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
no subject
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--"
no subject
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."