“Uh--” I said intelligently, but he’d already scooped a hand between our legs to untangle and separate us, flipping me over to lie face down across John’s legs and belly. John's hand moved uncertainly over my back-- his eyes were unfocused, he didn’t appear to have his brain back yet-- and I started to say something reassuring or snarky or both.
Then Vadderung plunged his face between my ass cheeks and drove his massive tongue right into me, and it came out “Aaaah-oooooh-yessssssgngh.” His whiskers rasped against my inner thighs, and boy was it going to be hard to explain how I got rug burn right there but they felt amazing and I couldn’t decide whether to squirm into them or away and then he pulled his tongue out and flicked it back in and oh STARS oh yes.
I ground my hips down, rubbing my cock against John’s muscly thigh and gaining whole new levels of appreciation for his well-maintained physique, and his fingers tangled in my hair, alternating caressing and tugging. The little hint of pain was enough to keep me from coming then and there, but the sparks it sent down my spine weren’t unpleasant at all. Slowly, the stretch of Vadderung’s tongue started to fade, started to be Not Enough, and I pushed backwards pleadingly.
Vadderung responded by pulling back with a chuckle-- I made an indignant sound-- and then replacing his tongue with the head of his cock.
Happy sound. Very happy sound.
He lifted me to my hands and knees-- now straddling and staring down at Marcone, my dick missing his thigh already-- and gave his first tentative thrust. That pesky cooing noise started again; I muffled it in John’s mouth, my lips trembling against his.
John looked so much like the warm, pliant, well-fucked guy I’d found sleeping in Vadderung’s big bed and so much not at all like the Baron or the businessman or the mobster asshole who did terrible things and still made me like him. Kissed like him, too-- the sleepy, muscly guy-- his tongue strolling into my mouth as Vadderung’s cock slid giant inch by giant inch into me.
John’s hand, broad fingered and strong, wrapped around my cock, pulled-- I broke away from his mouth long enough to gasp and swear, and he yanked me back, one hand rough behind my neck and his other echoing the movement on my dick.
“Easy, Baron,” Vadderung laughed, panting and grunting behind me, big hands wrapped around my hips, practically sliding me up and down on his cock. “You don’t want to injure our little friend.”
“Little!” I squawked against John’s mouth, indignant, but I think the way my dick twitched and I clenched down on Vadderung gave me away. He laughed, moved a hand to stroke my belly, and gave another thrust to remind me just what the basis for comparison was; I forgot what I was pretending to be upset about and got caught up in how damn big he was and how great that was all over again. His big hands slid up, gripping my ribs, and pulled me away from John-- nearly upright, my back almost flush with his as he lifted me up and down, my legs barely involved in the process. ...if wall squats were always like this, though, my thighs would be as massive as his. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to stop.
John leaned forward to find me again-- kissing my navel this time, as wet and thoroughly as he’d kissed my mouth, my dick smacking him enthusiastically in the chin, and drifted down towards my groin, found my cock with his hand, my balls with his mouth.
He licked down them and back, lapping at the base of Vadderung’s cock where it met me-- I’ll own the coo this time, the choked off wail and the way I clawed at the air before I found Vadderung’s arms-- spent some time with Vadderung’s swinging balls, and then worked his way back to me. He could get his mouth ALL the way around me; I don’t know which of us made a more appreciative sound. Vadderung’s thrusts bounced me out of his mouth, and he followed, licking eagerly.
I looked down at him-- his eyes, bright and sleepy and warm, caught mine. Something about the way he was straining up, trying to follow me with his tongue, frustrated and playful all at once-- as if licking me was so good he couldn’t do without it-- it sent fire up my spine, and I started up in a soft, continuous whine, wriggled on Vadderung’s cock, my hands digging into his massive forearms, fighting for leverage, fighting to to sink further onto him.
“Paint his face, my man,” he rumbled into my ear.
Oh. Did he mean come all over John’s handsome, upturned face? Was that it? Streak white trails of come all over his nose and red, wet mouth as he licked at me? ...That only hit my libido like a depth charge, was all. I whined and snarled and jerked on Vadderung, bouncing against the massive dick that felt like it was going to break me in half, like it was all that was holding me upright, and did as my host requested.
John’s tongue flickered out to catch the drops where they hit his lips, using his grip on me to tilt my dick towards him and take it full on the face, some of it streaking with the gray in his hair. He grinned, as if it was fun, as if it was the best thing, and Vadderung’s wild, rolling laugh vibrated from my pelvis to my skull, this thunderstorm inside me, too close too touch. It was too much, felt like I’d come my brains out if I didn’t stop soon. Stars, John’s face, his mouth in a laughing smile, eyes a hot jungle green as he coaxed another pulse out of me and onto his chin, his lips.
I had to shut my eyes-- Vadderung was still going, pounding, stretching me open, but close. I could recognize it. I rode his last hard thrusts-- my body feeling so loose, so empty-- and felt him lose it inside me, a few fast, sharp thrusts, slamming and slapping, and then a warm feeling deep in me and his rich, satisfied groan ringing in my ears.
Vadderung’s hips gave a last, soft slap against mine, and he sighed low and content in himself. I slumped forward-- he guided my hips down, slowly pulling out of me, my hole sucking around him and I jerked a little, sore and stretched in just the right way-- and was caught in John’s strong arms. I folded across him like a wet, sticky, oven-warm blanket, and he laid us down, hand curling lightly in my hair as I shuddered out the aftershocks. Vadderung left us there, with a friendly kiss to each of our foreheads and a parting pat to my rear, and went off to do something official.
For a long time we lay there tangled together, content and wrung out and not moving. But John disengaged himself, eventually-- went to find something to clean us with, wipe himself down.
When he got back to the bed, sweat toweled off and face and hair defrosted, I could see that he’d put his business face back on. Sleepy muscle guy was gone. Baronial asshole uncertain of what he’d just gotten himself into offered me a flannel. ...He looked a little like Mister, stiffly ignoring the wreckage of some jar or bottle that had fallen off my bookshelf or kitchen table entirely of its own volition.
“Thanks,” I said, and took the flannel, scrubbing at my thighs. He lay back down-- almost out of arm’s reach, on the other side of the continent-sized bed. I used my context clues, and decided he didn’t want to be touched.
Well, fine. Be that way. I didn’t want to cuddle him either. I rolled away, digging myself under a mound of big, warm blanket-- definitely more than my fair share of the covers. So there.
This silence was a lot less companionable, and he broke it first.
“You aren’t even remotely afraid that in a moment of decision you’ll remember this and choose wrong?” Even when his voice was almost slurring with sleep, John sounded clinical. Stars, did he ever turn off? Or maybe he was putting in some extra effort to impress me. I’d always known he cared.
I rolled over and looked at him seriously. It was going to be hard to banish the image of him between my legs, of his red mouth and playful smile and all those muscles, but the disconnect between sleepy-muscle guy and Baron-asshole was deep and wide. I’d manage. “Now that you bring it up, it might bother me now and then. But I don’t think so. Why. Are you?”
“I’m not a stone caricature, Dresden, no matter what you might have told yourself.” He lost a bit of his asshole-face, slipping into hurt petulance for just a moment before finding it again. “It’s not as if I’m unaffected by this.”
“...John. A lot of stuff has happened between us. At this point, sex doesn’t even crack the top forty of our significant interactions.”
“Falling asleep beside you is more than sex.” There was something in his eyes that didn’t match his tone, his careful non-expression. My forehead creased and my tired, fucked-stupid brain cramped when I tried to figure it out. Later.
“Still doesn’t hit the top ten. I have absolute faith in your ability to be a total bastard when the time comes. Does that help?”
“No,” he said, possibly a little sulkily, and rolled over with his face in the pillow.
“Well, we’ve learned a valuable lesson today,” I said, pedantically.
There was a waiting silence from his side of the bed.
“When we put our heads together, we can do anything.”
There was a pause. Then a gagging sound. John rolled over and up, and started to pummel me viciously with his pillow, big deliberate whacks as I shielded myself with my arms and giggled and kicked. In a manly fashion.
“...Baron,” came the amused warning from Vadderung, and John stopped, not-quite-but-really-almost pouting. He dropped his violence-fluffed pillow back on the bed and lay back down with his back to me.
I burrowed back under my blanket nest and settled down to sleep. I tossed, turned, wound up back to back with John, sharing his body heat. He shifted, but I’m sure it wasn’t wriggling back against me to get our spines flush together, our legs almost tangled again or anything. No no no, not ever.
It definitely wasn’t a snuggle or anything. But it was comfortable and warm. I could hear Vadderung at his desk, pen scratching as he replied to Mab’s letter. I could hear John breathing, faint and mostly asleep again. It sounded like a good idea-- my limbs were all noodly and I felt pleasantly drained, my mouth stretched back out in a sleepy reflection of the grin I’d been wearing before this whole thing had even started. So.
Fall asleep beside my mortal enemy? ...Hook my ankle around my mortal enemy’s, stretch my arm back to lie loosely on my mortal enemy’s thigh? ...Oh, hey, lift my arm so that my mortal enemy could sleepily yet nefariously wedge his hand under mine?
Somehow I’d deal.
Apparently this one's elbows are sharp, because it clawed its way to the front of the line.
http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=281906#cmt281906 :)
http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=281906#cmt281906 :)
Wouldn't Murphy be Diane, though?
...wait, would that make Kincaid Diane's girlfriend?
...wait, would that make Kincaid Diane's girlfriend?
Greatest. Fill. Ever.
I feel like Kincaid would have no issues with what he likes, you know?
Jesus christ, this was a pure delight to read. So hot! So playful! All the size difference stuff and the banter!
This might have to be my OT3 forever and ever now.
This might have to be my OT3 forever and ever now.
I love how teenager Harry is so confused about himself again and that his hormones are acting up. :)
Nice. I suspect that not all of the frowns by Charity is b/c of something Harry did, but mostly b/c of how he's not taking care of himself very well.
Nice. I suspect that not all of the frowns by Charity is b/c of something Harry did, but mostly b/c of how he's not taking care of himself very well.
LOLs. I don't know why, but this was my favorite part:
“When we put our heads together, we can do anything.”
There was a pause. Then a gagging sound. John rolled over and up, and started to pummel me viciously with his pillow, big deliberate whacks as I shielded myself with my arms and giggled and kicked. In a manly fashion."
:D
This is kinda interesting in how during this fill, Marcone is the one that's sorta childish and Harry's the one trying to get along. :D And then Donar plays into the role of the authority figure who makes them resolve their differences or at least get along in bed. :D
“When we put our heads together, we can do anything.”
There was a pause. Then a gagging sound. John rolled over and up, and started to pummel me viciously with his pillow, big deliberate whacks as I shielded myself with my arms and giggled and kicked. In a manly fashion."
:D
This is kinda interesting in how during this fill, Marcone is the one that's sorta childish and Harry's the one trying to get along. :D And then Donar plays into the role of the authority figure who makes them resolve their differences or at least get along in bed. :D
Super interesting take. And oh, Trousers of Time. The alternative, what-if-instead ideas, and the potential to get a glimpse are so compelling-- one of the many reasons Night Watch rocks socks, I'm sure.
In the discussions (what if?, what if?!) we've had, contact has been primarily visual and/or without verbal communication, and it's been canon!Marcone who's been the most shook up.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sidhebeingbrand took a tiny riff on the bleedover idea in her wee Near Miss sequel, Good Love Town, if you haven't read it. http://archiveofourown.org/works/121795
In the discussions (what if?, what if?!) we've had, contact has been primarily visual and/or without verbal communication, and it's been canon!Marcone who's been the most shook up.
sidhebeingbrand took a tiny riff on the bleedover idea in her wee Near Miss sequel, Good Love Town, if you haven't read it. http://archiveofourown.org/works/121795How can you kill me with the hot and still make me giggle like a freaking psycho at their little childish moments and Donar being the mature one?
OP will be over here in her bunk, mostly dead from the guh. the only part not dead is too busy laughing
OP will be over here in her bunk, mostly dead from the guh. the only part not dead is too busy laughing
I don't know that NM!John gets the short end of that stick. There are a lot of moral compromises that he hasn't had to make that I think Marcone regrets. Would he trade with the mechanic? Not probably . Would he envy, a little? I think so.
Murphy as Diane makes sense, but I admit to casting Lara as Diane because I find Diane both scarily competent and sexy. And El is more...all around awesome and able to kick ass without actually having to kick it. Murph's described as looking more like a favorite aunt or a mom. Which makes me think more El than Diane. Secretly asskicky!
And yes. It would make Kincaid Diane's girlfriend. :D Which might be enough to sway the vote to Murphy as Diane!
And yes. It would make Kincaid Diane's girlfriend. :D Which might be enough to sway the vote to Murphy as Diane!
Okay so this may be my favorite fill of the meme. I love the dynamic, the way Donar seems to be the patron for both of them, and how that connection makes it okay from them to have this.
That was a terrible pun though. I fully support John in beating Harry to death with a pillow.
That was a terrible pun though. I fully support John in beating Harry to death with a pillow.
Unrelatedly but...
It quickly became obvious that trying to separate Marcone from Chicago was like trying to split the atom. You could do it, but what you got out of the process was unrecognizable and could explode at any moment.
This should be a line in a fic.
It quickly became obvious that trying to separate Marcone from Chicago was like trying to split the atom. You could do it, but what you got out of the process was unrecognizable and could explode at any moment.
This should be a line in a fic.
That was all kinds of hilarious and hot. (And an edge of sweet, underneath it all.) Yay for Donar Vadderung and his impromptu threesome ideas!
There have been a few prompts for someone to take care of Harry, woo/court Harry, or hold a torch for Harry. Sometimes totally blind-siding Harry with that affection. What I want is the reverse.
Show me Harry realizing he has feelings for someone and acting on them. He courts/woos them, sends them flowers, whatever, but Harry is the one doing the chasing.
Bonus if Harry blindsides the one he cares for. :)
Show me Harry realizing he has feelings for someone and acting on them. He courts/woos them, sends them flowers, whatever, but Harry is the one doing the chasing.
Bonus if Harry blindsides the one he cares for. :)
fffff I love this prompt. Especially with Harry's somewhat out-of-date style of dating, he might get adorably cliche about things. 8D
*giggles* but the fic would probably be about separating him from Chicago, and the world might explode D:
Also, I have used a variation of this joke on a friend to much giggling, so I figured it was actually funny and not just me thinking I'm hilarious. (Except with the friend it was separating him and cynicism.)
Also, I have used a variation of this joke on a friend to much giggling, so I figured it was actually funny and not just me thinking I'm hilarious. (Except with the friend it was separating him and cynicism.)
John went for Harry’s belt, watching his eyes in the mirror. He saw it coming, but he still wasn’t quite prepared. Harry had fought before, but now he went crazy. The gun had worried him, the whole scenario had unsettled him, but it was only with John’s fingers on the snap of his jeans that he panicked.
John lost control of him, regained it, lost it again. He threw his entire weight over Harry, pinned his arms at the elbows, rode it out.
“I take it back,” he said, and ground his hips. “Keep fighting. I like it.”
Harry went quiescent again, trapped by his own perversity. He quivered for a silent minute, unable to stop fighting, unwilling to please John.
John let him stew, then bent and licked him once, slow and wet, up the side of his neck. Just to show he could. Harry flinched from him, vocalizing an inarticulate sound of refusal.
“Mmm,” John said, savoring the salty flavor of his sweat like it was better for having been stolen.
He went back to Harry’s belt, popped the button of his jeans, unzipped him slowly. Harry kept tensing under him, his breath coming loud and fast. John got his jeans down to his thighs one-handed. He put the other hand around Harry’s throat again. It was an awkward stretch, but he was going to need the control hold.
And indeed, Harry erupted again as soon as John slipped a finger under the waistband of his shorts.
John put a stop to that with a few seconds of firm pressure on his carotid. Harry slumped under him when he let up, panting and clearly dizzy.
“You’re a bastard, Marcone,” he said hoarsely. “You’re a bastard for doing this to me.”
“I know,” John said, and eased his shorts down, a little at a time, teasing himself. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t care.”
“You are an animal,” Harry said. “You’re a monster, you—"
Something clicked in John’s head, and suddenly he was locked in. He’d been playing it carefully, analyzing everything Harry said on multiple tracks, like listening to two different songs, one in each ear. There was the real thing, and there was the story they had wordlessly agreed on.
But suddenly John was in the story, breathing it. He had Harry Dresden stripped and helpless under him. Dresden, who had sneered at him for years, mocked and disdained him, owned him from the balls out without ever fucking trying. Or deigning to notice, the self-righteous careless presumptuous bastard.
And who, to this day, made John fight him to the mat for every intimacy, for the tiniest concession, even one Harry wanted to give. He made John dance to his tune, beg in all but fact, jump through hoops like a fucking show dog.
For once, John was going to take what he wanted. No caution, no consequences, no patience, no negotiations.
He spread Harry open with one-hand, easing back for a long look. Harry coiled up, as if the mere touch of John’s eyes was a deeper invasion than he could stand. John looked at the flushed skin inside his crack, the scattering of dark hairs, his hole.
“I will never forgive you for this,” Harry said.
That almost stopped John. Outside the story, yes, but more shockingly inside it, too. But Harry could still make him stop, and still wasn’t doing it. And John was done waiting for permission that would never come. What Harry wanted was irrelevant; John was going to get satisfaction from him at last.
He had a tube of slick ready in his pocket, along with the spare zip ties and a few other emergency supplies. He wet his fingers quickly, then spread Harry open again, leaving slick fingerprints. He tapped Harry’s hole once, just to watch him flinch. Then he squeezed warningly at Harry’s throat, and pushed a finger into him.
Harry tipped his head down, denying John his face in the mirror. He pressed his cheek to the couch. He seemed to be locking up, his body going tense as stone, his jaw clenched. John forced a second slick finger into him, just to get a reaction. Harry twisted away, then froze up. But he couldn’t stop the sounds escaping his clenched mouth.
“Relax,” John said, pressing his fingers deep and wriggling them. “You never know, you might enjoy it.”
“Fuck you,” Harry snarled.
John smiled to himself, obscurely pleased. He sunk his fingers deep one more time, a bit breathless at the heat and the pressure. That was going to feel incredible on his dick.
He let go of Harry’s throat and planted that hand in the middle of his back instead, holding him down. He slicked his dick with the other. Not a lot, just enough to keep the friction from actually hurting him.
He spread Harry open again, watching goose flesh ripple up the insides of his thighs. “Ready?” he said solicitously, just to make Harry tense up that little bit more.
Harry did. John had to work to get the head of his dick in, pressing forward, unrelenting. He grunted in satisfaction when it finally happened, sinking deep past the resistance.
“Oh fuck,” Harry said, voice cracking. But he didn’t stop struggling. He clenched, trying to force John out even as he worked deeper.
John let himself groan, more vocal in his enjoyment than usual. “Go on,” he said. “Keep fighting. It just makes you tighter.”
“You bastard,” Harry said, voice fracturing as he repeated himself. He went passive again, fighting the one way left to him. John could feel him trying to control his breathing, trying to relax.
John didn’t want that. He pulled most of the way out, thrust deep again, hard enough to force the breath out of both of them. “Fuck,” John said. He circled his hips, feeling Harry move under him, helplessly responding as John stretched him wider. “Yeah,” John said, talking more than he usually would just to have his voice in Harry’s ears. “That’s what I want.” He thrust again, grunting with effort. It was so good: the sweet tension around his dick, Harry’s little involuntary movements away, how he had nowhere to go after but to push back onto John.
Harry lifted his head again. His face was wrecked, his lips pulled back to show his teeth. “I’m going to kill you for this,” he said to the shadow shape in the mirror.
John thrust involuntarily, a charge crackling low down in his pelvis. “Threaten me again,” he said. “Though really, if you want me to fuck your mouth, you can just come out and say it.” He let his eyes drift half shut, imagining it. One hand in Dresden’s hair, the other holding his mouth open for John’s dick, feeding it to him until he could feel Dresden’s throat working around him.
Harry’s eyes narrowed in the mirror, and he snapped his teeth. “Try it, asshole,” he said.
John laughed again, thrilled by this defiance. He pulled half out, and on a whim slapped Harry once, high up on his right thigh. Harry squeaked, jolting.
“Nice,” John said, pushing deep through his sudden clench release, clench release. He did it again, loving the way Harry couldn’t control his response fast enough, his involuntary jerks and noises.
He pulled out all the way, wanting a little more room to work. He slapped harder that time, leaving a flushing handprint across Harry’s skin, and then one the other direction, and a third crossing them both. Harry seemed to be done pretending not to feel anything; he bucked and yelled, kicking again. John leaned his weight onto the hand in the middle of Harry’s back, holding him down and slapping him twice more, left right. He pushed back in fast enough to enjoy the echoes of Harry’s reaction. Harry was quivering under him, jerking away from every thrust like his skin was too sensitized to even bear the brush of John’s.
And suddenly John was done playing around. He planted his feet, yanked Harry’s hips up, and fucked him. No more games, no more tricks to get him to react, just the hard push of his hips and the perfect friction on his dick. He loved everything about it, the sound of their skin slapping, the way Harry’s back shifted as he responded and controlled himself, moved and froze up again.
Harry dropped his face into the cushions. His biceps flexed, fighting the tangle of his shirt and the inescapable zip tie underneath.
John held his hip for a minute, keeping him tilted up and off-balance. But he couldn’t really get enough leverage, so eventually he shoved Harry back down, bracing his hips over the arm of the couch and fucking him deep.
And Harry . . . arched. There was no other word for it. He controlled it fast, but John was on him – John was in him.
John froze. Harry froze.
“Well, well, well,” John said. He felt a slow smile splitting his face. He pulled Harry’s hips up again, snaked a curious hand underneath.
“No!” Harry blurted, shoving awkwardly up onto his bound elbows.
John ignored him. He thought he knew, but he had to be sure.
Harry was hard; more than that, Harry was desperate. Just the brush of John’s fingers made him gasp, a shiver seizing him. When John took him in hand, he howled.
“Oh,” John said, savagely delighted. “Dresden. What did it, was it when I slapped you around, or is it how I’m fucking you?” Harry was silent, face hidden. John grabbed him by the hair, forced his head up. “Answer me,” he demanded.
Harry was flushed bright red, face twisted in humiliation. “No,” he said.
John stroked him, hand gripping too tight. Harry whined between his teeth, pained and frantically trying not to let his body react.
“No?” John said.
“No,” Harry snarled. “Fuck you, no!”
John leaned over him. He licked Harry’s neck again, then bit him, sucking hard to leave a mark. “The next time I see you, we’re both going to know,” he said into Harry’s ear.
Harry yanked his hair out of John’s fingers, losing a few strands in the process. “You can’t make me,” he said.
John stroked him again, thrust his dick as deep as it would go and ground his hips. “Yes I can,” he said certainly.
Harry hid his face again, and John let him this time. He fucked Harry roughly, inconsiderate of his prostate or his preferred angles. And at the same time he jerked him off. He gripped tight, so dry that he knew it hurt. Harry writhed, trying desperately to get away from John’s hand and only managing to push back into his thrusts. He shook his head, pounding his bound hands into the cushions.
“No,” he said, again and again. “No no no.” It wasn’t defiant anymore.
“I can make you,” John said over him. “I can do anything I want to you.”
Harry went silent and still, whittled down to his last defenses. John tightened his grip, jerking his wrist until his hand burned with the friction and Harry’s dick must be on fire.
Harry’s breath hitched when he came. His hips bucked involuntarily. John fucked him harder, jerking him through it. He kept going even as Harry’s dick softened, stroking him wetly until Harry’s sub vocal whine rose to a desperate plea for him to stop. John kept at him for another five seconds, squeezing the sensitive head of his dick and fucking him hard, loving the way he shook and flinched, over stimulated to the point of pain.
He let Harry go at last, and reached up to slick a bit of the wetness in his palm across Harry’s mouth. “Good boy,” he said.
John lost control of him, regained it, lost it again. He threw his entire weight over Harry, pinned his arms at the elbows, rode it out.
“I take it back,” he said, and ground his hips. “Keep fighting. I like it.”
Harry went quiescent again, trapped by his own perversity. He quivered for a silent minute, unable to stop fighting, unwilling to please John.
John let him stew, then bent and licked him once, slow and wet, up the side of his neck. Just to show he could. Harry flinched from him, vocalizing an inarticulate sound of refusal.
“Mmm,” John said, savoring the salty flavor of his sweat like it was better for having been stolen.
He went back to Harry’s belt, popped the button of his jeans, unzipped him slowly. Harry kept tensing under him, his breath coming loud and fast. John got his jeans down to his thighs one-handed. He put the other hand around Harry’s throat again. It was an awkward stretch, but he was going to need the control hold.
And indeed, Harry erupted again as soon as John slipped a finger under the waistband of his shorts.
John put a stop to that with a few seconds of firm pressure on his carotid. Harry slumped under him when he let up, panting and clearly dizzy.
“You’re a bastard, Marcone,” he said hoarsely. “You’re a bastard for doing this to me.”
“I know,” John said, and eased his shorts down, a little at a time, teasing himself. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t care.”
“You are an animal,” Harry said. “You’re a monster, you—"
Something clicked in John’s head, and suddenly he was locked in. He’d been playing it carefully, analyzing everything Harry said on multiple tracks, like listening to two different songs, one in each ear. There was the real thing, and there was the story they had wordlessly agreed on.
But suddenly John was in the story, breathing it. He had Harry Dresden stripped and helpless under him. Dresden, who had sneered at him for years, mocked and disdained him, owned him from the balls out without ever fucking trying. Or deigning to notice, the self-righteous careless presumptuous bastard.
And who, to this day, made John fight him to the mat for every intimacy, for the tiniest concession, even one Harry wanted to give. He made John dance to his tune, beg in all but fact, jump through hoops like a fucking show dog.
For once, John was going to take what he wanted. No caution, no consequences, no patience, no negotiations.
He spread Harry open with one-hand, easing back for a long look. Harry coiled up, as if the mere touch of John’s eyes was a deeper invasion than he could stand. John looked at the flushed skin inside his crack, the scattering of dark hairs, his hole.
“I will never forgive you for this,” Harry said.
That almost stopped John. Outside the story, yes, but more shockingly inside it, too. But Harry could still make him stop, and still wasn’t doing it. And John was done waiting for permission that would never come. What Harry wanted was irrelevant; John was going to get satisfaction from him at last.
He had a tube of slick ready in his pocket, along with the spare zip ties and a few other emergency supplies. He wet his fingers quickly, then spread Harry open again, leaving slick fingerprints. He tapped Harry’s hole once, just to watch him flinch. Then he squeezed warningly at Harry’s throat, and pushed a finger into him.
Harry tipped his head down, denying John his face in the mirror. He pressed his cheek to the couch. He seemed to be locking up, his body going tense as stone, his jaw clenched. John forced a second slick finger into him, just to get a reaction. Harry twisted away, then froze up. But he couldn’t stop the sounds escaping his clenched mouth.
“Relax,” John said, pressing his fingers deep and wriggling them. “You never know, you might enjoy it.”
“Fuck you,” Harry snarled.
John smiled to himself, obscurely pleased. He sunk his fingers deep one more time, a bit breathless at the heat and the pressure. That was going to feel incredible on his dick.
He let go of Harry’s throat and planted that hand in the middle of his back instead, holding him down. He slicked his dick with the other. Not a lot, just enough to keep the friction from actually hurting him.
He spread Harry open again, watching goose flesh ripple up the insides of his thighs. “Ready?” he said solicitously, just to make Harry tense up that little bit more.
Harry did. John had to work to get the head of his dick in, pressing forward, unrelenting. He grunted in satisfaction when it finally happened, sinking deep past the resistance.
“Oh fuck,” Harry said, voice cracking. But he didn’t stop struggling. He clenched, trying to force John out even as he worked deeper.
John let himself groan, more vocal in his enjoyment than usual. “Go on,” he said. “Keep fighting. It just makes you tighter.”
“You bastard,” Harry said, voice fracturing as he repeated himself. He went passive again, fighting the one way left to him. John could feel him trying to control his breathing, trying to relax.
John didn’t want that. He pulled most of the way out, thrust deep again, hard enough to force the breath out of both of them. “Fuck,” John said. He circled his hips, feeling Harry move under him, helplessly responding as John stretched him wider. “Yeah,” John said, talking more than he usually would just to have his voice in Harry’s ears. “That’s what I want.” He thrust again, grunting with effort. It was so good: the sweet tension around his dick, Harry’s little involuntary movements away, how he had nowhere to go after but to push back onto John.
Harry lifted his head again. His face was wrecked, his lips pulled back to show his teeth. “I’m going to kill you for this,” he said to the shadow shape in the mirror.
John thrust involuntarily, a charge crackling low down in his pelvis. “Threaten me again,” he said. “Though really, if you want me to fuck your mouth, you can just come out and say it.” He let his eyes drift half shut, imagining it. One hand in Dresden’s hair, the other holding his mouth open for John’s dick, feeding it to him until he could feel Dresden’s throat working around him.
Harry’s eyes narrowed in the mirror, and he snapped his teeth. “Try it, asshole,” he said.
John laughed again, thrilled by this defiance. He pulled half out, and on a whim slapped Harry once, high up on his right thigh. Harry squeaked, jolting.
“Nice,” John said, pushing deep through his sudden clench release, clench release. He did it again, loving the way Harry couldn’t control his response fast enough, his involuntary jerks and noises.
He pulled out all the way, wanting a little more room to work. He slapped harder that time, leaving a flushing handprint across Harry’s skin, and then one the other direction, and a third crossing them both. Harry seemed to be done pretending not to feel anything; he bucked and yelled, kicking again. John leaned his weight onto the hand in the middle of Harry’s back, holding him down and slapping him twice more, left right. He pushed back in fast enough to enjoy the echoes of Harry’s reaction. Harry was quivering under him, jerking away from every thrust like his skin was too sensitized to even bear the brush of John’s.
And suddenly John was done playing around. He planted his feet, yanked Harry’s hips up, and fucked him. No more games, no more tricks to get him to react, just the hard push of his hips and the perfect friction on his dick. He loved everything about it, the sound of their skin slapping, the way Harry’s back shifted as he responded and controlled himself, moved and froze up again.
Harry dropped his face into the cushions. His biceps flexed, fighting the tangle of his shirt and the inescapable zip tie underneath.
John held his hip for a minute, keeping him tilted up and off-balance. But he couldn’t really get enough leverage, so eventually he shoved Harry back down, bracing his hips over the arm of the couch and fucking him deep.
And Harry . . . arched. There was no other word for it. He controlled it fast, but John was on him – John was in him.
John froze. Harry froze.
“Well, well, well,” John said. He felt a slow smile splitting his face. He pulled Harry’s hips up again, snaked a curious hand underneath.
“No!” Harry blurted, shoving awkwardly up onto his bound elbows.
John ignored him. He thought he knew, but he had to be sure.
Harry was hard; more than that, Harry was desperate. Just the brush of John’s fingers made him gasp, a shiver seizing him. When John took him in hand, he howled.
“Oh,” John said, savagely delighted. “Dresden. What did it, was it when I slapped you around, or is it how I’m fucking you?” Harry was silent, face hidden. John grabbed him by the hair, forced his head up. “Answer me,” he demanded.
Harry was flushed bright red, face twisted in humiliation. “No,” he said.
John stroked him, hand gripping too tight. Harry whined between his teeth, pained and frantically trying not to let his body react.
“No?” John said.
“No,” Harry snarled. “Fuck you, no!”
John leaned over him. He licked Harry’s neck again, then bit him, sucking hard to leave a mark. “The next time I see you, we’re both going to know,” he said into Harry’s ear.
Harry yanked his hair out of John’s fingers, losing a few strands in the process. “You can’t make me,” he said.
John stroked him again, thrust his dick as deep as it would go and ground his hips. “Yes I can,” he said certainly.
Harry hid his face again, and John let him this time. He fucked Harry roughly, inconsiderate of his prostate or his preferred angles. And at the same time he jerked him off. He gripped tight, so dry that he knew it hurt. Harry writhed, trying desperately to get away from John’s hand and only managing to push back into his thrusts. He shook his head, pounding his bound hands into the cushions.
“No,” he said, again and again. “No no no.” It wasn’t defiant anymore.
“I can make you,” John said over him. “I can do anything I want to you.”
Harry went silent and still, whittled down to his last defenses. John tightened his grip, jerking his wrist until his hand burned with the friction and Harry’s dick must be on fire.
Harry’s breath hitched when he came. His hips bucked involuntarily. John fucked him harder, jerking him through it. He kept going even as Harry’s dick softened, stroking him wetly until Harry’s sub vocal whine rose to a desperate plea for him to stop. John kept at him for another five seconds, squeezing the sensitive head of his dick and fucking him hard, loving the way he shook and flinched, over stimulated to the point of pain.
He let Harry go at last, and reached up to slick a bit of the wetness in his palm across Harry’s mouth. “Good boy,” he said.
:throws in the towel: That's it. I forfeit. I just can't even.
[/kinkmeme]
[/kinkmeme]
ohhhhh *seriously cannot come up with words, brain melted and now on fire*
WOW
WOW
Holy Jesus.
I am crying at the awesome here. And, um, yeah. Wow. /babbles
I am crying at the awesome here. And, um, yeah. Wow. /babbles
Exactly what it says on the tin. Dresden/Marcone, Murphy/Kincaid, Michael/Charity. Would like to see Thomas in there too.
If possible characters as follows
Harry - Kaylee
Marcone - Simon
River - Ivy
Jayne - Kincaid
If possible characters as follows
Harry - Kaylee
Marcone - Simon
River - Ivy
Jayne - Kincaid
One of the best parts of this story is that the John POV fools you into thinking John is mentally stable and all the crazy is Harry's. And then... that's just not true.
"The room of perpetual bliss," Kincaid said. "Although it mostly kicks people out after a week. Sooner if they wear themselves out."
I stared around the room, which looked like someone had taken several brothels from the Romans upwards, kludged them together and then gilded everything on top. "Classy," I said.
"Yeah, I never figured out if it was a reward," Kincaid says. He sat down against one of the walls, sliding down it to sit with one knee up. "Or someone's idea of a joke."
"So how do we get out of it?" I asked. Kincaid opened his mouth and I said, "without the orgy."
He shrugged. "No idea. I don't know if anyone tried." he gestured at the spiral of the rooms. "Eventually, they fill up enough on the energy getting put out and the door opens."
Thomas frowned. "So theoretically, even if we didn't actually fuck, but just let the energy build from..." he hesitated. "From unresolved lust, they'd still fill up? But it would take longer..."
"Maybe," I said slowly, "But... days longer? Months?" And the more they filled, the more the room would intensify that need and... I tried to think of it as a purely intellectual problem.
Kincaid tilted his head. "You're a lot pickier than most of your kind," he said to Thomas. "Trying to figure out if you can avoid a four-course banquet. He made a vague gesture between Thomas and me. "Although if you're worried, maybe the two of you could take the heat for the rest of us."
"What?" I said, trying for shocked and coming out with a squawk.
"Come on, everyone's heard that the two of you were pretty heavily involved," Kincaid said, sounding cheerfully malicious. "It's not like it'd be new for the two of you. And me and Marcone could just watch and keep our hands to ourselves, if you're the jealous type."
"It would be a possible solution," Marcone said, cool as anything, eyes focused on my face. "If the two of you are already... comfortable with each other, it won't be so awkward for you."
There were a lot of things I could say to that, starting with "Awkward? Like having two people watching and probably making comments and notes while you get fucked?", but before I could Thomas snapped out, "Do you really want me at risk of losing control, Kincaid?" He gestured at the walls, the slowly shifting runes drawing out our emotions, feeding off them and then feeding them back to us.
Kincaid's smile was all teeth. "I'm sure Harry can take it. He's got to be used to it by now, right?"
I had no reason to feel embarrassed, Thomas and I hadn't done anything like that, but I could feel my face turn red and Marcone was still staring at me, like he was fitting that bit of information into some future nefarious plan. It occurred to me that technically, he was the least powerful person in the room right now, but it didn't feel that way.
"Forget it," I said. "We're all just going to... I don't know, go sit in our corners and think happy thoughts while I try and figure if there's a way out of this."
The awkward silence wasn't as much of a mood-killer as I'd have liked. Marcone was still looking at us, like he was building a plan up in his head and was just waiting for us to fall into it. Every time I caught him looking at me, it felt like I could see him picturing everything Kincaid had implied about me, detailed and probably annotated pornographic images going through his head even if he looked calm, blank. Thomas was sitting cross-legged, deep breathing and I could see his hunger dancing on his skin, see him pulling it back so it didn't reach out and grab one -or all- of us. And Kincaid was restless, moving about his corner like a tiger in a cage.
I closed my eyes and tried to feel out the spell, see if there were any edges I could pull free. The problem was that whatever working this room had on it, it wasn't static-- it was moving, spiralling and then loosening, crossing over itself. I was starting to suspect that the only way to break into it would be to synch up with it somehow, and that struck me as a bad idea. I managed to sort of hover over it, trying to ignore the effects it had on me, but it kept slipping and sliding away, brushing up against me in the process. The spell wasn't intelligent, exactly, but it wanted to be open, wanted to be touched, but it couldn't actually be held. It was a pretty amazing piece of work, the sort of thing that would get any wizard hot and bothered if they saw it.
I opened my eyes and I wasn't sure how much time had passed, if any. Thomas was still trying to center himself and Marcone was still in his corner, but Jared had got up and started poking up the room, opening cupboards that went across the walls, ruffling in drawers but, thankfully, not taking anything out of them. I could still sort of feel the spell that was on the room-- that made it, something between little tugs and hearing a radio through the walls. When he opened one of the drawers, I knew that if I wanted, I could tell what was in it.
Kincaid caught me looking and tilted his head at me.
"What?" I said.
"How long's it been for you?" he said, looking at me. "I'd lay good money that it's been a lot longer for you than the rest of us."
I wasn't sure if I should take that as an insult or not. "Why do you want to know?"
He nodded at the walls behind me. I turned around to have a look and oh, fuck. I hadn't even noticed it, but the carvings had changed slightly, less abstract, more obvious. I touched one and leaned in to take a closer look and --what the fuck? That-- I didn't even--
"Yeah," Kincaid said, and I didn't even realize he'd come up behind me, but there he was, practically breathing over my shoulder. "It's been a long time for you, huh?" because the decorations on the wall had clarified themselves when I'd touched them, turning into crude images and even as I looked, I could see them becoming clearer, turning into recognizable people. Me, in the middle, getting fucked, kneeling, on all fours, on my back, tied up against the wall, someone -Marcone?- with their hands in my hair. In some, I was bent double in ways I'm pretty sure I should be able to do.
Kincaid's hand touched my back lightly and I shuddered, fighting the urge to press back or press forwards. "Pretty," he said, and I didn't know if he was talking about me or the carvings, but I was very, very aware of Tomas and Marcone sitting in their corners. They could see it-- stars and stones, Tomas could probably taste it coming off me and fuck, that should not sound good.
The figures shifted again and the air grew hotter, heavier. I could hear Kincaid behind me, a soft, low sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sigh.
"You want to give me some room to breathe?" I said. His hand was still on my back, moving up and down lightly.
"No," he gritted out, but he stepped back.
I turned around and I could see Marcone and Tomas staring at us, their expressions both disturbingly blank. "It's just wizard stuff," I said, trying not to sound too defensive and failing pretty miserably. "I was trying to get a hold of the spell that makes this room. It's a bit grabby." I stopped, because that sounded pretty sketchy. "Magically, I mean. It likes when I play with it." And that didn't sound any better.
"You've been trying to figure out if there's a short-cut out of here," Marcone said. "Any luck with that?"
"Why, have you got some place to be?" Tomas said. "or someplace you'd rather be?" I don't know if it was the room effecting him, or just Marcone rubbing him up the wrong way, because he half-purred the words, looking at Marcone with a challenging expression.
They looked at each for a moment, Marcone arrogant and and superior, Tomas arrogant and mocking. I felt like I was missing something. I didn't think they knew each other well enough to have silent arguments.
"I'm a busy man, Mr Raith," Marcone said. "And these are interesting times." His expression changed, went unhappy. "Suffice to say, if I'm not back and on my game within 24 hours, it's going to be pretty awkward for my people."
"My heart bleeds for you," Tomas said.
Marcone's smile suggested it could, pretty easily. I shifted, wondering if I should say something. "I'm not the only one that would be effected," he said. "We have mutual acquaintances that could be-- that would be," he corrected himself, "caught in the crossfire, and I mean that literally." He looked across at me. "I suggest you find an acceptable solution, and soon."
I nodded. My magic was still stretching out to touch the spell and I could feel how the spell itself was starting to echo me, curling up alongside my libido and making friends with parts of me that hadn't been touched in-- well, long enough for me to need a refresher course in the lingo, let's say. It wanted, and it wanted to provide, and it wanted to make more want and satisfy it and-- maybe there could be a way to trick it? "Thomas, come here a second," I said.
Thomas hesitated for a second, then pushed away from his corner of the room and walked across to me. Thomas's magic... it didn't exactly speak the same language as the spell, but it had some of the same vocab, metaphorically speaking, and in magic, metaphor was everything. Maybe I could loop...
"Fuck it," Kincaid said, then he pushed off from the wall stalked over to Marcone and kissed him. Kiss is maybe the wrong word, but devour doesn't exactly cut it either. I may have let out a little squawk, because Marcone, Marcone wasn't pushing him off and stars, I'd seen people fight with less aggression.
"Harry," Thomas said. He looked at me and his eyes were cold enough to burn. He wanted and I had the horrible feeling that part of that was on me, that he was picking up on what I was putting out and feeding it back. He reached out his hand and touched the side of my face, thumb brushing down and then pressing lightly against my throat. "Let me make this easy for you," he said, and I could hear the genuine plea in his voice. "Let me..." He put one hand on the back of my head and pulled me down for a kiss.
And I wanted him to, down deep in my bones and-- "Do you?" I said, managing to get the words out. "No, listen to me, do you really want to--" And there was so much I couldn't say in front of Marcone and Kincaid, but I didn't want to be the reason Thomas gave in to something he didn't want to.
Thomas's eyes went wide. "You're asking me if I want to?" he said, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Me?"
I put one hand flat on his chest and said, "You know what I mean."
He laughed, the sound low and pulling at something deep in me. "Oh, Harry. You have no idea what you're getting in to, do you?"
I shrugged. "Never stopped me before."
I stared around the room, which looked like someone had taken several brothels from the Romans upwards, kludged them together and then gilded everything on top. "Classy," I said.
"Yeah, I never figured out if it was a reward," Kincaid says. He sat down against one of the walls, sliding down it to sit with one knee up. "Or someone's idea of a joke."
"So how do we get out of it?" I asked. Kincaid opened his mouth and I said, "without the orgy."
He shrugged. "No idea. I don't know if anyone tried." he gestured at the spiral of the rooms. "Eventually, they fill up enough on the energy getting put out and the door opens."
Thomas frowned. "So theoretically, even if we didn't actually fuck, but just let the energy build from..." he hesitated. "From unresolved lust, they'd still fill up? But it would take longer..."
"Maybe," I said slowly, "But... days longer? Months?" And the more they filled, the more the room would intensify that need and... I tried to think of it as a purely intellectual problem.
Kincaid tilted his head. "You're a lot pickier than most of your kind," he said to Thomas. "Trying to figure out if you can avoid a four-course banquet. He made a vague gesture between Thomas and me. "Although if you're worried, maybe the two of you could take the heat for the rest of us."
"What?" I said, trying for shocked and coming out with a squawk.
"Come on, everyone's heard that the two of you were pretty heavily involved," Kincaid said, sounding cheerfully malicious. "It's not like it'd be new for the two of you. And me and Marcone could just watch and keep our hands to ourselves, if you're the jealous type."
"It would be a possible solution," Marcone said, cool as anything, eyes focused on my face. "If the two of you are already... comfortable with each other, it won't be so awkward for you."
There were a lot of things I could say to that, starting with "Awkward? Like having two people watching and probably making comments and notes while you get fucked?", but before I could Thomas snapped out, "Do you really want me at risk of losing control, Kincaid?" He gestured at the walls, the slowly shifting runes drawing out our emotions, feeding off them and then feeding them back to us.
Kincaid's smile was all teeth. "I'm sure Harry can take it. He's got to be used to it by now, right?"
I had no reason to feel embarrassed, Thomas and I hadn't done anything like that, but I could feel my face turn red and Marcone was still staring at me, like he was fitting that bit of information into some future nefarious plan. It occurred to me that technically, he was the least powerful person in the room right now, but it didn't feel that way.
"Forget it," I said. "We're all just going to... I don't know, go sit in our corners and think happy thoughts while I try and figure if there's a way out of this."
The awkward silence wasn't as much of a mood-killer as I'd have liked. Marcone was still looking at us, like he was building a plan up in his head and was just waiting for us to fall into it. Every time I caught him looking at me, it felt like I could see him picturing everything Kincaid had implied about me, detailed and probably annotated pornographic images going through his head even if he looked calm, blank. Thomas was sitting cross-legged, deep breathing and I could see his hunger dancing on his skin, see him pulling it back so it didn't reach out and grab one -or all- of us. And Kincaid was restless, moving about his corner like a tiger in a cage.
I closed my eyes and tried to feel out the spell, see if there were any edges I could pull free. The problem was that whatever working this room had on it, it wasn't static-- it was moving, spiralling and then loosening, crossing over itself. I was starting to suspect that the only way to break into it would be to synch up with it somehow, and that struck me as a bad idea. I managed to sort of hover over it, trying to ignore the effects it had on me, but it kept slipping and sliding away, brushing up against me in the process. The spell wasn't intelligent, exactly, but it wanted to be open, wanted to be touched, but it couldn't actually be held. It was a pretty amazing piece of work, the sort of thing that would get any wizard hot and bothered if they saw it.
I opened my eyes and I wasn't sure how much time had passed, if any. Thomas was still trying to center himself and Marcone was still in his corner, but Jared had got up and started poking up the room, opening cupboards that went across the walls, ruffling in drawers but, thankfully, not taking anything out of them. I could still sort of feel the spell that was on the room-- that made it, something between little tugs and hearing a radio through the walls. When he opened one of the drawers, I knew that if I wanted, I could tell what was in it.
Kincaid caught me looking and tilted his head at me.
"What?" I said.
"How long's it been for you?" he said, looking at me. "I'd lay good money that it's been a lot longer for you than the rest of us."
I wasn't sure if I should take that as an insult or not. "Why do you want to know?"
He nodded at the walls behind me. I turned around to have a look and oh, fuck. I hadn't even noticed it, but the carvings had changed slightly, less abstract, more obvious. I touched one and leaned in to take a closer look and --what the fuck? That-- I didn't even--
"Yeah," Kincaid said, and I didn't even realize he'd come up behind me, but there he was, practically breathing over my shoulder. "It's been a long time for you, huh?" because the decorations on the wall had clarified themselves when I'd touched them, turning into crude images and even as I looked, I could see them becoming clearer, turning into recognizable people. Me, in the middle, getting fucked, kneeling, on all fours, on my back, tied up against the wall, someone -Marcone?- with their hands in my hair. In some, I was bent double in ways I'm pretty sure I should be able to do.
Kincaid's hand touched my back lightly and I shuddered, fighting the urge to press back or press forwards. "Pretty," he said, and I didn't know if he was talking about me or the carvings, but I was very, very aware of Tomas and Marcone sitting in their corners. They could see it-- stars and stones, Tomas could probably taste it coming off me and fuck, that should not sound good.
The figures shifted again and the air grew hotter, heavier. I could hear Kincaid behind me, a soft, low sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sigh.
"You want to give me some room to breathe?" I said. His hand was still on my back, moving up and down lightly.
"No," he gritted out, but he stepped back.
I turned around and I could see Marcone and Tomas staring at us, their expressions both disturbingly blank. "It's just wizard stuff," I said, trying not to sound too defensive and failing pretty miserably. "I was trying to get a hold of the spell that makes this room. It's a bit grabby." I stopped, because that sounded pretty sketchy. "Magically, I mean. It likes when I play with it." And that didn't sound any better.
"You've been trying to figure out if there's a short-cut out of here," Marcone said. "Any luck with that?"
"Why, have you got some place to be?" Tomas said. "or someplace you'd rather be?" I don't know if it was the room effecting him, or just Marcone rubbing him up the wrong way, because he half-purred the words, looking at Marcone with a challenging expression.
They looked at each for a moment, Marcone arrogant and and superior, Tomas arrogant and mocking. I felt like I was missing something. I didn't think they knew each other well enough to have silent arguments.
"I'm a busy man, Mr Raith," Marcone said. "And these are interesting times." His expression changed, went unhappy. "Suffice to say, if I'm not back and on my game within 24 hours, it's going to be pretty awkward for my people."
"My heart bleeds for you," Tomas said.
Marcone's smile suggested it could, pretty easily. I shifted, wondering if I should say something. "I'm not the only one that would be effected," he said. "We have mutual acquaintances that could be-- that would be," he corrected himself, "caught in the crossfire, and I mean that literally." He looked across at me. "I suggest you find an acceptable solution, and soon."
I nodded. My magic was still stretching out to touch the spell and I could feel how the spell itself was starting to echo me, curling up alongside my libido and making friends with parts of me that hadn't been touched in-- well, long enough for me to need a refresher course in the lingo, let's say. It wanted, and it wanted to provide, and it wanted to make more want and satisfy it and-- maybe there could be a way to trick it? "Thomas, come here a second," I said.
Thomas hesitated for a second, then pushed away from his corner of the room and walked across to me. Thomas's magic... it didn't exactly speak the same language as the spell, but it had some of the same vocab, metaphorically speaking, and in magic, metaphor was everything. Maybe I could loop...
"Fuck it," Kincaid said, then he pushed off from the wall stalked over to Marcone and kissed him. Kiss is maybe the wrong word, but devour doesn't exactly cut it either. I may have let out a little squawk, because Marcone, Marcone wasn't pushing him off and stars, I'd seen people fight with less aggression.
"Harry," Thomas said. He looked at me and his eyes were cold enough to burn. He wanted and I had the horrible feeling that part of that was on me, that he was picking up on what I was putting out and feeding it back. He reached out his hand and touched the side of my face, thumb brushing down and then pressing lightly against my throat. "Let me make this easy for you," he said, and I could hear the genuine plea in his voice. "Let me..." He put one hand on the back of my head and pulled me down for a kiss.
And I wanted him to, down deep in my bones and-- "Do you?" I said, managing to get the words out. "No, listen to me, do you really want to--" And there was so much I couldn't say in front of Marcone and Kincaid, but I didn't want to be the reason Thomas gave in to something he didn't want to.
Thomas's eyes went wide. "You're asking me if I want to?" he said, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Me?"
I put one hand flat on his chest and said, "You know what I mean."
He laughed, the sound low and pulling at something deep in me. "Oh, Harry. You have no idea what you're getting in to, do you?"
I shrugged. "Never stopped me before."
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