Archive of Our Own

I leaned back against my door after I persuaded it to shut, and stared into the darkness of my apartment. Usually I'd exert a little of my will to illuminate the place, but instead I just stood there feeling uncharacteristically indecisive. Maybe I didn't want to light the place up. Maybe I just wanted to stand there in silence, pondering my newly acquired hobby of making out with mob bosses in the backs of their expensive cars.

"Ok," I said to the empty air.

I stumbled into the kitchen (assisted by the snoring mountain of Mouse, helpfully sprawled in front of the couch), filled a glass with cold water, and knocked half of it back. "Right," I gasped.

I had promises to keep before I could retreat to my bed, so I staggered over to my phone and dialed Thomas' cell number. "Wow," I muttered into the receiver.

After a couple of rings he answered, sounding relieved. "Harry, you're alive. Good."

I snorted at my brother’s optimism. "Marcone could be holding me at gunpoint and forcing me to call you," I pointed out. Mostly, I was joking, but it resulted in a tense hesitation from the other end of the line.

"...is he?" Thomas asked eventually.

"No! Don't be stupid," I yawned, closing my eyes for a moment.

"That's not stupid. Getting abducted is practically a leisure activity for you."

"Thought I might take up something less risky. How about base jumping?"

Thomas laughed. "Yeah. Like your life isn't exciting enough for the both of us already."

"That's me," I grinned, as always soothed by that little buzz of familiarity, that tug of family, I'd discovered in Thomas. Not that I'd ever tell him, because then we'd have to spend a week being jerks to one another to redeem our masculinity. "The Fantastic Harry Dresden, Purveyor of Wonder and Excitement."

"Purveyor of Explosions and Mayhem, you lunatic."

"That too," I agreed. "If you've finished playing mother hen, I could do with some sleep now. Lots of it."

"Waitwaitwait!" he objected. "Marcone."

"What about him?" I asked, warily.

"How did your little chat go?" Thomas made the phrase 'little chat' practically ooze innuendo, and I wondered vaguely if this was a previously undocumented power of the White Court.

"It... went, uh, fine," I managed, thinking pure thoughts, in case Thomas also had the capacity to sense stuff like that over a phone line. Maybe he did, because his next words were positively scandalized.

"Harry! You didn't. With John Marcone?"

"No!" I said. "Maybe? No! I didn't what?"

"Empty Night," he muttered. "And they call him a gentleman. He hasn't even bought you dinner."

This conversation was rapidly getting away from me. "Thomas," I said patiently. "I didn't sleep with him."

"Good. I won't have to castrate the bastard." Thomas’ tone was flat.

Right. There was a slight possibility Thomas was over-invested in the protective older brother thing he had going. I was pretty sure he was joking, but he does take family a little seriously at times.

"Uh. No. You definitely won't have to do that," I confirmed. "Marcone wants to... take things slow." I winced, anticipating the inevitable mockery. It didn't come.

"Slow? Slow makes sense. Gives you some time to do some research," Thomas said.

"Research?" I repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah, you know? Tab A, Slot B? Because, frankly, you have no idea what you're letting yourself in for here, do you? He's probably a lot more experienced than you when it comes to -"

"We are NOT having this conversation!" I said, somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed. "Thomas, thank you for your continentally misplaced concern, but good night."

I hung up.

I was tired, but I wasn't sleeping. I was other things too. Worked up. Aching.

I curled my fingers into the sheets beneath me and conjured up soothing thoughts. There's more than one reason for the number of cold showers I take. I don't like empty pleasure. I don't enjoy scrambling after private gratification in an empty bed. Sex, for me, is about knowing somebody trusts you enough to make them feel good, it's about giving yourself, and feeding their pleasure with your own.

So I didn't slide my hand down the length of my cock, to stroke it slowly into fullness. I didn't jack myself with swift, sure movements.

No, I lay there and I thought research, in the same way I occasionally toy with ideas for new evocations.

Research. I could... ask someone? But I didn't know any guys who liked guys. Except, apparently, Marcone. Maybe I did. Maybe I knew lots of guys who liked guys, and they just didn't think it was any of my business. Hell, from what I've read, this kind of research is the reason the Internet exists. Except I wasn't willing to ask Murphy to google it for me.

Research. It couldn't be that alien. I mean, hands and mouths and eager bodies, that all had to be the same. Elaine and I had worked it out, once upon a time, with some cryptic advice from our Health classes. Practice had made it perfect. Tab A/Slot B had been built up into some crazy grail quest for us by our peers, by the boasts of other idiot teenagers, but we'd taken our time getting there, because our bodies had amazed us. Our own, private magic.

These weren't soothing thoughts at all. The memory of Marcone lay over me, heavy and hot, spreading me out. His thigh, nudging my legs apart. I groaned and clenched my fists again.

Ok. Ok. My body was maybe kind of interested in being Slot B. I could have done with working that out earlier. Say, a decade earlier.

I thumped the back of my head against my pillow in frustration. Clearly, this wasn't going to result in sleep.

Cursing my impatient, inquisitive body, I scrambled out of bed and went to hit the shower.

I was woken up by incessant ringing. It's a pain in the ass trying to conduct any kind of social interaction with me over the phone; most of the time my magic angers the god of telecommunications and the line's full of static. So usually, when people do bother to call, it's important. I didn't think twice about staggering into the living room in my boxer shorts, picking up the phone, and grunting a greeting. If I was being dragged into something cataclysmic, no one would care that I started the call half asleep, so long as I caught up quickly.

As it turns out, it was a social call.

"...Harry?" asked Marcone, allowing me to hear surprise in his tone. "Were you still asleep?"

"Still? Whazzatime?" I yawned.

"Eleven," Marcone said, amused. "I dropped you off at a reasonable time. Did you not sleep well?"

"I... stayed up late... reading?" I lied, flustered, and then immediately felt like an idiot. Marcone had begun the conversation without his usual bullet-proof reserve, and I was responding with defensive fictions. "No, sorry, I didn't. I just... wasn't in the mood for sleep."

"Hmm. I found myself in a similar situation," Marcone confessed thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, I lack the capacity to hex my alarm-clock."

A similar situation. I wondered if he had. I bet he hadn't bothered with the cold shower.

I must have made a weird noise into the phone (hopefully not in a heavy-breathing, creepy-stalker kind of way), because it elicited another "Harry?" from Marcone. I closed my eyes, and reminded my idiot body that I wasn't a teenager. I didn't do this, I didn't get all worked up at the mercy of my hormones. It just wasn't wizardly, damn it.

"Are you unwell?" came the cautious query from the phone.

"I'm fine," I managed, with a dry throat. "When can I see you?" Yeah. Way to control those hormones, Harry.

"Well, I had planned to ask if you'd like to go for lunch, but perhaps I should amend that to breakfast?"

"Pancakes," I said firmly.

Marcone was silent for a moment. "You're going to request a diner, aren't you?" he asked, carefully.

"Hell yes," I replied, grinning hard. I wasn't giving him a chance to negotiate.

There was a brief exhalation that I couldn't quite term a sigh. Having braced himself, Marcone continued: "I suppose you're worth it. Do you have one in mind?"

"Yup, IHOP," I said, and tried to reign in my amusement so he couldn't hear it in my voice. There was an ominous silence, and I burst out laughing. "Can't hack it, can you?" I challenged, gleefully.

"Careful, Dresden. I could demand a black tie dinner in compensation, but I'm feeling charitable." To anyone else, his tone would have sounded threatening. Now, I had an ear for the affection threaded through it.

"You aren't wearing a tux for the IHOP?" I did my best to sound injured. "Am I not worth the effort, John?"

He laughed, low and easy, and I grinned stupidly at being the cause of that sound. "I'll dress nice, just for you, Harry. Twelve o'clock, IHOP. Where's closest to you?"

I told him, and after a little bit of back and forth he finished the call. I had just under an hour to put some clothes on and drive over. What the hell do you wear to an IHOP date with John Marcone, anyway?

The answer turned out to be ‘whatever's clean’, which happened to be a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt under my habitual duster. I'm not a fan of white; I get the kind of crap on my clothes that Stain-Be-Gone was never designed for. It was probably still clean only because I was never optimistic enough to wear it.

I tugged at the t-shirt a little self-consciously as I strode through the doorway of the diner. A beaming waitress tried to intercept me, but I dodged her with a cheery, "Meeting someone!"

I knew I was being watched. That isn't a wizardly skill, it's a lizard brain thing. The old caveman parts of humanity like knowing when to fight, and when to run. I looked around the room, briefly, but I wasn't greeted with Marcone’s sardonic smile or snappy suit. I frowned, a little tense. It was a couple of minutes after twelve, and I was willing to bet he was the chronically punctual type.

"Harry," called a man in the booth to my left.

I looked at him. I blinked. And then I laughed. "What, are you in disguise or something? Incognito?"

It was John Marcone, but dressed in a way I hadn't expected. He wore a pair of old jeans with a hole in the knee, scruffy sneakers, and a faded, well-washed t-shirt. He had a Cubs cap that covered his damaged ear, and he sprawled in the booth like any old working Joe, somehow managing to mask the aura of power and authority that clung to him.

"After a fashion, yes. Now sit down; you're making Mr Hendricks nervous."

I crossed my arms and held his gaze long enough to indicate that I'd sit down when I damn well wanted to, not when I was told. Marcone shook his head, and then grinned down at his menu as if it made no difference to him. I slipped into the seat opposite, unwilling to admit that wherever Hendricks was, he had also slipped under my radar.

"I was promised black tie," I pouted.

"You were promised nice," Marcone corrected, "did I misjudge your definition?"

I looked him over quickly, and yeah, ok, he had a point. The t-shirt kept close company with his body, and it wasn't shy about revealing the obvious strength in his well-built frame. The short sleeves let me see more of Marcone’s skin than was usually on show. And, ok, since when had arms been a turn on?

"Not really. I'm just surprised you own jeans that have reached the hole-in-the-knee stage."

"You usually see me during office hours," he pointed out. "Or one of your biannual Bacchanalias of destruction. That hardly covers the full repertoire of my wardrobes."

"I'm sorry, was that a plural?" I asked, incredulous. "How many suits do you need?"

"There's a certain pleasure in owning well-tailored clothes that can't be fathomed by a man kitted out in Goodwill's finest," Marcone countered.

"Ohh, catty." I grinned, deciding I'd struck a nerve. I could sense there was more mileage in mocking his 'wardrobes' admission, but just then one of the servers stopped by, introduced herself as Sammy, and took our drinks order.

As she left, John started perusing the menu, looking as if he wished he'd brought a packed lunch. "This is really traumatic for you, isn't it?" I asked happily.

"New York Cheesecake Pancakes," he quoted. "At the very least, this is a trauma for my arteries. Ah, they do salads. Or do they put cheesecake in those as well?"

"Maybe if you asked nicely," I said. "Wait, cheesecake pancakes? Wow."

Marcone shook his head in despair, and I resolved to order them.

This was so... easy. It felt date-like. And it felt like every conversation we'd ever had before, when I was still convinced he was an irredeemable bastard out to screw me over. I was confused.

Sammy arrived with a much needed infusion of coffee and took our food order. I let Marcone carry the conversation while I concentrated on mainlining caffeine, until I was finally faced with my breakfast. After a couple of bites of pancheesecakeywhippedcreamglory I squinted down at him. "What's your angle?"

"You'll have to be more specific," he said, neatly dissecting his chicken salad.

"This," I said, waving at the diner, "conceding the home field advantage. Taking things slow."

"Ah," Marcone said, smiling at me. The fact that he was letting his pleasure show so openly, that he was letting himself react without locking down every emotion or polishing up every phrase was making me embarrassingly warm and mushy. So, so confused. "You react... badly to coercion. And we have a history, not recent, but certainly memorable, of encounters in which I've tried to pressure you into cooperating with me."

I remembered the Full Moon garage and nodded wryly.

"I refuse to fuck this up. So, whatever happens, it's going to be on your schedule, Harry. And it won't be because you were drunk, or experimenting, or manipulated." Marcone looked me in the eye. "Fair warning. It's not going to be something you can blow up and walk away from."

"Oh," I said, quietly. There's power in naked honesty, when it comes from a man so well-versed in misdirection, discretion and reserve. It pulsed between us then, too potent for me to fully grasp. He'd meant what he'd said in the backseat of his car. Take your time. Be sure .

Before I could string together a response, which may or may not have been sarcastic in nature, Sammy reappeared and refilled my coffee. She hovered next to us, directing the usual are you enjoying your meal? can I get you anything? questions to John, and I invested my attention in demolishing my breakfast.

John picked at his chicken salad while I wolfed down my pancakes, and I looked up from licking stray strawberry topping from my thumb to find him staring at me in fascination. "Where do you put it all?" he asked. "There isn't a spare scrap of flesh on you."

"Mmm. Not sure, but I think the magic burns a lot of it. And I'm not very energy efficient at the best of times. I've been busy, recently."

"Yes, I've noticed. Would you like any more?" he asked solicitously.

"Nah, I'm going for a run this afternoon. Probably shouldn't stuff myself."

John glanced at his wristwatch. Not digital, I noticed, and therefore more likely to withstand my presence.

"Then I suppose I should ask for the check. I have a meeting at two fifteen I need to prepare for."

I hid a pang of disappointment, and then nodded. "Yeah, good idea," I said lightly.

Ok, so as well as a physical fascination with Marcone, I seemed to be have developed the symptoms of an adolescent crush. I wanted to spend time with him. I wanted him to like me. Oh god, I'm such a girl.

John waved down the perky Sammy, who brought the check over, and that heralded our first fight.

I dived for it at the same time John did, and ok, maybe he is alarmingly fast, but I'm not exactly slothful. We each caught hold of an end, and John unleashed his best business smile on me.

"Harry, as I invited you out-"

"Nuh-uh. Stop right there," I said, fishing my wallet out of my coat with my free hand. "I'm not taking your money."

John eyed me levelly, giving a sharp tug on the paper. "Surely you can make an exception for pancakes? I'm hardly likely to compromise your integrity with breakfast foods."

I tugged back. "We can go halves if you like, but if you decide you want to be a control freak about this, then I have a fork and I know how to use it." I glanced down at his hand meaningfully. "This isn't negotiable."

John raised an eyebrow. I imagine people don't usually try and out-maneuver him with cutlery.

"Well then. This courtship is going to be interesting," he said, releasing his grip gracefully.

"Courtship? Hi John, welcome to the 21st century."

In the end, he left a tip equal to my half of the bill anyway, but it made Sammy look so genuinely perky that I didn't have the heart to protest.

We were walking close together on our way out the door, and his shoulder brushed against mine in a way I'd have called accidental from anyone less careful than Marcone. He kept pace with me as we strolled across the concrete.

"Do I get a proper goodbye?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

I blinked, and looked around the sunlit parking lot. "When did you turn into an exhibitionist?"

"When I had something worth exhibiting, Harry." We drew to a halt in front of the Beetle, and, ok, he'd walked me to my car. I wasn't going to laugh at how terribly... normal that was. If I thought about it too hard, some Lovecraftian terror would probably erupt from the sewers.

"Flatterer," I grinned, and because it was all so delightfully mundane, I ducked under the peak of his baseball cap to kiss him.

John slipped a hand inside my coat, strong and warm at the small of my back. "Mmm." I signalled my appreciation, and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

I broke away, breathing deeply. This wasn't appropriate for the public view. It was a private exploration worth taking our time over.

"Thank you for lunch," he said, voice low.

"Yeah, same to you. Have a nice... meeting." For all I knew, 'meeting' was Marcone for 'massively illegal undertaking'. I had no way of knowing.

"It's a quarterly budget review, Harry. There are very few things that could make it nice." On the word nice, his hand drifted down from the small of my back, taking a leisurely detour before surfacing from beneath my coat. "I'll call you later?"

He'd even made it a question, rather than a decree.

NORMAL, NORMAL, FREAKISHLY NORMAL my brain yammered, and I made a conscious effort not to tense against the tidal wave of weird that must have been building somewhere, ready to redress this lack of crazy in my life.

After all, it was John Marcone I was doing freakishly normal date type things with. That might have been a tidal wave of weird all by itself.

"Sure," I said. "If I don't pick up, I'm being wizardly somewhere."

"Naturally." John nodded, and then stepped back to give me room to get in the Beetle. It didn't embarrass me by crapping out under John's watchful eyes. Small mercies.

I sat in my lab, toying with my shield bracelet as I pretended to see if I could make it more efficient. Mostly, I was pondering Marcone. And bickering companionably with Bob.

"I'm just saying," Bob pointed out, "that if it was a choice between dying and screwing one of the senior council, I'd go for Liberty."

"I'm really starting to think ‘Spirit of Air and Intellect’ is a misnomer. How about ‘Spirit of Continual Obsession with Flesh’?"

"Come on, Harry, you've got to choose," he cajoled.

"No I don't. In your hypothetical situation of sex or death, I choose running away very fast. Before they kill me."

I glanced towards the open trap door up to my living room. The phone hadn't rung, and I felt... fidgety.

"Huh," Bob said.

"Huh?" I asked, because it paid to take note of Bob and his revelatory noises. Unless they resulted from some of his more adventurous reading material, in which case I had learned not to ask.

"You're kind of... shiny tonight, boss," he offered with a slight hesitation that caught my attention and made me abandon my work.

"No I'm not," I said, examining my hands.

"Metaphysically!"

"My aura's freaky?"

"Nah. Just bright."

And then the phone rang. A little bolt of excitement ran through me.

"Ohh! Really shiny!" Bob yelled. "Do it again!"

"Stop perving on my aura!" I commanded, scrambling up the ladder.

I reordered my thoughts before I touched the phone. No point in nuking it before I even got to say hi.

"Hi," I said as I picked it up.

"Good evening, Harry." John's tone was pleasant, but he sounded weary.

"Something wrong?" I asked carefully.

"The meeting got rather... heated," he said.

"The boring budget meeting?"

"Yes. There was some distinctly pointed shuffling of paperwork. I managed to placate everyone about half an hour ago."

"Half an hour..." I did the math, and boggled. "Were you in that meeting for five hours?"

"Yes," John said, and managed to convey the soul crushing weight of five hours of quarterly projection figures in a single syllable. I flinched.

"You need a beer," I diagnosed, and he let out a breath of amusement.

"I'm currently sublimating a desire to do bodily harm to members of the accounting profession. I think a trip to the gym might be more appropriate."

"What, at Executive Priority?" I asked, trying to picture Marcone on a treadmill in a room full of suits and prostitutes.

He snorted. "No. My apartment has a gym. I prefer the privacy."

I looked around at my idiosyncratic apartment and smiled. Hey, it didn't have a gym, or hot water, but it had a pretty kick ass lab, and the rent was low. "Apartment? You don't live in that crazy mansion?"

"I live in several places, depending on my schedule. And it pays not to be predictable."

"Must be a pain in the ass though, hauling your stuff around?" I considered that statement for a moment. I was thinking like a peasant, not a mob boss. "Wait, you probably just buy new stuff for each place, don't you? That's why you have wardrobes, plural."

"Harry, if you find the way I store my suits so fascinating, you can always come and look for yourself," he said.

"What, you trust me not to set them on fire?" John went quiet for a moment, and I rewound the last few moments of the conversation. "Uh. You were inviting me over, weren't you?" I asked.

"I'll write that in my diary, shall I? ‘Harry Dresden: Doesn't do subtle’." John’s tone was light, but that didn't mean anything. Still, it was best to respond in kind. That's how we worked.

"Hey! I'm used to a more direct approach now. Want to know what I've got written down somewhere? Dear Diary, met John Marcone today, after he had some henchmen intimidate me into the back of his car."

"And aren't I lucky you decided to co-operate? The direct approach is hardly necessary any more."

I pictured Hendricks, forced to abduct me every time Marcone wanted to meet for lunch. I could see the look on his face. I snickered. "Nah. We can stick with subtle. Just... don't be afraid to give me a gentle nudge when I miss things. Because I will." That was very grown up of me, I thought. Very self-aware.

"Duly noted." And then, with great care to clearly enunciate each syllable, John slowly enquired: "Harry. Would. You. Like. To. Come. Over. Tonight?"

"Yeah," I said, a little too quickly, and then cursed myself. "Wait, am I supposed to play hard to get?"

"I'm not sure you could manage coy. But you're welcome to try; I could do with some entertainment."

"Ha ha, wiseguy. Where do you live?"

He gave me the address, and a few other pertinent details, and I committed them to memory. I could take the L most of the way, and then walk for about ten minutes. I wouldn't have to leave my car outside like a giant banner screaming ‘Warden of the White Council consorting with mortal Freeholding Lord’ or to a more mundane audience: ‘PI in bed with Mob’. Not that I thought we'd necessarily be getting in bed, or I was planning to keep this a dirty little secret, but I do occasionally understand discretion-

"Harry? Are you still with me?"

"Sorry. I'll, uh, see you at nine?"

"I look forward to it. Good bye."

The doorman looked at me suspiciously on the way in. Maybe visitors to this building were usually better dressed. I resisted the urge to tell him he was lucky the t-shirt was still clean.

"I'm visiting Jake Murati? Suite 3."

He looked down at a piece of paper and nodded. "Yeah, he's expecting you. Go straight up."

I didn't risk the elevator; John would never let me live it down if he had to rescue me from the elevator on my first visit. It's not like one flight of stairs is a hardship.

I knocked on his door with deliberate confidence; two slow raps, and then three rapid, as he'd instructed. I wondered what the protocol was if unexpected visitors came calling.

The door swung open, and there he was, hair a little damp like he'd just showered. John was in jeans again, and a polo shirt, but this time the clothes looked expensive.

"Hey, Jake," I said, dryly.

"Harry," John said, and stepped back to let me in. I moved to follow him, and then froze in the doorway.

I hadn't been expecting a threshold, not in a rented apartment John occasionally stayed in under a false name. And without a decent threshold, I hadn't expected to crash into wards too subtle for me to sense before I hit them. But something had just brushed against my magic. Something watchful, something powerful.

"What the hell is that?" I said, breathless, staying very still. It felt like the magical equivalent of staring down the barrel of a gun. Or maybe a rocket launcher.

John frowned. "The guardian runes? They won't hurt you. They're only triggered by malicious intent."

I tuned my head carefully and glanced at the frame of the door. Now that I was looking for them, I could see the runic figures etched into the wood. Elder Futhark, maybe.

They were really cool.

I leaned closer, holding my breath, and sent out a teeny tiny exploratory tendril of magic to trace the edge of the working.

It slapped me in the face.

"OW!" I yelled, and then turned to glare at John. "That wasn't malicious intent!"

He shook his head. "No, that was stupidity. Do you generally go around poking mystical defences with magic sticks?"

"Hey, I was just looking. My magic stick's still in my pocket."

"I'm going to refrain from making several tasteless jokes at your expense now. Be thankful." And then John took hold of the front of my duster and pulled gently forward with a word of command: "Inside."

I let him move me and shuddered a little, letting loose a deep breath as I moved out of the influence of the runes.

In terms of purely physical defences, the door had a lot of locks, and John moved past me to slide them into place. I shifted slightly, just behind him, and he paused. "Would you rather I left them?"

Rather he... oh. I shook my head. "I'm not worried. This isn't a trap." I realized the truth of it as I spoke.

Hand still on the door, John looked over his shoulder at me carefully. "You're being very trusting. Despite knowing what I'm capable of."

"Yeah, you're dangerous. You're a lot of other things as well. So am I. But forgive me for not believing this is some elaborate plan to take me out. Or turn me."

John finished locking the door, and then turned to lean against it, arms crossed. "Oh? You don't think I could seduce you over to the dark side, Harry?"

I rolled my eyes. "Come on. We got over that years ago. If you thought you could, you wouldn't be interested."

He let silence fall for a moment, studying my face. "That was surprisingly insightful."

"I have my moments," I shrugged. And then, because I wanted to uncover the smile I sensed lurking below John’s politely bland expression, I leaned forward and kissed him.

He opened up to me, not taking issue when when I dropped a hand onto his shoulder, pinning him to the wall. John slung an arm around my neck instead, pulled me closer, and widened his stance to accommodate me.

We said a long leisurely hello before I pulled away to admire his reddened lips. His damp hair was unruly, and I decided I liked him a little mussed. "Yeah," I said. "You look real dangerous, John."

He tilted his head and fixed me with a green stare. I was put in mind of Mister stalking magpies.

"Um," I said, and without even blinking he dialled the intensity down, a well-kissed man slumped against a door instead of a playful predator.

"Let's get you out of that coat," he said, giving me space to regain my composure.

It was already unbuttoned, because it was a mild evening. John moved to stand behind me and slipped his hands under the collar, easing it off my shoulders. "Very trusting," he breathed. His words caressed the nape of my neck. "Very brave."

I bit my lower lip, concentrating very hard on not making any embarrassing noises. I couldn't quite help the shiver. "Cold, Harry? Let me get you some coffee."

John moved away from me, and I turned to follow, able to take in the apartment for the first time. We were standing in the living room. It was spotless. Everything looked tasteful and well made. There was a dark leather sofa facing a ridiculously large TV. It was a big place, but not stupidly so for one man. It felt like a hotel. No photos, no weird little knickknacks whose sole value were sentimental or amusement. Nothing to say this place was John Marcone's except his physical presence in it.

"Take a seat," he said, "everything out here's unplugged, but if you make it into the kitchen there's a significant chance you'll destroy the appliances." John ducked through a doorway into another room while I made myself comfortable.

"You going to poison me when I'm not looking?" I called, sprawled out on the sofa.

"I wouldn't bother," he replied, over the clattering of coffee production. "Not after seeing you eat. You must have the metabolism of a humming bird."

"Doesn't seem to work very well on poison," I called back. "Well, not Red Court spit anyway."

He reappeared with two steaming mugs, and a slightly disgusted expression. "You ingested Red Court saliva."

"They spiked the punch. Who does that?"

"You clearly attended the wrong kind of parties as a teenager." John contemplated me for a moment as he deposited the coffee cups on the little table in front of the couch. "Perhaps that was fortunate, considering your track record as an adult."

"Hey!" I protested, because I got enough of this at Council meetings. "It was one measly war. I don't make a habit of starting them."

"Mmm," John mused, dropping down next to me on the couch. It was plenty big enough to leave space between us, but his side brushed against mine companionably. "That's reassuring."

I sipped my coffee defiantly, and then I looked down at it. Coffee. Oh.

I cackled into the cup.

"Yes?" he asked, quizzically.

"It's not our third date!" I pointed out, adopting a fake tone of shock. "Why John, this is so forward!"

He stared at me blankly. I bet he doesn't let people see his confusion very often. "You were kissing me quite enthusiastically in the doorway. How, exactly, is coffee on my sofa any..." he paused. "Ah."

"Coffee," I repeated, and waggled my eyebrows.

"I'm going to live to regret that euphemism, aren't I?" he asked, watching me closely.

"I think it has potential," I countered. "Aren't you in the mood for a tall, skinny americano?"

John blinked, horrified by my wit, before rallying with a rejoinder. "An oxymoron," he said dismissively, but his eyes were on my mouth and I wasn't fooled.

"You're an oxymoron," I countered brilliantly, but I was aware of his warmth all down my right side. I couldn't spare the attention for a snappy come back.

"Perhaps," he said absently, still looking at my mouth.

"Hey, kiss me already," I demanded, and John leaned forward to oblige me. And then he pulled away.

"Put that down first," he ordered, indicating the drink I held. "A scalded lap will kill the mood."

"But I like living dangerously!" I protested, setting it down on the table. I even used a coaster. I'm considerate like that.

"Oh, you are," John said. He moved faster than a vanilla mortal should be able to. One minute I was turning back towards him, the next I was pushed back against the cushions with John straddling my lap.

He's heavy. He's made of muscle, and fire, and sheer ferocious will, the kind that has a weight all its own. It's a good weight, when it's brought to bear on you tempered by desire. Right then, desire was the color of old money.

"Ungh," I said brightly, settling my hands on his thighs, kneading them absently. "So."

"Yes?" he asked archly. He was frustratingly close, a breath away from a kiss if I wanted to be the one to close the gap.

"So, I'm thinking," I managed, untangling my thoughts from the giddy lust reveling through me, "that slow is probably overrated."

"Is it now?" John asked, shifting his weight in a way that made it really difficult to scrabble for another sentence.

"Yeeees," I hissed. "It really is."

"Hmmm," he said, with a truly aggravating depth of composure. "There is an argument to be made, Mr Dresden, that we have been nothing but slow. That the last few years have been a careful negotiation between us, punctuated by the occasional explosion, resulting in this personal union."

"Oh good," I said. "Because I'd really like to take you to bed now."

He smiled, victorious. And then he kissed me.

John’s bed was freaking huge. I kicked my shoes off to leap onto it and did a weird little bounce and roll, which at home would have sent me crashing onto the floor. Instead I collapsed onto my back and starfished out. None of my limbs poked off the edge of the mattress.

"This is awesome," I breathed joyfully. John stood in the doorway wearing a fond and familiar smirk.

"I'm glad it meets with your approval. This might be the only time you've responded positively to my conspicuous consumption."

"Awesome," I repeated, stretching and wriggling my fingers and toes.

John started to remove his shirt, keeping his eyes on me as if I might take it into my head to sneak off when he wasn't looking.

Unless I'm seriously distracted by what's going on, I've always found undressing for the main event to be a bit embarrassing. But John didn't have a shred of self-consciousness as he bared his skin, as if it were a challenge, a declaration of some kind. He paused, hands on the button of his fly, watching me watching him.

"I seem to be leaving you behind, Mr Dresden. Do you need some assistance?"

"Hey, no mistering in the bedroom," I commanded as I sat up and yanked the uncharacteristically clean white t-shirt off. I was no nowhere near as graceful as him, and I definitely didn't have the same kind of powerful physique to show off, but apparently pale and skinny does it for John. He forgot about his jeans, crawled onto the bed, and then worked up the length of my body until he could meet my mouth. We were getting really quite spectacularly good at the kissing part of things.

"If I may?" he said, fingers plucking at the waistband of my jeans.

"Oh yeah. May away," I murmured into his mouth. I was half distracted by all the skin I had to explore as I ran my hands across the breadth of his shoulders, down the length of his back. He had scars, and he didn't seem to mind them. Or mine, for that matter.

My jeans were tugged down, and without any further "by-your-leave", John had me in hand.

"Nnh!" I said, jerking up a little, but he hadn't moved my jeans any further than necessary, and lying beside me, he'd dropped one leg across my own, limiting my movements.

I grabbed at John abruptly, pulling him deeper into our kiss as he continued stroking me, just on the right side of hard and fast.

"Ok. Ok," I said a little shakily when he broke away to breathe. "Gonna be over pretty soon if you don't slow down, John."

"That's the plan." He laughed into my shoulder, briefly scraping his teeth across my neck. "I believe we agreed slow was overrated. Give it up, Harry." He made my name sound like an endearment, and he didn't slow down. He squeezed me gently in a way that made me catch my breath and buck into his hand, and then he picked up the pace.

I hissed, feeling a familiar heat in my cheeks. He really was going to drive me over the finish line before we'd even started.

"Yeah," John said, voice rough as he looked down at me. "Just. Like. That."

I closed my eyes and opened my mouth on a yell, only to have it muffled in another kiss as he coaxed me through my release.

"Easy," he breathed against my mouth. "Easy."

"What - you - Stars." I flailed a little, trying to work out what I wanted to say to him, and as usual I blurted out something else instead. "Wait, there's a plan?"

John wiped his hands off on the bedding, and the wizardly part of me wanted to make sure this all went in the wash later. But later wasn't now; I had more important things to attend to.

"Here," I said, not letting him answer, and I reached for his jeans. John intercepted my hand with a slow smile.

"Yes. There is a plan," he said, and then moved my hand to his face. He sucked one of my fingers into his mouth, and made familiar motions with his tongue. Guh. That shouldn't have been so intensely appealing considering I'd just got mine, but there was something fucking intoxicating about having John’s mouth wrapped around me. I impatiently wiggled the rest of the way out of my pants.

I had another hand, and I went for his jeans again. Once more John waylaid me, tangling his fingers with my own. "What?" I asked, confused.

He pulled my finger from his mouth with a pop, maintained possession of my hands, and smiled at me wickedly. And wicked is pretty damn wicked on John Marcone. He leaned in, keeping the smile. "I'm saving it," he purred into my ear. It sent a jolt straight through me.

Impulsively, I kissed him again. But then I drew back, because I had objections to register. "This isn't just for me," I pointed out insistently. It's hard to be insistent when you're coasting along on a cosy endorphin rush but hell, no-one ever accused me of being a selfish lover.

John gave me that odd, fond smile again. I'd seen it before, when we'd faced off against one another, but only in his eyes. I'd mistaken it for amusement, mockery. It wasn't that at all.
When John started talking, his voice was almost hypnotic. "Trust me when I say the greatest enjoyment I can conceive, at this moment, is seeing you undone with pleasure. We aren't in a rush, Harry. You'll have the opportunity to try everything with me. I won't deny you." John dropped a kiss onto the hand he held near his mouth. "I want this. Let me have it, please."

That was what he wanted. It was a new idea, being generous by being selfish, but following his lead had been pretty spectacular so far.

...and he had asked nicely.

"Show me what you've got," I grinned at him, part invitation, part challenge. It sparked off that ever present rivalry between us, and John nipped playfully at my fingers. I laughed, and our exploratory touches turned into a tussle.

The mattress was big enough for two grown men to roll about on stupidly, and I kept laughing even as John ground the unforgiving denim of his jeans against me, getting some much deserved friction by locking my left leg between his own and pushing against me as we scuffled. John bit my shoulder lightly and I yelped in surprise, pushing him onto his back and ending up on top of him. I didn't have the mass to keep him down for long and he surged back up and over, catching my wrists as we we toppled and holding them against the pillows.

I was a bit out of breath. John just looked wildly intent.

"Somebody," he mused, "really should teach you how to use all this leverage you have, Harry. You waste your advantages."

I glared up at him. "I could throw you across this room with some crappy Latin and we both know it. I'm letting you pin me down."

John smiled. "Oh, I know. That's why it's so appealing." And then he thrust against me once more.

"Ow! Ok, jeans off," I said, jerking my hands against his grip. I couldn't break it. Smug bastard.

"Of course. How inconsiderate of me. Your poor delicate skin."

I thrashed around, but didn't dislodge him. I settled for glaring instead.

"I should kiss it better," John decided, judiciously. And then he was on the other side of the bed, retrieving something from the bedside table. I levered myself up on my elbows and glared some more.

"What're you -?" And then John was back, dropping a little foil packet on the bed and kissing me once more. I was beginning to suspect this was a cunning ploy to keep me from asking stupid questions.

His hands ventured south, and after a couple of welcome touches I was surprised to find my body was already eager to receive, he paused. "Actually," John murmured, "I think I'd like to see you warm yourself up this time."

"I - what?" I breathed as he started extracting one of my hands from the back pocket of his jeans.

"You wanted something to do with your hands, didn't you?"

"I wanted to do something to you!" I hissed as John moved my hand down to my cock.

"Oh, you are," he said, smile all small and dangerous again. "Show me what you've got, Harry," he threw back at me.

"I'm not - I don't-," and then I stalled, unable to work out why I was objecting.

"Hey, all right," he said, releasing my hand. "I've got you."

"No," I frowned. "I'm good, if you want - if that's really - sure."

And then I took hold of myself, feeling hopelessly adolescent for all of three seconds before seeing the hunger in John's eyes. The raw avaricious delight I was conjuring up in him was practically tangible. "Okkkay!" I gasped, as working on my own pleasure suddenly became a lot more interesting.

Still, it felt weird, displaying myself. I didn't do anything interesting, just jerked myself quickly and bit down on my lip to keep all the embarrassing gasps inside. My body didn't mind weird. My body was quite excited by all the attention it was getting, and I was hard again in no time at all. I was definitely revisiting my adolescence.

"That," John said, ripping open the condom packet in a smooth and easy gesture, "will do nicely." He rolled the condom down the length of me with a confidence I've never managed. And then he followed it with his mouth.

I think I yelled something. I definitely grabbed the back of John’s neck in a grip that fell on the wrong side of tight, but it didn't distract him from his task.

He fucking devoured me, and even through the condom I could feel the slick heat of him and I gasped, thinking cold thoughts, trying very, very hard not to kick him as an expression of my appreciation. I kept half a mind on my magic as well, making sure I didn't do anything creatively stupid.

I flexed the fingers that were probably bruising John’s neck, and he hummed appreciatively and Stars and freaking Stones, it was like channeling a thunderstorm all over again.

I didn't kick him, or slam into his mouth, but I was really glad he'd brought me off once already, or I doubt I'd have been quite so well mannered. I had more of a chance to enjoy the ride this time, and become wildly thankful that I'd let him lead. Because John knew what he was doing. In this, as in all things, he was devastatingly competent. I wondered how often he got to indulge himself, how often he'd had men in huge beds in anonymous apartments. Often enough to excel at it, to swallow me straight down without hesitation.

Yeah, I hoped he didn't have high expectations. Because I'd give it a try, but there's no way in hell it'd compete with what he was doing to me at that moment.

John pulled away briefly, maybe to check in with me, maybe just to rest his jaw. It looked like hard work. "Still with me?" he asked, voice low.

"Not sure. Think maybe I'm in orbit. Round the moon."

I knew I wasn't making any sense, and from his quizzical eyebrow, John knew it too, but apparently it wasn't the kind of nonsense that made him worry. He gripped the bottom of my dick and bowed his head again.

I smothered a noise he would have found either amusing or flattering. I don't know. He might not even have noticed, he was so narrowly focused on the task in hand, working me over like a right of fucking conquest.

Not that I was. I mean, from my previous history, I'm pretty crappy at being conquered. And I could always stage an insurrection later.

"John," I stuttered. "Hey, John." That was all the warning he got, because then I couldn't do anything but kick and buck, and I pumped into his mouth. He went with it smoothly, his hand around my cock preventing me from slamming too far into his mouth, and kept up with me so I rode on a wave of relentless suction all the way through my orgasm.

He teased one last gasping thrust out of me before I fell back onto the bed, feeling like I'd been knocked into orbit around Pluto, never mind the moon. "You're really good at that," I fervently told the ceiling. "Really, terrifyingly good. And if you don't let me do something for you right now, I'm going home with a massive inferiority complex."

He covered me with his body and oh my god he still had his jeans on. That had to hurt by now.

"You really haven't mastered the art of basking in the afterglow, have you?" John asked.

I glared at him lazily. In truth, I felt wrung out. Boneless and loose, limbs heavy like I was moving them through molasses. "John Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Marcone, take your goddamn pants off and tell me what you want."

A tight smile hung off the corner of John’s mouth, and it was edging into businesslike. Nerves? That was new.

"I'd like to fuck you Harry," he said, casually. "May I?"

I think he expected me to freak out. I didn’t. I was too warm and languid to get worked up and I'd come so far. I wanted to know where else we could go.

"Please," I said.

That tight smile vanished, wiped off John’s face by something broad and ferocious. He bit gently at my shoulder once more, which I was beginning to interpret as a weird expression of affection. "Please?" he repeated, slow and luxurious. "I've been waiting a long time to hear that, Harry Dresden."

"Pretty please," I elaborated, because he'd totally earned this moment. "With a cherry on top?"

"Fuck," John breathed against my ear. He ground against me shamelessly.

I marked that down for future reference. He took a couple of breaths while he composed himself, and then spoke again, as civil as he ever was. "Well then, how can I refuse?"

John rolled off me, went back to the bedside table, and returned with another condom and a little tube.

"Research," I sighed mournfully, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Seriously, I have no idea what we're doing," I explained, "except I'm guessing less clothes is better."

John was kneeling on the mattress beside me; I summoned the energy to sit up, planted one hand in the middle of his chest, and pushed him backwards. John let me, and I knew what he meant then about appealing. There's something about a compliant restrained power beneath you that's kind of breathtaking.

I unbuttoned ohn’s jeans and he watched me, supplies discarded on the mattress and hands pressed flat against it. I eased the zipper carefully over a kind of intimidating, kind of intriguing bulge, and then took hold of the waistband of his jeans and his boxers and yanked them down together. He raised his hips helpfully, and then his legs as I shuffled back to pull them off the rest of the way.

And there he was, John Marcone on display for me, sprawled in the mess we'd made of his bedding. His eyes were dark, his well-muscled body deceptively relaxed - apart from the straining cock jutting up towards me.

Well, it'd be rude not to introduce myself.

I grabbed his thighs and pushed them apart, making room for myself as I scrambled forward on my knees.

His cock bounced about a little as I did so, and I checked in and saw he was biting the inside of his lip. Hopefully because he was turned on, and not because he was laughing at me.

I reached forward, took hold of him, and stroked experimentally. I got a strangled moan and a quick jerk of the hips for my efforts. Turned on then. I was grinning like an idiot and I knew it, but I felt kind of like the king of the world right then. John silent and increasingly desperate beneath me, clinging to his control with his quiet will.

And I'd come undone so quickly for him.

Maybe that's why I bowed my head. Maybe I wanted him to lose some of that cool he had armored himself with. Or maybe I just wanted to know what he tasted like. Curiosity gets the better of me sometimes.

Salt, I had time to think, as I took the head of his cock into my mouth and introduced it to my tongue.

"Mary Mother of Christ!" John gasped, introducing an unexpected air of Catholicism to the proceedings. And then he had his hands in my hair, pulling me off him.

"Hey," I batted at his hand, "a 'no thanks, Harry' would do."

"I - sorry," John said, a little breathless. "Wasn't expecting that. You nearly brought a premature end to the evening."

I think I may have looked smug then. John batted me lightly around the ear. "Also, Harry, that is what condoms are for. For future reference."

"Oops?" I had time to offer and John shook his head. He leaned in for a thorough kiss that gave no clue as to how worked up he was.

"If you've finished exploring?" he asked, encouraging me to lie back as he moved over me. "Perhaps you'd do me the favor of relaxing."

"I'm about as relaxed as it's possible for a man to be without being asleep," I pointed out. We'd swapped positions now; me on my back with my legs parted for him, John crouching between my thighs. He touched himself as briefly as possible when putting on the condom.

"I'll have to work on keeping your attention then." John planted one hand next to my head, holding himself over me with no sign of strain, and dipped down for another kiss. I could tell from the way he moved that his other hand was busy with something. There was a brief click, and then a wet sound. "Lubricant," he said, against my mouth. "Makes things, mmm, considerably easier for both parties."

"Whoah!" I said as that unseen hand made a reappearance, brushing against my balls, and then easing further back to somewhere I'd never thought of as an erogenous zone before.

I'd been wrong, obviously. My cock was still out for the count, but the rest of my boneless, pleasure-drenched body thrummed its interest. My legs spread further without any input from my brain. John was slow, and patient, giving me time to adjust to the new sensations he was wringing from my drowsy body.

He's got his fingers inside you! Yelled the part of my brain that had scheduled a heterosexual panic and was beginning to feel ignored.

"Shut up," I muttered, and John paused, sitting back between my thighs. "Not you," I said, mustering enough effort to prop myself up on my elbows just as he resumed the gentle slide of his fingers. He brushed against something inside of me.

"Nnngh!" I said, and collapsed backwards, scrabbling madly at the bedding.

"There we are," he purred, the picture of satisfaction. He crooked his fingers and sparked off another bout of inarticulate flailing.

John admired his handy-work for a moment before removing his fingers and wiping them on the bedding. "If you wouldn't mind turning over?" he asked, patting my thigh in encouragement.

I raised my head and scowled at him.

He smiled ruefully. Stars, I didn't know he hid so many shades of smile on a daily basis. "Whilst I admit having you on your hands and knees for me is a particularly enticing image, this really is for your benefit. It makes things easier."

Oh. Like the lubricant. He didn't want to hurt me, and I didn't want him to hurt me either. I rolled over and scrambled up to my hands and knees, a little less co-ordinated than I could have been.

John’s hand smoothed down the length of my back. "Thank you, Harry. Why don't you breathe out for me?"

I did, and then he was against me. The head of his thick cock carefully nudged inside me and I grabbed at the bedding again, not quite sure if this was good or painful or just plain weird. But I knew a good way to find out. "Muh- more," I gasped shakily.

"Patience, please," John hissed, careful control beginning to fray again. "I believe I'm the one expected to be impatient here."

He should have been. He'd brought me off twice while exploring my body, and I suddenly, desperately, wanted to give him everything I could. I pushed back against him, and he caught a startled breath as he slid home, falling forward to rest against my back.

Painful and good and weird, I decided.

"Fearless," he breathed against my hair. "Bold. Crazy."

"Those the best - best - sweet nothings you've got, John?" I tried to tease him, but I was too - I was too much to sound anything other than overwhelmed. Too full, too vulnerable, too close to the edge of something unarticulated.

John grazed his teeth against my ear. "Have I been - remiss," he groaned, "in complimenting you? I can. Atone. I'm sure."

I didn't manage a reply; John had set up a slow and easy pace which introduced his cock to the part of my body that made me crazed and wordless. He pushed back in and I gave a shaky gasp, clenching my hands in the pillows.

"How about -" he managed, and holy hell, how was he still talking? "- beautiful? Passionate. Powerful -"

"Stop!" I cried, closer to that edge of something. Not a physical release, because I had nothing left to give, but something just as shattering.

John stopped. "No, don't stop that, you bastard! Stop talking! I just - please - " I don't know what words I wanted. Maybe I wanted to tell John what he'd done to me, that he could take everything he wanted and be thanked for it later. I don't know.

But the please must have been enough, because I couldn't describe the noise he made then. It was triumphant, possessive, but tender. Proud, maybe. I couldn't tell without seeing John’s face, but I was stuck admiring the ridiculous thread count of his pillowcases instead. He leaned back, taking more of his weight on his knees and no longer covering me with his body. John’s hands found their way to my skinny hips and took hold there.

He fucked me.

I tripped over that nameless edge, gasping, trembling as John took the everything offered up to him.

He finished on a wordless cry, shaking against me.

I held out until he finished, taking part of John’s weight as well as my own, and then I dropped us both onto the mattress. "Oof," I said.

John patted clumsily at my shoulder. Sure, now he lost his higher brain functions. I wiggled and caught him with an elbow and I think he got the message because he pulled away, pulled out, and flopped onto his back next to me. There was a brief bout of shifting which must have been him dealing with the condom, and then I managed to turn onto my side, and caught his eye. "I - thank you," I managed.

John smiled, slowly, with more teeth than I'd seen before.

"C'mere," he mumbled, and obviously, I shouldn't have been expecting post-coital formality, but it was still a surprise. Rolling towards me, John slipped a leg over my thigh and draped a hand across my chest. "You," he said, "are everything I thought you would be, Harry."

"You thought about this?" I asked, checking in with my body as we spoke. I felt well-used, pleasantly aching, but not really pained.

"Mmm. In board meetings. When people are annoying me. When I'm stuck with paperwork. Every. Single. Time you've ever mouthed off to me."

"That's a lot of thinking," I said, startled.

"Oh yes," John answered, combing his fingers through the hair on my chest. "I didn't think I could ever have this. But you delight in surprising me." He yawned.

"Nap time?" I asked, teasing.

"Uhn," he said, deciding he preferred my shoulder to the pillow.

"You're a cuddler!" I said, gleefully.

"Mr Dresden," he mumbled into my shoulder, "I believe I fucked your brains out about thirty seconds ago. Please spare a thought for my ego before demonstrating your wizardly stamina."

I grinned. I wasn't up for another round, but I was definitely full of juice. My magic and I were tingling in all the best ways. "Cuddler," I repeated, fondly. John didn't reply.

He had, in fact, fallen asleep.

That looked like a good idea. I closed my eyes and gentled my joyful magic, encouraging it to coil around me comfortably and not maraud around John's apartment hexing his gadgets. Honestly I didn't think he'd mind me cutting loose right then, even if I accidentally did a bit of structural redecorating. Not that I would. It's kind of rude to trash people's property when they've just shown you a good time.

John felt content and easy pressed against my side. It was a good way to end the day.