Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Written for the livejournal kink meme--my first kink meme fic, so I don't know if there's generally a certain amount of time people wait before de-anoning and claiming their fics, or what. Also, I'm a feedback whore, so... XD
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It's a near uncontrollable urge when Neal's around—the desire to thread his fingers into that perfectly-arranged hair and tug, mess it up until it's ruffled and shows the undeniable traces of Peter's presence. It annoys Peter to no end that Neal can run after Peter (or away from him, as it used to be once upon a time) and a fleeing criminal, or jump off a building cat-like, and always come up looking as fresh as if he'd just stepped off the cover of a magazine.
Nearly everything slides off of Neal like water off a raincoat—his charisma and quick brilliant mind keep him ahead of most of the shit life throws at him (on the few occasions when life manages to kick him in the balls, it's always Peter who's around to see it. Sometimes he wonders if Neal takes those setbacks with such equanimity because he knows Peter will be there), and Peter's never seen anyone think on their feet like Neal does. It's like watching an artist at work to see him grin blindingly bright and charm his way out of his latest predicament.
The same composure is reflected in his appearance, too—Neal chooses his clothes like he's choosing his armor for battle (in a way, he is), and rarely does Peter see him less than pristine. The crisp line of his pants, the snug fit of his shirts, the jaunty hat set atop his head—it might look ridiculous or pretentious on anyone else, but even Peter can see that Neal was made to wear clothes like that. Occasionally he makes a concession to the later hours they work and loosens his tie a bit, undoes the top button on his shirt. But still, he's always so—neat.
It drives Peter insane.
He catches himself looking up from his file again and again, fixating on Neal's mouth and thinking about biting that full lower lip until it's swollen and abused. He wants to drag Neal forward by his tie and suck bruises onto his neck, rip off all the buttons from his impossibly pressed shirt that highlights the shifting muscles in his shoulders and back.
Peter isn't getting any work done.
What it comes down to is that Neal wrecks Peter, drives him to distraction with his slow, heated smiles and his vibrant blue eyes, making him work to keep up like no one else does with his brilliant, madcap mind. Peter only wants to know he can do the same. He wants to break Neal down until there's no trace of that shiny veneer of effortless affability, until there's Peter's marks on Neal's body and only thoughts of Peter in Neal's mind.
Which is why it's such a gut-jolt, hotly visceral, to see Neal fall to his knees, swaying forward almost drunkenly to mouth at Peter's cock with spit-slick lips and palpable eagerness.
"Your mouth," Peter half-whispers, half-groans, hands coming up to tangle in Neal's hair. When Neal shuts his eyes and sucks the head into his mouth, Peter gives into his desire and pulls Neal's hair hard, feels the slip-slide of the strands between his fingers. Neal makes a muffled noise, eyes flying open; his pupils are huge, blown wide, ringed thinly in a drowning blue.
Peter can't look away. Those eyes say to him, you see what you've done to me? They tell him undeniably that any power Neal has over him, Peter has in equal, if not greater quantity.
There aren't many people who can bring Neal Caffrey to his knees.
Peter's done it twice (of course, the first time involved handcuffs and did not end as promisingly as this looks to, but the principle is the same). He pulls Neal away and yanks him to his feet, kisses him hard enough to bruise. Neal pants into his mouth and makes a sound that might be his name, might be the word please; either way it makes Peter suck his lower lip into his mouth and bite down firmly like he's wanted to for forever. He pinches Neal's nipple through his shirt, relishes the full-body shudder that he can feel rolling through him.
Peter backs away, licking his lips and tasting Neal, something heady and indefinable. Neal looks at Peter with burning eyes, passes his tongue over his own pink, swollen lips.
He's still wearing all his clothes, but he's as naked as Peter's ever seen him.
Peter looks him over, looks at his handiwork, the visible and invisible touches he's left all over Neal's body.
He smiles.
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