elrhiarhodan

Title: A Favor for Gloriana - Quarter Day
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, (Peter/Elizabeth), Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: BDSM practices, safeword, aftercare
Word Count: ~3700
Beta Credit: theatregirl7299
Summary: Set in Gloriana ‘Verse about six months after Neal becomes Peter’s indentured servant. Peter is again humiliated by the ritual his father-in-law demands. He goes home and plans to spend the night drowning his anger with wine. Neal wants to give him a better outlet.

A/N: Written as part of my Timestamp Meme, for coffeethyme4me who asked for “In the Gloriana’Verse - Peter needs it rough tonight. Neal complies.” Also a fill for the Leather/Latex/Rubber square on my kink bingo card.

This bumps the original third chapter, Someone To Watch Over to Chapter Four, and since I'm writing this series out of order, chapters will no longer be numbered, but posted on my Master List in the correct chronological order.

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Even after all this time, Peter loathed the ritual. He despised the scripted words, the act of debasement. ‘Though not born to high station, he was still a proud man and having to come to his wife and beg, felt like an act of defilement.



He knew those words were the requirement of her stiff-necked, bigoted father, and he knew that being angry at Elizabeth was sleeveless at best, cruel and pointless at worst. But he couldn’t help his burning anger. He wished he could take the coin and toss it into the Thames. But he needed the funds, especially now. Walsingham paid him a pittance against the promise of future honors from the Queen, and while the Duke of Grafton’s back-handed patronage put a roof over his head, he still needed to eat. He still needed to pay his servants. He still needed to go about on the Queen’s business without the least bit of funding from the Crown.

He needed to support Neal Caffrey.

Anger mixed with lust at the thought of the man, his indentured servant. His slave in all but name.

Not that Neal ever behaved like a slave, or a servant, or anything less than Peter’s equal.

And that truth was like bitterest gall, because Caffrey was nearly as well-born as his wife. He just chose to squander his gifts, to debase his talents, and if it wasn’t for Peter himself, he’d still be rotting in The Fleet or getting ready to have his neck stretched for other, less noble crimes than owing money to the Queen’s favorite.

Neal would say that none of that mattered. He’d smile and sidle up to Peter, letting a hand drift where no other man’s hand should be. He’d pluck at the strings of his breeches, clever fingers worming their way inside the soft leather, making a game of Peter’s self-control. Caffrey was a thief and a liar and the smartest man he’d ever met. He was beautiful and talented and it almost broke his heart to keep him chained to his side.

Almost, because if he let Neal go – he’d likely be dead inside a year. The man took too many risks, and for all his good intentions, life had a way of crashing down around him.

The spark of irritation at that thought merged with the already simmering heat in his soul from this afternoon’s audience with his wife. He was angry. Suddenly, blisteringly angry.

Another man might have ridden his horse into the ground, another man might have found a convenient cur to kick. Another man might have taken his rage out on his servants.

But Peter Burke loved his horse, he couldn’t imagine injuring an animal just because it made him feel better. And his servants were loyal and true for a reason. They trusted that he’d never behave capriciously, that he’d never abuse them.

Even Neal, who so often rightfully earned his wrath on occasion.

He’d go home, find a bottle of wine and maybe drown his sorrows.

He certainly wouldn’t take his anger out on Neal.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal wondered why everyone was so quiet. Not that the Burke household was normally a pit of noise, a beehive of frenetic activity. It was a well-run place, with friendly and accommodating servants, infrequent visitors and a well-stocked larder.

But today, the servants were subdued. Even the normally irrepressible Clinton Jones, Peter’s personal secretary and occasional sword-for-hire for the whores next door, failed to have a smile and a pleasant greeting for Neal. Hughes, always grumpy, was even more taciturn than usual.

But Neal had to ask what was going on. Seeing the rest of the staff creep around was unnerving.

Hughes looked at him. “What do you know of the Master and his Lady.”

Neal hoped he wasn’t flushing. He’d heard rumors about Mistress Burke – how her highborn family despised Peter and how they were paying to keep them apart. Neal wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d long since given up denying that he adored and worshiped his Master and that he lived to serve him in all possible capacities. But jealousy warred with anger. He was glad that Mistress Burke did not live here, but he hated her too for hurting such a good man, even if it wasn’t her fault.

“I know enough.”

“Master travels to Windsor to see his Lady today. It’s Quarter Day, you know what that means, right?”

Neal nodded. This was the day when allowances were distributed. For the space of a while as a young man, before his great disgrace, his father would instruct the family steward to hand him funds to see him through the next few months. Of course, his father despised him, and was only paying for his upkeep out of noblesse oblige. Neal’s blue eyes came from another man, but there was no way that Viscount Bennett would ever admit to such a thing.

“Mistress Burke’s father supports this household.”

Neal understood what that meant, too. For Peter to have to accept funds from someone who despised him must be truly galling.

“Master will be unhappy today. When he comes home tonight, you should make yourself scarce.” Hughes’ advice was surprising.

“He takes his anger out on the household?”

“No, not by any means.” Hughes seemed appalled at the thought. “He just wants to be alone and we do our best to grant him this desire.”

“I understand.” Not that Neal had any intention of fading into the wainscoting. He just didn’t need to tell Hughes his plans to ease his Master’s anguish.

He spent most of the afternoon in Peter’s study, working on a translation for Master Walsingham. It was some nonsensical Greek translated from French which was originally in Latin, except that half of the document might have once been translated from two or three different Italian dialects. Plus it was in code, and when Neal finished the translation, he and Peter would work on breaking the code, which would be the best part of this whole exercise.

But not tonight. Peter’s own needs were paramount.

He knew he tempted Peter – he did his best to make himself irresistible to his Master. Touching where he shouldn’t touch, keeping close when Peter would prefer distance. And best, the community of minds - working together, taking such pleasure in their shared achievements. He never thought he’d be interested in doing good, but working with Peter, seeing the results of their efforts - it was addictive.

Almost as addictive as the man himself.

Neal knew that the day would come that Peter would take him to his bed, they’d make love, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.

No, tonight he was going to offer his body up for a different purpose.

A few hours after the sun had set, a rhythmic clatter of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles announced Peter’s return. Neal wondered if his Master had stopped at a tavern or someplace else to ease his sorrow, but he didn’t think so. Peter wasn’t the type of man who hung around in public houses, quaffing ale and making bawdy comments to the passing barmaids. He was as likely to do that as he was to mistreat his horse, kick his dog or abuse his servants.

No - Peter would come home and lock himself into his study and brood.

Neal heard Peter talking to Hughes, he listened as his master’s boot heels rang against the stone floors, approaching the study. He shuffled the papers back into their envelope - tomorrow was soon enough to finish them. Tonight, he had more important things to worry about.

The door opened and Neal rose to his feet. Peter had a wine bottle in his hand and a bleak expression on his face.

“Master?”

The bottle landed on the desk with a thud. “Caffrey - I want to be alone tonight. You are free for the evening; I won’t need you until tomorrow.”

Neal made no move to leave.

“Neal, just go.” Peter’s tone was more sad than exasperated. “Jones has some credit with Diana’s girls next door. He’ll be happy to share.” Peter reached into his doublet, pulled out three bags and dumped them on the desk. From the sound they made as they hit the oak, there was coin and a great deal of it. He also took out his own money purse, a much lighter bag. “Here -” He fished a coin out - a small silver groat. “This should cover you for the evening.” The coin flipped through the air, but Neal made no effort to catch it. It fell to the floor with an almost musical ping.

“Master - you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Caffrey – ”

Neal shivered at the way Peter said his name. He couldn’t help it.

“Go, Neal. Just let me be.”

“No - not tonight.”

“Yes, Neal. Yes, tonight of all nights.”

“I won’t pretend to know what goes on between you and Mistress Burke, but you shouldn’t be alone when you are this unhappy.”

Peter’s laugh was bitter, ugly. “That is precisely why I should be alone. I am not fit company. I am just too angry.” Those last words were spoken with such anguish.

Neal took a deep breath; he could find himself in a very difficult situation if he handled this badly. He could end up back in the Fleet, or worse. “You need to let out your anger.”

Peter laughed again and the sound was even less pleasant. “Shall I go to a barber-surgeon and get bled? I should release the foul humors in my blood?”

“Of a sort, Master.” Neal went over to the mantle and took down the item he’d put there shortly after his discussion with Hughes. “You need find a target for your anger. A way to release it without hurting yourself.” He held out a short riding whip – a crop to control a fractious horse in training.

“Neal ...”

“I am here for you to use, Master. You own me.” Neal prayed that this would work, that his Master would find some surcease from the terrible pain Neal could see in his eyes.

Peter reached out, his hand trembling just a bit. He took the whip, but until he met Neal’s eyes, Neal didn’t let go. But finally, Peter nodded and Neal released the whip. He stepped back and waited for his Master’s command.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter couldn’t believe this, that Neal had the damned audacity to even mention what went on between him and his wife. No one in his household would dare even hint at it. But Neal – of course Neal would. He never respected the boundaries that Peter tried so hard to establish.

When Neal held out that whip to him, Peter wanted to do two things. He wanted to throw Neal out – to send him back to the gaol, regardless of the Articles of Indenture that he’d signed, regardless of the money he’d laid out to clear the debt to Dudley. And he wanted … he wanted to take that whip, bend Neal over the desk or the chair or the chest where he kept his papers, pull his breeches down and lay into him.

Neal’s face was grave – like some angel carved from the purest marble – but the light blazed from his eyes and flags of color stained his cheeks. This wasn’t some gesture of arrogance, but maybe a proof of loyalty, of respect and honor.

He nodded and took the whip. Neal started to undo his belt.

“Not here.” Was that his voice, so harsh? “My – no, your bedchamber.” Instead of following Neal, he took the man’s arm and pulled him along. Not that Neal was reluctant, Peter just needed to take charge, be in control.

Neal’s chamber was adjacent to his own room. It was small and, for the first time, Peter realized it was probably no bigger than the cell Neal had shared in the Fleet. But instead of lice and flea infested straw, he had a bed with a horsehair mattress, clean linen and what appeared to be a velvet coverlet, which looked to be finer than the one that graced his own bed. There was a washbowl and pitcher and a clothes press, probably filled to bursting.

But none of that mattered. Neal lit a small rack of candles, throwing light into the darkness and manufacturing deep shadows that only enhanced his sense of unreality.

“Strip.”

Neal complied with gratifying swiftness. Even in the flickering candlelight, Neal was beautiful – smooth planes and angles and Peter could remember holding that body still as the whores worked him over with their razors. He could remember holding Neal’s cock, his cods – and his palm itched from the memory of the soft skin and heat. It was a struggle not to look, not to reach out, not to touch and take ownership.

He uttered another word, and it was a command, not a name. “Kneel, on the edge of the bed.”

Again, Neal obeyed. His ass was raised, his shoulders down and between his slightly parted legs, Peter could see his cock and balls.

His brain whirred, desire not quite replacing anger. It would be so easy to take out his own cock, to stroke himself to full hardness, to part those firm, marble white cheeks and violate Neal.

Only it wouldn’t be a violation – except against the laws of God and man - because Neal had made it clear that this was what he wanted, too.

Instead, he gave one last command. “A word, Neal. Give me a word so I know to stop.” Because Peter knew that once he started, he might not be able to stop, no matter how much Neal screamed.

The room was so quiet, Peter thought he could hear his heart beating. But finally Neal spoke. “Gloriana.”

Of course – that little shite. Peter wanted to laugh. Instead he dropped the whip on the bed next to Neal and pulled off his shirt. The room was warm, the scent of burning tallow and sweat and clean linen was making him dizzy. He tossed his garment onto the clothes press at the foot of the bed and retrieved the crop.

Peter tapped it against his hand. The light sting was good. He could only imagine how it would feel against Neal’s skin and muscle.

That skin and muscle glowed in the candlelight and something in Peter tightened. It wasn’t just desire, it certainly wasn’t simply the anger that still rode him so hard. He didn’t want to explore that right now.

He raised his arm, and with measured strength, Peter brought the crop down against Neal’s buttocks. The sound of the whip as it cut through the air was like an in-drawn breath. But the sound the made as it contacted flesh was like a pistol shot. Neal’s exhalation was barely audible.

The action released a small knot of anger in Peter and he struck Neal again. The three sounds merged like voices in a choir.

Sweat blossomed across his brow, in the middle of his back, at the base of his throat, and he hit Neal again. The sweat pool and trickled down his face. Peter could feel it trail down his body and he didn’t care as the whip came down again. And again.

And again.

A space inside his head, an area cleared of anger, of resentment and sadness, told him to check on Neal.

He straddled the other man’s body, the heat from his skin burned through Peter’s leather breeches. His cock, heavy and tumescent, found a home in the cleft of Neal’s bruised ass. Leaning over Neal's prostrate body, he whispered in his ear, “Are you all right?”

Neal hummed and turned his head. Peter’s face was enveloped by a mass of curl, he breathed deep of their intoxicating scent and repeated his question.

Neal finally answered. “Yes, I’m good. I can take more if you can give it, Master.”

Beneath him, Neal’s body rolled, his ass pushing tight against his groin. It was almost painful to pull back, but Peter did. This time, before striking Neal, he used the crop to trace the marks he already made. Neal’s thighs parted, his hips lifted and Peter could see that the whipping had affected Neal as much as it had affected him. His cock was hard, his balls drawn up.

Peter wasn’t a stranger to the dark side of pleasure. Over the years, he’d found himself in some strange and seedy places, and even though he’d kept his marriage vows, he’d watched and enjoyed the watching. And maybe afterwards, felt ashamed of that pleasure. But not tonight. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed the mastery, the control.

As the anger cleared out of his head, Peter realized that he could put the whip down. He didn’t need this anymore. But he wanted it.

He struck Neal again, three times in quick succession, and the sound that came from his mouth was new – a high whine. Neal’s hips rolled, his body shifted and Peter laid another line across his ass. He told himself, just once more, then done, but that once became twice became thrice and more. Neal’s whines got louder and he splayed himself even wider, rubbing his prick against the coverlet. Peter could see what he was doing, frotting against the softness - such a contrasting sensation to the pain that must be radiating from his ass.

Peter carefully put down the crop and traced his fingers against the lines that decorated Neal’s skin. Something hurt to see that perfection marred, but something else sang in Peter at the knowledge that he put those marks there. Neal whimpered, but it wasn’t a sound of anguish - more like one of longing and need.

He leaned over Neal again, again thinking how easy it would be to take him, to give into the lust. But not like this, not with the dregs of his anger still a sour taste in his throat. Still, it wasn’t fair to Neal, who had given him this surcease.

Peter stretched out on the bed next to Neal, pulling the other man into his arms, cradling him between his thighs. Neal struggled a bit.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you.”

Neal settled against him, murmuring “Master .”

That single word gave Peter such dark pleasure. He cupped a hand around Neal’s heavy, aroused prick and stroked it. Neal whimpered again and rocked against Peter. His leather breeches were probably rough and painful against Neal’s ass, but Neal apparently didn’t mind.

Or maybe he liked it. As Peter masturbated him, Neal rubbed against him, grinding as Peter’s hand travelled up and down his prick, screwing himself against him as he erupted into orgasm.

They lay together, Peter’s hand still wrapped around Neal’s prick, his own cock unbearably hard. But Neal was insensate. Even in the flickering candlelight, as he lifted himself up to look at Neal, Peter could see how unfocused his eyes were.

No, he couldn’t take his own pleasure quite yet. He got up and went to the washbasin, filling it with water from the waiting jug and rinsing Neal’s seed from his hands. There was no cloth, so Peter retrieved his shirt, first wiping his hands, then dampening it to clean Neal up. Afterwards, he moved Neal so his head was on the pillow, and took the now-soaked shirt and draped it across the hot flesh of his ass.

Neal mumbled something that Peter couldn’t quite understand. He bent over and pressed a soft kiss against the other man’s sweat-slicked curls, and whispered just two words. “Thank you.”

Peter stood and watched Neal settle into sleep. His heart twisted. After Elizabeth left for court, Peter had thought he’d never care for another person like he had for his wife. This spring, after that last, terrible confrontation, he had sworn to harden his heart against any future entanglements.

And failed miserably.

The love he felt for Elizabeth was still there, but he found that his heart was even more porous. He’d fallen in love with Neal Caffrey. Artist, thief, liar, and friend.

And he had the wonderful, terrible hope that this love was reciprocated.

Fin