There is the whisper of a feeling, that John has overstepped his bounds. It's not surprising-- even having Harry Dresden on cordial terms is a new experience, let alone with the man's eyes bright with keenness and his hands divesting John of his clothes with a sharp skin hunger. There's uncharted territory, then there is this. Fitting, given he is standing in the Nevernever, where the only good map is the one you burn and leave behind.
Before he can feel apologetic or jump to his own defense, he's silenced by a kiss he didn't see coming. Harry's been playing coy, and John has been resolutely not making any moves, too fascinated with this lovely new impish predator in the shape of a familiar wizard. The suddenness of the kiss has John startled, and if anything that pulls him under the spell of it even quicker.
It's just a press of mouths, but it carries such threat and promise to it, feeling as binding as any deal with the Court would be. John hums back, less musically, but appreciative. He's found what the Winter Knight feels like (as human as anything, with a cooler touch) and he's close enough to smell him (the same woodsmoke and ozone as ever, but with a crispness that stings the nose, like a deep inhale of January night air). He wants to push up on his toes, wind his fingers into this insolent, remarkable man's hair and push his lips apart to find out what the taste of Winter is in Harry's mouth.
He doesn't get to do any of that, which is good, because somehow it'd be cheating, or at least breaking the rules of this night they're sharing. While he's focused on warming Dresden's lips, the solid floor goes out from under John's feet, and his arms go back instantly to catch his weight. When he does, it's an impact against the softness of the pillows and blankets and knitting and cushions in the pit. John's weight lands at an angle, and he slides down helplessly, deeper into the bowl until he's against the firmer cushions along the bottom. Christ, the amount of linens in the pit is ludicrous. You could swim through them.
John looks up-- or down, really, staring along the length of his body, settled oddly with his shoulders lower than his hips, legs almost out of the pit.
He shoots Dresden a mildly annoyed look. "A warning would've been nice," he chides. He refuses to be bashful about his new nakedness, so elects to finish the job, toeing off his socks and shoes before settling in. Wet shoes in the bed would be uncouth.
I ADORE YOU AND ALL YOU CHOOSE TO BE
Before he can feel apologetic or jump to his own defense, he's silenced by a kiss he didn't see coming. Harry's been playing coy, and John has been resolutely not making any moves, too fascinated with this lovely new impish predator in the shape of a familiar wizard. The suddenness of the kiss has John startled, and if anything that pulls him under the spell of it even quicker.
It's just a press of mouths, but it carries such threat and promise to it, feeling as binding as any deal with the Court would be. John hums back, less musically, but appreciative. He's found what the Winter Knight feels like (as human as anything, with a cooler touch) and he's close enough to smell him (the same woodsmoke and ozone as ever, but with a crispness that stings the nose, like a deep inhale of January night air). He wants to push up on his toes, wind his fingers into this insolent, remarkable man's hair and push his lips apart to find out what the taste of Winter is in Harry's mouth.
He doesn't get to do any of that, which is good, because somehow it'd be cheating, or at least breaking the rules of this night they're sharing. While he's focused on warming Dresden's lips, the solid floor goes out from under John's feet, and his arms go back instantly to catch his weight. When he does, it's an impact against the softness of the pillows and blankets and knitting and cushions in the pit. John's weight lands at an angle, and he slides down helplessly, deeper into the bowl until he's against the firmer cushions along the bottom. Christ, the amount of linens in the pit is ludicrous. You could swim through them.
John looks up-- or down, really, staring along the length of his body, settled oddly with his shoulders lower than his hips, legs almost out of the pit.
He shoots Dresden a mildly annoyed look. "A warning would've been nice," he chides. He refuses to be bashful about his new nakedness, so elects to finish the job, toeing off his socks and shoes before settling in. Wet shoes in the bed would be uncouth.