Mardi Gras
Title: Mardi Gras
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,600
John shows Harold how to celebrate Mardi Gras!
Finch hurried to John’s apartment - there had been no number that day and John and Bear hadn’t come in. Finch had imagined he might relish such a day - free from interruptions from both man and dog, but after an hour or so of silence he’d had a revelation. He missed Bear’s constant warm presence, always so attentive and soothing and, surprisingly - he missed John’s flirty banter, his probing questions and even the sight of him cleaning his weapons, John’s long nimble fingers lovingly manipulating the complex weapons. No, he thought, next time he’d insist that John come in, if only for his own convenience and comfort.
The door was unlocked and Bear ‘whuffed’ at him, politely not jumping up against the fragile man, content with licking Finch’s fingers. Finch was amused to see that the large brown dog was wearing a red t-shirt. “Sit,” Finch commanded, and when Bear sat down, Finch could see the shirt was embellished with the name “Pooh”. He bent slightly to caress his dog’s ears. “What has he done to you,” he asked with a chuckle.
“That you, Harold?”
Now Finch really laughed - if it had been a stranger, there would have been nothing more than a pile of bloody scraps next to the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Reese.” Now Finch stopped short for a second time in five minutes: John looked, well…delicious. Barefooted, his long legs were encased by a well-worn pair of button-fly Levis, fuzzy, threadbare holes, large and small, placed deliberately in spots that left Finch certain that his partner wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Gulping, Finch suddenly felt dizzy - a rush of blood exiting his brain and entering another organ, altogether. He made his way to the soft, comfortable couch, falling heavily onto the cushions. Bear trotted back to him, depositing a slobber-covered pair of light brown cloth ears onto his father’s lap, barking triumphantly.
Finch sat, trying to puzzle this strange scene when something cool touched his shoulder.
“Beer?” asked John, grinning. Finch took the bottle of Abita Amber from John and took a grateful gulp.
He glanced at John, now seeing that he was wearing a vintage New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival t-shirt.
With a delicate moue, Finch tossed John the sodden ears.
John sighed. “I’d hoped he’d still be wearing them when you came,” he said, examining the chewed up fabric.
“But John, why was Bear wearing them in the first place? It isn’t Halloween.”
“But it IS Mardi Gras,” John replied, stretching his legs to fish through the tight front pockets of his jeans, causing a minor panic in both of Harold’s brains. “At least one of us should be in costume and this year, I elected Bear - though I think you would look pretty cute in those ears, at least before the spit,” John winked. “Here, I saved these for you to put on him.” John handed Finch several long strands of purple, gold and green plastic beads.
Relaxing, Finch carefully draped the beads over Bear’s neck and supposed that the handsome dog seemed actually pleased with his new accessories.
“So, there’s no emergency?” asked Finch, taking another sip of his beer?
“Not unless you call celebrating Mardi Gras with me and eating some of my kick-ass gumbo an emergency,” laughed John. “Come on Finch - live a little. That’s what Mardi Gras is for! Here,” said
John, handing Finch a folded pair of jeans and a t-shirt, “Your costume.”
Not one to take no for an answer, John tugged Finch towards the bathroom. “You can’t celebrate carnival in a three piece suit, plus pocket square,” he insisted.
The jeans were well-laundered and soft to the touch - Finch hadn’t worn anything like them in, well, years. He held the t-shirt up and laughed. There was a colorful picture of a crawfish and the legend “Pinch dat Tail, Suck dat Head’ across the front. He carefully folded his bespoke shirt and slipped on the shirt from John.
He was gratified when he saw the look on John’s face - he broke into that glowing grin that had been so rare of late.
“Oh, Harold,” John sighed. “Magnifique!”
Finch followed John back into the kitchen and watched his partner scoop rice into two bowls, ladling a thick seafood gumbo into each.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Finch.
“Just grab the bottle of file and the Tabasco,” asked John, placing the hot bowls on the table. “I’ll grab the french bread out of the oven.”
The gumbo was delicious, full of andouille sausage, shrimp, crab claws.
“I learned from my Maman, my grandmother,” explained John. “I may have grown up in Washington State but my mother’s folks were New Orleans French Creoles, he explained. “The only hard part, really, is getting the roux just the right color.” He showed Finch the tiny old blotches on his left wrist - ancient burns from the boiling hot mixture of oil and flour used to thicken the soup.
“I might have made etoufee but I couldn’t get any live Louisiana crawfish. I’d love to take you to New Orleans sometime, Harold,” John confessed, pressing his hand on top of Finch’s holding it for just a moment before removing it, shyly.
“I…I think I’d like that, John,” replied Finch, equally bashfully.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Finch returned to the couch, turning on the tv to find a live- feed from the French Quarter while John puttered in the kitchen, making them each a demitasse of coffee and chicory and a small, oval cake, decorated in green, gold and purple.
“Have you ever had King Cake, Harold? I think you’ll like it - it’s sort of like a sweet roll. The colors represent gold, frankincense and myrrh. And be careful when you bite - there’s a tiny plastic doll baked inside, representing the baby Jesus. I don’t want you to choke or break a tooth.”
He carefully sliced the cake, giving Finch a purple piece - his favorite color.
“Mardi Gras is special, Harold. It’s a day for getting things out of your system - things you give up for forty days of Lent. It’s a day when, well, anything can happen.”
The cake was rich and buttery, laced with cinnamon and drizzled with white frosting and the bands of colored sugar. Finch nibbled on it carefully - sure enough, he found a pink plastic baby, about the size of the first joint of his thumb.
“I found it!” he squeaked, cleaning off the baked on bits of cake with his tongue. “Do I win anything?”
“Well, it does make you the King, and I suppose I have something I can give you,” replied John, carefully brushing his lips against Finch’s.
After a shocked hesitation, Finch opened his mouth for John’s tongue, groaning as he tasted the bitter coffee and sweet sugar crumbs. His hands somehow found their way under John’s shirt, sliding up the front and claiming the hardening buds he unerringly found there.
John came up for air first, wiggling as Finch’s hands teased him to further stiffness. “Harold - I’ve wanted you for so long,” he groaned.
They moved slowly to the large, beautiful bed, stripping as they went along . After a bit of discussion (and kissing), they lay down on their sides, several pillows supporting Harold’s neck and back, languidly sucking and working each other’s cocks. There was no hurry - each was content to finally taste the other, finding those magical spots that elicited groans and thrusts until both had their fill.
Their act of love complete, John turned around to face Finch.
“What now?” asked Finch, gently trying to straighten the damp cowlick pasted against John’s forehead.
John glanced at his bedside clock. “It’s ten - we have two hours before Mardi Gras ends - enough time to go another round, I think. You know. I was hoping to finally have something to give up for Lent.”
Finch’s jaw dropped. “Is…is that why you did this? So you’d have something to give up for Lent?”
John smiled. “Harold - I am such a reformed character - I don’t abuse alcohol anymore, I barely eat anything, normally. I suppose I could stop eating donuts and drink green tea instead of coffee, but that isn't much of a sacrifice - not like abstaining from you.”
“I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered,” snorted Finch. “I think I’ll be both.”
“It’s only meaningful if I give up something important to me. Like you, Harold - you’re my everything. I love you,” John whispered. “And besides, there’s always Sundays - you don’t need to abstain on Sundays.”
“Sundays, huh?” asked Finch. “Well, anything for the improvement of your soul,” he said with a resigned tone, all the while gliding his talented fingers along the inside of John’s thigh, scratching along the crease to the top of John’s pubic line.
“Your soul, too, Harold,” assured John until he was quite unable to speak.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They woke up early and Finch returned to his house with Bear. He showered and changed before returning to the library. John was there, a smudged ashen cross on his forehead. “Early Mass,” he explained, “The policeman and fireman’s special - the priests are quick so everyone can arrive for duty on time,” explained John, as Finch traced the symbol with his fingertip. John bent down, kissing Finch firmly.
“I…I thought you couldn’t do that?” gasped Finch.
“I’m giving up sex, not kissing,” smirked John, giving Finch an extra squeeze.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” groaned Finch. “But nothing worthwhile ever is,” he said, checking off the first of forty days on his desk calendar, using a large, red X.
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,600
John shows Harold how to celebrate Mardi Gras!
Finch hurried to John’s apartment - there had been no number that day and John and Bear hadn’t come in. Finch had imagined he might relish such a day - free from interruptions from both man and dog, but after an hour or so of silence he’d had a revelation. He missed Bear’s constant warm presence, always so attentive and soothing and, surprisingly - he missed John’s flirty banter, his probing questions and even the sight of him cleaning his weapons, John’s long nimble fingers lovingly manipulating the complex weapons. No, he thought, next time he’d insist that John come in, if only for his own convenience and comfort.
The door was unlocked and Bear ‘whuffed’ at him, politely not jumping up against the fragile man, content with licking Finch’s fingers. Finch was amused to see that the large brown dog was wearing a red t-shirt. “Sit,” Finch commanded, and when Bear sat down, Finch could see the shirt was embellished with the name “Pooh”. He bent slightly to caress his dog’s ears. “What has he done to you,” he asked with a chuckle.
“That you, Harold?”
Now Finch really laughed - if it had been a stranger, there would have been nothing more than a pile of bloody scraps next to the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Reese.” Now Finch stopped short for a second time in five minutes: John looked, well…delicious. Barefooted, his long legs were encased by a well-worn pair of button-fly Levis, fuzzy, threadbare holes, large and small, placed deliberately in spots that left Finch certain that his partner wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Gulping, Finch suddenly felt dizzy - a rush of blood exiting his brain and entering another organ, altogether. He made his way to the soft, comfortable couch, falling heavily onto the cushions. Bear trotted back to him, depositing a slobber-covered pair of light brown cloth ears onto his father’s lap, barking triumphantly.
Finch sat, trying to puzzle this strange scene when something cool touched his shoulder.
“Beer?” asked John, grinning. Finch took the bottle of Abita Amber from John and took a grateful gulp.
He glanced at John, now seeing that he was wearing a vintage New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival t-shirt.
With a delicate moue, Finch tossed John the sodden ears.
John sighed. “I’d hoped he’d still be wearing them when you came,” he said, examining the chewed up fabric.
“But John, why was Bear wearing them in the first place? It isn’t Halloween.”
“But it IS Mardi Gras,” John replied, stretching his legs to fish through the tight front pockets of his jeans, causing a minor panic in both of Harold’s brains. “At least one of us should be in costume and this year, I elected Bear - though I think you would look pretty cute in those ears, at least before the spit,” John winked. “Here, I saved these for you to put on him.” John handed Finch several long strands of purple, gold and green plastic beads.
Relaxing, Finch carefully draped the beads over Bear’s neck and supposed that the handsome dog seemed actually pleased with his new accessories.
“So, there’s no emergency?” asked Finch, taking another sip of his beer?
“Not unless you call celebrating Mardi Gras with me and eating some of my kick-ass gumbo an emergency,” laughed John. “Come on Finch - live a little. That’s what Mardi Gras is for! Here,” said
John, handing Finch a folded pair of jeans and a t-shirt, “Your costume.”
Not one to take no for an answer, John tugged Finch towards the bathroom. “You can’t celebrate carnival in a three piece suit, plus pocket square,” he insisted.
The jeans were well-laundered and soft to the touch - Finch hadn’t worn anything like them in, well, years. He held the t-shirt up and laughed. There was a colorful picture of a crawfish and the legend “Pinch dat Tail, Suck dat Head’ across the front. He carefully folded his bespoke shirt and slipped on the shirt from John.
He was gratified when he saw the look on John’s face - he broke into that glowing grin that had been so rare of late.
“Oh, Harold,” John sighed. “Magnifique!”
Finch followed John back into the kitchen and watched his partner scoop rice into two bowls, ladling a thick seafood gumbo into each.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Finch.
“Just grab the bottle of file and the Tabasco,” asked John, placing the hot bowls on the table. “I’ll grab the french bread out of the oven.”
The gumbo was delicious, full of andouille sausage, shrimp, crab claws.
“I learned from my Maman, my grandmother,” explained John. “I may have grown up in Washington State but my mother’s folks were New Orleans French Creoles, he explained. “The only hard part, really, is getting the roux just the right color.” He showed Finch the tiny old blotches on his left wrist - ancient burns from the boiling hot mixture of oil and flour used to thicken the soup.
“I might have made etoufee but I couldn’t get any live Louisiana crawfish. I’d love to take you to New Orleans sometime, Harold,” John confessed, pressing his hand on top of Finch’s holding it for just a moment before removing it, shyly.
“I…I think I’d like that, John,” replied Finch, equally bashfully.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Finch returned to the couch, turning on the tv to find a live- feed from the French Quarter while John puttered in the kitchen, making them each a demitasse of coffee and chicory and a small, oval cake, decorated in green, gold and purple.
“Have you ever had King Cake, Harold? I think you’ll like it - it’s sort of like a sweet roll. The colors represent gold, frankincense and myrrh. And be careful when you bite - there’s a tiny plastic doll baked inside, representing the baby Jesus. I don’t want you to choke or break a tooth.”
He carefully sliced the cake, giving Finch a purple piece - his favorite color.
“Mardi Gras is special, Harold. It’s a day for getting things out of your system - things you give up for forty days of Lent. It’s a day when, well, anything can happen.”
The cake was rich and buttery, laced with cinnamon and drizzled with white frosting and the bands of colored sugar. Finch nibbled on it carefully - sure enough, he found a pink plastic baby, about the size of the first joint of his thumb.
“I found it!” he squeaked, cleaning off the baked on bits of cake with his tongue. “Do I win anything?”
“Well, it does make you the King, and I suppose I have something I can give you,” replied John, carefully brushing his lips against Finch’s.
After a shocked hesitation, Finch opened his mouth for John’s tongue, groaning as he tasted the bitter coffee and sweet sugar crumbs. His hands somehow found their way under John’s shirt, sliding up the front and claiming the hardening buds he unerringly found there.
John came up for air first, wiggling as Finch’s hands teased him to further stiffness. “Harold - I’ve wanted you for so long,” he groaned.
They moved slowly to the large, beautiful bed, stripping as they went along . After a bit of discussion (and kissing), they lay down on their sides, several pillows supporting Harold’s neck and back, languidly sucking and working each other’s cocks. There was no hurry - each was content to finally taste the other, finding those magical spots that elicited groans and thrusts until both had their fill.
Their act of love complete, John turned around to face Finch.
“What now?” asked Finch, gently trying to straighten the damp cowlick pasted against John’s forehead.
John glanced at his bedside clock. “It’s ten - we have two hours before Mardi Gras ends - enough time to go another round, I think. You know. I was hoping to finally have something to give up for Lent.”
Finch’s jaw dropped. “Is…is that why you did this? So you’d have something to give up for Lent?”
John smiled. “Harold - I am such a reformed character - I don’t abuse alcohol anymore, I barely eat anything, normally. I suppose I could stop eating donuts and drink green tea instead of coffee, but that isn't much of a sacrifice - not like abstaining from you.”
“I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered,” snorted Finch. “I think I’ll be both.”
“It’s only meaningful if I give up something important to me. Like you, Harold - you’re my everything. I love you,” John whispered. “And besides, there’s always Sundays - you don’t need to abstain on Sundays.”
“Sundays, huh?” asked Finch. “Well, anything for the improvement of your soul,” he said with a resigned tone, all the while gliding his talented fingers along the inside of John’s thigh, scratching along the crease to the top of John’s pubic line.
“Your soul, too, Harold,” assured John until he was quite unable to speak.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They woke up early and Finch returned to his house with Bear. He showered and changed before returning to the library. John was there, a smudged ashen cross on his forehead. “Early Mass,” he explained, “The policeman and fireman’s special - the priests are quick so everyone can arrive for duty on time,” explained John, as Finch traced the symbol with his fingertip. John bent down, kissing Finch firmly.
“I…I thought you couldn’t do that?” gasped Finch.
“I’m giving up sex, not kissing,” smirked John, giving Finch an extra squeeze.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” groaned Finch. “But nothing worthwhile ever is,” he said, checking off the first of forty days on his desk calendar, using a large, red X.