On The Gas

Jul. 22nd, 2009 03:15 am
deawrites: (evil bunny!)
[personal profile] deawrites
Title: On The Gas
Author: [livejournal.com profile] dea_liberty
Pairing: Jax/Eliot - Sons of Anarchy/Leverage crossover
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is loved.
Summary: Eliot doesn't like guns. Jax does.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just playing in sandboxes.
A/N: A huge thank you to [livejournal.com profile] kali1967 and [livejournal.com profile] gingerpig for their help whipping this baby into shape and assuring me it didn't suck. This is written for [livejournal.com profile] itinerant_vae, who prompted me a million years ago.

For someone who doesn’t like guns though, Eliot’s sure fucking fascinated by the Reaper, M-16 and all...

Eliot doesn’t like guns. It’s the reason they met in the first place, in a bar, a little ways away from Charming. There was a game of pool and some girls, and a scuffle about to turn nasty – and even Jax had to admit he was a little impressed by how fast every gun had been disarmed. He would have been less impressed if the guys had been Sons, but they weren’t and so Jax figures it’s neither here nor there. He could sit there and appreciate the man’s grace without getting too pissed off. He could even offer to buy the guy a drink afterwards without feeling guilty.

Jax doesn’t much like anyone else having guns either and, after the shit with the Nords, the Mayans and the Niners, he thinks he might agree with the whole damn sentiment. At least, in theory. Mostly just about running guns, because he feels a hell of a lot safer with his semi-automatic in his hand than he does without.

For someone who doesn’t like guns though, Eliot’s sure fucking fascinated by the Reaper, M-16 and all, but Jax is more interested in Eliot’s scars tonight, and he’s damn sure Eliot’s never met a gun wielder like him.

“I said,” Eliot growls, “I don’t like guns.” He’s tense as a bow, but the muscles in his stomach move as Jax shifts the barrel of his gun along Eliot’s skin.

“You don’t have to like ‘em,” Jax says carelessly. It’s not like there’s much Eliot can do, cuffed to the headboard like that, and Jax isn’t stupid; he’s seen how quickly Eliot moves, how hard he hits. He’s straddling Eliot’s legs, effectively pinning him in place. There’s nothing Eliot can do. He grins, slow and predatory. “I’m gonna make you love them.” He presses a little harder as he slides past Eliot’s navel. “This one, at least.”

“I said – ”

Jax slaps him with the gun, hard enough to be felt, careful enough to not do damage. “Easy there Eliot, I’m not gonna shoot you. If I’d really wanted to, you’d be dead already.” It’s probably not entirely true but, for one thing, Eliot wouldn’t be cuffed to the headboard naked. Eliot’s head snaps to the side, and then he’s turning back slowly, eyes darker, sharper. He glares at Jax, lips pulled back in an almost-snarl.

“That’s what you think.”

There’s a look in Eliot’s eyes that’s dangerous, that says Eliot’s not making idle comments and, if nothing else, it just makes Jax’s blood pump faster, need and want clawing higher. He doesn’t doubt it – doesn’t doubt that Eliot would have disarmed him as fast as he had those guys at the bar, and there’s no small thrill at having this dangerous man helpless like this.

He likes his bikes fast and powerful, barely contained fire and energy moving under him. He likes all kinds of rides exactly the same way.

When Eliot opens his mouth to talk again, Jax does the logical thing; he fills it. With his gun.

Eliot goes wide-eyed with surprise, breath catching – and if Jax had doubted how much his appreciation of the circumstance was one-sided, there was no doubting the twitch of Eliot’s dick against his thigh now. He smirks, slow and predatory – slides the gun out before shoving it in deeper, presses down against Eliot’s tongue, makes him almost choke.

“Like that, don’t you? What’s this bullshit about not liking guns?” The question’s rhetorical; it’s hard to do more than mumble with a gun half way down your throat. Even if Eliot’s lips look really, really good stretched wide and wrapped around his gun like that. Jax is pretty sure it’d look damn good wrapped around anything. Later, he’s gonna test out that theory with his dick.

For now though, he doesn’t want to move. As much as Eliot’s body seems to be all for this idea of guns, his eyes are still dark and threatening. Not nearly where Jax wants him to be.

He slips the gun from Eliot’s mouth, presses it to his lower lip in quiet warning, before he trails it down his chest again, not stopping at his navel this time, carries on further – down, against warm skin, watching the pressure turn skin white – then red – wherever the barrel goes. Metal against skin; Jax isn’t sure there’s any kind of contrast prettier. Eliot’s trying not to make a sound, trying to stay still, to not pant or moan or twist, and the effort puts more of a strain on his body than giving into instinct would have. Jax can almost taste the power, lets that fight fuel his need.

If Eliot’s fucking beautiful when he’s fighting other people, he’s out of this world when he’s fighting himself.

He rubs the side of the gun against Eliot’s cock, finally coaxing a low, choked back groan, even as Eliot’s whole body shakes with the effort not to give in. He repeats the action, flicks lightly over the head of Eliot’s dick, tries to get him to lose that iron-hard control.

“Stop fighting it. Fucking let go.”

Eliot stubbornly doesn’t.

That’s okay though; Jax loves a challenge. Actually, he’s never been able to resist one. This wouldn’t be half as fun if Eliot just caved, just gave himself over. Half the thrill’s in the journey, working towards the destination slowly – and this is one journey Jax has every intention of enjoying.

He repeats the routine a few more times – down the length of Eliot’s dick, up to flick over the head – until it finally earns him a full, drawn out moan, one that can’t be hidden or locked away behind clenched teeth anymore. When he looks up, Eliot’s eyes are almost completely black, mouth slightly parted as Eliot pants.

Jax grins, slow and feral and, on the next slide, keeps going back – shifts down further and nudges Eliot’s legs apart – and back still, rubs the metal against Eliot’s balls, and presses the barrel against his perineum. Jax would have thought it was impossible but Eliot’s pupils blow wider, expanding until there’s only the slightest hint of blue. Eliot sucks in a deep breath and holds it.

There’s lube within reaching distance, thank fuck, because Jax doesn’t think he can get off Eliot long enough to get some. He somehow manages to wrestle the cap off, coats both his hand and his gun liberally in lube, and doesn’t bother to fight the smile that stretches across his face as he watches realization dawn in Eliot’s eyes. Eliot tries to shake his head, opens his mouth and says, “Hell no.”

Jax grins wider. “Hell yes,” he purrs.

“Hell no,” Eliot hisses, eyes starting to narrow again, starting to change into a whole different meaning of dark. Jax doesn’t want that; he wants that deep, hungry arousal from minutes earlier. He glares back at Eliot.

“Why the fuck not? And if you say you don’t like guns, I’m going to shoot you with it.” It’s an idle threat but it doesn’t really matter if Eliot believes him or not. He just wants a straight answer.

“Don’t even fucking know where it’s been,” Eliot says, twisting in the cuffs. Jax moves fast, sits on his legs again, keeps him pinned. He shifts his weight pointedly. Eliot could probably move him, if he was really trying but, well, he’s not really trying.

“Stop fucking moving.” He moves the gun, hits Eliot’s dick with it lightly, warning – but with how hard Eliot is, it’s got to fucking hurt. He doesn’t want to cripple him with pain, but he wants Eliot to get the point. Eliot swears but he stills, which is exactly what Jax is after.

There’s a condom in his wallet, and the look on Eliot’s face as he looks from the condom to the gun, to the condom again is definitely worth the interruption. Jax rubs the barrel just behind Eliot’s balls, teases by skating it over the crack of his ass, trails lube wet and cool over warm skin, watching Eliot twist and hiss with each movement. “Don’t like guns, huh?” Jax asks again and chuckles. “What else don’t you like?”

Eliot grins at him, too much teeth and absolutely no humor. “You,” he snarls. He almost sounds like he means it. “I really don’t like you.”

Jax smiles back, just as feral, and moves the gun up to rest against Eliot’s dick as he roughly slides two fingers into his ass, fucking him with them, rough and unforgiving. He crooks them just so, and watches Eliot curse, arch and whine. He stops moving them, and Eliot tries to glare.

“You got a real strange definition of ‘don’t like’, Eliot,” he says, rubbing against Eliot’s prostate again, harder this time, presses in and holds for a few moments to get him really writhing. “Because your body’s certainly not agreeing with your mouth. And mouths can lie.”

Eliot’s hands clench around the cuffs. “I ain’t lying,” he pants. It ends in another groan when Jax screws his fingers upwards, deeper. “Guns are – ”

Jax himself pushes up, rests the gun on the corner of Eliot’s mouth as he leans forward, almost kisses him, watches for a moment as Eliot’s pupils blow wider still.

“Stop lying,” he whispers. He shoves his fingers up into Eliot’s body, twists them slowly, enough to make Eliot moan again, this time, loud and wild. There’s no holding back now. He taps the gun against Eliot’s cheek as he pulls his fingers out, sits up to tear the condom packet open with his teeth.

Eliot’s still watching the gun. Jax grins and trails it back down his chest, rubs the barrel against the tip of Eliot’s cock as Jax slides the condom on – and then pushes in without anymore warning. Eliot’s back arches, bow-tight, tugs hard at the cuffs and groans.

“Don’t like guns,” Jax says as he presses in, slides the gun over Eliot’s dick again, watches him work to take Jax in. “Don’t like me. That’s your mouth lying, Eliot, because this doesn’t feel like dislike.”

It feels fucking amazing, tight heat and strong muscles squeezing around his cock. He groans, pushes in harder, deeper, grits his teeth as Eliot’s muscles clamp around him. This is definitely gonna be one hell of a ride.

Eliot pulls at the cuffs again, rocks into Jax as he pulls back and thrusts hard – and he’s watching him, eyes challenging. Jax bares his teeth, moves to lay the gun against Eliot’s cheek and concentrates on fucking him hard, dragging out growls and groans – and fuck, it’s good, really fucking good, all need and want and hard. No holding back, no careful to speak of.

Full throttle, head down, power and grace, and no need for slow or gentle or easy. Exactly the way Jax fucking loves his rides.

He moves his other hand to clutch at Eliot’s hair, twists his fingers in and grips tight, gets his knees better under him to fuck him harder, faster, folds Eliot forward a little more so he can lean in and drag his teeth over Eliot’s skin, licks along his neck – rests his lips on Eliot’s pulse, beating and fluttering under his tongue for a moment. For a second, Eliot feels almost fragile.

But the body under him’s anything but that – and Eliot twists, swears in five different languages and hisses, “Fuck me harder, you fucking pussy. Your goddamn sister could do better than this.”

He doesn’t have a goddamn sister but he takes the challenge for what it is, tugs hard at the strands wrapped around his fingers and slams into Eliot, grins wider with satisfaction when Eliot moans, hands clutching tight at the cuffs. Eliot looks back at him and smirks, heat and invitation and more challenge than he’s ever seen.

“That all you’ve got?” And Jax snarls, hand untangling from Eliot’s hair to wrap around one shoulder, using that grip to slam in again, harder, deeper, fingers digging in with the aim to bruise. The whole fucking bed moves, slams against the wall as he fucks into Eliot over and over, until Eliot’s got no more words, no more cocky attitude, just moans and whines, and his body’s pushing back against Jax’s, shifting the world with the same rhythm.

Jax comes with a growl, Eliot’s legs locked tight around his thighs, back arched as Jax groans, “Come on, motherfucker, come,” at him, presses the gun against his skin a little – hardly any threat, hardly any control of his muscles as he tips over the edge. Eliot follows him down.

It’s a fucking explosion.

He manages to roll off Eliot, collapse to the side, gun clutched loosely in his hand. “Damn,” he says, grinning. “Fuck, that was good.”

He hears the tug of the cuffs against the headboard. “Get these off me, asshole.”

Jax snorts and closes his eyes. “Later,” he promises. “Can’t fucking move.” He hears Eliot cussing as he falls asleep.


When Jax wakes up, he’s the one cuffed to the headboard, and his gun is neatly disassembled on the bed beside him. Eliot leans in close, bites his jaw and says, “I really don’t like guns.”

And then he’s gone.
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