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hoosierbitchMy passport arrived yesterday, and I have booked my travel for spring break! WATCH OUT, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ivorysilk. I'MMA COME GETCHU. In the course of this round-trip, I'll be taking a grand total of one drive, one amtrak ride, one charter bus ride, two greyhound rides and one Southwest flight. I think I shall write a drabble of Peter/Neal/El having sex on each method of travel...
*
Title: appearances can be deceiving
Author:hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Neal/Peter
Content Advisory: Prostitution
Notes: I started this in October forelrhiarhodan's five acts meme! She likes biting/marking/claiming, rentboys, and vulnerable sex. And so I did porn for her! :D
Summary: Neal hires a prostitute for the night to throw the FBI off his trail. Peter Williams isn't quite what he expected.
*
His whore would be going back to his wife at the end of the night.
Or maybe back to his husband. Life partner. Didn’t really matter who this man was or who he belonged to, because he was tall and clean and handsome, and Neal needed to cement his new identity as a sexually flexible playboy. Anything that would help throw the FBI off his trail was worth it—and it couldn’t hurt if he enjoyed himself a little along the way.
There was a tan line on his whore’s ring finger and his phone buzzed irregularly with incoming text messages. There was gold hair on the man’s dreadful slacks.
“You shouldn’t walk your dog in your work clothes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s Peter, right? Peter Williams?” His whore nodded. “You’ve got…what, a golden retriever waiting for you at home?”
Peter’s eyes widened, but he quickly followed Neal’s gaze to his shins, and started brushing the hair away.
“You don’t need to that,” Neal said magnanimously. “Just take your pants off.” The man didn’t hesitate. He just undid his plain black belt and dropped his trousers on the ground. “Boxer briefs. Nice.”
“Would you like me to take those off, as well?”
Neal sat down in the room’s single chair and gestured languidly at Peter. “Shirt first.”
He had to give the company credit. He’d asked for a tall, strong, athletic man. And Peter Williams definitely fit the bill. “Pinch your nipples,” he directed. Peter rolled his eyes but followed Neal’s directions, his broad hands covering his pectorals as he pinched his nipples between his fingers.
“What are you into?” Peter asked.
“You mean…sexually?”
“No, existentially. Of course sexually. But hey, it’s your money—whatever rocks your boat.”
Neal stood up and walked slowly towards Peter. The man wasn’t hard yet, but Neal could still see a bulge in the front of his briefs. Very nice.
“Kiss me.” He tilted his head up to meet Peter’s lips.
Peter didn’t just kiss him, Peter—Peter invaded his space. Pushed him back until his shoulders bumped against the wall and put his hands on Neal’s hips, guiding his startled body backwards.
“That’s not what I—” Peter’s tongue was insistent in his mouth; exploratory and relentless. He tasted like toothpaste. Peppermint. He kept moving closer, pressing Neal flat against the wall. “Fuck, stop it, there’s not any room—” A second later Peter’s hands were under his buttocks, under his thighs, hoisting him off the ground and trapping him against the wall. “You’re really strong,” he said, after he caught his breath. Neal wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist. “My shoes are still on.”
“And you’re still talking.”
“Give me something better to do with my mouth.”
Peter grinned and moved his hips, grinding his growing erection into Neal’s crotch. Neal had been half-hard since he’d first glimpsed Peter through the peephole, and he eagerly joined the rhythm that Peter set.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” Peter asked, his hands squeezed tight, cupping the swell of Neal’s ass, pulling him in even tighter. “Or do you want to fuck me?”
He could imagine it easily—Peter on his hands and knees, sweat dripping down the strong line of his back, Peter’s wide hands guiding Neal’s cock inside of himself—but he needed something else tonight. “Fuck me,” he decided, biting down on the curve of Peter’s neck. Neal didn’t trust many people, but he trusted this man to take care of him. Just for this night, just in this way.
Peter turned them around and walked toward the bed, practically tossing Neal onto the mattress as soon as he got close enough. “Christ, that hurt! Be careful, you Neanderthal.”
“So, if I want you to shut up, I need to give you need something better to do with your mouth, right?” Peter chuckled and slid his boxers down his hips.
“Oh, god…”
He hadn’t sucked dick in ages. Not since he and Moz had last met up, but they’d both been so drunk and tired it barely counted. Peter lay on his back and guided Neal between his legs; shifting until they were both comfortable and Neal’s mouth was right where Peter wanted it.
It felt right. The salty taste and wide girth, the stretch in his jaw and the slide of his tongue. He groaned and took Peter’s dick in further, just another inch or two, until he felt his gag reflex threaten.
“This is not how I thought my night would turn out,” Peter said, with a breathless laugh.
Neal pulled off and licked his lips. “What do you mean?”
“Shut up and suck, pretty boy.”
“I think you’ve got this backwards—” He didn’t fight when Peter fisted his hands in Neal’s hair and tugged him back down. Peter’s thumb traced the edge of his ear idly as he sucked; his other hand cupped Neal’s jaw.
Peter let him set his own pace, let him take his time. Neal sucked Peter’s cock and then licked it, traced all the veins and ridges with his tongue, took each of Peter’s balls in his mouth in turn, and feathered light kisses on the sensitive head.
“If you want me to fuck you,” Peter said, his thighs trembling under Neal’s hands, “then you need to stop doing that.”
“You have surprisingly poor self-control for a prostitute,” Neal remarked, flicking his tongue across Peter’s slit. “I’ll have to put that on my comment card—”
“I may be a whore, but you’re the slut.” Neal felt indignant and maybe a little bit angry, but then Peter’s hands were tugging his hair sharply, yanking him back on the bed, until he was sitting up on his knees. “A beautiful, hungry, desperate slut. You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” Peter stripped them both of their clothes and then arranged them on bed, Neal on all fours, his hips supported by the pile of pillows Peter had been resting against, his chest and shoulders pressed against the mattress. His lungs felt compressed, his ribs felt tight, and when Peter tugged sharply on his hair one last time, admonishing him to keep shill, a shiver ran down his spine.
He wasn’t prepared for it when Peter’s hands spread his cheeks. He wasn’t ready for it when, instead of fingers, he felt Peter’s tongue teasing at his hole.
“Look at you. So easy. So ready for me, aren’t you?”
“Your dirty talk leaves a lot to be desired,” Neal complained. And then Peter started fucking Neal with his tongue, and it—it—it had been so long. So long since anyone had touched him there; so long since anyone had touched him so gently.
Neal struggled to keep his breath under control, to reclaim his body from Peter’s relentless hands, but then Peter slid two fingers into him and, yes, it was too much too soon. The stretch felt strangely unfamiliar. It felt like his first time again, only better—because the reverberations of Peter’s smug laughter were echoing through his body and Peter’s hands were stroking smooth lines down his back, over his spine—and then Peter started twisting his fingers inside Neal’s body, tongue working around them to soothe the burn. Neal was falling apart under Peter’s tongue and hands and voice on an expensive bed he hadn’t paid for with a name that wasn’t his in a life he barely wanted.
“Please, Peter—fuck me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Neal rested his head on his forearm and let his mask fall. The skin on his body felt tight and too small, his cock and thighs and eyes were burning, he needed to come or cry or crawl away and hide—Peter eased him over onto his back, and it took Neal too long to find a smile that could defend him.
“Hey—are you okay?”
“Sure,” Neal said, and it was probably the truth, or maybe just one of many. “Will you please—just—hurry up, okay?” He saw Peter’s hesitation, and fear that Peter would leave him like this chased the last of the air out of his lungs. “I hired you to do a job. I need you to do it.” Peter was kneeling between his legs, his hands planted on either side of Neal’s head; he felt surrounded and threatened and not alone. “Please.”
Peter moved to the side of the bed and slipped the condom on quickly, perfunctorily; Neal wished he dared ask for it bare, wished Peter would fuck him with nothing between them but skin. Peter spilled lube over his cock and it dripped onto Neal's hole.
It had been so long.
Two fingers and a good rimming was usually enough prep for him, but Peter’s cock was big and Neal was having trouble remembering that this was just part of a carefully constructed plan. “Oh, god...”
Peter slid in slowly, his hands on Neal’s hips, holding him steady. Peter’s eyes were on Neal’s face, not his body, and for that (and so many other wordless kindnesses) Neal was grateful. He felt every slight motion of Peter’s hips like an electric shock through his body. It felt more like a test than sex.
“Relax,” Peter murmured, his face creased in a kind smile. “Just tell me what you need. What do you need, Neal?”
"Slower," he had to say. He closed his eyes tight enough that bright fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. And Peter slowed down. Excruciatingly slow, until Neal’s body was aching with the need for more. Every time Peter pulled out, he felt hollow and lonely; every time Peter thrust back in, he felt…he felt overwhelmed, his body so strung out with need that he found himself forgetting about the con, about the agents waiting for him outside the hotel, about how far he would have to run in the morning. “Harder.”
Peter was quick to comply. The headboard started slamming against the wall; Neal felt an abrupt empathy for the wallpaper, because when Peter adjusted his angle, Neal found himself shouting just as loudly in response to every hard thrust of Peter’s hips.
"Give me a second," he gasped, pushing blindly at Peter's hips. Peter gave him some space and Neal pushed away the pillows and turned on his back. "Like this," he said, beckoning Peter back to him. He closed his eyes as Peter slid back inside of him, the new angle shocking and painful and unrelentingly pleasurable.
“Beautiful,” Peter said, his voice rough and strained. Neal opened his eyes and met Peter’s gaze. Looked at nothing but Peter, because he had no need for fantasy. He had no one else’s image to imagine. He had no lover waiting for him in some home that didn’t exist, he had nothing but a married whore bruising his hips and biting his neck.
Good enough, he made himself think.
"Harder," he said again.
Peter was good at this. He was strong and smart and determined to make Neal fall apart underneath him. To dominate him the same way he’d owned their first kiss. Neal tightened his legs around Peter’s waist and started raising his hips with every thrust, meeting Peter halfway, giving as good as he was getting.
“I’m not going to come before you,” Neal said with a groan; making it a challenge.
Peter laughed and then sized him up so blatantly that Neal let out a startled laugh of his own. Peter pushed Neal's legs up farther until his knees were practically pressed against his nipples. Peter kept them spread and steady with his shoulders, and then brought one of his hands to Neal's hole.
"You're good," Peter said. “But I’m better.”
Neal had yet to meet his equal, in crime or in bed; he definitely wasn’t going to let Peter win this without a fight. “I think—I think you’re supposed to be aiming a little higher,” he gasped, as Peter’s hand passed over his cock and pressed against his hole.
“Oh, I’m not going to touch your dick,” Peter said kindly, leaning forward and biting Neal’s neck again, right underneath his ear. Some foolish part of Neal leaned into the pain of Peter’s teeth, hoping the mark would still be there in the morning. “I don’t have to with a cockslut like you, do I?”
Neal would have been offended if it wasn’t so obvious that Peter meant it as a compliment, so obvious that it was true. At some point Peter must have grabbed the lube again because the finger that Peter was pressing in alongside his cock was wet; the stretch was frictionless, impossible.
Neal shouted something incoherent and let go of everything except the need for Peter to fuck him harder. The only leverage he had was in his knees, spread out and hitched over Peter’s shoulders, but he’d been working on his flexibility and stamina for years. He twisted his torso and tightened his abs and took Peter as deep as he could, until it burned, until his prostate was sending distress signals through the rest of his body.
He wondered if the FBI team had audio equipment sensitive enough to hear the slick sound of Peter fucking him. If they did, he’d have to get himself a copy before skipping town.
“Jesus Christ, Neal. I can’t believe you’re—I can’t—I can’t…”
It wasn’t a competition anymore; it wasn’t one-sided. He fucked Peter as hard as Peter was fucking him, and in the end, he did come first. Came from the inadequate pressure of Peter’s stomach sliding against his dick, sandwiching it between their bodies. His come spread between them and his legs went limp and Peter readjusted his hold on Neal’s waist and the angle of the finger and dick spreading Neal’s hole open. And then Peter fucked him harder.
“Put this on your fucking comment card,” Peter growled, yanking Neal back on his cock.
Neal wouldn’t say that he screamed, but he didn’t know what else to call it. Oversensitive didn’t even begin to touch the torture of Peter’s dick finding his prostate on every harsh thrust. He didn’t get hard again, didn’t fight or complain or tell Peter to stop. He just shook. Shook and threw his head back on the mattress and let Peter fuck him, let Peter hold him, let Peter take him.
He didn’t want to think about what it meant that this was the closest he’d been to another person in years, and he was paying for the privilege.
When Peter got close, he put his hands on Neal’s hips and pulled him up until he was sitting in Peter’s lap; shifting him until his head was resting on Peter’s shoulder. In this position Peter could grind up into him. Neal knew how good that must feel. He also suspected that the reason Peter had done it was so he would be able to get at Neal’s neck again. Peter’s lips brushed over his collarbone, over the tendons in his neck, across the clenched corner of his jaw. And when Peter came, he bit down on Neal’s neck, right underneath his ear, hard enough that the mark would definitely last longer than a day.
Neal would have to buy concealer in the morning, he’d have to dig out his one turtleneck sweater, he’d have to—he’d have to convince his cock that coming again so soon was a bad idea. He grabbed Peter’s head and held him there, letting Peter work Neal’s sore skin with his teeth and tongue and lips, shuddering as his body rallied for one last surrender. His half-hard cock twitched and spilled between them.
When he finally let go, Peter gently lowered him onto the mattress. Neal could barely move. This had been a monumentally stupid idea. If the FBI busted in now, he’d have no choice but to go with them; butt-naked and well-fucked.
Peter left and came back to the bed with a warm washcloth. He started to clean the sweat and come and spit from Neal’s skin; from his abs and thighs and the sore, aching mark on his neck.
He didn’t understand Peter. Didn’t understand the way Peter had shook his hand when he’d first come into the room, firm and confident, or the way he’d slammed Neal against the wall like there’d been anger building up in him for years—he didn’t understand the way Peter was touching him now, as though his skin was both fragile and filthy. Neal took the cloth from Peter’s hands to finish cleaning himself up and then turned on his side, away from Peter.
“Your money’s in the top drawer of the bedside table. Tip’s already included.” He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Peter getting dressed. The rustle of his slacks, the faint metallic clinks of his belt buckle, the sigh Peter let out as he buttoned his shirt.
He should let Peter leave. It didn’t matter that his bed was cold and his body felt boneless and wrecked; it didn’t matter that Peter would get hurt if he left. He should stay quiet and let Peter leave. “Wait.”
He sat up slowly in bed and focused on the dog hair that was still visible on Peter’s slacks. “There might—there will probably be some people waiting for you when you leave here. They’ll want to ask you some questions. If they threaten you with any charges, just stay quiet. I’m the one they want; they won’t do anything to you.”
Peter paused in the middle of tying his shoe."What did you do?"
"Maybe I murdered someone." Peter raised his eyebrows and Neal grinned tiredly. "Or maybe I steal things," he said, which was as much of an admission as he could offer when he knew there were microphones planted in his room, microphones that had probably picked up the sounds of him begging, crying, coming. Maybe Neal shouldn’t have taken his con this far. Maybe Neal stole things that shouldn’t belong to anyone. Maybe Neal had nothing left. "You should go. Tell your husband hello for me."
"Wife," Peter corrected, tying his shoe and standing to leave.
Neal wouldn't have guessed that, not given the way Peter had been so familiar with his body. "Really?"
Peter shrugged. "I'm flexible like that."
Neal wanted to stop Peter from moving toward the door. He wanted to pull more counterfeit cash from his suitcase and press it into Peter's strong hands, bribe him into staying, just for the night, just for breakfast, for coffee and donuts and the sunrise. “Thanks. For everything.”
Peter took that as the dismissal it might have been and headed for the door.
“I saw some guys in suits in the lobby when I was waiting for the elevator,” Peter said quietly, one hand on the doorknob. “But there wasn’t anyone at the service door where I came in. The one by the kitchen. You got that?”
Neal’s jaw dropped open, but he snapped it closed quickly, because this meant—it meant—“Who are you?”
Peter smiled and held up his handful of counterfeit cash. “Good night, Neal.”
By the time Neal opened the door and looked down the hallway, Peter was gone.
*
Comments are appreciated!
ivorysilk. I'MMA COME GETCHU. In the course of this round-trip, I'll be taking a grand total of one drive, one amtrak ride, one charter bus ride, two greyhound rides and one Southwest flight. I think I shall write a drabble of Peter/Neal/El having sex on each method of travel...*
Title: appearances can be deceiving
Author:
hoosierbitch Rating: NC-17
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Neal/Peter
Content Advisory: Prostitution
Notes: I started this in October for
elrhiarhodan's five acts meme! She likes biting/marking/claiming, rentboys, and vulnerable sex. And so I did porn for her! :DSummary: Neal hires a prostitute for the night to throw the FBI off his trail. Peter Williams isn't quite what he expected.
*
His whore would be going back to his wife at the end of the night.
Or maybe back to his husband. Life partner. Didn’t really matter who this man was or who he belonged to, because he was tall and clean and handsome, and Neal needed to cement his new identity as a sexually flexible playboy. Anything that would help throw the FBI off his trail was worth it—and it couldn’t hurt if he enjoyed himself a little along the way.
There was a tan line on his whore’s ring finger and his phone buzzed irregularly with incoming text messages. There was gold hair on the man’s dreadful slacks.
“You shouldn’t walk your dog in your work clothes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s Peter, right? Peter Williams?” His whore nodded. “You’ve got…what, a golden retriever waiting for you at home?”
Peter’s eyes widened, but he quickly followed Neal’s gaze to his shins, and started brushing the hair away.
“You don’t need to that,” Neal said magnanimously. “Just take your pants off.” The man didn’t hesitate. He just undid his plain black belt and dropped his trousers on the ground. “Boxer briefs. Nice.”
“Would you like me to take those off, as well?”
Neal sat down in the room’s single chair and gestured languidly at Peter. “Shirt first.”
He had to give the company credit. He’d asked for a tall, strong, athletic man. And Peter Williams definitely fit the bill. “Pinch your nipples,” he directed. Peter rolled his eyes but followed Neal’s directions, his broad hands covering his pectorals as he pinched his nipples between his fingers.
“What are you into?” Peter asked.
“You mean…sexually?”
“No, existentially. Of course sexually. But hey, it’s your money—whatever rocks your boat.”
Neal stood up and walked slowly towards Peter. The man wasn’t hard yet, but Neal could still see a bulge in the front of his briefs. Very nice.
“Kiss me.” He tilted his head up to meet Peter’s lips.
Peter didn’t just kiss him, Peter—Peter invaded his space. Pushed him back until his shoulders bumped against the wall and put his hands on Neal’s hips, guiding his startled body backwards.
“That’s not what I—” Peter’s tongue was insistent in his mouth; exploratory and relentless. He tasted like toothpaste. Peppermint. He kept moving closer, pressing Neal flat against the wall. “Fuck, stop it, there’s not any room—” A second later Peter’s hands were under his buttocks, under his thighs, hoisting him off the ground and trapping him against the wall. “You’re really strong,” he said, after he caught his breath. Neal wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist. “My shoes are still on.”
“And you’re still talking.”
“Give me something better to do with my mouth.”
Peter grinned and moved his hips, grinding his growing erection into Neal’s crotch. Neal had been half-hard since he’d first glimpsed Peter through the peephole, and he eagerly joined the rhythm that Peter set.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” Peter asked, his hands squeezed tight, cupping the swell of Neal’s ass, pulling him in even tighter. “Or do you want to fuck me?”
He could imagine it easily—Peter on his hands and knees, sweat dripping down the strong line of his back, Peter’s wide hands guiding Neal’s cock inside of himself—but he needed something else tonight. “Fuck me,” he decided, biting down on the curve of Peter’s neck. Neal didn’t trust many people, but he trusted this man to take care of him. Just for this night, just in this way.
Peter turned them around and walked toward the bed, practically tossing Neal onto the mattress as soon as he got close enough. “Christ, that hurt! Be careful, you Neanderthal.”
“So, if I want you to shut up, I need to give you need something better to do with your mouth, right?” Peter chuckled and slid his boxers down his hips.
“Oh, god…”
He hadn’t sucked dick in ages. Not since he and Moz had last met up, but they’d both been so drunk and tired it barely counted. Peter lay on his back and guided Neal between his legs; shifting until they were both comfortable and Neal’s mouth was right where Peter wanted it.
It felt right. The salty taste and wide girth, the stretch in his jaw and the slide of his tongue. He groaned and took Peter’s dick in further, just another inch or two, until he felt his gag reflex threaten.
“This is not how I thought my night would turn out,” Peter said, with a breathless laugh.
Neal pulled off and licked his lips. “What do you mean?”
“Shut up and suck, pretty boy.”
“I think you’ve got this backwards—” He didn’t fight when Peter fisted his hands in Neal’s hair and tugged him back down. Peter’s thumb traced the edge of his ear idly as he sucked; his other hand cupped Neal’s jaw.
Peter let him set his own pace, let him take his time. Neal sucked Peter’s cock and then licked it, traced all the veins and ridges with his tongue, took each of Peter’s balls in his mouth in turn, and feathered light kisses on the sensitive head.
“If you want me to fuck you,” Peter said, his thighs trembling under Neal’s hands, “then you need to stop doing that.”
“You have surprisingly poor self-control for a prostitute,” Neal remarked, flicking his tongue across Peter’s slit. “I’ll have to put that on my comment card—”
“I may be a whore, but you’re the slut.” Neal felt indignant and maybe a little bit angry, but then Peter’s hands were tugging his hair sharply, yanking him back on the bed, until he was sitting up on his knees. “A beautiful, hungry, desperate slut. You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” Peter stripped them both of their clothes and then arranged them on bed, Neal on all fours, his hips supported by the pile of pillows Peter had been resting against, his chest and shoulders pressed against the mattress. His lungs felt compressed, his ribs felt tight, and when Peter tugged sharply on his hair one last time, admonishing him to keep shill, a shiver ran down his spine.
He wasn’t prepared for it when Peter’s hands spread his cheeks. He wasn’t ready for it when, instead of fingers, he felt Peter’s tongue teasing at his hole.
“Look at you. So easy. So ready for me, aren’t you?”
“Your dirty talk leaves a lot to be desired,” Neal complained. And then Peter started fucking Neal with his tongue, and it—it—it had been so long. So long since anyone had touched him there; so long since anyone had touched him so gently.
Neal struggled to keep his breath under control, to reclaim his body from Peter’s relentless hands, but then Peter slid two fingers into him and, yes, it was too much too soon. The stretch felt strangely unfamiliar. It felt like his first time again, only better—because the reverberations of Peter’s smug laughter were echoing through his body and Peter’s hands were stroking smooth lines down his back, over his spine—and then Peter started twisting his fingers inside Neal’s body, tongue working around them to soothe the burn. Neal was falling apart under Peter’s tongue and hands and voice on an expensive bed he hadn’t paid for with a name that wasn’t his in a life he barely wanted.
“Please, Peter—fuck me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Neal rested his head on his forearm and let his mask fall. The skin on his body felt tight and too small, his cock and thighs and eyes were burning, he needed to come or cry or crawl away and hide—Peter eased him over onto his back, and it took Neal too long to find a smile that could defend him.
“Hey—are you okay?”
“Sure,” Neal said, and it was probably the truth, or maybe just one of many. “Will you please—just—hurry up, okay?” He saw Peter’s hesitation, and fear that Peter would leave him like this chased the last of the air out of his lungs. “I hired you to do a job. I need you to do it.” Peter was kneeling between his legs, his hands planted on either side of Neal’s head; he felt surrounded and threatened and not alone. “Please.”
Peter moved to the side of the bed and slipped the condom on quickly, perfunctorily; Neal wished he dared ask for it bare, wished Peter would fuck him with nothing between them but skin. Peter spilled lube over his cock and it dripped onto Neal's hole.
It had been so long.
Two fingers and a good rimming was usually enough prep for him, but Peter’s cock was big and Neal was having trouble remembering that this was just part of a carefully constructed plan. “Oh, god...”
Peter slid in slowly, his hands on Neal’s hips, holding him steady. Peter’s eyes were on Neal’s face, not his body, and for that (and so many other wordless kindnesses) Neal was grateful. He felt every slight motion of Peter’s hips like an electric shock through his body. It felt more like a test than sex.
“Relax,” Peter murmured, his face creased in a kind smile. “Just tell me what you need. What do you need, Neal?”
"Slower," he had to say. He closed his eyes tight enough that bright fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. And Peter slowed down. Excruciatingly slow, until Neal’s body was aching with the need for more. Every time Peter pulled out, he felt hollow and lonely; every time Peter thrust back in, he felt…he felt overwhelmed, his body so strung out with need that he found himself forgetting about the con, about the agents waiting for him outside the hotel, about how far he would have to run in the morning. “Harder.”
Peter was quick to comply. The headboard started slamming against the wall; Neal felt an abrupt empathy for the wallpaper, because when Peter adjusted his angle, Neal found himself shouting just as loudly in response to every hard thrust of Peter’s hips.
"Give me a second," he gasped, pushing blindly at Peter's hips. Peter gave him some space and Neal pushed away the pillows and turned on his back. "Like this," he said, beckoning Peter back to him. He closed his eyes as Peter slid back inside of him, the new angle shocking and painful and unrelentingly pleasurable.
“Beautiful,” Peter said, his voice rough and strained. Neal opened his eyes and met Peter’s gaze. Looked at nothing but Peter, because he had no need for fantasy. He had no one else’s image to imagine. He had no lover waiting for him in some home that didn’t exist, he had nothing but a married whore bruising his hips and biting his neck.
Good enough, he made himself think.
"Harder," he said again.
Peter was good at this. He was strong and smart and determined to make Neal fall apart underneath him. To dominate him the same way he’d owned their first kiss. Neal tightened his legs around Peter’s waist and started raising his hips with every thrust, meeting Peter halfway, giving as good as he was getting.
“I’m not going to come before you,” Neal said with a groan; making it a challenge.
Peter laughed and then sized him up so blatantly that Neal let out a startled laugh of his own. Peter pushed Neal's legs up farther until his knees were practically pressed against his nipples. Peter kept them spread and steady with his shoulders, and then brought one of his hands to Neal's hole.
"You're good," Peter said. “But I’m better.”
Neal had yet to meet his equal, in crime or in bed; he definitely wasn’t going to let Peter win this without a fight. “I think—I think you’re supposed to be aiming a little higher,” he gasped, as Peter’s hand passed over his cock and pressed against his hole.
“Oh, I’m not going to touch your dick,” Peter said kindly, leaning forward and biting Neal’s neck again, right underneath his ear. Some foolish part of Neal leaned into the pain of Peter’s teeth, hoping the mark would still be there in the morning. “I don’t have to with a cockslut like you, do I?”
Neal would have been offended if it wasn’t so obvious that Peter meant it as a compliment, so obvious that it was true. At some point Peter must have grabbed the lube again because the finger that Peter was pressing in alongside his cock was wet; the stretch was frictionless, impossible.
Neal shouted something incoherent and let go of everything except the need for Peter to fuck him harder. The only leverage he had was in his knees, spread out and hitched over Peter’s shoulders, but he’d been working on his flexibility and stamina for years. He twisted his torso and tightened his abs and took Peter as deep as he could, until it burned, until his prostate was sending distress signals through the rest of his body.
He wondered if the FBI team had audio equipment sensitive enough to hear the slick sound of Peter fucking him. If they did, he’d have to get himself a copy before skipping town.
“Jesus Christ, Neal. I can’t believe you’re—I can’t—I can’t…”
It wasn’t a competition anymore; it wasn’t one-sided. He fucked Peter as hard as Peter was fucking him, and in the end, he did come first. Came from the inadequate pressure of Peter’s stomach sliding against his dick, sandwiching it between their bodies. His come spread between them and his legs went limp and Peter readjusted his hold on Neal’s waist and the angle of the finger and dick spreading Neal’s hole open. And then Peter fucked him harder.
“Put this on your fucking comment card,” Peter growled, yanking Neal back on his cock.
Neal wouldn’t say that he screamed, but he didn’t know what else to call it. Oversensitive didn’t even begin to touch the torture of Peter’s dick finding his prostate on every harsh thrust. He didn’t get hard again, didn’t fight or complain or tell Peter to stop. He just shook. Shook and threw his head back on the mattress and let Peter fuck him, let Peter hold him, let Peter take him.
He didn’t want to think about what it meant that this was the closest he’d been to another person in years, and he was paying for the privilege.
When Peter got close, he put his hands on Neal’s hips and pulled him up until he was sitting in Peter’s lap; shifting him until his head was resting on Peter’s shoulder. In this position Peter could grind up into him. Neal knew how good that must feel. He also suspected that the reason Peter had done it was so he would be able to get at Neal’s neck again. Peter’s lips brushed over his collarbone, over the tendons in his neck, across the clenched corner of his jaw. And when Peter came, he bit down on Neal’s neck, right underneath his ear, hard enough that the mark would definitely last longer than a day.
Neal would have to buy concealer in the morning, he’d have to dig out his one turtleneck sweater, he’d have to—he’d have to convince his cock that coming again so soon was a bad idea. He grabbed Peter’s head and held him there, letting Peter work Neal’s sore skin with his teeth and tongue and lips, shuddering as his body rallied for one last surrender. His half-hard cock twitched and spilled between them.
When he finally let go, Peter gently lowered him onto the mattress. Neal could barely move. This had been a monumentally stupid idea. If the FBI busted in now, he’d have no choice but to go with them; butt-naked and well-fucked.
Peter left and came back to the bed with a warm washcloth. He started to clean the sweat and come and spit from Neal’s skin; from his abs and thighs and the sore, aching mark on his neck.
He didn’t understand Peter. Didn’t understand the way Peter had shook his hand when he’d first come into the room, firm and confident, or the way he’d slammed Neal against the wall like there’d been anger building up in him for years—he didn’t understand the way Peter was touching him now, as though his skin was both fragile and filthy. Neal took the cloth from Peter’s hands to finish cleaning himself up and then turned on his side, away from Peter.
“Your money’s in the top drawer of the bedside table. Tip’s already included.” He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Peter getting dressed. The rustle of his slacks, the faint metallic clinks of his belt buckle, the sigh Peter let out as he buttoned his shirt.
He should let Peter leave. It didn’t matter that his bed was cold and his body felt boneless and wrecked; it didn’t matter that Peter would get hurt if he left. He should stay quiet and let Peter leave. “Wait.”
He sat up slowly in bed and focused on the dog hair that was still visible on Peter’s slacks. “There might—there will probably be some people waiting for you when you leave here. They’ll want to ask you some questions. If they threaten you with any charges, just stay quiet. I’m the one they want; they won’t do anything to you.”
Peter paused in the middle of tying his shoe."What did you do?"
"Maybe I murdered someone." Peter raised his eyebrows and Neal grinned tiredly. "Or maybe I steal things," he said, which was as much of an admission as he could offer when he knew there were microphones planted in his room, microphones that had probably picked up the sounds of him begging, crying, coming. Maybe Neal shouldn’t have taken his con this far. Maybe Neal stole things that shouldn’t belong to anyone. Maybe Neal had nothing left. "You should go. Tell your husband hello for me."
"Wife," Peter corrected, tying his shoe and standing to leave.
Neal wouldn't have guessed that, not given the way Peter had been so familiar with his body. "Really?"
Peter shrugged. "I'm flexible like that."
Neal wanted to stop Peter from moving toward the door. He wanted to pull more counterfeit cash from his suitcase and press it into Peter's strong hands, bribe him into staying, just for the night, just for breakfast, for coffee and donuts and the sunrise. “Thanks. For everything.”
Peter took that as the dismissal it might have been and headed for the door.
“I saw some guys in suits in the lobby when I was waiting for the elevator,” Peter said quietly, one hand on the doorknob. “But there wasn’t anyone at the service door where I came in. The one by the kitchen. You got that?”
Neal’s jaw dropped open, but he snapped it closed quickly, because this meant—it meant—“Who are you?”
Peter smiled and held up his handful of counterfeit cash. “Good night, Neal.”
By the time Neal opened the door and looked down the hallway, Peter was gone.
*
Comments are appreciated!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-03-03 11:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-05-20 04:41 pm (UTC)There--huh. I think... Is there a sequel? To this? Somewhere? In a comment? I feel like I posted something else. Um. Shit.
*
Dear Santa,
For Christmas, I would like more memory. A terabyte or two should do it.
Absentmindedly,
B
*
No, okay, I can't find anything, so I must have just written something and then lost it. I think I wrote a different rentboy fic...where...El hires Peter regularly, and then for her birthday, requests that another guy come along, and he brings Neal, and then they play with BDSM, and Neal is like TAKE ME HOME WITH ME U GUYZ, and they're like OKAY YAY OT3. Only with less capslock and more bondage.