Fic: (Leverage) Five times Eliot was invited to a threesome and it didn’t mean anything,
Title: Five times Eliot was invited to a threesome and it didn’t mean anything, and one time it did
Author: LadyJanelly
Rated M
Fandoms: Leverage, Supernatural, The Losers, Burn Notice, Royal Pains
Pairings: Nate/Sophie/Eliot, Sam/Dean/Eliot, Fiona/Michael/Eliot, Jensen/Cougar/Eliot, Jill/Eliot/Divya, Parker/Hardison/Eliot
Warnings: Threesomes, poly relationship, open relationships, shades of incest (Sam/Dean), rough sex, gentle sex,
Special thanks to Embroiderama for the beta
Summary: Eliot gets around before he finds where he belongs.
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“There’s no reason for anyone to be alone tonight…” Sophie’s voice is soft concern and gentle urging, telling him he can have what he needs. Nurturing, almost motherly, but it’s what he needs right now, a balm for all the places where his psyche is worn rough.
Parker and Hardison have already left, left together, and it’s just the three of them in Nate’s apartment. They wouldn’t have to know.
Nate’s gaze is contemplative as he looks Eliot up and down. He lounges on the sofa, glass in hand, slow swirling amber liquor rolling with the turn of his wrist. He looks like he’s evaluating Eliot’s body for a new purpose, a new type of mission. His eyes shine with approval.
Sophie glances to Nate, a conversation in a single arch of her eyebrow and he’s moving, coming behind Spencer, sliding his open palms over the hitter’s shoulders. Closer than he’s ever been. Sophie steps in closer, the smell of her perfume sweet in his nose and her lips cool as she kisses along his jaw.
He pictures how it will be with them, mellow and rich. Quiet but not passionless, Sophie sweet and Nate solid.
“Come upstairs with us,” she whispers, “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
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The dive motel’s cheap sheets rub harshly under his knees; Tall’s dick is down his throat and Taller’s pounding into his ass. He could take them down if he needed to, but in the moment it’s good to be manhandled by them, Tall’s fist clenched in his hair and Taller pulling him into each thrust.
They only touch Eliot. They only have eyes for each other.
“Dean,” Taller pants out, his voice broken.
“Sam,” Tall growls, “Sam.”
Taller’s rhythm goes erratic, his hands clench on Eliot’s hips and Eliot moans deep around Tall’s cock.
“Hey,” Taller whispers to Eliot as he’s leaving, “Thanks.”
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He thought he’d never see Michael Weston again, but then he’s down in Miami with the team, running a job on a greyhound owner who left thirty dogs and one person dead in a mass grave in an orange grove. There Michael is, making a show at the racetrack, yelling at the running dogs in a loud voice and fake accent. They share a glance and meet up around the corner, trade intel and find out they share a target. After that it’s almost too easy. Leverage is provided, the bad guy goes to jail, his investment portfolio ends up spread between his victims and a dog rescue organization.
After, though. After, they have a drink at Michael’s place, just Michael and Fi and Eliot, and if Eliot flinches when she throws her leg over his lap and kisses him, there’s nobody in the world who could blame him. The woman is known to be fucking crazy and Michael is dangerous in his own right. If this is some jealousy game, Eliot could end up dead from it.
“Sometimes,” Micheal says, as Fi ravages Eliot’s mouth, licking and biting like she’s trying to get inside of him. “Sometimes, Fi needs more than one man can give her. Could you do that for us, Spencer? Give her what she needs to feel full?”
“You trust me that much?” Eliot asks when he can get his mouth free. Fi grinds down on him through his slacks, presses her small bosom against his chest. She’s all sharp angles, lean and hard and hungry. He’s gonna have bruises in the morning. He’ll be lucky if it’s only bruises.
“I trust that you’ve got no reason to burn us,” Michael says, and yeah, that’s as close as it comes to trust in their world.
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“Him? You’re serious?”
The place is bar first and gay second, working class guys getting a beer, not a glint of glitter to be seen. Doesn’t mean there’s never trouble here, and the thin weeknight crowd has been giving these two a wide berth, the tall guy in the teal t-shirt and John Lennon glasses, the Hispanic man in his cowboy hat and pointed toe boots. Most probably don’t even know why they’re avoiding them but Eliot knows. Can see the way they sit, watching each other’s back, the way they move, confident and dangerous, and Eliot will be damned if he’s gonna let some tough guys on leave start a fight in Eliot’s bar.
He flicks his gaze in their direction to see who they’ve picked out as prey and sees the tall blond looking back at him.
“C’mon, Cougs,” he half-pleads, and the cowboy nods towards Eliot again. Blondie sighs and sets his beer down.
“If he kills me, I am totally haunting you,” he warns.
He sifts through the tables to where Eliot stands at the bar. Eliot plans ten different opening strikes, trips and throws, catalogs five improvised weapons at hand.
“Hey,” says the blond, “You uh, come here often?”
Eliot’s eyes narrow.
“Okay, not big on conversation. Believe me, I can work with that.” He rocks back on his heels, up to his toes, his hands stuffed down in the front pockets of his jeans. Not an attack then.
“So my boyfriend over there?” he gestures to the cowboy, “Thinks you’re hot and we were wondering if you’d like to come have sex with us?”
Eliot looks from one to the other. Flicks his tongue over his lower lip as he considers. Just saying yes to these two makes it the unsafest sex he’s had in his life, but he does anyway.
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The Hamptons. Craziness. He’s first to hit town, the members of the team who will be most interactive with the locals filtering in one at a time to keep from drawing attention. So Eliot is sitting near the bar in a beach-side restaurant, sipping a twelve dollar latte, hair tied back and glasses on, already in persona as a media-shy mystery writer gathering inspiration. He pretends to read a book, getting a feel for the local mannerisms. He feels eyes on him and looks up to two women there at the bar, leaning close like friends, and they laugh between themselves, glance his way, whisper some more. And damn. They’re both pretty, one all-American brunette, the other Indian (and he totally blames Sophie for what the British accent does to his libido).
He knows the job comes first but he’s not made of stone, so he goes over, introduces himself, buys the ladies another round. Neither one is drunk, just tipsy enough to be a little daring, a little free. Jill offers her place and they take a cab there. Divya hesitates when they get there, though. “I really shouldn’t,” she says, and Eliot isn’t sure if she’s telling herself or him.
He shrugs though. “Hey, it doesn’t have to go there.” It takes all his craft to not put a “darlin’” in there.
“I just don’t want anything…penetrative,” Divya explains and he smiles but doesn’t laugh.
“I do!” Jill cuts in and he grins and slings an arm around her, offers Divya the other one.
“Pretty sure I can leave everyone happy,” he promises, and Divya comes close enough to be drawn along with them to the bedroom.
He leaves Divya satisfied (with her maidenhood intact), Jill well-fucked and neither one of them complaining.
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“Wooh!” Parker laughs, sweaty and naked and sprawled diagonally across the bed, her head and shoulders on Eliot’s chest and her legs flopped over Hardison’s thighs. She looks spent and happy, Hardison the same, and Eliot thinks he did right by them, kept it fun and light. He licks his lips and tastes them both there, can smell the sex heavy and heady in the air.
He indulges in a few more minutes of the afterglow, brushing Parker’s hair back from her face and sliding his calf against Hardison’s.
“Here,” Hardison says, and reaches into the bedside table and passes out wet-naps. Eliot does the best he can of cleaning himself up without making Parker move. The girl is still boneless on top of him.
He should get up. He should go if he wants to pretend it’s his choice, if he doesn’t want to be kicked out. They probably want to cuddle, reaffirm the bond of their relationship or something.
He lifts Parker’s shoulders and slides out, sits on the edge of the bed and wonders where the hell his underwear went.
“Eliot?” Hardison sounds confused. “You okay?”
“Hm? Yeah. I’ll be out of your hair in a sec.”
“Wait,” Parker says, “Are you leaving?” And she’s sitting up now, afterglow chilled with worry, her little hand on his arm. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, how it’s supposed to be for them. And god, if he’s come between them somehow, he’ll never forgive himself.
Hardison is up then too, coming around to crouch in front of him. “Shit, Eliot, we thought you got it. When we said we wanted you with us.”
His confusion must show, because Hardison leans up and kisses him. “We meant we want you forever. For as long as you’ll have us.”.