(no subject)
Title: Earned (Or: That One Time With the Taxi)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Peter/Neal, offscreen OT3
Spoilers: Yeah, through the end of the season.
Warnings: Some D/s dynamic.
Author's Note: Written for hoosierbitch's post seeking more porn! Man, did everyone provide. I've been writing a ton of comment!fic this week, I'm gonna post all the drabbles here later, but this one ended up being 1200 words long, so it gets its own post.
Summary: "This is stupid," Neal says, and he's right, he's beyond right, but Peter doesn't care; he's been waiting long enough, now.
"This is stupid," Neal says, and he's right, he's beyond right, but Peter doesn't care; he's been waiting long enough, now. He waited through work and he waited through that fucking commendation ceremony, with Neal putting his hands on everything that moved and tipping his head back to sip champagne and show off that damn throat of his. He waited while Neal smiled too hard and laughed too low and acted too much like himself, and he waited while El called to make sure it was going okay, and he waited while Neal accepted the award that he didn't deserve (that he did deserve, but not for the reasons they gave it to him) with shaking hands.
And then he waited while they hailed the first cab and had to give it up to Hughes and his wife, and then he waited while they hailed the second cab and had to give it up to that floozy Neal had chatted up, and then he waited while the hailed the third goddamn cab and the fuck, the fuck, if he was going to wait any longer.
"He's seen it all," Peter growls into Neal's ear, meaning the driver, and digs a hand into Neal's hair. The lights of New York stream past them and horns scream around them and Neal--Neal gives in and lets their mouths meet.
It is slow at first and then Peter, who is tired, so tired, of always waiting--Peter pushes Neal into the chilled window and sucks at the hollow of his neck. Neal moans, long and low; there is a tremble to it, a little shake.
"I wasn't brave," Neal says. It takes Peter a minute to realize he is talking about the commendation, about Mentor. "I wasn't, they shouldn't have--"
And Peter doesn't know how to keep being the person that saves Neal from Neal, so he presses their lips together and sucks the breath from Neal's lungs. It is almost chaste (and not chaste at all), and Neal reaches a hand down to cup Peter's groin, like a question.
The cab stops then. Peter glances out of the window and realizes they are not at their destination, and then realizes he doesn't care; he tosses the man a twenty and he and Neal tumble out onto the street.
"Fuck," Neal hisses, tripping in his haste; Peter catches the back of his shirt and stops him hitting that pavement. They jostle each other, eager, strange, into the nearest alley, and Peter leans Neal into the brick wall, leans into his space, and doesn't kiss him.
Neal pulses against him, fluttering, like a hummingbird. Peter can feel his heartbeat, too quick, under the hand he has draped possessively across Neal's neck. He likes to do this, likes to have Neal's veins pressed close to his skin, like to feel Neal being alive. But he can feel the tremors that Neal is trying to hide by moving his hands and his hips; he can always tell when Neal is lying, even with his body language.
He pins Neal by the shoulders and pushes him into the wall. "Stop shaking," he commands, and a look of concentrated effort freezes Neal's face in the glare from a streetlight. It is replaced by panic almost instantly, as Neal realizes he will have to disobey.
"I can't," he says, so honest it nearly breaks Peter's heart.
"Then suck me," Peter demands, to cover this. "That should calm you down."
Neal stares for a split second. Then he leans in and kisses Peter, tasting of gratitude and salt and that horrible rubbery chicken the banquet hall had offered for dinner. He drops to his knees and his hair is already mussed and Peter loves to look at him like this, to see Neal without his Neal on. He unzips Peter's pants and reached through the slit to pull his cock out, and he presses his lips to the tip, to the sides.
"Thank you," Neal murmurs, an inch from Peter's dick.
"I said suck me, not thank me," Peter clarifies, and Neal's chuckle is still in his throat when Peter is pulled into that warm, wet mouth.
Neal slides the flat of his tongue up and then back down Peter's cock. Then he sucks air into his cheeks and Peter is buried, in the dark territory of visceral ecstasy he has come to associate with Neal. No one has even been able to take so much of him so deep, not even El, and he frots helplessly into Neal's mouth, barely able to maintain balance.
Neal hums from somewhere deep in his chest, and the sound moves up Peter's fucking spine. "Jesus Christ, Neal," he spits, "fuck, that's so good."
At the word "good", Neal mewls. It's muffled somewhat by what he's doing, but Peter hears it anyway. He is assaulted, suddenly, by the memory of a hundred times he could have said that word to Neal, and didn't.
He is assaulted suddenly by the realization of how terrible it must have been for Neal, to hear "brave" and "noble" and "committed" when all he wanted was for someone to look him in the eye and tell him he'd done his best.
"Make me come," he snaps, because he's been waiting all fucking night for this, and because he knows it's what Neal wants. Impossibly, Neal pulls him in deeper. He taps the underside of Peter's dick with his tongue in a fluttering, disjointed rhythm; I told him to stop shaking, Peter thinks, before the sensation overwhelms him completely. He buries his fingers in Neal's hair and pulls on it, and Neal growls something that is rendered unintelligible by his mouthful of cock, and Peter comes.
It nearly leaves him weak in the knees, the way the orgasm tumbles mercilessly through him, the way Neal swallows it unthinkingly and keeps Peter's dick in his mouth. "You can stand," he says, after a moment, and Neal starts to. Peter puts a hand under Neal's arm and yanks him up.
The kiss he means to give is harsh and claiming, appropriate for the circumstances. The kiss he does give is softer, steadier; he caresses Neal's tongue languidly with his own, tasting himself. Neal is still moving too much, still a bundle of horrible nervous energy, so Peter takes him by the wrists and holds him, kissing him slowly, until he stills.
When he pulls away, Neal's eyes are wide and open, full of all the trust Peter could ever ask of him. "You did good," Peter says, before he can think about it.
"I didn't--" Neal starts, and Peter feels him start to shake again. He presses firmly on Neal's wrists, halting the tide before it can become a flood.
"Listen to me when I'm talking, Neal, damn it," he says. "You did good. I don't give a fuck what they gave you that award for; with me. We helped people. You did good."
Neal looks for a second like he's going to run; then he looks like he's going to cry, and Peter closes his eyes to prepare. When he opens them, Neal smiles shakily at him.
"Okay," he says. He sounds like he means it. Peter lets out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he was holding in and Neal, tentatively, kisses him.
Peter pushes back, soft, yielding. They break apart after a moment and Neal feels more solid that he has in days.
"Let's go home," Peter says.
"Yeah," Neal agrees, touching their foreheads together for a moment. "Yeah. Let's go home."
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Peter/Neal, offscreen OT3
Spoilers: Yeah, through the end of the season.
Warnings: Some D/s dynamic.
Author's Note: Written for hoosierbitch's post seeking more porn! Man, did everyone provide. I've been writing a ton of comment!fic this week, I'm gonna post all the drabbles here later, but this one ended up being 1200 words long, so it gets its own post.
Summary: "This is stupid," Neal says, and he's right, he's beyond right, but Peter doesn't care; he's been waiting long enough, now.
"This is stupid," Neal says, and he's right, he's beyond right, but Peter doesn't care; he's been waiting long enough, now. He waited through work and he waited through that fucking commendation ceremony, with Neal putting his hands on everything that moved and tipping his head back to sip champagne and show off that damn throat of his. He waited while Neal smiled too hard and laughed too low and acted too much like himself, and he waited while El called to make sure it was going okay, and he waited while Neal accepted the award that he didn't deserve (that he did deserve, but not for the reasons they gave it to him) with shaking hands.
And then he waited while they hailed the first cab and had to give it up to Hughes and his wife, and then he waited while they hailed the second cab and had to give it up to that floozy Neal had chatted up, and then he waited while the hailed the third goddamn cab and the fuck, the fuck, if he was going to wait any longer.
"He's seen it all," Peter growls into Neal's ear, meaning the driver, and digs a hand into Neal's hair. The lights of New York stream past them and horns scream around them and Neal--Neal gives in and lets their mouths meet.
It is slow at first and then Peter, who is tired, so tired, of always waiting--Peter pushes Neal into the chilled window and sucks at the hollow of his neck. Neal moans, long and low; there is a tremble to it, a little shake.
"I wasn't brave," Neal says. It takes Peter a minute to realize he is talking about the commendation, about Mentor. "I wasn't, they shouldn't have--"
And Peter doesn't know how to keep being the person that saves Neal from Neal, so he presses their lips together and sucks the breath from Neal's lungs. It is almost chaste (and not chaste at all), and Neal reaches a hand down to cup Peter's groin, like a question.
The cab stops then. Peter glances out of the window and realizes they are not at their destination, and then realizes he doesn't care; he tosses the man a twenty and he and Neal tumble out onto the street.
"Fuck," Neal hisses, tripping in his haste; Peter catches the back of his shirt and stops him hitting that pavement. They jostle each other, eager, strange, into the nearest alley, and Peter leans Neal into the brick wall, leans into his space, and doesn't kiss him.
Neal pulses against him, fluttering, like a hummingbird. Peter can feel his heartbeat, too quick, under the hand he has draped possessively across Neal's neck. He likes to do this, likes to have Neal's veins pressed close to his skin, like to feel Neal being alive. But he can feel the tremors that Neal is trying to hide by moving his hands and his hips; he can always tell when Neal is lying, even with his body language.
He pins Neal by the shoulders and pushes him into the wall. "Stop shaking," he commands, and a look of concentrated effort freezes Neal's face in the glare from a streetlight. It is replaced by panic almost instantly, as Neal realizes he will have to disobey.
"I can't," he says, so honest it nearly breaks Peter's heart.
"Then suck me," Peter demands, to cover this. "That should calm you down."
Neal stares for a split second. Then he leans in and kisses Peter, tasting of gratitude and salt and that horrible rubbery chicken the banquet hall had offered for dinner. He drops to his knees and his hair is already mussed and Peter loves to look at him like this, to see Neal without his Neal on. He unzips Peter's pants and reached through the slit to pull his cock out, and he presses his lips to the tip, to the sides.
"Thank you," Neal murmurs, an inch from Peter's dick.
"I said suck me, not thank me," Peter clarifies, and Neal's chuckle is still in his throat when Peter is pulled into that warm, wet mouth.
Neal slides the flat of his tongue up and then back down Peter's cock. Then he sucks air into his cheeks and Peter is buried, in the dark territory of visceral ecstasy he has come to associate with Neal. No one has even been able to take so much of him so deep, not even El, and he frots helplessly into Neal's mouth, barely able to maintain balance.
Neal hums from somewhere deep in his chest, and the sound moves up Peter's fucking spine. "Jesus Christ, Neal," he spits, "fuck, that's so good."
At the word "good", Neal mewls. It's muffled somewhat by what he's doing, but Peter hears it anyway. He is assaulted, suddenly, by the memory of a hundred times he could have said that word to Neal, and didn't.
He is assaulted suddenly by the realization of how terrible it must have been for Neal, to hear "brave" and "noble" and "committed" when all he wanted was for someone to look him in the eye and tell him he'd done his best.
"Make me come," he snaps, because he's been waiting all fucking night for this, and because he knows it's what Neal wants. Impossibly, Neal pulls him in deeper. He taps the underside of Peter's dick with his tongue in a fluttering, disjointed rhythm; I told him to stop shaking, Peter thinks, before the sensation overwhelms him completely. He buries his fingers in Neal's hair and pulls on it, and Neal growls something that is rendered unintelligible by his mouthful of cock, and Peter comes.
It nearly leaves him weak in the knees, the way the orgasm tumbles mercilessly through him, the way Neal swallows it unthinkingly and keeps Peter's dick in his mouth. "You can stand," he says, after a moment, and Neal starts to. Peter puts a hand under Neal's arm and yanks him up.
The kiss he means to give is harsh and claiming, appropriate for the circumstances. The kiss he does give is softer, steadier; he caresses Neal's tongue languidly with his own, tasting himself. Neal is still moving too much, still a bundle of horrible nervous energy, so Peter takes him by the wrists and holds him, kissing him slowly, until he stills.
When he pulls away, Neal's eyes are wide and open, full of all the trust Peter could ever ask of him. "You did good," Peter says, before he can think about it.
"I didn't--" Neal starts, and Peter feels him start to shake again. He presses firmly on Neal's wrists, halting the tide before it can become a flood.
"Listen to me when I'm talking, Neal, damn it," he says. "You did good. I don't give a fuck what they gave you that award for; with me. We helped people. You did good."
Neal looks for a second like he's going to run; then he looks like he's going to cry, and Peter closes his eyes to prepare. When he opens them, Neal smiles shakily at him.
"Okay," he says. He sounds like he means it. Peter lets out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he was holding in and Neal, tentatively, kisses him.
Peter pushes back, soft, yielding. They break apart after a moment and Neal feels more solid that he has in days.
"Let's go home," Peter says.
"Yeah," Neal agrees, touching their foreheads together for a moment. "Yeah. Let's go home."