. Slow enough that Harry can protest, but wasting no time.
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.
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timeasmymeasure
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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
Date: 2012-12-05 01:41 am (UTC)Self-destructive, he thinks of himself, and chooses to wrap his legs back around John's waist. "You make a mess, you better clean it up." The reminder is faint, low in Harry's chest as he watches with curious, quick eyes. His gaze darts: John's eyes, his mouth, to the bare skin of his chest and the bullet wound and the solid, broad width of his waist and over to the defrosting fruit - back - forth. "Okay," he breathes. "Do that again?"
prose > brackets aw yeah
Date: 2012-12-05 02:27 am (UTC)That Harry asks, John closes his eyes, committing the sound of the words and the rasp of his voice to memory. Then he looks at the man again, determined. "I can do that."
He first takes Harry's wrists in his hands and stretches them up, pushing them against the bed above Harry's head. Not in a solid hold, but enough that there is a suggestion: stay like this, for me. Then, John picks out another fruit at random, another strawberry, and sets it against Harry's skin. It starts melting against the heat, and John drags it fast enough to keep the cold from really biting into Harry. It leave a dark line of almost blood red that fades to pink when John licks away the excess.
Pleased with the result and the inevitable play of hot and cold, John pops the fruit into his mouth.
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Date: 2012-12-08 01:59 am (UTC)It's like playing a game of table tennis, the way they trade sentences. John plays an easy, patient serve and Harry returns it sharply, with energy to spare. Though he relates their conversation to that, his tone is idle, focused not on acerbic retorts but on the way John fucking absorbs his request like it's a delicacy. Well, to a man as multi-faceted as him, it must have been. He did get off or something when demanding a 'please' or two from Harry's lips. Was it something about his asking, rather than commanding, that did it to John?
The idea itself wasn't bad. While Harry would pick waterboarding over begging, briefly contemplating how using manners and requests in a controlled environment wasn't something he just discarded. No, it settled in his eyes and in his brows as they knit thoughtfully - then he tucked it away for later reference, as his hands were pressed above his head. He elects to keep them there, for now.
There's a hiss wrung from him, not in warning, but in surprise - frozen fruit against his skin, followed by the heat of a tongue - he heaves a breath in, holding it until the sensation has begun to settle into his nerves. Harry almost says something, his fingers curling into the bedding. He refrains; instead, he watches with sharp, studious eyes. Cataloging the night in a personal way, one that is as much his years spent as a PI as it is a human being.
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Date: 2012-12-08 03:43 am (UTC)Then John settles in, shifting into a recline with his elbow planted next to Harry's side, his hand tucking under the wizard's spine. He lays across one of Harry's leg, curled up against his pelvis and looking up over the canvas of Harry's skin, extra pale from the lack of sunlight Chicago is graced with this season.
He finds a raspberry this time and lets the fruit roll between his fingers before dragging it against the extra-sensitive bit of flesh next to the navel, painting a swirl there. He leaves the berry there for a moment, licking his fingers clean before bending down and mouthing it away, letting his teeth scrape against Harry.
The color is just as vibrant as the strawberry's. "You would hex me into the new year if I drew my name, wouldn't you?"
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Date: 2012-12-10 07:20 am (UTC)He doesn't get the fascination with his body though. With John's, he can see it. John is made of firm muscle and smooth planes, he's got biceps that Harry actually understands he wants to run a hand over and a neck he wants to keep on kissing, just to feel what it's like when John swallows-- but him? He's nearly seven feet of scrawny, disproportional human being. But the mouth on him tells a different story. Either the fruit is really good, or John just likes how he tastes.
"I'd start with putting you through the wall first." Harry opens an eye to glance at the other man, lest he start doing what he'd just suggested. Names? Drawn on his skin? Regardless of how temporary it'd be, he's not going to let John Marcone start walking down that road. He's not dumb enough to ignore what he'd seen during their soulgaze, that pristine power and the quiet obsession tucked away under a rug, just waiting and lurking.
Harry shivers though, because the teeth scraping against his skin are too nice and just enough of a reminder that he's bare up top and has another man - an undeniably dangerous man - half-pinning him down. Okay, maybe for a little bit longer. He can relax under John's hand and mouth and... let this happen. "Do I just--?" Stay here? Supine, with toes curling a little more whenever cold berry and hot mouth are exchanged? He's not used to inactivity, though it's not a bad feeling.
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Date: 2012-12-10 07:53 am (UTC)"Some other time," John bargains, and before Harry can counter that, he curves into Harry's body, his mouth finding a hollow below the ribs. What he does is only kissing in the sense that it involves lips and contact; he mouths at the little dip, learning the shape of it with his tongue, scoring the hot skin with his teeth. He only means to do it for a moment, until he's spread heat into this small point. But he tastes salt, left from the sweat worked up while battling a dryad.
When he's had enough at last, he leans up on his elbow again and starts painting again. "Believe me when I say that you are free to do whatever you like here. Though I rather enjoy you this way," John says. Yes, supine, yes, leaving himself in John's care. He smiles, tracing three loops like a Celtic knot, fond of the way the color stands out even against the new bruise John's just made.
His hand runs up and down Harry's side again, always quick to calm the man. His reticence is obvious, like he's never just let go in bed and been taken or cared for. It's not hard to believe that. Harry Dresden has control issues; John knows the signs from his own mirror. He'd love the man to relax and let John slowly wind him up until he can't take it any longer.
That would be easier with more room to work. In particular, John wants the deep, curved lines of Harry's hips. He lets his hand drift down Harry's belly, direction clear, before unzipping his pants. Slow enough that Harry can protest, but wasting no time.
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Date: 2012-12-12 01:22 am (UTC)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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Date: 2012-12-12 03:15 am (UTC)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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Date: 2012-12-14 06:08 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2012-12-14 07:33 am (UTC)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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