WHITE COLLAR ANONYMOUS KINK MEME: ROUND 1
Remember the RULES.
* If you post a prompt, post a fill. It's only fair. Prompts can be responded to an infinite number of times.
* Post prompts / requests anonymously.
* If you like a fill, say so.
* No bashing. eta: no bashing means NO BASHING, folks. this means no judgmental comments, *hints* at judgmental comments, or snarking about someone else's ( Read more... )
* If you post a prompt, post a fill. It's only fair. Prompts can be responded to an infinite number of times.
* Post prompts / requests anonymously.
* If you like a fill, say so.
* No bashing. eta: no bashing means NO BASHING, folks. this means no judgmental comments, *hints* at judgmental comments, or snarking about someone else's ( Read more... )
Neal could believe it. Neal had a very vivid imagination, though. He'd known from the moment he'd sprinted past his two-mile radius, heard his monitor beep, and kept on going that this outcome was a possibility. "Get up, Peter. You're going to hurt your knees."
Peter stood and held the anklet awkwardly in front of him like it was a present. "I'll get you out," he promised, and Neal wished he could smile and say thank you, or I believe you, or Peter please don't leave me here, Peter, Peter, Peter.
Instead he just nodded at the guard and stayed absolutely still while Peter brought in for a tight hug that stole the air from his lungs and the resolve from his mind (Peter, Peter, please), and left.
Neal had a very vivid imagination, and he'd been in prison before - for four long, gray years - but when the first inmate sidled up behind him and whispered snitch into his ear, he realized it was going to be so much worse than he could have thought.
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He had to bribe the other inmates not to bruise him where it'd show. He didn't want the others - his friends, coworkers, family, Peter - to worry.
His first time around in prison they hadn't let him out in the yard. They'd limited his activity time, watched him like a hawk during work hours, brought him his meals so he wouldn't somehow escape from the mess. Apparently this time around they thought he'd been rehabilitated, declawed, no longer a threat. Not a flight risk. And he was left to fend for himself like everyone else (only not everyone else was a snitch, not everyone else was as pretty as him).
They got him outside. He'd been sticking to the perimeter of the fence hoping to avoid notice and they grabbed him when he was strolling past the bleachers. One of them kicked his legs out from under him, another knocked his head against a metal support - his vision blurred, he could feel blood trickling down through his hair, but at least the bruise would be hidden. They pressed his face into the ground and the smell of dirt and grass and cigarette butts overwhelmed him.
At least they were careful with the uniform (they'd had practice, he realized). They took turns with him. Mike had the biggest cock, so he had to go last. Nelson's was smallest. They laughed at him, teased him, it burned like acid when he spit on Neal's hole and shoved in. Damon was second. It was a smoother entry, the second time. Neal tried to catalog the facts and sensations, said to himself: this, I can bear. This, I can live with later. It is easier to push out than to tighten, easier breathe through your nose than your mouth so you smell earth instead of semen, easier to concentrate on the sensation than to listen to them talk.
"You like being used, boy? You like it when the FBI used you? I bet you did. I bet you're having second thoughts now, though!" They laughed again, they all laughed. "FBI's little bitch boy, right here on my cock. I feel honored."
At least they were quick about it. Maybe twenty minutes and he was left alone, half-naked under the sun and god and anyone else who glanced over. Twenty-two minutes and he finished jerking himself off because he had a prostate and they'd hit it, they'd rubbed his dick against the ground and he'd responded. He didn't have to convince himself he didn't want it, it wasn't his fault, he wasn't a whore. (Not that time.)
After his first gangbang he got better at staying under the guards' eyes. The gangs got better at distracting them. He was passed around like a party favor, a toy, a blow-up doll, a convenient set of holes. Fucked until he bled, passed out, came, believed what they were saying about him.
After the first year he realized Peter wasn't going to be able to save him, took everyone off his approved visitor list, and set about saving himself.
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"You stay with me, querido, I'll take care of you." Neal had stopped talking months earlier, so he just nodded and took the hand Hector was offering him. Hector pulled him up from the floor easily, like he weighed nothing - he was a big man, and Neal hadn't been eating well. Hector took him to the infirmary, waited patiently while the RN looked him over, and waited two weeks before he even touched him. It was the longest Neal had gone without contact for eleven months, and when Hector finally kissed him, caressed him, fucked him, Neal was grateful for it.
Life was - simpler, with Hector. He'd talk about his family (Neal was slowly learning Spanish), his business, what he was planning on doing after his release. "Pero, you're here forever, si?" Neal hmmd and leaned against him. "Poor little bird, pobrecita, trapped in her little cage."
They played endless games of blackjack. Hector had paid handsomely for the biggest double-cell on the block, and they'd drink crappy alcohol and Hector would laugh and try to figure out how Neal was cheating, laugh and call him by his wife's nicknames, laugh and never once try to get him to talk.
Hector didn't make love to him often - he wanted blowjobs most mornings and nights, but he only fucked him on visiting days. He did it missionary style, he'd call Neal Maria, kiss his neck, he'd be gentle. "Gonna get you pregnant again, mi amor, fill you up inside - unh - "
He didn't touch Neal's cock himself (it would have ruined the illusion) but he'd let him jerk off, let him come.
He overdosed in June, and Neal saw his family when they came in to claim the body. His daughters were beautiful. His wife looked nothing like Neal.
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Francois was tall and strong, with a laugh that made the other inmates groan, it bounced through the halls and into their cells (he'd laughed while Neal rode him, laughed and kissed him and ran his hands through Neal's hair which had grown so much longer). He wasn't French, didn't speak a word of it, but Neal could imagine them in France. Walking down the Champs, hand in hand, Francois with his tan and sun-bleached hair white teeth gleaming in one of his huge grins. Or in Provence, in one of the hostels he'd stayed in with Alex, living like poor art students and eating pastries in bed.
Francois didn't know who Neal was or why he was in prison, and he spent the time they weren't fucking making up elaborate back stories for him. "I think you murdered your whole family," he guessed the first night. "You've got a crazy clever look about you, Neal. I bet you did it real weird, too. With - with kitchen appliances. Because you were a chef. Were you a chef, sweetie?"
Neal shook his head but gave Francois a small grin, which made him laugh (it boomed, echoed, was too loud, surrounded him). "You're gorgeous when you smile, baby. You don't have to, or nothing," he said when it faded. "But it sure makes you look - real pretty, Neal. Real real pretty."
Francois was gay. He had a boyfriend on the outside, a string of other lovers behind him, and he knew how to make Neal come, moan, cry. The first time he'd rimmed him Neal had orgasmed before he even known what was happening. Francois didn't just touch him in the yard (didn't tell Neal to hold onto his belt loop or pocket) he just kept his arm wrapped around him at all times. Like they were dating, like they were partners, like he cared.
He was in jail for fraud. He'd robbed thousands of people of their life savings. Didn't have that much pull on the inside, but he was built like a beast, no one wanted to challenge him.
Most of the time Neal tried not to think about the bonds he'd forged. $500,000 dollars from a corporation worth billions, a few pieces of paper, and for that he was be spending the rest of his life behind bars. Peter's deal hadn't been worth it. He should have served the four years he'd forfeited for Kate, should have told Peter his deal wasn't good enough, shouldn't have chased the man he'd thought was their mark past his two-mile tether.
By the end of his third year, Francois' impossible stories filled his head. At first they were all about Neal's mysterious past - had be been a family-killing chef, or a trainer at sea world who'd violated the dolphins, maybe a schizophrenic tranny with a shoe fetish, a crazed stalker of Hall & Oates who'd taken his obsession one tragic step too far.
When he started telling stories about the future, Neal did his best to nod and smile. "We're going to be big stars on Broadway, Neal," and he smiled and pushed back harder, getting the final inch of Francois' cock at just the right angle. "Going to get a house - and an electric car - and you can cook, or paint, or sing - "
Neal thought about the Burke's house, about the dreams he and Moz and Kate had shared, tried to say I'm in here for good, I'm in here forever but somewhere along the line the silence had gone from a choice, a habit, a shield into something else. Somewhere along the line he'd lost his voice. He'd lost so many things he hadn't noticed it was gone until he tried to say I'm no good, I'm trapped, I'm a bird in a cage, querida, Francois, stop talking.
He had hickeys on his neck a well-fucked ache in his ass and an unbalanced feeling from Francois not being at his side when Peter Burke filed one final, successful appeal and got him out.
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If there was one thing that had remained constant through the eight years they'd known each other, it had been that Peter knew everything about Neal - Hell, he knew his shoe size (11) brand of toothpaste (apricot tartar control) what he liked (beautiful women, money, Kate, Peter), what he needed.
The Neal that the guards brought him after he showed them his paperwork? Wasn't seem like the same man. Sure, his hair was longer and he was thinner, he looked different, and Peter'd braced himself for that.
But the - the spark of Neal Caffrey, that had made him look as if he was always just a second away from either picking your pocket or kissing you, that let you know that either choice would be an adventure, simply wasn't there anymore. Maybe there's a mistake, he thought, even though he knew there hadn't been. This was Neal. This was Neal, now. They'd just have to - to start over. Neal flinched when he stepped closer so he stopped.
"I'm going to get you out of here," he said. Neal nodded like he'd - he'd expected it, like it wasn't a big deal, like he didn't care. "You just need to sign the forms, and you can go home."
He gave Neal the papers and a pen and Neal sat down at the table and started reading. Reading the fucking papers like there was a choice in the matter, like working with Peter might be worse than what he already had.
"It's a good deal," he tried to explain. "Just the three years you had left." Neal turned a page. "I know it's not perfect, but it's the best I could do." Another blank stare and page turn. Peter thought of the hours he'd put into getting the judge to release Neal, the hours and money and energy, the worry and he wanted to - to shake Neal, shake him and hug him and take him home and feed him. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
"He don't talk," the guard behind him said.
"What do you mean, he doesn't talk? Of course he talks! I've heard him talk! Did something happen to him?" He turned to Neal. "Are you sick? Was your throat damaged somehow?" He did his best not to think of how hollow Neal's voice had sounded three years ago (how much could happen in three years) of all the ways damage could be inflicted on the delicate lining of a throat.
"Nah. He just don't talk." Peter's stare of incredulity was interrupted by the scratch of a pen across paper. Neal was signing it, he realized, and took a moment for the relief to wash over him. "Let's get you out of here."
He waited outside while Neal went through processing. He'd forgotten Neal had gone back in during the summer - he was shivering in his white t-shirt when he walked out into the snow. Peter quickly took his coat off and draped it around Neal's thin shoulders. He was careful not to touch him, thinking about boundaries and flashbacks and all of the reports that had crossed his desk. The photos he'd seen of Neal.
He opened the car door for him and Neal didn't say thank you, or smile at him or mock him. Just slid in and stared out the window, like he had nothing better to do.
"June's willing to take you back," he said as he navigated through traffic, trying to see if he could make out the bulge of the anklet through Neal's thin slacks. Just making sure. "But she took in boarders after you left - she's got to let the current guy finish out the month. But she'll do it for $700 again, like last time."
He switched on the turn signal and they sat at a red light. "You've got two choices - we can get you a room at the hotel, or you can take the guest bedroom in our house." He waited for an answer that couldn't come. "Right. No talking. Uh - hold up on finger for the hotel, two for the guest room."
Neal put his two fingers in the crook of Peter's arm. It sent a jolt through him - like Neal might have been a ghost, this whole time, a mirage sprung from his own desperation - but the pressure of Neal's hand through his suit jacket meant it was real. All of it, everything, was real.
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More plz? //grabby hands//
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More, please?
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Please tell me there's more! All that in-prison angst, and now poor Neal deserves the payoff of compassionate Peter. Even (especially?) if it's still dark and angsty, I want to see Peter try to work things out with Neal.
Your Loyal Fan,
Reader Anon
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"We moved," he said, when he'd recovered himself. "New house. We have a yard, if you can believe it." Neal just turned back to the window.
Elizabeth ran outside when they pulled up to the house - pulled up in their driveway (which was still gravel, which they would eventually get paved, if the Christmas bonuses came through). El ran up to the car, and Neal didn't even open his own door. Just sat there and waited for Peter to come around, to take his elbow and guide him out onto the snow. To tell him what he was supposed to do. El was visibly torn - she wanted to hug him, touch him, welcome him - but he looked so small, and worried and clung so desperately to Peter's sleeve.
"It's good to see you again," she said, and when she stepped towards him Neal sidestepped behind Peter. "Right." She nodded, like that was understandable behavior, like he'd said 'hello,' and not just stared at their house like it was some sort of fairy-tale castle. "You must be cold. Let's get you inside."
Peter gave him the grand tour. They'd moved to an old farmhouse, with a lot of land and plumbing problems. It was a real fixer-upper. But the rooms were huge and open, the windows looked out over fields that were barren, then, covered in white - but in the summer they were a dark, deep green, in the spring there were deer, in the fall the surrounding trees turned a red deeper than fire. It was a place where they El could grow her own herbs and Satch could chase squirrels until he fell over and they could begin to think about raising a family.
It was a place where Peter could retreat. He'd needed that space, the past three years. But he had thought - with Neal back - that the empty corners of their huge house would be filled. That the attic and the back staircase and the empty closets wouldn't seem like they belonged to someone else, that Neal would paint them or fill them.
Three years before Neal had fit into their lives like a missing puzzle piece. Now he followed Peter like an obedient dog, and said nothing and all Peter could hear was the grinding of his own teeth.
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