( 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]

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.

[freeholding]

"You are terrible," John says with clear fondness. That Dresden's humor is still world-class awful, it's such a strong part of him, John would miss it. Never admit to such a thing, but miss it.

"Well, hello." The Knight practically swimming through the linens towards him is amusing to watch. Harry's better at navigating the pit than John is, not unexpectedly. It might be the long, corded muscles in his arms and legs, the sheer reach the man has. His sweater is light, and fitted to his skin, the sort of Winter finery that Harry wouldn't be caught dead in before his Knighthood. It puts his casual strength and length on display. It is something worth displaying, and John lets his eyes linger.

He could move. He's close enough that it'd be easy to roll over with Harry under him. But... He gets it. He's a bit of a conquest. Not in some impersonal, juvenile manner (because nothing between them could be so), but in the way a fight can be a joy. The struggle, then the concession, and reaping the spoils.

John doesn't think he's ever been spoils before. It's nice. He should try it again sometime. Above all else, he's being cared for, as promised, as he didn't know he needed.

"I didn't know I was getting one. I'll have to return the fav--" Not the favor, not that loaded word. It once meant something else, more innocent and without obligation. No longer. "The gesture." He pulls deeply from the mug and takes out the peppermint to taste that, sucking the chocolate off it, before following the Knight's lead, setting it all aside.

He lifts his hand, the one not pinned in place, and his fingertips run feather-light from the shell of Harry's ear down his neck and to where his sweater starts. No more than that; it is John's place to offer himself for the taking, and he's enjoying the process. One touch, though, surely is allowed. "What would the Winter Knight like best?"

[forzare]

John nearly says 'favor'. In response, the alien light in Harry's eyes sharpens with alarming clarity in those precious few moments; something ripples through him, hovering on the edge of setting fingertips to John's throat to stroke the word from his lips. In fact, he nears the other man so swiftly that he's nearly a blur (and it's no wonder; as the Knight, he's imbued and granted access to Winter's strength but maybe not her grace, or her dignity). Harry's knee fumbles a little, then slips under the folds of the comforter, across John's waist as he rises onto his hands and knees.

The rest of him follows the route his leg takes, until the blanket is crumpled under a knee and his hips and Harry's leaning over John, straddling John's waist. And oh, he's smug as hell. The mug, that last fragile little barrier keeping him from, is gone somewhere and Harry honestly doesn't care about drinks anymore. As long as the mortal in his bed is warm and willing, he's quite content to pour his focus into a Marcone-shaped mold for the rest of the night.

There's color in his cheeks, a faint flush that serves as the harbinger for a thaw. It isn't until now that he's begun to show signs that John had shown while out in the cold - the red cheeks, the frost-bitten lips. And of all the questions to ask, it's about what he wants.

"The Knight," begins the Knight loftily, feverishly as he runs his hands over John's shoulders, fingers curling only enough to run the edges of his nails over collarbones and the muscle in John's neck, and down, down far enough to where the Knight has to arch backwards with a smile so that he can run his fingertips from John's stomach to his own thighs, and-- stop.

"The Knight," Harry continues, "doesn't know whether he wants to blow your head off or blow your head off." The sarcastic know what i mean? is necessary. He leans down, curving his spine so that he can bring his face close to John's again (he's too tall for this, he practically has to bend double to get into the position he wants to be in) and smile vague promises into the man's tattered ear, like a private litany. "So maybe he's not the right person to be asking, considering it's me who would like something from you."

He deigns to skip the art of stringing John along, and presses a kiss to his pulse. "Quit waiting. I'd like you - very much so."

[freeholding]

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.

[forzare]

The mantle he wears is as much a part of him as it is a distinctive entity unto itself; the power of a snow-swollen mountains just waiting for the right push that would tip their hand far enough and all restraint would be lost. The ensuing collapse would bury any hapless fool who happened to be in the vicinity. While the Knight's anger ran cool, Harry ran hot - quick to escalate, quick to recovery. Consolidating the mantle's unique properties with his own personality had taken two and a half weeks of meditation, conversation, boundary-drawing and give-and-take. It had helped that the Queen herself had escorted him through Winter, introducing him to his duties: mundane to otherworldly.

It put things in perspective. The result was the slightest of dissociation during down time, but a synchronous unit when push came to shove. It was a hard job, but Harry thrived when the pressure was coming down hard.

To speak of pressure. Harry lets out a soft noise when John finally gets hands on him, tucked under his shirt - warm and rough. Good good good, the Baron gets the theme of the evening, and the result is encouraging to Harry. Whatever you'd like. John's voice in his ear this time, low and decadent in ways that Harry's only recently begun to imagine. A voice that sounds just as good to his ears when it drops deep into smoke and shadow as it does when the man snaps a command. John probably sounds as good when he asks politely as he demands something. It's one feature Harry wants to explore.

But, that's something to tuck away for a rainy day. Because tonight, Harry's going to make John eat those words. They're just about everything he likes to hear - whatever you'd like - just reach for it. His hips circle once, twice. A slow, cyclical grind of denim-clad thighs against the firm muscle of John's stomach - just a hint before Harry dips down again to kiss him. He'll go straight for it, no hesitation, all tongue and teeth and a command embedded in the way he parts John's lips and breathes him up, ribs expanding under John's hands.

Harry hovers, and then his hands are curved around John's face, and god is he kissing for everything he's worth. It's not sweet now. There's a ferocity in it, lunging in and darting back when he thinks John might be trying to fight back, but never, ever letting him just lie there. "Finder's keepers," he agrees.

[freeholding]

He always imagined this the other way around. John is arrogant as the day is long, and often justifiably so. But Harry Dresden has starred in so many dark night's dreams that John has played most of the scenarios over in his head. All the ways he would take Harry. Sometimes it's another offer of aid that warms Dresden's regard for him until John can lean in and take his lips before the man remembers he should protest. Sometimes it's a more solemn trade, some great task executed and Harry offering the coin his company for an evening as payment. At times, John's greater devils seize him, and grant him the vision of the wizard weakened after some ordeal, in need of the Baron's protection, and him coming to enjoy John's obsession with him. Sometimes there is no shadow play, but the black of John's bedroom and the idle thoughts: what if he lay here, what sound would he make at the first touch, would he bite my tongue for its intrusion, would he whisper 'Marcone' or grace me with a strangled 'John'.

This is nothing like that. Except that in a way, it is exactly like that.

John gets with the program quickly. It only takes one instance of Harry nipping his lips before he opens up, and the push of Harry's tongue leaves no room for John to fight back. He always imagined the look in his imagined-Dresden's eyes, the instance where he gives in and the rush of relief on his face, intense enough to be erotic all on it's own.

He feels that rush, the pounding of blood in his ears, as Harry maps out his mouth. The way he inhales John makes the Baron shake, like something more than air is being breathed in, something John has in abundance, that Harry craves. He cannot name it, cannot quite grasp the feeling. He only knows that Harry's drunk on it, and that's exhilarating in of itself.

John kisses back as much as he is allowed, but his hands are less still. He grasps at Harry in fits and jerks, when he remembers he is more than his lips and the kiss. Harry is arched above him, and John tries to pull him closer, but the angle's impossible with the man sitting on his stomach. He still needs the touch, and needs to not be the only one laid out bare. His mouth twists away for just a second as he pulls the sweater off, hasty enough and careless enough that his nails scratch the Knight's skin. He mutters as he does, almost in a daze, "You can have me, you can," reassuring himself more than anyone. He almost says please, the sibilant, "--ease," all that makes it out.

There is playing with fire, and there is standing barefoot in the flame. John very much would like to be burned in this way, aches for it.

Stupid, but he can't much dig himself deeper at this point.

[forzare]

With John's insistent hands pawing at his sweater, Harry deigns to help him out, relinquishing his own hold on the man's body to cross his arms and curl fingers around the bottom of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head in a fluid motion, only to toss it to the side. It is lost to the nooks and crevasses of his "bed". One could only wonder how much of his new wardrobe lived in that nest.

Harry looks down when he feels nails score his skin, taking in the scratches - running fingers over them oh-so-briefly before taking those same fingers up to John's mouth. He presses one across his lips. "Ah ah ah," he chides. "Hold that thought. Save it for later." He'd like the Baron to hang onto his please, don't use it now. After all, he might need more than one.

Harry's knuckles brush across John's throat, stroking the back of his hand down John's bare skin, turning his hand over to run the pads of his fingers over a scar, comparing the texture to the skin over John's ribs, digging nails into a nipple appreciatively (like it john? maeve cleaned him up and gave him a manicure as well).

His hands wander to his own body, a shiver rippling through him when he works his pants loose. Not off. Eventually, but not now.

Harry slides backwards, just a little more -- and skips right over John's dick as he slips down towards his knees. He hums as he works, elbowing one of the man's legs aside, curling down to bite his navel, drag his tongue over the inside of a thigh. A hand reaches out, fingers curling around John none-too-shyly, giving him a stroke, a second, firm and demanding before he wraps his hand around the base of his dick, and his mouth replaces his fingers, sinking wet and eager over John without batting an eye.

[freeholding]

John idly wonders if he's going to be one of the many soft warm things stolen away in folds and knits here. Something found and kept like a feather in a nest, added to the collection. Yes, here is the stole I, ha ha, stole from the Merlin, and here is a fur I ran down myself on the Erlking's lands, and here is the Freeholding Lord I lured in with promises of heat and dry clothes. He rather forgot to ask for the clothes back.

He was with Helen last (barring Lara Raith's embarrassing candlelit attempts on him) and it was also dangerous, something that demanded every ounce of his attention to just survive. Here, when Harry asks him to save it, keep the word like something precious to be wrung out of him, he knows that surviving isn't going to be an option here. So to hell with it.

His breath hitches with the scar more than nail against his nipple. The twinge of pain that comes from the cold has always been a reminder carried around with him. Harry's touch gives him a full rush of tingling from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. He makes a sound, surprised, and reaches out, stretching the muscles. It's strange and uncanny, that wealth of sensation hitting all at once. It doesn't hurt, and fades when he catches a hand in the linens and twists the fabric through his fist. The sigh that comes out of him then is a deep, earnest release of tension.

"Mmhm," John hums, letting the attention wash over him. Seeing Harry's pants loosened almost makes him want to push for more, for now because fuck foreplay when something like that is on offer. But despite prior evidence, John is not wholly out of control. He uses his free hand to physically pull his legs apart further, making room. His sprawl is languid, content, and his only participation just yet is a long, freely given groan, and his hand settling on the crown of Harry's head. The man's eyelashes look lovely from this angle, fine and delicate. "Always..." Another hitched breath, "Always thought you would look handsome like that."

He wants to make this last, because few things are as good as his cock in Dresden's mouth (called that one). John knows from Hendricks' lectures when they were first opening Executive Priority that blowing someone is not always an act of service or submission, and to be fair, when John has done it, there was nothing subservient in the action at all. There was something about having your mouth on the tenderest part of a person and taking them apart with your mouth that was a fucking rush. But people knelt before John? Missed that memo, generally speaking.

Of course Harry Dresden ignores expectations. John doesn't take long before his hand starts petting through the Knight's hair, forcing himself to relax, Christ. His legs bend a little, heels pulling the blankets as he very considerately avoids fucking Harry's mouth. If that's not control, nothing is.

[forzare]

Harry turns onto his side, pressing his shoulder and his weight into the hollow of John's thigh. His arm curls around his leg, encouraging it to lie along the line of his spine - practically cuddled up against the other man's hips while his mouth is busy. The hand wrapped around John's cock loosens, leaving thumb and forefinger wrapped snug about the base, to make room for his mouth. He sweeps down on John, nothing but mouth and tongue, clearly seeking to impress him (as though he doesn't think he has by now, what with his crooked fingers, the subtle sway of his hips, the dark lure of warmth and company on a cold night) by mashing his nose against John's stomach.

Harry gets there right when John starts talking again, something about the way he looks, and tawny eyes flash open, tracking up what he can see of John's body from his angle. Reluctantly, the hand that's wrapped around the base relinquishes its hold, and he manages to put off an air that clearly states you're lucky i'm so well bred and mannered and don't elect to talk with my mouth full. It barely takes a few seconds to go through the motions, and then Harry's mouth tightens and he flattens his tongue, and pulls up.

It's a slow climb to the top, and he nearly pulls off at the end, pursing his lips against the tip of John's cock, wet and slick, before dropping right back down. The fingers of his free hand dance across whatever they can reach: across John's belly, scratching momentarily across the back of a thigh, squeezing his balls or slipping between the flesh and cushion to grab a handful of ass (let the facts be: john marcone had a wonderful ass, be it givenchy-clad or bare). He keeps one hand in perpetual motion, lingering over what could only be his favorite spots (the spit-slick length of john's cock was definitely on there), while his head bobbed and twisted.

Harry even goes so far as to reach up, stilling the hand that's petting through his hair - only to press it firmly against his skull. Christ, John. The message is pretty purposeful: get grabby if you want, Harry was more than capable of stopping you if you did something he didn't want you to. He was bred to be strong, and with the Knight's mantle backing him? Well. If he didn't want it, it just wouldn't be done. He pulls up and off with a wet-and-dirty 'pop', right when his tongue was getting used to the curve of John's cock and his lips were starting to feel swollen and - smirks.

He shifts his angle, letting go of John's leg so that he can settle on his knees, press a hand back into the hollow of his thigh to keep him spread out and on display for the Knight to fucking enjoy. "Just thought I'd look handsome?" He asks lowly, "Come on, John. You can do better than that." He rubs a thumb up the underside of the man's cock then, just the pad of his finger, only to wrap his index finger about the top - into a loose circle - and flicks his wrist once or twice to test the waters. Then he jacks the man, tightening his grasp when he hits bottom, dragging his hand right off at the head with a flick. Rinse, repeat. Harry's got enough room to lean over when he pleases too, and he doesn't seem to be 'pleasing' with just his fingers dancing and his eyes locked on the Baron.