Coffee, baby!

Theme: Giving
Characters: Finch/ Reese
Location: Reese's place
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 725
Summary: Giving, and the art of recieving

Note: third in a series of themed drabbles for seasons 1 and 2, this one is however more of a ficlet.

(  Take it back, Harold. Take 'me' back.  )

Theme: Tension
Characters: Finch/Reese
Location: Library
Rating: R for innuendo
Word count: 116

"You're very tense, Harold."

Harold sighed and leaned into the hand gently rubbing his neck. "Yes, I believe I am. Do you have any suggestions on how to remedy that?"

The chair creaked when Reese pulled it out and spun Harold around. Harold could never stop admiring Reese's gracefulness when he took to his knees. He wished for his bedroom where he could properly admire Reese, the way he crawled up the bed, agile and smooth. But this had to suffice for now.

Hands that could break bones gently stroked up Harold's thighs. Nimble fingers deftly unbuttoned his trousers and sneaked inside. Reese looked up, through half lidded eyes, " Yes, Harold, you know I do."

Title: The proper place
Author: Vesta
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Rating: R/NC-17
Category: PWP, First time (almost)
Warnings: None
Feedback: Yes please, if you would be so kind.
Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me,

Summary: He leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. Harold never did that, he always sat primly or hunched over, asleep on the keyboard. There was something definitely naughty about sitting with his feet on Harold's desk.

Author's note: This is the first fic I've posted in years. This makes me nervous. It's also my first PoI fic, which also makes me nervous.

( It was just a chair. A plain,ordinary desk chair. An empty chair... )

Note: Original short story. Mary Sue is named as such just because I think Mary Sue needs to get away from the raven-black, lavender-tipped hair, the red eyes, the corsets...
Not betad, written on a whim mainly because I'm forcing my pupils to write short stories now. I had to try out the concept myself.
Feel free to rip it apart.


Time's up, Mary Sue!

The question was; was it enough or should she add some more? Mary Sue looked thoughtfully at the simmering casserole, it smelled gorgeous and she was sure it would be absolutely delicious. Not that she was going to taste it, but Billy Joe deserved something tasty for his last meal. After all, he had been a decent husband for nearly 20 years.
( Continue under here. )

I wish I had never met you.

I wish I had never seen the laughter in your eyes. Never seen the twist of your mouth. Never seen the stains on your hands. Never seen the cold shimmer of your blade.

Twist and flick, you said. The droplets flew like birds, wings fluttering in the still air.

I wish you'd never taught me. Never made my senses tingle with lust. Never let me in.

I wish I had left before I knew how. I wish I'd never tried it. I wish I had never done it right on you.

I wish I find someone else, just like you.

The Devil is in the Details.I

If you play it right, he'll sing with the voice of an angel. I like Beethoven, he inspires me, I always try to create the same beautiful sounds he did. You have to be careful. Look where you cut.

I watch him, he's new to me. My Terra Incognita. My Tabula Rasa. There for me to create on. A canvas to be filled with the most astounding sounds and colours.

He will be so exquisite when I'm done. My fingers itch as I watch him. Perfectly sculpted already, just needing that last touch of the master's hand to become perfection.

I'm recycling. One of these are on here somewhere, but now I've made two more. One that fits before and one that fits after. I've been keeping my Psycho!Self strictly reined in for too long now. I had to let her out for a bit. That sounds reassuring, doesn't it?

Three drabbles, each 100 word sharp. Orignial texts. If I succeeded, you will find them creepy.

The theme is about planning and learning from your mistakes.


Keyword; practice. The one I picked was suitable; cocky, sure of himself. Not so sure anymore when he fell down the stairs, when his leg snapped.
He was awake though. I had to stuff a rag in his mouth to shut him up. Tape his hands together when he tried to swing at me. Stupid. He didn't understand. Not even when I cut his tongue out did he quiet. Kept yelling, blood dripping from his chin.
It was over too quickly. Could be the hammer I took to his head to finally shut him up. Lesson learned; don't get annoyed.

I waited, planned. I checked my list, it's important to be thorough, made sure I had everything. Until finally…Carpe Diem. I did. Unsuspecting bastard. He thought he was God, but he was wrong. I am. I rule over life and death. I made sure he noticed every little thing I did.
The one I practiced on didn't last this long. Sturdy bastard, this one. He called me names and tried to spit in my face. The last efforts of the mouse about to die. I just smiled at him. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. He is not screaming anymore.

Messy! Bone is harder than you would think. My handsaw got dull. He kept making noises when I began with his broken leg, I thought it would be easier. Wasn't. He kept writhing around. Do you know how hard it is to drive nails into concrete? I had to get the nail gun to be able to keep him still. His hands, arms, feet.
Note to self; tarp on the floor, makes clean up easier. Knock out before sawing. It's a pest to get the nails out off the floor. Sharper scalpels, it lasts longer when the cuts are neater.

The soft sounds of the pebble scraping against the wall echoes in the tunnel. I've figured out how to hold the pebble between my palms. I am writing my requiem. There are marks here already, I can feel them when I rub my face against the wall. I can't read them. But I try to remember them anyway. Someone has to remember them; the last screams, the last tears. Soon I'll be there too. A thin line in the stone, forgotten but ever present. Because what goes down, never leaves.

It's not so dark anymore. Not like it was when my lantern flickered and died. The darkness ate me up then, but I think it has spit me out again. I can almost make out the walls. Or perhaps that is just a memory of the last thing I saw before I was swallowed. I don't know, I don't know anything anymore. Only the cold and the dark, the silence. Even the faint sounds I heard before have stopped. I wonder if that is because I have gotten off track completely, got so lost in the maze that I am only a vague shape in the back of someone's mind, someone still up there. Or maybe I am truly alone now. I don't know. It doesn't matter.

I'll be here always. Even when my flesh has melted into the stone, I'll be here. A mark on the wall, a sigh in the unmoving air. I know this. I've heard the others still here, felt their marks. The feeble tries to leave at least a little left behind. If nothing more than a scratch and a pile of rotting cloth.

What would it be like to see the sun again? Feel it. My eyes wouldn't work properly if I got out. The sun would sure blind me, like it did with the ones that got out before. They screamed at the sun. Cried at the night. I wonder if they would have stayed down here, if they had known what it would be like. To be out again. I bet even the softest whisper of wind would hurt, the skin goes so brittle here in the cold. Breaks for nothing.

I wonder if the night ever ends, when you're out. If the darkness ever brightens. No. It doesn't. Ever. It's so quiet here, at the bottom. My breaths are rasping, I can almost hear my own heartbeats. Slow, so slow. Like a lizard. Slow and unmoving. Waiting for the sun to come up and make my blood flow again. I've made my mark. I am not to be anymore. Soon.

My last dawn. I remember the sun warming my back. The pink clouds over the mountain. The last time I was warm. Time runs cold down here in the dark. It never begins and it never ends. Spread on the tunnel floor there are little lumps, short moments in time, already gone, forgotten. I will have to remember for them, the ones that come after me. There will be more. One at the time, one day in between. Slowly. Blindly. Crawling along the walls, reading with bleeding hands. But I am here. I will tell them. I will remember. They will remember, know my name. I whisper it into the darkness, leaves it floating just above me, the air holding it in its clammy hands. It doesn't matter if I close my eyes or not. But now I can rest. I can wait. Here, where the night never ends. In the cold, in the dark.


And that's a wrap, people!

It’s cold. Colder than I thought. It’s been days, eons, since I last could move my fingers like I used to. They are numb, like the rest of me. There are marks on the walls down here, I try desperately to trace them but my fingers are too cold. Maybe it’s because I’ve scraped them bloody already, that I can’t feel much.

I hear noises from time to time. Low wails, rustling of I don’t know what. I can’t see. My lantern died some time ago. Not that is was of much use anyway, it wasn’t brighter than a firefly. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t run in the same way as up above. There are no days, only dark. Only endless tunnels, with no light at the end.

Sometimes I think I’ve taken the wrong path, it’s hard to say. The marks on the walls stopped making sense when I lost the fingers on my right hand. My reading hand. I run my left over the walls, trying to find my way, trying to see what they say. I might have lost fingers there too. I don’t know. I can’t feel. Anything. I felt it when my hands began to bleed, the blood trickling down my wrists the only source of heat I had felt for days, eons. It didn’t last. I might not even be bleeding anymore, the cold makes sure of that. Stops it from flowing. Such a shame.

I don’t know when I ate the last time. The hunger has long since passed from being painful to a normal state. The food rations I was allowed to bring lasted me a week and a half. I had counted the bites, the portions. To make it last, to keep track of time. Now even that is gone. I stumble on soft matter sometimes. I touched it once and it made a noise. They said I would find ‘things’ down here, and I have. That I wouldn’t need to be hungry. They said that everything was alright, would be fine. They were lying.

Time runs cold down here in the dark. Cold and slow. Never ending. Never beginning. I take the next turn, what’s left of my hand trailing the marks, trying to see. My foot connects with something, a low thud. A low moan. The map I memorized is useless. Space doesn’t work the same way down here. Walls move, floors shift.

I don’t think I’ll make it out. I’m not even sure I want to anymore. I don’t know if I want to be like them that succeeded, half blind and crazy. Crippled. Maimed. Crying at the darkness. Crying over what they did to get out.

I can cry here. In the cold. In the dark.