White Collar; Fic; Another Saturday Night, NC-17
Title: Another Saturday Night
Rating: NC-17
Pairing Neal/Peter/El
Warnings: That NC-17 up there is definitely not a joke.
Spoilers: Nope!
Summary: Peter's had a bad night; it's only fair that Neal and Elizabeth let him in on their fun.
"You know you want to."
"I'm not sure--"
"Come on. When's the last time you did this with Peter?"
"I...well...never, really."
"Ha! I thought so. You deserve a little fun, and you'll never find anyone better than me."
"Neal, it's been a really long time. I'm not even sure if I remember--"
"El. Trust me. It's like riding a bike--you never forget."
--
Peter sighed heavily and turned the car down 12th Avenue. It had been nice, he told himself, to see Joseph; they'd always meant to keep in touch after the Academy, but the workaholic tendencies that had made them such good friends to begin with had kept them apart. Joseph had transferred to Virginia, Peter had stayed in New York, and they'd stopped talking. He'd been surprised to get the call that Joe was in town, but more than happy to meet up with him for a drink. He would have been happier to give up any night but Saturday, but El had assured him that they'd be fine, and Neal had promised not to get into trouble while he was gone. It was all he could really ask for.
Of course, he wouldn't have given up the Saturday night at all if he'd known Joe was going to spend twenty minutes bitching about bad cases and another forty-five ripping on "dirty criminals like Caffrey, I don't know how you stand it"--Peter had nearly punched him. But hindsight is 20/20, and it had, Peter told himself again with a little more force, been nice to see him.
Still, he'd been deeply relieved to be let off the hook after one beer. Joe had told him to grin and bear it when they parted, like Neal was some burden, some fucking weight he had to haul around. Peter had gritted his teeth and shaken his hand and called the house at once, but neither Neal nor Elizabeth had answered, so he'd left them a quick message and started the long drive home.
He turned again, cruising up his street, and heard the heavy bass of club music. "Kids," he muttered, irritated, and parked. It was only when he'd gotten to his front door that he realized the music was coming from his house.
Peter took a few steps back and looked. All the lights in the house were on, and the music sounded like it was coming from the living room. It was probably nothing--no, Peter thought, it was probably Neal--but on the off-chance something was wrong, he didn't want to go through the front door. He wouldn't put it past Neal to turn the music up to full volume for kicks, but he also wouldn't be surprised if it was some kind of warning.
He crept around to the back door, keeping low, away from the windows. When he got to his back stoop, he put a hand on his gun--didn't draw it, it wouldn't do to overreact--and opened the door slowly, cautiously. The music was impossibly loud inside, and he glanced around his kitchen only to see two empty bottles of red wine and a third, opened but nearly full, sitting on the table.
Peter took his hand off of his gun, wincing at the word "toxic" echoing in auto-tuned glory. This had Neal written all over it; that didn't make it any less dangerous, just less likely to involve gunfire. He sighed, loosened his tie, and walked toward the living room, where--
Neal and Elizabeth were pressed together, sweating and moving to the music. Elizabeth had on a pair of Peter's boxers and a black t-shirt, and her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail; she was flushed and laughing and gorgeous. And Neal---Neal was down to his undershirt and a pair of his own black silk pajama pants, which fit him...a little better than they really should have. He was laughing too, making what he was doing look almost effortless, and Elizabeth was--Jesus. Elizabeth was keeping up with him.
Neal flung her out with one arm; she whipped around in a full spin, and he pulled her back, pulled her close, dipped her. With her full weight on one of his arms she ground up into him, and he threw his head back and...hissed, that was a hiss, there was no other way to describe it. And then she smiled and he smiled and he pulled her back up, twisting his arm so her back was flush with his chest and--
Peter wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with him, that he hadn't known his wife of nearly 11 years could move like that, that it hadn't occurred to him to find out. He didn't know what wrong with him that Neal's hands on her, doing things he himself could never have figured out, was somehow hotter and better than seeing his own hands would be. He'd known sleeping with two people at once was a dangerous game, known that the sexual and emotional mechanics of three instead of two in the bedroom would be a little messy, but he'd never expected--
The song switched. Something that sounded almost dirty--Peter thought, oddly, that he heard the word "apple"--but he couldn't be sure, because Elizabeth started moving against Neal, who put his hands down against his hips. "That's good," he said, smiling, "that's really good, you've almost got it. Just--put your back into it a little more, like--"
Elizabeth, a fast learner, arched and bent forward, shoving her ass into him, grinding it into his pelvis. "Like that?" she gasped, laughter heavy in her voice.
"Yeah," Neal said, a little breathlessly, "yeah, just like that." She bent her legs and slid down and back up his body, and Peter's mouth went bone-dry. Neal laughed. "I told you I could teach you to grind," he murmured, and spun her back around.
"This is a little more my speed," she gasped, thrilled, as he tossed her across the room, loosing her from his grip and catching her in exactly the right position a second later.
"I don't know," Neal said--Peter realized through the haze of blind attraction that he looked absolutely debauched, that what had been a small flush to his cheeks had spread, that his words were breathy at best. "You might have a side career on the club scene."
She lifted one leg, wrapped it around his torso, and leaned herself back in a stretch. He put one hand lightly behind her back, to steady her more than hold her. Peter thought that maybe she'd seen him standing there, slack-jawed, from the way her expression changed to something sly and sexy, but he couldn't be sure--a second later she was up, whispering something in Neal's ear.
--
"I believe my husband is home."
"Noticed him a few minutes ago. Looks like he's enjoying himself."
"He does, doesn't he? That message he left...sounded like he had a hard night."
"Poor thing. Think we should help him relax?"
"That sounds like a plan."
--
They broke apart, and the song changed. This one Peter recognized--it was the one about the criminal with all the visas that Neal insisted on playing in the car every morning on the way to work. As Neal slid his hand up between El's thighs, somehow managing to circle her on beat at the same time, Peter realized he was going to have to stop that little ritual, or kill them both in the ensuing wreck.
She moved down as he went up--he was behind her now and his hand was inside those boxers, and from the noises she was making Peter knew Neal's fingers were inside of her, knew that she was pushing herself down onto them. They were both still moving in time with the music, Elizabeth grinding back into Neal as she whimpered with the pleasure of it. And then Neal leaned forward and...and licked the sweat from the back of Elizabeth's neck, the long smooth line of her throat a perfect compliment to his rapt expression.
Peter was so hard he thought he might explode if he moved, thought he might combust if he wasn't careful. Then Neal pulled his hand out of Elizabeth, who made a thick, keening kind of noise. He kissed her lightly, as if in thanks, and walked over to Peter, holding his hand in front of him.
"It's yours if you want it," he said, smiling, still a little breathless, and Peter leaned forward and ran his tongue up Neal's index finger, tasting Elizabeth and sweat and maybe a faint hint of the wine they'd been drinking. Neal grinned at him and Peter, having hit his breaking point, put a hand to the back of Neal's neck and slammed their mouths together. He thought of his wife in Neal's arms, of Neal's hands on his wife's ass, of how fucking angry he'd been to hear Joe rip at Neal's morality. He let it fill him, the boiling pressure of everything, and he made a low, guttural noise and stepped forward and threw Neal back into the couch.
Neal looked up at him, eyes sparkling, still smiling. "Bad night?"
"You have no idea," Peter growled, and descended.
Peter still wasn't used to--wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to--kissing Neal. Sometimes it was like kissing for an Olympic medal, like kissing for points; Neal was competitive, and it showed. On those nights Peter would suck at Neal's lip for a few seconds and in response Neal would leave hickeys across his chest, across his back, smirking at him all the while. On those nights Peter would run his tongue across Neal's teeth and Neal would touch the roof of Peter's mouth with his, quick and light enough to be ridiculously, harshly erotic.
Sometimes, it was like fighting. On those nights, Peter would hold Neal by the wrists and Neal would buck up into him, their teeth clacking, leaving Neal's lips puffy and swollen and unbearably chapped by the time he was using them to suck Peter's cock.
And sometimes it was like this--Peter burning off steam and Neal, knowing and kind below him, letting him do it. Sometimes it was Peter pushing and slamming and too hard and Neal, soft and yielding, helping him let it go. He'd never had to ask for it; he'd never wanted it and not got it. Once, in the middle of a case that was threatening to break right over Peter's head, Neal had pulled him into a supply closet and said come on, come on until Peter had given in and more or less attacked his mouth; he'd felt better afterwards, and Neal had grinned and grinned, like he was happy, like he'd won something. It was mystifying.
He felt Elizabeth's hands on his back, slipping up his shirt, and bit Neal's lip a little too hard and pulled back to meet her mouth. Kissing her was nothing like kissing Neal, who had as many personalities and aliases and styles as Peter had work ties. He'd been kissing El for more than a decade, getting to know the feel her tongue and the taste of her lipstick, and kissing her was like coming home. She mewled into his mouth, that sweet sound he'd learned to dream of when he was in hotel rooms, in other states, in other countries. She mewled and he was softer with her than he'd ever be with Neal, and this was why he needed them both.
When she broke from him and went for Neal he watched with the fascination he always did. They were playful together, light--neither of them focused on the other with the same intensity that they focused on him. And it was almost like they were comparing notes, like they were the two top scorers on some test; not quite competitive, but not quite anything else. Neal's hand twisted around her hair and Peter could hear the soft laughter she poured down his throat and he was pulling them to the floor before he could stop himself.
"What do you want," Neal murmured in his ear, and Peter knew the answer to that question with such certainty that he didn't even blink.
"I want you to lick her while I fuck you," he said. Neal's eyebrows shot up--Peter, of the three of them, was usually the least direct.
"Peter," he said, surprised, and then he smiled and said "I like the way you think." Elizabeth moaned just at the thought of it, slipping out of Peter's boxers to reveal the nothing she was wearing underneath, and the music was too loud and Neal was unbuttoning Peter's shirt and El was pulling off his tie. Peter pulled at Neal's pants until they slid down, slippery and too smooth against his agitated fingers, and El reached down and swatted lightly at his balls, making him gasp.
It took Peter only a moment to get out of his own pants, to flip Neal over until he was face-down on the rug, to stick one and then two fingers into him, stretching, testing. Their morning round had left an impression; he was still loose, and Peter withdrew his fingers, shoved his cock into Neal without any further preparation. Neal cried out in something in between pain and pleasure; Elizabeth scooted forward, pressed his face into her, and caught the vibrations. As Peter looked on Neal gasped and moaned into Elizabeth, and El fell back, arching in pleasure.
"Harder," Neal said, only it was muffled by his current activity.
"I think...he said...harder..." El gasped out, "felt...like that."
So Peter went harder, faster, thinking about the look on that fucker's face as he dragged Neal's name around, tied him in with perverts and murderers and scum. Peter went harder and Neal's hands flexed on Elizabeth's thighs as he did something that made her squirm and groan with delight.
Then El sat up, careful not to dislodge Neal, and pulled off her shirt, leaned in to kiss Peter. He cupped her left breast with the hand he wasn't using to steady himself and Neal was hot and so fucking tight beneath him and Elizabeth's mouth was slick, smiling, her breath coming in little gasps from Neal's attention. It was too much, it was so much sensation he almost couldn't breathe, and he gave one last thrust and came so hard he saw stars.
"Yes," he hissed, a long, drawn out syllable. This was apparently all Neal needed, because he shuddered and went himself, wracked with it, moaning so hard it was nearly a scream. Elizabeth fell back, the force of his volume clearly throwing her over the edge, and she cried out both of their names in rapid succession before she was still.
The music was still on. Peter stood, ignoring the shaky feeling in his legs, and turned it off. He helped Elizabeth up first, both out of courtesy and because Neal didn't look quite ready to stand yet. She kissed him.
"Feeling better, honey?" she asked, and Peter nodded and spun her around once, clumsily. He was no Neal Caffrey, but she gave him a delighted smile and kissed him again anyway. "I thought you might," she said. She smiled, a little secretively, at Neal, who returned the grin in kind. It occurred to Peter that they had planned this, devious little things that they were. He laughed, and she said "I'm, ah, going to go take a shower," and when she blushed he looked and realized she was dripping, all down her leg. The sight of it made his cock twitch, exhausted though it was.
She went upstairs, and Peter hauled Neal to his feet, made to follow her. But he was still thinking about Joe, and when the got the stairs, before he could stop himself, he whirled and pressed Neal into the wall, held him there.
"You're not a criminal," he said, trembling a little with rage and, still, the aftershock of his orgasm . Neal raised his eyebrows and gestured, wordlessly, at the anklet still blinking a signal from his leg, and Peter made a small frustrated noise.
"Damn it, Neal--I know you're a criminal," he said--because this was frustrating but he had to explain. "I just, I don't think of you like that, alright?" Something like understanding bloomed across Neal's face, and he smiled. It was not a smile Peter had ever seen on his face before; it was softer and more open, a little bit hesitant, a little bit shocked.
"Peter," he said, "thank you," and he sounded like he meant it. Suddenly Peter understood that afternoon in the supply closet, Neal's puzzling expression. He was happy, standing there, pressing Neal into the wall. He watched emotion migrate across Neal's face, shock and pleasure and trust, and he, at last, felt like he'd won.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing Neal/Peter/El
Warnings: That NC-17 up there is definitely not a joke.
Spoilers: Nope!
Summary: Peter's had a bad night; it's only fair that Neal and Elizabeth let him in on their fun.
"You know you want to."
"I'm not sure--"
"Come on. When's the last time you did this with Peter?"
"I...well...never, really."
"Ha! I thought so. You deserve a little fun, and you'll never find anyone better than me."
"Neal, it's been a really long time. I'm not even sure if I remember--"
"El. Trust me. It's like riding a bike--you never forget."
--
Peter sighed heavily and turned the car down 12th Avenue. It had been nice, he told himself, to see Joseph; they'd always meant to keep in touch after the Academy, but the workaholic tendencies that had made them such good friends to begin with had kept them apart. Joseph had transferred to Virginia, Peter had stayed in New York, and they'd stopped talking. He'd been surprised to get the call that Joe was in town, but more than happy to meet up with him for a drink. He would have been happier to give up any night but Saturday, but El had assured him that they'd be fine, and Neal had promised not to get into trouble while he was gone. It was all he could really ask for.
Of course, he wouldn't have given up the Saturday night at all if he'd known Joe was going to spend twenty minutes bitching about bad cases and another forty-five ripping on "dirty criminals like Caffrey, I don't know how you stand it"--Peter had nearly punched him. But hindsight is 20/20, and it had, Peter told himself again with a little more force, been nice to see him.
Still, he'd been deeply relieved to be let off the hook after one beer. Joe had told him to grin and bear it when they parted, like Neal was some burden, some fucking weight he had to haul around. Peter had gritted his teeth and shaken his hand and called the house at once, but neither Neal nor Elizabeth had answered, so he'd left them a quick message and started the long drive home.
He turned again, cruising up his street, and heard the heavy bass of club music. "Kids," he muttered, irritated, and parked. It was only when he'd gotten to his front door that he realized the music was coming from his house.
Peter took a few steps back and looked. All the lights in the house were on, and the music sounded like it was coming from the living room. It was probably nothing--no, Peter thought, it was probably Neal--but on the off-chance something was wrong, he didn't want to go through the front door. He wouldn't put it past Neal to turn the music up to full volume for kicks, but he also wouldn't be surprised if it was some kind of warning.
He crept around to the back door, keeping low, away from the windows. When he got to his back stoop, he put a hand on his gun--didn't draw it, it wouldn't do to overreact--and opened the door slowly, cautiously. The music was impossibly loud inside, and he glanced around his kitchen only to see two empty bottles of red wine and a third, opened but nearly full, sitting on the table.
Peter took his hand off of his gun, wincing at the word "toxic" echoing in auto-tuned glory. This had Neal written all over it; that didn't make it any less dangerous, just less likely to involve gunfire. He sighed, loosened his tie, and walked toward the living room, where--
Neal and Elizabeth were pressed together, sweating and moving to the music. Elizabeth had on a pair of Peter's boxers and a black t-shirt, and her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail; she was flushed and laughing and gorgeous. And Neal---Neal was down to his undershirt and a pair of his own black silk pajama pants, which fit him...a little better than they really should have. He was laughing too, making what he was doing look almost effortless, and Elizabeth was--Jesus. Elizabeth was keeping up with him.
Neal flung her out with one arm; she whipped around in a full spin, and he pulled her back, pulled her close, dipped her. With her full weight on one of his arms she ground up into him, and he threw his head back and...hissed, that was a hiss, there was no other way to describe it. And then she smiled and he smiled and he pulled her back up, twisting his arm so her back was flush with his chest and--
Peter wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with him, that he hadn't known his wife of nearly 11 years could move like that, that it hadn't occurred to him to find out. He didn't know what wrong with him that Neal's hands on her, doing things he himself could never have figured out, was somehow hotter and better than seeing his own hands would be. He'd known sleeping with two people at once was a dangerous game, known that the sexual and emotional mechanics of three instead of two in the bedroom would be a little messy, but he'd never expected--
The song switched. Something that sounded almost dirty--Peter thought, oddly, that he heard the word "apple"--but he couldn't be sure, because Elizabeth started moving against Neal, who put his hands down against his hips. "That's good," he said, smiling, "that's really good, you've almost got it. Just--put your back into it a little more, like--"
Elizabeth, a fast learner, arched and bent forward, shoving her ass into him, grinding it into his pelvis. "Like that?" she gasped, laughter heavy in her voice.
"Yeah," Neal said, a little breathlessly, "yeah, just like that." She bent her legs and slid down and back up his body, and Peter's mouth went bone-dry. Neal laughed. "I told you I could teach you to grind," he murmured, and spun her back around.
"This is a little more my speed," she gasped, thrilled, as he tossed her across the room, loosing her from his grip and catching her in exactly the right position a second later.
"I don't know," Neal said--Peter realized through the haze of blind attraction that he looked absolutely debauched, that what had been a small flush to his cheeks had spread, that his words were breathy at best. "You might have a side career on the club scene."
She lifted one leg, wrapped it around his torso, and leaned herself back in a stretch. He put one hand lightly behind her back, to steady her more than hold her. Peter thought that maybe she'd seen him standing there, slack-jawed, from the way her expression changed to something sly and sexy, but he couldn't be sure--a second later she was up, whispering something in Neal's ear.
--
"I believe my husband is home."
"Noticed him a few minutes ago. Looks like he's enjoying himself."
"He does, doesn't he? That message he left...sounded like he had a hard night."
"Poor thing. Think we should help him relax?"
"That sounds like a plan."
--
They broke apart, and the song changed. This one Peter recognized--it was the one about the criminal with all the visas that Neal insisted on playing in the car every morning on the way to work. As Neal slid his hand up between El's thighs, somehow managing to circle her on beat at the same time, Peter realized he was going to have to stop that little ritual, or kill them both in the ensuing wreck.
She moved down as he went up--he was behind her now and his hand was inside those boxers, and from the noises she was making Peter knew Neal's fingers were inside of her, knew that she was pushing herself down onto them. They were both still moving in time with the music, Elizabeth grinding back into Neal as she whimpered with the pleasure of it. And then Neal leaned forward and...and licked the sweat from the back of Elizabeth's neck, the long smooth line of her throat a perfect compliment to his rapt expression.
Peter was so hard he thought he might explode if he moved, thought he might combust if he wasn't careful. Then Neal pulled his hand out of Elizabeth, who made a thick, keening kind of noise. He kissed her lightly, as if in thanks, and walked over to Peter, holding his hand in front of him.
"It's yours if you want it," he said, smiling, still a little breathless, and Peter leaned forward and ran his tongue up Neal's index finger, tasting Elizabeth and sweat and maybe a faint hint of the wine they'd been drinking. Neal grinned at him and Peter, having hit his breaking point, put a hand to the back of Neal's neck and slammed their mouths together. He thought of his wife in Neal's arms, of Neal's hands on his wife's ass, of how fucking angry he'd been to hear Joe rip at Neal's morality. He let it fill him, the boiling pressure of everything, and he made a low, guttural noise and stepped forward and threw Neal back into the couch.
Neal looked up at him, eyes sparkling, still smiling. "Bad night?"
"You have no idea," Peter growled, and descended.
Peter still wasn't used to--wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to--kissing Neal. Sometimes it was like kissing for an Olympic medal, like kissing for points; Neal was competitive, and it showed. On those nights Peter would suck at Neal's lip for a few seconds and in response Neal would leave hickeys across his chest, across his back, smirking at him all the while. On those nights Peter would run his tongue across Neal's teeth and Neal would touch the roof of Peter's mouth with his, quick and light enough to be ridiculously, harshly erotic.
Sometimes, it was like fighting. On those nights, Peter would hold Neal by the wrists and Neal would buck up into him, their teeth clacking, leaving Neal's lips puffy and swollen and unbearably chapped by the time he was using them to suck Peter's cock.
And sometimes it was like this--Peter burning off steam and Neal, knowing and kind below him, letting him do it. Sometimes it was Peter pushing and slamming and too hard and Neal, soft and yielding, helping him let it go. He'd never had to ask for it; he'd never wanted it and not got it. Once, in the middle of a case that was threatening to break right over Peter's head, Neal had pulled him into a supply closet and said come on, come on until Peter had given in and more or less attacked his mouth; he'd felt better afterwards, and Neal had grinned and grinned, like he was happy, like he'd won something. It was mystifying.
He felt Elizabeth's hands on his back, slipping up his shirt, and bit Neal's lip a little too hard and pulled back to meet her mouth. Kissing her was nothing like kissing Neal, who had as many personalities and aliases and styles as Peter had work ties. He'd been kissing El for more than a decade, getting to know the feel her tongue and the taste of her lipstick, and kissing her was like coming home. She mewled into his mouth, that sweet sound he'd learned to dream of when he was in hotel rooms, in other states, in other countries. She mewled and he was softer with her than he'd ever be with Neal, and this was why he needed them both.
When she broke from him and went for Neal he watched with the fascination he always did. They were playful together, light--neither of them focused on the other with the same intensity that they focused on him. And it was almost like they were comparing notes, like they were the two top scorers on some test; not quite competitive, but not quite anything else. Neal's hand twisted around her hair and Peter could hear the soft laughter she poured down his throat and he was pulling them to the floor before he could stop himself.
"What do you want," Neal murmured in his ear, and Peter knew the answer to that question with such certainty that he didn't even blink.
"I want you to lick her while I fuck you," he said. Neal's eyebrows shot up--Peter, of the three of them, was usually the least direct.
"Peter," he said, surprised, and then he smiled and said "I like the way you think." Elizabeth moaned just at the thought of it, slipping out of Peter's boxers to reveal the nothing she was wearing underneath, and the music was too loud and Neal was unbuttoning Peter's shirt and El was pulling off his tie. Peter pulled at Neal's pants until they slid down, slippery and too smooth against his agitated fingers, and El reached down and swatted lightly at his balls, making him gasp.
It took Peter only a moment to get out of his own pants, to flip Neal over until he was face-down on the rug, to stick one and then two fingers into him, stretching, testing. Their morning round had left an impression; he was still loose, and Peter withdrew his fingers, shoved his cock into Neal without any further preparation. Neal cried out in something in between pain and pleasure; Elizabeth scooted forward, pressed his face into her, and caught the vibrations. As Peter looked on Neal gasped and moaned into Elizabeth, and El fell back, arching in pleasure.
"Harder," Neal said, only it was muffled by his current activity.
"I think...he said...harder..." El gasped out, "felt...like that."
So Peter went harder, faster, thinking about the look on that fucker's face as he dragged Neal's name around, tied him in with perverts and murderers and scum. Peter went harder and Neal's hands flexed on Elizabeth's thighs as he did something that made her squirm and groan with delight.
Then El sat up, careful not to dislodge Neal, and pulled off her shirt, leaned in to kiss Peter. He cupped her left breast with the hand he wasn't using to steady himself and Neal was hot and so fucking tight beneath him and Elizabeth's mouth was slick, smiling, her breath coming in little gasps from Neal's attention. It was too much, it was so much sensation he almost couldn't breathe, and he gave one last thrust and came so hard he saw stars.
"Yes," he hissed, a long, drawn out syllable. This was apparently all Neal needed, because he shuddered and went himself, wracked with it, moaning so hard it was nearly a scream. Elizabeth fell back, the force of his volume clearly throwing her over the edge, and she cried out both of their names in rapid succession before she was still.
The music was still on. Peter stood, ignoring the shaky feeling in his legs, and turned it off. He helped Elizabeth up first, both out of courtesy and because Neal didn't look quite ready to stand yet. She kissed him.
"Feeling better, honey?" she asked, and Peter nodded and spun her around once, clumsily. He was no Neal Caffrey, but she gave him a delighted smile and kissed him again anyway. "I thought you might," she said. She smiled, a little secretively, at Neal, who returned the grin in kind. It occurred to Peter that they had planned this, devious little things that they were. He laughed, and she said "I'm, ah, going to go take a shower," and when she blushed he looked and realized she was dripping, all down her leg. The sight of it made his cock twitch, exhausted though it was.
She went upstairs, and Peter hauled Neal to his feet, made to follow her. But he was still thinking about Joe, and when the got the stairs, before he could stop himself, he whirled and pressed Neal into the wall, held him there.
"You're not a criminal," he said, trembling a little with rage and, still, the aftershock of his orgasm . Neal raised his eyebrows and gestured, wordlessly, at the anklet still blinking a signal from his leg, and Peter made a small frustrated noise.
"Damn it, Neal--I know you're a criminal," he said--because this was frustrating but he had to explain. "I just, I don't think of you like that, alright?" Something like understanding bloomed across Neal's face, and he smiled. It was not a smile Peter had ever seen on his face before; it was softer and more open, a little bit hesitant, a little bit shocked.
"Peter," he said, "thank you," and he sounded like he meant it. Suddenly Peter understood that afternoon in the supply closet, Neal's puzzling expression. He was happy, standing there, pressing Neal into the wall. He watched emotion migrate across Neal's face, shock and pleasure and trust, and he, at last, felt like he'd won.