Ghost Story Prompts and meta

[dresden_kink_mods]

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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.

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

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Bob/Harry, fill, 1/? (probably 2 to 4 parts total)

[(Anonymous)]

Bob/Harry. Kink: Genderbending.

Disclaimer/warning: The opinions coming out of Harry's mouth are not the author's opinions. Nor are the opinions he thinks in the narrative. Likewise, Bob's theorizing, wild-ass speculations, armchair psychoanalysis of Harry, and opinions on Doctor Who are not necessarily the views held by the author. Any genderfail contained herewithin is theirs, not mine.

(I hope)
******

In the outside world, only minutes had passed.

Inside Bob's skull, I'd spent an hour and a half pacing back and forth in his apartment, occasionally scribbling notes on the handy chalkboard he'd conjured into existence. Finally, having finally exhausted my reservoir of ideas, I sank into one of his couches and glared at the lists I'd made. It was a nice couch. Comfortable. I wiggled my fingers against the cushions, wondering again what they were made of.

Well, the same metaphysical stuff the rest of the apartment was made of, obviously. But to my fingers, it felt like some sort of silk. I'm not big on interior decorating, myself, but I can appreciate nice-feeling cloth. Especially when it actually felt like something, something with substance that I could actually interact with. It wasn't until I got here, where everything was nice and solid and real, that I realized how much that aspect of being a ghost was wearing on me.

"So," I said, gesturing at the list of possible murderers- both the gunman and the one "mightier and more dangerous" behind him. "Kincaid's the top suspect for the gunman himself, but he doesn't fit with our top three suspects for who hired the bastard. Marcone would use one of his own men. I doubt Kincaid would work for the Red Court, though I guess it's possible. No way in hell he'd work for the Denarians, though, not after what they did to Ivy. What do you think?"

"I think," Bob said, "that the JFK conspiracy geeks would love you."

I ignored his jibe. "Really, what gets to me is the timing," I said.

"So you mentioned. Several times."

"I mean, would there be time after Chichén Itzá to hire-"

"Harry Dresden," Bob said, plopping himself down on the sofa next to me, arms crossed, "if you think I'm spending the next ten hours doing nothing but listen to you verbally wander around in circles, you've got another thing coming."

I groaned. "Bob, please. I don't have time for-"

"You are getting many hours of subjective time in exchange for less than one out in the real world, Harry," Bob pointed out. "Spending half that time in rest and recreation still puts you well ahead of the game."

Well, when he put it like that... "Fine," I said, rubbing my temples. "I was getting a headache anyway." Which was weird, now that I thought about it, since I didn't technically have a head anymore. Weird and fundamentally unfair.

But apparently headaches are a known phenomenon with non-corporeal beings, because Bob just nodded sympathetically. "Here," he said, turning us both slightly so he could rub my shoulders. "Help any?"

I groaned slightly in agreement, and then added "I don't get it. If my body isn't real, then why-"

"Symbolism," Bob said. "Under normal circumstances for you humans, what you feel in your body is the additive effect of both what your body is feeling, and what your mind is feeling. Of course, it's not a pure dualism, and the two influence each other, and it all gets very complicated, but the important thing is that what your body feels isn't just about your body."

"Nnnhgh," I said. "So take the body out of the picture..."

"And the pain from all your old injuries goes away. But the pain you were just in the habit of offloading from your mind to your body gets stored in your mental representation of your body." As if to illustrate he kneaded hard at one of the many knots in my shoulders. "This isn't muscle, it's, well, stress. Aggravation, in pure form. You're just perceiving it as tense muscles out of habit."

"Huh," I said, except it came out more like "Hunnnnnnnnghhhhhhhh."

At least there wasn't drool involved.

Well, okay, maybe a little.

Uncharacteristically, Bob shut up for awhile, except to suggest that I take off my shirt and lie down, which I did. His hands on my back felt good. Really, really good. I mean, there was the less-pain thing, but also the human-contact thing. Or inhuman contact. Being able to touch a friend without my hand going through them. Connecting in a way that I hadn't been able to, as a ghost.

And that's when things got weird.

After awhile, Bob's hands stopped kneading into the metaphorical muscles of my metaphorical back, and started just running over my skin, barely any pressure, tracing random patterns. Still floating in a haze of endorphins, or their nearest spiritual analogue, it took me a moment to register what he was doing.

"Jeez, Bob," I said sleepily, "If I didn't know better I'd think you had ulterior motives or something."

His fingers stopped moving. I waited the space of a breath, then two, and then I felt him pressed against my back, and his voice slithered into my ear from inches away. "What makes you think you know better?"

"Um," I said. Always ready with the perfect rejoinder, that's me.

"It's up to you, Harry," he said, in a voice that really shouldn't have been that seductive, "but I can think of a lot of ways I'd love to spend the next few hours with you." His fingers were running through my hair, and hells bells that felt good on my scalp. If he kept that up, I might let him do something I'd regret.

"Can you," I said, mind frantically racing through did he really just say that? and yes, yes he did.

"Mmmhmm," he murmured.

And then I felt his lips brush the back of my neck, which felt way, way too good. "Bob," I said, voice slightly strained, "I'd really appreciate it if you let me up now."

To my surprise, he did.

Maybe it shouldn't have surprised me. In all our time together, Bob may have whined, pleaded, wheedled, bargained, and frequently refused to shut up until I'd threatened to smash his skull in. But barring that one time- when he hadn't really been himself- he'd never actually used anything resembling force on me. And I'm pretty sure the loose set of verbal agreements we had- to say it was a contract would be really pushing it- left loopholes miles wide that he could have exploited. Which he didn't.

Here, on his own ground, his power had to far, far outstrip mine- and that was even before calculating how many centuries of experience at this whole non-corporeal being thing he had on me. And he'd always cheerfully admitted he was a little fuzzy on the good/evil thing. If he just wanted into my pants, there wasn't a thing I could do to stop him.

I guess he actually meant it when he said it was up to me.

"Thanks," I said quietly after we'd re-arranged ourselves, me curled on one corner of the couch and him, cross-legged on the other end, watching me with a worried frown.

"De nada," he said. "Look, I hope I didn't offend you or anything."

I rolled my eyes. "Since when do you care about offending people?"

Bob shrugged. "Personality makeover, remember?"

That threw me. I mean, yeah, I knew that Bob wasn't exactly the Bob I knew. Intellectually. It hadn't really sunk in yet. "Huh. I'm not sure I like what that says about me."

Bob smiled slightly. "It doesn't say anything about you. You can't armchair psychoanalyze yourself by looking at how I've changed. This stuff is complicated, the effects aren't really predictable. Hell, I barely understand it, and I've gone through this at least a dozen times."

"Like Doctor Who."

"A strangely appropriate analogy," Bob agreed. "You knew David Tennant, now you've got Matt Smith acting like David Tennant."

"You've lost me," I said. Always been more of a Tom Baker fan myself.

"Not important. But- we're okay?"

I exhaled and nodded, slowly. "We're good," I said. "I'm just surprised. I... didn't really think I was your type."

"Different owner, Harry. Things change."

I blinked. "What, Butters made you gay?"

"Hardly," Bob snorted. "Are you kidding? It would take a lot more than a change in management to make me forget boobs, Harry." He stared off into space, a slight smile on his lips and a glazed look in his eye. Then he shook his head, presumably to clear the visions of breasts from his head. Inasmuch as he had a head. "No, I just- can appreciate a wider variety of human forms now, I suppose."

"Including mine."

"Including yours, yes." His eyes drifted down my body pointedly. I guess blushing is one of those bodily reactions that's more about the mind than anything else, because starting from somewhere midway up my bare chest- and why the hell had I agreed to that?- I was turning a disturbing shade of pink.

"Pretty strange taste you got there," I said.

"My god, Harry," Bob said. "You really have no idea, do you."

I had to agree with him. "No idea about what?"

He threw his hands up in exasperation. "You! You're hot, Harry. Do you even realize how many of your friends want to get into your pants? I'm not just talking about Murphy and Molly. Friends, allies, enemies, half the magical community of Chicago, everyone. Stars and stones, Harry, I've wanted to do this for ages." He stopped and frowned. "Well, I would have, if I'd been this me, which I wasn't."

I pushed his more disturbing statements aside, and said, "You want to run that last bit by me again, Bob?

He waved vaguely. "Couldn't seriously consider the attractiveness of men while I belonged to you. Some sort of weird sexual hangup bleeding over our link, I think."

"So I'm straight. It's called a sexual orientation, Bob, not a sexual hangup."

"No," Bob said. "Waldo Butters has a sexual orientation- which is, yes, exclusive heterosexuality. He just doesn't make a big deal about it. You, on the other hand, have a swarming mass of preconceptions, insecurities, and self-delusions so thick that I don't think anyone knows what's underneath it. Not me and certainly not you."

I chewed through that one. "You think I'm a closet case."

"No," Bob said cheerfully, "I just said I have no idea."

"But it was worth a shot?"

"Hmm? Oh! Well, I suppose so," Bob said. "But Harry... if my being male is all that's stopping you, that's easy enough to get around. It's not like this is my real body, just a psychic manifestation of it."

This was getting too goddamned weird. "You're saying you can turn into a girl."

"Eeeh, Sort of. Physically, sure. As physical as things get around here. A little adjusting of self-image, a little concentration, and..." He pulled away from me, closed his eyes... and changed.

Where the young man had sat was now a young lady- to use the term loosely. I don't think ladies are suppose to wear makeup like that. Her blond hair tumbled long and thick over her barely-clothed, perfectly tanned body. Her breasts, each about the size and shape of a basketball and barely constrained by the tiny pink bikini she wore, floated impossibly above her perfectly flat belly. I could probably have circled her waist with my hands. I was pretty sure that underneath that bikini bottom, I wouldn't find anything soft and warm. More like a flat expanse of plastic stamped with the Mattel logo.

Well, that's Bob for you.

"You have got to be kidding," I said.

The woman- er, that is, Bob- grinned cheekily, and in a flash he was back to his previous self. "No? Picky, picky," he said. "Oh, well, no accounting for taste-" and he changed again.

It was a lot less drastic this time. A slight softening of the features, narrowing of the shoulders. A few curves where there hadn't been any. Otherwise, pretty much the same. Same shirt, stretched slightly over the gentle swell of her breasts. Same jacket, with the little embroidered skull. The jeans, those were slightly changed- clinging over her curves before flaring out over the legs. Hair, same unremarkable shade of brown, short, with wisps framing the face. And, well, still ordinary-looking. Still, somehow, familiar. Still Bob.

She was actually kind of pretty, if I thought about it.

"Better," I admitted. "But still no."

"Aww," Bob pouted- voice also somehow recognizably Bob's, and yet recognizably female, "why not?"

"It just doesn't seem like a good idea," I said. "Sex. Not gonna happen, Bob."

"I've been friend-zoned, haven't I."

"Uh. Sorry?"

"No, no, it's okay. I'll live," Bob said philosophically. "So. No sex, then. How about a movie?"

Re: Bob/Harry, fill, 1/? (probably 2 to 4 parts total)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh, I like this. I'm a bit sad that Bob's a chick (physically), but I understand your reasoning.

Re: Bob/Harry, fill, 1/? (probably 2 to 4 parts total)

[(Anonymous)]

Forgot to mention, I'm the OP

Re: Bob/Harry, fill, 1/? (probably 2 to 4 parts total)

[(Anonymous)]

Ack, can't believe I haven't commented on this yet. I love how Bob got his groove on and started the whole thing with a sensual massage. We need more of those in this meme. Poor Bob being friend-zoned! I wonder if that had ever happened to him before. More, please?

Re: Bob/Harry, fill, 1/? (probably 2 to 4 parts total)

[grenegome]

Nonny, I kinda love you for the Doctor comparison. And the fact Harry instinctively rejects the "ideal" he's presented with when Bob goes Barbie.

Re: Bob/Harry, fill, 1/? (probably 2 to 4 parts total)

[wtchcool]

No updates in two years? Please say this isn't abandoned.