Chapter Text
The best Harold can do is not look, but sometimes even that is beyond him.
John comes in through the door with a thunderous expression and soiled clothes, likely the result of having to trail their last number through the sewers. "I'm taking a shower," he announces and quickly strips down to skin.
Really, Harold has no excuse. John was only nude for a moment before the door to the library's bathroom closed behind him. His clothes, his everything stank of raw sewage. He had dried blood on the side of his face, an injury above his eye that Harold makes a mental note to disinfect once John is out of the shower. Plenty of unappealing details to focus on.
Yet out of that entire scene, one detail engraves itself on the inside of Harold's eyelids: John's cock, impressive even flaccid, hanging amidst a nest of soft curls.
He might have felt better if he'd chosen some other, less blatantly pornographic subject for his focus. John's chest, or his stomach, or his thighs. All of them pleasant to look at, to be sure, and none of which evoked the same urgent need in Harold.
No. Need is the wrong word. Harold needs to eat and sleep; he merely wants John's cock, and he can go on wanting, because he will certainly not get it. John is his employee, and making advances would be highly unethical, not to mention the risk to their work relationship should John rebuff him.
Harold stands up and goes in search of a change of clothes for John. When he hears the shower door open, he resolutely keeps his eyes on his screen until the rustle of fabric dies down.
~~
Some days are just on this side of bearable. Other days cross over that border.
Harold almost wishes he had something tangible to blame his displeasure on. But his pain is only a three on the pain scale, not even bad enough to consider painkillers. His lack of sleep is still in the range that coffee could medicate, if the situation were dire enough.
It's not. John has the number well in hand and is in a good mood.
Perhaps that's what's making Harold so pissy. John's good mood means he flirts with every single person he meets, from detective Fusco down to the elderly shop owner who sells him his soda. Harold bitterly and irrationally hates all of them.
"So that's done," John says through the microphone, obnoxiously cheerful. "What next?"
"Nothing on the docket," Harold says. "Take the rest of the day off, Mr. Reese. If anything comes up I'll contact you."
John says goodbye and signs off. Harold spends a few more moments tracking him through security cameras before quietly cursing and getting away from the table.
Fine. This distraction isn't going away: time he did something about it.
He makes his way to the mattress he keeps in the back of the library. It's not the best for his back, but it's alright for a few hours' rest.
Rest isn't what he intends, right now.
Harold is matter-of-fact about his body, most of the time. It's an old, cranky, battered machine, but it's performing as well as can be expected given the circumstances. Doing maintenance on it has gotten tedious since Harold can't exercise without conscious effort not to damage anything, and he has little time for it anyway, but he does what he can.
This is just another kind of maintenance, really.
Jerking off hasn't been purely pleasurable since he was injured, either. He needs to think too much about placement and positioning. It takes too long, sometimes long enough that he winds in more pain than he started with and too sore to continue, which is extremely frustrating. Simple physical stimulus won't cut through chronic pain sufficiently to achieve orgasm, so Harold has to get inventive, which is taxing at times.
Now, at least, he's spared the difficulty of finding an appealing fantasy. John's cock presents itself to Harold's mind.
Quiescent first, to match his memories, and to take pleasure in the thought of stroking John into hardness. Swiping his tongue over the head, tasting. Would John hiss, would he clench his fists, would his hips move without his volition?
Normally the thought of John's reaction would be plenty for Harold, but he finds himself wilting. He wants, for once, not to have to care. He wants to have, without worrying whether he should, whether he's doing harm. For once, instead of doing good, he wants to feel good.
He is alone here in his bed, and nobody has to know what he's thinking. He can think of John's cock thickening and growing, getting hard in his hands. He imagines the weight of it, the thickness. How thin and soft the skin would be, salty when Harold took it in his mouth.
The taste of John in the back of his mouth, near enough his throat to choke. Harold wants that.
And then. And then. Harold's eyes shut. He lets go of his cock to fumble for the bottle of lube, getting both his hands good and slick, messing the sheets up in the process. Never mind. Later.
His body protests when he tries to ease a finger inside, more at the tension this places on his back and his wrist than from the stretch of penetration. Harold doesn't care. He wants to be fucked.
Harold has been told he's good with his hands. John would be good with his entire body. He wouldn't even have to be, with a cock like that, could coast on size alone, but John would be better. He'd put his hips into every thrust, make Harold cry out, overwhelmed. He'd have the angle right, and the rhythm. He'd push and push, relentless, make Harold come with his cock and his hands, make it so good....
"Harold?"
For a moment Harold thinks he's hearing things, that his fantasy is bleeding into reality. Then his eyes fly open and he realizes that John is in the library.
His first urge is to yell Go away, which would surely be counterproductive. Before Harold can either cover up or make some excuse, John is there, watching him with round eyes and an open mouth.
Irritation gets the best of Harold. "Either leave or take off your clothes," he says.
He really doesn't expect John to blink, nod, and take the second option.
Harold sits up, watching him. He's slightly annoyed with himself: John is gorgeous, and Harold should treasure this opportunity to look at him, at all of him. Instead he's cranky until John's cock peeks out of his boxers, already half erect, and then he can't look anywhere else.
It's hot in Harold's hands. He noses around the base, enjoying John's scent, pleasantly masculine and musky. The hair there is as soft as it seems, as is John's skin. Harold absent-mindedly brushes a kiss over John's hipbone, his lower belly.
"Harold." John's voice is shaking, badly.
With some effort, Harold lets go. "If you had an issue with this, Mr. Reese," he says, crossly, "you might have said so before undressing."
John swallows. "No issue." His voice is mostly a whisper.
Harold closes his eyes. "Mr. Reese. I am not in the best of moods. This is not a time to play guessing games. Unless you wholeheartedly want to fuck me, the kindest thing you could do is put your clothes on and leave."
"Okay," John says, sounding dazed. He makes no move to leave, so Harold gets back to his previous examination of John's equipment.
It's still growing longer. Frankly it's intimidating, or would be if Harold weren't in a mood to be split apart. As it is, he hurriedly slicks himself up with a finger and moves to straddle John.
John's hands on his hips stop him. Harold stifles that What now? that wants to come out of his mouth. "Right, of course. Condom."
"That's not it," John says. He has a small frown on his face. "Can I just--" He braces Harold in place with one hand, effortlessly. With his other hand, he probes at Harold's opening. "Are you kidding me? There's no way you can take me like this."
"Watch me," Harold says grimly, moving futilely in John's grasp.
John's hold doesn't give. "No." Harold opens his mouth to protest, but John continues. "Not like this."
Then Harold is on his back, and John is between his legs - John's shoulders are under his knees, when did that even happen? - and John is.
Licking him.
There doesn't seem to be enough air in the room. Harold gasps dizzily, muscles uselessly clenching as John eats him out, holds him up so John can really get at him. It's unbearably good, sensation that lances through him, makes him sweat and roll his head over the pillow.
John's hand is on his dick, and suddenly climax is near, so close Harold can taste it. He moans, then manages, "Wait," in a thick voice.
John keeps going until Harold fists a hand in his hair and moves him away. "Fuck me," Harold tells him in no uncertain terms.
That makes John hesitate just long enough that Harold is trying to come up with sufficient threat to motivate him to continue. This is why Harold shouldn't let himself have harmless pleasures: they never stay harmless for long.
But then John says, "Condom?" and Harold is abruptly reminded that he doesn't have one. Just before he can explode from sheer frustration John adds, "Nevermind, I have one," fishing it out of his pocket. He gets it on quickly, competently. He nudges Harold to lie on his side and spoons up behind him. Then he lines his cock up against Harold's entrance, giving him a moment to consider the strain this penetration will put on Harold's body. "Still sure?"
Instead of answering, Harold shoves back, impaling himself with a loud moan.
Behind him, John trembles. "Harold," he says, barely audible. "Harold, don't hurt yourself--"
Harold isn't listening. Harold is past pain and onto something incredible; there is nothing but the delicious burn of John in him, stretching him. He's big, a brute strength attack right where it counts, thick and long and filling. "Shut up," Harold says, quite coherently given the circumstances, "and fuck me."
Finally, John obeys.
The climb towards orgasm is steep as ever, but now he has John's considerable strength behind him, propelling him up; he has John in him. All Harold needs is to wrap a hand around his cock, close his eyes and rub, just like this, and he'll get off in minutes.
Behind him John thrusts steadily, competently. Slow and hard, rocking deliciously into Harold and out of him again.
It's good. It's so good. Then John has a hand on Harold's stomach, rubbing, pressing down, and every sensation increases by an order of magnitude. John snakes his free hand under Harold's torso, knocking loose Harold's desperate grip on his own dick. John takes over, stroking his cock with one hand and his belly with another, and all Harold has to do is take.
"Oh," he says, just as the first tantalizing hint of orgasm makes itself known. So close, what if he loses it now, what if he falls out of position or thinks the wrong thought or--
"Shh," John says. His arms tighten around Harold. "Shh."
Just like that, Harold tips into orgasm effortlessly, letting it wash over him. It lasts a long time: he can't seem to stop coming, making a mess of himself and the bed and John's hand. Somebody's making overwhelmed little sobs, and Harold has a sneaking suspicion that it's him.
Once Harold has stopped shuddering, a century or so later, John begins to withdraw. Harold has a brief, obscene mental image of rolling the condom off and finishing John with his mouth, but he says, "Finish what you started."
Now that he's not half out of his mind with lust, Harold can pay attention better. He can feel the warmth of John's body against his back, the tension in John's muscles, hear the desperate hitch of his breath. John's hand is still curled loosely around Harold's cock, cradling it. Harold pets his knuckles.
The arm John has around his midsection tightens around Harold, almost but not quite enough to hurt. John whispers his name, barely more than a puff of air against Harold's ear.
Then he relaxes utterly, going boneless against Harold. "Mmm," John says, low and satisfied. He runs his hand through the mess on Harold's stomach. "Looks like you needed this."
Harold only just bites down on a scathing retort. He considers the lassitude in John's voice, compares it to his earlier strain. "I suppose I did," Harold says softly. He keeps his hand over John's.