scribe_protra | Round 2 is closed.

I... would dearly like more of this. And I don't generally like het. But, um, the always-a-girl thing and the Kincaid thing both make me go oooh, and I want AAG!Harry/Kincaid strap-on porn like fiery suns. Which I did not know until just now.

Also, the last line she maketh me happy.

http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=457266#cmt457266

The thread in question, if any wonderful Nonnies need inspiration...

This is really nice.

Over at the Marcone/Dresden/Marcone (http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=491570#cmt491570) thread, there's a suggestion for NM!Marcone/NM!Harry/Canon!Marcone, with Canon!Marcone in the NM universe.

Please? Anyone? *puppy dog eyes* NM!John meeting Canon!Marcone has always had the promise of such an emotional gutpunch for me... with a John-loving Harry there, I can't even.

IAWTC

AWESOME

OMFG WHAT

so amazing.

This is so fucking good.

I can't read noncon - not a trigger, just a squick, but this. This. Every once in a while I started to get creeped out in a bad way and knocked out of the story and than I came back to 'no, there's still consent' and holy shit, how do you write something like this it is so amazing.

Pretty sure that was incoherent, but this is what your fic drives me to.

Harry Dresden grins up at me exultantly, wraps his long legs tighter around my waist, coaxes me a little deeper into his body-- hot, open, wet and slick even through the thin, clinging layer of latex I’m wearing. He’s done this before; my stomach clenches and my breathing hitches, my hips following suit.

“I won’t break, Marcone,” he promises, teasing, spurring me a little deeper. ‘Marcone’ is warm and friendly on his lips, almost unrecognizable. To him, of course, I’m not John: there’s only one John to him, and he’s sitting at the foot of the bed, watching.

My double is observing patiently, slowly stroking his erection. He appreciates what he sees. We both agreed-- when Harry made his spur of the moment offer-- that we weren’t comfortable being intimate with each other. There’s masturbation and then there’s narcissism and then there’s courting a mental break. But at the easy distance of watching, I can appreciate that I-- I as I would be, if I were him-- look fairly fuckable with that pleased, amused expression, mouth smirking, cock out and red and ready. And his answering smile, as I catch his eye, says that yes: he quite likes the look of me balls deep in his lover. I as I would be... is, perhaps, more generous than I as I am. Has more left to give.

He shifts his leg a little more comfortably, and his tshirt rises on his stomach, showing a leaner torso than mine, with a soft proto-potbelly. He doesn’t eat as well as I do, no nutritionists and ready meals, but he makes up for it by working honestly for his muscular physique. I can see the grease under his nails, unfamiliar scars on his hands, his arms. His smile grows wide-- he waggles his dick at me a little, cocks an eyebrow, but his eyes narrow, questioning--

I refuse to feel ashamed of what I have made of myself.

“Hey, Narcissus. Yoo-hoo!” Harry wiggles under me, his body tightening and stroking down my cock, his hips doing most of the work for the both of us, and my attention shatters and refocuses on him. He’s surprisingly muscular in a whipcord way-- runner’s legs I hadn’t suspected hiding under all those baggy pants, and I follow the track of his exertions under his skin with my mouth, up to his long neck and the wide curve of his lips. When he smiles it cracks his face, draws me in like a light. I’ve never seen it before. I can’t hold out much longer, his body gripping around me, soft, generous, like he’s done it a hundred times.

I grunt, my breathing coming hard as I try to regain control, and it sounds so loud with a witness to hear it. My thighs start to burn with the effort of getting deeper into him, again, again, harder and faster-- he looks up at me, a little surprised, and then smiles. “Yeah. Come on.”

“I don’t want--”

“Marcone, you can’t handle me,” he says, and it’s gentle and playful and laughing and everything that sex so often isn’t for me. “Come.” He bears down around me, and I do.

Those last deep thrusts-- as if I was trying to bury my entire lower body in him-- they make him shut his eyes, make high pitched sounds, so pleased he doesn’t bother to censor himself-- and they fade to a soft sigh when I finish and he’s still hard against my stomach, his strong legs holding his hips up against mine, not letting me move. I’m still in him, softening, twitching at how tight he is around my suddenly over-sensitive skin.

He breathes slowly and …his face, he’s savoring the feeling of me going flaccid in him, a feeling he knows, one he enjoys. He-as-he-is would never let me see this: I pack it away, tuck it in with the boxful of memories I will have to keep secret, safe, when I return home. He lowers himself and it’s almost painful as his body slides off of mine.

“What can I do for you,” I stammer out. Orgasm’s left me stupid, wildly pleased and glowing with how good it is, my tongue thick and my muscles heavy, but his long erection draped across his stomach is a reminder that I’m not done, can’t be done, that-- ha, that I need the reminder-- I’m not the only one in the room. Harry considers this, reaching up to peel the condom off of me and knot it expertly, tossing it at the trashcan.

“Suck him, Marcone,” I-as-I-would-be advises from the foot of the bed-- a studied suggestion. He’s been watching. I know that tone of voice-- jarring to hear from this end. He’s been wanting to see this.

I nod, sharp, jerky, and crawl back down their bed a bit, crouching between Harry’s thighs-- his eyes widen, suddenly almost shy. ...it’s so counter-intuitive and so extremely Dresden that he could be unselfconscious and uninhibited during a full-on screwing and now that it’s a little oral sex he doesn’t know how to handle himself.

My eyes flicker to my double again; am I doing something wrong? But his amused headshake reassures me. Harry’s always like this.

I lean down and kiss a hello from his balls up his shaft to his tip-- the tease is maybe a little cruel, as hard and as close as he is, but it’s been so long since I’ve done this. I need to breathe and remind myself how to handle a man from down here, let the scent of his arousal and sweat and musk wake up old, carefully stowed memories.

My double moves with a grunt, stretching across and over the bed to pull at one of the shelves built into the frame, getting another condom for us-- they don’t seem to use them often between each other, but we-the-Marcones agreed almost without discussion that it would be appropriate for me to use one. Him because he doesn’t know where I’ve been; I because if I ever let a stranger do this to my lover, I know I’d insist.

My hands do not shake as I rip the foil, pulling out the little latex roll and putting it carefully on the tip of Harry’s dick. Leaning on one hand, I use the other to point his erection at my mouth, and firm my lips as I pop them around the head of his cock and slowly sink down, rolling the condom down him as I go.

A familiar sound comes from far away-- my little trick impressed more than Harry, and I try not to watch too openly as my double milks himself to finish, eyes glued to my mouth and Harry’s cock, flickering to Harry’s face and back. We must look good.

Harry’s legs tense and untense around me-- he’s curled down to the toes as the slow bobs of my head start to speed up, as I lash my tongue when I can, when my mouth isn’t so full of him that I’m almost gagging-- slow down, breathe through my nose, I can get him deeper. Until I have to pull off. A worried sound from Harry, and I shake my head. I want to do this-- a little too much. It’s over-enthusiasm, not reluctance, that’s got me coughing.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, “let me,” and go back down quickly-- short, fast strokes down him now, familiar habits coming back, I’m already growing used to, fond of the shape of him in my mouth. He’s starting to pant, fast and shallow, and then his lungs fill and he holds his breath-- his head whips back against the pillow, one hand flutters in the air over my head, and his cock spasms in my mouth, twitching against my lips. I can actually feel the pulse of him under my tongue through the latex. I can feel when he’s done, even if the long sigh wasn’t clue enough.

I pull off slowly, keeping my lips firm and round-- his hips give a little flutter, a sleepy roll, the lingering pressure doing something for him. He pets at my hair, murmuring something that, best I can tell, contains no actual words. He’s less sensitive, more receptive than I am after. I’ll have to blame the wizardly capacity to heal.

He shuts his eyes, splaying out-- afterglow nearly tangible, radiating from his sin. He’s left the condom on; it’s jarringly sweet. I shift, finding a place to sit beside his legs, and watch him-- there’s more room than there was before. I-as-I-would-be am missing.

My double clears his throat, padding back into the bedroom. ”I’d offer you a shower, but I’m afraid you caught us on a bad week.” He’s teasing me a little, I think. My manners and mannerisms; him, confident in his stubble, his worn clothes, his rough hands. “The water heater’s down. If you can wait a few minutes, though, the kettle’s on.”

So that’s where he’d gone, after he finished. I wonder how much he saw. I wonder if that last moment was only mine and Harry’s, and a part of me wants it, viciously. Another quieter, more sensible part doesn’t want that responsibility, that weight.

“I hope we weren’t without our chaperon for too long,” I say, and... he understands. There’s so much of me in him, and him in me, in the way we talk and think that it’s almost jarring to remember how different our lives are.

“I wasn’t gone long,” he assures me. “I came back in time to catch you wrapping up. Thanks for taking care of him. He’s a handful.”

“‘pyors,” Harry says, and sighs happily.

The easy joke hammers home some of our key differences-- the trust he has in his lover, the confidence. He’s in his home, this little apartment, the massive bed they built together. I’m in his domain. I have Chicago. I have my safehouses, my estate. I don’t have anything like this, a home that’s mine and more than a place I sleep, nowhere with a threshold stretched across the door, thick and effective, powered by my presence and my comfort and my joy.

I want it. The price is too high, but I want it.

“Thank you,” I say, eyes tracking back to Harry, sprawled sleepily across the bed. He’s finally remembered to do something with the condom. ...there’s quite a lot that this man has that I want, however little it may be from a strictly financial point of view.

I’d lose Chicago. I’d see it overrun by an indiscriminate, sloppy, vicious monster with Marco Vargassi by her side. I’ve seen the hunger in his eyes when I tell them about home; he wants that world where Chicago is a safer place, where he can extend his control and crush the invading forces of darkness, where he can make the hard choices and know no one else has to. Where men he loved weren’t fed to the mill. Where Nathan Hendricks isn’t a survivor of a vicious, unseen assault, isn’t recovering from the sick addiction of thrall. But he can’t imagine a life without his wizard-- I could see that, too, when his thoughts hit that wall, his face shuttering off, pained, locking down.

I want a lover I trust and cherish. I want Harry, intriguing and maddening and heroic and fun, my friend let alone my lover-- not angry and distant, antagonizing me into doing the right thing when the stakes are high enough. I want a home. I want not to be a monster, I want to be something like a good guy, I want Amanda Beckitt to be a happy, functional girl coping well with her parents’-- with her living, breathing, sane parents’ separation and sending me postcards from far away. I want to not know that I am, in my way, responsible for every death in my city, every hurt child, every family that cracks under the burden of addiction, everyone who fears the underside of the city that the cops can’t touch, that the law won’t protect them from. I want it badly enough that it curls around what’s left of my heart and squeezes. But I can’t imagine a life without control of my city. The uncertainty he deals with, the losses he’s taken, I can’t-- I hit the wall he hits, backing off from it.

“Shame there’s no win-win scenario.”

“Please stop reading my mind,” I say, my lips slanting into a wry nonsmile.

He matches it. “Your face, actually. It’s nice to know that no matter how much I polish up, I’m still going to be an idiot after sex.”

The laugh is painful and it surprises me. “You’ve got no idea.”

“Not in front of sleeping beauty, there. Princess, the grownups are going to go talk now.” Harry flicks a hand in our direction-- possibly making an attempt to raise his middle finger, but he’s sprawled out, snuffling gently, utterly shameless, and ultimately unsuccessful. John crosses over, kisses him hard-- slips a hand down under his ass where I can’t see and makes him sigh and squirm-- then pulls their covers up over him and waves me into the living room. Message delivered; I don’t begrudge him it. The kettle starts to whistle shrilly in their kitchenette.

We mostly manage to stay out of each other’s way as he gets a bucket, as I take the water off the range. He finds towels, I mix the steaming water with a little of their freezing tap water until it’s just at the edge of comfort, hot but not scalding.

There’s an almost decadent loofah to scrub down with, some soap tailor made for sponge baths. But why not do it right, if you have to do this three weeks a month? I clean the sticky remainders of sex off, and my double makes a sandwich. No, two. Because he knows what I take, and he knows I’m ravenous after sex.

“Regrets?” he asks frankly, from his comfortable seat on the couch, left leg up on the coffee table. He’s sipping from a beer; its brother stands beside the second sandwich. MacAnally’s. There’s a giant cafe serving-sized brownie on a little napkin next to it, cut neatly in two. It’s remarkably distracting.

“No. But regrets that I don’t have regrets.” I kneel, dunk my head into the bucket, and scrub my fingers through my hair.

His laugh is knowing, rueful. “Because you think it was the wrong thing to do.”

“I need to get home. We need to track down the mirror and I have to find my way back to my universe. This-- this time I’ve wasted on a fantasy, it could have been put to better use.”

“Bull,” he tells me, as I wrap myself in one of their warm towels, use the other to scrape the last moisture off of my legs and out of my hair. “There’s no way Nathan is by your side seven days a week without reminding you of basic economics. It’s stupid to penalize anyone with a low income for buying the occasional luxury item; they couldn’t pay their rent any more easily if they had that twenty dollars back, the relative costs being what they are, and a really good meal will help their morale plenty more than an extra bill in their wallet. You’re time-poor, but there’s nothing we could have done with the last two hours but sit around here. We made good use of the time. And you can’t tell me your morale isn’t boosted.” His smile is knowing, gentle, generous.

He’s right, and it’s exactly what Hendricks would say, at that. ...Hendricks. I’m going to have to tell him about this. About what the course of one bullet can change. I can’t deal with knowing this alone. But first I have to get home to him first, to my friend, Hendricks as he is. There’s nothing wrong with Hendricks-as-he-would be, he’s a good man and I can’t imagine that changing. But he’s not the friend-turned-bodyguard who puts my mind in order.

“You make a good point.” I nod. And there’s nothing I could do in the next fifteen minutes more productive than killing that waiting beer, wolfing down that sandwich, and wading through my half of that massive brownie.

What we talk about while we eat is trivial. It has to be trivial. I’m a man who engages in problems too easily: we both are. I wrap myself in the old comforter they gave me for their pull-out sofa bed and indulge in the pleasures of the flesh-- the other pleasures of the flesh-- and talk, of all things, about Aranovsky films, the comparative state of our newspaper comic pages, and which movies and radio stations I studied when I was polishing up my rough verbal edges to a boardroom shine.

“Tomorrow,” he says, as I’m down to the last few swallows of beer. “There’s a man we’re going to talk to. A friend of Harry’s, recently back from LA-- a minor celebrity, so you’ll be able to air-kiss in your native environment.”

I give him a graceless snort, warm and content in this safe place, full of food and good beer.

“Thommy White. Stylist to the stars.” He waggles his fingers in a pass at jazz hands. “Runs a cafe and haircut place. That’s one of his brownies you’re chowing down on.”

It rings a strange, discordant bell in my head. “Tall man. Pale skin, pale eyes, dark hair, cheekbones for miles, eats souls.”

“Oh, good, you know him.”

“You trust him? With Madeline Raith running the city?”

A shrug, one-shouldered. I trained myself out of that movement years ago. “He’s on the other side. And Harry trusts him, and I don’t think Harry’s being played here.” So that’s that, then. I nod, and dab the last crumbs of brownie from my plate.

“He’s Harry’s ally in my world, too.” There’s no guarantee that that would be a constant-- but I trust my double’s judgement. If he’s reckless about anything, it certainly isn’t his lover’s safety.

We’ve fucked, we’ve eaten, we’ve planned. I assume the surprises are over, but when I go to pop the catch that will turn their sofa into the bed I’ve been sleeping on for the past three nights, he stops me. “...not tonight, Marcone. Not after that.”

My hand slips off the catch, a tide of relief rising up in me, strong enough to make my muscles loose and fluttery. I hadn’t realized how much being alone would hurt, after being so... not alone, if only temporarily. I follow him into their bedroom, skirting along the wall so not to bash my knees into their real-estate dominating bed. It must have taken magic to get that mattress in in the first place.

Harry’s snoring, low and tolerable; Marcone throws me an extra pair of sweatpants to sleep in before he blows out the candles that light the room up, one by one. Harry shifts over as we crawl into bed, mumbling a pre-verbal question.

“Honey, the Beave had a nightmare. He’s sleeping with us tonight,” my double says fondly, and Harry gives a nearly coherent response, accepting it. He pats each of our left ears in the dark, fingers gentle on the ragged edge of mine, and draws me close, lying on his side with one arm across my chest, one folded up under the pillow under me. My double settles down against my other side, adjusting his position carefully and flinging a brotherly arm across my torso to rest his hand on Harry’s hip.

They fold me between them, welcoming me. This isn’t my Home.

But I’ve never felt like a more honored guest.

I’ll take on the world in the morning. Both of them.

BRB crying forever

Disappointment, precisely; there was the loss itself, the danger to the city, but I think there would be a sort of personal bitterness about his death, because it would serve as a sort of proof to Marcone, it didn't work. His way of life didn't work. What he believed in got him killed... the good in the world he believed in and fought for betrayed him.

Harry's way of dealing with things is so completely different from Marcone's- I mean, he doesn't compromise. Or tries really hard not to, and for most part he gets away with it. And Marcone, watching him, must have felt a sort of wonder, this man is actually fighting evil in ways that I can't manage, and he gets away with minimal sacrifices. It actually works. And it must have given him a sense of optimism, and perhaps fascination. And I think he must have been let down, personally, when it didn't go right for Harry, who had been becoming this very private mascot.

Whoa, Nonnies work fast here...

http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=491570

..."can be AU"? on another think-through I got what you meant, but that right there fits my definition of AU already like WOAH.

Hurts so good :D

This was so sweet! And hot! And whoa, two Marocnes, but the universe(s) didn't implode. ...Anon totally came out of this thinking Canon!Marcone got a bit more of a raw deal, but "The uncertainty he deals with, the losses he’s taken" had me :(((((

AND THOMMY WHITE? AND HENDRICKS? (:((((()

"...it’s so counter-intuitive and so extremely Dresden that he could be unselfconscious and uninhibited during a full-on screwing and now that it’s a little oral sex he doesn’t know how to handle himself" and NearMiss!Marcone the porno director lol.

I'm completely blown away by this fill. I mean, when I posted the request, I didn't even dare hope that someone would fill it, with the kink being as unpopular as it is.

But no. You fill it and you write with such clear insight into the character dynamics, with characterization so brilliant...I don't know how to express adequately in words how awesome this is.

And now. I'm scheduling couple's therapy for Harry and John.

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD ANON ANON!

I am so super-impressed by this. I want to plaster myself on the screen and spoon with this story. OMFG. This was amazing.

Agh, their complementary regrets, omfg, and how could you make it that SEXY, jfc, this was amazing and hurt-fluffy and am seriously stunned and oomph and turned on and impressed and and and. And.

Whewf.

You know what, even before I found kinkmeme- before kinkmeme existed, I think, I plotted out a story where Maggie tries to find her dad, and only finds pieces of memory littered around people who won't tell her everything. And Harry himself has distanced himself from everyone, as the Winter Knight, and when she finally finds him, she's completely disillusioned because, hell, a few years under that job- something's bound to snap.

I failed at it and deleted the file in a fit of frustration, but if someone else wrote this and struck the right balance of bittersweet that I never managed... whoa.

tldr: Seconded.

I actually think that Harry could make a nice Inara- I know, the character dynamics would change completely, and if we were matching personalities Harry would be Mal... but there's an odd appeal to the idea, because he'd be such an amusing Companion.

IVY CAN BE RIVER, OMFG.

I want to do this one, but I wasn't immediately struck with an idea so I'm still thinking about it. I really like the concept though.

Just wanted to let you know that the prompt wasn't fogotten.

I spent most of the day walking through my wards and reinforcing my magic. I know what you're thinking, that I should have been researching how to break the spell, but I needed to get back in touch with my magic and going over the wards and protections I'd set up was good for that. I could make my magic run over the paths I'd set up before, giving them a touch more oomph, and feel where it was slow to respond, where it wanted to barrel through and where it wanted to crawl.

Not that some people would see it that way. Marcone would probably just bitch about how i was wasting his time by making it harder for him to go back to being a high-class thug instead of some junior management one. Like he was in any position to tell me what to do, like he knew anything about magic. By the end of it, I almost wanted him to, rehearsing what I'd say if he even thought about asking me how I was getting on with turning us all back. I was smugly lining up my arguments when I felt Thomas at the door.

Thomas has free entry to the place, but for a second the newer wards hesitated. Thomas was my brother, was allowed in, but he was also something dangerous, and there was a second where both aspects of the spell -protection for me and mine, protection from danger- were in conflict before they let him in.

I waved him in. Thomas was dressed in his normal clothes and I felt a pang of jealousy that they still mostly fit. I'd had to put extra notches on my belt to get my jeans to stay up, but Thomas was wearing a T-shirt that clung to him just as much as it ever did. He looked younger, not quite jailbait, but like he could fake that if you asked nicely.

And he was bringing food. "Gifts from the good ladies at the salon," he said smugly, holding up a set of tupperware. "I think I appeal to their maternal instincts."

"Thank you, Mrs Robinson," I said, taking down a couple of plates down and unwrapping stuff. "They just give you this?"

Thomas shrugged. "Poor starving student," he said. "Je m'appelle Michel," Thomas said. "I am, 'ow you say, le neveu, the nephew of Tomas, 'ere to study at the université." He dropped back into his normal voice. "And my dear uncle is letting me work part-time at the salon until my loans come through."

I unwrapped what turned out to be a very expensive looking quiche of some kind and pulled out a jar of stuffed olives. Student food, right. "That's okay?" I asked. "With the feeding and everything? You can still just sip?"

Thomas shrugged. "Mostly. I-- you know, I didn't need it as much when I was younger. I was a lot less subtle, but then I didn't actually have to be, so I mostly didn't even try." He pushed his hair back from his head. "Or maybe it's worse, because it never really crossed my mind to bother doing it, you know? It felt like I needed it all, so I just... but it wasn't actually as strong as later."

I didn't know what else to say, so I nodded. "Like how spraining your ankle is the worst pain ever, until you break your leg," I offered.

Thomas grinned at me. "Pretty much." He hesitated, then said, "So Michael called me. Said you had a pretty bad nightmare?"

"He told me on you?" I said. "Seriously?"

Thomas shrugged. "I'm guessing you triggered some paternal instinct pretty hard."

"Hell's bells," I said, feeling embarrassment crawl up my skin. "It was just one bad dream."

"Not going to argue with you, little brother," he said. His smile wasn't a happy one. "I'm guessing the Carpenters have different standards of parenting than we're used to."

I rolled my eyes. "They acted like it was such a big deal! I'm not actually a kid, you know?"

"No, but you're not exactly yourself either," Thomas said.

I crossed my arms and stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He held his hands up in a don't-shoot-the-messenger gesture. "This spell, it's not just made us look younger. My body, my Hunger, they're telling me things they told me when I was this age for real, and you... You're acting like you're you, but you're reacting like you're..." he gestured at me. "Like you were, I guess."

"You didn't even know me back then," I said. "Neither did Michael or Charity or anyone, so you've got no idea how I used to--"

"No, but I can guess," Thomas said. He took a breath and I could feel him trying to calm down, trying to calm me down. "I'm not blaming you--"

"I haven't done anything wrong!" I said, and Thomas's eyes went pale and he made a calm-down gesture, reaching out to me--

--and I could feel it, my magic burning at my skin, wanting to be used, telling me that I could knock him, down, the door was just there, adrenaline running through me like this was a fight instead of just an argument with my brother. Something telling me that I couldn't let him touch me, everything I knew about White Vampires and how they could get into your mind running through my brain.

"I'm on edge," I said, carefully drawing my magic back without trying to show that I'd had it up. "My magic isn't reacting like it should, I'm hungry all the time, I spent yesterday evening trying not to think about Charity's bra and it's just putting me on edge," I said, emphasizing the last two words. Thomas's hand went out to touch my arm in comfort and I forced myself to let it. Reminded myself that Thomas was safe and that I liked human or nearly-human contact.

He pulled me in and gave me a quick hug, suitably manly with some back-patting and I let him, partly because it felt good and partly because pushing him away would make it a big deal. "Charity Carpenter's bra?" He said, pulling back, offering us both a polite way out of what was dangerously close to an emotional moment.

"Teenage hormones," I said, embarrassed. "It's not like I was doing it on purpose." I poked at one of the bags for something to look at and pulled out a jar of something. "Artichoke hearts? What do they think students eat these days!"

"We French, we 'ave very cosmopolitan tastes," Thomas said. "But I picked up some chicken-wings too."

This is too awesome for words! I can't wait until our favorite crime lord with a soft spot for children meets young!Dresden.

That would be heartbreaking. I've always wondered how Maggie would turn out later on, because Jim can't just write her off completely. Families in the Dresden Files are mostly messed up, aside from the Carpenters, and seeing Harry's situation in canon is depressing.

That bit about people not wanting to tell her everything, that really struck me. She's going to know Harry in pieces, pieces of him left behind after the job as Winter Knight makes him snap.

/searches the Nevernever for the file you deleted/

*HUGS MARCONE*

Round 2 is closed.

Re: Manners 1/1 (Reposted because of HTMLfail)

Re: Marcone/Dresden/Marcone

Re: Fill: Good for the Soul

Re: Alternate Realities Collide!

Re: No idea where I'm going with this...

Re: Chapter One: New Arrival in Naperville

Re: Fill: What Happens In Midgard 4/4

Re: Fill (6/?)

3-Way Mirror

Fill: 3-way Mirror 2/2

Re: Fill: 3-way Mirror 2/2

Re: Fill (6/?)

Re: Alternate Realities Collide!

Re: shuffle

Re: Fill: 3-way Mirror 2/2

Re: Fill: 3-way Mirror 2/2

OP

Re: Fill: 3-way Mirror 2/2

Re: Maggie's guardian

Re: OP

Re: The power of names

Fight or Flight 3

Re: Fill: 4/? scrappy!Harry prompt

OP Re: Maggie's guardian

Re: Fill: 3-way Mirror 2/2