Chapter Text
It’s an accident.
He doesn’t mean to.
He doesn’t even do this that much, anymore.
But as Harold gets back to his apartment and eventually into bed, he’s so wide awake he almost feels restless. He tries to just will himself to sleep, to no avail. He checks the time on his phone and calculates how much sleep he’ll get if he falls asleep this second. The answer is not enough, and the fact is that he’s still not tired.
With an almost resigned sigh, he shuts his eyes again and slips a hand into his boxers.
This is a purely logistical tug, so there’s no need for grandeur. Harold curls his hand around his dick and starts to stroke himself with a tried and tested pace. He’s ready for the old standard, ready to close his eyes and rifle through his memories of hookups and exes. His thoughts wash over the memories smoothly. Nothing takes hold until a vision hits him like a bolt from the blue.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Blue eyes. Poised at a board littered with calculations.
Harold’s eyes shoot open, and he stills his hand as he stares up at the ceiling. Much like he tried to will himself to sleep, he tries to will his thoughts back to familiar territory. Surely there’s someone in his sexual history who made enough of a mark to stop the astrophysicist from intruding back into his fantasies.
Apparently not, he realises, as he closes his eyes and is immediately met by visions of Siebren with that fucking marker in his mouth.
Harold opens his eyes again, and his stomach flips just a little. He’s not in the habit of jacking off over coworkers, even when he thinks there’s a distinct possibility they might have a thing for him. But his hand is on his dick, and even though his thoughts have been fleeting and broken up by brief moral quandaries, he’s already half hard.
He really needs to sleep. To sleep, he really needs to get off.
Harold’s hand shifts again, loose and languid, as if he’s prepared for this line of fantasy not to work, as if he’ll bail if it doesn’t get him going. He already knows he’s lying to himself, but it gives him a sense of plausible deniability.
Siebren’s clothes are all tailored enough that undressing him in his mind and filling in the blanks is easy, too easy. Harold’s almost shocked at how many little details his brain effortlessly projects.
The Siebren he pictures is muscular, which is not much of a leap. Harold has looked at his neck and forearms enough to know that much. This Siebren is not especially hirsute, but he does possess a trimmed trail of hair which extends below his belly button.
Harold imagines dragging his tongue through the thatch and beyond. His cock gets a little heavier in his hand.
Harold’s imagination quickly becomes disjointed and horribly primitive. His thoughts only devolve from there, and they devolve along the path of least resistance. That path leads southward.
Siebren is a very tall man. He has very large hands. It’s all his brain needs to know to picture an impressive cock that’s long and uncut, hanging heavy in front of a manicured groin. Between the anatomy and the grooming choices, it’s almost embarrassing how quickly Harold can conjure specificities. Right now, though, he has his erection in hand and a naked Siebren in his mind. Embarrassment can wait for thirty seconds or so.
Harold swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, his mouth remaining open and panting in its wake as he picks up the pace of his hand. He’s close, and he just needs a sliver more to get him there. Harold’s brain rattles off possibility after possibility, but one image forces its way to the forefront.
Everything that had been on Harold’s desk is strewn on the floor. The only thing still atop it is Siebren’s torso, pressed desperately against the desktop, long fingers scrabbling for purchase. Harold’s imagining that he’s bent Siebren over that desk. He’s imagining absolutely laying into him.
The fantasy gets him close so fast. The visions of them having sex on the same desk they ate dinner at only a couple of hours ago are stimulating enough to get him most of the way there, but it’s the configuration that spikes the heat in his lower belly with a staggering intensity.
Harold’s versatile, and very comfortable with that fact. Generally, though, he tends to summon memories of himself bouncing in a lap or practically getting folded in half when he masturbates. The fact that his brain has immediately conjured the image of him fucking Siebren into a mess says something that he’s too preoccupied to parse right now.
Harold’s hand is moving so ceaselessly that he feels like his wrist is going to cramp. He feels a slick of precum beneath his fingers and a telling sensation in his gut and he can’t just stop. His teeth sink into his bottom lip with a muffled grunt, his back arching and his hips writhing against his bed.
It’s not even the visual that gets him, in the end. He gets back to thinking about Siebren cursing frustratedly under his breath in Dutch. The aural memory adapts and twines itself easily through Harold’s fantasy, the words leaving Siebren’s lips alongside heaving breaths, throaty moans and – the kicker that does it – Harold’s name.
Harold hisses out a long breath as he comes inside his boxers and over his hand. The orgasm is stronger than he expects it to be, and he squeezes his eyes shut so tight that he sees little flickering dots of static for a second. He can feel his pulse thumping in his temples.
His chest heaves as he stares at the ceiling, slowly catching his breath. He’s not quite sure how he feels. Guilty? Satisfied? Curious? Probably all three, to varying degrees. He is certain of one feeling, though. Fatigue seeps quickly through his body, and he has to force himself to get up there and then. He quickly cleans himself up and changes into new boxers before slipping back into the still-warm bed.
Harold has a brief thought about how he plans to look Siebren in the eye the next day. It goes unanswered as he succumbs almost immediately to rest.