White Collar fic, Peter/Neal, Peter doesn't want him to run
Title: Stay
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Peter/Neal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Choose not to use warnings but some possibly triggery stuff, depending on your interpretation.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Set in the near future, Peter wants to hang on to Neal any way he can; in the bedroom, it shows. Peter's POV, followed by Neal's POV. For the obedience square on kinkbingo, with several other kinks (but most of the focus is on emotional stuff).
Part I: Peter
It's been a year since they started sleeping together; it's been a year since they started this thing that was more than friends and more than sex but still not quite a promise.
For half that time, they've been at odds. Cat and mouse. Fed and criminal.
Because of the sub. Because of Adler's plan. Because of Mozzie, most likely; if Peter had to guess, Mozzie probably acted alone that first day.
But it's mostly because of Neal, Peter knows. Neal has had one foot out the door for months, and that's nobody's choice but his own.
Peter worries about it, wakes up in the middle of the night barely stopping himself from calling to see if Neal is there. He doesn't trust the anklet any more, and it's long become obvious that Neal is trying to outmaneuver him on the sub loot. Peter's even starting to not trust his own record for knowing where Neal is. Neal just has to get lucky once, after all - he just has to outsmart Peter once, at a moment when it really counts, and then he's gone.
Peter is using his best moves to find the artwork, to make it impossible for anyone to move it without him knowing. He also tells Neal every day that he's needed here; he doesn't say it directly, but he always gets it into the conversation somehow -- how much Diana and Christie like Neal - especially Christie, who has had such a hard time adjusting to the city -- or how much June and her family have come to rely on his presence when they need him, or how happy El is that he's around, or how the little girl they saved from her kidnapper just sent another drawing of Neal in his hat.
He tries to give Neal what passes for normal, hoping Neal will, against all likelihood, choose walks in the park with June over the big score and life on the run, which will of course inevitably being lured back into the dangerous life that the big score was supposed to make unnecessary. He knows that binding Neal in, using both sides of their relationship - adversary and friend - will work better on Neal than another lecture on being the man he has the potential to be. He knows it is better than telling Neal that he is terrified that Neal will leave - that he knows enough about cons and enough about Neal to see that if he runs, he'll always run, until he's in prison or in a ditch; either way, it might very well happen in some country where Peter will have no idea what's happened.
Both of them, by now, have a good idea what the other man knows about the art from the sub. Neither of them ever say it aloud; they act as normally as they can, even as Peter can see the struggle on Neal's face, can see him try to care less about what he is planning to leave.
He and Mozzie have (yet) another plan, now; Peter can tell by the morose look on Neal's face whenever Peter goes home. Peter hasn't been able to figure out what they're doing yet.
This worries him, and he can't hide it as well he used to.
The only time he isn't terrified, the only time he isn't plotting how to keep Neal from running, is when they're together. Somehow, this part of their relationship hadn't changed, whether they were getting closer or drifting apart, whether they were in that first bout of sweet sentimentality for each other, or that brief period of bile and mistrust after the explosion on the sub (after Peter killed a man), before they silently agreed that being rivals was better than being angry. Somehow, what happened in bed was the same, always, and this - and little else - reassures Peter.
It wasn't literally always the same, of course. The first few times it was understandably awkward. It took a while for them to get compatible, to figure out what worked for them. Once they found it, however, it turned out that they were both creatures of habit.
The first time, they had kissed and groped and pulled each other against every near surface, grappling for advantage. Fighting for dominance. A little roughhousing, a little play.
It was... fun. Pretty good. They really thought it would be great, though.
Then they tried something else.
Peter giving orders. Neal obeying them.
Peter was worried that it would hit a little close to home. He shouldn't have; unlike work, where Peter actually did have all the power and Neal never obeyed, in bed, Neal tried - tried hard - to be perfect for Peter.
The best thing for both of them was when Peter ordered Neal to be perfectly still. It went against Neal's nature to do this; to act completely passive, to act as if he had no response, as Peter did whatever he wanted. And usually what he wanted was to touch Neal in all the ways that made it nearly impossible not to move. Peter would, of course, multi-task, stimulating Neal in creative ways, while Neal just honed in on his own body, his own control, completely focused on the one task he had to do -- staying motionless.
The first time they tried it, Peter splayed a palm on Neal's stomach, and kept his gaze on Neal's eyes. He teased Neal with an ice cube, first on his nipples, then in a slow, cool line up Neal's inner thighs, always keeping a hand on Neal's stomach, a silent reproach in case Neal wanted to buck in pleasure, wanted to thrust upward without leave.
It was difficult for Neal; he was naturally a squirmer, which was one of the things Peter liked best about him. When Peter leaned down to give a quick teasing lick to Neal's dick, his eyes never leaving Neal's eyes, Neal couldn't stop himself; he moved, desperate, unintentionally, not just his dick responding but his hips lifting off the mattress; his punishment was that he had to endure another hour of teasing before Peter touched his dick again. Neal would want to move, of course. But he wouldn't, and Peter would feel that too, feel Neal's tightly wound sense of control, keeping himself passive and pliant when all he wanted to do was move and grab and writhe his way closer to Peter's body
Peter kept a hand on Neal the whole time, if not on his stomach, then on his chest, his cheek the small of his back, a soft but always tangible connection. It wasn't just to remind Neal to obey; it was that Peter wanted to feel the motion beneath the surface, wanted to feel the stir from that part of Neal that was always ready to jump or spin or run. He wanted to feel that urge in Neal's muscles, that tense vibration in Neal's flesh, and he wanted to feel Neal control it, to feel it melt away under his fingertips.
That was it.
They tried it, and every other time since then has been some of variation on it.
It works for them. It works.
Peter doesn't fight Neal. He gives Neal an order and then he watches Neal fight himself. And it's good - stupidly, stupendously, unbelievably good.
As soon as they both come, they separate immediately, taking turns for the shower, becoming mere friends again as quickly as possible.
They never mention it, never even talk about their sex life unless they're actually about to have sex. They certainly never use the word "metaphor."
***********************************************
Tonight, as Neal peels off his dress shirt, he grins at Peter.
There was a time when Peter could figure out what a smile from Neal meant.
Sometimes, he thinks this is the only part of their relationship that is still real, still honest. They play against each other as often as they are on the same page, now, and he knows Neal sometimes wants to scream at Peter, wants Peter to just let him go. And sometimes, when he is particularly anxious, Peter wants to tell Neal he's an idiot, that he's disloyal, that he's selfish and silly and a child in over his head, and that's what he always has been.
But what they do in bed seems true. Maybe Peter is just holding onto it because he needs to.
He wants desperately to believe that wherever else Neal is just playing a part, what they do in Neal's bed is real.
Peter brings Neal in for a kiss. It's long and warm and doesn't hide anything. No matter what else is changing, this is real.
Peter can never bring himself to think that Neal could be faking this.
But sometimes he wonders if Neal is lying to himself, if Neal tells himself that he's just playing a part.
It makes him sick to think about.
Neal takes him by the hand to the bed, both of them still half-dressed, and Peter stacks up his pillows in the center of the mattress. He gestures for Neal to lie on them, so Neal sets himself on his stomach, his hips raised up by the pillows, presenting his ass to Peter. He undoes his pants before leaning over, but Peter is the one who slides his finger under the waistband and yanks the pants and boxers down so that Neal is naked from the thighs up.
Peter knows that Neal has been practicing with a new name. He knows Neal likes the new name, too; he's given it a backstory, and a number of special skills, as well as some personal weaknesses calculated to make him more approachable to criminals. To other criminals.
Peter orders Neal to stay perfectly still. He sees Neal's body tense, determined to obey his order.
Peter looks at Neal's body, pliant and submissive. He thinks about Neal running, tonight, tomorrow, throwing his life away and throwing Peter away and never going by Neal Caffrey again. Even the latter part makes Peter wince, the thought that even if he caught him, he wouldn't be Neal any more. He didn't care if the name was made up, it was real to Neal and it was very real to Peter.
Peter doesn't do the usual gamut of teasing and testing. He lubes up a finger and slides it in, keeping a hand on Neal's lower back to help him keep still.
Neal is always tight, somehow, even if they fucked just a few hours ago. Sometimes Peter wonders about who else has fucked Neal, and how easy it would be for Neal to tell each and every one of them that they were the first to breach him, that they were the only man he let inside his body. He wonders if Neal has ever fucked for a con.
Peter slides another finger in, and then a third, almost too soon. Neal jerks a little at the sudden pressure, but Peter acts like he doesn't see it; he doesn't want to punish Neal by starting over.
He knows that Neal didn't start this in order to con him, and he's almost sure Neal wouldn't keep it up just for appearances. But he also knows Neal, and he knows that if Neal is leaving, Neal will want to keep doing this. Neal will want to make as many good memories as he can before he disappears from Peter's life forever; this time - any time - could be their last, could be Neal's way of saying good-bye, and Peter wouldn't even know it.
He kneels behind Neal's ass and takes off his belt. He tells Neal to put his hands behind his back; Peter uses his black leather belt to tie Neal's hands together, wrapping around his wrists and forearms in thick dark lines. He unzips, ready, and quickly adds lube everywhere he can before slowly entering Neal. He goes bit by bit, hands on Neal's hips for total control, and Neal's body resists him, tight even with the preparation, and Peter pushes, grunting, until Neal's body lets him in, opening up to him. He thrusts in and slowly out, quickly in and slowly out, and his hands work Neal's dick until Neal comes, hot and fast and probably before Neal intended. Peter keeps going as long as he can, getting Neal half hard again twice before each time the pain of the friction made his semi-erection flag.
When Peter finally comes, he practically collapses on top of Neal.
After a minute, Neal pushes up lightly, reminding Peter to get off of him.
Peter stays. He puts a hand on Neal's shoulder, telling him to keep still, even though their game is over, even though he can't order it any more. His dick is still in Neal, and he keeps their bodies close so it won't fall out, so it lingers inside of Neal, soft and messy.
"Peter," Neal says, softly. A reproach, or maybe a question.
Peter doesn't move. He whispers, "Stay here," and it's clear that he isn't talking about right now, isn't just talking about getting out of bed.
Neal tenses. He is quiet a long time.
Finally he says, "That's not who I am, Peter." He sounds like he wants to cry.
Peter hates the answer, hates the honesty of it. But he always has a comeback for Neal, and so he says, almost a joke, "Be someone else." Be someone who won't leave.
Peter knows he must seem pathetic, knows he must seem silly and needy and absurd. An old man refusing to withdraw his now-soft dick, begging his partner not to leave. And as he waits for Neal to speak, he wishes desperately that he were hard again, right away, as if he didn't ever have to relent, as if he could keep Neal there in that exact spot, in that act that Peter knew for sure was real. But the thought, the brief fantasy of never giving Neal a moment without him, just highlights how limp he is, how loose, how he is about to fall out of Neal.
He presses his lips into Neal's shoulder and says, pleads, "Don't run." He has tried to outsmart Neal and outchase Neal and guilt Neal and befriend Neal, but after everything, it seems that Peter is reduced to begging, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care if it's clingy, if it's sad, he doesn't even care if Neal stays because he pities him. He knows exactly how pathetic he is, and as long as pathetic stands a chance at keeping Neal with him, he doesn't even care.
They are silent for a moment, completely still, both of them.
And then, finally, Neal's head nods yes.
Just a slight movement, barely there, but it's enough.
Peter kisses him again on the shoulder, a big silly smack of a kiss, and pulls out of him. He collapses on the bed next to Neal as if he's run a marathon.
Neal slowly stands up to head to the shower, but then changes his mind, nestles next to Peter on the bed. He fidgets around before leaning his head on Peter's chest.
Peter clings tight and thinks, for the first time in months, that he might be able to sleep.
========*======*======*=======
Part II: Neal
It was terrible for a con to admit, but the truth was, Peter could read him better than he could read Peter.
Except in bed. When they played. Somehow, in bed, he could figure out everything Peter wanted from him. And he could give it to him; in bed he could live up to everything Peter wanted from him and for him.
He wondered if that was part of Peter's strategy all along. If that was why Peter chose to ask him after sex.
During sex, by some definitions. Peter's dick was still in him, like a warning, like a claim, and Peter was pressing down on him so he couldn't move, and even though Peter's dick was soft now, it was still large, still sliding against the parts Peter had rubbed tender.
And then Peter's hot breath in his ear, commanding him to stay.
Neal tensed. He couldn't move if he wanted to, and he felt Peter's strength enclose him, Peter's arms and weight and breath and dick all pressing into him, telling him that he would never escape, never be free, and it terrified Neal even as his body, disloyal, stirred, as Neal yet again felt the first pangs of arousal at being owned so entirely, at being known so fully and unwillingly.
He wanted to be able to say yes. He hated telling Peter no.
"That's not who I am, Peter."
Peter answered, more forcefully, "Be someone else." Admit that you're already someone else. Admit that you're mine.
He felt the jostle of Peter's dick inside him still, that reminder that Peter could push into him, could push into his life and his body and stay there. That reminder that every time Neal thought they were done, it turned out that Peter wasn't going anywhere. For a moment, Neal was hit with some irrational fear that Peter could stay there, stay in him until he got hard again, that he could keep fucking Neal until Neal was too tired to walk to the shower much less run to Europe, that he might literally never let Neal out of this bed. Peter might never give him his body back. And suddenly, Neal felt like he was falling apart. Devastated, like the first (or the next) time Peter caught him, like he had put everything into one great game and Peter had just won everything again. He felt defeated, humiliated, humbled by his opponent, who just somehow always managed to play the game better, who wouldn't ever let him go. If he ran to the ends of the earth, if he never stole another painting again, somehow Peter would find him.
The terrifying part was this fear, this sense of pieces of him falling out, spilling onto the floor, this certainty that he is just a husk of who he used to be, also felt like relief.
He wanted it, whatever impossible demand Peter was making of him. He hated it, hated every minute that Peter tried to force him into a life that he didn't belong in.
But he had always gravitated to people who tried to turn him into something different. And here Peter was, with his hands and his body and breath and his order, all promising Neal that he would never relent, never stop pushing into Neal's life, never give Neal a moment of peace until he was broken in or broken down or whatever the hell it was that Peter thought he should be.
Peter would never let Neal have anything but Peter. And that was as close as Neal has ever gotten to being promised forever.
Neal nodded. Just barely. But he knew Peter saw it.
He felt Peter's kiss on his shoulder, hard like a bruise, and he savored it. Peter let up, pulled out fast enough to make Neal tense, and collapsed onto the bed, satisfied, presumably, to add another victory over Neal to the list. Part of Neal was disgusted at himself, at being so pliable, at wanting be Peter's more than he wanted to be Neal.
He felt his plans for escape drift away, blurring as they left his mind, and he felt empty somehow, to be so suddenly without an exit; even before the sub, Neal always had a few plans working in case he ever needed to run. But he felt bare without it, without this direction, without the clear map that said "when you run from Peter Burke, go this way"; it was a map that he had needed to have at the back of his mind for almost his entire adult life. His thoughts felt bruised now, confused, and his body felt like a shell, sore and empty, spread open to accommodate something that lingered for too long, until his body changed for it, until he didn't know if he would return to normal.
It hurt to have Peter Burke take everything he was away from him.
He tried not to think too much about why he wanted it. But nonetheless, the question kept him up.
(end)
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Peter/Neal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Choose not to use warnings but some possibly triggery stuff, depending on your interpretation.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Set in the near future, Peter wants to hang on to Neal any way he can; in the bedroom, it shows. Peter's POV, followed by Neal's POV. For the obedience square on kinkbingo, with several other kinks (but most of the focus is on emotional stuff).
Part I: Peter
It's been a year since they started sleeping together; it's been a year since they started this thing that was more than friends and more than sex but still not quite a promise.
For half that time, they've been at odds. Cat and mouse. Fed and criminal.
Because of the sub. Because of Adler's plan. Because of Mozzie, most likely; if Peter had to guess, Mozzie probably acted alone that first day.
But it's mostly because of Neal, Peter knows. Neal has had one foot out the door for months, and that's nobody's choice but his own.
Peter worries about it, wakes up in the middle of the night barely stopping himself from calling to see if Neal is there. He doesn't trust the anklet any more, and it's long become obvious that Neal is trying to outmaneuver him on the sub loot. Peter's even starting to not trust his own record for knowing where Neal is. Neal just has to get lucky once, after all - he just has to outsmart Peter once, at a moment when it really counts, and then he's gone.
Peter is using his best moves to find the artwork, to make it impossible for anyone to move it without him knowing. He also tells Neal every day that he's needed here; he doesn't say it directly, but he always gets it into the conversation somehow -- how much Diana and Christie like Neal - especially Christie, who has had such a hard time adjusting to the city -- or how much June and her family have come to rely on his presence when they need him, or how happy El is that he's around, or how the little girl they saved from her kidnapper just sent another drawing of Neal in his hat.
He tries to give Neal what passes for normal, hoping Neal will, against all likelihood, choose walks in the park with June over the big score and life on the run, which will of course inevitably being lured back into the dangerous life that the big score was supposed to make unnecessary. He knows that binding Neal in, using both sides of their relationship - adversary and friend - will work better on Neal than another lecture on being the man he has the potential to be. He knows it is better than telling Neal that he is terrified that Neal will leave - that he knows enough about cons and enough about Neal to see that if he runs, he'll always run, until he's in prison or in a ditch; either way, it might very well happen in some country where Peter will have no idea what's happened.
Both of them, by now, have a good idea what the other man knows about the art from the sub. Neither of them ever say it aloud; they act as normally as they can, even as Peter can see the struggle on Neal's face, can see him try to care less about what he is planning to leave.
He and Mozzie have (yet) another plan, now; Peter can tell by the morose look on Neal's face whenever Peter goes home. Peter hasn't been able to figure out what they're doing yet.
This worries him, and he can't hide it as well he used to.
The only time he isn't terrified, the only time he isn't plotting how to keep Neal from running, is when they're together. Somehow, this part of their relationship hadn't changed, whether they were getting closer or drifting apart, whether they were in that first bout of sweet sentimentality for each other, or that brief period of bile and mistrust after the explosion on the sub (after Peter killed a man), before they silently agreed that being rivals was better than being angry. Somehow, what happened in bed was the same, always, and this - and little else - reassures Peter.
It wasn't literally always the same, of course. The first few times it was understandably awkward. It took a while for them to get compatible, to figure out what worked for them. Once they found it, however, it turned out that they were both creatures of habit.
The first time, they had kissed and groped and pulled each other against every near surface, grappling for advantage. Fighting for dominance. A little roughhousing, a little play.
It was... fun. Pretty good. They really thought it would be great, though.
Then they tried something else.
Peter giving orders. Neal obeying them.
Peter was worried that it would hit a little close to home. He shouldn't have; unlike work, where Peter actually did have all the power and Neal never obeyed, in bed, Neal tried - tried hard - to be perfect for Peter.
The best thing for both of them was when Peter ordered Neal to be perfectly still. It went against Neal's nature to do this; to act completely passive, to act as if he had no response, as Peter did whatever he wanted. And usually what he wanted was to touch Neal in all the ways that made it nearly impossible not to move. Peter would, of course, multi-task, stimulating Neal in creative ways, while Neal just honed in on his own body, his own control, completely focused on the one task he had to do -- staying motionless.
The first time they tried it, Peter splayed a palm on Neal's stomach, and kept his gaze on Neal's eyes. He teased Neal with an ice cube, first on his nipples, then in a slow, cool line up Neal's inner thighs, always keeping a hand on Neal's stomach, a silent reproach in case Neal wanted to buck in pleasure, wanted to thrust upward without leave.
It was difficult for Neal; he was naturally a squirmer, which was one of the things Peter liked best about him. When Peter leaned down to give a quick teasing lick to Neal's dick, his eyes never leaving Neal's eyes, Neal couldn't stop himself; he moved, desperate, unintentionally, not just his dick responding but his hips lifting off the mattress; his punishment was that he had to endure another hour of teasing before Peter touched his dick again. Neal would want to move, of course. But he wouldn't, and Peter would feel that too, feel Neal's tightly wound sense of control, keeping himself passive and pliant when all he wanted to do was move and grab and writhe his way closer to Peter's body
Peter kept a hand on Neal the whole time, if not on his stomach, then on his chest, his cheek the small of his back, a soft but always tangible connection. It wasn't just to remind Neal to obey; it was that Peter wanted to feel the motion beneath the surface, wanted to feel the stir from that part of Neal that was always ready to jump or spin or run. He wanted to feel that urge in Neal's muscles, that tense vibration in Neal's flesh, and he wanted to feel Neal control it, to feel it melt away under his fingertips.
That was it.
They tried it, and every other time since then has been some of variation on it.
It works for them. It works.
Peter doesn't fight Neal. He gives Neal an order and then he watches Neal fight himself. And it's good - stupidly, stupendously, unbelievably good.
As soon as they both come, they separate immediately, taking turns for the shower, becoming mere friends again as quickly as possible.
They never mention it, never even talk about their sex life unless they're actually about to have sex. They certainly never use the word "metaphor."
***********************************************
Tonight, as Neal peels off his dress shirt, he grins at Peter.
There was a time when Peter could figure out what a smile from Neal meant.
Sometimes, he thinks this is the only part of their relationship that is still real, still honest. They play against each other as often as they are on the same page, now, and he knows Neal sometimes wants to scream at Peter, wants Peter to just let him go. And sometimes, when he is particularly anxious, Peter wants to tell Neal he's an idiot, that he's disloyal, that he's selfish and silly and a child in over his head, and that's what he always has been.
But what they do in bed seems true. Maybe Peter is just holding onto it because he needs to.
He wants desperately to believe that wherever else Neal is just playing a part, what they do in Neal's bed is real.
Peter brings Neal in for a kiss. It's long and warm and doesn't hide anything. No matter what else is changing, this is real.
Peter can never bring himself to think that Neal could be faking this.
But sometimes he wonders if Neal is lying to himself, if Neal tells himself that he's just playing a part.
It makes him sick to think about.
Neal takes him by the hand to the bed, both of them still half-dressed, and Peter stacks up his pillows in the center of the mattress. He gestures for Neal to lie on them, so Neal sets himself on his stomach, his hips raised up by the pillows, presenting his ass to Peter. He undoes his pants before leaning over, but Peter is the one who slides his finger under the waistband and yanks the pants and boxers down so that Neal is naked from the thighs up.
Peter knows that Neal has been practicing with a new name. He knows Neal likes the new name, too; he's given it a backstory, and a number of special skills, as well as some personal weaknesses calculated to make him more approachable to criminals. To other criminals.
Peter orders Neal to stay perfectly still. He sees Neal's body tense, determined to obey his order.
Peter looks at Neal's body, pliant and submissive. He thinks about Neal running, tonight, tomorrow, throwing his life away and throwing Peter away and never going by Neal Caffrey again. Even the latter part makes Peter wince, the thought that even if he caught him, he wouldn't be Neal any more. He didn't care if the name was made up, it was real to Neal and it was very real to Peter.
Peter doesn't do the usual gamut of teasing and testing. He lubes up a finger and slides it in, keeping a hand on Neal's lower back to help him keep still.
Neal is always tight, somehow, even if they fucked just a few hours ago. Sometimes Peter wonders about who else has fucked Neal, and how easy it would be for Neal to tell each and every one of them that they were the first to breach him, that they were the only man he let inside his body. He wonders if Neal has ever fucked for a con.
Peter slides another finger in, and then a third, almost too soon. Neal jerks a little at the sudden pressure, but Peter acts like he doesn't see it; he doesn't want to punish Neal by starting over.
He knows that Neal didn't start this in order to con him, and he's almost sure Neal wouldn't keep it up just for appearances. But he also knows Neal, and he knows that if Neal is leaving, Neal will want to keep doing this. Neal will want to make as many good memories as he can before he disappears from Peter's life forever; this time - any time - could be their last, could be Neal's way of saying good-bye, and Peter wouldn't even know it.
He kneels behind Neal's ass and takes off his belt. He tells Neal to put his hands behind his back; Peter uses his black leather belt to tie Neal's hands together, wrapping around his wrists and forearms in thick dark lines. He unzips, ready, and quickly adds lube everywhere he can before slowly entering Neal. He goes bit by bit, hands on Neal's hips for total control, and Neal's body resists him, tight even with the preparation, and Peter pushes, grunting, until Neal's body lets him in, opening up to him. He thrusts in and slowly out, quickly in and slowly out, and his hands work Neal's dick until Neal comes, hot and fast and probably before Neal intended. Peter keeps going as long as he can, getting Neal half hard again twice before each time the pain of the friction made his semi-erection flag.
When Peter finally comes, he practically collapses on top of Neal.
After a minute, Neal pushes up lightly, reminding Peter to get off of him.
Peter stays. He puts a hand on Neal's shoulder, telling him to keep still, even though their game is over, even though he can't order it any more. His dick is still in Neal, and he keeps their bodies close so it won't fall out, so it lingers inside of Neal, soft and messy.
"Peter," Neal says, softly. A reproach, or maybe a question.
Peter doesn't move. He whispers, "Stay here," and it's clear that he isn't talking about right now, isn't just talking about getting out of bed.
Neal tenses. He is quiet a long time.
Finally he says, "That's not who I am, Peter." He sounds like he wants to cry.
Peter hates the answer, hates the honesty of it. But he always has a comeback for Neal, and so he says, almost a joke, "Be someone else." Be someone who won't leave.
Peter knows he must seem pathetic, knows he must seem silly and needy and absurd. An old man refusing to withdraw his now-soft dick, begging his partner not to leave. And as he waits for Neal to speak, he wishes desperately that he were hard again, right away, as if he didn't ever have to relent, as if he could keep Neal there in that exact spot, in that act that Peter knew for sure was real. But the thought, the brief fantasy of never giving Neal a moment without him, just highlights how limp he is, how loose, how he is about to fall out of Neal.
He presses his lips into Neal's shoulder and says, pleads, "Don't run." He has tried to outsmart Neal and outchase Neal and guilt Neal and befriend Neal, but after everything, it seems that Peter is reduced to begging, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care if it's clingy, if it's sad, he doesn't even care if Neal stays because he pities him. He knows exactly how pathetic he is, and as long as pathetic stands a chance at keeping Neal with him, he doesn't even care.
They are silent for a moment, completely still, both of them.
And then, finally, Neal's head nods yes.
Just a slight movement, barely there, but it's enough.
Peter kisses him again on the shoulder, a big silly smack of a kiss, and pulls out of him. He collapses on the bed next to Neal as if he's run a marathon.
Neal slowly stands up to head to the shower, but then changes his mind, nestles next to Peter on the bed. He fidgets around before leaning his head on Peter's chest.
Peter clings tight and thinks, for the first time in months, that he might be able to sleep.
========*======*======*=======
Part II: Neal
It was terrible for a con to admit, but the truth was, Peter could read him better than he could read Peter.
Except in bed. When they played. Somehow, in bed, he could figure out everything Peter wanted from him. And he could give it to him; in bed he could live up to everything Peter wanted from him and for him.
He wondered if that was part of Peter's strategy all along. If that was why Peter chose to ask him after sex.
During sex, by some definitions. Peter's dick was still in him, like a warning, like a claim, and Peter was pressing down on him so he couldn't move, and even though Peter's dick was soft now, it was still large, still sliding against the parts Peter had rubbed tender.
And then Peter's hot breath in his ear, commanding him to stay.
Neal tensed. He couldn't move if he wanted to, and he felt Peter's strength enclose him, Peter's arms and weight and breath and dick all pressing into him, telling him that he would never escape, never be free, and it terrified Neal even as his body, disloyal, stirred, as Neal yet again felt the first pangs of arousal at being owned so entirely, at being known so fully and unwillingly.
He wanted to be able to say yes. He hated telling Peter no.
"That's not who I am, Peter."
Peter answered, more forcefully, "Be someone else." Admit that you're already someone else. Admit that you're mine.
He felt the jostle of Peter's dick inside him still, that reminder that Peter could push into him, could push into his life and his body and stay there. That reminder that every time Neal thought they were done, it turned out that Peter wasn't going anywhere. For a moment, Neal was hit with some irrational fear that Peter could stay there, stay in him until he got hard again, that he could keep fucking Neal until Neal was too tired to walk to the shower much less run to Europe, that he might literally never let Neal out of this bed. Peter might never give him his body back. And suddenly, Neal felt like he was falling apart. Devastated, like the first (or the next) time Peter caught him, like he had put everything into one great game and Peter had just won everything again. He felt defeated, humiliated, humbled by his opponent, who just somehow always managed to play the game better, who wouldn't ever let him go. If he ran to the ends of the earth, if he never stole another painting again, somehow Peter would find him.
The terrifying part was this fear, this sense of pieces of him falling out, spilling onto the floor, this certainty that he is just a husk of who he used to be, also felt like relief.
He wanted it, whatever impossible demand Peter was making of him. He hated it, hated every minute that Peter tried to force him into a life that he didn't belong in.
But he had always gravitated to people who tried to turn him into something different. And here Peter was, with his hands and his body and breath and his order, all promising Neal that he would never relent, never stop pushing into Neal's life, never give Neal a moment of peace until he was broken in or broken down or whatever the hell it was that Peter thought he should be.
Peter would never let Neal have anything but Peter. And that was as close as Neal has ever gotten to being promised forever.
Neal nodded. Just barely. But he knew Peter saw it.
He felt Peter's kiss on his shoulder, hard like a bruise, and he savored it. Peter let up, pulled out fast enough to make Neal tense, and collapsed onto the bed, satisfied, presumably, to add another victory over Neal to the list. Part of Neal was disgusted at himself, at being so pliable, at wanting be Peter's more than he wanted to be Neal.
He felt his plans for escape drift away, blurring as they left his mind, and he felt empty somehow, to be so suddenly without an exit; even before the sub, Neal always had a few plans working in case he ever needed to run. But he felt bare without it, without this direction, without the clear map that said "when you run from Peter Burke, go this way"; it was a map that he had needed to have at the back of his mind for almost his entire adult life. His thoughts felt bruised now, confused, and his body felt like a shell, sore and empty, spread open to accommodate something that lingered for too long, until his body changed for it, until he didn't know if he would return to normal.
It hurt to have Peter Burke take everything he was away from him.
He tried not to think too much about why he wanted it. But nonetheless, the question kept him up.
(end)