fic: Leverage/Burn Notice: No Suits and No Martinis (1/1)
Title: No Suits and No Martinis
Author: Havenward
Fandom: Leverage/Burn Notice
Pairing: Eliot Spencer/Michael Westen
Words: 1202
Rating: NC17 (mild violence and explicit sex)
Prompt: 98. Leverage/Burn Notice - Eliot/Michael - explosive
Note: For meredevachon's Little Black Dress from Oklahoma Challenge. Set in the same 'verse as You Don't Have a Relationship with an Asset. Also, I couldn't remember where Mike's stairs are inside. Insert handwave here.
Summary: Not everything that goes boom can be put into a bomb, but then, not all of them are hazardous either.
Tempers
“You don't get to make that call,” Eliot growls. He's fighting mad and ready to hit something, and right about now, he's thinking it ought to be Michael. But he just clenches his fists tighter, because he know it won't last, and even under all his anger he still wants to come back in the morning. “This ain't some suicide mission in a country with a half forgotten name, Mike. This is Miami, and they're my people. You don't fuck with my people.”
Michael clenches his jaw a little tighter. Eliot watches the shutters go up behind his eyes. People don't realize it about Mike, but it's better for your health if he's screaming his anger to the skies. “I don't need to ask your permission to do my job, Eliot.”
“And what. That's it? Me and mine are just a fuckin' job? Or are we just in the way?”
Mike sneers and says nothing, and just turns on his heel and leaves.
Clients
Eliot stares out the window, brooding. Yeah, Nate's trying to placate the man that hired him. Eliot should care. He doesn't. As far as he's concerned, the job is blown and their stupid, greedy client can shove it up his ass. They never should have taken this job to begin with. Maybe shouldn't have come back to Miami at all.
He's starting to regret suggesting it to Nate as a base of operations.
“Fuck you!” the guy shouts, and that gets Eliot's attention. That, and the click of a gun safety being switched off. “Your damned muscle can't even give a damn! I should just, I should just...”
Whatever got into the damn fool's brain never gets past his lips. He's too busy crying like a baby into the desk Eliot's pinning him to.
Women
Eliot wakes to steady thumping on his door. He'd really not rather be awake, if he's not going to be making due with a breakfast of yogurt. But the banging just. Won't. Stop.
“C'mon Eliot,” Fiona yells through the door. “I know you're in there!” He opens the door and glares at her. Well. He intends on glaring at her, but his sleep clogged mind is stunned to silence by the box of bomb parts and plastiques in her hands. She smiles at him. Eliot's not sure if he likes the mixture of sympathy and retaliation in her eyes. “I figured since you went and pissed him off, I'll just put these together in your kitchen instead.”
Enemies
It's not the worst way a job could go wrong, maybe. Which is to say that Eliot's been in worse situations. Probably. He's not used to having a team to worry about, a team he's invested in. People he doesn't want to see bruised, let alone shot.
Which is precisely why he's towing Parker by the wrist, one hand resting lightly on Sophie's shoulder as they make their way out the back. They haven't been noticed, not yet, but their luck won't hold for much longer. Eliot's just hoping he can get the women outside before the idiots up front break out the automatic weapons.
They're there. Sophie's hand is on the door when it starts to open, and Eliot instinctively puts himself between them and the outside. It slides wider slowly, too slowly to be one of the mercenaries, so Eliot holds back. And finds himself face to face with Michael.
“It'll be clear for another ninety seconds,” Mike says as soon as he can see Eliot isn't going to try and beat the hell out of him. “There's a jeep on the corner closest to the marina. Keys are in the glove box.”
Eliot nods and doesn't hesitate. He pushes the women out ahead of him, urging them faster. He doesn't look back, either. Not once Sophie and Parker are climbing in. Not even when the ground and air shake, and the side of the building disintegrates in a shower of glass and brick.
Desires
Eliot almost doesn't go, doesn't want to know if what went down was Michael's last job. People like Mike, like Eliot, they don't grow old and fade away. They can't sit still long enough, can't keep their noses in their own business. Can't keep their hands to themselves. When Michael finally opens the door, Eliot doesn't even try, just closes the distance between them and presses close, presses their mouths together and revels in the taste and feel of him.
He lets Michael pull him inside and kick the door closed. Lets him shove him back hard against the cool metal, pulling at his clothes and trying to get his hands everywhere at once. Mike's whole and mostly unharmed, a few bruises and scrapes but no burns, no bullet wounds, and that just makes Eliot redouble his efforts, finally stripping Mike's shirt away just as the man gets through his belt and fly.
He barely notices the rest of their clothes falling away, tossed aside with as much fervor as when they were removed. Mike's hand is on him, strokes rough with needwantnow and Eliot can't not thrust into the touch. He spreads his legs that much wider, begging silently as he digs his fingers into Michael's shoulders and leaves a new set of bruises. Eliot growls, impatient. Nips at his mouth and pushes him back, starting to turn them with the intention of aiming for the bed.
But Michael won't have it. He turns them again so he's pinned Eliot to the railing on the stairs. He nips at Mike's jaw and throat, sucking hard and leaving yet another bruise. And that's enough - Mike's hands move to his hips and he lifts. It doesn't take much encouragement for Eliot to catch on, to brace himself on the railing and wrap his legs around Michael's waist. One of them moans as their cocks brush together, until Mike lifts him just so and thrusts in deep.
A moment is all Michael gives him to adjust, and a few moments more is all they need to find a rhythm. It's hard and rough and deep, muscles burning as hot lust coils low and they kiss and nip and lick whatever skin they can reach as they move. Mike shifts a little, hitting Eliot's prostate now. Eliot lets his head fall back, does his best to arc himself into Michael. The only friction against his cock now is the thrust and slide against their abdomens and he strains for more, strains for everything.
His orgasm tears through him and he cries out, barely remembering or able to keep his hold on the railing as his vision whites out. The shocks rattle through him even as Michael keeps thrusting, warmth spreading between them. He whimpers; Mike is still hitting his prostate and it's too much. He arcs and whimpers again, pleading, and he feels Mike tip over the edge. His hips stuttering,warmth filling Eliot as he comes.
He releases Eliot's legs, but doesn't let go. They stand, leaning together with the railing as support, foreheads pressed together until their legs are remotely capable of carrying them to the bed.
Author: Havenward
Fandom: Leverage/Burn Notice
Pairing: Eliot Spencer/Michael Westen
Words: 1202
Rating: NC17 (mild violence and explicit sex)
Prompt: 98. Leverage/Burn Notice - Eliot/Michael - explosive
Note: For meredevachon's Little Black Dress from Oklahoma Challenge. Set in the same 'verse as You Don't Have a Relationship with an Asset. Also, I couldn't remember where Mike's stairs are inside. Insert handwave here.
Summary: Not everything that goes boom can be put into a bomb, but then, not all of them are hazardous either.
Tempers
“You don't get to make that call,” Eliot growls. He's fighting mad and ready to hit something, and right about now, he's thinking it ought to be Michael. But he just clenches his fists tighter, because he know it won't last, and even under all his anger he still wants to come back in the morning. “This ain't some suicide mission in a country with a half forgotten name, Mike. This is Miami, and they're my people. You don't fuck with my people.”
Michael clenches his jaw a little tighter. Eliot watches the shutters go up behind his eyes. People don't realize it about Mike, but it's better for your health if he's screaming his anger to the skies. “I don't need to ask your permission to do my job, Eliot.”
“And what. That's it? Me and mine are just a fuckin' job? Or are we just in the way?”
Mike sneers and says nothing, and just turns on his heel and leaves.
Clients
Eliot stares out the window, brooding. Yeah, Nate's trying to placate the man that hired him. Eliot should care. He doesn't. As far as he's concerned, the job is blown and their stupid, greedy client can shove it up his ass. They never should have taken this job to begin with. Maybe shouldn't have come back to Miami at all.
He's starting to regret suggesting it to Nate as a base of operations.
“Fuck you!” the guy shouts, and that gets Eliot's attention. That, and the click of a gun safety being switched off. “Your damned muscle can't even give a damn! I should just, I should just...”
Whatever got into the damn fool's brain never gets past his lips. He's too busy crying like a baby into the desk Eliot's pinning him to.
Women
Eliot wakes to steady thumping on his door. He'd really not rather be awake, if he's not going to be making due with a breakfast of yogurt. But the banging just. Won't. Stop.
“C'mon Eliot,” Fiona yells through the door. “I know you're in there!” He opens the door and glares at her. Well. He intends on glaring at her, but his sleep clogged mind is stunned to silence by the box of bomb parts and plastiques in her hands. She smiles at him. Eliot's not sure if he likes the mixture of sympathy and retaliation in her eyes. “I figured since you went and pissed him off, I'll just put these together in your kitchen instead.”
Enemies
It's not the worst way a job could go wrong, maybe. Which is to say that Eliot's been in worse situations. Probably. He's not used to having a team to worry about, a team he's invested in. People he doesn't want to see bruised, let alone shot.
Which is precisely why he's towing Parker by the wrist, one hand resting lightly on Sophie's shoulder as they make their way out the back. They haven't been noticed, not yet, but their luck won't hold for much longer. Eliot's just hoping he can get the women outside before the idiots up front break out the automatic weapons.
They're there. Sophie's hand is on the door when it starts to open, and Eliot instinctively puts himself between them and the outside. It slides wider slowly, too slowly to be one of the mercenaries, so Eliot holds back. And finds himself face to face with Michael.
“It'll be clear for another ninety seconds,” Mike says as soon as he can see Eliot isn't going to try and beat the hell out of him. “There's a jeep on the corner closest to the marina. Keys are in the glove box.”
Eliot nods and doesn't hesitate. He pushes the women out ahead of him, urging them faster. He doesn't look back, either. Not once Sophie and Parker are climbing in. Not even when the ground and air shake, and the side of the building disintegrates in a shower of glass and brick.
Desires
Eliot almost doesn't go, doesn't want to know if what went down was Michael's last job. People like Mike, like Eliot, they don't grow old and fade away. They can't sit still long enough, can't keep their noses in their own business. Can't keep their hands to themselves. When Michael finally opens the door, Eliot doesn't even try, just closes the distance between them and presses close, presses their mouths together and revels in the taste and feel of him.
He lets Michael pull him inside and kick the door closed. Lets him shove him back hard against the cool metal, pulling at his clothes and trying to get his hands everywhere at once. Mike's whole and mostly unharmed, a few bruises and scrapes but no burns, no bullet wounds, and that just makes Eliot redouble his efforts, finally stripping Mike's shirt away just as the man gets through his belt and fly.
He barely notices the rest of their clothes falling away, tossed aside with as much fervor as when they were removed. Mike's hand is on him, strokes rough with needwantnow and Eliot can't not thrust into the touch. He spreads his legs that much wider, begging silently as he digs his fingers into Michael's shoulders and leaves a new set of bruises. Eliot growls, impatient. Nips at his mouth and pushes him back, starting to turn them with the intention of aiming for the bed.
But Michael won't have it. He turns them again so he's pinned Eliot to the railing on the stairs. He nips at Mike's jaw and throat, sucking hard and leaving yet another bruise. And that's enough - Mike's hands move to his hips and he lifts. It doesn't take much encouragement for Eliot to catch on, to brace himself on the railing and wrap his legs around Michael's waist. One of them moans as their cocks brush together, until Mike lifts him just so and thrusts in deep.
A moment is all Michael gives him to adjust, and a few moments more is all they need to find a rhythm. It's hard and rough and deep, muscles burning as hot lust coils low and they kiss and nip and lick whatever skin they can reach as they move. Mike shifts a little, hitting Eliot's prostate now. Eliot lets his head fall back, does his best to arc himself into Michael. The only friction against his cock now is the thrust and slide against their abdomens and he strains for more, strains for everything.
His orgasm tears through him and he cries out, barely remembering or able to keep his hold on the railing as his vision whites out. The shocks rattle through him even as Michael keeps thrusting, warmth spreading between them. He whimpers; Mike is still hitting his prostate and it's too much. He arcs and whimpers again, pleading, and he feels Mike tip over the edge. His hips stuttering,warmth filling Eliot as he comes.
He releases Eliot's legs, but doesn't let go. They stand, leaning together with the railing as support, foreheads pressed together until their legs are remotely capable of carrying them to the bed.