![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tourdefierceTitle: Baby, We're Natural Born Killers
Rating: R for language and violence
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Eames being a BAMF, references to sexual harassment and unbeta'd so it has tons of typos. I DON'T CARE.
Word count: 1200ish
Summary: Arthur gets to office, only to find Eames hanging out with some dead bodies. Business as usual.
Author's Note: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
latenightcuppa to make her feel joy.
Arthur drew his weapon at the sight of the open warehouse door.
The walls, flimsy and pathetic as an abandoned make-shift air-hanger would be, were littered with bullet holes that most definitely had not been there when Arthur had left just five hours ago. He would have noticed.
Arthur counted four bodies.
"What the fuck happened here?"
Eames was sitting on top of what was left of his desk. The space was a disaster. Everything was shot up, launched across the floor in apparent cover forms and nothing, not even Arthur's lovely white board, was spared. It looked like a fire fight had happened while Arthur was sipping coffee in his underwear at the hotel.
Eames looked up from where he was staring at his hands.
"Hello, Arthur."
Arthur stepped over a man's leg, completely mutilated, and glared. "Hello is not a proper response to carnage."
"Ah, yes," Eames said absently. "Sorry about the mess."
"Is that our architect?" He pointed to the ruined face of someone who could have been their architect. It was hard to tell with the head shot completely matted with brain matter. "Did you have to shoot him in the face?"
"It was an accident."
Arthur turned away. "Do I even want to know what happened?"
Eames leaned back and winced. Arthur smothered the urge to go and check him out for wounds. Knowing Eames, he was probably bleeding out as they spoke. Serves the fucker right for having the nerve to get up before Arthur this morning to attend to this mess, instead of staying in bed until Arthur threatened him with violence.
"Just a misunderstanding that lead to our dear Harrison hiring a team of ruthless killers to come after me."
"A misunderstanding?" He flipped the safety back on his gun and re-holstered it.
Eames laughed but it was a little hollow. "Don't make me explain it, darling. Speaking ill of the dead is so bourgeois."
Arthur felt a headache coming on.
"Explain."
"He thought that I should repay him for double-crossing him on the Samson job," Eames said, carefully. "I disagreed."
Arthur felt his blood run cold. He stepped over another body, twisted with a chair, and laid a hand on Eames' arm. When he barely flinched, too tired or crashing from the adrenaline too mask it, Arthur felt the anger well.
"That fucking—"
Eames sighed. "You can't kill him again, darling. What's done is done."
"He tried to—"
Eames looked up, eyes soft and tired. Arthur swallowed the rest of his sentence. "It's over now. No need to fret."
They breathed, Arthur's hand still wrapped around his arm. His shirt was ruined with blood smeared in a few spots, burn holes and other tears marring the paisley print. Sadly, this was one of the paisley shirts that Arthur didn't hate. His pants, however, had holes at the knees and grease everywhere. They would have to go. Arthur wasn't going to be holding a funeral for them, they were ugly and checkered and truly an eyesore.
"Some people don't like being told no," Eames said into the silence, his shoulders heaving in a deep breath. Arthur found himself tracking the movement with his eyes.
"Is that what you said?" His own voice was tight, controlled and fury-ridden but he kept it low to match Eames'.
Eames smiled but it didn't reach his eyes and the skin was left uncrinkled there. Admittedly, the smile that would give Eames wrinkles, if he managed to live that long, were Arthur's favorite. Not that he was fond of saying such things allowed, let a lone to an audience, but he tried to convey that in the squeeze of his hand on Eames' arm.
"Not exactly," Eames replied, leaning into Arthur's touch. Somehow, they had shifted and Arthur was now frowning at the top of Eames' head as he smashed his face into Arthur's shirt. It was often that Arthur found himself in positions that Eames had manipulated them into without Arthur's knowledge but usually that was when they were wearing considerably less clothes. It was a small part of Eames' personality but something that not everyone got to see. Eames was a glutton for touch and was unashamed to take whatever he could get away with, especially from Arthur.
Arthur's hand twitched.
"Are you going to tell me what you said to make him so angry as to try and kill you?" His voice was light but he was serious.
Eames hummed into Arthur's belly, nuzzling his face into the fabric in a kittenish movement that was probably ruining Arthur's shirt in the process. After several minutes, Eames stopped and turned, trapping Arthur's hand against his face.
Sneaky bastard.
"I told him I had a better offer," Eames said, almost shyly.
Arthur nodded, watching as Eames rubbed his stubbled cheek into Arthur's palm.
"Do you now?"
"Yes," Eames said, nipping at Arthur's thumb. "A more permanent one."
"Presumptuous asshole," Arthur murmured, but not without affection. Eames smiled against Arthur's hand, coyly looking up through his eyelashes like he knew exactly how attractive he was, ruffled and messy with violence.
"He never did like you," Eames said and Arthur huffed.
"Please," Arthur said, stroking Eames' ear. "He always wanted what he couldn't have. I'm glad he's gone, couldn't get any work done with him whining all the time, coveting my things."
Eames chuckled. "Liar, you loved it."
Arthur shrugged, letting Eames pull him into the v of his legs. He wrapped his arms around Eames' shoulders, his shirt already as ruined as Eames' with blood and sweat.
Eames' hands, greedy as ever, wrapped around his waist. The gun, still slightly warm, poked Arthur in the back.
"Put that away," Arthur murmured. Eames' eyes flashed, wicked.
"You don't really mean that, baby."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Only you would try to make out with me, at work mind you, waving around a loaded gun."
"No work now that Harrison is gone."
Arthur nodded. "True, however, four dead bodies are not a turn on."
"Five," Eames said, nodding to feet sticking out behind the couch. "And you lie again!"
This time, when Eames smiled, it reached his eyes.
"Put the safety on before you shoot me in the ass."
"I would never shoot something so precious," Eames said, palming Arthur with the gun still in his hand.
"You smell disgusting, like grimy metal," Arthur said, nosing at Eames face. "And possibly gun-shot residue."
Eames laughed. "Is it turning you on?"
"Yes."
Arthur wanted to hate himself. He had vowed never to encourage Eames with sex when he was wearing these pants, fucking checkered menace that made his ass look huge. But it was too hard to resist Eames, caked in other people's blood and noble as ever.
"Good," Eames replied, smile stretched around his words as he leaned up to kiss Arthur.
Right there, among the cooling bodies of their former colleagues, Eames tasted like bitter tea and adrenaline but he licked into Arthur's mouth with purpose, as if he was made to be pressed against Arthur with his porn-star lips and his dismal sense of humor. He kissed like he knew, without a doubt, that Arthur was his. Surprisingly, this confidence didn't piss Arthur off as much as it usually did. That might had something to do with the hand, broad and calloused, palming the front of his trousers.
The day, rocky start as it had, was looking up.
Rating: R for language and violence
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Eames being a BAMF, references to sexual harassment and unbeta'd so it has tons of typos. I DON'T CARE.
Word count: 1200ish
Summary: Arthur gets to office, only to find Eames hanging out with some dead bodies. Business as usual.
Author's Note: This was written for
latenightcuppa to make her feel joy. Arthur drew his weapon at the sight of the open warehouse door.
The walls, flimsy and pathetic as an abandoned make-shift air-hanger would be, were littered with bullet holes that most definitely had not been there when Arthur had left just five hours ago. He would have noticed.
Arthur counted four bodies.
"What the fuck happened here?"
Eames was sitting on top of what was left of his desk. The space was a disaster. Everything was shot up, launched across the floor in apparent cover forms and nothing, not even Arthur's lovely white board, was spared. It looked like a fire fight had happened while Arthur was sipping coffee in his underwear at the hotel.
Eames looked up from where he was staring at his hands.
"Hello, Arthur."
Arthur stepped over a man's leg, completely mutilated, and glared. "Hello is not a proper response to carnage."
"Ah, yes," Eames said absently. "Sorry about the mess."
"Is that our architect?" He pointed to the ruined face of someone who could have been their architect. It was hard to tell with the head shot completely matted with brain matter. "Did you have to shoot him in the face?"
"It was an accident."
Arthur turned away. "Do I even want to know what happened?"
Eames leaned back and winced. Arthur smothered the urge to go and check him out for wounds. Knowing Eames, he was probably bleeding out as they spoke. Serves the fucker right for having the nerve to get up before Arthur this morning to attend to this mess, instead of staying in bed until Arthur threatened him with violence.
"Just a misunderstanding that lead to our dear Harrison hiring a team of ruthless killers to come after me."
"A misunderstanding?" He flipped the safety back on his gun and re-holstered it.
Eames laughed but it was a little hollow. "Don't make me explain it, darling. Speaking ill of the dead is so bourgeois."
Arthur felt a headache coming on.
"Explain."
"He thought that I should repay him for double-crossing him on the Samson job," Eames said, carefully. "I disagreed."
Arthur felt his blood run cold. He stepped over another body, twisted with a chair, and laid a hand on Eames' arm. When he barely flinched, too tired or crashing from the adrenaline too mask it, Arthur felt the anger well.
"That fucking—"
Eames sighed. "You can't kill him again, darling. What's done is done."
"He tried to—"
Eames looked up, eyes soft and tired. Arthur swallowed the rest of his sentence. "It's over now. No need to fret."
They breathed, Arthur's hand still wrapped around his arm. His shirt was ruined with blood smeared in a few spots, burn holes and other tears marring the paisley print. Sadly, this was one of the paisley shirts that Arthur didn't hate. His pants, however, had holes at the knees and grease everywhere. They would have to go. Arthur wasn't going to be holding a funeral for them, they were ugly and checkered and truly an eyesore.
"Some people don't like being told no," Eames said into the silence, his shoulders heaving in a deep breath. Arthur found himself tracking the movement with his eyes.
"Is that what you said?" His own voice was tight, controlled and fury-ridden but he kept it low to match Eames'.
Eames smiled but it didn't reach his eyes and the skin was left uncrinkled there. Admittedly, the smile that would give Eames wrinkles, if he managed to live that long, were Arthur's favorite. Not that he was fond of saying such things allowed, let a lone to an audience, but he tried to convey that in the squeeze of his hand on Eames' arm.
"Not exactly," Eames replied, leaning into Arthur's touch. Somehow, they had shifted and Arthur was now frowning at the top of Eames' head as he smashed his face into Arthur's shirt. It was often that Arthur found himself in positions that Eames had manipulated them into without Arthur's knowledge but usually that was when they were wearing considerably less clothes. It was a small part of Eames' personality but something that not everyone got to see. Eames was a glutton for touch and was unashamed to take whatever he could get away with, especially from Arthur.
Arthur's hand twitched.
"Are you going to tell me what you said to make him so angry as to try and kill you?" His voice was light but he was serious.
Eames hummed into Arthur's belly, nuzzling his face into the fabric in a kittenish movement that was probably ruining Arthur's shirt in the process. After several minutes, Eames stopped and turned, trapping Arthur's hand against his face.
Sneaky bastard.
"I told him I had a better offer," Eames said, almost shyly.
Arthur nodded, watching as Eames rubbed his stubbled cheek into Arthur's palm.
"Do you now?"
"Yes," Eames said, nipping at Arthur's thumb. "A more permanent one."
"Presumptuous asshole," Arthur murmured, but not without affection. Eames smiled against Arthur's hand, coyly looking up through his eyelashes like he knew exactly how attractive he was, ruffled and messy with violence.
"He never did like you," Eames said and Arthur huffed.
"Please," Arthur said, stroking Eames' ear. "He always wanted what he couldn't have. I'm glad he's gone, couldn't get any work done with him whining all the time, coveting my things."
Eames chuckled. "Liar, you loved it."
Arthur shrugged, letting Eames pull him into the v of his legs. He wrapped his arms around Eames' shoulders, his shirt already as ruined as Eames' with blood and sweat.
Eames' hands, greedy as ever, wrapped around his waist. The gun, still slightly warm, poked Arthur in the back.
"Put that away," Arthur murmured. Eames' eyes flashed, wicked.
"You don't really mean that, baby."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Only you would try to make out with me, at work mind you, waving around a loaded gun."
"No work now that Harrison is gone."
Arthur nodded. "True, however, four dead bodies are not a turn on."
"Five," Eames said, nodding to feet sticking out behind the couch. "And you lie again!"
This time, when Eames smiled, it reached his eyes.
"Put the safety on before you shoot me in the ass."
"I would never shoot something so precious," Eames said, palming Arthur with the gun still in his hand.
"You smell disgusting, like grimy metal," Arthur said, nosing at Eames face. "And possibly gun-shot residue."
Eames laughed. "Is it turning you on?"
"Yes."
Arthur wanted to hate himself. He had vowed never to encourage Eames with sex when he was wearing these pants, fucking checkered menace that made his ass look huge. But it was too hard to resist Eames, caked in other people's blood and noble as ever.
"Good," Eames replied, smile stretched around his words as he leaned up to kiss Arthur.
Right there, among the cooling bodies of their former colleagues, Eames tasted like bitter tea and adrenaline but he licked into Arthur's mouth with purpose, as if he was made to be pressed against Arthur with his porn-star lips and his dismal sense of humor. He kissed like he knew, without a doubt, that Arthur was his. Surprisingly, this confidence didn't piss Arthur off as much as it usually did. That might had something to do with the hand, broad and calloused, palming the front of his trousers.
The day, rocky start as it had, was looking up.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-03-31 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-31 11:23 pm (UTC)And Eames tasting like tea. you know my feelings about tea so this makes me very happy.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 08:06 pm (UTC)I JUST WHIP MY HAIR BACK AND FORTH, YO.
He totally tastes like tea, just to spite whatever country he's in.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 08:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-02 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 10:49 am (UTC)Hahaha Its that ninja-cuddling that Eames is so good at. XD
no subject
Date: 2011-04-12 02:37 am (UTC)