A/N: Okay, officially, I am tired. It's three in the morning, but I really want to get this posted, so this author's note will be short. I adore White Collar and slantedwonders has officially corrupted my mind. This fic is really dedicated to her, since the other day we were talking about the fact that there are certain things that are so incredibly sexy when Neal does them. Thus, an idea was born. Enjoy, and please excuse any mistakes!
Disclaimer: Not mine, and brain refuses to come up with anything witty to say.
Warnings: This is Peter/Neal slash (with hints at the end of potential Peter/Neal/Elizabeth), so don't read it if you don't like it. This is also the closest thing to smut that I write, and I'm not very good at it, so...(shrug). I suppose there are also warnings for light bondage, so don't read it if it upsets you.
Kink
There are certain things that Neal Caffrey does that Peter Burke finds incredibly erotic. In itself this is not necessarily a problem. He doesn't try to deny that Neal is an attractive man—if he's honest with himself he knows that Neal is beautiful—and he has never quite accepted the idea that one has to choose a gender to be attracted to (or rather, he accepted it, then he met El and she changed his whole perspective on a lot of things he thought he knew). So the attraction is not necessarily a problem.
What is a problem is the fact that those little things Neal does—those things that drive him crazy, absolutely out of his mind—happen to fall under Peter's mental category of: 'criminal acts'.
What the hell kind of FBI agent is turned on by watching someone commit a crime?
Of course, it's not that Neal is actually committing the crimes; it's just that he's using those skills, the ones that got him in trouble. But still, Peter knows that he has used those skills to commit crimes. And that knowledge just turns him on even more.
When Neal takes his pen and forges his signature, copying the letters of his name with precision and ending with a typical Neal Caffrey flourish, Peter just wants to bend Neal over the desk and show him what the punishment for forging a signature really is.
There's a case where a very rare, very expensive painting is in danger of being stolen. The FBI knows of the plan to steal it, but can't figure out how to keep it safe and catch the bad guys at the same time, at least not until Neal stands up and smiles his best charming grin and says: "Why not just use the painting as bait?" And when the protests arise—"What if they get the painting?"—he just looks at them all like they're stupid and says: "Well, why don't we use a forgery?" There's the look in his eye that says—do you or do you not own one of the best (alleged) art thieves in the country? So they allow him to paint a forgery, with the provision that there is always someone watching him, to make sure he doesn't pull a fast one on them.
Peter sits there and watches him paint and hell if it isn't the most erotic thing he has ever seen. The way Neal's delicate hands—he never really realizes until this moment how thin and elegant and beautiful those hands are—move, how the paint brush glides over the canvas; the bend of the con-artist's body, the lines of tension, as beautiful as the lines that form on the blank spread of white. The way that Neal's hair falls into his face and the intense concentration in those bright blue eyes, and the smudge of paint on the man's cheek. It takes all of his will-power not to rise and move over there, take the paint-brush from Neal's hand and then take one of those long, slender fingers in his mouth, swirling away the traces of paint with his tongue, holding that bright gaze until Neal just begs.
There are other things that Neal does that makes Peter tug at his collar and try to force the bright blush from his face: the way he picks locks, the way his voice pitches lower when he's running a con; God, the way he shoots a gun. He knows perfectly well that Neal hates guns, and he's not too fond of them himself, but watching the man aim and fire with perfect accuracy…it's beautiful.
And there's times where Peter swears that Neal knows. There's time where he swears that the con-artist does these things on purpose, just to drive him a little further towards the edge.
But really? What kind of FBI agent is attracted to a felon? Even a felon who has transformed into his friend and partner, even a convict who has become one of his closest friends…he is a man who devotes his life to the pursuit of criminals, and Neal is one of those criminals.
But there is one thing that Peter absolutely cannot resist, not any longer. The current case is one of those which require Neal to maintain his cover, even to the point of getting arrested with the rest of the criminals. It's necessary in order to keep Neal safe; these people are not pleasant, and if they find out that Neal is the one selling them out…he shudders to think of the repercussions. For once though, things go off without a hitch. As all of the criminals are arrested he presses Neal up against the car—God, the feel of that body pressed beneath him…--and snaps the handcuffs around Neal's wrists.
"A little rough there, aren't ya Peter?" Neal whispers, a smirk on his face. This is one of those moments where he swears that Neal is screwing around with him.
"Shut up," he hisses back, and opens the door. Louder he says: "You're under arrest." He pushes Neal into the backseat and slams the door, harder than he has to. Then he nods politely to Jones and walks around to the driver's side, sliding into the seat. There's complete silence in the car until he starts the engine and pulls away, and then Neal breaks out into laughter.
"Did you see their faces?" He asks through his laughter. When the chuckles have subsided he catches his breath and leans forward. "Hey, hand me the key?" He says, holding his shackled hands out. Peter glances at him, eyes lingering on the handcuffs. The steel is silver and bright as it encircles his surprisingly slender wrists. And that's when he makes a decision.
Only El knows this, but Peter Burke has a bit of a thing for handcuffs.
"Watch the road!" Neal says, and his head snaps back to the front just in time to avert a near crash. "You don't have to look at me in order to hand me the key, ya know."
He changes direction, because he has a new destination in mind now. In the rearview mirror he sees Neal's eyebrows knit in confusion. "Peter? Why are you heading to June's?"
"There's something we need to take care of there."
They reach the house less than a minute later. Peter pulls up against the curb and throws the car into park, then dashes out of the car and around to the side, where he pulls a blinking Neal out. "This is an illegal parking job," the con-artist says. "And why am I still hand-cuffed?"
Peter ignores him, slamming the door and then heading for the house, dragging Neal along. The other man doesn't protest or fight, just gives him a confused are you on something? kind of look. They move into the house and up the stairs so fast that Neal almost trips; Peter catches him and steadies him and his heart pounds from the feel of Neal's skin against his hand.
Then they're into the apartment and he shuts the door, locking it behind them. He rounds on Neal, who stands in the middle of the room, blinking and confused, his hair ruffled from the resistance he had to put up during his arrest, his eyes wide and blue, and his hands bound tight by those bright circles of steel. "Am I in trouble, or do you just like seeing me in handcuffs?" Neal says, his smirk tilted to the side, and Peter knows that he has known all this time.
Oh, he is going to pay.
He slams Neal up against the nearest wall, pinning the man's arms above his head. He grinds their hips together and is rewarded by a low moan. It's quite possibly the sexiest thing he has ever heard. Neal's eyes are feverish and so blue, and there's an almost lewd grin on his lips. "Careful, Agent Burke, or someone might think you've got a thing for bondage."
He grinds their hips together again, harder, and nearly throws back his head. Neal's eyes flutter closed then open again. "If I had known that handcuffs were all it would take I would have let you arrest me again sooner," Neal says, his voice almost conversational. But Peter can detect that hint of breathlessness, and he smirks at it. "I thought I had you for sure with the painting, but you didn't quite crack." Peter's eyes go wide for a moment at the confirmation, and then his eyes narrow, because now Neal really is in trouble. "Does El know that you like watching people commit criminal acts?"
"Neal," he growls out. "Shut up." And then he presses his lips over the con-artist's lips, and from there it's just a downhill descent of tongues and lips and heat; skin on skin and friction, moans and whimpers and nails digging furrows into his back; rough and harsh and then as the passion recedes soft and gentle with long exploring caresses and tongues that worry away the wounds of fervor, and finally they lay in Neal's bed—he doesn't remember when they got there, but they did—and just breathe.
Neal languidly reaches over and pulls something shiny from the pile of covers pushed to the end of the bed; the handcuffs dangle innocently from his forefinger, long since abandoned. Neal holds them in front of him and raises his eyebrows, that smirk ever present. "I didn't know you had such a kink for handcuffs, Peter."
And Peter blushes. "I—." He cuts off when Neal reaches over, quicker than he thinks is possible, and snaps one cuff around the bed post, the other around Peter's wrist. He stares blankly at the steel that now binds him to the bed, then shakes his wrist as though it will magically undo itself.
"I do believe that it's my turn, Mr. Burke." Neal purrs, and slides over to him. The younger man kisses him hard on the mouth and then kisses a trail down his body, tongue sliding over his skin. Despite his fatigue he feels himself growing aroused again, and a moan slips from his lips. Neal's head lifts and the man grins wickedly at him, then climbs out of the bed.
"Neal, what are you doing?" He asks, as the man slips on his robe and pulls the door open. Neal smirks at him, eyes glittering with amusement.
"Well…you've been awfully bad, Peter. So I think I'll just leave you here while I go and call El on the phone. That way you can think about what you've done to deserve this punishment, and I can tell her that she owes me fifty dollars. She bet that I would have to be the one to make the first move."
"You mean she's known all along?"
Neal grins. "Of course. We came up with the plan together. The last step was getting you to figure out what was right in front of you. You've got two for the price of one, Peter." He stops, touching a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "You know, I think she would be very interested to come over and play, with you all tied up." There's one last wicked grin. "Why don't you just think about that for a while? You left me handcuffed for quite some time, so I think it's your turn." He leaves the room and walks down the hallway.
For a moment Peter just stares at the empty doorway. And then:
"Neal Caffrey you'd better get your ass back here and un-cuff me!"
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