[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.
Oh, do think more about what he deserves because whatever it is, John, he seems to like it so far. In that wide-eyed, disoriented way that has overtaken him. He's tongue-tied, stammering for a moment as though to protest being told to shush, and then his hips bounce into John's hand as he tugs. Naughty hips, stop betraying him with your immediate reaction to pleasing stimulation. "Shit," he breathes, and almost doesn't realize that his mouth has gone and run off with his hips and left his brain behind.
Harry knuckles aren't white yet, but the way he clings to the sheets and digs his nails into the mattress just a little more leaves no doubt that he will be. Probably sooner than later, because now there's nothing between them but air. And then there's nothing between them, because hell if Marcone's eyes aren't cutting him into pieces and sizing him up. And it's not bad, being watched like that, being taken apart and regarded like something... something someone wants. So, he works with John, because while hands on bare flesh are nice, it's being watched that's doing it to him right now. For a moment, he rolls that thought around, weighs it - i like being watched? - he stills, because his brain protests and tells him that he's wrong - and then he ignores that and accepts. Yeah. He's good with John's eyes on him, that's nice. That'll do. Don't look away.
Hell, he hitches his legs apart - not shyly, but slowly, and watches John in return. The fruit's bleeding down his thigh, cold and slick, and the muscle under that trail jumps and tightens a little, while Harry's eyes follow it. Just when he can see it vanish, and he thinks it's going to hit the bed and leave a stain (fuck, why is he worried about messing the bed up again?), John's damn tongue is there. Harry hadn't realized he'd tried to sit up, to see where the juice was vanishing to, not until he feels John's mouth, and bashes his head against the mattress when he tosses it back with a muffled noise. He's gone and bit his lip.
Harry's not going to let go of those sheets, even as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tighten and his hands fist harder in the sheets while John's tongue busies itself. Some part of him won't let go, has to keep himself locked down no matter if he actually likes this or not. Besides, John put his hands up there and the other part of him wants to fight the Baron in a way that doesn't involve blood and bruises and burns. Despite the way in which his body trembles, Harry's teeth bite into his lower lip and he grins out of one corner of his mouth. Oh, okay, that smile says, is that how we're playing?
Harry's hips bumping up against John makes the man laugh. He's so glad for it, seeing Harry like this. The man needs touch, that much is obvious, and John is glad to give it to him in return for such vibrant reactions. He could tie Harry to the bed and spend a week cataloging each flex of his muscles, each hoarse sound, and exactly how to pull each one out of him. The thought of keeping Harry in this bed like a prized thing is so tempting. Unrealistic, but still appealing. He'll box that up, keep it for a lonely night.
When Harry sits up to watch, John lifts up himself, kneeling in against Harry until they're flush and then just tipping himself forward. Their hips cup together, the curve of Harry's ass on John's legs, lifting him just slightly and pressing him down onto his shoulders. Holding himself up with one hand, John runs a finger over Harry's lip, smoothing the teeth marks there. "I'm sorry, were you getting lonely up here?" He asks with rich humor, staring at Harry with a smile in his eyes. "Can't have that."
The bag is barely in his reach, and grabbing it rocks his hips against Harry's. It's impossible not to feel every tiny movement in extravagant detail, from the thrum of Harry's pulse to the way his cock twitches. Maybe John notices and takes his time settling in, shifting around. Hello there.
A cool raspberry is dragged over Harry's bitten lower lip, meant to soothe and to entice. The red it leaves is painted imperfectly, dripping down the corner of Harry's mouth, but John is quick to clean up his mess; a quick swipe of his tongue collects the stray drops before he sucks the juice off Harry's mouth.
He pops the berry into his mouth, carefully watching for Harry's reaction.
If he needs physical contact, he asks for it in a way that includes the slow arch of his body into John's hands and the way his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. John shifts against him, molding him into a position he swears he's never contemplated before. Harry goes with it; his legs bending so that he can set his heels against the edge of the bed and lift his hips, just a little, so that John can fit against him.
Afterwards, he has to unwind. Inch by gradual inch, he loosens the muscles in his legs and lets them each down in turn. One, then the other; tucking them back alongside John's hips. He does so with purpose, concentrating on proving to the part of him that must have decided you've got traction now get the fuck out of this that he was okay. He doesn't liquefy when John's finger makes a pass over his mouth, but it does encourage him to settle and brings him right back down.
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry laughs. He'd like to reciprocate (he'd like to touch, to flatten the palm of his hand against John's stomach when he moves just to feel his muscle shift under skin, or get a hand on his back and feel him flex, or grab his biceps when he leans over and cages him with his body), but if he lets go of the bed... well, he doesn't know which direction he'll go. So he clings to the sheets and digs his fingers into the bed and watches. Harry watches until John paints his mouth, cleans him up and then taunts him with the berry.
With the brief warmth and the stray thoughts of kissing John Marcone senseless, and that's all that it takes, because his legs tighten around the man's waist so help him fold in half and lunge for John's mouth. This time he's sweet with his kisses, and maybe it's because the prize is as much a tender berry as it is the chance to tease another laugh, another noise for fucks sake, from John.
If it's sound Harry is seeking, then John provides it: a warm chuckle when Harry proves he's got elastic for bones, arching up. John urges him back down, digging his fingers into Harry's shoulders with a questioning hum, unsure if holding his arms up for so long is taking its toll. It's when Harry tries to steal the raspberry from his mouth that John makes a low, purring, "Mmmnh," chasing Harry's tongue and kissing back hard enough to press the wizard's head into the bed.
John eases up, laying separate, soft kisses against Harry's mouth. "You are so perfect like this." His hand slides down Harry's leg, where its wrapped around John's waist. "Just like this," he murmurs like a secret. His hand curls under Harry's back, holding him up just a bit further.
"I could do this all night," he says into Harry's jaw, worrying at the rough curve of it. "Hand feed you and keep you like this," and here he uses that leverage of his hand at Harry's back and crushing them together for a beat before letting go. It's reluctantly that their skin pushes together, a lingering stickiness that John's tongue couldn't entirely clean away.
He lifts his head, looking down at Harry, at the long stretch of his arms. Around John's mouth is red, smeared from when Harry crushed their lips together. "Or you can ask me for whatever you'd like."
The raspberry tastes good. Iit's a goddamn raspberry, and they're practically his favorite. Oh, and by the way - apparently, so does the man he stole it from, because even after Harry's taken that small prize, he takes the rest of the time to leisurely (oh god nevermind there's a little frenzy in there) explore John Marcone's mouth and what it's like to kiss him. He skims the edges of his teeth over John's tongue, barely threatening because he knows by now that his oral fixation is obvious. He talks too much, too fast and bites and kisses like he's drowning and the pair of them need to fucking buddy breathe.
Maybe he just can't get enough of the thought that he's being kissed because someone wants to goddamn kiss him, someone lured him into it because they wanted his mouth just as much as he figured they wanted his which is freaking fantastic, the less he thinks about it and the more he just reacts to John's body and John's voice and his stupid, gorgeous eyes. Wow, getting pretty fixated there, Dresden. Either reign it in or embarrass yourself by writing some goddamn poetry most likely titled Ode To The Color of John Marcone's Eyes. (It's just that he's so used to fighting tooth and nail when he's under someone, because when someone asks you about fighting and so what do you do when someone's got you on your back the answer is a resounding chorus of don't let them get you on your fucking back!) But there he is.
Perfect. There's a word he's never heard before. Especially not when it's attached to his gangly limbs and torn-up face and all his goddamn issues and inhibitions. Harry's face contorts for a moment, real confused and full of all sorts of questions, like for starters: what the hell are you smoking and are the side effects permanent because i could totally use some. He chooses to bypass the words, but the questions are there in the corners of his eyes and in the set of his teeth and the way he turns his head away just a little more because okay, maybe his scrawny bicep will suddenly explain everything. It doesn't. He's not surprised.
"I want..." He doesn't know. He's got his hands so twisted in the sheets he's sure he's practically dragged the pillows into reach, his fingers are hidden in the fabric, the muscles in his neck stand out when a wave of heat rushes through him from toe to face (which is a fabulous shade of red that totally indicates he's as flustered as he is aroused) and he even makes a noise that sounds sort of like a strangled nngh when John's hot and hard against him for a beat. When John invites him to ask for what he wants. Fucking invites him to admit things to him, and all of Harry's words choke him.
He wants a lot of things. He doesn't know if he's able to say them all, because he's yet to untangle them - this one from that one and this one from them all. For a moment, he stills under John, looking up at him with some distant, thoughtful, obscure emotion on his face. Then he does the only thing he can do when he can't find the words - he starts making cultural references to get his point across. The only point he can make, and it sounds a lot like he's singsonging along to Cheap Trick: "I want you to want me--"
That flustered splash of red is a delight to see. It is not so much that John is good at reading people (though he is), but Harry is such an open book, practically broadcasting his trepidation and worry from every shift of his long frame, the way he averts his gaze, and the darkening flush over his skin. Perfect is not easy to hear, it seems.
And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."
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timeasmymeasure
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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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Date: 2012-12-16 05:59 am (UTC)Harry knuckles aren't white yet, but the way he clings to the sheets and digs his nails into the mattress just a little more leaves no doubt that he will be. Probably sooner than later, because now there's nothing between them but air. And then there's nothing between them, because hell if Marcone's eyes aren't cutting him into pieces and sizing him up. And it's not bad, being watched like that, being taken apart and regarded like something... something someone wants. So, he works with John, because while hands on bare flesh are nice, it's being watched that's doing it to him right now. For a moment, he rolls that thought around, weighs it - i like being watched? - he stills, because his brain protests and tells him that he's wrong - and then he ignores that and accepts. Yeah. He's good with John's eyes on him, that's nice. That'll do. Don't look away.
Hell, he hitches his legs apart - not shyly, but slowly, and watches John in return. The fruit's bleeding down his thigh, cold and slick, and the muscle under that trail jumps and tightens a little, while Harry's eyes follow it. Just when he can see it vanish, and he thinks it's going to hit the bed and leave a stain (fuck, why is he worried about messing the bed up again?), John's damn tongue is there. Harry hadn't realized he'd tried to sit up, to see where the juice was vanishing to, not until he feels John's mouth, and bashes his head against the mattress when he tosses it back with a muffled noise. He's gone and bit his lip.
Harry's not going to let go of those sheets, even as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tighten and his hands fist harder in the sheets while John's tongue busies itself. Some part of him won't let go, has to keep himself locked down no matter if he actually likes this or not. Besides, John put his hands up there and the other part of him wants to fight the Baron in a way that doesn't involve blood and bruises and burns. Despite the way in which his body trembles, Harry's teeth bite into his lower lip and he grins out of one corner of his mouth. Oh, okay, that smile says, is that how we're playing?
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Date: 2012-12-16 07:16 am (UTC)When Harry sits up to watch, John lifts up himself, kneeling in against Harry until they're flush and then just tipping himself forward. Their hips cup together, the curve of Harry's ass on John's legs, lifting him just slightly and pressing him down onto his shoulders. Holding himself up with one hand, John runs a finger over Harry's lip, smoothing the teeth marks there. "I'm sorry, were you getting lonely up here?" He asks with rich humor, staring at Harry with a smile in his eyes. "Can't have that."
The bag is barely in his reach, and grabbing it rocks his hips against Harry's. It's impossible not to feel every tiny movement in extravagant detail, from the thrum of Harry's pulse to the way his cock twitches. Maybe John notices and takes his time settling in, shifting around. Hello there.
A cool raspberry is dragged over Harry's bitten lower lip, meant to soothe and to entice. The red it leaves is painted imperfectly, dripping down the corner of Harry's mouth, but John is quick to clean up his mess; a quick swipe of his tongue collects the stray drops before he sucks the juice off Harry's mouth.
He pops the berry into his mouth, carefully watching for Harry's reaction.
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Date: 2012-12-21 06:35 am (UTC)Afterwards, he has to unwind. Inch by gradual inch, he loosens the muscles in his legs and lets them each down in turn. One, then the other; tucking them back alongside John's hips. He does so with purpose, concentrating on proving to the part of him that must have decided you've got traction now get the fuck out of this that he was okay. He doesn't liquefy when John's finger makes a pass over his mouth, but it does encourage him to settle and brings him right back down.
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry laughs. He'd like to reciprocate (he'd like to touch, to flatten the palm of his hand against John's stomach when he moves just to feel his muscle shift under skin, or get a hand on his back and feel him flex, or grab his biceps when he leans over and cages him with his body), but if he lets go of the bed... well, he doesn't know which direction he'll go. So he clings to the sheets and digs his fingers into the bed and watches. Harry watches until John paints his mouth, cleans him up and then taunts him with the berry.
With the brief warmth and the stray thoughts of kissing John Marcone senseless, and that's all that it takes, because his legs tighten around the man's waist so help him fold in half and lunge for John's mouth. This time he's sweet with his kisses, and maybe it's because the prize is as much a tender berry as it is the chance to tease another laugh, another noise for fucks sake, from John.
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Date: 2012-12-21 07:36 am (UTC)John eases up, laying separate, soft kisses against Harry's mouth. "You are so perfect like this." His hand slides down Harry's leg, where its wrapped around John's waist. "Just like this," he murmurs like a secret. His hand curls under Harry's back, holding him up just a bit further.
"I could do this all night," he says into Harry's jaw, worrying at the rough curve of it. "Hand feed you and keep you like this," and here he uses that leverage of his hand at Harry's back and crushing them together for a beat before letting go. It's reluctantly that their skin pushes together, a lingering stickiness that John's tongue couldn't entirely clean away.
He lifts his head, looking down at Harry, at the long stretch of his arms. Around John's mouth is red, smeared from when Harry crushed their lips together. "Or you can ask me for whatever you'd like."
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Date: 2013-01-01 04:00 am (UTC)Maybe he just can't get enough of the thought that he's being kissed because someone wants to goddamn kiss him, someone lured him into it because they wanted his mouth just as much as he figured they wanted his which is freaking fantastic, the less he thinks about it and the more he just reacts to John's body and John's voice and his stupid, gorgeous eyes. Wow, getting pretty fixated there, Dresden. Either reign it in or embarrass yourself by writing some goddamn poetry most likely titled Ode To The Color of John Marcone's Eyes. (It's just that he's so used to fighting tooth and nail when he's under someone, because when someone asks you about fighting and so what do you do when someone's got you on your back the answer is a resounding chorus of don't let them get you on your fucking back!) But there he is.
Perfect. There's a word he's never heard before. Especially not when it's attached to his gangly limbs and torn-up face and all his goddamn issues and inhibitions. Harry's face contorts for a moment, real confused and full of all sorts of questions, like for starters: what the hell are you smoking and are the side effects permanent because i could totally use some. He chooses to bypass the words, but the questions are there in the corners of his eyes and in the set of his teeth and the way he turns his head away just a little more because okay, maybe his scrawny bicep will suddenly explain everything. It doesn't. He's not surprised.
"I want..." He doesn't know. He's got his hands so twisted in the sheets he's sure he's practically dragged the pillows into reach, his fingers are hidden in the fabric, the muscles in his neck stand out when a wave of heat rushes through him from toe to face (which is a fabulous shade of red that totally indicates he's as flustered as he is aroused) and he even makes a noise that sounds sort of like a strangled nngh when John's hot and hard against him for a beat. When John invites him to ask for what he wants. Fucking invites him to admit things to him, and all of Harry's words choke him.
He wants a lot of things. He doesn't know if he's able to say them all, because he's yet to untangle them - this one from that one and this one from them all. For a moment, he stills under John, looking up at him with some distant, thoughtful, obscure emotion on his face. Then he does the only thing he can do when he can't find the words - he starts making cultural references to get his point across. The only point he can make, and it sounds a lot like he's singsonging along to Cheap Trick: "I want you to want me--"
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Date: 2013-01-01 05:38 am (UTC)And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."