White collar fic
Peter/Neal slash and mild kink
This can be seen as a sequel to the fic here: Five reasons Peter is a better person than Neal, and one reason Neal is better than Peter. Or, five fantasies that make Neal feel guilty, and one that makes Peter feel that way too. http://daria234.livejournal.com/13556.html
But you can easily read this without knowing about that one.
It starts with metal.
Cold metal rods, placed horizontally on Neal's back as he lies face down on the bed.
He wonders what Peter is going to do with them. He takes a lit candle, it must have been there all along, and he slowly starts to heat the metal.
No, not heat. Chains. Peter chains the rods to bedposts to bind him in place.
No, too complicated.
Something else. Something with long, cold metal rods coming down softly on Neal's back. Neal isn't sure what made him think of this image, this sensation, but he's lying alone in his room with his eyes closed, and he's thinking of Peter. And for some reason, he wants the weight of cold steel on his skin, for some reason he is fantasizing about Peter placing him there, and he can't stop thinking about the image until it turns itself into a story, a thing that they could do.
Three months after Neal convinces Peter to try something new, all Neal can think about is the next new thing he'll do with Peter.
It's taking up more of his time than it should, both the sex with Peter and the thinking about sex with Peter. It has also taken up a great deal of his energy (and where did a man Peter's age find the energy to be a workaholic who also had an active sex life in two different relationships?). Neal suspects that Peter has taken over that part of him that always needs to do something new and different. Not necessarily more extreme -- but always something new.
That part used to be devoted to crime. The part that loved to devise and innovate and find some surprising angle, the side that was always planning something - if not several somethings.
Yet another part of Neal that revolves around Peter.
Neal is losing something, probably, in all of this. He knows this. But he hasn't decided to mind.
He thinks about metal. Cold -- it has to be cold.
He imagines he is standing, facing the bed, Peter behind him. Peter is bending him over so his hands and face are resting on the soft bedspread. Peter's hand splays flat on Neal's back, on the lower spine, palm just above his ass.
Peter puts his hand there every time he bends Neal over.
Neal has come to expect that hand. The lightest of pressure, reminding Neal that Peter was there, that Neal was exactly where Peter wanted him to be, that Neal was to stay as still as he could so that Peter could protect him.
Three months after Neal yells and bites and pushes his way into convincing Peter that he's no delicate flower, Neal finds himself craving the softness of Peter's touch. Because in the sweep of new games and punishments and scenes that they have tried, the only constant has been Peter's hand, just a shadow of warmth on his back.
No wonder Neal couldn't figure out what the metal rods were doing there. He forgot the part about Peter's hand.
Neal screws his eyes shut and again imagines Peter bending him over the bed.
Then the hand, keeping him perfectly still.
The the metal. Cold, but not too heavy.
"Stay perfectly still, Neal," Peter says (Neal imagines), "If the rod falls off your back, you'll be punished."
There it is. That's very, very Peter.
Neal imagines his body going still, trying to keep the long pole balanced, wondering what Peter is going to do to make it hard to keep still. Wondering what punishment Peter is planning. He imagines that th tiles are made of metal, or brass, and that the rod will make a terrible noise if dropped. And then everyone will hear it and come in to seee Neal being punished.
Neal imagines Peter's fingers working into him. And he tries so hard to stay perfectly still, to keep it in place, as Peter's fingers push into him, hitting him the way Peter always seems to know how to do. And though Neal wouldn't be able to see Peter's face if this were real, Neal imagines Peter's face. That look in his eyes, like Neal is land he's won. Like he can't wait to work his way through Neal's body, like he's going to take everything there, like he wants Neal to fall to pieces in his hands.
Peter doesn't look at anyone else like that. Not the people hates, and not any of the other people he loves.
That look is all Neal's.
Neal used to fantasize in stories. Long, elaborate stories with lots of sex and then sometimes lots of heartache that only lots of sex can cure. In these stories, Peter never really acted like Peter.
Now that there is considerably more overlap between his fantasy life and his real life, Neal thinks of a feeling, a sensation, first. Then he thinks about Peter's eyes, Peter's thoughts, all the things that would run through Peter's mind as he did something to Neal, all the things that Peter would want to draw out of Neal, the show of pleasure or pain that Neal might reveal -- or refuse to reveal. Neal thinks of ways for Peter to turn him inside out, to break him open, he strategizes as much as he fantasizes, and he does it for the other side.
Peter's mind can be a terrifying place. And yet that's where Neal always goes when he wants to get himself off.
But at least Neal recognizes this fantasy-Peter. It's not quite the real thing. But it's close.
In his mind, Neal is lying perfectly still. He is balancing the metal rod on his back, and even though Peter's fingers are pushing, pulsing, into him, again and again, Neal's balance, his dignity, is unaffected.
In actuality, he is facedown on the bed, rutting against his hand, and as he imagines the sound of steel falling onto brass, the terrifying cymbal clash of the rod landing and bouncing and rolling, he comes right after mumbling, in a moment of sheer absurdity, "Sorry, Peter."
The real Peter is with Elizabeth tonight. Neal doesn't mind, actually. He needs the time to decide on a game plan for tomorrow night, when - barring work issues - he gets Peter all night.
Besides, Neal is pretty sure Elizabeth is the main reason Peter isn't unbearable.
For example, Peter has never said that Elizabeth comes first and Neal comes second (or possibly second and third, after the job, depending on how charitable one wanted to be to Peter). Neal knows Peter pretty well, and he knows that Peter wants to tell him that. Not to be cruel - just because Peter wants to establish the lines, make sure everyone's on the same page. Neal can tell Peter wants to tell him this, to apologize for it maybe, but certainly to explain it. But some things you just don't say to someone, and Neal doesn't think it would help anything but Peter's overdeveloped sense of openness to talk about. And Neal is fairly certain that El is the reason why Peter knows this very simple, obvious unspoken rule.
Neal also thinks Elizabeth might be the reason that Peter, now that he's mostly gotten over his laundry list of worries and concerns and more worries, is willing to try almost everything that Neal suggests. Neal's gotten pretty good at figuring out which things Peter knows on his own and which he needs Elizabeth to tell him, and he thinks "Don't make your partner feel bad for asking for something" is on that second list. But Peter is, it turns out, quite open-minded. And now, even when he says no, he doesn't get that worried-concerned look (that look that skirted oh-so-close to judgment). He just says no, and then they talk, and then Peter usually says no again, and that's that.
Neal thinks he's going to tell Peter about the metal rod fantasy. He might ask Peter to try it, might specify that the metal should be iced beforehand. Peter might want to try it.
If so, he'll certainly have additions to make. Peter's forte is thinking of variations on a theme.
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Peter knows that Neal is always thinking about the next time. He can see that look, that calculation with that barely-hid arousal that Neal sometimes shows, sometimes at inappropriate times. In the office, at times. At lunch. In the park.
Those times when Neal is working through an idea.
Peter loves that look, even if he has to remind himself not to worry too much. To remember that if it's not a good idea, they just won't do it, and Neal will be okay with that as long as there are good reasons.
But Peter isn't like that. He can come with a new idea, but he doesn't like to sit and imagine the details ahead of time.
What he does like to do is go over the details of the last time. Again and again and again.
The last time, he had almost but not quite gotten a second "Please" out of Neal's lips.
Pain and discomfort didn't ever get Neal to say it, though it got a lot of other nice things out of Neal. But it was only when he wanted to cum, when Peter wouldn't let him, when he teased and teased and let Neal get so very close and then ordered him not to; then, Neal would say it.
Once.
Once was asking. Asking needily, desperately, pleadingly. But still asking.
Twice would be begging.
Neal always only said it once. Then, no matter what Peter did, he wouldn't say it again. Incoherent vowel sounds, sure. But not 'please.'
But Peter could always get him to say other things.
Three nights ago, Peter had spent time on almost every part of Neal's body. Foot, calf, knee, thigh, fingers, palm, neck, shoulder, belly button, nose, ears, hair, eyelids, in addition to all his favorites. He did something to every part - sucked, kissed, bit, ice, hot wax - whatever he wanted, and then he said, "This belongs to me, Neal. Tell me this belongs to me."
And Neal would make a face. He wouldn't want to say it. It wasn't that he was humiliated by it - Peter knew the difference in Neal's looks, and this was definitely that Neal just didn't want to say it out loud.
Neal was worried that it might be true. And so he wouldn't want to say it.
But he did. He gritted out, "My hand belongs to you," as Peter sucked his palm, he gasped, "My balls belong to you," as Peter pinched them just a little harder than usual, he mumbled (barely understandably) "My mouth belongs to you," as Peter pressed two fingers and an ice cube into his mouth. Neal didn't like saying it, but he said it anyway, for every part of his body that came into contact with Peter's mouth or hands, and even as Peter could see he hated it, he could also see that Neal was getting harder and harder.
Peter imagined it, that look on Neal's face. Admitting, against his will, that his body belonged to Peter. If it were someone else, someone not Neal, it would have been brainwashing, would have been a psychological trick to make someone believe in an ownership that wasn't real. But Neal could tell a lie a thousand times and never become it, and so Peter knew that Neal's displeasure meant something good, something enticing. Something that he didn't want Peter to know and that Peter was going to make him speak anyway.
Peter wonders, for a moment, if it was like this with Neal's other relationships. If every truth was a battle. Or if that was just for Peter. He wasn't sure which he hoped for.
But he doesn't want to think about that right now. He wants to think about Neal's lips trembling, about pushing at the spot behind Neal's balls, about Neal having to struggle to say what Peter ordered him to say.
He wants to think about the relief on Neal's face as Peter told him he would be rewarded for telling the truth. At Neal's eyes, wide and dark and wild, as Peter sucked his dick, at Neal gently putting his hands on Peter's hair as if he were afraid Peter would tell him not to. At the almost-wince Neal gave when Peter went to the bathroom, as if he were wondering if Peter were leaving. At the easy way Neal opened his mouth when Peter moved his thumb along Neal's face.
And then back to the 'Please.'
And then to all the body parts. Neal talking about every one, saying that they belong to Peter.
Peter likes to revisit those parts of the night. More than once.
The next time he sees Neal, he thinks he'll tell Neal what he fantasized about. He'll go in to detail.
He'll tell Neal that his favorite part - the part his head replays again and again like a film - is when he forces Neal to say what he doesn't want to say.
He can tell Neal this, he knows. It might scare him, a little. Maybe Neal will be angry, a little. But as much as Neal will hate it, he'll like it, too. Peter knows this about him now.
There are some things about himself he probably won't ever tell Neal. But if he had to, he probably could.
And this was well within what Neal could handle.
Maybe he would tell him at work. Whisper it in the elevator if no one rode with them.
Neal would probably get him back by brushing against him every time he walked by for the whole day.
But it would be worth it.
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Next ch. found here: http://daria234.livejournal.com/17608.html
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This can be seen as a sequel to the fic here: Five reasons Peter is a better person than Neal, and one reason Neal is better than Peter. Or, five fantasies that make Neal feel guilty, and one that makes Peter feel that way too. http://daria234.livejournal.com/13556.html
But you can easily read this without knowing about that one.
It starts with metal.
Cold metal rods, placed horizontally on Neal's back as he lies face down on the bed.
He wonders what Peter is going to do with them. He takes a lit candle, it must have been there all along, and he slowly starts to heat the metal.
No, not heat. Chains. Peter chains the rods to bedposts to bind him in place.
No, too complicated.
Something else. Something with long, cold metal rods coming down softly on Neal's back. Neal isn't sure what made him think of this image, this sensation, but he's lying alone in his room with his eyes closed, and he's thinking of Peter. And for some reason, he wants the weight of cold steel on his skin, for some reason he is fantasizing about Peter placing him there, and he can't stop thinking about the image until it turns itself into a story, a thing that they could do.
Three months after Neal convinces Peter to try something new, all Neal can think about is the next new thing he'll do with Peter.
It's taking up more of his time than it should, both the sex with Peter and the thinking about sex with Peter. It has also taken up a great deal of his energy (and where did a man Peter's age find the energy to be a workaholic who also had an active sex life in two different relationships?). Neal suspects that Peter has taken over that part of him that always needs to do something new and different. Not necessarily more extreme -- but always something new.
That part used to be devoted to crime. The part that loved to devise and innovate and find some surprising angle, the side that was always planning something - if not several somethings.
Yet another part of Neal that revolves around Peter.
Neal is losing something, probably, in all of this. He knows this. But he hasn't decided to mind.
He thinks about metal. Cold -- it has to be cold.
He imagines he is standing, facing the bed, Peter behind him. Peter is bending him over so his hands and face are resting on the soft bedspread. Peter's hand splays flat on Neal's back, on the lower spine, palm just above his ass.
Peter puts his hand there every time he bends Neal over.
Neal has come to expect that hand. The lightest of pressure, reminding Neal that Peter was there, that Neal was exactly where Peter wanted him to be, that Neal was to stay as still as he could so that Peter could protect him.
Three months after Neal yells and bites and pushes his way into convincing Peter that he's no delicate flower, Neal finds himself craving the softness of Peter's touch. Because in the sweep of new games and punishments and scenes that they have tried, the only constant has been Peter's hand, just a shadow of warmth on his back.
No wonder Neal couldn't figure out what the metal rods were doing there. He forgot the part about Peter's hand.
Neal screws his eyes shut and again imagines Peter bending him over the bed.
Then the hand, keeping him perfectly still.
The the metal. Cold, but not too heavy.
"Stay perfectly still, Neal," Peter says (Neal imagines), "If the rod falls off your back, you'll be punished."
There it is. That's very, very Peter.
Neal imagines his body going still, trying to keep the long pole balanced, wondering what Peter is going to do to make it hard to keep still. Wondering what punishment Peter is planning. He imagines that th tiles are made of metal, or brass, and that the rod will make a terrible noise if dropped. And then everyone will hear it and come in to seee Neal being punished.
Neal imagines Peter's fingers working into him. And he tries so hard to stay perfectly still, to keep it in place, as Peter's fingers push into him, hitting him the way Peter always seems to know how to do. And though Neal wouldn't be able to see Peter's face if this were real, Neal imagines Peter's face. That look in his eyes, like Neal is land he's won. Like he can't wait to work his way through Neal's body, like he's going to take everything there, like he wants Neal to fall to pieces in his hands.
Peter doesn't look at anyone else like that. Not the people hates, and not any of the other people he loves.
That look is all Neal's.
Neal used to fantasize in stories. Long, elaborate stories with lots of sex and then sometimes lots of heartache that only lots of sex can cure. In these stories, Peter never really acted like Peter.
Now that there is considerably more overlap between his fantasy life and his real life, Neal thinks of a feeling, a sensation, first. Then he thinks about Peter's eyes, Peter's thoughts, all the things that would run through Peter's mind as he did something to Neal, all the things that Peter would want to draw out of Neal, the show of pleasure or pain that Neal might reveal -- or refuse to reveal. Neal thinks of ways for Peter to turn him inside out, to break him open, he strategizes as much as he fantasizes, and he does it for the other side.
Peter's mind can be a terrifying place. And yet that's where Neal always goes when he wants to get himself off.
But at least Neal recognizes this fantasy-Peter. It's not quite the real thing. But it's close.
In his mind, Neal is lying perfectly still. He is balancing the metal rod on his back, and even though Peter's fingers are pushing, pulsing, into him, again and again, Neal's balance, his dignity, is unaffected.
In actuality, he is facedown on the bed, rutting against his hand, and as he imagines the sound of steel falling onto brass, the terrifying cymbal clash of the rod landing and bouncing and rolling, he comes right after mumbling, in a moment of sheer absurdity, "Sorry, Peter."
The real Peter is with Elizabeth tonight. Neal doesn't mind, actually. He needs the time to decide on a game plan for tomorrow night, when - barring work issues - he gets Peter all night.
Besides, Neal is pretty sure Elizabeth is the main reason Peter isn't unbearable.
For example, Peter has never said that Elizabeth comes first and Neal comes second (or possibly second and third, after the job, depending on how charitable one wanted to be to Peter). Neal knows Peter pretty well, and he knows that Peter wants to tell him that. Not to be cruel - just because Peter wants to establish the lines, make sure everyone's on the same page. Neal can tell Peter wants to tell him this, to apologize for it maybe, but certainly to explain it. But some things you just don't say to someone, and Neal doesn't think it would help anything but Peter's overdeveloped sense of openness to talk about. And Neal is fairly certain that El is the reason why Peter knows this very simple, obvious unspoken rule.
Neal also thinks Elizabeth might be the reason that Peter, now that he's mostly gotten over his laundry list of worries and concerns and more worries, is willing to try almost everything that Neal suggests. Neal's gotten pretty good at figuring out which things Peter knows on his own and which he needs Elizabeth to tell him, and he thinks "Don't make your partner feel bad for asking for something" is on that second list. But Peter is, it turns out, quite open-minded. And now, even when he says no, he doesn't get that worried-concerned look (that look that skirted oh-so-close to judgment). He just says no, and then they talk, and then Peter usually says no again, and that's that.
Neal thinks he's going to tell Peter about the metal rod fantasy. He might ask Peter to try it, might specify that the metal should be iced beforehand. Peter might want to try it.
If so, he'll certainly have additions to make. Peter's forte is thinking of variations on a theme.
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Peter knows that Neal is always thinking about the next time. He can see that look, that calculation with that barely-hid arousal that Neal sometimes shows, sometimes at inappropriate times. In the office, at times. At lunch. In the park.
Those times when Neal is working through an idea.
Peter loves that look, even if he has to remind himself not to worry too much. To remember that if it's not a good idea, they just won't do it, and Neal will be okay with that as long as there are good reasons.
But Peter isn't like that. He can come with a new idea, but he doesn't like to sit and imagine the details ahead of time.
What he does like to do is go over the details of the last time. Again and again and again.
The last time, he had almost but not quite gotten a second "Please" out of Neal's lips.
Pain and discomfort didn't ever get Neal to say it, though it got a lot of other nice things out of Neal. But it was only when he wanted to cum, when Peter wouldn't let him, when he teased and teased and let Neal get so very close and then ordered him not to; then, Neal would say it.
Once.
Once was asking. Asking needily, desperately, pleadingly. But still asking.
Twice would be begging.
Neal always only said it once. Then, no matter what Peter did, he wouldn't say it again. Incoherent vowel sounds, sure. But not 'please.'
But Peter could always get him to say other things.
Three nights ago, Peter had spent time on almost every part of Neal's body. Foot, calf, knee, thigh, fingers, palm, neck, shoulder, belly button, nose, ears, hair, eyelids, in addition to all his favorites. He did something to every part - sucked, kissed, bit, ice, hot wax - whatever he wanted, and then he said, "This belongs to me, Neal. Tell me this belongs to me."
And Neal would make a face. He wouldn't want to say it. It wasn't that he was humiliated by it - Peter knew the difference in Neal's looks, and this was definitely that Neal just didn't want to say it out loud.
Neal was worried that it might be true. And so he wouldn't want to say it.
But he did. He gritted out, "My hand belongs to you," as Peter sucked his palm, he gasped, "My balls belong to you," as Peter pinched them just a little harder than usual, he mumbled (barely understandably) "My mouth belongs to you," as Peter pressed two fingers and an ice cube into his mouth. Neal didn't like saying it, but he said it anyway, for every part of his body that came into contact with Peter's mouth or hands, and even as Peter could see he hated it, he could also see that Neal was getting harder and harder.
Peter imagined it, that look on Neal's face. Admitting, against his will, that his body belonged to Peter. If it were someone else, someone not Neal, it would have been brainwashing, would have been a psychological trick to make someone believe in an ownership that wasn't real. But Neal could tell a lie a thousand times and never become it, and so Peter knew that Neal's displeasure meant something good, something enticing. Something that he didn't want Peter to know and that Peter was going to make him speak anyway.
Peter wonders, for a moment, if it was like this with Neal's other relationships. If every truth was a battle. Or if that was just for Peter. He wasn't sure which he hoped for.
But he doesn't want to think about that right now. He wants to think about Neal's lips trembling, about pushing at the spot behind Neal's balls, about Neal having to struggle to say what Peter ordered him to say.
He wants to think about the relief on Neal's face as Peter told him he would be rewarded for telling the truth. At Neal's eyes, wide and dark and wild, as Peter sucked his dick, at Neal gently putting his hands on Peter's hair as if he were afraid Peter would tell him not to. At the almost-wince Neal gave when Peter went to the bathroom, as if he were wondering if Peter were leaving. At the easy way Neal opened his mouth when Peter moved his thumb along Neal's face.
And then back to the 'Please.'
And then to all the body parts. Neal talking about every one, saying that they belong to Peter.
Peter likes to revisit those parts of the night. More than once.
The next time he sees Neal, he thinks he'll tell Neal what he fantasized about. He'll go in to detail.
He'll tell Neal that his favorite part - the part his head replays again and again like a film - is when he forces Neal to say what he doesn't want to say.
He can tell Neal this, he knows. It might scare him, a little. Maybe Neal will be angry, a little. But as much as Neal will hate it, he'll like it, too. Peter knows this about him now.
There are some things about himself he probably won't ever tell Neal. But if he had to, he probably could.
And this was well within what Neal could handle.
Maybe he would tell him at work. Whisper it in the elevator if no one rode with them.
Neal would probably get him back by brushing against him every time he walked by for the whole day.
But it would be worth it.
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Next ch. found here: http://daria234.livejournal.com/17608.html
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