scribe_protra | Round 2 is closed.

(author from other fill) *cackles*

Hendricks/Dresden Kink:FackFucking, Blowjob, Penetration(Optional), Dub-Con, Huge!Cock

WinterKnight!Dresden and SexKitten!Dresden is optional.

Hendricks and Harry gets separted from the others during a fight and they both discover that Hendricks has been poisoned/cursed. The only way to save him is intimate contact in order to transfer magic into him to clear it out and for Harry to extract it. OP perfer an Harry who's more open about sex if it's WinterKnight!Dresden.

Bonus if it's in Hendricks' POV, and that afterwards, he's uncomfortable/awkward b/c although he tries to play it off as something necessary, he's finds it weird that he now has an attraction to Harry, yet feels like roughing him up at the same time. :D

Bonus#2 Maybe Gard notices, but Marcone doesn't so she teases him. If they're in a relationship, maybe suggests to invite Harry? Y/N?

Mister is magical. When Harry is hurt bad enough, Mister transforms to his true form to defend his human.

Gen preferred, but slash (Marcone/Dresden) is okay too.

Baron Marcone and the Queen of WInter are at war. Marcone kidnaps The Winter Knight and locks him in his panic room.

Marcone/Dresden

Everyone/Dresden Anyone/Dresden Theme: Selfish Cock-Blocking

You know how tense Harry is b/c he hasn't had any for a really long time? His aura reflects that so since he's constantly pouring out power, he doesn't realize that he's basically giving "FUCK ME" signs to everybody.

Character of your choice notices and purposes cock-blocks Harry subtly or not, and loves making Harry even more fustrated until CoC can takes his/her time unwinding Harry and either enjoying/feeding on his excess energy which is pouring out from his orgasm.

Then CoC does it all over again. :D It's also in CoC POV.

Bonus if other characters notice, but Harry doesn't.

Kink: Biting/Marking, Cockring, Controlled Orgasm, Intense Orgasm, Bondage, SexKitten!Sex, Multiple Rounds

Harry+Ivy, Gen Optional Kincaid/Dresden

They either take therapy together or help each other after Small Favors.

Cue Harry and Ivy spending more time together with Kincaid like a family (possible Kincaid/Dresden pairing) and them sharing their feelings about always wanting a family.

Bonus if on a day like Christmas or whatever, Harry gives a lot of animal plush related gifts to Ivy and gives a soft plush gun/glock for Kincaid.(Reference to the Teddy!Glock in Small Favors).

Can I please get a John Marcone/Harry Dresden fic based on Sky Ferreira's song "Obsession" anon?

"Ain't nothing wrong with OCD
'Long as it's for me, 'long as it's for me."

Umm, my only knowledge of Pernod comes from fusion fics, but I'm intrigued. What's the deal with tentpegs?

The Butters in your head makes me grin real big. Was quite happy to see another part of this!

From what I've found on the interwebs: the author is attributed to a story saying having something inserted into the anus makes men gay, which she supports with an anecdote of a friend who was penetrated with a tent peg. Hopefully with lube.

Snopes.com could neither confirm nor deny, so it could just be a wild rumor.

[A/N: Love the Erlking! By the way, following a recent Round 1 discussion about comments said by J. Butcher in dragoncon about the Erlking, will not be referencing them here as I consider them spoilers.]

I am wind, I am flight.

Beneath me the brumag shakes ice from the mist of its mane and screams, all anger and challenge, and I join my voice to it, all wild magic and insanity’s touch, my arms locked tight around its neck and my knees jammed into its ribs. It snorts steam from its muzzle and the spittle from its fanged mouth hisses as it touches the snow; muscles bunch and twist as we clear an icy stream, dodge the grasping branches of a dead oak tree, and bursts out into a frozen glen, all drumming black hooves and winterfyre. Behind us, I hear the hounds, baying as they close in around us, and the distant rumbling snarl of the Lord of the Hunt.

I press my knees again into the brumag’s ribs, urging it forward. The ground shifts beneath its hooves, but it surges up the slove, snorting and growling, its wild, proud mind mine for this Hunt. We burst over the embankment of snow, and it pauses, the burning blue orbs of its eyes flaring; far across the Treacher Steppes lies Winter’s skirts and the end of the Hunt’s domain. Home.

Some small, still-human part of me shivers and shouts, but the rest of me is swept in the brumag’s triumphant cry as it lunges over the embankment, slip-sliding down the steep slope towards the shifting ice of the Steppes. I hear horns, I hear snap-snarl words of commands and the crackle of pennants behind me, the gurgling growls of goblins. The hounds are howling now, closing in, and I twist on the brumag’s back to balance myself, raising my staff.

The first dog that bounds for us catches a fuego in the muzzle; ever Winter’s creature, the brumag bucks and shrieks in skittish fear, but I have a death grip on its mane as I repeat its true name in a rasping growl over the ice of its wake and it subsides, charging for the Steppes. The second hound I punch aside with a quick forzare, and the brumag screams and snaps its head to the side, snake-quick, to tear out the throat of the third without even breaking its stride.

After that, we stop finessing. Rings, bracelets, hell, I even had to club a hound aside with my staff, no spells involved; biting and kicking, we break from the leading pack, my arms bloody to the elbows in blood, the brumag’s ice blue fur staining maroon over its jaws and hooves. Arrows whistle down, only to break themselves on my shield bracelet’s barrier, and we’re outdistancing the hunters now, the hounds hesitating at the edges of the Steppes, so close to Winter’s borders. We’re nearly-

Something big lands on my back and slams me off the brumag. I scream, all primal fear and rage, scratching and kicking before I remember my rings, but they’re spent, my bracelets, and then I land on my back in the snow, the breath knocked out of me, a giant paw pressed down heavily on my throat.

The brumag turns, skittish and snorting, but the great gray, horned wolf with the amber eyes snarls, and it’s a primal sound, hot-wired to the memory of the cave-man in my soul, the memory of the old dark and the unknowable death within it. I freeze, and the brumag rears, pawing the air, then it whirls and thunders away towards the Steppes.

When I look back up, the wolf has blurred back into the Erlking, all eight feet, barbarian kitch of him, shaggy hair loose over his broad shoulders and his eyes wild embers within his horned helm. He has a big hand around my throat, and he squeezes, silent and grim, watching me buck and choke and claw at his wrists as he tosses my staff to the side, contemptuous, then allows me a gasp of air as he flips me onto my chest. There’ll be a ring of bruises around my neck tomorrow, and I choke out wheezing breaths as I try to form the words of power.

The Erlking drags off my duster, then somehow manages to work on the buckles of my belt as I twist and snarl and try to kick him. He ignores my blows, or maybe he isn’t even aware of them. Behind us, the hounds mill and snarl, circling, but the goblins have retreated to form a snarling, skittering audience back in the line of dead trees.

“We’re in full sight of Winter,” I manage to rasp, buzzed on adrenaline and the rich, layered texture of the Erlking’s own wild magic, twisted and entwined around me. “She isn’t going to like this.”

The Erlking makes a barking sound, an ugly sort of laugh, even as he pulls my pants down to my knees, pressing my swelling dick into the snow. Maybe because of Winter’s mantle, or maybe it’s the Erlking’s magic, but I don’t even feel the cold in anything but a vaguely visceral way, like a memory of ice, and it somehow sharpens my arousal rather than killing it. I moan, twisting, but the Erlking holds me down with one big hand, the other coming up slick and cool as a big finger presses roughly into me.

“Fuck!” I jerk bodily in his grasp, clawing at the snow. It hurts, but not physically; it’s like touching a magic socket, a shock of pure, wild energy. I don’t feel the stretch, or the friction from it, only the heightened spike of utter sensation; I’m vaguely aware that I’m pushing back, whimpering, wanting more, and the Erlking is laughing again, that harsh, barking sound. I’m about to be taken on the snow in full view of Winter.

Somehow, that doesn’t piss me off as much as it should.

“A good chase,” the Erlking’s rumbling voice is taut, like the eve of a storm, and his big, rough fingers burn as he strokes them up my flanks and back down, like he’s trying to calm down an animal. “You were close. The brumag was a good touch.”

“Shut up and let’s get this over with,” I snap back at him, and there’s that heartbeat of time that I get around Him, where I’m not sure if his next reaction would be to laugh or to pull my head off my shoulders. He laughs, and I tense, indignant, only for him to shove another big finger inside me and curl and twist until I’m bucking and whimpering for it like a bitch. Around to my right, one of the hounds snaps its jaws shut and growls, and the Erlking answers, in a guttural rumble that makes my toes curl tight in my boots and the hair stand all the way up on my arms.

That’s usually when the Erlking decides he’s bored with foreplay; I gather animals don’t usually go for foreplay, and the Erlking has more in common with his hounds and whatever it was gave him the horns on his helm than the shape that he wears. When he pushes into me, his hands like iron bands on my hips and his massive cock impossibly, inexorably forcing its way into my flesh he does it bent over my back, breathing roughly against the back of my neck, the edges of his horned helm digging into my arched shoulders, and if not for the faceguard he’d have torn up the nape of my neck with his teeth.

Whatever slick that the Erlking conjures does the work, or maybe it’s because we’re here, in the seat of his power. Out back in Chicago, taking something this big would have torn me bloody, particularly with the Erlking’s cavalier approach to preparation. Here, I brace myself on the melting snow and try to twist up against it, the toes of my shoes digging down, and the Erlking grunts, growls, and drags me up until I’m flush against him, his large, heavy balls pushed tight against mine.

Up close, the Erlking feels like a furnace, he gives out so much heat that I’m surprised the snow doesn’t melt away in a circle around him. I’m so full that I’m dizzy from it, almost fainting, I’m losing control of Winter’s mantle and my fingers are sheathed in a thin glove of ice, and I’m shaking all over, uncontrollably. The Erlking purrs, like he’s enjoying the magic - my magic, the asshole - and then he growls, deep and primal, when I angrily push myself up against him, trying to roll my hips.

I’ll tell myself later that it’s only because the faster it starts, the faster it ends, but the Erlking holds me up and drives sharply into me, then again, and the scream that I’ve been biting down wells up all at once.

The Erlking fucks like a hound, all grunts and snarls and sharp, ramming jerks of his hips, lust as part of a primal, mating drive rather than love's pleasure; he doesn't bother to try and get me off, and I don't care for it, not when I’m like this, facedown in the snow and wild for it, all in front of his Court. I’m making sounds like a wounded animal, harsh and high and sharp, and I can tell that it’s turning him on. Him, the Erlking, hissing and growling as he hardensgodsdamnimpossibly more and forces me to take all of him, more of him, and I think I’m dying, I can’t breathe, the wildness of his magic in a roar of absolute sensation in all of my senses.

He slows, rocking in, when I shudder and break, big hands petting up and down again. I try to tell him I’m not some sort of pet, Stars, but all I can do is rasp out something unintelligible, dazed by the afterglow. The bastard laughs, turns me onto my back, and pulls my ankles up over his big arms, then he drags my thighs open so wide that I sob and struggle in his grasp. I’m not sure when he got rid of the rest of my clothes. “Please.” I’m begging, Stars and stones. “Please.”

He whispers the words to me in the oldest tongue of the wyldfae, long forgotten by the ladies of Summer and Winter, mockingly, and seems amused when I try to pronounce them, I’m so far past thinking straight. Then he pulls me back up as he thrusts down into me and I’m past thinking altogether.

Time moves anyway that the Erlking wants, this side of the Nevernever. I don’t know how long we spent on the edge of Winter, I lost count of the number of times I came from simply being taken like that, savage and brutal, impaled again and again until I was begging him to stop, overwhelmed, ecstasy long wound tight with pain, far past pride itself. When he fills me at the very last, he’s spread me on his lap, with my knees and weight held up effortlessly under his palms, so deep that I scream my throat raw when he pulses.

The Erlking isn’t one for niceties; you probably could clue that in from the barbarian chic that he has going on in his dressing. He pulls out with a grunt, leaving me gasping on my flank in the snow, and whistles for his horse, striding over to swing himself into the saddle as if all we’d just been doing for the past... however long... was sitting around having scones and tea. I stare at him, almost disbelievingly, and he inclines his head at me, then jerks his chin in the direction of the Steppes.

“Try a little harder the next time, wizard.”

Bastard. “Once I can pronounce ‘fuego’ I’m going to fry your ass,” I croak.

The Erlking chuckles darkly, wheeling his horse back towards his castle, his hounds and his army at his heels. I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing, trying to piece the incantation to summon the brumag back together.

-urrr... so much porn...-

NGRRHMPH. I-I'll be in my bunk.

YOU MADE ME LATE FOR CLASS, BITCH ;D

*whimpers*

I'll just be over here, trying to put my brain back together.

Nnnnnnngh omg.

OP, how would you feel if I ran with just one character? Or just one primary character, and a few secondary? Because I'm getting really fascinated by a couple ideas of what would happen if Marcone were a female Mafia godmother, and what would have to happen.

And ZOMG, a quotation from this article about women rising in Sicilian organized crime (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/23/godmothers-rise-among-nap_n_266508.html) has filled my head with bunnies: Camorra women still perform the more "traditional" roles of cutting and repackaging cocaine and heroin in their kitchens or tidying up the hideouts of fugitive bosses, but others are wielding power on the streets.

A day in the life of Henry Rawlins (or any other person in SI). What types of shenanigans does SI deal with on a "normal" day?

Harry and Marcone. In a church. Doing the naughty.

Bonus if Father Forthill catches them.

I have no shame.

Marcone and Michael have to work together and get to know each other/respect each other? I feel like maybe they’re working together to rescue Harry or something, but whatever works. Mostly I want them bonding in some way.
(I favor both Harry/Michael and Harry/Marcone, and gen is fine~~, but if someone managed to make this Michael/Harry/Marcone I would die of awesome~~)

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Not that this entire thing is not insanely hot and perfectly characterized, but my favourite part may actually be the perfect banter of:

“Okay!” I said, stomping over. “This has got to stop.”

“I agree,” Marcone said. “This level of pesticide use is not acceptable in a long-term, sustainable agricultural food production system.”

He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket; I resisted the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him until he rang like a bell. “Tell me this,” I said, fed up and sarcastic. “If I actually put out, will you drop me and start going out with the cheer captain? Because I’ve tried everything else here.”

He considered this. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I promise not to write any limericks about you on any bathroom walls, if that’s a concern.”

PESTICIDE USE.

"Who're you? Where's Justin?" The boy scooted back the few inches left on the bed, until his back hit the wall. Then he started edging along that, moving back and away, into the far corner. Mouse came into the room and pushed his way through the small group until he could see the child. The boy startled at the giant dog, his eyes growing wide and frightened in his face. He tucked his legs up in closer to himself.

"Harry?" The boy looked away from Mouse, focusing back on Charity. "Harry, I'm Charity, and this is Karrin. Justin had an emergency and had to leave for a while. He asked us to come take care of you."

His eyes narrowed and he looked from Charity to Murphy and then back.

"You don't look like any of Justin's friends. And who's he?" Harry pointed at Butters.

"I'm Waldo. Waldo Butters. But most people just call me Butters."

"Waldo? That's not a real name. You made that up. Waldo." In spite of herself and the situation, Murphy felt a laugh building up in her chest. She could hear the echoes of Harry's humour, his attitude. But hearing it come out of such a small kid, in that child's voice. She turned her head so he wouldn't think she was laughing at him.

"Honey-"

"Don't call me that. My name's Harry."

"Right, of course. I'm sorry. Harry. You're right, we're not friends of Justin." Murphy could have been imagining it, but she thought Charity's tone got harder on the name, as if she had to force herself to say it. "He didn't have any notice when he had to leave, so he called us. We take care of kids when things like this happen."

"I don't think so. I want to talk to Justin. Why didn't he wake me up? I think you're lying." If it was possible, he would have pressed farther back away from them.

"I don't know why Justin didn't wake you up. Maybe he tried and couldn't? He said you were very tired last night." Harry snorted.

"No I wasn't. The *tea* makes me sleepy." Murphy's hand clenched and she forced it to relax.

"Harry, look. I'm a police officer. Would I be here if we weren't telling the truth?"

"Prove it." She pulled out her badge and handed it over to him. Harry snatched it out of her hand and brought it up close to study it in the bad lighting. After a few seconds he sighed and something seemed to go out of him. He slumped and a look of hurt and resignation twisted his features before he obviously pushed them away and forced himself to smile at them.

"Okay. You should have just said he was sending me back. It's nice you were trying to make it easy, but I've been sent back before." He handed Murphy's badge back to her. "I guess you're the foster mom?" Harry turned his smile on Charity, who tensed, something angry in her posture before she too pushed it all away and rose to smile down at Harry.

"Yes. You're going to come live with me and my family for a while. Would that be okay?"

"Sure." He shrugged, a tiny movement of the shoulders. It clearly said, 'I don't have a choice, do I?'

"Wonderful. I have some clothes here. Why don't we let you get dressed and when you're done you can come on out to the living room."

"Clothes? Justin didn't- he didn't leave any of my stuff here?" Disbelief, and more pain that was obviously shoved down hard and fast.

"No, I'm sorry, sweetie. But these are-"

"Fine. No. It's. I'll- I'll get dressed." His voice was thick and Murphy could see Butters flinch at the tone. Harry pulled himself toward the edge of the bed, moving away from Mouse as he did so. "Could you guys..."

"We'll be just out this door. The bathroom's over there." Murphy pointed to the second small door in the room. At her nod the four of them stepped out of the room and she closed the door behind them. She thought she heard the heavy wet sound of a muffled sniffle behind her as she did so.

"Mom? What's going on?"

"Did you find anything Molly?" Murphy interrupted before Charity could answer her daughter.

"No. Nothing. It all looks the same as it always does. I don't see anything, I'm sorry."

"Crap."

"Honey, get the animals' things. Anything we might need. Does he have a carrier for Mister?" Charity was already moving around the kitchen, cleaning the few dishes in the sink and then rummaging through the ice box.

"Mister's carrier is in Harry's room. The food is-"

"I see it over here. Take it out to the car. Then come back and dump the litter pan. The bag of litter is back here in the pantry too. Once Harry's dressed you can go get the carrier and catch the cat."

"Wait, wait. You weren't serious about having him go to your house? It's not safe. He needs to stay here, behind his wards until we find out who did this." Murphy stepped into Charity's path, stopping her for a minute. Butters, wisely decided to help Molly pack things up and Mouse ignored them all to stare at the closed door to Harry's bedroom.

"He cannot stay here. Are you going to move in for the duration? He's a *child*, Ms. Murphy. He's vulnerable right now, scared and alone. He thinks his caretaker abandoned him in the middle of the night, leaving him with strangers and nothing of his own. I am *not* leaving him here."

"Yes, dammit I will move in here. Harry wouldn't want you putting your family in any danger for him."

"Harry doesn't get a vote right now. All the magical protection he's got won't do a damn bit of good. Whoever did this got to him *through* the wards. Our house has a real threshold, and we have protection of our own." She pointed up, her eyebrows quirked significantly. Murphy fought the urge to make a smart-ass comment. The woman had a point.

"Plus," Molly piped up, "I can set up wards around our house. They won't be as heavy duty as what Harry's got around here, but they'll give us some warning at least." As they both focused on her, Molly ducked her head and got back to hauling out the bucket of Mouse's food.

"That's a good idea, dear." Molly glanced up at her mother and smiled, nodding shyly.

Then Charity turned back to face Murphy.

"Karrin. I told him he was coming to stay with me. I will not be made a liar. I promise you, he will be safe with us." Something shifted in the air between them. What did Harry call it, the weight of faith. Murphy thought she could feel the weight of the other woman's faith, her certainty that what she said was true. And there was something about her that made it mean more than it might for someone else.

She closed her eyes and sighed.

"I'm coming too. Angels are all well and good, but I'll feel better if I'm there."

"Of course."

The audience is on fire and it's not Harry's fault.

Bonus: Marcone's real last name is Offdensen.

Charity's a super mom, I think! :)

Charity's going to kill something.

So very much.

Round 2 is closed.

Re: ....fucks like he's trying to kill me with his cock...

Hendricks/Dresden

Mister

panic room

Selfish Cock-Blocking

Harry+Ivy, Gen

Obsession

Re: Pern crossover: Queens High (1/2?)

Re: Fill: Alternate Plans Part Two - False Starts [1/1]

Re: Pern crossover: Queens High (1/2?)

Hunter, Hunted [1/1]

Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]

Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]

Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]

Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]

Re: Gender Reversal...

A Day in the Life of SI

Church Sex

Marcone & Michael, allies

Have mine, as well

Re: Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)

Fill: 4/? scrappy!Harry prompt

Crossover: Metalocalypse

Re: Fill: 3/? scrappy!Harry prompt

Re: Fill: 3/? scrappy!Harry prompt