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crack_van2011-06-30 02:03 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-06-30 02:03 pm
Entry tags:
love's a universe beyond obey by hoosierbitch (R)
Fandom: WHITE COLLAR
Pairing: Neal/Mozzie
Length: 9,200
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hoosierbitch
Author Website: Profile at AO3
Why this must be read:
Because Mozzie is ♥ and the relationship and back-story this author has given him and Neal is just amazing and I loved how Mozzie is the one who shapes the person Neal will ultimately become.
Sometimes Neal would disappear. If he knew where he was going to go, he’d leave a note (out stealing Martha Washington’s love letters or I heard Seattle was cool and once I want to see which ways toilets really flush in the Southern hemisphere). He’d return days, sometimes weeks later; often with money, a couple of times with bruises, always with entertaining and embellished tales of his exploits. Moz knew Neal well enough by then to know that at least some of the stories were nearly entirely falsehoods, but he had to trust Neal to take care of himself. Because Neal refused to let him help.
Moz couldn’t figure out whether his apartment was where Neal went when he needed a vacation from the rest of his life, or if – or if he was Neal’s life, now, if the clothes Neal left scattered in his bedroom and the notes to himself he scrawled in Moz’s notebooks meant I live here. He seemed…not careless, with his belongings, but – distant. More like a curator than an owner. As if none of the things he had really belonged to him.
The longest that Neal ever left without popping his head back through Moz's door and complaining about his lack of a television was five weeks. He didn’t leave a note, didn’t call, didn’t leave any trace behind that Moz could find to follow. He tried to distract himself with another job – deciphering a Russian legal document from the 14th century and making three copies of the translation – but two weeks after Christmas he heard the quiet click of his lock being picked and saw a curly brown head poke around, and it became hard to think about anything except for Neal.
“You’re back,” he said, stupidly, a dripping quill in his right hand splattering ink on a nearly-finished forgery. Neal eased the rest of the way around the doorframe and stood with his back against the wall, hands behind his back, obviously forcing himself not to fidget.
He’d lost weight. Moz wasn’t sure how much weight it was actually possible to lose in five weeks, but Neal hadn’t had much to spare to start with. And now the angles of his face were painfully sharp, the points of his shoulders poked through his thin t-shirt, and there was a new haunted look in his bruise-dark eyes. “You should put on a sweater,” Moz said quietly. “Until I get the heat turned up.”
“I’m not going to stay,” Neal interrupted. Moz could see his fingers already edging towards the doorknob. “I just wanted to stop in. Let you know I was okay.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied, trying to figure out what he could do or say that would get Neal to come the rest of the way into his apartment. To get the look of prey out of his eyes. “You can stay if you want to. I was just about to start dinner – I probably won’t be able to finish it all myself.” He shrugged. “I can just toss the leftovers away, though, no big deal.” Neal’s indecision was written all over his face, his grumbling stomach clear as crystal. “I’d appreciate the company – it’s been a bit lonely.”
He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, careful not to get any closer to Neal’s position by the door. “I’m working on a manuscript that you might like. Why don’t you take a look at the bottom right corner, tell me what you think of the detail work on the border. You like broccoli, right?”
He stopped right inside the kitchen and waited for the sound of the door opening to let Neal out. He didn’t hear anything. When he peeked back out into the main room he saw Neal hunched over the table. Something inside his chest clenched at the sight of the bumps of Neal’s spine, visible through the fabric of his t-shirt.
Moz hadn't been about to start cooking anything, actually, but he knew he had the makings for pasta and veggies. And maybe, if he remembered correctly, some cocoa powder in one of his cupboards and a large enough cake pan in the cabinet for what he had planned.
He talked as he mixed all of the ingredients together, because whenever he paused the silence became painfully oppressive. Neal ate the entire plate of pasta that Moz put in front of him and a couple glasses of orange juice (he asked for wine and Moz, in a blatant fib, pretended he was out). He refused a second helping of pasta but Moz wasn’t bothered – he had something in mind that he knew Neal wouldn’t turn down.
He brought out a wooden spoon dripping with cake batter and got his first smile from Neal that night. “Taste. Do you think it needs more sugar?"
Neal closed his eyes and opened his mouth and Moz leaned forward and kissed him.
“Definitely needs more sugar,” Neal whispered. Moz smiled, let Neal lick the batter off the spoon, and kissed him again. Neal's thin hands clutched at his cardigan, tugging him closer. He went easily into the V of Neal’s thighs.
“Just let me put this into the oven – ” Neal shook his head and tightened his hold and licked around Moz's lips, stealing every last taste of chocolate from his mouth. It was several minutes before Neal would let him go. He tasted like rich chocolate and dark wine, stale breath underneath. “Brush your teeth and I’ll let you lick the icing off the mixer.”
When Neal came back into the kitchen his breath was minty and he was naked, bottle of lube in one hand. “I’m cold. Gonna help warm me up?”
The cake was in the oven for forty-five minutes, and Neal demanded that Moz fuck him for every one of them. With his cock and then his fingers and finally with the buttplug that Neal had brought over with him one memorable night. He fucked Neal open, loose, fucked him until he begged and then fucked harder.
When the timer dinged he put icing first on the cake and then on Neal’s nipples. Licked the boy’s chest clean and then drizzled it down the ridges of his ribs.
Neal’s breath was shaky, but his hold on Moz's body was tight and desperate. Almost painfully so, not that Moz would dare mention it for fear that Neal would let go. He fed Neal icing off of his fingers, off of his cock, on top of slice after slice of Devil’s Food Cake.
Neal – smooth, cool, untouchable Neal – leaned into every touch, kissed every bit of Moz his lips could reach, devoured the cake and reached for Moz's body like he'd been starving for a lot more than just food for a lot longer than just five weeks.
“That was delicious,” Neal mumbled, when they'd both collapsed onto the kitchen floor, naked and covered in crumbs. “You should open up a bakery or something.”
“Nah – it’s a life of crime for me, I'm afraid.”
“Can’t we have crime and cake?” Neal sounded so hopeful Moz couldn't help but smile.
“Sure. Crime and cake.” If anyone could make it happen, it would be Neal. Impossible, magical, starving Neal.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” Neal asked a few minutes later, his voice gone cold and curious.
Moz had to think about it before he could answer. “No,” he decided. Because his apartment might be a waystation more than it was a home, but he never wanted Neal to feel unwelcome there. “I’m not going to ask.”
love's a universe beyond obey
Pairing: Neal/Mozzie
Length: 9,200
Author on LJ:
hoosierbitchAuthor Website: Profile at AO3
Why this must be read:
Because Mozzie is ♥ and the relationship and back-story this author has given him and Neal is just amazing and I loved how Mozzie is the one who shapes the person Neal will ultimately become.
Sometimes Neal would disappear. If he knew where he was going to go, he’d leave a note (out stealing Martha Washington’s love letters or I heard Seattle was cool and once I want to see which ways toilets really flush in the Southern hemisphere). He’d return days, sometimes weeks later; often with money, a couple of times with bruises, always with entertaining and embellished tales of his exploits. Moz knew Neal well enough by then to know that at least some of the stories were nearly entirely falsehoods, but he had to trust Neal to take care of himself. Because Neal refused to let him help.
Moz couldn’t figure out whether his apartment was where Neal went when he needed a vacation from the rest of his life, or if – or if he was Neal’s life, now, if the clothes Neal left scattered in his bedroom and the notes to himself he scrawled in Moz’s notebooks meant I live here. He seemed…not careless, with his belongings, but – distant. More like a curator than an owner. As if none of the things he had really belonged to him.
The longest that Neal ever left without popping his head back through Moz's door and complaining about his lack of a television was five weeks. He didn’t leave a note, didn’t call, didn’t leave any trace behind that Moz could find to follow. He tried to distract himself with another job – deciphering a Russian legal document from the 14th century and making three copies of the translation – but two weeks after Christmas he heard the quiet click of his lock being picked and saw a curly brown head poke around, and it became hard to think about anything except for Neal.
“You’re back,” he said, stupidly, a dripping quill in his right hand splattering ink on a nearly-finished forgery. Neal eased the rest of the way around the doorframe and stood with his back against the wall, hands behind his back, obviously forcing himself not to fidget.
He’d lost weight. Moz wasn’t sure how much weight it was actually possible to lose in five weeks, but Neal hadn’t had much to spare to start with. And now the angles of his face were painfully sharp, the points of his shoulders poked through his thin t-shirt, and there was a new haunted look in his bruise-dark eyes. “You should put on a sweater,” Moz said quietly. “Until I get the heat turned up.”
“I’m not going to stay,” Neal interrupted. Moz could see his fingers already edging towards the doorknob. “I just wanted to stop in. Let you know I was okay.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied, trying to figure out what he could do or say that would get Neal to come the rest of the way into his apartment. To get the look of prey out of his eyes. “You can stay if you want to. I was just about to start dinner – I probably won’t be able to finish it all myself.” He shrugged. “I can just toss the leftovers away, though, no big deal.” Neal’s indecision was written all over his face, his grumbling stomach clear as crystal. “I’d appreciate the company – it’s been a bit lonely.”
He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, careful not to get any closer to Neal’s position by the door. “I’m working on a manuscript that you might like. Why don’t you take a look at the bottom right corner, tell me what you think of the detail work on the border. You like broccoli, right?”
He stopped right inside the kitchen and waited for the sound of the door opening to let Neal out. He didn’t hear anything. When he peeked back out into the main room he saw Neal hunched over the table. Something inside his chest clenched at the sight of the bumps of Neal’s spine, visible through the fabric of his t-shirt.
Moz hadn't been about to start cooking anything, actually, but he knew he had the makings for pasta and veggies. And maybe, if he remembered correctly, some cocoa powder in one of his cupboards and a large enough cake pan in the cabinet for what he had planned.
He talked as he mixed all of the ingredients together, because whenever he paused the silence became painfully oppressive. Neal ate the entire plate of pasta that Moz put in front of him and a couple glasses of orange juice (he asked for wine and Moz, in a blatant fib, pretended he was out). He refused a second helping of pasta but Moz wasn’t bothered – he had something in mind that he knew Neal wouldn’t turn down.
He brought out a wooden spoon dripping with cake batter and got his first smile from Neal that night. “Taste. Do you think it needs more sugar?"
Neal closed his eyes and opened his mouth and Moz leaned forward and kissed him.
“Definitely needs more sugar,” Neal whispered. Moz smiled, let Neal lick the batter off the spoon, and kissed him again. Neal's thin hands clutched at his cardigan, tugging him closer. He went easily into the V of Neal’s thighs.
“Just let me put this into the oven – ” Neal shook his head and tightened his hold and licked around Moz's lips, stealing every last taste of chocolate from his mouth. It was several minutes before Neal would let him go. He tasted like rich chocolate and dark wine, stale breath underneath. “Brush your teeth and I’ll let you lick the icing off the mixer.”
When Neal came back into the kitchen his breath was minty and he was naked, bottle of lube in one hand. “I’m cold. Gonna help warm me up?”
The cake was in the oven for forty-five minutes, and Neal demanded that Moz fuck him for every one of them. With his cock and then his fingers and finally with the buttplug that Neal had brought over with him one memorable night. He fucked Neal open, loose, fucked him until he begged and then fucked harder.
When the timer dinged he put icing first on the cake and then on Neal’s nipples. Licked the boy’s chest clean and then drizzled it down the ridges of his ribs.
Neal’s breath was shaky, but his hold on Moz's body was tight and desperate. Almost painfully so, not that Moz would dare mention it for fear that Neal would let go. He fed Neal icing off of his fingers, off of his cock, on top of slice after slice of Devil’s Food Cake.
Neal – smooth, cool, untouchable Neal – leaned into every touch, kissed every bit of Moz his lips could reach, devoured the cake and reached for Moz's body like he'd been starving for a lot more than just food for a lot longer than just five weeks.
“That was delicious,” Neal mumbled, when they'd both collapsed onto the kitchen floor, naked and covered in crumbs. “You should open up a bakery or something.”
“Nah – it’s a life of crime for me, I'm afraid.”
“Can’t we have crime and cake?” Neal sounded so hopeful Moz couldn't help but smile.
“Sure. Crime and cake.” If anyone could make it happen, it would be Neal. Impossible, magical, starving Neal.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” Neal asked a few minutes later, his voice gone cold and curious.
Moz had to think about it before he could answer. “No,” he decided. Because his apartment might be a waystation more than it was a home, but he never wanted Neal to feel unwelcome there. “I’m not going to ask.”
love's a universe beyond obey