Author:
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Sexual D/s, leather fetish, bondage, boots, switchplay
Word Count: ~4000
Summary: Peter needs to understand that Neal has complete control over the situation.
“I never fucked him.” Neal’s eyes flashed bright for a second, then he dropped his head. “In exchange for protection, I took him as my submissive. He wanted me to fuck him, he begged me to. But I made it part of the game. I enjoyed it, too. I’d make him crawl to me, like a disobedient dog - he’d lick my boots and beat off if I let him. I’d even keep him on a leash when we were out in the yard. Donatchz the Damned they called him – in for kiddie murder. I called him ‘pet.’ But no one else could – he’d break their jaw – and other body parts.”
Questions of Position and the Use of Authority
“Neal, this is a bad idea.” Peter ran a hand through his hair and paced around the apartment, trying not to look at Neal, dressed in form fitting black boxer briefs, knee-high black socks and nothing else. The slight chill in the air puckered his dark nipples and Peter’s mouth watered. They had an appointment to meet with Mikhail Donatchz at Neal’s old address in about two hours, and Peter was torn between tossing Neal on the bed and fucking his brains out, or tossing Neal on the bed and locking him to the headboard with his handcuffs. Or doing both.
“Peter, by now, haven’t you figured out that my bad ideas have a way of working out very well?”
Peter just glared at him in response.
“Come on, we’re a team – Caffrey and Burke.”
“Burke and Caffrey.” Peter grunted the correction automatically.
“And soon, Rubicov and Halden.”
“Neal – I’ve told you. This is not a game. The stakes are way too high.” Peter tried to sound repressive, but Neal’s enthusiasm was infectious. Peter even had to admit to himself that going deep undercover with Neal was either going to be the highlight of his career or put him on the unemployment line. Or in a mental institution.
“I know it’s not a game, and believe me, I know how dangerous this is going to get. But still, you’ve got to admit…it’s going to be fun.” Neal’s grin went from ear to ear, and his eyes sparkled. He held out his left leg and wiggled his ankle. “This is going to have to come off.”
Peter grimaced, this part of the plan he liked the least, but he said nothing and called the EMU. A few seconds after giving his clearance code, Peter used the key to unlock the anklet. Neal went to the closet to retrieve a pair of custom made, knee high riding boots. He held his breath as Neal slid on the right boot, toes pointed like a ballet dancer until his foot was encased. Peter watched as Neal slowly tugged the form fitting leather over his tightly muscled calf, adjusting the sock and then the boot top until it was just so. The performance was repeated for his left foot. He was surprised to see that the highly polished, black leather boots were not new.
“You can’t tell me that those boots came from June’s late husband.” He growled, trying to mask the arousal in his voice.
Still wearing nothing but his briefs, Neal bounced up and down, trying to settle into the footwear. Satisfied, he stood in front of the mirror, hands on his hips, admiring the fit of the boots. When he turned around to check himself out from behind, and flexed his gluts, Peter knew Neal was undoubtedly posing for his benefit. “Nope, these weren’t Byron’s. They’re mine. Moz got them out of storage for me last week.” He stood there, legs spread, and Peter suddenly realized he had a new kink, and it was hitting him hard.
“What else do you have in storage?”
Neal’s lips twitched and he wagged his eyebrows at his partner.
“Wait – don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Peter shook his head, as if he could shake off the desire bubbling through his veins. Neal planted his hands on his hips, like a dangerous young god, ready to take on the world. Peter wanted to throw the other man against the wall, on the bed, on the floor and take him like an animal. Neal, in those boots, was bringing out something dangerous and unwholesome within Peter.
“Neal – get dressed. Please.” I’ve got to get out of here, before I do something crazy. “I’ll meet you in the car.”
Thankfully, for his peace of mind, Peter didn’t see the evil glint in Neal’s eyes.
During the two hour drive to the upstate maximum security facility that had housed Neal on several occasions, Peter expressed his doubts about this meeting. Hell, calling them doubts would be like calling the Alps foothills. Neal just kept brushing them off, like the non-existent flecks of lint from the black wool suit he was wearing. Peter loved that suit; he loved Neal in that suit and actually resented the fact that Neal was wearing it to meet with his former submissive. At least the tie was the one he hated, that stupid red and black Italian silk thing, the one Neal lent him for that wine tasting. And it seemed that Neal added a vest to the outfit. It was hard to tell in the shadowed car, but it might actually be leather. Peter didn’t want to think about that. He also didn’t want to think about the long black leather coat that Neal tossed in the back seat of the Taurus. He needed to keep his mind on the dangerous criminal he was going to interview, and not how he wanted to stop the car, spread Neal out on that coat and sodomize him.
So Peter gritted his teeth and asked, for the tenth or twentieth time. “You really think that Donatchz is going to cooperate? After this long?”
“He will, with me. You were the one who figured out Ruiz’ notes. The connection’s still there. We just have to play it right. Mischa’s loyal, and has a strong appreciation for good theatrics.”
“Mischa?” Peter turned to look at Neal, and Taurus suddenly started to chime as Peter drifted into on-coming traffic. Peter corrected his course abruptly.
Neal ignored Peter’s question and his erratic driving, which was usually comment worthy. He was trying to find the headspace, the mindset he needed to establish his dominance. Being with Peter for so long, in a relationship where he let another man control him, had taken him out of the game. “Peter – a lot of this is going to depend on how well you can set the scene. Donatchz is a strange and difficult man. He’s not crazy, precisely, and he’s not what you think of when you think ‘submissive’ or ‘leather fetishist’.”
“I’ve seen his arrest and processing photos, Neal. I’ve read the case notes from his arrest and the interviews by other agents trying to get information. I don’t like the idea of being in a room with him, even if he’s in shackles and I’ve got my gun. I don’t like thinking of you alone with him, ever.” Peter gritted his teeth against the thought of what Neal had needed to do to keep safe.
Disregarding Peter’s oft-iterated concerns, Neal continued, “He’s going to be contemptuous of you – you’re a Fed, you’re an outsider and you have nothing to offer him that he wants. You need to play it cool, as contemptuous of him as he will be of you.”
“Neal, I’ve interrogated a few criminals before.”
“Donatchz is a hit man – not a financial fraudster or con artist.”
“Neal – please stop under estimating me. It’s annoying.”
“He’ll probably just sit there and say nothing. He may not even look at you.”
“Which is why I can’t understand how Ruiz got him to talk.”
“That troubles me too. Donatchz took a life sentence without parole rather than roll on the person who ordered the hit on the Kravinsky family.”
“He should have gotten the death penalty.” Peter’s voice was hard, flat, implacable. Mikhail Donatchz was convicted of assassinating the wife and two young children of an up-and-coming Russian mobster. The FBI suspected, but could never prove that the hit was ordered by Yernakov.
“If he had, I’d probably be dead.” The statement was made casually; there was no inflection in Neal’s voice.
Peter didn’t want to think about what had happened, what else could have happened to Neal in prison. “Neal – it’s not too late to call a halt to this. I know you’re good – and you’ve got confidence in spades. Hell – you could sell yourself off as the baddest, badass this side of a Masucci hit man, but Donatchz is going to have to have doubts and resentments about you. You left him behind – that’s going to have to hurt.”
“No, Peter. Donatchz knew I was going to escape. He wanted me to…and not because of Kate. Things were getting…hot. There were rumors and a lot of strange things happening. He wanted me safe.”
Peter would have inquired further, but they arrived at the prison gate and it was show time.
Sitting across from him, Peter wondered how the hell Neal ever figured out that this monster of a man was a sexual submissive. “Donatchz the Damned” was six and a half feet tall and probably tipped the scales at 350 pounds of solid muscle. He had tattoos over most of the visible skin, with the exception of his face - many of them in Cyrillic. Some of them were amusing, most of were them exceedingly profane, and the one that circled the crown of his shaved head was downright obscene.
“Sergei Yernakov - ever hear of him?” Peter’s voice held a wealth of weariness - as if he really didn’t care about Donatchz’ answer.
Donatchz didn’t blink. Come to think about it, Peter didn’t think that Donatchz ever blinked. He just stared into the wall, a massive troll turned to stone.
“You told my friend Ruiz all about his clubs. You talked to him, why not talk to me?”
Finally, Donatchz turned and faced Peter, and Peter thought that he could hear cogs and gears squealing in protest. A sound, barely a voice - more like the grinding of stone on metal, seemed to form words. “You, you are nothing. You are less than nothing. I don’t talk to nothing.” Donatchz spat in Peter’s direction and twisted around as much as the handcuffs that shackled him to the table allowed, and faced the wall.
That seemed to be a cue for the observers on the other side of the two-way glass. The door opened, and Neal entered the room. Peter didn’t turn around, and neither did Donatchz. The footfalls on the concrete floor echoed like gunshots.
Peter had to applaud his partner’s sense of theater - when he walked into the interrogation room, his breath caught in his throat. His carriage, even the few steps he needed to take, the way he held his head, the arch of his brows - everything about Neal said “I own you.”
“Tsk, tsk, I thought I taught my pet better manners than that.” The voice was cool, amused, and had an undercurrent of deadly intent.
Donatchz spun around and Peter watched in utter fascination as the hulking monster was transformed from a belligerent statute to a creature of pure longing. Donatchz breathed a single word, Master. Every muscle in that huge body tensed in a mass of yearning, and the table, bolted to the floor, began to creak as the massive man pulled on the cuffs that shackled him. The look in Donatchz’s eyes worried Peter, he stared at Neal with such terrible intensity.
And Neal, what a sight he was. The black suit was now covered by the black leather duster that hung from Neal’s shoulders. It should have been ridiculous, but the effect was devastating. Neal shrugged out of the coat and Peter caught it and tossed it onto the table before it slid to the floor. Neal didn’t say anything to Peter, he just ran his fingers, now encased in long, black leather gloves, against his cheek and around his ear, all the time keeping an eye on Donatchz.
The convict kept pulling on the chains and the table continued to rock. Peter pushed back and stood up, reaching for his gun. This situation was turning bad very quickly. He calculated that it would take ten seconds for the observers to get into the room, too long when, not if - Donatchz went berserk.
“Master, my beloved Master. You’ve returned for me.”
“Why are you in a chair? Who gave you permission to sit in my presence?” .
Then, just as Neal predicted - Donatchz tried to abase himself before Neal. Donatchz struggled to get out of the chair and facedown onto the floor.
“Shhh, pet. Keep still.” Donatchz stopped moving - his hands were kept palms down, fingers spread in a gesture of submission. Neal held out his hand to Peter for the handcuff key. Of course, Neal could have used one of his own - but getting it from Peter was all part of the scene, establishing the hierarchy.
Neal unlocked one of the cuffs and fed it out of the bracket and immediately recuffed Donatchz, who fell face first onto the floor in utter abasement. “Master, Master. You haven’t forgotten me.”
“No, Mischa - I haven’t forgotten you. But you have done something to make me very angry. Neal’s tone was cold and hard and unforgiving.
Peter’s eyes widened as Donatchz actually whimpered and tried to crawl to Neal
“I am so very sorry, Master, so sorry. I have missed you, I need you.” Neal walked around Donatchz, something on the boot heels made a ringing sound against the floor.
Neal swung the chair that Donatchz vacated around and sat down. He crossed his legs in a picture of studied elegance; keeping one boot-shod foot was just a few inches from the convict’s head. Neal then shifted his crossed leg and brushed his leather boot against Donatchz’ chin. The man moaned.
“It’s okay, pet. I know what you want.”
“May I …” Donatchz’ voice dropped to the barest whisper “kiss your boot?”
Neal’s voice turned hard. “No.”
Donatchz slumped down, his arms spread out before him, his forehead on the floor. Neal tapped the tip of his boot against the man’s tattooed head.
“I said, I am angry at you, Mischa. You broke the rules.”
A shudder when through Donatchz’ massive frame. “I am sorry, I won’t do it again.”
Neal then rubbed the sole against Donatchz’ forehead, leaving a smear of dirt against the sweating skin, a penitent’s mark. “Do you even know why I am angry with you?”
Donatchz whispered, “No.”
“You talked about me to a stranger - a man called Ruiz. Why would you do that?”
Donatchz trembled. When he swallowed, it rippled through his whole body.
“He told me that he was your friend, that you needed my help. That you couldn’t come and see me, but you were in trouble. But he lied, he lied about you.” Donatchz lifted his head and looked at Neal. Peter couldn’t see the sorrow in the man’s face, but his posture radiated defeat.
Neal touched the side of his boot against Donatchz’ cheek, a small gift. Donatchz rubbed against it, surprisingly delicately for such a huge man, and sighed in pleasure. “Master is well? He is safe?”
Neal nodded and pressed his boot a little harder against Donatchz and shifted his leg so his foot brushed across the other man’s mouth. “I need something from you, pet.”
Donatchz breathed, and the moisture fogged the highly polished leather. Neal wiped it against his chin, and Donatchz shuddered in obvious pleasure. “What can I do for you, Master?”
“Tell me about Sergei Yernakov.”
At that, Donatchz pulled away from Neal’s boot, sitting back on his haunches, shoulders thrown back and all traces of submission instantly disappearing
Peter watched the interplay between Neal and his “pet.” It was like looking at Neal through a kaleidoscope, the mosaic kept sliding and changing, each pattern stranger, more beautiful, more ephemeral than the next. This Neal was a man in complete control, to a degree that was almost frightening and actually a bit arousing.
Something changed in Donatchz’ posture and Peter slid his gun out of his holster and carefully disengaged the safety. He wished he could see the man’s eyes. But Neal was unaffected, his pose carefully relaxed as he slid his boot against the other man’s face.
“Why do you want to know about Yernakov?” All trace of whining and pleading was gone.
“Pet - You told Ruiz about him. You answered his questions because he mentioned my name.”
“No. That’s not why you ask me to tell you about Yernakov.”
Peter watched as Neal allowed the dynamics to subtly shift – he was still in control, but Donatchz wasn’t playing the abject submissive anymore. He still wished he could see the man’s face, read his intentions. But he could read Neal, and Neal wasn’t nervous. He just kept playing a cat and mouse game with his “pet.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Yernakov is evil. You get involved with him, you die. I told that to the other one. The one who said you were in trouble. He said he was trying to help you.”
Neal got out of the chair and went down on one knee next to Donatchz, and Peter nearly had a heart attack. Neal had such an outsized presence, he carried himself so strongly that it was difficult to remember just how slight he was. Donatchz, even shackled, could break Neal like a matchstick.
“Thank you, Mischa. Thank you for trying to help me, thank you for still trying to protect me.” The dynamics shifted again when Neal brushed his gloved fingers against Donatchz’ face, as if the murderer was a child needing comfort. The self-aware tension in the prisoner eased, and he seemed to don the cloak of a submissive again. Neal held the back of his gloved hand against Donatchz’s lips and cheek, and let him lick and kiss the leather. Eventually Donatchz got his fill, and he relaxed enough to talk to Neal.
“Who…who watches for you now, Master?”
Neal held out a hand to Peter and Donatchz shifted around.
“This one – he is your protector?” Neal nodded and held out an indolent hand to Peter.
Peter braced himself for a violent outburst of jealous rage. Neal was playing a very dangerous game. He got up and stood next to Neal, hands a his sides, his face expressionless.
Donatchz looked him in the eyes, and Peter finally saw what Neal must have seen – a man tormented, in need of purpose, a reason to keep living. He also saw that this monster actually loved Neal and while that could never excuse the crimes he committed, Peter was willing to accept Neal’s trust in the man.
Neal quietly said to both of them, “Can we sit down at this table and talk – as equals, as adults? No games, no power plays, no mindfucks.”
Peter watched Donatchz watch Neal as Neal casually remove those gloves, finger by finger, press the leather against his lips and toss them onto the floor. Donatchz licked his lips and nodded. Neal smiled, that bright, happy smile that Peter knew to be as fake as a three dollar bill. Donatchz smiled back, a fearsome thing. Peter’s face remained stone-like.
Donatchz lumbered to his feet and dropped back into the chair that Neal had vacated, his thighs spread, Neal hopped up on the table next to the leather coat, his boots resting on the edge of the chair, between Donatchz’ spread thighs. Peter sat close to Donatchz. Despite Neal’s request, this conversation was going to be a master class in mindfuckery. Neal knew it; his “pet” knew it and Peter only hoped that they’d all walk out of the room alive.
Four grueling hours later, Neal and Peter finally walked out of the prison. Neal breathed deep and Peter followed suit. They were back in the car and out the gates before either man said anything.
“Pity about the gloves. They looked expensive.”
“They were. Do you think the FBI would approve my expense report if I put in for reimbursement?”
Peter smiled. Trust Neal to find the perfect way to break the tension. “No – I don’t think giving them as a “thank-you” gift to a leather-fetishist serving life in prison for triple murder will qualify under the Bureau’s expense policy.”
Neal hummed something. It sounded like Flight of the Valkyries. Peter’s smile broadened into a full-fledged grin.
“We did good, didn’t we?” Neal looked at Peter for the first time. If Peter was grinning from ear to ear, Neal’s smile practically swallowed his face – like the Cheshire Cat. Bright white teeth and glowing blue eyes.
“Yeah.” And Peter sobered up instantly – it wouldn’t take much to incite Neal to even greater feats of undercover madness. “You took a lot of risks in there.”
“They were all necessary – and I knew you had my back. You always do.” Neal wasn’t letting anything bring him down. Peter knew the feeling all too well – undercover endorphins. Neal certainly knew it too – the thrill of the con was just as addictive.
“In that room, having your back meant putting a bullet in someone. Someone who could break each of us into tiny little pieces without breaking a sweat.”
Neal grunted, a non-committal response. Peter sighed, he knew there was little he could do to bring Neal down for the moment. The care and feeding of a new undercover operative was a delicate balancing act – between instilling caution and making the agent afraid of his own shadow. Neal’s rather extensive experience undercover – albeit illicitly and illegally – coupled with the man’s natural exuberance and self-confidence, meant that Peter didn’t have to worry about making him gun shy. But still, a modicum of caution would have helped – at least helped Peter and his blood pressure.
“How long will it take for the FBI to process the information we give them? How long before we can go undercover?” Neal was practically bouncing in his seat. Like a fucking five-year old.
“Tell me, Peter…” Peter hated when Neal prefaced his sentences like that.
“Tell you what?”
“Have you ever interrogated anyone and made them come in their pants?”
“Neal …”
“Come on Peter, you have to admit that Mischa’s given us the keys to Yernakov’s kingdom.”
Peter didn’t want to think about what Neal did to the man to get him to give up what he did. But it was hard to erase the image of those leather boots gently tapping against Donatchz’s massive cock and balls.
“You’re just annoyed because my plan worked. Spectacularly, if I may say.”
Peter shook his head. “Yes, Neal - your plan worked spectacularly, and if you going to crow about it all the way back to the City, you’re going to walk.” An idle threat, but it shut Neal up for a while.
The quiet minutes stretched into miles as Peter navigated the sharp curves and narrow lanes of the Taconic Parkway, each man lost in thought. “Neal…” Peter started to say something when the Taurus gave out a warning chime.
“Shit - we’re low on gas.” Peter growled at his car.
Neal fidgeted with the car’s navigation panel. “You’re in luck - the nearest gas station is about twenty-five miles away - you do have enough gas to get that far, don’t you? I have no plans on pushing.”
They pulled into the gas station practically on fumes, and both men got out.
“Mind if I stretch my legs?” Neal asked Peter, who was fighting with the gas cap. Peter grunted his reply, which Neal took as permission. The late afternoon sun was warm and Neal doffed his jacket, turned his back to Peter and stretched his arms above his head. And nearly gave Peter a heart attack. Again.
When he caught his breath and his vision cleared, Neal was grinning at him from over his shoulder. The leather vest Neal was wearing wasn’t a vest, it was a corset.
Two questions occurred to Peter simultaneously. How did Neal get into that without someone lacing it up for him and was there anywhere that he could take Neal and fuck his brains out?
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