Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 5,315
Beta Credit: elrhiarhodan
Warnings: Slave Fic
Summary: Peter Burke just took down the Dutchman and the Powers That Be decided to give him a reward - Neal Caffrey, slave. But it seems that Peter forgot to read the fine print on just what KIND of slave he got....
A/N - Written for the lovely sinfulslasher for this round of wcpairings. I hope I did your prompts justice.
Neal Caffrey stared at the rusty springs of the bed above him as he waited for his day to begin.
One of the clock bells sounded signifying that it was time for the inmates to get ready for breakfast. Neal sighed and sat up, running a hand through his hair. There had been no sleep for him last night. He'd spent the night tossing and turning, worried about his assignment. His Master.
That name sent chills throughout him. Everyone in his cellblock knew about Burke and everyone had their own opinion.
Burke was a mastermind and if he set his sights on you, you might as well give up...
Burke was evil and made people disappear...
Burke had a slave once and strangled him to death...
Burke was a sadist and put people in ICU…
…the list went on and on.
All Neal knew about Peter Burke was that he was scary smart, and good at what he did, and that it was best to stay off his radar. Which Neal had done with fervor. The irony that he’d wound up being given to Burke was not lost on him.
Today was the day that he would be put into Burke’s hands for the rest of his sentence and Neal was not looking forward to it. Hopefully he would be able to contact Mozzie and find a way to slip his collar and escape.
“C’mon, Neal. Time to eat.” Bobby was at his cell door. Neal half smiled at him and got up to follow him out. Bobby was the only guard that didn’t come on to Neal once he’d learned that Neal was being trained as a pleasure slave, and for that Neal was grateful
He’d also kept those same guards from ambushing Neal at night with the idea of having Neal ‘show them what he’d learned.’
“What’s for breakfast this morning, Bobby?” Neal lined up with the other inmates, keeping his head down and ignoring their usual off-color taunts.
“Cook says pancakes today.” Bobby herded them into the dining hall. Neal quickly grabbed his food and sat himself against a wall facing out. He was half finished with his meal when Walter Davidson sat down across from him.
Neal tensed. Davidson was the head honcho in his cellblock and Neal made an effort to avoid him at all costs.
“So, Caffrey. Looks like this is your last day.” Davidson leaned in. “Heading out to be Burke’s bitch.”
“Looks like it.” Neal was noncommittal.
“We should spend some quality time together before you leave. A ‘going away’ party.” Davidson’s grin was predatory. “Make sure you’re up to speed on all your training.”
Neal froze. There was no way that he could avoid Davidson. The man was too connected. His mind whirled, trying to come up with something – anything – that would keep him away from the criminal.
“Neal, you done with breakfast? The doc wants to see you for a final checkup.” Bobby was standing behind Davidson and gave Neal a wink.
Trying not to let his relief show, Neal stood and smirked at Davidson. “Sorry, Walter. Duty calls. Maybe next time.”
He fell into step beside Bobby, dumping his tray as they headed out the door. “So does the doctor really need to see me?”
“Nah.” Bobby chuckled. “Figured you didn’t want your last day fucked up by Davidson. No pun intended.”
Neal chuckled. “Thanks. So what’s the plan?”
“Gonna take you back to your cell so you can get whatever you want out of there and then bring you to the infirmary. You can wait there until they sign you out.”
“That works.” They walked in silence for a bit. “Bobby…what do you know about Peter Burke?”
“Not much.” Bobby opened one of the gates. “Just that most of the crap you hear through the rumor mill isn’t true. Why? You worried?”
Neal considered the question. “A bit, yeah,” he admitted.
“"Look, Neal, out of all that crap, here's what I believe: that Burke is a fair guy. That he's never abused a prisoner. That he's honest to a fault.” Bobby looked at Neal. “You could do worse.” He handed a bag to Neal for his things.
“Hope you’re right.” Neal grabbed the few things he wanted to keep – a sketchbook, his pencils, some art from the walls. The rest he left. He didn’t need to be reminded of the time he’d spent waiting to be routed into the Role Modification Program.
At the infirmary, they checked him over one more time at Bobby’s insistence – ‘just so there were no questions’ – gave him pants, a t-shirt and a long blue pea coat to change into and processed him out.
The warden showed up to give him the standard lecture about behaving for his Master and that he never wanted to see him here again. Neal tuned most of it out, concentrating on settling his nerves.
About ninety minutes later Bobby came back to escort him to the entrance of the prison.
The big steel door shrieked as it slowly opened. Neal shielded his eyes from the morning sun as it streamed into the tunnel.
Dimly, he could see a figure standing in front of a dark nondescript sedan.
Neal took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and put on his con man smile. Walking forward, he prepared himself for the inevitable.
Burke was taller than he expected. And hotter, his brain supplied. Broad shoulders, short cropped sable hair, and oh god, endless legs that Neal could imagine kneeling between. He mentally shook himself, trying to think of anything that would short circuit the erection that was threatening to tent his pants.
The next few moments slid by – he showed Peter his collar, and felt more like himself when his snarky remark caused the other man to blush. They got into Peter’s car and headed towards Neal’s new home and his new life.
The alarm shrilled, waking Peter Burke from a dream that he really couldn’t remember the contents of. With a groan, he stretched, flipped the covers off and headed to the bathroom to shower.
Stepping under the warm spray, he considered his schedule. Normally he would get ready, grab a bite and head to the office. Today, however, was not a normal day.
Today Peter was going to the Role Modification Center to pick up his slave.
He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. He’d never owned a slave before, but he’d had friends and family who did. The option to give convicted felons that were not facing the death penalty the choice between prison or slavery to work off their sentences had been in place for almost fifty years, and for the most part it worked. The recidivism numbers dropped exponentially since its inception, because behavior modification was a key component in the program. Amazingly enough, a high percentage of criminals that chose the slavery option wound up staying with their Masters once their term was completed.
Peter didn’t particularly love or hate the concept, he just didn’t see himself as a slave owner. But thanks to his takedown of the Dutchman, the Powers That Be felt a reward was in order.
So that’s why ninety minutes later he found himself standing outside the gate of Riker’s, waiting for his new slave.
He’d looked through the file they’d sent over but nothing prepared him for the man that walked through the exit.
Dark hair, the curls at his temples lifting in the soft breeze. Cheekbones for days. A brilliant smile as he walked – no strutted - past the barbed wire fence. A solid but slender build that Peter could see under a dark pea coat.
But it was his eyes that took Peter’s breath away.
Piercing blue, shining with an intelligence that was almost scary. Peter felt the man’s gaze travel up and down his body as he came near. Assessing him, and finding him…? Peter wasn’t sure what the final outcome was, just that the man’s gaze sent stirrings through him that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.
He had to get a grip; be in control. That’s what the pamphlet included with the file said.
Peter straightened his shoulders. “Neal Caffrey.” He winced at the absurdity and hoped Caffrey didn’t see it. Of course it was Caffrey.
“You must be Peter Burke.” Caffrey grinned even bigger as he approached. He held out his hand as though they were greeting each other at a party, not outside of prison. Not as slave to Master. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Peter snorted in disbelief. “Really? I kind of doubt that.” But he shook the man’s hand anyway. Caffrey’s grip was firm, strong, and Peter’s treacherous mind imagined that grip around his cock.
Caffrey shrugged, bringing Peter’s mind back to the current moment. “Beats doing my time behind bars.”
Peter couldn’t argue with that statement. “Okay,” he said, trying again to take charge of the situation. “Let’s see it.”
Caffrey tilted his head, bearing his neck so Peter could see the thin white collar with the silver connection. Peter’s first instinct was to run his tongue under the leather, tasting it and Caffrey’s skin. He banished the mental picture quickly, thanking god that he didn’t immediately sport an erection from the image.
“You understand how this works, right?”
“Yeah, I’m being released into the custody of the New York Criminal Rehabilitation Program under your supervision for the duration of my sentence.” Caffrey pulled at the collar. “And this thing chafes my neck. Anything I’m missing?”
“Yeah. If you try to run, I will catch you, and you’re back here for good. Understood?” Peter tried for a serious face, but Caffrey just grinned at him.
“Yes, Master.” His tone was facetious, but the words sent a tingle down Peter’s spine. Master. He could get used to that.
The ride home was quiet. Peter had been given several days off in order to acclimate Caffrey – Neal – to his household.
Satchmo bounded down the stairs as Peter let them in the door, greeting the new arrival with barks and licks. Neal laughed and immediately crouched down to pet the dog. “Satchmo.” He read the dog’s tag. “Good name. You a jazz fan?”
“Nope.” Peter took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door. “He was a rescue and already had that name. Didn’t have the heart to change it.”
“Ahh.” Neal stood and looked around the house. “Nice place.” He gazed expectantly at Peter.
“Thanks.” Peter was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. “So…hungry?” He figured he could feed Neal and then figure out the next step.
“Always. Prison food…well let’s just say it’s fuel, not flavor.”
“Sandwiches okay?” Peter didn’t think he had much more in terms of food. He made a mental note to go shopping later. He headed to the kitchen, Neal and Satchmo following behind him.
Peter pulled out lunchmeat and bread and fixed them both sandwiches. He thought about the deviled ham but didn’t think he should subject Neal to it right out of the. gate He started to place the plates on the table when he noticed Neal still standing near the counter.
“Um…not sure where you want me.” The blush that stole over Neal’s face made Peter feel warm. “I can kneel on the floor if that’s what you want.”
Crap. Peter had totally forgotten about the fact that Neal was a slave and the laws said that he wasn’t able to sit at a table unless his Master gave permission.
“No, no. For now, sit at the table. We’ll figure out stuff later.” He added a trip to the Slave supply store to the list of things to do. “And you can eat by yourself.”
He didn’t miss the look of relief on Neal’s face as he sat down at the table. It made Peter wonder about the training Neal underwent between his sentencing and when Peter came to get him at the prison.
They sat in silence for a while as they ate.
“So how’d you wind up with me?” Neal’s question broke the quiet.
“You were a reward.” Peter took a sip of his water. “I broke a major case and my bosses thought I deserved you.” It felt strange saying that about another human being.
“Can I ask what case?” Peter watched as Neal finished his sandwich. “I mean, if that’s allowed?”
“Sure. We caught the Dutchman.” Peter couldn’t help but sound proud. It had been a grueling op but through luck and skill they’d managed to arrest him. The higher-ups had been suitably impressed.
So, it seemed, was Neal. His eyes widened and he let out a low whistle.
“I’m impressed, Peter. That’s a pretty big score.”
“Thanks.” Peter felt himself blushing. He had no idea why Neal’s approval meant something – he’d only known the man for a few hours – but for some reason it did.
“The Dutchman and I ran in some of the same circles.” Neal stood up and cleared away the dishes, rinsing them and putting them into the dishwasher. “We crossed paths a few times.”
Neal was about to continue when the doorbell rang. “Do you want me to get that?”
“No, I got it.” Peter stood up and went to answer the door. Standing outside was a delivery person with a medium-sized box at her feet. “I didn’t order anything.”
She checked the electronic signature pad. “Are you Peter Burke?”
“Looks like it’s from The Slave Shoppe. Sign here.” She held out the pad.
Peter quickly scribbled his name and bent to pick up the box. It was solid but not too heavy. Kicking the door shut, he brought it to the kitchen table.
“Grab me a knife would you?” he asked Neal. “There’s one in the drawer by the dishwasher.” He looked up at Neal’s cough. Oh, right. “You’re not going to stab me are you?”
“Okay, then. You can handle knives.”
Neal chuckled as he handed a paring knife to Peter. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“Never had a slave before.” Peter sliced open the box and pulled out an envelope. The front had Welcome New Slave Owner printed on it.
Pushing the box towards Neal, Peter ripped open the envelope and began reading the contents out loud.
Dear New Slave Owner,
Welcome to the exciting world of owning a slave.”
Peter snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“We hope this experience will be everything you hoped it would be. Please find enclosed the basic essentials you will need to take care of your Pleasure Slave.
“What the hell!” Horrified, Peter raised his eyes to see Neal holding a dildo in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. “A PLEASURE SLAVE?”
Neal burst out laughing. “You didn’t know?”
“No!” Peter glared at him. “I thought I was getting…I don’t know….a – a house slave or something.”
“I don’t think Dobby is available.” Neal’s tone was wry.
“You think this is funny?” Peter huffed.
“I think this is hilarious.” Neal put the dildo and the lube on the table and continued to dig through the box.
Peter’s horror grew as Neal pulled out a set of handcuffs, a ball gag and oh my god was that a butt plug?
“No, no, no…this is all wrong.”
Running a hand through his hair, Peter paced the room. He didn’t need a pleasure slave – didn’t want a pleasure slave. But he knew he couldn’t give Neal back. That would cause all sorts of complications with his bosses.
“They didn’t tell you, did they?”
Peter glanced at Neal and was relieved that he’d put all the items back into the box. It made it easier to focus on the issue at hand.
“No, they just said I was getting a slave. Not what – what kind you would be.” Peter opened the cabinet where he kept his whiskey, grabbed a glass and poured a shot. The liquor burned going down, but it helped clear the confusion. Sitting down, he pushed the box out of the way and looked at Neal.
“I’m not sure I can do this, Neal.” He took another drink, looking helplessly at Neal. “Have a pleasure slave, I mean.”
“So what do we do?” Neal’s voice was low. “I don’t want to go back, Peter. They’ll recondition me if that happens. I’ll run before I have to go back.”
Peter looked at Neal. His face was shuttered, but the cracks in his expression gave away that prison and his modification had not been a pleasant experience. Something in Peter settled, making him certain that there was no way Neal was going back to Riker’s – not if he had anything to say about it.
“You’re not going back, Neal.” He locked eyes with Neal. “I promise that won’t happen.”
“But if you don’t want a pleasure slave…” Neal trailed off, his words hoarse.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t still keep you.” Peter rose and gestured to Neal. “We’ll figure something out. But for now let’s get you settled in your room and set some ground rules.”
He headed out of the kitchen towards the second floor, confident that Neal would follow.
As Peter climbed the stairs, he thought about the situation. A pleasure slave was not what he expected, but he had a feeling that owning Neal would turn out to be very interesting.
Later that day, after he’d shown Neal where he would sleep, Peter found himself at a bit of a loose end. He had no idea how to approach the fact that Neal was a pleasure slave.
A quick call to Diana while Neal was taking a shower didn’t help at all. After she stopped laughing hysterically at him, she informed Peter that if he were to return Neal to the Role Modification Center he would be labeled ‘unrecoverable’ and sent for reconditioning. Which, according to Diana, meant that Neal would be sterilized, essentially lobotomized and sent to the Pleasure Palaces where he would be drugged and used as a fucktoy until he got too old or died from abuse.
When he cursed and asked her why they just couldn’t put him back behind bars she told him that the government wanted to make sure they had a return on their investment. The sarcasm in her voice was evident and it made Peter’s gut churn.
He couldn’t let that happen.
So he did what he’d watched his father do whenever he’d had a puzzle to solve.
Peter pulled out the list of chores that needed to be done around the house and started with the first one on the list. By the time Neal had finished his shower and come back downstairs, Peter was half buried under the sink fixing the temperamental garbage disposal.
Neal’s voice startled him and he hit his head on the bottom of the disposal. “Fuck!”
“You okay?” Peter felt Neal crouch down next to him.
“Yeah, yeah. Just hit my head.” He tilted his head up and could see Neal looking at him through the pipes. “Can you hand me the plumber’s putty? I need to seal up this leak.” Peter reached his hand out for Neal to give him the container.
“Anything I can do to help?” Neal’s voice was muffled from Peter’s position.
“Let me finish this and then look at the list.” Peter felt vulnerable spread out on his back with Neal hovering. He needed to get out from under and regain – what, he wasn’t sure. Something.
He quickly finished up the plumbing and scooted out from under the sink. “Let’s test this,” he said, turning on the water and flipping the switch. Everything sounded fine and there was no water spewing out from the pipes so he figured he’d been successful.
“Okay.” Peter clapped his hands. “Let’s see what’s next.”
The afternoon was spent knocking out items on the list: things like changing out the batteries in the smoke detectors and replacing burned out light bulbs, and setting up the third floor for Neal.
Peter had had most of it done ahead of time – the bedroom was a nice sea green with darker accents with furniture suited to a man’s taste - but the spare room was empty.
“So I figured I would wait until you got here to figure out what to do with this space.” Peter gestured to the room. “What do you think?”
He watched Neal walk around, studying him as he studied the room. He was graceful and elegant, two words Peter never thought he would use to describe a man.
“Light’s good here.” Neal was by the window. “We could put the bench at an angle.”
“Bench?” Peter was confused. “What bench?”
“The whipping bench, Peter.” Neal sounded exasperated, but Peter saw a gleam in his eye that clued him into the fact that Neal knew exactly what he was doing. “For when you punish me.”
Nope. Not going there. Peter closed his eyes and willed away the image of Neal naked, tied to a leather bench. “Neal…”
“What?” The laughter in Neal’s voice made Peter growl in frustration.
“We are not talking about this now.” He glared at Neal.
“You know we have to.” Neal’s smile was mocking. “After all, that’s what I am. A pleasure slave, Peter.”
“I told you we will discuss this later.” Peter knew he sounding petulant but he didn’t care.
“But, Master…” Neal began, but Peter cut him off.
“Enough! They sent a cage. It's in the basement. Don’t make me use it.” It was an empty threat and Peter knew Neal knew it, but it shut him up.
For a while.
As they worked, Neal subtly made comments about the size of Peter’s shoes, how tall he was, his strength. Nothing overt. Just enough to throw off Peter’s concentration.
Which was probably the reason why he fell off the ladder.
Peter overstretched reaching for the ceiling fan, the ladder tipped and down he went.
“Fuck!” He felt something pop and an agonizing flare of pain shot through his lower back. Rolling over, he tried to sit up, only to fall back with a hiss. “Crap crap crap!”
Neal was next to him in a flash, all teasing gone. “Let me help you.” He held out his arm for Peter to grab and slowly helped him up. “Can you walk?”
“I think so. Fuck, it hurts!” Peter hobbled to the door. “I need to lie down.” He looked at Neal. “Can you help me down the stairs?”
He took Neal’s arm and let him lead him downstairs to his bedroom. Sitting down with a groan, he looked up at Neal. “Umm…I can’t…” Peter waved at his shoes. “I hate to ask you…”
“Don’t.” Neal knelt in front of Peter and unlaced his tennis shoes. Despite the pain coursing through his body, Peter couldn’t help but stare at Neal, his head bowed as he untangled a knot in the laces. He looked so at ease, so perfect kneeling at Peter’s feet. He groaned at the thought.
Neal looked up. “Did I hurt you?”
More than you know. Peter thought. “No, just my back.”
“Pain meds in the bathroom?”
“Yeah.” Peter shifted with a wince. “Get the Percocet. Bottom shelf.”
“Okay.” Neal left the room and Peter heard him rustling in the bathroom. He came back with a glass of water and the pills. “Here take these. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” If Neal wanted to run, this would be the perfect time. There was no way Peter could stop him.
Neal huffed at him. “I’m not going to run, Peter. Just going downstairs to get something.” He left, his feet thudding down the stairs.
Peter tried to figure out what he was getting but couldn’t come up with anything. It didn’t matter. Neal was back upstairs, a small green bottle in his hand.
“Let me help you take off your shirt and pants and I want you to lie on the bed.”
“What?” Peter gaped at Neal. “What the hell is that?”
“Massage oil. Now let me help you take off your shirt and pants. I’m going to give you a massage.”
“Peter.” Neal sounded exasperated. “You hurt your back. They trained me in massage therapy. Let me help. Please.”
Peter was about to protest some more until he saw Neal’s face. There was no artifice. No innuendoes or teasing. Just open and honest concern. It was then that Peter realized Neal was as uncomfortable with their situation as he was.
“Okay.” His smile was answered by Neal’s large grin. “But no funny business.”
“Trust me, Peter. You are in no condition for any of my business, funny or otherwise.”
Peter laughed, even though it hurt.
Neal couldn’t sleep. The sounds of the city bedding down for the night were so different from the Center that it made him uneasy. That and the fact that Peter Burke was asleep one floor below him.
He felt so bad when Peter fell off the ladder. His look of pain cut right through Neal, because Neal knew it had been his fault. He’d been teasing and Peter’s injury had been the result.
Offering a massage was the only way he knew how to rectify the situation.
He honestly didn’t think Peter would take him up on it and even now he wasn’t sure why he did. Peter had a strange look on his face when he said yes. It was one that piqued Neal’s interest – he’d have to explore that later.
His cock stirred at the thought of exploring Peter. Leaning towards the nightstand, he grabbed the bottle of massage oil that he’d used earlier. Neal tugged his sleep pants down past his balls, squirted some of the oil in his palm and slowly began caressing his dick.
Peter was nothing like he’d envisioned. Neal expected him to be smart – no one could have caught the Dutchman and not have been brilliant. But he was also funny, compassionate, and oh my god gorgeous.
He treated Neal with respect, even when Neal pushed his buttons about the pleasure slave issue. He made Neal laugh. And more than anything, he made Neal feel safe. All that in less than twenty-four hours.
And it didn’t hurt that he was just the type of man that Neal was attracted to. Tall and dark, easy smile, long legs. Neal shifted, pulling at his balls.
It was all Neal could do not to get hard when Peter had taken off his shirt and pants and lay down on the bed. His shoulders were wide and muscled, tapering to a nice long waist.
Neal had a thing for a man’s lower back; that deep curve right above the cleft of the ass, and Peter’s was perfect. He stroked harder thinking about it.
He had climbed on the bed and seated himself on Peter’s thighs so he could get purchase on his back. Peter had tensed up with a hiss, the solidness of his legs feeling so good under Neal’s ass. He’d hadn’t been with a man – truly with anyone - in a long time and he had to seriously work at not getting an erection right then and there.
But now he could and did and the thoughts of leaning down and kissing the dimple at Peter’s lower back, parting his cheeks and swiping his tongue over Peter’s hole made Neal groan and work himself faster.
Peter’s back had been tight and stiff when Neal had put his hands on it to work out the pain. He’d dug his thumbs into the knots, causing Peter to moan.
Neal tightened his grip, swiping under the head of his cock, imagining Peter’s sounds to be ones of want and need instead of pain. He lost himself in his favorite fantasy, which ironically mirrored his current situation.
Peter was his Master, a Roman General. Neal’s only job was to pleasure him. There had never been a face to his Master, not until now. Neal caressed his balls again, envisioning Peter’s body under him, this time naked except for a light cloth.
He stroked his cock in time to the remembered touches, feeling Peter’s muscles shudder under Neal’s ministrations. Peter’s back was scarred from former battles and Neal glided his fingers over each mark of power.
He tightened his grip, slipping a thumbnail across his slit. Arching up, he spread the drops of precome over his shaft, mixing them with the oil.
Neal needed more friction, so he rolled over onto his stomach and shimmied out of his pants. He pretended that Peter had rolled him over so he could fuck him from behind – one of Neal’s favorite positions. Subservient.
Grinding down onto the mattress he wormed his hand behind his balls. Up against his perineum. Skating to his pucker. Slowly Neal circled it, pressing a tip of his finger slightly inside. Imagining it was Peter.
You like that, slave? Peter’s voice floated through his brain.
“Yes,” Neal breathed, answering Peter’s imaginary voice.
You want more? Want me to finger you 'til you come?
“God yes!” Neal pushed in deeper, to the first then second knuckle. He rutted against the sheets, his hand squeezing tighter.
He added a second finger, crooking them flush against his prostate. “Oh God, Peter…Master…”
Neal rocked back and forth, the pressure from his fingers sending electric sparks throughout his body. Shoving his fingers in harder and faster, he thrust against the mattress, jacking himself, picturing Peter’s hands on his body, in his body, fucking him.
“Harder…” he whimpered to his fantasy. “Please, Peter…Master...fuck me.”
Three fingers now, plowing into him, his balls drawn tight against him. “God, Peter…gonna come!”
Neal orgasmed with a shout, not caring how loud he was. Waves rolled over him as he fucked into his hand, semen splashing his chest, the sheets underneath him, his ass clenching around his own fingers.
Neal came down slowly, gingerly removing his fingers as he caught his breath. He rolled to his side, out of the damp patch and stared at the ceiling.
He’d come harder than he had in a long time, with or without an actual partner. The fact that it was thoughts of Peter fucking him was not lost on him. It was going to make things very difficult.
With a sigh Neal got up and pulled the sheets off the bed. Wiping himself down with the bottom sheet, he crawled back in. He’d sneak them down tomorrow when Peter was busy.
Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.
Standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs, Peter took a shuddering breath and pressed his hand on his spent cock. He’d woken to Neal’s moans, his pain and Percoset-muddled brain registering the sounds as Neal being in trouble. He shuffled out of his bedroom to help until he’d realized their nature. Any sane man would have turned around and given Neal his privacy.
Peter thought he was sane and had intended to leave. That is, until he had heard his name in a long drawn-out whimper. It had rooted him to the floor, helpless and wanting, listening to Neal beg for him to fuck him, calling him Master.
He had stood there, working himself through his cotton pants, as the bed creaked overhead in time to Neal’s moans.
The rational portion of his brain had clamored for him to leave, go back to his room, pretend this wasn’t happening. The lizard part had reveled in the real-life porn sounds coming from Neal’s room.
It was all over when Neal had screamed his orgasm, Peter's following him immediately after, soaking his sleep pants as he shoved his fist in his mouth to keep Neal from hearing him.
He stumbled back to his room and fell on the bed. Rolling over, he stared at the ceiling, imagining Neal splayed out and sated.
Peter groaned and buried his head under his pillow. He was so fucked.