It's almost a relief when Harry's mouth comes off John's cock, because the evening was going to be over disappointingly soon at that rate. Harry's silent request (or is it permission) for rougher treatment makes it all the more difficult to not grab the insolent man by the ears and just shove deep in his throat... but John was called Gentleman far longer than he's been called Baron, even a robber baron.
He's still close enough to curl his hand around Harry's face. He's warmer now, almost in an uncanny valley of body heat-- just barely not right. John can't resist running his fingers over the contours of his face, sharper than before his death and resurrection. Like this, Harry Dresden should seem hardened and battle-worn, but when John touches the apple of his cheeks and the space where crows feet will someday settle in... God, the affection he has for this firebrand-turned-ice courtier is faintly embarrassing when he lets himself think about it.
Silencing that sentimental side of himself, John indulges Harry a little, taking his chin harshly and tracing his red mouth with a thumb. He's not gentle, pushing against the scar, then back to run the fleshy pad against the teeth, careful like the Knight's bite might be sharp as the sidhe's.
"Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Dresden?" John says, the familiar name rolling off the tongue with the practice of years behind it. Years ago, five now? Five years past, he purred like this down a phone line, the night before he was made a Lord. How he dreams about having seen Harry's face that day, desperate to know if he was unaffected or if his eyes darkened with passionate fury.
John takes a steadying breath, his throat clicking as he notices that he can feel Harry's callouses as he jerks John's cock. "What would you like to hear? That you're the prettiest girl at the ball in your finery and frost?" God, that feels good, and John tries not to let the effects show, his hand in the twisted duvet clenching. "Maybe a few years ago, you would. Now, you've adequately shown you're beyond that now." His thumb presses just slightly more, emphasizing. "Do you want to hear that I am desperate to know who taught your mouth to do that? Because I'm fairly sure that isn't a perk of your title. I'd love a list of names, all the people who got to you first, who got to see you on your knees-- or was it sweeter than that? A revelry that ended with a kindly sidhe lord pressing you into the snow?" John's eyes gleam, imagining it. Hell if it's not what he'd do if he had a court. "Maybe a furtive lesson away from the Queen's eyes. Or maybe she watched and told you exactly how to put your mouth to use. Her Majesty always seemed hands-on.
"Did you enjoy it like that? Or is this," John nods down at himself, at the unwavering assertiveness Harry's shown, "more your speed?"
no subject
He's still close enough to curl his hand around Harry's face. He's warmer now, almost in an uncanny valley of body heat-- just barely not right. John can't resist running his fingers over the contours of his face, sharper than before his death and resurrection. Like this, Harry Dresden should seem hardened and battle-worn, but when John touches the apple of his cheeks and the space where crows feet will someday settle in... God, the affection he has for this firebrand-turned-ice courtier is faintly embarrassing when he lets himself think about it.
Silencing that sentimental side of himself, John indulges Harry a little, taking his chin harshly and tracing his red mouth with a thumb. He's not gentle, pushing against the scar, then back to run the fleshy pad against the teeth, careful like the Knight's bite might be sharp as the sidhe's.
"Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Dresden?" John says, the familiar name rolling off the tongue with the practice of years behind it. Years ago, five now? Five years past, he purred like this down a phone line, the night before he was made a Lord. How he dreams about having seen Harry's face that day, desperate to know if he was unaffected or if his eyes darkened with passionate fury.
John takes a steadying breath, his throat clicking as he notices that he can feel Harry's callouses as he jerks John's cock. "What would you like to hear? That you're the prettiest girl at the ball in your finery and frost?" God, that feels good, and John tries not to let the effects show, his hand in the twisted duvet clenching. "Maybe a few years ago, you would. Now, you've adequately shown you're beyond that now." His thumb presses just slightly more, emphasizing. "Do you want to hear that I am desperate to know who taught your mouth to do that? Because I'm fairly sure that isn't a perk of your title. I'd love a list of names, all the people who got to you first, who got to see you on your knees-- or was it sweeter than that? A revelry that ended with a kindly sidhe lord pressing you into the snow?" John's eyes gleam, imagining it. Hell if it's not what he'd do if he had a court. "Maybe a furtive lesson away from the Queen's eyes. Or maybe she watched and told you exactly how to put your mouth to use. Her Majesty always seemed hands-on.
"Did you enjoy it like that? Or is this," John nods down at himself, at the unwavering assertiveness Harry's shown, "more your speed?"