scripted_sra: Mike, Sam, and Fi, in suits, standing and looking badass. (Default)
Sara ([personal profile] scripted_sra) wrote2013-03-15 03:45 am

Person of Interest | Properly Expressed Appreciation | NC-17 | Finch/Reese

Title: Properly Expressed Appreciation
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Summary: “This is about the plane?” An episode tag for 2x17, Proteus.
Word Count: 730
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Thanks for the beta, Kelly! Apparently I'm just writing random episode tags now? Oh no, the "perils" of re-watching. =P I just had to do something with that iiiinteresting look Reese gave Finch upon finding out about the pilot/storm chaser thing, though. XD

“Mr. Reese,” Harold exhales, and John smirks up at him from his current position, kneeling in front of him.

“Yes, Harold?” he asks, one hand on his thigh, the other absently toying with the first button on his perfectly-pressed, perfectly-tailored trousers.

“Is there an explanation for why you felt the need to accost me so suddenly?” His tone seems to be aiming for disapproval, but John can’t help but think it falls short. He knows what Harold’s disapproval sounds like; this is close, but not quite—a passable facsimile, maybe.

“Well, Harold,” John says deliberately, because the longer he continues using Harold’s first name, the longer Harold will stubbornly call him Mr. Reese, and there’s a part of him (a part he hasn’t felt the inclination to examine too closely) that undeniably enjoys that, “it occurred to me I hadn’t properly expressed how I felt about yet another one of your previously undisclosed talents.” He undoes the first button, and Harold’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“This is about the plane?” he asks, now sounding—amused, he thinks. John glances up again, and yes, Harold is definitely amused, if trying to hide it.

“This is about you flying the plane,” John says, and undoes another button, “during a rainstorm, and landing it in the middle of the town square.” Another button undone, and Harold’s hand moves to his neck; John licks his lips and undoes the last one.

“Had I known it would impress you so much, Mr. Reese,” Harold begins, “perhaps I would have demonstrated this affinity sooner.”

“That’s okay, Harold,” John says, inching down his trousers, just far enough that he can get his hand inside his boxers. Harold’s cock is warm and hardening in his hand, and John glances up just in time to see his eyes close briefly. “Now that I know, I can show my appreciation.”

“Yes,” he says unsteadily, opening his eyes again and staring down at him. Even when John looks away, focusing on the swell and curve of his cock as he strokes Harold, he can feel that gaze on him, heated. “Do continue, Mr. Reese.” The grip at the back of his neck tightens, and it should be embarrassing, how deeply he suddenly needs to breathe, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Licking his lips again, he surges forward, making sure the boxers are out of his way before he takes Harold’s cock into his mouth. He slides his hand up and down his thigh, slowly, as he works him with his mouth, tongue darting up and down his length.

“Oh—oh, yes,” Harold murmurs, his other hand on his shoulder now as well. “Yes, Mr. Reese, just like that. Very—oh—very good.”

John groans around Harold’s cock, completely involuntarily, and sucks harder, reveling in Harold’s sharp hiss of breath, the hand also tightening on his shoulder. He quickens the pace of his movements, paying special attention to his slit, and then he starts humming.

Harold groans, and suddenly John is being tugged forward, both of Harold’s hands having moved, lightning-quick, to the back of his head. He groans again and lets Harold guide him, listening with increasing satisfaction to how labored his breathing has become.

“John,” Harold gasps, and something white-hot surges through him, because he’s earned that, bringing Harold to a place where he’s too far gone to call him anything but his first name. “Close, John. Very—very close.”

John’s head is moving along Harold’s cock at the pace his hands are setting, so he hums louder, stronger, and he keeps his own hands traveling along his thighs, touching, feeling. Harold’s body is thrumming underneath that expensive fabric, and John can’t get enough. He groans one last time and then Harold’s coming hard, and he’s held in place, swallowing it all. The grip lessens, and then recedes, one moving back to his shoulder and the other returning to his neck, and John pulls off, licking his lips and smirking up at Harold again.

“Feeling appreciated yet, Harold?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr. Reese, I must say I am,” he replies, his tone once again only just close to what he’s aiming for—composure, this time, John thinks. Harold watches him closely for a second before he adds, “I think perhaps I ought to return the favor.”

He strokes absently at John’s neck, and John grins.

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