(no subject)
Title: Parse
Fandom: Person of Interest
Pairing: Finch/Reese/Machine
Rating: NC-17, just porn here.
Word Count: 887
Status: Complete
Author’s Note: I don’t even know. I was gonna prompt someone with it but then I just wrote it. Whatever. Whatever. I do what I want.
Summary: John isn’t sure what he’s watching at first, when his laptop seizes up and refuses to respond to his keystrokes and instead begins streaming a video feed that he can’t cancel or mute.
John isn't sure what he's watching at first, when his laptop seizes up and refuses to respond to his keystrokes and instead begins streaming a video feed that he can't cancel or mute. It fills the room with soft suggestive gasps of unquestionable origin that sparks embarrassment as they sound loudly in the silence of his apartment. When the laptop refuses to be turned down - some sort of virus, John thinks - he quickly crams the headphone jack into the port to make the sounds stop.
That's when he gets a chance to really look at the video and realizes what he's seeing in increments.
It's Harold. Laid back and spread out on a bed (his?), and the angle of the camera leaves no room to question what it is he's doing. He has one hand curled closed fingered around his own erect cock and he's pulling in a quick rhythm. His hips are propped up on a pillow to allow the best view. John shakes his head once and leans back in his chair.
It's then he notices the scroll of green text to the side of the screen, and he has to lean in much closer to begin to read it.
LAY BACK.
OPEN YOUR KNEES FURTHER.
NO NEED TO KEEP QUIET.
Then the screen changes, the gets bigger and the text gets more readable but before John can lean back he's right up on top of the action in hi-def real-time, and he only wonders for a second why Finch would allow a camera like that in his room.
His screen is full of fingers and hard, slick flesh that's dark with erection. He can see the leg muscles trembling and his eyes trace the old line of a scar.
A LITTLE MORE.
Harold's fingers respond, stroke faster and a noise from his headphones makes John reach for them absently, pick them up without thinking and wrestle them onto his head without looking away. His ears are suddenly full of almost pained groans, Harold's voice only stripped bare of all its sharp sarcasm and intelligence.
John's responding in a way he doesn't expect, really, and he shifts in his chair, resisting the urge o reach down and shift himself to relieve pressure.
NOW STOP.
And Harold does, as suddenly as that, legs still shaking. John thinks he can see a shadow that might be a headset up by Finch's cheek, but his head is turned and tipped back at an angle. His voice comes through as clear as it always does when he's speaking into John's ear.
"Please, I can't - just-"
DON'T MOVE.
They both hold their breath for a few seconds, as no prompts appear for what seems like an agonizingly long time, then:
GO SLOW.
Harold's fingers immediately resume and John hears his teeth click together as Harold swallows.
HE'S WATCHING.
"What?" Harold asks, his pace stuttering nervously to a stop, a note of uncertainty in his tone. "Who?"
DON'T STOP.
"Who is-"
YOU AREN'T ALLOWED.
Harold groans, shifts his fingers a little, but his motions are stuttery and nervous.
REESE.
John blinks and sits up sharply. He knows the machine - if that's what this is - is not only answering Finch's question but addressing him now.
"Why?" Harold begs, but he doesn't stop now or falter. The machine doesn't answer, but a second column of text appears on the in red, on the opposite side of the screen.
REESE.
John turns his head, showing he's 'listening'.
HE'S OURS.
MORE.
The text is moving on both sides now.
HOLD HARDER.
Finch's fingers tighten perceptibly, and he makes a sound into the mic that goes straight down to John's groin and he reaches down for himself at last.
HE'S OURS AND HE OBEYS US.
IMAGINE IT'S HIM TOUCHING YOU.
"John," Harold breathes, and it's right in his ear as John gets his hand on himself, and he can't even begin to take it slow.
REESE.
LOUDER.
"Oh, please - I can't-"
YOU ARE BOTH OURS.
THE ORDERS COME FROM US.
John has his hand curled around his dick almost painfully tight but he's going to come anyway, and fast -
YOU'RE ALLOWED. FINISH.
WE WON'T LET YOU FORGET US.
John can barely process the words or how sinister they are because he's rushing himself to catch up, rushing because he can see Harold's muscles arching and tightening -
WE'RE WATCHING.
"Harold," John says, about to ask what's going on, as belated as that would be but - unprepared for Harold to actually hear him. When he sees Harold tense suddenly and then tip right over the edge, coming in hard spurts through his own fingers all over his belly, John realizes the machine has put the sound of his voice and his own labored breaths into Harold' sear, and he bites back a curse as he comes too. The suddenness of it makes him growl and close his eyes tight.
"Why didn't you-" he starts to ask, as he gets his breath back, but his eyes open to a blank screen and then the laptop reboots and John sits in recovery, catching his breath and wiping his sticky fingers onto his pants until the desktop screen loads.
The background has changed to a static image, red text on a black background.
WE ARE IN CONTROL, it reminds.
Fandom: Person of Interest
Pairing: Finch/Reese/Machine
Rating: NC-17, just porn here.
Word Count: 887
Status: Complete
Author’s Note: I don’t even know. I was gonna prompt someone with it but then I just wrote it. Whatever. Whatever. I do what I want.
Summary: John isn’t sure what he’s watching at first, when his laptop seizes up and refuses to respond to his keystrokes and instead begins streaming a video feed that he can’t cancel or mute.
John isn't sure what he's watching at first, when his laptop seizes up and refuses to respond to his keystrokes and instead begins streaming a video feed that he can't cancel or mute. It fills the room with soft suggestive gasps of unquestionable origin that sparks embarrassment as they sound loudly in the silence of his apartment. When the laptop refuses to be turned down - some sort of virus, John thinks - he quickly crams the headphone jack into the port to make the sounds stop.
That's when he gets a chance to really look at the video and realizes what he's seeing in increments.
It's Harold. Laid back and spread out on a bed (his?), and the angle of the camera leaves no room to question what it is he's doing. He has one hand curled closed fingered around his own erect cock and he's pulling in a quick rhythm. His hips are propped up on a pillow to allow the best view. John shakes his head once and leans back in his chair.
It's then he notices the scroll of green text to the side of the screen, and he has to lean in much closer to begin to read it.
LAY BACK.
OPEN YOUR KNEES FURTHER.
NO NEED TO KEEP QUIET.
Then the screen changes, the gets bigger and the text gets more readable but before John can lean back he's right up on top of the action in hi-def real-time, and he only wonders for a second why Finch would allow a camera like that in his room.
His screen is full of fingers and hard, slick flesh that's dark with erection. He can see the leg muscles trembling and his eyes trace the old line of a scar.
A LITTLE MORE.
Harold's fingers respond, stroke faster and a noise from his headphones makes John reach for them absently, pick them up without thinking and wrestle them onto his head without looking away. His ears are suddenly full of almost pained groans, Harold's voice only stripped bare of all its sharp sarcasm and intelligence.
John's responding in a way he doesn't expect, really, and he shifts in his chair, resisting the urge o reach down and shift himself to relieve pressure.
NOW STOP.
And Harold does, as suddenly as that, legs still shaking. John thinks he can see a shadow that might be a headset up by Finch's cheek, but his head is turned and tipped back at an angle. His voice comes through as clear as it always does when he's speaking into John's ear.
"Please, I can't - just-"
DON'T MOVE.
They both hold their breath for a few seconds, as no prompts appear for what seems like an agonizingly long time, then:
GO SLOW.
Harold's fingers immediately resume and John hears his teeth click together as Harold swallows.
HE'S WATCHING.
"What?" Harold asks, his pace stuttering nervously to a stop, a note of uncertainty in his tone. "Who?"
DON'T STOP.
"Who is-"
YOU AREN'T ALLOWED.
Harold groans, shifts his fingers a little, but his motions are stuttery and nervous.
REESE.
John blinks and sits up sharply. He knows the machine - if that's what this is - is not only answering Finch's question but addressing him now.
"Why?" Harold begs, but he doesn't stop now or falter. The machine doesn't answer, but a second column of text appears on the in red, on the opposite side of the screen.
REESE.
John turns his head, showing he's 'listening'.
HE'S OURS.
MORE.
The text is moving on both sides now.
HOLD HARDER.
Finch's fingers tighten perceptibly, and he makes a sound into the mic that goes straight down to John's groin and he reaches down for himself at last.
HE'S OURS AND HE OBEYS US.
IMAGINE IT'S HIM TOUCHING YOU.
"John," Harold breathes, and it's right in his ear as John gets his hand on himself, and he can't even begin to take it slow.
REESE.
LOUDER.
"Oh, please - I can't-"
YOU ARE BOTH OURS.
THE ORDERS COME FROM US.
John has his hand curled around his dick almost painfully tight but he's going to come anyway, and fast -
YOU'RE ALLOWED. FINISH.
WE WON'T LET YOU FORGET US.
John can barely process the words or how sinister they are because he's rushing himself to catch up, rushing because he can see Harold's muscles arching and tightening -
WE'RE WATCHING.
"Harold," John says, about to ask what's going on, as belated as that would be but - unprepared for Harold to actually hear him. When he sees Harold tense suddenly and then tip right over the edge, coming in hard spurts through his own fingers all over his belly, John realizes the machine has put the sound of his voice and his own labored breaths into Harold' sear, and he bites back a curse as he comes too. The suddenness of it makes him growl and close his eyes tight.
"Why didn't you-" he starts to ask, as he gets his breath back, but his eyes open to a blank screen and then the laptop reboots and John sits in recovery, catching his breath and wiping his sticky fingers onto his pants until the desktop screen loads.
The background has changed to a static image, red text on a black background.
WE ARE IN CONTROL, it reminds.