John and Harold headed to a safehouse after calling Detective Fusco to have him check on their number. The homicide cop wasn’t happy getting another call from “Glasses and Wonderboy,” but Harold had cited an “emergency.” John couldn’t suppress a smirk.
John held back in the back of the cab out of consideration for Harold’s nerves, but as soon as they were in the apartment and the door was closed, John had Harold up against the wall, Harold let out a brief yelp of protest before John’s lips were on his and everywhere else. His face, his neck, his chest. John pushed off Harold’s jacket and let it fall as Harold struggled with and eventually kicked off his shoes. John loosened Harold’s tie and started undoing his shirt. He was pleased to find a smattering of soft chest hair that tickled his chin.
“How,” Harold gasped, leaning against the wall for support and unbuttoning his vest, “How long have you… felt this way?”
John shrugged. “Hard to say,” he growled, getting down on his knees. “You?” he asked, looking up at Harold through thick, dark lashes, and tearing off his coat.
Harold bit back a moan as he placed his hand on John’s head. “I didn’t know… that I did,” he answered between breaths, “It was more of an inkling, but I… I tried… Shit…”
John had untucked Harold’s shirt. When John grazed his teeth over the skin above Harold’s hips, Harold let the expletive slip. John raised an eyebrow and hid his smirk. So Harold’s proper façade could be cracked.
“You tried what?” John prompted, tracing Harold’s ribs.
Harold swore again. “I tried to stay professional,” Harold answered gritting his teeth, “Mr. Reese… John…”
John shuddered. He loved the way his name sounded on Harold’s trembling lips.
John sat back and paused, his hands hooked around Harold’s belt. “Harold,” he said, his voice low and rough, “Is this what you want?”
Harold’s eyes met his, and in that moment, John swore he would give Harold anything he asked for.
“Bedroom,” Harold gasped, and John nodded. He realized Harold couldn’t stand against the wall for much longer. He stroked Harold’s leg soothingly before standing up, kissing Harold all over again before reaching the top.
John scooped up Harold effortlessly, with Harold’s legs on either side of his hips. Harold yelped again, arms pinwheeling before he grabbed onto John’s shoulders. John smiled up at him. “Better?” he teased.
In reply, Harold leaned down to kiss John. John headed towards the bedroom as Harold kissed him sweetly. John kissed back, navigating the safehouse walls with ease.
John set Harold down gently on the bed before getting back on his knees. He went about undoing Harold’s pants while Harold finished ripping off his tie and removing his top.
He’d gotten through Harold’s belt and was starting on his zipper when Harold stopped him with his hands on John’s shoulders. John looked up at him expectantly.
“May I?” Harold asked breathlessly, gesturing to John’s suit.
John nodded again. But instead of making quick work of his clothes like John had done for him, Harold took his sweet time. He undid each button of John’s shirt with careful patience, brushing his fingers over John’s glistening skin. He pushed John’s shirt off his shoulders, pushing his sleeves down and running his hands over John’s arms. He pulled John’s sleeves off one at a time, leaving a trail of kisses across John’s collarbone. Harold was frustratingly, maddeningly patient.
And John savored every moment.
When they were both shirtless, they took a minute to study each other. John was covered in scars, and Harold knew as much- he’d sewn up his partner on more than one occasion- but he’d never seen John completely exposed. His eyes flicked from bullet hole to bullet hole, but he looked as though he was studying a masterpiece, not a bruised and broken man, and John felt himself blushing.
Harold, on the other hand, was a different kind of specimen. He wasn’t smooth and chiseled, like some of the men John had been with that had called him “pretty boy” as they did it in the dark, but Harold’s tailored suits concealed a well-defined torso. He had wonderfully soft chest hair and, to John’s delight, a salt and pepper happy trail. Harold’s hips presented a spectacular V, and John felt himself growing lustful and hot.
Harold must have seen the fire in John’s eyes, because he reached out and pulled John onto the bed with him. “John,” he began, his voice airy as he caught his breath, “I should tell you that… I haven’t… been with a man before.”
John brushed his hand through Harold’s hair. “Never?”
Harold shook his head. “Never. And that’s not to say that I didn’t know or never thought about it, but… When I got to MIT, all I did was study, and then I started working on the Machine with Nathan, and then I met Grace, and…”
John stopped him with a finger pressed gently to his lips. He quickly replaced it with his lips, a light, chaste kiss to comfort Harold. After a few seconds, he broke off the kiss, but stayed close, so close that he could taste the air between them. “We won’t do anything that you don’t want to,” he whispered, tangling his fingers with Harold’s, “You set the pace, and you make the rules.”
Harold nodded, his lips slightly parted. “Thank you,” he whispered back, “For now I think… would you…”
He gestured helplessly to his half open fly, and John chuckled. “Anything for you. Lay back,” he instructed, removing his shoes and tossing them over his shoulder. John preferred being ridden, but but he was used to being on top, the women he’d slept with enjoying him holding them down. And John wouldn’t make Harold work for it, not today.
Harold obeyed, staring up at the ceiling. When he caught John looking at him, he smiled, but John could tell he was more nervous than he let on. John started by getting on all fours above Harold and kissing every place he could reach. Harold sighed sinfully, and John smiled against his neck. While John kissed and made every effort to leave as many hickeys as possible, he pulled Harold’s trousers off,and tossed them aside.
“Wait,” Harold said, pressing his hand against John’s chest.
John stopped immediately, taking his hands off Harold and sitting up on his heels. “What is it?”
“We-” Harold started, before swallowing dryly, “We need to set some ground rules in place.”
“Like what?” John asked. He wanted desperately to touch Harold, to memorize him, but Harold had asked him to wait, and John would do whatever Harold asked.
“Safeword?” Harold suggested.
“Ordos,” John replied without needing to think, “If that works for you.”
Harold nodded. “And… never at the office,” he added, flushing deeper.
Something was nagging at the back of John’s mind. Harold seemed almost embarrassed, couldn’t bring himself to say the word aloud, couldn’t say “sex.”
“Agreed,” John said. “Finch… Harold…”
Harold looked up at him expectantly. “Yes, John?”
“Are you sure about this? About us?” John felt a lump forming in his throat. He didn’t want to stop, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Harold. Harold who was so precious, and so important, and looking at him so innocently that John could cry. “Because if you’re not certain, please tell me and we’ll stop-”
“No!” Harold blurted, cutting him off. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at John, really looked at him, from behind his glasses with his wide unblinking eyes. “No, John, I’ve never been more certain.” He reached up with one arm and stroked John’s cheek. “I want this. I want you.”
John nearly came on the spot.
In the blink of an eye, he was all over Harold, pinning him back down against the bed, breathing him in. He couldn’t get close enough. “Tell me what you want,” John begged, “Tell me what you need.”
“Touch me,” Harold sighed, breathing in John’s ear, “Touch me and make me come.”
So Harold could talk dirty. He had been trying to be so professional when talking about rules. It was so endearing and so distinctly Harold, but now that the dam had broken, John couldn’t get enough. “Touch you where?”
“My cock, take it in your hand and jack me off, please, fuck…”
Oh, that was beautiful.
John went straight to work, ripping of Harold’s underwear. Harold sprang forth, already fully erect. John only glanced down briefly, not wanting to look away from Harold’s face, a masterpiece of pleasure, but he was still mildly impressed by what he saw. John reached between them and wrapped his hand around Harold.
“Fuck!” Harold swore, his head hitting the pillow as he bucked into John’s touch.
“I haven’t even gotten started,” John teased, starting to stroke agonizingly slow.
Harold shuddered beneath him, looking ready to come completely undone. His eyes were closed, but his lips were parted and he whimpered needily. “John,” he sighed, “Oh, John, oh fuck…”
How many nights had John pictured this? Imagined Harold falling to pieces, what he would say or do, and there was, looking more beautiful than John could have dreamed.
“Is that good?” John asked, speeding up, “Does that feel good? You want more?”
Harold writhed beneath him, hands reaching out for something to grasp. “Yes, oh fuck yes, oh god…”
John felt himself reaching a tipping point, but he couldn’t think of himself when Harold was unraveling in his hand.
As if he could read John’s mind, Harold lifted his head and panted, “Wait, what… what about you?”
“Do you want me to touch myself, too?” John asked, feigning patience, but down below, his erection was pressed painfully against the sheets. He knew Harold could feel it, it was probably why he’d asked.
Harold shook his head. “Let me,” he said, his voice gravelly and his breathing ragged.
John could only nod dizzily. Harold didn’t waste any time releasing John, and he said John’s name like a prayer, pulling John down to kiss him, slipping his tongue in between John’s waiting lips. John welcomed him willingly. He was so enthralled by Harold’s tongue running along his teeth that he barely noticed Harold letting go of his hand and reaching for John’s cock until Harold was touching him.
The sensation was almost too much. John squeezed his eyes shut as he lifted his head, crying out. With his free hand, he gripped the headboard and threw his head back as Harold stroked him. He moved up to straddle Harold, hands and bodies colliding and brushing up against each other.
They came simultaneously, which just made John orgasm harder. He came screaming Harold’s name as Harold called out his. Harold let go to dig his fingers into John’s shoulder. Later, John would admire the scratch marks he’d left.
As they finished, riding the aftershocks, Harold whispered, “John, oh John… “ John burrowed into Harold, his head in the crook of his neck above his heart, and he shivered. A few seconds passed in silence as they recovered.
Finally, Harold spoke. “Did that meet your expectations, Mr. Reese?” he murmured playfully.
John nuzzled closer into Harold’s chest. “It was better,” was all he said. Harold ran his fingers through John’s hair, and John hummed with contentment.
“You were exceptional, Mr. Reese,” Harold praised him, and John felt warmth blossoming in his chest.
John had just started to doze off when Harold said, “We should probably call the detective and see how he fared with the number.”
John blinked. “Probably.” Reluctantly, he sat up, assessing the situation. He smirked at the trail discarded clothes- the shoes haphazardly tossed by the door, the trousers strewn at the foot of the bed, the tie hanging from the corner of the headboard. He chuckled at the sight.
When he turned around, Harold had covered himself up in the sheets and was massaging his leg. John tilted his head. “Everything all right?”
Harold nodded. “Fine. I just… I don’t tend to lay on my back, it… aggravates my condition sometimes.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but his face contorted into a grimace.
John winced in sympathy. “I wish you’d told me.”
“It’s all right,” Harold repeated, reaching for his pants, “We’ll just remember it for next time.”
Next time. John smiled. He liked the sound of that.