Lord Finch ~ Chapter 2

Lord Finch took his usual walk along the top of the inner wall after breakfast, glancing down now and then to see how the rose garden was doing, but his mind was on the fact that someone had actually tried to kill him – as well as on the man who had been sent to do the deed. He felt no animosity towards the assassin but he was certainly curious. What little he had heard of John Reese’s past evoked images of stealth, cunning, and violence; and while Lord Finch avoided the last item as much as possible, he had to admit that it was all very interesting, even exciting. He was not yet ready to admit that the rippling muscles and mischievously twinkling eyes of John Reese might have more to do with his interest in the man than his colorful life.

Sir Donnelley had recommended (after he had gotten over his disappointment about not feeding the prisoner to the dragon) that they pretend to have found the assassin dead in the trap, so that Count Snow would not know that they knew of his plot. Since Fusco needed to be fed, anyway, he ordered the guards to take half of a steer carcass and cut it up – just as they might have done to a thief’s body that had fallen on the Spikes of Death – and load it onto a wagon. From Lord Finch’s vantage point on the wall, he could see the wagon winding along the trail to the dragon’s lair, where twin wisps of smoke wafted out on the early morning breeze. Fusco, at least, would benefit from their ruse.

As he turned to go back into the castle, Lord Finch could hear the chambermaids chatting over the laundry. He was invisible to them where he was standing, up on the ramparts, but their voices echoed off of the stone walls and were quite clearly audible to him.

“…so he’s tall, dark, and handsome, but it won’t do anyone any good,” Zoe was saying in obvious disgust. “He’s one of those queers – I offered to show him a good time, but he just smiled and lay back down!”

“Maybe it’s because he’d just been whipped; maybe he was just too sore to go for a romp in the hay,” one of the other chambermaids suggested.

“Or maybe he just likes his women young,” said a very pert young girl. This remark was followed by such an outcry and commotion that Lord Finch peered over the edge of the ramparts (something he did not normally care to do, for he was not fond of heights) to see Zoe and the girl tussling on the ground, the laundry tubs overturned and the wet clothes being scattered everywhere. Several of the guards rushed over to break up the catfight, but not before the courtyard had been turned into a messy morass of mud, which was plastered liberally over both of the shrieking women.

“Very interesting…” Lord Finch murmured to himself as he scurried back inside the castle. He meant the fact that John Reese had turned down a “romp in the hay,” so to speak, with Zoe – who, while not a young woman anymore, was still quite attractive. “But just because he’s not interested in her doesn’t mean that he’s not interested in all women,” he reminded himself as he entered his dressing room. “And even if he were, that doesn’t mean that he’s… attracted to men.” With a mental shake, Lord Finch forced himself to look at his reflection in the large mirror. He saw a middle-aged man past the prime of life, coddled with too much good food and wine (as his slightly rotund waist indicated), with a shock of fine, wispy hair that was threatening to recede and then disappear altogether.

He also forced himself to recall the physique of the assassin: broad shoulders, long limbs, capable-looking hands, and deep-set eyes that still caught the light and twinkled with wit and intelligence. His chest had been lean and muscular, covered in smooth, tanned skin, and his back (under the bloody marks left by the whip) was shapely in a long, masculine V. Remembering how the man had smiled made Lord Finch shudder, but not with loathing.

“Such an attractive man must surely have his choice of women. Perhaps his tastes are too refined to sleep with just any old chambermaid. Or perhaps… he really is so sore from the whipping that he couldn’t entertain such a thought… I do hope she tended to his wounds properly… and remembered to give him a clean shirt… and some breakfast…”

Thinking of the clean shirt reminded Lord Finch that the man would be washed up and more presentable now, and (since Sir Donnelley was not around to dissuade him) he decided to go down and check on the prisoner once more – just to make sure that he was being treated agreeably, of course.

The two soldiers standing guard outside the cell door let him in without comment, and Lord Finch slipped in to find John Reese sleeping on the hard wooden slab along the wall. He was lying on his stomach (his back covered in bandages) with his head turned sideways on the clean tunic, which he had folded to serve as his pillow. For a long moment after the cell door had closed behind him, Lord Finch simply stared at the sleeping man’s face: observing the long, straight ridge of his nose; the dark, full lashes that lined his eyes; and the faint creases around his mouth, which would deepen whenever he smiled. He hadn’t been allowed to shave (no doubt Sir Donnelley had vetoed the idea of giving the assassin a razor) but the light stubble on his chin and cheeks only gave him a mildly roguish air. He looked so peaceful and innocent, in fact, that Lord Finch jumped in surprise when he spoke.

“Good day, my Lord. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Well… ah… I’m sorry to have awoken you,” he began, trying to calm his heart as it thudded in his throat. “I, uh… I was just checking to see… just to make sure, you know, that your wounds were properly tended to. I… I’m so sorry about that. I should have stopped them before they even started.”

John Reese slowly opened his eyes to regard the other man with a thoughtful expression.

“I would have preferred that, too. You might have guessed that I wouldn’t give up any information since I knew I would only be killed as soon as I did. Although I suppose if your soldiers had kept whipping me, there would have come a point when I would have preferred to die.”

There was no accusation in the man’s tone but Lord Finch felt as though his heart (which had only just settled back down where it belonged) had been skewered with a sword.

“Yes… I suppose you’re right. And I’m sincerely sorry to have put you through… so much pain.”

John Reese’s face curled into a wry smile.

“There’s no need to apologize, Lord Finch. After all, I was going to kill you. Although if I’d had my way, I would have used a poison to let you slip away – painlessly – in your sleep.”

“Oh,” Lord Finch responded, considering this. “That’s… That’s very… humane of you.”

“I do try,” John said, languidly moving up into a sitting position. “So many hired assassins enjoy their work too much, I think… They give the rest of us a bad name.”

“Ah… yes, I suppose so…” Lord Finch mumbled, his attention riveted on the other man’s chest, which – while crisscrossed with bandages – was nevertheless a thing of beauty.

“Did you come all the way down here to… check me out?” John asked with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching.

“I, uh… well, that, and ah… I wanted to let you know, we’re going about as though you’d been killed – by the trap, you know,” he replied, having some difficulty concentrating. “That way Count Snow won’t know that we know that he knows… that is, that he was trying to assassinate me. Or that he’s planning to start an uprising against the King.”

“Good plan. Then what?” John prodded, his unwavering gaze unnerving Lord Finch even more.

“Ah… well, I’m hopeful that my people will capture the woman assassin you described… and then… ah… well, um… I’m not sure…”

“If you’d like my opinion, you should hire an assassin to take out Snow,” John calmly stated. “Problem solved. As easy as that.”

“Oh… Oh, I see… and I suppose… you would be the perfect assassin to carry that out?” Lord Finch inquired, his brain finally kicking into gear.

The younger man nodded. “Or Cara, for that matter, if you can capture her alive. I could tell her things that would make her want to kill Snow even without payment. But then, I wouldn’t have a job…” He looked up at Lord Finch with his head cocked to one side. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about switching careers. I don’t suppose you have any job openings available here?”

“Well, ah… we have plenty of groomsmen… more than enough soldiers… enough scullery maids…” Lord Finch listed off, his brow furrowed in thought.

“I’m very good with my hands,” John offered, showing Lord Finch his open palms and long, slender fingers. “And if you’ll forgive me for being so forward, I’ve heard that you have some war wounds… Perhaps you could use a masseur?”

“A—A what?” Lord Finch stuttered.

“A massage therapist,” John explained, standing up slowly to keep from startling the other man (or perhaps because his back was still sore). “I could rub your shoulders – or anywhere else that hurts, for that matter – and make the pain… just… melt away…”

While he spoke, John had inched closer to Lord Finch, eyeing the older man’s injured hip with a significant look. Then he let his gaze travel gradually up Lord Finch’s body, lingering on his neck – which had also been injured in the wars – until it came to rest on Lord Finch’s somewhat frightened eyes. For, the moment that John had stood up, it became evident how tall he was, and it had also occurred to Lord Finch a split second later that he was alone in the cell with an assassin who – with or without his weapons – could probably kill him with ease. Instinctively the master of the castle started stepping backwards as his prisoner drew nearer.

“It’s all right – I won’t hurt you,” John soothed, his gentle voice almost hypnotic. “I just want to make you feel better… all better… all over… everywhere…”

With each word John advanced until Lord Finch’s back bumped against the wall. And still John came closer, his eyes holding Lord Finch’s captive, as in a trance, and with his last word he was close enough that his warm breath caressed Lord Finch’s face. It sent a shiver up and down Lord Finch’s spine, the tingling sensation going straight to his groin.

“Ah… um…” he murmured, not knowing what to say, but he didn’t have to worry about it for long – John prevented him from saying anything or crying out to the guards by placing his lips over Lord Finch’s. The older man’s hands had reflexively come up in a protective gesture, but John captured them with his own and settled them on his broad chest, then let his hands slide around Lord Finch’s waist to pull him close. As John carefully mouthed and nibbled on his lips, the master of the castle panted and gasped for air, his nervous mind coming to a complete standstill as his body yearned to succumb to the taller man’s advances. His arousal could no longer be hidden, even under the thick material of his tunic and his heavily brocaded vest.

“Your skin… so soft…” John whispered into his ear while his hands wandered all over his body. “I could simply… eat you up…” he breathed before planting kisses along the smaller man’s jaw and neck. Lord Finch grasped his shoulders, but not to push him off – he simply needed to hold on to something so that his weakened knees would not give out from under him.

“Oh… oh…” he moaned with every tantalizing touch of John’s tongue, lips, or hands. “Oh… John…”

He was more relieved than startled when one of John’s hands rubbed against the bulge in his silk leggings, snaking its way under the hem of his shirt to wrap his manhood in a firm yet considerate grip. Through the thin layer of cloth, John pulled up Lord Finch’s member into a more comfortable upright position, then stroked its underside with his palm. Despite its own heat, the warmth of John’s hand was a welcome presence; when the younger man finally pulled down the silk garment to touch his bare skin directly, Lord Finch groaned with pleasure.

“Is that good, my Lord?” John purred in his ear. “Am I making you feel… better?”

“Oh… yesss…” Lord Finch sighed, his body now sagging against the wall behind him. “So… goood…”

After a final kiss, John descended gracefully onto his knees, pulling aside Lord Finch’s upper garments to expose his engorged manhood. Lord Finch could barely see through his heavy eyelids and haze of need (and past his somewhat rounded belly) as John lovingly rubbed the weeping tip against his grizzled cheek, leaving a trail of dampness in its wake. The rough stubble served to scratch the most sensitive skin, but in a satisfying way – much like a good scratch on an itch just out of reach. Lord Finch trembled at the sensation, his now-empty hands scrabbling at the stone wall for purchase. Then his eyes rolled into the back of his head when John’s tongue licked along the slit.

“Ah! Ahhh… Ahn!” he gasped, reveling in the warmth and wetness of the strong muscle as it teased and prodded the tip of his organ. John’s fingers were busily occupied as well, gripping and stroking the shaft, kneading and rubbing the pendulous balls. When John took the entire head into his mouth and sucked, Lord Finch thought his very life might be drawn out by the force. “Ahhh!!!” he cried out.

Just then the cell door burst open and a very alarmed-looking Sir Donnelley rushed in with his sword drawn. He paused, however, at the unexpected tableau before him, trying to comprehend it with his benumbed brain. His eyes widened until they were bulging like a bullfrog’s as the meaning and ramifications of the scene sunk in.

“Wrong kind of sword for this situation,” John coolly chided, then resumed his ministrations on a panic-stricken Lord Finch, who – despite the sudden intrusion – was beyond the point of no return. John rapidly flicked the tip of his tongue on the underside of the bulbous tip of Lord Finch’s manhood, tickling and titillating it until it could take no more.

“Ah! Ahh!! AH!! AHH!! AHHHHH!!!!!” Lord Finch cried as he shot out his pent-up passion. His white, viscous seed struck John on his face, half of it going into his mouth, the other half splattering onto his stubbled cheek like so much clotted cream. As the very satisfied yet very embarrassed Lord Finch struggled to stay on his feet, John licked his organ clean for him and – after wiping the slime off of his face with the back of his hand – licked that clean, too.

Sir Donnelley gaped at them as though he could not tear his eyes away, although at the same time he looked horrified enough to claw his own eyeballs out if only that would make him unsee what had been seen. The tip of his sword (the metal weapon, of course) drooped to the floor as he wordlessly watched John tuck Lord Finch’s male member back into his silk garment and kiss it through the thin, smooth fabric.

“Now, my Lord, I trust you can see how earnestly I desire to serve you,” the former assassin said to Lord Finch (though for Sir Donnelley’s benefit as well). He was still on his knees in an attitude of supplication. “If only I had met a master like you before Count Snow, I would have never stooped to such a base profession as a murderer for hire! I merely desire an honest occupation, my Lord – enough employment to fill my belly with food – though if I could also have the honour of drinking… to your Lordship’s health,” he worded with a sly, significant glance at the hem of Lord Finch’s tunic, “I should count myself the most fortunate of men.”

“A—Ah… I see,” Lord Finch managed in response, his voice quivering and his face (indeed, his entire body) flushed with shame. “Well, ah… I suppose… I will consider your request for… employment.”

Finally catching his breath, Lord Finch half-ran, half-stumbled out of the cell and did not stop until he was in the quiet privacy of his own bedchambers.

Sir Donnelley could not utter a single word, though he did lift his sword menacingly at John.

“Hey, can you blame me for trying?” John said with aplomb, getting up from his knees and brushing the dirt off of his leggings. “I want to get out of here; I don’t really care to go back to Snow. And Lord Finch is… well… rather adorable, in his own way.”

Swallowing hard, Sir Donnelley gave a threatening shake of his sword in John’s direction before stomping out of the cell. With a sigh, John lay back down on his hard wooden bed, his own hard wood left untended. He was exhausted since he had not been able to sleep the night before – too exhausted, even, to bother with satisfying his own male needs. However, as he quickly sank into a deep sleep, a smile grew on his lips – the lips on which the taste of Lord Finch still lingered.


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12 Comments

  1. I went to FF.net first and literally LOL’d at the censored parts. Then I came right here to read the whole thing again. This story really is absolutely fun and so clever (and now sexy!) I loved the catfight between Zoe and the younger girl. (Would that be Theresa, by any chance?)

    And when Reese got up off the wooden bed and Finch realized he was trapped with a dangerous man…*fans self* I could read or write that sort of situation a thousand times and never get tired of it, and you delivered it so perfectly. Thank you. ^_^

    Reply
    • Thanks so much! I hadn’t thought of Theresa, but she sure would fit the bill, wouldn’t she? Give Zoe a run for her money! XD

      Heh-heh-heh… Finch is more querulous in this story, somewhat less capable than he is in the show, but I liked how the captor became the prisoner there. 😉 And if you are moved to write more situations like that, I will read them all!!

      Thanks again!! ^_^

      Reply
  2. Hehe, Reese refused a romp in the hay with Zoe. CK Aw, he would have let Finch die peacefully. That’s so sweet. ^.^ lols, I laughed so much when they were caught. XD Yes, he is “rather adorable”. ^.^

    Reply
    • Just like he didn’t have that drink with her (I believe). 😉
      Poor Donnelley… I imagine his face to have been like D8
      Before he tried to claw his eyeballs out, anyway! XD

      Reply
  3. Plink42

     /  2012/07/25

    I wasn’t expecting the smut so soon. It made me very happy. 🙂 Loved Donnelly walking in on them. Maybe he’s jealous?

    More please!

    Reply
  4. rainiejanie

     /  2012/07/25

    Boy that didn’t take long. I thought for sure when Donnelly burst in that John would show off his bamf-ness to Finch.

    Reply
  5. Mamahub

     /  2012/07/25

    Mmmmm! Yummmmy! 😉

    I think Harold might just have been persuaded to find a, “open position” and hire Reese to “fill it” for him. LOL!

    Also, great promo on FF!! Who can resist the siren lure of “censored smut”??!! ;O

    Reply
    • ROFL “open position”!!! XD Great minds think awry…

      I hadn’t considered it a siren call, but I suppose it *is* rather like the glorious whitewasher… 😉

      Reply
  6. kmmerc

     /  2012/07/27

    I wish I could afford to hire John!

    ‘though if I could also have the honour of drinking… to your Lordship’s health,” he worded with a sly, significant glance at the hem of Lord Finch’s tunic, “I should count myself the most fortunate of men.”

    So cheeky!

    Reply

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