elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2012-04-19 07:11 pm
elrhiarhodan) wrote2012-04-19 07:11 pm
White Collar Fic: Après - Cheekbone City II
Title: Après
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Corset!Kink, Kilt!Kink, Breath!Play, Mirror!Play
Word Count: ~2000
Beta:coffeethyme4me
Summary: Peter and Neal have to leave the ballroom, lest they embarrass themselves.
A/N: Direct sequel to Cheekbone City, written at the request of my dearestcoffeethyme4me. You kind of have to read that one to know what's going on here. Still part of the Vinegar Hill Continuum.
__________________
They were standing there, both of them trying not to sport wood. Neal was more successful, or maybe it was just the very full skirt hiding his erection. Peter worried that that his sporran would poke out at a very awkward angle, very soon, if this continued.
“Wanna get out of here?” Neal whispered as he leaned into him. Peter got a whiff of his cologne, mixed with something else, something familiar. He looked at Neal, so close, took a deep breath, and figured out what it is - the scent of face powder. The two odors mingled pleasantly and were joined by a third note - Neal's own personal musk.
“Yeah.” His concurrence was little more than a breathy exhalation. Neal grinned, and Peter felt like he was punched in the gut. For as long as he’d known Neal, he never seen him as androgynous. There was never any question that Neal – despite his beauty – was anything but a man. Yet now, with the make up, as restrained as it was, Neal was something other. Not truly feminine – his features were too strong, too pronounced – but no longer completely masculine, either. And it was this dichotomy that was unbearably arousing.
“Come on.” Neal walked towards an exit, and Peter felt like a damn dog chasing after a bitch in heat. Neal’s pace was slow, probably due to the high heels he was wearing, his hips swayed – he actually sashayed (and Peter couldn’t believe he remembered that old-fashioned term). By the time they made it to the bank of elevators, Peter was thoroughly embarrassed, he hadn’t been this visibly, this publicly aroused since, well, the first time Neal came downstairs in the Devore and that hat. At least he was wearing a raincoat and loose pants that day.
Neal glanced back at him, a small and knowing smile on his lips. It took all of his willpower not to press Neal up against the wall and …
The elevator chimed and Peter followed Neal like that damned dog, only vaguely registering that they were going up, not down. There was an elderly couple in the car, and the woman took one look at the both of them and sniffed. The elevator stopped and Neal got off, standing there, waiting like some improbable runway model. Peter moved with a little difficulty, trying for nonchalance in the face of a massive boner and failing miserably.
Neal, that bastard, just chuckled.
The corridor was quiet, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. Neal stopped at Room 612, reached into his clutch and took out a key card. The click of the lock disengaging was loud – almost as loud as his heartbeat. Neal pushed the door opened, stepped inside and Peter all but attacked him. The big brimmed hat fell to the floor, along with that silly clutch purse.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” He ravaged Neal’s lips, not even giving him a chance, the breath, to answer. But when he started pulling at the gown, Neal pushed him away.
“No – wait.”
“If you don’t want me to rip it off of you, strip. Now.”
Neal’s smile was pure sin, pure evil. He put a finger against his teeth and started pulling the gloves off.
“No – just the dress. Take off nothing but the dress.” Was that really his voice?
He watched Neal struggle with the hooks and buttons and zipper, but made no move to help. If he put so much as a finger on Neal, he’d rip the dress off him like so much tissue paper. Finally, finally, the black velvet pooled at Neal’s feet. He stepped out of it, picked it up and tossed it on the chair. There was something unbelievable, fantastical – miraculous about Neal standing there in a corset and yards of petticoats – those had to go too, although the thought of taking Neal with them tossed above his waist, like some Victorian heroine, was tempting.
Maybe later.
He waved a hand. “Those too.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Neal turned his back, giving him a show as his long, glove-encased arms reached around and undid the button. The material fell to the floor with a delicate whoosh. It soon joined the dress. Without instruction, Neal also took off the pearl necklace – it would only get in the way.
“What next?” Neal stood there, hands on his hips, those incredible legs spread, his cock so erect that the head touched the lower end of that fucking corset. Peter once wondered had if there was anything more arousing than Neal in all his naked glory (though there was that time, in the Taurus, with his pants undone and his cock erupting from his fly). But this was the definition of erotic. Some insane part of his brain suggested preserving the pose for all eternity, but sanity (and the years of discretion) warned him not to.
Instead, Peter stalked Neal. Not to the bed, but to dresser and its big mirror. His voice was harsh, guttural. “Bend over. I want to watch your face as I fuck your ass.” Even in the low light, he could see the flush of arousal in Neal, the pulse in his throat as he swallowed. There was no hint of a smile as he turned around and obeyed. Neal braced his arms against the end of the furniture, balanced on those high heels and pushed his ass out.
Peter stroked Neal, from chest to hips, along the entire length of the corset. He marveled at how tiny Neal’s waist was – he could span it with his hands. He swept his hands upwards, cupping Neal’s chest, a dichotomy of flat plans and hard muscles after the narrowness below. The edge of the corset was just below his nipples, which were puckered from desire.
Peter pinched them hard and Neal gasped. He pinched them again and Neal moaned. Peter watched his face in the mirror, desire sharpening his features, and he was struck through the heart.
Neal tilted his head back, and Peter’s hard-won control slipped. He kissed Neal at the nape of his neck, lingered for a moment on the sweet spot behind his ear before drifting down to the point where the neck meets the shoulder. He didn’t kiss him again – there was no preamble, no warning when he bit down.
Neal screamed and shoved back against him, his bare ass connecting with the formal sporran. Peter didn’t have the patience to unclasp it, a hard yank broke the chain and he tossed it aside. The kilt was easier to deal with; he just pulled it up and out of the way, shoving the extra material into the waistband.
“Damn – need lube.”
And Neal laughed. Low, breathy and seductive – like some femme fatal from an old movie. “Don’t need – already taken care of.”
Peter swept his fingers between Neal’s cheeks, they came away slick. “You – you…” He was speechless. He pushed his cock against that smooth pucker, and pressed again. Neal may have lubed himself, but he didn’t do anything else. In his darkest, dirtiest, most degenerate fantasies, this was just the way Peter liked it. He gathered himself in a deep, shuddering breath and pressed forward, pushing and pushing, burrowing deep without pause.
He took Neal, there was no other word for it. Like a marauder, a pirate, a thief. His hands were steady, hard on Neal’s ass, spreading those cheeks. He watched himself sink into Neal. All of the sensations in the universe where at this point – there was no feeling anywhere else in his body as his cock burrowed deep, all the way until his sweaty pubes rested against Neal’s ass and their balls kissed.
Neal whined a single word, “Fuck.”
Peter’s hands moved from Neal’s ass to his cinched-in waist, and he pulled out, just a bit, and pushed back in. The physical sensation was indescribable – heat and tightness, the slickness of the lube. And almost unbearable was the novel feeling of Neal’s stocking-encased legs against his own and the hot velvet under his hands.
One stroke, and another, and a third – this time almost all the way out. Neal whined again, the words indistinguishable over the thump of his heart. Once more, and again and Peter was lost, the orgasm ripped from his very molecules.
Neal came at the next heartbeat, the muscles in his ass clamping down, pulling even more pleasure from him.
Peter collapsed on top of Neal, on top of the bureau. Neal whimpered, then gasped. “Please – can’t … breathe.”
He pulled out, withdrawing was a special, delicious agony, and he watched his come trickle out of Neal’s hole, seeping into the tops of his stocking. Neal stayed sprawled across the dresser, his still-gloved hands clinging to the far edge.
Peter watched Neal in the mirror. He was wrecked. It wasn’t that his makeup was smeared – far from it – it was the expression on his face. The open, naked vulnerability.
“You trust me.” It wasn’t a question.
“In this, in everything that matters.”
“Do you love me?” Peter didn’t know why he had to ask, particularly now. They hadn’t needed that word between them for years.
“More that you’ll ever know.” Neal bit his lip and their eyes met in the mirror. “Do – do you love me, Peter?”
Peter understood how fraught that question was, and even though Neal should never have cause to doubt it, sometimes – at his most vulnerable – he did. Peter wrapped his arms around Neal’s waist, drawing him up to his chest as he leaned over him. For just a moment, Peter rested his cheek against the bare, sweat-dampened skin, and kissed Neal over the blooming bruise and teeth marks. “I love you, Neal Caffrey – no matter who or what you are. Never, ever doubt that.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A swift, sharp tug and the corset strings untied. Neal held his breath for a moment more as Peter’s fingers loosened them. Finally, he could breathe. And yet, he almost missed the constriction, the bindings.
Peter turned him around and pulled the corset completely away from his body. The cool air against his skin was welcomed, although it raised goosebumps along his spin. Neal smiled at the image Peter presented – still in his formalwear. The perfect gentleman above the waist, despite the slightly askew bow tie. Below, that was another matter altogether.
His amusement fled as Peter knelt as his feet, easing them out of the high heels and then pulling off the stocking and garter belt. Neal ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, across his brow and lingering on his cheek. He could feel Peter smile, before he grasped his hand and pulled off the gloves, his last bit of attire.
“Stand up.”
“Oh, it’s time for you to give orders?”
Neal ignored that little bit of snark and pulled Peter to his feet. “Let me take care you, it’s your turn now.” He fumbled a bit with the shirt studs and the buckles on the kilt, but it didn’t take long for Peter to end up as naked as he was.
They showered, taking turns washing each other, or mostly Peter taking care of him. Neal was boneless by the time Peter finished, paying special attention to the pressure marks left by the corset, cleaning off the makeup, washing his hair.
They were bundled up in the hotel’s famously plush terrycloth robes and relaxing on the bed. Peter was spooned behind him, a heavy arm draped across his waist, keeping him anchored. Neal took a shallow breath, and then a deeper one. It was strange, but his skin – the area covered by the corset – was ultrasensitive. He moved Peter’s hand so it rested on bare skin.
“Hmmm.”
“Sleepy, old man?” That was always bound to get a reaction, without fail.
Peter rocked his hips, more a Pavlovian response than any serious intention. “No – just resting my eyes, and thinking.”
Neal pushed back, but didn’t get a response. “About what?”
“How to introduce you to the Friday night game.”
He was confused. “What?”
“You won the bet.”
Neal was still confused, but the light finally dawned. And he had to be honest – at least in this. “I don’t think I won, really.” He rolled over, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder, enjoying the simple closeness of his embrace after their complex sexual games. “Or maybe I did win, too.”
He could feel Peter’s smile, the joy in his slow, steady heartbeat. “Does it matter?”
“Not unless you want to forfeit another set of Yankees tickets?”
“No – not really. And how does a week from Friday sound?”
“Fine with me.” Neal slipped his hand into Peter’s robe. Skin to skin really was better. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, tired, satiated, happy.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Corset!Kink, Kilt!Kink, Breath!Play, Mirror!Play
Word Count: ~2000
Beta:
coffeethyme4meSummary: Peter and Neal have to leave the ballroom, lest they embarrass themselves.
A/N: Direct sequel to Cheekbone City, written at the request of my dearest
coffeethyme4me. You kind of have to read that one to know what's going on here. Still part of the Vinegar Hill Continuum.They were standing there, both of them trying not to sport wood. Neal was more successful, or maybe it was just the very full skirt hiding his erection. Peter worried that that his sporran would poke out at a very awkward angle, very soon, if this continued.
“Wanna get out of here?” Neal whispered as he leaned into him. Peter got a whiff of his cologne, mixed with something else, something familiar. He looked at Neal, so close, took a deep breath, and figured out what it is - the scent of face powder. The two odors mingled pleasantly and were joined by a third note - Neal's own personal musk.
“Yeah.” His concurrence was little more than a breathy exhalation. Neal grinned, and Peter felt like he was punched in the gut. For as long as he’d known Neal, he never seen him as androgynous. There was never any question that Neal – despite his beauty – was anything but a man. Yet now, with the make up, as restrained as it was, Neal was something other. Not truly feminine – his features were too strong, too pronounced – but no longer completely masculine, either. And it was this dichotomy that was unbearably arousing.
“Come on.” Neal walked towards an exit, and Peter felt like a damn dog chasing after a bitch in heat. Neal’s pace was slow, probably due to the high heels he was wearing, his hips swayed – he actually sashayed (and Peter couldn’t believe he remembered that old-fashioned term). By the time they made it to the bank of elevators, Peter was thoroughly embarrassed, he hadn’t been this visibly, this publicly aroused since, well, the first time Neal came downstairs in the Devore and that hat. At least he was wearing a raincoat and loose pants that day.
Neal glanced back at him, a small and knowing smile on his lips. It took all of his willpower not to press Neal up against the wall and …
The elevator chimed and Peter followed Neal like that damned dog, only vaguely registering that they were going up, not down. There was an elderly couple in the car, and the woman took one look at the both of them and sniffed. The elevator stopped and Neal got off, standing there, waiting like some improbable runway model. Peter moved with a little difficulty, trying for nonchalance in the face of a massive boner and failing miserably.
Neal, that bastard, just chuckled.
The corridor was quiet, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. Neal stopped at Room 612, reached into his clutch and took out a key card. The click of the lock disengaging was loud – almost as loud as his heartbeat. Neal pushed the door opened, stepped inside and Peter all but attacked him. The big brimmed hat fell to the floor, along with that silly clutch purse.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” He ravaged Neal’s lips, not even giving him a chance, the breath, to answer. But when he started pulling at the gown, Neal pushed him away.
“No – wait.”
“If you don’t want me to rip it off of you, strip. Now.”
Neal’s smile was pure sin, pure evil. He put a finger against his teeth and started pulling the gloves off.
“No – just the dress. Take off nothing but the dress.” Was that really his voice?
He watched Neal struggle with the hooks and buttons and zipper, but made no move to help. If he put so much as a finger on Neal, he’d rip the dress off him like so much tissue paper. Finally, finally, the black velvet pooled at Neal’s feet. He stepped out of it, picked it up and tossed it on the chair. There was something unbelievable, fantastical – miraculous about Neal standing there in a corset and yards of petticoats – those had to go too, although the thought of taking Neal with them tossed above his waist, like some Victorian heroine, was tempting.
Maybe later.
He waved a hand. “Those too.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Neal turned his back, giving him a show as his long, glove-encased arms reached around and undid the button. The material fell to the floor with a delicate whoosh. It soon joined the dress. Without instruction, Neal also took off the pearl necklace – it would only get in the way.
“What next?” Neal stood there, hands on his hips, those incredible legs spread, his cock so erect that the head touched the lower end of that fucking corset. Peter once wondered had if there was anything more arousing than Neal in all his naked glory (though there was that time, in the Taurus, with his pants undone and his cock erupting from his fly). But this was the definition of erotic. Some insane part of his brain suggested preserving the pose for all eternity, but sanity (and the years of discretion) warned him not to.
Instead, Peter stalked Neal. Not to the bed, but to dresser and its big mirror. His voice was harsh, guttural. “Bend over. I want to watch your face as I fuck your ass.” Even in the low light, he could see the flush of arousal in Neal, the pulse in his throat as he swallowed. There was no hint of a smile as he turned around and obeyed. Neal braced his arms against the end of the furniture, balanced on those high heels and pushed his ass out.
Peter stroked Neal, from chest to hips, along the entire length of the corset. He marveled at how tiny Neal’s waist was – he could span it with his hands. He swept his hands upwards, cupping Neal’s chest, a dichotomy of flat plans and hard muscles after the narrowness below. The edge of the corset was just below his nipples, which were puckered from desire.
Peter pinched them hard and Neal gasped. He pinched them again and Neal moaned. Peter watched his face in the mirror, desire sharpening his features, and he was struck through the heart.
Neal tilted his head back, and Peter’s hard-won control slipped. He kissed Neal at the nape of his neck, lingered for a moment on the sweet spot behind his ear before drifting down to the point where the neck meets the shoulder. He didn’t kiss him again – there was no preamble, no warning when he bit down.
Neal screamed and shoved back against him, his bare ass connecting with the formal sporran. Peter didn’t have the patience to unclasp it, a hard yank broke the chain and he tossed it aside. The kilt was easier to deal with; he just pulled it up and out of the way, shoving the extra material into the waistband.
“Damn – need lube.”
And Neal laughed. Low, breathy and seductive – like some femme fatal from an old movie. “Don’t need – already taken care of.”
Peter swept his fingers between Neal’s cheeks, they came away slick. “You – you…” He was speechless. He pushed his cock against that smooth pucker, and pressed again. Neal may have lubed himself, but he didn’t do anything else. In his darkest, dirtiest, most degenerate fantasies, this was just the way Peter liked it. He gathered himself in a deep, shuddering breath and pressed forward, pushing and pushing, burrowing deep without pause.
He took Neal, there was no other word for it. Like a marauder, a pirate, a thief. His hands were steady, hard on Neal’s ass, spreading those cheeks. He watched himself sink into Neal. All of the sensations in the universe where at this point – there was no feeling anywhere else in his body as his cock burrowed deep, all the way until his sweaty pubes rested against Neal’s ass and their balls kissed.
Neal whined a single word, “Fuck.”
Peter’s hands moved from Neal’s ass to his cinched-in waist, and he pulled out, just a bit, and pushed back in. The physical sensation was indescribable – heat and tightness, the slickness of the lube. And almost unbearable was the novel feeling of Neal’s stocking-encased legs against his own and the hot velvet under his hands.
One stroke, and another, and a third – this time almost all the way out. Neal whined again, the words indistinguishable over the thump of his heart. Once more, and again and Peter was lost, the orgasm ripped from his very molecules.
Neal came at the next heartbeat, the muscles in his ass clamping down, pulling even more pleasure from him.
Peter collapsed on top of Neal, on top of the bureau. Neal whimpered, then gasped. “Please – can’t … breathe.”
He pulled out, withdrawing was a special, delicious agony, and he watched his come trickle out of Neal’s hole, seeping into the tops of his stocking. Neal stayed sprawled across the dresser, his still-gloved hands clinging to the far edge.
Peter watched Neal in the mirror. He was wrecked. It wasn’t that his makeup was smeared – far from it – it was the expression on his face. The open, naked vulnerability.
“You trust me.” It wasn’t a question.
“In this, in everything that matters.”
“Do you love me?” Peter didn’t know why he had to ask, particularly now. They hadn’t needed that word between them for years.
“More that you’ll ever know.” Neal bit his lip and their eyes met in the mirror. “Do – do you love me, Peter?”
Peter understood how fraught that question was, and even though Neal should never have cause to doubt it, sometimes – at his most vulnerable – he did. Peter wrapped his arms around Neal’s waist, drawing him up to his chest as he leaned over him. For just a moment, Peter rested his cheek against the bare, sweat-dampened skin, and kissed Neal over the blooming bruise and teeth marks. “I love you, Neal Caffrey – no matter who or what you are. Never, ever doubt that.”
A swift, sharp tug and the corset strings untied. Neal held his breath for a moment more as Peter’s fingers loosened them. Finally, he could breathe. And yet, he almost missed the constriction, the bindings.
Peter turned him around and pulled the corset completely away from his body. The cool air against his skin was welcomed, although it raised goosebumps along his spin. Neal smiled at the image Peter presented – still in his formalwear. The perfect gentleman above the waist, despite the slightly askew bow tie. Below, that was another matter altogether.
His amusement fled as Peter knelt as his feet, easing them out of the high heels and then pulling off the stocking and garter belt. Neal ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, across his brow and lingering on his cheek. He could feel Peter smile, before he grasped his hand and pulled off the gloves, his last bit of attire.
“Stand up.”
“Oh, it’s time for you to give orders?”
Neal ignored that little bit of snark and pulled Peter to his feet. “Let me take care you, it’s your turn now.” He fumbled a bit with the shirt studs and the buckles on the kilt, but it didn’t take long for Peter to end up as naked as he was.
They showered, taking turns washing each other, or mostly Peter taking care of him. Neal was boneless by the time Peter finished, paying special attention to the pressure marks left by the corset, cleaning off the makeup, washing his hair.
They were bundled up in the hotel’s famously plush terrycloth robes and relaxing on the bed. Peter was spooned behind him, a heavy arm draped across his waist, keeping him anchored. Neal took a shallow breath, and then a deeper one. It was strange, but his skin – the area covered by the corset – was ultrasensitive. He moved Peter’s hand so it rested on bare skin.
“Hmmm.”
“Sleepy, old man?” That was always bound to get a reaction, without fail.
Peter rocked his hips, more a Pavlovian response than any serious intention. “No – just resting my eyes, and thinking.”
Neal pushed back, but didn’t get a response. “About what?”
“How to introduce you to the Friday night game.”
He was confused. “What?”
“You won the bet.”
Neal was still confused, but the light finally dawned. And he had to be honest – at least in this. “I don’t think I won, really.” He rolled over, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder, enjoying the simple closeness of his embrace after their complex sexual games. “Or maybe I did win, too.”
He could feel Peter’s smile, the joy in his slow, steady heartbeat. “Does it matter?”
“Not unless you want to forfeit another set of Yankees tickets?”
“No – not really. And how does a week from Friday sound?”
“Fine with me.” Neal slipped his hand into Peter’s robe. Skin to skin really was better. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, tired, satiated, happy.