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\O/
This is nifty and shiny and awesome!
This is nifty and shiny and awesome!
Oh Harry! This Marcone is going to be utterly shameless in using your chivalry/ guilt lemming tendencies to make you dance like a puppet on a string. You're doomed, give in quickly, it'll be easier for everyone.
Harry is so in trouble. LOL
Oh Harry. Not understanding why John was so pissed about Lea's "help".
Loved thesubtle threats :D
Loved the
That is indeed an awesome ficlet and full of delight, but not quite what I was looking for. It's partly the 'making a choice when choices are severely restricted' thing that I love about fuck-or-die scenarios--that ficlet was more about Harry getting carried away and not being able to make a conscious choice, which is also hot but not the same thing. (Also, no real danger for John in that scenario, which is part of the kink for me. Oh anonymity, how it strips away shame.)
/overexplaining
Thank you for reminding me of that story, though! I didn't have it bookmarked and I really should.
/overexplaining
Thank you for reminding me of that story, though! I didn't have it bookmarked and I really should.
Awesome! I'm so happy to see more of this! :D
In my career as a PI and a wizard I had my share of unpleasant sights – demons are notoriously bad at cleaning up and a lot of Fae don’t bother with human sensibilities either – but two bodies with their chests exploded outwards beat them all in the gruesomeness hands down. Therefore my first and easily justifiable thought was about some bin or bucket where I could part with my breakfast on good terms.
The second thought was must not tell Johnny.
I learned a long time ago that it was not prudent to inform him of my, so to speak, more daring exploits. For the first half-hour he would berate me for foolishness, recklessness and lack of general common sense and then he’d ask me sternly why I told him everything post factum. Somehow he never understood that I simply didn’t have time in the interim – I mean, when you’re running for your life and there’s a slavering monster breathing down your neck you don’t just take a couple of seconds to think ‘hi, Johnny, you won’t believe whom I’ve met today’. My voice of reason was a firm believer in multitasking and though I was willing to admit that he could talk to me and negotiate a deal simultaneously, in my brain the thought ‘OH MY GOD, IT’S GOING TO EAT ME!’ automatically overrode all others.
Two bodies right from the start equals further trouble up ahead so while I was acquainting myself with the insides of a convenient bucket I firmed my mental shield in case that some of my churning thoughts leaked through and alerted my friend to the situation.
~!~
My deduction about multiplication of problems was proven correct not half an hour later. At the end of my talk with Murphy I found myself in a classical situation of ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’. I had no desire to recreate the Dark magic responsible for the crime for fear of my own life but I couldn’t very well tell the Head of SI that I had a criminal record – no matter how unrelated to civil law or how justly deserved. That wouldn’t have looked good in my resume and would reflect badly on Lieutenant herself for hiring a lawbreaker as a police consultant. And I wasn’t even going into what the Council would do to me for disclosing it’s existence to a vanilla mortal. On the other hand I was threatened with charges of obstruction – not a pleasant prospect either…
On exiting the hotel I quickly looked around – despite being almost late to my appointment with Monica No-Last-Name I needed to make an urgent call. Spotting a pay-phone I made a quick pat-down for coins and jogged to it.
“Good day, Warden Morgan,” I forced my voice to sound politely innocent.
“Dresden,” came a gruff reply. I knew that it was all I was going to get in way of greetings.
“I take it you already know about a double homicide last night?”
There was a grunt and a cackle of static that I took as an affirmative.
“Am I guilty?”
“There are no other known warlocks in Chicago.” Now, that sounded promising.
“So if I’m already almost convicted, could you possibly do this righteous speech thing and tell me all about how I’ve done it and how it was obvious that it was me from the get go?”
A silence on the other end was so complete that even static feared to interrupt it. I felt that I’ve stepped too far out of line and prepared to backtrack when Morgan grumbled:
“Don’t get cute with me, Dresden.”
I almost dropped the receiver. The reaction was highly unexpected though not entirely unwelcome.
When I moved out of Eb’s place I was ready for all kinds of hardships – but not at all prepared for a gray specter of vengeance with a sharp sword and an attitude problem. That’s nature’s equilibrium for you – to balance Johnny with his concept of permissible self-defense I got Morgan and his ‘warlocks suck and must die’ motto.
“What am I going to do, John?” I moaned after one of the annoyingly frequent meetings with my current nemesis. “It’s like he’s behind every corner I turn with his menacing aura and a drawn sword. I can’t take a breath without him appearing to accuse me of breaking some Law or other! The only time he’d put away his blade was to deliver a nice right hook.”
“Whatever did you say to provoke him?” I got amusement instead of sympathy, which was fundamentally unfair in my opinion.
“Who says I provoked him?”
“I don’t think men like him would do violence without provocation,” Johnny answered with the same mild amusement.
“Men like him? Do you mean homicidal maniacs?”
“Now, Harry, let’s be rational about this. Your Council will never put a maniac to the task of enforcing their will because it’s impossible to control him. People like your parole officer are of a different kind – they strongly believe in rules and very probably have had some experience that elevated that belief to the level of obsession. From your words I’ve gathered that his attitude towards you isn’t based on your crime in particular; he just generally thinks that anyone who broke the Laws of Magic deserves only death.”
“As fun as this impromptu session of psychoanalysis is it doesn’t tell me how to deal with Morgan,” I grumbled.
“You must make him see you as a human being and not just a warlock.”
“Really? I’m showing it every time we met. I’d go as far as to say that my personality shines through bright and clear.”
“While I find your snark cute I’m afraid it’s just reinforcing his negative impression of you.” I bristled at being called cute.
“So what do you say? Should I shut up and play dead?”
“As much as shutting up would benefit you in certain circumstances I don’t believe you’re capable of doing it regularly. I hope you won’t be offended if I make an observation on your patterns of behavior?”
“Go ahead,” I waved my hand though the gesture meant nothing for a person who couldn’t see me.
“When something scares you, you get angry. When you get angry you taunt your enemy. So tell me, are you afraid of Morgan?”
If I was asked this question by any other person I would have vehemently denied any fear I might have had for the Warden. But it was a conversation inside my head, with a man I confided everything in.
“Of course I’ve afraid, Johnny. My life in literally in his hands.”
“Then you must break this chain of reactions.”
“What do you mean? I shouldn’t get angry?”
“No, that’s actually a good coping mechanism.”
“Then what the hell do you want me to do?!” I yelled in exasperation.
“You need to stop getting scared.” I couldn’t help myself – I laughed incredulously. Johnny patiently waited for my mirth to subside. “Or rather, make him stop scaring you,” he clarified. “You say he comes every time something happens? Then you should beat him to it. Notify him of anything remotely magical that you’re involved in; invite him to any questionable rituals you’re going to conduct. Be open – don’t let him suspect you of anything.”
“Hey, that could be fun,” I muttered with a smirk. “Dear Morgan, today I’ve used magic to light my candles no less than 4 times; hope I’m still within my daily quota.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Harry!” he snapped. “The purpose of this is to confuse his perceptions – not to anger him further. He needs to see it as sincere offer of cooperation, so no overdoing it or he’ll think it’s just a taunt.”
“Do you even understand how long I’ll have to do this for any results to show?” I whined.
“But when he gets used to the pattern he’ll relax his vigil and you’ll have greater freedom.” He was silent for a few seconds and then added. “On the other hand, you can tell me where to find him and I’ll take care of it the old-fashioned way.”
“Oh no! That’s too harsh even for Morgan.”
I laughed it off but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew he was perfectly serious. Should it have scared me? I don’t know. What did I think about it? …Better not go there.
In the end I did what I’ve always done – took Johnny’s advice and worked on getting into Morgan’s good graces. The process was much harder and took a lot longer then establishing my investigating agency but it had obviously started to pay off. (This ‘cooperation’ business had an unfortunate side-effect: although I now wasn’t really scared of Morgan I couldn’t hate him either. It’s true what they say about understanding people – you just can’t maintain the proper animosity level. Like Johnny said, my parole officer was a man of rules and principles who strictly believed that only the most worthy of wizards were made Wardens and that White Council could do no wrong. And let’s face it, what is easier to accept: that a young punk with a filthy mouth used forbidden magic to kill his mentor or that a respectable member of wizarding society – a Warden himself – managed to fool everyone for years doing Black Magic right under their noses? The struggle of accepting that I may not be all bad was almost pitiful to watch…)
“So…” I hummed in the receiver, “no thoughts on the spell used to kill them?”
“I’ll be watching you, Dresden.” The line went dead.
That parting shot would have induced a great terror in me only couple of years ago but now it was a bit comforting. If I learned one thing during our years of forced cooperation it was that Morgan was fair. If I used Black magic he would kill me. But if someone used Black magic on me he’d as soon kill them.
Although the question of the spell itself still remained open my steps had a bit of spring to them when I hurried to my office.
~!~
At first I wanted to just breeze through Storm Front but then the evil plot twisted itself. I just couldn’t get out of my head that Marcone would definitely do something about the Morgan situation – so here it is. Hopefully I’ll still manage not to get too deep here and finish with SF in the next part…
P.S. I didn’t make it into a cliffhanger, but we all know what’s next, right? Uhhh, I’m nervous… XD
Questions and comments will be highly appreciated
The second thought was must not tell Johnny.
I learned a long time ago that it was not prudent to inform him of my, so to speak, more daring exploits. For the first half-hour he would berate me for foolishness, recklessness and lack of general common sense and then he’d ask me sternly why I told him everything post factum. Somehow he never understood that I simply didn’t have time in the interim – I mean, when you’re running for your life and there’s a slavering monster breathing down your neck you don’t just take a couple of seconds to think ‘hi, Johnny, you won’t believe whom I’ve met today’. My voice of reason was a firm believer in multitasking and though I was willing to admit that he could talk to me and negotiate a deal simultaneously, in my brain the thought ‘OH MY GOD, IT’S GOING TO EAT ME!’ automatically overrode all others.
Two bodies right from the start equals further trouble up ahead so while I was acquainting myself with the insides of a convenient bucket I firmed my mental shield in case that some of my churning thoughts leaked through and alerted my friend to the situation.
My deduction about multiplication of problems was proven correct not half an hour later. At the end of my talk with Murphy I found myself in a classical situation of ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’. I had no desire to recreate the Dark magic responsible for the crime for fear of my own life but I couldn’t very well tell the Head of SI that I had a criminal record – no matter how unrelated to civil law or how justly deserved. That wouldn’t have looked good in my resume and would reflect badly on Lieutenant herself for hiring a lawbreaker as a police consultant. And I wasn’t even going into what the Council would do to me for disclosing it’s existence to a vanilla mortal. On the other hand I was threatened with charges of obstruction – not a pleasant prospect either…
On exiting the hotel I quickly looked around – despite being almost late to my appointment with Monica No-Last-Name I needed to make an urgent call. Spotting a pay-phone I made a quick pat-down for coins and jogged to it.
“Good day, Warden Morgan,” I forced my voice to sound politely innocent.
“Dresden,” came a gruff reply. I knew that it was all I was going to get in way of greetings.
“I take it you already know about a double homicide last night?”
There was a grunt and a cackle of static that I took as an affirmative.
“Am I guilty?”
“There are no other known warlocks in Chicago.” Now, that sounded promising.
“So if I’m already almost convicted, could you possibly do this righteous speech thing and tell me all about how I’ve done it and how it was obvious that it was me from the get go?”
A silence on the other end was so complete that even static feared to interrupt it. I felt that I’ve stepped too far out of line and prepared to backtrack when Morgan grumbled:
“Don’t get cute with me, Dresden.”
I almost dropped the receiver. The reaction was highly unexpected though not entirely unwelcome.
When I moved out of Eb’s place I was ready for all kinds of hardships – but not at all prepared for a gray specter of vengeance with a sharp sword and an attitude problem. That’s nature’s equilibrium for you – to balance Johnny with his concept of permissible self-defense I got Morgan and his ‘warlocks suck and must die’ motto.
“What am I going to do, John?” I moaned after one of the annoyingly frequent meetings with my current nemesis. “It’s like he’s behind every corner I turn with his menacing aura and a drawn sword. I can’t take a breath without him appearing to accuse me of breaking some Law or other! The only time he’d put away his blade was to deliver a nice right hook.”
“Whatever did you say to provoke him?” I got amusement instead of sympathy, which was fundamentally unfair in my opinion.
“Who says I provoked him?”
“I don’t think men like him would do violence without provocation,” Johnny answered with the same mild amusement.
“Men like him? Do you mean homicidal maniacs?”
“Now, Harry, let’s be rational about this. Your Council will never put a maniac to the task of enforcing their will because it’s impossible to control him. People like your parole officer are of a different kind – they strongly believe in rules and very probably have had some experience that elevated that belief to the level of obsession. From your words I’ve gathered that his attitude towards you isn’t based on your crime in particular; he just generally thinks that anyone who broke the Laws of Magic deserves only death.”
“As fun as this impromptu session of psychoanalysis is it doesn’t tell me how to deal with Morgan,” I grumbled.
“You must make him see you as a human being and not just a warlock.”
“Really? I’m showing it every time we met. I’d go as far as to say that my personality shines through bright and clear.”
“While I find your snark cute I’m afraid it’s just reinforcing his negative impression of you.” I bristled at being called cute.
“So what do you say? Should I shut up and play dead?”
“As much as shutting up would benefit you in certain circumstances I don’t believe you’re capable of doing it regularly. I hope you won’t be offended if I make an observation on your patterns of behavior?”
“Go ahead,” I waved my hand though the gesture meant nothing for a person who couldn’t see me.
“When something scares you, you get angry. When you get angry you taunt your enemy. So tell me, are you afraid of Morgan?”
If I was asked this question by any other person I would have vehemently denied any fear I might have had for the Warden. But it was a conversation inside my head, with a man I confided everything in.
“Of course I’ve afraid, Johnny. My life in literally in his hands.”
“Then you must break this chain of reactions.”
“What do you mean? I shouldn’t get angry?”
“No, that’s actually a good coping mechanism.”
“Then what the hell do you want me to do?!” I yelled in exasperation.
“You need to stop getting scared.” I couldn’t help myself – I laughed incredulously. Johnny patiently waited for my mirth to subside. “Or rather, make him stop scaring you,” he clarified. “You say he comes every time something happens? Then you should beat him to it. Notify him of anything remotely magical that you’re involved in; invite him to any questionable rituals you’re going to conduct. Be open – don’t let him suspect you of anything.”
“Hey, that could be fun,” I muttered with a smirk. “Dear Morgan, today I’ve used magic to light my candles no less than 4 times; hope I’m still within my daily quota.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Harry!” he snapped. “The purpose of this is to confuse his perceptions – not to anger him further. He needs to see it as sincere offer of cooperation, so no overdoing it or he’ll think it’s just a taunt.”
“Do you even understand how long I’ll have to do this for any results to show?” I whined.
“But when he gets used to the pattern he’ll relax his vigil and you’ll have greater freedom.” He was silent for a few seconds and then added. “On the other hand, you can tell me where to find him and I’ll take care of it the old-fashioned way.”
“Oh no! That’s too harsh even for Morgan.”
I laughed it off but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew he was perfectly serious. Should it have scared me? I don’t know. What did I think about it? …Better not go there.
In the end I did what I’ve always done – took Johnny’s advice and worked on getting into Morgan’s good graces. The process was much harder and took a lot longer then establishing my investigating agency but it had obviously started to pay off. (This ‘cooperation’ business had an unfortunate side-effect: although I now wasn’t really scared of Morgan I couldn’t hate him either. It’s true what they say about understanding people – you just can’t maintain the proper animosity level. Like Johnny said, my parole officer was a man of rules and principles who strictly believed that only the most worthy of wizards were made Wardens and that White Council could do no wrong. And let’s face it, what is easier to accept: that a young punk with a filthy mouth used forbidden magic to kill his mentor or that a respectable member of wizarding society – a Warden himself – managed to fool everyone for years doing Black Magic right under their noses? The struggle of accepting that I may not be all bad was almost pitiful to watch…)
“So…” I hummed in the receiver, “no thoughts on the spell used to kill them?”
“I’ll be watching you, Dresden.” The line went dead.
That parting shot would have induced a great terror in me only couple of years ago but now it was a bit comforting. If I learned one thing during our years of forced cooperation it was that Morgan was fair. If I used Black magic he would kill me. But if someone used Black magic on me he’d as soon kill them.
Although the question of the spell itself still remained open my steps had a bit of spring to them when I hurried to my office.
At first I wanted to just breeze through Storm Front but then the evil plot twisted itself. I just couldn’t get out of my head that Marcone would definitely do something about the Morgan situation – so here it is. Hopefully I’ll still manage not to get too deep here and finish with SF in the next part…
P.S. I didn’t make it into a cliffhanger, but we all know what’s next, right? Uhhh, I’m nervous… XD
Questions and comments will be highly appreciated
In hindsight I was willing to admit — under duress and extreme torture — that Marcone might have been onto something with his plan-thingy. The place was booby-trapped. It wasn't just the wards helping to keep the White Council out; the whole warehouse was built like a prison. The sigils on the walls, the threshold and the windowsills were specially designed to stop wizards from escaping. My throat was dried with apprehension, not that I was willing to admit it. I'd never seen anything like it before. Whoever this warlock was, vanilla hookers weren't his intended prey.
"This is a trap," I told Marcone.
"Really," he commented dryly, and despite the bleakness of the situation I rolled my eyes at him.
"Phones are out," Cujo said, trying uselessly to make his mobile react in any way. I could've told him that it was useless. The place reeked with dark magic. Not even old, landline phones would've stood a chance. "Now what?"
A deafening roar stopped me from replying. I spun around, holding my blasting rod in a tight grip. Out of the shadows a huge construct leaped at us. "Fuego!" The words were pure instinct. The creature's growl turned into a high-pitched scream as fire consumed it.
"Harry, down," Marcone said. I dropped to my knees and folded on myself, clearing out of Marcone and Hendricks' line of fire. I whirled around in time to see yet another construct charging. Three more stepped forward from between the shadows. They were everywhere: oddly-shaped, saber-toothed cats that made grizzly bears look small. Marcone's and Hendricks' bullets hit their mark but didn't kill them. Nonetheless, they slowed them down enough for me to destroy them with fire. I was grateful for Marcone and Hendricks' presence, which probably gives you an idea of how screwed up we truly were.
We were being swarmed. No matter how many I set on fire, more appeared. It was like fighting a hydra.
Hendricks was the first to go down in a stupid move aimed to save Marcone. I was too busy torching one of the biggest cats, when another attacked Marcone while he was reloading his gun. Cujo stepped in front of it, shoving Marcone out of the way. I wanted to help Hendricks, but two more cats were coming our way. Marcone screamed something unintelligible and emptied his clip on the construct. It shrugged off the bullets as if they were annoying flies and dragged Hendricks away.
It was down to Marcone and me. We fought back to back. I heard the moment when he ran out of bullets and knew that it was over. I had already incinerated over a dozen of creatures, and there were still as many more surrounding us. I used my bracelet to raise a shield around us, pouring my power into it. Screw fighting, we just needed to stay alive until I came up with a better idea.
"I'll distract them," Marcone said to me. "Try to escape and bring back reinforcements."
"Stupid plan," I told him between clenched teeth, concentrating on keeping the shield up. "The place is warded tighter than Queen Mab's personal vault. Believe me, I won't be able to walk out. You have better odds. The wards won't keep vanilla mortals in."
The cats stopped attacking the moment we stopped firing. They sat there, watching us out of their empty black eyes. I was uncomfortably reminded of Mister, when he found a half-dead pigeon particularly entertaining and let it twitch uselessly around, instead of just finishing it off.
"Ms. Dresden," a male voice spoke from the shadows, "what a memorable show. Not even Ms. Gard destroyed as many of my creatures as you did. I see I've chosen right." An old man walked past the cats, stopping just a few feet shy of the shield. The stench of dark magic filled my nostrils.
"Who are you? And what do you want?" Marcone asked.
The warlock's eyes didn't waver away from me when he answered. "What I want? Right now, I just want to offer you a deal, Ms. Dresden."
"What kind of a deal?" I asked, making sure to keep my shield up.
"Give yourself up, and I'll let your friends live," the warlock said.
"I'll take door number two," I said. In my experience, when someone tells you that if you give up they'll spare your friends, believing them only gets you and your friends killed faster.
"I'll swear on my true name and my magic, if you so wish it," he said. "I'm willing to trade their freedom for yours."
That gave me pause. The offer was tempting. I've dealt often enough with faeries to know how to word vows in a way that make the magic work in my favor.
For the most part anyway.
"Harry, don't be stupid! It's a trap," Marcone said.
"Tell me something I don't know," I whispered to him, before addressing the warlock once more. "What do you want with me?" I asked. Regardless of Marcone's lack of confidence in my plans, I was able to be careful every now and then.
"You'll help me finish the Ritual of Panathenaea," he said.
I racked my brain trying to remember where I'd heard those words before. I didn't talk too often with other magic users about rituals, just with Bob, and Bob only shared information about rituals that involved sex. Wait a minute…
"Isn't that the ritual where you sacrifice seven whores and one virgin in exchange for absolute knowledge?" According to Bob, it had been used to create the first Archive. The ritual had been destroyed. Even Bob himself didn't know enough to recreate it. He just remembered the pervy details, but that was Bob for you.
"Interesting. I didn't think anyone but the Archive herself knew about its existence, and she, as all Archives before her, has gone to great lengths to keep it hidden." The warlock cocked his head slightly, watching me hungrily.
"If it's so secret, how did you find about it then?" A girl could ask. Marcone's fingers dug into my forearm in a silent warning. What could I say? I had a rather long name, but careful wasn't any part of it.
The warlock's lips curled. "That's irrelevant. Will you help me in order to save your friends?"
"We both know you're lying," I pointed out. "You need the hookers for the ritual to work."
The smirk on his face widened, twisting into a cruel sneer. "I said I'd free your friends, not the whores. They're nothing to you. Only the Baron and his two bodyguards will be allowed to walk free."
Ah. So that was his angle. "You still haven't told me what you want with me."
"You said it yourself, little wizardess, seven whores and a virgin. You'll do nicely."
I hated it when men thought that having a dick made them bigger somehow. For the record, I can tower over pretty much every man I've ever met, with a few exceptions. I might not have any curves to speak of, but I'm tall, thank you very much. There was nothing little about me.
I was so pissed off that it took me a moment to actually understand what he was implying. "You need to do your research better, honey. I haven't been a virgin for a long while."
He chuckled. "It's there in your aura for everyone to see, if they know what to look for," he said. "Imagine my surprise when I first saw you, prancing through Chicago: a virgin wizardess leaking power all over the place. I knew then that I had to have you, and I will."
Marcone tensed, ready to jump. It was my turn to tighten my grip on his arm. He couldn't loose his cool now. Besides, I didn't need him jumping to my rescue. I was perfectly capable of defending myself.
"Look, asshole, I'm not a virgin. If someone would know, it'd be me. You need to have your Sight checked."
"If you can tell me — under oath — the name of one man you've had sex with, I'll let you and your friends go. I'll even let you take the whores with you," he said.
The memory of Justin's cold hands, sliding over my inner thighs, came unbidden. I forced myself to stay still, even though every muscle in my body wanted to shudder with revulsion. Justin didn't count, though. He'd burned to ashes before he— I cut off the thought with the ease of practice, pushing it down to the deepest corners of my mind.
"Fine, I can't name any males, but that doesn't make me a virgin, just a lesbian. It's not the same thing." I still had the dark blue strap-on Susan had given me for my birthday to prove it.
"For the purpose of this ritual, it is."
When this was over, Bob and I were going to have words. Why did I have an all-knowing spirit, who could read auras, if he wasn't going to warn me about these things? But first things first. "Just to clarify, will you have to take off my clothes to finish this ritual?" An idea was taking shape in my head. Granted, it was a crazy idea, but I had good reason to believe it'd work. I trusted my gut. More than that, I trusted Bob.
The warlock blinked, as if he couldn't quite follow where I was going with this. That was fine, I was hoping that he wouldn't. "Evidently," he said.
"And I assume that part of the ritual involves you helping me get rid of my hetero-normative pseudo-virginity, right?"
He paused. "Yes."
"Is that after or before you kill the sex-workers?"
"The blood of the virgin opens the Path to Wisdom," he said as if quoting from a book. I could even hear the capital letters. Ivy and I were going to have words, too. She should have at least given me a hint that this was coming.
"Unless you use a knife, there won't be any blood to speak of, asshole."
Marcone tensed even further. "Harry," he hissed, you can't…"
I scraped my fingernails over the soft skin of his inner wrist, silencing him. "I'll do what needs to be done. Just like you would." He quieted, and I knew that he got my message. I wasn't going to sacrifice my life uselessly; he would never do that. "All right," I said to the warlock. "I agree to your terms, but I want to see Hendricks and Sigrun first, alive, or not deal."
He nodded. Two of the constructs moved away and came back minutes later, dragging an unconscious Hendricks and a struggling Sigrun between their huge teeth. They dropped them on the floor. Sigrun lurched into an attack, naked, beautiful, but before she could so much as touch the warlock an invisible wave of magic slapped her down, forcing her to stay on the floor. She struggled like a berserker to not avail.
"Enough!" I snapped, unable to watch any further. "Let's get this show on the road. You let my friends go, and I won't use my magic to burn you down to ashes when you try to rape me." I dropped my shield and stood up, keeping my blasting rod aimed between the two of us. "I want a vow swore upon your true name."
Marcone was probably frothing at the mouth with rage. I didn't need telepathic powers to know that he was calling me all kind of idiots in his mind. I glanced at Sigrun. Strangely enough, she'd stopped struggling and was watching me with curiosity.
"You will cooperate, then?" The warlock looked unsure.
"I will not actively fight you," I corrected the warlock, being careful to enunciate each word. I did have a faery godmother, after all. Words had power.
--------
Note: Sorry for the long delay. Work Project of Doom is over, though. I should be able to update more frequently again.
"This is a trap," I told Marcone.
"Really," he commented dryly, and despite the bleakness of the situation I rolled my eyes at him.
"Phones are out," Cujo said, trying uselessly to make his mobile react in any way. I could've told him that it was useless. The place reeked with dark magic. Not even old, landline phones would've stood a chance. "Now what?"
A deafening roar stopped me from replying. I spun around, holding my blasting rod in a tight grip. Out of the shadows a huge construct leaped at us. "Fuego!" The words were pure instinct. The creature's growl turned into a high-pitched scream as fire consumed it.
"Harry, down," Marcone said. I dropped to my knees and folded on myself, clearing out of Marcone and Hendricks' line of fire. I whirled around in time to see yet another construct charging. Three more stepped forward from between the shadows. They were everywhere: oddly-shaped, saber-toothed cats that made grizzly bears look small. Marcone's and Hendricks' bullets hit their mark but didn't kill them. Nonetheless, they slowed them down enough for me to destroy them with fire. I was grateful for Marcone and Hendricks' presence, which probably gives you an idea of how screwed up we truly were.
We were being swarmed. No matter how many I set on fire, more appeared. It was like fighting a hydra.
Hendricks was the first to go down in a stupid move aimed to save Marcone. I was too busy torching one of the biggest cats, when another attacked Marcone while he was reloading his gun. Cujo stepped in front of it, shoving Marcone out of the way. I wanted to help Hendricks, but two more cats were coming our way. Marcone screamed something unintelligible and emptied his clip on the construct. It shrugged off the bullets as if they were annoying flies and dragged Hendricks away.
It was down to Marcone and me. We fought back to back. I heard the moment when he ran out of bullets and knew that it was over. I had already incinerated over a dozen of creatures, and there were still as many more surrounding us. I used my bracelet to raise a shield around us, pouring my power into it. Screw fighting, we just needed to stay alive until I came up with a better idea.
"I'll distract them," Marcone said to me. "Try to escape and bring back reinforcements."
"Stupid plan," I told him between clenched teeth, concentrating on keeping the shield up. "The place is warded tighter than Queen Mab's personal vault. Believe me, I won't be able to walk out. You have better odds. The wards won't keep vanilla mortals in."
The cats stopped attacking the moment we stopped firing. They sat there, watching us out of their empty black eyes. I was uncomfortably reminded of Mister, when he found a half-dead pigeon particularly entertaining and let it twitch uselessly around, instead of just finishing it off.
"Ms. Dresden," a male voice spoke from the shadows, "what a memorable show. Not even Ms. Gard destroyed as many of my creatures as you did. I see I've chosen right." An old man walked past the cats, stopping just a few feet shy of the shield. The stench of dark magic filled my nostrils.
"Who are you? And what do you want?" Marcone asked.
The warlock's eyes didn't waver away from me when he answered. "What I want? Right now, I just want to offer you a deal, Ms. Dresden."
"What kind of a deal?" I asked, making sure to keep my shield up.
"Give yourself up, and I'll let your friends live," the warlock said.
"I'll take door number two," I said. In my experience, when someone tells you that if you give up they'll spare your friends, believing them only gets you and your friends killed faster.
"I'll swear on my true name and my magic, if you so wish it," he said. "I'm willing to trade their freedom for yours."
That gave me pause. The offer was tempting. I've dealt often enough with faeries to know how to word vows in a way that make the magic work in my favor.
For the most part anyway.
"Harry, don't be stupid! It's a trap," Marcone said.
"Tell me something I don't know," I whispered to him, before addressing the warlock once more. "What do you want with me?" I asked. Regardless of Marcone's lack of confidence in my plans, I was able to be careful every now and then.
"You'll help me finish the Ritual of Panathenaea," he said.
I racked my brain trying to remember where I'd heard those words before. I didn't talk too often with other magic users about rituals, just with Bob, and Bob only shared information about rituals that involved sex. Wait a minute…
"Isn't that the ritual where you sacrifice seven whores and one virgin in exchange for absolute knowledge?" According to Bob, it had been used to create the first Archive. The ritual had been destroyed. Even Bob himself didn't know enough to recreate it. He just remembered the pervy details, but that was Bob for you.
"Interesting. I didn't think anyone but the Archive herself knew about its existence, and she, as all Archives before her, has gone to great lengths to keep it hidden." The warlock cocked his head slightly, watching me hungrily.
"If it's so secret, how did you find about it then?" A girl could ask. Marcone's fingers dug into my forearm in a silent warning. What could I say? I had a rather long name, but careful wasn't any part of it.
The warlock's lips curled. "That's irrelevant. Will you help me in order to save your friends?"
"We both know you're lying," I pointed out. "You need the hookers for the ritual to work."
The smirk on his face widened, twisting into a cruel sneer. "I said I'd free your friends, not the whores. They're nothing to you. Only the Baron and his two bodyguards will be allowed to walk free."
Ah. So that was his angle. "You still haven't told me what you want with me."
"You said it yourself, little wizardess, seven whores and a virgin. You'll do nicely."
I hated it when men thought that having a dick made them bigger somehow. For the record, I can tower over pretty much every man I've ever met, with a few exceptions. I might not have any curves to speak of, but I'm tall, thank you very much. There was nothing little about me.
I was so pissed off that it took me a moment to actually understand what he was implying. "You need to do your research better, honey. I haven't been a virgin for a long while."
He chuckled. "It's there in your aura for everyone to see, if they know what to look for," he said. "Imagine my surprise when I first saw you, prancing through Chicago: a virgin wizardess leaking power all over the place. I knew then that I had to have you, and I will."
Marcone tensed, ready to jump. It was my turn to tighten my grip on his arm. He couldn't loose his cool now. Besides, I didn't need him jumping to my rescue. I was perfectly capable of defending myself.
"Look, asshole, I'm not a virgin. If someone would know, it'd be me. You need to have your Sight checked."
"If you can tell me — under oath — the name of one man you've had sex with, I'll let you and your friends go. I'll even let you take the whores with you," he said.
The memory of Justin's cold hands, sliding over my inner thighs, came unbidden. I forced myself to stay still, even though every muscle in my body wanted to shudder with revulsion. Justin didn't count, though. He'd burned to ashes before he— I cut off the thought with the ease of practice, pushing it down to the deepest corners of my mind.
"Fine, I can't name any males, but that doesn't make me a virgin, just a lesbian. It's not the same thing." I still had the dark blue strap-on Susan had given me for my birthday to prove it.
"For the purpose of this ritual, it is."
When this was over, Bob and I were going to have words. Why did I have an all-knowing spirit, who could read auras, if he wasn't going to warn me about these things? But first things first. "Just to clarify, will you have to take off my clothes to finish this ritual?" An idea was taking shape in my head. Granted, it was a crazy idea, but I had good reason to believe it'd work. I trusted my gut. More than that, I trusted Bob.
The warlock blinked, as if he couldn't quite follow where I was going with this. That was fine, I was hoping that he wouldn't. "Evidently," he said.
"And I assume that part of the ritual involves you helping me get rid of my hetero-normative pseudo-virginity, right?"
He paused. "Yes."
"Is that after or before you kill the sex-workers?"
"The blood of the virgin opens the Path to Wisdom," he said as if quoting from a book. I could even hear the capital letters. Ivy and I were going to have words, too. She should have at least given me a hint that this was coming.
"Unless you use a knife, there won't be any blood to speak of, asshole."
Marcone tensed even further. "Harry," he hissed, you can't…"
I scraped my fingernails over the soft skin of his inner wrist, silencing him. "I'll do what needs to be done. Just like you would." He quieted, and I knew that he got my message. I wasn't going to sacrifice my life uselessly; he would never do that. "All right," I said to the warlock. "I agree to your terms, but I want to see Hendricks and Sigrun first, alive, or not deal."
He nodded. Two of the constructs moved away and came back minutes later, dragging an unconscious Hendricks and a struggling Sigrun between their huge teeth. They dropped them on the floor. Sigrun lurched into an attack, naked, beautiful, but before she could so much as touch the warlock an invisible wave of magic slapped her down, forcing her to stay on the floor. She struggled like a berserker to not avail.
"Enough!" I snapped, unable to watch any further. "Let's get this show on the road. You let my friends go, and I won't use my magic to burn you down to ashes when you try to rape me." I dropped my shield and stood up, keeping my blasting rod aimed between the two of us. "I want a vow swore upon your true name."
Marcone was probably frothing at the mouth with rage. I didn't need telepathic powers to know that he was calling me all kind of idiots in his mind. I glanced at Sigrun. Strangely enough, she'd stopped struggling and was watching me with curiosity.
"You will cooperate, then?" The warlock looked unsure.
"I will not actively fight you," I corrected the warlock, being careful to enunciate each word. I did have a faery godmother, after all. Words had power.
--------
Note: Sorry for the long delay. Work Project of Doom is over, though. I should be able to update more frequently again.
You guys are awesome! I'm so glad you like this idea! Also, sorry about the delay. I got sucked into the Inception kinkmeme (just reading, thank goodness!) and had to dig my way out via massive Arthur/Eames viking AUs.
John had put up very little fight at the prospect of a trip to Chicago. Sherlock had tidily wrapped up Victor in his old box, including the tawdry romance novel that had been packaged with him. He had used Mycroft’s credit card to purchase business class tickets to Chicago. He hated to fly coach. (Sherlock completely ignored Mycrofts texts to be careful. Mycroft always sent texts like that, and they were uniformly useless and boring.)
They arrived at O’Hare in midafternoon, and made quick work of customs. Dresden had probably expected a return letter before Sherlock’s arrival, but Dresden was completely lacking in email or texting capability. As Sherlock hated talking on the phone, he hadn’t bothered to call. But he knew where Dresden’s office was - the ad had gone missing from the phone book for as long as Sherlock had been keeping Victor, but it had recently been republished in the online version of this year’s business pages with a new address. The taxi took them to a slightly seedy area of town, but the walk up to Dresden’s office was clean and mostly free of graffiti. The door was unprepossessing, but the lettering was shiny and new. Harry Dresden, Wizard.
“Is he serious?” John asked behind Sherlock. The long flight had left John more vulnerable than usual to his psychosomatic limp, and he was leaning a little heavily on his cane.
“Yes, he is entirely serious. And yet, when I met him he was certainly not a madman,” Sherlock was focused on the door itself. He had not made the exhaustive study of Chicago that he had of London, of course, and he could not deduce much from traces of mud on the carpets or the threshold. There were fresh heel gouges, of the kind made by a woman in stilettos. Bending down, he could see a glimpse of tarnished silver underneath the door, and from the new vantage point he could see the frame had been scratched in a regular pattern - not the runes that decorated the box he was holding, but a sigil that Sherlock couldn’t identify. He took a snapshot of one of them with his camera for later.
“Sherlock. Stop investigating and give the wizard back his skull,” John interrupted, and leaned around him to push open the office door.
There was one desk in the room, and Dresden was slouched behind it. He had jerked up at the sound of the door, but was still holding onto a cheap paperback. He was understandably shocked to see them.
“Sherlock Holmes? I mean, uh, I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon,” Dresden rose to greet them. “And you have Bob?”
“You named it Bob?” Sherlock graciously repressed the sneer that wanted to come out, but he needn’t have bothered.
“None of that, Sherlock. You named it Victor, after all.” John stepped forward into the office behind Sherlock. “Have you put a ring of silver around the walls of your office?” He peered at Dresden curiously.
“Safety precaution,” Dresden said nonsensically. He took the box from Sherlock, and opened it to unwrap the skull. He smiled to see it, and as he held his hand over it, the skull changed. Sherlock’s eyes widened involuntarily as the skull went from the delicate ivory of the recently dead to a darker, yellowed tone with intricate carvings in a darker brown. Victor was considerably older than Sherlock had thought, and though Sherlock could think of several ways to hide the indicators of age he certainly could not have removed the camouflage so smoothly and thoroughly. And Sherlock had held the skull, knew precisely the feel and heft of it - it had not been coated in wax, or putty, or coloring of any kind. (Even if it had, there should have been no way for Dresden to remove them without even touching the skull!)
“Boss! Thank goodness. This one has even less sex than you do, and I honestly hadn’t thought that was possible. And the murders were mostly boring, and he didn’t even give me any new reading material!”
John had put up very little fight at the prospect of a trip to Chicago. Sherlock had tidily wrapped up Victor in his old box, including the tawdry romance novel that had been packaged with him. He had used Mycroft’s credit card to purchase business class tickets to Chicago. He hated to fly coach. (Sherlock completely ignored Mycrofts texts to be careful. Mycroft always sent texts like that, and they were uniformly useless and boring.)
They arrived at O’Hare in midafternoon, and made quick work of customs. Dresden had probably expected a return letter before Sherlock’s arrival, but Dresden was completely lacking in email or texting capability. As Sherlock hated talking on the phone, he hadn’t bothered to call. But he knew where Dresden’s office was - the ad had gone missing from the phone book for as long as Sherlock had been keeping Victor, but it had recently been republished in the online version of this year’s business pages with a new address. The taxi took them to a slightly seedy area of town, but the walk up to Dresden’s office was clean and mostly free of graffiti. The door was unprepossessing, but the lettering was shiny and new. Harry Dresden, Wizard.
“Is he serious?” John asked behind Sherlock. The long flight had left John more vulnerable than usual to his psychosomatic limp, and he was leaning a little heavily on his cane.
“Yes, he is entirely serious. And yet, when I met him he was certainly not a madman,” Sherlock was focused on the door itself. He had not made the exhaustive study of Chicago that he had of London, of course, and he could not deduce much from traces of mud on the carpets or the threshold. There were fresh heel gouges, of the kind made by a woman in stilettos. Bending down, he could see a glimpse of tarnished silver underneath the door, and from the new vantage point he could see the frame had been scratched in a regular pattern - not the runes that decorated the box he was holding, but a sigil that Sherlock couldn’t identify. He took a snapshot of one of them with his camera for later.
“Sherlock. Stop investigating and give the wizard back his skull,” John interrupted, and leaned around him to push open the office door.
There was one desk in the room, and Dresden was slouched behind it. He had jerked up at the sound of the door, but was still holding onto a cheap paperback. He was understandably shocked to see them.
“Sherlock Holmes? I mean, uh, I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon,” Dresden rose to greet them. “And you have Bob?”
“You named it Bob?” Sherlock graciously repressed the sneer that wanted to come out, but he needn’t have bothered.
“None of that, Sherlock. You named it Victor, after all.” John stepped forward into the office behind Sherlock. “Have you put a ring of silver around the walls of your office?” He peered at Dresden curiously.
“Safety precaution,” Dresden said nonsensically. He took the box from Sherlock, and opened it to unwrap the skull. He smiled to see it, and as he held his hand over it, the skull changed. Sherlock’s eyes widened involuntarily as the skull went from the delicate ivory of the recently dead to a darker, yellowed tone with intricate carvings in a darker brown. Victor was considerably older than Sherlock had thought, and though Sherlock could think of several ways to hide the indicators of age he certainly could not have removed the camouflage so smoothly and thoroughly. And Sherlock had held the skull, knew precisely the feel and heft of it - it had not been coated in wax, or putty, or coloring of any kind. (Even if it had, there should have been no way for Dresden to remove them without even touching the skull!)
“Boss! Thank goodness. This one has even less sex than you do, and I honestly hadn’t thought that was possible. And the murders were mostly boring, and he didn’t even give me any new reading material!”
LMAO, I don't think Harry understands that John wants to be informed about the trouble before he has to run/fight for his life.
Awesome. I love Marcone's barely held-back rage. And I love Harry's careful wording.
Sigrun will have more of an idea of what Harry is up to, given that she's part of the magical community.
Sigrun will have more of an idea of what Harry is up to, given that she's part of the magical community.
hetero-normative pseudo-virginity
I MUST MAKE MORE USE OF THIS TERM IN DAILY LIFE
(Also, uh, enjoying the fill?)
I MUST MAKE MORE USE OF THIS TERM IN DAILY LIFE
(Also, uh, enjoying the fill?)
This is so, so awesome! God Marcone as a woman, controlling the Mafia through Vargassi and sex appeal just rocks my world.
Sherlock was having A Moment. Once in a great while, Sherlock would discover or observe something huge, something world changing. Something that required incorporating into his previous experiences, that made him look at the world from a new angle. Previous moments had included the moment he solved his first mystery (age four), the moment he realized Mycroft was not infallible (age seven) and the moment he realized he would never fit properly into regular society without stifling himself and promptly decided not to try (age 18). He had thought, when John walked out of the pool house shadows speaking Moriarty’s words, that he would have another - and he did, though it did not end up concerning John’s sideline as a criminal mastermind but instead that John’s continued well-being was essential to Sherlock’s own happiness.
And now he was having another. Harry Dresden claimed to be a wizard, and Dresden was neither mad nor fraudulent. Dresden had changed the appearance of an object beyond the ability of Sherlock’s chemistry to imitate. Said object appeared to have an immaterial inhabitant that allowed it slight motion and some kind of phosphorescence. It would have looked like a cheap Hollywood special effect, if Sherlock had not known with absolute certainty that the skull contained no hidden tricks. Sherlock could see it firsthand: magic was real. Which meant the shadowy monster on the FBI's grainy video was also likely real, and there might be a rather unusual explanation for how Dresden had solved a few of his particularly clever cases.
Sherlock needs more information. He needs to know how this will effect his own cases, what to look for when he is searching for clues. There's a whole subset of data that he may have been misinterpreting or ignoring completely, he needs to pick over Dresden's entire brain right now. But before he could demand that Dresden provide this, they were joined by another American.
"Mr. Dresden. Now that your offices are once again open for business," the stranger cut himself off. "Captain Watson?" The newcomer was shocked beyond his clearly-not-inconsiderable ability to disguise. (Shorter than Dresden, and a bit older; greying at his temples. Part of his left ear has been ripped brutally away. There is a concealed pistol under his very expensive suit jacket and a knife at his ankle. These defenses are secondary to the burly redhead behind him wearing a surprisingly well tailored suit for someone who is clearly - to Sherlock - a criminal enforcer. He had dismissed the rumors that Dresden was affiliated with Chicago's criminal element. Now, caught between Dresden's expression - as though he is smelling something foul unexpectedly - and this upper level mob boss' casual tone of address, Sherlock needs more data.)
John was as startled as the stranger, his eyes widening a fraction, "Sergeant -" but he was cut off by Dresden.
"John," Dresden's tone was deliberately insolent, "I do believe I told you never to darken my doorstep again."
"I. John?" John looked from Dresden to the stranger, the question clear in his voice.
"Allow me to introduce Gentleman Johnny Marcone. Now, scumbag, get out of my office."
"Gentleman Johnny?" John's voice was strangled. Sherlock glanced between John and Marcone. Marcone was dodging John’s eyes, and slowly, he blushed. His skin was a touch olive - most people who weren’t Sherlock would never notice. John was not so fortunate, and the bright pink flush that rose on his cheeks was obvious to even the casual observer.
And now he was having another. Harry Dresden claimed to be a wizard, and Dresden was neither mad nor fraudulent. Dresden had changed the appearance of an object beyond the ability of Sherlock’s chemistry to imitate. Said object appeared to have an immaterial inhabitant that allowed it slight motion and some kind of phosphorescence. It would have looked like a cheap Hollywood special effect, if Sherlock had not known with absolute certainty that the skull contained no hidden tricks. Sherlock could see it firsthand: magic was real. Which meant the shadowy monster on the FBI's grainy video was also likely real, and there might be a rather unusual explanation for how Dresden had solved a few of his particularly clever cases.
Sherlock needs more information. He needs to know how this will effect his own cases, what to look for when he is searching for clues. There's a whole subset of data that he may have been misinterpreting or ignoring completely, he needs to pick over Dresden's entire brain right now. But before he could demand that Dresden provide this, they were joined by another American.
"Mr. Dresden. Now that your offices are once again open for business," the stranger cut himself off. "Captain Watson?" The newcomer was shocked beyond his clearly-not-inconsiderable ability to disguise. (Shorter than Dresden, and a bit older; greying at his temples. Part of his left ear has been ripped brutally away. There is a concealed pistol under his very expensive suit jacket and a knife at his ankle. These defenses are secondary to the burly redhead behind him wearing a surprisingly well tailored suit for someone who is clearly - to Sherlock - a criminal enforcer. He had dismissed the rumors that Dresden was affiliated with Chicago's criminal element. Now, caught between Dresden's expression - as though he is smelling something foul unexpectedly - and this upper level mob boss' casual tone of address, Sherlock needs more data.)
John was as startled as the stranger, his eyes widening a fraction, "Sergeant -" but he was cut off by Dresden.
"John," Dresden's tone was deliberately insolent, "I do believe I told you never to darken my doorstep again."
"I. John?" John looked from Dresden to the stranger, the question clear in his voice.
"Allow me to introduce Gentleman Johnny Marcone. Now, scumbag, get out of my office."
"Gentleman Johnny?" John's voice was strangled. Sherlock glanced between John and Marcone. Marcone was dodging John’s eyes, and slowly, he blushed. His skin was a touch olive - most people who weren’t Sherlock would never notice. John was not so fortunate, and the bright pink flush that rose on his cheeks was obvious to even the casual observer.
OMG. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
Oh thank God, I was afraid you had abandoned this. And it is waaay too awesome to be abandoned. Marcone being crazy, Harry not thinking about Justin, the whole setup *hands*.
Re: Fill: Island Getaway 2/2 aka Bad Angel III - Public Humiliation prompt
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
akelios.livejournal.com
2011-03-29 01:54 am (UTC)(link)
*lol* I'm glad that you liked these.
Ah, the whole series is up on my lj.
http://akelios.livejournal.com/tag/bad%20angel
There're two more parts after this one, though the fifth part doesn't have any actual Harry torture. Just some memories of it.
Also, at the risk of feeling like I'm pimping myself here, I wrote one other Nicodemus/Harry torture fic, Hard Sell Tactics:
http://akelios.livejournal.com/8632.html
which I keep meaning to write the sequel to.
Ah, the whole series is up on my lj.
http://akelios.livejournal.com/tag/bad%20angel
There're two more parts after this one, though the fifth part doesn't have any actual Harry torture. Just some memories of it.
Also, at the risk of feeling like I'm pimping myself here, I wrote one other Nicodemus/Harry torture fic, Hard Sell Tactics:
http://akelios.livejournal.com/8632.html
which I keep meaning to write the sequel to.
NEEDS MOAR.
But yes, so much awesome crammed in here. And was that a deliberate interruption I see here, Harry? What? What? :D Harry, you sneaky devil you.
And Sherlock's brain turnover is so much fun. There's a whole subset of data that he may have been misinterpreting or ignoring completely, he needs to pick over Dresden's entire brain right now. HAHAHA Sherlock, you poor put-upon genius NOT.
But yes, so much awesome crammed in here. And was that a deliberate interruption I see here, Harry? What? What? :D Harry, you sneaky devil you.
And Sherlock's brain turnover is so much fun. There's a whole subset of data that he may have been misinterpreting or ignoring completely, he needs to pick over Dresden's entire brain right now. HAHAHA Sherlock, you poor put-upon genius NOT.
“So if I’m already almost convicted, could you possibly do this righteous speech thing and tell me all about how I’ve done it and how it was obvious that it was me from the get go?” <-- BEST. TACTIC. EVER.
If only he could solve all his cases this way. 'Twould make his life so much easier.
*gasp* And is the day of reckoning at hand? Are they going to meet? *clutches pillow to self* F5F5F5F5F5F5F5
If only he could solve all his cases this way. 'Twould make his life so much easier.
*gasp* And is the day of reckoning at hand? Are they going to meet? *clutches pillow to self* F5F5F5F5F5F5F5
I remember that prompt! I was so disappointed when no one filled it--it would have been amazing.
Harry. So oblivious, regardless of gender. Of course John would be furious. And I bet her confusion only set him off even more.
And his conversation with Lea just makes me wriggle with glee. Lea does the Shovel Talk. Mere words cannot encompass this kind of awesome.
And his conversation with Lea just makes me wriggle with glee. Lea does the Shovel Talk. Mere words cannot encompass this kind of awesome.
Something about Marcone not having pierced ears just makes her that much more awesome. I don't even know.
But yes, I agree with the others--Harry, you are so doomed. She will eat you alive and you will like it (and not even in the naughty way). Just give up.
But yes, I agree with the others--Harry, you are so doomed. She will eat you alive and you will like it (and not even in the naughty way). Just give up.
Seconded! Thanks for the update! So happy so see more.
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