dresden_kink | Ghost Story Prompts and meta

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Ghost Story Prompts and meta

The Ghost Story spoiler period is expired; prompts, meta, discussion, etc. including Ghost Story spoilers can take place in the regular pages, but please consider your fellow fans, and continue to warn for spoilers. You can continue to use this post if you would like.

Change of plans, folks. Given the fact that Ghost Story spoilers are supposedly already floating around the web and the fact that there's an early limited release at Comic Con this weekend, we're going to start a Ghost Story specific post.

All GS related prompts, fills, discussion and meta go here so as to not spoil your fellow fans (at least the ones that don't want to be :D). All fills should follow posting guidelines, with the exception of GS meta going to the meta/discussion post. Questions? Ask the mods.

Flat view: http://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/2520.html?view=flat

In case it needs to be said. All comments to this post are read at the risk of spoilers.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Exactly! Even Marcone is objecting to it. I stink at writing these script like fics obviously because I need to many discriptor words. ^^ OH NO that makes me sound like I need to discribe every leaf!

Harry: *shakes himself* No that's not...He's more like a Tiger
Murphy: *grins* Oh you have no idea...
Harry: Huh what?
Murphy: He is like a tiger *pulls Dresden towards her with her hand* In. Bed.
Harry: *trips backwards into Marcone, who catches him with grace of course*
Marcone: *chuckles* Now, now Miss Murphy, if Mr. Dresden does not want me here I can leave
Harry: I Never Said THAT!
Murphy & Marcone: *Blink*
Harry: No not that, Oh God. I meant the you know. *stammers* I mean the In Bed part, I never said that! *blushes* The leaving part is um uh *even redder*

Aah, but I enjoy these. It gives proper authors some leeway in filling them in as they see fit. <3 I do so love being a bunny breeder~

Harry: You know what? I GIVE UP. *sulks*
Murphy: *is shaking with laughter* *isn't giggling, really*
Marcone: *still trying to recover from the mental whiplash Harry caused* So, which is it?
Murphy: *arches an eyebrow* Gee, I don't know Mr Pretty-eyes.
Harry: Murphy! I didn't say that!
Murphy: I never said you did. *wider grin* Pretty defensive there, aren't you? *to Marcone* See what I mean?
Marcone: I'm beginning to, yes.

This Anon had to do that whole drive home from work bit.

Murphy: Took you long enough *traps Harry between them*
Harry: *squeaky noises and tries to duck out of the way*
Marcone: *slides a hand to Harry's waist keeping him there* It was just a little shocking *other hand cups Murphy's cheek while he bends to kiss her*
Harry: *makes nonsense noises*
Murphy: *pushes herself into Dresden to get to Marcone*

's okay, I've been attempting to salvage my sourdough bread. ;__; It's not rising much at all, so I think it's a dud. Even adding some extra yeast and water hasn't helped. Think the yeast I had on hand was dead as well. Woe.

Marcone: *lets the hand around Dresden wander a bit*
Harry: *is a bit distracted by watching the two kiss* *squeaks as Marcone's hand goes where no man's hand has gone before (other than his own)*
Murphy: *the kiss breaks as she laughs* I had no idea he could make that noise!
Marcone: I assume nothing about Harry, as more often than not he proves otherwise.
Harry: *is obviously attempting gather his scattered thoughts and debating ways to remove the arm* I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted there...

Oh jeeze I should be cooking chicken right now. Don't tell.

Murphy: *lets out a huff of air* Men! *dramatic eye roll and grabs Harry's head to kiss him*
Marcone: *moves the hand from Karrin's cheek to her neck and leans into Harry to watch nearly purring with contentment*
Harry: *meeps and tries to retreat, but Karrin keeps him there*
Macone: *licks a stripe from Harry shoulder up to his ear*
Harry: Nnnngghhhh

Yeah, the bread was a loss. Makes me sad, I love fresh bread. ;__; But now, we delve into porn!

Marcone: *takes advantage of the fact that Harry's bent over like that to lick up his spine next* If you are truly against this Harry, now would be the time to say something. *keeps his hands above the belt for now*
Harry: ... John? You talk too much. *sounds a bit breathless*
Murphy: *smug little grin* Oh goody.
Harry: .. suddenly, I am filled with unease.

Fresh bread is delicious! (Still refusing to cook the chicken)

Murphy: Nope, no backing out now Dresden *Murphy kisses him lightly obviously delighted* Now kiss
Harry: But...we just were? *confused Harry is confused*
Marcone: *sighs* Oh Harry *Marcone lets go of Karrin and turns Harry's head*
Harry: *eyes go wide and opens his mouth to object right he was going to object*
Marcone: *takes total advantage of the situation and sticks his tongue down the wizards throat*
Harry: *makes embarassing noises*

I know~ e.e So obviously I'm going to have to go get some fresh yeast from the store and try again. (It's still in the fridge, right?)

*facepalms* And I just now noticed that I wasn't anon at one of the posts up top. Oh well! *has no shame*

Murphy: *takes advantage of the fact that they're distracted with each other to loosen up clothing on everyone, if not get rid of it entirely*
Marcone: *helps her with Dresden's clothing, while investigating Harry's tonsils*
Murphy: *is the first to discover that Harry is, in fact, proportional to the rest of his body* ... it seems your blasting stick is advertisement rather than compensation.
Harry: *can't stop the laughter*
Marcone: *groans a bit at the punny* Really, was that necessary?

.... horrible thought. Thomas bursting in so he can defend his brother's honor. XDD That could go wrong in so many ways, especially as only Murphy knows that Thomas and Harry are related for sure.

Cross!Marcone? This sounds like something I should know. Link if possible?

Cross, by LightGetsIn. Enjoy the awesome.

During a meeting with someone from the Paranet or just a random psychic, Marcone receives a report on another mess of Dresden's and makes a comment about his suicidal tendencies. The psychic automatically reponds no, that is next year.
Prompt is set a year before Changes. Marcone has a year to find out what breaks Dresden and to figure out how to stop it.

Oooh. Yes!

... oh. Oh yes. This.. this one hurts so good. <3

So it's canon that Lea has very different ideas about appropriate training of an apprentice than Harry does.

Molly/Lea, or if you can figure out a way to make it plausible Molly/Maeve (which would be like the prettiest thing ever omg but until GS I didn't think could be possibly pulled off without it wandering into creepy noncon territory). (I would prefer it not be outright noncon. dubcon on account of mental instability and faerie glamour is fine as long as Molly believes herself to be fully consenting and enjoys it?)

http://www.delicious.com/dresdenkink.ghoststory

Still in its first stages. Anyone here with more knowledge of Ghost Story than I do, and willing to take care of it? Please email me at dresdenkinkmeme@yahoo.com . We can negotiate your contract.

Outfit members lurking here, please avoid Hong Kong for the time being. Boss acquired a riverboat casino in Macau last weekend. We spent the day dodging angry members of HK Triads. And Fei Long, if you are here, jsyk you have split ends. :D

Ok, yeah, I kind of really want to see this. Partly because Julianne Moore is my mental image of Lea.

The Adventures of Maggie Mendoza, Wizardess Extraodinaire, Harry Carpenter, The Knight of God, and Mouse, the Amazing Dogasaurus. Together they fight ~~crime~~ Evil Monsters!

(To be clear, Little Maggie, Little Harry and Mouse playing pretend.)

So Cute~! ^___^

Second!

NEW ADDITIONS TO HEADER:
Dubcon: Sex. Violence. Violent sex. Consensual, but not necessarily safe, certainly not sane, and oh dear lord not negotiated.
*********************************************
When I woke up the morning afterwards, Marcone was gone. He'd left a note on the table that just said, I'll be in touch. My own clothes were in a neat stack just inside the door. When I poked my head out, I'd been met by a polite, professional, and heavily armed lackey, who asked nicely if I wanted any breakfast. I told him where he could shove his breakfast, he nodded like he'd expected that, offered some coffee and ibuprofen, which I accepted, and sent me on my way.

I didn't hear a peep from Marcone for a few days. I had more than enough on my hands, of course. The informal self-defense classes I was holding for the local occult community, in borrowed spaces in this gym and that dojo and occasionally someone's basement or rec room. Keeping up with the Paranet. Keeping my ear open for any new threats to take out.

It was almost enough to make me forget that I'd just slept with the biggest criminal in the city.

I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that. A few years ago, I'd have been flat-out horrified at the thought. But lately... We'd been behaving as allies. We'd been working together. Together, we'd taken down one threat after another to the safety of the citizens of Chicago. And no matter how good my intentions, no matter how necessary, no matter how many lives it had saved, for the past two months I'd been helping John Marcone commit and conceal murder in an effort to protect his territory. Having meaningless sex with him seemed like a pretty minor assault on my integrity, in comparison.

At least, I was pretty sure it was meaningless to him, too. The whole not-calling thing was a pretty good indicator. All things considered, the radio silence was probably a good sign- the last thing I needed was a mob boss gone obsessive stalker on me. But it would have been nice to have some indication that we were on the same wavelength. That he didn't see my using him to get off as some sort of capitulation to him, or a victory he'd won over me.

I tried not to care. It made no sense that I'd care. It had been a stupid idea, borne out of liquor and misery, and we were both better off forgetting it had happened. At least, that's what I told myself.

When I did hear from him, it was through the same fresh-faced minion that had brought me coffee. The minion, who wasn't named Earnest but should have been, was lurking politely outside the gym where I was teaching, and courteously accosted me when I left.

"Ms. Murphy," he greeted me.

I walked past him. He followed me. "You know," I said, "there's this nifty invention called a telephone. Your boss may have heard of it."

"Lines have been compromised lately, Ma'am," he said. "That's one of the items on the agenda."

I stopped and turned to face him. "What agenda?" I asked.

Undaunted in the face of my naked hostility, not-Earnest said, "My employer requests your presence at a meeting this afternoon, ma'am." He reminded me of a cross between a customer service representative and a golden retriever. I resisted the urge to tousle his hair and throw a stick for him to chase.

"Tough," I said. "I've got plans." It was true- I had some things to ask Bob, and planning to do with Butters.

"We're aware," not-Earnest said. "As it happens, Mr. Butters will also be in attendance. My associates have already arranged the matter with him."

I frowned, and pulled out my cellphone. "Mind if I check on that with him?" I said. It's not paranoia when there are real-live shapeshifters trying to lure you into traps on a regular basis.

"That's fine, ma'am," he said. "Though the current guidelines for telephone protocol suggest-"

"No names, no specifics, yeah, got it," I said, and dialed.

I quickly confirmed not-Earnest's story with Butters, gently admonished him to stop letting criminal scum push him around, and arranged to meet him privately at work that evening. This accomplished, I hung up and addressed not-Earnest.

"If you think I'm getting into that car with you, you're out of your mind," I said.

He nodded affably. "No, ma'am. Meeting's not until two pm. Here." He handed me a folded slip of paper. "The address. Excuse me, ma'am."

"Wait," I said as he turned to go.

"Ma'am?"

"I've got a message for your employer."

He nodded and pulled out a notebook and pen.

"Tell him," I said, "that he is a grade-A asshole, and if he doesn't have a pretty damn compelling reason he hasn't called me before now, and bugged lines don't fucking count, I will punch him in the face."

Not-Earnest closed the notebook and replaced it. "Ma'am," he said sincerely, "I don't care if it makes me a coward; you're going to have to tell him that yourself."

***

The address turned out to be a little grocery store, larger than a convenience store and smaller than a supermarket. Signs in the windows proclaimed "Shop local. Support your local economy." And your local crime lord, apparently.

Not-Earnest met me outside- what was he, my handler or something? The teenage girl at the checkout counter nodded warily at us as we walked towards a door marked "employees only." We eventually arrived at some sort of meeting room, a shabby, industrial sort of place, cinderblocks painted a characterless shade of off-white just dark enough to look perpetually filthy in the cheap fluorescent lighting. No windows. The walls were covered with motivational posters and charts of the store's profits. I wondered how much of a cut Marcone took.

I'd say Marcone sat at the head of the table, flimsy laminate with wobbly fold-out legs, but it was round, probably to fend off exactly that accusation. His presence, though, was entirely that of the man in charge. Hendricks loomed behind him. I glanced at the others present. Abby, my main contact with the Paranet. Marci, representing the Alphas. Waldo Butters. Father Forthill.

Molly.

"Karrin," Marcone said genially to me as I walked in.

"Hi," I said, possibly a little testily.

"I'm glad you could make it," he said, casually, as if three days ago he hadn't had his cock in me.

"We need to talk," I said. "Alone."

He nodded, unmoved. "Afterwards?"

"Fine." I pulled out a chair next to Butters, and sat. I nodded at Abby and Forthill. "Hi Marci. How's Georgia?" I asked.

"Ready to pop any day now," Marci said, with a small smile. "Will won't leave her side for anything less than a major emergency."

And who could blame him? Any first-time father would be nervous. Let alone one who's wife had been kidnapped while seven months pregnant.

I cast a surreptitious eye at Molly. It was impressive that Marcone had managed to get her there. Since the White Council began looking for her, she'd been hard for anyone to track down, popping up unexpectedly and then literally vanishing into thin air. I didn't know where she'd been staying lately, but it wasn't good for her. Her eyes were hollow and sunken, her face hard, hair stringy, a faded, sickly green that had been brilliant blue a few weeks ago. In deference to the weather, she'd traded her torn fishnets and stylishly mangled t-shirts in for layers and layers of clothing, one sweatshirt over another, long skirts over ripped jeans.

I'd say she looked like a homeless person, but the simile there was probably unnecessary.

Marcone, in his irritatingly efficient way, led us through the issues he wanted to discuss while maintaining the polite fiction that we were being nice and egalitarian and democratic about it. The telephone situation was, as I suspected, no worse than we should have been assuming anyway. It was disturbing to have confirmation that the Fomor had somehow infiltrated the FBI, but we'd had our suspicions for awhile anyway. Marcone's lawyers were working on getting the identified wiretaps declared illegal, but that game was like dealing with a cockroach problem by squishing the ones you saw.

And then he brought up the real reason he'd brought us all together.

Over and over, these past weeks, we'd run into a problem: secure space. We didn't have enough of it. Mac's was a great place to negotiate with, say, the White Court, but no place to strategize. Marcone had space enough, but a lot of the people who formed what we had taken to calling the Chicago Alliance were understandably reluctant to publicly associate themselves with him- thus the meeting in somewhere not widely known to be under his control. We scrounged for space, Paranet members putting up travelers and allies in their homes. Inevitably, when we discussed ways of making this easier, someone would bring up the idea of a dedicated building, a sort of headquarters.

I guess it was inevitable that Marcone had decided to actually do it.

What was surprising was when he told us where he had decided to build.

The clamor was instantaneous.

"-can't just waltz in and build over-"

"-going to kill you when he finds out-"

"-what do you think you're playing at, you arrogant-"

He sat there, impassive, while we all told him exactly what kind of prick he was. When the lights began flickering, he cleared his throat. "If I may continue?"

We shut up. Molly took deep, visible breaths, willing herself back down into calmness, or at least not blow-the-lights-out agitation. That, I realized, was troubling. For whatever reasons, Molly usually didn't have nearly as strong an effect on technology as Harry did- generally, things around her didn't stop working unless she was actually throwing magic around, which is part of why the Carpenter household continued to offer such amenities as electricity and hot water.

Maybe she'd been getting stronger recently. But maybe she was getting more emotionally unstable. Or both. That could be a problem. Just one more thing I needed Bob's opinion on.

"Thank you," Marcone said into the silence. "I... appreciate your concerns regarding my choice of location. But please consider: someone else would have built there if I hadn't. I preferred to think that what rose on that site would be a fitting tribute to the man Dresden was."

Molly's eyes went wide. "You're building a memorial," she said.

Marcone inclined his head. "I suppose you could call it that, yes."

Molly shook her head. "You are so fucked up."

Butters frowned. "I hate to mention it, but did you say construction has already started?"

Marcone nodded. "I thought it best to work quickly."

"But you didn't tell us until today," Butters said. "Why?"

I snorted. "Because he's a supercilious bastard who likes playing headgames."

Marcone looked at me, eyes softened and hurt. "Karrin, please," he said, like a husband who was sure those accusations his wife was throwing at him were the product of hormones and feminine emotions rather than anything resembling reality.

Not that I was still bitter about Rick or anything.

"Got a better answer?" I asked.

He didn't answer. Instead, he returned to his matter-of-fact, businesslike demeanor and opened his briefcase. "Here are the architectural plans in their current iteration. Please note that as construction has only reached the stage of excavation and building the foundation, there is still time for moderate changes, particularly as regards interior layout and magical protections." He passed around the thick, stapled stacks of photocopies.

I flipped through the plans. They were... impressive. Practically a fortress. Solid stone construction, bars on the windows- iron, of course. Layout designed for maximum defensibility. Electric systems shielded from stray magical energy, and low-tech backup for everything- kerosene wall lamps and woodstoves everywhere. The fire suppression system was specifically designed to work as a magic suppression system as well. Looked to me like he'd thought of everything.

"Do you seriously expect us to base ourself out of an Outfit-owned building?" Marci said. "I can't speak for anyone else, but the Alphas aren't here to be an arm of your personal army."

"I have plans in that regard as well," Marcone said, handing around more photocopies. "Legally, the building will be owned by a non-profit organization, dedicated to the education and well-being of the Chicago occult community. Funding will come from an independent foundation. I will, of course, take the usual precautions to obfuscate the ultimate source of the initial endowment."

"Independent foundation, huh?" I said. Why did I think he'd find some way to keep the puppet strings attached?

"Think of it as a show of good faith," Marcone said with a winning smile worthy of the sleaziest of salesmen. "I've had my lawyers draw up the necessary documents. One reason I've called you all here is that I'd like your suggestions for the board of trustees and the administrative staff."

We all flipped through the documents. My eyes fairly crossed when it came to the legalese. I may know my way around criminal law, but the corporate stuff is pure gibberish to me.

"Father?" Molly asked the priest warily. I was confused for a moment, before recalling that Harry had once mentioned that the man of God was also a lawyer. And, I reflected, probably knew his way around the structure of a non-profit.

Father Forthill frowned. "I'll need time to look these over properly, Mr. Marcone," he said. "And consult some of my colleagues."

Marcone smiled, completely at home in the role of reasonable executive. "Of course. I expect you'll find them quite fair. I'll give you my lawyers number; can you get back with them to any changes by, say, this time next week?"

"Is this really a good idea?" Marci said quietly after Forthill agreed to Marcone's timeframe. "I mean, all this legal stuff. The Alphas have always tried to avoid anything like a paper trail."

"Indeed," Marcone said. "The logistics of using officially recognized and government-sanctioned corporations as a base of support for a covert paramilitary organization are very difficult and dangerous." His expression became painfully mild. "If only you had an advisor on the subject, perhaps one with over fifteen years experience at doing just that."

We quickly covered the other points. Marcone got Butters and Molly to agree to look over the planned architecture with an eye towards the magical end of things- and failed, of course, to get Butters to cough up direct access to the "occult reference materials" that he'd taken custody of. Normally meek, especially around Marcone, Butters became a virtually immovable object when it came to the idea of Marcone so much as finding out about the existence of Bob. Abby and I suggested a few names when it came to staffing the new organization, mostly members of the Paranet, though I was sure to emphasize that that didn't mean we were actually agreeing to anything.

Even though it was pretty inevitable. We couldn't afford to reject the help, no matter how distasteful it's source.

That didn't mean I had to like it.

And then the others left, trickling out as I pretended I had very important paperwork to organize.

"Are we secure. Mr. Hendricks?" Marcone said once Butters gave me one last backwards glance over his shoulder and left the room.

Hendricks nodded, with a grunt that I was pretty sure translated to of course we are, but your paranoia is justified.

"I'd like to speak to Ms. Murphy. Alone."

There was a silent conversation of facial expressions, subtle movements of eyes and eyebrows that, unlike masculine grunting, seemed to be a private language the two of them shared. I was pretty sure the gist of it was that Hendricks thought Marcone was nuts and Marcone was exercising a rarely-used override on his subordinate's judgment, but I was also pretty sure I was missing some nuances. After a few long seconds, Hendricks gave him a long-suffering look and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I crossed my arms and stared at Marcone. "Well?" I said.

"Well what?" he said, the picture of innocent curiosity.

"Do I really need to spell this out?" I asked.

He shrugged. "There are any number of issues you might want-"

"Don't play coy, it doesn't suit you" I said. "I'm talking about what happened three nights ago."

"Ah."

"Were you just planning to go on like it didn't happen?" I asked. "I gotta say, I'm disappointed. Isn't a gentleman supposed to call afterwards?" Though what I wanted him to say, I wasn't sure. There probably wasn't any right answer, really.

"I'm sure you're aware that I have many, many pressing responsibilities, which keep me very busy. I presumed that if you felt it was so urgent to have that discussion, you would have taken the initiative and called me." Marcone said. "I didn't take you for the sort of woman to passively sit waiting by the telephone, but apparently I was wrong."

The feeling of my fist connecting to his face was enormously satisfying.

He didn't counterattack. He didn't try to block me. He didn't even dodge, he just stood there and took it. He stared at me, impassively, and lifted a hand to where I'd hit him. "I suppose I deserved that," he said evenly.

I'd just punched Gentleman Johnny Marcone, head of organized crime in Chicago, first mortal Freeholding Lord under the Unseelie Accords, in the face.

And he'd just let me do it.

"Yeah, you did," I said, and hit him again.

This time he blocked, easily deflecting my hand, without a flicker of emotion on his face. He studied me thoughtfully. "You want me to fight back, don't you."

That... had not been the plan. I hadn't really had a plan. Plans that start with "punch John Marcone in the face" should, in most cases, be rejected as a bad idea. Mostly I'd been acting on frustration and instinct.

The same motivations that caused me to respond, "What, you have some sort of rule against hitting a girl?"

"Believe me, Ms. Murphy," Marcone said, removing his suit jacket and tossing it to the side of the room. His tie followed after. "I would never make the mistake of calling you a girl." His guns he didn't toss, but laid out neatly on the table as he removed them. "No weapons."

"No weapons," I agreed. I disarmed myself as well, feeling a strange sense of deja vu. "I guess under the circumstances it would be hypocritical to rule out headshots."

"Very," he said, and brought his fist towards the side of my head.

I saw it coming, and ducked, aiming a quick kick towards his legs, which he neatly sidestepped. We went back and forth a few times before I managed to close and grapple. Punching was satisfying, but I knew it wasn't where my real strength lay. He was good, damned good. I'd known that, of course, but I hadn't been on the receiving end before. As far as pure skill went, we were closely matched. And he probably had about a foot of height and at least sixty pounds on me.

But I've never been in the habit of sticking to my own weight class.

His eyes seemed brighter, somehow, more alive and less guarded. His fierce grin was more genuine than any of the genteel smiles he'd been plastering on. It didn't take long for us to hit the ground. I almost had him a few times, but I never managed to hold him down for long.

Good, I thought. Victory is all the sweeter when you have to work for it.

And then I felt his cock, pressing hard against my leg. He was getting turned on by this.

Hell, so was I.

We grappled longer, arms and legs and bodies leveraging against each other furiously. I got a few strikes in, more meant to provoke him into giving me an opening than to actually hurt, but after a few long, intense minutes, he had me pinned, my face against the floor and arms twisted behind my back. He held me there long enough that any referee would have called the match in his favor, but he didn't let go. "You can tap out whenever you want, Karrin," he murmured, softly challenging.

One of his hands went to the button of my pants.

Just feeling the tips of his fingers brush over my skin sent little shocks through my groin. Pinned there, unable to move, with a man slowly, carefully pulling my pants down... Under other circumstances, it could have been one of my worst nightmares. As it was, it felt more like that terrifying moment of anticipation at the very top of a rollercoaster, the long, lingering moment where you think it didn't look nearly this high from the ground.

"Like hell I will," I said.

The air was cool on my ass, and his fingers trailed over my vulva lightly, so lightly I could barely feel them, a counter point to the tight, unforgiving grip his other arm had on me. He teased and tormented, fingers barely parting outer lips, a light skim around my clit and then pulled away again. Then again, this time barely teasing at my cunt itself. I couldn't help it- I gasped, almost whimpered, wanting moremoremore. His soft chuckle was half amusement and half satisfaction, overlaid with lust. Snarling in frustration, I tested his grip again, this time simply shoving my groin back against his hand. His grip let up, and he let me thrust backwards. His fingers slipped easily inside, and he held them there, slightly crooked, while I ground as far back as I could, groaning and panting. It was almost enough, and I teetered on the brink of orgasm, but I couldn't get him quite deep enough, his fingers weren't quite big enough. I nearly sobbed with frustration when he pulled his hand out, my cunt still aching and swollen and wanting.

Then his hand came down flat, smacking my ass in an open-handed spank of all things.

"Oh, that's it," I muttered, "You are going down."

Generally speaking, if you're sparring, you're too busy, concentrating to hard, to get seriously aroused, no matter who you're sparring with. Maybe you can just turn it off, maybe you funnel the energy into aggression, whatever works. Generally speaking, once actual sex starts getting involved, it's hard to stay on top of your game when it comes to the sparring. But some of us are better at it than others. It's a skill you can practice. And several years of on-again, off-again marathon sex/wrestling matches with a possibly inhuman mercenary does wonders for your ability to multitask.

Distracted by my moaning and whining and my wanton need, Marcone had given me enough leeway. He'd let his attention wander. By the time he realized what I was doing, I'd gotten the drop on him. We struggled for a few seconds, but he'd lost the moment he let his guard down.

I stored away the image of him, staring up at me in honest surprise and frank admiration. Well, not quite up- more like sideways, out of the corner of his eye. I had him by the hair, as it happened, grinding his cheek against the rough industrial grey carpet. I was half on top of him, our legs twisted together, his arms pinned, and he wasn't going anywhere. I ground my bare, wet pussy against his expensive wool slacks. I lowered my head and bit at the back of his neck, not quite hard enough to break skin, and he whined, sounding more desperate and needy than I would have thought possible for him. I savored the feeling of his muscles, more powerful than they looked, straining uselessly against me, brawn made impotent by leverage.

He swallowed, panted, like he was struggling to form the words. "Condom. In briefcase. God, want you."

I ground harder against his leg. Getting his cock in me sounded good, really good, but having finally taken the bastard down a notch I was loathe to accede to his request just like that. I nuzzled against his ear a moment before murmuring, "Say please."

He gasped, arched against me as much as he could, and for a moment I thought he was going to come right there. "Please," he whispered. "Oh God, please."

John Marcone, pinned to the floor under me and begging. There was something I'd thought I'd never see. "You think I'm stupid?" I said. "Like you'd stay put."

He whimpered again, futily thrusting against nothing. "Your match," he said. "You win, just fuck me. Please."

I glanced around the room. My eyes landed on his tie, almost within reach. "Fine," I said. "Don't move, or I'll kick you in the nuts." I let go of his hair, and leaned just far enough to grab the discarded tie, and understated blue affair. I picked it up, and dangled it in front of his head, where he could see it. "Hands up, scumbag."

Eyes wide, he didn't struggle as I tied his wrists to one leg of the table. I was sure he could undo the knot, but it would take some time, and I had my eyes on him. His briefcase was still on the table, the condom slipped into one of the organizational pockets. The briefcase, sadly, contained only more copies of the documents he'd handed out. Not that I'd expected differently.

"Karrin," Marcone pleaded from the floor.

I knelt by him, undid his pants, pulled them down just far enough to expose his cock, rock-hard and nearly purple, pre-cum gathering in a glistening drop at the tip. I slipped the condom on him, stared in frustration at my boots, and settled on simply pulling my own pants down further, before climbing on top of him and sliding his dick into me.

"Yes," he nearly hissed in relief.

I put one hand on his neck, not quite hard enough that he might take it as a real threat but hard enough to make my point. "Don't you dare come before me," I snarled at him. He nodded, as much as his position would allow. His wrists strained against the makeshift bonds, but he made no real effort to undo them. I ground against him, feeling his cock reach all the places his fingers couldn't. With my free hand against my clit, I came within minutes. It was a tiny, flimsy little orgasm that didn't merit the name climax, barely a twitch in my belly, and I kept riding him, riding through it. Another came on it's heels, then another, one after another, blending together into one long haze, until with a sudden gasp and groan, he thrust up into me and came as well.

After taking a minute to catch my breath, I pulled off him. I didn't want intimacy after that. Businesslike, I pulled the condom off him, pulled my pants up as I walked across the room to deposit it in the trash. By the time I got back, Marcone had freed himself, and was beginning to re-tie the tie around his neck, looking more dignified than a man who'd been tied to the floor and begging a few minutes ago had any right to be. The bruise on his face was starting to become visible, just barely.

I sat in one of the chairs, stared up at the cheap ceiling tiles, and took a moment to compose myself. "Okay," I said, "now we really need to talk."

He made a masculine noise of agreement, a little more cultured than the grunts I'm used to.

"This is a bad idea," I said. "We really shouldn't keep doing this."

"If you mean having poorly planned sex on the floor of the back room of one of my less impressive properties," he said, "then I am in full agreement."

"I meant having sex at all," I said.

"Ah," he said, calmly. "Why?"

Where the hell did I even begin? "What part of 'you're criminal scum and I loathe you and everything you stand for' don't you understand?" I tried.

"The part where it's at all relevant to the question at hand," he said, unperturbed.

"I just don't think it's a good idea for me to be screwing you."

"But you want to anyway," he said.

He was right, damn him. I wanted him- too much. It wasn't just the sex, as good as it was to get fucked on a real cock instead of something silicone. It wasn't even mostly about the sex. It was about what I knew I could do to him, now. I wanted to take him apart, take off that impenetrable mask and provoke real, undisguised reaction out of him. I wanted to see him beg again. I wanted to have power over him, even if it was just the power of him wanting me. It was ridiculous to think that that could even count as power, in opposition to Marcone's money and political influence and personal army and his goddamned charisma. But I wanted it. I wanted that little tiny slice of control over him, because I didn't have anything else. "It doesn't matter," I said, as much to myself as to him. "We can't have everything we want in life."

"All the more reason to take what we want when that's possible," he said quietly. "Karrin, if you merely feel you shouldn't want this, then for God's sake don't waste your willpower on struggling against something that we both desire. Save your strength for what matters."

I shook my head. "Nice philosophy, but it's not mine. This isn't good for either of us. No more."

He nodded, pulled a business card out of his briefcase, and scribbled a phone number on the back. "Private line," he said, handing it to me. "It's not secure, but you can reach me there. If you change your mind."

"Not going to happen," I said.

But I kept the card anyway.

Yay! I would write a more intelligent responce, but it is late for me, but still YAY!!!!!

Oh John, you lost the title. Murphy is Batman. I love how hard she topped topped him.

unf. So hot and dirty and so wrong and so hot.

UNF. UNF! H-OT!!

So, are they still seeing each other as kind of Harry Dresden replacements? Because that's ... kinda even hotter. (Anon does not have a major and not-so-secret kink for Harry topping the hell out of John, nooooo, where did you get that impression? Also, in a similar vein of denial, the idea of Murphy doing this to Harry doesn't make me drool at all.)

John begging. Sooo prettyyyy... *drool, drool, drool*

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Page 9 of 14

Ghost Story Prompts and meta

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 1b

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 1b

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 1b

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Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 1b

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 1b

Re: Prompt: Marcone in Italy

Re: Prompt: Marcone in Italy

Literally Suicidal

Re: Literally Suicidal

Re: Literally Suicidal

RaggedLady!Molly femslash

delicious account for this post

Re: RaggedLady!Molly femslash

Maggie + Little Harry, GEN

Re: Maggie + Little Harry, GEN

FILL: Call me scumbag, 2/?

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 2b/?

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Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 2b/?

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 2b/?

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 2b/?

Re: FILL: Call me scumbag, 2b/?