The landscape resolves itself for John a little there. It's hard for what he's being told to penetrate when Harry is doing that, but he finally begins to understand it. The Baron is a title that fits him well, always a part of him, never at odds. The mantle of the Knight, though, is more complicated. He wants to ask, if this is wholly Harry, or if it is Winter that leaves that icicle gleam in his eyes. It reminds him of sharp things, and a December midnight. The dangers of brushing your skin against frozen things and how they'll grasp you and keep you if you're warm enough for their liking.
He is very fortunate that Harry is not so cold. Clearly the Winter Knight alone would be, would shackle John with a freezing touch in the city of eternal ice. But Harry slides across him, too cold for a man, but still warm. His hands skim over John's skin, drawing in more heat. Shuddering, deeply affected, John twists his hands in the sheets to not move and let Harry touch as he likes. A release of control this deep, lasting this long, is difficult to say the least.
It gets easier, though. With each surrender and each concession, it's as simple as how he sinks further into the bedding, down, down, down...
For a moment, when the Knight speaks (and god, John can feel the presence of that power like a physical weight pushing on him like the blanket of snow he'd laid under before), the animal part of John's brain rears up, an instinctual response. He's been dragged into the Knight's den and it's playing cat and mouse with him, and he should fight it. Even if victory's not possible, the chase and the tooth-and-claw will be glorious.
Then John feels it pass as Harry retakes control of the mantle (did he lose it? did he loosen his grip to make a point? just to make a cold sweat pop up over John's temples?), and in turn John calms like a gun pointed at his head has been holstered. The adrenaline remains though, making his pulse fast under warming lips. And, oh, it's nice to hear that said like a precious secret against his scarred ear and his tender neck.
"You have me," he replies, hushed now. His hands settle at first on Harry's hips before skirting up, under the hem of his sweater. Still cool-skinned; John spreads his palms wide, trying to touch as much of Dresden as he can, kindling heat. From here, it's easy to murmur into Harry's own ear, "Whatever you'd like, it's yours." And while he's there, the hair behind that ear is soft and John nuzzles his nose against it, inhaling cold and smoke and ice, breath deep enough his whole body moves with it. "Lay me out or put me to work. Isn't that the point here? Being yours to command?" And never has the idea seemed so sweet.
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He is very fortunate that Harry is not so cold. Clearly the Winter Knight alone would be, would shackle John with a freezing touch in the city of eternal ice. But Harry slides across him, too cold for a man, but still warm. His hands skim over John's skin, drawing in more heat. Shuddering, deeply affected, John twists his hands in the sheets to not move and let Harry touch as he likes. A release of control this deep, lasting this long, is difficult to say the least.
It gets easier, though. With each surrender and each concession, it's as simple as how he sinks further into the bedding, down, down, down...
For a moment, when the Knight speaks (and god, John can feel the presence of that power like a physical weight pushing on him like the blanket of snow he'd laid under before), the animal part of John's brain rears up, an instinctual response. He's been dragged into the Knight's den and it's playing cat and mouse with him, and he should fight it. Even if victory's not possible, the chase and the tooth-and-claw will be glorious.
Then John feels it pass as Harry retakes control of the mantle (did he lose it? did he loosen his grip to make a point? just to make a cold sweat pop up over John's temples?), and in turn John calms like a gun pointed at his head has been holstered. The adrenaline remains though, making his pulse fast under warming lips. And, oh, it's nice to hear that said like a precious secret against his scarred ear and his tender neck.
"You have me," he replies, hushed now. His hands settle at first on Harry's hips before skirting up, under the hem of his sweater. Still cool-skinned; John spreads his palms wide, trying to touch as much of Dresden as he can, kindling heat. From here, it's easy to murmur into Harry's own ear, "Whatever you'd like, it's yours." And while he's there, the hair behind that ear is soft and John nuzzles his nose against it, inhaling cold and smoke and ice, breath deep enough his whole body moves with it. "Lay me out or put me to work. Isn't that the point here? Being yours to command?" And never has the idea seemed so sweet.