Kelly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gonerunningaway) wrote2013-10-05 03:28 pm
gonerunningaway) wrote2013-10-05 03:28 pm
Mnemosyne, Chapter Three: Thalia
Title: Mnemosyne, Chapter Three: Thalia
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 622
Polyhymnia
John lay stretched along the length of the bed, gripping the wooden slats of the headboard in this particular safehouse. He still had his pants on but no shirt, and he’d taken off his shoes and socks. He wanted desperately to get out of his pants and to let his cock have actual contact with something other than the cotton of his boxer briefs.
But Harold seemed perfectly content with things as they were. He was bent over John, one forearm supporting him and the other hand running up and down John’s chest, scratching gently, occasionally stopping to pinch one of John’s nipples lightly. But that wasn’t the main event of the moment. No, that was the way Harold bit his shoulder, then sucked hard enough to leave a dark hickey. He kept switching sides, moving slowly toward his neck, and this next one would be—
On his chest, apparently. John bit back a frustrated curse.
Apparently not well enough, since Harold stopped and looked at him. “Something wrong, Mr. Reese?”
And that, the way Harold called him that while he had John stretched out on a bed and bound without anything tying him, made John’s cock twitch. As much as it could when confined by boxer briefs, anyway. “Harold,” John gritted out, “more?”
“Not just yet, I don’t think.” Even so, he moved back up to John’s neck, settling on the right side slightly behind his pulse point. The collar of his shirt might hide it, but it probably wouldn’t. The thought made John smile even as he shuddered under Harold’s mouth.
The next day, John was busy trying to hunt down one Elijah Hunter before he got himself killed. Shaw was after the potential killer, an associate of Elijah’s bartender, of all people. It had something to do with unpaid gambling debts mixed with an unpaid tab and a mention in Elijah’s will. John had known people to kill for less.
Unfortunately, John and Shaw wound up on the same street corner, heading into the same law firm.
“I don’t think he’ll kill Elijah here,” John said.
“I think he will just so he has a lawyer before the cops get here,” Shaw said. “Which floor was Hunter going to?”
“Eighth.”
It looked like only one elevator was working, and there was a crowd in front of it. They exchanged a look and headed for the stairs.
“Beat you there,” Shaw said, “and then you can buy me a sandwich.” She slipped past him and pounded up the stairs.
John stayed hot on her heels. He could afford the sandwich, but feeding her was getting a little old.
She did make it to the eighth floor first, mostly because she stayed in the center of the stairs all the way up. He walked through the door beside her, and she glanced up. “Hot pastrami on rye,” she said, “everything on—what is that mark on your neck.”
John grinned at her. He hadn’t had anyone ask all day. “Harold likes to leave marks.”
“Enough said, stop now.”
The two of them strode down the center row of cubicles, which had low enough walls that they could both see over them. “Last night he spent a long time leaving them. My shirt covers most of them, but—”
“I will stab you.”
“—he likes leaving the ones other people can see more than the rest.”
“Got it, he’s practically putting tags on you, shut up now.” Shaw peeled away to stride toward the offices along one wall.
John shrugged and went the other way. The idea of some sort of tags appealed to him. Maybe he’d see if he could get Harold to give him something a little more permanent.
Calliope
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 622
Polyhymnia
John lay stretched along the length of the bed, gripping the wooden slats of the headboard in this particular safehouse. He still had his pants on but no shirt, and he’d taken off his shoes and socks. He wanted desperately to get out of his pants and to let his cock have actual contact with something other than the cotton of his boxer briefs.
But Harold seemed perfectly content with things as they were. He was bent over John, one forearm supporting him and the other hand running up and down John’s chest, scratching gently, occasionally stopping to pinch one of John’s nipples lightly. But that wasn’t the main event of the moment. No, that was the way Harold bit his shoulder, then sucked hard enough to leave a dark hickey. He kept switching sides, moving slowly toward his neck, and this next one would be—
On his chest, apparently. John bit back a frustrated curse.
Apparently not well enough, since Harold stopped and looked at him. “Something wrong, Mr. Reese?”
And that, the way Harold called him that while he had John stretched out on a bed and bound without anything tying him, made John’s cock twitch. As much as it could when confined by boxer briefs, anyway. “Harold,” John gritted out, “more?”
“Not just yet, I don’t think.” Even so, he moved back up to John’s neck, settling on the right side slightly behind his pulse point. The collar of his shirt might hide it, but it probably wouldn’t. The thought made John smile even as he shuddered under Harold’s mouth.
The next day, John was busy trying to hunt down one Elijah Hunter before he got himself killed. Shaw was after the potential killer, an associate of Elijah’s bartender, of all people. It had something to do with unpaid gambling debts mixed with an unpaid tab and a mention in Elijah’s will. John had known people to kill for less.
Unfortunately, John and Shaw wound up on the same street corner, heading into the same law firm.
“I don’t think he’ll kill Elijah here,” John said.
“I think he will just so he has a lawyer before the cops get here,” Shaw said. “Which floor was Hunter going to?”
“Eighth.”
It looked like only one elevator was working, and there was a crowd in front of it. They exchanged a look and headed for the stairs.
“Beat you there,” Shaw said, “and then you can buy me a sandwich.” She slipped past him and pounded up the stairs.
John stayed hot on her heels. He could afford the sandwich, but feeding her was getting a little old.
She did make it to the eighth floor first, mostly because she stayed in the center of the stairs all the way up. He walked through the door beside her, and she glanced up. “Hot pastrami on rye,” she said, “everything on—what is that mark on your neck.”
John grinned at her. He hadn’t had anyone ask all day. “Harold likes to leave marks.”
“Enough said, stop now.”
The two of them strode down the center row of cubicles, which had low enough walls that they could both see over them. “Last night he spent a long time leaving them. My shirt covers most of them, but—”
“I will stab you.”
“—he likes leaving the ones other people can see more than the rest.”
“Got it, he’s practically putting tags on you, shut up now.” Shaw peeled away to stride toward the offices along one wall.
John shrugged and went the other way. The idea of some sort of tags appealed to him. Maybe he’d see if he could get Harold to give him something a little more permanent.
Calliope