In hindsight, Reese really should have known better than to assume anything at all about Finch. He'd based his assumptions on what little knowledge he'd had about Harold at the time, but soon realized that he'd woefully underestimated his partner's capacity for making the most of every situation. Like his physical issues. When it finally became clear that they were both on the same page and slowly started moving towards something like an intimate relationship, John had spent a lot of time considering the ins and outs of handling someone with injuries like Harold's, determined not to hurt him just for a few moments of sexual bliss.
He might as well not have bothered at all.
Banging the back of his head into the wall he was leaning against, Reese was torn between feeling stupid for worrying and just plain astonished at the things Finch was capable of doing to him. Because while there were indeed some limitations to what Harold's body could do, there were no such limits on his mind. And not only was he clever and creative, he had no trouble taking the lead every time, forcing John to stay passive and just enjoy himself. Which was frustrating, but also mind-blowing.
The few times John had carefully tried to regain any sort of control in bed, Harold had either given him the evil eye until he stopped, or – on one extremely memorable occasion – just plain tied John down. He could have escaped anytime, of course, but why in the world would he want to with Finch doing such wonderful things to him?
In the end they never actually encountered any of the problems Reese had expected, because with Finch in control, the issues were never allowed to come up at all. So John dug his nails into the peeling wallpaper of the library walk-way as Harold pinned his hips to the wall, and gave him a nigh-on ferocious blowjob. Getting to his knees and getting up again took effort, but once he was down there, Finch had no trouble reducing John to sexed-out putty in no time at all. This time he'd already been kneeling, sorting books on the lower shelves when John had come in. Only a couple of shuffling steps on his knees and John was up against the wall, panting and whimpering. Because Finch might not be the most experienced partner in the world, having spent most of his life with machines rather than humans, but he was enthusiastic as well as an astonishingly quick study.
Not to mention cruel.
He slowed down his rhythm on John's cock for the third time and John groaned with frustration. He'd been so damn close, and Finch knew it, the bastard.
“Goddammit, Harold,” he gasped. “Want me to beg? I'll do it. I'll do anything you want, just... God!”
Harold just hummed and dug his thumbs into John's hip bones, holding him steady for a while longer before pulling off with a wet sound.
“You know what I want, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, his voice raspy. “Give up control.”
“I am!” John protested, banging his head against the wall once more from frustration.
“No, you're pretending to.” Trust Finch to be able to sound pissy, even on his knees with a hard cock in his hand. “Must we go through this every time?”
“Apparently,” John groaned.
“It's all right, I can wait,” Finch said breezily and sat back slightly, as if he meant to leave John hanging.
“No, please, Harold, please... I'll try harder, I swear!”
Finch rolled his eyes as if it was all quite an inconvenience to him, even though it was plainly obvious that he too was hard in his tailored trousers. It wasn't as if he'd shown much restraint himself, not even having bothered to undress John at all apart from opening his pants. But John also remembered the one time he'd pressed his luck, and Harold had indeed walked out on him, leaving them both unsatisfied. He wasn't about to risk that again. So he'd be damned sure to make the effort.
“Very well, I'll give you one more chance,” Finch said, in a tone much like the one John remembered from school teachers having to fail him on tests they knew he could pass if only he'd cared about the subject. That tone of voice that said: “I know you can do this, so the fact that you aren't must mean I'm not getting the message through well enough.”
But John got the message, all right. Did he ever. So he widened his stance slightly and put his hands behind his back, as if standing at ease, and forced himself to be guided. He knew he'd finally gotten it right when Harold stopped pushing his hips back, and instead pulled them in, setting the pace with John's body, rather than the bobs of his head. Which must have been a strain on his neck, John realized with a pang of regret. Finch was a control freak with this, but not without reason. And whatever problems John had giving himself over like this were always so very worth it.
He came with a grunt and Finch was obviously pleased, because it took him less than a minute to reach down, unzip and jerk himself to a stuttering climax, still sitting stiffly on his knees, John watching breathlessly. But sexually forward or not, Finch was still Finch, and with a level of coordination Reese really kind of envied, just having come his brains out, Finch somehow managed to catch every single drop of come in his handkerchief. Less than a minute after that, he was completely zipped, buttoned and spotless again, as if he hadn't just given a completely filthy blowjob in a dusty hallway.
But the effect was still obvious in the languid drag of his limbs, and in the fact that he allowed John to help him to his feet, something he only very rarely allowed.
“I like this new spontaneous streak of yours, Harold,” John said when they were both upright and presentable again.
“I just thought it was prudent to remind you that one should never assume that a man on his knees isn't a threat.”
As if John would ever assume such a thing. Especially when it came to Finch. John had stopped underestimating him something like fifty orgasms ago.
“Oh, sure. Obviously, prudent is the new sexy.”
Finch merely smirked and limped away, leaving John against the wall, thanking whoever was watching for his good fortune.
The machine graciously accepted.