another POI snippet: Epistles to Revelation
Today's adventures in food included glorious raspberries from the AMNH greenmarket and milk chocolate gelato from the Gelotto pushcart in Washington Square Park which is exactly as amazing as it looks in that picture.
And here, I have finished tiny piece based on that awesome fanart by kimilog I linked yesterday:
Epistles to Revelation
The thought didn't cross Harold's mind until it did. John came looking for him around the corner of 227.5 - 228.3. Harold heard the footstep and turned. They were crowded together in the narrow aisle, John's body intruding into the careful gulf of personal space Harold preserved instinctively all the time, the mirror of the space he kept around all his identities. Neither of them moved back quickly enough, and after the last moment where some automatic retreat could have saved them, it became impossible for Harold to ignore that he didn't even feel the urge to move: John made welcome through all his barriers.
He could see John register his stillness, the utter lack of a flinch. John didn't say anything. His lips only parted a little, drawing in a breath.
Neither of them moved. Then Harold was abruptly pulling John's shirt loose from his trousers, unbuttoning him from the bottom up, hands shaking. John swayed a little under his hands and watched him work with heavy-lidded eyes, drawing deep breaths, almost post-coital before they'd even begun. He made a small noise, almost a grunt of pain, when Harold reached up impatiently to jerk his own tie open. John's hands came up to grip Harold's hips.
They still didn't speak, oddly furtive even in the privacy of their dark corner. For the moment, no one was watching, although this was hardly a development they could conceal from the Machine for long. Harold wondered hazily, in some less desperate corner of his mind, if there were an algorithm for this, somewhere deep in that endlessly complicated neural network; if perhaps the Machine could have told him this was coming, if he'd only thought to ask. John's fingers flexed and tensed against his skin rhythmically, a metronome ticking, while Harold wrenched open their clothing.
Harold brought them together in his hands. John was sweetly hard in his grip, hot and tender. "I'm not going to make it for long," John said. His voice sounded calm, commonplace, but his face was stricken, staring down at the slow dry slide of Harold's palm.
"I know," Harold said.
Afterwards they stood shakily together in the aisle, John's hands all but holding Harold up. Harold could hear John's breath already easing; his own was still coming in enormous gulps. He wiped a trembling hand on his pocket square and let it drop after a moment of instinctive looking for something to do with it. They were disheveled and still crammed in against the shelves. John's mouth was slack and drunkenly crooked, unbearably sweet to look on. Harold shut his eyes and reached up and lay his hand against John's cheek. John leaned into it and then turned his face to kiss Harold's palm.
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And here, I have finished tiny piece based on that awesome fanart by kimilog I linked yesterday:
Epistles to Revelation
The thought didn't cross Harold's mind until it did. John came looking for him around the corner of 227.5 - 228.3. Harold heard the footstep and turned. They were crowded together in the narrow aisle, John's body intruding into the careful gulf of personal space Harold preserved instinctively all the time, the mirror of the space he kept around all his identities. Neither of them moved back quickly enough, and after the last moment where some automatic retreat could have saved them, it became impossible for Harold to ignore that he didn't even feel the urge to move: John made welcome through all his barriers.
He could see John register his stillness, the utter lack of a flinch. John didn't say anything. His lips only parted a little, drawing in a breath.
Neither of them moved. Then Harold was abruptly pulling John's shirt loose from his trousers, unbuttoning him from the bottom up, hands shaking. John swayed a little under his hands and watched him work with heavy-lidded eyes, drawing deep breaths, almost post-coital before they'd even begun. He made a small noise, almost a grunt of pain, when Harold reached up impatiently to jerk his own tie open. John's hands came up to grip Harold's hips.
They still didn't speak, oddly furtive even in the privacy of their dark corner. For the moment, no one was watching, although this was hardly a development they could conceal from the Machine for long. Harold wondered hazily, in some less desperate corner of his mind, if there were an algorithm for this, somewhere deep in that endlessly complicated neural network; if perhaps the Machine could have told him this was coming, if he'd only thought to ask. John's fingers flexed and tensed against his skin rhythmically, a metronome ticking, while Harold wrenched open their clothing.
Harold brought them together in his hands. John was sweetly hard in his grip, hot and tender. "I'm not going to make it for long," John said. His voice sounded calm, commonplace, but his face was stricken, staring down at the slow dry slide of Harold's palm.
"I know," Harold said.
Afterwards they stood shakily together in the aisle, John's hands all but holding Harold up. Harold could hear John's breath already easing; his own was still coming in enormous gulps. He wiped a trembling hand on his pocket square and let it drop after a moment of instinctive looking for something to do with it. They were disheveled and still crammed in against the shelves. John's mouth was slack and drunkenly crooked, unbearably sweet to look on. Harold shut his eyes and reached up and lay his hand against John's cheek. John leaned into it and then turned his face to kiss Harold's palm.
You can also read this entry on Dreamwidth (
comments)