Collar
Title: Collar
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,700
Re-posting because I'd deleted the previous post.
It was thin and narrow, nothing that Finch would have bought for Bear. Such a collar might have accidentally bitten into the canine’s skin or torn out fur if he decided to pull too hard on his lead. John Reese would never wear a leash so there was no worry that his neck would bare more than a red mark that would fade by morning.
The collar was the deal - John would have agreed to anything to get back into his employer’s good graces after his release from prison. At the prison’s gate, Frick and Frack, Harold’s two bodyguards waited for him. Finch hadn’t been there to meet him, a fact which sent a chill down the chastened man’s spine and infused him with worry. The boys brought Reese back to the Library where Finch had greeted him not with open arms but with anger and disdain.
“You should have listened to me, Mr. Reese! How many times did I tell you to get out of that bank?”
Finch’s tirade lasted until the smaller man was red-faced and hoarse. All John could do was lower his eyes and nod, tears stinging his eyes. He’d let himself get carried away - he’d lost perspective and become unprofessional that horrible day.
“I am afraid I am no longer in need of your services, Mr. Reese.” Finch handed the startled man a heavy envelope full of bank accounts, credit cards and fresh id.
“Please, Harold! Don’t make me go away! I’ll die!” moaned John, falling to his knees in front of Finch, his hands grasping, finding purchase on the fine woolen trousers- anything to remain connected to the man he’d loved for so long.
Harold sat down with a heavy sigh, wiping away tears of his own. “I can’t go through this again, Mr. Reese. There is only one way I can dare to take you back - you’ll need to prove your obedience to me, by wearing this…” Finch handed John the smooth, slick metal chain with a loop on the end. It looked like any other choke collar, though John would realize, on later inspection, was handcrafted titanium. There was a tiny circle of metal clipped to one of the links - an ID tag engraved with the words ‘Property of H. Finch’ in delicate script.
John pushed down the sudden urge to rebel, to shout back or throw things. It was true - he had always needed someone to guide him, watch over him - to rescue him from himself, but that didn’t make it any easier to comply. He risked a glance up at the fragile man and realized that Harold Finch was the one person, the only person who was worthy of John’s submission.
He handed the collar back to Finch, lowering his trembling head to accept the collar. Finch circled it over John’s head and tugged it tight. The metal links dug into vulnerable flesh, threatening, for just a second, to block the carotid artery - long enough for John to know, in no uncertain terms, who was in charge. John sat at his master’s feet, his head resting in Finch’s lap as the genius worked. Before the end of the night, he opened his flies and gave John another job to do.
“Good boy, John,” Harold said with affection, his talented fingers softly playing with John’s cowlick.
When it became too late for even Finch to work, the older man clipped on Bear’s leash and shook John out of his light sleep. “Time to go home, John.” John walked to Harold’s left, an inch or two behind, a perfect heel, obedient like Bear.
Finch brought John home, his real nest - a quiet brownstone on a shady street in Brooklyn Heights. John would have been content with the floor, pleased with a worn sofa on which to sleep but Finch led him to the master bedroom and ordered him to strip and make use of the palatial bathroom. There, John found a new bathrobe, royal blue, and an unopened toothbrush and razor next to Harold’s on the marble sink.
Suitably cleaned, he slipped into the robe and padded back to Harold, who was sitting on the bed fully dressed, his socked feet demurely crossed in front of him.
“Take off your robe, Mr. Reese,” he ordered, his voice firm but betraying a hint of compassion for the disgraced warrior. “Lie down across the foot of the bed, please, and touch yourself,” Harold demanded, as simply as requesting a glass of water or an extra pillow.
John bit his lip to keep from moaning. He kept his eyes closed for the most part, only stealing a glance as he thundered towards his climax - it was the sight of Harold, his eyes huge and dark, faced, his darkened lips open just a bit - enough for John to just see the pink tip of the older man’s tongue, that put John over the edge, dampening his warm, clean belly with his seed. Finch carefully cleaned John with a hand towel before limping off to perform his nightly bathroom ritual. John was asleep, still on the foot on the bed, by the time he returned in his silky pajamas. Harold slipped under the covers, pausing to tuck a thick quilt around John’s naked form before shutting off the lights.
Two weeks later, John proved himself - stopping short and falling back to safety instead of following a foolish Irrelevant into a burning building, his hand instinctively reaching for the collar as he listened for new orders. Harold greeted the cold, wet man at the brownstone door with a soft, proud
“Thank you, John,” and a warm towel. That night, John moved from sleeping at the foot of his master’s bed to sleeping beside him. They each let guards down enough to find mutual pleasure, John happily following Finch’s lead.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
John kept the collar tucked in behind all but the top shirt button, the metal cold against his warm skin. Carter and Fusco accepted his return, probably relieved that he was there to do Harold’s bidding instead of them. If they noticed that Reese was more tractable, calmer even, they didn’t say anything to him, choosing to wait until he was out of earshot to comment on how quickly and politely he responded to Finch’s ‘requests’.
Finch on the other hand did overhear and always smiled with approval - John now needed only the barest amount of discipline - both he and Finch thrived in the atmosphere of positive reinforcement. Harold had certainly never experience pleasure with such regularity - not even when he and Nathan had been in their prime.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was a fine day in April, surprisingly warm and sunny, so John searched out his two favorite detectives who were having lunch in a park. John had gotten so used to the weight around his neck that he didn’t think twice to open his jacket and unbutton his shirt a little to absorb just a little bit more of the unseasonable sunshine.
Fusco noticed first, almost dropping his hotdog. “What the fuck is that?” he asked crudely. Before John could cover up, Carter had swooped into his personal space, her small fingers winding around the shining metal.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, raising her finely shaped eyebrows. “He put a collar on you?”
John, defeated by the two detectives, nodded.
“It was the only way he’d risk working with me again,” he answered. “And if I didn’t have my work and Finch, then…”
He didn’t complete his sentence - he didn’t have to. Both detectives remembered the shambling hulk of a vagrant that John had once been, half-dead and not caring the least bit.
They could also recall the haunted, broken look on Finch’s face as John was walked away in handcuffs, that awful day at the bank.
Fusco reached over, touching the tiny medallion. “Are you happy?” he asked simply, his sweetness and concern suddenly shining through his tough, crabby exterior.
“Very,” John said, blushing. “I belong to Harold now, heart and soul.”
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,700
Re-posting because I'd deleted the previous post.
It was thin and narrow, nothing that Finch would have bought for Bear. Such a collar might have accidentally bitten into the canine’s skin or torn out fur if he decided to pull too hard on his lead. John Reese would never wear a leash so there was no worry that his neck would bare more than a red mark that would fade by morning.
The collar was the deal - John would have agreed to anything to get back into his employer’s good graces after his release from prison. At the prison’s gate, Frick and Frack, Harold’s two bodyguards waited for him. Finch hadn’t been there to meet him, a fact which sent a chill down the chastened man’s spine and infused him with worry. The boys brought Reese back to the Library where Finch had greeted him not with open arms but with anger and disdain.
“You should have listened to me, Mr. Reese! How many times did I tell you to get out of that bank?”
Finch’s tirade lasted until the smaller man was red-faced and hoarse. All John could do was lower his eyes and nod, tears stinging his eyes. He’d let himself get carried away - he’d lost perspective and become unprofessional that horrible day.
“I am afraid I am no longer in need of your services, Mr. Reese.” Finch handed the startled man a heavy envelope full of bank accounts, credit cards and fresh id.
“Please, Harold! Don’t make me go away! I’ll die!” moaned John, falling to his knees in front of Finch, his hands grasping, finding purchase on the fine woolen trousers- anything to remain connected to the man he’d loved for so long.
Harold sat down with a heavy sigh, wiping away tears of his own. “I can’t go through this again, Mr. Reese. There is only one way I can dare to take you back - you’ll need to prove your obedience to me, by wearing this…” Finch handed John the smooth, slick metal chain with a loop on the end. It looked like any other choke collar, though John would realize, on later inspection, was handcrafted titanium. There was a tiny circle of metal clipped to one of the links - an ID tag engraved with the words ‘Property of H. Finch’ in delicate script.
John pushed down the sudden urge to rebel, to shout back or throw things. It was true - he had always needed someone to guide him, watch over him - to rescue him from himself, but that didn’t make it any easier to comply. He risked a glance up at the fragile man and realized that Harold Finch was the one person, the only person who was worthy of John’s submission.
He handed the collar back to Finch, lowering his trembling head to accept the collar. Finch circled it over John’s head and tugged it tight. The metal links dug into vulnerable flesh, threatening, for just a second, to block the carotid artery - long enough for John to know, in no uncertain terms, who was in charge. John sat at his master’s feet, his head resting in Finch’s lap as the genius worked. Before the end of the night, he opened his flies and gave John another job to do.
“Good boy, John,” Harold said with affection, his talented fingers softly playing with John’s cowlick.
When it became too late for even Finch to work, the older man clipped on Bear’s leash and shook John out of his light sleep. “Time to go home, John.” John walked to Harold’s left, an inch or two behind, a perfect heel, obedient like Bear.
Finch brought John home, his real nest - a quiet brownstone on a shady street in Brooklyn Heights. John would have been content with the floor, pleased with a worn sofa on which to sleep but Finch led him to the master bedroom and ordered him to strip and make use of the palatial bathroom. There, John found a new bathrobe, royal blue, and an unopened toothbrush and razor next to Harold’s on the marble sink.
Suitably cleaned, he slipped into the robe and padded back to Harold, who was sitting on the bed fully dressed, his socked feet demurely crossed in front of him.
“Take off your robe, Mr. Reese,” he ordered, his voice firm but betraying a hint of compassion for the disgraced warrior. “Lie down across the foot of the bed, please, and touch yourself,” Harold demanded, as simply as requesting a glass of water or an extra pillow.
John bit his lip to keep from moaning. He kept his eyes closed for the most part, only stealing a glance as he thundered towards his climax - it was the sight of Harold, his eyes huge and dark, faced, his darkened lips open just a bit - enough for John to just see the pink tip of the older man’s tongue, that put John over the edge, dampening his warm, clean belly with his seed. Finch carefully cleaned John with a hand towel before limping off to perform his nightly bathroom ritual. John was asleep, still on the foot on the bed, by the time he returned in his silky pajamas. Harold slipped under the covers, pausing to tuck a thick quilt around John’s naked form before shutting off the lights.
Two weeks later, John proved himself - stopping short and falling back to safety instead of following a foolish Irrelevant into a burning building, his hand instinctively reaching for the collar as he listened for new orders. Harold greeted the cold, wet man at the brownstone door with a soft, proud
“Thank you, John,” and a warm towel. That night, John moved from sleeping at the foot of his master’s bed to sleeping beside him. They each let guards down enough to find mutual pleasure, John happily following Finch’s lead.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
John kept the collar tucked in behind all but the top shirt button, the metal cold against his warm skin. Carter and Fusco accepted his return, probably relieved that he was there to do Harold’s bidding instead of them. If they noticed that Reese was more tractable, calmer even, they didn’t say anything to him, choosing to wait until he was out of earshot to comment on how quickly and politely he responded to Finch’s ‘requests’.
Finch on the other hand did overhear and always smiled with approval - John now needed only the barest amount of discipline - both he and Finch thrived in the atmosphere of positive reinforcement. Harold had certainly never experience pleasure with such regularity - not even when he and Nathan had been in their prime.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was a fine day in April, surprisingly warm and sunny, so John searched out his two favorite detectives who were having lunch in a park. John had gotten so used to the weight around his neck that he didn’t think twice to open his jacket and unbutton his shirt a little to absorb just a little bit more of the unseasonable sunshine.
Fusco noticed first, almost dropping his hotdog. “What the fuck is that?” he asked crudely. Before John could cover up, Carter had swooped into his personal space, her small fingers winding around the shining metal.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, raising her finely shaped eyebrows. “He put a collar on you?”
John, defeated by the two detectives, nodded.
“It was the only way he’d risk working with me again,” he answered. “And if I didn’t have my work and Finch, then…”
He didn’t complete his sentence - he didn’t have to. Both detectives remembered the shambling hulk of a vagrant that John had once been, half-dead and not caring the least bit.
They could also recall the haunted, broken look on Finch’s face as John was walked away in handcuffs, that awful day at the bank.
Fusco reached over, touching the tiny medallion. “Are you happy?” he asked simply, his sweetness and concern suddenly shining through his tough, crabby exterior.
“Very,” John said, blushing. “I belong to Harold now, heart and soul.”