(Delete if this isn't okay, Emmy)
What prompts from the last meme are you most wanting to see, anons?
What prompts from the last meme are you most wanting to see, anons?
The Banquet prompt! Erlking/Dresden Fae/Dresden :D
Mouse's puppy days Gen
I would really like to see the years where Mouse was still small enough to ride on Harry coat pocket. And since Harry can leave him alone, he'll have to bring Mouse with him. You can write a pairing with Harry if you like or leave it gen.
Bonus: You can write Overprotective!Harry and Oblivous!Mouse
I would really like to see the years where Mouse was still small enough to ride on Harry coat pocket. And since Harry can leave him alone, he'll have to bring Mouse with him. You can write a pairing with Harry if you like or leave it gen.
Bonus: You can write Overprotective!Harry and Oblivous!Mouse
Anyone/Anyone, bathing and enemas.
Clean inside and out, guys. Maybe prep for a ritual, maybe some physical scrubbing to clean off the metaphorical dirt, maybe some service and worship, maybe someone(s) just really, really like how it feels.
Clean inside and out, guys. Maybe prep for a ritual, maybe some physical scrubbing to clean off the metaphorical dirt, maybe some service and worship, maybe someone(s) just really, really like how it feels.
Ffffffuh.
Wow. This meme is really starting to get into some of my absolute best/worst kinks.
Wow. This meme is really starting to get into some of my absolute best/worst kinks.
Everybody/Dresden Ebay Debate
I would like to read everyone going against everybody on the bidding for Harry during Proven Guilty. Or maybe he just got kidnapped again. :D
Anyway, write about it! Marcone threatening the Raiths! Everyone trying to outbid each other! And oblivious!Harry just discretly making his escape.
Bonus if just a few minutes after the bidding war which crashed the internet, Harry shows up in Marcone's office, wanting to ask him a question, and see Marcone's state.
I would like to read everyone going against everybody on the bidding for Harry during Proven Guilty. Or maybe he just got kidnapped again. :D
Anyway, write about it! Marcone threatening the Raiths! Everyone trying to outbid each other! And oblivious!Harry just discretly making his escape.
Bonus if just a few minutes after the bidding war which crashed the internet, Harry shows up in Marcone's office, wanting to ask him a question, and see Marcone's state.
The fill on the previous meme proved how smoking hot Marcone/Vadderung is. Please, anon, can I have some more?
Author!anon of the last fill admits there was immediate planning around a Marcone/Vadderung/Harry follow up, but that other fills and commitments are stacked against it.
The Dresden Files/Transformers!
'cause all kink meme should have a prompt with giant robots. :P
...Huh.
Now I wonder if being from out space means the Transformers aren't going to crash being near the walking techno banes? XD
'cause all kink meme should have a prompt with giant robots. :P
...Huh.
Now I wonder if being from out space means the Transformers aren't going to crash being near the walking techno banes? XD
you prefer G1, Animated, Bayverse, etc or writer's choice?
Hilarious misread of the 'Foo dog trusts Harry to raise puppies' prompt in Round One had me trying to come to terms with how the heck Harry got pregnant with puppies in the first place. Someone make it so?
Weeeeeeell there is the very convenient fact his godmother wants to turn him into a hound. If humans can have mpreg why not dogs?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Dresden/Marcone, or gen if you feel like it writer
I want a fic where Harry sees Marcone being really bad at something. We know that Marcone defines badass. But say, he was really bad at flirting [you know people threw themselves at him so that he barely got any practice], or a terrible cook (even worse than Molly which Harry didn't think was possible), or can't sing worth a damn. Something.
The awesome that is Marcone needs a weakness other than his 'no children' rule which in all honestly just adds to his awesome.
I want a fic where Harry sees Marcone being really bad at something. We know that Marcone defines badass. But say, he was really bad at flirting [you know people threw themselves at him so that he barely got any practice], or a terrible cook (even worse than Molly which Harry didn't think was possible), or can't sing worth a damn. Something.
The awesome that is Marcone needs a weakness other than his 'no children' rule which in all honestly just adds to his awesome.
Marcone is creepy and is bad at drinking alcohol, and the slash is pre-/gen. Harry goes about things in his usual way, which is to say the least thoughtful line from A to B.
The plan as Harry presented it was simple: find the stone baby, turn it back to flesh, get paid by its ecstatic parents, exit the warehouse, but not necessarily in that order.
Which was probably why the last time John saw the Winter Knight, Harry was racing an arrow made of cursed arctic ice, and the arrow was winning.
**
Inside the warehouse the walls were thick and crusted over with ice, a nasty side effect of the ice demon the kidnappers had summoned as a security guard. Now the demon was long gone, but the air stayed brittle and damp, so that drops of frozen moisture clattered and rang like crystal when Harry sprinted through them. The kid was clinging to his neck, and even with the strength potion, Harry's face was showing the strain of running at a dead sprint with a stone baby in his arms.
Kids again. Even Hendricks had made that face like John was getting predictable and one day it would get him dead.
He stared. "What in heavens is--?"
"Coming through!" Harry said, ducking.
An arrow of solid ice sliced through the air where his head had been. It shattered against the wall and lay twitching in pieces on the floor. John was reminded strongly of vivisected glass squid, the legs writhing long after death.
"Stars, granite weighs a lot." Harry hitched the kid higher, trying not to groan when it caught him in the gut with a stone foot. "Looks like an ice curse, pretty powerful. Probably Inuit--"
"Mr. Dresden," John said. The warehouse windows were filling rapidly with what looked like oil-black snow, and he had no desire to see what it did when touched. "If you wouldn't mind hurrying?"
With some difficulty, Harry lifted his arm and pointed his staff at a sheet of ice. A portal wrenched itself open like a muscle, the dark cloaca passage quivering obscenely.
"What's a matter," he said, grinning and maniacal and edged with something brightly burning. "Johnny not getting enough attention? Don't worry, I'll come back for you. Just gotta drop off little Wayne here--"
A tendril of ice peeled away from the floor and reached for Harry's ankle.
Wordlessly, John fired twice, shattering it into a hundred pieces.
After a moment, Harry said, "Oh."
"Yes," John said grimly.
Hendricks and the baby sighed in unison. They glared at each other, Hendricks' ears suspiciously red.
Harry turned to disappear into the portal, then stopped.
"Hey," he said. He shifting his weight and wrinkled his nose and heaved a great belabored sigh. "Thanks."
John watched him go.
"Boss," Hendricks said, and it was that precise moment he realized he had been standing motionless in the center of a cursed warehouse for quite some time.
He blinked hard, came back to himself. "Let's go," he said. "I might still be able to make my dinner reservation."
**
In the car John's head began throbbing like he'd mainlined ice through the jugular. Hendricks had filled the ice bucket with warm water, and John's left hand was soaking in it. At the bottom were flakes of disintegrating ice that swayed with the rise and fall of the road. He suspected they were layers of skin.
He cleared his throat. "You're uninjured?"
Hendricks grunted in the affirmative.
With his free hand John felt around his belt, found his PDA. It was damp where ice had crept into the cracks and expanded, forcing out the screen. He holstered it, resolving to have the chip wiped. Not that it would probably need it. When it came to unintentional magnetic chicanery, Harry had the blast radius of an atomic bomb.
"That's the third this year," Hendricks said.
It was the fourth, technically. John supposed Hendricks was being figurative. According to Gard, he would have been a decent potions wizard if only he'd had a kind of lobotomized certainty to go with it. For Hendricks a measure of doubt was axiomatic; in its own way that single fact often served as John's private reserve of certainty.
Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.
"We're making good time," Hendricks said. He pushed the tuner once, rotated the dial until he found public radio.
Nodding, John arranged his stiff limbs on the seat as the sleepy, underwater murmurs of the radio filled the car. They were ten minutes deep into North Shore, at least another forty from the offices. He allowed his shoulders to relax. His eyes he kept trained on the traffic, the buildings shooting up in height and width as they neared city limits. The tinted windows took the blood out of the sunset.
After a while, Hendricks brushed a thumb against his own chin, said, "Boss--you've got--here--"
His thoughts raced. He touched his face. His stubble had turned to ice.
**
Time passed and time passed.
In the meantime, the wizard known as Harry Dresden dropped over the edge of a surveillance cliff and disappeared.
The informants made conflicting reports, and all of them were past belief. John handled them personally, sorting through the details in lulls between meetings and "meetings." He kept a mental list of sources Gard had indexed by reliability, used the thread as a guide through endless permutations of Harry, dead and half-dead and might as well be. One report told of how the Winter Queen had frozen Harry's legs to ice and then staked him upside down over a boiling cauldron of Hellfire.
Unlikely, in Winter's Court. John had filed it away with the rest of the sightings under Manage, Only Harry Dresden Could.
I'm coming back for you. After a while, he could feel himself remembering it as a promise.
The frostbite on his fingertips had healed without requiring amputation. When he was too tired to remember why it was a bad idea, he sat at his desk and rested his chin in hand and felt the warmth of his own palm, the blood drawn by pressure to the surface; the cold that had long since faded to nothing.
**
The call came on the longest, hottest day of the year. Later, John would think that was on purpose.
He counted to three, hit the blinking red button and picked up.
The line frothed with static.
"Hey," Harry said. "It's me."
Something inside John stretched long and taut and released.
**
For their meeting place, John chose a boat Harry hadn't tried to blow up yet but probably would in the future. For the lake, Michigan. Day, of mutual agreement.
Attendance, optional. Some things could not be forced, elicited or threatened.
Which led to John with his hands in the pockets of his sailing shorts, the mast pressing rigid like a second spine. He monitored the surface of the water, half-expecting an uninvited guest. It would be Harry's style: a man-eating turtle, perhaps, with a side of cthulhu to keep things interesting.
The informants had never managed to ascertain precisely how Harry had shed the mantle of Winter. Gard said it was none of his business, in the tone that said it could easily be his business, and if he didn't figure out how soon, she was going to have herself recalled to Oslo out of disgust.
John kept an eye on the shoreline and didn't check his watch. He almost didn't notice the moon going down until its reflection was thick and glossy, a ribbon of snow on the water.
**
Harry arrived at half past three in a modified tugboat, the muffler releasing puffs of cottontail steam. The peaks of his knees were appalachian, his lanky frame giving the boat the illusion of flatness. Only when performing magic did he seem other than outsized.
Grunting, Harry clambered onto the yacht one-handed and shoved a wet cooler into John's chest. "Got something for you."
John caught it by the handle, sniffed surreptitiously. Something sloshed inside; he cracked the top and found six bottles of beer bobbing in lukewarm water. There were bits of dirt and grit where the ice cubes had melted.
"Thank you," he said, and didn't object when Harry popped off a lid on the yacht's wood siding.
"To the skin of your teeth," Harry said, and drank deeply.
**
He had never been interested in the particulars of John's life, and he wasn't interested now.
There were other things he wanted to talk about. Theories on his cat's paternity (racoon), his dog's emotional intelligence (dalai lama-esque), the marital state of the ghosts who lived in the apartment next door (separated but reconciling).
"Most of them don't know I'm back," he said, after a long silence.
John nodded, murmuring.
"It's different being back." He scratched his nose with the lip of his bottle, left a wet smear across the bridge. "Just." He shook his head. "Never mind."
It was different having him back--no, John corrected himself. Having was the wrong word. Having implied things, connoted a certain possession Harry had never invited and likely never would.
But.
"Your friends don't know you've returned," John said slowly. He was aware of tasting the words, enjoying them somehow. "But you found the time to locate a working payphone and call my private line."
Harry looked away. For a moment, John thought he would refuse to answer.
"Yeah," he said, bringing his gaze level with John's. "Guess I did."
**
"You," Harry's hands were folded on his chest, almost child-like, "really can't hold your alcohol." He lay across the teak bench and then some, his legs hooked over the waxed ropes that bordered the upper deck. They were long, and the hairs ran only partway up his shins, like something had burned the rest off. "No one stops at just one. 'Specially not Mac's."
John sat on the floor, legs stretched in front of him. He'd shed his shoes after Harry threatened to write on him in magical ink if he passed out with them on. Something he'd learned from his charming werewolf friends, no doubt.
He turned the empty over in his hands. The glass was strange, almost liquid to the touch.
"Impaired judgment is bad for business," he said finally.
"Bullshit."
John raised an eyebrow.
"This isn't business," Harry said. He was right, but not the way he thought he was. "You don't trust me."
"Harry."
"You don't want to get too cozy, in case I pull a fast one," Harry said. He was laughing, and the contents of his third bottle were seesawing back and forth like liquid caramel. "You think I'm going to shove you off your boat or something. Long walk off a short yacht."
John allowed himself a smile. "I assure you, the yacht is more than adequate size."
Harry snorted. "Point's the same. One's your limit? One, really?" His gaze turned speculative. "You know, you don't look like a fourteen-year-old girl."
"Maybe it's the gray hair."
"Ha ha, Marcone made a funny." He sat up suddenly, eyes narrowing. The back of his hair was a mice nest. "You don't know how much you can drink, do you." He shook his head, marveling. "Control issues, hello."
"I come from a proud line of baptized alcoholics," John said, mouth quirking. "I decided early on it would be--prudent not to tempt fate."
Harry seemed amazed. He jabbed a finger at John's stomach, accusing. "That's no good. You don't know your limit, you don't know how susceptible you are to certain kinds of potions."
John chuckled. "Like?"
Harry slammed his beer down, jaw tight. "Plenty. It's not mind control, but it's up there. Charisma potion. Favorability potion, makes you more inclined to agree with 'em and do what they want. Other stuff's even nastier." His eyes fixed on the cooler. "You need to get shitfaced right now."
He laughed.
"I'm not kidding, John."
"Neither am I, Harry." He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing hard at his eyes. "Whatever relation alcohol tolerance has to magical resistance, it's surely miniscule compared to other factors. Like force of will, perhaps?"
Harry lifted his chin. "Miniscule matters."
John paused, considering. He stared hard at Harry as he said, casually, "It matters a miniscule amount."
"That's--" He worried his lip between his teeth, let it spring back out red and bitten. "A little is all they need, all right?"
Gently, John said, "Who needs?"
Harry threw up his hands, let them land on his thighs with a slap. "I don't know! Everyone. Anyone."
John looked at him a long time.
"Answer me truthfully if you can," he said. "Are you or are you not still the Winter Knight?"
"Yes," Harry said, and then his hand was on the back of John's neck, pulling him in.
**
The first time John saw Harry Dresden's soul, he saw a good man who had done bad things; who was hellbent on dying before he would do them again.
The second time, he saw a man who nearly wasn't there. Half his soul gone, excised and amputated in ragtag pieces here and there. Like Winter was an infection, and the doctor had dug around scraping and stitching until everything it had touched was gone, what was left of the patient be damned. The surgery was a success.
In a moment John had a thousand questions; in the next, he put them out forever.
"You came to me for protection," he said.
Harry froze. Let his hand slide from John's shoulder, curled it into a loose fist.
"Though your power has been greatly reduced," he said, cutting deep as he could, "your enemies' ire has not. You knew of my regard and thought you would use it against me--"
Harry's voice was low and shaking. "Screw you, Marcone."
John tapped a finger against his chin. Murmuring, he said, "No, that's not right. You came to warn me"--he looked askance at Harry, who was making a point of looking elsewhere--"that you."
He trailed off. That Harry was less of what he had been, less massive, less--blindingly, frighteningly, exhilaratingly powerful. That he could no longer protect anyone, not even his allies, his friends. Not even himself.
The surgery was a success. Where Harry's magic should have been, there were patches and scraps and tatters missing. It burned brightly, fiercely, regardless.
John softened. "The rest of your magic, has it been destroyed?"
Sullenly, Harry said, "It's gone."
"I didn't ask if it was gone."
"I don't know."
Rounding on him, using his shoulders to block him against the hull. "Who knows?"
Harry snarled. "No one you want to meet."
"Oh," John said, smiling with teeth, "I don't think that's quite true."
**
When he thought about it, it made him want to plant the tip of his knife into the nearest flat surface and pull back, very slowly.
He thought about it often. Pieces of Harry's magic--his soul--bought and traded around the magical underworld, in tastefully generic establishments like those operated by the Outfit. His own personal karma visited on Harry, and he understood what that said about him, and about Harry. About them.
Harry was often tired these days, though he covered it with hostility and barking. I'm cutting back on caffeine, bite me, he'd say. It was a late night, some people work for a living, Marcone.
Every time someone so much as ran a finger over a piece of his magic, Harry felt it in his bones.
It was slow going, recovering all the fragments. Deals struck, favors called in, favors elicited. Some things were worth threatening for.
At night John sat up in his study and thought of what it would be like to hold that final piece of him, the keystone in his soul, a portion of Harry's very life. How it would feel to Harry as they stood there in triumph, magic recovered, defenses down. Turning to John with that smile a supernova in his eyes.
His expression at the feel of John's hands on his face, on his mouth, the back of his neck.
The plan as Harry presented it was simple: find the stone baby, turn it back to flesh, get paid by its ecstatic parents, exit the warehouse, but not necessarily in that order.
Which was probably why the last time John saw the Winter Knight, Harry was racing an arrow made of cursed arctic ice, and the arrow was winning.
**
Inside the warehouse the walls were thick and crusted over with ice, a nasty side effect of the ice demon the kidnappers had summoned as a security guard. Now the demon was long gone, but the air stayed brittle and damp, so that drops of frozen moisture clattered and rang like crystal when Harry sprinted through them. The kid was clinging to his neck, and even with the strength potion, Harry's face was showing the strain of running at a dead sprint with a stone baby in his arms.
Kids again. Even Hendricks had made that face like John was getting predictable and one day it would get him dead.
He stared. "What in heavens is--?"
"Coming through!" Harry said, ducking.
An arrow of solid ice sliced through the air where his head had been. It shattered against the wall and lay twitching in pieces on the floor. John was reminded strongly of vivisected glass squid, the legs writhing long after death.
"Stars, granite weighs a lot." Harry hitched the kid higher, trying not to groan when it caught him in the gut with a stone foot. "Looks like an ice curse, pretty powerful. Probably Inuit--"
"Mr. Dresden," John said. The warehouse windows were filling rapidly with what looked like oil-black snow, and he had no desire to see what it did when touched. "If you wouldn't mind hurrying?"
With some difficulty, Harry lifted his arm and pointed his staff at a sheet of ice. A portal wrenched itself open like a muscle, the dark cloaca passage quivering obscenely.
"What's a matter," he said, grinning and maniacal and edged with something brightly burning. "Johnny not getting enough attention? Don't worry, I'll come back for you. Just gotta drop off little Wayne here--"
A tendril of ice peeled away from the floor and reached for Harry's ankle.
Wordlessly, John fired twice, shattering it into a hundred pieces.
After a moment, Harry said, "Oh."
"Yes," John said grimly.
Hendricks and the baby sighed in unison. They glared at each other, Hendricks' ears suspiciously red.
Harry turned to disappear into the portal, then stopped.
"Hey," he said. He shifting his weight and wrinkled his nose and heaved a great belabored sigh. "Thanks."
John watched him go.
"Boss," Hendricks said, and it was that precise moment he realized he had been standing motionless in the center of a cursed warehouse for quite some time.
He blinked hard, came back to himself. "Let's go," he said. "I might still be able to make my dinner reservation."
**
In the car John's head began throbbing like he'd mainlined ice through the jugular. Hendricks had filled the ice bucket with warm water, and John's left hand was soaking in it. At the bottom were flakes of disintegrating ice that swayed with the rise and fall of the road. He suspected they were layers of skin.
He cleared his throat. "You're uninjured?"
Hendricks grunted in the affirmative.
With his free hand John felt around his belt, found his PDA. It was damp where ice had crept into the cracks and expanded, forcing out the screen. He holstered it, resolving to have the chip wiped. Not that it would probably need it. When it came to unintentional magnetic chicanery, Harry had the blast radius of an atomic bomb.
"That's the third this year," Hendricks said.
It was the fourth, technically. John supposed Hendricks was being figurative. According to Gard, he would have been a decent potions wizard if only he'd had a kind of lobotomized certainty to go with it. For Hendricks a measure of doubt was axiomatic; in its own way that single fact often served as John's private reserve of certainty.
Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.
"We're making good time," Hendricks said. He pushed the tuner once, rotated the dial until he found public radio.
Nodding, John arranged his stiff limbs on the seat as the sleepy, underwater murmurs of the radio filled the car. They were ten minutes deep into North Shore, at least another forty from the offices. He allowed his shoulders to relax. His eyes he kept trained on the traffic, the buildings shooting up in height and width as they neared city limits. The tinted windows took the blood out of the sunset.
After a while, Hendricks brushed a thumb against his own chin, said, "Boss--you've got--here--"
His thoughts raced. He touched his face. His stubble had turned to ice.
**
Time passed and time passed.
In the meantime, the wizard known as Harry Dresden dropped over the edge of a surveillance cliff and disappeared.
The informants made conflicting reports, and all of them were past belief. John handled them personally, sorting through the details in lulls between meetings and "meetings." He kept a mental list of sources Gard had indexed by reliability, used the thread as a guide through endless permutations of Harry, dead and half-dead and might as well be. One report told of how the Winter Queen had frozen Harry's legs to ice and then staked him upside down over a boiling cauldron of Hellfire.
Unlikely, in Winter's Court. John had filed it away with the rest of the sightings under Manage, Only Harry Dresden Could.
I'm coming back for you. After a while, he could feel himself remembering it as a promise.
The frostbite on his fingertips had healed without requiring amputation. When he was too tired to remember why it was a bad idea, he sat at his desk and rested his chin in hand and felt the warmth of his own palm, the blood drawn by pressure to the surface; the cold that had long since faded to nothing.
**
The call came on the longest, hottest day of the year. Later, John would think that was on purpose.
He counted to three, hit the blinking red button and picked up.
The line frothed with static.
"Hey," Harry said. "It's me."
Something inside John stretched long and taut and released.
**
For their meeting place, John chose a boat Harry hadn't tried to blow up yet but probably would in the future. For the lake, Michigan. Day, of mutual agreement.
Attendance, optional. Some things could not be forced, elicited or threatened.
Which led to John with his hands in the pockets of his sailing shorts, the mast pressing rigid like a second spine. He monitored the surface of the water, half-expecting an uninvited guest. It would be Harry's style: a man-eating turtle, perhaps, with a side of cthulhu to keep things interesting.
The informants had never managed to ascertain precisely how Harry had shed the mantle of Winter. Gard said it was none of his business, in the tone that said it could easily be his business, and if he didn't figure out how soon, she was going to have herself recalled to Oslo out of disgust.
John kept an eye on the shoreline and didn't check his watch. He almost didn't notice the moon going down until its reflection was thick and glossy, a ribbon of snow on the water.
**
Harry arrived at half past three in a modified tugboat, the muffler releasing puffs of cottontail steam. The peaks of his knees were appalachian, his lanky frame giving the boat the illusion of flatness. Only when performing magic did he seem other than outsized.
Grunting, Harry clambered onto the yacht one-handed and shoved a wet cooler into John's chest. "Got something for you."
John caught it by the handle, sniffed surreptitiously. Something sloshed inside; he cracked the top and found six bottles of beer bobbing in lukewarm water. There were bits of dirt and grit where the ice cubes had melted.
"Thank you," he said, and didn't object when Harry popped off a lid on the yacht's wood siding.
"To the skin of your teeth," Harry said, and drank deeply.
**
He had never been interested in the particulars of John's life, and he wasn't interested now.
There were other things he wanted to talk about. Theories on his cat's paternity (racoon), his dog's emotional intelligence (dalai lama-esque), the marital state of the ghosts who lived in the apartment next door (separated but reconciling).
"Most of them don't know I'm back," he said, after a long silence.
John nodded, murmuring.
"It's different being back." He scratched his nose with the lip of his bottle, left a wet smear across the bridge. "Just." He shook his head. "Never mind."
It was different having him back--no, John corrected himself. Having was the wrong word. Having implied things, connoted a certain possession Harry had never invited and likely never would.
But.
"Your friends don't know you've returned," John said slowly. He was aware of tasting the words, enjoying them somehow. "But you found the time to locate a working payphone and call my private line."
Harry looked away. For a moment, John thought he would refuse to answer.
"Yeah," he said, bringing his gaze level with John's. "Guess I did."
**
"You," Harry's hands were folded on his chest, almost child-like, "really can't hold your alcohol." He lay across the teak bench and then some, his legs hooked over the waxed ropes that bordered the upper deck. They were long, and the hairs ran only partway up his shins, like something had burned the rest off. "No one stops at just one. 'Specially not Mac's."
John sat on the floor, legs stretched in front of him. He'd shed his shoes after Harry threatened to write on him in magical ink if he passed out with them on. Something he'd learned from his charming werewolf friends, no doubt.
He turned the empty over in his hands. The glass was strange, almost liquid to the touch.
"Impaired judgment is bad for business," he said finally.
"Bullshit."
John raised an eyebrow.
"This isn't business," Harry said. He was right, but not the way he thought he was. "You don't trust me."
"Harry."
"You don't want to get too cozy, in case I pull a fast one," Harry said. He was laughing, and the contents of his third bottle were seesawing back and forth like liquid caramel. "You think I'm going to shove you off your boat or something. Long walk off a short yacht."
John allowed himself a smile. "I assure you, the yacht is more than adequate size."
Harry snorted. "Point's the same. One's your limit? One, really?" His gaze turned speculative. "You know, you don't look like a fourteen-year-old girl."
"Maybe it's the gray hair."
"Ha ha, Marcone made a funny." He sat up suddenly, eyes narrowing. The back of his hair was a mice nest. "You don't know how much you can drink, do you." He shook his head, marveling. "Control issues, hello."
"I come from a proud line of baptized alcoholics," John said, mouth quirking. "I decided early on it would be--prudent not to tempt fate."
Harry seemed amazed. He jabbed a finger at John's stomach, accusing. "That's no good. You don't know your limit, you don't know how susceptible you are to certain kinds of potions."
John chuckled. "Like?"
Harry slammed his beer down, jaw tight. "Plenty. It's not mind control, but it's up there. Charisma potion. Favorability potion, makes you more inclined to agree with 'em and do what they want. Other stuff's even nastier." His eyes fixed on the cooler. "You need to get shitfaced right now."
He laughed.
"I'm not kidding, John."
"Neither am I, Harry." He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing hard at his eyes. "Whatever relation alcohol tolerance has to magical resistance, it's surely miniscule compared to other factors. Like force of will, perhaps?"
Harry lifted his chin. "Miniscule matters."
John paused, considering. He stared hard at Harry as he said, casually, "It matters a miniscule amount."
"That's--" He worried his lip between his teeth, let it spring back out red and bitten. "A little is all they need, all right?"
Gently, John said, "Who needs?"
Harry threw up his hands, let them land on his thighs with a slap. "I don't know! Everyone. Anyone."
John looked at him a long time.
"Answer me truthfully if you can," he said. "Are you or are you not still the Winter Knight?"
"Yes," Harry said, and then his hand was on the back of John's neck, pulling him in.
**
The first time John saw Harry Dresden's soul, he saw a good man who had done bad things; who was hellbent on dying before he would do them again.
The second time, he saw a man who nearly wasn't there. Half his soul gone, excised and amputated in ragtag pieces here and there. Like Winter was an infection, and the doctor had dug around scraping and stitching until everything it had touched was gone, what was left of the patient be damned. The surgery was a success.
In a moment John had a thousand questions; in the next, he put them out forever.
"You came to me for protection," he said.
Harry froze. Let his hand slide from John's shoulder, curled it into a loose fist.
"Though your power has been greatly reduced," he said, cutting deep as he could, "your enemies' ire has not. You knew of my regard and thought you would use it against me--"
Harry's voice was low and shaking. "Screw you, Marcone."
John tapped a finger against his chin. Murmuring, he said, "No, that's not right. You came to warn me"--he looked askance at Harry, who was making a point of looking elsewhere--"that you."
He trailed off. That Harry was less of what he had been, less massive, less--blindingly, frighteningly, exhilaratingly powerful. That he could no longer protect anyone, not even his allies, his friends. Not even himself.
The surgery was a success. Where Harry's magic should have been, there were patches and scraps and tatters missing. It burned brightly, fiercely, regardless.
John softened. "The rest of your magic, has it been destroyed?"
Sullenly, Harry said, "It's gone."
"I didn't ask if it was gone."
"I don't know."
Rounding on him, using his shoulders to block him against the hull. "Who knows?"
Harry snarled. "No one you want to meet."
"Oh," John said, smiling with teeth, "I don't think that's quite true."
**
When he thought about it, it made him want to plant the tip of his knife into the nearest flat surface and pull back, very slowly.
He thought about it often. Pieces of Harry's magic--his soul--bought and traded around the magical underworld, in tastefully generic establishments like those operated by the Outfit. His own personal karma visited on Harry, and he understood what that said about him, and about Harry. About them.
Harry was often tired these days, though he covered it with hostility and barking. I'm cutting back on caffeine, bite me, he'd say. It was a late night, some people work for a living, Marcone.
Every time someone so much as ran a finger over a piece of his magic, Harry felt it in his bones.
It was slow going, recovering all the fragments. Deals struck, favors called in, favors elicited. Some things were worth threatening for.
At night John sat up in his study and thought of what it would be like to hold that final piece of him, the keystone in his soul, a portion of Harry's very life. How it would feel to Harry as they stood there in triumph, magic recovered, defenses down. Turning to John with that smile a supernova in his eyes.
His expression at the feel of John's hands on his face, on his mouth, the back of his neck.
1. If anybody wants a DW invite so they can de-anon over here, I can supply codes!
2. Prompt: I just finished Death Masks, and I know I'll inevitably be betrayed by canon, but right now, I really want something from an AU where Harry and Susan get their happy-ever-after. By which I mean: Susan kicks ass and takes names, Harry stays home, makes potions and does research for her, and takes care of the kids. :D
(There are, like, half-a-dozen places in canon so far where one of them being slightly less stubborn or slightly more lucky makes it possible. Please?)
2. Prompt: I just finished Death Masks, and I know I'll inevitably be betrayed by canon, but right now, I really want something from an AU where Harry and Susan get their happy-ever-after. By which I mean: Susan kicks ass and takes names, Harry stays home, makes potions and does research for her, and takes care of the kids. :D
(There are, like, half-a-dozen places in canon so far where one of them being slightly less stubborn or slightly more lucky makes it possible. Please?)
I'll just throw out all of mine:
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44W3BAWX4HZJPAAAMMUA
27R95ZC26ABKXAAACTR7
438CSJX9H5KW8AAAD4FF
GJGERXFYXSCR6AAAMLYR
YGXQSSFXWYEAZAAAKPEB
44W3BAWX4HZJPAAAMMUA
27R95ZC26ABKXAAACTR7
438CSJX9H5KW8AAAD4FF
GJGERXFYXSCR6AAAMLYR
Hendricks/Marcone, the last time
I've been turning this prompt around in my head for awhile, figured I might as well post it.
Hendricks and Marcone were lovers during their early days in the outfit. They kept it quiet, but they were a pretty serious item. When John began his ascent to power, though, they decided that the relationship was both a risk and a distraction, so they ended it. I'd love to see their last time together.
I've been turning this prompt around in my head for awhile, figured I might as well post it.
Hendricks and Marcone were lovers during their early days in the outfit. They kept it quiet, but they were a pretty serious item. When John began his ascent to power, though, they decided that the relationship was both a risk and a distraction, so they ended it. I'd love to see their last time together.
I had been John's idea to end it just as it had been his idea to start it. To be fair — and Hendricks had few occasions to be fair these days — most of their best ideas were John's. However, it was Hendricks who made sure they were implemented.
That didn't mean that Hendricks had to agree with him. This was one of the few occasions when he didn't. No. That wasn't true. Intellectually, Hendricks knew that John was right; it didn't make reality suck any less. Dozens of philosophers had struggled to grasp in words the eternal battle between emotions and reason. Hendricks had read most of them, and yet none had prepared him for the brutal pain of reality. There was probably some quote to go along with that, but — he had more important things to say, things like:
"John." Not Boss, not in their bedroom. Never there. "We could still—"
"No. We cannot. It's too high a risk," John said in that clipped, even voice that sent most of their enemies running, the one he used when he was not going to back down.
Hendricks closed his eyes, resigned. He wasn't going to win this argument. He tried anyway. "No one needs to know. We've been together for years and no one is the wiser."
"I can't." John sounded like a wounded animal. His eyes were filled with pain, and for a moment Hendricks thought that he would beg. "I can't," John repeated. "This — you're the only person I trust. I need you watching my back."
"I've got your back. When have I ever given you the impression that I didn't?" Hendricks wanted to shake some sense into John. He balled his hands into fists instead.
"Never," John said soothingly. He bracketed Hendricks' face between his hands, forcing Hendricks to look at him. "Never. It's me who can't—"
Hendricks laughed bitterly. "God help me John, if you give me the it's-me-not-you speech I will hurt you."
John let go of his face and stepped back. Hendricks was thankful for the space. He couldn't deal with this conversation with John standing so close.
"They tried to kill me yesterday," John said, as if Hendricks needed the reminder.
"They try to kill you everyday," Hendricks pointed out.
John's fingers traced softly over the white bandage around Hendricks collarbone. "You took a bullet for me."
Ah, so that was what this was about. Hendricks relaxed, marginally. "It was nothing, John. Only a graze. It's my job."
John's expression closed off. "Yes, it is," he said. "If I keep rising in power, more people are going to try to kill me." His green eyes became cold, hard. "There'll be more bullets."
"So there'll be more," Hendricks said at a loss. Being shot at was part and parcel of their plans.
"I can't do what I need to do, knowing that I'm using my lover as a shield." Anger, fear, pain, determination whorled in John's eyes, battling for control. "I won't do it. I refuse to."
It was like that then, Hendricks thought. "I see."
"Do you?" John asked. "The decision is yours. I will have Chicago, safe, under my control. Or I will you, safe, away from here."
"You couldn't abandon Chicago even if you wanted, John." The city was a piece of John. Hendricks' mind failed to imagine John in any other place; he would wilt and die.
"I'm willing to try for you. It's your choice."
They both knew it wasn't true. John had chosen already, years ago.
And so had Hendricks.
He yanked John towards him, ripping John's suit with his hands. The fabric gave away under his fingers. The sound of the seams tearing traveled directly to Hendricks' cock. He kissed John as if his life depended on it, claiming every piece of John's mouth he could reach. John was just as violent. He canted his hips, humping Hendricks thigh and jerked forward.
Hendricks shoulder throbbed, but he didn't care. He muffled his moans of pain against John's mouth and bit at John's lower lip in retaliation.
It was as if a dam had broken.
They clawed at each other, biting, hurting, marking, wanting to leave scars that would never fade. Hendricks used his superior strength to turn John around, pushing him against the nearest wall. He yanked down John's pants and boxers and pushed two fingers into John's ass, relishing the surprised whimper that escaped John's lips.
Hendricks wanted John to feel it. He scissored his fingers, pushing past the resistance, forcing John to open up for him.
"Now, now, now," John was chanting. "Don't waste time prepping me. Just fuck me now. I want it to hurt."
Hendricks obliged him. He couldn't not give John what he wanted. Never had been able to. He shoved his cock into John in one vicious thrust. It burned. John's ass was dry and impossibly tight, not enough preparation to make it comfortable for either of them. This wasn't about comfort, though. Hendricks thought that maybe, years ago, their last time would've been soft and careful, filled with bittersweet words and tenderness. They weren't those men any longer. Why should this be any less brutal, any less painful than their lives?
He bit down on John's neck and pushed forward.
"Fucking bastard, give it to me," John snarled, voice distorted with grief, but he pushed back with equal force, meeting each of Hendricks' trusts. "Come on, come on, come on," John panted, desperate.
Hendricks grabbed John's cock with his right hand and jerked him roughly, with the same fast, punishing rhythm he was using on John's ass. John screamed and lurched against him, coming and coming, until he was empty. Hendricks cleaned his wet hand on John's hair. He yanked John's head back, forcing John's back into an awkward angle that allowed him to slip into John even deeper.
"Please," John whispered in a ragged breath. Hendricks didn't know if it was a plea for Hendricks to stop or for him to continue. He realized with something like revulsion that he didn't care either way. Hendricks let go of John's hair and pressed him against the wall. He spread John's ass with his hands farther apart and fucked into him, grounding himself into John with sharp, deep strokes until his orgasm seized him. Its intensity took him by surprise. He fell on John's back, limp and useless. Wrung dry and empty.
John stirred beneath him, bringing him back to reality. Hendricks forced himself to pull away. His cock was sore from the dry friction. The rims of John's ass didn't look much better. Come leaked out of John's battered hole and dripped down his inner thigh. Hendricks closed his eyes against the image; it was almost enough to break him.
When he opened his eyes again, John had already turned around and was uselessly trying to salvage the remains of his suit.
Hendricks took a step back. "You should take a shower," he said, strangely proud of how steady his voice sounded to his own ears. "I'll bring you a new suit."
"J—" John started to say, but Hendricks stopped him, clasping his hand over John's mouth, before he could say Hendricks' name.
"No," he said. "It was me or the city. You don't get to call me by name. Not now. Not ever. Just Mr. Hendricks. You wanted me to be just your bodyguard. Then that's all I'll be for you. You're my boss, Mr. Marcone, nothing more. That's the price you pay for Chicago."
John closed his eyes and nodded.
Hendricks stepped away.
John waited until he was at the door to call him. "Mr. Hendricks." It hurt, but it was better that way. The formality would remind Hendricks that he was no longer allowed to have this. "After you bring me my clothes make sure to have a car ready. I have a meeting with one of Vargassi's men at two o'clock. Rumor has it he wants to change masters."
"Yes, Boss." Hendricks gave a curt nod and left.
Beneath them, Chicago pulsed with life, cold, dirty, suffering through yet another unforgiving winter. Hendricks wanted to hate her, this gray lady that had stolen John away from him. He wondered if one day John would find someone who loved this broken city as much as John himself did, someone willing to sacrifice everything for her. Life, love, happiness. Maybe by then, seeing John choose somebody else wouldn't hurt as much.
That didn't mean that Hendricks had to agree with him. This was one of the few occasions when he didn't. No. That wasn't true. Intellectually, Hendricks knew that John was right; it didn't make reality suck any less. Dozens of philosophers had struggled to grasp in words the eternal battle between emotions and reason. Hendricks had read most of them, and yet none had prepared him for the brutal pain of reality. There was probably some quote to go along with that, but — he had more important things to say, things like:
"John." Not Boss, not in their bedroom. Never there. "We could still—"
"No. We cannot. It's too high a risk," John said in that clipped, even voice that sent most of their enemies running, the one he used when he was not going to back down.
Hendricks closed his eyes, resigned. He wasn't going to win this argument. He tried anyway. "No one needs to know. We've been together for years and no one is the wiser."
"I can't." John sounded like a wounded animal. His eyes were filled with pain, and for a moment Hendricks thought that he would beg. "I can't," John repeated. "This — you're the only person I trust. I need you watching my back."
"I've got your back. When have I ever given you the impression that I didn't?" Hendricks wanted to shake some sense into John. He balled his hands into fists instead.
"Never," John said soothingly. He bracketed Hendricks' face between his hands, forcing Hendricks to look at him. "Never. It's me who can't—"
Hendricks laughed bitterly. "God help me John, if you give me the it's-me-not-you speech I will hurt you."
John let go of his face and stepped back. Hendricks was thankful for the space. He couldn't deal with this conversation with John standing so close.
"They tried to kill me yesterday," John said, as if Hendricks needed the reminder.
"They try to kill you everyday," Hendricks pointed out.
John's fingers traced softly over the white bandage around Hendricks collarbone. "You took a bullet for me."
Ah, so that was what this was about. Hendricks relaxed, marginally. "It was nothing, John. Only a graze. It's my job."
John's expression closed off. "Yes, it is," he said. "If I keep rising in power, more people are going to try to kill me." His green eyes became cold, hard. "There'll be more bullets."
"So there'll be more," Hendricks said at a loss. Being shot at was part and parcel of their plans.
"I can't do what I need to do, knowing that I'm using my lover as a shield." Anger, fear, pain, determination whorled in John's eyes, battling for control. "I won't do it. I refuse to."
It was like that then, Hendricks thought. "I see."
"Do you?" John asked. "The decision is yours. I will have Chicago, safe, under my control. Or I will you, safe, away from here."
"You couldn't abandon Chicago even if you wanted, John." The city was a piece of John. Hendricks' mind failed to imagine John in any other place; he would wilt and die.
"I'm willing to try for you. It's your choice."
They both knew it wasn't true. John had chosen already, years ago.
And so had Hendricks.
He yanked John towards him, ripping John's suit with his hands. The fabric gave away under his fingers. The sound of the seams tearing traveled directly to Hendricks' cock. He kissed John as if his life depended on it, claiming every piece of John's mouth he could reach. John was just as violent. He canted his hips, humping Hendricks thigh and jerked forward.
Hendricks shoulder throbbed, but he didn't care. He muffled his moans of pain against John's mouth and bit at John's lower lip in retaliation.
It was as if a dam had broken.
They clawed at each other, biting, hurting, marking, wanting to leave scars that would never fade. Hendricks used his superior strength to turn John around, pushing him against the nearest wall. He yanked down John's pants and boxers and pushed two fingers into John's ass, relishing the surprised whimper that escaped John's lips.
Hendricks wanted John to feel it. He scissored his fingers, pushing past the resistance, forcing John to open up for him.
"Now, now, now," John was chanting. "Don't waste time prepping me. Just fuck me now. I want it to hurt."
Hendricks obliged him. He couldn't not give John what he wanted. Never had been able to. He shoved his cock into John in one vicious thrust. It burned. John's ass was dry and impossibly tight, not enough preparation to make it comfortable for either of them. This wasn't about comfort, though. Hendricks thought that maybe, years ago, their last time would've been soft and careful, filled with bittersweet words and tenderness. They weren't those men any longer. Why should this be any less brutal, any less painful than their lives?
He bit down on John's neck and pushed forward.
"Fucking bastard, give it to me," John snarled, voice distorted with grief, but he pushed back with equal force, meeting each of Hendricks' trusts. "Come on, come on, come on," John panted, desperate.
Hendricks grabbed John's cock with his right hand and jerked him roughly, with the same fast, punishing rhythm he was using on John's ass. John screamed and lurched against him, coming and coming, until he was empty. Hendricks cleaned his wet hand on John's hair. He yanked John's head back, forcing John's back into an awkward angle that allowed him to slip into John even deeper.
"Please," John whispered in a ragged breath. Hendricks didn't know if it was a plea for Hendricks to stop or for him to continue. He realized with something like revulsion that he didn't care either way. Hendricks let go of John's hair and pressed him against the wall. He spread John's ass with his hands farther apart and fucked into him, grounding himself into John with sharp, deep strokes until his orgasm seized him. Its intensity took him by surprise. He fell on John's back, limp and useless. Wrung dry and empty.
John stirred beneath him, bringing him back to reality. Hendricks forced himself to pull away. His cock was sore from the dry friction. The rims of John's ass didn't look much better. Come leaked out of John's battered hole and dripped down his inner thigh. Hendricks closed his eyes against the image; it was almost enough to break him.
When he opened his eyes again, John had already turned around and was uselessly trying to salvage the remains of his suit.
Hendricks took a step back. "You should take a shower," he said, strangely proud of how steady his voice sounded to his own ears. "I'll bring you a new suit."
"J—" John started to say, but Hendricks stopped him, clasping his hand over John's mouth, before he could say Hendricks' name.
"No," he said. "It was me or the city. You don't get to call me by name. Not now. Not ever. Just Mr. Hendricks. You wanted me to be just your bodyguard. Then that's all I'll be for you. You're my boss, Mr. Marcone, nothing more. That's the price you pay for Chicago."
John closed his eyes and nodded.
Hendricks stepped away.
John waited until he was at the door to call him. "Mr. Hendricks." It hurt, but it was better that way. The formality would remind Hendricks that he was no longer allowed to have this. "After you bring me my clothes make sure to have a car ready. I have a meeting with one of Vargassi's men at two o'clock. Rumor has it he wants to change masters."
"Yes, Boss." Hendricks gave a curt nod and left.
Beneath them, Chicago pulsed with life, cold, dirty, suffering through yet another unforgiving winter. Hendricks wanted to hate her, this gray lady that had stolen John away from him. He wondered if one day John would find someone who loved this broken city as much as John himself did, someone willing to sacrifice everything for her. Life, love, happiness. Maybe by then, seeing John choose somebody else wouldn't hurt as much.
Let's see if anyone will recognize this bastardized quote:
"Marcone will kill him if he tries anything."
"Marcone will kill him if he tries anything."
Hee but is he a pervy hobit fancier?
Two options, both cliche (but still awesome):
1: AU where Harry is a thief (magical or otherwise), steals from the wrong person, and gets caught. Instead of turning him in, whomever catches him keeps him as a maid/servant/pet and sexytimes follow.
2: AU where Harry accidentally ends up somewhere he isn't supposed to be (a harem maybe?) and is thought to be a thief. The owner is amused, and instead of having him killed instead keeps Harry as part of his collection.
1: AU where Harry is a thief (magical or otherwise), steals from the wrong person, and gets caught. Instead of turning him in, whomever catches him keeps him as a maid/servant/pet and sexytimes follow.
2: AU where Harry accidentally ends up somewhere he isn't supposed to be (a harem maybe?) and is thought to be a thief. The owner is amused, and instead of having him killed instead keeps Harry as part of his collection.
I didn't know I wanted these in my life until now.
Harry takes over Winter. By accident. Because there wouldn't be as much backstabbing if it wasn't at least theoretically possible for any member of the Court to rise to the top. And then he has to deal with everything that goes along with the title. The most upsetting part? Now it's really hard for him to set things on fire.
I can't decide if I would rather see Harry accidentally end up as Queen of Air and Darkness, or accidentally end up as Santa Claus...
Marcone sees Harry taking care of Ivy like the sweetheart he is and honest to God swoons.
Due to rain/dunked in a river/something else, Harry ends up wearing only his boxers and someone else's shirt. Cue crazy-jealous boyfriend shenanigans. :)
so, we all know that Harry has issues with his hot water heater, right? So what if someone - Odin, the Erlking, even Marcone - treated him to some time at a natural hot spring?
No worries about tech, calm and relaxing hot water, and bonus of protection so no need to worry about meddling forces.
No worries about tech, calm and relaxing hot water, and bonus of protection so no need to worry about meddling forces.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HotSpringsEpisode).
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
I do not need to draw the onsen episode.
Odin/Dresden Theme:The Beauty of Destruction
As morbid as the theme sounds, it not really.
The Odin likes inviting over the Winter Knight Harry Dresden. Besides the entertain he unknowingly, and sometimes knowingly, provides, there's a great reason why the Odin loves making Harry lose control.
When he loses control, he tends to either burn/freeze his paperwork stack, thus eradicating them from existence. :D
Bonus Desk Sex!
As morbid as the theme sounds, it not really.
The Odin likes inviting over the Winter Knight Harry Dresden. Besides the entertain he unknowingly, and sometimes knowingly, provides, there's a great reason why the Odin loves making Harry lose control.
When he loses control, he tends to either burn/freeze his paperwork stack, thus eradicating them from existence. :D
Bonus Desk Sex!
Thomas/Harry Theme:Sweet and begging for it
Thomas wants to warn Harry how much of a temptation he is to the supernatural and vanilla mortal predators. Harry doesn't understand. So Thomas decides the best way to demonstrate is to show him.
Bonus if at the end, everyone clearly notices the change in Harry when he unknowingly is satisfied.
Thomas wants to warn Harry how much of a temptation he is to the supernatural and vanilla mortal predators. Harry doesn't understand. So Thomas decides the best way to demonstrate is to show him.
Bonus if at the end, everyone clearly notices the change in Harry when he unknowingly is satisfied.
Harry, Harry would forgive me for a lot of things. Short of hurting his friends, there was a lot I could do before he'd stop forgiving me. Trust was a different thing, trust was infinitely more fragile, but he needed to learn not to trust things like me. He wore obliviousness like an armour, but it wasn't a good defence-- it depended on everyone else being willing to play by the same rules, and so few people did that.
"Little brother," I said, touching his check. Pleasure sparked in him and he looked at me, confused. "Do you have any idea the kind of things people want to do to you?"
He blinked, but didn't move away. Couldn't, right now. "They're... they're usually pretty up-front about want me dead," he said, his voice hoarse. He jerked towards me, the opposite of a flinch, but he couldn't move closer, held back by my light touch on his throat, by the fact that I wanted him held exactly there. "Thomas, what..." and empty night, I could feel his lust, his need. My poor brother, so skin-hungry, so badly wanting to be touched, to touch back, pushing it down as much as he could to where it wouldn't hurt him.
"You're an idiot," I said, like it was an endearment rather than an insult. "And you don't have a clue what people think about you. Do you know what it feels like, when you and Marcone meet? Harry, if he could, he'd have you in the back seat of his limo every time he offers you a lift." Harry's pulse jumped under my fingers. "He wants to hear you moaning and open and taking him, he wants you chained to his desk and dressed in something he's bought you, on your knees in public so everyone knows you're his. And he's not the only one, your friend Michael? Sometimes, he looks at you and wonders what you'd look like, freshly fucked and in his bed, him and his wife wrapped around you to keep you warm. He thinks about making out with you at the drive in and then watching Charity go down on you. It's sweet, really."
Harry frowned, eyes dark and I could taste the energy coming off him, the slow spiral of power, and I sipped it into me, pulling it out of him faster. "They're not--" he croaked out. Swallowed. "They're married." He said, like that meant anything.
"Married, not dead," I pointed out sweetly. "Even my sister-- you know she's got a lot of experience and a lot of imagination, and Harry, she's picture you every way from bleeding and begging for her to touch you, just once, to in a tux on a prom night, losing your virginity to her in the backseat of a rented limo. Mostly, though, what she thinks about is you just losing your control a little one day. I suppose it has that edge of realism to it, the possibility that it might happen-- that one day, you'll be too tired and too stressed to put up a proper defense and when she does this--" And it just took a flare of power, the easiest thing in the world to brush against Harry's aura, play on his nerves in a way that made at least six senses feel nothing but good, "--And you'll give in, pushing up against her, fucking her against a wall or the hood of that heap of junk you call a car, hating yourself for giving in and doing it anyway." I moved my free hand up and brushed against his mouth. "She wants you eating her out because she knows you'd be good at it. His mouth opened and his teeth grazed at my fingers, tongue flicking against them. "You miss it, don't you, Harry, doing that for someone, feeling them shake and moan and knowing that it's you, you're doing it to them." And I could feel see it, flashing images across his mind, memories and fantasies of him doing that and it was so easy to feel around and bring one up, let it fill his mind and then he opened his mouth and took my fingers in.
I could do it, I could push him to his knees and he'd open his mouth and suck me and be thankful for it and--
--And even now, he could push me way, he was strong enough, powerful enough to throw me ten foot across the room with a word, and what did he think I was? Why was he so stupid as to let a White Court vampire in this close, to invite it in and welcome it past all his defenses? So stupid, so reckless and it made me so angry, furious and hungry and I wanted, I wanted him on the floor, legs wrapped around me, hands digging into my back, pushing me on, wanted him drained and gasping for more, wanted him with shields up and braced for attack, wanted him happy and warm in the afterglow, wanted him to stop being so fucking stupid and what was wrong with him, why didn't he--
He bucked up against me, and I forced my hunger back, promised my demon it would be better this way, keeping him close and mine and always, always wanting, always ready and waiting for me, reaching out and pouring himself into me, and if couldn't protect himself, if he didn't listen to me, then he deserved that, and he was letting me walk him backwards til we hit the wall. I unzipped his jeans and oh, he was beautiful in that moment, gasping like the pleasure was a shock to him, and I knew he could feel me feeding off him and was doing nothing to stop me, mouthing little words of encouragement
"That Hellhound practically humped your leg," I hissed, shoving my hand down the front of his jeans. "Paid killer, and you're practically inviting him out for coffee, and did you think I didn't know what that Fae bitch took from you, when you didn't even know it was on the table and--" My hand was curled around him, too rough and perfect, perfect, "And you keep doing it, you keep--"
Harry's head went back and hit the wall with a crack, and I was leaning in to him, pressed against him and coming too. I added to it, drawing it out til the pleasure was hurting him, then swallowing it down so hard he must have been left cold, numb at the edges.
There was a moment with the kind of perfect, echoing silence you only get when a sound that's been buzzing on the edge of your mind has finally stopped, a warm and perfect afterglow and I could feel Harry's energy running through me. I could taste him in my mouth like we'd actually got around to kissing. I was drunk on it and dimly, through the absence of hunger and the feeling of power, it occurred to me that this could be addictive. The irony didn't escape me.
Harry was patting my back, clumsily, dazed and comforting. And of course he was a cuddler, barely standing upright and still with his arms around me, awkwardly stroking my back. I couldn't stop myself laughing into his shoulder. "Empty Night, Harry..."
"You were, uh. Just trying to teach me a lesson, right? And it got a little out of hand." Awkward, offering us both a way out and scrambling to have this fit into some nice little ignorable box in his brain.
"Willful ignorance is a lousy defense," I said. I pushed myself away and looked at him, dazed and drained and looking freshly-fucked. Open. Vulnerable. "Get clean and go to bed," I said, turning my back and heading to my room.
Oh thank fuck we moved to DW. Let the kinkmeme never inflict lj's tiny comments and awful fucking captcha on me again.
Prompt!
Dresden/Marcone, spanking.
Honestly, I would go all amazed over anything, but what I immediately think of is some big old thing with Harry taking what John's dishing out and snarling and swearing at him the whole time, but he loves it and arches into every one, and they both know it.
Prompt!
Dresden/Marcone, spanking.
Honestly, I would go all amazed over anything, but what I immediately think of is some big old thing with Harry taking what John's dishing out and snarling and swearing at him the whole time, but he loves it and arches into every one, and they both know it.
Woah. I, ah, actually don't have words to express how much I want this. Whoever fills this prompt is deserving of, like a million and a half brownie points. Because the idea of John holding Harry down and Harry loving it, is seriously, god. Too hot for words.
Erlking/Dresden Odin/Dresden Theme:Gambling is just Unhealthy(for the victims anyway)
There are two alternatives: Mab or Lea.
Mab would mean Winter Knight Harry. Lea is regular Harry.
What happens here is that either Mab or Lea lost against the Erlking and the Odin in a bet/game and gave Harry to them (permanetly/temporaly). Harry could either go to them both at the same time or one at a time.
Kink:Whatever you want
There are two alternatives: Mab or Lea.
Mab would mean Winter Knight Harry. Lea is regular Harry.
What happens here is that either Mab or Lea lost against the Erlking and the Odin in a bet/game and gave Harry to them (permanetly/temporaly). Harry could either go to them both at the same time or one at a time.
Kink:Whatever you want
I just wanted to point out to any interested writers, if Odin wins Harry and they negotiate some sort of employment (which, really, would be let that kind of power get away?), Harry could be assigned to Marcone as Gard's backup.
Re: Gambling is just Unhealthy(for the victims anyway)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-27 18:25 (UTC) - ExpandAnybody/Dresden Theme:Appearances are quite telling
Everybody who reads the Dresden Files knows what kind of shit Harry puts up with in his cases. What if he kept meeting up with people(summoned or accident) and they get to see him in that state.
Ex1: Harry in Marcone's office, coughing smoke.
Ex2: Meeting with the Odin, multi colored bunnies keep trying to jump out of his coat pockets.
Ex3: Accidently stumbling into the Erlking, covered in cake and sweets. :D Cake monster!
You can use these examples if you want or make your own!
Kink: Whatever you want.
Everybody who reads the Dresden Files knows what kind of shit Harry puts up with in his cases. What if he kept meeting up with people(summoned or accident) and they get to see him in that state.
Ex1: Harry in Marcone's office, coughing smoke.
Ex2: Meeting with the Odin, multi colored bunnies keep trying to jump out of his coat pockets.
Ex3: Accidently stumbling into the Erlking, covered in cake and sweets. :D Cake monster!
You can use these examples if you want or make your own!
Kink: Whatever you want.
Everybody/Dresden Theme:The Ebay list
Harry gets the list of people who bidded for him and how much they tried to pay.
Ex:
Maybe the White Council was being its usually asshole self and tried to say that Harry tried to sell himself, but he counters them with their evidence of no negotigation with terrorists. Either way, he gets his hands on the list.
Bonus if he confronts the people on the list.
Bonus#2 he finds out about the flamming war. :D
Harry gets the list of people who bidded for him and how much they tried to pay.
Ex:
Maybe the White Council was being its usually asshole self and tried to say that Harry tried to sell himself, but he counters them with their evidence of no negotigation with terrorists. Either way, he gets his hands on the list.
Bonus if he confronts the people on the list.
Bonus#2 he finds out about the flamming war. :D
Harry/Thomas
Thomas has no incest taboo. Harry, like most humans, does.
(what I'd be interested in, with this fic: an exploration of what taboos around sex and desire mean, and what they result in, when people with different mores get mixed up with each other. Does not need a happy ending. Hell, does not need to be happy at all. Disturbing, creepifying, and/or bittersweet is a good thing!)
Thomas has no incest taboo. Harry, like most humans, does.
(what I'd be interested in, with this fic: an exploration of what taboos around sex and desire mean, and what they result in, when people with different mores get mixed up with each other. Does not need a happy ending. Hell, does not need to be happy at all. Disturbing, creepifying, and/or bittersweet is a good thing!)
I also find the whole incest taboo very interesting. For couples who are both adults can't reproduce there doesn't seem to be much of a reason against it.
Marcone/Dresden, rimming.
Just the thought of it is enough to break my brain. Someone write it, please!
(The little hint of it in the knifeplay prompt was so brilliant)
Just the thought of it is enough to break my brain. Someone write it, please!
(The little hint of it in the knifeplay prompt was so brilliant)
[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.
Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tellnooneyourname
- 2011-03-08 03:21 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-08 03:32 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
harpijka
- 2011-03-09 14:53 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
luciazephyr
- 2011-03-08 07:00 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
samjohnsson
- 2011-03-08 08:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-08 18:45 (UTC) - Expandauthor Re: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
tellnooneyourname
- 2011-03-09 00:09 (UTC) - ExpandKincaid/Dresden Theme:Who really Owns who?
As Ivy grows up, she thinks it's ridiculous how Kincaid didn't commit to anyone he obviously likes yet and he seems pretty overworked nowadays. So, she decides to leave him with Harry for a while, giving him command over Kincaid while she visits the Carpenters with Mister and Mouse.
It's pretty awkward for a while b/c she decided to put Kincaid on a collar, by the suggestion of Murphy(who was joking) when she said she wanted a pet.
Harry keeps staring at it and Kincaid catches on.
Harry may be the one with the power to command him, but Kincaid's really the one in control. :D
Bonus if at the end of sexytimes, Kincaid takes off his collar to put it on Harry and Harry doesn't know how to take it off.
Kinks: Whatever writer wants.
As Ivy grows up, she thinks it's ridiculous how Kincaid didn't commit to anyone he obviously likes yet and he seems pretty overworked nowadays. So, she decides to leave him with Harry for a while, giving him command over Kincaid while she visits the Carpenters with Mister and Mouse.
It's pretty awkward for a while b/c she decided to put Kincaid on a collar, by the suggestion of Murphy(who was joking) when she said she wanted a pet.
Harry keeps staring at it and Kincaid catches on.
Harry may be the one with the power to command him, but Kincaid's really the one in control. :D
Bonus if at the end of sexytimes, Kincaid takes off his collar to put it on Harry and Harry doesn't know how to take it off.
Kinks: Whatever writer wants.
OMG THIS. THERE ARE COOKIES FOR WHOEVER WRITES THIS.
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