White Collar ficlets, Numb3rs, Chuck
Ficlets.
But first: PIMPING a drabblethon for antagonistic pairings (hatesex ftw). Get your enemysex, frenemysex, angry-angsty-sex, and all other varieties by prompting or filling here: http://slippery-fish.livejournal.com/1744121.html
tayeatsya posted a sexy pic of Peter and Neal in jeans and nothing else, and suggested that fic might be written -- and I do love a visual prompt ;)
Peter went to his computer to check on Neal's location. It was habit, part of his process of going to bed, like brushing his teeth or calling Elizabeth.
Neal, according to the data, was puttering around June's house. Especially... by the trash can in the kitchen.
Neal was out of his anklet.
Ever since he learned how to do it, Peter had warned him to quit pushing it. The problem was, there was no way to have the tech changed without letting someone know what Neal had done. So he had to trust.
And Neal had, for the most part, lived up to that trust.
But every once in a while, Neal would put the anklet on June's dog, take a cab to Brooklyn, and sneak into Peter's house.
Neal loved sneaking in. He couldn't just knock like a normal person.
Peter sighed. He knew it was a good thing - that Neal was trying to prove himself, trying to say, "Look, even with freedom, I'm still yours." But he knew that Neal was also - even more so - trying to say, "I'm yours only as long as I want to be yours."
The thing Peter hadn't quite figured out yet was if Neal was saying it as a warning, or just because it turned Peter into a possessive creature who couldn't keep his hands off Neal.
Of course, considering who Peter was dealing with, it might very well be both.
Tonight, Neal showed up in jeans. Peter loves him in jeans.
Peter has been waiting for him in bed, reading a magazine, sipping a beer. It's almost midnight when Neal climbs through the window.
"Problem with the door?" Peter asked.
"Not as much fun. You should really get a balcony. We could play Romeo and Mercutio."
"I don't think that's how the scene goes, Neal," Peter chuckled. He let the magazine fall to the floor and sat up on the side of the bed.
Neal walked over to him, stood between his legs. He gently splayed his fingers on Peter's bare chest.
"You need to catch up," Peter said, tugging lightly at the hem of Neal's tweed vest. Neal, as usual, grinned at the challenge. He stepped back, unbuttoned the vest and let it fall to the floor.
"I could do your shirt for you," Peter offered, lascivious grin.
"Nah, you'd rip off the buttons."
"Such delicate concerns, Neal," Peter said with mock-disapproval.
"Just for that," Neal said with a raised eyebrow as he slowed his unbuttoning to a painfully drawn out pace.
Peter leaned back a little. "Nothing wrong with taking your time." Not with a view like that.
Neal narrowed his eyes as he finally shed his shirt. "Then I guess you're in no hurry to get started, Peter."
"Get over here," Peter laughed, resisting the urge to call him a tease. It was one of the things on Neal's list of things he didn't want said.
Neal stood again on front of Peter, moved his thigh close - so close - to Peter's crotch without touching it. He put his hands on Peter's face, felt the stubble on his jaw. It was strange looking at Peter's face, even after all their times together; it was all power, but all vulnerability too, everything out there, in the open, Peter's needs so visible that it took Neal's breath away. Like Peter's mouth and eyes and quickened breath were just lying there, unguarded, for Neal to read. He felt Peter's hands then, snaking their way past the waistline of his jeans, inching them down his hips as Peter's fond smile turned into an eager smirk. Neal leans over to kiss Peter, to feel that heat on his lips, that rough and wet movement of Peter's mouth on his, in his. He moved his hands to Peter's neck, back to his hair, and thought for a second about how good it was to be here by choice, to be able to go anywhere and still choose here.
Peter's fingers, then. His left hand fingers finding their way into Neal's jeans, below the cloth of his boxers, leaving deep imprints on his hip. The other hand behind Neal, two fingers tracing the softest - most torturous - of lines up and down Neal's spine. Not a single touch anywhere else, just Peter's fingers on Neal's skin, and it shouldn't affect Neal as much as it does but Peter's fingers do it for him every fucking time, and Neal practically jumps onto Peter, but those fingers are keeping him there, grabbing at him, pulling him in, but slowing him down too. Making him match Peter, keep Peter's pace.
Neal savored that idea for a second, as Peter's tongue kept working his mouth, as Peter's fingers made him want to scream in desperation for more; Peter would set the pace, and Neal's body would respond.
When Peter finally pulled him into bed, tilting Neal's head back to plant aggressive kisses on Neal's collarbone, Neal interrupted his moans just long enough to say, "You know, if this is the punishment, I have no reason to stop breaking in, Peter."
He could feel the motion of Peter lips, smiling against Neal's neck.
"Good. It's your turn to chase me anyway."
Neal tried not to laugh. "You know, you should be careful. I can be a dogged pursuer, Peter. Relentless, even."
"And creative," Peter smiled.
"I might not stop," Neal repeated, and Peter looked into his eyes, could see the question there, sharp and heavy beneath the play.
"I don't want you to," Peter said. And as his mouth went back to Neal's shoulder, as his hand went much lower, he felt a shudder, just a twinge of something coarsing through Neal's body, and he was pretty sure he knew exactly what it was.
-------------------------------------
This was at comment_fic, for the prompt, White Collar, Neal/Peter, clever (sticky) fingers
Neal could take Peter's wallet without Peter noticing. "Sticky fingers," Peter would grumble (fondly), while grabbing it back.
But Neal didn't think he was the only one who deserved the accusation.
Because Peter could put his hand on Neal's back, lead him by the arm or the waist, or pat him on the knee, and Neal -- despite never being the type who wanted anyone in his personal space -- wouldn't even think to back away.
Neal could get files from the secret, extra-locked safe in Peter's office.
Peter could get Neal to fall in love with a man he should really be more careful about loving.
Neal could take Peter's phone, take a picture of himself naked, and put it back in Peter's pocket without Peter noticing until he noticed his new wallpaper.
Peter could sneak a stroke of Neal's crotch under the desk before Neal could even register Peter's hand moving up his thigh.
For a while, Neal wondered if this would be just one more game that Peter won. Until he learned to use his own fingers to make Peter say things he never thought he'd hear from that prim pink mouth. Moaning and begging and saying Neal's name, and then babbling. Not making any coherent sounds at all, just grunts and groans and nonsense words in response to Neal's clever fingers.
Neal was satisfied. To have won one.
Until Peter learned a few finger tricks of his own, and Neal realized: with them, it would always be a draw.
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For comment_fic, Ian/Charlie, balancing act (for 3 sentence fic day)
Edgerton was a tracker, and he couldn't turn that part of himself off; even in bed, he was always trying to find that balance between getting into your target's (lover's) head, and remembering why you're there.
Charlie was a mathematician, and he never turned that part of himself off either; he was always thinking about proportion, lines and curves, the best way to maximize return and get the desired result.
When they came together, it was like finding something they'd been looking for: not the sweet sense of glee that children find when thry stumble upon treasure on the beach -- it was something harsher and less innocent, it was the hard, hot moment of discovery, of dominating the problem that had slid its fingers into the men's thoughts and hearts; it was two men, finding an answer the hard way, balancing the sharpness of their minds with the delicate precision of their hands and bodies and mouths; it was shot that hit the target every time, a proof that showed that the expressions in question were two sides of a balanced equation; it was a compromise and it was a battle all in once, and neither would trade it for anything.
-----------------------------------------
For the Awesome Ladies ficathon, for the show Chuck, Sarah and Ellie, girls' night out:
It makes Sarah uncomfortable, the way Ellie seamlessly treats her like one of the family. Affection only comes easy when you're trying to get something from the other. Except, apparently, when a Bartowski is involved.
They're thankfully past the secrets now. Mostly. Sarah never really liked looking at Ellie's face and talking about how great Chuck was - it was the truth, but she knew it was making Ellie believe that Chuck might get his happily ever after with Sarah, and for a while that didn't seem likely. It seemed more likely that the job would split them up or get them killed, and it didn't feel that great making smalltalk with Ellie as she looked at Sarah like she was the best thing that happened to their family in a long time.
Even with all her experience, her expertise, Sarah always felt like shit when she lied to Ellie.
When Ellie said she wanted to go out for drinks, just the two of them, Sarah was expecting Ellie to demand answers from her. What was real, what wasn't. How much danger they had been in, how many stories were made up. She had grilled Chuck, Morgan, and Devon on it, and even Casey had been avoiding being alone with Ellie after a mysterious 'discussion' in the kitchen.
But instead, it was a night full of chatting and laughing, a few beers and a couple of shots, dishing about childhood crushes and embarrassing moments, worst pickup lines and favorite foods. And when they stumbled home, Ellie had given her a drunken clumsy hug and said, "I'm really glad we're friends, Sarah."
"Me too," Sarah said automatically, laughing as Ellie struggled to stand upright. It took Sarah a second to realize that it was true.
Lying in bed that night, Sarah thought about that evening. How strange it was, and what a relief. She wasn't sure why she was exempt from the post-reveal grilling; maybe it was because Ellie could see how much she loved Chuck. Maybe it was just her gender; one woman respecting another's secrets.
Maybe Ellie just liked her and didn't want to argue.
The strangeness of the night suddenly made sense, then. Sarah had spent her teen years conning and stealing and otherwise being an outcast. In high school she had become a spy.
The only girls' nights out she had ever had were when she was faking for a job, or when she was bonding with another spy (in which case she had to have one hand near a knife, just in case).
She was new to this. Relationships, she had done. Friendship was new.
Sarah sighed happily as she drifted off to sleep. It had been a while since she had realized that there really was a whole world out there, a life out there full of new experiences. Not all of them necessarily bad.
Sarah's life, its possibilities, waiting for her to live it.
She settled into a tired haze, and even though she knew she'd have a hangover in the morning, she smiled into her pillow, and waited to see what her dreams would show her.
------------------------------------------------
But first: PIMPING a drabblethon for antagonistic pairings (hatesex ftw). Get your enemysex, frenemysex, angry-angsty-sex, and all other varieties by prompting or filling here: http://slippery-fish.livejournal.com/1744121.html
tayeatsya posted a sexy pic of Peter and Neal in jeans and nothing else, and suggested that fic might be written -- and I do love a visual prompt ;)
Peter went to his computer to check on Neal's location. It was habit, part of his process of going to bed, like brushing his teeth or calling Elizabeth.
Neal, according to the data, was puttering around June's house. Especially... by the trash can in the kitchen.
Neal was out of his anklet.
Ever since he learned how to do it, Peter had warned him to quit pushing it. The problem was, there was no way to have the tech changed without letting someone know what Neal had done. So he had to trust.
And Neal had, for the most part, lived up to that trust.
But every once in a while, Neal would put the anklet on June's dog, take a cab to Brooklyn, and sneak into Peter's house.
Neal loved sneaking in. He couldn't just knock like a normal person.
Peter sighed. He knew it was a good thing - that Neal was trying to prove himself, trying to say, "Look, even with freedom, I'm still yours." But he knew that Neal was also - even more so - trying to say, "I'm yours only as long as I want to be yours."
The thing Peter hadn't quite figured out yet was if Neal was saying it as a warning, or just because it turned Peter into a possessive creature who couldn't keep his hands off Neal.
Of course, considering who Peter was dealing with, it might very well be both.
Tonight, Neal showed up in jeans. Peter loves him in jeans.
Peter has been waiting for him in bed, reading a magazine, sipping a beer. It's almost midnight when Neal climbs through the window.
"Problem with the door?" Peter asked.
"Not as much fun. You should really get a balcony. We could play Romeo and Mercutio."
"I don't think that's how the scene goes, Neal," Peter chuckled. He let the magazine fall to the floor and sat up on the side of the bed.
Neal walked over to him, stood between his legs. He gently splayed his fingers on Peter's bare chest.
"You need to catch up," Peter said, tugging lightly at the hem of Neal's tweed vest. Neal, as usual, grinned at the challenge. He stepped back, unbuttoned the vest and let it fall to the floor.
"I could do your shirt for you," Peter offered, lascivious grin.
"Nah, you'd rip off the buttons."
"Such delicate concerns, Neal," Peter said with mock-disapproval.
"Just for that," Neal said with a raised eyebrow as he slowed his unbuttoning to a painfully drawn out pace.
Peter leaned back a little. "Nothing wrong with taking your time." Not with a view like that.
Neal narrowed his eyes as he finally shed his shirt. "Then I guess you're in no hurry to get started, Peter."
"Get over here," Peter laughed, resisting the urge to call him a tease. It was one of the things on Neal's list of things he didn't want said.
Neal stood again on front of Peter, moved his thigh close - so close - to Peter's crotch without touching it. He put his hands on Peter's face, felt the stubble on his jaw. It was strange looking at Peter's face, even after all their times together; it was all power, but all vulnerability too, everything out there, in the open, Peter's needs so visible that it took Neal's breath away. Like Peter's mouth and eyes and quickened breath were just lying there, unguarded, for Neal to read. He felt Peter's hands then, snaking their way past the waistline of his jeans, inching them down his hips as Peter's fond smile turned into an eager smirk. Neal leans over to kiss Peter, to feel that heat on his lips, that rough and wet movement of Peter's mouth on his, in his. He moved his hands to Peter's neck, back to his hair, and thought for a second about how good it was to be here by choice, to be able to go anywhere and still choose here.
Peter's fingers, then. His left hand fingers finding their way into Neal's jeans, below the cloth of his boxers, leaving deep imprints on his hip. The other hand behind Neal, two fingers tracing the softest - most torturous - of lines up and down Neal's spine. Not a single touch anywhere else, just Peter's fingers on Neal's skin, and it shouldn't affect Neal as much as it does but Peter's fingers do it for him every fucking time, and Neal practically jumps onto Peter, but those fingers are keeping him there, grabbing at him, pulling him in, but slowing him down too. Making him match Peter, keep Peter's pace.
Neal savored that idea for a second, as Peter's tongue kept working his mouth, as Peter's fingers made him want to scream in desperation for more; Peter would set the pace, and Neal's body would respond.
When Peter finally pulled him into bed, tilting Neal's head back to plant aggressive kisses on Neal's collarbone, Neal interrupted his moans just long enough to say, "You know, if this is the punishment, I have no reason to stop breaking in, Peter."
He could feel the motion of Peter lips, smiling against Neal's neck.
"Good. It's your turn to chase me anyway."
Neal tried not to laugh. "You know, you should be careful. I can be a dogged pursuer, Peter. Relentless, even."
"And creative," Peter smiled.
"I might not stop," Neal repeated, and Peter looked into his eyes, could see the question there, sharp and heavy beneath the play.
"I don't want you to," Peter said. And as his mouth went back to Neal's shoulder, as his hand went much lower, he felt a shudder, just a twinge of something coarsing through Neal's body, and he was pretty sure he knew exactly what it was.
-------------------------------------
This was at comment_fic, for the prompt, White Collar, Neal/Peter, clever (sticky) fingers
Neal could take Peter's wallet without Peter noticing. "Sticky fingers," Peter would grumble (fondly), while grabbing it back.
But Neal didn't think he was the only one who deserved the accusation.
Because Peter could put his hand on Neal's back, lead him by the arm or the waist, or pat him on the knee, and Neal -- despite never being the type who wanted anyone in his personal space -- wouldn't even think to back away.
Neal could get files from the secret, extra-locked safe in Peter's office.
Peter could get Neal to fall in love with a man he should really be more careful about loving.
Neal could take Peter's phone, take a picture of himself naked, and put it back in Peter's pocket without Peter noticing until he noticed his new wallpaper.
Peter could sneak a stroke of Neal's crotch under the desk before Neal could even register Peter's hand moving up his thigh.
For a while, Neal wondered if this would be just one more game that Peter won. Until he learned to use his own fingers to make Peter say things he never thought he'd hear from that prim pink mouth. Moaning and begging and saying Neal's name, and then babbling. Not making any coherent sounds at all, just grunts and groans and nonsense words in response to Neal's clever fingers.
Neal was satisfied. To have won one.
Until Peter learned a few finger tricks of his own, and Neal realized: with them, it would always be a draw.
----------------------------------------------------------------
For comment_fic, Ian/Charlie, balancing act (for 3 sentence fic day)
Edgerton was a tracker, and he couldn't turn that part of himself off; even in bed, he was always trying to find that balance between getting into your target's (lover's) head, and remembering why you're there.
Charlie was a mathematician, and he never turned that part of himself off either; he was always thinking about proportion, lines and curves, the best way to maximize return and get the desired result.
When they came together, it was like finding something they'd been looking for: not the sweet sense of glee that children find when thry stumble upon treasure on the beach -- it was something harsher and less innocent, it was the hard, hot moment of discovery, of dominating the problem that had slid its fingers into the men's thoughts and hearts; it was two men, finding an answer the hard way, balancing the sharpness of their minds with the delicate precision of their hands and bodies and mouths; it was shot that hit the target every time, a proof that showed that the expressions in question were two sides of a balanced equation; it was a compromise and it was a battle all in once, and neither would trade it for anything.
-----------------------------------------
For the Awesome Ladies ficathon, for the show Chuck, Sarah and Ellie, girls' night out:
It makes Sarah uncomfortable, the way Ellie seamlessly treats her like one of the family. Affection only comes easy when you're trying to get something from the other. Except, apparently, when a Bartowski is involved.
They're thankfully past the secrets now. Mostly. Sarah never really liked looking at Ellie's face and talking about how great Chuck was - it was the truth, but she knew it was making Ellie believe that Chuck might get his happily ever after with Sarah, and for a while that didn't seem likely. It seemed more likely that the job would split them up or get them killed, and it didn't feel that great making smalltalk with Ellie as she looked at Sarah like she was the best thing that happened to their family in a long time.
Even with all her experience, her expertise, Sarah always felt like shit when she lied to Ellie.
When Ellie said she wanted to go out for drinks, just the two of them, Sarah was expecting Ellie to demand answers from her. What was real, what wasn't. How much danger they had been in, how many stories were made up. She had grilled Chuck, Morgan, and Devon on it, and even Casey had been avoiding being alone with Ellie after a mysterious 'discussion' in the kitchen.
But instead, it was a night full of chatting and laughing, a few beers and a couple of shots, dishing about childhood crushes and embarrassing moments, worst pickup lines and favorite foods. And when they stumbled home, Ellie had given her a drunken clumsy hug and said, "I'm really glad we're friends, Sarah."
"Me too," Sarah said automatically, laughing as Ellie struggled to stand upright. It took Sarah a second to realize that it was true.
Lying in bed that night, Sarah thought about that evening. How strange it was, and what a relief. She wasn't sure why she was exempt from the post-reveal grilling; maybe it was because Ellie could see how much she loved Chuck. Maybe it was just her gender; one woman respecting another's secrets.
Maybe Ellie just liked her and didn't want to argue.
The strangeness of the night suddenly made sense, then. Sarah had spent her teen years conning and stealing and otherwise being an outcast. In high school she had become a spy.
The only girls' nights out she had ever had were when she was faking for a job, or when she was bonding with another spy (in which case she had to have one hand near a knife, just in case).
She was new to this. Relationships, she had done. Friendship was new.
Sarah sighed happily as she drifted off to sleep. It had been a while since she had realized that there really was a whole world out there, a life out there full of new experiences. Not all of them necessarily bad.
Sarah's life, its possibilities, waiting for her to live it.
She settled into a tired haze, and even though she knew she'd have a hangover in the morning, she smiled into her pillow, and waited to see what her dreams would show her.
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