He rather is aware of John's mortality, yes. But that experience is about the furthest thing from his mind that it can be right now, as the other man eases the thermals further down his legs and settles between his thighs in front of him. Ianto has to look away from him after a moment, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling and let out some slow, deep breaths. His own embarrassment with his body warring inside him with the overwhelming wave of desire for how much he wants this. I'll keep you warm, John says, and he's right. Ianto's pretty sure he could cook an egg on his face alone just now, if he tried.

"Christ..." He shifts after a moment, moving to struggle his way out of the fleece jacket that John had unzipped but never quite actually pushed off of his shoulders. He's too damn hot, the whole room is too hot -- if John only knew what he's doing to him already, he thinks to himself, helplessly.