apparently now we write whitecollar porn
[except that you enthrall me]
(Yes, with hipster lowercase and brackets. Sh. The title is taken from John Donne's Holy Sonnet 14, which is kinky as fuck. Google it.)
White Collar // Neal/Peter/El
NC-1fucking7 // fisting and crying and threesomes (oh my)
Note that this was written for the kink meme. It is dedicated to those sweet anons and also hoosierbitch whose flailing was amazing and gyzym whose fault it is that I write things like this at all. The lj-cut text is taken from the same poem. Seriously, go read that and then come back to this, I'll wait.
Peter tells him, voice all hot right against his ear, that it's because El has smaller hands. It's such a lie. It's because El wants to and because Peter lives to make El happy, just like he lives to see Neal come apart like this, on his knees and half-collapsed onto Peter's chest and grabbing at him and doing this tiny rocking thing, like he wants to fuck himself back onto her hand but knows he'd rip himself open if he did it as hard as he wants to. And Peter can see his pupils, huge eclipsed things like Neal is all hollowed out to make room for them, and his eyes are wet at the corners, it's so much his eyes are watering. (That's also a lie; Neal's definitely crying. But also begging for more, and who would they be to deny him?)
"He's going to fuck you after this," El murmurs, when the whimpers are starting to sound a little like sobs. They're barely moving, but she's got to be doing something inside of him that Peter can't see, because Neal's getting increasingly shakey. The statement makes him moan, which makes Peter moan, which was surely El's basic goal. She had her left hand on Neal's ass, a minute ago, to steady it, but now it's shoved down her panties, caught up in some mirror of whatever invisible torment her other hand is doing. "You want that? You'll be all loose and wet for him, for us, and- fuck." The invective is a neat little gasp, and she's so composed, so poised, but Peter knows from the tight line of her spine that she's on the edge, is going to make herself come like this.
"El," Peter says, voice hoarse, and he has to say it again to make himself heard over Neal. "Elizabeth. Him first. Make him come, then you, okay? Then-"
"Then you fuck him blind? Yeah, that can be arranged. You want that, don't you?" She bends low over Neal again, her hair falling down around her face and brushing his back. Neal's noises are edging towards the pained, but not quite there yet; Peter knows it has to be soon. He catches El's eye, and she looks up and grins at him. He's never seen his wife look more devious, more perfect. And then, ah, she extracts her hand from between her legs and reaches around, fingers still dripping with herself. She barely has to touch Neal, he's so worked up, and in the instant before he comes Peter just barely catches what El's whispering into Neal's back, lips pressed to his spine. Something along the lines of "show him how much you like it, come on, then maybe we'll let you lick it off him."
Peter groans when Neal comes, and has to sit up a little and hold on to Neal's shoulders, steady him so he doesn't thrash and hurt himself. El's finally starting to get flushed herself, just this side of desperate, and she does not spare Neal an instant before releasing him and shoving her fingers back into herself, other hand still completely inside him. Neal shudders in their arms through the aftershocks, then doesn't stop shuddering as Elizabeth resumes whatever calculated little hand motions she was doing inside him. Peter knows full well she's now utterly focused on her own orgasm now, almost to the point of selfish cruelty-- Neal's crying openly, resting his head on Peter's chest, slack and hypersensitive-- but the idea of it is so fucking hot that Peter can't bring himself to say anything. And he sees that she's on the edge, been there this whole time, and when her shoulders tense and her eyes glaze over he sees both of her hands twitch, and it makes Neal keen and Peter's hips jerk up.
He's a gentleman if nothing else, so he does let El recover before nudging her. "My turn," he rasps, throat dry. "No hogging him." Neal and Elizabeth both laugh at that, her dark amusement obvious. Neal's laugh turns into a broken little noise quickly, though, and while Peter can't really see from his place propped up against the headboard, he can tell from Neal's crumpled face that El's extricating her hand a little less gently than he would like. There's an obscene noise when she gets her hand all the way out, and she laughs again when she has to wipe off the extra lube on Neal's discarded trousers-- she's well aware that they're dry-clean only, and Peter knows she loves tormenting him with this.
Peter's attention snaps back to Neal, though, when he finally speaks. His voice is weak and shaky, which Peter expects, but also sort of worshipful, which he does not. "Did she mean it? Can I- you'll let me-" Peter does not let him finish that sentence. He hauls Neal up for a hard kiss, biting almost viciously, like he has every intention of eating him alive. He can hear El moan, knows she's probably going to come a second time just from watching them, and it makes him even harder, thinking about that, even though he's sure he's going to pass out from lack of blood in the brain soon. Neal's all fever-hot and pliant in his arms, and when he kisses down Peter's neck and chest he suspects that's more of a gravity thing than any initiative Neal's taking, really. But the licking is definitely not a gravity thing-- Neal's scarily methodical, especially considering how fucked out and exhausted he is already, but he's so fixated on cleaning every drop of his own come off Peter's hip and stomach that Peter can't bear to interrupt. He doesn't stop when it's gone, just moves on to Peter's balls, then cock. His eyes have dropped shut, and Peter couldn't say if that's out of exhaustion or bliss, but it's damn nice to watch.
Finally, El's the one who snaps them back on track. She gives Neal's ass a little smack with her free hand (the other being emphatically back between her legs, or possibly it never left; Peter doesn't know, doesn't terribly care, as long as it's there now). "Up," she orders. "Ride him."
Neither of them would think for a second to question her judgement, here. Peter knows full well he won't last long, not after this, not when Neal climbs up to straddle him and hisses when his cock, half-hard (again, or still?), brushes Peter's. And Neal slides down onto him so smooth and easy, and yes, he is exactly as loose and wet and wrenchingly sensitive as El promised, and yes, it is all Peter can do not to come the second he's fully seated.
"Peter," Neal says, "I don't know if I can-"
"Ride him, I said," El interrupts, with another smack, harder this time. Neal whimpers, but somehow finds the strength to haul himself up and drop back down. It's not an especially vertical motion actually-- more, he's dragging himself up toward's Peter's face, and the second time he does it he gets so close that they're almost kissing, almost, only they're both breathing too hard so they can't, and Neal just barely lets his lips brush over Peter's jaw before dropping back onto his cock again. And that, that is the line where Peter absolutely cannot take it anymore.
"El," he croaks, "Honey. Move a bit so I can flip him, please." He only barely catches her laugh, but feels her shift, and she cards her fingers through his hair when she gets up to the headboard on his left, which Peter takes as permission to immediately tumble Neal roughly to the right. They nearly dislodge, but Neal gasps and clings to him with all his limbs, clamping around him so hard and tense all of a sudden that Peter curses. The angle's fucking perfect, though, once Neal relaxes again and his legs splay out obscenely, and Peter has the leverage to fuck hard into him, relishing each little gasp and cry he forces out of him.
Neal's fully hard again, now, and again very obviously close to tears. Somewhere along the line, he tries to work one hand down between them to grab his own cock, for relief or to hold back, it's not clear. Peter doesn't notice until El snaps at him, some incoherehent 'bad dog' syllable, and grabs Neal's wrist-- the one she can reach, anyways-- and presses it back into the mattress over his head. Peter takes the hint and gets the other one, because he knows better than to piss off his wife while balls-deep in another man, but also because the line of Neal's shoulders when he arches up against them is fucking gorgeous. It takes all of El's weight to hold her side down, which has got her on all fours next to Peter, and having her there, having Neal writhing and pleading incoherently under the both of them, it's perfect, too fucking perfect to believe. "El," he says, warning her, and she knows what he means. She has to get between them to reach across and keep Neal's other wrist pinned, and the feel of her soft skin against his chest is so familiar and alien all at once. He has to rest a lot of weight on her to hold himself up and still get one hand to Neal's cock, but oh, it's worth it. Neal bucks so hard he nearly throws them both off, but then El ducks her head and does something to Neal's neck just as Peter can feel him come, all hot and slick between them, and he's clenching and arching and, ah, god, Peter comes--
When he's quite finished whiting out, Peter blinks a few times and hauls himself off of poor El and Neal, both of whom he's squashing. El rolls off with him and sprawls across both of them, fingers still tangled with Neal's where she'd just been holding his wrist. There's a ridiculous bite mark on the side of Neal's neck, and his eyes are half-closed and unfocused, but he finds the energy to grin dopily at both of them. They're all sort of stuck together, now, sweaty and sticky and a little punch-drunk, and it's a while before anyone can muster up quite enough energy to rearrange into proper spoon formation. It's Neal's turn in the middle, and he kisses both of them thoroughly before settling in, then snuggles way down to tuck his head under their chins, his face pressed into Peter's chest. Just before Peter drops off for good, he thinks he hears one of them whisper, "Thanks."
(Yes, with hipster lowercase and brackets. Sh. The title is taken from John Donne's Holy Sonnet 14, which is kinky as fuck. Google it.)
White Collar // Neal/Peter/El
NC-1fucking7 // fisting and crying and threesomes (oh my)
Note that this was written for the kink meme. It is dedicated to those sweet anons and also hoosierbitch whose flailing was amazing and gyzym whose fault it is that I write things like this at all. The lj-cut text is taken from the same poem. Seriously, go read that and then come back to this, I'll wait.
Peter tells him, voice all hot right against his ear, that it's because El has smaller hands. It's such a lie. It's because El wants to and because Peter lives to make El happy, just like he lives to see Neal come apart like this, on his knees and half-collapsed onto Peter's chest and grabbing at him and doing this tiny rocking thing, like he wants to fuck himself back onto her hand but knows he'd rip himself open if he did it as hard as he wants to. And Peter can see his pupils, huge eclipsed things like Neal is all hollowed out to make room for them, and his eyes are wet at the corners, it's so much his eyes are watering. (That's also a lie; Neal's definitely crying. But also begging for more, and who would they be to deny him?)
"He's going to fuck you after this," El murmurs, when the whimpers are starting to sound a little like sobs. They're barely moving, but she's got to be doing something inside of him that Peter can't see, because Neal's getting increasingly shakey. The statement makes him moan, which makes Peter moan, which was surely El's basic goal. She had her left hand on Neal's ass, a minute ago, to steady it, but now it's shoved down her panties, caught up in some mirror of whatever invisible torment her other hand is doing. "You want that? You'll be all loose and wet for him, for us, and- fuck." The invective is a neat little gasp, and she's so composed, so poised, but Peter knows from the tight line of her spine that she's on the edge, is going to make herself come like this.
"El," Peter says, voice hoarse, and he has to say it again to make himself heard over Neal. "Elizabeth. Him first. Make him come, then you, okay? Then-"
"Then you fuck him blind? Yeah, that can be arranged. You want that, don't you?" She bends low over Neal again, her hair falling down around her face and brushing his back. Neal's noises are edging towards the pained, but not quite there yet; Peter knows it has to be soon. He catches El's eye, and she looks up and grins at him. He's never seen his wife look more devious, more perfect. And then, ah, she extracts her hand from between her legs and reaches around, fingers still dripping with herself. She barely has to touch Neal, he's so worked up, and in the instant before he comes Peter just barely catches what El's whispering into Neal's back, lips pressed to his spine. Something along the lines of "show him how much you like it, come on, then maybe we'll let you lick it off him."
Peter groans when Neal comes, and has to sit up a little and hold on to Neal's shoulders, steady him so he doesn't thrash and hurt himself. El's finally starting to get flushed herself, just this side of desperate, and she does not spare Neal an instant before releasing him and shoving her fingers back into herself, other hand still completely inside him. Neal shudders in their arms through the aftershocks, then doesn't stop shuddering as Elizabeth resumes whatever calculated little hand motions she was doing inside him. Peter knows full well she's now utterly focused on her own orgasm now, almost to the point of selfish cruelty-- Neal's crying openly, resting his head on Peter's chest, slack and hypersensitive-- but the idea of it is so fucking hot that Peter can't bring himself to say anything. And he sees that she's on the edge, been there this whole time, and when her shoulders tense and her eyes glaze over he sees both of her hands twitch, and it makes Neal keen and Peter's hips jerk up.
He's a gentleman if nothing else, so he does let El recover before nudging her. "My turn," he rasps, throat dry. "No hogging him." Neal and Elizabeth both laugh at that, her dark amusement obvious. Neal's laugh turns into a broken little noise quickly, though, and while Peter can't really see from his place propped up against the headboard, he can tell from Neal's crumpled face that El's extricating her hand a little less gently than he would like. There's an obscene noise when she gets her hand all the way out, and she laughs again when she has to wipe off the extra lube on Neal's discarded trousers-- she's well aware that they're dry-clean only, and Peter knows she loves tormenting him with this.
Peter's attention snaps back to Neal, though, when he finally speaks. His voice is weak and shaky, which Peter expects, but also sort of worshipful, which he does not. "Did she mean it? Can I- you'll let me-" Peter does not let him finish that sentence. He hauls Neal up for a hard kiss, biting almost viciously, like he has every intention of eating him alive. He can hear El moan, knows she's probably going to come a second time just from watching them, and it makes him even harder, thinking about that, even though he's sure he's going to pass out from lack of blood in the brain soon. Neal's all fever-hot and pliant in his arms, and when he kisses down Peter's neck and chest he suspects that's more of a gravity thing than any initiative Neal's taking, really. But the licking is definitely not a gravity thing-- Neal's scarily methodical, especially considering how fucked out and exhausted he is already, but he's so fixated on cleaning every drop of his own come off Peter's hip and stomach that Peter can't bear to interrupt. He doesn't stop when it's gone, just moves on to Peter's balls, then cock. His eyes have dropped shut, and Peter couldn't say if that's out of exhaustion or bliss, but it's damn nice to watch.
Finally, El's the one who snaps them back on track. She gives Neal's ass a little smack with her free hand (the other being emphatically back between her legs, or possibly it never left; Peter doesn't know, doesn't terribly care, as long as it's there now). "Up," she orders. "Ride him."
Neither of them would think for a second to question her judgement, here. Peter knows full well he won't last long, not after this, not when Neal climbs up to straddle him and hisses when his cock, half-hard (again, or still?), brushes Peter's. And Neal slides down onto him so smooth and easy, and yes, he is exactly as loose and wet and wrenchingly sensitive as El promised, and yes, it is all Peter can do not to come the second he's fully seated.
"Peter," Neal says, "I don't know if I can-"
"Ride him, I said," El interrupts, with another smack, harder this time. Neal whimpers, but somehow finds the strength to haul himself up and drop back down. It's not an especially vertical motion actually-- more, he's dragging himself up toward's Peter's face, and the second time he does it he gets so close that they're almost kissing, almost, only they're both breathing too hard so they can't, and Neal just barely lets his lips brush over Peter's jaw before dropping back onto his cock again. And that, that is the line where Peter absolutely cannot take it anymore.
"El," he croaks, "Honey. Move a bit so I can flip him, please." He only barely catches her laugh, but feels her shift, and she cards her fingers through his hair when she gets up to the headboard on his left, which Peter takes as permission to immediately tumble Neal roughly to the right. They nearly dislodge, but Neal gasps and clings to him with all his limbs, clamping around him so hard and tense all of a sudden that Peter curses. The angle's fucking perfect, though, once Neal relaxes again and his legs splay out obscenely, and Peter has the leverage to fuck hard into him, relishing each little gasp and cry he forces out of him.
Neal's fully hard again, now, and again very obviously close to tears. Somewhere along the line, he tries to work one hand down between them to grab his own cock, for relief or to hold back, it's not clear. Peter doesn't notice until El snaps at him, some incoherehent 'bad dog' syllable, and grabs Neal's wrist-- the one she can reach, anyways-- and presses it back into the mattress over his head. Peter takes the hint and gets the other one, because he knows better than to piss off his wife while balls-deep in another man, but also because the line of Neal's shoulders when he arches up against them is fucking gorgeous. It takes all of El's weight to hold her side down, which has got her on all fours next to Peter, and having her there, having Neal writhing and pleading incoherently under the both of them, it's perfect, too fucking perfect to believe. "El," he says, warning her, and she knows what he means. She has to get between them to reach across and keep Neal's other wrist pinned, and the feel of her soft skin against his chest is so familiar and alien all at once. He has to rest a lot of weight on her to hold himself up and still get one hand to Neal's cock, but oh, it's worth it. Neal bucks so hard he nearly throws them both off, but then El ducks her head and does something to Neal's neck just as Peter can feel him come, all hot and slick between them, and he's clenching and arching and, ah, god, Peter comes--
When he's quite finished whiting out, Peter blinks a few times and hauls himself off of poor El and Neal, both of whom he's squashing. El rolls off with him and sprawls across both of them, fingers still tangled with Neal's where she'd just been holding his wrist. There's a ridiculous bite mark on the side of Neal's neck, and his eyes are half-closed and unfocused, but he finds the energy to grin dopily at both of them. They're all sort of stuck together, now, sweaty and sticky and a little punch-drunk, and it's a while before anyone can muster up quite enough energy to rearrange into proper spoon formation. It's Neal's turn in the middle, and he kisses both of them thoroughly before settling in, then snuggles way down to tuck his head under their chins, his face pressed into Peter's chest. Just before Peter drops off for good, he thinks he hears one of them whisper, "Thanks."