Fic: Triangles
Title: Triangles
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Peter/Neal/El
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1885
Warnings: Masturbation, spanking, double penetration
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which there aren't even flimsy excuses, just temptation.
AN: Written for the porn!duel I did with the awesome ink_on_the_page I had exactly one hour to attempt to be dirty and still make sense. I thought I'd edit it for spelling and sense-making and leave it here.
El's on the couch, sprawled naked over the dark material of it like some sort of goddess. Her hair's a mess across her face and throat, one of her legs dangles off the edge the other is stretched out across the cushions - spread open so she has just enough room to press and push her own fingers inside herself.
Her eyes are closed, mouth open, tongue occasionally sliding out to wet her upper lip. Her other hand is curled over the arm of the couch, nails digging into the material with every quick, dirty slide of her fingers.
She's making soft noises in her throat, not close but warm, shivery. An unrushed collection of unsteady breaths that sound more like slow, steady pleasure than desperation.
Neal makes a noise before Peter does, something soft and choked, fingers curled round the doorframe. It comes out helpless, all his quiet self assurance dropped at his feet in that one picture.
El opens her eyes at the noise and looks straight at them. It leaves Peter swallowing whatever he was going to say in response. Because it's that slow, dirty look that's amused and accusing at the same time. Her fingers don't stop moving, though they've slowed, every thrust slow and shiny. God, Peter can smell her, the warm heady stretch of her skin and the heat of her.
Neal's practically vibrating, like he's not entirely sure if he should, if he can.
"Peter," he says helplessly, no air in his throat, like he thinks he needs permission just to breathe and Peter's close enough to smell him too, sharp and smooth, all citrus and velvet. There's nothing there he doesn't want. That he hasn't wanted.
Peter catches hold of Neal's arms without even thinking about it, warm and more solid than they should be. He feels them jump and tighten under his touch when he slowly, greedily, walks them both towards the couch.
El sighs out something that sounds relieved, she gives a shaky laugh and stops pushing, hand just resting against the dampness of her curls.
Until they're close enough.
"Get down on your knees," El says shakily.
"Jesus," Neal says, shuddering abortive like he's not sure if he should.
"You heard what she said," Peter says thickly.
Neal doesn't even pause after that, he's sinking to the carpet, not caring about the expensive knees of his pants and Peter's already yanking his shirt out of the waistband, fingers rough when they drag it free, buttons skidding away across the carpet and he's barely watching himself wrench the cotton down. He only has eyes for El, beautiful El who's all naked curves and hair and half-smile like she wants this, like she's known they were going to do this all along.
Her breasts are just barely damp, moving gently, hypnotically, when she slides around, drawing her legs across the sofa and Neal groans and lets them slip over his now bare shoulders.
"Fuck," Peter manages, fingers so tight on Neal's waist he's going to leave broken little half-moon marks from his nails. But Neal's not complaining, breath so hard it's almost panting. Torn between pressing back and leaning forward into the warmth of El's body and she's so warm, so warm it's like a physical touch.
"You want that?" Peter asks Neal roughly. "Do you want to go down on my wife, Neal?"
He listens to the sharp inhale, watches the way El's go wide and dark.
It's too much, it's too close to what they've been shivering their way towards and he's crushed into the curve of Neal’s' ass, hard enough that he should be fucking ashamed. But there's not even a trace of that here.
Peter puts a hand on the back of Neal's neck, pressing his head down until he's buried between El's legs, making quiet noises into the damp skin of her inner thighs.
El inhales, loses it in a soft little groan and Peter can see just enough, just enough to know that Neal has his mouth open. That Neal is buried there, El's hands pulling at his hair while he works on her. And then El's hands are scrabbling in the couch cushions for whatever she'd pushed there, drawing out a bottle of massage oil and dropping it the floor beside Peter's knee.
Neal's smart enough to groan out something unintelligible, and he doesn't resist when Peter reaches a hand round and works on the catch of his pants, drawing the zipper down and pulling both them and his boxer shorts down his thighs.
"Oh Jesus," Elle says quietly and then she whines at something Neal does. One arm falls over the back of the couch, the other twisting and catching in Neal's hair in quick little spasms.
"Neal," she says in that soft, eager, warning way she has right before she comes. Peter hand is moving on Neal's bare ass, just sliding, watching El fall apart in quick, dirty little shudders. He watches Neal tilt his head up to watch her. There's not even a touch of jealousy, just bright, hot arousal and a sense of incredible possessiveness. For the both of them, for this, God, exactly this and he has no idea where it came from, it just fucking is.
Until El stretches and relaxes into the cushions, breathing in quick, hard bursts.
She looks up at him.
"Don't stop," she says fiercely through eyes that look soft and drunk and still so desperate and Peter's sliding oil-slick fingers inside Neal, probably too quick, but Neal just grunts and then shivers like he's been waiting for this but wasn't ready for it, wasn't ready for any of it and now has no words, no disguises, nothing prepared. He has his face tipped sideways on El's bare thigh, eyes shut, mouth red and wet.
El's hand is combing through his hair. Long, gentle sweeps, settling him like a wild animal, even though Peter can feel how hard he is, a long curve of heat where Peter's shoved his pants and boxers past his thighs.
Neal's still shifting, trying to find something to press against, some way to get some pressure on his neglected cock, making soft, hissing sounds half way between frustration and ecstasy. Peter brings a hand down, hard on Neal's left ass cheek, feels his whole body jump under it. He groans and goes still and Peter can't help doing exactly the same on the other side, watching pale skin go bright and warm under the slide of his palm.
Neal shivers and bites the inside of El's thigh and she gasps and mutters something soft before tilting his head, drawing his face round again, teeth digging in her lower lip, thighs tightening and relaxing against Neal's shoulders.
Neal's skin is burning when Peter lays his hands on it, spreads him open and settles himself against the slick tightness of his hole and steadily pushes himself inside.
Everything is instantly too much. The heat of it, the slow grip of his body. The way Neal's spine shifts and curves under his sliding hands, trying to push back, trying to get him deeper, losing every breath in a choked groan and El's hands are buried in his hair, making a chaotic mess of it as she tips him and pulls him in again.
Neal’s' hands search for some sort of purchase. Until El grabs his wrists and holds them tight to her thighs, leaves Neal groaning and unbalanced and helpless.
El lets go just long enough to reach behind her and Peter hadn't realised she'd been using it, hadn't realised she'd brought it downstairs. The pale thick line of the dildo looks obscene.
Neal's gone still. Peter knows he's seen it, he can feel the tight clench around his cock, the low, throaty groan at the possibilities.
And Peter understands quicker than he probably should.
"Can you do that?" Peter asks shakily. "Can you take both?"
Neal hitches a breath and then nods. Not an ounce of reluctance in the movement.
He swears and upends the oil, watches it curl and splash across Neal's skin and El's bare legs. The curve of his own abdomen. He watches it slide slickly down to rest in his own pubic hair.
Peter's lays slippery hands on Neal because he can, touching the shifting line of his own cock every time it slides free, before moving up to catch at Neal's waist leaving slick oily handprints on his back and shoulders.
He curls his hand round Neal's body, makes his cock a slippery, rigid line of heat, before dropping lower to cup his balls, thumb dragging over where he's stretched out around him, over and over.
It's too easy to slide fingers in alongside his cock, to press Neal open wider, to get more inside him and he can hear the low harshness of his breathing. The way El is shushing him quiet, fingers sliding on him and holding him. Though she sounds unsteady herself, eyes flicking up to catch Peter's. They're hot, but warning. Don't hurt him.
He gets to three fingers before Neal gasps a breath,
"I'm ready, Peter, do it."
The first unsteady push is awkward. Neal's body doesn't want to take it, it's hard to push, hard to ease it in beside his own cock, which is desperate enough on his own without he enforced stillness. But watching Neal open around all, back trembling, thighs tense. It's all obscenity and desperation.
Peter's the one holding his breath and it's hard, it's so fucking hard.
"You want me to stop?"
Neal growls out a refusal. He shifts, fingers pale on El's thighs and then carefully relaxes.
"Oh God, I want to see it," El says desperately, torn between dragging Neal's mouth closer and pushing him away, making it last, drawing it out. Peter's doesn't blame her. His control is threatening to crack down the middle, threatening to crack into fucking pieces, watching Neal take the uncomfortable stretch of both his cock and the slick hard length of the dildo. The only thing stopping him from coming is the strange foreign push of it. The uncomfortable tightness against him, a throb of almost pain that he thinks he likes far too much.
Neal's making loose, punched-out noises while El's fingers drag through his sweaty hair.
There's the occasional word in there, cracked and messy. That beautiful voice slurring out obscenities.
"You want it all?" Peter asks.
Neal exhales, hard and rough and nods, chokes on whatever he tries to stay when Peter pushes, slow, steady all the way inside.
He slides a hand round, still mostly slick, lets it drag on Neal's cock in quick, wet pulls.
El's fingers are working on herself now, quick and ragged and she's whimpering. Peter knows that flavour of desperation, has to shove a hand forward and twine it with hers that's still in Neal's hair, has to hold him still and he stays there obediently on a soft little gasp.
"I'm going to come," Neal says breathlessly.
El swears and shudders, thigh's clenching.
Peter's fucking gone, he's pushing into that tight hot space, probably too hard but Neal's groaning constantly like he's drunk, before he stiffens up completely and gasps and Peter can't do anything but grab his hips and gasp his way through orgasm.
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Peter/Neal/El
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1885
Warnings: Masturbation, spanking, double penetration
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which there aren't even flimsy excuses, just temptation.
AN: Written for the porn!duel I did with the awesome ink_on_the_page I had exactly one hour to attempt to be dirty and still make sense. I thought I'd edit it for spelling and sense-making and leave it here.
El's on the couch, sprawled naked over the dark material of it like some sort of goddess. Her hair's a mess across her face and throat, one of her legs dangles off the edge the other is stretched out across the cushions - spread open so she has just enough room to press and push her own fingers inside herself.
Her eyes are closed, mouth open, tongue occasionally sliding out to wet her upper lip. Her other hand is curled over the arm of the couch, nails digging into the material with every quick, dirty slide of her fingers.
She's making soft noises in her throat, not close but warm, shivery. An unrushed collection of unsteady breaths that sound more like slow, steady pleasure than desperation.
Neal makes a noise before Peter does, something soft and choked, fingers curled round the doorframe. It comes out helpless, all his quiet self assurance dropped at his feet in that one picture.
El opens her eyes at the noise and looks straight at them. It leaves Peter swallowing whatever he was going to say in response. Because it's that slow, dirty look that's amused and accusing at the same time. Her fingers don't stop moving, though they've slowed, every thrust slow and shiny. God, Peter can smell her, the warm heady stretch of her skin and the heat of her.
Neal's practically vibrating, like he's not entirely sure if he should, if he can.
"Peter," he says helplessly, no air in his throat, like he thinks he needs permission just to breathe and Peter's close enough to smell him too, sharp and smooth, all citrus and velvet. There's nothing there he doesn't want. That he hasn't wanted.
Peter catches hold of Neal's arms without even thinking about it, warm and more solid than they should be. He feels them jump and tighten under his touch when he slowly, greedily, walks them both towards the couch.
El sighs out something that sounds relieved, she gives a shaky laugh and stops pushing, hand just resting against the dampness of her curls.
Until they're close enough.
"Get down on your knees," El says shakily.
"Jesus," Neal says, shuddering abortive like he's not sure if he should.
"You heard what she said," Peter says thickly.
Neal doesn't even pause after that, he's sinking to the carpet, not caring about the expensive knees of his pants and Peter's already yanking his shirt out of the waistband, fingers rough when they drag it free, buttons skidding away across the carpet and he's barely watching himself wrench the cotton down. He only has eyes for El, beautiful El who's all naked curves and hair and half-smile like she wants this, like she's known they were going to do this all along.
Her breasts are just barely damp, moving gently, hypnotically, when she slides around, drawing her legs across the sofa and Neal groans and lets them slip over his now bare shoulders.
"Fuck," Peter manages, fingers so tight on Neal's waist he's going to leave broken little half-moon marks from his nails. But Neal's not complaining, breath so hard it's almost panting. Torn between pressing back and leaning forward into the warmth of El's body and she's so warm, so warm it's like a physical touch.
"You want that?" Peter asks Neal roughly. "Do you want to go down on my wife, Neal?"
He listens to the sharp inhale, watches the way El's go wide and dark.
It's too much, it's too close to what they've been shivering their way towards and he's crushed into the curve of Neal’s' ass, hard enough that he should be fucking ashamed. But there's not even a trace of that here.
Peter puts a hand on the back of Neal's neck, pressing his head down until he's buried between El's legs, making quiet noises into the damp skin of her inner thighs.
El inhales, loses it in a soft little groan and Peter can see just enough, just enough to know that Neal has his mouth open. That Neal is buried there, El's hands pulling at his hair while he works on her. And then El's hands are scrabbling in the couch cushions for whatever she'd pushed there, drawing out a bottle of massage oil and dropping it the floor beside Peter's knee.
Neal's smart enough to groan out something unintelligible, and he doesn't resist when Peter reaches a hand round and works on the catch of his pants, drawing the zipper down and pulling both them and his boxer shorts down his thighs.
"Oh Jesus," Elle says quietly and then she whines at something Neal does. One arm falls over the back of the couch, the other twisting and catching in Neal's hair in quick little spasms.
"Neal," she says in that soft, eager, warning way she has right before she comes. Peter hand is moving on Neal's bare ass, just sliding, watching El fall apart in quick, dirty little shudders. He watches Neal tilt his head up to watch her. There's not even a touch of jealousy, just bright, hot arousal and a sense of incredible possessiveness. For the both of them, for this, God, exactly this and he has no idea where it came from, it just fucking is.
Until El stretches and relaxes into the cushions, breathing in quick, hard bursts.
She looks up at him.
"Don't stop," she says fiercely through eyes that look soft and drunk and still so desperate and Peter's sliding oil-slick fingers inside Neal, probably too quick, but Neal just grunts and then shivers like he's been waiting for this but wasn't ready for it, wasn't ready for any of it and now has no words, no disguises, nothing prepared. He has his face tipped sideways on El's bare thigh, eyes shut, mouth red and wet.
El's hand is combing through his hair. Long, gentle sweeps, settling him like a wild animal, even though Peter can feel how hard he is, a long curve of heat where Peter's shoved his pants and boxers past his thighs.
Neal's still shifting, trying to find something to press against, some way to get some pressure on his neglected cock, making soft, hissing sounds half way between frustration and ecstasy. Peter brings a hand down, hard on Neal's left ass cheek, feels his whole body jump under it. He groans and goes still and Peter can't help doing exactly the same on the other side, watching pale skin go bright and warm under the slide of his palm.
Neal shivers and bites the inside of El's thigh and she gasps and mutters something soft before tilting his head, drawing his face round again, teeth digging in her lower lip, thighs tightening and relaxing against Neal's shoulders.
Neal's skin is burning when Peter lays his hands on it, spreads him open and settles himself against the slick tightness of his hole and steadily pushes himself inside.
Everything is instantly too much. The heat of it, the slow grip of his body. The way Neal's spine shifts and curves under his sliding hands, trying to push back, trying to get him deeper, losing every breath in a choked groan and El's hands are buried in his hair, making a chaotic mess of it as she tips him and pulls him in again.
Neal’s' hands search for some sort of purchase. Until El grabs his wrists and holds them tight to her thighs, leaves Neal groaning and unbalanced and helpless.
El lets go just long enough to reach behind her and Peter hadn't realised she'd been using it, hadn't realised she'd brought it downstairs. The pale thick line of the dildo looks obscene.
Neal's gone still. Peter knows he's seen it, he can feel the tight clench around his cock, the low, throaty groan at the possibilities.
And Peter understands quicker than he probably should.
"Can you do that?" Peter asks shakily. "Can you take both?"
Neal hitches a breath and then nods. Not an ounce of reluctance in the movement.
He swears and upends the oil, watches it curl and splash across Neal's skin and El's bare legs. The curve of his own abdomen. He watches it slide slickly down to rest in his own pubic hair.
Peter's lays slippery hands on Neal because he can, touching the shifting line of his own cock every time it slides free, before moving up to catch at Neal's waist leaving slick oily handprints on his back and shoulders.
He curls his hand round Neal's body, makes his cock a slippery, rigid line of heat, before dropping lower to cup his balls, thumb dragging over where he's stretched out around him, over and over.
It's too easy to slide fingers in alongside his cock, to press Neal open wider, to get more inside him and he can hear the low harshness of his breathing. The way El is shushing him quiet, fingers sliding on him and holding him. Though she sounds unsteady herself, eyes flicking up to catch Peter's. They're hot, but warning. Don't hurt him.
He gets to three fingers before Neal gasps a breath,
"I'm ready, Peter, do it."
The first unsteady push is awkward. Neal's body doesn't want to take it, it's hard to push, hard to ease it in beside his own cock, which is desperate enough on his own without he enforced stillness. But watching Neal open around all, back trembling, thighs tense. It's all obscenity and desperation.
Peter's the one holding his breath and it's hard, it's so fucking hard.
"You want me to stop?"
Neal growls out a refusal. He shifts, fingers pale on El's thighs and then carefully relaxes.
"Oh God, I want to see it," El says desperately, torn between dragging Neal's mouth closer and pushing him away, making it last, drawing it out. Peter's doesn't blame her. His control is threatening to crack down the middle, threatening to crack into fucking pieces, watching Neal take the uncomfortable stretch of both his cock and the slick hard length of the dildo. The only thing stopping him from coming is the strange foreign push of it. The uncomfortable tightness against him, a throb of almost pain that he thinks he likes far too much.
Neal's making loose, punched-out noises while El's fingers drag through his sweaty hair.
There's the occasional word in there, cracked and messy. That beautiful voice slurring out obscenities.
"You want it all?" Peter asks.
Neal exhales, hard and rough and nods, chokes on whatever he tries to stay when Peter pushes, slow, steady all the way inside.
He slides a hand round, still mostly slick, lets it drag on Neal's cock in quick, wet pulls.
El's fingers are working on herself now, quick and ragged and she's whimpering. Peter knows that flavour of desperation, has to shove a hand forward and twine it with hers that's still in Neal's hair, has to hold him still and he stays there obediently on a soft little gasp.
"I'm going to come," Neal says breathlessly.
El swears and shudders, thigh's clenching.
Peter's fucking gone, he's pushing into that tight hot space, probably too hard but Neal's groaning constantly like he's drunk, before he stiffens up completely and gasps and Peter can't do anything but grab his hips and gasp his way through orgasm.