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Re: oh why the fuck not, let's be neat about things
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taragreen89.livejournal.com
2011-03-09 04:06 am (UTC)(link)
John Marcone never gets laid. "Gets laid" gets John Marcone
Behind every successful man, there is a woman. Behind every dead man, there is John Marcone.
John Marcone sleeps with a pillow beneath his gun.
John Marcone once ate three 72 oz. steaks in one hour. He spent the first 45 minutes having sex with Harry Dresden.
Behind every successful man, there is a woman. Behind every dead man, there is John Marcone.
John Marcone sleeps with a pillow beneath his gun.
John Marcone once ate three 72 oz. steaks in one hour. He spent the first 45 minutes having sex with Harry Dresden.
I remember dragging him to the bedroom, but the details are lost in the litany of filth, each word going straight to my dick. "I want to put my tongue in you," he was saying. "I want to spread you apart and hold you down and lick you once, just once, so you know what's coming. And then I want to bite you on the ass, make a mark, suck a hickey into the top of your thigh before I go back to rimming you. I want to lick you until you're whimpering, and then I want to stick my tongue inside you, fuck you with it until my face is sore, and then keep on going until you're hoarse from yelling. And I want you to blow me, I want you to let me grab your hair and hold your head still. I want to put you on the floor and making kneel at my feet while I fuck your face, I want to feel your throat around my cock, stars and stones, John, I want you to smack my ass until I come just from the feeling of you whaling on me. I want you to do it with a paddle."
I shoved him against the edge of the bed and he fell, fully dressed. "Pick one," I grated. Now, ridiculously, he was silent. He stared at me, pupils blown. "God dammit, pick just one, one thing we can do now. Pick now."
Yeah. Apparently my patience was not at top form.
"Oh," he said. And then, comprehension coming to him as slowly as always, "...oh. Okay. One, right. I want to blow you --"
I cut him off. "Not that." The look on his face was priceless. To be fair, how often did somebody turn down a blow job? "No blow jobs, no gags. Nothing that stops you from talking."
His eyes widened, but he didn't pause for long. "Then the other. Suck me. Put your mouth on me."
I was on my knees almost as soon as the request was made, and I reached up to undo his jeans, but he stopped me with his words.
"Not yet," he said. "Tease me. Put your mouth against my thigh, on the inseam. Kiss me, bite me. Blow through the denim."
It took a beat before I obeyed, not because I didn't want to. Instead I was floored by lust, like a shot to the lungs that knocked the breath from my body. When I could, I leaned forward, put his words to action.
"Hold me down, spread my legs," he said, and I pressed my hands against the insides of his knees and splayed his ridiculously long legs apart. "Yeah, like that, keep me off balance, don't let me get up, don't let me take control, stars, take my pants the hell off right now."
I didn't, not right away. If he wanted teasing, it was going to last a little bit longer. I breathed against the zipper of his jeans, rubbing my cheek against the hard line of his cock. He tried to press his thighs inward, perhaps to stop me, but I shoved hard against his knees, keeping him off balance. His instructions had reverted to a breathy stream of dammit, John, dammit, undress me before I finally gave in. "Lift up your bony ass," I said, interrupting him, as I pulled down his jeans.
He laughed, obeyed, and continued talking without pause. "Lick me. Lick up the vein, around the base. I want to feel your tongue, I want to feel your tongue under my foreskin, on the head. Lick the slit, lick behind my balls."
Dresden as a lollipop? I could live with that. I obeyed him, now doing only what he told me and no more. Let Harry have the creativity for once.
Apparently he was up to the challenge. "My balls, John. Suck on them, both of them. Rub my cock while you do. Yeah, keep doing that. Play with the foreskin with your thumb, squeeze harder." He thrust up into my hand. "Put your mouth on me, around my cock."
About damned time. I took advantage of the brief moment of having both of my hands free to unzip my own trousers and shove them down around my hips; I couldn't bear to have them on any longer. I almost got my own cock in hand but Harry had more instructions before I got a chance.
"My nipples," he almost whined. "Play with them." It was hard to reach them -- Harry was sprawled, lying mostly down against my comforter, and the man was a long drink of water. But I was sufficiently motivated. I could feel the stretch and burn in my shoulders, but that only ratcheted me higher, like Harry was restraining me with his words, like he'd built a rack out of language and had me strung on it.
Harry was struggling for words. His hips were trembling, tiny thrusts into my mouth and out again, his balls drawn up against my chin, and his breaths were coming short and loud. He should have been beyond anything other than moaning, but it sounded like the words were forcing themselves passed his lips. I obeyed each of his increasingly hoarse commands, the sound of his voice all that was touching me, all that needed to.
"Twist my nipples, harder. Use your nails, pinch. Hold down my hips -- no, with your forearm, press harder, don't let me move, bruise me. Put your finger in my ass, two fingers. I don't care that there's no lube, use freaking spit, just get them in there, do it, do it. Hold me down, suck me down, John, hold me, John, John --!"
His desperate wail somehow still consisted of coherent words, but I couldn't make them out. I swallowed him down, waited until he stopped shivering, and then lunged up from the floor onto his supine form, thrusting against him until I came.
I shoved him against the edge of the bed and he fell, fully dressed. "Pick one," I grated. Now, ridiculously, he was silent. He stared at me, pupils blown. "God dammit, pick just one, one thing we can do now. Pick now."
Yeah. Apparently my patience was not at top form.
"Oh," he said. And then, comprehension coming to him as slowly as always, "...oh. Okay. One, right. I want to blow you --"
I cut him off. "Not that." The look on his face was priceless. To be fair, how often did somebody turn down a blow job? "No blow jobs, no gags. Nothing that stops you from talking."
His eyes widened, but he didn't pause for long. "Then the other. Suck me. Put your mouth on me."
I was on my knees almost as soon as the request was made, and I reached up to undo his jeans, but he stopped me with his words.
"Not yet," he said. "Tease me. Put your mouth against my thigh, on the inseam. Kiss me, bite me. Blow through the denim."
It took a beat before I obeyed, not because I didn't want to. Instead I was floored by lust, like a shot to the lungs that knocked the breath from my body. When I could, I leaned forward, put his words to action.
"Hold me down, spread my legs," he said, and I pressed my hands against the insides of his knees and splayed his ridiculously long legs apart. "Yeah, like that, keep me off balance, don't let me get up, don't let me take control, stars, take my pants the hell off right now."
I didn't, not right away. If he wanted teasing, it was going to last a little bit longer. I breathed against the zipper of his jeans, rubbing my cheek against the hard line of his cock. He tried to press his thighs inward, perhaps to stop me, but I shoved hard against his knees, keeping him off balance. His instructions had reverted to a breathy stream of dammit, John, dammit, undress me before I finally gave in. "Lift up your bony ass," I said, interrupting him, as I pulled down his jeans.
He laughed, obeyed, and continued talking without pause. "Lick me. Lick up the vein, around the base. I want to feel your tongue, I want to feel your tongue under my foreskin, on the head. Lick the slit, lick behind my balls."
Dresden as a lollipop? I could live with that. I obeyed him, now doing only what he told me and no more. Let Harry have the creativity for once.
Apparently he was up to the challenge. "My balls, John. Suck on them, both of them. Rub my cock while you do. Yeah, keep doing that. Play with the foreskin with your thumb, squeeze harder." He thrust up into my hand. "Put your mouth on me, around my cock."
About damned time. I took advantage of the brief moment of having both of my hands free to unzip my own trousers and shove them down around my hips; I couldn't bear to have them on any longer. I almost got my own cock in hand but Harry had more instructions before I got a chance.
"My nipples," he almost whined. "Play with them." It was hard to reach them -- Harry was sprawled, lying mostly down against my comforter, and the man was a long drink of water. But I was sufficiently motivated. I could feel the stretch and burn in my shoulders, but that only ratcheted me higher, like Harry was restraining me with his words, like he'd built a rack out of language and had me strung on it.
Harry was struggling for words. His hips were trembling, tiny thrusts into my mouth and out again, his balls drawn up against my chin, and his breaths were coming short and loud. He should have been beyond anything other than moaning, but it sounded like the words were forcing themselves passed his lips. I obeyed each of his increasingly hoarse commands, the sound of his voice all that was touching me, all that needed to.
"Twist my nipples, harder. Use your nails, pinch. Hold down my hips -- no, with your forearm, press harder, don't let me move, bruise me. Put your finger in my ass, two fingers. I don't care that there's no lube, use freaking spit, just get them in there, do it, do it. Hold me down, suck me down, John, hold me, John, John --!"
His desperate wail somehow still consisted of coherent words, but I couldn't make them out. I swallowed him down, waited until he stopped shivering, and then lunged up from the floor onto his supine form, thrusting against him until I came.
I can't help it. I gave a high-pitched wail when I read this. My class is full of freaky wonderful people, though, so it's okay. :D
...I love you.
I love taking the lyrics to songs and rewriting them to suit certain purposes. So I wrote one for 'Smooth Criminal' by Michael Jackson (only I used the Alien Ant Farm version for the lyrics and rythm because I like the remake better -sorry Jackson fans!-) But I want to see some other songs rewritten to make them into Dresden Files comedy:) So, I'm gonna post mine as example and hope someone does another song. Feel free to use as kinky songs as you can find!
I want the story of how Malcolm Dresden, stage musician, met and fell in love with Margaret LeFay, basass wizard of questionable alignment, and, most importantly, how she fell in love with him.
Johnny came into the window
There was shout.
A cry of ‘Fuego!’
He came into his apartment,
Now he’s got rug burns
From the carpet.
Now he’s pinned him to the table.
But he found it,
Wasn’t stable.
So he dragged him to the bedroom
What could he do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry? (X4)
Harry, are you okay?
Will you tell us
That you’re okay?
There’s a sign at the window,
A burn mark,
From the ‘Fuego!’, Harry!
He came into your apartment,
Now you’ve got rug burns
From the carpet.
He dragged you to the bedroom.
What could you do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?(X3)
You’ve been bit by,
You’ve been fucked by,
A Smooth Criminal!
So now the place is burning.
Are you learning, that your yearning
For the thing your fearing?
It’s his heartbeat, that you’re hearing.*
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?(X4)
Harry, are you okay?
Will you tell us
That you’re okay?
There’s a sign at the window,
A burn mark,
From the ‘Fuego!’, Harry!
He came into your apartment,
Now you’ve got rug burns
From the carpet.
He dragged you to the bedroom.
What could you do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?
You’ve been bit by,
You’ve been fucked by,
A Smooth Criminal!
Harry, are you okay?
Will you tell us
That you’re okay?
There’s a sign at the window,
A burn mark,
From the ‘Fuego!’, Harry!
He came into your apartment,
Now you’ve got rug burns
From the carpet.
He dragged you to the bedroom.
What could you do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?(X4)
And here's an adress to an actual lyric vid of the song on youtube. And no. I did not make the vid. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iomgAHj5188
There was shout.
A cry of ‘Fuego!’
He came into his apartment,
Now he’s got rug burns
From the carpet.
Now he’s pinned him to the table.
But he found it,
Wasn’t stable.
So he dragged him to the bedroom
What could he do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry? (X4)
Harry, are you okay?
Will you tell us
That you’re okay?
There’s a sign at the window,
A burn mark,
From the ‘Fuego!’, Harry!
He came into your apartment,
Now you’ve got rug burns
From the carpet.
He dragged you to the bedroom.
What could you do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?(X3)
You’ve been bit by,
You’ve been fucked by,
A Smooth Criminal!
So now the place is burning.
Are you learning, that your yearning
For the thing your fearing?
It’s his heartbeat, that you’re hearing.*
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?(X4)
Harry, are you okay?
Will you tell us
That you’re okay?
There’s a sign at the window,
A burn mark,
From the ‘Fuego!’, Harry!
He came into your apartment,
Now you’ve got rug burns
From the carpet.
He dragged you to the bedroom.
What could you do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?
You’ve been bit by,
You’ve been fucked by,
A Smooth Criminal!
Harry, are you okay?
Will you tell us
That you’re okay?
There’s a sign at the window,
A burn mark,
From the ‘Fuego!’, Harry!
He came into your apartment,
Now you’ve got rug burns
From the carpet.
He dragged you to the bedroom.
What could you do?
Bride to his Groom.
Harry, are you okay?
Are you okay?
Are you okay, Harry?(X4)
And here's an adress to an actual lyric vid of the song on youtube. And no. I did not make the vid. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iomgAHj5188
Lightning never strikes in the same place twice. Neither does John Marcone.
Heaven doesn't want John Marcone, and Hell KNOWS he'll take over.
Marcone owns everyone's ass. Harry is an ass. Therefore, Marcone owns Harry twice over.
Marcone isn't organized. Chaos is just scared shitless of him.
John Marcone is not an angel. But at this rate, he'll own all of them.
Heaven doesn't want John Marcone, and Hell KNOWS he'll take over.
Marcone owns everyone's ass. Harry is an ass. Therefore, Marcone owns Harry twice over.
Marcone isn't organized. Chaos is just scared shitless of him.
John Marcone is not an angel. But at this rate, he'll own all of them.
HOMG, I have no words, that was AMAZING. You have left me in pieces on the floor alkdjhgkdjf
YES. There is nowhere near enough Margaret/Malcolm out there.
Um.
Uh.
If anyone needs me, I'll be unavailable for a bit. ^.^
Uh.
If anyone needs me, I'll be unavailable for a bit. ^.^
Oh. God. This is a wonderful story! So plotty, with perfect voices.
"I could go break his legs for you." : ahahaha :)
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I threw the watch at the wall behind him. "Make up your be-damned mind, Marcone!" Then I kissed him. : go, go, Harry! I was betting on you to make a move and you do it with real style!
How is it possible that in this fandom there are so many female incarnation of the (male) hero: and every one of them is perfect? I can't remember I've ever read so often good het stories.
You are a great storyteller, dear author, and your Harry is simply perfect. Now I'm left wanting for more, more, more...
"I could go break his legs for you." : ahahaha :)
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I threw the watch at the wall behind him. "Make up your be-damned mind, Marcone!" Then I kissed him. : go, go, Harry! I was betting on you to make a move and you do it with real style!
How is it possible that in this fandom there are so many female incarnation of the (male) hero: and every one of them is perfect? I can't remember I've ever read so often good het stories.
You are a great storyteller, dear author, and your Harry is simply perfect. Now I'm left wanting for more, more, more...
[A/N: Loved Good Omens. This is not so much a crossover as an AU... I guess :3]
You don't want to know what soaked and bedraggled angel feathers smell like. Also, they become as heavy as a pair of chimaeras. Musty, old-carpet-scented chimaeras.
I dragged myself out of the lake, teeth gritted, and rolled onto my back, feathers making squelching noises behind me. Somewhere to the east, Michael was coughing up water and possibly taking the Maker's name in vain. After a nice, bracing afternoon spent slugging it out with one of Hel's childer in the nice, chilly lake, getting mangled in the process, I couldn't quite come up with the mental fortitude to try and reproach him.
The sun was nice and warm. One of the Maker's best creations, in my opinion.
“Harahel.”
And then something wicked always came along. I closed my eyes briefly. “Marbas. Were you just in the vicinity, or did you just feel like trying your luck when I'm not in the mood?”
“I do not use that name any longer.” Marbas had taken to wearing human form of late, and I had to admit it suited him, somehow. The fallen angel looked like a middle-aged man, tall and sleek and silver-haired, with only his cold, dusty emerald eyes unchanged, and he was looking down at me with a curl to his lip, arms crossed. “As I informed you prior.”
“If you're here to have a pissing match, I'm not interested. And if you don't get going, I think my friend might start getting antsy.”
“Amoracchius' bearer presumably is in no shape to go to war. As are you.” Marbas – or Marcone, as he had taken to calling himself of late in his latest attempt to go native – smiled thinly. “You should have accepted my offer.”
“I'm a little more stubborn than Aziraphale.” I held up a hand, managing to concentrate just enough energy to will fingers into the one fingered salute. “Just go away, Marcone, or whatever you're calling yourself right now. I'm not really up to blaspheming right now.”
“I could kill you right now,” Marbas said, though he always smiled a little wider when he said it, like he was joking. It used to creep me out, a few centuries ago, then I just got over it. Fallen angels – particularly ones as old as Marbas, once a lieutenant of Lucifer's during the War – all tended to have their eccentricities.
“You could try. Or you could ask yourself, is Harahel all out of juice, or does he still have enough soulfire in his pinky finger to kick your ass?” I didn't have a good hand of cards, admittedly, and Marbas probably knew it – we'd been squabbling over this piece of the Maker's earth for a very, very long time.
“Have you tried speaking to Aziraphale, at least?”
“Sure. He's good company.” Marbas' eyes narrowed a little at that – weirdly enough – it wasn't like he had anything to get possessive over: Maker's word, but we're on the different end of the mortal spectrum here, technically. “He said that his arrangement with that snake demon was most satisfactory. And then we agreed that different rules probably applied with a Fallen. Crowley's gone mostly native, Marbas. He isn't really of the same stock as you are. You're a tiger wearing a man's skin.”
“And that is so very different from a snake?”
“Honestly? If you were Crowley, I wouldn't have made the deal with you either.” I slapped my palms back on the ground and stretched my drenched wings out a little more. “We've had this conversation before. Lots and lots. Divine memory.”
“How is Uriel?” Marbas asked, so very solicitously, changing the topic. Lucifer's chosen all wore their guises well.
“The usual. Breathing down my neck, asking how many souls I've made all better, when am I going to get rid of the dark stain on my territory, and so on.” I managed to pull aching shoulders into a shrug. Being a guardian angel wasn't a walk in the park. “He means you, by the way.”
Even before the roll in the lake with the ice monster fish... thing... there had been an accident at a school only days before that could have turned catastrophic, a coven of desperate homeless people who had almost pulled something Very Bad from the Bone Plains, various little incidents, and as always, having to keep Special Investigations from getting eaten/burned/dismembered by all the bogeymen that they upturned.
Something occurred to me. “You've been pretty quiet for a while. I mean, after the last thing you pulled with that awful human noise concert.”
Marbas nodded, unruffled. “I've considered a different approach.”
“Give it up, I'll thwart you eventually.”
“We'll see.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “You could save yourself all the trouble and property damage by just 'fessing up right now.”
“And miss out on all the fun?” Marbas chuckled indulgently, and stepped backwards out of reach judiciously when I growled. “We'll speak again later, Harahel.”
“Bastard,” I muttered, if incorrectly, to myself, as Marbas vanished, leaving behind a drifting, dramatic cloud of black feathers. I waved them irritably away from my face and rolled over, forcing myself to my feet, dribbling water and wilting feathers, and trudged over to where the Knight of the Cross was lying on his side and groaning as he finally woke up. “Michael. We need to get back to Chicago, and I don't have the energy to teleport. This means you're driving. Chop chop.”
Michael Carpenter squinted blearily up at me. “I'm going to convert to Buddhism.”
“Shut up.”
-shortfill!-
You don't want to know what soaked and bedraggled angel feathers smell like. Also, they become as heavy as a pair of chimaeras. Musty, old-carpet-scented chimaeras.
I dragged myself out of the lake, teeth gritted, and rolled onto my back, feathers making squelching noises behind me. Somewhere to the east, Michael was coughing up water and possibly taking the Maker's name in vain. After a nice, bracing afternoon spent slugging it out with one of Hel's childer in the nice, chilly lake, getting mangled in the process, I couldn't quite come up with the mental fortitude to try and reproach him.
The sun was nice and warm. One of the Maker's best creations, in my opinion.
“Harahel.”
And then something wicked always came along. I closed my eyes briefly. “Marbas. Were you just in the vicinity, or did you just feel like trying your luck when I'm not in the mood?”
“I do not use that name any longer.” Marbas had taken to wearing human form of late, and I had to admit it suited him, somehow. The fallen angel looked like a middle-aged man, tall and sleek and silver-haired, with only his cold, dusty emerald eyes unchanged, and he was looking down at me with a curl to his lip, arms crossed. “As I informed you prior.”
“If you're here to have a pissing match, I'm not interested. And if you don't get going, I think my friend might start getting antsy.”
“Amoracchius' bearer presumably is in no shape to go to war. As are you.” Marbas – or Marcone, as he had taken to calling himself of late in his latest attempt to go native – smiled thinly. “You should have accepted my offer.”
“I'm a little more stubborn than Aziraphale.” I held up a hand, managing to concentrate just enough energy to will fingers into the one fingered salute. “Just go away, Marcone, or whatever you're calling yourself right now. I'm not really up to blaspheming right now.”
“I could kill you right now,” Marbas said, though he always smiled a little wider when he said it, like he was joking. It used to creep me out, a few centuries ago, then I just got over it. Fallen angels – particularly ones as old as Marbas, once a lieutenant of Lucifer's during the War – all tended to have their eccentricities.
“You could try. Or you could ask yourself, is Harahel all out of juice, or does he still have enough soulfire in his pinky finger to kick your ass?” I didn't have a good hand of cards, admittedly, and Marbas probably knew it – we'd been squabbling over this piece of the Maker's earth for a very, very long time.
“Have you tried speaking to Aziraphale, at least?”
“Sure. He's good company.” Marbas' eyes narrowed a little at that – weirdly enough – it wasn't like he had anything to get possessive over: Maker's word, but we're on the different end of the mortal spectrum here, technically. “He said that his arrangement with that snake demon was most satisfactory. And then we agreed that different rules probably applied with a Fallen. Crowley's gone mostly native, Marbas. He isn't really of the same stock as you are. You're a tiger wearing a man's skin.”
“And that is so very different from a snake?”
“Honestly? If you were Crowley, I wouldn't have made the deal with you either.” I slapped my palms back on the ground and stretched my drenched wings out a little more. “We've had this conversation before. Lots and lots. Divine memory.”
“How is Uriel?” Marbas asked, so very solicitously, changing the topic. Lucifer's chosen all wore their guises well.
“The usual. Breathing down my neck, asking how many souls I've made all better, when am I going to get rid of the dark stain on my territory, and so on.” I managed to pull aching shoulders into a shrug. Being a guardian angel wasn't a walk in the park. “He means you, by the way.”
Even before the roll in the lake with the ice monster fish... thing... there had been an accident at a school only days before that could have turned catastrophic, a coven of desperate homeless people who had almost pulled something Very Bad from the Bone Plains, various little incidents, and as always, having to keep Special Investigations from getting eaten/burned/dismembered by all the bogeymen that they upturned.
Something occurred to me. “You've been pretty quiet for a while. I mean, after the last thing you pulled with that awful human noise concert.”
Marbas nodded, unruffled. “I've considered a different approach.”
“Give it up, I'll thwart you eventually.”
“We'll see.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “You could save yourself all the trouble and property damage by just 'fessing up right now.”
“And miss out on all the fun?” Marbas chuckled indulgently, and stepped backwards out of reach judiciously when I growled. “We'll speak again later, Harahel.”
“Bastard,” I muttered, if incorrectly, to myself, as Marbas vanished, leaving behind a drifting, dramatic cloud of black feathers. I waved them irritably away from my face and rolled over, forcing myself to my feet, dribbling water and wilting feathers, and trudged over to where the Knight of the Cross was lying on his side and groaning as he finally woke up. “Michael. We need to get back to Chicago, and I don't have the energy to teleport. This means you're driving. Chop chop.”
Michael Carpenter squinted blearily up at me. “I'm going to convert to Buddhism.”
“Shut up.”
-shortfill!-
Ooooohhhh. (flails) OMG.
Marcone's always enticing Harry with an 'arrangement'. :D
He makes a wonderfully disheveled angel.
Marcone's always enticing Harry with an 'arrangement'. :D
He makes a wonderfully disheveled angel.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/166657
With a little bit extra padded in the story, because why stop poking if you don't have to?
With a little bit extra padded in the story, because why stop poking if you don't have to?
Hi! Your story is now being tracked by @dresdenwips, hope you don't mind. :)
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