John rocks back on his heels. "I do not--" The idea is so ridiculous he can't even finish it. Pining. "You are the obviously bleeding heart romantic here, Dresden, not me."
All right, perhaps John has no name for the feeling in his chest when he looks at Dresden, but it's too... much to be pining. Pining brings to mind simpering over a fetching young man as one sits on a daybed with the embroidery. What John feels at the sight of the wizard-turned-knight is a howling, messy creature that, unlike most of the troublesome parts of his psyche, John cannot figure out how to kill.
He wants so much from Harry Dresden, everything from bed sheets to blood to handcuffs to quiet Sunday mornings. There is not enough time in a mortal lifetime to have it all.
But drinks and a fireplace, away from the cold of Winter.... it would tick a few things off the list.
John's hands catches Harry's, stilling them as he feels the heat creeping up his neck. The shudder that wracks his spine at the touch of Harry's mouth has nothing to do with the cold. His brain is short-circuiting, too much stimuli to sort through. Beltane wine and snow drift naps and cold damp clothes and stardust Chicago and now this revelation. He defaults to a language he usually leaves up to Dresden: "Mr. Dresden, you're trying to seduce me," he murmurs.
no subject
All right, perhaps John has no name for the feeling in his chest when he looks at Dresden, but it's too... much to be pining. Pining brings to mind simpering over a fetching young man as one sits on a daybed with the embroidery. What John feels at the sight of the wizard-turned-knight is a howling, messy creature that, unlike most of the troublesome parts of his psyche, John cannot figure out how to kill.
He wants so much from Harry Dresden, everything from bed sheets to blood to handcuffs to quiet Sunday mornings. There is not enough time in a mortal lifetime to have it all.
But drinks and a fireplace, away from the cold of Winter.... it would tick a few things off the list.
John's hands catches Harry's, stilling them as he feels the heat creeping up his neck. The shudder that wracks his spine at the touch of Harry's mouth has nothing to do with the cold. His brain is short-circuiting, too much stimuli to sort through. Beltane wine and snow drift naps and cold damp clothes and stardust Chicago and now this revelation. He defaults to a language he usually leaves up to Dresden: "Mr. Dresden, you're trying to seduce me," he murmurs.