White Collar Fic - Skyrockets in Flight
Jan. 3rd, 2011 01:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Skyrockets in Flight
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing:Peter/Elizabeth, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers/Episode Reference: None.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers:Marital Sex in the Afternoon
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Elizabeth Loses More than Her Panties.
______________
It’s mid-afternoon on Saturday, and his wife is getting ready for a meeting.
"Honey - have you seen a blue folder?" Elizabeth calls down from upstairs.
Peter looks across the dining room table. It's filled with blue folders, all of them stamped "FBI". He sighs.
"Honey, what shade of blue?" Most of the FBI folders are medium to light blue. Hopefully El's missing folder is another color.
"Light blue. It has the proposal for the Walker Gallery in it."
Crap. Peter starts shifting through the folders. This is not going to be good. He is in the middle of deposition prep, and his files are organized properly. It isn't likely that of El's got mixed in, but since they were both working in the dining room all day yesterday, anything could be possible.
After lifting up and opening every folder, Peter calls back upstairs, "No, El - I don't have your file with the Walker Gallery proposal. Can't you just reprint it?"
Her slightly panicked reply is muffled by the sound of her feet pounding down the stairs. "I need that file. It has my notes from last night's meeting. And I have a follow-up with them in an hour!"
El is partially dressed in a deep burgundy suit. Her hair is up in a complicated twist and she has on her shoes and skirt, but the only thing she is wearing above the waist is a black lace bra. Peter finds himself highly distracted by his wife's cleavage and the long length of her neck.
She looks around the room, and her eyes narrow on the neatly piled pale blue FBI folders on the dining room table. As she reaches for them, Peter blocks her with the deftness of an All-Star center. “No you don’t. I’ve gone through all of them. Your folder is not here.”
El tries to grab some of Peter’s precious folders, leaning across his body. “Have you looked in all of them?” She struggles a little, and Peter puts his hands around her waist, enjoying the soft skin covering her delicately muscled torso. He swings her around and onto his lap. Despite her urgent meeting, she hikes her skirt up and straddles his legs in a single, graceful maneuver. Peter grins salaciously.
“You seem to be missing something, honey.” He doesn’t bother to point out that what she’s missing is her panties.
El ignores him, her hands are busy at his flies and her lips are working at his neck, his jaw, the sensitive spot just below his earlobe, the mole at the base of his throat.
He rocks his hips out of the chair as she drags his cock out, her thumbs working against the rapidly hardening flesh.
“Honey…”
She finally answers him, “What?”
“Is this what you’re looking for?” He lifts her up and then impales her on his cock. She squeals in pleasure and it’s his turn to torment.
While the dining room chair is comfortable for long dinners, it’s not the best surface for sex, and Peter has enough presence of mind not to toss his wife down on the table and scatter all of his files.
He carries her, her legs wrapped around his hips, over to the couch and he somehow manages to sit down without disengaging from El’s hot, wet cunt. She leans over him, whispering dirty, filthy things to him, how she’s like to tie him up and spank him until he cries, her big, bad FBI agent husband, how she’d like to take a crop to him, maybe mark his chest, his back, his thighs so that every time he moves, he feels what she’s done to him. He laughs, low and sexy and tells her that he loves her ass – it’s a perfect peach with a nice, deep split, just right for his cock, and he knows how much she likes his cock there, drilling her deep, so that he can feel her heart beat with his cock.
She rides him like an obscene circus pony and he tangles his hands in the lacy suspenders of her garter belt and she doesn’t care that the couch’s fabric has snagged her hosiery and her stockings now have run at the knees. She doesn’t mind when he flips her over and pulls out, then puts her on her hands and knees and he stuffs himself back into her, pounding at her with devastating finesse, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. His hands, hard and sure, lift her breasts out of her bra, the edges of his thumbs scraping and worrying her nipples. She keens at the sensation, and shoves herself back up against Peter, coming hard. He follows, biting down on her shoulder – and despite his passion, he’s still careful not to bruise her, or not so hard to cause any truly lasting pain.
They stay like that, linked by love and a mutual hunger for each other that has barely diminished in a dozen years of marriage.
Peter gently pulls out of her, and she shivers at the aftershocks of sensation. Elizabeth stretches and spots something on the floor, next to the couch. A pale blue folder - the one filled with her notes for the Walker Gallery Proposal.
Who would have thought that a little afternoon delight could be so serendipitous?
FIN
Originally written as a fill for a prompt fromsurreal_44, Elizabeth - Proposal, for Promptfest IV
Author:
elrhiarhodanRating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing:Peter/Elizabeth, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers/Episode Reference: None.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers:Marital Sex in the Afternoon
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Elizabeth Loses More than Her Panties.
It’s mid-afternoon on Saturday, and his wife is getting ready for a meeting.
"Honey - have you seen a blue folder?" Elizabeth calls down from upstairs.
Peter looks across the dining room table. It's filled with blue folders, all of them stamped "FBI". He sighs.
"Honey, what shade of blue?" Most of the FBI folders are medium to light blue. Hopefully El's missing folder is another color.
"Light blue. It has the proposal for the Walker Gallery in it."
Crap. Peter starts shifting through the folders. This is not going to be good. He is in the middle of deposition prep, and his files are organized properly. It isn't likely that of El's got mixed in, but since they were both working in the dining room all day yesterday, anything could be possible.
After lifting up and opening every folder, Peter calls back upstairs, "No, El - I don't have your file with the Walker Gallery proposal. Can't you just reprint it?"
Her slightly panicked reply is muffled by the sound of her feet pounding down the stairs. "I need that file. It has my notes from last night's meeting. And I have a follow-up with them in an hour!"
El is partially dressed in a deep burgundy suit. Her hair is up in a complicated twist and she has on her shoes and skirt, but the only thing she is wearing above the waist is a black lace bra. Peter finds himself highly distracted by his wife's cleavage and the long length of her neck.
She looks around the room, and her eyes narrow on the neatly piled pale blue FBI folders on the dining room table. As she reaches for them, Peter blocks her with the deftness of an All-Star center. “No you don’t. I’ve gone through all of them. Your folder is not here.”
El tries to grab some of Peter’s precious folders, leaning across his body. “Have you looked in all of them?” She struggles a little, and Peter puts his hands around her waist, enjoying the soft skin covering her delicately muscled torso. He swings her around and onto his lap. Despite her urgent meeting, she hikes her skirt up and straddles his legs in a single, graceful maneuver. Peter grins salaciously.
“You seem to be missing something, honey.” He doesn’t bother to point out that what she’s missing is her panties.
El ignores him, her hands are busy at his flies and her lips are working at his neck, his jaw, the sensitive spot just below his earlobe, the mole at the base of his throat.
He rocks his hips out of the chair as she drags his cock out, her thumbs working against the rapidly hardening flesh.
“Honey…”
She finally answers him, “What?”
“Is this what you’re looking for?” He lifts her up and then impales her on his cock. She squeals in pleasure and it’s his turn to torment.
While the dining room chair is comfortable for long dinners, it’s not the best surface for sex, and Peter has enough presence of mind not to toss his wife down on the table and scatter all of his files.
He carries her, her legs wrapped around his hips, over to the couch and he somehow manages to sit down without disengaging from El’s hot, wet cunt. She leans over him, whispering dirty, filthy things to him, how she’s like to tie him up and spank him until he cries, her big, bad FBI agent husband, how she’d like to take a crop to him, maybe mark his chest, his back, his thighs so that every time he moves, he feels what she’s done to him. He laughs, low and sexy and tells her that he loves her ass – it’s a perfect peach with a nice, deep split, just right for his cock, and he knows how much she likes his cock there, drilling her deep, so that he can feel her heart beat with his cock.
She rides him like an obscene circus pony and he tangles his hands in the lacy suspenders of her garter belt and she doesn’t care that the couch’s fabric has snagged her hosiery and her stockings now have run at the knees. She doesn’t mind when he flips her over and pulls out, then puts her on her hands and knees and he stuffs himself back into her, pounding at her with devastating finesse, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. His hands, hard and sure, lift her breasts out of her bra, the edges of his thumbs scraping and worrying her nipples. She keens at the sensation, and shoves herself back up against Peter, coming hard. He follows, biting down on her shoulder – and despite his passion, he’s still careful not to bruise her, or not so hard to cause any truly lasting pain.
They stay like that, linked by love and a mutual hunger for each other that has barely diminished in a dozen years of marriage.
Peter gently pulls out of her, and she shivers at the aftershocks of sensation. Elizabeth stretches and spots something on the floor, next to the couch. A pale blue folder - the one filled with her notes for the Walker Gallery Proposal.
Who would have thought that a little afternoon delight could be so serendipitous?
Originally written as a fill for a prompt from
surreal_44, Elizabeth - Proposal, for Promptfest IV
