( hitch your wagon to a star )

[bottecellie]

the stargazing meme

oo1. comment with your characters
make sure to put names, series, & preferences somewhere!
you can use < ! > sans the spaces to make the comment "blank"
oo2. reply to others in character
oo3. use the rng and enter 1-10
oo4. play out what happens -- anything goes!
oo5. profit? oh yeah!

prompts

one → meteor shower you just saw a falling star! and another! make a wish!
two → aliens what was that? was that really? omg no way a ufo!
three → lunar eclipse you've been sitting out for hours, waiting for this. it's so cool!
four → comet does it move fast or slow? either way, it's amazing.
five → full moon the moon is so huge! just don't look too long, it's really bright too.
six → star dust anything can happen in space. make up your own plot!
seven → solar eclipse this might be happening in the middle of the day!
eight → planet sighting is that a new star? nope, just a neighbor in the solar system!
nine → constellations do you know the stories behind these odd patterns?
ten → deep space normal stargazing isn't that much fun. you got a telescope!

taken from here.

Comments

[forzare]

It proves hard for Harry to take his damn hands away. When he does, his boon (or what-the-hell-ever John wants to call it) is revoked. At least he's polite enough to wait for the man to be standing on his own two feet. relinquishing his hold allows him to amble across the clearing, back and forth along the general path of city streets, stretching a hand up to the starry mobile like a child playing with the glow-in-the-dark stickers on a ceiling. He stirs a hand through where Wrigley Field would be - scattering the stars and winding them into a maelstrom about his wrist, his bright eyes wistful.

It's an eerie thing, attributing a windstorm to the diorama of Chicago.

For a bit, he ignores John - lets him have his own moment in as much privacy as can be given. They both love Chicago, maybe to different degrees, but the city is etched into the marrow of their bones by one force or another. He comes down from his toes, and turns back towards the Baron. "Are you?" He counters smoothly, and slouches closer. "No, I just wanted to share. It's pretty. I came here to remember." The information is offered like a tribute: all vulnerable and personal and gentle-toned.

When it comes Harry's turn to assess John, he takes it in stride. Even with the coat and scarf, the man spent some time in a snowbank. His clothes would be damp enough for a chill to rapidly set in. While the brief thought of treating Marcone with his newly-minted bedside manner was alluring, the still-human bits were quick to protest. Spending more time in the company of a mortal (who smelled good and looked really REAL and probably tasted delicious surely he wouldn't protest if harry gave the curve of his ear a teeny tiny nibble--) was bringing him down from the manic, playful high.

Just enough to manage.

Harry returns to John's side, and once more links their arms. He doesn't need to, but he likes to. "Anyways. Winter knows better than to send me after you," he states, firm and unyielding. Hell, Winter knows better than to send Harry after his friends, let alone John. "It's not that sort of cold that lives here. Speaking of cold, you look it. Let's get you back to the keep already."

[freeholding]

Seeing Dresden play with the stardust painting makes something clench in John's chest. Magic will never be commonplace for him, no matter how much of it he sees. There is something awesome in the classical sense about seeing Dresden fling fire and walls of invisible force. But something as benevolent and curious as this sort of magic, it brings out a wonder in John that is very hard to stamp back down.

Especially when he reaches up and catches the sparks that make up the South Side neighborhood where he and his friends used to climb on top of the water towers with bottles of crap beer stolen or bought with fake IDs. The light feels hot at first, but it's the burn of frost, not flame, and John lets it go, watching it drift back into place.

Christ.

The nakedness in Harry's words is strange, skittering over John's skin. By now, the effects of the wine are fading, the cold of Winter is settling on him, and that tone of voice-- they all work together to make John shiver again. Winter lives up to its name, of course. John wraps his arms around himself but continues to stand there, looking up at his city, the place he is entreated to protect and keep. "Perhaps this is a tactical map," John suggests. "Perhaps you and your rulers stand out here and plan the fall of my borders so you can swoop in to seize it." He exhales slowly, breath rising in a wide plume from his mouth. "Tell me she isn't worth the effort," he whispers in quiet reverence.

John blinks out of his reverie when Dresden takes his arm again. When he mentions it, the effects of the cold start to bother John. Even his lips are chapped, his ears (well, ear-and-a-half) are stinging. It doesn't take much coaxing to get him moving. "And what sort of cold is it, Sir Knight?"

[forzare]

John has to touch, and Harry could put up a good argument about having planned for that reaction all along. That he knows John Marcone well enough, that his eyes have been opened wide enough to recognize what he would not when he was just mortal. Not that he isn't now - there's just a little something else in there, mixed up. Harry is not at peace, but he's clearly peaceful. Knighthood hasn't been that bad, to be honest. It's been hard, and it's why he looks thin, tired, in need of a nice vacation where he can stretch out in the sun and defrost. To remember mortality and reality.

That's not tonight, however.

"Yes, a tactical map is going to be right out in the open where anyone can mess around with it," Harry rolls his eyes, clearly nonplussed by John's rapid defense of his city. Their city, maybe more John's than his, but theirs as citizens and residents (even if Harry's permanent address no longer existed) and people who walked the streets, took the cabs, paid their taxes. "No, John, all those maps are in the war room." Sarcastically, he turns a Look on the Baron - one that barely softens when it takes in the way he looks upon the stardust and faint glamour that is the map.

It's why he plants his presence, physical and insistent, right up against John. Snap out of it, you've got something real to return to, not just a dream to visit when you're cooped up. "Of course she is," Harry agrees, low and private. "Now start walking, stop gawking." And he proceeds to march John from the clearing, back through the thicket and out onto the paths he knows so well by now. He spends his free time walking, running, exploring. The seen and unseen routes in Winter, the Ways with his mother's voice in his ears - and her title looming in the far distance.

Harry continues to usher John along, back to the walls of Arctis Tor, back through the doors and into the halls, "The sort of cold that makes a hot cup of cocoa, a book and a fireplace the best afternoon wasted in my entire life." He stops there, once they've reached their destination, but doesn't let go of the Baron just yet, holding onto his wrist now, grip firm but easily broken should John wish.

[freeholding]

"You brought me out there to gawk," John chides Dresden lightly. "With the express purpose to gawk, unless this is a ploy to drop my guard as I feared?" He meets the sarcastic look with his own sardonic one, making eye contract like he's making a point. John is fine to accept that this isn't the Knight's incredibly round-about way of assassinating him; this is not Harry Dresden's style, and John has looked into his eyes without another soulgaze, so the man must be at the core still himself.

By the time they make it to Winter's capital city, John is grateful for the cover it offers. The walls of stone and ice are still cold, but they are a solid cold, not the biting chill of outside. There are times, in summer, when John can stand outside in a full suit and not break a sweat. The heat surrounds but does not permeate. The air in the city is the icy twin to that. It's not exactly pleasant, as John's feet are still damp and going numb slowly, but it's bare-able.

What he would like is some non-glamoured alcohol, a hot shower, and dry clothes. It is a shame that hospitality laws do not extend so far to ensure the guest is waited on in that way, because John wants it bad enough he can taste the memory of the scotch in his office back home.

Dresden, of course, is a hot chocolate man. Some things do not change. "Yes, I am sure that is how you've been spending your time here," John murmurs, private and solicitous. "Have you seen sunlight anytime recently?" He almost says, Chicago has not see you, because John would be alert of Winter's emissary in his city. It's been a long time since such a report has reached him, and that's on the mortal side of the world. Who knows how long Mab has kept her Knight from his homeland.

When he's drawn to a stop, John looks around, hoping to recognize anything. But it's not the banquet room the Signatories loitered in before the meeting, nor the area where the Accords met. The ice is even a different color. "Guest quarters? Am I being put up for the night, or what passes for such in Faerie?" Throw me a bone, Harry.

[forzare]

With a hint of fire, Harry retorts: "Well, now I'd like you to quit gawking because I said so. What a shame it'd be if you caught pneumonia. Poor Baron, I'd feel so bad." What's frightful is the way Harry's mind visibly steps back (he's still got a shit poker face), contemplating several things in a matter of moments. Something that wasn't on a spectrum of black and white, not even grey. Something on the highly contrasting scale of blue and orange. It's almost unnerving, the flash of something bright and Sidhe-like in his eyes before he settles on discarding it. but he doesn't apologize, after all, that is a part of him now.

The least he can say is that it is not malicious. Because it is not malice that brought John back to the relative security of the keep, out of the cold and away from the Sidhe who may have occupied the place, and may have wanted to niggle at the adorably mortal Baron who'd gotten himself drunk and meandered away. Harry, at least, does not draw attention to his defense of John's already bruised pride.

Sunlight? Harry chances an indirect answer, glancing down at his pale skin with a wry twist to his lips. As if. Winter had sunny days as it had dark ones, but they simply weren't the sort you went sunbathing in. "It's been a while," he finally adds, quietly. And lonely. It's not that he isn't without company. It's the unfamiliarity of the company, their obvious semblence inhumanity that he's assimilated in spirit but not in letter.

"I found you," he finally brings himself to purr, and gestures to the hall they stand in. It's obviously his. The hallway that leads to his home-away-from home, because the lights are turned down low, the ice is darker and resembles stone, rather than frosted glass. "That means if you'll have my company - I get to keep you for the night."

[freeholding]

Of course it has been a while. That is what worries John. That, along with the light in Dresden's eyes. It's bright and hard to look away from, like when a sunspot flickers over your vision and you just have to find the reflective source. Looking at Dresden is like that now, the way he catches John's attention and holds it. It makes John want to take Harry back to Chicago, if only for a little while. Summer is coming, and the oppressive heat of the city could at least begin to melt the frost that has overtaken him.

John is about to extend that invitation with all the pomp and circumstance that such a thing demands, when Dresden plays his card.

It's partly the way it's said, with a low, curling rumble that makes John's adrenaline spike hard enough that he can feel the rush of blood. It's catlike, sidhe-like, mixed with the sort of casual aggression that the wizard always had. John steps away immediately, feeling like someone who just discovered the ground he walked on was not solid street, but treacherous black ice. His hand settles on the tile in his pocket, warm against his fingers and comforting.

Before he snaps it, he manages to still, calm himself. Rewind and replay what was said. "If I will have your company?" He slides a half step closer, at once careful of proximity but also tempted by this stupid dangerous thing laid out for him. "You make it seem like you've made claim, like the rules of the Hunt... Do I have choice here?"

He hates to admit weakness, especially with the Winter Knight looking at him with that strange hunger in his eyes, but he is in the tall grass here. "Who told you? About... this?" My fascination with you, with your eyes, your hands, and the power behind them. Could Mab have discovered?

[forzare]

There's a hairline fracture in John Marcone's composure. He's been caught off-balance, a difficult and rare moment that Harry covets as much as John might covet the moments where Harry is - well, anything but at his throat in seething hatred. It takes a lot of willpower not to take a step towards him, when he steps back. There is, after all, an invisible thread that links them, and every step may as well be an entire dance. Harry always has room on his dance card, right at the bottom, for John. No, he holds himself together well, remaining stationary, though he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and runs the toe of his shoe up his calf, scratching some imaginary itch.

"Finder's keepers," he quips, not as delightfully, but just as brightly. "Though you always have a choice. I'm not Sidhe, just part of their system. If you'll have my company, you're welcome to stay in my quarters. I'll take good care of you. If you would like to decline, you'll be granted guest quarters and no political offense will be taken. Maybe just my pride will suffer." Harry pantomimes a pain in his stomach, but it's all farce and play.

When he straightens, it's to cant his head to one side. It makes him look like a goddamn bird. "I wasn't told anything." No, there were no words given to him that made him turn his head and look twice. Harry ducks his head, and comes up with a smile like a shark that wants to make friends, voice dry: "Knighthood has been a rather eye-opening experience."

Harry takes his hands from his pockets and gestures openly, peaceably. "Yay or nay is up to you. I'd appreciate the company, as it's been a while, but you're not actually under obligation to repay me. I told you that when I got you out of the snowbank, and it still holds. You were handled by me, I just -." And he actually has the audacity to turn red, now of all times, as he mutters something under his breath.

[freeholding]

What Dresden looks like is a pale flamingo, his long legs shifted with easy grace (impressive, as John finds every surface of Arctis Tor slightly slippery), his head animated and birdlike with that discerning animal darkness to his wide pupils, surrounded by that thin ring of amber.

It makes John breathe out through his nose slowly, keeping a stranglehold on the parts of him that want to snap that tile and hide. In the past, when John challenged Dresden in words or action, Dresden fought, but almost refused to truly engage It was always "scumbag" this and "lesser evil" that. Never something head-on, not outside of combat where they rose to each other and worked together like a machine.

This must've been what Dresden felt like. John is almost sympathetic.

"Good care," John echoes quietly. If his skin flushes at the thought of what good care entails, he hopes it's blamed on the chill in the air. The last person John was with intimately wanted to murder him and almost succeeded. When he recalls that... Nothing Dresden can throw at him could be worse. And to be in someone's care for a night, after years without a night of absolute peace... Just the idea of that release of burden is as seductive as anything else.

He takes his hand out of his pocket, leaves the tile there. "If no one has told, then I have certainly taken a misstep. Perhaps my own pride could use some mending." And here John drags his eyes from Dresden's face and sweeps them quick but calculative over the Knight's form.

John steps forward sharply, stopping with his toes very precisely touching against Dresden's. "Go on. Be frank with me or I'll be on my way out." And John never dreamed that the bait he would use on this man would be himself. That... was unfathomable even an hour ago.

[forzare]

They really are mirrors. Moments after John's hand withdraws from his pocket, one of Harry's is pulled from his own. He'd planned to crook a finger at the Baron, to encourage him just a little closer - but John defies expectations, and stands so close that Harry has to look down at him. They'll collide one way or another: through brief touches or eye contact. "Maeve says you pine," the amusement in his voice is clear, though Harry continues on pointedly: "She says the same about me, though."

When he'd opened his eyes to the Winter Court, he'd found out that being the Knight was a lot like being in another foster home. As he learned his ropes, he was better able to accord himself among his new "siblings" - particularly the Winter Lady, who had become as much an elder-younger sister as she had a gal pal. Maeve had been less subtle about the way Harry pined after the Baron, especially after the brief glimpse he'd caught before being assigned to those "roses".

The hand he'd yanked from his pocket brushes against the front of the peacoat Harry had bundled John into, palm smoothing across the tailored waist, thumb flicking a button open boldly. "If you'll have me," he reminds John, dedicated and infatuated with threes until the last, "I'd like to invite you to my quarters. Drinks. Dry clothes. A fireplace to languish before." Harry's hand wraps around the scarf, tugging it far enough from John's neck so that he can lean in (every inch of him is tense because he just wants a nibble--) and take a chance, by kissing the man's jaw. "And me, of course."

[freeholding]

John rocks back on his heels. "I do not--" The idea is so ridiculous he can't even finish it. Pining. "You are the obviously bleeding heart romantic here, Dresden, not me."

All right, perhaps John has no name for the feeling in his chest when he looks at Dresden, but it's too... much to be pining. Pining brings to mind simpering over a fetching young man as one sits on a daybed with the embroidery. What John feels at the sight of the wizard-turned-knight is a howling, messy creature that, unlike most of the troublesome parts of his psyche, John cannot figure out how to kill.

He wants so much from Harry Dresden, everything from bed sheets to blood to handcuffs to quiet Sunday mornings. There is not enough time in a mortal lifetime to have it all.

But drinks and a fireplace, away from the cold of Winter.... it would tick a few things off the list.

John's hands catches Harry's, stilling them as he feels the heat creeping up his neck. The shudder that wracks his spine at the touch of Harry's mouth has nothing to do with the cold. His brain is short-circuiting, too much stimuli to sort through. Beltane wine and snow drift naps and cold damp clothes and stardust Chicago and now this revelation. He defaults to a language he usually leaves up to Dresden: "Mr. Dresden, you're trying to seduce me," he murmurs.

[forzare]

Harry stills when his hand is caught, hovering where he is without any intention of backing up unless John were to press him to. His teeth might be itching, but his self-control is anything but brittle - he holds out, and leans back a little, so that he can see the profile of John's face out of the corner of his eye. Just enough to put a hair's breadth between them, but close enough to still feel the inherent warmth of another's body. He huffs. It's not mean-spirited. "It took you that long to figure it out?"

Of course he is. Harry doesn't claim to be a smooth operator - no matter how much time he's spent among Winter, his fingers still tremble when he softly tucks his hand into John's, his teeth still bite his lip and his eyes still widen as though disoriented by his own brass. He fucking shakes in place, as much from excitement as from nerves. "Though it wasn't much of a proper date. I suppose that leaves me an excuse to make it up to you."

Harry finally steps back, though his hand has once more refused to relinquish its hold on the Baron. "Is it really working?" By that, he means his attempts to entice the other. "Because if it is, I'd suggest a more private location-" To which he jabs a thumb towards his door, and takes another step back, stretching their arms out between them. "-where I'd let you call me Harry, and do better than I could in the hallway." Slowly, he lets go of John's hand, and turns away, taking pointed steps towards the doors that lead to his quarters.

[freeholding]

"It was more of a date than I've had in a long time," John says, oddly drawn to reassuring the man. The gift of seeing Chicago like that is one he will carry with him a long time.

John almost catches Harry's fingers as he lets John go. The break in contact is unwelcome. He can still feel the impervious, cool feeling the Knight carries with him. It makes John want to hold onto him. If he cannot take Harry back to Chicago and treat him to real sunlight, he'd have the next thing-- press his skin to Harry's until heat is rekindled. The man shakes, and it's unlikely due to the cold, given his affiliation, but the image still affects John and makes him want all that much more to warm him.

At the separation, his hand remains out for a second, hoping for the contact to return. The ache he feels is sudden and overwhelming. Since he woke up cold and alone, Harry's hands have been touching him like he can't figure out how to stop, and now John feels that himself. He's following before making the conscious decision, feet crossing the distance before Harry reaches the door.

"But if you feel obligated, I am..." John smiles faintly. "Willing to see what you have to offer, Harry."

[forzare]

The life of Signatory and self-styled prince must keep him awfully busy, if this slipshod tour of a precious few of Winter's wonders is satisfactory. Harry takes heart in it regardless, encouraged by the reassuring words. Surely, that means he had not failed to entice John closer, and that he might have another opportunity. The mere idea that Harry had hopes for further meetings was a testament of what had actually changed when he took up the mantle.

There was next to no hesitance when it came to drawing close to John, or to quirking a metaphorical finger in his direction, asking him to come along. He stops asking at that point, because the rest is laid at John's feet. His decision. Harry busy himself with the lock on the double doors leading to his quarters, pushing one of the doors open once it's unlocked. The soft footfalls behind him tell him that the Baron has come to a decision - and privately, the Knight smiles to himself.

"I don't feel obligated, John. That's the beauty of it." I wanted to, his tone implies. Though with a shake of his head, he beckons to the softly-lit interior, inviting the Baron in. The candles are all out, but the fireplace casts dim flickers against the walls. An implicit need to make his assigned space his had driven him to redecorate. A muted incantation sets the candles alight, and immediately brightens the interior of his lair to a level where they can at least see where they're walking.

[freeholding]

John catches the implication in Harry's voice and that alone warms him. When he heard of the man's deal with Mab, John did see it as a death sentence for Dresden as John knew him. Being bound would destroy him, he thought. But here on the threshold of the Winter Knight's quarters, he doesn't think Harry is broken or tied to Mab's pinky. It reminds him of Gard, when he sees her in Mr. Vadderung's presence. There is a support behind her, and unshakeable power added to her own. He imagines it's hard to feel alone with such company backing you.

Gard has the All-Father. Harry has the Winter Court. There may be a freedom in that.

At the beckon, John steels himself and slides past Dresden, into the room, aware that he's just put himself even further into the Knight's mercy. A potential rival taken into the private quarters of one of the highest members of the Court. Even the tile might not save John now.

That is hard to focus on. John is too busy looking around the new surroundings. Much of the same at first-- stone and ice. But there are rugs scattered across the floors, and fireplace set into ice, and there's a large four poster bed. The last of which doesn't look amenable to sleep; there's dirty clothes slung over the posts and what looks like wizardly accouterments (ie symbolic junk) scattered over the sheets.

John looks up and sees a chandelier of ice set with candles. One candle is covered in a sock.

He turns back to the door to give Harry a silent, bemused look.

[forzare]

Harry meets the look he's given with a crooked, boyish smile. He's so proud of the mess he's made of his room, an explosion of personality and power that he's draped over every surface. In the wake of his previous apartment having burnt to the foundations and been built over (it still stings a little, sue him), he gradually built the new rooms into something he could take refuge in. He might not claim his new abode as a sanctuary, he'd undoubtedly taken steps to make something of it.

He repossessed the rooms with candles, with shelves full of books and knicknacks - the majority of which had suddenly appeared the evening he'd come back from birthday festivities, courtesy the Winter Queen and her daughter. One night spent in the bed had convinced him that he absolutely hated how lonely it felt, and he'd abandoned it for the semi-circle pit by the fireplace, piling pillows and blankets and throws into it with greed rivaling any dragon.

"She told me to make myself at home," he replies, speaking of no other 'She' than Mab herself.

Harry shuts the door quietly, toeing his shoes off so that his steps are silent as he slips up behind John. His arms settle around the man's waist, fingers absurdly graceful as he steadily unbuttons the coat he'd lent him. "First thing's first," he explains, having bent down just enough to press his mouth along the curve of John's ear, "let's get you out of those damp clothes and warm you up."

[freeholding]

John feels very much like a mouse for the first time ever. Something small, out of its depth, and being stalked. That is a new feeling. For all that it sends heat up his spine, he just catches Harry's wrists. Doesn't stop him, no, just... Holds on, like he needs to steady himself.

As the coat comes loose, John winds tighter and leans back against Harry, that solid presence. "Do you expect that sort of line to work on me?" John asks, soft, barely more than an exhale. It is, of course, working. It's working very well, actually. Promises of drinks and heat and a dark-eyed companion echo in his mind.

At his own volition, he reaches up and starts to unwind the scarf from around his neck. Being opened up as he is, cool air steals in and makes him shiver again. "You mentioned drinks," he says, trying to sound calm about the whole thing even as excitement and a giddy cousin to fear skitters through him. "If it's more Beltane treats, I'll have to decline."

[forzare]

To allow the Baron to play mental catch-up would defeat the purpose of keeping his head spinning and pulse fluttering. Harry does not possess the glamour of the Sidhe, there are no eddies of illusion and light, just his own skill at keeping people on their toes. In this instance, the turn of phrase is literal, because he is practically able to rest his chin atop John's head. Not that he does, because he'd much rather have his face tucked back against the angle of his jaw, the corner of his mouth pressed soft to it.

"I've got more than tha~at," he singsongs, hands tugging the coat up and over John's shoulders. He hangs it up, along the the scarf. "I don't think having more alcohol is the way to do it. Tea, coffee or hot chocolate?"

Even as he speaks, Harry winds around John, so that they are once more facing each other. His eyes are on fixed on the Baron, as Harry hums under his breath and runs his fingertips down the front of the damp dress jacket, taking buttons apart without hesitation until he can press his hands across John's ribs, parting the lapels so that he can slide the jacket free, down both arms and off. He folds the jacket over one arm, and delicately takes up the tie into his fist.

Harry steps back, taking it slow as he picks up the slack in the tie and coaxes John to follow his lead - it's only a few feet, towards the fireplace. And just by the fireplace is that pit of bedding that is less a bed and more a hoarde. Once there, well - he can work on the rest of John's clothes.

[freeholding]

If the Knight's plan is to keep John off his game, he's been succeeding for some time now. Harry makes no noise as he circles John, and keeping track of him requires John to actually move and follow him with his eyes. All the carefully cultivated illusion of omniscience that John's always abused is gone. He should be more upset about that and about this man in particular seeing him in such a state, but his heart is racing in a way that's really quite exhilarating. He really just wants to see what Harry does next.

"Chocolate," John says, because Harry's light, mischievous mood is infectious, and the alternatives are too serious to be considered. He's in a room of stone and ice in a city of ice; there is no better time for hot chocolate.

Gooseflesh pops up over his arms when the jacket is lost. It was wet, but heavy and at least lukewarm. Without it, the cold is finally starting to become a distraction. John makes a move to cross his arms for warmth, but aborts it halfway, which might look more silly. "Not to seem ungrateful, but you're the only one in the room impervious to cold. Do you have a robe or something?"

John's first step is a surprised stumble, and when Dresden keeps leading him, the momentum carries him along before he can protest. He wonders if he's meant to warm by the fire when he sees the pile of linens and pillows and miscellanea in the hollow a few feet away from the softly popping flames. Ah. That explains the bed-turned-storage space. John swallows, feeling it bob against the leash of his tie, pondering the pit of bedding and how easy it'd be to fall in. And, of course, how difficult it'd be to climb out again after.

[forzare]

As a big-picture sort of man, Harry's best laid plans often go awry due to small weaknesses. In this regard, he's been keeping up well with luring John further and further into his web. The enjoyment Harry feels towards the art of keeping someone as attentive and intelligent as him in a whirl is plastered all over his face - in the quirk at the corner of his scarred lips, in the feverish light in his eyes.

"I'll get on it," Harry murmurs, but doesn't leave John's side just yet. Step by step, he'll make his way through the evening with the Baron.

The fireplace is the centerpiece of the room (the room of dark stone and fire-warmed marble), and that's where Harry settles in to divest John of the rest of his clothes. He's meticulous, but makes a mess of things anyways. The tie he leaves alone for the moment, unbuttoning the Baron's shirt instead, fingers tickling over bare skin as he unwraps the man. He doesn't waste much time either, if only because the clothes are cold - and he's not going to leave John in them to shiver.

He folds John's collar up andd works the tie off, slips his hands under the man's shirt without so much as flinching and wraps his fingers around John's bare waist, tugging him closer for just a moment - just long enough to press his face into the crook of his neck and breathe - and then Harry parts from the Baron with jacket, tie and shirt in hand, draping them before the fireplace. "I said you'd have dry clothes," he laughs, a low sound in his chest, "but, they do have to dry first. I'm a wizard, not a laundromat."

[freeholding]

It is the variance between them, and how they compliment each other. John is fine in a fight, but his strength is handling people. Getting them to follow his lead with either honey or a gun to the head. It's an artform, carefully learned and honed, and not one John is used to having turned on himself. Dresden has learned a few things since throwing in his lot with Winter.

There is so much boldness in Harry's hands, John stiffens at the touch against his sides, where there is still trim muscle, but also a little softness, the sort that no amount of time in the gym will wear away. He puffs out a little laugh. "Cold fingers. Should've guessed. Perhaps you need warming as well, Sir Knight?" He is most definitely volunteering.

"My, you are learning some new tricks," John murmurs. He goes willingly, letting Harry... it isn't smelling him. It's like John is oxygen and Harry needs air. It's a very alien, strange action, but not unsettlingly so. "It's said the letter kills while the spirit gives life... Out to prove them wrong?"

John's hands come up to touch Harry's shoulders lightly. He's restrained himself, if only because Harry seems to be enjoying having the power right now, and being taken care of is rather nice, especially by someone who could take advantage like the Winter Knight. John is enthralled by that turnabout.

Pants, socks, and shoes are left. Even being bare from the waist up make him feel so very open. "I wonder if this is what a Christmas gift feels like. I would've worn a bow somewhere suggestive if I'd seen this coming." It's difficult to just stand there and leave his arms at his sides, but he'll not take away something Harry is having so much fun with.

/SNEAKS THIS TAG IN I COULDN'T NOT

[forzare]

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.

I ADORE YOU AND ALL YOU CHOOSE TO BE

[freeholding]

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.

[forzare]

There is a map around Harry's neck, though - along with the weight of his mother's necklace, his mother's memories and his mother's legacy. It is her title, as the woman who ran alongside Faerie, that has been a quiet reassurance through his days spent in Winter. It is as though she has been shaping the course of his life since the day he was born, and he could argue, based on what he knows, that nothing short of her machinations has brought him to Winter's realm. Why else would his Godmother be bound to him the way she was, if not because he shared blood with that woman - at once beloved as she was spited?

Harry's caught by his comfort, and finds that his fingers had wandered to the necklace meditatively, though his eyes are on John. To think just a kiss would scatter his attentions between subtle, coy predation and seeking humanity. John's mouth had been so warm, and the beat of Harry's heart had echoed Chicago for a moment, rather than Winter. He steps into the midst of the bed, picking through the assortment of linens until he can pull out the comforter that had been closest to the fire.

It's clear Harry's a tactile person - everything is textures, varied between soft microfleece and a knitted afghan that had been another birthday gift, this time from the Mothers. The one he's selected is saturated with warmth and the scent of smoke, and Harry elects to tuck it around John to tide him over until he can rejoin the Baron. Of course, he pulls the man's pants down from the ankles with a wolfish grin, whisking them away to dry before the fire like everything else.

"Gotta' keep you on your toes," Harry purrs, looking all-too pleased to have the man tucked away in his stash like another prized possession. "I'll be right back, so be good and don't go anywhere." Ah yes, there's still the hot chocolate he'd promised John. He'll be back in a moment with a pair of mugs and - dear god, he's even got peppermint sticks in the steaming drinks. One of the mugs he offers to John, before settling into a patch that is relatively clear of bedding to sip his own.

"It's from Walmart," he promises, nodding to the hot chocolate, "not Faerie. Though if you come back for Winter's Christmas gala, I hear that Her Majesty makes egg nog to die for." Another smile, and it's all teeth. It's a valid, well-timed response - especially considering Harry is openly making a point that he's not aiming to bind John to him. No, they're already bound up in each other, aren't they? This is just... encouraging that. Politics and personal relations all wrapped up in one, with a hint of why did it take me so long to realize you for what you are from Harry.

[freeholding]

"It seems you're more eager to have me on my back," John mutters. The pit is very comfortable, but almost too much so; he keeps trying to prop himself up to sit properly. Everything shifts around him and he slides back down into a recline. Eventually he gives up on it as a lost cause and just lounges.

He will not be bashful about his state of undress, especially given the amount of care Harry used in stripping him. It's the old stand-by that he's told himself over and over all these years, every time the wizard's wormed his way in closer to John, past the sorts of defenses that no one else is allowed to get through alive: the first five minutes of their acquaintance, John learned everything about the core of Harry Dresden, and vice versa. Everything after that is just detailing.

He does, though, pull the comforter around himself, hiding from the bite of Winter now that there is so much skin for it to lay siege on. It's thick and soft, and John draws up his legs, tucking them to the side so they'll fit.

The hot drink is perfect; the comforter warms him from the outside and the chocolate does the job from the inside. He's cold enough that he can feel the heat travel down his neck and suffuse outward into his chest. The taste is cheap and sugary and wonderful. He's had enough gourmet hot chocolate at themed parties to long for something that reminds him of his youth.

"Hopefully not literally," John says with amusement. "And oddly enough I don't think I'll be invited to a Christmas bash in Winter. The Unseelie delegation is always amiable enough at meetings, but..." He shrugs one shoulder. You politically slap Maeve's hand one time for trying to enthrall Chicago citizens and suddenly you're off the Christmas card list. What're the odds?

[forzare]

Harry pantomimes holding a fishing pole, one hand 'reeling' away at John, who has clearly been cast as the catch of the day. "I'm an equal-opportunity angler." And what a terrible pun it is.

When he drops his hands, it's to wrap them around the mug of hot chocolate once more and take a lengthy drink, putting it away while it was still piping hot. It also means he'll be able to set the mug aside and free his hands - which he promptly puts to work, tugging pillows and throws to one side so that he will have room to sidle down between some cushions and the Baron, lounging on his side with his chin propped up in the palm of his hand. Harry hovers, clearly waiting as patiently as can be while John enjoys his own drink. They've an entire night, there's no need to rush (although his teeth are itching again, and his fingers might have begun to wander).

"That's a shame," except that it wasn't, because Harry knows John enough to see where he draws the lines and what it means to never cross them. It means enough. "That means you'll get your Christmas present a little later than I'd like." And with that mystery left tied up with a bow, Harry slips an idle hand along the curve of John's bicep, sighing deep and breathy as he tucks his face into the comforter - warmed by fire and mortality itself. It's so nice, it's really nice, and he understands why Faerie is so infatuated with humans, though he is still human by default.