i'll pretend my heart's not on fire [PART TWO]
part one
John doesn’t sleep well. He’s restless, and he keeps snapping awake from a light doze with all the covers on the floor, shivering and just a little bit sweaty. Twice he feels his stomach lurch-not nauseous, but like he missed a step, or an entire flight of stairs. It seems Harold was kind enough to share his flu.
He gives up early, paces, wants to go for a run; his head feels clear, but with bugs like these it’s usually only a matter of time before everything gets foggy. He should go out while he still has the energy, stock up on easily reheated food and liquids, tea, maybe, medicine, should call in and let Harold know he’s-Harold.
John curses under his breath. Apparently already a little foggy. Harold showed the symptoms first, he’s probably worse off; and there are many things the library provides but sustenance beyond hot pockets? Not likely.
The street air hits John like a wall, too many smells at once. New York is usually scent-noisy but not like this, not sharp and clear-he knows immediately which people are Alphas in a crowd of Betas, which Vietnamese restaurant uses the freshest beef on each block, which wallstreet suit has cocaine on the cuffs of his dress shirt. The Alphas on the street go out of their way to steer clear of John, furiously texting or giving wide-eyed non-committal answers to a dial tone-John can hear the dial tone.
John ducks into the best smelling Vietnamese place-a shop called Pho Sure, a name John recognizes from a take-out menu he found being used as a bookmark in the library-and gets two orders of pho to go, stands there dizzy with ginger, onions, lime. Not quite chicken soup, but he doesn’t think Harold will mind. The containers scald his hands but he doesn’t carry them by the plastic bag handles-he doesn’t want them to spill, he wants to keep them safe for Harold.
The army taught John to think in simple steps: go through the door, go down the stairs, disarm the bomb. Easy, manageable steps. Harold would call it ‘coding.’ John makes his list and sticks to it, uses it to muffle his heightened senses, but his mind keeps catching on the mid-game: go to library, open doors, see Harold. See Harold and then- It skips back, broken record. See Harold see Harold see Harold.
He’ll worry about it after (he sees Harold), John thinks as he strolls into the library, pho cradled to his chest, still too-warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt-oh no. John frowns in dismay, letting his feet keep walking him through the list. He isn’t dressed right; Harold always looks upset when John isn’t in the clothes Harold buys for him.
John takes a breath to announce his presence-and stops.
Very carefully, he lowers the pho down to waist height, then bends and sets it gently on the floor, elevating himself by inches until he’s just past the threshold of the soup’s spices to something…stronger. John grips the bottom of the second shelf of books and uses it to gauge how far out of his crouch he’s risen, so he can’t stand up straighter without noticing, without identifying the source of that Other Smell.
Smells like Harold, John’s hindbrain whispers. John applies pressure to the thought’s external carotid arteries and lowers its limp body soundlessly to the ground. Middle Eastern countries have been using Omegas in heat to distract enemy Alphas for thousands of years; Europe and the United States only started training for it in their covert operations within the last few decades, after a near-scandal with North Korea. Manufactured heat scents have been on the black market since modern chemistry invented them-the most expensive ones are engineered to amplify whichever Omega scent is most prevalent in the area where the vial is crushed.
And if it isn’t. If it isn’t a trap. Harold will want John to leave. John has to make sure that he’s able to leave.
The restaurant included the standard handful of onions, peppers, lime wedges, sprouts, and fresh basil in separate ziplock bags, meant to be added to the soup or not depending on the consumer’s preferences-John fishes out the limes and squeezes them into one hand, wipes the juice under and on his nose, over his mouth. The rest of the bag he tucks into his pocket, if he needs it.
John backtracks to the Modern Warfare section to retrieve the handgun he has stored there, lime stinging in his nostrils, then makes his way to the main office. “Harold?” he calls-the library is old and despite John’s best efforts, the floorboards are too prone to creaking for real stealth. It also means his enemy can’t sneak up on him either. “Are you still here?”
There’s a squeak-a human squeak-and then, to John’s right, the passage beyond their break room, there’s a sound like twenty books toppling over. “J-John?”
Harold’s voice. Still doesn’t mean there isn’t a trap. John flows the wall, gun up, moving slowly. “I came to see if you’re feeling any better,” he says, steady and calm.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Reese. You should-should-” Harold cuts off with a sneeze, a curse, and another sneeze.
John blinks, but carries on with the plan. “Did you get the paper this morning?”
Harold makes a strained noise, not quite a laugh. “I’m fine, Mr. Reese, no need for code phrases. It’s my…” His next words come out through his teeth; John can hear the stress. “It’s my, my time. My heat. Such a blunt but fitting word…” He trails off.
John puts his shoulder to the wall to make sure his body stops when he tells it to. So far so good, the lime is doing its job; he can’t smell anything beyond it. “Is your door locked?”
“What?” is Harold’s distracted reply. “Yes, I, yes it is.”
“Good.” John’s legs carry him too quickly around the corner, to the door with Harold on the other side, in heat. Harold might already have a hand on himself, is almost certainly wet. John shakes his head, bites back a growl. “Is there something else you can move in front of it? A bookshelf, a dresser.”
There’s another surprised yelp on the other side of the door at John’s first word, Harold stumbling back from the door. “John-M-Mr. Reese,” Harold snaps, or tries to snap, “You shouldn’t be so close, you’re an Alpha and I’m-you can’t be in your right mind-“
“Do I sound like I’m not in my right mind?” John asks, projecting genuine curiosity. “I’m asking you to put more things in front of the door-for your peace of mind. I’m okay.”
There’s a pause. “You’re unaffected?”
John can’t read Harold’s tone, beyond the fact that it’s still unsteady. “I’m okay,” he says again, because it’s easier, because he needs Harold to stay calm. His blood is running a little hotter than it should, but it’s residual adrenaline and all the things he isn’t thinking about going on a door’s breadth away. He tucks the gun onto the shelf; he doesn’t need it in his hands. “Are you okay?”
“I’m. I’m underprepared,” Harold says. He’s upset; John’s ribs pull a little tighter in his chest. “There’s enough food and water in the library to last me but my-supplies are in storage. It isn’t ideal, but I can manage.”
John closes his eyes. ‘Supplies’ can only mean ‘dildos.’ The plural suggests multiple kinds, variations on size and shape. Knowing Harold, at least one steeply-priced, discreetly-mailed item that comes as close as possible to simulating a knot.
“I will manage,” Harold insists over John’s searing thoughts, “So you should go before you do something you’ll regret.” The last is said in a rush; John would bet every dime in his bank account that Harold is biting his lip now.
John rocks back on his heels, blinking at the shape of his hand splayed on the door. “Harold,” he says slowly, “I’m an Alpha.”
“Yes, we’ve established this,” Harold snipes, confused but not-not befuddled, not dizzy or foggy like Jessica was the one heat they had together. Or even the time Kara tried to trap him with her during her heat, as a bonding experience. “That’s why I’m telling you to get away while you still can-“
“You shouldn’t be able to tell me to leave,” John says. He drops to a crouch, then onto his belly, but there are only the blurry shapes of Harold’s feet on the other side of the door, no one else. It still isn’t a trap. But how-? “Can you smell me?”
“No, I can’t,” Harold admits, “but it’s only a matter of time. I spilled some of Leila’s baby powder when you announced yourself, there’s still a faint cloud of it in the air.” He sneezes.
John stays very still, counting his breaths, breathing in lime. Harold is always so careful with his words; if John has miscalculated this could go very bad very quickly. But there was that moment, his hindbrain whispers, You were so sure he was going to kiss you.
But he didn’t. John clenches his jaw. The likelihood that he’s projecting his own feelings onto Harold is…high. He needs to hear Harold’s true disdain for the idea to keep his armor up; he can use the hurt to make sure he leaves, and stays away.
And if-the smallest of ifs-if Harold wants…
“Would you regret it?”
“What?”
“You told me I should leave before I do something I regret.” John stands, feeling his vertebra align. “Would you regret a heat with me?”
“Mr. Reese.” Even braced for the inevitable, John recoils; the only time he’s heard Harold this disgusted is when John offered to kill someone on their first job together. “I’m afraid I have to not-so-graciously decline your offer of a pity fuck, but especially since you’ve already stated you’re not attracted to me-“
“Unaffected.”
“What’s the difference?” Harold sounds so disgruntled.
John laughs a little, weakly. “I brought you pho. I used the lime to block your scent when I realized you were…compromised. I can’t smell you either.”
There’s silence from the other room. Then, “From Pho Sure?”
“Of course.” John hopes Harold can hear him smiling. “It’s your favorite.” When Harold doesn’t say anything, John takes a deep breath. “I didn’t offer out of pity, and I won’t hold anything against you, Harold, not ever. If you want us to go on as we always have, I can make that happen. If you want me to wait, I’ll wait.” He has to swallow twice to get past the sudden sharp taste of hoping for too much; that Harold might want a someday if not a right now. He rests his forehead against the cool, indifferent oak paneling separating them. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I,” Harold says after what feels like an age, “I want you very much to be on this side of the door.”
John blinks, Harold’s words ringing in his head, and doesn’t move. He’s always tested high on his auditory recall, but right now he doesn’t know if he should trust his own ears. “You do?” he asks, voice nearly airless.
“Yes, I, yes.” He sounds so flustered John has to wonder if he’s blushing, if John could reach out and feel the heat on his face. “But. That’s precisely why I can’t let you in. I refuse to let you think I only want you for your-for what your body can do.”
“Harold,” John says, has to close his eyes and listen to his own words too, listen and remember that they’re true, “You once promised me you’d never lie to me. And I trust you.” His palms push flat against the door as he levers himself back a little. “I can wait. I will wait. But I can still, I can get you new supplies, food, whatever you need. Please, Harold, tell me what you need.”
His hearing isn’t impeded-Harold’s ragged inhale at the word please feels like it’s against the shell of his ear. Maybe some people would gasp at how wrong it is, an Alpha asking something of an Omega-one in heat, no less-but Harold doesn’t sound disgusted.
The lock turns, and John’s breath catches.
“You can come in,” Harold says.
A strange shiver runs through John’s frame at the symmetry-since the start of their relationship Harold has done nothing but present John with doorways, always giving John the choice to open them and walk through.
~*~
Harold has baby powder in his eyebrows, dusted along the rim of his glasses, smudged on the tip of his nose. His face is flushed, goes downright ruddy as John takes in Harold’s state of disarray-no socks, bare toes peeking under the hem of a pair of slacks held up by Harold’s hand clutching at the waist. His white undershirt is clinging to his torso with the light sweat he’s already worked up. John can almost smell him now, almost. But Harold hasn’t said anything else, so John holds his breath.
“I, ah, I forgot to remind you that I’m damaged goods,” Harold says, shifting his weight further off his bad leg. “And not, not just my injury, though that’s not inconsiderable,” he stammers before John can get his objections in order, “but my biological-abnormalities. The doctors don’t even know why I continue to go into heat so far into my, er, prime.”
“You’re hardly a senior citizen,” John points out, dry. “And for the record, the Alpha who made you think of yourself as ‘damaged goods’ should probably bid bon voyage to his kneecaps.”
“John.” He likes the way Harold says his name, even with his lips pursed in a little scolding moue. “It’s factually accurate that I am, by society’s standards, a faulty Omega. I don’t take kindly to orders, I don’t appreciate being brought to my knees, my heats usually only last a day-“
“A day?” John repeats, taking one step closer; if Harold shows any signs of being uncomfortable he’s still fully prepared to leave. But Harold just…melts a little bit, relaxing a fraction of an inch, and John realizes he was interpreting John’s maintained distance as a change of mind. “I’m sure you know the average is three to four.”
“Yes, well.” Harold licks his lips like he doesn’t even realize how it looks; his eyes are dilated wide and fixed on John’s. “This one feels decidedly-stronger. It’s not even supposed to happen for another two weeks.”
“You’re remarkable,” John murmurs, barely a step away now, “right down to your DNA.”
“Mr. Reese,” Harold says, near-breathless, and then, “John. Under normal circumstances I’d be floored by your self-control, but if you could-?”
“What, Harold?” John asks, smile curled in the corner of his mouth held just out of Harold’s reach.
“Kiss me,” Harold tells him, and John does.
When John idly wondered how Harold would kiss-when he couldn’t stop himself, when the thought would creep into his head just before he fell asleep-he imagined gently coaxing Harold to part his lips, leading him into something deeper. No one has ever accused John of being over-imaginative.
Harold pushes into him immediately, taking control the moment their lips touch; John opens for him and lets Harold’s tongue seek his out with a passion that turns almost sweetly tentative before Harold realizes John isn’t fighting him. No need; Harold is exactly where John wants him to be, here and protected and safe and warm, so warm.
“You taste like limes,” Harold mumbles against his mouth, not quite a complaint, more like he wants John to taste like something…else. Arousal hits John hard enough for him to huff a breath, baby powder dusting up and away from Harold’s face. He wants, god, he wants-and he can give this to Harold.
John drops to his knees.
Harold makes a loud, strangled noise and clutches John’s hair-not tight enough, still a gentleman even as his pants slip down his hips. John gladly helps them disappear along with Harold’s shirt, too eager to press his face against Harold where he can finally-finally!-smell Harold without anything else. He spits in his hand and scrubs at his face to try and rid it of the lime, fighting to ignore Harold’s sharp whine and stammered, “G-God, John, what are you-“
“You must have some idea,” John says, giving him a grin, but unable to tear his eyes away from where Harold is straining hard in his underwear-underwear which is clean, barely even a damp spot on the silky fabric. “Haven’t you come yet?” he asks with a concerned frown, dragging the back of his nails along the shape of Harold to watch him shiver. “When did your heat start?”
“Yes. Twice. This morning,” Harold gets out, already sounding a little more muddled. “I was-naked, I cleaned up with spare wipes from…threw them in the sealed diaper trashcan when I heard you coming, I-“
“Fastidious,” John comments, nuzzles Harold’s stomach and licks past the antiseptic alcohol taste to Harold’s skin until he’s sweating again. There it is, finally, and John breathes in deep, the scent he was trying to fight washing over him in a wave of need. His cock, hard for so long he’d all-but forgotten the ache of it, suddenly throbs, low and insistent; John is more captivated by the blurt of precome dampening the front of Harold’s boxers, probably worse further back where John can’t see.
“Do you like to stay clean?” John asks, looking up at Harold through his lashes.
“How,” Harold starts, incredulous, as if he means to ask how John is managing full sentences before he gives up on his own.
John doesn’t know how to tell him it’s a façade, that he’s barely holding on by his fingernails to the control he needs to make sure Harold is alright. To make sure he gives Harold what he needs. His hands are shaking even with their grip on Harold’s hips, and even if Harold can’t feel that he has to hear how fast John’s breath is coming, how ragged it’s turning with each new lungful of Harold’s scent.
“John…” Harold wets his mouth again, drags his nails through John’s hair down to his nape. “Please,” Harold whispers, and John’s control fractures. Harold should never have to beg him for anything.
His tongue hits the silky fabric first-not real silk, not anything as tacky as that, but it tastes expensive and like salt, like Harold-too impatient to yank them down until the front is soaked with his spit and Harold is near-keening. His cock springs free, blood-hot and red and impossibly hard, precome smeared over the head; John holds him still and licks him clean, presses his tongue to Harold’s slit to catch the fresh blurts, thumb dragging just under the head nearly dry skin on skin.
For a moment he thinks Harold’s bad leg has given out and John moves instantly to catch him; but Harold’s grip gets tighter in his hair and he takes another trembling step back, pulling John with him toward the bed. It’s on the small side, but sturdy, and the mattress is new-John has no idea who Harold got to move it in here for him but he doesn’t care, when Harold collapses on the edge John’s angle is infinitely better to suck him down to the root.
Harold cries out, something half curse and half John’s name. When John can make himself open his eyes past the haze of bliss at Harold’s weight on his tongue, Harold’s taste, Harold’s scent-when he looks up Harold looks wrecked, glasses askew and almost sliding off his nose, nipples peaked beneath his thin undershirt. John wants to strip it off him, but his hands are occupied, one lightly rolling Harold’s balls, the other slipping lower, gently coaxing open Harold’s slick thighs.
“Will you talk to me?” John doesn’t remember the thought process involved in pulling away, just that he needed to ask even more than he needed Harold in his mouth.
“I’m…f-finding words rather di…nngh…difficult. At the…” Harold strangles back another groan.
“That’s okay,” John murmurs, lips brushing the length of Harold’s cock to see if it makes him shudder; it does. “Just…let me know what you’re feeling as best you can. If you can. I like listening to you.” He nuzzles in close again, careful of the stubble he forgot to scrape away this morning. It’s almost too telling, how much he enjoys having Harold’s voice in his ear on a job, knowing that Harold is safe when John’s life is in danger.
Harold stares down at him now, and John can’t read his face beyond amazement, but Harold gives a jerky nod and John swallows him back down.
“I like this,” he says, almost surprised. “You’re, you’re very good,” Harold tries again, vowels stretched and sometimes half-forgotten as John rewards him with a rolling lave of his tongue. “I didn’t know you… It wasn’t…in your file.”
Some men might have sounded jealous-Harold sounds nothing more than thrilled to have discovered something new. John pulls off to work him with his fist, answer, “I haven’t done this in a while. Apologies if I’m a little rusty.”
“I never thought,” Harold says, press of his fingertips behind John’s ear an unconscious suggestion John put his mouth to better use. John smirks as he takes him in, lick-lick-licks just under the head. “Never dreamed you’d be on your knees for me, never thought anyone would, oh oh-“
John shoves a hand down to his own dick, presses hard at the base where his knot is threatening to swell-no one, no one has done this for Harold, jesus, how-and with his other hand slides back behind Harold’s balls, touches him where he’s slickest. His hole clenches and unfurls against the pad of John’s middle finger as he circles the rim in slow, clockwise circles, winding Harold up. Focusing on that so he doesn’t lose his mind.
Harold scrabbling at his hair seems distant, contradictory to the mission, which is to get Harold to come, spill in his mouth, and Harold wails when he does, hips shoving into John’s grip like he can’t help himself; John loves it, senses flooded with Harold’s spunk in his mouth, thick and almost bitter across his tongue, the taste nothing like the sour saltiness he remembers from furtive blowjobs in boot camp. It could be the pheromones talking; John feels like he’s high, like he’s falling, surrounding Harold and being engulfed by him all at once.
The splay of Harold’s legs shifts wider as he shudders through his orgasm, Harold’s panting breath reduced to, “John, John, John.” His flush arches down his chest, whole body writhing under the arm John gets across his hips just in time.
“That was.” Harold has to stop to breathe, dazed. His limp fingers pet at John’s face, the parts of him they can reach. “You are.”
He’s still hard in John’s mouth though his dick has stopped jerking with aftershocks; now does not seem like the time to let up. Harold hiccups a groan at John’s first purposeful suck, but he doesn’t say stop, and his hole clenches greedily around John’s finger as he starts to slide it in, watching Harold’s face for approval. He slides in so easy, so easy, slick and searing hot, and Harold doesn’t look anything other than hopelessly astounded, then sharply aroused.
“Oh,” he says, as if he’s just catching on, “Do you think…? Yes, I, oh.” He rocks his hips down into John’s fingers, back into his mouth; the movement is stiff, makes him wince, and John glares and pins him better, remembers Harold’s injury better than Harold at this moment, it seems. Harold makes a sound somewhere between disgruntled and yearning, but he does his best not to wriggle. John hums his approval.
“I could take more,” Harold says, shaky fingertips touching the crow’s feet at John’s eyes, his own eyes soft and gently pleading. “Will you-would you-“
He’s avoiding the word ‘please,’ and John doesn’t know how to feel knowing Harold’s picked up on that already, that he could use it as weapon and is refusing to use it at all. It’s a shocking flush down his chest, hundreds of pinprick sensations on his skin.
“John,” Harold says, hand shifting up to grip his hair just hard enough to shake him out of his own skull. “More.”
John gives him more.
Two fingers, then works him up to three-only once does Harold try thrashing again and John gently drags his teeth over Harold’s shaft in warning, bringing him back to a quivering standstill. Harold comes again on the stretch of the third knuckle; John swallows that too, load almost as big as the first, just as heady.
“Fuck, fuck,” Harold hisses. It’s beautiful; John would blow Harold every second of the day if it meant hearing him curse like this. “Up, fuck, up, I can’t-“
John pulls off but doesn’t go far, admiring his handiwork. He can still feel the aftershocks rolling through Harold’s body in the clench of him around his fingers.
“You look very smug,” Harold comments, wryly amused, once he has better control over his breathing. John twists his fingers just to watch Harold’s mouth drop open on a gasp. “Yes, alright, yes, with reason.”
He doesn’t know how to say that he isn’t pleased with himself-not entirely anyway; he’s pleased that Harold is pleased, and that he was able to give that to Harold. It was easier when he had an excuse not to talk.
Harold’s smile goes kind, watching him. He seems to be thinking a little clearer with two orgasms in quick succession under his belt; it probably won’t last long. He taps a finger under John’s chin. “You didn’t have to swallow. I couldn’t string the thought together, but I would have understood.”
“Less mess.” John’s voice sounds wrecked enough to make him blush right along with Harold, though John thinks it probably doesn’t look as endearing as it does on his dear friend.
“I really don’t mind a mess.” Harold bumps him with his knees, a clear enough message to move-but when John removes his fingers to Harold’s unhappy sigh and stands on creaky legs Harold fights dirty, grabs his shirtfront while he’s off-balance and yanks him down onto the bed. John barely manages to brace himself without crushing Harold, and then Harold’s mouth is on his and he almost forgets to brace himself at all.
He flinches at the first touch of Harold’s tongue, reminded what he must taste like, but Harold just kisses deeper, rolling John onto his back. He doesn’t clamber over John, try to pin him; he stays on his side, leans into John, tilts his head to get a better angle. John’s fingers are clumsy when he holds on.
When Harold pulls back, it’s just far enough to wonder, “How are you still clothed?”
He sounds so bewildered John would laugh if he could figure out how to make the sound come out right. He strips instead, out of his shirt, shoving his pants and underwear off in one go. “Better?”
“Infinitely.” Harold’s pupils are blown wide behind his glasses, which are starting to fog. He scrabbles one hand up, knocks them askew then knocks them off, frames clattering on the bedside table. It’s a shock to see his face unadorned, naked in a way he wasn’t before. He doesn’t squint to try to see John better, and John’s stomach swoops-but he might be far sighted, John might be close enough it doesn’t matter-and Harold kisses him again, knocking loose the tremors John’s been keeping at bay.
Harold’s hands chase the shivers down his spine to the small of his back. “How do you want me?” he asks, breathless again, eager to please, to play. “On my back? All fours? I could just turn over and-or I could try on top but I don’t know how long-”
What John wants is a minute-five minutes, ten-to relearn how to breathe. He tries to duck his head against Harold’s shoulder but Harold follows him down, presses kisses to his mouth before he can work up the coordination to respond, murmurs, “I want you to, I want you,” and doesn’t say anything about John’s knot.
It’s a nice change, John thinks, half-delirious-thoughtful, even-but even with everything pounding in his hindbrain to fuck in and damn the consequences he has to, he has to know. “Do you want my-do you want me to knot you?” he rasps out, near desperate. He can try to-he can make himself pull out if Harold doesn’t want it, doesn’t want all of him.
Harold’s grip on him goes white-knuckled. “I want you to let yourself fuck me.”
John has him on his stomach in the next blink, one hand pinning Harold down at the shoulder and unsure how he got here, when he moved. Harold moans and arches into him as best he can, rubbing his ass against-against-John grabs his hip on reflex, stops him, but Harold whines his name, pushes back, and John is lost.
He slides in too fast, but Harold opens for him, welcoming like an embrace, squeezing him tight. He’s so hot inside John can’t speak, sends a jagged shock through him hard enough to make his hips jerk against Harold until they’re as close as they can get.
Harold’s whimpers stay wrapped around a constant thread of, Yes, oh, there, yes, and Again, John, again, and John doesn’t know if he’s complying or obeying or if he doesn’t have a choice anymore, if he’s just lucky Harold is asking for what John can give him, fucking in without control. He feels like his skin is on fire, body throwing him mindlessly toward a lake to drown the flames. He’s holding on too tight to Harold, his life raft. John feels his knot start to swell, pushing at the rim of Harold’s hole, and there’s no metaphor that can save him from this, from the way Harold bows his back and drops his head and keens, bearing down as John paws uselessly at his hip, drags his teeth over the surgical scars at Harold’s nape.
He almost misses the signs of Harold’s third orgasm, snaps his eyes open and fumbles a hand down in time to catch the first spurt and work him through the ricocheting aftershocks of coming untouched. Harold clenches almost unbearably tight, then relaxes, and oh, John is, John is in.
“There,” Harold says on a ragged breath, tugging John’s hand away to press it to the mattress near his face, tangling their sticky fingers together. “Oh, there. There you are.”
John starts to come.
Time and sight falls away, it’s so intense; he can’t hear much beyond the roar of blood in his ears except Harold’s quiet murmurs of, “Good, good, John, you’re so good.”
He feels Harold shudder with the first few spurts, jerk of his hips aborted by John’s knot locking him in place. John feels stripped of everything beyond their bodies, the fractional slide of their skin and the way Harold turns his head and scatters slack-mouthed kisses over John’s fingers. John ducks his head to Harold’s nape and breathes him in, and in and in and in.
This is going to be a long one, John thinks when he can rub two brain cells together again; his knot is showing no signs of going down, and every minute or so he shudders out another spurt of come as deep in Harold as he can grind them together. Careful of Harold’s hip, they manage to maneuver onto their sides; John slips one arm under Harold’s head as a pillow and touches the tip of his nose to the fine hair at the back of his neck.
“So much for keeping you clean,” John says after a long moment, voice hoarse as he watches Harold idly playing with their entwined-increasingly sticky-fingers. The sheets are wrecked and clumped under them, and Harold has come drying on his stomach, some all the way up to his collarbone.
“I told you I don’t mind a mess,” Harold humphs, no heat to it; John thinks he can hear him smiling. “Especially not one we make together.”
It’s an oddly poignant thing to say, but Harold smiles and John thinks he understands-they smell like each other now, mutually claimed.
His hand slips low over the soft skin of Harold’s abdomen, pressing a little; he just means to check, maybe say Can you feel me inside you? But Harold makes a soft noise, says, “John, you should know I-I would, if, if I could-”
It takes too long to understand what Harold’s saying. A baby. Harold would make a baby with John.
John takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself and mostly breathing in the faint acrid scent of Harold’s building worry-then he nuzzles close under Harold’s ear up to the edge of his sideburn, wishing he’d picked a position that was better suited to seeing Harold’s face. “You don’t need to say that.”
“But-”
“I don’t need a nebulous third person who doesn’t and might never exist,” John says, stilling Harold’s attempt to speak with a thumb against his lips. “I want you. I just want you.”
Some small part of John is braced for the hurt of giving up the chance at a family, but there’s no hurt, nothing there to lose, and everything to gain with Harold in his arms. Another quiet noise pulls free of Harold’s throat, but it sounds sweeter, needy for something; he tries to twist his neck around-for a kiss, John realizes, and presses him forward instead, covering Harold as much as he can. Harold’s arm reaches up and back, hand fitting to John’s nape as John kisses his shoulder, shows him he’s loved.
~*~
“How are you feeling?” John asks some time later-after they’ve separated, after John wobbled down the hall on legs that would barely hold him up to retrieve their lukewarm pho and microwave it. They probably don’t have much time before the heat starts up again; John wants to make sure they’re properly fed and hydrated before that happens.
It’s a little hard to remember things like food when he comes back to Harold bent over the bed, tucking in the corners of the fitted sheet. The view is…pornographic. John almost spills the soup.
“Pleasantly sore,” Harold says as he straightens quickly, blush turning his cheeks ruddy; an unintentional show, then. “Is that for me?”
They sit on the bed with their backs against the headboard, elbows occasionally brushing, Harold with the sheets pulled up to his waist. John doesn’t see the point, but he likes the domesticity of it, likes stealing glances and finding them preemptively returned.
There’s obviously something on Harold’s mind, but he seems content to eat and mull it over, so John follows his lead. He takes inventory instead-of Harold’s ruffled hair, his well-kissed mouth, the faint red mark John left on his shoulder with his teeth. He’s put his glasses back on; John is less certain about their authenticity, far more sure of his own unfortunate tendency to find Harold’s mysteries charming. He smiles into his pho.
When he looks up, Harold is watching him. “I’m curious,” he starts to say, then stalls a bit, poking at the basil dregs in his soup.
“That makes two of us,” John prompts, offering a crooked smile.
Harold frowns, but it seems to be directed at himself. “It may be… too soon to broach this subject.”
John swallows, then leans in for a kiss. “Hey,” he says, and kisses Harold again because he enjoyed it so much the last time. And because it’s infinitely more difficult to break up with someone while being kissed, as long as they kiss well. Somewhat underhanded, but John is prepared to fight a little dirty to keep Harold now that he has him. “You can tell me.”
Harold breaks away to put their empty containers on the bedside table, and doesn’t shift back into John’s space all the way. “I want you to know,” he starts, not quite meeting John’s eyes, “that there is no right or wrong answer. I’m wondering about-someday.”
“Someday?” John repeats; the word tastes foreign.
“Yes,” Harold says, drawing out the word like he’s stalling for time. “I’m wondering if you would… If it might be something you’d entertain the possibility of-someday. If there was a child who needed a home. If, if raising that child would be something you’d be interested in doing. With me.”
“I’m not very good at picturing ‘somedays,’” John rasps, when he can gather the air to speak.
“You should work on that,” Harold says with such earnestness that John starts to laugh before he realizes it’s heartfelt, too; realizes that Harold has already given him so much, and now he wants to give him a future, something beyond the machine. John can barely fathom it.
“I’ll try,” he whispers, words soft against Harold’s fingertips, his knuckles, before Harold tilts his head up, and kisses him, wholly.
The End
comments are ♥
(seriously guys thank you for reading, i'm really surprised this fic fell out of me too)
John doesn’t sleep well. He’s restless, and he keeps snapping awake from a light doze with all the covers on the floor, shivering and just a little bit sweaty. Twice he feels his stomach lurch-not nauseous, but like he missed a step, or an entire flight of stairs. It seems Harold was kind enough to share his flu.
He gives up early, paces, wants to go for a run; his head feels clear, but with bugs like these it’s usually only a matter of time before everything gets foggy. He should go out while he still has the energy, stock up on easily reheated food and liquids, tea, maybe, medicine, should call in and let Harold know he’s-Harold.
John curses under his breath. Apparently already a little foggy. Harold showed the symptoms first, he’s probably worse off; and there are many things the library provides but sustenance beyond hot pockets? Not likely.
The street air hits John like a wall, too many smells at once. New York is usually scent-noisy but not like this, not sharp and clear-he knows immediately which people are Alphas in a crowd of Betas, which Vietnamese restaurant uses the freshest beef on each block, which wallstreet suit has cocaine on the cuffs of his dress shirt. The Alphas on the street go out of their way to steer clear of John, furiously texting or giving wide-eyed non-committal answers to a dial tone-John can hear the dial tone.
John ducks into the best smelling Vietnamese place-a shop called Pho Sure, a name John recognizes from a take-out menu he found being used as a bookmark in the library-and gets two orders of pho to go, stands there dizzy with ginger, onions, lime. Not quite chicken soup, but he doesn’t think Harold will mind. The containers scald his hands but he doesn’t carry them by the plastic bag handles-he doesn’t want them to spill, he wants to keep them safe for Harold.
The army taught John to think in simple steps: go through the door, go down the stairs, disarm the bomb. Easy, manageable steps. Harold would call it ‘coding.’ John makes his list and sticks to it, uses it to muffle his heightened senses, but his mind keeps catching on the mid-game: go to library, open doors, see Harold. See Harold and then- It skips back, broken record. See Harold see Harold see Harold.
He’ll worry about it after (he sees Harold), John thinks as he strolls into the library, pho cradled to his chest, still too-warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt-oh no. John frowns in dismay, letting his feet keep walking him through the list. He isn’t dressed right; Harold always looks upset when John isn’t in the clothes Harold buys for him.
John takes a breath to announce his presence-and stops.
Very carefully, he lowers the pho down to waist height, then bends and sets it gently on the floor, elevating himself by inches until he’s just past the threshold of the soup’s spices to something…stronger. John grips the bottom of the second shelf of books and uses it to gauge how far out of his crouch he’s risen, so he can’t stand up straighter without noticing, without identifying the source of that Other Smell.
Smells like Harold, John’s hindbrain whispers. John applies pressure to the thought’s external carotid arteries and lowers its limp body soundlessly to the ground. Middle Eastern countries have been using Omegas in heat to distract enemy Alphas for thousands of years; Europe and the United States only started training for it in their covert operations within the last few decades, after a near-scandal with North Korea. Manufactured heat scents have been on the black market since modern chemistry invented them-the most expensive ones are engineered to amplify whichever Omega scent is most prevalent in the area where the vial is crushed.
And if it isn’t. If it isn’t a trap. Harold will want John to leave. John has to make sure that he’s able to leave.
The restaurant included the standard handful of onions, peppers, lime wedges, sprouts, and fresh basil in separate ziplock bags, meant to be added to the soup or not depending on the consumer’s preferences-John fishes out the limes and squeezes them into one hand, wipes the juice under and on his nose, over his mouth. The rest of the bag he tucks into his pocket, if he needs it.
John backtracks to the Modern Warfare section to retrieve the handgun he has stored there, lime stinging in his nostrils, then makes his way to the main office. “Harold?” he calls-the library is old and despite John’s best efforts, the floorboards are too prone to creaking for real stealth. It also means his enemy can’t sneak up on him either. “Are you still here?”
There’s a squeak-a human squeak-and then, to John’s right, the passage beyond their break room, there’s a sound like twenty books toppling over. “J-John?”
Harold’s voice. Still doesn’t mean there isn’t a trap. John flows the wall, gun up, moving slowly. “I came to see if you’re feeling any better,” he says, steady and calm.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Reese. You should-should-” Harold cuts off with a sneeze, a curse, and another sneeze.
John blinks, but carries on with the plan. “Did you get the paper this morning?”
Harold makes a strained noise, not quite a laugh. “I’m fine, Mr. Reese, no need for code phrases. It’s my…” His next words come out through his teeth; John can hear the stress. “It’s my, my time. My heat. Such a blunt but fitting word…” He trails off.
John puts his shoulder to the wall to make sure his body stops when he tells it to. So far so good, the lime is doing its job; he can’t smell anything beyond it. “Is your door locked?”
“What?” is Harold’s distracted reply. “Yes, I, yes it is.”
“Good.” John’s legs carry him too quickly around the corner, to the door with Harold on the other side, in heat. Harold might already have a hand on himself, is almost certainly wet. John shakes his head, bites back a growl. “Is there something else you can move in front of it? A bookshelf, a dresser.”
There’s another surprised yelp on the other side of the door at John’s first word, Harold stumbling back from the door. “John-M-Mr. Reese,” Harold snaps, or tries to snap, “You shouldn’t be so close, you’re an Alpha and I’m-you can’t be in your right mind-“
“Do I sound like I’m not in my right mind?” John asks, projecting genuine curiosity. “I’m asking you to put more things in front of the door-for your peace of mind. I’m okay.”
There’s a pause. “You’re unaffected?”
John can’t read Harold’s tone, beyond the fact that it’s still unsteady. “I’m okay,” he says again, because it’s easier, because he needs Harold to stay calm. His blood is running a little hotter than it should, but it’s residual adrenaline and all the things he isn’t thinking about going on a door’s breadth away. He tucks the gun onto the shelf; he doesn’t need it in his hands. “Are you okay?”
“I’m. I’m underprepared,” Harold says. He’s upset; John’s ribs pull a little tighter in his chest. “There’s enough food and water in the library to last me but my-supplies are in storage. It isn’t ideal, but I can manage.”
John closes his eyes. ‘Supplies’ can only mean ‘dildos.’ The plural suggests multiple kinds, variations on size and shape. Knowing Harold, at least one steeply-priced, discreetly-mailed item that comes as close as possible to simulating a knot.
“I will manage,” Harold insists over John’s searing thoughts, “So you should go before you do something you’ll regret.” The last is said in a rush; John would bet every dime in his bank account that Harold is biting his lip now.
John rocks back on his heels, blinking at the shape of his hand splayed on the door. “Harold,” he says slowly, “I’m an Alpha.”
“Yes, we’ve established this,” Harold snipes, confused but not-not befuddled, not dizzy or foggy like Jessica was the one heat they had together. Or even the time Kara tried to trap him with her during her heat, as a bonding experience. “That’s why I’m telling you to get away while you still can-“
“You shouldn’t be able to tell me to leave,” John says. He drops to a crouch, then onto his belly, but there are only the blurry shapes of Harold’s feet on the other side of the door, no one else. It still isn’t a trap. But how-? “Can you smell me?”
“No, I can’t,” Harold admits, “but it’s only a matter of time. I spilled some of Leila’s baby powder when you announced yourself, there’s still a faint cloud of it in the air.” He sneezes.
John stays very still, counting his breaths, breathing in lime. Harold is always so careful with his words; if John has miscalculated this could go very bad very quickly. But there was that moment, his hindbrain whispers, You were so sure he was going to kiss you.
But he didn’t. John clenches his jaw. The likelihood that he’s projecting his own feelings onto Harold is…high. He needs to hear Harold’s true disdain for the idea to keep his armor up; he can use the hurt to make sure he leaves, and stays away.
And if-the smallest of ifs-if Harold wants…
“Would you regret it?”
“What?”
“You told me I should leave before I do something I regret.” John stands, feeling his vertebra align. “Would you regret a heat with me?”
“Mr. Reese.” Even braced for the inevitable, John recoils; the only time he’s heard Harold this disgusted is when John offered to kill someone on their first job together. “I’m afraid I have to not-so-graciously decline your offer of a pity fuck, but especially since you’ve already stated you’re not attracted to me-“
“Unaffected.”
“What’s the difference?” Harold sounds so disgruntled.
John laughs a little, weakly. “I brought you pho. I used the lime to block your scent when I realized you were…compromised. I can’t smell you either.”
There’s silence from the other room. Then, “From Pho Sure?”
“Of course.” John hopes Harold can hear him smiling. “It’s your favorite.” When Harold doesn’t say anything, John takes a deep breath. “I didn’t offer out of pity, and I won’t hold anything against you, Harold, not ever. If you want us to go on as we always have, I can make that happen. If you want me to wait, I’ll wait.” He has to swallow twice to get past the sudden sharp taste of hoping for too much; that Harold might want a someday if not a right now. He rests his forehead against the cool, indifferent oak paneling separating them. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I,” Harold says after what feels like an age, “I want you very much to be on this side of the door.”
John blinks, Harold’s words ringing in his head, and doesn’t move. He’s always tested high on his auditory recall, but right now he doesn’t know if he should trust his own ears. “You do?” he asks, voice nearly airless.
“Yes, I, yes.” He sounds so flustered John has to wonder if he’s blushing, if John could reach out and feel the heat on his face. “But. That’s precisely why I can’t let you in. I refuse to let you think I only want you for your-for what your body can do.”
“Harold,” John says, has to close his eyes and listen to his own words too, listen and remember that they’re true, “You once promised me you’d never lie to me. And I trust you.” His palms push flat against the door as he levers himself back a little. “I can wait. I will wait. But I can still, I can get you new supplies, food, whatever you need. Please, Harold, tell me what you need.”
His hearing isn’t impeded-Harold’s ragged inhale at the word please feels like it’s against the shell of his ear. Maybe some people would gasp at how wrong it is, an Alpha asking something of an Omega-one in heat, no less-but Harold doesn’t sound disgusted.
The lock turns, and John’s breath catches.
“You can come in,” Harold says.
A strange shiver runs through John’s frame at the symmetry-since the start of their relationship Harold has done nothing but present John with doorways, always giving John the choice to open them and walk through.
~*~
Harold has baby powder in his eyebrows, dusted along the rim of his glasses, smudged on the tip of his nose. His face is flushed, goes downright ruddy as John takes in Harold’s state of disarray-no socks, bare toes peeking under the hem of a pair of slacks held up by Harold’s hand clutching at the waist. His white undershirt is clinging to his torso with the light sweat he’s already worked up. John can almost smell him now, almost. But Harold hasn’t said anything else, so John holds his breath.
“I, ah, I forgot to remind you that I’m damaged goods,” Harold says, shifting his weight further off his bad leg. “And not, not just my injury, though that’s not inconsiderable,” he stammers before John can get his objections in order, “but my biological-abnormalities. The doctors don’t even know why I continue to go into heat so far into my, er, prime.”
“You’re hardly a senior citizen,” John points out, dry. “And for the record, the Alpha who made you think of yourself as ‘damaged goods’ should probably bid bon voyage to his kneecaps.”
“John.” He likes the way Harold says his name, even with his lips pursed in a little scolding moue. “It’s factually accurate that I am, by society’s standards, a faulty Omega. I don’t take kindly to orders, I don’t appreciate being brought to my knees, my heats usually only last a day-“
“A day?” John repeats, taking one step closer; if Harold shows any signs of being uncomfortable he’s still fully prepared to leave. But Harold just…melts a little bit, relaxing a fraction of an inch, and John realizes he was interpreting John’s maintained distance as a change of mind. “I’m sure you know the average is three to four.”
“Yes, well.” Harold licks his lips like he doesn’t even realize how it looks; his eyes are dilated wide and fixed on John’s. “This one feels decidedly-stronger. It’s not even supposed to happen for another two weeks.”
“You’re remarkable,” John murmurs, barely a step away now, “right down to your DNA.”
“Mr. Reese,” Harold says, near-breathless, and then, “John. Under normal circumstances I’d be floored by your self-control, but if you could-?”
“What, Harold?” John asks, smile curled in the corner of his mouth held just out of Harold’s reach.
“Kiss me,” Harold tells him, and John does.
When John idly wondered how Harold would kiss-when he couldn’t stop himself, when the thought would creep into his head just before he fell asleep-he imagined gently coaxing Harold to part his lips, leading him into something deeper. No one has ever accused John of being over-imaginative.
Harold pushes into him immediately, taking control the moment their lips touch; John opens for him and lets Harold’s tongue seek his out with a passion that turns almost sweetly tentative before Harold realizes John isn’t fighting him. No need; Harold is exactly where John wants him to be, here and protected and safe and warm, so warm.
“You taste like limes,” Harold mumbles against his mouth, not quite a complaint, more like he wants John to taste like something…else. Arousal hits John hard enough for him to huff a breath, baby powder dusting up and away from Harold’s face. He wants, god, he wants-and he can give this to Harold.
John drops to his knees.
Harold makes a loud, strangled noise and clutches John’s hair-not tight enough, still a gentleman even as his pants slip down his hips. John gladly helps them disappear along with Harold’s shirt, too eager to press his face against Harold where he can finally-finally!-smell Harold without anything else. He spits in his hand and scrubs at his face to try and rid it of the lime, fighting to ignore Harold’s sharp whine and stammered, “G-God, John, what are you-“
“You must have some idea,” John says, giving him a grin, but unable to tear his eyes away from where Harold is straining hard in his underwear-underwear which is clean, barely even a damp spot on the silky fabric. “Haven’t you come yet?” he asks with a concerned frown, dragging the back of his nails along the shape of Harold to watch him shiver. “When did your heat start?”
“Yes. Twice. This morning,” Harold gets out, already sounding a little more muddled. “I was-naked, I cleaned up with spare wipes from…threw them in the sealed diaper trashcan when I heard you coming, I-“
“Fastidious,” John comments, nuzzles Harold’s stomach and licks past the antiseptic alcohol taste to Harold’s skin until he’s sweating again. There it is, finally, and John breathes in deep, the scent he was trying to fight washing over him in a wave of need. His cock, hard for so long he’d all-but forgotten the ache of it, suddenly throbs, low and insistent; John is more captivated by the blurt of precome dampening the front of Harold’s boxers, probably worse further back where John can’t see.
“Do you like to stay clean?” John asks, looking up at Harold through his lashes.
“How,” Harold starts, incredulous, as if he means to ask how John is managing full sentences before he gives up on his own.
John doesn’t know how to tell him it’s a façade, that he’s barely holding on by his fingernails to the control he needs to make sure Harold is alright. To make sure he gives Harold what he needs. His hands are shaking even with their grip on Harold’s hips, and even if Harold can’t feel that he has to hear how fast John’s breath is coming, how ragged it’s turning with each new lungful of Harold’s scent.
“John…” Harold wets his mouth again, drags his nails through John’s hair down to his nape. “Please,” Harold whispers, and John’s control fractures. Harold should never have to beg him for anything.
His tongue hits the silky fabric first-not real silk, not anything as tacky as that, but it tastes expensive and like salt, like Harold-too impatient to yank them down until the front is soaked with his spit and Harold is near-keening. His cock springs free, blood-hot and red and impossibly hard, precome smeared over the head; John holds him still and licks him clean, presses his tongue to Harold’s slit to catch the fresh blurts, thumb dragging just under the head nearly dry skin on skin.
For a moment he thinks Harold’s bad leg has given out and John moves instantly to catch him; but Harold’s grip gets tighter in his hair and he takes another trembling step back, pulling John with him toward the bed. It’s on the small side, but sturdy, and the mattress is new-John has no idea who Harold got to move it in here for him but he doesn’t care, when Harold collapses on the edge John’s angle is infinitely better to suck him down to the root.
Harold cries out, something half curse and half John’s name. When John can make himself open his eyes past the haze of bliss at Harold’s weight on his tongue, Harold’s taste, Harold’s scent-when he looks up Harold looks wrecked, glasses askew and almost sliding off his nose, nipples peaked beneath his thin undershirt. John wants to strip it off him, but his hands are occupied, one lightly rolling Harold’s balls, the other slipping lower, gently coaxing open Harold’s slick thighs.
“Will you talk to me?” John doesn’t remember the thought process involved in pulling away, just that he needed to ask even more than he needed Harold in his mouth.
“I’m…f-finding words rather di…nngh…difficult. At the…” Harold strangles back another groan.
“That’s okay,” John murmurs, lips brushing the length of Harold’s cock to see if it makes him shudder; it does. “Just…let me know what you’re feeling as best you can. If you can. I like listening to you.” He nuzzles in close again, careful of the stubble he forgot to scrape away this morning. It’s almost too telling, how much he enjoys having Harold’s voice in his ear on a job, knowing that Harold is safe when John’s life is in danger.
Harold stares down at him now, and John can’t read his face beyond amazement, but Harold gives a jerky nod and John swallows him back down.
“I like this,” he says, almost surprised. “You’re, you’re very good,” Harold tries again, vowels stretched and sometimes half-forgotten as John rewards him with a rolling lave of his tongue. “I didn’t know you… It wasn’t…in your file.”
Some men might have sounded jealous-Harold sounds nothing more than thrilled to have discovered something new. John pulls off to work him with his fist, answer, “I haven’t done this in a while. Apologies if I’m a little rusty.”
“I never thought,” Harold says, press of his fingertips behind John’s ear an unconscious suggestion John put his mouth to better use. John smirks as he takes him in, lick-lick-licks just under the head. “Never dreamed you’d be on your knees for me, never thought anyone would, oh oh-“
John shoves a hand down to his own dick, presses hard at the base where his knot is threatening to swell-no one, no one has done this for Harold, jesus, how-and with his other hand slides back behind Harold’s balls, touches him where he’s slickest. His hole clenches and unfurls against the pad of John’s middle finger as he circles the rim in slow, clockwise circles, winding Harold up. Focusing on that so he doesn’t lose his mind.
Harold scrabbling at his hair seems distant, contradictory to the mission, which is to get Harold to come, spill in his mouth, and Harold wails when he does, hips shoving into John’s grip like he can’t help himself; John loves it, senses flooded with Harold’s spunk in his mouth, thick and almost bitter across his tongue, the taste nothing like the sour saltiness he remembers from furtive blowjobs in boot camp. It could be the pheromones talking; John feels like he’s high, like he’s falling, surrounding Harold and being engulfed by him all at once.
The splay of Harold’s legs shifts wider as he shudders through his orgasm, Harold’s panting breath reduced to, “John, John, John.” His flush arches down his chest, whole body writhing under the arm John gets across his hips just in time.
“That was.” Harold has to stop to breathe, dazed. His limp fingers pet at John’s face, the parts of him they can reach. “You are.”
He’s still hard in John’s mouth though his dick has stopped jerking with aftershocks; now does not seem like the time to let up. Harold hiccups a groan at John’s first purposeful suck, but he doesn’t say stop, and his hole clenches greedily around John’s finger as he starts to slide it in, watching Harold’s face for approval. He slides in so easy, so easy, slick and searing hot, and Harold doesn’t look anything other than hopelessly astounded, then sharply aroused.
“Oh,” he says, as if he’s just catching on, “Do you think…? Yes, I, oh.” He rocks his hips down into John’s fingers, back into his mouth; the movement is stiff, makes him wince, and John glares and pins him better, remembers Harold’s injury better than Harold at this moment, it seems. Harold makes a sound somewhere between disgruntled and yearning, but he does his best not to wriggle. John hums his approval.
“I could take more,” Harold says, shaky fingertips touching the crow’s feet at John’s eyes, his own eyes soft and gently pleading. “Will you-would you-“
He’s avoiding the word ‘please,’ and John doesn’t know how to feel knowing Harold’s picked up on that already, that he could use it as weapon and is refusing to use it at all. It’s a shocking flush down his chest, hundreds of pinprick sensations on his skin.
“John,” Harold says, hand shifting up to grip his hair just hard enough to shake him out of his own skull. “More.”
John gives him more.
Two fingers, then works him up to three-only once does Harold try thrashing again and John gently drags his teeth over Harold’s shaft in warning, bringing him back to a quivering standstill. Harold comes again on the stretch of the third knuckle; John swallows that too, load almost as big as the first, just as heady.
“Fuck, fuck,” Harold hisses. It’s beautiful; John would blow Harold every second of the day if it meant hearing him curse like this. “Up, fuck, up, I can’t-“
John pulls off but doesn’t go far, admiring his handiwork. He can still feel the aftershocks rolling through Harold’s body in the clench of him around his fingers.
“You look very smug,” Harold comments, wryly amused, once he has better control over his breathing. John twists his fingers just to watch Harold’s mouth drop open on a gasp. “Yes, alright, yes, with reason.”
He doesn’t know how to say that he isn’t pleased with himself-not entirely anyway; he’s pleased that Harold is pleased, and that he was able to give that to Harold. It was easier when he had an excuse not to talk.
Harold’s smile goes kind, watching him. He seems to be thinking a little clearer with two orgasms in quick succession under his belt; it probably won’t last long. He taps a finger under John’s chin. “You didn’t have to swallow. I couldn’t string the thought together, but I would have understood.”
“Less mess.” John’s voice sounds wrecked enough to make him blush right along with Harold, though John thinks it probably doesn’t look as endearing as it does on his dear friend.
“I really don’t mind a mess.” Harold bumps him with his knees, a clear enough message to move-but when John removes his fingers to Harold’s unhappy sigh and stands on creaky legs Harold fights dirty, grabs his shirtfront while he’s off-balance and yanks him down onto the bed. John barely manages to brace himself without crushing Harold, and then Harold’s mouth is on his and he almost forgets to brace himself at all.
He flinches at the first touch of Harold’s tongue, reminded what he must taste like, but Harold just kisses deeper, rolling John onto his back. He doesn’t clamber over John, try to pin him; he stays on his side, leans into John, tilts his head to get a better angle. John’s fingers are clumsy when he holds on.
When Harold pulls back, it’s just far enough to wonder, “How are you still clothed?”
He sounds so bewildered John would laugh if he could figure out how to make the sound come out right. He strips instead, out of his shirt, shoving his pants and underwear off in one go. “Better?”
“Infinitely.” Harold’s pupils are blown wide behind his glasses, which are starting to fog. He scrabbles one hand up, knocks them askew then knocks them off, frames clattering on the bedside table. It’s a shock to see his face unadorned, naked in a way he wasn’t before. He doesn’t squint to try to see John better, and John’s stomach swoops-but he might be far sighted, John might be close enough it doesn’t matter-and Harold kisses him again, knocking loose the tremors John’s been keeping at bay.
Harold’s hands chase the shivers down his spine to the small of his back. “How do you want me?” he asks, breathless again, eager to please, to play. “On my back? All fours? I could just turn over and-or I could try on top but I don’t know how long-”
What John wants is a minute-five minutes, ten-to relearn how to breathe. He tries to duck his head against Harold’s shoulder but Harold follows him down, presses kisses to his mouth before he can work up the coordination to respond, murmurs, “I want you to, I want you,” and doesn’t say anything about John’s knot.
It’s a nice change, John thinks, half-delirious-thoughtful, even-but even with everything pounding in his hindbrain to fuck in and damn the consequences he has to, he has to know. “Do you want my-do you want me to knot you?” he rasps out, near desperate. He can try to-he can make himself pull out if Harold doesn’t want it, doesn’t want all of him.
Harold’s grip on him goes white-knuckled. “I want you to let yourself fuck me.”
John has him on his stomach in the next blink, one hand pinning Harold down at the shoulder and unsure how he got here, when he moved. Harold moans and arches into him as best he can, rubbing his ass against-against-John grabs his hip on reflex, stops him, but Harold whines his name, pushes back, and John is lost.
He slides in too fast, but Harold opens for him, welcoming like an embrace, squeezing him tight. He’s so hot inside John can’t speak, sends a jagged shock through him hard enough to make his hips jerk against Harold until they’re as close as they can get.
Harold’s whimpers stay wrapped around a constant thread of, Yes, oh, there, yes, and Again, John, again, and John doesn’t know if he’s complying or obeying or if he doesn’t have a choice anymore, if he’s just lucky Harold is asking for what John can give him, fucking in without control. He feels like his skin is on fire, body throwing him mindlessly toward a lake to drown the flames. He’s holding on too tight to Harold, his life raft. John feels his knot start to swell, pushing at the rim of Harold’s hole, and there’s no metaphor that can save him from this, from the way Harold bows his back and drops his head and keens, bearing down as John paws uselessly at his hip, drags his teeth over the surgical scars at Harold’s nape.
He almost misses the signs of Harold’s third orgasm, snaps his eyes open and fumbles a hand down in time to catch the first spurt and work him through the ricocheting aftershocks of coming untouched. Harold clenches almost unbearably tight, then relaxes, and oh, John is, John is in.
“There,” Harold says on a ragged breath, tugging John’s hand away to press it to the mattress near his face, tangling their sticky fingers together. “Oh, there. There you are.”
John starts to come.
Time and sight falls away, it’s so intense; he can’t hear much beyond the roar of blood in his ears except Harold’s quiet murmurs of, “Good, good, John, you’re so good.”
He feels Harold shudder with the first few spurts, jerk of his hips aborted by John’s knot locking him in place. John feels stripped of everything beyond their bodies, the fractional slide of their skin and the way Harold turns his head and scatters slack-mouthed kisses over John’s fingers. John ducks his head to Harold’s nape and breathes him in, and in and in and in.
This is going to be a long one, John thinks when he can rub two brain cells together again; his knot is showing no signs of going down, and every minute or so he shudders out another spurt of come as deep in Harold as he can grind them together. Careful of Harold’s hip, they manage to maneuver onto their sides; John slips one arm under Harold’s head as a pillow and touches the tip of his nose to the fine hair at the back of his neck.
“So much for keeping you clean,” John says after a long moment, voice hoarse as he watches Harold idly playing with their entwined-increasingly sticky-fingers. The sheets are wrecked and clumped under them, and Harold has come drying on his stomach, some all the way up to his collarbone.
“I told you I don’t mind a mess,” Harold humphs, no heat to it; John thinks he can hear him smiling. “Especially not one we make together.”
It’s an oddly poignant thing to say, but Harold smiles and John thinks he understands-they smell like each other now, mutually claimed.
His hand slips low over the soft skin of Harold’s abdomen, pressing a little; he just means to check, maybe say Can you feel me inside you? But Harold makes a soft noise, says, “John, you should know I-I would, if, if I could-”
It takes too long to understand what Harold’s saying. A baby. Harold would make a baby with John.
John takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself and mostly breathing in the faint acrid scent of Harold’s building worry-then he nuzzles close under Harold’s ear up to the edge of his sideburn, wishing he’d picked a position that was better suited to seeing Harold’s face. “You don’t need to say that.”
“But-”
“I don’t need a nebulous third person who doesn’t and might never exist,” John says, stilling Harold’s attempt to speak with a thumb against his lips. “I want you. I just want you.”
Some small part of John is braced for the hurt of giving up the chance at a family, but there’s no hurt, nothing there to lose, and everything to gain with Harold in his arms. Another quiet noise pulls free of Harold’s throat, but it sounds sweeter, needy for something; he tries to twist his neck around-for a kiss, John realizes, and presses him forward instead, covering Harold as much as he can. Harold’s arm reaches up and back, hand fitting to John’s nape as John kisses his shoulder, shows him he’s loved.
~*~
“How are you feeling?” John asks some time later-after they’ve separated, after John wobbled down the hall on legs that would barely hold him up to retrieve their lukewarm pho and microwave it. They probably don’t have much time before the heat starts up again; John wants to make sure they’re properly fed and hydrated before that happens.
It’s a little hard to remember things like food when he comes back to Harold bent over the bed, tucking in the corners of the fitted sheet. The view is…pornographic. John almost spills the soup.
“Pleasantly sore,” Harold says as he straightens quickly, blush turning his cheeks ruddy; an unintentional show, then. “Is that for me?”
They sit on the bed with their backs against the headboard, elbows occasionally brushing, Harold with the sheets pulled up to his waist. John doesn’t see the point, but he likes the domesticity of it, likes stealing glances and finding them preemptively returned.
There’s obviously something on Harold’s mind, but he seems content to eat and mull it over, so John follows his lead. He takes inventory instead-of Harold’s ruffled hair, his well-kissed mouth, the faint red mark John left on his shoulder with his teeth. He’s put his glasses back on; John is less certain about their authenticity, far more sure of his own unfortunate tendency to find Harold’s mysteries charming. He smiles into his pho.
When he looks up, Harold is watching him. “I’m curious,” he starts to say, then stalls a bit, poking at the basil dregs in his soup.
“That makes two of us,” John prompts, offering a crooked smile.
Harold frowns, but it seems to be directed at himself. “It may be… too soon to broach this subject.”
John swallows, then leans in for a kiss. “Hey,” he says, and kisses Harold again because he enjoyed it so much the last time. And because it’s infinitely more difficult to break up with someone while being kissed, as long as they kiss well. Somewhat underhanded, but John is prepared to fight a little dirty to keep Harold now that he has him. “You can tell me.”
Harold breaks away to put their empty containers on the bedside table, and doesn’t shift back into John’s space all the way. “I want you to know,” he starts, not quite meeting John’s eyes, “that there is no right or wrong answer. I’m wondering about-someday.”
“Someday?” John repeats; the word tastes foreign.
“Yes,” Harold says, drawing out the word like he’s stalling for time. “I’m wondering if you would… If it might be something you’d entertain the possibility of-someday. If there was a child who needed a home. If, if raising that child would be something you’d be interested in doing. With me.”
“I’m not very good at picturing ‘somedays,’” John rasps, when he can gather the air to speak.
“You should work on that,” Harold says with such earnestness that John starts to laugh before he realizes it’s heartfelt, too; realizes that Harold has already given him so much, and now he wants to give him a future, something beyond the machine. John can barely fathom it.
“I’ll try,” he whispers, words soft against Harold’s fingertips, his knuckles, before Harold tilts his head up, and kisses him, wholly.
The End
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(seriously guys thank you for reading, i'm really surprised this fic fell out of me too)