Actions

Work Header

plunder

Work Text:

John is not expecting his phone to try to sell him penis enlargement pills.

He activates his earpiece. "Harold? Are you trying to give me a hint?"

The silence on the other side only makes John's suspicions grow with it. Then, finally, he hears, "It was an accident."

The voice is wrong. John is back in the library within ten minutes.

He takes several seconds to comprehend the scene in front of him. The suit is familiar, and the eyes, blinking at John behind thick glasses. The rest is. Well.

For once, Harold was not seventeen when John left the library this morning.

"I just wanted to watch Game of Thrones." Harold's voice is ten kinds of wrong. Instead of his odd accent, which John was never able to place, he sounds solidly Kentucky. "They should make it available for direct viewing if they don't want people to pirate it."

The whininess, too, is out of line with the Harold John knows, who hides it all too well behind a supercilious front.

John's got a good poker face, but in his soul, he's grinning hard enough for his face to split. "That's really unfair," he says.

Seventeen or not, Harold isn't stupid. His eyes narrow. "Are you making fun of me?"

John considers. Then he admits, "A little. But I mean it in a friendly way."

Harold stays suspicious. "I don't have friends."

John wouldn't have done it with the Harold he knows, but with this version of him seems like he'd accept an arm around his shoulders well enough.

The effect surpasses John's wildest expectations: Harold actually snuggles in. "Am I dating you?" he says. "Future me, I mean. Memories are kind of confusing."

John's mouth abruptly dries up.

Harold tilts his head. Oh, God, this version is flexible. "So, no, but you want to?"

The Harold John knows has tact, he is cautious, he wouldn't ask because while John never promised not to lie to him, Harold knows John hates having to. "Yeah."

"But we don't. And I don't think I could've missed this." Harold's considering frown is almost exactly the same, if a little smoother-skinned. "Do I have a good reason not?"

"We could die any minute," John says helpfully.

Young!Harold glares at him. "So could anyone. I said good reason not."

Oh, God. John may not survive this. "You're technically my boss?"

He does not expect the sudden glint in Harold's eyes. "So. Technically.... could I order you to kiss me?" Harold's cheeks are pinkening.

It's endearing and wrong and John is torn between obeying and running away. "There's laws against sexual harassment."

The eyebrow raise, too, is just the same. "I doubt you ever signed a contract." Now Harold is squirming, a deeper blush in his cheeks.

Oh. Fuck. John bites his cheek, tells himself strongly that at seventeen a stiff breeze is enough to get someone hard: John shouldn't read anything into Harold responding to this line of conversation.

John responding to it - well, that's another matter.

The look Harold gets does not beckon well. This is his problem solving expression, and the fact John finds it, too, arousing is an issue for later. "But you do want to. So why are you objecting?"

John needs to move away. He needs to, but under the expensive fabric of his suit Harold is sharp bones and soft skin, resilient with youth and warm with life and desire. "You wouldn't want to," John whispers. He won't pretend he wouldn't take advantage of it if he could, but. "When you're back to yourself, you'll hate me."

Harold tilts his head. John can practically hear gears turning. "What if I prove to you I wouldn't?"

Taking that kind of bet with the Harold John knows is a sucker's game, but this raw, untried version of him seems like he still hasn't quite learned to hide a bluff. "All right," John says.

Harold turns to his keyboard. He types just as fast as the version John knows. A video file pops up, opening to fill up the screen.

It's footage of John. He remembers it: that was the number where he had to dive into a swimming pool, and climb out wet.

"Shall we look at number of times viewed?" Harold says. "Thirty two last week. Want to guess what time of day they happened?"

"That's just a guess," John says. "He might have been looking at it for other reasons."

Harold's expression is the one John mentally dubs his You're being difficult on purpose face, especially since Harold usually employs it when John is. "All right." He opens another file.

That one is - John blushes just looking at it, even though there's barely anything visible, just bodies moving in the dark. Him and Zoe. That was a good night.

Harold takes a ragged breath. His face is outright blotchy, now, and he's sweating a little bit, transfixed by the screen.

"Really," John murmurs before he can stop himself.

Harold's shoulders draw up. "You sound really hot."

John finds himself reacting to his defensiveness, to his reluctance as he hasn't to outright pursuit. He leans back a little, let Harold see that he's hard. He keeps his voice low, intimate. "Is that so?"

Harold makes a little noise of his own, and Christ, John is not a good enough man to resist that. He's moving a hand down, petting Harold through his pants before he can think better of it.

His buttons come undone easily, even though John is only using one hand. A last shred of propriety makes him want to take the suit off neatly, take care of it before he takes care of Harold.

Before John can go any further, Harold puts a hand on his cheek. "Kiss me?" he says, a little shy, and that's it. John closes the distance between them before he can form the next thought.

He starts sliding to his knees and Harold catches his wrist. "Wait." He's out of breath already. John has a visceral need to ruin him, to make Harold come so hard he cries. It doesn't preclude listening to what he has to say: the opposite. "Come to bed with me?"

John smiles.

He lays Harold naked on the mattress in the bedroom, then climbs to cover Harold's body with his own. "What do you want?" He breathes the question into Harold's ear, then bends to bite his nipple.

"It's really hard to prioritize like this," Harold says faintly.

John takes that as positive feedback. He also figures a blowjob is a welcome thing at any age. The impatient, shuddering thrusts of Harold's hips support this supposition.

"John. John!" Harold bucks until John has to pin him down to the bed. Even then he pulls John's hair, trying his hardest to get control which, perversely, John keeps away from him.

(The Harold John knows wouldn't have struggled for it, he would have had it, as simply and inevitably as he could've had John.)

To drive the thought away, John carefully scrapes Harold's cock with his teeth, making him moan and rut upwards, getting his come half in John's mouth and half on his face.

Before John can wipe it on the sheets, Harold says, "Let me," in a low voice, pulling John up the bed and licking his face.

John stills and does breathing exercises until he no longer feels like he's about to have a stroke or come on the spot.

Harold doesn't wait for him. He's got John's cock in his hands, studying it as intently as he does a new model of hardware. (...Well.)

The first experimental lick he delivers to the tip is electrifying. Harold's subsequent surprised, delighted, "Hm!" makes the second lick even better. Then he takes the head of John's cock in his mouth and John stops thinking.

He moans in complaint when Harold takes his sweet mouth away.

"Don't come yet," Harold tells him. "Guessing from the average refractory period around your age, you owe me about three more orgasms before you can get off."

A noise escapes John before he can stop it. He covers by turning over and pinning Harold down. He can do three more orgasms, he's pretty sure. "You want all those at once?" He's pretty proud of how even he manages to get his tone. "You'll wind up sore."

"Let me worry about that," Harold says, so perfectly, achingly familiar that John hides his face by hoisting Harold's legs over his shoulders and licking him open.

Jesus wept. The sounds Harold makes when John eats him out are unearthly, absolutely devoid of shame or volume control. John could get off just listening to them and humping the bed.

He doesn't want to risk the wrath of Harold, though he can't resist a little needling. "Sure I can't come yet?" he says, rubbing a spit-slick finger over Harold's rim. "I don't have to be hard for us to have fun."

The look Harold gives him is hilariously cross, especially since he's still panting. "I want you to fuck me," he says, like John is acting dense on purpose. "Did you just want me to say it out loud?"

"Maybe I did," John says, batting his eyelashes.

This time, when Harold grabs his hair, his grip is precise. He gives John very little slack, and his eyes are steel, a scalpel dissecting him. "You could have just asked," Harold says softly. Then he lets go. "Please fuck me, in that case."

That please almost takes John too far, though. He has to close his eyes, drawing shaky breaths. He lowers his head until Harold's belly is soft against his face. Harold's hand traces his cheekbones down to his throat, where it takes secure hold, careful not to choke.

"Hey." Just like that, Harold manages to sound his current age again, soft and hesitant. "I'm pretty sure I'll be back to my old self soon. So to speak. We might as well have fun meanwhile, right?"

John takes a couple breaths, steadies himself. "Right."

Harold's eyelashes seem entirely too long, his lower lip lush when he bites it. "Give older me an incentive," he murmurs.

Right now, John does not need to think about that. He needs to get his fingers inside Harold, get him wet and loose and open so John can get in.

Harold opens for him easily, eagerly. His cock twitches and jerks when John finds his prostate, and making him come again is as easy. John just has to close his mouth over the head of Harold's cock and suck, giving his prostate a couple more helpful nudges.

Even after all that, with his dick poised right at Harold's entrance, John hesitates.

Harold gives him a calculating look. "All right," he says, "on your back." John does as he's told.

They go slow, if not as slow as John would've liked. Harold's eyes are screwed shut and his thighs are trembling, the heat of him concentrated on the tip of John's cock is agonizing. John fists the sheets and waits.

Inch by fraction of slow, torturous inch, Harold slides down until John's seated firmly inside him. With round, wide eyes, Harold looks down on John and says, "Goodness," apparently with perfect sincerity.

John manages to get out, "Good?"

Harold's jerky nod turns into more languorous movement as he becomes accustomed to feeling John inside him. "I could get used to this," he says, breathy. "Or maybe I shouldn't, I'll want it twice a day and three times on Sunday, at least. I probably don't have time for that."

John surges up desperately to keep himself from blurting that they could make time.

As Harold fucks himself on John's cock his own dick bobs, red and hard. It calls out for John to wrap his hands around it and so he does, rubbing his finger over the slick head. A few minutes of that is all it takes to get Harold coming again, spurting over John's chest like he's staking a claim.

"Good," Harold says, after a few minutes to get his breath back. "Now let's keep going until I'm hard again, and then I'll do you."

The noise John makes probably sounds like a dying engine, because that's how he feels. "Please. Some of us are old."

Harold's smile is deceptively sweet. "You should have thought of that earlier." He leans forward. John is conscious of the heat inside him, the tightness. "Could you really tell me no, right now?"

Instead of answering, John leans up, captures Harold's mouth in a hungry, urgent kiss. By the time they break away, Harold's hard again, rising off John with a small wince.

He nips John's attempt to prep himself in the bud. "Let me," he says, making John roll over and slicking his fingers.

It takes Harold a few minutes to get the hang of it, but once he does, John just opens for him, helpless to keep him out. It doesn't hurt that Harold keeps muttering commentary, "Ah, a little to the left -- odd texture here.... hm, maybe slicker, and pull back and -- yes."

John keeps his face against the pillow, his eyes shut, as Harold moves into him. He thrusts a little too fast, enough to make John wince, but it doesn't really matter. He's got Harold in him, over him. He's been hard for long enough to make it hurt, and he loves that, too.

"Can I make you come just from getting fucked?" Harold asks him, breathless.

"No," John says, "sorry, not wired like that." Abruptly, he wishes he were.

As though Harold can read his mind, he says, "Maybe you and older me can work on that," and then his hand closes around John's dick, warm and sure. John doesn't need more than that.

Harold's orgasm doesn't really register. When John's next aware of his surroundings, Harold's pulled out, his soft wet dick pressed against John's ass.

He turns around to bury his face in the juncture between Harold's neck and his shoulders, wrapping his arms around a body at once stranger and more familiar than the one he brought to this bed. "Welcome back," John says.

"Putting me in the wet spot is an odd kind of welcome," Harold says. His tone is dry enough to make up for it, but at least he sounds amused.

"I'm in the wet spot, too," John says. "The whole bed is a wet spot."

"Let this be a cautionary tale about taking young men to bed," Harold says. "At least I trust you enjoyed yourself?"

John hesitates. "I could be enjoying myself more," he says, tentatively. He rises, leaning on his elbow to get a good look at Harold's face.

It's an expression John knows well, for its complexity: wry amusement and regret and hope. "I'm afraid I'm done for today," he says. He does close his hand around John's cock, a proprietary grip that makes John shudder. "Although, if you're still raring to go, I could lend some assistance?"

"You're the older one now," John points out, giddy and reckless with it. "You owe me. Uh. A tenth of an orgasm?"

That startles an actual laugh out of Harold. "I shall endeavor to pay it." He rubs along John's cock, a gentle, expert touch just skirting the edge of too much.

John leans down and kisses him, long and sweet and finally sure. "You can let it accumulate," he says. "I think every sixth orgasm is free."

"Is that so," Harold says, eyes alive with humor. "We'll discuss it when it's relevant. For now, as you mentioned, we are old." He pushes John back down on the mattress and rests his head on John's shoulder. He's snoring in a matter of minutes.