Work Text:
Harold’s never been particularly good with people. Computer programs are simpler – even the Machine – they follow certain rules, logic, a consistent and comforting flow of data, action and reaction, that can be seen, understood, even reliably predicted.
He programmed the Machine to predict people, to understand the incomprehensible, to find patterns in the chaos of human free will.
But he’s never really managed to program that into himself.
Which is probably why he never really saw this coming.
“Finch,” John groans, flushed and lightly sweating, his dark hair ruffled beautifully against the white linen sheets of this week’s safe house. “Please.”
Harold, who is sweating quite a bit harder and beginning to regret the way this particular position puts pressure on his bad leg, takes a deep breath and pulls out.
John whines gratifyingly.
“Finch,” he says again, in the same damning tone he sometimes uses before Harold hangs up the phone to hurriedly address some other number’s problem.
“Now, Mr. Reese,” Harold gasps, lowering himself shakily onto his side, “you must understand, computer work really does not lend itself to the kind of stamina –”
John growls in frustration and shoves him flat on his back.
Harold’s yelp turns into something embarrassingly high pitched as John sinks himself right back onto Harold’s cock, head thrown back with all the impressively defined muscles of his abdomen and pectorals and shoulders in sharp relief under the dim lights.
“I’ll show you stamina,” John growls, and leans down for something that seems more like biting than kissing, before he flexes his truly ridiculous thighs and sets a pace that has Harold hanging onto the sheets for dear life.
“Mr. – Mr. Reese,” Harold stutters after several minutes of breathless gasping, the slick tightness of John’s ass bringing him closer to the edge – it’s been quite some time, and regardless, the vision of John raising and lowering himself above him, muscles flexing, would test even the strongest of souls. He is truly, agonizingly beautiful like this, even more beautiful than he is in a properly tailored suit.
John looks at him with heavy eyelids, lips quirking. He brackets his arms on either side of Harold’s shoulders and contorts himself downwards to kiss him deeply.
“Come on, Finch,” John murmurs as their lips part, only slightly out of breath. “You’re about to come inside me – the least you could do is use my first name.”
Harold splutters.
John smiles, a wicked edge to it, and leans back again, clenching in a way that makes something in Harold’s spine go hot and tight.
“Mr. – ”
John glares at him, and rolls his hips in a truly unsportsmanlike manner.
Harold groans, cupping his hands over John’s rock-hard thighs, feeling the power of them, the flex of each rhythmic motion.
“John,” he gasps, after several undulating movements. “John, for goodness’ sake – ”
John makes a punched-out sound, almost like he’s been shot, and comes without even touching himself, spine arching, eyelids fluttering, semen splattering over his lower abdomen and Harold’s chest like some kind of abstract art.
It’s too much for Harold – the gorgeous view above him, the tight clench and fluttering of John’s orgasm, the tiny sharp breaths issuing from John’s mouth in rough staccato.
Harold groans, and tilts over the edge into the strongest orgasm he’s had in years, a whiteout of pleasure, his hands clenching on John’s thighs, the world blanking out around him.
He comes back to himself after several long moments, limp and satisfied, even the eternal pain of his spine and leg dulled to something far away and ephemeral.
John’s muscles have unclenched, his whole body limber and relaxed over Harold’s hips. He rolls his neck in a wide circle, humming, and then lifts away until their bodies part, rolling to Harold’s side.
The sudden lack of contact is dissatisfying.
Harold turns himself towards John, searching.
John’s eyes have lost some of their mischievous and satisfied shine, darkening to something more guarded even as he carefully maintains eye contact. It makes something in Harold’s throat go tight and unhappy.
Harold opens his mouth, a familiar title on his lips, and then changes his mind: “John,” he says, quietly, and reaches out a hand, cupping the sharp curve of John’s jawline, running a thumb over the light bristling of stubble.
John looks at him warily for a moment, but then his eyes soften again, losing some of that distant cold – the shield he puts between himself and the world that has so often done its best to crush him under its boot. “Harold,” he says, just as quietly.
There’s something strange and fierce rising in Harold’s chest, something he’s never felt before, even with Grace – a burning need, possessive and hot.
Never leave me, Harold thinks.
It’s too fragile to say out loud, too new, so he leans forward instead, finds John meeting him with equal eagerness, a mutual entanglement of lips and arms and legs, skin on skin, so close to one another that Harold can barely separate the pieces of himself from the two of them, together.
Never leave me, Harold thinks again, more fiercely, his mind already putting together two new identities and professions, a familiar task that requires scarcely any effort, certainly not enough to distract him from the scratch of John’s stubble on his face.
He might not have predicted this – predicted John. Beautiful, glorious, perfect John.
But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do everything possible to keep him.
The paperwork and code lay themselves out in his head like offerings, tying together the threads that will strengthen his cover, John’s cover, covers that can be connected, associated to one another, without bringing danger to them both.
Idly, his hands still exploring the hard planes of John’s body, he considers the practicality of forging wedding certificates.
Hmm, he thinks, noting the light shudder in John’s body as he brushes his fingers over one pebbling pectoral.
But why would I deny myself the opportunity to put him in a wedding suit?