MMOM Day 13 Fic: A Change of Mind
Title: A Change of Mind
Author: turtlebaby_02
Fandom: White Collar
Written For: MMOM 2013
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (OT3 if you catch it)
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 891
A/N: I'm late! Ah! Oh well. In before bed, which means I can personally count this as yesterday. lol. Also, this turned into some sortof messy stream of conciousness thing that I am not terribly proud of. It feels disjointed and sloppy and incomplete. Maybe someday I'll come back and clean it up a little. idk. ugh. Anyways.
Truth was, his favorite mastabatory fantasy was an old one. Pretty much the same as it was when he was 13 and dropping crusty socks behind his headboard. Sure, he had others, but this particular one was a favorite, over the years it had evolved, in part due to his own experiences and as he grew, the faces changed - the body pressing against his routinely changed depending on the people he had met.
But one thing that had never changed, it had always been the body, the face, the cries; of a woman. Until recently. It had started with the slightly blurry face of a man he'd seen only from a distance. The make believe sensation of hard planes and strong hands. It startled him, the first time when he came harder than he had in a long time.
And as the chase increased he found he was just as attracted to the man's mind as he was his body. And then there were late night phone and he had his voice in his head, too. And then there was that incident with the sucker, a stupid move, an unnecessary risk. But when he took himself in his fist that nigh he came harder than he could remember, images crystal clear in his mind. The very idea that now this man, his agent, knew his face too, was maybe thinking of him too...
He was almost too happy to get caught. To feel his touch. Four years was a long time, but it wasn't the end. And during those years, it was Kate who sustained him, but Peter who fueled him.
It was Kate when he was lonely and craved soft and warmth and gentle. It was Kate when he was homesick for freedom and missed the smell of the ocean and the soft of freshly washed sheets.
It was Peter when he was angry or when e missed the chase. Missed the adrenaline of being wanted and hunted. When he needed rough and brilliant and someone stronger than him to bruise and take and apologize in bites and whispers.
And the two of the brought balance to prison, kept him sane without knowing it. Gave him something to look forward to every night. And he survived.
And now, all these years later and Kate is gone and he misses (missed) those comforting ideas of a home and a family and love. He thought he had lost them with that plane and for awhile that was ok.
Because that fantasy, that familiar thought wasn't the same anymore with her and he didn't deserve that comfort.
So it was Peter again, who would leave him with bruises he deserved and wouldn't stay the night and who would never lie to make him happy. He couldn't turn fantasy Peter into memories of Kate and he was glad.
But he had underestimated Peters ability to care. And when, against all odds, Peter hasn't fled when he'd confessed, he'd realized that he wasn't Kate. And he wasn't Alex. And he wasn't Sara. And that was a good thing because he was Peter. He didn't always get it right, he was sloppy with his affection and blushed and stuttered and planned and pulled away when those plans started falling apart. But then he was strong and capable and smart and always caught on when he needed to, even if it took him too long, sometimes.
He was gentler than he had spent time imagining. His hands big and rough and careful. His kisses soft and light and playful. He didn't fight for dominance like his fantasies made him expect. He gave control as often as he took it but mostly shared it and they were equals, always, and that was good. It was great, it was better. They had soft and careful and so tender that sometimes something ached in his chest like tears unshed and he had to bite at his lips to keep from spilling the truth of them.
And sometimes they had it rough and he had bruises from sharp edges of doors and walls and tables. He had a full set of purple fingerprints that ached when he pressed them, so he spent a whole day pressing, to remind himself of after. When Peter has seen them and traced them and looked sort of proud of them. How he'd pressed his lips to them and how he's brought those kisses up along his ribs and his shoulder and his neck. How He'd apologized for hurting him as he whispered those kisses over his eyelids and down his cheeks before capturing his lips. Even when he was rough and taking, he was always giving.
And Neal knew, without a doubt, what this was, what this meant; when he realized he hadn't used that fantasy in a long time. When he pulled it up from the depths of his mind and lost it over and over again as it was replaced with these new images he had, these real images.
Of Peter, who now felt more like home than Kate ever did. Who oozed comfort and safety and warmth. It was nights tucked between him and his wife, with their arms laced over his skin and this was love and he was home. And it wasn't anything like his fantasy, it was better.
Author: turtlebaby_02
Fandom: White Collar
Written For: MMOM 2013
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (OT3 if you catch it)
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 891
A/N: I'm late! Ah! Oh well. In before bed, which means I can personally count this as yesterday. lol. Also, this turned into some sortof messy stream of conciousness thing that I am not terribly proud of. It feels disjointed and sloppy and incomplete. Maybe someday I'll come back and clean it up a little. idk. ugh. Anyways.
Truth was, his favorite mastabatory fantasy was an old one. Pretty much the same as it was when he was 13 and dropping crusty socks behind his headboard. Sure, he had others, but this particular one was a favorite, over the years it had evolved, in part due to his own experiences and as he grew, the faces changed - the body pressing against his routinely changed depending on the people he had met.
But one thing that had never changed, it had always been the body, the face, the cries; of a woman. Until recently. It had started with the slightly blurry face of a man he'd seen only from a distance. The make believe sensation of hard planes and strong hands. It startled him, the first time when he came harder than he had in a long time.
And as the chase increased he found he was just as attracted to the man's mind as he was his body. And then there were late night phone and he had his voice in his head, too. And then there was that incident with the sucker, a stupid move, an unnecessary risk. But when he took himself in his fist that nigh he came harder than he could remember, images crystal clear in his mind. The very idea that now this man, his agent, knew his face too, was maybe thinking of him too...
He was almost too happy to get caught. To feel his touch. Four years was a long time, but it wasn't the end. And during those years, it was Kate who sustained him, but Peter who fueled him.
It was Kate when he was lonely and craved soft and warmth and gentle. It was Kate when he was homesick for freedom and missed the smell of the ocean and the soft of freshly washed sheets.
It was Peter when he was angry or when e missed the chase. Missed the adrenaline of being wanted and hunted. When he needed rough and brilliant and someone stronger than him to bruise and take and apologize in bites and whispers.
And the two of the brought balance to prison, kept him sane without knowing it. Gave him something to look forward to every night. And he survived.
And now, all these years later and Kate is gone and he misses (missed) those comforting ideas of a home and a family and love. He thought he had lost them with that plane and for awhile that was ok.
Because that fantasy, that familiar thought wasn't the same anymore with her and he didn't deserve that comfort.
So it was Peter again, who would leave him with bruises he deserved and wouldn't stay the night and who would never lie to make him happy. He couldn't turn fantasy Peter into memories of Kate and he was glad.
But he had underestimated Peters ability to care. And when, against all odds, Peter hasn't fled when he'd confessed, he'd realized that he wasn't Kate. And he wasn't Alex. And he wasn't Sara. And that was a good thing because he was Peter. He didn't always get it right, he was sloppy with his affection and blushed and stuttered and planned and pulled away when those plans started falling apart. But then he was strong and capable and smart and always caught on when he needed to, even if it took him too long, sometimes.
He was gentler than he had spent time imagining. His hands big and rough and careful. His kisses soft and light and playful. He didn't fight for dominance like his fantasies made him expect. He gave control as often as he took it but mostly shared it and they were equals, always, and that was good. It was great, it was better. They had soft and careful and so tender that sometimes something ached in his chest like tears unshed and he had to bite at his lips to keep from spilling the truth of them.
And sometimes they had it rough and he had bruises from sharp edges of doors and walls and tables. He had a full set of purple fingerprints that ached when he pressed them, so he spent a whole day pressing, to remind himself of after. When Peter has seen them and traced them and looked sort of proud of them. How he'd pressed his lips to them and how he's brought those kisses up along his ribs and his shoulder and his neck. How He'd apologized for hurting him as he whispered those kisses over his eyelids and down his cheeks before capturing his lips. Even when he was rough and taking, he was always giving.
And Neal knew, without a doubt, what this was, what this meant; when he realized he hadn't used that fantasy in a long time. When he pulled it up from the depths of his mind and lost it over and over again as it was replaced with these new images he had, these real images.
Of Peter, who now felt more like home than Kate ever did. Who oozed comfort and safety and warmth. It was nights tucked between him and his wife, with their arms laced over his skin and this was love and he was home. And it wasn't anything like his fantasy, it was better.