Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2013-05-06 12:50 am
scripted_sra) wrote2013-05-06 12:50 am
Person of Interest | She Kisses Harder Than You | R | Root/Reese; Finch/Reese
Title: She Kisses Harder Than You
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: R
Warning: Non-con.
Pairing: Root/Reese (non-con), Finch/Reese
Summary: Root gives him an almost sympathetic look. “It must be so hard for you, being so loyal, so willing, and your master’s just...indifferent.”
Word Count: 1,630
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: For a prompt at the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meme_of_interest: In 2x21 Root said to Harold she wished she had a pet like John. Somehow she gets to 'borrow' him (by threatening to harm Grace for example). John is unwilling but has to comply anyway, hoping he can go back to Harold soon. Wouldn't mind dub-con/non-con Root/Reese, or Finch/Reese at the end. Title comes from the song "Your Glasses" by Maria Mena (which is totally ending up on a PoI mix at some point.) Thanks for the beta, Kelly!
“It’s just so cute,” Root says, smiling in a way that John guesses is supposed to be her version of indulgent. “Your lost puppy routine, that is. And I get it, John, I really do. Harold is an incredible man, and for someone like you, trailing after him and begging for his table scraps is honestly just the most you can hope for. It really does make perfect sense.”
John keeps his expression carefully blank. The cuffs binding him to the headboard are tight around his wrists, tight enough that any tiny movement makes them bite into his skin.
“It’s kind of pathetic, of course,” Root continues airily, walking around the room. There isn’t that much space; the apartment she has him in is small, just a sparsely-decorated one bedroom, and John isn’t fooled by how idly she seems to be moving. He knows her, knows that every move she makes is carefully calculated. “I love that you don’t care, though. I envy that sometimes, John, that ability to be so content with what others are willing to give. You can just go on blissfully, panting after Harold, and hoping one day he turns to you and tells you to do what you’re already so desperate to do. It must be so simple. Uncomplicated.”
In a few swift steps, she’s kneeling next to him on the bed. “Tell me, John, how long have you wanted Harold to do this to you?” she asks, trailing her nails along his jaw. “How long have you been hoping he’d tie you up and tell you that you were his?”
He forces himself not to flinch away from her touch. She laughs.
“Your poker face could use a little work,” she says, grinning like they’re sharing a private joke. “Not that you’re giving away anything I don’t already know. You’re actually really obvious, it’s almost embarrassing.” She makes a face. “And it kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If you’re that obvious and Harold still hasn’t responded…” She gives him an almost sympathetic look. “It must be so hard for you, being so loyal, so willing, and your master’s just…indifferent.”
John can’t stop his jaw from twitching.
“But enough about Harold,” she adds, more brightly. “He’s not here. I have you all to myself, and I promise you, John—I’m not indifferent. I may not be Harold, but maybe I can give you a taste of what it might be like.” She forces his head up, exposing his neck, and drops a biting kiss on his Adam’s apple. It sends a jolt right through him, and he can’t stop his mind from imagining what it could be like if it were Harold. “You know, to be completely…owned.” She smiles like a shark, drawing back, her hand sliding slowly down his torso, eventually resting over his cock. He’s getting hard despite himself, even trying to picture as many unarousing mental images as possible.
Her nails dig into his thigh as she strokes lightly over his erection. She leans in and bites his neck again, and it tears a groan from his throat.
“Good boy,” she says, smiling too wide. “I wonder if I can teach you any new tricks.”
---
Root is long gone by the time Shaw and Harold show up; John finds himself obscurely relieved and revolted at the same time. Every part of him is overheated, worked up, and he can feel her on his skin; it’s not exactly his best. Shaw finds the keys to the handcuffs that Root apparently left on the coffee table; his wrists are red and raw as he buttons his pants and picks up what remains of his shirt and jacket, throwing them on.
Shaw looks at him with the same mixture of disbelief and annoyance that she always looks at him with, nothing in her expression betraying pity. He would thank her if they had that kind of relationship.
Harold, on the other hand, looks as livid as he’s ever seen him, horror and rage burning bright in those usually cool blue eyes of his. “We will find her, John. She will not get away with this—”
“Is Grace okay, Harold?” he interrupts.
“Yes, of course. Ms. Shaw quickly neutralized the threat against her. Finding you is what took the longest—if you had just waited—”
“I did what needed to be done,” he says firmly, and heads out of the bedroom. He catches sight of something scrawled on a dry erase board near the door:
Thanks for letting me pet-sit, Harold. :D
John’s hand clenches into a fist as he leaves the apartment.
---
“So this is fucked up,” Shaw says, sitting down next to him at the bar. He considers asking her how she found him, but then realizes that’s a stupid question. He’s a few drinks in; he feels the delay is understandable.
“I think I’m entitled.”
“No, the drinking I get,” she says conversationally, waving the bartender over and ordering a shot of tequila. She downs the shot and makes him leave the bottle. “It’s the part where you’re pissed at Harold that I’m trying to figure out.”
“I’m not angry at Harold,” he says.
“Okay, then the part where you’re acting like you’re pissed at Harold.”
“I’m not doing that either.”
“You might want to tell Harold that,” she notes, pouring herself another shot. “Have you ever seen him that angry? And I’d been beginning to wonder if he was capable of anything other than mild surprise.”
“She threatened Grace. Of course he was angry.”
Shaw downs her shot and gives him a look. “You are not this stupid. I don’t work with people this stupid.”
“Oh, we work together now?”
“I’m not changing the subject. You’re not going to talk about it because people like us don’t talk about shit like this, but you’re at least going to get your facts straight. The second we walked inside that room and Harold saw you—well, let’s just say if Root had been there, I guarantee you he would have killed her with his bare hands.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just takes that in. “Give me some of that,” he says at last, indicating the bottle of tequila.
She snorts and moves it out of his reach. “Get your own.”
---
“Mr. Reese.” Harold sounds startled, which John supposes is fair. He’s drunk enough that showing up at the Library at three in the morning had sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea. He hadn’t really expected Harold to be here. “Are you all right?”
“Just fine, Harold,” he says, and smiles.
“Ah. You’re drunk.” There’s the tiniest note of disapproval in the words, and John chuckles. That’s just so Harold.
“I’m very drunk,” he agrees, sinking down onto the couch. “It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t blame you there,” Harold says, and meets his eyes. “If there’s anything I can do for you, John, anything at all—”
“Harold, you’ve already done enough for me, you know that,” John interrupts. “It’s my own damn fault I want more. I should know better.”
His brows knit. “What should you know better?”
“That was the thing that got me, more than…everything else.” He shakes his head. “She wasn’t wrong, you know? Nothing she said was actually wrong.”
“What did she say?” Harold’s voice has gone sharp and brittle.
“I can’t have what I want, and that’s fine. I’m not angry with you about it, Harold, you have to believe that.”
“You might consider answering at least one of my questions, Mr. Reese.” He looks exasperated. “What is it you want?”
John snorts. “Harold, don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”
“I assure you, Mr. Reese, if I had even the faintest clue as to what you were talking about, I would have already offered it to you.”
“Don’t,” John suddenly snaps. “Don’t say that.”
“Even though it’s the truth?”
“It’s not, though, and we both know it.”
“I know no such thing.”
John glares and stands. “Fine. I’ll prove it.” He drops to his knees in front of Harold, hands going to his fly, and Harold takes a startled step back.
“Mr. Reese, what on Earth are you doing?”
“Told you.”
Harold looks pained. “Please, John, you’re drunk. You’ve just suffered a trauma. You’re not thinking clearly. This is not what you want.”
“So tell me what I want,” John says, defiantly glancing up to meet his eyes.
The pain in Harold’s eyes flashes to anger and then to sadness and then to something else, he’s not sure what. “John,” he murmurs, moving closer, his hand coming up to card through John’s hair. John makes an involuntary noise that might be a cross between a sigh and a hum. “If this is really what you want, of course you can have it.”
“I thought this would be a nightmare,” John says thoughtfully. “It’s actually a pretty good dream.”
Harold heaves a sigh. “The couch, John. Sleep this off. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
---
John wakes up to Bear licking his face and one hell of a hangover. The memories leading up to the hangover don’t help, either; he throws up into the bowl that’s been placed next to the couch.
“Ah, I see you’re finally awake,” Harold says, softly enough not to exacerbate his headache.
He’s never been one of those people who somehow manage to forget everything they say or do while drunk, and the entire conversation with Harold begins replaying itself in his mind.
Harold gives him a knowing look as he sits down in front of his monitors. “I meant what I said, John.”
John calmly meets his eyes. “So did I, Harold.”
Harold nods.
Apparently they’ll go from there.
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: R
Warning: Non-con.
Pairing: Root/Reese (non-con), Finch/Reese
Summary: Root gives him an almost sympathetic look. “It must be so hard for you, being so loyal, so willing, and your master’s just...indifferent.”
Word Count: 1,630
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: For a prompt at the
meme_of_interest: In 2x21 Root said to Harold she wished she had a pet like John. Somehow she gets to 'borrow' him (by threatening to harm Grace for example). John is unwilling but has to comply anyway, hoping he can go back to Harold soon. Wouldn't mind dub-con/non-con Root/Reese, or Finch/Reese at the end. Title comes from the song "Your Glasses" by Maria Mena (which is totally ending up on a PoI mix at some point.) Thanks for the beta, Kelly!“It’s just so cute,” Root says, smiling in a way that John guesses is supposed to be her version of indulgent. “Your lost puppy routine, that is. And I get it, John, I really do. Harold is an incredible man, and for someone like you, trailing after him and begging for his table scraps is honestly just the most you can hope for. It really does make perfect sense.”
John keeps his expression carefully blank. The cuffs binding him to the headboard are tight around his wrists, tight enough that any tiny movement makes them bite into his skin.
“It’s kind of pathetic, of course,” Root continues airily, walking around the room. There isn’t that much space; the apartment she has him in is small, just a sparsely-decorated one bedroom, and John isn’t fooled by how idly she seems to be moving. He knows her, knows that every move she makes is carefully calculated. “I love that you don’t care, though. I envy that sometimes, John, that ability to be so content with what others are willing to give. You can just go on blissfully, panting after Harold, and hoping one day he turns to you and tells you to do what you’re already so desperate to do. It must be so simple. Uncomplicated.”
In a few swift steps, she’s kneeling next to him on the bed. “Tell me, John, how long have you wanted Harold to do this to you?” she asks, trailing her nails along his jaw. “How long have you been hoping he’d tie you up and tell you that you were his?”
He forces himself not to flinch away from her touch. She laughs.
“Your poker face could use a little work,” she says, grinning like they’re sharing a private joke. “Not that you’re giving away anything I don’t already know. You’re actually really obvious, it’s almost embarrassing.” She makes a face. “And it kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If you’re that obvious and Harold still hasn’t responded…” She gives him an almost sympathetic look. “It must be so hard for you, being so loyal, so willing, and your master’s just…indifferent.”
John can’t stop his jaw from twitching.
“But enough about Harold,” she adds, more brightly. “He’s not here. I have you all to myself, and I promise you, John—I’m not indifferent. I may not be Harold, but maybe I can give you a taste of what it might be like.” She forces his head up, exposing his neck, and drops a biting kiss on his Adam’s apple. It sends a jolt right through him, and he can’t stop his mind from imagining what it could be like if it were Harold. “You know, to be completely…owned.” She smiles like a shark, drawing back, her hand sliding slowly down his torso, eventually resting over his cock. He’s getting hard despite himself, even trying to picture as many unarousing mental images as possible.
Her nails dig into his thigh as she strokes lightly over his erection. She leans in and bites his neck again, and it tears a groan from his throat.
“Good boy,” she says, smiling too wide. “I wonder if I can teach you any new tricks.”
Root is long gone by the time Shaw and Harold show up; John finds himself obscurely relieved and revolted at the same time. Every part of him is overheated, worked up, and he can feel her on his skin; it’s not exactly his best. Shaw finds the keys to the handcuffs that Root apparently left on the coffee table; his wrists are red and raw as he buttons his pants and picks up what remains of his shirt and jacket, throwing them on.
Shaw looks at him with the same mixture of disbelief and annoyance that she always looks at him with, nothing in her expression betraying pity. He would thank her if they had that kind of relationship.
Harold, on the other hand, looks as livid as he’s ever seen him, horror and rage burning bright in those usually cool blue eyes of his. “We will find her, John. She will not get away with this—”
“Is Grace okay, Harold?” he interrupts.
“Yes, of course. Ms. Shaw quickly neutralized the threat against her. Finding you is what took the longest—if you had just waited—”
“I did what needed to be done,” he says firmly, and heads out of the bedroom. He catches sight of something scrawled on a dry erase board near the door:
Thanks for letting me pet-sit, Harold. :D
John’s hand clenches into a fist as he leaves the apartment.
“So this is fucked up,” Shaw says, sitting down next to him at the bar. He considers asking her how she found him, but then realizes that’s a stupid question. He’s a few drinks in; he feels the delay is understandable.
“I think I’m entitled.”
“No, the drinking I get,” she says conversationally, waving the bartender over and ordering a shot of tequila. She downs the shot and makes him leave the bottle. “It’s the part where you’re pissed at Harold that I’m trying to figure out.”
“I’m not angry at Harold,” he says.
“Okay, then the part where you’re acting like you’re pissed at Harold.”
“I’m not doing that either.”
“You might want to tell Harold that,” she notes, pouring herself another shot. “Have you ever seen him that angry? And I’d been beginning to wonder if he was capable of anything other than mild surprise.”
“She threatened Grace. Of course he was angry.”
Shaw downs her shot and gives him a look. “You are not this stupid. I don’t work with people this stupid.”
“Oh, we work together now?”
“I’m not changing the subject. You’re not going to talk about it because people like us don’t talk about shit like this, but you’re at least going to get your facts straight. The second we walked inside that room and Harold saw you—well, let’s just say if Root had been there, I guarantee you he would have killed her with his bare hands.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just takes that in. “Give me some of that,” he says at last, indicating the bottle of tequila.
She snorts and moves it out of his reach. “Get your own.”
“Mr. Reese.” Harold sounds startled, which John supposes is fair. He’s drunk enough that showing up at the Library at three in the morning had sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea. He hadn’t really expected Harold to be here. “Are you all right?”
“Just fine, Harold,” he says, and smiles.
“Ah. You’re drunk.” There’s the tiniest note of disapproval in the words, and John chuckles. That’s just so Harold.
“I’m very drunk,” he agrees, sinking down onto the couch. “It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t blame you there,” Harold says, and meets his eyes. “If there’s anything I can do for you, John, anything at all—”
“Harold, you’ve already done enough for me, you know that,” John interrupts. “It’s my own damn fault I want more. I should know better.”
His brows knit. “What should you know better?”
“That was the thing that got me, more than…everything else.” He shakes his head. “She wasn’t wrong, you know? Nothing she said was actually wrong.”
“What did she say?” Harold’s voice has gone sharp and brittle.
“I can’t have what I want, and that’s fine. I’m not angry with you about it, Harold, you have to believe that.”
“You might consider answering at least one of my questions, Mr. Reese.” He looks exasperated. “What is it you want?”
John snorts. “Harold, don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”
“I assure you, Mr. Reese, if I had even the faintest clue as to what you were talking about, I would have already offered it to you.”
“Don’t,” John suddenly snaps. “Don’t say that.”
“Even though it’s the truth?”
“It’s not, though, and we both know it.”
“I know no such thing.”
John glares and stands. “Fine. I’ll prove it.” He drops to his knees in front of Harold, hands going to his fly, and Harold takes a startled step back.
“Mr. Reese, what on Earth are you doing?”
“Told you.”
Harold looks pained. “Please, John, you’re drunk. You’ve just suffered a trauma. You’re not thinking clearly. This is not what you want.”
“So tell me what I want,” John says, defiantly glancing up to meet his eyes.
The pain in Harold’s eyes flashes to anger and then to sadness and then to something else, he’s not sure what. “John,” he murmurs, moving closer, his hand coming up to card through John’s hair. John makes an involuntary noise that might be a cross between a sigh and a hum. “If this is really what you want, of course you can have it.”
“I thought this would be a nightmare,” John says thoughtfully. “It’s actually a pretty good dream.”
Harold heaves a sigh. “The couch, John. Sleep this off. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
John wakes up to Bear licking his face and one hell of a hangover. The memories leading up to the hangover don’t help, either; he throws up into the bowl that’s been placed next to the couch.
“Ah, I see you’re finally awake,” Harold says, softly enough not to exacerbate his headache.
He’s never been one of those people who somehow manage to forget everything they say or do while drunk, and the entire conversation with Harold begins replaying itself in his mind.
Harold gives him a knowing look as he sits down in front of his monitors. “I meant what I said, John.”
John calmly meets his eyes. “So did I, Harold.”
Harold nods.
Apparently they’ll go from there.