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Harry Dresden: "And not a single fuck was given that day." Bonus points for outside POV. :D
Yay! I thought no one was ever going to fill this! :D
Aw...Reading this makes me want to hug Harry and feed him until he looks like he preggy. :)
Can't wait for the next part! :D
Aw...Reading this makes me want to hug Harry and feed him until he looks like he preggy. :)
Can't wait for the next part! :D
He got sidetracked for several days, thinking too much. He wanted to know when, he wanted to know how, he really wanted to know who. But John had already turned over every rock in Harry Dresden’s life that he could find. He had used private detectives, he had used public officials, he had used the occasional supernatural source. He knew everything that could be found by the methods at his disposal.
John spun his wheels for a few days anyway, mentally revisiting every one of the depleted options. He was frustrated, as distracted as Harry. It burned, not knowing anything.
He pulled himself together eventually. He didn’t get over it. But there was a long list of things that ate at him, that made him angry. This was just one more.
He refocused.
Harry was more like himself, as if merely asking John for this had released a pressure valve. But he was wary, hyper vigilant, keyed up and waiting. That couldn’t last – no one could sustain that. So John held his plans close and waited him out.
He chose a Wednesday, early in the afternoon. Harry’s schedule was erratic, but he’d come home from what was probably a difficult day in Edinburgh, and he showed no signs of leaving again.
John was supposed to be out of the house – he almost never came home that early during the week. He didn’t even cancel his plans, he just abandoned them. The boss got to do that sort of thing, once in a while.
John dismissed Gard and Hendricks in the garage. The house should be empty except for Harry. He put himself together piece by piece: the walk softly charm went around his neck, he checked his pockets for all the supplies, unloaded his .22.
His footsteps were eerily silent in the marble entryway. John ghosted down the hall, feeling his focus narrow. Strange – he was breathing deep and steady, but it made no sound.
Harry was in the library, exactly where John had expected. It was warm there in the afternoon, and Harry could spread out all over the room. It helped him think, he said.
He was sitting at one of the round tables. He had one foot hitched up, the knee tucked against the edge of the table. He leaned over his bent leg to write, oddly stork like.
John settled against the wall across from the open double doors. He was in shadow, so unless Harry looked right at him, he wouldn’t be seen. He stared at the bend of Harry’s wrist, the curve of his fingers over the pen, the bare, vulnerable back of his neck. Christ, Harry had no idea, anything at all could happen to him.
Harry started moving restlessly after about five minutes. John wondered if Gard’s charm couldn’t muffle the prickly creepy crawlies of being stared at. Harry shifted, put down his pen, dropped his foot to the floor. He looked around, scratching casually at the back of his neck, then stood.
John went for him, covering the distance in half a dozen running steps. Harry felt him coming, charm or not, and he was turning – too late – when John snapped the safety off and pressed the muzzle to his back.
“Don’t move.”
Harry gasped, jolting violently. And then he kept moving, the crazy bastard. But John was ready for that; he had a zip tie tucked in his other palm, waiting. The next few seconds were a little messy. He could have dropped the gun, he’d planned for that, but Harry played right into him, lifting his hands together, and it was surprisingly easy to circle his wrists and synch them tight in the same one-handed gesture.
John wrapped his hand around Harry’s wrists, squeezing down over the zip tie. “I said hold still,” he repeated, and dug the gun into Harry’s back.
Harry went still. He was panting already, tension rising off him like heat off the blacktop in summer.
“Marcone,” he said. “What do you want?”
John let the silence stretch, keeping hold of Harry’s wrists, letting the extent of his control sink in. “Caught you,” he said at last, smiling.
He might as well have said, fight me, please. Harry went off like a firecracker. John danced away from a nasty backward kick, sacrificed his hold on Harry’s wrists for a grip in his hair. Harry caught him with an elbow, a solid thump to the ribs. John let him struggle for another ten seconds. He pulled Harry’s head back, stayed clear of his dangerous feet, kept directly behind him and out of reach of his bound hands.
“All right, enough,” he said at last, when Harry was panting. He’d been letting the gun hover at Harry’s back, clearly out of sight and out of mind. He brought it up fast, jerking Harry’s head back farther and pressing the muzzle to his throat.
That time, Harry froze. He swayed back into John, helplessly drawn by the pressure on his hair. His hard swallow communicated itself through the gun to John’s hand.
“What do you want?” he said again, voice rasping.
“Mmm,” John said. He let the gun drift down and around, tapped it thoughtfully against the top of Harry’s spine. “Walk,” he said, letting go of his handful of hair.
Harry shuffled forward. John stayed on him, getting him lined up right with a directing hand on his bicep. Harry stopped when he fetched up against the arm of the couch.
“Down,” John said, pressing the muzzle in.
It was another choke point; He’d anticipated that. Bent over with someone standing above you, it was a vulnerable pose, and Harry fought it. John didn’t give him any quarter this time, no room to work out his aggression. He put Harry down hard in less than three seconds, kicking both his feet out from under him and getting him face down on the cushions with a brutal shove.
“Hands up,” he barked, then yanked them up over Harry’s head when he didn’t comply. It was the first chance he’d had to verify that Harry hadn’t taken off his rings by some fluke. There they were, dully gleaming and quiescent.
“Fuck you,” Harry snarled, surging up.
John put him down again, even harder this time. It wasn’t difficult – he had all the leverage. Harry’s hips were propped up over the arm of the couch, his hands still locked together and stretched over his head.
“Stop it,” John said, keeping his voice low and even. “This will go better for you if you don’t fight me.”
Predictably, Harry responded with a vicious backward kick. John kept his feet, retaliating so fast he didn’t have time to think it through, he just reached around and slapped Harry across the face hard enough to sting his hand.
There was a mirror on the wall at the far end of the couch; John had moved it there himself two weeks ago when he’d decided on this venue. It was perfectly placed, he could watch his handprint rising on Harry’s cheek, see Harry’s tongue flick out to lick at the tender corner of his mouth where John’s thumb had caught him.
Harry looked up to the mirror, too. His eyes widened, and some of the fight seemed to go out of him. John finally had a little attention to spare, and he realized with a jolt that he could see Harry in the mirror, but bending over him was a vague blur, an anonymous man shape with no face. Gard’s charm, it must be.
“What do you want?” Harry asked again. Third time, for the charm.
John took a risk that he was subdued, and holstered his gun. He always thought of weapons as extensions of his hand, but right then it was as if the gun was getting in the way. He didn’t want anything mediating the space between them; he wanted to control Harry with his bare hands and nothing else. He took him by the throat with light but insistent pressure, and stepped up close, nestling himself up between Harry’s legs. He was hard already, tripping off anticipation and adrenaline, and he rocked himself crudely into Harry’s crack through both their pants.
Harry’s whole body flinched, but there was nowhere for him to go. John watched his eyes get bigger, the dawning realization. Christ. It was really as if Harry didn’t know what was coming, as if John hadn’t fucked him a hundred times, as if Harry was shocked by this sudden intimacy because John had never touched him more than casually before. Like John had no right to touch him at all.
Oddly, he’d rarely felt closer to Harry than he did right at that moment. John felt swept away, more . . . involved than he’d expected. And he couldn’t honestly say who was following whose lead here, but it was as if they were locked together, on the same page and perfectly synchronous, under it all.
John worked his free hand up under Harry’s t-shirt, swept it up his back. He half-closed his eyes. It was easy to imagine this was new territory under his hand, that he was taking it by right of might.
He wrestled Harry’s t-shirt up one-handed, yanked it up over his head and left it tangled around his forearms. Harry seemed to shrink under him, all that vulnerable bare skin on sudden display.
“Marcone?” Harry said, his voice climbing sharply in shock. “Marcone, you’re not—“
John leaned into him, stretching up to put his lips by Harry’s ear. “You keep telling me I’m an animal,” he said. “Turns out you were right.”
[Authoranon reads in flat view, and so has not been replying to every single comment so as not to drive the other flat view readers nuts. But authoranon is incredibly grateful and humbled, omg.]
John spun his wheels for a few days anyway, mentally revisiting every one of the depleted options. He was frustrated, as distracted as Harry. It burned, not knowing anything.
He pulled himself together eventually. He didn’t get over it. But there was a long list of things that ate at him, that made him angry. This was just one more.
He refocused.
Harry was more like himself, as if merely asking John for this had released a pressure valve. But he was wary, hyper vigilant, keyed up and waiting. That couldn’t last – no one could sustain that. So John held his plans close and waited him out.
He chose a Wednesday, early in the afternoon. Harry’s schedule was erratic, but he’d come home from what was probably a difficult day in Edinburgh, and he showed no signs of leaving again.
John was supposed to be out of the house – he almost never came home that early during the week. He didn’t even cancel his plans, he just abandoned them. The boss got to do that sort of thing, once in a while.
John dismissed Gard and Hendricks in the garage. The house should be empty except for Harry. He put himself together piece by piece: the walk softly charm went around his neck, he checked his pockets for all the supplies, unloaded his .22.
His footsteps were eerily silent in the marble entryway. John ghosted down the hall, feeling his focus narrow. Strange – he was breathing deep and steady, but it made no sound.
Harry was in the library, exactly where John had expected. It was warm there in the afternoon, and Harry could spread out all over the room. It helped him think, he said.
He was sitting at one of the round tables. He had one foot hitched up, the knee tucked against the edge of the table. He leaned over his bent leg to write, oddly stork like.
John settled against the wall across from the open double doors. He was in shadow, so unless Harry looked right at him, he wouldn’t be seen. He stared at the bend of Harry’s wrist, the curve of his fingers over the pen, the bare, vulnerable back of his neck. Christ, Harry had no idea, anything at all could happen to him.
Harry started moving restlessly after about five minutes. John wondered if Gard’s charm couldn’t muffle the prickly creepy crawlies of being stared at. Harry shifted, put down his pen, dropped his foot to the floor. He looked around, scratching casually at the back of his neck, then stood.
John went for him, covering the distance in half a dozen running steps. Harry felt him coming, charm or not, and he was turning – too late – when John snapped the safety off and pressed the muzzle to his back.
“Don’t move.”
Harry gasped, jolting violently. And then he kept moving, the crazy bastard. But John was ready for that; he had a zip tie tucked in his other palm, waiting. The next few seconds were a little messy. He could have dropped the gun, he’d planned for that, but Harry played right into him, lifting his hands together, and it was surprisingly easy to circle his wrists and synch them tight in the same one-handed gesture.
John wrapped his hand around Harry’s wrists, squeezing down over the zip tie. “I said hold still,” he repeated, and dug the gun into Harry’s back.
Harry went still. He was panting already, tension rising off him like heat off the blacktop in summer.
“Marcone,” he said. “What do you want?”
John let the silence stretch, keeping hold of Harry’s wrists, letting the extent of his control sink in. “Caught you,” he said at last, smiling.
He might as well have said, fight me, please. Harry went off like a firecracker. John danced away from a nasty backward kick, sacrificed his hold on Harry’s wrists for a grip in his hair. Harry caught him with an elbow, a solid thump to the ribs. John let him struggle for another ten seconds. He pulled Harry’s head back, stayed clear of his dangerous feet, kept directly behind him and out of reach of his bound hands.
“All right, enough,” he said at last, when Harry was panting. He’d been letting the gun hover at Harry’s back, clearly out of sight and out of mind. He brought it up fast, jerking Harry’s head back farther and pressing the muzzle to his throat.
That time, Harry froze. He swayed back into John, helplessly drawn by the pressure on his hair. His hard swallow communicated itself through the gun to John’s hand.
“What do you want?” he said again, voice rasping.
“Mmm,” John said. He let the gun drift down and around, tapped it thoughtfully against the top of Harry’s spine. “Walk,” he said, letting go of his handful of hair.
Harry shuffled forward. John stayed on him, getting him lined up right with a directing hand on his bicep. Harry stopped when he fetched up against the arm of the couch.
“Down,” John said, pressing the muzzle in.
It was another choke point; He’d anticipated that. Bent over with someone standing above you, it was a vulnerable pose, and Harry fought it. John didn’t give him any quarter this time, no room to work out his aggression. He put Harry down hard in less than three seconds, kicking both his feet out from under him and getting him face down on the cushions with a brutal shove.
“Hands up,” he barked, then yanked them up over Harry’s head when he didn’t comply. It was the first chance he’d had to verify that Harry hadn’t taken off his rings by some fluke. There they were, dully gleaming and quiescent.
“Fuck you,” Harry snarled, surging up.
John put him down again, even harder this time. It wasn’t difficult – he had all the leverage. Harry’s hips were propped up over the arm of the couch, his hands still locked together and stretched over his head.
“Stop it,” John said, keeping his voice low and even. “This will go better for you if you don’t fight me.”
Predictably, Harry responded with a vicious backward kick. John kept his feet, retaliating so fast he didn’t have time to think it through, he just reached around and slapped Harry across the face hard enough to sting his hand.
There was a mirror on the wall at the far end of the couch; John had moved it there himself two weeks ago when he’d decided on this venue. It was perfectly placed, he could watch his handprint rising on Harry’s cheek, see Harry’s tongue flick out to lick at the tender corner of his mouth where John’s thumb had caught him.
Harry looked up to the mirror, too. His eyes widened, and some of the fight seemed to go out of him. John finally had a little attention to spare, and he realized with a jolt that he could see Harry in the mirror, but bending over him was a vague blur, an anonymous man shape with no face. Gard’s charm, it must be.
“What do you want?” Harry asked again. Third time, for the charm.
John took a risk that he was subdued, and holstered his gun. He always thought of weapons as extensions of his hand, but right then it was as if the gun was getting in the way. He didn’t want anything mediating the space between them; he wanted to control Harry with his bare hands and nothing else. He took him by the throat with light but insistent pressure, and stepped up close, nestling himself up between Harry’s legs. He was hard already, tripping off anticipation and adrenaline, and he rocked himself crudely into Harry’s crack through both their pants.
Harry’s whole body flinched, but there was nowhere for him to go. John watched his eyes get bigger, the dawning realization. Christ. It was really as if Harry didn’t know what was coming, as if John hadn’t fucked him a hundred times, as if Harry was shocked by this sudden intimacy because John had never touched him more than casually before. Like John had no right to touch him at all.
Oddly, he’d rarely felt closer to Harry than he did right at that moment. John felt swept away, more . . . involved than he’d expected. And he couldn’t honestly say who was following whose lead here, but it was as if they were locked together, on the same page and perfectly synchronous, under it all.
John worked his free hand up under Harry’s t-shirt, swept it up his back. He half-closed his eyes. It was easy to imagine this was new territory under his hand, that he was taking it by right of might.
He wrestled Harry’s t-shirt up one-handed, yanked it up over his head and left it tangled around his forearms. Harry seemed to shrink under him, all that vulnerable bare skin on sudden display.
“Marcone?” Harry said, his voice climbing sharply in shock. “Marcone, you’re not—“
John leaned into him, stretching up to put his lips by Harry’s ear. “You keep telling me I’m an animal,” he said. “Turns out you were right.”
[Authoranon reads in flat view, and so has not been replying to every single comment so as not to drive the other flat view readers nuts. But authoranon is incredibly grateful and humbled, omg.]
I wouldn't mind an AU White Collar version of the Dresden Files since I love watching the show as well, but isn't there going to be some clashing of personalities?
I'm not sure since it's been a while since I watched White Collar, but isn't Peter a bit up-tight while Neal loves luxury and has an eye for art.
But since this isn't exactly White Collar, I think you could work around it. I wouldn't mind seeing what you come up with. :)
I'm not sure since it's been a while since I watched White Collar, but isn't Peter a bit up-tight while Neal loves luxury and has an eye for art.
But since this isn't exactly White Collar, I think you could work around it. I wouldn't mind seeing what you come up with. :)
This is as far as I could get today. My apologies for the rather abrupt cut-off.
The arm around my waist tightened as I slowly began to wake up. It was a pleasant feeling; no monsters, no drug-dealing warlocks, and no potential jail time in my future.
There was also the pleasant memory of the Doom being lifted. It was hard to believe that I was finally free of that; hell, it was hard to believe Morgan had pulled me out of a burning building and given me CPR before telling me that.
Susan was watching me, I could tell. The way the arm rested on my belly wasn’t quite relaxed, more possessive, and her breathing was too fast for sleep. She seemed… weightier than before. The bed dipped more in her direction than mine, and her arm was thicker, heavier, but I had no doubt it was her. After all, no one else would be in my bed, would they? Not in my bed holding me like a lover, and watching me sleep.
Those who broke into my apartment other than Susan – and she didn’t need to break in – were usually trying to kill me. Anyone else tried knocking first.
But then I heard a chuckle too deep to be female and felt the brush of morning stubble when a chin brushed against my neck and I woke up real fast, spinning out of my bed and sending a wave of air back against – was that really Gentleman Johnny Marcone?
I wasn’t in my apartment, that was clear the moment I looked around. A king-sized bed, soft lamps and unlit candles spread throughout the room, cheery blue walls occasionally decorated with tapestries and decorative throws, and a naked Marcone watching me warily. He’d grunted with the blast of air, knocking an elbow on the wall, but there hadn’t been enough power in the spell to send him farther.
“Harry?” he asked, softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you insane?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact that yeah, I was naked too, and I’d been naked in bed with Marcone. “Why am I here?”
Now he just looked confused. “You live here.”
I laughed at that. “You must have hit your head on a rock or something, because I don’t live here. I live by myself in a nice, cozy apartment. I’ve never even seen this place before.”
The confusion shifted to concern. “I’d ask if you were playing with me,” he ventured, “but you look a little too… flushed. Why don’t you calm down a bit and we’ll both get dressed before discussing things. We wouldn’t want to alarm Maggie.”
“Who’s Maggie?”
He nodded, which was somewhat disturbing. He was understanding things I wasn’t, when all I could really think was Hell’s Bells, what’s happened now?
“Maggie is our daughter,” he said. “Yours, by blood. Come now, Harry, get dressed. Second drawer.”
“You seem to be taking this awfully calmly, for a mafia don who just woke up naked with a wizard,” I said as he climbed off the bed, not minding the fact that he was naked at all – of course, the view wasn’t entirely bad. I could see how, after a few of Mac’s ales and a few magic spikes, I would have fallen in bed with him.
Wouldn’t have mistaken him for Susan, that’s for sure.
“I had… a bit of warning,” he admitted. “You informed me yesterday that one of the side-effects to a potion you were testing could result in temporary memory loss.”
“What potion?” Mixing potions and alcohol was dangerous – I should have known better than that, at the very least.
“A memory potion,” Marcone answered. “You needed to look at something again, more closely, for what you called ‘personal reasons’. You wouldn’t elaborate further, but said that you might not remember a few things for the next day or three, depending on how much the potion depleted with sunrise.”
That… made sense, actually. Maybe. I’d have to talk to Bob about it to be sure; if I was making potions, he would know about it anyways. It would be easy to confirm Marcone’s story.
“Do you want to get dressed now, or should we go back to bed?” he asked. “Maggie won’t be up for another hour at least, and the door is locked.”
“You lock the kids out of the bedroom?” I asked, confused and hurt by that for some reason.
He shook his head. “It usually isn’t, but even so. She’s eight, Harry, and if she really needs in she has a key. Maggie knows not to come in when the door’s locked unless it’s an emergency. She wears the key on her shield bracelet. The one you made her.” He was lighting the candles with a match, and shook out one that had burned down nearly to his fingers. “You know, this would go much faster if you did the lighting.”
I did, almost without thought, and the wicks flared almost dangerously high for a moment before settling. It surprised me – I hadn’t thought I’d put that much power into it – but Marcone just looked thoughtful.
Well, I wasn’t going to just stand around and let the guy bully me into doing magic tricks for him, so I started raiding drawers and pulling out clothes. I found boxers and jeans that fit, though the shirt was a bit big on me overall. Marcone was smiling as I searched through things, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and not bothering to dress himself. Leaving himself bare, open – vulnerable.
I think that was the first thing that set me off, told me that I missing something big. Gentleman Johnny Marcone was a crime lord, a mob boss, mafia don – they all amounted to the same thing in my head, and that was paranoid. Almost as paranoid as I was sometimes, and sometimes worse. Men like that didn’t sit around without a weapon while the flavor of the night got dressed, and usually didn’t go unarmed even when the mistress of the year was splayed out beneath him. There was always a weapon within reach.
Marcone, though, very clearly didn’t have anything and even though I had hit him hard enough to hurt at least some, he wasn’t calling for guards or looking for a way to protect himself. He looked concerned, or at least he was frowning in a close proximity to it.
That was probably why I didn’t leave. That was probably why I folded myself down on the floor and said, simply, “Explain.”
He raised a single eyebrow – and how someone can do that and not look like some cheesy movie actor, I’ll never know, but he did it – and asked: “Explain what?”
I looked around at the single dresser, single closet, single locked door, single bed, large open windows, soft cloths on the walls, and tried to take it all in. “Everything. Just tell me everything.”
The arm around my waist tightened as I slowly began to wake up. It was a pleasant feeling; no monsters, no drug-dealing warlocks, and no potential jail time in my future.
There was also the pleasant memory of the Doom being lifted. It was hard to believe that I was finally free of that; hell, it was hard to believe Morgan had pulled me out of a burning building and given me CPR before telling me that.
Susan was watching me, I could tell. The way the arm rested on my belly wasn’t quite relaxed, more possessive, and her breathing was too fast for sleep. She seemed… weightier than before. The bed dipped more in her direction than mine, and her arm was thicker, heavier, but I had no doubt it was her. After all, no one else would be in my bed, would they? Not in my bed holding me like a lover, and watching me sleep.
Those who broke into my apartment other than Susan – and she didn’t need to break in – were usually trying to kill me. Anyone else tried knocking first.
But then I heard a chuckle too deep to be female and felt the brush of morning stubble when a chin brushed against my neck and I woke up real fast, spinning out of my bed and sending a wave of air back against – was that really Gentleman Johnny Marcone?
I wasn’t in my apartment, that was clear the moment I looked around. A king-sized bed, soft lamps and unlit candles spread throughout the room, cheery blue walls occasionally decorated with tapestries and decorative throws, and a naked Marcone watching me warily. He’d grunted with the blast of air, knocking an elbow on the wall, but there hadn’t been enough power in the spell to send him farther.
“Harry?” he asked, softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you insane?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact that yeah, I was naked too, and I’d been naked in bed with Marcone. “Why am I here?”
Now he just looked confused. “You live here.”
I laughed at that. “You must have hit your head on a rock or something, because I don’t live here. I live by myself in a nice, cozy apartment. I’ve never even seen this place before.”
The confusion shifted to concern. “I’d ask if you were playing with me,” he ventured, “but you look a little too… flushed. Why don’t you calm down a bit and we’ll both get dressed before discussing things. We wouldn’t want to alarm Maggie.”
“Who’s Maggie?”
He nodded, which was somewhat disturbing. He was understanding things I wasn’t, when all I could really think was Hell’s Bells, what’s happened now?
“Maggie is our daughter,” he said. “Yours, by blood. Come now, Harry, get dressed. Second drawer.”
“You seem to be taking this awfully calmly, for a mafia don who just woke up naked with a wizard,” I said as he climbed off the bed, not minding the fact that he was naked at all – of course, the view wasn’t entirely bad. I could see how, after a few of Mac’s ales and a few magic spikes, I would have fallen in bed with him.
Wouldn’t have mistaken him for Susan, that’s for sure.
“I had… a bit of warning,” he admitted. “You informed me yesterday that one of the side-effects to a potion you were testing could result in temporary memory loss.”
“What potion?” Mixing potions and alcohol was dangerous – I should have known better than that, at the very least.
“A memory potion,” Marcone answered. “You needed to look at something again, more closely, for what you called ‘personal reasons’. You wouldn’t elaborate further, but said that you might not remember a few things for the next day or three, depending on how much the potion depleted with sunrise.”
That… made sense, actually. Maybe. I’d have to talk to Bob about it to be sure; if I was making potions, he would know about it anyways. It would be easy to confirm Marcone’s story.
“Do you want to get dressed now, or should we go back to bed?” he asked. “Maggie won’t be up for another hour at least, and the door is locked.”
“You lock the kids out of the bedroom?” I asked, confused and hurt by that for some reason.
He shook his head. “It usually isn’t, but even so. She’s eight, Harry, and if she really needs in she has a key. Maggie knows not to come in when the door’s locked unless it’s an emergency. She wears the key on her shield bracelet. The one you made her.” He was lighting the candles with a match, and shook out one that had burned down nearly to his fingers. “You know, this would go much faster if you did the lighting.”
I did, almost without thought, and the wicks flared almost dangerously high for a moment before settling. It surprised me – I hadn’t thought I’d put that much power into it – but Marcone just looked thoughtful.
Well, I wasn’t going to just stand around and let the guy bully me into doing magic tricks for him, so I started raiding drawers and pulling out clothes. I found boxers and jeans that fit, though the shirt was a bit big on me overall. Marcone was smiling as I searched through things, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and not bothering to dress himself. Leaving himself bare, open – vulnerable.
I think that was the first thing that set me off, told me that I missing something big. Gentleman Johnny Marcone was a crime lord, a mob boss, mafia don – they all amounted to the same thing in my head, and that was paranoid. Almost as paranoid as I was sometimes, and sometimes worse. Men like that didn’t sit around without a weapon while the flavor of the night got dressed, and usually didn’t go unarmed even when the mistress of the year was splayed out beneath him. There was always a weapon within reach.
Marcone, though, very clearly didn’t have anything and even though I had hit him hard enough to hurt at least some, he wasn’t calling for guards or looking for a way to protect himself. He looked concerned, or at least he was frowning in a close proximity to it.
That was probably why I didn’t leave. That was probably why I folded myself down on the floor and said, simply, “Explain.”
He raised a single eyebrow – and how someone can do that and not look like some cheesy movie actor, I’ll never know, but he did it – and asked: “Explain what?”
I looked around at the single dresser, single closet, single locked door, single bed, large open windows, soft cloths on the walls, and tried to take it all in. “Everything. Just tell me everything.”
I am really, really super blown away with the deftness and grace that you've handled this (pssh, like I would expect anything else!). It's gone the way the best kink does, I think, an extension of character dynamic, a vehicle for engaging setting and scope, characterization, development, and audience. And I, for one, am over the moon. Thank you so much for sharing this!
Edited 2011-02-26 03:51 (UTC)
LOLs. That sounds like what happened to him in Summer Knight. :D
The fact that Gard's charm makes him anonymous in the mirror? Is so perfect I don't think I have words for it. It just makes the scene so much *more*.
he wanted to control Harry with his bare hands and nothing else.
It's about here where my brain went poof.
And he couldn’t honestly say who was following whose lead here, but it was as if they were locked together, on the same page and perfectly synchronous, under it all.
And that is actually their canon lives.
he wanted to control Harry with his bare hands and nothing else.
It's about here where my brain went poof.
And he couldn’t honestly say who was following whose lead here, but it was as if they were locked together, on the same page and perfectly synchronous, under it all.
And that is actually their canon lives.
Well it was more *inspired* by WC, not a point for point replacement. They'd be Harry and the Erlking only in a different setting. And without magic.
Plus, Peter's not so uptight as he likes to pretend.
But I really don't know if I could write it. *hides from own idea*
Plus, Peter's not so uptight as he likes to pretend.
But I really don't know if I could write it. *hides from own idea*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
I am deeply impressed by the manner in which you're handling what is to a lot of people a rather offputting or disturbing desire. You're making the desire on both ends plausible and comprehensible to us and on a personal note I find its working very well as a look into Dresden & Marcone's relationship, Harry's rather messed up pysche- and is still pretty freaking hot. Damn.
Don't give up anon! I'm sure you could do it if you really wanted to! :)
If you don't want to do it, lets both pray that someone will pick it up soon. :D
If you don't want to do it, lets both pray that someone will pick it up soon. :D
I bet he overpays by just enough every year to be believable, so that every time the Feds tried to get him on a tax offense, they ended up having to give money back to him while he smiled politely at them. It was a huge embarassment and they eventually gave up on auditing him altogether.
(He still overpays by just a little every year. Every year it's still plausibly deniable that he's doing it intentionally. But over several years the pattern becomes apparent and it's obvious he's doing on purpose just to taunt them about how untouchable he is.)
Harry, by contrast, is probably the bane of some poor accountant's life every April...
(He still overpays by just a little every year. Every year it's still plausibly deniable that he's doing it intentionally. But over several years the pattern becomes apparent and it's obvious he's doing on purpose just to taunt them about how untouchable he is.)
Harry, by contrast, is probably the bane of some poor accountant's life every April...
Up there with "And nothing of value was lost" for my favorite internet memes. ♥
This is my new headcanon. Nothing will ever convince me otherwise. Marcone is an actual professional troll. ♥
fffff I've had inklings about my epicficAU!Dresden crossing the streams and meeting canon!Dresden. :shame:
oh this is an awesome start, anon. :chinhands:
If I had the time, I’d have stopped to try and bottle some of the self-satisfaction pouring off me. I didn’t know what potion I could work it into, but it’d be a doozy.
ROFLMAO. Usually that is a figure of speech but not for Harry.
He didn’t want anything mediating the space between them; he wanted to control Harry with his bare hands and nothing else.
Oh, John, you crazy fuck, you're jealous of your GUN.
So love this, and so love Hendricks not doing anything about the punch, cause really? Marcone was so far over the line he couldn't see it.
Oh, I want to see so much more of this so bad.
\o/
I'm in!
I'm in!
Edited 2011-02-26 06:38 (UTC)
omg I've thought about Near Miss!John meeting canon!Marcone. Not even joking.
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