The problem with spending all your time with an extremely secretive man was that sometimes his secrets and your secrets intersected in awkward ways.
“I thought you were an alpha,” Finch said vaguely. He was stroking his thumbs gently and repetitively down John’s neck, tension melting away with every touch, no matter how hard John tried to hold on to it. They couldn’t do this. They had to stop. They couldn’t do this, but he was so hot, and Harold’s hands were so cool and good and perfect.
“I thought you were a beta,” John managed. A shiver wracked him all over, clenching up in his shoulders, through his gut, his thighs. Harold made a small humming noise of satisfaction and kissed him, firmly. John’s knees buckled.
Finch guided him down to the couch. “People pay attention to alphas,” he said absently. He was starting to unbutton John’s shirt. John reached up to catch his hands, to stop him, but he found himself helping instead. There was a sweet feverish ache starting deep in his belly, and every time Harold’s fingers brushed his bare skin, it resonated through him. “I’ve always found it — more convenient to appear — oh, John,” he said, and bent to kiss him.
John groaned helplessly into Harold’s mouth. He hadn’t had a full heat since he’d been sixteen: his dad had gotten him the implant the day after the first one had started. He’d felt the pressure a few times, the sense of being on-edge and lonely; he’d always been careful to get medical leave and keep away from any alphas he liked for a few days until it subsided. This time, he’d started avoiding Carter three days ago, and it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why it had still kept getting worse, and worse, and — worse —
Harold’s hands were on his bare shoulders. They were stroking down his chest. Oh. This wasn’t worse. This was — this was — “Please,” he panted. “Harold, please.”
“Yes, John, of course,” Harold said. “Stand up and let’s take off your pants.”
There was some reason that was a bad idea, but John couldn’t seem to remember what it was. He stood up and helped Harold strip him, and then he lay down again. Harold unbuttoned his own pants and smiled at him as he settled between John’s legs. He brushed the head of his cock, leaking just a little, over the faint slight indent of John’s slit.
Breath stopped in John’s throat. He gripped the back of the couch, the cushion under him, fingers digging into the upholstery. Pleasure was crashing through him, deep shocking waves. “Open for me, John,” Harold murmured.
He barely had to ask. He was nudging in even as he spoke, and John shut his eyes to concentrate on it better, to feel it. He was opening. He’d never, he hadn’t known how, but it was easy: it seemed completely obvious, like Harold belonged inside him. John groaned softly, ecstatic, as Harold pushed in. “All the way,” he said, begging, shameless. “Harold, please — “
“Of course,” Harold said, mildly indignant, as though he couldn’t believe John would even imagine him holding back. “I’m only going slowly because you’re very tight, John.” He was in deep, sliding closer to the source of that sweet hot ache. John could feel him pressed up against it, at the very edge. “Will you let me in?”
“Yes,” John said. “Yes, Harold. Yes,” his voice rising, and Harold’s cock was sliding in, key into lock, perfect, perfect, and John clenched down around him hard. Harold groaned approvingly. John locked his legs around Harold’s waist and arched up into him, rocked with him, shivering with every thrust until Harold leaned forward and kissed him again, sighed deeply into his mouth, and came. John gripped his shoulders and pressed his forehead to Harold’s, shaking, while the spinning, dizzying rush of heat ebbed and subsided at last, blaze settling in to a steady warm comfortable glow.
It took a long time. John finally sank back on a long gasp, a last shiver going through him, an echo. He let his head fall back against the couch, full of white noise, a kind of running murmur. His whole body felt different: heavy, full, sated. He thought he might never want to move again.
“John,” Harold said, his face appalled, leaning over him. “John — what have I done? Are you — are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” John said, staring at the ceiling, bemused.
“You’re fine?” Harold said. “You’re not — ?”
“Oh, I am,” John said. It was funny how clearly he could tell.
“Oh,” Harold said, blankly.
“Yeah,” John said.
They didn’t say anything else for a while. John was vividly aware that Harold’s cock was still inside him, locked in deep. He wasn’t consumed by the same kind of desperate mind-altering burn anymore, but it still felt fantastic. Every deep breath he took moved it in him, small sparks of pleasure. Harold’s breath hitched faintly each time. John nudged his hips up once, experimentally. They both groaned.
“Perhaps I should — ” Harold said, half-heartedly.
“A little late?” John offered. He really didn’t want Harold to pull out yet.
“There is that,” Harold said. He heaved a couple of breaths, and then he reached for John’s thigh and drew it higher up over his hip, and thrust.
“Oh God yes,” John said.
They cleaned up afterwards — three more rounds afterwards — and got dressed and sat on the couch not-saying-anything some more. John kept putting a hand on his belly. He thought he could feel something happening. Harold kept glancing over with a complicated furrowed expression. Not guilty or worried exactly; more like he thought he should feel guilty and worried, and it was awkward that he didn’t.
John sympathized: his own expectations for something like this ever happening had involved being pissed off, horrified, and seeking immediate medical intervention. Instead he mostly was feeling — he felt — happy.
He tried to find panic a little longer, but it just wasn’t coming. He gave up and relaxed back into the couch the way his body wanted, spreading his arms across the back and sprawling into Harold’s space. Harold drew a breath and leaned back with him. After a moment, he put a hand on John’s thigh, possessive, and John gave a small sigh of satisfaction and let himself enjoy it: he was taken.
It was hard to believe that he hadn’t ever realized Harold was an alpha — then again, John realized, maybe he had, somehow. Harold had always felt so right. And now —
“And now,” he purred, “you’re my alpha.”
“Yes?” Harold said, his voice taut. “That is — ” He paused and looked at him, serious. “John, I am, I would be delighted to be, regardless, but do you mean — “
“Yeah,” John said, and patted his tummy. “I’m keeping the baby.”