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asimaiyatTitle: "Shelter From The Storm"
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Mozzie/Neal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sexuality, guilty!wanking
Summary: Mozzie can't bring himself to take advantage of the kid... or to stop thinking about it.
AN: For MMoM day two. Don't worry, there will be some more requited M/N later in the month! This was inspired by a conversation withashcat about the early days of their relationship. Title and cut text from Bob Dylan.
The kid was seventeen.
Yes, he was brilliant. He could keep up a conversation about anything, Mozz had tried them all, and it sure seemed like he'd read the entire New York Public Library. He may have been a high-school dropout, but he had an impressive collection of student IDs for the purpose of dropping in on classes at any of the educational institutions in the metropolitan area, and his eyes moved back and forth like he was always looking for something new to figure out, a new puzzle to get to work on. His medium of choice may have been brick walls and old subway cars, but his artwork showed a flair for line and movement that you just couldn't teach. On their first meeting he'd snatched Mozzie's wallet without him noticing, and Mozzie noticed everything, but this kid was quick, moving like Bruce Lee or Baryshnikov, like someone whose genius lived in his whole body.
But he was seventeen. He wouldn't even be in college yet, if he cared to do such things in the right order.
And of course he was beautiful. His Tiffany blue eyes always alive with possibility, a little droopy-lidded with sleeplessness when they'd first met, but by now, after three nights on Mozzie's couch, alive like a pair of lightning bugs. His torso a perfect triangle, hairless and just beginning to fill out with rangy adolescent muscle, his back long and graceful like a swimmer's, his ass high and tight and... oh, God, Mozzie really shouldn't be thinking about his ass.
Seventeen, Mozzie reminded himself. He thought that it wasn't really fair, that someone who's devoted himself to the life of a career criminal shouldn't have to worry so much about what is and isn't legal. But it wasn't about the law, really, it was about the fact that this boy, Neal, was a fellow outlaw in need, a lonely kid who didn't follow the rules and was quickly learning not to trust anyone. If asked, Mozzie would have said that there was no such thing as honor among thieves, but maybe there was a little bit, because he felt a duty of honor towards this kid. Letting him stay on the couch -- and not asking for anything in return -- was the least he could do. It was a mitzvah. Good karma.
Which didn't mean that he hadn't been waking up aching with hardness every morning for three days now, thinking about Neal asleep on the couch on the other side of a very thin wall, clothed in nothing but boxers and a sweaty sheet. He woke up shaking off dreams of things he really shouldn't be dreaming about, Neal's eyes looking up at him from between his thighs, Neal's elegant back arching into him as he rode that sculpted ass from behind. He felt like a grade A creep, but the alternative was going out there to say good morning to the kid sporting an epic hard-on, so he dropped his head back to the pillow and slowly stroked his cock, thinking about the things he was doing in his dreams, taking advantage of Neal's eagerness to please, not to mention his youthful flexibility.
In his waking hours he wouldn't so much as ruffle the kid's hair, too superstitious to fuck around with temptation. But now, half-awake, he thought about what a version of himself without the few scruples he actually had would do. An alternate-universe version of himself, maybe with a goatee, like that one episode of Star Trek. It would be so easy to just hint to the boy that he was interested, just enough to play on his gratitude for the couch and the little lessons Mozzie had been giving him in pickpocketing and forgery. He squeezed his own cock punishingly hard as he imagined Neal sucking him off, those fucking eyes looking up at him, full of lust and devotion and gratitude. It's so wrong, he thinks, running his thumb along the pronounced vein of his dick, making himself shudder with the thought that Neal's tongue would probably be every bit as clever as his hands, flicking at the crown of his cock, teasing the sensitive underside of his balls. So creepy and exploitative and unethical. Mozzie wasn't an exploiter. But if he were... if he were, his painfully hard shlong would be pushing its way into that fantastic little ass right this minute, while the kid was still warm and sleepy and pliable in the crappy sidelong light the apartment got in the early mornings. He tried not to hate himself for for how much he liked that thought; it wasn't his fault that it was so... aesthetically appealing. Yeah. That was it. So aesthetically appealing that he was coming messily all over his favorite Rage Against The Machine t-shirt, his cock twitching hard in his hand as he tried and failed to banish the image of Neal holding still and taking it as he shot his load inside that perfect ass, fingertips digging into those narrow boyish hips.
Yep. Definitely going to hell. Cheating, lying and stealing were one thing, but this had to be beyond the pale.
Mozzie cleaned himself up, changed into actual clothes, and tried to think about European variants of the more esoteric rules of chess as he entered the living room and braced himself for the sight of Neal half-naked on the couch. Except, he wasn't. On the couch, anyway. He was still half-naked, having squeezed himself into his tight dark-wash jeans but neglected to complete the ensemble with a shirt, but he was wide awake and...
Drawing on the ceiling, apparently.
Mozzie pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. That just couldn't be right. He'd expected to wake up and find Neal still sleeping on the couch, or maybe fixing himself some breakfast, reading a book... pretty much anything but standing somewhat precariously on the stepladder that Mozzie used to reach the books on the top shelves, using a charcoal pencil to draw abstract art deco geometries across the ceiling of the breakfast nook.
A number of questions seemed obvious: Why are you drawing on the ceiling? How could you possibly think that that's acceptable behavior? Where, exactly, is the money for my security deposit going to come from? Of course, though, because apparently Mozzie had transformed over the past week into that strange man your parents warn you about, the most prominent thought in his mind was nobody should look that good in jeans.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Oh!" Neal reached out to steady himself against the stepladder, and for one awful moment it looked like he might fall. "I just thought I'd help you decorate. It's a little... depressing in here. The books are cool, though." He flashed that smile that was more effective than any weapon Mozzie had ever encountered, and suddenly it seemed like a sweet gesture, instead of an act of vandalism. "I figured I'd lift some paints this afternoon to color it in, if you liked it. Otherwise I can wash it off."
"Ah, thank you." Mozzie tilted his head and examined the sketched-in patterns, which fit in somewhere between Frank Lloyd Wright and Moroccan tile work. He decided that he liked it very much. "Very... creative of you."
"I just wanted to do something for you, you know, to show my gratitude." Neal turned and tripped gracefully down the stepladder, like Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain. "You've really saved my life here. I appreciate it." He looked up through those heavy lashes, and it was absolutely not an invitation, no matter how much Mozzie's fevered brain might want to imagine that it was.
"Don't mention it. I've had worse houseguests." This was a lie; Mozzie had never had any houseguests until now. He didn't trust them.
"I haven't had a better host," Neal replied without hesitation, and then they must have been standing closer than Mozzie thought they were, because all of a sudden Neal was hugging him, wrapping bare lanky arms around his waist and breathing warmly into his neck. Normally Mozzie was not one for surprise hugs, but he'd make an exception for this one. He told himself that it was a sign of innocence, that was all, the boy was so young and trusting that he wouldn't give a second thought to spontaneous shirtless embracing. Nothing more than that. Until Neal pulled back just enough to look Mozzie squarely in the eye, which wasn't even fair, and half-murmured, "If there's anything else I can do for you, you know, don't hesitate."
Mozzie didn't say anything. He tried to remember how which endgame worked best with the Sicilian Defense, under international tournament rules. He blinked twice, and by then Neal was standing by the couch, rooting through his leather shoulder bag for a clean t-shirt, the muscles of his back flexing as he pulled the flimsy white shirt over his head.
King's knight retreats to block castling for King.
That night, Alternate Universe Mozzie came back, forcing Neal down from the stepladder and twisting strong fingers into his paint-tangled hair. He woke up sweating in the middle of the night, his heart pounding, reaching for his cock before he could even form a coherent thought. From the other side of the very thin wall, he could almost, almost make out the sound of slick friction and labored breathing, originating from the couch where his guest was, presumably, sleeping the sleep of the young and the innocent.
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Mozzie/Neal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sexuality, guilty!wanking
Summary: Mozzie can't bring himself to take advantage of the kid... or to stop thinking about it.
AN: For MMoM day two. Don't worry, there will be some more requited M/N later in the month! This was inspired by a conversation with
ashcat about the early days of their relationship. Title and cut text from Bob Dylan.The kid was seventeen.
Yes, he was brilliant. He could keep up a conversation about anything, Mozz had tried them all, and it sure seemed like he'd read the entire New York Public Library. He may have been a high-school dropout, but he had an impressive collection of student IDs for the purpose of dropping in on classes at any of the educational institutions in the metropolitan area, and his eyes moved back and forth like he was always looking for something new to figure out, a new puzzle to get to work on. His medium of choice may have been brick walls and old subway cars, but his artwork showed a flair for line and movement that you just couldn't teach. On their first meeting he'd snatched Mozzie's wallet without him noticing, and Mozzie noticed everything, but this kid was quick, moving like Bruce Lee or Baryshnikov, like someone whose genius lived in his whole body.
But he was seventeen. He wouldn't even be in college yet, if he cared to do such things in the right order.
And of course he was beautiful. His Tiffany blue eyes always alive with possibility, a little droopy-lidded with sleeplessness when they'd first met, but by now, after three nights on Mozzie's couch, alive like a pair of lightning bugs. His torso a perfect triangle, hairless and just beginning to fill out with rangy adolescent muscle, his back long and graceful like a swimmer's, his ass high and tight and... oh, God, Mozzie really shouldn't be thinking about his ass.
Seventeen, Mozzie reminded himself. He thought that it wasn't really fair, that someone who's devoted himself to the life of a career criminal shouldn't have to worry so much about what is and isn't legal. But it wasn't about the law, really, it was about the fact that this boy, Neal, was a fellow outlaw in need, a lonely kid who didn't follow the rules and was quickly learning not to trust anyone. If asked, Mozzie would have said that there was no such thing as honor among thieves, but maybe there was a little bit, because he felt a duty of honor towards this kid. Letting him stay on the couch -- and not asking for anything in return -- was the least he could do. It was a mitzvah. Good karma.
Which didn't mean that he hadn't been waking up aching with hardness every morning for three days now, thinking about Neal asleep on the couch on the other side of a very thin wall, clothed in nothing but boxers and a sweaty sheet. He woke up shaking off dreams of things he really shouldn't be dreaming about, Neal's eyes looking up at him from between his thighs, Neal's elegant back arching into him as he rode that sculpted ass from behind. He felt like a grade A creep, but the alternative was going out there to say good morning to the kid sporting an epic hard-on, so he dropped his head back to the pillow and slowly stroked his cock, thinking about the things he was doing in his dreams, taking advantage of Neal's eagerness to please, not to mention his youthful flexibility.
In his waking hours he wouldn't so much as ruffle the kid's hair, too superstitious to fuck around with temptation. But now, half-awake, he thought about what a version of himself without the few scruples he actually had would do. An alternate-universe version of himself, maybe with a goatee, like that one episode of Star Trek. It would be so easy to just hint to the boy that he was interested, just enough to play on his gratitude for the couch and the little lessons Mozzie had been giving him in pickpocketing and forgery. He squeezed his own cock punishingly hard as he imagined Neal sucking him off, those fucking eyes looking up at him, full of lust and devotion and gratitude. It's so wrong, he thinks, running his thumb along the pronounced vein of his dick, making himself shudder with the thought that Neal's tongue would probably be every bit as clever as his hands, flicking at the crown of his cock, teasing the sensitive underside of his balls. So creepy and exploitative and unethical. Mozzie wasn't an exploiter. But if he were... if he were, his painfully hard shlong would be pushing its way into that fantastic little ass right this minute, while the kid was still warm and sleepy and pliable in the crappy sidelong light the apartment got in the early mornings. He tried not to hate himself for for how much he liked that thought; it wasn't his fault that it was so... aesthetically appealing. Yeah. That was it. So aesthetically appealing that he was coming messily all over his favorite Rage Against The Machine t-shirt, his cock twitching hard in his hand as he tried and failed to banish the image of Neal holding still and taking it as he shot his load inside that perfect ass, fingertips digging into those narrow boyish hips.
Yep. Definitely going to hell. Cheating, lying and stealing were one thing, but this had to be beyond the pale.
Mozzie cleaned himself up, changed into actual clothes, and tried to think about European variants of the more esoteric rules of chess as he entered the living room and braced himself for the sight of Neal half-naked on the couch. Except, he wasn't. On the couch, anyway. He was still half-naked, having squeezed himself into his tight dark-wash jeans but neglected to complete the ensemble with a shirt, but he was wide awake and...
Drawing on the ceiling, apparently.
Mozzie pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. That just couldn't be right. He'd expected to wake up and find Neal still sleeping on the couch, or maybe fixing himself some breakfast, reading a book... pretty much anything but standing somewhat precariously on the stepladder that Mozzie used to reach the books on the top shelves, using a charcoal pencil to draw abstract art deco geometries across the ceiling of the breakfast nook.
A number of questions seemed obvious: Why are you drawing on the ceiling? How could you possibly think that that's acceptable behavior? Where, exactly, is the money for my security deposit going to come from? Of course, though, because apparently Mozzie had transformed over the past week into that strange man your parents warn you about, the most prominent thought in his mind was nobody should look that good in jeans.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Oh!" Neal reached out to steady himself against the stepladder, and for one awful moment it looked like he might fall. "I just thought I'd help you decorate. It's a little... depressing in here. The books are cool, though." He flashed that smile that was more effective than any weapon Mozzie had ever encountered, and suddenly it seemed like a sweet gesture, instead of an act of vandalism. "I figured I'd lift some paints this afternoon to color it in, if you liked it. Otherwise I can wash it off."
"Ah, thank you." Mozzie tilted his head and examined the sketched-in patterns, which fit in somewhere between Frank Lloyd Wright and Moroccan tile work. He decided that he liked it very much. "Very... creative of you."
"I just wanted to do something for you, you know, to show my gratitude." Neal turned and tripped gracefully down the stepladder, like Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain. "You've really saved my life here. I appreciate it." He looked up through those heavy lashes, and it was absolutely not an invitation, no matter how much Mozzie's fevered brain might want to imagine that it was.
"Don't mention it. I've had worse houseguests." This was a lie; Mozzie had never had any houseguests until now. He didn't trust them.
"I haven't had a better host," Neal replied without hesitation, and then they must have been standing closer than Mozzie thought they were, because all of a sudden Neal was hugging him, wrapping bare lanky arms around his waist and breathing warmly into his neck. Normally Mozzie was not one for surprise hugs, but he'd make an exception for this one. He told himself that it was a sign of innocence, that was all, the boy was so young and trusting that he wouldn't give a second thought to spontaneous shirtless embracing. Nothing more than that. Until Neal pulled back just enough to look Mozzie squarely in the eye, which wasn't even fair, and half-murmured, "If there's anything else I can do for you, you know, don't hesitate."
Mozzie didn't say anything. He tried to remember how which endgame worked best with the Sicilian Defense, under international tournament rules. He blinked twice, and by then Neal was standing by the couch, rooting through his leather shoulder bag for a clean t-shirt, the muscles of his back flexing as he pulled the flimsy white shirt over his head.
King's knight retreats to block castling for King.
That night, Alternate Universe Mozzie came back, forcing Neal down from the stepladder and twisting strong fingers into his paint-tangled hair. He woke up sweating in the middle of the night, his heart pounding, reaching for his cock before he could even form a coherent thought. From the other side of the very thin wall, he could almost, almost make out the sound of slick friction and labored breathing, originating from the couch where his guest was, presumably, sleeping the sleep of the young and the innocent.