White Collar Fic: I Look at Your Pants and I Need a Kiss
Title: I Look at Your Pants and I Need a Kiss
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Clint
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Clothes kink \o/
Word Count: ~800
Summary: Clint has a very specific clothes kink.
A/N: Here’s a story in the Undeniable Chemistry ‘verse, though it’s not the next chapter by any means. Was listening to old 80’s music, and this popped into my head. Title is a lyric for the song “Add It Up” by Violent Femmes.
----
Neal looks good in his jeans.
Clint's always thought so. He thinks he can trace it back to that first case with Sara and Neal’s undercover work as the assassin “Mr. Black.” A relationship with the ex-con was the furthest thing from Clint's mind at that point, but Neal in tight black denim and that leather jacket - well, it did things.
Clint's not sure when it crossed over from being something he noticed to something he liked to something he was apparently obsessed with, but the sight of Neal in a set of denims kicks off a Pavlovian response in him that is immediate and all-consuming. At first he’d stare, then be aware he was staring, could feel the blood rising to his cheeks in that telltale blush Neal would eventually find so endearing. But when they weren’t dating, or cripes, especially when they’d begun and exposure of their relationship would be disastrous, Clint found himself dreading the days Neal needed to “cazh it up” as he’d say in order to go undercover. It was those days Clint was most grateful for the concealment the cool, metallic desk of the surveillance van afforded.
Clint thinks Italian designers do the best things for Neal, with their attention to detail and fit and rise. The fabrics are stiff, like they are being used to mold and shape and create something, and he didn’t know material could be used quite so effectively to create an illusion before. Of course, Neal knows this, knows what clothes and tailoring and accessorizing do for a man, and he’s tried to teach Clint, but he’s not been the most enthusiastic student. Because he’d rather just watch Neal in his mirror, tying his tie or catching the ends of his cuffs as he slips in his cufflinks, but no matter what, whenever Clint sees a pair of jeans laid out on their bed, he gets a momentary high.
There was a time, after they’d begun but before Neal was his, when it seemed like Neal was wearing nothing but jeans. Whether it was for a case or just the team meeting for drinks on a Friday night, Neal was always dressed down. The sight gave Clint the shakes sometimes, and at least he could hope for a little something later when he and Neal would be alone and he could lay his hand on Neal’s ass as they made out, feel the tight muscles bunching and jumping under the stiff material if for only a few seconds, before they’d move on to something else or Peter or Diana or someone would interrupt their brief liaison in the hall in the bar that led to the men’s room.
But they’re engaged now - engaged, the word still thrills - and now Clint can touch Neal and his jeans as often or as longingly as he likes. He still resists - surely such a compulsion is odd - but there are a lot more quiet moments now in which he can indulge himself, and laundry day - well, let’s just say the division of that bit of domestic labor was not one he argued against taking on.
He’s sure Neal knows about his little obsession. Just yesterday he showed up from the vintage store down in the Bowery that he likes so much with an old pair of 501’s that appear to have been made just for him. They’re probably over 20 years old, the denim soft as butter, supple, threadbare in all the right places, and Neal stands there, modeling them for himself in front of the floor-length mirror in their bedroom, seemingly fascinated with the facility of the button fly, glancing over at Clint with a boyish smile at the silliness. But he looks at Clint thoughtfully all of a sudden, and the boyish smile fades, and he pushes them off and walks over to him, He plants a kiss on the corner of Clint's mouth, catches his hand and leads him to their bed, his hips swaying in a way that makes his intentions clear, and suddenly Clint's mouth goes dry and he begins to hum.
Because Clint might have a teensy little clothes kink, but he’s not an idiot. If there’s anything better than Neal in his jeans, it’s Neal out of his jeans.
----
Thank you for your time.
Next story: A Good Boy Scout
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Clint
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Clothes kink \o/
Word Count: ~800
Summary: Clint has a very specific clothes kink.
A/N: Here’s a story in the Undeniable Chemistry ‘verse, though it’s not the next chapter by any means. Was listening to old 80’s music, and this popped into my head. Title is a lyric for the song “Add It Up” by Violent Femmes.
----
Neal looks good in his jeans.
Clint's always thought so. He thinks he can trace it back to that first case with Sara and Neal’s undercover work as the assassin “Mr. Black.” A relationship with the ex-con was the furthest thing from Clint's mind at that point, but Neal in tight black denim and that leather jacket - well, it did things.
Clint's not sure when it crossed over from being something he noticed to something he liked to something he was apparently obsessed with, but the sight of Neal in a set of denims kicks off a Pavlovian response in him that is immediate and all-consuming. At first he’d stare, then be aware he was staring, could feel the blood rising to his cheeks in that telltale blush Neal would eventually find so endearing. But when they weren’t dating, or cripes, especially when they’d begun and exposure of their relationship would be disastrous, Clint found himself dreading the days Neal needed to “cazh it up” as he’d say in order to go undercover. It was those days Clint was most grateful for the concealment the cool, metallic desk of the surveillance van afforded.
Clint thinks Italian designers do the best things for Neal, with their attention to detail and fit and rise. The fabrics are stiff, like they are being used to mold and shape and create something, and he didn’t know material could be used quite so effectively to create an illusion before. Of course, Neal knows this, knows what clothes and tailoring and accessorizing do for a man, and he’s tried to teach Clint, but he’s not been the most enthusiastic student. Because he’d rather just watch Neal in his mirror, tying his tie or catching the ends of his cuffs as he slips in his cufflinks, but no matter what, whenever Clint sees a pair of jeans laid out on their bed, he gets a momentary high.
There was a time, after they’d begun but before Neal was his, when it seemed like Neal was wearing nothing but jeans. Whether it was for a case or just the team meeting for drinks on a Friday night, Neal was always dressed down. The sight gave Clint the shakes sometimes, and at least he could hope for a little something later when he and Neal would be alone and he could lay his hand on Neal’s ass as they made out, feel the tight muscles bunching and jumping under the stiff material if for only a few seconds, before they’d move on to something else or Peter or Diana or someone would interrupt their brief liaison in the hall in the bar that led to the men’s room.
But they’re engaged now - engaged, the word still thrills - and now Clint can touch Neal and his jeans as often or as longingly as he likes. He still resists - surely such a compulsion is odd - but there are a lot more quiet moments now in which he can indulge himself, and laundry day - well, let’s just say the division of that bit of domestic labor was not one he argued against taking on.
He’s sure Neal knows about his little obsession. Just yesterday he showed up from the vintage store down in the Bowery that he likes so much with an old pair of 501’s that appear to have been made just for him. They’re probably over 20 years old, the denim soft as butter, supple, threadbare in all the right places, and Neal stands there, modeling them for himself in front of the floor-length mirror in their bedroom, seemingly fascinated with the facility of the button fly, glancing over at Clint with a boyish smile at the silliness. But he looks at Clint thoughtfully all of a sudden, and the boyish smile fades, and he pushes them off and walks over to him, He plants a kiss on the corner of Clint's mouth, catches his hand and leads him to their bed, his hips swaying in a way that makes his intentions clear, and suddenly Clint's mouth goes dry and he begins to hum.
Because Clint might have a teensy little clothes kink, but he’s not an idiot. If there’s anything better than Neal in his jeans, it’s Neal out of his jeans.
----
Thank you for your time.
Next story: A Good Boy Scout