Work Text:
(Harry gets up, puts on his clothes, and walks out into the world, and from that minute on with every breath he takes he's saying no: no to Lasciel, no to Mab, no to his own desire for power and comfort and safety, and no to John Marcone whenever he pulls up in his big black SUV offering all of the above.
Instead, Harry goes to his dingy office with the broken heater and listens to the people who come to him and tries to make the right choices, but mostly he gets at least something wrong. And then, at six o'clock, he locks up his office and goes out into the cold near-dark and heads home, saying no, no, no all the way.
He's fine with it, pretty much. It's just that every once and a while, he has a really bad day.)
He's shoving his coat off the minute he gets through the door, dropping his staff and papers heedlessly behind him. He doesn't bother with his shirt. He's already fumbling with his belt buckle by the time he's crossed the three steps to the bedroom door.
He's tried to focus on the old standbys: Susan, Murphy, Elaine, a parade of imaginary partners, even, on one miserable, desperate night, Molly. It never works. So, lately, he's made a deal with himself: he has a collection of fantasies down in a sub-level of his brain, filthy and shameful enough but nowhere near as horrifying as what lies beneath, and if he promises himself, absolutely promises not to go any deeper, he can wallow there to his heart's content.
That's why, before he's even got his jeans unbuttoned, in his head he's already on his knees between John's legs in the back of that black SUV, moaning and begging like he's got no shame or self-respect, while Hendricks watches impassively in the rear-view mirror.
(It's always 'John', though he's tried some nameless, faceless man and even, in yet another frantic, failed attempt to bargain with his own brain, 'Mr. Marcone, Sir.' That one left him abruptly back in his own body, icy with sweat and too aware of what he was doing to continue. It's just one more humiliating little detail: he needs to feel like he's allowed to call Marcone 'John', because, otherwise, he doesn't feel loved. It doesn't work if he doesn't feel loved.)
And then his brain is flashing pictures at him one after another, like an engine under too much strain that's started slipping gears uncontrollably: himself, on his hands and knees, choking out "thank you - thank you - thank you" in rhythm as John fucks him from behind; himself, suspended over John, moving inside him, sweaty and exhausted and his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up, as John says "A little faster" and "Yes, that angle," and "Good, Harry, that's very good" and he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip and tries not to come because John hasn't told him he can yet.
(It's pathetic, and it's disgusting, and he hates himself a little more for it every time, but by now he's also panting with his mouth wide open, and it's okay as long as he doesn't go deeper, he's made a deal, he can promise himself that he can have this, because at least, if he can stop himself here, at least it's just about sex.
He never stops himself.)
The change builds slowly. First he's under John's desk, and John is calmly flipping through his appointment book and taking phone calls and making notes while Harry whines and gags and drools around his cock, and he's focusing on the smell that fills up his lungs, the ache in his jaw, the threatening, choking pressure against the back of his throat that makes adrenalin sing in his veins. Then, suddenly, they're both fully clothed again, and even though Harry remembers that feeling and wants it back, wants it so bad that his mouth is watering, it's not about what's coming, it's about that moment when he stops fighting and walks around the desk and sinks to his knees.
(And this, this next part, this is inexcusable.)
Now the scene changes, and he's kneeling by John's feet, somewhere public -- sometimes in a courtroom, or in a White Council meeting, or live on the freaking Larry Fowler show, because narrative logic isn't important when he's got no blood in his brain -- but usually it's an accords meeting, and everyone is looking at them. John's stroking his hair idly, and Harry's leaning into the touch.
Most times, he's got a collar around his neck and a set of cuffs around his wrists. Sometimes he doesn't have them yet, and then he aches for them, for the visible signs of John's ownership on his body. Still, even that ache feels sweet, because he knows he'll get them soon; because he knows that if he's good, John will give him what he needs.
Harry knows he can be good, and he knows how to do it. John is always clear about exactly what he wants from him.
And as the people around them mutter and whisper, John trails two fingers down Harry's jawline, and then presses them to his lips, and Harry opens his mouth and sucks them in.
(This is the part where the lights start shooting behind his eyelids.)
In his fantasy world, everyone is staring at him, everyone knows exactly what he is and whose he is and he doesn't care, because nothing is as important as the fact that right now he is running his tongue along the first knuckle on John's ring finger. It's not a lead-in to anything else; in his fantasy world, he's not even hard, or if he is, he doesn't notice. But he is filled with joy, he is blissful, he is fucking ecstatic, because John has given him something to do and he is doing it.
(Now Harry's stopped exhaling completely, his lungs just gasping air in and in and holding it, and his body is curling in on itself and believe it or not, things are about to get even worse.)
Now they aren't anywhere, all the details falling away as the muscles in his real body start tightening and his senses start shutting down, and in that moment John takes Harry's chin in his hand and turns his head to face someone, anyone, it doesn't matter, and whispers in his ear,
"Kill them for me."
As Harry lifts his hand, he can feel John's will rushing through him like blinding white light, burning away everything it touches, hollowing him out and filling him back up until there is nothing left of him but John, and in that moment Harry Dresden isn't at there anymore, Harry Dresden is gone, Harry Dresden doesn't exist.
After he comes back to the world, and the grey shapes in front of his eyes slowly resolve into his dingy bedroom ceiling, Harry wants to peel his own body off like a suit just to get away from it. He settles for ripping all the sheets off the bed, stuffing them into the washing machine, and then standing under the freezing water in the shower for as long as he can bear. Sometimes he retches over the toilet for ten or fifteen minutes; tonight, he keeps it down to five. Eventually, though, he manages to sleep, and he sleeps well.
(The next day, he puts on his clothes, he walks back out into the world, and he says no, no, no to everyone, including John Marcone, and doesn't let his hands shake when Marcone smiles and looks at him like he knows.)