The Knight offers no apology for the chill that has settled across his own skin. The mantle ties him to Winter, and with it comes a plethora of blessings and boons. The fey light in his eye is both, as is the pervasive cold that settles upon him from top to toe. Though he has begun to thaw, it is a slow and laborious process that leaves Harry itching to climb under John's skin - because he's warm, because he's a self-made man and he's mortal. Harry isn't personally immortal, just long-lived, but his Queen is as much a part of him as is Chicago.
John makes him an offer, and this time, Harry doesn't seem likely to refuse.
"You ask too many questions, John." A reminder that while he has been answering freely, the Baron shouldn't get too cozy with his investigation. It isn't a warning, because Harry still isn't driven by malice, or intent to harm, break or bind. "You're also talking too much," and then Harry leans down and boldly makes a play, a hand tracing the crisp path of John's spine while his mouth presses, firm and pointed, to the other man's.
The hand that follows John's spine twists, a thumb tucking into the waistband of his pants, following the line of it slowly. His mouth might be busy, but Harry remains able to hum a few bars from All I Want for Christmas is You against the other man's lips as he gracefully and shamelessly gets John's pants open. It's about then that a few things happen: Harry's mouth breaks contact, Harry's hands grasp John's hips, and Harry himself crowds into John's space with every available inch of his own body - promptly backing him into that depths of the pit he calls his bed.
/SNEAKS THIS TAG IN I COULDN'T NOT
John makes him an offer, and this time, Harry doesn't seem likely to refuse.
"You ask too many questions, John." A reminder that while he has been answering freely, the Baron shouldn't get too cozy with his investigation. It isn't a warning, because Harry still isn't driven by malice, or intent to harm, break or bind. "You're also talking too much," and then Harry leans down and boldly makes a play, a hand tracing the crisp path of John's spine while his mouth presses, firm and pointed, to the other man's.
The hand that follows John's spine twists, a thumb tucking into the waistband of his pants, following the line of it slowly. His mouth might be busy, but Harry remains able to hum a few bars from All I Want for Christmas is You against the other man's lips as he gracefully and shamelessly gets John's pants open. It's about then that a few things happen: Harry's mouth breaks contact, Harry's hands grasp John's hips, and Harry himself crowds into John's space with every available inch of his own body - promptly backing him into that depths of the pit he calls his bed.