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sorry, didn't mean to get any Fridge Horror in your silly vampire Harlequin. But yeah, yes to all that. Because I can't just write a fluffy fill, noooo, I have to at least mention Harry's issues.
Or, on this thread, Harry gets turned on by seeing John out of his business-man's best. Or, the juxtaposition of some of the cruder things John might do, while still looking, sounding like the cream of the tax bracket crop Like the trend in fic for John's accent slipping to be a sign of emotional trust. A bit of Johnny before he was a gentleman gets Harry all het up. Them responding to it with some cruder, nastier sex would not be amiss.
I just didn't want to pester, since you're filling so many of these prompts. And so far, I'm pretty happy reading anything you write. ^^
Okay, I don't know which is more beautiful to me - Harry cracking a Buffy reference, or John being canny enough to ask three times.
John's desperation here and how he's trying so hard to hold back for Harry's sake is hitting all my buttons.
*perks up* more? Please? If I turn into a version of oliver twist who craves vampire!John instead of food?
or maybe Harry does. :)
H:"You want to bite me where?"
H:"Is that really safe?"
H:"...okay."
*indefinite amount of time later*
H:"So when are we doing this again? Also, when do you feed me, you know, real food?"
Me and my feedback are conspiring for the greater good. Which is, you know, more vampire goodness. :)
or maybe Harry does. :)
H:"You want to bite me where?"
H:"Is that really safe?"
H:"...okay."
*indefinite amount of time later*
H:"So when are we doing this again? Also, when do you feed me, you know, real food?"
Me and my feedback are conspiring for the greater good. Which is, you know, more vampire goodness. :)
Brilliant last line. It fits with this awesome fill.
"Accidental potion of Phone Sex Operator, as far as I can tell. Dear Penthouse, you'll never believe what I have to tell you. It all started when my Mafia kingpin boyfriend let me put my tongue in his ass."
lol-ing forever, as I imagine Marcone's face as Harry said that.
"Accidental potion of Phone Sex Operator, as far as I can tell. Dear Penthouse, you'll never believe what I have to tell you. It all started when my Mafia kingpin boyfriend let me put my tongue in his ass."
lol-ing forever, as I imagine Marcone's face as Harry said that.
OP here:
So... do you mind if I do a crossover fill possibly using that plothook then? 10th Doctor and Donna. Because it's starting to bubble in from my subconcious; I just have to finish the one I'm writing now.
I just want Donna to meet Marcone. Because the awesome should meet each other.
How do I get Wilf in there?
*plots*
So... do you mind if I do a crossover fill possibly using that plothook then? 10th Doctor and Donna. Because it's starting to bubble in from my subconcious; I just have to finish the one I'm writing now.
I just want Donna to meet Marcone. Because the awesome should meet each other.
How do I get Wilf in there?
*plots*
*claspshands*
DO EET.
I may have started filling my prompt, but it is nothing like claimed.
MOAR WHO CROSSOVERS FOR ALL.
DO EET.
I may have started filling my prompt, but it is nothing like claimed.
MOAR WHO CROSSOVERS FOR ALL.
[Not part of the ongoing verse. And yes, I am cheating on my next promised fill with something fluffy and much more lighthearted. I'd apologize, but you'd know I'm not really sorry.]
When it happened, it was entirely unexpected. Which, well, no comment.
Harry was due at eight that night. John started cooking just after seven – braised beef, mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus. He’d cooked more in the past three months than in the past decade, and he was getting pretty good, if he said so himself. Harry, when quizzed, made incoherently delighted noises over whatever was put in front of him, but John didn’t take that to heart. This was a guy who sponged up calories like a growing teenager; his dog was more discriminating.
Gard had made exactly one smirking comment about the fastest way to a man’s heart. John did not appreciate kitch greeting card nonsense applied to him. To them.
It was inaccurate, anyway. Harry had an artisan’s appreciation for the homemade and the hand-crafted. And John liked giving him things and watching him enjoy them. Food was perhaps the only area where Harry permitted him that pleasure without a hell of a fight, even now.
Not that the fighting wasn’t also a pleasure, in its own way. A good thing, too, since they did it a lot, in between – and often during -- dinner out on the back deck and a warm afternoon on the lake and even the theater, once or twice. They were good at arguing with each other. They’d better be, by now. The tension between them had aged beautifully, mellowing into a warm piquancy. With fire underneath, of course. But that would never change.
It had been a good three months. John had applied himself to the business of courtship, and he thought, on the whole, he was executing it with more than competence. He was making Harry Dresden happy. Not a means. Just an end.
It wasn’t hard to do these days, to be fair. There was a lightness to Harry since he’d escaped the Winter Queen. A new lease on life, something like that. He smiled more, bit less. And he kissed John with open curiosity, playful and oddly sweet.
Or, more recently, with clinging urgency. John had patience to burn for Harry Dresden, as demonstrated frequently and often. He’d been celibate for various periods before, from boredom or business or necessity, and he had no problem with Harry’s insistence on keeping them around – what was it? Hendricks had been laughing pretty hard through the entire ten second conversation, but John was pretty sure he’d said second base.
Except two weeks ago, a good night kiss had blazed suddenly out of control. They’d tripped sideways against the deck doors, clinched together, Harry’s hands up the back of John’s jacket. John had palmed the spare curve of his ass, squeezing until Harry hitched against him, groaning into their locked mouths.
It had been physically painful when Harry had pulled away that time, flushed and dazed, muttering disjointedly about how he needed to go. John’s only consolation was that it looked like it had been just as painful for Harry.
That, and the series of transparently edgy cracks Harry had made since then about cheerleaders and putting out too soon, and that appalling thing about cows and milk.
Like most things Harry did, it was absurd yet . . . affecting. John didn’t understand it, whether it was fear of sex or just venerating it into a position of ridiculous over-importance. They’d been more intimate the first time they’d met, from some perspectives.
Still. It mattered to Harry, and that made it matter to John. If Harry valued their first sexual encounter so highly, then John could too. Because if this was not merely physical to Harry, not just animal satisfaction, than there was a lot more on offer. A lot more to win, if John played his cards right.
It was always good policy to give Harry a cushion of tardiness, and John had planned the meal accordingly. But by 8:20, he’d moved past tolerance to irritated concern.
Also, the asparagus was going to go soggy if left out much longer.
John’s cell rang two seconds after he put his hand on it to call Hendricks.
“Sooo,” Harry said through a crackle of static. “Funny thing happened on the way over.”
“Where are you?”
Hiss, crackle. “—same pier we used with your boat, you remember. And my car is—“ mumble mumble.
John suppressed the urge to shake his iPhone. “I can pick you up.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, and faded out again. “—so bring towels,” John caught, before the line went dead.
He left dinner to stay warm on the stovetop, and drove himself. It was a quick trip, this late on a Monday night, and not far to go. He didn’t immediately see Harry when he pulled into the deserted parking lot, but then a lean shadow detached itself from a brick wall. Harry strode into the light, long legs eating up the distance. John reached across to unlock the passenger door for him.
But Harry just leaned down, folding himself nearly in half to get his head into the Lexus.
“. . . Ah,” John said, eyeing him. “Towels.”
Harry was sopping wet, head-to-toe. His coat looked like it weighed a ton. There was a spray of glossy green leaves tilted rakishly over the crown of his head, and one cheek was smeared with mud.
“Would you believe me if I said I was kidnapped by teenaged nymphs?” Harry said. There was a shiver of laughter in his voice.
“You? Absolutely.” John retrieved a towel from the back seat and passed it out to him. There were another five back there, along with a first-aid kit, a flare gun, and an assault rifle. Standard Dresden date survival kit, more or less.
Harry rubbed himself down vigorously, wringing out his clothes. John passed him more towels as needed, and finally Harry gave the rest up as a lost cause and slid damply into the passenger seat.
“Is that a . . . crown?” John said, eyeing the leaves still in his hair with fascination.
“Yeah, so I think I just got elected the nymph Pope or something,” Harry said. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details. Hey, you missed the turn.”
“You can shower at my place,’ John said. “I’m sure I have something that you can wear while I wash your clothes.”
“All right,” Harry said with surprising equanimity. It was explained a moment later when he added, “I’m pretty hungry, anyway.”
“Mercenary,” John said.
“You like it, I know you do,” Harry said. He delivered a flirtatious wink in the mirror, clownishly overdoing it. Then he proceeded to tell an improbably hilarious story of how he’d just gotten rolled for a magical favor by a pack of squealing adolescent nymphs. The whole thing sounded suspiciously like a sleepover prank gone way out-of-hand.
There was a guest suite on the ground floor, but John took Harry up to his own third floor bedroom instead.
“Just leave your clothes here,” he said, gesturing Harry into the dressing room. “I’ll put them in the wash and get you something else.”
He was consumed with purely practical thoughts for the next few minutes. He couldn’t do much for Harry’s leather coat except lay it out flat to dry. He did empty the pockets, though, confirming once and for all that Harry was a packrat and very, very strange. The loose ammunition was messy if explicable, but eight handkerchiefs? A dozen tiny plastic bags with pebbles or specks of dirt or just road garbage in them? A doll-sized plastic teacup?
John set everything aside on the dressing room counter and brought the clothes downstairs. Harry’s boots might be a loss. They would probably dry all right, but John suspected the mossy, vaguely metallic smell of the lake would linger.
He put the clothes in to wash, measured out detergent. He was bemused by the unfamiliar ritual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done his own laundry, let alone someone else’s. Oddly pleasing, really.
He checked that the food was still warm, and opened a bottle of wine. Then he hurried back upstairs and dug out a pair of yoga pants and a plain black t-shirt. Neither would fit very well, but they would do. He left them in the dressing room. The shower was still running in the connected bathroom; John could hear Harry humming to himself over vigorous splashing. He spared a thought for his water heater, but it was three floors down in the basement, after all, and replaceable.
He was out in the bedroom staring at his shoe rack when the shower turned off. He seemed to own only black dress shoes and steel-toed boots. He suspected there was probably a pair of old sneakers around somewhere, but nothing would fit. John was deciding whether to send someone out for shoes when he heard Harry moving around in the dressing room. Hmm. Harry was illogically more accepting of impractical or silly gifts; this might trip his reflexive refusal to be bought, being pragmatic and quantifiable.
“Dinner’s ready whenever you are,” John called to him. “Your clothes will be done in an hour, though I’m not sure about your shoes . . .”
There was a quiet footstep behind him, and John turned. The domestic prattle dried up on his lips.
“Or we could just skip dinner,” Harry said, in a husky voice John had never heard before. He was standing tall in the dressing room door, a few strands of hair curling damply over his forehead. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung towel, one finger negligently hooked to hold it up.
It was like being sucker-punched by lust; it hit so hard it hurt. John's mouth went dry, his vision narrowed.
“Um,” Harry said, pose of brazen confidence cracking. “If . . . if you want to?”
It was embarrassing to discover you could be all but drooling over a guy who was actually that dumb.
John wrenched himself out of temporary paralysis. He took three long steps and pulled Harry’s head down. Their mouths touched; the crackle was nearly palpable. John turned them, walking Harry backwards. Harry shuffled along, his mouth still slanted over John’s, clawing at his back.
John drew away. They were both already breathless, and Harry’s towel was slipping, slipping . . .
“I want,” John said, barely recognizing his own voice. Then he lifted Harry around the waste – it was like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, for God’s sake -- and tossed him across the bed. He waited long enough to watch Harry sprawl gracelessly out, his eyes widening as he took John’s point. Then he came down over Harry with his full weight, his hands everywhere at once.
When it happened, it was entirely unexpected. Which, well, no comment.
Harry was due at eight that night. John started cooking just after seven – braised beef, mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus. He’d cooked more in the past three months than in the past decade, and he was getting pretty good, if he said so himself. Harry, when quizzed, made incoherently delighted noises over whatever was put in front of him, but John didn’t take that to heart. This was a guy who sponged up calories like a growing teenager; his dog was more discriminating.
Gard had made exactly one smirking comment about the fastest way to a man’s heart. John did not appreciate kitch greeting card nonsense applied to him. To them.
It was inaccurate, anyway. Harry had an artisan’s appreciation for the homemade and the hand-crafted. And John liked giving him things and watching him enjoy them. Food was perhaps the only area where Harry permitted him that pleasure without a hell of a fight, even now.
Not that the fighting wasn’t also a pleasure, in its own way. A good thing, too, since they did it a lot, in between – and often during -- dinner out on the back deck and a warm afternoon on the lake and even the theater, once or twice. They were good at arguing with each other. They’d better be, by now. The tension between them had aged beautifully, mellowing into a warm piquancy. With fire underneath, of course. But that would never change.
It had been a good three months. John had applied himself to the business of courtship, and he thought, on the whole, he was executing it with more than competence. He was making Harry Dresden happy. Not a means. Just an end.
It wasn’t hard to do these days, to be fair. There was a lightness to Harry since he’d escaped the Winter Queen. A new lease on life, something like that. He smiled more, bit less. And he kissed John with open curiosity, playful and oddly sweet.
Or, more recently, with clinging urgency. John had patience to burn for Harry Dresden, as demonstrated frequently and often. He’d been celibate for various periods before, from boredom or business or necessity, and he had no problem with Harry’s insistence on keeping them around – what was it? Hendricks had been laughing pretty hard through the entire ten second conversation, but John was pretty sure he’d said second base.
Except two weeks ago, a good night kiss had blazed suddenly out of control. They’d tripped sideways against the deck doors, clinched together, Harry’s hands up the back of John’s jacket. John had palmed the spare curve of his ass, squeezing until Harry hitched against him, groaning into their locked mouths.
It had been physically painful when Harry had pulled away that time, flushed and dazed, muttering disjointedly about how he needed to go. John’s only consolation was that it looked like it had been just as painful for Harry.
That, and the series of transparently edgy cracks Harry had made since then about cheerleaders and putting out too soon, and that appalling thing about cows and milk.
Like most things Harry did, it was absurd yet . . . affecting. John didn’t understand it, whether it was fear of sex or just venerating it into a position of ridiculous over-importance. They’d been more intimate the first time they’d met, from some perspectives.
Still. It mattered to Harry, and that made it matter to John. If Harry valued their first sexual encounter so highly, then John could too. Because if this was not merely physical to Harry, not just animal satisfaction, than there was a lot more on offer. A lot more to win, if John played his cards right.
It was always good policy to give Harry a cushion of tardiness, and John had planned the meal accordingly. But by 8:20, he’d moved past tolerance to irritated concern.
Also, the asparagus was going to go soggy if left out much longer.
John’s cell rang two seconds after he put his hand on it to call Hendricks.
“Sooo,” Harry said through a crackle of static. “Funny thing happened on the way over.”
“Where are you?”
Hiss, crackle. “—same pier we used with your boat, you remember. And my car is—“ mumble mumble.
John suppressed the urge to shake his iPhone. “I can pick you up.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, and faded out again. “—so bring towels,” John caught, before the line went dead.
He left dinner to stay warm on the stovetop, and drove himself. It was a quick trip, this late on a Monday night, and not far to go. He didn’t immediately see Harry when he pulled into the deserted parking lot, but then a lean shadow detached itself from a brick wall. Harry strode into the light, long legs eating up the distance. John reached across to unlock the passenger door for him.
But Harry just leaned down, folding himself nearly in half to get his head into the Lexus.
“. . . Ah,” John said, eyeing him. “Towels.”
Harry was sopping wet, head-to-toe. His coat looked like it weighed a ton. There was a spray of glossy green leaves tilted rakishly over the crown of his head, and one cheek was smeared with mud.
“Would you believe me if I said I was kidnapped by teenaged nymphs?” Harry said. There was a shiver of laughter in his voice.
“You? Absolutely.” John retrieved a towel from the back seat and passed it out to him. There were another five back there, along with a first-aid kit, a flare gun, and an assault rifle. Standard Dresden date survival kit, more or less.
Harry rubbed himself down vigorously, wringing out his clothes. John passed him more towels as needed, and finally Harry gave the rest up as a lost cause and slid damply into the passenger seat.
“Is that a . . . crown?” John said, eyeing the leaves still in his hair with fascination.
“Yeah, so I think I just got elected the nymph Pope or something,” Harry said. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details. Hey, you missed the turn.”
“You can shower at my place,’ John said. “I’m sure I have something that you can wear while I wash your clothes.”
“All right,” Harry said with surprising equanimity. It was explained a moment later when he added, “I’m pretty hungry, anyway.”
“Mercenary,” John said.
“You like it, I know you do,” Harry said. He delivered a flirtatious wink in the mirror, clownishly overdoing it. Then he proceeded to tell an improbably hilarious story of how he’d just gotten rolled for a magical favor by a pack of squealing adolescent nymphs. The whole thing sounded suspiciously like a sleepover prank gone way out-of-hand.
There was a guest suite on the ground floor, but John took Harry up to his own third floor bedroom instead.
“Just leave your clothes here,” he said, gesturing Harry into the dressing room. “I’ll put them in the wash and get you something else.”
He was consumed with purely practical thoughts for the next few minutes. He couldn’t do much for Harry’s leather coat except lay it out flat to dry. He did empty the pockets, though, confirming once and for all that Harry was a packrat and very, very strange. The loose ammunition was messy if explicable, but eight handkerchiefs? A dozen tiny plastic bags with pebbles or specks of dirt or just road garbage in them? A doll-sized plastic teacup?
John set everything aside on the dressing room counter and brought the clothes downstairs. Harry’s boots might be a loss. They would probably dry all right, but John suspected the mossy, vaguely metallic smell of the lake would linger.
He put the clothes in to wash, measured out detergent. He was bemused by the unfamiliar ritual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done his own laundry, let alone someone else’s. Oddly pleasing, really.
He checked that the food was still warm, and opened a bottle of wine. Then he hurried back upstairs and dug out a pair of yoga pants and a plain black t-shirt. Neither would fit very well, but they would do. He left them in the dressing room. The shower was still running in the connected bathroom; John could hear Harry humming to himself over vigorous splashing. He spared a thought for his water heater, but it was three floors down in the basement, after all, and replaceable.
He was out in the bedroom staring at his shoe rack when the shower turned off. He seemed to own only black dress shoes and steel-toed boots. He suspected there was probably a pair of old sneakers around somewhere, but nothing would fit. John was deciding whether to send someone out for shoes when he heard Harry moving around in the dressing room. Hmm. Harry was illogically more accepting of impractical or silly gifts; this might trip his reflexive refusal to be bought, being pragmatic and quantifiable.
“Dinner’s ready whenever you are,” John called to him. “Your clothes will be done in an hour, though I’m not sure about your shoes . . .”
There was a quiet footstep behind him, and John turned. The domestic prattle dried up on his lips.
“Or we could just skip dinner,” Harry said, in a husky voice John had never heard before. He was standing tall in the dressing room door, a few strands of hair curling damply over his forehead. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung towel, one finger negligently hooked to hold it up.
It was like being sucker-punched by lust; it hit so hard it hurt. John's mouth went dry, his vision narrowed.
“Um,” Harry said, pose of brazen confidence cracking. “If . . . if you want to?”
It was embarrassing to discover you could be all but drooling over a guy who was actually that dumb.
John wrenched himself out of temporary paralysis. He took three long steps and pulled Harry’s head down. Their mouths touched; the crackle was nearly palpable. John turned them, walking Harry backwards. Harry shuffled along, his mouth still slanted over John’s, clawing at his back.
John drew away. They were both already breathless, and Harry’s towel was slipping, slipping . . .
“I want,” John said, barely recognizing his own voice. Then he lifted Harry around the waste – it was like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, for God’s sake -- and tossed him across the bed. He waited long enough to watch Harry sprawl gracelessly out, his eyes widening as he took John’s point. Then he came down over Harry with his full weight, his hands everywhere at once.
Oh this is such a great fill, please, continue! :D
*is hitting the refresh button hopefully*
Oh domesticity with a mafioso and a wizard. I love this fandom. And the taking it slow thing! I love that. Because Harry died and got out from under Mab, so it is like a new lease on life. He's not always running out of time or being controlled, so he can go his own speed and-- eeee yes.
So no one has quite come out and written the story where Harry and John are dating, and John just cannot cope with what he perceives as Thomas the ex.
Something like it was written wonderfully for laughs in the first round, but what I'm after is the serious version. Where Harry keeps telling John to let it go, but John just can't because he's exactly that obsessive about every aspect of Harry's life. And seeing the way Harry and Thomas know how to hurt each other, all their little in-jokes, the way they can be really sweet together, how it tears Harry up when they have a falling out just drives him absolutely crazy and he can't leave it alone, even if it pisses Harry off and forces him into a really bad position of split loyalties.
Whether/how John finds out the truth is up to writer.
Something like it was written wonderfully for laughs in the first round, but what I'm after is the serious version. Where Harry keeps telling John to let it go, but John just can't because he's exactly that obsessive about every aspect of Harry's life. And seeing the way Harry and Thomas know how to hurt each other, all their little in-jokes, the way they can be really sweet together, how it tears Harry up when they have a falling out just drives him absolutely crazy and he can't leave it alone, even if it pisses Harry off and forces him into a really bad position of split loyalties.
Whether/how John finds out the truth is up to writer.
I've always had a weakness for jealousy prompts, and this one looks like it could be amazing!
Really, really hope someone fills it!
Really, really hope someone fills it!
Normally I would be all for that, but for this prompt I really, really want it to be Harry that's the crude one. So, OP says please disregard.
...I mean, if it comes down between no fill at all and a fill at this, I'll be kind of sad but take the crude!John.
...I mean, if it comes down between no fill at all and a fill at this, I'll be kind of sad but take the crude!John.
Um, new!Anon here.
OP, I think what you're trying to say is that your original prompt is one you'd rather have filled than explored, and are politely requesting that the commenter who engaged with your idea repost their comment as a new prompt? Because otherwise, your comment above is kind of rude and presumptive.
I'm sure we all want to try to understand and respect your boundaries on your kinks and fic wishes, and are all more than happy to facilitate sex and kink positivity in a manner that will benefit every one ...and shutting down someone else's prompt because you don't want it to take precedent over one of your own definitely isn't in the kinkmeme spirit.
OP, I think what you're trying to say is that your original prompt is one you'd rather have filled than explored, and are politely requesting that the commenter who engaged with your idea repost their comment as a new prompt? Because otherwise, your comment above is kind of rude and presumptive.
I'm sure we all want to try to understand and respect your boundaries on your kinks and fic wishes, and are all more than happy to facilitate sex and kink positivity in a manner that will benefit every one ...and shutting down someone else's prompt because you don't want it to take precedent over one of your own definitely isn't in the kinkmeme spirit.
I don't really mean to be rude, but what I'm saying is I want what I said in the original prompt, yes. And I don't mind that people have different ideas, but generally it's also polite not to reply to a prompt with something in a wildly different spirit - I specified the names I used (including in the subject of the prompt) because that was the dynamic I wanted.
I'm sorry if my response came off as rude, but I've been having a really rough semester with emotions and school, so I've a tendency to be a bit short, I guess.
I'm sorry if my response came off as rude, but I've been having a really rough semester with emotions and school, so I've a tendency to be a bit short, I guess.
Did you read a prompt that gave a similar but different idea? Do you have the sudden urge to write a bit of fic that doesn't fit any of the prompts? Do you want to just play around with a pairing no one has requested?
Go to town here!
Go to town here!
Yay for gender-switching!
It's not fair that only Harry and Johnny get to have all the fun!
It's not fair that only Harry and Johnny get to have all the fun!
There really need to be more people thinking naughty things about Marcone. :D
I suppressed the urge to growl when Marcone entered my office with Cujo following close behind.
"What do you want?" I asked with the same tone I used to tell people to fuck off and die. It didn't deter Marcone. He gave me an infuriatingly pleased smile instead, as if my bad manners existed solely for his personal entertainment.
He pulled the seat in front of my desk and sat down without asking for permission. "Good morning, Harry. How are you?"
"That's Miss Dresden to you, scumbag. What do you want?" My magic prickled beneath my skin, fueled by my anger. He had the power to enrage me like few people did. The candle on my desk flared to life, startling him for a second. He recovered quickly, but the fact that I'd managed to surprise him at all was a victory in itself. I relaxed back on my chair, not bothering to hide the smirk on my face.
"I want to contract your services," Marcone said in a flat tone.
"Didn't we have this conversation before?" I pretended to think about it. I waited a second or two for dramatic pause, before adding, "Yeah, I distinctly remember telling you that I won't work for you. Ever."
"Miss Dresden," he said patiently.
The formal use of my name caught my attention. Marcone almost never bothered with it. I called him a criminal scumbag; he called me Harry; Hendricks hovered disapprovingly in the background. Don't ask. I didn't get it myself half the time, but it was how we worked.
Him calling me Miss Dresden meant trouble, big trouble, the kind that I wouldn't -- couldn't -- ignore, even to spite him: children, women, Chicago. With my life sucking as much as it did lately, probably all three combined.
"Fine," I grumbled. "What do you need from me?"
"Some of the girls under my protection have gone missing during the last days," he said, looking me in the eyes.
It still fucking irked me that he could do that. It was a reminder that he had tricked me before and would again, if I didn't keep up. "Fine, some of your hookers wised up and decided to give you the middle finger. All the more power to them; I don't see how that is my problem. Don't you have pimps to take care of that for you?"
His lips tightened. Cujo took a threatening step closer and that, more than anything, made me relax. I gave both of them the smarmiest smile I could muster. "Hit a nerve there?"
"Miss Gard was convinced that something supernatural was behind the disappearances," Marcone continued, ignoring my remark. "She went to investigate and hasn't reported back since."
I straightened up, my little power games with Marcone forgotten. Gard and I weren't friends but I kind of liked her, despite her questionable taste in employers. "When was she supposed to report back?"
"Twelve hours ago," Marcone said.
"Hell's bells!" I cursed. Gard was powerful. Anyone with enough juice to keep her subdued for so long was not to be taken lightly.
"I take it you're interested in the job then?" Marcone said, giving me a smug smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Fuck off, Marcone," I said. Sometimes I just couldn't help myself. I'd blame genetics, but... "You know my standard fees: fifty dollars an hour plus travel expenses. Oh, and you'll pay for all collateral property damage, too." I added, feeling mean. That'd teach him to make stupid remarks about his insurance premiums next time.
"Of course, Harry," he said, looking too pleased with himself.
"Don't call me Harry," I snapped. It was the principle of the thing.
"Whatever you say, Harry." His smile broadened.
My fingers ached with the desire to send a weeny, tiny burst of fire in his direction. Nothing too bad, just enough to remind him that I was a wizardess, and Baron or not, he should fucking show me the necessary respect. Then again, I was a grown-up wizardess and such childish displays of temper were beneath me.
Mostly.
"All right, tell me everything you know," I said, focusing back on the problem at hand.
"That'd take far too long, and to be truthful, Harry, I don't trust you that much. You wouldn't be able to handle all that I know." His lips quirked.
I rolled my eyes. Sometimes dealing with Marcone wasn't any better than dealing with a faery. "Very funny," I groused. "Everything you remember about the disappearances would be useful right about now."
"Right, here's a file with the information that Miss Gard gathered before she, too, went missing," he said. On cue, Cujo stepped closer and handed me a thick manila envelop.
I peeked inside. It was filled with handwritten notes and personnel files of the missing girls. I leafed through one, appalled at the depth of the information inside. "You know that it's extremely creepy that you know the names and addresses of each of these girls' boyfriends, right? Aren't there laws against this?"
Marcone shrugged. "There are laws against many things; it never stopped me before."
Mafia kingpin, right. It wasn't as if I didn't know that, and yet it was remarkably sobering to hold proof of it in my hands. "For the record, turning down your job offer was the best thing I've ever done in my life," I told him.
Marcone smiled. "Susan Rodriguez and Thomas Raith," he said, watching me.
"What?" I asked, frowning at the non sequitur.
"The names of your exes," Marcone said. "I know their current addresses, too. You really don't think that I limit my investigations to just my employees, do you?"
My mouth fell open for a moment. Seriously, the galls of... Then my mind caught up with what he had just said. Thomas? For real? I laughed out loud, realizing that for all his stalker-ish behavior Marcone was just as easily misled as anybody else. "Johnny, baby, what you don't know about me can fill a library."
He frowned. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head as he tried to update his mental file on Harriet Dresden, wizardess and eternal pain in Marcone's ass. My reaction had surprised him. He had probably been expecting me to go off the deep end at his little revelation.
I made a mental note to screw with Marcone's head more often. Just thinking about it put me in a good mood.
In case I haven't mentioned this before, fire is my element. A certain penchant for playing with it comes with the territory. I just can't help it, really.
Right, missing girls. Missing Gard. Concentrate on the job at hand, Harry girl, I told to myself.
I turned to Marcone, interrupting his thoughts. "This conversation has gone long enough. The door is over there. I'm pretty sure that you have a bunch of things to do, people to kill, girls to stalk, drugs to sell. Time's a wasting. I'll contact you if I need something. Now, chop, chop, I have a case to investigate."
Marcone stood up, and Cujo moved aside, falling into place behind him.
"Remember that for the duration you're working for me, Miss Dresden," Marcone said. "Do keep me informed."
"Sure thing, darling," I said absently, already busy spreading the files over my worktable, trying to find something in common between the missing girls, other than the obvious, of course.
I sensed the moment Marcone left the office, a slight telltale easing of the wards protecting it. I wasn't completely alone yet, though. I looked up, curious as to why Cujo was lingering behind. It wasn't like him.
"Miss Dresden, a word of advice," Hendricks said, when he caught me looking. "Don't make the boss more curious about you than he already is. It's just not healthy." He nodded at me and stepped outside, closing the door.
The hell? As veiled threats went, it wasn't one of the best I'd received. Seriously, if Cujo thought that being all menacing would make me stop pissing off his mafia overlord, he needed to read Marcone's secret file on me more carefully. My days of trying to be an obedient little girl ended when I set Justin on fire. But that wasn't neither here nor there.
I had missing girls to find. The fact that Gard would owe me for this wasn't too bad either. And if I was truthful with myself, I kind of liked not having to worry about next month's rent. Marcone was a scumbag, but he paid on time.
---------------------------------------
Dear OP, sadly I'm unable to write PWP, which is why I just gave you 1.4k worth of words and no one is even thinking about taking off their clothes yet. I will get them there... eventually. I hope you don't mind the wait.
General author note: I want to come out and confess that this is my first attempt at writing in this fandom, and I haven't read all the books. I hope I don't screw canon too much in the process, but feel free to tell me if I do; I'd actually appreciate it. Also, English isn't my mother tongue, so please forgive the unavoidable typos and quirky use of grammar.
"What do you want?" I asked with the same tone I used to tell people to fuck off and die. It didn't deter Marcone. He gave me an infuriatingly pleased smile instead, as if my bad manners existed solely for his personal entertainment.
He pulled the seat in front of my desk and sat down without asking for permission. "Good morning, Harry. How are you?"
"That's Miss Dresden to you, scumbag. What do you want?" My magic prickled beneath my skin, fueled by my anger. He had the power to enrage me like few people did. The candle on my desk flared to life, startling him for a second. He recovered quickly, but the fact that I'd managed to surprise him at all was a victory in itself. I relaxed back on my chair, not bothering to hide the smirk on my face.
"I want to contract your services," Marcone said in a flat tone.
"Didn't we have this conversation before?" I pretended to think about it. I waited a second or two for dramatic pause, before adding, "Yeah, I distinctly remember telling you that I won't work for you. Ever."
"Miss Dresden," he said patiently.
The formal use of my name caught my attention. Marcone almost never bothered with it. I called him a criminal scumbag; he called me Harry; Hendricks hovered disapprovingly in the background. Don't ask. I didn't get it myself half the time, but it was how we worked.
Him calling me Miss Dresden meant trouble, big trouble, the kind that I wouldn't -- couldn't -- ignore, even to spite him: children, women, Chicago. With my life sucking as much as it did lately, probably all three combined.
"Fine," I grumbled. "What do you need from me?"
"Some of the girls under my protection have gone missing during the last days," he said, looking me in the eyes.
It still fucking irked me that he could do that. It was a reminder that he had tricked me before and would again, if I didn't keep up. "Fine, some of your hookers wised up and decided to give you the middle finger. All the more power to them; I don't see how that is my problem. Don't you have pimps to take care of that for you?"
His lips tightened. Cujo took a threatening step closer and that, more than anything, made me relax. I gave both of them the smarmiest smile I could muster. "Hit a nerve there?"
"Miss Gard was convinced that something supernatural was behind the disappearances," Marcone continued, ignoring my remark. "She went to investigate and hasn't reported back since."
I straightened up, my little power games with Marcone forgotten. Gard and I weren't friends but I kind of liked her, despite her questionable taste in employers. "When was she supposed to report back?"
"Twelve hours ago," Marcone said.
"Hell's bells!" I cursed. Gard was powerful. Anyone with enough juice to keep her subdued for so long was not to be taken lightly.
"I take it you're interested in the job then?" Marcone said, giving me a smug smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Fuck off, Marcone," I said. Sometimes I just couldn't help myself. I'd blame genetics, but... "You know my standard fees: fifty dollars an hour plus travel expenses. Oh, and you'll pay for all collateral property damage, too." I added, feeling mean. That'd teach him to make stupid remarks about his insurance premiums next time.
"Of course, Harry," he said, looking too pleased with himself.
"Don't call me Harry," I snapped. It was the principle of the thing.
"Whatever you say, Harry." His smile broadened.
My fingers ached with the desire to send a weeny, tiny burst of fire in his direction. Nothing too bad, just enough to remind him that I was a wizardess, and Baron or not, he should fucking show me the necessary respect. Then again, I was a grown-up wizardess and such childish displays of temper were beneath me.
Mostly.
"All right, tell me everything you know," I said, focusing back on the problem at hand.
"That'd take far too long, and to be truthful, Harry, I don't trust you that much. You wouldn't be able to handle all that I know." His lips quirked.
I rolled my eyes. Sometimes dealing with Marcone wasn't any better than dealing with a faery. "Very funny," I groused. "Everything you remember about the disappearances would be useful right about now."
"Right, here's a file with the information that Miss Gard gathered before she, too, went missing," he said. On cue, Cujo stepped closer and handed me a thick manila envelop.
I peeked inside. It was filled with handwritten notes and personnel files of the missing girls. I leafed through one, appalled at the depth of the information inside. "You know that it's extremely creepy that you know the names and addresses of each of these girls' boyfriends, right? Aren't there laws against this?"
Marcone shrugged. "There are laws against many things; it never stopped me before."
Mafia kingpin, right. It wasn't as if I didn't know that, and yet it was remarkably sobering to hold proof of it in my hands. "For the record, turning down your job offer was the best thing I've ever done in my life," I told him.
Marcone smiled. "Susan Rodriguez and Thomas Raith," he said, watching me.
"What?" I asked, frowning at the non sequitur.
"The names of your exes," Marcone said. "I know their current addresses, too. You really don't think that I limit my investigations to just my employees, do you?"
My mouth fell open for a moment. Seriously, the galls of... Then my mind caught up with what he had just said. Thomas? For real? I laughed out loud, realizing that for all his stalker-ish behavior Marcone was just as easily misled as anybody else. "Johnny, baby, what you don't know about me can fill a library."
He frowned. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head as he tried to update his mental file on Harriet Dresden, wizardess and eternal pain in Marcone's ass. My reaction had surprised him. He had probably been expecting me to go off the deep end at his little revelation.
I made a mental note to screw with Marcone's head more often. Just thinking about it put me in a good mood.
In case I haven't mentioned this before, fire is my element. A certain penchant for playing with it comes with the territory. I just can't help it, really.
Right, missing girls. Missing Gard. Concentrate on the job at hand, Harry girl, I told to myself.
I turned to Marcone, interrupting his thoughts. "This conversation has gone long enough. The door is over there. I'm pretty sure that you have a bunch of things to do, people to kill, girls to stalk, drugs to sell. Time's a wasting. I'll contact you if I need something. Now, chop, chop, I have a case to investigate."
Marcone stood up, and Cujo moved aside, falling into place behind him.
"Remember that for the duration you're working for me, Miss Dresden," Marcone said. "Do keep me informed."
"Sure thing, darling," I said absently, already busy spreading the files over my worktable, trying to find something in common between the missing girls, other than the obvious, of course.
I sensed the moment Marcone left the office, a slight telltale easing of the wards protecting it. I wasn't completely alone yet, though. I looked up, curious as to why Cujo was lingering behind. It wasn't like him.
"Miss Dresden, a word of advice," Hendricks said, when he caught me looking. "Don't make the boss more curious about you than he already is. It's just not healthy." He nodded at me and stepped outside, closing the door.
The hell? As veiled threats went, it wasn't one of the best I'd received. Seriously, if Cujo thought that being all menacing would make me stop pissing off his mafia overlord, he needed to read Marcone's secret file on me more carefully. My days of trying to be an obedient little girl ended when I set Justin on fire. But that wasn't neither here nor there.
I had missing girls to find. The fact that Gard would owe me for this wasn't too bad either. And if I was truthful with myself, I kind of liked not having to worry about next month's rent. Marcone was a scumbag, but he paid on time.
---------------------------------------
Dear OP, sadly I'm unable to write PWP, which is why I just gave you 1.4k worth of words and no one is even thinking about taking off their clothes yet. I will get them there... eventually. I hope you don't mind the wait.
General author note: I want to come out and confess that this is my first attempt at writing in this fandom, and I haven't read all the books. I hope I don't screw canon too much in the process, but feel free to tell me if I do; I'd actually appreciate it. Also, English isn't my mother tongue, so please forgive the unavoidable typos and quirky use of grammar.
:D
After all the other weird things she's put up with? A dog who can read is surprisingly not freaky.
After all the other weird things she's put up with? A dog who can read is surprisingly not freaky.
Op is incoherent with glee. And is also incapable of writing PWP, so seriously. You take your time. It just makes it better.
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