[Follows Take Two and Call Me in the Morning and etc and etc and et fucking cetera.
See the prompt for the obvious warning; also, allusions to past sexual assault.
Oh God, this is going to be long.]
Harry had a lot of boundaries. He seemed to defend them with ferocity directly in proportion to how arbitrary they were, as if being present for John’s end of a ninety second business phone call actually made the business more real. It was nonsense. But used to be, Harry’s boundaries wouldn’t permit John to shake his hand, whereas these days he could get cranky if he wasn’t adequately kissed good morning. John had won the war, Harry just continued to fight battles, apparently for the hell of it.
So it was a bit of a risk when John brought work home on Friday evening in the middle of winter. It might get Harry’s hackles up, but so would staying in the office until one in the morning. John packed a briefcase of printouts, anticipating dinner, a glass of wine, hearing about Harry’s day from the source.
Which naturally meant that Harry wasn’t home at all. John poured himself the glass of wine anyway, reheated some leftovers, and spread out across the living room coffee table. He powered through cash flow statements, taking notes on a legal pad. He hadn’t done this in hardcopy for years, and he was oddly wistful for the old days when he was first taking over, back when money still had the power to move him.
Harry came home after ten, announced by the clatter of his staff in the entryway and the double thump of his discarded boots.
“Hey,” he said, coming in. He leaned down, snagging John’s collar with one hooked finger and holding him in place while he swiped John’s glass with the other hand for a sip. “Huh,” he said with noticeable disapproval. Harry tolerated bad red wine, and disliked everything else in direct relation to its expense. He had a remarkable palate, actually, he just used it wrong.
John reeled him in for a kiss. Harry’s jaw was rough with stubble; John ran the back of his hand against it, thinking idly interested thoughts about that rasp over the skin of his belly or his thighs. Except.
“You smell like smoke,” he said, finally putting a name to the lingering scent.
“Do I?” Harry said, going sweetly wide-eyed. It was one of his less convincing expressions.
John sighed. “You might as well tell me now, so I can get the ball rolling with the right insurance company,” he said.
“You know, we wouldn’t keep having this conversation if you’d stop buying the entire city out from under everyone,” Harry said. He put the glass down, planted a knee on the couch, and tipped John over with a deliberate shove, carelessly scattering the files on his lap. Harry came down over him, nuzzling raspily at his neck, big and warm and affectionate.
“Fire?” John prompted, scratching his nails down Harry’s spine. Harry arched into it, huffing a pleased noise into John’s ear.
“Relax,” he said distractedly. “I was winding you up. It was a bonfire on the lakeshore. Some low-level talents pooled their power, tried a cleansing ritual for this one guy, and they wanted some supervision in case it went wonky.”
“Did it go wonky?” John worked his hands under Harry’s t-shirt, swept them up and down his bony back.
“Naw, was fine.” Harry bit gently at the tendon on the side of John’s neck, worrying at the trapped skin with the tip of his tongue and humming softly to himself. “It was nice,” he murmured dreamily. “They have this . . . resonance as a group, really light and airy.”
John inhaled wood smoke from his hair, imagining the scene: the fire, the people, a case of beer, maybe hotdogs and marshmallows. Just an average cookout, but with that core of pagan wildness to it.
As deeply entwined as he was in the supernatural world, magic had never become commonplace to John. Then again, it was never commonplace to Harry, either, and he’d been doing it all his life.
Harry stropped his cheek against John’s, happy and touch-seeking. John cupped the back of his head, digging his fingers in just a little. He wanted to pry inside Harry’s skull, know everything he knew, shoulder his way into the tenderness between Harry and his magic, make a place for himself there. Make Harry talk about him in that dreamy voice, like he had a few times before.
John smiled to himself, rueful. He’d thought, years ago, that he would be able to take what he wanted from Harry Dresden, feed the wanting until it was satisfied, and make it go away. Few desires survived achievement, in his experience. He hadn’t realized until very recently that it wasn’t about the having, it was about the wanting. More of Harry’s time, more of his body, more of his trust, potent and intoxicating as good whiskey. There was no intimacy deep enough to satisfy John, because it would only make him want to go deeper.
Was this what it meant to want to spend your life with someone? Either the great romances of western literature had been telling it wrong, or John didn’t feel it the way most other people did. Probably the latter, all things considered.
“Mmm,” Harry said. “You smell good.”
John laughed, amused by how seductive that shouldn’t have been, but really was. He nudged Harry’s jaw, burrowing into the side of his neck, seeking. He wanted to get Harry’s clothes off, bury his face between his legs, breathe in the day’s sweat and musk. Lick his balls, mmm, rub the flat of his tongue over the head of Harry’s dick until that was all he could taste.
“We should go upstairs,” John said into Harry’s ear. “I’m going to need a lot of room.”
“Oh yeah?” Harry said, doing his unimpressed routine probably by habit, because he let John up fast enough.
John bent to collect the papers scattered on the floor. One of his binder clips had opened; he regathered the stack, shuffling them back into the right order.
“Missed one,” Harry said, extending a long arm under the coffee table. “Here, it’s your--“
John looked up to see him staring, big eyed and visibly appalled, at the cover of a glossy brochure. He realized with a jolt of mingled horror and hilarity that it was the revised services list for Executive Priority. It needed periodic refreshers, this time to expand the section on vampire and other supernatural role-play, oh the irony. Vice was eternal, but the particulars were forever changing in response to the latest pop cultural zeitgeist.
“Thanks,” John said, reaching for it.
Harry scooted back to the end of the sofa, fending him off with one hand and opening the brochure with the other. “Not so fast,” he said, and kept reading.
John let it go. Sometimes Harry transgressed one of his own boundaries, apparently on a whim. Exasperatingly, it was often still John’s fault.
John went back to his papers, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. He was red in the face, reading with his mouth pursed. He’d already forgotten to look appalled, though.
“Hang on, what’s—“ Harry started, then shook his head. “No, wait, never mind. I don’t want to know.” Which was a blatant lie if John had ever heard one.
“Mmm?” John said helpfully.
“Nothing,” Harry said, and aggressively flipped a page, still reading. Then he went back to appalled so fast, he might have sprained a muscle in his face. “Hell’s bells,” he said, “people do that?”
“Do what?” John asked, though sight unseen he could already tell Harry that yes, people really did.
Harry opened his mouth, shut it, and shoved the brochure out at arm’s length to point. “That,” he said.
John looked. Ah. “People do enjoy rape fantasies, yes,” he said.
Harry’s mouth worked. “Why?”
John shrugged. He didn’t generally concern himself with asking why. Hendricks did enough of that for both of them. Some people pursued vice because they’d always been told not to; some people wanted to feel guilty; some people were unraveling an unfathomable psychological knot. “It might be about control, I don’t know,” he said.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You actually let men do that to your girls?”
“Under very particular and controlled circumstances, yes,” John said. “Though actually, it’s largely that a few of my employees have expertise in ‘doing that’ to clients.”
That shut Harry up for several long ticks. John let him stew, then lightly tapped the corner of the brochure. “Would you like to read the rest of that?”
Harry practically flung it at him. “No,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jon nodded, tucking it away. He bent his head again, filing the rest of his papers in silence while the air roiled uneasily in the space between them. Hell.
He would have bet a great deal of money that the night was knocked irretrievably off track. He definitely wasn’t expecting Harry to crowd aggressively up against him as soon as he put his folder down. John looped an arm up around Harry’s neck and let himself be kissed, bemused but a little relieved. Harry hauled him to his feet, manhandled him up the stairs, got them both out of their clothes.
“There,” Harry said, sprawling across the bed, long-limbed and glaring. “You said you needed room.”
John didn’t get where he was by ignoring the opportunities handed to him. Harry didn’t act like he’d been put off, like he’d gotten an unpleasant reminder of reality. Quite the opposite. He pushed himself into John’s mouth, eager, his hands scrabbling in the blankets. John worked him up slow and steady, tonguing his slit and stroking him with both hands. Harry came, then pounced John onto his back faster than expected, eager to return the favor. He sucked John off with a serious furrow between his closed eyes, face possessed by intense concentration, like he was trying to drown himself in sex.
John left him alone, going on instinct, and enjoyed it. He loved knowing that Harry had learned this from him. For him. Christ but he was good, all that focus, all that intensity. John touched him at last, lightly gripping the back of his neck in warning before he came, long and good in Harry’s mouth.
Harry curled up against him after, not talking. John blew out the candles. He was still confused, but when wasn’t Harry reacting inconsistently, after all? John should just be grateful, and he was.
I'm kind of oddly pleased with John for offering such services for those who need them.
Also dying to know where this goes with Harry.
And I can't get over how amazingly well you portray Marcone's big howling crazy wanting thing about Harry. Every time I think you've already explored it in its totality, you right something like that.
Oh thank the stars above you're filling another prompt!!! When I saw it was you my brain jumped up and down squealing because it knew some good stuff was coming. OMG I can't believe this fill is already going so good! LONG is your FRIEND and ours too! PS: I am not the OP
I was loving this prompt, until He didn’t generally concern himself with asking why. Hendricks did enough of that for both of them. tipped me over into WORSHIP.
You, madam, should be declared a fandom treasure. <3
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Fill (1/?)
See the prompt for the obvious warning; also, allusions to past sexual assault.
Oh God, this is going to be long.]
Harry had a lot of boundaries. He seemed to defend them with ferocity directly in proportion to how arbitrary they were, as if being present for John’s end of a ninety second business phone call actually made the business more real. It was nonsense. But used to be, Harry’s boundaries wouldn’t permit John to shake his hand, whereas these days he could get cranky if he wasn’t adequately kissed good morning. John had won the war, Harry just continued to fight battles, apparently for the hell of it.
So it was a bit of a risk when John brought work home on Friday evening in the middle of winter. It might get Harry’s hackles up, but so would staying in the office until one in the morning. John packed a briefcase of printouts, anticipating dinner, a glass of wine, hearing about Harry’s day from the source.
Which naturally meant that Harry wasn’t home at all. John poured himself the glass of wine anyway, reheated some leftovers, and spread out across the living room coffee table. He powered through cash flow statements, taking notes on a legal pad. He hadn’t done this in hardcopy for years, and he was oddly wistful for the old days when he was first taking over, back when money still had the power to move him.
Harry came home after ten, announced by the clatter of his staff in the entryway and the double thump of his discarded boots.
“Hey,” he said, coming in. He leaned down, snagging John’s collar with one hooked finger and holding him in place while he swiped John’s glass with the other hand for a sip. “Huh,” he said with noticeable disapproval. Harry tolerated bad red wine, and disliked everything else in direct relation to its expense. He had a remarkable palate, actually, he just used it wrong.
John reeled him in for a kiss. Harry’s jaw was rough with stubble; John ran the back of his hand against it, thinking idly interested thoughts about that rasp over the skin of his belly or his thighs. Except.
“You smell like smoke,” he said, finally putting a name to the lingering scent.
“Do I?” Harry said, going sweetly wide-eyed. It was one of his less convincing expressions.
John sighed. “You might as well tell me now, so I can get the ball rolling with the right insurance company,” he said.
“You know, we wouldn’t keep having this conversation if you’d stop buying the entire city out from under everyone,” Harry said. He put the glass down, planted a knee on the couch, and tipped John over with a deliberate shove, carelessly scattering the files on his lap. Harry came down over him, nuzzling raspily at his neck, big and warm and affectionate.
“Fire?” John prompted, scratching his nails down Harry’s spine. Harry arched into it, huffing a pleased noise into John’s ear.
“Relax,” he said distractedly. “I was winding you up. It was a bonfire on the lakeshore. Some low-level talents pooled their power, tried a cleansing ritual for this one guy, and they wanted some supervision in case it went wonky.”
“Did it go wonky?” John worked his hands under Harry’s t-shirt, swept them up and down his bony back.
“Naw, was fine.” Harry bit gently at the tendon on the side of John’s neck, worrying at the trapped skin with the tip of his tongue and humming softly to himself. “It was nice,” he murmured dreamily. “They have this . . . resonance as a group, really light and airy.”
John inhaled wood smoke from his hair, imagining the scene: the fire, the people, a case of beer, maybe hotdogs and marshmallows. Just an average cookout, but with that core of pagan wildness to it.
As deeply entwined as he was in the supernatural world, magic had never become commonplace to John. Then again, it was never commonplace to Harry, either, and he’d been doing it all his life.
Harry stropped his cheek against John’s, happy and touch-seeking. John cupped the back of his head, digging his fingers in just a little. He wanted to pry inside Harry’s skull, know everything he knew, shoulder his way into the tenderness between Harry and his magic, make a place for himself there. Make Harry talk about him in that dreamy voice, like he had a few times before.
John smiled to himself, rueful. He’d thought, years ago, that he would be able to take what he wanted from Harry Dresden, feed the wanting until it was satisfied, and make it go away. Few desires survived achievement, in his experience. He hadn’t realized until very recently that it wasn’t about the having, it was about the wanting. More of Harry’s time, more of his body, more of his trust, potent and intoxicating as good whiskey. There was no intimacy deep enough to satisfy John, because it would only make him want to go deeper.
Was this what it meant to want to spend your life with someone? Either the great romances of western literature had been telling it wrong, or John didn’t feel it the way most other people did. Probably the latter, all things considered.
“Mmm,” Harry said. “You smell good.”
John laughed, amused by how seductive that shouldn’t have been, but really was. He nudged Harry’s jaw, burrowing into the side of his neck, seeking. He wanted to get Harry’s clothes off, bury his face between his legs, breathe in the day’s sweat and musk. Lick his balls, mmm, rub the flat of his tongue over the head of Harry’s dick until that was all he could taste.
“We should go upstairs,” John said into Harry’s ear. “I’m going to need a lot of room.”
“Oh yeah?” Harry said, doing his unimpressed routine probably by habit, because he let John up fast enough.
John bent to collect the papers scattered on the floor. One of his binder clips had opened; he regathered the stack, shuffling them back into the right order.
“Missed one,” Harry said, extending a long arm under the coffee table. “Here, it’s your--“
John looked up to see him staring, big eyed and visibly appalled, at the cover of a glossy brochure. He realized with a jolt of mingled horror and hilarity that it was the revised services list for Executive Priority. It needed periodic refreshers, this time to expand the section on vampire and other supernatural role-play, oh the irony. Vice was eternal, but the particulars were forever changing in response to the latest pop cultural zeitgeist.
“Thanks,” John said, reaching for it.
Harry scooted back to the end of the sofa, fending him off with one hand and opening the brochure with the other. “Not so fast,” he said, and kept reading.
John let it go. Sometimes Harry transgressed one of his own boundaries, apparently on a whim. Exasperatingly, it was often still John’s fault.
John went back to his papers, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. He was red in the face, reading with his mouth pursed. He’d already forgotten to look appalled, though.
“Hang on, what’s—“ Harry started, then shook his head. “No, wait, never mind. I don’t want to know.” Which was a blatant lie if John had ever heard one.
“Mmm?” John said helpfully.
“Nothing,” Harry said, and aggressively flipped a page, still reading. Then he went back to appalled so fast, he might have sprained a muscle in his face. “Hell’s bells,” he said, “people do that?”
“Do what?” John asked, though sight unseen he could already tell Harry that yes, people really did.
Harry opened his mouth, shut it, and shoved the brochure out at arm’s length to point. “That,” he said.
John looked. Ah. “People do enjoy rape fantasies, yes,” he said.
Harry’s mouth worked. “Why?”
John shrugged. He didn’t generally concern himself with asking why. Hendricks did enough of that for both of them. Some people pursued vice because they’d always been told not to; some people wanted to feel guilty; some people were unraveling an unfathomable psychological knot. “It might be about control, I don’t know,” he said.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You actually let men do that to your girls?”
“Under very particular and controlled circumstances, yes,” John said. “Though actually, it’s largely that a few of my employees have expertise in ‘doing that’ to clients.”
That shut Harry up for several long ticks. John let him stew, then lightly tapped the corner of the brochure. “Would you like to read the rest of that?”
Harry practically flung it at him. “No,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jon nodded, tucking it away. He bent his head again, filing the rest of his papers in silence while the air roiled uneasily in the space between them. Hell.
He would have bet a great deal of money that the night was knocked irretrievably off track. He definitely wasn’t expecting Harry to crowd aggressively up against him as soon as he put his folder down. John looped an arm up around Harry’s neck and let himself be kissed, bemused but a little relieved. Harry hauled him to his feet, manhandled him up the stairs, got them both out of their clothes.
“There,” Harry said, sprawling across the bed, long-limbed and glaring. “You said you needed room.”
John didn’t get where he was by ignoring the opportunities handed to him. Harry didn’t act like he’d been put off, like he’d gotten an unpleasant reminder of reality. Quite the opposite. He pushed himself into John’s mouth, eager, his hands scrabbling in the blankets. John worked him up slow and steady, tonguing his slit and stroking him with both hands. Harry came, then pounced John onto his back faster than expected, eager to return the favor. He sucked John off with a serious furrow between his closed eyes, face possessed by intense concentration, like he was trying to drown himself in sex.
John left him alone, going on instinct, and enjoyed it. He loved knowing that Harry had learned this from him. For him. Christ but he was good, all that focus, all that intensity. John touched him at last, lightly gripping the back of his neck in warning before he came, long and good in Harry’s mouth.
Harry curled up against him after, not talking. John blew out the candles. He was still confused, but when wasn’t Harry reacting inconsistently, after all? John should just be grateful, and he was.
Re: Fill (1/?)
Also dying to know where this goes with Harry.
And I can't get over how amazingly well you portray Marcone's big howling crazy wanting thing about Harry. Every time I think you've already explored it in its totality, you right something like that.
Re: Fill (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-19 06:43 pm (UTC)(link)PS: I am not the OP
Re: Fill (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-19 08:21 pm (UTC)(link)(Also I just typed "grin" as "groin". Go Freudian keyboard.)
I love that Executive Priority has glossy brochures. Of COURSE it does. Oh, John.
Also I love the delving into John's head here.
Re: Fill (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-20 12:21 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-20 02:41 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2011-02-20 06:51 am (UTC)(link)John's got it bad. Like, near-obsessed bad. Nah, he's already obsessed.
Re: Fill (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-20 06:57 am (UTC)(link)You, madam, should be declared a fandom treasure. <3