Did you read a prompt that gave a similar but different idea? Do you have the sudden urge to write a bit of fic that doesn't fit any of the prompts? Do you want to just play around with a pairing no one has requested?
... ... ... Now I'm tempted to start posting bits of the potentially monstrously epic fic I'm working on where Denarian!Harry and Denarian!Marcone are refusing to work with Nicodemus and are instead ruling the city-state of Chicago in a dystopian post-civil-war setting surrounded by Republic-of-Gilead-esque fascist "Christian" dictatorships in the ruins of the US.
There are perks that come with being married to the Baron of Chicago. Even back in the days when that title was only known in the supernatural community, being known as crime boss Gentleman Johnny Marcone's right-hand man and probable lover gave me a certain level of wary respect that being the only wizard in the phone book could never achieve. Now that the Baron was, in fact, the legitimate and publicly acknowledged ruler of an area that stretched from Minneapolis to Detroit, there wasn't a soul for hundreds of miles around who didn't know who I was. Position came with lots of things. Respect- a mix of fear and admiration, sort of inevitable when a guy gains a reputation for killing a dozen vampires with barely a snap of his fingers. Luxury, as much as was available now; everyone had fewer material goods now, what with the oil shortage and economic collapse, but the only things I actually couldn't get anymore were the technological gadgets I couldn't use anyway. In a world where people were making do with a lot less, my standards of living had actually increased. I also had power- not the supernatural kind, which is what had gotten me here, but lackeys. Minions. When I said jump, several thousand government employees asked how high.
Mostly, though, it comes with paperwork.
I glared at the inbox on my desk, filled with things urgently needing my attention. Reports on ghoul activity up in what used to be Wisconsin. Memos about curfew enforcement. A reminder that it was about time to go evaluate the magically gifted teenagers this year's screenings had turned up. New trade routes to plot through the Nevernever. Requests from across Greater Chicago for assistance with nasties too powerful for local police and military to deal with. Those, at least, I looked forward to- it would give me an excuse to get out and do what I did best. After a long, hard day at the office, there's nothing quite like setting vampires on fire to unwind and relax. It was even worse for John, of course- he only delegated the supernatural stuff to me. I kept the people of Greater Chicago safe from things that go bump in the night; he kept them safe from each other. He'd been in meetings for days with various industrialists, planning some infrastructure improvements- wind turbines, retrofiting factories abandoned in the days of outsourcing, that sort of thing. I don't know how he stood it. But then, he'd been running a criminal empire for years before he started running a small country. Maybe he was just better suited to it.
"If you dislike it so, my host," Lasciel said to me from the back of my head, amused, "I would gladly take this burden from you."
"Not a chance," I said- well, thought- to her. "Government is my department." My status as one of the good guys was suspect enough as it is without letting a fallen angel interfere in the running of a dictatorship. It was bad enough I let her get her hooks into my magic. John and I had promised each other to keep Lasciel and Selariel out of the driver's seat for any sort of government decision, no matter how minor, and I wasn't about to break that promise just because I was bored stiff.
"As you wish, my host," Lasciel said gently, with a sensual caress of energy, teasing and warm. Had she wanted, of course, she could have overpowered me, hijacked my head and used my body like a puppet. I had been worried about that, a little, when I first took up the coin. But she wouldn't. It wasn't in her nature. The day she took me over by force would be the day that the Queens of Faery decided to behave in a truly honest and straightforward manner. She wanted my mind intact, and was willing to be patient to get it.
Twenty-five years of influence, and I still managed to keep her separate from myself. What can I say, I'm just a stubborn bastard like that. I figured I had a few decades left of mental independence, at this rate. I'd have to give up the coin eventually, of course. But not yet.
My musings were interrupted by a knock on my door. "Yeah?"
The door opened and John's secretary slid into the room. Maria was a woman of impressive skill, skill that kept the government running in the post-computer age, and on top of that was utterly unflappable, which is damned useful when you have to spend as much time around me as she did. She also had a body that made me briefly regret those vows I'd made way back when about forsaking all others, all soft curves and grace, emphasized by her impeccably hand-tailored pantsuit. Good thing for me I hadn't vowed against looking.
"Excuse me, Mr. Dresden," she said. "The Baron wants you to be there for his two o'clock appointment. Can you make it?"
I leaned back in my chair lazily. "I don't know, Maria, you tell me," I said.
She quirked an eyebrow. "Your schedule is empty then. That doesn't tell me if you're free."
It was true. If I was working on some thaumaturgical spell, I might not be able to just drop it for the sake of some meeting. "Yeah," I said, "I'll be there. This crap," I gestured to my overflowing inbox "can damn well wait till I get back."
She nodded. "Good. Blue reception room, one hour from now."
"Did he say who he's meeting with?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Some petitioner. He didn't share the details. I'll just go tell him, then, shall I?"
"Sure thing," I said, and she left.
Bob whistled once she was gone. "Damn," he said, "she's got a fine ass."
"I agree," Lasciel put in.
"Pervs, the both of you," I said to her. Out loud, I said to Bob, "Before you ask, no, she won't be part of your private peep show." Back when I was a struggling wizard, he'd had to make do with romance novels and skin mags; now he got real live prostitutes to come put on shows in front of him. Some of them even let him ride along- real treasures, those girls. But that didn't keep him from whining just because some people were off limits. I wasn't about to piss off someone with Maria's skills just so Bob could have some cheap thrills.
"Hmmph," Bob said with a flicker of his lights. "You're no fun, boss."
"Neither are these goddamned memos," I growled. "Idiots." I wrote off a few pointers to the police chief of some backwater town somewhere who couldn't identify a simple nixie infestation when it was staring him in the face.
The rest of the hour went much the same way. By the time two o'clock rolled around, I would have joined in on the goddamn wind turbine meetings just to get away from it.
Basically, I have this urge to prompt a fic where Marcone meets Tim Drake from the Batman comics. I've resisted, because I doubt anyone would fill it! I just really think it'd be freaking amusing to see Marcone meet the world's creepiest and least in need of protection teenager and all. So since we have 'open prompt'...a brief meeting. _________________ Dresden chose the worst places to hold important, 'secret' meetings.
Take, for instance, his latest choice.
The Field Museum, in the shadow of the skeletal remains of the Tyrannosaurus known as 'Sue'. In the middle of the day, surrounded by middle and high school students on school field trips.
I leaned back from one passing group, dodging curious looks and sticky fingers. Mr. Hendricks didn't need to move. The children flowed around him at a good distance, like a river breaking around a boulder. Dresden was late, of course.
My eyes wandered across the room, touching on each individual. No one seemed to be doing anything out of the ordinary until my attention lit on one lone figure. He was a young man, slender and rather short statured. His black hair was slicked back except for the front which he had stuck up like a porcupine. He appeared to be flowing with one of the high school groups, but in fact was not. He trailed along with them only so long as they were going in his desired direction.
In the palm of one hand, mostly concealed against his body he held a flat, matte black box and he split his attention between it and his surroundings. I made a small movement and brought Mr. Hendricks' attention to the boy. It was possible the child was merely skipping school, wandering around to avoid detection and that the device he held was an iPod or something similar. I wasn't close enough to identify it.
Ten more minutes passed and I signaled to Mr. Hendricks that we would be leaving. Something had clearly happened to hold Dresden up this long. Perhaps he'd managed to set himself on fire this time. More likely though, he was in the process of digging himself a very deep hole.
This, of course, was when a dozen masked men ran into the room, automatic weapons raised and began shouting for everyone to get down. A short burst of fire from one of the men made the people around us scream and drop to the floor, hands covering their heads. All except for myself, Mr. Hendricks, and the child I'd noted earlier.
He turned to look at the men, his mirror sunglasses taking it all in before he slowly knelt. Hendricks moved closer to me, his gun out but down to the side, invisible. I slipped a knife out from its sheath and tapped the blade against my thigh. Already I could hear the men I'd left outside moving over the ear buds we wore.
There was a sudden squeal of static over the ear piece, interference and then the power in the museum cut out. People screamed again, children's voices, high and frightened. Someone, one of the masked men shouted a curse and there was another burst of gunfire.
It cut off abruptly, capped by a gurgling scream. I could feel Hendricks' body close to mine. It wasn't us. And it was entirely too quiet and not on fire enough to be Dresden.
More noise, flashes of light and heavy thumps in the dark.
Less then five minutes after the lights went out they struggled back into life. The men were all down, unconscious and bound in a tight little group. Teachers and tour guides realized they were no longer under attack and moved their charges out, running.
"You should probably put that knife away, Mr. Marcone." I turned, only the timbre of the voice keeping me from throwing the blade as I did so. The boy stood beside me, out of arm's reach. He'd pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and was watching me with pale blue eyes. He smiled, and I feared it would crack his face it looked so false. "The police should be here soon, and I don't think you want to have to explain the weapons." He nodded at Mr. Hendricks and his gun.
There was a fresh bruise forming across one cheek and his knuckles were scraped. This close I could see that he was older than I'd originally thought, at least eighteen. My god, he was tiny, but his frame was tight with muscle.
"Young man, what are you?"
"Alvin Draper. Tourist." He grinned, this time making it seem natural. Smug and a bit amused. Sirens in the near distance and the police burst in, shouting. I trusted that Hendricks had concealed his weapon as I turned and slipped my knife back up my sleeve. When I glanced back, the boy was gone.
In all the excitement of the attempted hostage taking, the museum didn't realize that they were missing a small chunk of rock with a cave drawing of a stylized bat on it until three weeks later.
...no, I dont even have the excuse of filling someone else's prompt for this. But I just got my hands on Backup, and this showed up in my head. (Also, I have no idea how long White Court vampires can live in canon; for purposes of this ficlet, it's 'as long as they feel like it.') Should probably warn for White Court sex without fully informed consent.
Byerly Vorrutyer glared discreetly across the crowded Imperial ballroom at the two men who were lounging against a table, sipping glasses of wine. They were both dark-haired, fit and moderately tall, handsome in a bland yet strangely captivating way, and they both had the air of people who were quite happy to be dismissed as useless. It was entirely unfair for there to be two Ivan Vorpatrils in the world.
One of them actually was Ivan; the other was a man named Thomas Raith who Ivan had been introducing as an old friend of his from one of his offworld postings, which explained exactly nothing. The man was, unmistakably, galactic, which he made no effort to hide, and yet he had insinuated his way into Barrayaran high society as if he had been born there; or as if he had a great deal of practice at blending in to other cultures. He wore local civilian dress, just restrained enough that Ivan needn't worry about being seen with him, but carefully tuned to give the impression that he was entirely harmless and concerned with very little beyond the most shallow. It was an effective camouflage against the fact that he moved like someone who had been trained to fight, and his reflexes were just a little bit too fast and a little bit too good.
By was quite certain he was up to something.
"That man is up to something," said a voice from somewhere around By's left shoulder. He glanced over, and ah, Lord Vorkosigan. Looking, as usual at these events, extremely determined and only slightly the worse for drink.
By carefully schooled his face into neutrality. "I understand he's been on planet for about ten days, and he's pulled a different girl every night. I suspect, my lord, that he's up to no more than the usual."
Vorkosigan shook his head. "That only makes it worse, d'you see? Because I happen to know that everyone allowed in to this event was personally and carefully vetted by Aunt Alys."
By was, in fact, able to fill in the rest of that thought: even if Lady Alys might have chosen to invite a random galactic visitor, she would not have invited one who would simultaneously give her son someone to hide behind and distract potential Vor brides from him. Which meant that something of greater significance was going on.
"A friend of mine at the University mentioned he's technically here to do research in the historical archives," By told him instead, feigning disinterest. "Maybe the Lord Auditor's Profesora got him in."
Vorkosigan's eyes lit up at that and he smirked at By. "You were asking around about him, were you?"
By clammed up. Shit. He did not need to be teaming up with Vorkosigan on this. On anything. But before he could say anything, Vorkosigan made a follow-me gesture and said, "C'mon, we're going to go talk to them."
"We?" By asked him incredulously. "Since when do you need my help?"
Vorkosigan rolled his eyes. "You can distract Ivan while I corner Raith. I've never met anyone who's as effective at distracting Ivan as you are."
...and somehow, By found himself carried along in the little Lord's wake.
Before Vorkosigan could say a word, however, Ivan straightened up and took initiative. "Miles!" he said brightly. "There you are! Gregor was looking for you earlier, he wanted to talk to you about something." He waved at someone across the room. "And oh look, I think he's free."
By followed the direction of Ivan's wave, and sure enough, there was the Emperor of Barrayar, somehow alone in the crowd, watching them with a rather grim expression. By tried even harder than usual to make himself invisible as Miles said, suspiciously, "Talk to me about what?"
"Something about a letter from your mother and reallocating District funds and that new hospital building. C'mon, Miles, you know how he gets," Ivan said, and took off through the dance floor. Miles followed, muttering something about how not everybody had to snap to their mother's every whim, but not before giving By a slit-eyed glance so eloquent that it was practically marching orders to do something about Raith.
Luckily, By had never been particularly susceptible to military conditioning, and he just turned his back, to find Raith staring after them with an oddly abstracted expression. By raised an eyebrow.
"That man always reminds me of someone I used to know," Raith offered.
By snorted indelicately. "Lord Vorkosigan? Yes, you'd be surprised at the number of 4'10" insane tactical geniuses with hero complexes wandering around this part of the galaxy."
"Actually, the man I was thinking of was more like 6'10"," Raith told him. "And I wouldn't say 'insane tactical genius' so much as 'incapable of coming up with any plan that wasn't desperately suicidal, ridiculously ambitious, and involving at least three large explosions and a substantial amount of property damage.' No, I think it's actually the expression on Ivan's face whenever he turns up, as if he's wondering exactly how he's going to get nearly killed trying to save the idiot's ass this time. Brings back memories." He blinked, and then a lascivious smile curled over his face. "Now, as for you, Byerly Vorrutyer, you're just plain... interesting."
Something subtle shifted in Raith's stance and face, and he suddenly changed from simply idly attractive to openly, irresistibly sexual. And blatantly inviting. "Not here," Bylerly hissed at him. "Are you mad? I don't know where you come from, but this is still Barrayar, and we're in public."
"Oh?" Raith asked, dark purring amusement in his voice. "Are you suggesting we take this somewhere more... private?" And something in his voice curled right down around By's spine, and places lower, and made itself at home there.
"Are you making a... serious offer?" By asked in a low voice, viciously restraining himself from the old nervous gesture of playing with his hair.
"Vorrutyer, I never make an offer that isn't serious," he said. "You wanna?" He grinned.
"That would be incredibly foolhardy," By told him. On the other hand, he wasn't on an official assignment. And Raith was really exceptionally attractive, and galactics were usually a great deal of fun with a lot less hassle, and it had been awhile for him with a man. And as a bonus, if he slipped off with Raith for a little frivolity it would seriously annoy both Vorpatril and Vorkosigan. "Did you have someplace private in mind?"
"Ivan told me the back way in to a place he sometimes uses," he said. "Promised me it would suit the purpose admirably."
"It would be the stupidest thing I've done at one of these parties since the thing with the mountain mead and the pastry cook," By told him, but they both knew he'd agreed, even before he followed Raith to one of the dim, slightly quieter hallways that led off the ballroom, through a sitting-room that held a group of rather drunk Vor men playing cards, to the adjoining powder room, and into a door that looked as if it led to a utility closet but instead opened up into a small, dim room that looked like a man's study.
By cased the surroundings quickly; it had the heavy, dark, late Time-of-Isolation look of most of the disused parts of the palace; open shelves full of dusty, old-fashioned volumes lined the walls, and pride of place was given to a large, sturdy desk. Suggestive smudges in thick coat of dust on the desk backed up the idea that Ivan had used it before, but that was about all he had time to observe before Raith had one hand on his waist and the other investigating the buttons on his tunic.
"Do you have any hard limits I should know ahead of time?" Raith asked. "I know Barrayarans are sometimes--" he fluttered a hand expressively.
"Only that 'no' means 'no,'" By said. "But if you can handle that, I'm up for nearly anything."
"Excellent," Raith told him, and abandoned the buttons to press him up against the nearest bookshelf and kiss the living daylights out of him. Raith's kiss alone would probably have made it on the list of his top ten most memorable sexual encounters, and he found himself moaning in pleasure before he decided to turn the table and show Raith that not all Barrayarans were repressed and unskilled.
Re: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
Raith let him reverse their positions with a glint in one eye, but was soon moaning in turn as By found that one spot on his neck and the access to his trousers at the same time. By knelt down and took him in his mouth, relishing the feel of the already-aroused cock and the sound of the little whimpering noises the other man was making, something he didn't get to do nearly often enough.
"Oh god," the Raith said. "Okay, I'd heard stories, but you're actually good at this--" he moaned again, and reached back, scrabbling at the shelves behind him for something to grab hold of. Instead, he somehow managed to knock nearly an entire shelf of books onto the floor.
They both jumped away, startled by the sudden noise of the falling books. By pulled off and rolled into a defensive crouch as Raith's hands went to places that By would have made large bets held concealed weapons. And then they both glanced down at the pile of books and chuckled.
Raith shook his head ruefully. "Maybe not the most well-considered position to start with," he said.
By glanced around. "Previous occupants would suggest the desk is suitable," he suggested. It was at almost exactly the right height, too.
Raith's eyes darkened. "Top or bottom?" he asked, without any of the freighted implications a Barrayaran man would have put into the question, and By shivered in anticipation.
"Do you have lube?" he asked.
"What kind of man do you take me for, Vorrutyer?" he asked, and then rummaged in a pocket, only a few inches from one of the concealed weapons. He held up a small bottle triumphantly. "Of course I have lube."
And they did make use of the desk. And, eventually, the floor as well, including an accidental tumble across the still-scattered books, which made By wince for a second at the possible damage to historical artifacts before Raith, very effectively, distracted him.
He woke up, afterward, flat on the floor, in a state of major déshabille, alone and feeling slightly off. By the sound of the party still filtering in through the walls, he hadn't been out for long, and he starting putting himself back in order while he tried to figure out what was wrong with him. Usually, a quick romp left him feeling sated and relaxed and recharged, and while the sated was certainly true - Raith had been amazing, By was tempted to keep trying to trace the accent just to find out of if there were more like him back home - he was feeling oddly drained rather than recharged. He felt stretched, and empty, and not entirely in the good way. And some of the details of the end of the encounter were indistinctly blurred, buried in his memory under an almost suffocating haze of pleasure. Passing out after sex wasn't exactly typical of him, either, even sex that spectacular; it was too dangerous a habit. He shook his head, sharply, trying to rattle his brains back in to place as he finished re-tying his neckcloth.
Raith had clearly left already, which was probably wise; he had to know that various people had been keeping an eye out for him, and a prolonged absence would be noted in a way that Byerly being typically irresponsible wouldn't be. And the two of them leaving together and returning together would have been a bit too blatant. Still, it wasn't exactly considerate, and By thought uncharitably that he was starting to understand why the man got on so well with Ivan.
He took a last turn about the room, making sure there was no evidence of the visit, and took the opportunity to wipe all the remaining incriminating dust off the desktop with his second spare handkerchief. The first one he found crumpled and soiled behind the desk, so he wrapped them both up carefully together and tucked them away with a note to toss them both into the nearest lit fireplace. Beyond that, there was no sign that anything untoward had ever happened to disturb the room's serenity, and he gave one last yank to shake the wrinkles out of his tunic before he rejoined the party.
He'd barely managed to acquire another glass of wine to rinse out his mouth before Vorkosigan appeared beside him with the kind of preternatural stealth that made him jealous at the same time he nearly jumped out of his skin. "Did you find anything out?" the little Lord asked.
"Find out? About what?" By asked him coolly over his wine.
"About Raith," Vorkosigan said impatiently.
"Oh, him," By said, lingering sensually over the word. "Oh yes. I think I was right the first time about why he's here."
By watched that tick over in Vorkosigan's scary brain, added up with the small but unmistakable signs of ravishment By had left on his person, and watched his lips curl in disgust. "I can't believe you'd do that," he said.
"I've no idea what you're talking about," By said superciliously, flicking a completely not imaginary bit of dust off of one of his sleeves. "Besides, I thought you were supposed to be all enlightened and Betan."
"I-- what-- I don't--" Vorkosigan sputtered. "The man could be dangerous, Vorrutyer. We don't know what his motives or loyalties are. And you just--" He threw up his hands. "Have you no sense of responsibility at all?"
"I've no idea whatever gave you the idea I did, my Lord," By told him, and faked an acquaintance calling his name.
All the same, it bothered him. The man was a god of sex, and apparently completely uninhibited in the best possible way, but that didn't erase everything that had made him suspicious in the first place, starting with the way the man had insinuated himself with Ivan. And his foggy memories of the encounter itself bothered him; he hadn't been that drunk, reckless disregard of good judgment notwithstanding, and it wasn't typical of him. Something else didn't add up from that night, either, something that was niggling at his trained observer's mind, and he sat down the next morning (well, afternoon, but it was over breakfast, so it counted) to think it out.
He worked through everything he did remember, in chronological and then, when that yielded nothing, in spacial order, which is when it struck him. There had been no sign that Raith had done any tidying before he left, but books that Raith had knocked on to the floor had not been there when By woke up. And-- he pulled the images up as best he could in his memory, and no, he was fairly sure that the shelf had still been empty when. The books had disappeared along with Raith. Well, shit.
He tried to remember everything he could about them. They'd almost certainly been rare antiques, like everything else in that forgotten room, probably an old Emperor's most private lair. They'd been mostly slender, hard-bound volumes, with the careful sturdy craftsmanship that meant pre-Cetagandan Invasion. The design on the covers had led him to assume classic fiction, probably some of the high-status stuff that had been remembered from old Earth since the days of the first colonization, and he winced. He knew there were long-standing rumors that some of the forgotton libraries in the old houses of Vorbarra Sultana held old Earth literature that was preserved nowhere else in the galaxy, and if Raith had managed to get his hands on some of that without By even considering the possibility - well, it would be embarrassing.
He needed to remember as much as he could about what the books actually were before it was worth bringing the suspicions to the notice of anyone of importance (which, he would like it to be noted, did not include Lord Vorkosigan.) He'd, understandably, not been at his most observant at the time, but he did have a vague recollection of thinking that the books were strangely appropriate for what they were doing. Some kind of pornography or sex manuals? Given some of the old Emperors, he wouldn't have been entirely surprised, but that didn't fit with the general look of the books. It was the author's name, he recalled suddenly. They'd nearly all been by the same author, and the name had been something like Sexwork or Art Love or something.
With that much, a few good hours at the University's computerized reference indices got him narrowed down to only a few dozen possible authors, and only one of them fit the rest of the criteria. 'Lovecraft', it turned out, had been a legendary writer of horror fiction early in Earth's Age of Information, widely referenced in contemporary and near-contemporary literature but almost none of his works known to survive to the present day. And there was a rumor,printed in the letters column of a recent Betan literary journal, that some of them were still extant in a few copies on Barrayar, and had been favorites of Mad Emperor Yuri in his last years.
A quick check of public palace inventories listed nothing of the sort, but that meant approximately zero in terms of what was actually there, and he didn't have the clearance to check any of the more private files without special authorization. He found himself nervously chewing on a knuckle before he gave in to the inevitable, compiled together everything he had (even the dreadfully embarrassing bits) and requesting a meeting with his Impsec handler about reporting a possible theft from the Imperial Residence.
The next morning - and this time it was actually morning, and far too early after a night spent at yet another Vor party, drinking rather too much and spending a lot of time hiding in corners with the excuse that he was surreptitiously observing Raith, whom By was fairly sure had spent the evening silently laughing at him - the next morning, he found himself standing at something resembling attention across a desk from Lady Alys Vorpatril, and telling her the whole story.
She nodded grimly at him when he mentioned Thomas Raith, and said, "Yes, I've unfortunately been well aware of his activities on planet," and rolled her eyes and said "I see my son has been acting out again," when he described the hidden room, but she kindly let him gloss over exactly why they had thought it appropriate to adjourn there together in the first place, and precisely how he had been rendered insensate. When he came to the part about the missing books, however, she straightened at every joint with the intensity of a hunting dog on a scent, and said, "Did you happened to recall which books they were?"
"Not in detail, but I got enough to do some research, and I'm fairly certain that they were--"
She cut him off. "I am also aware of what books they were, Byerly. While I commend your, ah, dedication to the Empire, I am afraid that this affair is well above your security rating, and it is extremely dangerous for you to know even as much as you know."
He stared at her blankly, trying to figure out how the theft of some minor works of fiction could be that vital to Imperial Security. Sure, they were probably valuable - possibly priceless - but they hadn't sounded exactly dangerous, Mad Yuri aside.
"Ma'am?" he asked.
"And I would suggest, for you own good, that you do your best to forget that you ever heard of them," she added. "Otherwise, there's a possibility that certain people might decide they need to ensure that you've forgotten. Now, did you have anything else to report?"
Far be it from Byerly Vorrutyer not to heed good advice from his elders.
Hello kinkmeme, it is I, the writeranon from this fill: http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=65330#cmt65330 (Dresden/Marcone D/s)
I basically wrote this fill from Harry's point of view, scrapped it, and then re-wrote it from Marcone's. Have some snippets of the original version that I thought were sort of decent.
Yeah, John Marcone still runs the show, even-- no, especially-- as a submissive.
...
"Strip-- oh, and give me the knives," I ordered him, and took a seat on the bed to watch.
The expensive suit came off, and so did the Gentleman John persona, piece by piece. Marcone laid each of his knives on the bed beside me as he removed it, and I tucked them all away in my duster pockets.
He faced me, naked. All his scars were on display, but none of his vulnerabilities. He was obedient, yeah, but still totally self-possessed. It was a habit that hung on him like iron.
I knew a couple of ways to break it.
"On your knees," I said, and he went down with Catholic smoothness. That never failed to give me a rush.
"You know what, John?" I said from my comfortable sprawl. "I know you're kneeling and naked and not talking-- good job remembering that rule, by the way-- but you fail. Wanna know why?"
He nodded, cat-neat on the floor.
I leaned over and stared directly at him, making him feel the difference in our positions. "You're still looking me in the eye."
...
I got up and went rummaging in the Drawer of Kinky Delights. "Assume the position," I quipped.
...
I hovered over him. "Are you very, very sorry and do you promise you won't do it again?" I teased. "Well, too bad."
...
John didn't make any noise, but I figured he was annoyed. Being paddled bothered him. Not in the bad, you-need-to-stop-now way-- it just embarassed him. I think he thinks it's undignified.
...
I grinned to myself and grabbed the lube, humming.
...
"Beg me," I said through my teeth.
...
Then, because I am a cruel person, I started fucking nailing him to the bed.
...
"Hold on," I said, in no better shape myself, "hold on just a little longer." And I watched him bite his lip and repeatedly force himself back from the brink, all for me, because he just wanted to be good for me--
...
John screamed himself hoarse, it seemed like. Even after he was done, he kept begging me to use him, to own him, to come in him, promising and pleading, sweet and worn out and pure Chicago.
(idk, this is sort of self-indulgent, hope somebody was turned on)
The original fill was beautiful and incredibly hot, and it was great to see some bits of Harry's side. I love how into it they both are, all the way into their respective headspaces, so perfectly complementary.
...Any chance of more from these versions of Harry and John? :D
OP-anon says UNF. If you write more of this dear gods I will love you forever and ever and if I was any fucking good at writing porn I would offer you a snippet of any kink you like, but as it is I will instead direct you to skippyslist for a cephalopod surprise (which has nothing to do with sex in any way, but is hilarious)
I am stuck on the Doctor Who crossover. So I started a Sherlock BBC crossover! excellent plan, self! *highfives*
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“I don’t get many Americans. Nor do I get many Luddites. Even fewer are welcomed to Mycroft’s offices. Why are you here?”
“I need a favor. And your brother owes me one. Several, in fact. He said to tell you that the time with the petunias would be considered even.”
“Ah, how tiresome. What is the nature of this favor?”
The American (2.75 meters, black hair, Caucasian, 70-80 kilograms. A runner by habit, recently come into some money but far from wealthy, perhaps superstitious or Wiccan by his pentacle. Accustomed to violence by the scarring and quite firm of heart if he could cash in Mycroft’s favor without even a hint of nerves.) held out a small wooden chest. It was hand made, of white oak (common to the American Midwest which fit his Chicago accent, crafted by a Master carpenter) and the brass hinges were inlaid with silver (more evidence in favor of occult leanings - the inlay was a pattern of ancient Norse runes). “I need you to keep this safe until I come back for it. It may be some time. And in addition to your brother’s forgiveness over the matter of the petunias, I am offering a return favor of my own. You may call upon me at your discretion, at any time after I have retrieved the box. Contacting me before then would be dangerous.”
Sherlock considered the man before him over steepled fingers. He didn’t appear to be a criminal - none of the obvious clues that Sherlock had observed pointed to a life of crime. And as favors went, the “petunia incident” was a good one to have wiped clean.
“What is your name?” he asked, “And is there anybody you wish to designate as your proxy?”
The American smiled. “Harry Dresden. And yes - if Margaret Mendoza comes to you, and she is over 15, you may give her the box. But she’s only 7 this year, and I plan to be back sooner than that.” He placed the box on the coffee table. “Thank you,” Dresden said, and he walked away.
Sherlock waited for Dresden’s footsteps to fade, and the door to slam behind him, before springing up to open the box. Curiosity, he knew, would always win in the end. Better by far to have all the data from the start.
There was a wrapped bundle inside, and a letter on top of the cloth addressed to Sherlock himself.
From everything Mycroft has said - which isn’t much - I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave it entirely alone. He is very old, and a little fragile, but if you’re bold enough to open the box you’re welcome to keep him on your mantle. Some company for your deductions?
Delicately opening the cloth, Sherlock found an ancient, dry skull and, strangely, a sensationalist romance novel. The skull seemed to fit Dresden - tall, dark, deliberately mysterious. The novel was completely unexpected.
“Well. Perhaps Dresden is more interesting than he appeared. And you... I shall call you Victor. You have precisely his zygomatic arch.”
I have no idea what the Petunia Incident was. *ponders*
Victor was, as Dresden’s letter had jokingly suggested, excellent company. Sherlock left him on the mantel, mostly, as holding him felt rather too Shakespearean. It was useful for his deductions to have something to talk at - and yes, he might have talked at a lamp or the ceiling just as effectively. Nonetheless, it felt more natural to speak to the skull - something that had once possessed intelligence - than to an inanimate object. He had entirely stopped thinking of it as strange, when John Watson came into his life and his apartment, and called his attention to the oddities of his existence.
Nonetheless, while John objected to more recent human remains - such as eyeballs in the olive jar or fingers in the tea kettle - he seemed perfectly comfortable with ones that had been reduced to bone long ago. Sherlock liked him all the better for it.
Sometimes John thought their flat might be haunted.
John was not, by nature, superstitious or gullible. He had spent years happily disbelieving the existence of the supernatural. That changed in Afghanistan.
John’s company had been staying in the burned out wreck of an Afghani village, just overnight on their way from Kandahar to Kabul. The soldiers had gone in first to make sure the buildings were as deserted as they appeared from a distance, before the noncombat personnel were allowed in to set up temporary bunks. When he woke to the sound of a crying child, he had thought for a brief moment that one of them had missed something.
John and three others had watched, jaws dropped, as an Afghani girl had flickered in and out of visibility. She was clearly only about six, and she ran, sobbing, from room to room. She didn’t see the soldiers or acknowledge them in any way - it was more like a staticky recording. The cycle was only about a minute long, and it repeated five times before she vanished. The company had left the next night, and the other three had dismissed the girl as the product of stress, or sleeplessness, or nightmares.
John hadn’t. And John saw more of them, everywhere he went. Mothers crying out for children, a girl who had been stoned, children with guns they could hardly carry. When John had returned to London, he had been afraid that he would keep seeing ghosts, but it stopped almost entirely. There was the occasional flicker, usually at a crime scene, but they didn’t interact with the living so they weren’t exactly useful to him.
And sometimes he heard a voice in their flat. Never when Sherlock was awake, never when Mycroft came to visit. But at 3 in the morning when when he was couldn’t sleep and though a cup of tea might help, he would hear an unintelligible murmuring in the living room. Once, he thought he saw a faint glow - but that time he had been up for 72 hours chasing after Sherlock, who had been ridiculously brilliant but also ridiculously insane. When he had gone to make sure Sherlock hadn’t gotten up again, there had been nothing in the living room that didn’t belong there.
I'm a lurker not a writer. I don't even know where this came from guys so sorry if it's fail.
I woke to the memory of teeth holding me down. The burning sting at the base of my neck stirred me from my languor. Slowly, all my bodily aches trickled up to my brain as incomprehension dribbled away.
Languidly, I stretched until my breath hitched and I realized the main source of my discomfort. I reached behind me to confirm what my senses insisted to be true. The sticky slide of my fingers together pooled yet more evidence.
A musky scent encompassed me as I inhaled and the volcano just inches away stirred in his sleep.
Teeth, I remembered.
Holding me down. Inside so deep.
Molten lava delving inside of me over and over. Exploding heat as I howled. Overwhelming fullness as I was taken. Again. And again.
My magic engulfing me. The slide from Hound to Human forever contained within my blood.
The memory of teeth. Anchoring me. Keeping me safe.
A rumbling growl as an arm tucked me closer.
“Go back to sleep,” the Hellhound murmured, nipping at my jaw.
(Elsewhere on this meme is a prompt about somebody inventing a magic proof computer, and a sudden upsurge in the magical RPF community. One of the commenters thought the idea of Bob borrowing Mister to type up some RPF on a typewriter sounded fun. So, uhm... this! Am not replying to original prompt, as this doesn’t really count as a fill for what the OP suggested, so am popping it under this open prompt instead.)
Oh dear god. Right, I’ve been trying to work out how to warn for this. Suffice to say, that in this story, Bob makes use of the kind of romance novel tropes where situations involving dubious or no consent aren’t actually acknowledged as such by the text, the “no-no-no-no-OHYES” kind of narrative that can be incredibly harmful if applied to actual real life situations and sexualities, but that a lot of people like playing with in a fictional space. In other words, cracked out fictional (story within a story) dub/non con below. And terrible prose.
Typewriters are slow. Cat paws are clumsy. But there’s only so much fun you can have, as a cat. Eventually, Bob’s mind always turns to more human pursuits. The itch is always there, the fascination with human bodies, human stories... and human stories about their bodies, yowza. The problem is, the stories Bob has access to are never quite what he wants to read. They never entirely scratch that itch. His reading material is filtered through Harry’s somewhat puritan tastes, his narrow interest in the world of the flesh. Bob’s pretty sure Harry will broaden his horizons eventually (most Wizards do, filled with time and power as they are), but it’ll be a long time coming, waiting for the boy to loosen up a little, explore a little more. So, every now and again, Bob makes use of his clumsy cat paws. He writes down what he wants to read. Not easily, because story telling is a very human skill. Making things up isn’t something that comes naturally to a spirit of intellect. It’s not like finding things out, or remembering them. It’s not repeating what he knows. It’s shaping something out of nothing.
Bob can’t quite do that. But he has a framework to work from, in the books and magazines scattered around Harry’s lab. He can learn the patterns and apply them to the things, the people, he already knows.
Admittedly, Bob doesn’t keep much mortal company. But he knows Harry, watched the boy grow from a timid little apprentice into a rebellious powerhouse, knows all his moods, his terror and his rage, his curiosity, his affection. Bob has never been liked by a master before, but then he had never been Bob before either. It was novel. Interesting. And Bob also knows, or knows of, several of Harry’s acquaintances.
Bob thinks his little hobby is one of those things that mortals might frown on, that Harry would frown on. But bashing at the typewriter with cat paws, throwing Harry Dresden into the stories that interest Bob most, somehow transforms them into stories that interest him more. But still, it’s not like Harry could really be mad. Because this ink and paper version isn’t exactly Harry. Harry wouldn’t do the things Bob writes about, react in the ways Bob makes him, but he could, if the world were slightly different. If Harry was slightly older. Less guarded. Well, mostly. The books Bob likes feature a lot of ladies shirking from pleasure until some strapping fellow gets persuasive about it, and Harry... well, he’s is a shirker. He needs a little persuasion before he’ll agree to enjoy himself. Maybe not to this extent but, well... it’s fun.
Bob looks down at his draft.
“Never, Marcone! I will never come to your bed. I swear it.” Harry’s chest heaved as he stared across the desk dividing him from John Marcone, the man who ran Chicago.
“Well, over a desk or up against a wall could work, I suppose. If you have an objection to comfort.”
“You bastard! You can’t! I won’t!”
“Then you can face your enemies alone, Dresden. You can take your chances on their mercy, rather than my own.”
Harry groaned, struck by the horror of his impossible situation. John Marcone was a criminal, and one who knew what he wanted. Which had always, always been Harry. Years of turning down the man’s gifts and invitations had led to this. A request for aid and an ultimatum.
“This isn’t mercy, Marcone. The monsters I’m fighting aren’t trying to take- take this from me.”
“Oh, Harry.” Marcone said, shaking his head. “Truly? I hadn’t realised that was the sticking point. You’ve never been bedded before?”
Harry was quick to blush, always had been, and he could feel the warmth creeping across his cheeks then, betraying his embarrassment. “That’s none of your business!”
“It’s the business at hand. I‘d make sure you enjoyed yourself, of course. I’d be as attentive a lover as any you could hope for.”
“I don’t want a lover!”
“So you’ve said. In which case, we really must wrap this up. I have other matters to attend to.”
Harry’s final hope of salvation was almost out of his grip. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and choked out words he never thought he’d say. “Fine. Help me, Marcone, and I’ll give you what you want. But... only, only after, and you have to promise not to hurt me.”
“A small amount of discomfort it to be expected, particularly the first time. But I swear to make sure its the last thing on you mind.”
Bob always gets interrupted when he gets to the good parts. Not the battle scene, obviously, he was going to skip straight over that. It was the reluctant-virgin-transformed-to-shameless-wanton he’d been looking forward to. Instead, the trap door flies open and Bob abandons Mister, diving back into the refuge of his skull.
It’s the apprentice, Harry’s first, and naturally he’d picked one with an aptitude for forbidden magics. It made sense, considering Harry’s lineage. It was always best for like to teach like. The girl stares at the cat, who stretches out and paws at the type writer.
“Again?” she says. “Aren’t there supposed to be an infinite number of you for this to happen?” She reaches down and plucks the paper from the machine.
“Hey, your grammar got better. But Marcone, again? You ever want to mix it up a little?”
Bob could take offense at that, because he does, sometimes. He’d written abut Harry questing with that carpenter Knight of the Cross, their steamy adventures across lost continents. It’s probably lucky the apprentice never interrupted him then. Humans are odd about blood ties and sexual activity. She keeps reading, a smirk on her face.
“Wow. You know, if Marcone ever tried to pull this shit, Harry would set his ass on fire faster than you could blink.” Bob knows that. Bob has also discovered a fascinating little phrase called creative licence, and he enjoys it to the full. “Not a bad set up, though,” she mutters. The girl sets the paper down, and then scritched Mister’s ears. “You taking requests, big man? How about... mmm... Harry with Carlos? He could rescue him from a monster maybe. A dragon? And then sweep him off to someplace in the Nevernever. Like, a secret lovenest. And teach him everything. Magic, and screwing- maybe both at once? That’d be pretty cool.”
Hmmm. Maybe. Bob makes a note for future reference. But he wants to finish this project first. The apprentice bangs around, makes a couple of atrocious attempts at evocations that have Bob wishing he were permitted to address her, and then leaves. The cat has long since abandoned him, so Bob is forced to posses the typewriter directly. It’s harder to manipulate something with no sense of its self as a whole, but he was on a roll, he’ll get by.
Harry clutched the bathrobe around himself and curled up tightly on the bed, eyeing Marcone where he lounged across the sheets, looking like a lazy cat, too smug to quite work up the effort to pounce. But it was only a matter of time.
“Take your robe off sweetheart. Get comfortable.”
“Don’t call me that, scumbag.”
“I can call you what I want, Harry.”
He could, and there were worse words that applied to a man who sold his body for protection. Harry unfastened his robe with shaking hands. “You said you’d be gentle.”
“Like you’re made of glass, Harry. Don’t worry yourself.”
Harry couldn’t help it. He was about to surrender to John Marcone, surrender the only thing he could never take back. He stripped himself of the shelter of his robe and then lay naked under Marcone’s avaricious gaze. The man reached out, brushing his fingers across Harry’s mouth. “Mine.”
It took everything Harry had not to flinch. He was a man of his word, and he’d promised Marcone this. But still. He closed his eyes. Marcone moved unseen, and then a kiss brushed across his lips. “Open up to me sweetheart.” Harry parted his lips obediently and sighed. Marcone was good at this, apparently had the skills to make good on his promises.
“Good boy,” Marcone murmured. “Just like that.”
Marcone worked a thigh between Harry’s legs, and Harry had an idea of what was expected of him here. He spread them, leaving Marcone room to settle over him, to rub his thick hard cock against Harry’s own. Harry shivered, not used to being touched down there. His cock was responding to Marcone’s arousal, growing hard between the press of their bodies. Marcone was so strong, Harry thought he could go on for ever like this, rubbing against him until they both came. Marcone nudged at Harry’s jaw gently, tipping his head back, and then set his teeth against Harry’s neck. Harry whimpered and clutched at the sheets. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Only a very little,” Marcone purred, and bit down gently.
“AH!” Harry’s hips thrust up shamelessly, he spread his legs further and wrapped one behind Marcone, tugging him in closer, tighter. “Oh! Oh! Please.”
“There we go,” Marcone smiled, and returned to worry at his mark on Harry’s neck. “I’d keep you if I could Harry, I’d make you beg every night for my cock. I’d teach you some manners or leave you desperate.”
“Please!” Harry gasped. “Anything.”
Marcone laughed darkly. “I promised to be careful with you sweetheart, so I won’t take you at your word.”
Harry didn’t care. There were good reasons not to want this, him, but there and then the whole world consisted of John Marcone’s powerful body moving against his own. Marcone pulled away to retrieve something and Harry thought he might die, separated from the source of all his pleasure.
“John!” he said, and then cursed himself for losing that last barrier between them. He’d never be that scumbag again.
“I’ve got you,” John promised, and then he did. His fingers were slick, sliding past Harry’s aching cock, his tight balls, to touch him where no-one ever had. He slid a finger inside and Harry clamped down on it, no longer able to breathe because he had a man inside him.
“Been saving this for me, Harry?” John asked, easing in and out with one clever finger. “Well I’m here now, relax.”
Harry tried to as John worked another finger inside of him. “God. Oh godohgod! More, I need- I don’t care if it hurts.”
“I care,” John told him, and then shifted his fingers inside Harry, like he was beckoning. It felt like magic, and Harry reached up to grab at John’s shoulders, scrabbling for purchase, like John could hold Harry up when he was drowning in pleasure.
“Oh!”
“Good boy. It makes me even harder Harry, seeing you like this. Clinging. Desperate.”
“Oh please!” Marcone does please, and he
“Wake up Bob! I need to know what kind of nasty would- Bob?” his master’s voice trails to a halt, and Bob kind of wishes he was in Mister. The beast isn’t exactly cute, but being able to turn wide eyed cat eyes on a human has its advantages. Typewriters aren’t quite so emotive. “Hey, did you get started on that copy of the Accords I wanted? Lemme see.”
“Uh, boss, I don’t think that’s a good- ”
“MARCONE? What- I- Bob? What the hell is this?”
It’s Bob’s job, to know all the answers. It’s what Bob is. But he’s not sure he knows the answer to that one.
Ripped off fromInspired by Janelle Monae's Metropolis Suites, particularly, the "Many Moons" music video. Someone suggested Android!Dresden and Crime Boss!Marcone. I love me some cyberpunk and sci-fi, so why now.
The announcement came over the Metropolis system early in the neon-lit morning. "Gooood morning, cyboys and cybergirls! I'm happy to announce we have a new star-crossed winner in today's Heart-Break Sweepstakes! Android number 57821, otherwise known as Harry Dresden, has fallen in love with a human named Elaine Mallory. Aaaand you know the rules! He is now scheduled for immediate disassembly!
Bounty hunters, you can find him in the Neon Valley Street District at the Leopard Plaza. The Droid Control Marshall's full of fun rules today! No phasers! Only chainsaws and electro-daggers!
Remember only card-carrying hunters can join our chase today. And as usual, there will be no reward until his cyber-soul is turned in to the Star Commission.
Happy hunting!"
Whoever owned the genetic material before it was used to make 57821, they had long legs. It made it easier to run. Unlike 53845, Murphy. Murphy didn't get far when she ran. After they caught her, she regaled Harry with how much better she felt after they cured her of that whole love thing.
But then again, Murphy had fallen in love again after that. So Harry thought there must have been something to it. Androids didn't tend to seek out pain. They got plenty of that in their day to day. Being in love must've been something special, he thought, if droids were going around, risking disassembly like that.
Now that he'd been in love, now that his ones and zeros lined up to you are a colossal idiot, he still didn't understand. Elaine was a viral infection, spreading through his data processes until he could barely function. Maybe there was a reason droids weren't supposed to be in love. A machine couldn't handle that much stupidity.
Harry knew all this. He did. Yet he ran anyway, even though it'd only make things worse. The hunters on his heels, adrenaline surging through them until they were overclocked and perfect like their mechanical servants.
Long spindly legs made long spindly targets. An electro-dagger caught him below the knee, the surge radiating out until the circuitry fried and his leg collapsed out from under him.
They got his chestplate off and worked the pliers around his power core. He was caught and defeated but for some unknown reason, Harry trashed and fought as they worked the core out of its slot, screaming and calling for Elaine until the generator slid free and his body went still.
Complete disassembly was out of the question. He was the Alpha for the new Platinum 9000 series. They wrote this Incident off as a glitch in his programming, which they were still fine-tuning. "New genetic material," Lady Lea told the Star Commission when she showed up to bail him out. "Always tricky to weed out the unwanted processes. He'll be so worth the trouble in the end, the sweet. You should come to the auction this year. It'll be magical."
They took him home to the Winter Luxury Droid Court and laid him over Lea's lap. His cheek pressed against her leg, the silk of her dress not quite right. His sensors were still in the red after that electo-dagger slice, the effects shivering through his wiring. Lea pet his hair and hooked up her tablet to his body. "My sweet, why do you do this to us?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
"We just want to make you a top of the line android. People will pay six figures just to get a generic brand of you. You, sweet, you're going to go for eight, maybe nine." She tapped away at his history logs, and he felt despair for a moment as she sought out Elaine's image and voice and sensory data and went about hard deleting it from his memory.
Then she was gone and Harry relaxed, feeling like himself again. "I'm sorry, Lea."
"I know you are. It's okay. We shouldn't have tackled your impulse control so early, it sent everything else flying out of control." She tutted under her breath and played with his hair some more, like a beloved pet. "We'll get it right this time. You'll be stable, we'll get you out of Alpha and into Beta, and, oh, the auction!" She patted his bare shoulders, above where the wires of her tablet fed into him. "Everyone is coming to see what you can do, sweet. You'll be wonderful!"
Harry nodded and laid his head back down, letting himself drop into sleep mode as Lea did her work.
I've read a couple really great Girl!Marcone prompts, but most of them elide the difficulties Marcone would experience getting the underworld to line up behind her if she was a woman. I wanted to take a look at a Marcone who knew she couldn't replace Vargassi, and how she'd manage. So, uh here, strangely gen, near-het, warnings for homophobic hate-speach. There you go?
I sort of knew about her before. I mean, there's rumours, right? And it's not the kind of thing I listen to, but Bob read anything he could get his metaphorical hands on, the trashier the better, which included the kinds of tabloid with headlines like "Mafia Madame walks after 15m private session with judge!" Whenever my job brought me into contact with ladies of the evening, (which happens to me, professionally, more than you might think) Bob wanted to know if I'd run into "The Mrs. I hear she's quite the looker. C'mon, you'd tell me if you did, right, Boss?"
That was apparently what they called her: "The Mafia Mrs," like she was married to the mob. Later on, I found out calling her that was a bad idea, but that came later.
Anyway, it started out as a find-it job, a guy who came to me looking for his great-uncle's accounting records, lost since he died. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that it wasn't his great-uncle, and the kid was one of several dozen wise guys scrambling to find some documents, "insurance," that a deceased consigliere had stashed with his mistress. Everyone had known about his insurance, and, word was, his insurance was keeping him pretty safe, except that he died in a traffic accident, and no one knew who his mistress was. In the frantic search, someone finally got desperate enough to think of giving me a try. I would have handed the whole thing over without realizing what I was doing, except that when I tracked down the papers (using the deceased's fountain pen) I found out that the reason no one knew who the mistress was was because the mistress was a mister, and the kid was scared out of his mind and hiding out in a twenty-four hour laundromat.
I barely had time to figure out how badly I'd been lied to when the laundromat was suddenly full of large men in suits. "Out," said one of 'em who shaved his head to conceal his receding hairline, who I mentally named 'Curly'. The half-dozen people waiting for their spin-cycles skedaddled. I stayed, since the kid was practically my client, or would have been, if we'd been able to talk long enough for me to make him understand who I was.
"You too," Curly said, when the laundromat had emptied and I hadn't moved.
"I know how it is; I leave here and you're stealing my delicates. You can't trick me," I told him. He and my client both looked at me like I was nuts. I like it when they underestimate me, but my client's lack of faith was a little bit hurtful. What, I can't have feelings?
Curly shrugged. The thugs started opening up the dryers and washing machines that were still spinning. At first I thought they were looking for the insurance in the stupidest possible place, but as the clamour of the laundromat wound down, a large black SUV pulled to a stop, and out got a man who I didn't recognize, but had the sudden unshakeable conviction was Tony Vargassi. A tiny voice pointed out to me that the kid had not actually paid me a retainer, and it might be a good idea to take my lacy unmentionables and depart.
I told the tiny voice that my unmentionables were not lacy, thank you very much.
The laundromat was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, when Tony Vargassi walked in the door.
Vargassi looked between me and my client and scowled. "Which one is Torrio's butt-boy?" he asked Curly, who was apparently the designated talker for the group. I had the brief thought that I could try taking the heat for my client, but Curly nodded at him before I could claim to be Spartacus. My client seemed to shrink under the force of Vargassi's glare.
I want you to know, I was putting together a plan, (or, at least, I was trying to think of a plan) but even a wizard has problems with approximately two-dozen armed men.
"You're in a fuckload of trouble, you little faggot," said Vargassi, when he was interrupted a click.
Take it from me, it takes a hell of a click to interrupt a guy with twenty armed men at his back, and this wasn't the click of a firearm, but rather the click of a woman's shoe. But she made it seem like the hammer of a revolver being cocked. There was a pause, while everyone turned to look.
I've seen white court vampires wield sex appeal like a bludgeon before, but I never knew mortal women could do it until Marcone walked into that laundromat like it was her goddamn boudoir. I don't quite know how to describe it. It was nothing overt; she was dressed like maybe someone's executive assistant, a black skirt of the sort that looked like it might be tricky to walk in, but it went past her knees, and a white blouse that closed at the throat. It should have looked like a piano teacher, but it looked like Lauren Bacall if she were a brunette. As soon as she had the attention of everyone in the room, she fired off her heels again, tack! tack! tack! and approached Vargassi as if he was the only one she saw.
"Mr. Vargassi. I hope our agreement has not changed?" she asked, sounding like a knife tearing through wet silk. It wasn't just me, either; Vargassi looked slightly dazed as well.
"I don't--" started Vargassi, but his voice sagged to a stop when she started talking again.
"Because I believe our original agreement was that if you had trouble with one of my employees you would come to me."
Vargassi seemed to regain his faculties. I felt a little bit of sympathy for him, although I pretty much lost it when he started talking. "Are you saying the faggot is one of your girls?"
She looked pissed, but, like, in a sexy way. "Mr Ferdinand is a professional, working in Chicago. That makes him one of mine."
"Wait a second," said Vargassi, "You knew Torrio was a fag, and you never mentioned it to me?"
"The sexual predilections of your employees are outside of our agreement," said Lauren Bacall. "If you wish to renegotiate, I am at your disposal, of course. Although perhaps not here." Her gaze flicked around the laundromat as if she was only acknowledging its existence under duress.
I kinda wished I had popcorn.
Vargassi visibly recalled the reason he was standing in a laundromat with two dozen thugs with guns. "Your butt-boy is holding onto some things which he shouldn't know about."
Ms. Bacall lowered her eyes momentarily in acknowledgement. "I'll contact you within the hour with their location. Mr Ferdinand, Mr Dresden?" and she spun on her heel and tack! tack! tack!-ed her way out the door.
I was half-way out the door myself before I realized what I was doing. In case you're wondering how she knew my name, let me tell you, I was wondering too. When I say I ran into some ladies of the night in a professional capacity, I mean in the capacity of my profession, not theirs. (Although one of 'em had enquired as to whether she could pay my bill with an exchange of services, I had been forced to explain that I did not think that would help me with getting my phone reconnected. She said she bet she could, but I had held out for cash, despite what Bob called me afterwards.)
So I was starting to guess who Ms. Bacall was, but I still didn't see how she knew who I was. And I hadn't a clue why I was following her out of a laundromat, except that I didn't really want to hang out with Curly and his friends, and didn't think I'd get another exit-line that good.
She walked out to where she was triple parked, after the goons, and Vargassi, and a red-headed line-backer held open the back-seat of a land-yacht. She folded herself smoothly in, Mr. Ferdinand followed, and so help me, so did I.
Inside, it was set up so the passengers could face each other, and I had the terrible suspicion that the vehicle had been used for sordid purposes in the past. I had just gotten around to feeling mighty uncomfortable in this carriage of sin with two ladies/gentlemen of negotiable virtue, when Ms. Bacall suddenly said, in a totally different voice, and in fact, a different accent, "And that, Jimmy, is an example of the sort of thing that does't happen when you keep me in the loop." She pulled off her pearl earrings, and I gaped, realizing that they were't even real: they were clip-ons. It was like seeing the back-side of a painted set piece. The sex appeal was switched off like it hadn't even been there, and she looked like a business woman annoyed at getting frappuccino when she'd ordered a latte.
Jimmy (he really didn't look like a Jimmy) covered his face with his hands, and sounded badly shaken. "Sorry ma'am," he plead, sounding very sincere. "I didn't think it was important. I thought it was, like, presents for his grand-kids, or maybe a nice kiss-off for me, or something. He just said I should hold on to it, and take a look at it if anything happened, he never said it was-- you know."
"You'll make it up to me," she told him, and I wasn't sure how exactly she meant that. Jimmy didn't look like he thought it would be fun for him personally, but he didn't look scared, so I put it down under 'man was not meant to know.'
"Mr Dresden," she said to me, as if we'd just met while lined up at a Starbucks, "I'm pleased to meet your acquaintance at last. Where can I drop you off?"
"Lady," I said, in my incredibly suave way, "Who the hell are you?"
"Genevieve Marcone," she said, and held her hand out to be shook. "I've heard of you from various of my people."
I looked at her hand, and wasn't sure if I should shake it. Not because I thought she had cooties, or anything, just, well. It kind of felt like I might be agreeing to something, and I had no idea what. Her face got a little pinched as I hesitated, but her smile stayed, even if it started looking a bit forced.
I felt like a heel, so I took her hand, and gave it a single pump.
"Harry Dresden," I said. "Always pleased to be able to help a lady."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
OPEN PROMPT
(Anonymous) 2011-03-06 10:41 pm (UTC)(link)Go to town here!
Re: OPEN PROMPT
(Anonymous) 2011-03-06 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)...
...
Now I'm tempted to start posting bits of the potentially monstrously epic fic I'm working on where Denarian!Harry and Denarian!Marcone are refusing to work with Nicodemus and are instead ruling the city-state of Chicago in a dystopian post-civil-war setting surrounded by Republic-of-Gilead-esque fascist "Christian" dictatorships in the ruins of the US.
Re: OPEN PROMPT
(Anonymous) 2011-03-06 11:34 pm (UTC)(link)Re: OPEN PROMPT
Not because they retain any form of basic humanity, no why would you think that, have a violent bloody death for even suggesting it.
Re: OPEN PROMPT
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 12:29 am (UTC)(link)Let's just call this, "The road to hell" 1/??
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 01:19 am (UTC)(link)Mostly, though, it comes with paperwork.
I glared at the inbox on my desk, filled with things urgently needing my attention. Reports on ghoul activity up in what used to be Wisconsin. Memos about curfew enforcement. A reminder that it was about time to go evaluate the magically gifted teenagers this year's screenings had turned up. New trade routes to plot through the Nevernever. Requests from across Greater Chicago for assistance with nasties too powerful for local police and military to deal with. Those, at least, I looked forward to- it would give me an excuse to get out and do what I did best. After a long, hard day at the office, there's nothing quite like setting vampires on fire to unwind and relax.
It was even worse for John, of course- he only delegated the supernatural stuff to me. I kept the people of Greater Chicago safe from things that go bump in the night; he kept them safe from each other. He'd been in meetings for days with various industrialists, planning some infrastructure improvements- wind turbines, retrofiting factories abandoned in the days of outsourcing, that sort of thing. I don't know how he stood it. But then, he'd been running a criminal empire for years before he started running a small country. Maybe he was just better suited to it.
"If you dislike it so, my host," Lasciel said to me from the back of my head, amused, "I would gladly take this burden from you."
"Not a chance," I said- well, thought- to her. "Government is my department." My status as one of the good guys was suspect enough as it is without letting a fallen angel interfere in the running of a dictatorship. It was bad enough I let her get her hooks into my magic. John and I had promised each other to keep Lasciel and Selariel out of the driver's seat for any sort of government decision, no matter how minor, and I wasn't about to break that promise just because I was bored stiff.
"As you wish, my host," Lasciel said gently, with a sensual caress of energy, teasing and warm. Had she wanted, of course, she could have overpowered me, hijacked my head and used my body like a puppet. I had been worried about that, a little, when I first took up the coin. But she wouldn't. It wasn't in her nature. The day she took me over by force would be the day that the Queens of Faery decided to behave in a truly honest and straightforward manner. She wanted my mind intact, and was willing to be patient to get it.
Twenty-five years of influence, and I still managed to keep her separate from myself. What can I say, I'm just a stubborn bastard like that. I figured I had a few decades left of mental independence, at this rate. I'd have to give up the coin eventually, of course. But not yet.
My musings were interrupted by a knock on my door. "Yeah?"
The door opened and John's secretary slid into the room. Maria was a woman of impressive skill, skill that kept the government running in the post-computer age, and on top of that was utterly unflappable, which is damned useful when you have to spend as much time around me as she did. She also had a body that made me briefly regret those vows I'd made way back when about forsaking all others, all soft curves and grace, emphasized by her impeccably hand-tailored pantsuit. Good thing for me I hadn't vowed against looking.
"Excuse me, Mr. Dresden," she said. "The Baron wants you to be there for his two o'clock appointment. Can you make it?"
I leaned back in my chair lazily. "I don't know, Maria, you tell me," I said.
She quirked an eyebrow. "Your schedule is empty then. That doesn't tell me if you're free."
It was true. If I was working on some thaumaturgical spell, I might not be able to just drop it for the sake of some meeting. "Yeah," I said, "I'll be there. This crap," I gestured to my overflowing inbox "can damn well wait till I get back."
She nodded. "Good. Blue reception room, one hour from now."
"Did he say who he's meeting with?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Some petitioner. He didn't share the details. I'll just go tell him, then, shall I?"
"Sure thing," I said, and she left.
Bob whistled once she was gone. "Damn," he said, "she's got a fine ass."
"I agree," Lasciel put in.
"Pervs, the both of you," I said to her. Out loud, I said to Bob, "Before you ask, no, she won't be part of your private peep show." Back when I was a struggling wizard, he'd had to make do with romance novels and skin mags; now he got real live prostitutes to come put on shows in front of him. Some of them even let him ride along- real treasures, those girls. But that didn't keep him from whining just because some people were off limits. I wasn't about to piss off someone with Maria's skills just so Bob could have some cheap thrills.
"Hmmph," Bob said with a flicker of his lights. "You're no fun, boss."
"Neither are these goddamned memos," I growled. "Idiots." I wrote off a few pointers to the police chief of some backwater town somewhere who couldn't identify a simple nixie infestation when it was staring him in the face.
The rest of the hour went much the same way. By the time two o'clock rolled around, I would have joined in on the goddamn wind turbine meetings just to get away from it.
Re: Let's just call this, "The road to hell" 1/??
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-07 01:53 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Let's just call this, "The road to hell" 1/??
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-07 02:20 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Let's just call this, "The road to hell" 1/??
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-09 17:42 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2015-03-13 00:06 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2015-03-15 15:50 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2015-03-24 17:15 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2015-04-23 14:31 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2015-05-03 15:34 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 01:49 am (UTC)(link)Re: OPEN PROMPT
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 12:51 pm (UTC)(link)(SOBS)
Re: OPEN PROMPT - ficlet for myself
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 03:06 am (UTC)(link)_________________
Dresden chose the worst places to hold important, 'secret' meetings.
Take, for instance, his latest choice.
The Field Museum, in the shadow of the skeletal remains of the Tyrannosaurus known as 'Sue'. In the middle of the day, surrounded by middle and high school students on school field trips.
I leaned back from one passing group, dodging curious looks and sticky fingers. Mr. Hendricks didn't need to move. The children flowed around him at a good distance, like a river breaking around a boulder. Dresden was late, of course.
My eyes wandered across the room, touching on each individual. No one seemed to be doing anything out of the ordinary until my attention lit on one lone figure. He was a young man, slender and rather short statured. His black hair was slicked back except for the front which he had stuck up like a porcupine. He appeared to be flowing with one of the high school groups, but in fact was not. He trailed along with them only so long as they were going in his desired direction.
In the palm of one hand, mostly concealed against his body he held a flat, matte black box and he split his attention between it and his surroundings. I made a small movement and brought Mr. Hendricks' attention to the boy. It was possible the child was merely skipping school, wandering around to avoid detection and that the device he held was an iPod or something similar. I wasn't close enough to identify it.
Ten more minutes passed and I signaled to Mr. Hendricks that we would be leaving. Something had clearly happened to hold Dresden up this long. Perhaps he'd managed to set himself on fire this time. More likely though, he was in the process of digging himself a very deep hole.
This, of course, was when a dozen masked men ran into the room, automatic weapons raised and began shouting for everyone to get down. A short burst of fire from one of the men made the people around us scream and drop to the floor, hands covering their heads. All except for myself, Mr. Hendricks, and the child I'd noted earlier.
He turned to look at the men, his mirror sunglasses taking it all in before he slowly knelt. Hendricks moved closer to me, his gun out but down to the side, invisible. I slipped a knife out from its sheath and tapped the blade against my thigh. Already I could hear the men I'd left outside moving over the ear buds we wore.
There was a sudden squeal of static over the ear piece, interference and then the power in the museum cut out. People screamed again, children's voices, high and frightened. Someone, one of the masked men shouted a curse and there was another burst of gunfire.
It cut off abruptly, capped by a gurgling scream. I could feel Hendricks' body close to mine. It wasn't us. And it was entirely too quiet and not on fire enough to be Dresden.
More noise, flashes of light and heavy thumps in the dark.
Less then five minutes after the lights went out they struggled back into life. The men were all down, unconscious and bound in a tight little group. Teachers and tour guides realized they were no longer under attack and moved their charges out, running.
"You should probably put that knife away, Mr. Marcone." I turned, only the timbre of the voice keeping me from throwing the blade as I did so. The boy stood beside me, out of arm's reach. He'd pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and was watching me with pale blue eyes. He smiled, and I feared it would crack his face it looked so false. "The police should be here soon, and I don't think you want to have to explain the weapons." He nodded at Mr. Hendricks and his gun.
There was a fresh bruise forming across one cheek and his knuckles were scraped. This close I could see that he was older than I'd originally thought, at least eighteen. My god, he was tiny, but his frame was tight with muscle.
"Young man, what are you?"
"Alvin Draper. Tourist." He grinned, this time making it seem natural. Smug and a bit amused. Sirens in the near distance and the police burst in, shouting. I trusted that Hendricks had concealed his weapon as I turned and slipped my knife back up my sleeve. When I glanced back, the boy was gone.
In all the excitement of the attempted hostage taking, the museum didn't realize that they were missing a small chunk of rock with a cave drawing of a stylized bat on it until three weeks later.
Re: OPEN PROMPT - ficlet for myself
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 03:14 am (UTC)(link)True words. True, true words.
Re: OPEN PROMPT - ficlet for myself
Re: OPEN PROMPT - ficlet for myself
OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 08:33 pm (UTC)(link)Byerly Vorrutyer glared discreetly across the crowded Imperial ballroom at the two men who were lounging against a table, sipping glasses of wine. They were both dark-haired, fit and moderately tall, handsome in a bland yet strangely captivating way, and they both had the air of people who were quite happy to be dismissed as useless. It was entirely unfair for there to be two Ivan Vorpatrils in the world.
One of them actually was Ivan; the other was a man named Thomas Raith who Ivan had been introducing as an old friend of his from one of his offworld postings, which explained exactly nothing. The man was, unmistakably, galactic, which he made no effort to hide, and yet he had insinuated his way into Barrayaran high society as if he had been born there; or as if he had a great deal of practice at blending in to other cultures. He wore local civilian dress, just restrained enough that Ivan needn't worry about being seen with him, but carefully tuned to give the impression that he was entirely harmless and concerned with very little beyond the most shallow. It was an effective camouflage against the fact that he moved like someone who had been trained to fight, and his reflexes were just a little bit too fast and a little bit too good.
By was quite certain he was up to something.
"That man is up to something," said a voice from somewhere around By's left shoulder. He glanced over, and ah, Lord Vorkosigan. Looking, as usual at these events, extremely determined and only slightly the worse for drink.
By carefully schooled his face into neutrality. "I understand he's been on planet for about ten days, and he's pulled a different girl every night. I suspect, my lord, that he's up to no more than the usual."
Vorkosigan shook his head. "That only makes it worse, d'you see? Because I happen to know that everyone allowed in to this event was personally and carefully vetted by Aunt Alys."
By was, in fact, able to fill in the rest of that thought: even if Lady Alys might have chosen to invite a random galactic visitor, she would not have invited one who would simultaneously give her son someone to hide behind and distract potential Vor brides from him. Which meant that something of greater significance was going on.
"A friend of mine at the University mentioned he's technically here to do research in the historical archives," By told him instead, feigning disinterest. "Maybe the Lord Auditor's Profesora got him in."
Vorkosigan's eyes lit up at that and he smirked at By. "You were asking around about him, were you?"
By clammed up. Shit. He did not need to be teaming up with Vorkosigan on this. On anything. But before he could say anything, Vorkosigan made a follow-me gesture and said, "C'mon, we're going to go talk to them."
"We?" By asked him incredulously. "Since when do you need my help?"
Vorkosigan rolled his eyes. "You can distract Ivan while I corner Raith. I've never met anyone who's as effective at distracting Ivan as you are."
...and somehow, By found himself carried along in the little Lord's wake.
Before Vorkosigan could say a word, however, Ivan straightened up and took initiative. "Miles!" he said brightly. "There you are! Gregor was looking for you earlier, he wanted to talk to you about something." He waved at someone across the room. "And oh look, I think he's free."
By followed the direction of Ivan's wave, and sure enough, there was the Emperor of Barrayar, somehow alone in the crowd, watching them with a rather grim expression. By tried even harder than usual to make himself invisible as Miles said, suspiciously, "Talk to me about what?"
"Something about a letter from your mother and reallocating District funds and that new hospital building. C'mon, Miles, you know how he gets," Ivan said, and took off through the dance floor. Miles followed, muttering something about how not everybody had to snap to their mother's every whim, but not before giving By a slit-eyed glance so eloquent that it was practically marching orders to do something about Raith.
Luckily, By had never been particularly susceptible to military conditioning, and he just turned his back, to find Raith staring after them with an oddly abstracted expression. By raised an eyebrow.
"That man always reminds me of someone I used to know," Raith offered.
By snorted indelicately. "Lord Vorkosigan? Yes, you'd be surprised at the number of 4'10" insane tactical geniuses with hero complexes wandering around this part of the galaxy."
"Actually, the man I was thinking of was more like 6'10"," Raith told him. "And I wouldn't say 'insane tactical genius' so much as 'incapable of coming up with any plan that wasn't desperately suicidal, ridiculously ambitious, and involving at least three large explosions and a substantial amount of property damage.' No, I think it's actually the expression on Ivan's face whenever he turns up, as if he's wondering exactly how he's going to get nearly killed trying to save the idiot's ass this time. Brings back memories." He blinked, and then a lascivious smile curled over his face. "Now, as for you, Byerly Vorrutyer, you're just plain... interesting."
Something subtle shifted in Raith's stance and face, and he suddenly changed from simply idly attractive to openly, irresistibly sexual. And blatantly inviting. "Not here," Bylerly hissed at him. "Are you mad? I don't know where you come from, but this is still Barrayar, and we're in public."
"Oh?" Raith asked, dark purring amusement in his voice. "Are you suggesting we take this somewhere more... private?" And something in his voice curled right down around By's spine, and places lower, and made itself at home there.
"Are you making a... serious offer?" By asked in a low voice, viciously restraining himself from the old nervous gesture of playing with his hair.
"Vorrutyer, I never make an offer that isn't serious," he said. "You wanna?" He grinned.
"That would be incredibly foolhardy," By told him. On the other hand, he wasn't on an official assignment. And Raith was really exceptionally attractive, and galactics were usually a great deal of fun with a lot less hassle, and it had been awhile for him with a man. And as a bonus, if he slipped off with Raith for a little frivolity it would seriously annoy both Vorpatril and Vorkosigan. "Did you have someplace private in mind?"
"Ivan told me the back way in to a place he sometimes uses," he said. "Promised me it would suit the purpose admirably."
"It would be the stupidest thing I've done at one of these parties since the thing with the mountain mead and the pastry cook," By told him, but they both knew he'd agreed, even before he followed Raith to one of the dim, slightly quieter hallways that led off the ballroom, through a sitting-room that held a group of rather drunk Vor men playing cards, to the adjoining powder room, and into a door that looked as if it led to a utility closet but instead opened up into a small, dim room that looked like a man's study.
By cased the surroundings quickly; it had the heavy, dark, late Time-of-Isolation look of most of the disused parts of the palace; open shelves full of dusty, old-fashioned volumes lined the walls, and pride of place was given to a large, sturdy desk. Suggestive smudges in thick coat of dust on the desk backed up the idea that Ivan had used it before, but that was about all he had time to observe before Raith had one hand on his waist and the other investigating the buttons on his tunic.
"Do you have any hard limits I should know ahead of time?" Raith asked. "I know Barrayarans are sometimes--" he fluttered a hand expressively.
"Only that 'no' means 'no,'" By said. "But if you can handle that, I'm up for nearly anything."
"Excellent," Raith told him, and abandoned the buttons to press him up against the nearest bookshelf and kiss the living daylights out of him. Raith's kiss alone would probably have made it on the list of his top ten most memorable sexual encounters, and he found himself moaning in pleasure before he decided to turn the table and show Raith that not all Barrayarans were repressed and unskilled.
Re: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-07 08:34 pm (UTC)(link)Raith let him reverse their positions with a glint in one eye, but was soon moaning in turn as By found that one spot on his neck and the access to his trousers at the same time. By knelt down and took him in his mouth, relishing the feel of the already-aroused cock and the sound of the little whimpering noises the other man was making, something he didn't get to do nearly often enough.
"Oh god," the Raith said. "Okay, I'd heard stories, but you're actually good at this--" he moaned again, and reached back, scrabbling at the shelves behind him for something to grab hold of. Instead, he somehow managed to knock nearly an entire shelf of books onto the floor.
They both jumped away, startled by the sudden noise of the falling books. By pulled off and rolled into a defensive crouch as Raith's hands went to places that By would have made large bets held concealed weapons. And then they both glanced down at the pile of books and chuckled.
Raith shook his head ruefully. "Maybe not the most well-considered position to start with," he said.
By glanced around. "Previous occupants would suggest the desk is suitable," he suggested. It was at almost exactly the right height, too.
Raith's eyes darkened. "Top or bottom?" he asked, without any of the freighted implications a Barrayaran man would have put into the question, and By shivered in anticipation.
"Do you have lube?" he asked.
"What kind of man do you take me for, Vorrutyer?" he asked, and then rummaged in a pocket, only a few inches from one of the concealed weapons. He held up a small bottle triumphantly. "Of course I have lube."
And they did make use of the desk. And, eventually, the floor as well, including an accidental tumble across the still-scattered books, which made By wince for a second at the possible damage to historical artifacts before Raith, very effectively, distracted him.
He woke up, afterward, flat on the floor, in a state of major déshabille, alone and feeling slightly off. By the sound of the party still filtering in through the walls, he hadn't been out for long, and he starting putting himself back in order while he tried to figure out what was wrong with him. Usually, a quick romp left him feeling sated and relaxed and recharged, and while the sated was certainly true - Raith had been amazing, By was tempted to keep trying to trace the accent just to find out of if there were more like him back home - he was feeling oddly drained rather than recharged. He felt stretched, and empty, and not entirely in the good way. And some of the details of the end of the encounter were indistinctly blurred, buried in his memory under an almost suffocating haze of pleasure. Passing out after sex wasn't exactly typical of him, either, even sex that spectacular; it was too dangerous a habit. He shook his head, sharply, trying to rattle his brains back in to place as he finished re-tying his neckcloth.
Raith had clearly left already, which was probably wise; he had to know that various people had been keeping an eye out for him, and a prolonged absence would be noted in a way that Byerly being typically irresponsible wouldn't be. And the two of them leaving together and returning together would have been a bit too blatant. Still, it wasn't exactly considerate, and By thought uncharitably that he was starting to understand why the man got on so well with Ivan.
He took a last turn about the room, making sure there was no evidence of the visit, and took the opportunity to wipe all the remaining incriminating dust off the desktop with his second spare handkerchief. The first one he found crumpled and soiled behind the desk, so he wrapped them both up carefully together and tucked them away with a note to toss them both into the nearest lit fireplace. Beyond that, there was no sign that anything untoward had ever happened to disturb the room's serenity, and he gave one last yank to shake the wrinkles out of his tunic before he rejoined the party.
He'd barely managed to acquire another glass of wine to rinse out his mouth before Vorkosigan appeared beside him with the kind of preternatural stealth that made him jealous at the same time he nearly jumped out of his skin. "Did you find anything out?" the little Lord asked.
"Find out? About what?" By asked him coolly over his wine.
"About Raith," Vorkosigan said impatiently.
"Oh, him," By said, lingering sensually over the word. "Oh yes. I think I was right the first time about why he's here."
By watched that tick over in Vorkosigan's scary brain, added up with the small but unmistakable signs of ravishment By had left on his person, and watched his lips curl in disgust. "I can't believe you'd do that," he said.
"I've no idea what you're talking about," By said superciliously, flicking a completely not imaginary bit of dust off of one of his sleeves. "Besides, I thought you were supposed to be all enlightened and Betan."
"I-- what-- I don't--" Vorkosigan sputtered. "The man could be dangerous, Vorrutyer. We don't know what his motives or loyalties are. And you just--" He threw up his hands. "Have you no sense of responsibility at all?"
"I've no idea whatever gave you the idea I did, my Lord," By told him, and faked an acquaintance calling his name.
All the same, it bothered him. The man was a god of sex, and apparently completely uninhibited in the best possible way, but that didn't erase everything that had made him suspicious in the first place, starting with the way the man had insinuated himself with Ivan. And his foggy memories of the encounter itself bothered him; he hadn't been that drunk, reckless disregard of good judgment notwithstanding, and it wasn't typical of him. Something else didn't add up from that night, either, something that was niggling at his trained observer's mind, and he sat down the next morning (well, afternoon, but it was over breakfast, so it counted) to think it out.
He worked through everything he did remember, in chronological and then, when that yielded nothing, in spacial order, which is when it struck him. There had been no sign that Raith had done any tidying before he left, but books that Raith had knocked on to the floor had not been there when By woke up. And-- he pulled the images up as best he could in his memory, and no, he was fairly sure that the shelf had still been empty when. The books had disappeared along with Raith. Well, shit.
He tried to remember everything he could about them. They'd almost certainly been rare antiques, like everything else in that forgotten room, probably an old Emperor's most private lair. They'd been mostly slender, hard-bound volumes, with the careful sturdy craftsmanship that meant pre-Cetagandan Invasion. The design on the covers had led him to assume classic fiction, probably some of the high-status stuff that had been remembered from old Earth since the days of the first colonization, and he winced. He knew there were long-standing rumors that some of the forgotton libraries in the old houses of Vorbarra Sultana held old Earth literature that was preserved nowhere else in the galaxy, and if Raith had managed to get his hands on some of that without By even considering the possibility - well, it would be embarrassing.
He needed to remember as much as he could about what the books actually were before it was worth bringing the suspicions to the notice of anyone of importance (which, he would like it to be noted, did not include Lord Vorkosigan.) He'd, understandably, not been at his most observant at the time, but he did have a vague recollection of thinking that the books were strangely appropriate for what they were doing. Some kind of pornography or sex manuals? Given some of the old Emperors, he wouldn't have been entirely surprised, but that didn't fit with the general look of the books. It was the author's name, he recalled suddenly. They'd nearly all been by the same author, and the name had been something like Sexwork or Art Love or something.
With that much, a few good hours at the University's computerized reference indices got him narrowed down to only a few dozen possible authors, and only one of them fit the rest of the criteria. 'Lovecraft', it turned out, had been a legendary writer of horror fiction early in Earth's Age of Information, widely referenced in contemporary and near-contemporary literature but almost none of his works known to survive to the present day. And there was a rumor,printed in the letters column of a recent Betan literary journal, that some of them were still extant in a few copies on Barrayar, and had been favorites of Mad Emperor Yuri in his last years.
A quick check of public palace inventories listed nothing of the sort, but that meant approximately zero in terms of what was actually there, and he didn't have the clearance to check any of the more private files without special authorization. He found himself nervously chewing on a knuckle before he gave in to the inevitable, compiled together everything he had (even the dreadfully embarrassing bits) and requesting a meeting with his Impsec handler about reporting a possible theft from the Imperial Residence.
The next morning - and this time it was actually morning, and far too early after a night spent at yet another Vor party, drinking rather too much and spending a lot of time hiding in corners with the excuse that he was surreptitiously observing Raith, whom By was fairly sure had spent the evening silently laughing at him - the next morning, he found himself standing at something resembling attention across a desk from Lady Alys Vorpatril, and telling her the whole story.
She nodded grimly at him when he mentioned Thomas Raith, and said, "Yes, I've unfortunately been well aware of his activities on planet," and rolled her eyes and said "I see my son has been acting out again," when he described the hidden room, but she kindly let him gloss over exactly why they had thought it appropriate to adjourn there together in the first place, and precisely how he had been rendered insensate. When he came to the part about the missing books, however, she straightened at every joint with the intensity of a hunting dog on a scent, and said, "Did you happened to recall which books they were?"
"Not in detail, but I got enough to do some research, and I'm fairly certain that they were--"
She cut him off. "I am also aware of what books they were, Byerly. While I commend your, ah, dedication to the Empire, I am afraid that this affair is well above your security rating, and it is extremely dangerous for you to know even as much as you know."
He stared at her blankly, trying to figure out how the theft of some minor works of fiction could be that vital to Imperial Security. Sure, they were probably valuable - possibly priceless - but they hadn't sounded exactly dangerous, Mad Yuri aside.
"Ma'am?" he asked.
"And I would suggest, for you own good, that you do your best to forget that you ever heard of them," she added. "Otherwise, there's a possibility that certain people might decide they need to ensure that you've forgotten. Now, did you have anything else to report?"
Far be it from Byerly Vorrutyer not to heed good advice from his elders.
Re: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-08 00:31 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-08 02:29 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-08 11:26 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-08 11:23 (UTC) - Expanddeleted scenes?
(Anonymous) 2011-03-13 08:40 am (UTC)(link)http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=65330#cmt65330 (Dresden/Marcone D/s)
I basically wrote this fill from Harry's point of view, scrapped it, and then re-wrote it from Marcone's. Have some snippets of the original version that I thought were sort of decent.
Yeah, John Marcone still runs the show, even-- no, especially-- as a submissive.
...
"Strip-- oh, and give me the knives," I ordered him, and took a seat on the bed to watch.
The expensive suit came off, and so did the Gentleman John persona, piece by piece. Marcone laid each of his knives on the bed beside me as he removed it, and I tucked them all away in my duster pockets.
He faced me, naked. All his scars were on display, but none of his vulnerabilities. He was obedient, yeah, but still totally self-possessed. It was a habit that hung on him like iron.
I knew a couple of ways to break it.
"On your knees," I said, and he went down with Catholic smoothness. That never failed to give me a rush.
"You know what, John?" I said from my comfortable sprawl. "I know you're kneeling and naked and not talking-- good job remembering that rule, by the way-- but you fail. Wanna know why?"
He nodded, cat-neat on the floor.
I leaned over and stared directly at him, making him feel the difference in our positions. "You're still looking me in the eye."
...
I got up and went rummaging in the Drawer of Kinky Delights. "Assume the position," I quipped.
...
I hovered over him. "Are you very, very sorry and do you promise you won't do it again?" I teased. "Well, too bad."
...
John didn't make any noise, but I figured he was annoyed. Being paddled bothered him. Not in the bad, you-need-to-stop-now way-- it just embarassed him. I think he thinks it's undignified.
...
I grinned to myself and grabbed the lube, humming.
...
"Beg me," I said through my teeth.
...
Then, because I am a cruel person, I started fucking nailing him to the bed.
...
"Hold on," I said, in no better shape myself, "hold on just a little longer." And I watched him bite his lip and repeatedly force himself back from the brink, all for me, because he just wanted to be good for me--
...
John screamed himself hoarse, it seemed like. Even after he was done, he kept begging me to use him, to own him, to come in him, promising and pleading, sweet and worn out and pure Chicago.
(idk, this is sort of self-indulgent, hope somebody was turned on)
Re: deleted scenes?
(Anonymous) 2011-03-13 10:10 am (UTC)(link)...Any chance of more from these versions of Harry and John? :D
Re: deleted scenes?
(Anonymous) 2011-03-13 10:54 am (UTC)(link)http://skippyslist.com/2007/07/09/cephalopod-surprise/
also, FUCK DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.
Venture wants ALL the crossovers.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“I don’t get many Americans. Nor do I get many Luddites. Even fewer are welcomed to Mycroft’s offices. Why are you here?”
“I need a favor. And your brother owes me one. Several, in fact. He said to tell you that the time with the petunias would be considered even.”
“Ah, how tiresome. What is the nature of this favor?”
The American (2.75 meters, black hair, Caucasian, 70-80 kilograms. A runner by habit, recently come into some money but far from wealthy, perhaps superstitious or Wiccan by his pentacle. Accustomed to violence by the scarring and quite firm of heart if he could cash in Mycroft’s favor without even a hint of nerves.) held out a small wooden chest. It was hand made, of white oak (common to the American Midwest which fit his Chicago accent, crafted by a Master carpenter) and the brass hinges were inlaid with silver (more evidence in favor of occult leanings - the inlay was a pattern of ancient Norse runes). “I need you to keep this safe until I come back for it. It may be some time. And in addition to your brother’s forgiveness over the matter of the petunias, I am offering a return favor of my own. You may call upon me at your discretion, at any time after I have retrieved the box. Contacting me before then would be dangerous.”
Sherlock considered the man before him over steepled fingers. He didn’t appear to be a criminal - none of the obvious clues that Sherlock had observed pointed to a life of crime. And as favors went, the “petunia incident” was a good one to have wiped clean.
“What is your name?” he asked, “And is there anybody you wish to designate as your proxy?”
The American smiled. “Harry Dresden. And yes - if Margaret Mendoza comes to you, and she is over 15, you may give her the box. But she’s only 7 this year, and I plan to be back sooner than that.” He placed the box on the coffee table. “Thank you,” Dresden said, and he walked away.
Sherlock waited for Dresden’s footsteps to fade, and the door to slam behind him, before springing up to open the box. Curiosity, he knew, would always win in the end. Better by far to have all the data from the start.
There was a wrapped bundle inside, and a letter on top of the cloth addressed to Sherlock himself.
From everything Mycroft has said - which isn’t much - I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave it entirely alone. He is very old, and a little fragile, but if you’re bold enough to open the box you’re welcome to keep him on your mantle. Some company for your deductions?
Delicately opening the cloth, Sherlock found an ancient, dry skull and, strangely, a sensationalist romance novel. The skull seemed to fit Dresden - tall, dark, deliberately mysterious. The novel was completely unexpected.
“Well. Perhaps Dresden is more interesting than he appeared. And you... I shall call you Victor. You have precisely his zygomatic arch.”
I have no idea what the Petunia Incident was. *ponders*
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Nonetheless, while John objected to more recent human remains - such as eyeballs in the olive jar or fingers in the tea kettle - he seemed perfectly comfortable with ones that had been reduced to bone long ago. Sherlock liked him all the better for it.
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-18 08:40 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 2/??
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers.
(Anonymous) 2011-03-17 09:52 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 3/??: John Interlude
John was not, by nature, superstitious or gullible. He had spent years happily disbelieving the existence of the supernatural. That changed in Afghanistan.
John’s company had been staying in the burned out wreck of an Afghani village, just overnight on their way from Kandahar to Kabul. The soldiers had gone in first to make sure the buildings were as deserted as they appeared from a distance, before the noncombat personnel were allowed in to set up temporary bunks. When he woke to the sound of a crying child, he had thought for a brief moment that one of them had missed something.
John and three others had watched, jaws dropped, as an Afghani girl had flickered in and out of visibility. She was clearly only about six, and she ran, sobbing, from room to room. She didn’t see the soldiers or acknowledge them in any way - it was more like a staticky recording. The cycle was only about a minute long, and it repeated five times before she vanished. The company had left the next night, and the other three had dismissed the girl as the product of stress, or sleeplessness, or nightmares.
John hadn’t. And John saw more of them, everywhere he went. Mothers crying out for children, a girl who had been stoned, children with guns they could hardly carry. When John had returned to London, he had been afraid that he would keep seeing ghosts, but it stopped almost entirely. There was the occasional flicker, usually at a crime scene, but they didn’t interact with the living so they weren’t exactly useful to him.
And sometimes he heard a voice in their flat. Never when Sherlock was awake, never when Mycroft came to visit. But at 3 in the morning when when he was couldn’t sleep and though a cup of tea might help, he would hear an unintelligible murmuring in the living room. Once, he thought he saw a faint glow - but that time he had been up for 72 hours chasing after Sherlock, who had been ridiculously brilliant but also ridiculously insane. When he had gone to make sure Sherlock hadn’t gotten up again, there had been nothing in the living room that didn’t belong there.
He never told Sherlock.
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 3/??: John Interlude
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-21 19:28 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 3/??: John Interlude
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 4/??
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(Anonymous) - 2011-03-22 06:37 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 4/??
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(Anonymous) - 2011-03-28 06:33 (UTC) - ExpandVenture wants ALL the crossovers. 5/??
Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 6/??
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Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 6/??
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-29 02:26 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 6/??
DA
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-29 13:37 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DA
Re: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 6/??
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(Anonymous) - 2011-04-07 13:55 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 6/??
Re: OPEN PROMPT - Fire in the Blood
(Anonymous) 2011-03-22 08:48 am (UTC)(link)I woke to the memory of teeth holding me down. The burning sting at the base of my neck stirred me from my languor. Slowly, all my bodily aches trickled up to my brain as incomprehension dribbled away.
Languidly, I stretched until my breath hitched and I realized the main source of my discomfort. I reached behind me to confirm what my senses insisted to be true. The sticky slide of my fingers together pooled yet more evidence.
A musky scent encompassed me as I inhaled and the volcano just inches away stirred in his sleep.
Teeth, I remembered.
Holding me down.
Inside so deep.
Molten lava delving inside of me over and over. Exploding heat as I howled.
Overwhelming fullness as I was taken. Again. And again.
My magic engulfing me. The slide from Hound to Human forever contained within my blood.
The memory of teeth.
Anchoring me. Keeping me safe.
A rumbling growl as an arm tucked me closer.
“Go back to sleep,” the Hellhound murmured, nipping at my jaw.
I sank back into the fire.
Re: OPEN PROMPT - Fire in the Blood
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-22 09:01 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT - Fire in the Blood
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-29 08:25 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT - Fire in the Blood
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-22 19:04 (UTC) - ExpandRe: OPEN PROMPT - Fire in the Blood
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-29 08:28 (UTC) - ExpandBob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
Oh dear god. Right, I’ve been trying to work out how to warn for this. Suffice to say, that in this story, Bob makes use of the kind of romance novel tropes where situations involving dubious or no consent aren’t actually acknowledged as such by the text, the “no-no-no-no-OHYES” kind of narrative that can be incredibly harmful if applied to actual real life situations and sexualities, but that a lot of people like playing with in a fictional space. In other words, cracked out fictional (story within a story) dub/non con below. And terrible prose.
Typewriters are slow. Cat paws are clumsy. But there’s only so much fun you can have, as a cat. Eventually, Bob’s mind always turns to more human pursuits. The itch is always there, the fascination with human bodies, human stories... and human stories about their bodies, yowza. The problem is, the stories Bob has access to are never quite what he wants to read. They never entirely scratch that itch. His reading material is filtered through Harry’s somewhat puritan tastes, his narrow interest in the world of the flesh. Bob’s pretty sure Harry will broaden his horizons eventually (most Wizards do, filled with time and power as they are), but it’ll be a long time coming, waiting for the boy to loosen up a little, explore a little more. So, every now and again, Bob makes use of his clumsy cat paws. He writes down what he wants to read. Not easily, because story telling is a very human skill. Making things up isn’t something that comes naturally to a spirit of intellect. It’s not like finding things out, or remembering them. It’s not repeating what he knows. It’s shaping something out of nothing.
Bob can’t quite do that. But he has a framework to work from, in the books and magazines scattered around Harry’s lab. He can learn the patterns and apply them to the things, the people, he already knows.
Admittedly, Bob doesn’t keep much mortal company. But he knows Harry, watched the boy grow from a timid little apprentice into a rebellious powerhouse, knows all his moods, his terror and his rage, his curiosity, his affection. Bob has never been liked by a master before, but then he had never been Bob before either. It was novel. Interesting. And Bob also knows, or knows of, several of Harry’s acquaintances.
Bob thinks his little hobby is one of those things that mortals might frown on, that Harry would frown on. But bashing at the typewriter with cat paws, throwing Harry Dresden into the stories that interest Bob most, somehow transforms them into stories that interest him more. But still, it’s not like Harry could really be mad. Because this ink and paper version isn’t exactly Harry. Harry wouldn’t do the things Bob writes about, react in the ways Bob makes him, but he could, if the world were slightly different. If Harry was slightly older. Less guarded. Well, mostly. The books Bob likes feature a lot of ladies shirking from pleasure until some strapping fellow gets persuasive about it, and Harry... well, he’s is a shirker. He needs a little persuasion before he’ll agree to enjoy himself. Maybe not to this extent but, well... it’s fun.
Bob looks down at his draft.
“Never, Marcone! I will never come to your bed. I swear it.” Harry’s chest heaved as he stared across the desk dividing him from John Marcone, the man who ran Chicago.
“Well, over a desk or up against a wall could work, I suppose. If you have an objection to comfort.”
“You bastard! You can’t! I won’t!”
“Then you can face your enemies alone, Dresden. You can take your chances on their mercy, rather than my own.”
Harry groaned, struck by the horror of his impossible situation. John Marcone was a criminal, and one who knew what he wanted. Which had always, always been Harry. Years of turning down the man’s gifts and invitations had led to this. A request for aid and an ultimatum.
“This isn’t mercy, Marcone. The monsters I’m fighting aren’t trying to take- take this from me.”
“Oh, Harry.” Marcone said, shaking his head. “Truly? I hadn’t realised that was the sticking point. You’ve never been bedded before?”
Harry was quick to blush, always had been, and he could feel the warmth creeping across his cheeks then, betraying his embarrassment. “That’s none of your business!”
“It’s the business at hand. I‘d make sure you enjoyed yourself, of course. I’d be as attentive a lover as any you could hope for.”
“I don’t want a lover!”
“So you’ve said. In which case, we really must wrap this up. I have other matters to attend to.”
Harry’s final hope of salvation was almost out of his grip. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and choked out words he never thought he’d say. “Fine. Help me, Marcone, and I’ll give you what you want. But... only, only after, and you have to promise not to hurt me.”
“A small amount of discomfort it to be expected, particularly the first time. But I swear to make sure its the last thing on you mind.”
Bob always gets interrupted when he gets to the good parts. Not the battle scene, obviously, he was going to skip straight over that. It was the reluctant-virgin-transformed-to-shameless-wanton he’d been looking forward to. Instead, the trap door flies open and Bob abandons Mister, diving back into the refuge of his skull.
It’s the apprentice, Harry’s first, and naturally he’d picked one with an aptitude for forbidden magics. It made sense, considering Harry’s lineage. It was always best for like to teach like. The girl stares at the cat, who stretches out and paws at the type writer.
“Again?” she says. “Aren’t there supposed to be an infinite number of you for this to happen?” She reaches down and plucks the paper from the machine.
“Hey, your grammar got better. But Marcone, again? You ever want to mix it up a little?”
Bob could take offense at that, because he does, sometimes. He’d written abut Harry questing with that carpenter Knight of the Cross, their steamy adventures across lost continents. It’s probably lucky the apprentice never interrupted him then. Humans are odd about blood ties and sexual activity. She keeps reading, a smirk on her face.
“Wow. You know, if Marcone ever tried to pull this shit, Harry would set his ass on fire faster than you could blink.” Bob knows that. Bob has also discovered a fascinating little phrase called creative licence, and he enjoys it to the full. “Not a bad set up, though,” she mutters. The girl sets the paper down, and then scritched Mister’s ears. “You taking requests, big man? How about... mmm... Harry with Carlos? He could rescue him from a monster maybe. A dragon? And then sweep him off to someplace in the Nevernever. Like, a secret lovenest. And teach him everything. Magic, and screwing- maybe both at once? That’d be pretty cool.”
Hmmm. Maybe. Bob makes a note for future reference. But he wants to finish this project first. The apprentice bangs around, makes a couple of atrocious attempts at evocations that have Bob wishing he were permitted to address her, and then leaves. The cat has long since abandoned him, so Bob is forced to posses the typewriter directly. It’s harder to manipulate something with no sense of its self as a whole, but he was on a roll, he’ll get by.
Harry clutched the bathrobe around himself and curled up tightly on the bed, eyeing Marcone where he lounged across the sheets, looking like a lazy cat, too smug to quite work up the effort to pounce. But it was only a matter of time.
“Take your robe off sweetheart. Get comfortable.”
“Don’t call me that, scumbag.”
“I can call you what I want, Harry.”
He could, and there were worse words that applied to a man who sold his body for protection. Harry unfastened his robe with shaking hands. “You said you’d be gentle.”
“Like you’re made of glass, Harry. Don’t worry yourself.”
Harry couldn’t help it. He was about to surrender to John Marcone, surrender the only thing he could never take back. He stripped himself of the shelter of his robe and then lay naked under Marcone’s avaricious gaze. The man reached out, brushing his fingers across Harry’s mouth. “Mine.”
It took everything Harry had not to flinch. He was a man of his word, and he’d promised Marcone this. But still. He closed his eyes. Marcone moved unseen, and then a kiss brushed across his lips. “Open up to me sweetheart.” Harry parted his lips obediently and sighed. Marcone was good at this, apparently had the skills to make good on his promises.
“Good boy,” Marcone murmured. “Just like that.”
Marcone worked a thigh between Harry’s legs, and Harry had an idea of what was expected of him here. He spread them, leaving Marcone room to settle over him, to rub his thick hard cock against Harry’s own. Harry shivered, not used to being touched down there. His cock was responding to Marcone’s arousal, growing hard between the press of their bodies. Marcone was so strong, Harry thought he could go on for ever like this, rubbing against him until they both came. Marcone nudged at Harry’s jaw gently, tipping his head back, and then set his teeth against Harry’s neck. Harry whimpered and clutched at the sheets. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Only a very little,” Marcone purred, and bit down gently.
“AH!” Harry’s hips thrust up shamelessly, he spread his legs further and wrapped one behind Marcone, tugging him in closer, tighter. “Oh! Oh! Please.”
“There we go,” Marcone smiled, and returned to worry at his mark on Harry’s neck. “I’d keep you if I could Harry, I’d make you beg every night for my cock. I’d teach you some manners or leave you desperate.”
“Please!” Harry gasped. “Anything.”
Marcone laughed darkly. “I promised to be careful with you sweetheart, so I won’t take you at your word.”
Harry didn’t care. There were good reasons not to want this, him, but there and then the whole world consisted of John Marcone’s powerful body moving against his own. Marcone pulled away to retrieve something and Harry thought he might die, separated from the source of all his pleasure.
“John!” he said, and then cursed himself for losing that last barrier between them. He’d never be that scumbag again.
“I’ve got you,” John promised, and then he did. His fingers were slick, sliding past Harry’s aching cock, his tight balls, to touch him where no-one ever had. He slid a finger inside and Harry clamped down on it, no longer able to breathe because he had a man inside him.
“Been saving this for me, Harry?” John asked, easing in and out with one clever finger. “Well I’m here now, relax.”
Harry tried to as John worked another finger inside of him. “God. Oh godohgod! More, I need- I don’t care if it hurts.”
“I care,” John told him, and then shifted his fingers inside Harry, like he was beckoning. It felt like magic, and Harry reached up to grab at John’s shoulders, scrabbling for purchase, like John could hold Harry up when he was drowning in pleasure.
“Oh!”
“Good boy. It makes me even harder Harry, seeing you like this. Clinging. Desperate.”
“Oh please!” Marcone does please, and he
“Wake up Bob! I need to know what kind of nasty would- Bob?” his master’s voice trails to a halt, and Bob kind of wishes he was in Mister. The beast isn’t exactly cute, but being able to turn wide eyed cat eyes on a human has its advantages. Typewriters aren’t quite so emotive. “Hey, did you get started on that copy of the Accords I wanted? Lemme see.”
“Uh, boss, I don’t think that’s a good- ”
“MARCONE? What- I- Bob? What the hell is this?”
It’s Bob’s job, to know all the answers. It’s what Bob is. But he’s not sure he knows the answer to that one.
Re: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
Re: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
Re: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
Re: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-26 04:05 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-26 04:18 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-26 17:30 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Bob's RPF 1/1 (aka, meme, I'm so sorry *hides*)
Android!Harry 1/?
Ripped off fromInspired by Janelle Monae's Metropolis Suites, particularly, the "Many Moons" music video. Someone suggested Android!Dresden and Crime Boss!Marcone. I love me some cyberpunk and sci-fi, so why now.The announcement came over the Metropolis system early in the neon-lit morning. "Gooood morning, cyboys and cybergirls! I'm happy to announce we have a new star-crossed winner in today's Heart-Break Sweepstakes! Android number 57821, otherwise known as Harry Dresden, has fallen in love with a human named Elaine Mallory. Aaaand you know the rules! He is now scheduled for immediate disassembly!
Bounty hunters, you can find him in the Neon Valley Street District at the Leopard Plaza. The Droid Control Marshall's full of fun rules today! No phasers! Only chainsaws and electro-daggers!
Remember only card-carrying hunters can join our chase today. And as usual, there will be no reward until his cyber-soul is turned in to the Star Commission.
Happy hunting!"
Whoever owned the genetic material before it was used to make 57821, they had long legs. It made it easier to run. Unlike 53845, Murphy. Murphy didn't get far when she ran. After they caught her, she regaled Harry with how much better she felt after they cured her of that whole love thing.
But then again, Murphy had fallen in love again after that. So Harry thought there must have been something to it. Androids didn't tend to seek out pain. They got plenty of that in their day to day. Being in love must've been something special, he thought, if droids were going around, risking disassembly like that.
Now that he'd been in love, now that his ones and zeros lined up to you are a colossal idiot, he still didn't understand. Elaine was a viral infection, spreading through his data processes until he could barely function. Maybe there was a reason droids weren't supposed to be in love. A machine couldn't handle that much stupidity.
Harry knew all this. He did. Yet he ran anyway, even though it'd only make things worse. The hunters on his heels, adrenaline surging through them until they were overclocked and perfect like their mechanical servants.
Long spindly legs made long spindly targets. An electro-dagger caught him below the knee, the surge radiating out until the circuitry fried and his leg collapsed out from under him.
They got his chestplate off and worked the pliers around his power core. He was caught and defeated but for some unknown reason, Harry trashed and fought as they worked the core out of its slot, screaming and calling for Elaine until the generator slid free and his body went still.
Complete disassembly was out of the question. He was the Alpha for the new Platinum 9000 series. They wrote this Incident off as a glitch in his programming, which they were still fine-tuning. "New genetic material," Lady Lea told the Star Commission when she showed up to bail him out. "Always tricky to weed out the unwanted processes. He'll be so worth the trouble in the end, the sweet. You should come to the auction this year. It'll be magical."
They took him home to the Winter Luxury Droid Court and laid him over Lea's lap. His cheek pressed against her leg, the silk of her dress not quite right. His sensors were still in the red after that electo-dagger slice, the effects shivering through his wiring. Lea pet his hair and hooked up her tablet to his body. "My sweet, why do you do this to us?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
"We just want to make you a top of the line android. People will pay six figures just to get a generic brand of you. You, sweet, you're going to go for eight, maybe nine." She tapped away at his history logs, and he felt despair for a moment as she sought out Elaine's image and voice and sensory data and went about hard deleting it from his memory.
Then she was gone and Harry relaxed, feeling like himself again. "I'm sorry, Lea."
"I know you are. It's okay. We shouldn't have tackled your impulse control so early, it sent everything else flying out of control." She tutted under her breath and played with his hair some more, like a beloved pet. "We'll get it right this time. You'll be stable, we'll get you out of Alpha and into Beta, and, oh, the auction!" She patted his bare shoulders, above where the wires of her tablet fed into him. "Everyone is coming to see what you can do, sweet. You'll be wonderful!"
Harry nodded and laid his head back down, letting himself drop into sleep mode as Lea did her work.
Re: Android!Harry 1/?
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-27 17:19 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Android!Harry 1/?
Re: Android!Harry 1/?
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-27 21:12 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Android!Harry 1/?
Android!Harry 2/?
Re: Android!Harry 2/?
Android!Harry 3/3
Re: Android!Harry 3/3
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Re: Android!Harry 3/3
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-28 13:15 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Android!Harry 3/3
(Anonymous) - 2011-03-29 05:12 (UTC) - ExpandMs. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
(Anonymous) 2011-03-28 08:56 pm (UTC)(link)I sort of knew about her before. I mean, there's rumours, right? And it's not the kind of thing I listen to, but Bob read anything he could get his metaphorical hands on, the trashier the better, which included the kinds of tabloid with headlines like "Mafia Madame walks after 15m private session with judge!" Whenever my job brought me into contact with ladies of the evening, (which happens to me, professionally, more than you might think) Bob wanted to know if I'd run into "The Mrs. I hear she's quite the looker. C'mon, you'd tell me if you did, right, Boss?"
That was apparently what they called her: "The Mafia Mrs," like she was married to the mob. Later on, I found out calling her that was a bad idea, but that came later.
Anyway, it started out as a find-it job, a guy who came to me looking for his great-uncle's accounting records, lost since he died. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that it wasn't his great-uncle, and the kid was one of several dozen wise guys scrambling to find some documents, "insurance," that a deceased consigliere had stashed with his mistress. Everyone had known about his insurance, and, word was, his insurance was keeping him pretty safe, except that he died in a traffic accident, and no one knew who his mistress was. In the frantic search, someone finally got desperate enough to think of giving me a try. I would have handed the whole thing over without realizing what I was doing, except that when I tracked down the papers (using the deceased's fountain pen) I found out that the reason no one knew who the mistress was was because the mistress was a mister, and the kid was scared out of his mind and hiding out in a twenty-four hour laundromat.
I barely had time to figure out how badly I'd been lied to when the laundromat was suddenly full of large men in suits. "Out," said one of 'em who shaved his head to conceal his receding hairline, who I mentally named 'Curly'. The half-dozen people waiting for their spin-cycles skedaddled. I stayed, since the kid was practically my client, or would have been, if we'd been able to talk long enough for me to make him understand who I was.
"You too," Curly said, when the laundromat had emptied and I hadn't moved.
"I know how it is; I leave here and you're stealing my delicates. You can't trick me," I told him. He and my client both looked at me like I was nuts. I like it when they underestimate me, but my client's lack of faith was a little bit hurtful. What, I can't have feelings?
Curly shrugged. The thugs started opening up the dryers and washing machines that were still spinning. At first I thought they were looking for the insurance in the stupidest possible place, but as the clamour of the laundromat wound down, a large black SUV pulled to a stop, and out got a man who I didn't recognize, but had the sudden unshakeable conviction was Tony Vargassi. A tiny voice pointed out to me that the kid had not actually paid me a retainer, and it might be a good idea to take my lacy unmentionables and depart.
I told the tiny voice that my unmentionables were not lacy, thank you very much.
The laundromat was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, when Tony Vargassi walked in the door.
Vargassi looked between me and my client and scowled. "Which one is Torrio's butt-boy?" he asked Curly, who was apparently the designated talker for the group. I had the brief thought that I could try taking the heat for my client, but Curly nodded at him before I could claim to be Spartacus. My client seemed to shrink under the force of Vargassi's glare.
I want you to know, I was putting together a plan, (or, at least, I was trying to think of a plan) but even a wizard has problems with approximately two-dozen armed men.
"You're in a fuckload of trouble, you little faggot," said Vargassi, when he was interrupted a click.
Take it from me, it takes a hell of a click to interrupt a guy with twenty armed men at his back, and this wasn't the click of a firearm, but rather the click of a woman's shoe. But she made it seem like the hammer of a revolver being cocked. There was a pause, while everyone turned to look.
I've seen white court vampires wield sex appeal like a bludgeon before, but I never knew mortal women could do it until Marcone walked into that laundromat like it was her goddamn boudoir. I don't quite know how to describe it. It was nothing overt; she was dressed like maybe someone's executive assistant, a black skirt of the sort that looked like it might be tricky to walk in, but it went past her knees, and a white blouse that closed at the throat. It should have looked like a piano teacher, but it looked like Lauren Bacall if she were a brunette. As soon as she had the attention of everyone in the room, she fired off her heels again, tack! tack! tack! and approached Vargassi as if he was the only one she saw.
"Mr. Vargassi. I hope our agreement has not changed?" she asked, sounding like a knife tearing through wet silk. It wasn't just me, either; Vargassi looked slightly dazed as well.
"I don't--" started Vargassi, but his voice sagged to a stop when she started talking again.
"Because I believe our original agreement was that if you had trouble with one of my employees you would come to me."
Vargassi seemed to regain his faculties. I felt a little bit of sympathy for him, although I pretty much lost it when he started talking. "Are you saying the faggot is one of your girls?"
She looked pissed, but, like, in a sexy way. "Mr Ferdinand is a professional, working in Chicago. That makes him one of mine."
"Wait a second," said Vargassi, "You knew Torrio was a fag, and you never mentioned it to me?"
"The sexual predilections of your employees are outside of our agreement," said Lauren Bacall. "If you wish to renegotiate, I am at your disposal, of course. Although perhaps not here." Her gaze flicked around the laundromat as if she was only acknowledging its existence under duress.
I kinda wished I had popcorn.
Vargassi visibly recalled the reason he was standing in a laundromat with two dozen thugs with guns. "Your butt-boy is holding onto some things which he shouldn't know about."
Ms. Bacall lowered her eyes momentarily in acknowledgement. "I'll contact you within the hour with their location. Mr Ferdinand, Mr Dresden?" and she spun on her heel and tack! tack! tack!-ed her way out the door.
I was half-way out the door myself before I realized what I was doing. In case you're wondering how she knew my name, let me tell you, I was wondering too. When I say I ran into some ladies of the night in a professional capacity, I mean in the capacity of my profession, not theirs. (Although one of 'em had enquired as to whether she could pay my bill with an exchange of services, I had been forced to explain that I did not think that would help me with getting my phone reconnected. She said she bet she could, but I had held out for cash, despite what Bob called me afterwards.)
So I was starting to guess who Ms. Bacall was, but I still didn't see how she knew who I was. And I hadn't a clue why I was following her out of a laundromat, except that I didn't really want to hang out with Curly and his friends, and didn't think I'd get another exit-line that good.
She walked out to where she was triple parked, after the goons, and Vargassi, and a red-headed line-backer held open the back-seat of a land-yacht. She folded herself smoothly in, Mr. Ferdinand followed, and so help me, so did I.
Inside, it was set up so the passengers could face each other, and I had the terrible suspicion that the vehicle had been used for sordid purposes in the past. I had just gotten around to feeling mighty uncomfortable in this carriage of sin with two ladies/gentlemen of negotiable virtue, when Ms. Bacall suddenly said, in a totally different voice, and in fact, a different accent, "And that, Jimmy, is an example of the sort of thing that does't happen when you keep me in the loop." She pulled off her pearl earrings, and I gaped, realizing that they were't even real: they were clip-ons. It was like seeing the back-side of a painted set piece. The sex appeal was switched off like it hadn't even been there, and she looked like a business woman annoyed at getting frappuccino when she'd ordered a latte.
Jimmy (he really didn't look like a Jimmy) covered his face with his hands, and sounded badly shaken. "Sorry ma'am," he plead, sounding very sincere. "I didn't think it was important. I thought it was, like, presents for his grand-kids, or maybe a nice kiss-off for me, or something. He just said I should hold on to it, and take a look at it if anything happened, he never said it was-- you know."
"You'll make it up to me," she told him, and I wasn't sure how exactly she meant that. Jimmy didn't look like he thought it would be fun for him personally, but he didn't look scared, so I put it down under 'man was not meant to know.'
"Mr Dresden," she said to me, as if we'd just met while lined up at a Starbucks, "I'm pleased to meet your acquaintance at last. Where can I drop you off?"
"Lady," I said, in my incredibly suave way, "Who the hell are you?"
"Genevieve Marcone," she said, and held her hand out to be shook. "I've heard of you from various of my people."
I looked at her hand, and wasn't sure if I should shake it. Not because I thought she had cooties, or anything, just, well. It kind of felt like I might be agreeing to something, and I had no idea what. Her face got a little pinched as I hesitated, but her smile stayed, even if it started looking a bit forced.
I felt like a heel, so I took her hand, and gave it a single pump.
"Harry Dresden," I said. "Always pleased to be able to help a lady."
Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
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