[December 25th] Kangaroos Are Arseholes
Kangaroos Are Arseholes
NC-17 - 2607 Words
Author : butterflythread | Artist : pseudonc
Summary : Kangaroos are still arseholes. (warning : gunplay)
“That,” Eames says, dropping his third cigarette butt of the last half hour and crushing it beneath his heel, “is a big mammal.”
Arthur glances over at the kangaroo carcass by the side of the red dirt track. It’s already bloating in the hot afternoon sun, a mercy bullet from Arthur’s glock cooling in its brain. “Of course it is,” he says, raking his hand through damp hair and turning his attention back to the map spread out inside the open trunk of the car. It’s not the best place to put it, but the bonnet and windshield were utterly totalled by the kangaroo and just because he has to be sweaty and gritty doesn’t mean Arthur wants to add blood and fur to the mix.
“Arthur.”
“What?” He shoves his slipping sleeves up and turns. Eames is still leaning there against the side of the car, nonchalantly lighting his fourth cigarette. Before he lifts it to his lips he holds it out to Arthur, silently.
Their fingers brush as he takes it, the warm smoke and nicotine taking some of the tension lining his shoulders with it when he breathes out slowly.
“Better?” Eames asks, reaching into his pocket for another of his own when Arthur doesn’t give it back, just leans against the too-hot metal of the car and takes another drag.
It’s not a surprise anymore when Eames knows what he needs before he realises it himself. Arthur’s learned very quickly to just appreciate it. “Yeah,” he says, shading his eyes against the sun and peering down the scrubby road with its floating heat mirages. “Yeah, it is.”
“So. What do we do now?”
It’s Arthur’s turn to drop a cigarette butt onto the dusty ground, sighing as he kicks at it with the tip of his boot. “We’re lucky, technically. It’ll only be an hour or so to walk to Borroloola. But... this is going to put us another few days behind.”
Eames shrugs, an easy roll of his sunburnt shoulders. “We already missed the drop. Another few days won’t kill them.”
Arthur returns to the trunk, lifting up the spare tyre cover and pulling out the stash of guns, money in four different currencies, and Eames’s spare passports. There’s a box wrapped in an old shirt hidden there too, and he quickly stows it in his duffel bag before turning his attention to the water containers. When he slams the trunk shut Eames is standing there, a smear of kangaroo blood across his cheekbone from liberating the PASIV and paperwork from under the front seat.
Arthur reaches out, rubbing at the red mark with his thumb.
Eames grins at him.
*
Borroloola is a nothing town in the middle of nowhere, a few scrubby trees and flat red dirt as far as the eye can see. It’s just on dusk when Arthur and Eames walk down the main street (the only street, Arthur corrects himself), a few kangaroos mocking their predicament by bounding away from the water trough in front of the pub as they approach. The temptation to splash the animal’s water on his face is unacceptably strong, and he sees Eames eyeing the trough with the same speculation in his eyes.
It’s all timber and corrugated iron inside the pub, a squeaking overhead fan and the sudden tell-tale silence that screamed outsiders! Arthur frowns, clutching the handle of the PASIV’s black travelling case a little tighter.
“Hey, mate. Can I grab a VB?”
The accent is still English, but coarse and unaffected in a way Eames doesn’t usually talk, so it takes Arthur a second to realise he was the one who spoke. Within a few minutes there’s been space made at the tinsel bedecked bar, and Arthur curls one hand around the cold beer and keeps the other firmly on the PASIV. He just listens while Eames strikes an easy rapport with the locals. He’s putting on a little bit of a show, but most of it is nothing but pure charisma.
By the time Arthur’s on his third beer, he’s heard Eames tell a slightly exaggerated version of the kangaroo incident, been impressed by how easily he arranged a lift through to the next proper town in exchange for the wreck of their car, and is almost unreasonably grateful when it turns out there’s a room upstairs for passers through.
“There’s a camp bed you can roll out from under the main one,” Mick, the owner, says. “Should be clean towels up there too, and there’s a shower out back.” He eyes the both of them, and Arthur knows they look like shit, sweat and grime and that goddamn gritty red dust.
Who’s he kidding. Arthur feels like shit. A fucked job that keeps getting more fucked, an unfamiliar place in unfamiliar territory, and it’s Christmas fucking Eve. Not that he really cares about Christmas per se. But he’d still rather be home, at either home; the old farmhouse they’d bought in Wisconsin last winter or the London flat Eames had lived in forever.
He downs the last of his beer and touches Eames’s elbow gently. Normally he wouldn’t, not in public in a place he doesn’t know well enough to feel safe in. But he’s beyond caring. “Watch this. I’m going to have a shower.”
Eames nods, positioning the PASIV case securely between his ankles.
Upstairs is more corrugated iron, another ineffectual ceiling fan, and the sound of the pub below drifting up through the floorboards. There’s a sad little... well, Arthur would hesitate to call it a Christmas tree really, the broken-off gum tree branch stuck in the pot of dirt, leaves desiccated. Closer examination shows there are bottlecaps strung on the little branches alongside the usual baubles. The thought is nice, though.
Arthur throws the duffel bag down on the bed, picks up a towel from the sideboard, and tries not to be too excited about the prospect of bathing.
It’s just as glorious as he was expecting. There’s no hot water, but the icy cold bore water is all he needs. He stays there until it runs clear along the concrete floor instead of murky red before wrapping the towel around his waist.
Eames is lying on the bed when Arthur gets back upstairs, nothing but boxer shorts and open shirt, luxuriating under the almost non-existent breeze from the fan. The box that had been wrapped in the old shirt is lying open next to him, and Arthur frowns as Eames looks down the barrel of the Desert Eagle at him.
Full Size
“I hid the other guns,” Eames says by way of explanation. “But I didn’t know you had one of these.”
“I don’t,” Arthur replies. “It’s...” he feels suddenly awkward, like he’s been caught out. “It was for you. “
“For Christmas?” Eames sits up slightly, and Arthur sees the exact moment he stops playing with the gun and starts testing it. There’s an intense look in Eames’s eyes as he tries the weight, flexes his finger against the trigger.
“Yeah,” Arthur says, distracted by the way Eames’s muscles move with the weapon.
Eames slides his hand along the barrel of the gun, fingers curling against the metal. Arthur’s reasonably sure it’s not meant to look as suggestive as it does, but then again it’s Eames.
“I didn’t get you anything,” Eames says, flopping back on the bed and pointing the gun at the ceiling, trying out different grips.
Arthur shrugs. “You’ve been preoccupied getting us into trouble. You can make it up to me later.”
“Darling, I could make it up to you right now if you like.”
The easy drift of sound through the floorboards gives Arthur pause for all of ten seconds. He feels better after the shower, even if the oppressive heat still hasn’t abated. And fuck it, it’s Christmas, so he’ll damn well take Eames up on it.
He drops the towel without preamble, kneeling over Eames’s thigh and prowling up his body until the muzzle of the Desert Eagle is pressed against the hollow of his throat. Sweat and beads of water drip down his back as he arches, hands on either side of Eames’s ribs.
“Is it empty?” he asks, pushing down, steel digging into skin.
Eames’s smile flickers into something predatory. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Arthur’s heart kicks into adrenaline-fuelled overdrive, a desperate beat against his ribs, and it’s not just the healthy fear anybody in their line of work has for a possibly loaded gun. His cock twitches and he rolls his hips forward, rubbing against Eames’s upper thigh. It feels fucking amazing, sensitive skin against coarse hair and muscle.
“Fuck,” Eames breathes, free hand gripping Arthur’s wrist.
The muzzle of the gun slips up to his throat, and on a whim he ducks his head and licks a long, wet stripe along the underside of the barrel just like he would if he was teasing Eames’s cock.
From the strangled noise he makes, Eames is thinking the exact same thing.
Arthur looks down at Eames’s eyes as he slides his mouth over the muzzle. The pupils are wide, dilating further when he takes the gun deeper, as far as he can go without the warm metal digging into the back of his throat.
He’s had guns shoved in his mouth before, but wanting to do it and trusting that Eames isn’t actually five seconds away from pulling the trigger somehow changes it from something really fucking scary to something far more erotic than it has any right to be.
He pulls back, drawing his tongue along the underside again as he does, before taking it deep again. The metal is unforgiving, nothing like the pliable rigidity of a cock, and it takes a few bobs of his head before he has a decent rhythm going.
“Arthur,” Eames says, arching up, and Arthur can see the tension all down the muscles of his gun arm. “Fuck.”
Arthur runs his tongue around the barrel one last time, and yeah, he’s enjoying the way Eames is looking at him a whole fucking lot. “What?”
Eames just breathes for a second, before lifting the Desert Eagle and popping the magazine. “It was loaded, you crazy bastard.” He throws the gun and the magazine aside.
It should be a more frightening thought, that he just had a loaded gun in his fucking mouth, but all the knowledge does is send a spark of arousal down Arthur’s spine. “Don’t move.”
Eames doesn’t listen, but Arthur’s willing to let him get away with wriggling out of his shorts while he digs in the duffle bag for the bottle of lube. He’s edged further up the bed when Arthur turns back around, arms behind his head, legs spread just enough to draw attention to his erection.
Arthur rolls his eyes, coating two fingers in lube before kneeling over Eames again. It’s already warm from the heat in the air, and Arthur feels some of it sliding down the inside of his wrist as he gets into a comfortable position.
“I thought I was meant to be making something up to you,” Eames says, reaching down to grab the backs of Arthur knees where he’s already damp with sweat again.
“Exactly. So shut up and let me do what I want.”
He shifts his weight so he can stay steady while he reaches back and starts opening himself up with two fingers. He bites his lip at the first slick touch, but he’s used to this, and it doesn’t take long before there’s a familiar pleasant ache settling at the base of spine as he rocks back against his hand. It’s an awkward angle but he’s still breathing hard, eyes closed.
“Fuck Arthur. Do you even... do you have any fucking idea what you look like right now?”
Eames’s voice is rough and breathless, so Arthur has a pretty damn good idea what he looks like. “Like I’m about to fuck myself with your cock?” He says anyway, feeling himself clench around his own fingers at the thought.
Eames just groans in response.
Arthur pulls his fingers free and reaches for the gun and magazine, gripping them in one hand as he sits back on his knees and slides a hand down over Eames’s cock, stroking the lube left on his hand onto him before shifting the magazine to his other hand.
“Wait,” he says, not even sure if Eames will listen, not when the head of his cock is sliding against Arthur like that, like one decent thrust up or push down will be enough to press in.
Arthur’s hands are slippery with sweat and lube but still as sure as ever when he slams the magazine home, the sharp sound covering their groans as he drops his weight, sinks down until his ass is flush with Eames’s thighs. He takes a second to just feel it, the stretch and heat and slick drip of lube down his thighs, before pressing the muzzle of the gun under Eames’s chin.
Eames takes a stuttered breath, and Arthur can feel his racing pulse through the cock inside him.
“Say no if you’re going to say no,” Arthur hisses, because he can’t stay still, he needs to move, needs to ride Eames into this fucking mattress until his knees hurt and Eames is drawing red scratch marks down his ass, and fuck it if the regulars downstairs hear them.
But Eames doesn’t say no. He just mouths ‘I trust you’, sliding his hands up to Arthur’s waist.
That’s enough. He rocks down hard, that one thrust enough to make his fingers tense on the gun, and it’s such a thrill, the frisson of fear threaded through the pleasure. One wrong move, one poorly timed twitch, and even good trigger discipline won’t be enough to stop this going very, very bad.
Eames is pulling him down, though, hands rough against his waist, arching up with all the leverage he can get with his feet only just touching the floor. They rock against each other like that until Arthur leans forward, planting his free hand on Eames’s stomach. The muscles spasm beneath his palm as he lifts himself higher before fucking back down again, taking Eames hard and deep and...
“Fuck,” he says, fingertips sliding on Eames’s skin, struggling to keep the gun steady. “Like that, just like that.”
His thighs are burning from the strain when Eames reaches, panting, and curls his hand around Arthur’s cock. “C’mon,” he whispers. “Arthur. Arthur.”
Those fucking r sounds are obscene when Eames says them, and Arthur jerks, coming over Eames’s hand.
Eames strokes him through it, small soothing sounds as Arthur holds the gun steady between his palm and Eames’s chest, muzzle pointed towards the window. The metal digs into his hand, and he doesn’t care. Not while Eames is still fucking him, languid and loose.
He feels it when Eames comes, the sharp thrust and shudder of his hips, and he keeps himself together long enough to empty the magazine and toss the gun aside before sprawling over Eames’s chest.
“Too hot,” Eames huffs after a few seconds, pushing Arthur off him.
It’s true, so Arthur doesn’t complain. His skin still feels too warm, sweat and lube and come dripping down his inner thigh. It’s filthy, and he’ll never admit to liking it as much as he does. “I need another shower.”
“I need my first shower,” Eames says, fingers tangling in Arthur’s hair.
They lie there a little longer anyway, rising moonlight catching on the foil star atop the little gumtree branch.