Title: Forever Hold Your Peace
Word Count: 591 words
Rating: M (M/M sex content)
Pairings: Eliot/Nate
Warnings: The challenge in this fic is to write it with minimal conversation (or as I like to call it, silent sex). If you love quotation marks, you may want to think twice...?
Notes: I discovered the song "Say I'm Sorry" by Theory of A Dead Man after I wrote the beginning paragraphs. Even if the song had nothing to do with this fic, when I heard Tyler Connolly's voice flowing through the speakers, I just started typing. Music magic FTW! Special thanks and shoutouts to the readers and reviewers of my last Leverage fic.
Last of all, I do not own Leverage or any of its characters.
They barely spoke in the process, but the marks said it all.
Love bites on the collarbone meant celebration and relaxation after a job was done. Bruises on arms and wrists were signs of dismay and frustration following the departure of a ghost from the past. Bitsy traces on the inner thigh, always well-hidden like the insecurity and fear they represented. Jealousy and control and drunkenness, as rarely or often as they happened, showed through swollen lips caused by long agonized kisses.
These were the evidence of their relationship, translations of their understandings of each other. And everything else would be buried in another tango of the lips and the tongues, another round of conversation in their bodies' language.
Nate's gentle fingers slid down Eliot's back, stroking the old war scars the hitter never talked about. Sometimes there would be new ones, too, souvenirs from a recent job. Healing was not supposed to trigger any kind of strong feelings, yet when Nate caressed him wounds with his fingertips, Eliot felt like they would come to life. If the wounds could sever his flesh, Nate could use them to get to his core. The inner emotions, the confessions he never made. There were old loves and new ones, but the vices and the enemies stayed the same.
Nate, let go. Eliot breathed down the other man's neck, nibbling at his earlobe. It brought him immense satisfaction to see how Nate's neck flexed backwards, trembling at the mercy of his tease. But his hands still stayed on Eliot's back, this time gripping his broad shoulders, as Eliot's fingers traced circles down his chest.
Finally, when Eliot reached down to his inner thigh, Nate could not hold up his arms any longer. As soon as they were dropped, the hitter clasped his wrists with his athletic grace. Nate drew a sharp breath, curled his knees to hold the rest of himself together as Eliot worked on him.
It was an aching feeling to pass over the control. Eliot was the only one capable of having this dominance over him, even only in the duration of their rushed sessions. In Nate's mind, Eliot was associated with that ache, the ache of shedding away his self-defense and coming out of his shell. Salty, rusty smell of sweat and blood. Of reality and hardships.
So he kissed Eliot with a vengeance. Muted anger and anguish, mapping out the hitter's battered lips, clean-cut jaw line and lofty collarbones. Nate always closed his eyes when they locked lips, because he couldn't bear to look into Eliot's eyes and see his own reflection, vulnerable with desires. Still, when Eliot moved his head down between his thighs, Nate couldn't help but shivered with lust. He bit his lower lip and tasted fear.
He could never really let go until Eliot bore into him. He was too tired for words, but Eliot always knew, like the time to hold him firmly in his arms, the time to brush his collarbone with soft kisses, and the time to push a little further. Whether he ordered or not, Eliot always had the correct response.
That was the only thing Nate needed.
The hitter felt Nate's heavy breaths against his skin, warm and moist, synchronized to the rhythm of his movements. He watched, how when it was all over, Nate's eyes returned to lucidity, and in that moment of truth, he called his name. Eliot. And that was how Nate stole Eliot's breath with his own name.
Simple, because that was the only thing Eliot needed, too.