It was getting to be a problem.
The main problem was that John Reese was a man of action. He was patient enough, when he was stalking out a number, but sometimes digging up information on someone took a little more time than anticipated, and Finch learned very quickly that Reese was restless when he didn’t have something to focus on.
This often wasn’t an issue between them, Mr. Reese would just leave while Finch would do his work hacking into a bank or a credit bureau; he’d take Bear for a run or go and play Shogun in the park.
But sometimes John would just hang around the library; like a bored panther, poking around the library’s books, picking things up and fiddling with them before putting them back, while keeping up a casual dialogue with Harold about their latest number. If he was feeling especially restless, though, he would . . . find a way to burn off the excess energy.
John was currently finishing up his latest set of 50 pushups on the floor next to desk. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and his jacket had been discarded on a chair nearby. Bear was curled up asleep in his bed across the room, oblivious.
Harold had been working on their latest number: Mrs. Beverly Bucksley, an insurance adjuster who was currently making several thousand dollars a month making false claims using unsuspecting clients. Unfortunately one of the clients was an ex-hitman for the late don Moretti who hadn’t appreciated his rates going up. Most of the groundwork was simple enough; John had taken care of the hitman and Harold was now in the process of getting the right information to the proper authorities (Detective Carter) without it pulling up any red flags as to how Carter had gotten the information.
Twenty minutes ago Harold could have classified the pushups as a minor annoyance, heavy breathing and a continuous movement out of the corner of his eyes, but he was a dog owner these days and had the capability of tuning most things out. Ten minutes ago Harold had caught himself watching as John switched to one-armed pushups, changing from one arm to the other when he finished up a set, stopping only briefly to roll up his sleeves or wipe his brow before continuing on.
What he was doing now he could only classify as outright staring, Mrs. Bucksley’s bank account up on his screen forgotten. There was sheen of sweat visible on John’s brow, dampening his sideburns and over the back of his neck. The muscles in John’s arms tightened when he pressed down, standing out starkly. His breathing was heavy and even and was slowly driving Harold to desperation. His attraction to John wasn’t surprising or unmanageable, but there were limits.
Harold forced his eyes closed and counted slowly to ten, breathing in and out slowly with his hands resting on the keyboard, trying to ignore how tight his slacks had gotten.
“I’m disappointed Finch, I thought you’d last out a little longer than that.”
Harold’s eyes snapped open and looked over.
John looked up at him from a half crouch, arms straight, one knee down and one leg still extended backwards. He looked like a runner ready to sprint. A rivulet of sweat traveling down from John’s temple distracted him before he caught up to what John had said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Actually, my arms did kind of get tired about 7 sets back, but it’s good to have the challenge to push through.”
Harold felt his mouth drop down. “You were doing pushups for a half hour . . . on purpose?” John sat back on his heels opening up his shirt a little to let in some cooler air, wiping his sweaty hands against the fabric, and Harold got a better look what had become of his state of dress. “You’ve ruined your shirt,” he said blandly.
John looked down at the sweat soaked fabric, and shrugged. “You seemed to be enjoying it, so I kept going,” John said, pointedly looking at Harold’s lap. Harold followed his gaze and jumped to notice that his erection was still straining the fabric in his lap, and realized to his horror, had been prominently on display from the angle that John had been in for the last half hour.
Harold stood up, wincing slightly as fabric rubbed against him. “John, I- What am I doing-“ He looks down desperately at John’s mildly surprised face.
“Mr. Reese I apologize-“
“I- I’ll go-“ Harold said, gathering up papers on the desk and feeling the flush creep up his neck. He felt the movement before he actually felt the hands turning him, grabbing his ankle out from under him, and guiding his fall back down onto the chair. Harold stared blankly at John, who was on his knees in front of his chair, hands resting gently at Harold’s waist, with a look Harold couldn’t even begin to decipher.
“Now Harold,” he said slowly, “That was very rude. I did three hundred and fifty pushups just now, and I think I deserve a treat.” Harold couldn’t help giving John an incredulous look, the side of John’s mouth turned up for a small smirk.
“Mr. Reese, you really don’t have to. I shouldn’t have allowed myself-“ He cut himself off and swallowed as John leaned up so he was level with Harold and wrapped one hand around the knot in his tie.
“Yes, Harold, that’s why it’s a treat,” he said with a smile, which Harold didn’t return. “Harold. Listen to me; I’m saying you can. You’re allowed. You don’t have to hold back any more.” Harold felt his pulse beat through his head but he kept his face impassive. “I want you to watch. I want you to like it and to want it, me,” John emphasized each word, as if putting weight on them might make Harold understand better, might make this whole situation make any sense.
This had moved very quickly past impropriety and into an area that if they crossed into Harold wasn’t sure that either of them could return. The reasons why this was a terrible idea counted in the thousands, Harold’s mind quantifying all the possible ways this would end badly. Emotional repercussions alone only covered a small percentage of the backlash this could cause.
John sighed and backed off slightly, but kept a light grip on the tie, smoothing a thumb over the silk. “And what I really want right now, Harold, is to open your pants and suck your cock until you come down my throat.” John said, breath ghosting against Harold’s lips. “Please.”
If Harold had limits, John had blown past them, the point of no return was far in the distance. There was only so much one man can take, and John Reese on his knees begging to suck you off was above and beyond Harold’s resources.
“John-“ Harold started, and then gave up, grabbing the sides of John’s face and kissing him like he’d wanted to for months. John made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and returned the kiss, allowing Harold to lick his way in. John tasted of coffee and salt, the sweat from John’s exertions tangible on his lips. He groaned and clutched a hand through John’s damp hair. John retaliated by sucking Harold’s bottom lip between his teeth and pressing down slightly.
He felt John’s hands swiftly worked both his belt and slacks open, pushing down the fabric to free Harold’s erection. Harold gasped as John wrapped his hand around the base and stroked up the length of him, kissing his lips softly every time he managed to pull a noise from him. Harold gripped John’s scalp and pulled back to stare at him.
John looked up at him from under his lashes for a moment, testing his grip and seeming pleased with himself. John’s grip felt exquisite, the soft flesh of his palm mixed with the calluses from frequent gun use. Harold dipped back in for another kiss, slowly this time, and John hummed happily at the motion.
Harold was torn; he wanted this feeling to go on forever, the soft movement of lips in sync with the slow motions of John’s hands, but he wanted more, he wanted John’s mouth, he wanted more.
He fisted one hand in the fabric of John’s damp shirt and used the other to grab the wrist that was slowly working him. Pulling it away he breathed deeply and pushed John downwards. John gave a soft chuckle and dipped quickly and Harold was surrounded by wet heat and suction and oh god it had been so very long since . . .
“John, wait, stop. Stop!” John pulled off immediately, and that was almost as startling as the suction had been. Harold almost lost himself in backlash-like quality, like being dropped suddenly from a small height. Except John was going too far now, he was backing away. Harold tightened his fist in John’s shirt, “No, just- just wait.” He breathed heavily for a moment with his eyes closed.
John’s face was impassive when he finally opened his eyes, face blank and waiting for further orders. Harold hated the look, reached a hand up to run it through John’s hair. He felt more then saw the tension ease out of John’s shoulders.
“Apologies, John, it’s been a while,” Harold said after a moment. He leaned back and pulled John a little more forward. “While the exuberance is appreciated, perhaps you could start just a little-“ John ran his tongue ran slowly up his length and Harold let out a small laugh, “yes. Well, you understand.”
Harold surrendered himself to the sensation after that, long pulls of heat running up to the tip while John’s hand kept up a steady rhythm. John would speed up, take his length in for a few strokes and then back off again, humming happily when Harold gasped. Harold kept his eyes open and his hands braced on John. He felt almost as though if he let go John would suddenly disappear. John would look up to him through his lashes, monitoring his reactions and then would go back to working his shaft slowly, up and down.
He nearly lifted right out of the seat when John took him in fully and started humming; he thrust up slightly, moving deeper with the motion. John did it again, humming slightly harder. The vibration ricocheted through Harold’s nervous system and he felt himself clutching John’s hair and thrusting up again and again. John grabbed onto his waist and helped him along, adjusting the angle, but letting Harold call the shots, making little pleased grunts with every movement.
When he came he felt it was all he could do to hang on making a desperate noise, the sensations overwhelming him. He felt John swallowing around him messily, the continued pressure making him let out another small noise as he felt the small aftershocks.
He flopped back, feeling John release him from his mouth and press his face into his hipbone. John’s arm was shifting rapidly against his thigh and Harold could only watch the small twitches as John brought himself off quickly as well.
They both sat there panting, John had yet to lift his face and Harold idly amused himself by trying to pat John’s misused hair back down into less of a disaster.
When the silence became too much Harold cleared his throat, “Well, that was . . .” he let the sentence hang there unfinished while he searched for something appropriate.
“-I was going to say surprising.” He muttered, contrite at being called out.
John was quiet a moment, “It really shouldn’t be, “ he said, looking up.
Harold looked down helplessly and sighed. “No I suppose not.”
He felt John let out a harsh breath against his thigh but did not otherwise move as Harold continued running his hand slowly through his hair.