Boy, You've Left Me Speechless
Title: Boy, You've Left Me Speechless
Type: fandom
Pairing: Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~2700
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: Originally posted here.
Summary: Neal is usually a shining example of finesse, like he was born to be a prince rather than the con artist Peter knows him to be.
Neal is usually a shining example of finesse, like he was born to be a prince rather than the con artist Peter knows him to be. He's all form-fitting suits, perfectly pressed pants, and Italian leather shoes. Neal's sense of fashion is part of his act, part of the charm that he cons the entire world into loving him with.
So, when Peter knocks on the door and Neal appears in a pair of sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, both of which are paint-splattered, he can't help but be a little surprised.
Neal grins at him, his eyes glittering in the light from the street lamps. A smudge of blue paint crinkles with the movement of his smile. "Peter! What brings you to my humble little piece of Manhattan?"
"Your piece of Manhattan?" Peter arches an eyebrow.
Neal rolls his eyes. "Okay, so one of the rooms is mine. You can't let me get away with one little flight of fantasy, can you?" Neal grabs the sleeve of Peter's suit and pulls him inside. "I assume you wanted to talk about something?"
The house is dark save for the city lights filtering in through the open doorway leading to the roof. Soft, classical music drifts through the same doorway. "Where's, uh... with the dog?" he trails off, trying to remember the name of the woman who owns the home.
Neal releases him once he's inside and closes the door behind him before jogging up the stairwell leading to the open door. "June? She and her granddaughter are out of town for the weekend. In Paris, I think. They took her dog with them. She offered to take me, but." He stops halfway up the stairs to pull up his pants leg just above his ankle, revealing the ankle bracelet. "I had to decline."
Peter snorts. "You aren't done feeling sorry for yourself yet?"
"That's beside the point." Neal waves him off and continues up the stairs, disappearing through the doorway, calling, "Are you coming?" behind him.
Peter trails after him, and he can't help but smile a little when he sees the rooftop. It's covered in a layer of tarp, with tons of different tubes of paint and types of brushes scattered everywhere. There's a large canvas in the middle of it all, with huge streaks of white, pink, grey, and green running through it. The collaboration of colors looks beautiful, but Peter can't tell what it's going to be yet. "What is it?"
Neal runs a hand through his hair, and a white streak appears where he touched. "It's Psyche in Cupid's garden. It's a Waterhouse."
Peter grimaces. "Neal, tell me you're just painting as an outlet or something."
Neal turns back to him. "I'm painting as an outlet or something." Neal looks so serious when he repeats it, Peter almost believes him.
Peter's life has become one giant headache since Neal broke out of prison. "Neal-"
Neal steps toward Peter, face still calm and serious. "I'm just trying to help a friend, Peter."
Peter holds up a hand. "Stop. I don't want to know."
Neal smiles again, but it's a little sad this time. "Okay."
"Hey," Peter reaches out and tugs the whitened lock of Neal's hair, "nice get up. You look like a legitimate artist."
Neal huffs, "I am a legitimate artist."
"You're a conman, Neal," Peter reminds hims.
"Potato, potahto." Neal shrugs and drops into a wicker chair, reaching for a bottle of wine. "Want some?"
Peter would really rather have a beer or something, and he knows that Neal knows that. It's probably Neal's way of getting back at him about the artist comment. Peter is maybe thinking too hard about a glass of wine, but this is Neal, he thinks, and thinking too hard is a must no matter how small the gesture initially seems. "Sure."
Neal pours two glasses. When Peter takes a sip, the wine is red and full, feels solid in his mouth. It's not bad as far as wine goes, but Peter would still prefer a beer.
"You never answered me," Neal says, leaning his elbows on the table and resting is chin in his palm.
Peter blinks at him, lost.
Neal laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "About what you wanted. You don't usually make calls at midnight."
Make calls. Apparently, Neal was a Southern gentleman circa 1800 in his last life. Peter wouldn't doubt it. "Just checking in."
Neal looks doubtful. "Really." It's not a question, more a skeptical comment.
Peter clears his throat. "Look, Neal, you just seemed off today." More than off. Neal wasn't paying attention to anything anyone said and not in a bored way. He had been distracted, worried, even. No one else had seemed to notice, but Peter knows Neal. He's stressed over something.
Neal's eyes widen a little, the blue in them catching just so in the street light. He laughs again, a little breathless, mostly surprised. "You noticed."
"It's my job to notice," Peter says simply.
Neal seems contemplative for a moment, looking at Peter but seeing through him. Then he gets up and grabs a paintbrush. "I'll be fine as soon as this painting is dry."
The words are short, too straight forward, and Peter knows he's in trouble. He doesn't know what he said that was wrong, but he knows he's in trouble. He wonders when he started knowing Neal's tells so well. His job had been to know when Neal was lying, predict where he was going. But somehow, along the way, he picked up what Neal did when he was hiding his emotions and what Neal sounded like when his feelings were hurt. "Neal, come on."
Neal dips his brush in a pot of paint and smears it onto the canvas. "I really need to do this, Peter." He doesn't snap, doesn't even sound mad. Peter is in such deep shit.
He sighs. Neal is such a woman, Christ. Peter bites his lip and makes a stab at the real issue at hand. "I didn't mean that I don't care that you're stressed when I said that it was my job to notice it."
"It is your job, though," Neal says, swiping a broad stroke of navy across the canvas. "I'm not mad."
Peter is quiet for a moment. He's not really sure what to say. So he changes the subject. "I don't think I've ever seen you without something Italian on."
Neal pauses. "Shows how little you know. These pants were made in Italy."
Peter rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean." His gaze sweeps over Neal's body. The shirt's material is so thin, Peter can make out his skin tone and so tight, Peter can see the dip of Neal's shoulderblades and the smooth movement of the muscles in his back. The shirt is starting to ride up (or maybe the pants are riding low) and there's a pale strip of Neal's lower back showing. "It looks... different."
Neal turns back to Peter, cocking his hip. "Different bad or different good?"
Neal says it like a joke, like it doesn't matter what Peter thinks, but Peter knows better. He can hear the soft underlying tone in the question, the lilt in his voice that means Neal is serious.
"Different good," Peter says.
Neal smiles blindingly before sidling up to Peter, dropping his brush into a bucket of water along the way. "Really?
Peter nods, his hands bracketing Neal's hips, his thumbs running over that velvet flash of revealed skin. "Yeah."
Neal's hands come up to cradle Peter's jaw, and he leans down, pressing his lips to Peter's.
Neal tastes like the wine, heady and strong, and he smells like the paint. It's a weird mixture of sensations, but it's good, and Peter's fingers slide under the shirt. Neal hums approvingly and throws a leg over Peter's thighs, situating himself on Peter's lap without breaking the connection of their mouths.
Neal leans back then, grinning before ducking his head and pressing kisses into Peter's throat.
"Neal," Peter manages, "come on, we're outside."
Neal's laugh is hot on Peter's skin. "So?"
Peter squirms, but Neal's weight holds him in place. "There is no way I'm doing this outside."
"Oh?" Neal drops his hand between them, scooping up beneath Peter's crotch and squeezing. Peter can't help the breathy moan that escapes him. Neal smirks. "It sounds like you're already doing this outside."
Peter shudders when Neal squeezes again. "Neal-"
Neal shushes him. "Come on, Peter. We're on a roof. No one is going to see us." He skillfully unbuttons Peter's pants with just one hand, his other hand still at Peter's jaw. He dips into Peter's pants, curling around his dick. "Calm down."
Peter's hips buck up involuntarily, and Neal's hand gets trapped between them. Neal makes a soft, appreciative sound.
Peter is only human. And Neal is right, after all. No one's going to see them on this rooftop.
He slides his hands further up Neal's shirt, splaying one between Neal's shoulders while the other moves to Neal's chest. Peter curls his fingers, lets a fingernail catch Neal's nipple, and Neal gasps. Peter can feel how hard Neal is getting against his stomach. It never ceases to amaze him how sensitive Neal can be to such small gestures.
"Lift your arms," Peter says, and Neal complies, lets Peter peel his shirt off. Peter can't help but smile at the fact that there's paint smeared from Neal's neck down across his chest. "You're not usually this messy."
Neal shrugs. "It's part of the feeling of the piece." Peter gives him a blank stare, and Neal laughs, catching Peter's lips in a quick kiss. "You wouldn't get it unless you were an artist."
"Whatever," Peter mutters, leaning back in toward Neal for a second kiss. Neal reciprocates immediately and then deepens it, his tongue flicking into Peter's mouth, hot and filthy. Somewhere in the middle of that, Peter loses his jacket and shirt; he's not really sure when, but Neal's chest is suddenly flush against his, soft and smooth, his heart pulsing in time with Peter's.
Neal sinks his teeth into Peter's lower lip, one of his favorite things to do during sex, Peter has discovered, then moves off of his lap. He's about to protest when Neal drops to his knees and pats Peter's thigh. "Lift your hips."
Peter does as he's told, and Neal peels off his pants and underwear in one go. Something about the material catches his eye, and he smooths out the fabric. There's a giant spot of white paint right on Peter's fly. "I hope you don't mind souvenirs."
Peter balks. "Those are my good pants!"
Neal tosses them aside. "You've had them forever anyway. You can borrow some of mine until I can take you clothes shopping. Now," he takes hold of Peter's dick without preamble, and Peter hisses; Neal ignores him, "back to more important things."
Then Neal's mouth is on him, pink and wet, and Peter's breath catches. "Shit, Neal."
Neal's tongue slides down Peter's dick, and Peter's hands fist against his thighs. Neal looks up at him and makes a face, taking Peter's hands in his own and placing them on his head encouragingly.
Peter takes the hint and tangles his hands in Neal's hair, pulling, jerking up into Neal's mouth.
Neal gags around him and pulls back, coughing.
Peter winces, releasing his grip on Neal's hair. "Sorry. I didn't-"
Neal waves him off. "Don't worry about it. I just wasn't ready. Let me, I think I can do it now, come on." Neal goes back down on Peter, swallowing around him, and Peter gasps, his fingers finding their way back into Neal's dark hair. Neal keeps going, removes his hand from the base of Peter's dick so he can swallow more down until, until, oh shit, he's swallowing all of him and-
"Neal," Peter gasps, "I'm going to, oh, fuck, Neal."
Neal pulls off fast, leaning his head against Peter's knee and looking up at him. "Not yet." Peter gives him a look that could kill, and he laughs. "Settle down, I just want to get some action, too, somewhere along the line."
Peter still has his hands in Neal's hair, and he pulls him up, catching Neal's subsequent gasp with his mouth, smothering it. "You're a tease, you know that?"
Neal tries to reply, probably to say something smart, but Peter devours the words until Neal is nothing but gasps for air.
Peter dips his hand into Neal's sweats. Surprise, surprise, he's not wearing underwear. Peter pulls the sweats down to his thighs, as far as he can push them without having Neal stand up to take them off. Neal presses his ass down into Peter's hand; Peter pushes his knuckles against it. His free hand comes up to grip Neal's dick, pulling at it, and Neal squirms. "Come on, Peter, come on."
"I know you have lube stowed away somewhere on this roof," Peter says, still pulling at Neal's dick. "Go get it."
"I, Peter, stop it, I can't while you're," Neal's hands come up, grabbing Peter's wrist. "Stop, please."
Peter stills his hand but only because Neal looks like he's about to come apart if he keeps going. "Fine. Go."
Neal scrambles to get up, his legs tangling in his pants until he finally kicks them off. Peter is almost sorry to watch them go. They're the last remnants of Neal's moment of letting his guard down, letting Peter see what he's like when he's dressed in something other than elegance. Having Neal completely naked is always amazing, but Peter knows, he just knows that those clothes, that paint, it's all a symbol for Neal. Because Neal never does anything without an ulterior motive.
Neal snatches a bottle from amongst the tubes of paint, trotting back to Peter. "Got it."
Peter snorts. "You expected this to happen?"
"It's in the boyscout's code," Neal explains, resituating himself on Peter's lap. "Always be prepared."
"You're not a boyscout."
Neal rolls his eyes. "Like you care." He takes Peter's hand and squirts the lube on his fingers. He leans forward, a smile curling at his lips. "Get me ready?"
Peter nods and reaches back, sliding a finger into him easily. Neal holds his breath, his hands moving quickly as he wets his own hands and covers Peter's dick in the liquid. It's cold against Peter, and goosebumps rise on his skin.
Neal smiles, hiding it by burying is face in Peter's shoulder, pressing feather light kisses against his collarbone.
Peter retaliates by sliding a second finger in and crooking them, shifting Neal until he suddenly gasps, his fingers digging bruises into Peter's skin. "Ngh, fuck, Peter."
Peter buries his face in Neal's hair. It smells like the paint. "Lift up."
Neal complies, guiding Peter's dick to his entrance- pausing to raise his head and kiss him- then sinking down.
They both gasp, and Neal's fingernails bite into Peter's thighs as he leans back. On the next push in, Neal shudders, his head tilting up and his mouth falling open.
Peter can't help it. The long line of Neal's throat is too tempting, and he kisses it, his tongue flicking hotly over Neal's skin. Neal arches in response, and Peter's fingers dance down his spine.
God it's good; Neal is tight around him, the friction and Neal's own movement indescribable. It's easy to find a smooth, familiar rhythm with Neal, it always is.
Neal mutters his name, biting his lip. "Please, Peter, I, please," he babbles between tiny, audible gulps of air.
Peter squeezes Neal's dick, his thumb sliding over the head, and just like that, Neal's coming between them.
It only takes a few more tight, quick rolls of his hips before Peter follows suite.
Neal touches his forehead to Peter's, his eyes wide and dilated and bluer than ever.
Peter cradles Neal's face in his hands and kisses him, soft and sweet. Once he catches his breath, he says, "Come on. Let's get you inside and cleaned up."
Neal closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. "Okay. Just, let's stay here, just for a minute."
This close, Peter can see just how dark and thick Neal's eyelashes are, highlighted by the paleness of his cheeks. His mouth is swollen and red, his tongue a quick, pink flash when he licks his lips. The white painted strip of hair is sticking to his forehead, as are the rest of his bangs.
Peter slides his hands over Neal's hips, squeezing gently. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
Type: fandom
Pairing: Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~2700
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: Originally posted here.
Summary: Neal is usually a shining example of finesse, like he was born to be a prince rather than the con artist Peter knows him to be.
Neal is usually a shining example of finesse, like he was born to be a prince rather than the con artist Peter knows him to be. He's all form-fitting suits, perfectly pressed pants, and Italian leather shoes. Neal's sense of fashion is part of his act, part of the charm that he cons the entire world into loving him with.
So, when Peter knocks on the door and Neal appears in a pair of sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, both of which are paint-splattered, he can't help but be a little surprised.
Neal grins at him, his eyes glittering in the light from the street lamps. A smudge of blue paint crinkles with the movement of his smile. "Peter! What brings you to my humble little piece of Manhattan?"
"Your piece of Manhattan?" Peter arches an eyebrow.
Neal rolls his eyes. "Okay, so one of the rooms is mine. You can't let me get away with one little flight of fantasy, can you?" Neal grabs the sleeve of Peter's suit and pulls him inside. "I assume you wanted to talk about something?"
The house is dark save for the city lights filtering in through the open doorway leading to the roof. Soft, classical music drifts through the same doorway. "Where's, uh... with the dog?" he trails off, trying to remember the name of the woman who owns the home.
Neal releases him once he's inside and closes the door behind him before jogging up the stairwell leading to the open door. "June? She and her granddaughter are out of town for the weekend. In Paris, I think. They took her dog with them. She offered to take me, but." He stops halfway up the stairs to pull up his pants leg just above his ankle, revealing the ankle bracelet. "I had to decline."
Peter snorts. "You aren't done feeling sorry for yourself yet?"
"That's beside the point." Neal waves him off and continues up the stairs, disappearing through the doorway, calling, "Are you coming?" behind him.
Peter trails after him, and he can't help but smile a little when he sees the rooftop. It's covered in a layer of tarp, with tons of different tubes of paint and types of brushes scattered everywhere. There's a large canvas in the middle of it all, with huge streaks of white, pink, grey, and green running through it. The collaboration of colors looks beautiful, but Peter can't tell what it's going to be yet. "What is it?"
Neal runs a hand through his hair, and a white streak appears where he touched. "It's Psyche in Cupid's garden. It's a Waterhouse."
Peter grimaces. "Neal, tell me you're just painting as an outlet or something."
Neal turns back to him. "I'm painting as an outlet or something." Neal looks so serious when he repeats it, Peter almost believes him.
Peter's life has become one giant headache since Neal broke out of prison. "Neal-"
Neal steps toward Peter, face still calm and serious. "I'm just trying to help a friend, Peter."
Peter holds up a hand. "Stop. I don't want to know."
Neal smiles again, but it's a little sad this time. "Okay."
"Hey," Peter reaches out and tugs the whitened lock of Neal's hair, "nice get up. You look like a legitimate artist."
Neal huffs, "I am a legitimate artist."
"You're a conman, Neal," Peter reminds hims.
"Potato, potahto." Neal shrugs and drops into a wicker chair, reaching for a bottle of wine. "Want some?"
Peter would really rather have a beer or something, and he knows that Neal knows that. It's probably Neal's way of getting back at him about the artist comment. Peter is maybe thinking too hard about a glass of wine, but this is Neal, he thinks, and thinking too hard is a must no matter how small the gesture initially seems. "Sure."
Neal pours two glasses. When Peter takes a sip, the wine is red and full, feels solid in his mouth. It's not bad as far as wine goes, but Peter would still prefer a beer.
"You never answered me," Neal says, leaning his elbows on the table and resting is chin in his palm.
Peter blinks at him, lost.
Neal laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "About what you wanted. You don't usually make calls at midnight."
Make calls. Apparently, Neal was a Southern gentleman circa 1800 in his last life. Peter wouldn't doubt it. "Just checking in."
Neal looks doubtful. "Really." It's not a question, more a skeptical comment.
Peter clears his throat. "Look, Neal, you just seemed off today." More than off. Neal wasn't paying attention to anything anyone said and not in a bored way. He had been distracted, worried, even. No one else had seemed to notice, but Peter knows Neal. He's stressed over something.
Neal's eyes widen a little, the blue in them catching just so in the street light. He laughs again, a little breathless, mostly surprised. "You noticed."
"It's my job to notice," Peter says simply.
Neal seems contemplative for a moment, looking at Peter but seeing through him. Then he gets up and grabs a paintbrush. "I'll be fine as soon as this painting is dry."
The words are short, too straight forward, and Peter knows he's in trouble. He doesn't know what he said that was wrong, but he knows he's in trouble. He wonders when he started knowing Neal's tells so well. His job had been to know when Neal was lying, predict where he was going. But somehow, along the way, he picked up what Neal did when he was hiding his emotions and what Neal sounded like when his feelings were hurt. "Neal, come on."
Neal dips his brush in a pot of paint and smears it onto the canvas. "I really need to do this, Peter." He doesn't snap, doesn't even sound mad. Peter is in such deep shit.
He sighs. Neal is such a woman, Christ. Peter bites his lip and makes a stab at the real issue at hand. "I didn't mean that I don't care that you're stressed when I said that it was my job to notice it."
"It is your job, though," Neal says, swiping a broad stroke of navy across the canvas. "I'm not mad."
Peter is quiet for a moment. He's not really sure what to say. So he changes the subject. "I don't think I've ever seen you without something Italian on."
Neal pauses. "Shows how little you know. These pants were made in Italy."
Peter rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean." His gaze sweeps over Neal's body. The shirt's material is so thin, Peter can make out his skin tone and so tight, Peter can see the dip of Neal's shoulderblades and the smooth movement of the muscles in his back. The shirt is starting to ride up (or maybe the pants are riding low) and there's a pale strip of Neal's lower back showing. "It looks... different."
Neal turns back to Peter, cocking his hip. "Different bad or different good?"
Neal says it like a joke, like it doesn't matter what Peter thinks, but Peter knows better. He can hear the soft underlying tone in the question, the lilt in his voice that means Neal is serious.
"Different good," Peter says.
Neal smiles blindingly before sidling up to Peter, dropping his brush into a bucket of water along the way. "Really?
Peter nods, his hands bracketing Neal's hips, his thumbs running over that velvet flash of revealed skin. "Yeah."
Neal's hands come up to cradle Peter's jaw, and he leans down, pressing his lips to Peter's.
Neal tastes like the wine, heady and strong, and he smells like the paint. It's a weird mixture of sensations, but it's good, and Peter's fingers slide under the shirt. Neal hums approvingly and throws a leg over Peter's thighs, situating himself on Peter's lap without breaking the connection of their mouths.
Neal leans back then, grinning before ducking his head and pressing kisses into Peter's throat.
"Neal," Peter manages, "come on, we're outside."
Neal's laugh is hot on Peter's skin. "So?"
Peter squirms, but Neal's weight holds him in place. "There is no way I'm doing this outside."
"Oh?" Neal drops his hand between them, scooping up beneath Peter's crotch and squeezing. Peter can't help the breathy moan that escapes him. Neal smirks. "It sounds like you're already doing this outside."
Peter shudders when Neal squeezes again. "Neal-"
Neal shushes him. "Come on, Peter. We're on a roof. No one is going to see us." He skillfully unbuttons Peter's pants with just one hand, his other hand still at Peter's jaw. He dips into Peter's pants, curling around his dick. "Calm down."
Peter's hips buck up involuntarily, and Neal's hand gets trapped between them. Neal makes a soft, appreciative sound.
Peter is only human. And Neal is right, after all. No one's going to see them on this rooftop.
He slides his hands further up Neal's shirt, splaying one between Neal's shoulders while the other moves to Neal's chest. Peter curls his fingers, lets a fingernail catch Neal's nipple, and Neal gasps. Peter can feel how hard Neal is getting against his stomach. It never ceases to amaze him how sensitive Neal can be to such small gestures.
"Lift your arms," Peter says, and Neal complies, lets Peter peel his shirt off. Peter can't help but smile at the fact that there's paint smeared from Neal's neck down across his chest. "You're not usually this messy."
Neal shrugs. "It's part of the feeling of the piece." Peter gives him a blank stare, and Neal laughs, catching Peter's lips in a quick kiss. "You wouldn't get it unless you were an artist."
"Whatever," Peter mutters, leaning back in toward Neal for a second kiss. Neal reciprocates immediately and then deepens it, his tongue flicking into Peter's mouth, hot and filthy. Somewhere in the middle of that, Peter loses his jacket and shirt; he's not really sure when, but Neal's chest is suddenly flush against his, soft and smooth, his heart pulsing in time with Peter's.
Neal sinks his teeth into Peter's lower lip, one of his favorite things to do during sex, Peter has discovered, then moves off of his lap. He's about to protest when Neal drops to his knees and pats Peter's thigh. "Lift your hips."
Peter does as he's told, and Neal peels off his pants and underwear in one go. Something about the material catches his eye, and he smooths out the fabric. There's a giant spot of white paint right on Peter's fly. "I hope you don't mind souvenirs."
Peter balks. "Those are my good pants!"
Neal tosses them aside. "You've had them forever anyway. You can borrow some of mine until I can take you clothes shopping. Now," he takes hold of Peter's dick without preamble, and Peter hisses; Neal ignores him, "back to more important things."
Then Neal's mouth is on him, pink and wet, and Peter's breath catches. "Shit, Neal."
Neal's tongue slides down Peter's dick, and Peter's hands fist against his thighs. Neal looks up at him and makes a face, taking Peter's hands in his own and placing them on his head encouragingly.
Peter takes the hint and tangles his hands in Neal's hair, pulling, jerking up into Neal's mouth.
Neal gags around him and pulls back, coughing.
Peter winces, releasing his grip on Neal's hair. "Sorry. I didn't-"
Neal waves him off. "Don't worry about it. I just wasn't ready. Let me, I think I can do it now, come on." Neal goes back down on Peter, swallowing around him, and Peter gasps, his fingers finding their way back into Neal's dark hair. Neal keeps going, removes his hand from the base of Peter's dick so he can swallow more down until, until, oh shit, he's swallowing all of him and-
"Neal," Peter gasps, "I'm going to, oh, fuck, Neal."
Neal pulls off fast, leaning his head against Peter's knee and looking up at him. "Not yet." Peter gives him a look that could kill, and he laughs. "Settle down, I just want to get some action, too, somewhere along the line."
Peter still has his hands in Neal's hair, and he pulls him up, catching Neal's subsequent gasp with his mouth, smothering it. "You're a tease, you know that?"
Neal tries to reply, probably to say something smart, but Peter devours the words until Neal is nothing but gasps for air.
Peter dips his hand into Neal's sweats. Surprise, surprise, he's not wearing underwear. Peter pulls the sweats down to his thighs, as far as he can push them without having Neal stand up to take them off. Neal presses his ass down into Peter's hand; Peter pushes his knuckles against it. His free hand comes up to grip Neal's dick, pulling at it, and Neal squirms. "Come on, Peter, come on."
"I know you have lube stowed away somewhere on this roof," Peter says, still pulling at Neal's dick. "Go get it."
"I, Peter, stop it, I can't while you're," Neal's hands come up, grabbing Peter's wrist. "Stop, please."
Peter stills his hand but only because Neal looks like he's about to come apart if he keeps going. "Fine. Go."
Neal scrambles to get up, his legs tangling in his pants until he finally kicks them off. Peter is almost sorry to watch them go. They're the last remnants of Neal's moment of letting his guard down, letting Peter see what he's like when he's dressed in something other than elegance. Having Neal completely naked is always amazing, but Peter knows, he just knows that those clothes, that paint, it's all a symbol for Neal. Because Neal never does anything without an ulterior motive.
Neal snatches a bottle from amongst the tubes of paint, trotting back to Peter. "Got it."
Peter snorts. "You expected this to happen?"
"It's in the boyscout's code," Neal explains, resituating himself on Peter's lap. "Always be prepared."
"You're not a boyscout."
Neal rolls his eyes. "Like you care." He takes Peter's hand and squirts the lube on his fingers. He leans forward, a smile curling at his lips. "Get me ready?"
Peter nods and reaches back, sliding a finger into him easily. Neal holds his breath, his hands moving quickly as he wets his own hands and covers Peter's dick in the liquid. It's cold against Peter, and goosebumps rise on his skin.
Neal smiles, hiding it by burying is face in Peter's shoulder, pressing feather light kisses against his collarbone.
Peter retaliates by sliding a second finger in and crooking them, shifting Neal until he suddenly gasps, his fingers digging bruises into Peter's skin. "Ngh, fuck, Peter."
Peter buries his face in Neal's hair. It smells like the paint. "Lift up."
Neal complies, guiding Peter's dick to his entrance- pausing to raise his head and kiss him- then sinking down.
They both gasp, and Neal's fingernails bite into Peter's thighs as he leans back. On the next push in, Neal shudders, his head tilting up and his mouth falling open.
Peter can't help it. The long line of Neal's throat is too tempting, and he kisses it, his tongue flicking hotly over Neal's skin. Neal arches in response, and Peter's fingers dance down his spine.
God it's good; Neal is tight around him, the friction and Neal's own movement indescribable. It's easy to find a smooth, familiar rhythm with Neal, it always is.
Neal mutters his name, biting his lip. "Please, Peter, I, please," he babbles between tiny, audible gulps of air.
Peter squeezes Neal's dick, his thumb sliding over the head, and just like that, Neal's coming between them.
It only takes a few more tight, quick rolls of his hips before Peter follows suite.
Neal touches his forehead to Peter's, his eyes wide and dilated and bluer than ever.
Peter cradles Neal's face in his hands and kisses him, soft and sweet. Once he catches his breath, he says, "Come on. Let's get you inside and cleaned up."
Neal closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. "Okay. Just, let's stay here, just for a minute."
This close, Peter can see just how dark and thick Neal's eyelashes are, highlighted by the paleness of his cheeks. His mouth is swollen and red, his tongue a quick, pink flash when he licks his lips. The white painted strip of hair is sticking to his forehead, as are the rest of his bangs.
Peter slides his hands over Neal's hips, squeezing gently. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."