fic: you're a mistake i can't bear to unmake (KMS #5)
Title: you're a mistake i can't bear to unmake
Author: hoosierbitch
Series: Kink Meme #5, follows the slow unravelling of me. The entire series can be found via the tag.
Rating: R for this part, NC-17 for the series.
Pairing: Elizabeth/Neal/Peter
Warnings: This fic takes place the morning after a night of intense painplay.
Notes: Thanks to everyone who's commented on the series and asked for more, and especially gyzym and photoash, who (um, six months ago...) helped me get this part started.
Summary: When he woke up, he wasn't alone.
*
When he woke up, he wasn’t alone.
El was pressed against his back. Her long legs twined with his, her arm wrapped over his ribs. Peter was lying on his side with one arm tucked under Neal’s neck.
When he woke up, he wasn’t alone.
And he froze and then panicked because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t how it had been, not for years. Not since Kate.
He woke up hurting.
His body was bruised and tired and every muscle ached. Hurting and - and warm. Covered in soft blankets. And not held down, just - held.
And maybe the only reason they hadn’t kicked him out was because he’d asked (begged) to stay, or because they pitied him, or they’d just been too tired to care, or - or a thousand other reasons that shouldn’t have meant home.
But when he tried to pull away, Peter grumbled. And El’s arm tightened around him. And after a few tense breaths, he moved, as slowly and carefully as he could manage, just a bit closer to both of them. His legs wrapped tighter around El’s, his head close enough to Peter’s that Peter’s breath brushed against his forehead.
He fell asleep hurting and safe.
*
As much as Neal lied to everyone else, he made it a point not to lie to himself. So when he woke up the second time and couldn’t fall back asleep, he forced himself to be honest.
He didn’t belong in that bed. Because that was where Elizabeth and Peter slept. He was in their marriage bed. And it was filthy, with his come and tears all over it (he couldn't quite believe he'd cried but he was being honest, he knew he had).
This was their bed and he shouldn't be in it. They hadn't asked for another spouse, not for a boyfriend - he was the equivalent of a shiny red Corvette. An unusual midlife crisis. An exotic sex toy. He just hoped they wouldn't grow tired of him too soon.
He tried to move and bit his cheek to keep from crying out. His ass and thighs were bruised. The inside of his thighs up to the cheeks of his ass were scraped raw from the bristles of El's hairbrush. He blushed to think that they'd have to get rid of that brush now. Or maybe, they'd save it for next time (please, please, please: let there be a next time).
*
He stayed that way as long as he could. Until the clock on the bedside table flashed 5:30 and he knew if he didn’t get up right then he wouldn’t have time to call a cab and get home with enough time to clean up. He had to be at work by 8:30, and he needed to eat something before he took some painkillers.
He took his time sliding out of bed. And not just because he was afraid of waking them (he was, he froze every time they moved or murmured or reached for the place he’d just been) - but also because he couldn’t move any faster.
The last time he’d been this sore it was because he’d jumped out of a three-story window.
When he finally got out of bed, he slipped down the hallway and into the bathroom. Used the toilet and cleaned himself off with a wet washcloth because he’d been too out of it to take care of that the night before (careless, messy, dirty).
He heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway and had enough time to wrap a towel carefully around his waist before Peter appeared in the doorway.
Peter looked adorable, first thing out of bed. His hair was all mashed to one side and he had pillow creases on one of his cheeks. Somehow he managed to look like a little kid and a grumpy old man at the same time.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” he replied, and usually he was smoother than that but he’d been fucked pretty damn hard the night before, so he gave himself a pass.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Neal kissed him to prove how fine he was. Peter wrapped his arms around his torso and Neal couldn’t hold back a short hiss when Peter’s hands brushed against his ass.
Peter’s forehead crinkled with confusion. “What’s the matter?”
“Just a bit sore.” Understatement of the century. “I’ve got some painkillers at June’s, though. It won’t be a problem.” A vicodin or two and he’d barely notice. Or it’d be bearable, anyway. The pain was spreading deeper throughout his body the more he moved. He couldn’t miss work, though. It’d be a violation of his parole.
He smiled at Peter and leaned in for another kiss.
Peter took a step back and tugged at the towel around Neal’s waist. Neal took a deep breath, let himself tense up because it didn't really matter anymore, and dropped the towel. Peter sidestepped around him to look at his back.
Peter looked horrified. Neal's stomach dropped.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. You’re - Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I did that.”
No. Neal couldn’t really believe it, either.
It - it had been nice, though. While it lasted. Really nice.
“It doesn’t matter, Peter, really. We can just pretend it never happened. No harm, no foul.”
“No harm?” Peter brushed his hand over Neal’s left buttock and Neal couldn’t stop himself from flinching away.
Peter was horrified by what he saw. By Neal’s body the morning after, bruised and marked and dirty. He closed his eyes and tried to disappear.
“I didn’t know that I hurt you so badly. I should have been more careful. I’m so, so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Oh, Christ - you should have told me to stop, Neal. I would have. I promise.” Peter turned him around so that they were face to face and put his hands on Neal’s shoulders. His right hand was on top of a bite mark and Neal tried to hold on to that new bit of pain. Tried to drown out Peter’s voice with the thrum of his own heartbeat.
“I didn’t want you to stop,” he whispered, when Peter’s apologies felt like the crack of a whip, when he felt like he was being flayed to the bone.
“Jesus. I should have known better.” Peter was rubbing Neal’s shoulder gently, Neal wondered if he even knew he was doing it. Peter doled out affectionate gestures so carelessly. “I should have known you’d feel obligated. Neal, I’m so sorry - ”
There were so many different kinds of rejection he was prepared for. I’m not gay, threesomes just aren’t built to last, you’re just too fucked up - but he hadn’t been prepared for this.
“You don’t - ” his mouth was dry and he still felt unsteady on his feet but - but he left the humiliation in the bedroom. He got to decide when he could be hurt and who was allowed to hurt him.
There wasn’t a lot of him left intact after prison. After Kate. After his childhood. The parts of himself that he still recognized, he had to hold on to. Had to fight for. “You don’t get to do this.”
“I won’t do anything you don’t want, Neal, I promise. Not again.”
He stared up at the ceiling because he couldn’t talk and look at Peter at the same time.
There was a cobweb growing in the corner. They should clean it. Peter and El, that is, next time they had a fix-it day. “I know it’s fucked up, to want - to want to be hurt.” He’d never pretended otherwise. Something was broken inside of him, and he knew that, he just - he thought they’d known, too. “I get that I screwed up. Last night, and before, at my apartment - you didn’t know what you were getting into. And I - ” he’d been lonely and desperate. Peter had been the shiny toy behind the window and Neal had taken another thing he wasn’t meant to have. “I screwed up. But you don’t - I don’t think you get to make me feel ashamed of myself for wanting you to hurt me. I think - I think maybe that was the part that I got right.”
And maybe he was wrong. Maybe Peter was trying to cure Neal of wanting to be hurt, maybe Peter didn’t want Neal to like it, maybe this was just one more step down a long road of learning he didn’t get to keep the people he loved - Peter stood up and put a hand on Neal’s cheek. Just like he had the night before. A bit rough, the hint of a callus from holding a pen, skin a little dry but mostly warm, warm and solid and real.
He tried not to feel like he was about to fly apart but he hurt and he didn’t want to be alone and he was so, so close. So close to Peter. So close to being able to let go. “I wanted it,” he said, and his mouth twitched into a smile but it wasn’t a joke. It was an apology.
The toilet seat clanked when Peter sat down on it. He put his head in his hands and rubbed at his face. The pillowcase creases were still there and Neal wanted to stop Peter’s hands from rubbing them away, wanted a chance to trace his fingers over them before they faded. He missed the comfort of the night before with painful nostalgia.
He really wanted to kiss Peter. But last night had been - had been a mistake. His bruises and the horrified look on Peter’s face were proof enough of that.
He’d gotten it wrong. He wasn’t a midlife crisis, Peter and El were just - tourists. And they’d had fun, visiting the horror show that was Neal’s sexuality. Enough fun for one night. They’d explored all his dark corners; they’d seen what little he had to offer. And now, come morning, they went back to being normal. And Neal went back to being fucked up and alone.
“I’m sorry,” he heard Peter whisper. And he nodded and stared at the ceiling and blamed the overhead light for the prickle in the corner of his eyes that told him he was about to cry. “For rushing into things. But I’m not sorry for last night.” Neal’s breath caught in his throat and he couldn’t help tensing up. His body screamed with pain. The best kind, the worst kind, hanging onto the edge with just his fingertips, he wanted to beg Peter not to push him off. “You were beautiful.”
He wanted so badly that it felt like his ribs were cracking with the strain.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, because he was selfish and terrified and he wanted to hear Peter say it.
He wanted to believe it.
Peter stood up, took a step closer, and pressed his body against Neal’s. Leaned forward and pressed Neal against the wall. The cool tile burned against his raw skin.
He gasped and pressed his cock against Peter’s thigh, fisted his hands in the loose material of Peter’s robe, let the sensation ground him. “This doesn’t feel wrong,” Peter whispered, pressing his leg harder against Neal’s groin, lifting him onto his toes.
Neal nodded and dropped his head into the curve of Peter’s shoulder. Because the sex hadn't felt wrong, not for a second, not until they'd started - not until Peter and Elizabeth had called him beautiful. They could go back to what they had before that. If that's what Peter wanted, just this, just their bodies together - it was better than nothing. It had to be. Only - only Peter wasn't done talking yet.
"I woke up this morning and you weren't there. And I didn't know where you were. And that felt wrong.” His hands slid down Neal’s torso, a smooth caress, and Neal remembered waking up in his apartment without Peter. The awkward note Peter had left, how cold he’d felt, how badly he’d been shaking. How much he would have given to have Peter there.
“You don't know what you'd be getting into. With me. It's not going to be easy.” His voice was hoarse and muffled but Peter heard him anyway.
“And that’s okay.”
The burn in his eyes turned into tears and he hated himself for being weak but at the same time - at the same time, Peter was holding him. Peter…Peter was taking care of him.
“No," he said. "It's not." Because he’d lived a lifetime of giving people exactly what they wanted. Of knowing what they wanted. And he couldn’t give that to Peter and El. Couldn’t give them smooth or convenient or simple, couldn’t give them anything but himself, fucked up and needy and imperfect.
Peter took a step backwards and took Neal with him, like an awkward dance, his arms still wrapped around Neal's waist. And he held Neal gently. The way he'd held Elizabeth the night before in the kitchen and Neal felt jealousy burn in his throat like a useless reflex.
And Peter didn't say anything. Didn't make any promises or ask any questions, didn't call Neal beautiful again but didn't tell him to leave, either.
And when he couldn't stand the silence for a second longer, he kissed Peter.
It felt like a test. Like a crime, like a dare, like desecration. Like something he wasn't allowed to do. Then Peter's arms tightened around him and dug into the painful welts on his skin and it burned through him and he - he let himself believe Peter. When they both had their eyes closed, when no one could see him, naked and bruised and fragile - for the very first time, he let himself believe that it was real.
Author: hoosierbitch
Series: Kink Meme #5, follows the slow unravelling of me. The entire series can be found via the tag.
Rating: R for this part, NC-17 for the series.
Pairing: Elizabeth/Neal/Peter
Warnings: This fic takes place the morning after a night of intense painplay.
Notes: Thanks to everyone who's commented on the series and asked for more, and especially gyzym and photoash, who (um, six months ago...) helped me get this part started.
Summary: When he woke up, he wasn't alone.
*
When he woke up, he wasn’t alone.
El was pressed against his back. Her long legs twined with his, her arm wrapped over his ribs. Peter was lying on his side with one arm tucked under Neal’s neck.
When he woke up, he wasn’t alone.
And he froze and then panicked because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t how it had been, not for years. Not since Kate.
He woke up hurting.
His body was bruised and tired and every muscle ached. Hurting and - and warm. Covered in soft blankets. And not held down, just - held.
And maybe the only reason they hadn’t kicked him out was because he’d asked (begged) to stay, or because they pitied him, or they’d just been too tired to care, or - or a thousand other reasons that shouldn’t have meant home.
But when he tried to pull away, Peter grumbled. And El’s arm tightened around him. And after a few tense breaths, he moved, as slowly and carefully as he could manage, just a bit closer to both of them. His legs wrapped tighter around El’s, his head close enough to Peter’s that Peter’s breath brushed against his forehead.
He fell asleep hurting and safe.
*
As much as Neal lied to everyone else, he made it a point not to lie to himself. So when he woke up the second time and couldn’t fall back asleep, he forced himself to be honest.
He didn’t belong in that bed. Because that was where Elizabeth and Peter slept. He was in their marriage bed. And it was filthy, with his come and tears all over it (he couldn't quite believe he'd cried but he was being honest, he knew he had).
This was their bed and he shouldn't be in it. They hadn't asked for another spouse, not for a boyfriend - he was the equivalent of a shiny red Corvette. An unusual midlife crisis. An exotic sex toy. He just hoped they wouldn't grow tired of him too soon.
He tried to move and bit his cheek to keep from crying out. His ass and thighs were bruised. The inside of his thighs up to the cheeks of his ass were scraped raw from the bristles of El's hairbrush. He blushed to think that they'd have to get rid of that brush now. Or maybe, they'd save it for next time (please, please, please: let there be a next time).
*
He stayed that way as long as he could. Until the clock on the bedside table flashed 5:30 and he knew if he didn’t get up right then he wouldn’t have time to call a cab and get home with enough time to clean up. He had to be at work by 8:30, and he needed to eat something before he took some painkillers.
He took his time sliding out of bed. And not just because he was afraid of waking them (he was, he froze every time they moved or murmured or reached for the place he’d just been) - but also because he couldn’t move any faster.
The last time he’d been this sore it was because he’d jumped out of a three-story window.
When he finally got out of bed, he slipped down the hallway and into the bathroom. Used the toilet and cleaned himself off with a wet washcloth because he’d been too out of it to take care of that the night before (careless, messy, dirty).
He heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway and had enough time to wrap a towel carefully around his waist before Peter appeared in the doorway.
Peter looked adorable, first thing out of bed. His hair was all mashed to one side and he had pillow creases on one of his cheeks. Somehow he managed to look like a little kid and a grumpy old man at the same time.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” he replied, and usually he was smoother than that but he’d been fucked pretty damn hard the night before, so he gave himself a pass.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Neal kissed him to prove how fine he was. Peter wrapped his arms around his torso and Neal couldn’t hold back a short hiss when Peter’s hands brushed against his ass.
Peter’s forehead crinkled with confusion. “What’s the matter?”
“Just a bit sore.” Understatement of the century. “I’ve got some painkillers at June’s, though. It won’t be a problem.” A vicodin or two and he’d barely notice. Or it’d be bearable, anyway. The pain was spreading deeper throughout his body the more he moved. He couldn’t miss work, though. It’d be a violation of his parole.
He smiled at Peter and leaned in for another kiss.
Peter took a step back and tugged at the towel around Neal’s waist. Neal took a deep breath, let himself tense up because it didn't really matter anymore, and dropped the towel. Peter sidestepped around him to look at his back.
Peter looked horrified. Neal's stomach dropped.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. You’re - Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I did that.”
No. Neal couldn’t really believe it, either.
It - it had been nice, though. While it lasted. Really nice.
“It doesn’t matter, Peter, really. We can just pretend it never happened. No harm, no foul.”
“No harm?” Peter brushed his hand over Neal’s left buttock and Neal couldn’t stop himself from flinching away.
Peter was horrified by what he saw. By Neal’s body the morning after, bruised and marked and dirty. He closed his eyes and tried to disappear.
“I didn’t know that I hurt you so badly. I should have been more careful. I’m so, so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Oh, Christ - you should have told me to stop, Neal. I would have. I promise.” Peter turned him around so that they were face to face and put his hands on Neal’s shoulders. His right hand was on top of a bite mark and Neal tried to hold on to that new bit of pain. Tried to drown out Peter’s voice with the thrum of his own heartbeat.
“I didn’t want you to stop,” he whispered, when Peter’s apologies felt like the crack of a whip, when he felt like he was being flayed to the bone.
“Jesus. I should have known better.” Peter was rubbing Neal’s shoulder gently, Neal wondered if he even knew he was doing it. Peter doled out affectionate gestures so carelessly. “I should have known you’d feel obligated. Neal, I’m so sorry - ”
There were so many different kinds of rejection he was prepared for. I’m not gay, threesomes just aren’t built to last, you’re just too fucked up - but he hadn’t been prepared for this.
“You don’t - ” his mouth was dry and he still felt unsteady on his feet but - but he left the humiliation in the bedroom. He got to decide when he could be hurt and who was allowed to hurt him.
There wasn’t a lot of him left intact after prison. After Kate. After his childhood. The parts of himself that he still recognized, he had to hold on to. Had to fight for. “You don’t get to do this.”
“I won’t do anything you don’t want, Neal, I promise. Not again.”
He stared up at the ceiling because he couldn’t talk and look at Peter at the same time.
There was a cobweb growing in the corner. They should clean it. Peter and El, that is, next time they had a fix-it day. “I know it’s fucked up, to want - to want to be hurt.” He’d never pretended otherwise. Something was broken inside of him, and he knew that, he just - he thought they’d known, too. “I get that I screwed up. Last night, and before, at my apartment - you didn’t know what you were getting into. And I - ” he’d been lonely and desperate. Peter had been the shiny toy behind the window and Neal had taken another thing he wasn’t meant to have. “I screwed up. But you don’t - I don’t think you get to make me feel ashamed of myself for wanting you to hurt me. I think - I think maybe that was the part that I got right.”
And maybe he was wrong. Maybe Peter was trying to cure Neal of wanting to be hurt, maybe Peter didn’t want Neal to like it, maybe this was just one more step down a long road of learning he didn’t get to keep the people he loved - Peter stood up and put a hand on Neal’s cheek. Just like he had the night before. A bit rough, the hint of a callus from holding a pen, skin a little dry but mostly warm, warm and solid and real.
He tried not to feel like he was about to fly apart but he hurt and he didn’t want to be alone and he was so, so close. So close to Peter. So close to being able to let go. “I wanted it,” he said, and his mouth twitched into a smile but it wasn’t a joke. It was an apology.
The toilet seat clanked when Peter sat down on it. He put his head in his hands and rubbed at his face. The pillowcase creases were still there and Neal wanted to stop Peter’s hands from rubbing them away, wanted a chance to trace his fingers over them before they faded. He missed the comfort of the night before with painful nostalgia.
He really wanted to kiss Peter. But last night had been - had been a mistake. His bruises and the horrified look on Peter’s face were proof enough of that.
He’d gotten it wrong. He wasn’t a midlife crisis, Peter and El were just - tourists. And they’d had fun, visiting the horror show that was Neal’s sexuality. Enough fun for one night. They’d explored all his dark corners; they’d seen what little he had to offer. And now, come morning, they went back to being normal. And Neal went back to being fucked up and alone.
“I’m sorry,” he heard Peter whisper. And he nodded and stared at the ceiling and blamed the overhead light for the prickle in the corner of his eyes that told him he was about to cry. “For rushing into things. But I’m not sorry for last night.” Neal’s breath caught in his throat and he couldn’t help tensing up. His body screamed with pain. The best kind, the worst kind, hanging onto the edge with just his fingertips, he wanted to beg Peter not to push him off. “You were beautiful.”
He wanted so badly that it felt like his ribs were cracking with the strain.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, because he was selfish and terrified and he wanted to hear Peter say it.
He wanted to believe it.
Peter stood up, took a step closer, and pressed his body against Neal’s. Leaned forward and pressed Neal against the wall. The cool tile burned against his raw skin.
He gasped and pressed his cock against Peter’s thigh, fisted his hands in the loose material of Peter’s robe, let the sensation ground him. “This doesn’t feel wrong,” Peter whispered, pressing his leg harder against Neal’s groin, lifting him onto his toes.
Neal nodded and dropped his head into the curve of Peter’s shoulder. Because the sex hadn't felt wrong, not for a second, not until they'd started - not until Peter and Elizabeth had called him beautiful. They could go back to what they had before that. If that's what Peter wanted, just this, just their bodies together - it was better than nothing. It had to be. Only - only Peter wasn't done talking yet.
"I woke up this morning and you weren't there. And I didn't know where you were. And that felt wrong.” His hands slid down Neal’s torso, a smooth caress, and Neal remembered waking up in his apartment without Peter. The awkward note Peter had left, how cold he’d felt, how badly he’d been shaking. How much he would have given to have Peter there.
“You don't know what you'd be getting into. With me. It's not going to be easy.” His voice was hoarse and muffled but Peter heard him anyway.
“And that’s okay.”
The burn in his eyes turned into tears and he hated himself for being weak but at the same time - at the same time, Peter was holding him. Peter…Peter was taking care of him.
“No," he said. "It's not." Because he’d lived a lifetime of giving people exactly what they wanted. Of knowing what they wanted. And he couldn’t give that to Peter and El. Couldn’t give them smooth or convenient or simple, couldn’t give them anything but himself, fucked up and needy and imperfect.
Peter took a step backwards and took Neal with him, like an awkward dance, his arms still wrapped around Neal's waist. And he held Neal gently. The way he'd held Elizabeth the night before in the kitchen and Neal felt jealousy burn in his throat like a useless reflex.
And Peter didn't say anything. Didn't make any promises or ask any questions, didn't call Neal beautiful again but didn't tell him to leave, either.
And when he couldn't stand the silence for a second longer, he kissed Peter.
It felt like a test. Like a crime, like a dare, like desecration. Like something he wasn't allowed to do. Then Peter's arms tightened around him and dug into the painful welts on his skin and it burned through him and he - he let himself believe Peter. When they both had their eyes closed, when no one could see him, naked and bruised and fragile - for the very first time, he let himself believe that it was real.