Reese/Fusco, birthday - rainiejanie
WHO’S THE SLOWEST WRITER EVER? it is meeee. Happy extremely belated birthday. Here is a thing. A NSFW thing.
It’s something you stop thinking about once you hit all the right milestones. Once you’ve got a driver’s license and you’re legally an adult and you can buy your own booze, there’s not much else to look forward to, birthday-wise. You go out with friends if you’re single, you stick with your family if you aren’t. Fusco screwed up the family thing a long time ago and he doesn’t have friends anymore, not as such. They’re mostly dead or in prison, these days. So, what with one thing and another, he somehow doesn’t even realize what day it is until he comes home and hears Reese whistling that damn song.
As he hangs his jacket on the peg near the door, he calls out, “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
The whistling continues a few notes more to the sharp, high note on the first syllable of the third birthday and then stops abruptly. Fusco sighs, kicks off his wet shoes and goes to meet him.
Reese meets him instead. The guy snaps around the corner with the kind of suddenness that would have scared the hell out of Fusco back in the day. Now it’s business as usual. He lets himself go loose and boneless as Reese grabs his upper arms and spins him around, lets himself be shoved face-first against his own front door. “Still with this?” he groans.
"Still." Reese’s breath puffs hot against the back of his neck.
"You’re gonna get sick of it one day," Fusco predicts. He shifts his face against the cheap fake wood of the door so he’s a little more comfortable and he can move his jaw without too much trouble. Reese squeezes at his hips hard and Fusco pushes back just a little to let Reese get at his belt buckle. "There’s only so many ways you can sneak up on a guy and you’re already repeating yourself big time."
Reese yanks his pants and underwear down, letting the elastic snap against the back of Fusco’s knees, and shoves him forward again. “That’s a good point, Lionel,” he says. There’s the rough slide of his zipper, the rustle of clothes pulled just far enough out of place, the wet sound of Reese spitting into his palm. “But I wouldn’t want to disappoint you. Not on your birthday.”
"Sweet of you to remembrrngh," and then Reese’s fingers are in him, none too gentle but just about right. They push deep and pull apart and he snarls into the door, knocks his forehead.
"That’s better," Reese whispers in that way where you can hear his nasty smile. "Just keep quiet."
"You sure know how to make a guy feel appreciated," he mumbles.
"Quiet." His fingers bend and Fusco doesn’t go quiet, not exactly, but he stops talking, which he guesses was the goal there. They don’t talk again until later, when Reese gets done with prep (and he always takes forever on prep), pushes on in and picks up a pretty steady rhythm. They’re making the door rattle in its hinges every time they move and Fusco’s trying to keep his mouth shut in case somebody in the hall thinks he’s dying and kills the mood with an ambulance or the cops, when suddenly Reese is asking, “You okay today?”
He laughs for a second, sharp short bursts, but it kind of starts to turn into a moan at the end there, so he puts the kibosh on that. “Sure,” he hisses through his teeth once he’s got himself all pulled together. “Sure, I’m fine. How was your day, dear?”
Reese’s blunt, square fingernails dig hard into his upper thigh and he cringes. “I mean it,” Reese breathes in his ear. “Are you okay?”
The angle of his thrusts changes so Fusco has to wait a while before he can answer. “Yeah,” he says shakily. “‘M fine, I just oh god.” He lets his forehead brace against the wall. “Just HR. Tryin’ to shhhhh..,” and then he trails off in a whine as Reese’s hips snap hard against him. “…Shake me down,” he finishes weakly. “Same old. Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t stop.”
But Reese is stopping. Reese is pulling out of him and Fusco hears himself whimper, hears himself mumble, soft and miserable, “Aw, no.”
"On the floor," Reese says to him. "On your back. Now."
He can do that. Hell, that’s easy. His knees were just that close to giving out anyway. He lets himself drop to his knees on the carpet, turns himself around with his back to the door just in time for Reese to descend on him, to grab hard at Fusco’s hips and drag him down and close, so it’s just his head against the door and his neck bent. Reese’s hand moves to the back of Fusco’s knee and pushes forward, bends him in half.
"Why?" he gasps as Reese slides back into him again, real slow. "Why d’you…" he pauses, shivering as Reese gets situated, rolls his hips, adjusts the placement of Fusco’s legs. "…Ask?" he finishes.
"Don’t know." Reese leans over him, not making eye contact, not moving at all, just breathing hard. "Just something I’m trying out." His muscles begin to bunch and gather, like he’s tensing up before impact.
The first thrust almost hurts. That’s how hard it is, just a sudden, vicious jab at his prostate. “Ffffuck.” He feels his dick give a confused twitch, feels Reese’s hand, the one that’s not shoving Fusco’s knee into his collarbone, wrap secure around it. Reese’s touch isn’t rough; it’s just firm. Gentle, but in a way that really wants to make sure it’s felt. Just rubbing and stroking and soft, pulsing squeezes.
"C’mon," Reese mutters. He thrusts again, a little slower this time, but still right on target. "Come on, you." With a sigh, he lets himself drape over Fusco so the buttons on their shirts click together and Reese’s jacket covers them both. His hand is still moving between them, his thumb working its way up the underside of Fusco’s dick and Reese starts to move again. He gets into that place where movement is solid and definite and constant and each thrust makes Fusco yelp. Fusco flings one arm around Reese’s neck, lets the other hand grab playfully at Reese’s ass and he relaxes his legs and his hips as much as he can, anything to let Reese in deeper.
"It’s alright," Reese whispers over and over. His forehead keeps knocking against the front door just a little with every forward push and his words are hot breath on Fusco’s mouth. "You’re alright. You’re fine." His hand quickens on Fusco’s cock, bound and determined. "Everything’s going to be fine."
His lips crash into Fusco’s and muffle the groan as he comes, convulsing beneath Reese and around Reese and in Reese’s hand and wow, it just keeps going, he thinks as Reese keeps right on stroking him all through it, even as Reese’s sharp white teeth sink into Fusco’s lower lip and Reese slams his hips forward and Reese snarls in that way that means he’s finished too.
He can’t talk for a while after that. Reese’s teeth stay embedded in his lip and even when Reese finally tastes blood and lets go, he still insists on kissing and sucking at it by way of apology. Reese rises to his knees after a while, still with blood in the corner of his mouth, still smirking like he’s something special, still half-buried in Fusco.
"Are you okay?” Lionel asks.
Turns out there’s a grocery store cake on the kitchen counter, yellow sugar roses and “Sorry I Shot You” in cheery pink icing. “They thought I was joking,” Reese explains as Fusco unfolds the box. Fusco kicks his shin with a bare foot.
There are no candles in the apartment and they’re both kind of hungry, so Fusco cuts them each a slice and they enjoy their cake in that way they behave when one of them hangs around after sex. Seperate, but together.
Reese is fiddling with a thick, square object in his pocket. “Got you something,” he explains.
On automatic, Fusco says, “You didn’t have to.”
"I wanted to, Lionel." But he takes his time getting it out. He grips the squarish lump in his pocket for a while, tracing the outline and saying goodbye.
"Okay, then," Fusco says. "Let’s have it."
Reese sets it on the counter with a soft thunk. He withdraws his hand like whatever it is is scalding and goes right back at the cake.
Fusco picks the object up, turns it over, squints at it. He squints at Reese.
Reese only has eyes for that slice of cake.
"Is this soap?" Fusco asks.
Reese takes a very deliberate mouthful, savors soft, dryish cake and sickly sweet icing. “Yup,” he says finally.
"Subtle. You know, if you ever let me know when you were coming over, I’d clean up right before."
"Too subtle," Reese says.
Fusco takes another look. It’s not even fancy soap, the kind in dull colors with bits of plant in them like Finch might conceivably give to somebody he didn’t like the smell of. It’s just a lump of plain old ordinary Dial. Not even wrapped up. Fusco turns it over, and that’s when he sees the jagged indent.
Reese swallows. “Yup.”
"That’s a key. You made a little impression there."
Reese stays quiet.
"What’s the key to?"
Reese puts his plate in the sink. “You’ll have to figure that out yourself.”
"Not a car key," Fusco murmurs thoughtfully. "Maybe too big for a safety deposit box. What the hell does it open? And why the soap? We’re not in prison, asshole."
"Well, not today. Who knows about tomorrow?"
"Don’t even fucking joke about that," Fusco says firmly. He peers at the indent in the soap. "Gotta figure it out myself, huh?"
"That’s the game."
Fusco nods. “Okay. I can do that.”
"If you wanted a head start," Reese suggests with just a shade of eagerness, "you could start following me."
Fusco looks up at him. He blinks once.
"I don’t want to wait too long." Reese allows himself a shy grin. "So if you need a hint…"
"Keep your hints," Fusco says. "I’ll figure it out for myself."
He puts the soap away somewhere where it won’t get used and mentally calls up the number of a locksmith who owes him one. Reese spends the night trying to set his imagination going, keep him confused and desperate to know. Fusco plays along. Truth is, he already knows what the key is for. Not in exact terms, not the street or the house number or the exact placement of the apartment’s windows in the building’s edifice, but Fusco knows what the key opens up. He thinks about Reese holding onto him and Reese waiting for him to come home and Reese asking how his day was and the way Reese is looking at him now, possessive but foolishly fond, and he just knows.
Privately, he thinks, as birthday gifts go, it’s pretty fucking great.