Chapter Text
After a few months with Nate’s team, Eliot honestly doesn’t have many complaints about the work itself. It might even be good for him. The team, on the other hand—well, that’s got its ups and downs. Most of which are about what you’d expect from a crazy outfit like this. But then there’s the thing where every single one of them except for Eliot is not only a dominant, but a starving idiot who doesn’t get their own needs met and keeps leaking it everywhere.
Now, Eliot’s sensible. He got over his masculinity crisis about being a submissive a long time ago. Sure, there were some rocky starts, but he’s a pragmatist. It’s not just that this shit is good for somebody’s own general health and wellbeing—giving power, taking power, pain, whatever ticks somebody’s box. It’s also that when you let those needs go unmet, you have less of a handle on those instincts.
Eliot’s seen kids his age in basic, fellow submissives, a thousand miles from their hot bossy girlfriends, sink into a haze of mindless obedience and never quite come up. Dragged along by their need to submit that’s not being filled with actual intimacy like it’s damn well supposed to be. It’s probably intentional, honestly. They make good soldiers. Fucking sad.
The flip side, unfulfilled dominants scrabbling for control over everything around them and throwing off unmanaged power, is usually more obnoxious than sad. Less common, at least. The world has its biases. It’s easier for a guy to go out and get laid than a girl. He’s expected to start things. Same for a dominant.
And yet here Eliot is with four of them. Because statistical probability hates him, apparently.
It had taken him the longest to call Parker. The first time he felt an awkward, absolutely unmeasured stab of power in her voice as she badgered Hardison into vent-crawling to a server room, he kicked the door beside him so hard he dented it. And went to drink after they wrapped things up. She’s freaking Parker. Does she know anything about being a dom? He isn’t even sure she knows where babies come from. There’s no telling.
So here’s the team. On one side, Eliot, outnumbered four to one. And since he likes being satisfied and having self-control, he does what any reasonable adult would do: he picks up hot bossy women in bars and gets his shit wrecked on the regular. He’s very good at the dance. Some rough sex to clear his head. Make her come her brains out to satisfy the thing in his gut that wants to do nice things for people. Perhaps a charming date or two. Perhaps she’s a sadist, that’s always a great bonus. He’s clear what’s going on, and he ends things on good terms. Sure, he doesn’t let things get serious, doesn’t go into subspace. He holds onto himself too tightly for that; he’s got to. But he still makes a connection. He takes care of himself. And her as best he can, even if it’s just a night.
On the other side?
There’s Parker, who possibly doesn’t even know what a dominant is, probably doesn’t know she is one, likely isn’t doing anything about it even if she does, and definitely has no control over it. She has control over most of herself, at least. She’s a goddamn professional. Eliot would guess that’s how she bleeds off energy. She may not know what the hell to do with a living breathing human submissive, but she doms every safe and vault door she comes across, that’s for sure. Sensually.
There’s Sophie, pretty much the opposite. She absolutely knows how to use it. Her dominance is a finely-honed multi-tool. It’s a scalpel, puppet strings, a lure for anticipatory service—whatever the job needs. Which is the problem. Eliot genuinely isn’t sure she’s ever used it outside of a job. But she still needs what any dominant needs, somewhere in that little Sophie heart of hers. So she reaches out to the people around her, strives for control over her world, the only way she knows how: by flicking out some piece of that multi-tool. And next thing they know, there’s a string on their wrists and there’s nothing genuine about it.
There’s Hardison, who’s just a dumbass. He definitely knows what he is, and maybe even how to use it, but he’s all over the place. One of those dork-ass dominants who likes playing innocent and harmless and then poking people with it when they least expect it, trying to lord it over them. Eliot will give him this much: he might actually be getting some of his shit out with—well, however a nerd like that finds chicks, how the hell would Eliot know? Hardison’s not much of a problem for the world in general, at least. Might not even be a problem for himself. But he’s gone and made himself Eliot’s problem by riling him up all the time.
And then there is Nathan fucking Ford, who might be the most infuriating firehose of starved and frustrated dominance that Eliot’s ever dealt with in his life. When other dominants notice it? Yup, that’s how you know it’s gotten bad.
Given all that, Eliot might’ve expected to be relieved when the team split apart again after Sterling hit them like a hammer. No more dealing with all that stray energy pushing at him day after day.
On the downside, a few months trying to minimize collateral in Pakistan? Trying to do things that don’t leave him feeling shitty, alone, with his skillset? Even with enough money in the bank that he doesn’t have to worry about a payday, it’s rough. That’s becoming painfully clear. He can save a few lives at a time, small and precious, earned with bruises, aches, a new bullet in his thigh, and a new warrant on his head. Meanwhile a whole town dies from a drone strike Hardison could’ve probably re-routed from his freaking phone.
Also he might miss them.
So yeah, it’s a damn relief when the team gets back together.
At first, Eliot thought Nate would be easier to deal with now that he’s sober. Turns out? Eliot hasn’t been more wrong about something since he first joined the force. Drunk Nate had been a scattershot mess. Now, without the bottle-haze to crawl into, it’s more like he’s sticking knives everywhere. It’s goddamn embarrassing to watch. Every time Nate throws dom voice in his ear during a job, Eliot’s patience thins. Every time he throws it at some random other bystander, it thins more.
Also Eliot’s worried about Nate’s sanity. Which isn’t new—he’s been worried about Nate’s sanity since this whole thing started. Worried as hell. But he knows he can’t lead with that. Not with this, not with how Nate is these days.
It’s not like some big damn thing happens. But Eliot only has so much patience. So he stands by the door and fixes Nate with a glare as the rest of the team trickles out after wrapping up a job.
Nate spreads his hands, there in his empty living room, and says, “Can I help you, Eliot?”
“We need to talk.”
Nate frowns. “Intervention voice, wow. You know I’m sober.”
“Yeah.” Eliot briefly considers a smile. “And that’s a relief. It’s also made the other thing worse.”
“What other thing?”
Eliot studies him for a moment and comes a few paces closer. “How long has it been since you used your dominance?”
Nate opens his mouth, closes it, frowns, and says, “I don’t see how that’s your problem.”
“So not since your divorce, then.”
“Right, all right, we’re done here, get out. Go have a fight with Hardison, whatever. Go.”
Eliot sighs and plants his feet.
Nate paces a circle and goes to lean against his desk, fingers digging into the edge. “You want to give me one good reason why we’re still having this conversation?”
“You need to blow off some steam.”
Nate laughs. “Yeah, see, I don’t. I’m not gonna say that wasn’t technically a problem for a while back there, not even one of my ten biggest problems, but sure, I’ll give you that. But this—this has been working wonders, really.”
“That’s the problem. Controlling everything in the field isn’t the same as actually satisfying yourself, and you know it.” He must, because otherwise he’d’ve already shut this down in a way that even Eliot couldn’t push through. He’s very good at that.
“You know the rule,” Nate says, disgruntled. “Don’t bring me a problem unless you have a solution.” It’s laced with power, scrabbling, and Eliot scoffs.
“See? There you go again. You even mean to do that?”
He hadn’t. That hits. It’s only in the corners of his eyes, but Eliot knows him well enough by now. “What’s your solution, then? You trying to set me up with some girl? I’m not you, I don’t fuck around. Not with some random—”
“I’m down.”
Nate twitches in surprise. Caught on the back foot for once. About five or six questions scatter across his face. Lord help him, the one that comes out is, “You’re straight.”
“You don’t know that,” Eliot snarls in disbelief. It’s not even the stupidest thing Nate’s said tonight. “Anyway you really expect me to believe that fucking is the only thing your sadistic, controlling ass wants?”
Nate twitches again, jaw clenched, but he’s not very good at hiding the sharp curiosity in his eyes. He’s caught for a little too long before he jolts and waves a hand dismissively. “No, yeah no, this is a terrible idea.”
“Why?” Eliot comes two paces closer. Just that. Nate prickles, yearning. “You already throw it at me all the damn time on a job. Doing it on purpose, when we’re both on the same page—I’m not gonna say it won’t be different, but what makes you think it would be worse?”
Nate rummages around that for a moment, jittering, but still holding onto the desk for dear life. “You’re crew.”
“This happens off the job, nothing changes on the job. Except you’re saner, with any luck. It’s not rocket science, Nate, you just need to be a goddamn adult.” Which, admittedly, is the riskiest part of the whole venture. But Nate doesn’t have feelings for him. Except for the ones about control, but Eliot’s already in that blast radius, and he’s made his peace with not moving out of it. If he was in Sophie’s position, sure, he wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole. “You got a good reason not to?”
“I, well, I—”
“You genuinely don’t want to? You don’t want it from me? Sure. Those are good reasons.” Eliot raises his eyebrows and smiles, quick and gone. “So?”
There’s several full seconds of silence from Nate as he sucks a deep breath, nostrils flaring, which is several seconds too many. The man isn’t just hard up, he’s desperate. Can’t hide it. Eliot aches to shove food in his face.
“Right,” Nate says finally. “Yeah, yeah okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna lie to you, you’re gonna walk out that door—”
“Nate,” Eliot growls. “Shut the fuck up, put your hands in my hair, and pull.”
Nate’s lips twitch. Two more seconds. Then his eyes turn cold and cheerful. “Kind of defeats the point if you tell me to, doesn’t it?”
“The point is you not starving so bad that you’re throwing your dick around like a sixteen-year-old kid who’s just figured out that he can shout and make people twitch,” Eliot says, stabbing the air with his finger. “You are being a pain in everyone’s ass.”
Nate raises his eyebrows. “Am I? I don’t see why it’s a problem for Sophie. Or Parker, or Hardison—”
“You are not going to make this about me being the only submissive on the goddamn team. We have clients. We have—”
“Sit down,” Nate says, knife-sharp, and Eliot grits his teeth. That’s the real thing. That’s got all of Nate’s dominance behind it, deliberate. And aimed at him, properly, personally, like he never has before. Eliot hasn’t swayed for somebody pushing at him since he was a sixteen-year-old kid, but he’s realizing right this second how much power Nate can bring to bear. More than most. And Eliot’s met some very powerful people over the years.
“Yeah?” Eliot prods, holding his chin high even as excitement coils under his skin.
“Let’s, ah. Let’s pretend you’re right. Even though it’s none of your business what I do and don’t do with myself. You think I’d let you set the scene? Sit. Down.”
Eliot breathes in, gathers that deep-set core of self-control he holds through any scene, and breathes out some pride between his teeth, prickling. He’s always been more comfortable with rough and fast, but sure, Nate’s got a point. He can’t assume Nate’s steam’s got the same flavor as his. Fine.
He settles in the guest chair that sits next to Nate’s desk, holding his gaze long and steady.
Nate gives him the dangerous sort of smile that usually comes before his riskiest plays, small and fey. And looks at the floor. Looks at him. “Really.”
Eliot raises his eyebrows.
“Do you actually mean a word you just said,” Nate asks, dismissive, “or are you just looking to get your own since you haven’t met a supermodel yet this week?”
A hard and furious knot of shame twists in Eliot’s gut—that’s the last thing this is about—and he almost shows it. How long has it been since somebody’s made him feel that?
Fine, he thinks, and forces another deep breath, and slides down to his knees. Almost as careful as he might if he was at gunpoint, though less prepared for a low tackle. His hands almost float up behind his head on instinct before he clasps them, deliberate, behind his back. Warmth pools in his belly, the raw pleasure of being here, down, at somebody’s feet.
Nate sucks air between his teeth, almost inaudible.
“Do you think I’d do this for just anybody?” Eliot says, low and dangerous, because two can play that game and he knows he’s got some of the best low-and-dangerous around. “I haven’t knelt on command like this in years.” He still hasn’t dropped eye contact. Even Nate Ford will have to earn that if he’s going to come on this strong.
Something flickers across Nate’s face, a crack of softness beneath the chilly force of his dominance, and then he tightens his jaw and pushes off from where he’s been leaning his ass against the desk. And shoves the chair away, clearing space around Eliot.
Nate paces the circle around him, painfully slow, disassembling him with his gaze. Eliot breathes deep and pulls himself towards calm. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy a good takedown if somebody’s got it in them, but Nate isn’t giving him those vibes. Nate isn’t provoking a fight, nor rewarding it, at least not that he can tell through those twisty Nate layers. He just wants obedience, immediate. Which, sure, Eliot can do that if he chooses to.
Another half circle as the tension builds like a summer thunderhead.
Nate settles his fingers on Eliot’s throat from behind.
He didn’t move very fast, at least. Eliot’s whole body still bunches for a fight before he forces himself back into calm, squeezing his right wrist in his left hand.
“At least you’ve got your instincts under control,” Nate says.
“Don’t come at me faster than that, damn it,” Eliot snarls.
Nate takes a moment to finger-comb through Eliot’s hair with his other hand before taking a handful, slow and thoughtful. It’s a big enough handful to really pull him around by. Small enough to sting when he does. Calculated. Eliot breathes his shoulders down from his ears, ready to roll with it.
“And what about now?” Nate asks quietly. “Once I’ve got you?”
“Sure.” Breathe in.
It’s punched back out of him as Nate closes his fist, a burning pull over half of his scalp, then lets go of his throat so he can bow his head to the floor. Eliot goes, heart rate picking up, hands still clasped behind his back.
“Face to the carpet,” Nate says briskly, letting him go. “Arms out in front of you. Palms up. Straighter.” The toe of his shoe nudges Eliot’s elbow. “Spread your knees, oh, about two inches. Settle.”
It’s like watching somebody take the mat and run through a kata after spending a year pacing and tearing their hair out. Nate’s dominance flexes a little more with each rapid-fire order, shaking out some strain. Eliot finds the position and falls back into stillness, savoring the comfortable stretch in his shoulders from turning his hands up. Finally they’re getting somewhere.
The sole of Nate’s shoe rests on one of his palms, pressing his fingers flat. Just a few careful pounds of force.
“I’m your crew, damn it,” Eliot says into the carpet, which is not nearly as clean as it could be. “You don’t need to prove that I trust you.” Besides, if he really wanted to threaten him, he’d have them palms down. Grind knuckles and tendons. Much more theatrical.
Nate laughs. “Gotta say, loyalty was not a quality I’d particularly expected from your files.”
“Fishing for compliments, Nate?”
“Oh, I’ll take Master right now, thank you,” Nate says cheerfully, and lifts his foot.
Eliot silently raises his respect for the pretty art lady, which was already quite high. Maggie must be one hell of a submissive if she married this. “Fishing for compliments, Master?” He doesn’t let his tone change. The title’s a little thick on his tongue. When was the last time he’d used that one—?
Right. Damien.
Figures. Control freaks.
“Ah, no no, just making an observation,” Nate burbles somewhere above him. “No, see—hands and knees.” The dominance flares, sudden and sharp out of his usual nattering. The kata continues: now he flexes, pivots. Eliot answers without hesitation. He always enjoys a good spar. “See, I just didn’t particularly feel like being used—keep your head down.”
“Well?” Eliot says thickly. “How’re you feeling now, Master?”
“Like you’re a bit of a shit, but sure, let’s go with this.” Chair legs scrape on the floor. Nate sits, close enough to touch. Eliot wonders if it’s going to be feet propped up on his back time—not the worst thing, if boring—but instead, there’s just silence. Then fingertips walk down the back of his skull. Nate gently parts his hair, perfectly even, then pushes his shirt-collar down, exposing one little slice of nape. Fingernails trace his bare skin, investigating, and Eliot shivers pleasantly.
“You’re full of sass,” Nate observes, thoughtful. “You’re fighting me for emotional control, it’s pretty cute.” Eliot hisses at that, but Nate keeps going. “But your body obeys.” He digs all five nails in, blunt and ragged on either side of Eliot’s spine. “I’d always wondered, watching you in the field, how much you actually liked pain. And that’d be a yes, apparently. Of course, sensation is a nice thing to lose yourself in when you don’t like being vulnerable.”
“Should’ve figured you’d like taking people’s heads apart,” Eliot mutters, prickling, because he’s not wrong. “Master.”
“Though you’re keeping the title.” Nate takes a handful of his hair again, moving his head from side to side just because he can, because Eliot lets him. He pulls enough to make it nice. At lest he’s not so much of an asshole that he’d refuse to indulge his own sadism just to play tease and denial. “So there’s that.” He chuckles. “I could put you on voice restrictions, see what you’d do.”
Eliot grunts, letting his annoyance show. Sure, he’d do it, but it’s humiliating. “How’d that be fun for you, Master? You’d rather pick apart my honest reactions.”
Nate hums at that, and his real answer comes a few moments later as he probes for a pressure point under the outer edge of Eliot’s right shoulderblade. Eliot sucks air and braces himself. The pain flares as Nate digs in, burning hot and inexorable. This sort of thing always hits close to home. Plain old impact just feels nice. This—it’s closer to what he’d feel if he strained a joint or pinched a nerve. The signals from his body that he can’t afford to ignore, even if he’s got the control to push through them if he needs to.
“Well, watching you fight yourself to obey me is also pretty fun,” Nate comments as Eliot’s right arm starts to tremble. Pure reflex, with one of the roots of his tricep being manipulated like that. “Hold position.”
Eliot growls. Pain spreads, hot and welcome. Endorphins buzz in its wake.
“Hold.”
Eliot digs fingers into the carpet and pulls in his core to brace himself. And holds.
Nate lets up, finally, and the rush of relief comes like confetti under his skin.
“Right,” he says, brisk, like he’s ready to start spinning up a con. “Two choices. You stay here and I keep hurting you, just like that. Or you get back to kneeling, we talk, I probably pull your hair a lot, and you don’t hide your face. Either way, you tell me how you like to signal, and I tell you exactly what to do with your body, but that’s just nice for both of us, really.”
Eliot feels the blood pound in his ears. And doesn’t have to think much about his answer. Pressure point play might be closer to the wild edge than he’d wagered today, but he’s a lot more prepared to have his nervous system turned against him than he is to let Nate fucking Ford watch his face. While prodding at his submission, probably, because what else would we talk mean?
“Well?” Nate prompts.
“I heard you,” Eliot says, and doesn’t move. “Master.”