( 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

[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.

[freeholding]

It's almost a relief when Harry's mouth comes off John's cock, because the evening was going to be over disappointingly soon at that rate. Harry's silent request (or is it permission) for rougher treatment makes it all the more difficult to not grab the insolent man by the ears and just shove deep in his throat... but John was called Gentleman far longer than he's been called Baron, even a robber baron.

He's still close enough to curl his hand around Harry's face. He's warmer now, almost in an uncanny valley of body heat-- just barely not right. John can't resist running his fingers over the contours of his face, sharper than before his death and resurrection. Like this, Harry Dresden should seem hardened and battle-worn, but when John touches the apple of his cheeks and the space where crows feet will someday settle in... God, the affection he has for this firebrand-turned-ice courtier is faintly embarrassing when he lets himself think about it.

Silencing that sentimental side of himself, John indulges Harry a little, taking his chin harshly and tracing his red mouth with a thumb. He's not gentle, pushing against the scar, then back to run the fleshy pad against the teeth, careful like the Knight's bite might be sharp as the sidhe's.

"Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Dresden?" John says, the familiar name rolling off the tongue with the practice of years behind it. Years ago, five now? Five years past, he purred like this down a phone line, the night before he was made a Lord. How he dreams about having seen Harry's face that day, desperate to know if he was unaffected or if his eyes darkened with passionate fury.

John takes a steadying breath, his throat clicking as he notices that he can feel Harry's callouses as he jerks John's cock. "What would you like to hear? That you're the prettiest girl at the ball in your finery and frost?" God, that feels good, and John tries not to let the effects show, his hand in the twisted duvet clenching. "Maybe a few years ago, you would. Now, you've adequately shown you're beyond that now." His thumb presses just slightly more, emphasizing. "Do you want to hear that I am desperate to know who taught your mouth to do that? Because I'm fairly sure that isn't a perk of your title. I'd love a list of names, all the people who got to you first, who got to see you on your knees-- or was it sweeter than that? A revelry that ended with a kindly sidhe lord pressing you into the snow?" John's eyes gleam, imagining it. Hell if it's not what he'd do if he had a court. "Maybe a furtive lesson away from the Queen's eyes. Or maybe she watched and told you exactly how to put your mouth to use. Her Majesty always seemed hands-on.

"Did you enjoy it like that? Or is this," John nods down at himself, at the unwavering assertiveness Harry's shown, "more your speed?"

[forzare]

They had seen each other's soul years ago. All that they did now was - fill in the missing details. At least, that's the conclusion Harry comes to when he feels fingers on his face, brushing at the corner of his eyes and smoothing over his jawline. Hell, the brief touches are nice. John's making a map out of him, and he'd be more than happy to let him. "X marks the spot," it's an absent statement, soft-spoken and without context, save for in Harry's own head. It's just like him to begin in the middle, and jump to the start only when all is said and done.

The muscles in his neck strain a little when John takes his chin in hand. His lips are still damp from when they were wrapped around John's cock, and when a thumb passes over them, Harry reacts by wetting them once more. A quick flicker of tongue. Then a pause. Then the tongue once more, licking across the pad of John's thumb as the Knight's eyes darken again. Well, well. He could very well bite, and he might very well want to. He could take John's thumb off right at the knuckle, snicker-snack. Of course, he doesn't, but he does flash enough teeth to let the Baron know of his less-than-safe thoughts. That brief question in his head: does your blood tastes as good as your flesh?

Harry doesn't seem to be in a mood for cannibalism. At least, not the unsexy sort. Not that he ever has, but that's not the point. The point is that they've both got weapons, they both are weapons, and they've aimed at each other and have a finger set to the trigger. It's a deadly game they play, and Harry notes that John seems just as into it as he is. Good. That's good, that's fucking great.

"I thought I'd used up my fishing metaphors," he replies with a cloying tone. All he'd need to do is pout a little to finish the routine, but he can't with that thumb manhandling everything but his gums, like John's checking up on the merchandise. Except John's the "merchandise", and Harry's been checking him out since the moment he found him snoozing out in the snow and cold. It's not from cold that he shivers, but from words alone. Christ.

John Marcone almost sounds jealous, and that's the moment Harry picks to close his lips around that fucking thumb and remind John that hey, his mouth had just been on him. When he pulls off, he remains silent, lowering himself down until he can breathe hot across the man's dick and smirk, nice and crooked. That's his answer, that's all John gets - save for Harry's generosity on the last one. That last question, he answers: "Picture's worth a thousand words." And then he wets his mouth and goes down on John again, thumb pressed into the base of his cock to keep him steady. It's a shame that cameras don't work around him, because he lights into John Marcone in a way that could be immortalized forever. Save the memory, Baron, it'll keep you nice and toasty on a long winter's night.

Harry pulls off to tongue at the man, straddling the line between eager and you haven't seen half of what i can do now. Teeth scrape soft and faint against flesh, and he doesn't bite. Not John's cock at least, he does lay a deep bite into the crook of his thigh, because he'd like some bruises left for the Baron to remember when he's doing day-to-day activities. He'd like to hear that Marcone couldn't help but wince a little when he walked or sat. That'd be satisfying enough.

[freeholding]

"So coy," John says with open amusement. "Here I am, pouring my heart out for your amusement-- Hn!" His entire body goes taut at the bite, placed on such a tender span of skin and tendon. The sensation of Harry's mouth on him gets muddled into the dig of his teeth (not sidhe-sharp, good to know) and his cock deigns to twitch with interest right next to the Knight's face. The bite sends a shock of feeling through his languid body, and his hand slams upward against the edge of the pit.

It takes a few deep breaths, but eventually the explosive reaction fades into quivering aftershocks. Without meaning to, John exhales, and all the tension bleeds out of him until he's laid boneless in the bed. "All right. I'd say something about feeling that in the morning, but I suspect that's the point," he says raggedly.

He pays attention though. He saw the bright sidhe-esque flash in Harry's eyes when he nipped John's thumb and held it with his teeth. He doesn't think Harry wants to kill him, despite what the mantle wants. This is still unexplored territory. John is shiny and new, and Harry is yet covetous. And with the many, many things John wants to do with, for, and to Harry, John figures he'll be safe for a while.

For certain definitions of safe, mind.

John reaches down and runs his fingers through Harry's dark hair, nails scraping pleasantly, thumb pressing in at the base of his skull, at the junction of his jaw. Here, he could push in, force his jaw back open. Maybe even push his head back to John's cock... But that's still cheating. At least until Harry changes the rules. "If you break skin, I will be forced to bite back, Harry," John purrs, oddly sanguine with the idea. "Also, you'll ruin the bedclothes."

He drops his head back against the bed, a show of trust. Trusting Harry not to use this against him, his being laid out and held with his legs spread, every possible weapon outside his nails and teeth stripped away.

Which reminds him. He checks, and yes, Harry is still wearing his pants. He shifts around, trying to catch the hem with his toes, pulling insistently. Surely the Knight Dresden would be less likely to bite if he were fucking John or letting John return this favor.

[forzare]

When it comes to that tender spot in the hollow of John's thigh, Harry wants to bruise it, not bloody it. It's for that reason that he took up as much skin as possible and went after the muscle. He wants it sore and bruised, and would like best if John was unable to stop thinking about it after all was said and done. In fact, the sharp noise that his biting earns is satisfying enough. Harry stops his biting, mouth tenderly pressing against the spot as though to kiss it better. Then all he has to do is turn his face and smirk against the length of John's dick.

"Like I already don't have plans to ruin them." Harry teases, and puts his tongue out for another taste, an idle flicker of tongue to remind John that he was being nice too. It's a pleasant game between them, John spread under him - while Harry keeps him somewhere between tension and relaxation.

The toes at the hem of his jeans are distracting. Maybe this once, he'll oblige, although it means he removes himself from John's dick and rises to his knees. What a pushy, impatient Baron. Not that he could blame him. Harry hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and presses down, sliding them down his skinny hips smoothly. Low enough to sit just below his hipbones (never let it be said that Harry Dresden didn't know how to make a spectacle of himself), and then he twists and sits on his ass, grabbing each pant leg in turn to yank them down his long legs and kick them off, underwear and all. The pants wind up in his hands, and then, ultimately, across the room somewhere. He'll find them later, they're ultimately necessary.

Tada! he nearly says, returning his hands to John's body moments later, running them along his legs, and up his sides and everywhere he can reach because now he can feel the heat radiate from John's skin and that's just the best part. Besides the sexy parts.

[freeholding]

John leans up to watch the show, because what a show it is, better than anything he's seen in his various risque establishments. The man has miles of skin, and he wears it so very well, even nicer that what Winter dresses him in. The flash of wiry hair framed by sharp hipbones makes John wet his lips. That they're lit by firelight only makes every flicker and shadow that much more enticing. John has always wanted to know what Harry Dresden hid under ill-fitted clothes, and that didn't change with Harry's wardrobe.

Those legs are longer than he imagined (and he spent some time imagining). They'd be long enough to wrap around his waist, John is certain. When Harry comes back to him, he aches to test that. Put Harry on his back, dig his fingers into the muscle of the thighs. He could do it and still let the Knight run the show as he so clearly wants to. He would please Harry exactly how he asks, anything he wants.

The clinging, rapt touches against his own legs and chest are ironic for that alone. It's like the five seconds it took to finish stripping was too much time away, and Harry's skin hunger is renewed.

"C'mere," John says quietly, and pulls at Harry, more coaxing than demanding. He pulls Harry in so he can lay across John's body. They line up, legs tangled, hips cupped together, breathing close. His hands alight all over Harry's body, trying to feed that want in him for heat and the press of skin. When he settles, it's with his palms against Harry's hips, his fingers against the curve of his ass. There's more to squeeze and dig his fingers into than he usually finds on skinny men, a lovely surprise that John explores with interest.

"If you're done biting," John says against Harry's mouth before pressing their lips together. This way he will know right away if Harry is in fact done. At first it's just a soft press as John revels in the worn warmth of Harry's red mouth, but when he's not immediately bitten, John nudging timidly into a deeper kiss.

[forzare]

Oh good, he's watching.

Were John's eyes anywhere but on him, Harry might have actually had to teach him what all eyes on me actually meant. Especially in showbiz. Please, with a father that was on stage constantly, one learned how to put on a show. Anyone who thought otherwise was a fool and didn't understand Harry's rapt fascination with making a sight of himself. Why else deal out explosive magics and speak loudly (while also carrying a big stick)? He even stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth while he focused on wriggling out of his pants before John's eyes.

And with his own attention focused on the man's eyes, he can nearly see all the little flickers of imagined scenarios and situations. He's pretty sure they involve the two of them are they are now, in any number of positions. For tonight, after careful speculation and much deliberation, he knows he'd like to show John his personal favorite (and sometimes he thought back on the man he used to be and felt bad for himself, because god, what he was missing out on).

John wants him back though, and he gladly obliges, tucking himself in along the length of the other man's body with a flicker of bright-eyed amusement. At the least, he hikes himself high enough so that John can get hands on his ass, and sighs appreciatively. That's nice too. But it also means he can lean his elbows into the cushions, just above John's broad shoulders and tangle fingers into his hair as he kisses him nice and slow and languid. There's a little bit of fumbling on his behalf, since he's just had his mouth preoccupied by John's cock and his lips are already swollen and aching pleasantly.

He doesn't bite, not this time - but he nicks his incisors against John's curious tongue to say hello and then replaces them with his own tongue, nails scratching into the man's scalp lightly as he presses into the kiss and presses down with his own hips. At first, he holds steady. Then he circles his hips under John's hands and pulls back to laugh against his mouth, questioning coyly: "What? Tired of me on your dick already?" That's a loaded question if anything.

"Because if that's the case," Harry clarifies, after he's spent some time pressing his mouth hard and open to John's again. "it's a crying shame. I was going to ride you down into the cushions."

[freeholding]

John is emboldened by Harry going willingly and by the way he's let to kiss him. He'll lay back and be taken, that's perfectly acceptable. But he's been wanting to really touch Harry for a long damn time, and he is nothing if not an opportunist. His hands take in the wide planes of skin, moving constantly, wanting to take it all in and remember it, in case this is the only chance he gets.

He can't resist the temptation of Harry's lower back and ass, though, and each hand cups around a cheek, fingers tucked under the curve. This way he can pull Harry more fully against him, rocking their hips together in a circling, rough grind. John's wet enough from Harry's mouth that the slide is easy. His hands start to squeeze hard, a slow increase in pressure before releasing, and doing it again.

The tease of Harry's teeth makes John groan and power up into the man, all of his core muscles working to get him in closer. His restraint is cracking, just a little, and he pulls against Harry's hands in his hair, just for that feeling of being held in place. It flushes heat through him, a fevered red spreading from his face down his neck. There's something deeply comforting in Harry's power over him, how he feels a thrill of rebellion when he tries to sneak some control away, knowing he can be put down in an instant. The kiss has to be thorough, the glide of his hands has to be worshipful, and if he's not good enough, he'll know it right away.

That should not be a freeing thought.

John closes his eyes at Harry's suggestion, feeling a surge of lust that's almost painful. He tucks his face into Harry's neck, bites at his shoulder for something to do as that thought unpacks itself. Harry above him, running the show, using John like that-- "I wouldn't mind that at all," he manages, voice tight.

[forzare]

The warmth that started in his checks and spread to his throat at god-knew which point of the night has moved to his chest, spreading further as the winter gradually melts from Knight and leaves him flushing from face to neck. He's the one who resembles John now, rosy-cheeked and shivering as his core temperature rises steadily, smoothly as the handsome-eyed human's hands map out his skin and leave him panting, but not begging, for more. Warm touches that straddle the thin line between safety and danger and cause Harry's breath to hitch with each stroke of John's hands over his body.

"Oh no," he soothes, as though he's caught on to some big secret. Briefly, his hands stop John's when they're at his hips, and that's when he presses a firm kiss to the man's collarbone, then reminds him of the duality of his nature - that human-inhuman balance he's obtained and come to live with - essentially by sinking his teeth into John's shoulder. He doesn't aim to bruise now, but builds up pressure, squeezing his teeth down on flesh and muscle right to the point where he knows the ache will spread to the scar that he's adoringly traced with his eyes countless times by now. Only then does he let up, kiss the spot he's threatened and kiss the scar as well. He'll kiss the memories away for the evening and replace them in his own image.

In contrast to Harry's fixation with the upper body, John seems to have one with the lower. One that, once again, puts them in a position of counterbalance and makes him smirk as he shifts his hips in time with the man's rocking motions, grinding his hips into John's softly - then firm, with no warning, just barely resisting the tug, feeding into the power and control he has over the other. A tug to his hair, and he could scrape teeth across John's throat, soothe the lines with a pass of his tongue. Why, it was just as alluring as the rest of him.

But when John bites him? Right when lust suckerpunches him and he has to reach out and do something in retaliation? Harry laughs, wild and insanely excited, and it fades into a pleased noise, and then another, softer still as he strokes the side of John's neck and presses his face to the other side with a smirk. "I'd make a quip about minds, brains and thinking with the other head but I'd rather show you."

Harry sits up then, only far enough to jam a hand into the cushions and rummage around for a few precious moments, hips tight against John's and then - ah, there it was. One hand remained splayed across John's chest, pinning him in place as the other manipulated one of those stray items that tended to lose itself in Harry's nest. This time a bottle of lube; obviously, if the snap of the cap didn't give it away. He settled back, eyes drifting between John's face and his own fingers as he idly rubbed them together, slick and wet -- and then vanishing behind him as he shifted lower on John's stomach (low enough to where the man's cock would brush against his knuckles as he sank a finger, two into himself and flashed a terrible, wicked smile that clearly told the baron hands off).

And fuck, if he didn't put on a show, making all sorts of soft noises and arching and just barely brushing against John with the back of his hand, the teasing stroke of a wet finger, as he worked himself and wound up looking down on the man as though daring him to act out. "Remember how I told you to save that 'please'?" He finally stuttered through a groan, "You're gonna' need it soon." With that, he curled his hand around John to steady him, lifting his hips up higher (a rather easy feat, considering the length of his legs) - and then he sank, slow and lazy onto the man's cock and whimpered when he ground down and shivered when, ages later, he bottomed out.

"Count three, and then you can move." He ordered warmly, opening an eye (dark and absent of the frosted glow of winter), and slowly lifted his hips. Way too slowly.

[freeholding]

John is not good at taking orders right now.

John makes a wanting noise, muffled by the way he buries his nose into Harry's collarbone, nipping along the shape of it. Harry's bite, the hard clench of his mouth against-- into John's skin, has John scrambling to breathe and to hold on. There is something dark and smothered and quiet that stirs at the rough treatment. It's not equitable to be a self-styled urban prince and to feel you're heart race when a conquering knight puts his teeth to your skin. And yet, here it is, the rush and the flush of blood, impossible to ignore.

At least Harry enjoys it too. John can see how delighted he is. That he draws away is a surprise, and John tries to grab him back

but is instantly distracted by Harry's long, dexterous fingers sliding inside of himself.

John might miss the silent order that Harry shoots him, or maybe he just doesn't care. His hands try to brace on Harry's knees, squeezing bruisingly hard in an attempt to hold still. That's the game they're playing, those are the rules, that he lets Harry lead and is in return taken care of. But this is his break point. He can feel the warmth in Harry's body under his hands, the cinder burning in Harry that John has patiently fueled all night until the hold of Winter loosens just enough. He's seen too much the sidhe gleam in Harry's eyes. The fiery sparks that are there now are even more enticing. This is the Harry Dresden that John has wanted for so long.

So to hell with the rules. John's hands pushed hard into Harry's muscles as they slide up Harry's thighs. He feels Harry settle down onto him, sheathing him in fucking luxurious heat, and his control is just shot. John arches up, his hands grasping at Harry's hips and ass to pull himself up. His forehead rests on Harry's chest and he doesn't manage more than aborted half-noises. John has every thread of his fraying will focused on this, just wanting to stay like this forever, with Harry riding him and the knight's skin hot under John's lips.

[forzare]

In this stage of the proceedings, Harry effectively demonstrates how to coax the most delicious of noises from John Marcone's throat - each deep moan or dark hiss, and it was by the hook of his fingernails into skin and scars or the pass of his mouth over the man's cock that's brought him to this unruly, wanton edge. While Harry wouldn't mind being in John's position (maybe some other time in some other place), but seeing the Baron so undone just does it for him. Harry's warm. And the Knight is silent, appreciative, as content to work in time with his as he is content to fight with him.

He almost thinks poor John when the man grabs at him, and slaps a hand down with a sharp gesture to remind him once, and only once, that he's not to touch.

And he touches anyways. Part of him enjoys the loss of control, but the part that has been guiding, shaping their evening flashes hot in disapproval. John climbs him, and Harry's hand is waiting for him, tucking up against his throat, fingers climbing higher until he's grasping the man's jaw and he presses fingertips in against bone, pushes John away, and guides the man back down onto his back with lean, undeniable strength and a soft snarl that is as much an order for John to stop as it is a threat. Harry hovers there, hips still and John buried inside him, and pins the man down by throat and jaw.

"You said." It isn't anger in his voice, but sharp command, a reminder that it was the Baron who laid the ground rule for the evening and that was the rule they'd been playing by. No breaking them, not this late in the game. Harry's eyes are tawny, like molten gold, or the eyes of a wolf in the brush, watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity to sink teeth into any vulnerability he sees. Harry's free hand traces the corner of John's eye, and his own narrow for a moment.

"Anything I want," he reminds John lowly, "you said so. That means if I want to ride you, I will. If I want you to keep your hands off, you will because that's what I want."

Softly, he circles his hips, grinding them down into John's to remind him that while he's the one buried inside Harry, there is only one cowboy in this rodeo. "And if I want you to save that please so that you can use it when you beg me to remember to get you off -- well. I think I've made myself clear?" A hint of his previous amusement curls in the scarred corner of his lips, and Harry tsks softly, as though John's a misbehaving child and not a man who's wanted for so long and now he's getting.

"I know," Harry soothes, and loosens his grasp on the man's throat, his chin and strokes his cheek with the back of his knuckles. It's without warning that the amber light in his eyes dissipates, and all that sits astride John is the wizard once more, firelight dancing across all his awkward angles and in his eyes. Tenderly, he reaches out and grasps the man's biceps, shifting his hips just so - just so he feels John's cock, just so he makes one more soft, appreciative noise as he bites down on his lip. "But what do you say?"

[freeholding]

That, at the very least, rattles John back into himself. His self-controls been slowly, methodically stripped down by Harry's hands, whether from acts of kindness, coy playfulness, or drowning lust. Of course he's allowed it, because there is probably no one else in the world who John trusts with that, and to be able to do it. But when Harry puts him back down, he huffs out an annoyed breath. Really, what did Harry expect, for him to be immune to the fucking siege being laid against him?

He almost snaps at Harry, the man's overwhelming power a threat that John wants to bare his teeth at and fight. He knows that this close, with the knight's skin hot and more akin to human than sidhe, he could take Harry, or at least come close. Harry fights like an alley cat and he's got Winter's sponsorship behind him, but John's been at it longer and he can play dirty when he wants.

That urge rises in him, making a whole new flush spread over him. But Harry's hand against his face, tracing his crows' feet, that stills him and makes him calm down to listen. And the Knight is right. John gave his word. Whatever Harry wanted, John was at his disposal. And Harry wanted him like this.

It takes a long, slow breath, but John subsides. His eyes meet Harry's steadily and he nods. "As you wish," he concedes, and lifting his arms, he loosely clenches his hands in the blanket. He's going to take a guess that even if he's good for three seconds, he's not allowed to touch. It's his own fault for not listening, and it's his own punishment as result. "In my defense, you look beautiful like that." And beautiful is the only apt word for it.

When Harry starts moving again, John makes a soft sound and, flexing just his core muscles, pushes up into him, meeting him as he rocks. It's an effort to only do that much, a sweat popping up at his temples when he does it again moving with Harry. The Knight feels gloriously tight and hot on John, but he doesn't touch, even if his hands on Harry's hips could make it just that much better.

Instead, he shoots a feline grin at Harry up above him, pushing just that much harder and deeper into Harry. "I say you need to do better than that, Sir Knight," John says, snapping the t off like a bite.

[forzare]

"And you have absolutely no idea how you look to me, do you?" Harry replies, but only after they've both settled down and back into their respective positions. Of course, he’s far more flexible than this, and to deny that John’s loss of control (the way he'd surged up and grabbed handfuls of harry’s body and the warmth of his breath against harry’s chest fuck he’d wanted to cry from it it was just so nice but no not this time he couldn't this time) was the point at which he felt he'd fumbled something important. Maybe it hadn't shattered, but it had bruised. He won’t spend the night making up for it, not with soft words and apologies. He will remind John that yes, he’s wanted him – all night. Even now.

Harry traces the line of John's brow with his fingers and says: "I wanted you the moment I saw you out in the snow." There’s something genuine in his gesture, in his voice, even if his body hasn't relented. He keeps fucking himself down on John’s cock, matching him bounce for thrust, meeting him halfway so that they collide and it sounds like thunder and makes him bite his lip for a moment when he arches because John’s cock hits him right there. A hand twitches towards his own dick, but god, he is the sight of resistance, because he won’t touch. The night is all about what he wants and he wants a lot, but most of all he wants— "I wanted to take you away and spread you out underneath me so I could watch you come."

And because it's just so terribly romantic and sappy of him, he grinds his teeth a little and blushes to his shoulders. Christ, it's not a schoolboy's confession of love, that's not exactly what’s between them because That is way too complicated for words alone. But he’s missed John. Not just missed his presence, but missed the point of him since day one, and it took over a decade and a half and an apprenticeship to the Winter Court for Harry to realize shit there is something to john marcone that’s been there for years. And he hopes John remembers earlier, when he’d cut through the bullshit and put words in his mouth: "I missed you too, asshole. You say anything but 'please' and I'll wax poetic about 'as you wish' in the context of 'The Princess Bride' and then you'll be sorry you ever decided to set foot in my lair."

Harry grumbles, but throws his head back and goes to town with his hips, with half-broken and decidedly pleased noises and peers down the length of his own body to where he's got a hand stroking the inside of his own thigh, but no closer, and further still, to John.

how dare you be this good it's unfair to the rest of us

[freeholding]

The rule of the game is whatever Harry Dresden wants. A decade ago, John tripped him into a soulgaze and he saw the man sketched out in Courier font on curling yellow pages. He did it the preciseness of moving a chess piece, and he could still remember it like he was back in that moment in the car. How bold-fonted the words tries not to want were, and how it outlined exactly how temptation was the wrong angle to take with him (and how often Dresden turned any attempts to do so back on their perpetrators). John wonders what it would say now, should be look again. Would the section be rewritten in the translucent blue ink that Winter's representative takes the meeting's minutes in? Or scratched out in blood red of all those Harry has wanted and lost, because you can only lose so much before you start to ache for something of your own.

He is greedy. He's had to be to take as much power as he has, but now John feels guilt over it. He wants to have Harry under his hands, to guide his pace, to show like always how John Marcone Knows Best, if only people would march to his beat. And he has no doubts that if Harry let him, he could take the man and have him begging for it. But that's not the point.

John was lured in here, and it was a masterful seduction that Harry laid out. It's been a gift to be wanted like this and subsequently had. And Christ, he knows the feeling. He has wanted to have Harry for so long, never more so than that night when John hung as bait and looked up/down at Harry to see wonder catching in his eyes. John more than understands.

He can be good. He can be everything Harry hoped for. He smiles as he turns his head into Harry's palm, brushes his lips against the swell of flesh at the base of the thumb, scraps his teeth down the bony knotches of the wrist. A bracelet of bites and dark marks is painted on by John's mouth, though he falters every other second.

The idea was to hold out, to let Harry fuck himself into satiation before John gets his own, but... That's simultaneously too much for John to handle and not what Harry is asking, demanding. Even John cannot be a stone in face of Harry riding him like this.

He feels his toes curl, heels pulling at the bedding as he tenses up. It starts to hurt, the way he tries to keep himself from coming, an ache settling into his muscles. It's worst in his arms, because he needs to take hold of Harry's hips, to make him move that much harder so John can get there.

His control's still barely hanging in there, so fine, Harry wins. John's mouth falls open, pressed against the soft, pale skin of Harry's inner arm, and it's definitely a plea. "Please, I can't-- please."

[forzare]

The Knighthood has opened his eyes in so many ways, and Harry would deign to tell the curious masses that it is only now that he can look back at his life and understand himself. Little by little, he unpacks the boxes in his soul. Sometimes, he can't touch their contents. Sometimes, he boxes them back up and puts them aside - but never again does he forget their existence. Maybe, with the right help, he will someday be able to unpack those difficult memories and handle them. All in good time, all step-by-step.

Most importantly, he has recognizes that he is a man who wants. He wants things, he longs for places, he desires individuals. The best part was when he'd realizes that this was okay - because then he'd known that it was perfectly okay to want John Marcone as well. That once upon a time, he'd loathed everything the man was and stood for with blind disdain - and he had been wrong about that being the footnote. It was a beginning, if anything, and now that he has John between his thighs and he's fucking himself on the man's dick - this is a really nice chapter.

Please. That's the word that leaves John's lips, and Harry shivers from the top of his head to his toes, his entire body seizing sharply, stilling astride John for a moment with his hands digging into the man's sides. Then swiftly, he puts his weight back and works himself briskly on John's cock, one of his hands creeping up, out and down the length of John's arm (one of these days, Harry thinks to himself, he's going to map out every inch of those arms for kicks), until he can curl his fingers around John's hand and coax him to let go.

Harry wins. The victory is not his subjugation of the Baron, but something sweeter and far more subtle. "Come here," his own voice is hoarse with pleasure, his wrist is marked in a way that reminds him of his shield bracelet if it were bitten into his skin. John, who do you think to defend him from? Harry laces his fingers through hands - and oh, some things don't change because he's still a bit of a romantic at heart and in the bedroom, with his legs tangled in John's - and one of his own hands on his own cock - he'll tangle their hands together as well.

He savors his victory and rides down hard on John, until he's shaking apart and his face is pressed into the man's chest, mouth open as he shivers through a fucking amazing orgasm. He'll give John this, he'll gladly take pleasure from the man's body if that is what he'd like. It's almost a reward. Harry comes first, every muscle in his body tightening and he winds up gasping against John's chest with his fingers laced through his. "Go go gogogo just go, it's okay." He rasps out, feeling every muscle in his damn thighs like he's just run a 10k or some sort of really long marathon and still trying to move his hips even though he's already come all over John's stomach (oops, he'll have to clean up his mess, won't he?).

"Give me what I want." And it's there that he forces himself up far enough so that he can see what he wants. Quite predictably, it's John.

[freeholding]

He doesn't want to let go. Branding with his mouth a bracelet into Harry's wrist has been the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He isn't coherent enough to think of what the marks mean. Until tonight, he has thought of Harry's Knighthood as a noose around his neck, and has silently longed to give him a more malleable chain. A cuff adorning his wrist, something that Harry willingly sits still for, is just the thing.

But John lets Harry draw his hand away, feeling the loss of it even through the thick cloying fog of arousal. It's fine, more than fine, because when he opens his eyes, he's rewarded handsomely for playing by the rules. Harry's cheeks are red with a hot flush of blood, his mouth open to suck in gulps of air, his lashes fluttering before he buries his face against John's collar. He speaks, and John takes a few seconds to realize he's been given permission, finally. Watching Harry fuck himself into orgasm isn't his only treat for being good.

John has his hands on Harry before the Knight's done shaking apart. It's all systems go; one hand coming around Harry's bony waist to grab his ass, the other hand sliding up his neck to fist into his scraggly hair. He doesn't curl away like Harry had, instead makes an effort to give Harry his eyes as he powers up into the tight heat of it. The ache in his muscles from his restraint is forgotten as he chases after completion, his face against Harry's.

Given how long John has held out for, it's over fast. His voice is shredded by sharp, shallow groans as he grasps Harry tight against him for one last thrust. It all unfurls out of him at once, into Harry, and the wash of release and rush of orgasm hits John like a blunt object upside his head. He sways sideways and, unwilling to let Harry go yet, drags him along. The pit of linens absorbs their impact with a soft whumph.

After, John relaxes his bruising grip on Harry's cheek, but his hands clench on the Knight with a clear message: don't go. Not yet. John understands better than anyone the nature of sacrifice. He has Chicago in his palm, held in a tight fist. But the harder you hold onto something, the more of the smaller things that will inevitable slip through your fingers. His eyes, dark and unfocused, blink open to look at Harry, fighting against the urge to just lay back into the pillows and blankets, and drift off. The thought of losing this particular small thing... To hell with sleep.

[forzare]

Knighthood is not easy work. It is not the work that ballads are written for - when he stumbles in at the end of a skirmish, the edges of his wounds frosted solid because there was no time to bandage them and teeth red because he bites hard and often. It is not the work that is written of in history texts - when he twists his words just so and convinces the right demigod to fly Winter's colors and sign a treaty because their enemies were Winter's enemies (at least until the next big holiday bash, and that's just politics, sweetheart).

There are as many pros as there are cons, but you get that with just about any occupation - let alone the one that paints you in a myriad of colors. Enforcer. Courtier. Politician. Combatant. And all of that? He doesn't have to be all of that in the depths of his room, his hoarded pillows and plush throws and he's hoarded John Marcone too. Yes, he has. He's tucked him away, and what John doesn't realize is how impossible it is to separate a dragon from its treasure. Especially treasure that takes the form of handsome, green-eyed Barons. Most especially when John tries so hard to claim some piece of Harry, marks territory, leads a goddamn conquest against the skin along his wrist. Harry's blood sings, and he hopes John felt his pulse race when when he set his teeth against it.

It's endearing, and it gives him so many ideas.

He's holding himself together, though his freaking biceps ache and his thighs ache and his shoulders ache in that fuzzy, lethargic way that follows a damn good orgasm. Everything is heavy, but John has to get his. Harry won't relent until John gets his, because if there's anything that'll be just as satisfying as being satisfied, it's watching John come undone under him (just like he wanted, all night long, right since the beginning). And to that end, even if he's fucked out and sleepy, he keeps his own eyes locked hard on John's face, on his eyes. Watching his energy pour out into the bed, watching his energy pour out into Harry, himself.

Then over they go. Harry fumbles a hand out because he thinks for a moment that gravity is gone and they'll just go shooting off into space, up into that stardust model of Chicago. And John Marcone hasn't let him go, so Harry reaches up and fumbles a hand over his face too. Rubs a thumb across John's mouth just before Harry's own spreads into a soft smile, can't do anything more than smile dumbly and utter a couple thick, slurry syllables: "F'you think I'm movin' - you're ridiculous. S'okay, John." Then he just about curls up and around the other man, fuck anything else - he's got height in spades, and he's using it in the - aftermath? Afterglow? Hell, whatever. Aftersex. There's cuddling to get done.

[freeholding]

The slur in Harry's voice and the graceless touch of his hand paints a clear picture of Harry's contentment, and that in turn warms something deep in John's chest that has nothing to do with sex. Harry's thumb drags along his lips, pulling at his mouth, and John nudges his nose against that hand, kissing the palm. And, because they are right there, he kisses the line of marks he wound around Harry's wrist. He wants to wrap those bites and bruises in gauze, in garland, in silver chains, in velvet ribbon.

He settles for marks that he knows will slowly fade (or, if rumors of the Knight's aptitude towards healing is to be believed, quickly fade). They are all he has. That is what holds his eyes stubbornly open; already he can feel his heart settling into a more reasonable tempo, and with his lips against Harry's pulse he can feel the same from him. As overwhelming as his passion was, how it felt like he could drown in it if he didn't keep breathing, now it's left him tired. He can feel his body humming ecstatically in the wake of everything, but that will leave him by morning, or what passes for it in Winter.

John takes Harry's cuddling and winds his limbs around Harry, like that will keep him close. After the shifting around that allows Harry to attach to him like an amorous octopus, he kissing Harry's hair line and the corner of his eye, enjoying the closeness.

"I just want to enjoy this for," he stops, suppressing a yawn, "for a few more minutes." Let him commit this to memory: how Harry feels against him, how his voice sounds after coming, how the firelight plays over his skin-- there is so much John wants to keep locked away in his mind.

[forzare]

The moment that he feels John's arms wind around him, Harry lets out some small, barely-there noise. Let there be no mistake, he makes one. It's a content, private little noise. It sounds a lot like fulfillment, as though all he's needed, all this time, is someone to hold him. It sounds like everything he's been waiting for, everything he might have ever actually wanted - and he just got it. Like he's been waiting for this tiny intimacy longer than most have. Yet, he had gone and denied John (and himself, in that aspect) the ability to hold and touch him in return - at least, until the very end. For all the progress Harry had made during his tenure as the Knight, there were still more steps to take.

But not for tonight, because he can't even think about moving. His knees burn, his thighs ache, and his stomach is still doing little cartwheels and chanting something along the lines of three cheers 'cause i just fucked john marcone hip hip hurrah!

You sentimental bastard, Harry thinks fondly, and his lethargic smile is full of far too many emotions to place it. John's mouth wanders across his skin, across those marks he'd made - trying so hard to hold onto some aspect of Harry, onto the moment between them. Harry could tell him that the mere stripping John bare and hoarding him into the soft throws and mounds of pillows that constituted his little nest had long convinced Harry to give him another moment -- but he'd all but said he'd like a second go at a "proper date". Harry shifts, wiggles about to escape John's tender kisses as the man tenderizes the bruises and bites along his wrist, kisses at his face, pours all these tiny, much-needed gestures out like this is the only shot he's got to do so. This way, though, Harry can bury his nose into John's hair and spread his hands over bare, warmed skin - trying to give back a little something, hoping to assure John that he's got time, god damn it.

"Look. You're welcome to do so," Harry mumbles, and snakes his arms a little higher - wrapping them around John's shoulders, his neck. He'll loosen up after he drifts off to sleep; right now, he's more than a little bit clingy. His voice is sleepy, but tinged with that darkly playful humor he's been teasing and tempting John with all evening. "But I want to try to make french toast or something in th' morning, so don't wake me up with your obsessive need to catalogue me like this is your one and only chance kaythanksgnight." And it's lights out for one of them, at least.

aaaaaaaand SCENE!

[freeholding]

Perhaps for Harry it was obvious that this wasn't going to be their only shot at this, but while Harry learns to want things and take them, John has done the opposite. When he takes a moment to himself, pursues any scrap of pleasure, he does to fully, savoring as much as he can, for he is too used to losing things. By consequence of his position or by self-flagellating design, he's grown unused to the simple decadence of laying in bed with another person, among many other things.

But Harry says "one and only choice" with a sarcasm that changes the landscape for John. Because the idea is clearly preposterous to Harry, so...

It still takes some time for John to settle. While Harry may be open to another night like this, that is not guarantee that such a thing will happen again. So John's hands do trace and catalog. He digs his fingers into the runner's muscles in Harry's thighs and into the cut of his hips and the tiny divots on either side of Harry's spine near his waist.

He looks into Harry's face, and finally answers a long-held question of what Harry Dresden looks when asleep. He looks at peace, an inferno quieted into a steady candle flame.

And that, more than anything, lets John lay his head down and join Harry, slipping into slumber, wrapped in a bed of kindled warmth in the heart of Winter.