Person of Interest fic - untitled
Title: [untitled]
Author:
g_shadowslayer
Pairing: Finch/Reese, slight hints of Snow/Reese
Rating: Somewhere between R and NC-17?
Summary: Finch doesn't like the way Reese is handling their current Number and decides to do something about it
Word Count: 2233 per WordPerfect
Warnings: m/m sex, mild d/s, possessive Finch; I can't think of a damned title
Notes: established relationship
Today's Number turns out to be the office manager at a small software company. It's an office job, and most likely much less hazardous than the last one. Finch gets him a job filling in for someone in the billing department who's on extended medical leave (after looking into the accident that laid them up and determining that it appears legitimate), expecting that the manager will be spending at least part of the day with him, teaching him what his job is. What he doesn't expect, however, is the way the man invades his personal space every chance he gets.
Reese grows more and more uncomfortable as the training rolls on, initially thinking that this is the first time he's been sexually harassed by another man. But no, he realizes with a flash of bitterness, that's not really true, is it.
By the time he gets to take a break he's really more in the mood for a shower than lunch. Luckily, the manager is stuck on what looks to be a long call while he stalks away from his cubicle to the small lunch room. Finally alone, he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, releasing the urge to break the manager's hand if he touches him again. "Finch," he murmurs, knowing the high powered microphone will pick him up. "I think I know why our current Number came up."
"Yes, I'm sure you do," the reply comes, and he's a little surprised by the tension he hears in Finch's voice.
"You should look into recent court records," he continues, waiting to see if Finch plans to say anything else. "See if there were any harassment suits this creep managed to beat."
"Yes. And you should see if you can access the personnel files. Check to see if anyone was recently terminated."
Finch sounds more like himself, now, so he lets it drop. "Yeah, I'll see if I can access them. If I can't, I'll let you know."
The afternoon is long, but not as agonizingly so as the morning, and Reese thinks he may have turned up some useful information by the time he heads home. But he's so out of sorts after the day he's had that he goes back to his apartment instead of going to meet Finch in person. He really feels the need for that shower -- to wash off the feel of their current Number's hands and the memory of someone else's.
But when he unlocks the door and enters his apartment, he finds Finch sitting there at the table, staring at him."
"Finch?" he asks in surprise. "...Harold?"
"John," comes the answer; quiet, yet firm in a way he hasn't heard before.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, only realizing at that moment that Finch is staring at his chest and refusing to meet his gaze. "What's wrong?" And suddenly he's reminded of the earlier tension in Finch's voice. Wait a minute... "He's a Number. I'm just sounding him out. Are you jealous?"
Suddenly Finch's gaze snaps to his eyes, and he can't help himself. He gasps softly and nearly takes a step back, Finch's gaze is so intense.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to have to listen to that all day long?" Finch asks. And he's staring openly now, surprised by the barely restrained anger in Finch's tone. "To sit here and imagine him touching you? Sounding him out? You were flirting back!"
He blinks in surprise at that, then frowns slightly. "Would it make you feel better if I told you it took every ounce of willpower not to break every bone in his hands?"
"It would have made me feel better if you told him to stop," Finch answers, studying his expression.
"I wasn't flirting back," he answers quietly.
Finch continues to study him for a long moment, then finally, "I think, Mr. Reese, that there are times when you are completely unaware of what that voice of yours does to people."
"I don't--" He blinks in surprise again as Finch abruptly stands up. "Harold?"
"To the bedroom, Mr. Reese. Now."
Sometimes it's easy to overlook the fact that Finch has been watching him for a long time and knows so much about him. But right now that awareness comes rushing back. Finch knows exactly what he's doing, and he can't hide the convulsive swallow or the way his breathing grows shallow. He's pretty sure Finch even sees his eyes dilate and his skin flush as sudden heat floods him.
He turns and walks to the bedroom, every sense on overdrive. He hears Finch's distinctive step following him, surprised to hear him so close behind. But when he stops to stand next to his bed he knows Finch is more than aware that he's waiting for further directions.
He can almost feel Finch studying him; wonders if he's assessing his own physical condition and determining limits, or if he's just trying to decide on a course of action. And then he hears the quiet command, "Take your clothes off and get on the bed, Mr. Reese."
Another rush of heat floods him as he automatically obeys, and as he strips off his jacket, tie and shirt he hears a quiet but appreciative sigh. His shoes and slacks quickly follow, and he can't quite hold back a quiet groan as he strips off his boxer briefs and frees his hardening cock. There's an answering groan, though, when he leans down to pull off his socks. A quick glance back leaves him surprised to discover he completely missed Finch stripping off half of his clothes.
"Before you get on the bed, turn around, Mr. Reese. I want to look at you," and it seems the most normal thing in the world to instantly obey the directions of the man standing there in nothing but an undershirt, shorts, and glasses.
When he turns, he sees Finch's gaze go straight to his cock, then travel over the rest of his body. He can tell exactly when Finch's gaze falls on the still healing bullet scar on his abdomen; sees his eyes widen, and then narrow in anger. The fact that Finch is angry about it brings a warmth that has nothing to do with arousal. He's not going to let Snow get anywhere near Finch, ever, but he wouldn't mind seeing Finch take his old boss apart in his own way.
And then Finch's eyes snap back to his face, and a little smile curls his lips. "I believe I said get on the bed, Mr. Reese."
Another convulsive swallow, his cock leaping a little at another rush of heat that coils in his belly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes he's going to be remembering this the next time Finch's voice in his ear calls him that on a job. Apparently, he really hasn't grown out of playing dangerous games...
He gets onto the bed and settles on the far side, watching Finch's gaze slide back down to his cock as it bounces with every move.
And then Finch carefully climbs onto the bed next to him and settles as comfortably as he can, studying him the whole time. "Mr. Reese," Finch starts, again in that firm tone that sends shivers through him, "Kiss me."
He lets out a quiet groan and his eyes flutter closed for a moment; snap open again dark with arousal. His breathing's fast and shallow now as he turns to face Finch and leans in to brush a kiss across his lips.
One of Finch's hands brushes through his hair, then slides down to the back of his neck and tightens, pulling him in. He groans again, hands sliding under Finch's shirt to stroke over warm skin; moves closer, pressing against him.
When Finch allows him to break the kiss, he's panting open mouthed, his lips kiss bruised. For a split-second he thinks Finch has no idea how this affects him, but then his brain starts functioning again, and he remembers: Finch knows exactly what this is doing to him.
The knowing smile that curves Finch's lips confirms it. And then those fingers -- so nimble as they dance across a keyboard and now doubly so on his body -- slide across his overheated skin, pausing to pinch nipples to hardness and pull another moan out of him.
One hand continues down, nervously skirting the healing bullet scar, and he thinks one day he'll have to show Finch it's all right to touch it. But not now, because the hand continues to his groin. He groans again -- a desperate, hungry sound -- and bucks into Finch's touch. His own hand tightens on Finch's hip before sliding back to squeeze his buttocks.
"Easy there, Mr. Reese," Finch says, as matter-of-factly as he might say "we have a new Number," and he shivers in response as his cock leaps again. Then those nimble fingers and that warm hand are stroking and squeezing and teasing all the places that make him completely helpless.
He lets out a low groan that sounds more like a growl and lets his eyes flutter closed again, hears a soft answering sound -- almost more a hushed whisper than a moan. There's a part of him that wishes he could see himself the way Finch seems to, overlooking all the darkness in his soul. But it's enough to know that Finch does -- that Finch knows all about him and still makes that kind of sound while looking at and touching him.
And Finch is definitely touching him, making him quiver in helpless lust and pleasure. There's no doubt whose hands are on him, mastering him so easily.
He wants to reciprocate, but he's too far gone to remember how to make his hands work right. And at the moment of his surrender -- when he gives up the last pretense of control -- he hears a soft murmur, "Yes. Very good, Mr. Reese..."
Those hands and that voice -- in a flashfire of arousal he's at the point of no return, but Finch holds him there on the edge for a long moment as he's trembling and letting out little helpless noises, desperate for release. They both know he could have it at any moment if he used his strength to take it, but that's not how this game is played.
"Tell me what you want, Mr. Reese," that voice whispers against his lips, and his eyes flutter open, pupils so dilated they're almost black.
"Please, Harold, let me come. Please..." he says, his words little more than breathy pants. Finch gives a little nod and a tiny quirk of his lips, and suddenly his world goes supernova, pleasure exploding through him as Finch's hands drag him over the edge. He comes hard, bucking into Finch's hand and letting out an incoherent cry, quickly muffled by Finch's lips capturing his once more in a demanding kiss.
When he comes back to himself, he finds Finch watching him with a knowing smile. He already knows what he must look like, hazy eyes and sweat-rumpled hair, cheeks flushed; floating in the heavy-limbed lassitude of afterglow. He manages to steer his mind away from the memory of photos showing him in just such state -- time enough for that thought later. For now, he's where he belongs, and everything is right with the world.
And then Finch smiles and leans closer to kiss him again. When Finch pulls back this time, he purrs, "Now, Mr. Reese, please me..."
* * *
The next morning he wakes to find himself alone in the bed, body still relaxed after the wonderful sex the night before. He gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom to get ready for another day of dealing with their current Number.
Showered and dressed, he exits the bedroom to find Finch once again sitting at his table. "Finch-- I thought you'd gone back to the Library..."
"I was waiting for you to get up so I could give you something."
He realizes as he looks at Finch that the man isn't wearing the same clothes he had on the day before; realizes he either brought a change of clothes with him or was up early enough that he's already gone home and come back. Or gone to any number of alternate residences he seems to have hidden throughout the city.
"You got me a present?" he asks cautiously, not exactly sure about the way Finch is looking at him, his eyes leveled at his throat while his lips are compressed in a thin line.
"Yes," Finch answers, gaze suddenly flicking back to his face. "Take off that tie. You won't need it."
The fact that he obeys immediately isn't lost on either of them.
He drapes his tie over the back of the other chair, then looks back at Finch.
"Very good, Mr. Reese," Finch says, then he holds out a narrow box adorned with a single elegant ribbon around it. "Wear this instead."
He raises an eyebrow at Finch but takes the box and opens it, then lifts out the tie it holds. He notices two things immediately. First, it complements his suit perfectly, and second...
"Harold, this is yours..."
Finch gives him another one of those intensely knowing smiles and answers, "Yes, it is."
end
This entry was originally posted at http://g-shadowslayer.dreamwidth.org/228912.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author:
g_shadowslayer
Pairing: Finch/Reese, slight hints of Snow/Reese
Rating: Somewhere between R and NC-17?
Summary: Finch doesn't like the way Reese is handling their current Number and decides to do something about it
Word Count: 2233 per WordPerfect
Warnings: m/m sex, mild d/s, possessive Finch; I can't think of a damned title
Notes: established relationship
Today's Number turns out to be the office manager at a small software company. It's an office job, and most likely much less hazardous than the last one. Finch gets him a job filling in for someone in the billing department who's on extended medical leave (after looking into the accident that laid them up and determining that it appears legitimate), expecting that the manager will be spending at least part of the day with him, teaching him what his job is. What he doesn't expect, however, is the way the man invades his personal space every chance he gets.
Reese grows more and more uncomfortable as the training rolls on, initially thinking that this is the first time he's been sexually harassed by another man. But no, he realizes with a flash of bitterness, that's not really true, is it.
By the time he gets to take a break he's really more in the mood for a shower than lunch. Luckily, the manager is stuck on what looks to be a long call while he stalks away from his cubicle to the small lunch room. Finally alone, he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, releasing the urge to break the manager's hand if he touches him again. "Finch," he murmurs, knowing the high powered microphone will pick him up. "I think I know why our current Number came up."
"Yes, I'm sure you do," the reply comes, and he's a little surprised by the tension he hears in Finch's voice.
"You should look into recent court records," he continues, waiting to see if Finch plans to say anything else. "See if there were any harassment suits this creep managed to beat."
"Yes. And you should see if you can access the personnel files. Check to see if anyone was recently terminated."
Finch sounds more like himself, now, so he lets it drop. "Yeah, I'll see if I can access them. If I can't, I'll let you know."
The afternoon is long, but not as agonizingly so as the morning, and Reese thinks he may have turned up some useful information by the time he heads home. But he's so out of sorts after the day he's had that he goes back to his apartment instead of going to meet Finch in person. He really feels the need for that shower -- to wash off the feel of their current Number's hands and the memory of someone else's.
But when he unlocks the door and enters his apartment, he finds Finch sitting there at the table, staring at him."
"Finch?" he asks in surprise. "...Harold?"
"John," comes the answer; quiet, yet firm in a way he hasn't heard before.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, only realizing at that moment that Finch is staring at his chest and refusing to meet his gaze. "What's wrong?" And suddenly he's reminded of the earlier tension in Finch's voice. Wait a minute... "He's a Number. I'm just sounding him out. Are you jealous?"
Suddenly Finch's gaze snaps to his eyes, and he can't help himself. He gasps softly and nearly takes a step back, Finch's gaze is so intense.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to have to listen to that all day long?" Finch asks. And he's staring openly now, surprised by the barely restrained anger in Finch's tone. "To sit here and imagine him touching you? Sounding him out? You were flirting back!"
He blinks in surprise at that, then frowns slightly. "Would it make you feel better if I told you it took every ounce of willpower not to break every bone in his hands?"
"It would have made me feel better if you told him to stop," Finch answers, studying his expression.
"I wasn't flirting back," he answers quietly.
Finch continues to study him for a long moment, then finally, "I think, Mr. Reese, that there are times when you are completely unaware of what that voice of yours does to people."
"I don't--" He blinks in surprise again as Finch abruptly stands up. "Harold?"
"To the bedroom, Mr. Reese. Now."
Sometimes it's easy to overlook the fact that Finch has been watching him for a long time and knows so much about him. But right now that awareness comes rushing back. Finch knows exactly what he's doing, and he can't hide the convulsive swallow or the way his breathing grows shallow. He's pretty sure Finch even sees his eyes dilate and his skin flush as sudden heat floods him.
He turns and walks to the bedroom, every sense on overdrive. He hears Finch's distinctive step following him, surprised to hear him so close behind. But when he stops to stand next to his bed he knows Finch is more than aware that he's waiting for further directions.
He can almost feel Finch studying him; wonders if he's assessing his own physical condition and determining limits, or if he's just trying to decide on a course of action. And then he hears the quiet command, "Take your clothes off and get on the bed, Mr. Reese."
Another rush of heat floods him as he automatically obeys, and as he strips off his jacket, tie and shirt he hears a quiet but appreciative sigh. His shoes and slacks quickly follow, and he can't quite hold back a quiet groan as he strips off his boxer briefs and frees his hardening cock. There's an answering groan, though, when he leans down to pull off his socks. A quick glance back leaves him surprised to discover he completely missed Finch stripping off half of his clothes.
"Before you get on the bed, turn around, Mr. Reese. I want to look at you," and it seems the most normal thing in the world to instantly obey the directions of the man standing there in nothing but an undershirt, shorts, and glasses.
When he turns, he sees Finch's gaze go straight to his cock, then travel over the rest of his body. He can tell exactly when Finch's gaze falls on the still healing bullet scar on his abdomen; sees his eyes widen, and then narrow in anger. The fact that Finch is angry about it brings a warmth that has nothing to do with arousal. He's not going to let Snow get anywhere near Finch, ever, but he wouldn't mind seeing Finch take his old boss apart in his own way.
And then Finch's eyes snap back to his face, and a little smile curls his lips. "I believe I said get on the bed, Mr. Reese."
Another convulsive swallow, his cock leaping a little at another rush of heat that coils in his belly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes he's going to be remembering this the next time Finch's voice in his ear calls him that on a job. Apparently, he really hasn't grown out of playing dangerous games...
He gets onto the bed and settles on the far side, watching Finch's gaze slide back down to his cock as it bounces with every move.
And then Finch carefully climbs onto the bed next to him and settles as comfortably as he can, studying him the whole time. "Mr. Reese," Finch starts, again in that firm tone that sends shivers through him, "Kiss me."
He lets out a quiet groan and his eyes flutter closed for a moment; snap open again dark with arousal. His breathing's fast and shallow now as he turns to face Finch and leans in to brush a kiss across his lips.
One of Finch's hands brushes through his hair, then slides down to the back of his neck and tightens, pulling him in. He groans again, hands sliding under Finch's shirt to stroke over warm skin; moves closer, pressing against him.
When Finch allows him to break the kiss, he's panting open mouthed, his lips kiss bruised. For a split-second he thinks Finch has no idea how this affects him, but then his brain starts functioning again, and he remembers: Finch knows exactly what this is doing to him.
The knowing smile that curves Finch's lips confirms it. And then those fingers -- so nimble as they dance across a keyboard and now doubly so on his body -- slide across his overheated skin, pausing to pinch nipples to hardness and pull another moan out of him.
One hand continues down, nervously skirting the healing bullet scar, and he thinks one day he'll have to show Finch it's all right to touch it. But not now, because the hand continues to his groin. He groans again -- a desperate, hungry sound -- and bucks into Finch's touch. His own hand tightens on Finch's hip before sliding back to squeeze his buttocks.
"Easy there, Mr. Reese," Finch says, as matter-of-factly as he might say "we have a new Number," and he shivers in response as his cock leaps again. Then those nimble fingers and that warm hand are stroking and squeezing and teasing all the places that make him completely helpless.
He lets out a low groan that sounds more like a growl and lets his eyes flutter closed again, hears a soft answering sound -- almost more a hushed whisper than a moan. There's a part of him that wishes he could see himself the way Finch seems to, overlooking all the darkness in his soul. But it's enough to know that Finch does -- that Finch knows all about him and still makes that kind of sound while looking at and touching him.
And Finch is definitely touching him, making him quiver in helpless lust and pleasure. There's no doubt whose hands are on him, mastering him so easily.
He wants to reciprocate, but he's too far gone to remember how to make his hands work right. And at the moment of his surrender -- when he gives up the last pretense of control -- he hears a soft murmur, "Yes. Very good, Mr. Reese..."
Those hands and that voice -- in a flashfire of arousal he's at the point of no return, but Finch holds him there on the edge for a long moment as he's trembling and letting out little helpless noises, desperate for release. They both know he could have it at any moment if he used his strength to take it, but that's not how this game is played.
"Tell me what you want, Mr. Reese," that voice whispers against his lips, and his eyes flutter open, pupils so dilated they're almost black.
"Please, Harold, let me come. Please..." he says, his words little more than breathy pants. Finch gives a little nod and a tiny quirk of his lips, and suddenly his world goes supernova, pleasure exploding through him as Finch's hands drag him over the edge. He comes hard, bucking into Finch's hand and letting out an incoherent cry, quickly muffled by Finch's lips capturing his once more in a demanding kiss.
When he comes back to himself, he finds Finch watching him with a knowing smile. He already knows what he must look like, hazy eyes and sweat-rumpled hair, cheeks flushed; floating in the heavy-limbed lassitude of afterglow. He manages to steer his mind away from the memory of photos showing him in just such state -- time enough for that thought later. For now, he's where he belongs, and everything is right with the world.
And then Finch smiles and leans closer to kiss him again. When Finch pulls back this time, he purrs, "Now, Mr. Reese, please me..."
* * *
The next morning he wakes to find himself alone in the bed, body still relaxed after the wonderful sex the night before. He gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom to get ready for another day of dealing with their current Number.
Showered and dressed, he exits the bedroom to find Finch once again sitting at his table. "Finch-- I thought you'd gone back to the Library..."
"I was waiting for you to get up so I could give you something."
He realizes as he looks at Finch that the man isn't wearing the same clothes he had on the day before; realizes he either brought a change of clothes with him or was up early enough that he's already gone home and come back. Or gone to any number of alternate residences he seems to have hidden throughout the city.
"You got me a present?" he asks cautiously, not exactly sure about the way Finch is looking at him, his eyes leveled at his throat while his lips are compressed in a thin line.
"Yes," Finch answers, gaze suddenly flicking back to his face. "Take off that tie. You won't need it."
The fact that he obeys immediately isn't lost on either of them.
He drapes his tie over the back of the other chair, then looks back at Finch.
"Very good, Mr. Reese," Finch says, then he holds out a narrow box adorned with a single elegant ribbon around it. "Wear this instead."
He raises an eyebrow at Finch but takes the box and opens it, then lifts out the tie it holds. He notices two things immediately. First, it complements his suit perfectly, and second...
"Harold, this is yours..."
Finch gives him another one of those intensely knowing smiles and answers, "Yes, it is."
end
This entry was originally posted at http://g-shadowslayer.dreamwidth.org/228912.html. Please comment there using OpenID.