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the_machine_mod ([personal profile] the_machine_mod) wrote in [community profile] meme_of_interest2013-03-28 06:03 pm

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astolat: lady of shalott weaving in black and white (Default)

One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

[personal profile] astolat 2013-04-11 06:17 pm (UTC)(link)

Elias was waiting for him in the small dark observation room, hands clasped behind his back. Harold was on the other side of the one way glass, sitting on the bare narrow bed inside the brightly lit cell. He was sitting straight, shoulders back, eyes on the door; his face was expressionless. He was still fully dressed, suit neat, tie snug.

John couldn't help the tightening of relief in his gut. Seeing Harold alive, unharmed, made him feel better. But that was stupid: Elias had four men in the room at this moment, all armed, all wary, and John had spotted another two in the hallway. The bindings on his arms were secure: good ropework, elbow to wrist, behind his back, and looser loops hobbling his ankles. He had no weapons, no opportunities. If Elias wanted to kill them —

"The thing is," Elias said, turning towards him, "I really don't want to kill you, John. You or Harold. The two of you do good work. Honorable work. You save innocents. You make this city a little bit brighter. A little bit kinder." He smiled Charlie Burton's warm smile. "Harold plays a mean game of chess."

John didn't answer him, didn't respond. Elias studied his face a moment more. "I'm even prepared to tolerate the occasional operating costs associated with your work. On occasion I've even been of direct help to you. Really, I think I've been more than reasonable, John. But this — this was gratuitous."

"You were running guns through the Seaport," John said. "And you were going to kill an innocent man for finding out."

"Now they'll be running through New Haven," Elias said. "And we gave Mr. Wasio every opportunity to cooperate. I hope you know that if you'd made him disappear, if you'd even contacted me, brokered some kind of arrangement, we wouldn't be here. Frankly, even if you'd just taken out the guns. But you couldn't leave it at that. Instead, you went for the kill. Half of my dockside operations, ruined."

"Sorry to hear that," John said. "I thought it was more like three-quarters."

Elias was shaking his head slow, a pendulum swinging. "I make this city cleaner too, John," he said. "I hoped that maybe we had gradually come to an understanding. That you'd developed a sense of proportion about crossing my path."

"No," John said, and left it at that.

Elias nodded. "Right. But like I said, I don't want to kill you or Harold. Killing you wouldn't even be an adequate punishment, really, because you're both completely prepared to die at any time — something, by the way, which I admire tremendously. But that means a threat to your lives has no force. So what I need you to understand, John, is that there are worse things I can do to you than kill you."

He turned to the small cell, to Harold sitting there quiet and compact under the glare of the hot lights, and John felt a slow terrible clenching in his gut.

"Here's what's going to happen, John," Elias said. "We're going to untie your arms and escort you inside that room." He indicated the cell through the glass with one finger. "And there, you are going to rape Harold."

John stared at him. Elias turned around. His face was still wearing a veneer of calm reason, untroubled. "You aren't going to say a word," Elias said. "You won't explain, you won't say anything. Or, alternatively," he added, gesturing to the chair standing in front of the glass, "you can have a seat here, and the two gentlemen you saw out there in the hallway will go in and do it instead, while you watch."

John didn't move, didn't breathe. The two men on either side of him were holding his upper arms, tight. He couldn't have made it to Elias — not even with teeth, he couldn't get the fifteen seconds it would take to lock his jaws, rip open the jugular.

"It's up to you, John," Elias said. "I should mention, however, that both of those gentlemen have friends who've gone to prison for several years as a result of your most recent work, and I wouldn't expect them to have much consideration for Harold's comfort."

John stared past him at Harold, small in the open space of the room, pale, his face showing nothing. Harold would flinch when he realized what they were going to do to him; he wouldn't be expecting it. But after that, he'd — he'd go stoic, his face rigid and blank, the way it got when he hurt himself working, one of the old injuries —

"Elias," John said, barely, "you really should kill me now."

"No, John," Elias said. "I won't kill you. You and Harold are going to walk out of here today. And you are both going to do so with the knowledge that I can imagine something you can't. That if you force me to do so, I can find something you can't endure. So that you keep that knowledge clearly in your minds, the next time you're faced with a similar situation."

John didn't move. He already knew what was going to happen. He could do this, for Harold. He was going to go in there, and he was going to carefully, gently, force Harold down onto the bed — Harold would struggle at first, bewildered, then horrified; John was already thinking how he'd immobilize him. He'd hold Harold face down, press him into the pillow until he was half-smothered, short on breath, the closest John could get to anaesthesia, and then he'd — do it, quickly.

And afterwards, once he'd gotten Harold safely back to the library, he was going to arm himself, go out and find Elias, and kill him. He'd be killed in the process, almost certainly, but that was acceptable. It was, actually, the only thing that would make this endurable.

"Have you decided?" Elias said.

"I need a condom," John said.

"In the nightstand by the bed," Elias said. He nodded to his men. John felt them start to work open the knots. "Just so there are no misunderstandings," Elias added, as they untied him, "if some mischance should occur right now and you should be killed before you get in there, those men will be going in your place after all."

John breathed deep. Feeling was prickling back into his fingers and arms as they unwound the cords. He looked through the glass at Harold, waiting, waiting, and he said, "Elias. You don't — you don't have to do this. The point is made. If you want an apology — "

"Sorry, John," Elias said. "It's too late for that. Okay," he said to the other men, and they turned him and took him out, into the hallway, past the two sullen, cold-faced men — big, heavily-built — and pushed him up to the door. There was a snub hard muzzle in the small of his back, and it might as well not have been there; the men were the gun, what they'd do to Harold. John shut his eyes and breathed deep. Harold would know the truth, before John died. It wouldn't make this any less a betrayal, any less horrible, but — he'd know.

He pushed open the door and went in. Harold's eyes widened, and he stood up, relief in his face like a blow; John flinched from it, nauseated. "John," Harold said, and then stopped, as if he'd already understood something was — wrong. John forced himself to move, not to think. He had to do this fast, or he wouldn't be able to do it at all.

He crossed to Harold and took him by the shoulders and moved him towards the bed. Harold stumbled a little, caught himself, and then moved with him, letting John push him down — trusting

John's hands were shaking. He kept his eyes fixed on Harold's chest. He gripped the bottom of Harold's shirt, jerked it up, out of his pants. He had to — he had to unbutton Harold's pants, then he could push Harold face-down, and — no. The first button. That was the mission objective. Nothing else; the first button. He made his hands move towards Harold's fly.

Harold went still. He was staring. John didn't look at his face. The button. His hands were shaking, and the buttons were snug, fuck Harold's bespoke suits, and this one was new, he'd only started wearing it a month ago, pleased when John had noticed, had said, "Nice, Finch, I like the purple stripe — " John was tasting salt, and he couldn't get the fucking button open

Harold's hands closed on his: lightly, not restraining. "Allow me," he said quietly.

John stopped. Harold unbuttoned his pants. He paused and then looked at John, searching, and then slowly, carefully, set his hands on John's waistband. John shut his eyes, shuddering with the mercy of it, while Harold unbuttoned him with steady hands.

Harold hesitated again, afterwards, but then he made what John mentally called his in for a penny face, a quirk of mouth and eyebrow, and started taking off his tie. John found he could breathe again; he reached up with shaking hands and unbuttoned his own shirt. He took it off and turned to the nightstand while Harold took off his vest and his shirt. There were condoms and lubricant in the drawer.

It was Harold who drew him down, in the end. They lay face to face, pressed close on the narrow slab of the bed, and Harold kissed him first; Harold held John's head in his hands, with tenderness, and kissed him again and again. Harold stroked exploring fingers across his chest, thumbed a nipple, bumped fingers over his ribs, until John was breathless and hungry and shaking. And then Harold — and then Harold — slid the condom on, rolling it carefully down, and kissed John once more, before he turned onto his face.

John badly wanted to speak; he wanted to say Harold's name, wanted to say thank you, over and over and over. He pressed kisses to Harold's marred neck instead, down the length of his spine; then he pressed two slick fingers to Harold's hole.

"Oh," Harold said after a little while, sounding vaguely surprised. "Oh. What a strange sensation." After a moment he said, "A little to the left, please."

John tried a little to the left, and then Harold wanted them deeper, and wanted him to — to thrust, Harold making low, breathy gasps. "Your hand," Harold said, panting, " — no, your other hand," and gripped him by the wrist, demanding, and John wrapped his hand around Harold's cock and stroked him. He was sweating, the too-bright lights glaring against his back, the thick cheap cotton mat of the bed scratchy and hot.

Harold said, "All right, that's enough, I think; now, please," and John lined himself up with shaking hands and pushed in, a little, and then Harold said abruptly, "Do you know, I think I'd prefer without the condom, if you don't — "

John heard himself make a noise, wordless, helpless; he jerked out and pulled off the condom and shoved back in, the sweet hot slide of skin on skin, Harold making a low satisfied groan of approval, and John buried his face in the back of Harold's neck and fucked him, desperately, madly; Harold's hand was clenched painfully on his thigh, urging him on, his gasps beautiful, low.

Afterwards, John slid out and pressed his forehead between Harold's sweat-sticky shoulder blades and breathed in the smell of him. Harold was lying with his head braced against his folded arms, catching his breath in steady deep pulls. Finally he shifted his weight, and John sat up so he could turn over. Harold drew him down a second time, into his arms; Harold stroked his head gently, over and over, while John shivered with gratitude, and then Harold said, "The door is open."

John jerked up and looked: the door was standing wide open, no sign of anyone on the other side. He stood up and jerked his pants back on, shoved his feet into his shoes and tied the laces in a fast knot. He still didn't risk speaking; he waved Harold to stay in the room and stepped out. But the hallway was empty.

The observation room was empty, too. There was only a single video camera, aimed into the cell, small, the recording light still on. There was a post-it note tacked on: Remember: a sense of proportion.

He took the camera back with him. Harold was already fully dressed again, tucking his rolled-up tie into a pocket. He'd laid out John's suit jacket and shirt on the foot of the bed. He looked up as John came back into the room.

"They're gone," John said. His own voice sounded strange to him, like he hadn't used it in years, not just for half an hour. "There's no one here."


Back at the library, Harold hooked the camera to a standalone laptop. In the video, the door to the cell cracked open about two minutes after John had gone into the room. It happened before they'd even taken their shirts off. Elias bent over and peered into the camera and said, "Looks like you two have got the idea, so we'll let you have your privacy. Keep our conversation in mind, John." He straightened up; he and his men walked out, shadows moving past the scene in the cell.

On the screen, the two of them were undressing, lovers getting ready to go to bed together.

I can imagine something you can't, Elias had said. I can find something you can't endure.

Harold watched the video unblinkingly, leaning back in his chair, hands on the armrests. John stood behind him, hand on the back of his chair, while the universe of things he couldn't endure went on expanding like a blast cloud.

Harold reached forward to turn the video off as they lay down together. He sat back. His gaze was aimed somewhere at the keyboard, fingers of one hand playing a slow drum-roll against the arm of his chair.

"Now what?" John said, low.

Harold looked up at him, an ordinary look that went on too long: eyes soft, lingering; terrible warmth curled in John's stomach. He bent down and kissed Harold, again and then again. Happiness sank into him like claws, and he slid to his knees and rested his head into Harold's palms, held up to cradle him, cool against his skin.

John saw only one option, one ending: the heat-death of the universe in another small dark room, Elias equably and relentlessly shredding Harold in front of him before letting him go to the mercy of a final gunshot, one he'd have to fire himself. He didn't know how to go another way, but he didn't know how to travel that road, either, his terror exactly what Elias had wanted.

Harold's thumbs stroked over his temples. "There's nothing to be done," he said. "It's too late, I'm afraid; Elias has made his intentions clear." He sighed. "I suppose he could run," he added, "but we'd have to explain why, and I won't do that."

John raised his head, stared at him. Harold's face was drawn, but unafraid; he wasn't — "Harold," he said. "What are you talking about? What's going to happen to Elias?"

"Oh, any number of things might happen. A traffic light changing too soon as he's crossing the street. The wrong drug dosage dispensed at a pharmacy. A piece of construction equipment at a work site malfunctioning. An extreme power surge in electrical lines while he's walking over a metal grate. Or, for that matter, his number being given to — certain other people."

"The Machine," John said. "You think the Machine — "

"Will intervene? Oh, yes," Harold said. "The Machine has always taken a dim view of threats to the system, and this is certainly an extreme one. Elias isn't simply threatening to kill us," he added. "He's actively sought leverage to control us with. And someone who can control me — " Harold stopped, shrugged with his eyebrows and his mouth. "I'm — quite sure that the Machine will act."

He looked tired, his shoulders bent, unhappy. John closed his eyes and buried his face in Harold's lap. He wasn't sorry at all.

# End

Edited 2013-04-11 18:17 (UTC)
ladyvyola: Mr. Finch at a computer, Mr. Reese standing beside him (secret masters of the universe)

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

[personal profile] ladyvyola 2013-04-11 06:31 pm (UTC)(link)
It's not like Harold hasn't seen this sort of... contingency, shall we say? coming ever since he tried to explain to the Machine that it was supposed to protect everyone, not just him.

Children can be just as ruthless as parents.

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 06:39 pm (UTC)(link)

I'd never have expected to say this about this trope but I really liked the tenderness of it.

And that ending? That ending is just great.
giandujakiss: (Default)

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

[personal profile] giandujakiss 2013-04-11 06:54 pm (UTC)(link)
I love the characterizations in this beyond reason.
sarcasticsra: A picture of a rat snuggling a teeny teddy bear. (Default)

Re: Finch/Reese, kidfic, being overprotective parents

[personal profile] sarcasticsra 2013-04-11 07:03 pm (UTC)(link)
Hahahaha, right? Oh god, it'd be amazing.

Jesus, the two of them as parents, my brain cannot let this image go. If it is Leila...most spoiled kid ever. Who also knows the first five hundred digits of pi and how to fire a 45. "Daaaaaddy, I wanna go play!" / "Have you finished reassambling your semi-automatic pistol?" / "Mr. Reese! We agreed no weapons until she turned thirteen!" / *giggles* "Daddy's in trouuuuble."

Knowing exactly how to play them: "No, no, Daddy looks scary, but he's the one to ask, he always gives in! When Papa says no, he means it." Because John would be the world's biggest pushover dad, omg. Every last shred of military and CIA training all completely useless in the face of a tiny little girl with wide brown eyes going, "Please, Daddy?"

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 07:15 pm (UTC)(link)
fucking amazing x


(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 07:17 pm (UTC)(link)
(He knows what will happen. He knows John will not refuse him anything. He does not understand it.)

John turns his head into Harold's hand, rests against his cupped palm. And he looks at Harold very steadily; his face is open. He exposes himself, deliberately, fearlessly.

Harold stares back; he freezes. Harold has never given all of himself to another person. There is nobody alive who has even his whole name. He takes away his hand, quickly, snatches it, and walks around the couch to sit down. He takes off his jacket and folds it neatly over an armchair. It's Mr Finch's habit.

"When I met you," he says. "I had quite given up hope."

He turns his head and John, with a shuttered awful look now, follows him. John moves silently, a shadow, and when he drops into the cushions Harold is faintly surprised to feel the movement.

They sit side by side, facing out, as they do on their bench out by the 59th Street bridge.

John says quietly, "You gave me hope."

But Harold can't have that from him. He won't accept that. It's quite quite wrong. John is a candle. It's so essential to his nature Harold is shocked that he doesn't seem to know. Even on the street John had built a kind of home, found some kind of family. John loves and hopes endlessly.

He shakes his head. He says, "The trembling hand."

John looks at him mutely. His eyes are shining. Harold can tell though he fixes his gaze straight ahead. John is a blur at the edge of his vision.

"I didn't intend to play this strategy," he explains. And then he realizes that is no explanation at all and he drops his head into his hands and groans.

John says, "You know what would happen. Are you afraid? I'm not."

John is endlessly brave. Harold is filled with admiration. He can imagine the look on John's face: the unshed tears, the clenched jaw, the flutter in his throat. He had long had the habit of averting his eyes from displays of emotion, but with John, secretly, he looked. He had done it as a kindness, he had thought; to spare John from the disgrace of it, but now he thinks in a hot rush that this was a wicked lie. The worst kind of lie: a lie to the self.

"But either way, this is it for me." John says. "You're stuck with me, Finch."

He says it like a burden but Harold hears it like a gift.
He reaches out again, and this time he is braver. He pulls John towards him; he holds his gaze. John's breath is coming in little hitching gasps and Harold leans in and kisses him, slow and deep.

John's mouth is hot, mobile; John kisses like he does everything: with total commitment. Harold rakes his fingers through John's hair and John presses him backwards into the sofa with a soft thunk. John sits back on his heels and drags, featherlight, his thumb over Harold's bottom lip. The delicate rasp of the whorled pad of his thumb rakes up a shiver that runs straight to Harold's groin.

He catches John's hand in his own and John stills, waiting; he has a kind of alert peacefulness about him that is hard to–and then Harold sees it: he is leashed. Harold is lying on the couch, his head against the arm and John is kneeling above him, his strong legs caging Harold's hips. He is suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of the power of John's body, of the solid packed muscle and the speed with which he could move. All this, Harold thinks, and you yield to me.

He drags John to him and kisses him hungrily. He feels drunk with it. He says recklessly against John's mouth, "You are mine. Do not doubt it." And it should be cheesy; should be the worst kind of cliche but John lets out a kind of half sob and nods his head and Harold feels a glorious soaring inside him: a bright light, a ringing bell.

John is kissing him, pressing hundreds of kisses to his mouth, his jaw, pressing his face into Harold's neck. And now Harold is at sea. He is lost, unmoored, drowning in sensation. John is above him and around him, kissing him and running his hands up and down his body like he, Harold, was something wonderful, someone to be desired.

He groans. He's half hard. He jerks his hips and John grins wickedly and grinds down against him in a slow, deliberate circle. Harold's breath hitches. He looks at John and nods. John's grin broadens. John says in his deep, husky voice, "Tell me what you want. I'll do what you want."

Harold swallows. He says, "Skin. I want your skin against mine." He tugs John's shirt out of his pants as John's clever fingers unbutton his own. John tosses both their shirts over the back of the couch and he shucks his pants with one hand. John reaches for Harold's button but he shakes his head and says with sudden inspiration, "No. Leave mine on."

John is utterly, thrillingly turned on by this idea and it shows as he sits back down over Harold. He's naked; he's totally naked: his glorious body is totally available, laid out on a plate. His beautiful cock is hard and he rubs it against Harold's pants and Harold feels the heat of him through wool, feels the roll of John's balls, feels John's ass grinding against cloth and he gets achingly hard himself. His cock strains and throbs against his fly.

He's breathing faster; John is too. They look at each other and John's face is a shout of joy. John is rolling his hips and Harold grinds into the motion; the slide and grind of their cocks sensitized further by the rasp of wool and silk between them. He's close; he's almost there and he wants– Harold says urgently, "Now, John. Come now." And John thrusts his wonderful body, all the beautiful planes of his chest down onto Harold, crushes the breath out of him. Harold can feel John everywhere: the sear of skin against skin, the slide of sensation that awakens every nerve to pure pleasure, pure heat, and as he presses his mouth to John's, John comes with a choked, "Oh God."

There's come, John's come, on his pants, soaking onto his cock as it smears over John's belly, and for some reason that makes him wild, takes him higher. He is riding a wave of euphoria, revelling in these new discoveries. John is so eloquent with his body. He is elegant as an algorithm. Harold had never grasped, had never imagined the depth and subtlety of this expression. John face is turned into Harold's neck and Harold whispers to him, "Take me out. Just take out my cock and put it in your mouth."

John's eyes go glassy. He nods quickly, eagerly. He scoots down the couch and noses at Harold's crotch. He undoes the fly and Harold's cock jerks, his balls tighten, as John's firm hand grips around the base, as John's mouth, his brilliant talented mouth, closes around it. Harold stretches his hand down and hooks his fingers into John's hair. John's mouth is all hot, wet pressure; suction. John flutters his tongue and swallows Harold deeper, deeper. He makes a muffled begging sound and then Harold is fucking John's mouth desperately, almost heedlessly, and John just takes him, takes him. John is–the only word is hungry; he takes Harold's cock deep into his mouth and then he moans, a long satisfied moan as Harold thrusts upwards, his hips jerking crazily, stuttering, as Harold comes in a blinding flash that crashes his brain, that dumbfounds him.

He clasps John to him, gasping, laughing. He feels brilliant; he feels exceptional. They are exceptional together and this was so far beyond, outside of, his predictions he thinks he was a fool, a craven idiot, to have denied them both this until now.


Later, much later, John will slip out of their bed and Harold will watch him lacing his shoes. He will sit forward and press one hand to John's broad back. John will pause and tip his head to look back at Harold. "Is it wrong," John will say, "to be so glad?"

Re: Finch/Reese, kidfic, being overprotective parents

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 07:18 pm (UTC)(link)

I read this description and thought you might enjoy Della19's In Another Life if you haven't read it yet.

It's an AU of Finch, Reese and their family which has some of the notes you're looking for.


(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 07:18 pm (UTC)(link)
this posted in full here:
sarcasticsra: A picture of a rat snuggling a teeny teddy bear. (Default)

Re: Finch/Reese, kidfic, being overprotective parents

[personal profile] sarcasticsra 2013-04-11 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)
Oooh, thanks! Will check it out!
managerie: (squishy)

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

[personal profile] managerie 2013-04-11 07:49 pm (UTC)(link)

Reese/any: Alcohol

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Some days Reese still drinks too much when he's off the clock (for reasons of your own choice). But the machine waits for no man and a number comes in after a few drinks too many.

Reese/Finch Finch has amnesia

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 08:25 pm (UTC)(link)

One of my favourite tropes.

Finch wanders off from the hospital with amnesia and Reese is freaking out looking for him.

Bonus points if Finch turns up at Reese's apartment "remembering" that they're happily married. Cue angst as Reese gets everything he wants dangled in his face but can't take it.

Re: Reese/Finch Finch has amnesia

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 08:29 pm (UTC)(link)
/me bonds with you instantly

MASSIVE love for this prompt

Re: Reese/Finch Finch has amnesia

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 08:35 pm (UTC)(link)

Perhaps one (both?) of us have amnesia and we've already bonded.

Cue spooky music
annchi: Elizabeth Shaw (Default)

Re: Aurora/Decima - Unexpected truce with unintended consequences

[personal profile] annchi 2013-04-11 08:48 pm (UTC)(link)
No no, sibling-love sounds perfect, I can't wait to read it!
annchi: Elizabeth Shaw (Default)

Re: Aurora/Decima - Unexpected truce with unintended consequences

[personal profile] annchi 2013-04-11 08:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Eeek, very exciting! Can't wait to read this when I get home!
killalla: (Default)

Re: Reese/Finch Finch has amnesia

[personal profile] killalla 2013-04-11 09:01 pm (UTC)(link)
You could mix this one with "married cover identities, then it suddenly gets real" for maximum mileage on the angst! 'Cause, you know, they have to keep up the cover for the good of the case, only Finch has now forgotten it's a cover...

Re: Reese/Finch, non-sexual D/s slowly turns sexual

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 09:08 pm (UTC)(link)
UNF +1
neery: Image of Saturn and a sun, words "Touching the stars" (Default)

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

[personal profile] neery 2013-04-11 09:11 pm (UTC)(link)
Holy shit, yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. That EXACTLY the thing I wanted when I posted this prompt. Thank you so much!

Re: Reese/Finch Finch has amnesia

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 09:17 pm (UTC)(link)

Definitely a scenario that could work but I'd hate to co-opt someone else's prompt.

Re: Reese/Finch Finch has amnesia

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 09:47 pm (UTC)(link)

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

[personal profile] eris 2013-04-11 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)
this is normally a trope I can't handle but oh my god, you really turned that around. John's little breakdown at the buttons and then the hot desperation and the dark edge of John's happiness, just. /flaily gestures

Re: Finch/Reese, coffee and/or book shop AU

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)
Every fandom needs a coffee shop AU~ it's only a matter of time it'd be prompted ;D

Re: Finch/Reese, coffee and/or book shop AU

(Anonymous) 2013-04-11 11:04 pm (UTC)(link)
but of course it's their "after High School AU job.