Fic: Is This Love? Maybe Someday.
Apr. 5th, 2015 12:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
s2309Title: Is This Love? Maybe Someday.
Characters (Pairings): Matthew Keller, Neal Caffrey (Keller/Neal)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1460
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: It looks like it'll be a typical post-heist evening for them when Keller abruptly abandons him and dashes to his suitcase.
Author's Note: Set preseries. I do not know where this came from. This is a fill for Photo Prompt #14 - Pis Aller - over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan's Promptfest (yes, I'm back to expanding and reposting those fills). This is basically porn with a little chess and lots of feeeeelings thrown in. I have no apologies. I used to, but I gave them all away. And I do not have Keller icons. What sin is this?
It looks like it'll be a typical post-heist evening for them - clothes off five paces from the door, stolen treasure discarded on a conveniently placed table, a half hour of quick, hard sex followed by a luxurious nap, when Keller abruptly abandons him on the bed and dashes to his suitcase.
He groans, frustrated. "Whatever it is, not now. Your plans can wait. Especially because you're killing the mood here. ...Chess? Now? Really? I'd say 'unbelievable', but- oh." He cranes his head to watch as Keller lays out a beautiful leather chessboard, on Neal's chest. It's a small square, with even smaller chess pieces to match.
"Think you can last the game without dropping a piece?" Keller asks.
"Pfft. Too easy. Unless you plan on cheating. Do you plan on cheating?"
"Yes."
Neal grins. "I could get into that."
-:-
Ten moves later, Neal, despite having a terrible view of the board and a neck supported only by a pillow, is winning. "You're going easy on me," he observes. "Both the chess and the cheating."
It's true. Keller's playing an average game, at best. He made a few rookie moves and then watched as Neal took advantage of them in every possible way, turning this into a thirty move game, at best, while thinking through very obvious arousal. Keller's impressed enough to continue stroking firm fingers up and down Neal's cock, see how far Neal will go. Neal isn't unaffected - that much is obvious from the bead of pre-come at the tip of his cock - but the quality of his game hasn't suffered.
But this is just the beginning.
Keller moves a pawn to protect his king, then slicks up one finger and slides it casually over Neal's crack.
Neal freezes. Predictable. Keller can see the calculations running through his head - he has to relax to let Keller's finger in, he has to stay tense to avoid dropping the pieces. It’s almost impossible to balance that equation.
"Pis aller, Neal," Keller says as he plunges the finger in, and the chessmen don't fall.
Neal's a breathtaking sight. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the bedsheets, he's drawing the most delicate breaths through his wide-open mouth, minimizing the movements he has to control. It's like an aphrodisiac, shot straight into Keller's veins, maybe he's losing a little control too, he thinks.
It would be so easy for Neal to give up this little game. There aren't even any real stakes. But Neal's entirely focused on staying as still as he can. Or that's what he thought till Neal breathed softly, "Bishop to C4."
Now that is impressive. "Is that how you're playing it?"
Neal manages a short, sharp nod.
"Okay, then."
Keller isn't fooling himself. It looks like he has power over Neal, but it’s only for the moment. Neal will take it back with interest soon enough (or try to).
Still, he enjoys watching Neal strain to stay still enough to keep the chessmen upright as he adds another finger, and another. He’s trembling delicately by the time he has Keller’s king backed into a corner, but it’s only after he forces out the words, "Rook to H5, checkmate," after Keller moves the piece as Neal directed, that Neal whimpers and fucks himself onto Keller’s fingers and begs, “Please, please, please, Keller, please,” and then “fuck”, before, after, and in between the most desperate gasps he remembers hearing from a person.
But all that is nothing compared to the sight of Neal arching off the bed, scattering chess pieces around him as he came, and falling back to the bed, breathing heavily.
The bastard even loses control elegantly. Just the sight of him, open and vulnerable, feels much better than a mindless orgasm.
Sadly, despite all this, lust isn’t what he needs for his purposes. He needs something to get Neal off his edge in seconds, and judging by the way in which his pieces was just slaughtered, lust won’t do it. But there has to be something. The hold that Kate still has over Neal is too strong-
He wants to slap himself. Love. Of course. Earlier on, out of some combination of respect and the doubt, he’d discarded it from his list of options. But, given what he knows now, it's the most obvious choice. And Neal's even naive enough to believe in something as trivial and fleeting as that.
“You didn’t…” Neal murmurs, eyes still closed.
“Oh, I did,” Keller says with a little smirk as he wipes his hand on a corner of the bedsheet and moves to collect the various chess pieces from around Neal. Eight, sixteen, twenty four, thirty, two pieces missing. He slips a hand under his back to fish for the pieces. Before he has them, Neal mumbles something, gets up, and leans on Keller’s shoulder with his entire body weight, making it considerably easier to locate the pieces and considerably harder to stow them away. Not to mention the chessboard that’s now a sweaty mess between them. “Neal,” he says, but that does nothing. A delicate poke administered to his shoulder is equally ineffective. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” he says, even as he tosses the chess pieces in the direction of his suitcase and climbs into bed with Neal.
Neal conveys his emotions with a tiny, contented smile. Keller turns it into a wince when he peels the chessboard of Neal’s chest. Not ruined, thankfully, but it’ll carry the smell of sweat for a while yet.
"You were beautiful," Keller says, a combination of an impulse and a test of his latest theory. He’s temporarily going to ignore the fact that the impulse carried far more weight than the logic of it.
Neal just squints at him suspiciously. "Who are you, and what have you done with Matthew Keller?"
Keller kisses him, surprising even himself. Kisses him gently, tenderly, forging this is no easy task. He barely knows what it feels like to kiss someone and be in love, he doesn’t know much at all about love, it’s never been of any use to him before. But he reaches for everything he feels and injects it into this forgery of a kiss.
Neal breaks away suddenly, searching Keller's face with a look of… betrayal, that’s betrayal… eyes wide, lips parted in a gentle O, like someone's just torn him apart and seen what he really looks like on the inside. (And maybe I did that, Keller flatters himself into thinking. This is mystifying, all of it.)
And despite it all, Neal has the last laugh. Because the more Keller fakes this elusive emotion, the more he starts to feel it, a twinge of something that actually makes him want to brush sweaty hair off Neal's forehead, out of his eyes. And it goes against his every instinct, but he obeys that impulse, lets his hand carry through the motion that his heart? ... his heart thought up.
Neal turns his head away and shudders violently. His body offers no resistance at all, he just lies there, curling in onto himself, the shudder – no, not the right word. Sob? Sob - ripping through his body unhindered.
“What do you want to steal next?” Keller asks softly, and hates his ruthless pragmatism.
There are so many possible answers Neal could have given. If he was feeling ambitious, something from the Louvre, if he was feeling sentimental, something by Monet, if he was being practical, any number of paintings from any number of small museums that posed a challenge but weren’t too much for the two of them. But now, Neal turns his face into the pillow and whispers brokenly, “I don’t- I don’t know.”
He’s lost, thinking through something else entirely. Perfect, Keller tries not to think. But he’s a slave to rationality, even now. This is perfect. This will work. This is what he needs to keep Neal off balance, should the need ever arise.
He delicately touches the corner of Neal's eye with a single finger, wipes away the teardrop that he finds there, rubs it between finger and thumb. Love, and caring, and kindness. That's what it takes to get under Neal Caffrey's skin.
Neal's eyes snap open suddenly. He looks straight at Keller. "Tell me this wasn't just one of your twisted games. Tell me this was real."
"It was. Real." It's not a lie. This is the closest thing Keller's felt to true love. But it's also a game.
Neal sighs, relieved, and sinks into sleep almost immediately, dragging Keller down with him by the weight of an arm.
It's a good thing Neal's oblivious, because the expression on Keller's face may have given the game away.
Characters (Pairings): Matthew Keller, Neal Caffrey (Keller/Neal)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1460
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: It looks like it'll be a typical post-heist evening for them when Keller abruptly abandons him and dashes to his suitcase.
Author's Note: Set preseries. I do not know where this came from. This is a fill for Photo Prompt #14 - Pis Aller - over at
elrhiarhodan's Promptfest (yes, I'm back to expanding and reposting those fills). This is basically porn with a little chess and lots of feeeeelings thrown in. I have no apologies. I used to, but I gave them all away. And I do not have Keller icons. What sin is this?It looks like it'll be a typical post-heist evening for them - clothes off five paces from the door, stolen treasure discarded on a conveniently placed table, a half hour of quick, hard sex followed by a luxurious nap, when Keller abruptly abandons him on the bed and dashes to his suitcase.
He groans, frustrated. "Whatever it is, not now. Your plans can wait. Especially because you're killing the mood here. ...Chess? Now? Really? I'd say 'unbelievable', but- oh." He cranes his head to watch as Keller lays out a beautiful leather chessboard, on Neal's chest. It's a small square, with even smaller chess pieces to match.
"Think you can last the game without dropping a piece?" Keller asks.
"Pfft. Too easy. Unless you plan on cheating. Do you plan on cheating?"
"Yes."
Neal grins. "I could get into that."
-:-
Ten moves later, Neal, despite having a terrible view of the board and a neck supported only by a pillow, is winning. "You're going easy on me," he observes. "Both the chess and the cheating."
It's true. Keller's playing an average game, at best. He made a few rookie moves and then watched as Neal took advantage of them in every possible way, turning this into a thirty move game, at best, while thinking through very obvious arousal. Keller's impressed enough to continue stroking firm fingers up and down Neal's cock, see how far Neal will go. Neal isn't unaffected - that much is obvious from the bead of pre-come at the tip of his cock - but the quality of his game hasn't suffered.
But this is just the beginning.
Keller moves a pawn to protect his king, then slicks up one finger and slides it casually over Neal's crack.
Neal freezes. Predictable. Keller can see the calculations running through his head - he has to relax to let Keller's finger in, he has to stay tense to avoid dropping the pieces. It’s almost impossible to balance that equation.
"Pis aller, Neal," Keller says as he plunges the finger in, and the chessmen don't fall.
Neal's a breathtaking sight. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the bedsheets, he's drawing the most delicate breaths through his wide-open mouth, minimizing the movements he has to control. It's like an aphrodisiac, shot straight into Keller's veins, maybe he's losing a little control too, he thinks.
It would be so easy for Neal to give up this little game. There aren't even any real stakes. But Neal's entirely focused on staying as still as he can. Or that's what he thought till Neal breathed softly, "Bishop to C4."
Now that is impressive. "Is that how you're playing it?"
Neal manages a short, sharp nod.
"Okay, then."
Keller isn't fooling himself. It looks like he has power over Neal, but it’s only for the moment. Neal will take it back with interest soon enough (or try to).
Still, he enjoys watching Neal strain to stay still enough to keep the chessmen upright as he adds another finger, and another. He’s trembling delicately by the time he has Keller’s king backed into a corner, but it’s only after he forces out the words, "Rook to H5, checkmate," after Keller moves the piece as Neal directed, that Neal whimpers and fucks himself onto Keller’s fingers and begs, “Please, please, please, Keller, please,” and then “fuck”, before, after, and in between the most desperate gasps he remembers hearing from a person.
But all that is nothing compared to the sight of Neal arching off the bed, scattering chess pieces around him as he came, and falling back to the bed, breathing heavily.
The bastard even loses control elegantly. Just the sight of him, open and vulnerable, feels much better than a mindless orgasm.
Sadly, despite all this, lust isn’t what he needs for his purposes. He needs something to get Neal off his edge in seconds, and judging by the way in which his pieces was just slaughtered, lust won’t do it. But there has to be something. The hold that Kate still has over Neal is too strong-
He wants to slap himself. Love. Of course. Earlier on, out of some combination of respect and the doubt, he’d discarded it from his list of options. But, given what he knows now, it's the most obvious choice. And Neal's even naive enough to believe in something as trivial and fleeting as that.
“You didn’t…” Neal murmurs, eyes still closed.
“Oh, I did,” Keller says with a little smirk as he wipes his hand on a corner of the bedsheet and moves to collect the various chess pieces from around Neal. Eight, sixteen, twenty four, thirty, two pieces missing. He slips a hand under his back to fish for the pieces. Before he has them, Neal mumbles something, gets up, and leans on Keller’s shoulder with his entire body weight, making it considerably easier to locate the pieces and considerably harder to stow them away. Not to mention the chessboard that’s now a sweaty mess between them. “Neal,” he says, but that does nothing. A delicate poke administered to his shoulder is equally ineffective. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” he says, even as he tosses the chess pieces in the direction of his suitcase and climbs into bed with Neal.
Neal conveys his emotions with a tiny, contented smile. Keller turns it into a wince when he peels the chessboard of Neal’s chest. Not ruined, thankfully, but it’ll carry the smell of sweat for a while yet.
"You were beautiful," Keller says, a combination of an impulse and a test of his latest theory. He’s temporarily going to ignore the fact that the impulse carried far more weight than the logic of it.
Neal just squints at him suspiciously. "Who are you, and what have you done with Matthew Keller?"
Keller kisses him, surprising even himself. Kisses him gently, tenderly, forging this is no easy task. He barely knows what it feels like to kiss someone and be in love, he doesn’t know much at all about love, it’s never been of any use to him before. But he reaches for everything he feels and injects it into this forgery of a kiss.
Neal breaks away suddenly, searching Keller's face with a look of… betrayal, that’s betrayal… eyes wide, lips parted in a gentle O, like someone's just torn him apart and seen what he really looks like on the inside. (And maybe I did that, Keller flatters himself into thinking. This is mystifying, all of it.)
And despite it all, Neal has the last laugh. Because the more Keller fakes this elusive emotion, the more he starts to feel it, a twinge of something that actually makes him want to brush sweaty hair off Neal's forehead, out of his eyes. And it goes against his every instinct, but he obeys that impulse, lets his hand carry through the motion that his heart? ... his heart thought up.
Neal turns his head away and shudders violently. His body offers no resistance at all, he just lies there, curling in onto himself, the shudder – no, not the right word. Sob? Sob - ripping through his body unhindered.
“What do you want to steal next?” Keller asks softly, and hates his ruthless pragmatism.
There are so many possible answers Neal could have given. If he was feeling ambitious, something from the Louvre, if he was feeling sentimental, something by Monet, if he was being practical, any number of paintings from any number of small museums that posed a challenge but weren’t too much for the two of them. But now, Neal turns his face into the pillow and whispers brokenly, “I don’t- I don’t know.”
He’s lost, thinking through something else entirely. Perfect, Keller tries not to think. But he’s a slave to rationality, even now. This is perfect. This will work. This is what he needs to keep Neal off balance, should the need ever arise.
He delicately touches the corner of Neal's eye with a single finger, wipes away the teardrop that he finds there, rubs it between finger and thumb. Love, and caring, and kindness. That's what it takes to get under Neal Caffrey's skin.
Neal's eyes snap open suddenly. He looks straight at Keller. "Tell me this wasn't just one of your twisted games. Tell me this was real."
"It was. Real." It's not a lie. This is the closest thing Keller's felt to true love. But it's also a game.
Neal sighs, relieved, and sinks into sleep almost immediately, dragging Keller down with him by the weight of an arm.
It's a good thing Neal's oblivious, because the expression on Keller's face may have given the game away.
