Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Written for the livejournal kink meme, for the prompt: Peter ties Neal up and fucks him.
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Peter's not entirely sure what it is about this that gets him so worked up, so out of his mind with lust. Maybe it's that Neal's clever hands are out of the way, for once, and Peter can focus on driving him insane, a quivering wordless mess, gasping pleas and begging so beautifully. Maybe it's the semblance of control he has, that he feels so unused to—it's supposed to be Peter in charge of Neal, and most of the time in the office it is, but it always feels to him that he's only in charge because Neal lets him, because Neal likes it that way.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the knowledge that, if Neal wanted to, even as dizzy and wrecked as he is now, he could free himself in a heartbeat. His wrists are bound up above his head with one of those expensive ties he likes to keep so pristine; it's the only thing he's wearing, and when he catches Peter's gaze with those needy, impossibly blue eyes, Peter feels a clench of want low in his gut, so strong it knocks him breathless. Neal's tied up for him like the best Christmas present he's ever received, waiting for Peter's touch, and he's there because that's exactly where Neal wants to be. Peter doesn't fool himself into assuming he has the upper hand here—it's Neal who's working him, like he's always worked him, and Peter's getting what he wants because it's what Neal needs.
That thought has him groaning low, a noise thick with hunger, and he lean in to trace the taut lines of Neal's bound wrists with his tongue, scraping down the fragile veins with his teeth and sucking sharply over his fluttering pulse.
Neal whines, a high needy sound; Peter's kept him on edge with teasing caresses, giving Neal what he wants, but never enough to take him fully there. Neal leans into Peter's mouth when he bites his nipple and soothes the hurt away with the flat of his tongue. He says, "Peter," voice hoarse and broken, the sound whispering into Peter's body and yanking urgency into his stroking hands.
Which of us is it? he thinks as he sinks two fingers into Neal and stretches him open, drinking Neal's panting breath into his own mouth. Which of us is in control here? It's Peter who's driving Neal to cry out for release, to beg for Peter's hands on him—but he's only dancing to the tune of Neal's fluttering eyelids, the long vulnerable line of his throat, the way he bites down on his lower lip and releases it, slick, pink and full.
"Peter, Peter," Neal breathes, voice catching jaggedly as Peter spreads his legs open and pushes into him, one relentless inch at a time. Neal is so tight around Peter's length, his beautifully swollen mouth spilling ragged cries and the kind of filth that almost makes Peter's cheeks burn, but instead just makes him thrust that much harder, push Neal's thighs farther up and reach for the angle that he knows will—
Neal lets out a shocked noise, eyes blown wide and focusing on Peter, only Peter. He gasps out "Jesus, Peter, just—" and continues to babble incoherent praise at him when Peter fists a hand around his cock and strokes him, hard and fast and relentless. It only takes a few more thrusts and a stinging bite to the curve of Neal's neck before he's coming, hot and wet between their bodies, crying out Peter's name brokenly. Peter breathes out a fervent, "Christ," and his eyes slam shut as his release overtakes him, endless and unstoppable like a wave crashing down over him.
Neal's lips are soft and wet when he mouths uncoordinatedly at Peter's, and they trade lazy breaths for a few moments while their heartbeats slow down.
Peter finally pulls away and unties Neal's wrists, rubbing away the pink marks ringing them, pressing a kiss to each one. "You could have freed yourself from this, couldn't you?" he asks suddenly. "If you had really wanted to?"
Neal's smile is boyish, a little wicked, wholly fond. "Maybe, maybe not," he says. "But if I had, you would have just caught me again." He leans forward and licks a long path up Peter's throat, ending by sucking a bruise just under his jaw. "You're always catching me, Peter," he murmurs, lips vibrating against Peter's skin. "Why do you think I like you so much?"
And there is Peter's answer, right there. Maybe it's Peter that's in control, maybe it's Neal that has everything running to his liking. It doesn't really matter all that much. What matters is that they fit together. What matters is the contentment written into the soft crinkles at the corners of Neal's eyes, and the steady drum-thump of his heart under Peter's hand when he settles into his arms.
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