White Collar Fic - My Lover's Hands
Sep. 19th, 2011 01:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: My Lover’s Hands
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Neal/Peter
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~750
Summary: First person stream of consciousness – Neal contemplates his lover’s touch and what it means.
A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for my dearest friend,rabidchild67 for her birthday (yesterday). Also fills my Mirrors/Doubles square for Kink Bingo.
__________________
My lover’s hands are not beautiful. My lover’s hands are rough. They are hard. My lover’s hands have fingers with calluses and short, cracked nails. My lover’s hands are not beautiful.
My lover’s hands are strong. They are hard. Like forged iron or tempered steel, strengthened through trial and hard use. They hold me back when I would run into the fire.
My lover’s hands, unlovely and strong, are yet so gentle. They cup my cheek and brush away my tears. They touch me and find my soul. My lover’s hands gather me to him, broken and stained. They keep me still and steady as the water washes me clean.
My lover’s hands are not beautiful, but they keep me safe.
I trust my lover, I trust him in ways I’ve never allowed myself to trust anyone. The trust is not absolute, it never can be. But it is enough.
My lover is true and kind and wise, and he makes me want to give him more, always more. He never asks me to submit, but he makes me want to. And what is submission but the ultimate act of trust?
My lover strips me. He removes my clothes as if they are armor, as if he is my squire. In serving me, he lets me know he trusts me too.
And so the circle closes.
My lover runs his hands over my body, I shiver with desire. Those hands, so hard and strong, define me. They ground me in the reality of the here and now. Touching me, making me want; making me understand his want, his need.
There is power between us. My lover and me. Sometimes I think there is power to change the world, to recreate the universe if we wanted to. My lover’s hands, they touch me and I think of all the hands in the world – the ones that have touched me without regard, without love. My lover’s hands touch me again and I forget.
I can lose myself in my lover’s hands. He touches me and I exist just for him. But he doesn’t want that – he wants the best for me. He wants me to be as strong as he is. He wants me to be his equal, because his strength does not depend on the weakness of others.
He holds me and whispers of his love and devotion, all he asks of me is my loyalty. He lets me go and I can never leave.
I give him my own hands and he binds them, with love and strength and power. There is no need to bow my head. My consent is given without a word and he turns me to face the mirror. I am quiet as my lover’s hands tilt my chin up and our eyes meet.
My lover touches me. He makes me lean back, rest my head on his shoulders. He cups my cheek and toys with my late day beard. My lover is a smooth man, but he is a man and I roll my head, feeling the light, rough texture of his cheek against my forehead.
My lover’s beauty is not a common thing, not like mine. He doesn’t need symmetry and sharp angles. My lover’s beauty comes from his smile, the way his eyes light up when he sees me. My lover’s beauty is all power and grace and I revel in it.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and I know what my lover wants – a small transformation. He wants to remake me – if just for a few hours.
The long blade gleams in my lover’s hands. It is a deadly thing. My lover knows how to use it – he can end my life and I would not object. It would be swift and painless, the merest passing gesture. But my lover, for all his strength, is not a danger to me – or at least to my existence in this world.
And even if he was, I would still be here, my head leaning back on his shoulder, throat bared, awaiting that first long draw of the edge against my skin.
I don’t watch the blade as it transforms me. It holds no interest. I watch my lover’s hands in the mirror, with their rough skin, their calluses and their short, cracked nails.
My lover’s hands are beautiful.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Neal/Peter
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~750
Summary: First person stream of consciousness – Neal contemplates his lover’s touch and what it means.
A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for my dearest friend,
rabidchild67 for her birthday (yesterday). Also fills my Mirrors/Doubles square for Kink Bingo.My lover’s hands are not beautiful. My lover’s hands are rough. They are hard. My lover’s hands have fingers with calluses and short, cracked nails. My lover’s hands are not beautiful.
My lover’s hands are strong. They are hard. Like forged iron or tempered steel, strengthened through trial and hard use. They hold me back when I would run into the fire.
My lover’s hands, unlovely and strong, are yet so gentle. They cup my cheek and brush away my tears. They touch me and find my soul. My lover’s hands gather me to him, broken and stained. They keep me still and steady as the water washes me clean.
My lover’s hands are not beautiful, but they keep me safe.
I trust my lover, I trust him in ways I’ve never allowed myself to trust anyone. The trust is not absolute, it never can be. But it is enough.
My lover is true and kind and wise, and he makes me want to give him more, always more. He never asks me to submit, but he makes me want to. And what is submission but the ultimate act of trust?
My lover strips me. He removes my clothes as if they are armor, as if he is my squire. In serving me, he lets me know he trusts me too.
And so the circle closes.
My lover runs his hands over my body, I shiver with desire. Those hands, so hard and strong, define me. They ground me in the reality of the here and now. Touching me, making me want; making me understand his want, his need.
There is power between us. My lover and me. Sometimes I think there is power to change the world, to recreate the universe if we wanted to. My lover’s hands, they touch me and I think of all the hands in the world – the ones that have touched me without regard, without love. My lover’s hands touch me again and I forget.
I can lose myself in my lover’s hands. He touches me and I exist just for him. But he doesn’t want that – he wants the best for me. He wants me to be as strong as he is. He wants me to be his equal, because his strength does not depend on the weakness of others.
He holds me and whispers of his love and devotion, all he asks of me is my loyalty. He lets me go and I can never leave.
I give him my own hands and he binds them, with love and strength and power. There is no need to bow my head. My consent is given without a word and he turns me to face the mirror. I am quiet as my lover’s hands tilt my chin up and our eyes meet.
My lover touches me. He makes me lean back, rest my head on his shoulders. He cups my cheek and toys with my late day beard. My lover is a smooth man, but he is a man and I roll my head, feeling the light, rough texture of his cheek against my forehead.
My lover’s beauty is not a common thing, not like mine. He doesn’t need symmetry and sharp angles. My lover’s beauty comes from his smile, the way his eyes light up when he sees me. My lover’s beauty is all power and grace and I revel in it.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and I know what my lover wants – a small transformation. He wants to remake me – if just for a few hours.
The long blade gleams in my lover’s hands. It is a deadly thing. My lover knows how to use it – he can end my life and I would not object. It would be swift and painless, the merest passing gesture. But my lover, for all his strength, is not a danger to me – or at least to my existence in this world.
And even if he was, I would still be here, my head leaning back on his shoulder, throat bared, awaiting that first long draw of the edge against my skin.
I don’t watch the blade as it transforms me. It holds no interest. I watch my lover’s hands in the mirror, with their rough skin, their calluses and their short, cracked nails.
My lover’s hands are beautiful.
