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Screw the OP. I'm loving this. Keep it up. It looks like you've got a great story brewing.
I love "Johnny, baby, what you don't know about me can fill a library." and "Don't make the boss more curious about you than he already is. It's just not healthy." Very IC.
I love "Johnny, baby, what you don't know about me can fill a library." and "Don't make the boss more curious about you than he already is. It's just not healthy." Very IC.
Harry and John have, for as long as they can remember, had a telepathic connection between them--more like a conversation than reading all of each other's thoughts, and they can conceal things from each other, which they do especially to protect each other/keep the other's opinion of them from getting bad. They have no idea who they're talking to in their heads. Something close to canon, please?
Aaaaaaannnnddd...now I kind of want to see Mister in the One Man and a Cat Polka Band!
I've come to the conclusion that Mouse is definitely the brains of the operation here. :D
:D
I love how in the books Murphy doesn't like big dogs at all, but she does love Mouse.
I love how in the books Murphy doesn't like big dogs at all, but she does love Mouse.
:D
Mouse wouldn't even consider telling Harry, because it would never get through. He's just doing his own research so one of them has some idea of how much trouble Harry's getting himself into just by being Harry.
Mouse wouldn't even consider telling Harry, because it would never get through. He's just doing his own research so one of them has some idea of how much trouble Harry's getting himself into just by being Harry.
Fill is not dead, I promise!
I was writing it at work and my boss has been out sick the past two weeks so I've been too busy to screw around! Sorry!
I was writing it at work and my boss has been out sick the past two weeks so I've been too busy to screw around! Sorry!
BBC!Sherlock/Dresden Files crossover: Welcome to Chicago! We run things a little differently here...
Sherlock and John have a case to solve: the death of Jim Moriarty. He was last known to be running jobs in America and wound up dead at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Sherlock wants to know who had his beloved nemesis done in.
Cue Sherlock and John flying to Chicago, getting embroiled in the occult community of the city, and meeting the man who killed Moriarty: John Marcone.
'Cause you know Gentleman Johnny isn't going to put up with Moriarty's bullshit in his city. The guy thinks it's cool to strap bombs to little kids. Sonovabitch is going down.
Bonuses for: John Watson bitching about Sherlock having to solve the murder of someone who was such an asshole. Harry Dresden vs Sherlock's deductive reasoning. Sherlock trying to pull his walk-all-over-the-cops routine on Murphy and getting thrown out of a crime scene for his trouble. Just THINK of the possibilities!
Sherlock and John have a case to solve: the death of Jim Moriarty. He was last known to be running jobs in America and wound up dead at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Sherlock wants to know who had his beloved nemesis done in.
Cue Sherlock and John flying to Chicago, getting embroiled in the occult community of the city, and meeting the man who killed Moriarty: John Marcone.
'Cause you know Gentleman Johnny isn't going to put up with Moriarty's bullshit in his city. The guy thinks it's cool to strap bombs to little kids. Sonovabitch is going down.
Bonuses for: John Watson bitching about Sherlock having to solve the murder of someone who was such an asshole. Harry Dresden vs Sherlock's deductive reasoning. Sherlock trying to pull his walk-all-over-the-cops routine on Murphy and getting thrown out of a crime scene for his trouble. Just THINK of the possibilities!
The sun was bright in my eyes when I woke up. I muttered and rolled my face into the pillow. My body was loose, dull. The hot, faintly sticky feeling you get when you've been sick and the fever has finally broken. Good, but hollowed out, empty and weak. A door creaked and I made myself lie perfectly still again. I readied a spell, waiting. Something moved inside of my skin, behind my eyes and I felt a hand slide over mine, slim fingers curling through mine.
“One of the soldiers. They check on you every half hour, since our little Baron rose for the day. You've slept through the others.” Lasciel's voice was sweet, faintly accented inside my mind. I could see her in my minds eye, if I thought about it. The last image of her, dark hair blowing in the wind, the sun burning down on us and her eyes, brilliant green and clever.
Footsteps crossed the floor, carpeting muffling them. They came over to the bed and I could feel the person leaning over, getting a good look without touching me or the bed itself. I opened my eyes and the man forced his face into a smile. It was probably meant to be disarming, but I could see the wariness in his eyes. Not fear. No one that jumpy would survive in Marcone's organization for long. But caution. He straightened up and took a step back from the bed.
“Sir. I have some medicine here for you, if you would. And there are clothes in the bathroom over to the right, if you want to get dressed.” Soft, respectful, no sudden movements. Like you do when you're dealing with someone who might snap at any second. I found myself smiling. I felt limp, wrung out. And this guy was afraid I might go psycho on him any second.
“How about some food?” I rolled over and sat up. “And then I want to go to Marcone.”
~
I was just finishing up what the flunkies had brought me to eat when Marcone came back. He'd been outside, there was a light, quickly melting dusting of snowflakes in his hair. I chewed my last bite of steak and set the knife and fork down. Martin folded the newspaper he'd been reading to me and gathered up my tray. He nodded to Marcone and left. I waited until I heard the soft click of the lock being engaged and then I slid out of the bed.
“Harry?”
“Just a sec.” I padded into the bathroom and took care of things. By the time I'd washed up and come back out into the bedroom Marcone had stripped out of his suit jacket and tie and was sitting in a chair by one of the windows.
“Where'd you go?” I dropped into the chair across from him, the soft fabric of the pajama pants I'd found delightful against my oversensitive skin. The rougher cloth of the chair back felt good too, in a different way. It was almost like feeling everything for the first time. It was all better, more there in a way I couldn't quite define. I could smell winter of Marcone's hair, his skin. Deeper than that, I could smell blood.
“Harry? Is it you or Lasciel right now?”
“It's me, Marcone. Harry Dresden. Or the bits that are left, anyhow.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Lasciel's here, of course. But I'm driving.” For the moment.
“There was a very limited number of people who might have turned me over to the Denarians.” I put my hands on his knees and moved off of the chair to crouch on the floor between his legs. The fabric was deliciously textured beneath my palms, as though I could feel every single thread, each warp and weft. Tension sang through the muscles there and I leaned my face in close, breathing deep. His eyes were on mine as I tasted the air, tasted his scent. The blood was faint and beside it the smell of metal, cold and sharp.
“Harry, I don't-” Marcone broke off, his breath sharp. I'd bitten him through the thin fabric of his shirt, drawn the tiniest hint of his flesh into my mouth, warm and salty under the clean taste of the fabric. “The collar-”
“Gone. It's just the three of us John.” The metal button of his fly was cool and smooth beneath my fingers, another contrast. Every tooth of the zipper grated against my hearing as I pulled it down. He was soft, unaroused. I licked my lips and shifted backwards so I could bend to place a kiss on the delicate skin as I took him into my hand. He twitched, growing interested and I laughed a little, softly.
I took him into my mouth. He was softer than silk, and I tucked him against my cheek, rolling my tongue around him, feeling him grow as I did, lengthening, harder and harder until he filled me, until the thick, rounded head was resting on the back of my tongue. I pulled back, let him slip out of my mouth until I only had the head, grasping the rest of him with one hand. He was salty, nearly tart as I dipped the tip of my tongue into the slit and then licked the contours of him, learning the feel of him inside of me. His hands gripped the back of my head, stopped me from leaning forward, taking the length of him in again. I let him pull my head back, my fingers still wrapped around him, squeezing gently, rhythmically.
“Harry. I'm not asking you to-” I twisted my fingers and his eyes narrowed. It was interesting, to watch him shut parts of himself down, gather himself together. “You need to stop.”
“No, I don't.” I pushed out with a tiny effort of will and he went stiff, held nearly perfectly still. “Stop interrupting, John.” His hands were still in my hair, but loose. A caress now, rather than an attempt at control.
I bent back to my task. I went slow, taking him in a little at a time, running the rounded edges of my teeth over the head, drawing a gasp and a slow pulse from him, precome oozing out over my tongue, coating my throat as I swallowed around him. He fought against the hold I had on him, I could feel the brush of his will against mine, like fur through the bars of a cage.
Cold clenched around me, like iron and I whimpered. Cold hands made of shadow, impossible to fight and Nicodemus' quiet voice slipping through my mind, his hands against my face as he dug his fingers into my jaw- No It was like having someone take hold of you and turn you away from a horrible sight. Lasciel was suddenly there, feathers inside of my skin and she turned my 'face' from the memory, brought me back to the warmth of the bedroom, to Marcone fighting himself, fighting my hold on him.
I let go, let the spell break, and his hands were hard in my hair again, but it was too late, I pushed forward, swallowed him whole until he bumped the back of my throat. I shifted angles and then I had the entirety of him, full and wide, a delicious weight in my mouth. I swallowed, breathing hard through my nose, the scent of him, the taste filling me until I had to close my eyes against it. He was under my hands, in my mouth, everywhere at once. He pulled at my hair and I worked my throat and him, my tongue against the underside of him, tip tracing the veins there. His breathless curses filled my ears, nearly drowned out by the thudding of his pulse, mine, our hearts racing together.
My breath came hard, harder, until I had to pull back, just enough and then I took him in again, nearly as deep and cupped his balls in one slick palm, twisted gently and closed my lips around him, suckling. His fingers twisted in my hair and tears rolled out of my eyes as he came, tingling sensations coming in waves from my scalp, tiny hints of pain and the feel of him, the taste, heavy and thick inside of me. I swallowed, tried to take it all in at once, but there was too much and I could feel the hot sticky line of it on my chin.
I milked him for it, until he grew soft in my mouth again. Only then did I finally let him withdraw, making certain to lick him clean as I did. I watched him watch me as I smiled and rolled my tongue around my lips, as I wiped carefully at my chin, my chest where a few drops had fallen and then licked my fingers, taking them in one at a time until I had it all.
Marcone's broad hand wrapped around mine, drew it up to his mouth where he brushed his lips across my knuckles. His face unreadable, his eyes dark. I felt Lasciel's amusement, heard delighted laughter echoing from somewhere far back inside of me. So. Sweet.
“One of the soldiers. They check on you every half hour, since our little Baron rose for the day. You've slept through the others.” Lasciel's voice was sweet, faintly accented inside my mind. I could see her in my minds eye, if I thought about it. The last image of her, dark hair blowing in the wind, the sun burning down on us and her eyes, brilliant green and clever.
Footsteps crossed the floor, carpeting muffling them. They came over to the bed and I could feel the person leaning over, getting a good look without touching me or the bed itself. I opened my eyes and the man forced his face into a smile. It was probably meant to be disarming, but I could see the wariness in his eyes. Not fear. No one that jumpy would survive in Marcone's organization for long. But caution. He straightened up and took a step back from the bed.
“Sir. I have some medicine here for you, if you would. And there are clothes in the bathroom over to the right, if you want to get dressed.” Soft, respectful, no sudden movements. Like you do when you're dealing with someone who might snap at any second. I found myself smiling. I felt limp, wrung out. And this guy was afraid I might go psycho on him any second.
“How about some food?” I rolled over and sat up. “And then I want to go to Marcone.”
~
I was just finishing up what the flunkies had brought me to eat when Marcone came back. He'd been outside, there was a light, quickly melting dusting of snowflakes in his hair. I chewed my last bite of steak and set the knife and fork down. Martin folded the newspaper he'd been reading to me and gathered up my tray. He nodded to Marcone and left. I waited until I heard the soft click of the lock being engaged and then I slid out of the bed.
“Harry?”
“Just a sec.” I padded into the bathroom and took care of things. By the time I'd washed up and come back out into the bedroom Marcone had stripped out of his suit jacket and tie and was sitting in a chair by one of the windows.
“Where'd you go?” I dropped into the chair across from him, the soft fabric of the pajama pants I'd found delightful against my oversensitive skin. The rougher cloth of the chair back felt good too, in a different way. It was almost like feeling everything for the first time. It was all better, more there in a way I couldn't quite define. I could smell winter of Marcone's hair, his skin. Deeper than that, I could smell blood.
“Harry? Is it you or Lasciel right now?”
“It's me, Marcone. Harry Dresden. Or the bits that are left, anyhow.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Lasciel's here, of course. But I'm driving.” For the moment.
“There was a very limited number of people who might have turned me over to the Denarians.” I put my hands on his knees and moved off of the chair to crouch on the floor between his legs. The fabric was deliciously textured beneath my palms, as though I could feel every single thread, each warp and weft. Tension sang through the muscles there and I leaned my face in close, breathing deep. His eyes were on mine as I tasted the air, tasted his scent. The blood was faint and beside it the smell of metal, cold and sharp.
“Harry, I don't-” Marcone broke off, his breath sharp. I'd bitten him through the thin fabric of his shirt, drawn the tiniest hint of his flesh into my mouth, warm and salty under the clean taste of the fabric. “The collar-”
“Gone. It's just the three of us John.” The metal button of his fly was cool and smooth beneath my fingers, another contrast. Every tooth of the zipper grated against my hearing as I pulled it down. He was soft, unaroused. I licked my lips and shifted backwards so I could bend to place a kiss on the delicate skin as I took him into my hand. He twitched, growing interested and I laughed a little, softly.
I took him into my mouth. He was softer than silk, and I tucked him against my cheek, rolling my tongue around him, feeling him grow as I did, lengthening, harder and harder until he filled me, until the thick, rounded head was resting on the back of my tongue. I pulled back, let him slip out of my mouth until I only had the head, grasping the rest of him with one hand. He was salty, nearly tart as I dipped the tip of my tongue into the slit and then licked the contours of him, learning the feel of him inside of me. His hands gripped the back of my head, stopped me from leaning forward, taking the length of him in again. I let him pull my head back, my fingers still wrapped around him, squeezing gently, rhythmically.
“Harry. I'm not asking you to-” I twisted my fingers and his eyes narrowed. It was interesting, to watch him shut parts of himself down, gather himself together. “You need to stop.”
“No, I don't.” I pushed out with a tiny effort of will and he went stiff, held nearly perfectly still. “Stop interrupting, John.” His hands were still in my hair, but loose. A caress now, rather than an attempt at control.
I bent back to my task. I went slow, taking him in a little at a time, running the rounded edges of my teeth over the head, drawing a gasp and a slow pulse from him, precome oozing out over my tongue, coating my throat as I swallowed around him. He fought against the hold I had on him, I could feel the brush of his will against mine, like fur through the bars of a cage.
Cold clenched around me, like iron and I whimpered. Cold hands made of shadow, impossible to fight and Nicodemus' quiet voice slipping through my mind, his hands against my face as he dug his fingers into my jaw- No It was like having someone take hold of you and turn you away from a horrible sight. Lasciel was suddenly there, feathers inside of my skin and she turned my 'face' from the memory, brought me back to the warmth of the bedroom, to Marcone fighting himself, fighting my hold on him.
I let go, let the spell break, and his hands were hard in my hair again, but it was too late, I pushed forward, swallowed him whole until he bumped the back of my throat. I shifted angles and then I had the entirety of him, full and wide, a delicious weight in my mouth. I swallowed, breathing hard through my nose, the scent of him, the taste filling me until I had to close my eyes against it. He was under my hands, in my mouth, everywhere at once. He pulled at my hair and I worked my throat and him, my tongue against the underside of him, tip tracing the veins there. His breathless curses filled my ears, nearly drowned out by the thudding of his pulse, mine, our hearts racing together.
My breath came hard, harder, until I had to pull back, just enough and then I took him in again, nearly as deep and cupped his balls in one slick palm, twisted gently and closed my lips around him, suckling. His fingers twisted in my hair and tears rolled out of my eyes as he came, tingling sensations coming in waves from my scalp, tiny hints of pain and the feel of him, the taste, heavy and thick inside of me. I swallowed, tried to take it all in at once, but there was too much and I could feel the hot sticky line of it on my chin.
I milked him for it, until he grew soft in my mouth again. Only then did I finally let him withdraw, making certain to lick him clean as I did. I watched him watch me as I smiled and rolled my tongue around my lips, as I wiped carefully at my chin, my chest where a few drops had fallen and then licked my fingers, taking them in one at a time until I had it all.
Marcone's broad hand wrapped around mine, drew it up to his mouth where he brushed his lips across my knuckles. His face unreadable, his eyes dark. I felt Lasciel's amusement, heard delighted laughter echoing from somewhere far back inside of me. So. Sweet.
That is a great idea, OP.
Wouldn't it be hilarious if John Watson had some acquaintance with the supernatural already, and Sherlock didn't? So Sherlock would be frantically gathering data and adjusting his worldview, while John would just be like, "Yeah, that stuff happens."
Whoa, just had a vision of Murphy and Watson taking down some sort of giant evil Thing with practicality and guns. Ultimate badass mortal teamup! (And then they have sex.)
Wouldn't it be hilarious if John Watson had some acquaintance with the supernatural already, and Sherlock didn't? So Sherlock would be frantically gathering data and adjusting his worldview, while John would just be like, "Yeah, that stuff happens."
Whoa, just had a vision of Murphy and Watson taking down some sort of giant evil Thing with practicality and guns. Ultimate badass mortal teamup! (And then they have sex.)
...
...
...
Now I'm tempted to start posting bits of the potentially monstrously epic fic I'm working on where Denarian!Harry and Denarian!Marcone are refusing to work with Nicodemus and are instead ruling the city-state of Chicago in a dystopian post-civil-war setting surrounded by Republic-of-Gilead-esque fascist "Christian" dictatorships in the ruins of the US.
...
...
Now I'm tempted to start posting bits of the potentially monstrously epic fic I'm working on where Denarian!Harry and Denarian!Marcone are refusing to work with Nicodemus and are instead ruling the city-state of Chicago in a dystopian post-civil-war setting surrounded by Republic-of-Gilead-esque fascist "Christian" dictatorships in the ruins of the US.
Re: Fill: Bad Angel V 3/? (I *lied*, clearly. It won't freaking end!)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-06 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)This is deliciously disturbing.
Re: Fill: Bad Angel V 3/? (I *lied*, clearly. It won't freaking end!)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-06 11:32 pm (UTC)(link)*pets*
Harry is baiting the tiger. :D
Write as much as you like! I know I have no objections to a story I can sink my teeth into.
Write as much as you like! I know I have no objections to a story I can sink my teeth into.
I was thinking one of them needed to have a supernatural connection. Maybe Sherlock as an unknowing changeling. But Watson knowing something about the supernatural would be tres awesome. Maybe he saw some weird stuff in Afghanistan and did some research?
I can totally get behind Murphy/Watson. Aaaaaawesome. (And huh, maybe they'd be pretty good for each other...)
I can totally get behind Murphy/Watson. Aaaaaawesome. (And huh, maybe they'd be pretty good for each other...)
This is just great. I love the idea of John cooking for Harry and just wanting Harry to be happy as an end and not a mean. Thanks for sharing!
Oh God! Do it. You know they would be running a refuge for Handmaidens, battered Wives and rejected Shredders, JUST BECAUSE IT PISSES PEOPLE OFF.
Not because they retain any form of basic humanity, no why would you think that, have a violent bloody death for even suggesting it.
Not because they retain any form of basic humanity, no why would you think that, have a violent bloody death for even suggesting it.
Oh god! This was so good. I loved it, and the imaginary that Thomas brought to life for Harry was just frigging perfect.
For the record, I now want a story where the Marcone!prompt is made true, because Harry being Marcone's so thoroughly gets me like wow.
For the record, I now want a story where the Marcone!prompt is made true, because Harry being Marcone's so thoroughly gets me like wow.
I woke up curled around John in bed. That was unusual in and of itself - John was an early riser, and normally after sex I was out until ten a.m. at the earliest.
I cuddled closer and he stroked my hair. "Go back to sleep," he said.
I looked up, ready to pout and say something about enjoying the cuddles, but I got distracted.
He'd been working on a legal pad, taking meticulous notes about things I probably didn't want to know about. He put the pad aside and raised an eyebrow at me. My mouth was hanging open, just a little, because I had started to speak but then I saw them.
He was wearing glasses. The little kind that you can put in a pen-shaped thing in your shirt pocket. I swallowed. I knew John was older than me - not a lot, but some - and I knew wizards aged slower than vanilla mortals. But I'd never thought that maybe his eyesight would start to go, and I'd certainly never thought that seeing him with glasses would turn me on this much.
"Is something the matter?"
"...you wear reading glasses?" I asked instead of answering, voice thick with arousal.
He blinked and moved to take them off, looking like he'd forgotten they were on. I grabbed his hand.
"Leave them," I said, the words a purr that made him smile slowly and pull me into a kiss.
I was still naked, but somehow he'd extricated himself from me long enough to pull on a pair of silk pajama bottoms. I rubbed against them hungrily.
I'd topped earlier, enthusiastically. But I wanted him over me, wearing those glasses and flashing his money green eyes. I wrapped my legs around his waist and kissed him hard.
"So eager," he murmured, pulling the lube out of the drawer. I didn't remember putting it back, which meant, as usual, he'd cleaned up after me. Fuck, thinking about that shouldn't have made me harder.
I might have topped most recently, but there had been some nimble sex in the afternoon that left me more than ready to take him in again, with a little care. John gave me all that care and much more, as usual. He was meticulous about everything, to the point of driving me nuts with it sometimes. I usually minded his millions of tiny rules so I could get away with breaking the big ones in emergencies - burning stuff down, mostly. Compromise is the foundation of every great relationship, right? John rolled me onto my back and I arched into him.
He didn't even pull the pajamas off, just unbuttoned the front and slipped in me. The silk moving against my thighs was erotic in ways I'd never dreamed, but the thing that was really getting me going was still the glasses, watching them bounce a little on his nose as he thrust in, seeing his eyes distorted, half-doubled, through them and over them.
John was never hard-fast-deep with me, not for a second round. Sometimes if it had been a while and he was just shoving me carelessly against a wall, but not like this, in our bed, after we'd done it three times in a day already. He moved slowly, patiently, and yeah he thrust to the hilt, but it never felt like enough.
I begged for more, for faster, and, contrary as a cat, he got slower. But he loomed over me, watching my face in that scrutinizing, inscrutable way. I loved his expressions as he fucked me, how sometimes they could be so curious and calculating, and sometimes filled raw with love and affection. I'd shown him a new kink, so he was cataloging my reaction to everything.
He ran his hands down my sides. "How far does this go, hmm?" he asked. I tried to pull him closer with my legs, but he ignored me.
"I - please, John - "
"Can it extend out to some sort of roleplay? A fetish for librarians, maybe, or teachers?" I gasped a little at the second and he smirked. "Teachers? Is that why you like being called 'Mr. Dresden' so much? Would a teacher call a little brat like you something that respectful, do you think?" he said the words with that same experimental, just-wondering tone, but his eyes said he was game to try more.
I whimpered a little. "Please, I'll do better, I promise..."
"I've heard your promises before, little brat." The diminutive - so out of place when referring to someone a few inches taller and significantly taller than the average man - made the "brat" sting a lot less, made it sound almost like a pet name.
"But I really will this time..." I whined. "Please, just let me come..."
"Naughty little boys don't get to do whatever they want," John said primly, pushing his glasses up his nose, and I almost came right there. "Get your legs off of me or I'll leave you like this for the rest of the class to find." I swallowed. Exhibitionism was John's thing, not mine. The most I had done for him had been hidden in public places, and once or twice knowing Hendricks was listening. I could probably handle more than that, but I got embarrassed easily.
John never pushed. All of those occasions had been gifts to him, and I knew I should give him more of them.
But that was food for later thought. "Pleasepleaseplease don't, I'll be good," I begged, releasing him slowly and praying he wouldn't pull out. He didn't, just repositioned me around him.
"Little brat," he said, and there was no mistaking the affection this time. Now he went harder and deeper, though it still wasn't as fast as I wanted, as I whined and begged for. He squeezed my ass, still watching me, measuring with his eyes. I liked the groping - I usually did, when no one could see. Tonight he seemed to want to test all my boundaries, though.
The slap was light, more sound than pain. I yelped, surprised, and my cock twitched (pleased, not that I'd admit it).
Teacher-John chuckled. "Is that why you're always so naughty, little brat? Just begging for a spanking..."
I squirmed, blushing in-character and out. "I - sh-shuddup."
Another smack, firmer this time. "That's not how you talk to a teacher, little brat."
"Please...sir...I'll be good..." I said weakly, the protests hardly any stronger than my desire for this to end.
"I doubt that..."
The spanking was irregular, since he rarely hit me when he was all the way in me, and he didn't do it every time. I cried a little, and begged a lot, to no avail. We had a safeword, had had one for years after a bad experience that reminded me uncomfortably of foster care and Justin, that I'd been unable to relate and ended up stopping by throwing John in a wall and locking myself in the bathroom.
We had a safeword, and I wasn't using it because as much as I screamed and cried and begged, I hadn't even realized how much I wanted this stern taskmaster/disciplinarian John until I had him buried balls-deep in my ass. As I started falling apart, the measuring look melted into affection and hungry lust. I screamed and came to pieces on his cock.
He slapped me twice, saying, "I didn't give you permission, little brat." I sobbed the apologies and flexed my muscles around him, making him choke off another reprimand and just let go - slamming in hard twice and filling me with his come.
He pulled out tenderly and took the glasses off. He was out of the bed before I could protest, and back with a damp cloth. Once I was clean, he was gone again, and I was almost asleep when he slipped under the covers and pulled me close to him.
"That was interesting," he said mildly. I laughed into his neck and kissed along the artery there, hearing his breathing get shallow. John had a very, very sensitive neck.
I licked his skin and he sighed. "I'm afraid I won't be much good for you until noon tomorrow," he said with regret.
"Not all touch is about sex," I said teasingly, since it was one of his favorite phrases to placate me with, from the early weeks of our relationship. He laughed soundlessly, just a shift of muscles in his chest.
"I take it you enjoyed yourself?"
"Mmmhm. And you?"
"Thoroughly," he hummed, the word resounding with feeling and connotations. I picked at it for a moment, and made a decision.
"Seems like the kind of thing you need a desk for," I said thoughtfully.
He glanced at the desks in the corners of the room - mine, for when I took notes on casefiles home, was a wreck of receipts, crinkled pages, and poorly organized folders. John's was immaculate, perfectly polished and organized even though it had inhabited the room years longer than I or my desk had. It was small, though, a roll-top antique he regarded with more sentimentality than most of the house. There were scuffs and a few scratches, but they were years old and had been repaired expertly.
It was no longer rickety, after some skilled work from Michael that had been a birthday present to John (a present that had gotten me in a huge amount of trouble until he sat at the desk again and sighed happily when it didn't wobble every time he moved a finger. Then he fucked me for about two weeks straight). But Michael had told me in no uncertain terms that the original craftsmanship was not sufficient for large amounts of force or weight.
"I was thinking about your business office, actually. With the nice, big desk," I said suggestively as I licked and kissed his neck. He grabbed my ass and I hissed as he made contact with swiftly bruising skin, but I didn't really mind it.
"You would actually do that?" he asked, green eyes serious even under the haze of arousal. In his office, during the day, with hundreds of people around...the office had huge panel glass windows looking out onto the rest of the floor, and similar ones staring out at Chicago.
"I can fog the glass," I wiggled my fingers, implying magic. It wasn't a spell that required prolonged concentration, making it ideal for privacy. I'd have to take it down before I left, of course.
He swallowed, and rolled me over again and started marking my neck. There was a bruise that never left, just below the line of my collar. John always left hickeys in that one spot, and he left them any time I said or did something he really, really liked. We'd gotten into the practice of physical responses to behavior we thought was worth encouraging. Words were too easy to fake.
He pinned my wrists as he marked me, as usual. It wasn't about me having control, and I knew and appreciated that. It was about him owning me the only way I had ever let him, and having a power over me no one else did - that I let him this close, that I let him physically dominate me cheerfully and without question.
It had been a long, complicated road to here, but it worked for us. I fucked him hard and kissed him shyly. He loved me gently and bit me roughly. We'd joked about it because it was the contradictions that made us work.
"I t-take it that's a yes," I gasped out when he pulled away. He kissed me. I knew it was a yes, so he didn't bother saying anything, just held me close as we fell asleep.
I cuddled closer and he stroked my hair. "Go back to sleep," he said.
I looked up, ready to pout and say something about enjoying the cuddles, but I got distracted.
He'd been working on a legal pad, taking meticulous notes about things I probably didn't want to know about. He put the pad aside and raised an eyebrow at me. My mouth was hanging open, just a little, because I had started to speak but then I saw them.
He was wearing glasses. The little kind that you can put in a pen-shaped thing in your shirt pocket. I swallowed. I knew John was older than me - not a lot, but some - and I knew wizards aged slower than vanilla mortals. But I'd never thought that maybe his eyesight would start to go, and I'd certainly never thought that seeing him with glasses would turn me on this much.
"Is something the matter?"
"...you wear reading glasses?" I asked instead of answering, voice thick with arousal.
He blinked and moved to take them off, looking like he'd forgotten they were on. I grabbed his hand.
"Leave them," I said, the words a purr that made him smile slowly and pull me into a kiss.
I was still naked, but somehow he'd extricated himself from me long enough to pull on a pair of silk pajama bottoms. I rubbed against them hungrily.
I'd topped earlier, enthusiastically. But I wanted him over me, wearing those glasses and flashing his money green eyes. I wrapped my legs around his waist and kissed him hard.
"So eager," he murmured, pulling the lube out of the drawer. I didn't remember putting it back, which meant, as usual, he'd cleaned up after me. Fuck, thinking about that shouldn't have made me harder.
I might have topped most recently, but there had been some nimble sex in the afternoon that left me more than ready to take him in again, with a little care. John gave me all that care and much more, as usual. He was meticulous about everything, to the point of driving me nuts with it sometimes. I usually minded his millions of tiny rules so I could get away with breaking the big ones in emergencies - burning stuff down, mostly. Compromise is the foundation of every great relationship, right? John rolled me onto my back and I arched into him.
He didn't even pull the pajamas off, just unbuttoned the front and slipped in me. The silk moving against my thighs was erotic in ways I'd never dreamed, but the thing that was really getting me going was still the glasses, watching them bounce a little on his nose as he thrust in, seeing his eyes distorted, half-doubled, through them and over them.
John was never hard-fast-deep with me, not for a second round. Sometimes if it had been a while and he was just shoving me carelessly against a wall, but not like this, in our bed, after we'd done it three times in a day already. He moved slowly, patiently, and yeah he thrust to the hilt, but it never felt like enough.
I begged for more, for faster, and, contrary as a cat, he got slower. But he loomed over me, watching my face in that scrutinizing, inscrutable way. I loved his expressions as he fucked me, how sometimes they could be so curious and calculating, and sometimes filled raw with love and affection. I'd shown him a new kink, so he was cataloging my reaction to everything.
He ran his hands down my sides. "How far does this go, hmm?" he asked. I tried to pull him closer with my legs, but he ignored me.
"I - please, John - "
"Can it extend out to some sort of roleplay? A fetish for librarians, maybe, or teachers?" I gasped a little at the second and he smirked. "Teachers? Is that why you like being called 'Mr. Dresden' so much? Would a teacher call a little brat like you something that respectful, do you think?" he said the words with that same experimental, just-wondering tone, but his eyes said he was game to try more.
I whimpered a little. "Please, I'll do better, I promise..."
"I've heard your promises before, little brat." The diminutive - so out of place when referring to someone a few inches taller and significantly taller than the average man - made the "brat" sting a lot less, made it sound almost like a pet name.
"But I really will this time..." I whined. "Please, just let me come..."
"Naughty little boys don't get to do whatever they want," John said primly, pushing his glasses up his nose, and I almost came right there. "Get your legs off of me or I'll leave you like this for the rest of the class to find." I swallowed. Exhibitionism was John's thing, not mine. The most I had done for him had been hidden in public places, and once or twice knowing Hendricks was listening. I could probably handle more than that, but I got embarrassed easily.
John never pushed. All of those occasions had been gifts to him, and I knew I should give him more of them.
But that was food for later thought. "Pleasepleaseplease don't, I'll be good," I begged, releasing him slowly and praying he wouldn't pull out. He didn't, just repositioned me around him.
"Little brat," he said, and there was no mistaking the affection this time. Now he went harder and deeper, though it still wasn't as fast as I wanted, as I whined and begged for. He squeezed my ass, still watching me, measuring with his eyes. I liked the groping - I usually did, when no one could see. Tonight he seemed to want to test all my boundaries, though.
The slap was light, more sound than pain. I yelped, surprised, and my cock twitched (pleased, not that I'd admit it).
Teacher-John chuckled. "Is that why you're always so naughty, little brat? Just begging for a spanking..."
I squirmed, blushing in-character and out. "I - sh-shuddup."
Another smack, firmer this time. "That's not how you talk to a teacher, little brat."
"Please...sir...I'll be good..." I said weakly, the protests hardly any stronger than my desire for this to end.
"I doubt that..."
The spanking was irregular, since he rarely hit me when he was all the way in me, and he didn't do it every time. I cried a little, and begged a lot, to no avail. We had a safeword, had had one for years after a bad experience that reminded me uncomfortably of foster care and Justin, that I'd been unable to relate and ended up stopping by throwing John in a wall and locking myself in the bathroom.
We had a safeword, and I wasn't using it because as much as I screamed and cried and begged, I hadn't even realized how much I wanted this stern taskmaster/disciplinarian John until I had him buried balls-deep in my ass. As I started falling apart, the measuring look melted into affection and hungry lust. I screamed and came to pieces on his cock.
He slapped me twice, saying, "I didn't give you permission, little brat." I sobbed the apologies and flexed my muscles around him, making him choke off another reprimand and just let go - slamming in hard twice and filling me with his come.
He pulled out tenderly and took the glasses off. He was out of the bed before I could protest, and back with a damp cloth. Once I was clean, he was gone again, and I was almost asleep when he slipped under the covers and pulled me close to him.
"That was interesting," he said mildly. I laughed into his neck and kissed along the artery there, hearing his breathing get shallow. John had a very, very sensitive neck.
I licked his skin and he sighed. "I'm afraid I won't be much good for you until noon tomorrow," he said with regret.
"Not all touch is about sex," I said teasingly, since it was one of his favorite phrases to placate me with, from the early weeks of our relationship. He laughed soundlessly, just a shift of muscles in his chest.
"I take it you enjoyed yourself?"
"Mmmhm. And you?"
"Thoroughly," he hummed, the word resounding with feeling and connotations. I picked at it for a moment, and made a decision.
"Seems like the kind of thing you need a desk for," I said thoughtfully.
He glanced at the desks in the corners of the room - mine, for when I took notes on casefiles home, was a wreck of receipts, crinkled pages, and poorly organized folders. John's was immaculate, perfectly polished and organized even though it had inhabited the room years longer than I or my desk had. It was small, though, a roll-top antique he regarded with more sentimentality than most of the house. There were scuffs and a few scratches, but they were years old and had been repaired expertly.
It was no longer rickety, after some skilled work from Michael that had been a birthday present to John (a present that had gotten me in a huge amount of trouble until he sat at the desk again and sighed happily when it didn't wobble every time he moved a finger. Then he fucked me for about two weeks straight). But Michael had told me in no uncertain terms that the original craftsmanship was not sufficient for large amounts of force or weight.
"I was thinking about your business office, actually. With the nice, big desk," I said suggestively as I licked and kissed his neck. He grabbed my ass and I hissed as he made contact with swiftly bruising skin, but I didn't really mind it.
"You would actually do that?" he asked, green eyes serious even under the haze of arousal. In his office, during the day, with hundreds of people around...the office had huge panel glass windows looking out onto the rest of the floor, and similar ones staring out at Chicago.
"I can fog the glass," I wiggled my fingers, implying magic. It wasn't a spell that required prolonged concentration, making it ideal for privacy. I'd have to take it down before I left, of course.
He swallowed, and rolled me over again and started marking my neck. There was a bruise that never left, just below the line of my collar. John always left hickeys in that one spot, and he left them any time I said or did something he really, really liked. We'd gotten into the practice of physical responses to behavior we thought was worth encouraging. Words were too easy to fake.
He pinned my wrists as he marked me, as usual. It wasn't about me having control, and I knew and appreciated that. It was about him owning me the only way I had ever let him, and having a power over me no one else did - that I let him this close, that I let him physically dominate me cheerfully and without question.
It had been a long, complicated road to here, but it worked for us. I fucked him hard and kissed him shyly. He loved me gently and bit me roughly. We'd joked about it because it was the contradictions that made us work.
"I t-take it that's a yes," I gasped out when he pulled away. He kissed me. I knew it was a yes, so he didn't bother saying anything, just held me close as we fell asleep.
This was just a perfect spin-off to the other story and I loved it, seeing those scenes that Thomas painted for Harry being fleshed out.
All of them just pure Guh!
All of them just pure Guh!
OP is whimpering right now because this is so HOT.
8D
8D
Page 99 of 177
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