![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ishafelI am having so much trouble FINISHING things. Every time I open OpenOffice I end up with a new document window. I don't have writer's block, I just have ADD. So, look, FINISHED: 1 story that no one will ever read! I feel much better for having accomplished something, though.
Summary: Eames has always enjoyed the planning stages of the job most.
(Spoilers for all aired episodes of GG, though I'm not sure it's necessary to have actually seen it. Although it's been pretty awesome lately.)
The client is a nineteen year old billionaire named Charles Bass. Eames almost wishes he could forge him; there's something appealing about Chuck's languid, studied movements. Eames almost wishes he could fuck him. Chuck is as different from Arthur as two men wearing the same six thousand dollar suit can be. It's as impossible to imagine Arthur casually smoking a cigarette in a cigarette holder while wearing an ascot as it is to imagine Chuck firing from the hip as he runs up an endless flight of stairs.
The mark is a Chicago businessman named Russell Thorpe. He claims that Chuck's dead father murdered his missing wife. Eames, examining Thorpe's flashing smile, his steady dark eyes, thinks the man is absolutely a liar.
“Thorpe's daughter, Raina,” Arthur says, offering another photograph. “The one person he might actually love. They're estranged, at the moment, which is something our client arranged. But Thorpe wants very much to win her over--.”
“Which is exactly why he won't tell her the truth,” Eames says. “Next.”
A beautiful blond. “Lily Humphrey. Thorpe's ex, and our client's stepmother, currently on husband number five and possibly considering a sixth. She's just been indicted on unrelated charges.”
Eames recognizes her. Eames slept with her once, when she was in between husbands. “Darling,” he says. “Would you confide in her? She's not exactly--.”
“Okay,” Arthur says. “Bart Bass. Thorpe's former friend and business partner, responsible for greenlighting the arson that killed a security guard and allegedly killed Thorpe's wife. Deceased, which will make him a challenge.”
“Mmm.” Eames considers it. “What if I forged the client? Thorpe's doing this for revenge, right? To destroy Bass Industries and tarnish Bart's legacy and cause his son to self-destruct?”
“So, who better to brag to than Chuck?” Arthur frowns, thinking about it. “You're not just saying this because you want to forge him?”
“Maybe,” Eames admits, leaning forward into Arthur's space a little, the way Bass does. The way you do when you're rich, angry, and deeply fucked up. “Maybe Thorpe's always had a bit of a tendre for me,” he drawls, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “The way he did for my father--.”
“Chuck wouldn't say tendre,” Arthur points out. “He isn't European. He'd say-- thing, probably. And also, really, because that's pretty disturbing.”
“I'm Chuck Bass,” Eames says, working it. “Everyone wants me, even if they're too repressed to admit it to themselves.”
Arthur makes that noise in his throat, the one that means he's turned on.
Eames knows it well. The first thirty or so times he and Arthur had sex, they did it as other people. “Thorpe,” Arthur says, considering. “Thorpe's wife slept with Bart Bass, and then Bass killed her. He's angry. He wants to destroy Chuck, not just financially but emotionally. He'd like to fuck him and then tell him the truth, maybe.”
He and Eames stare at each other across the table. “Chuck,” Arthur says, “there's something in the other room that I need to show you--.”
“You're making him sound like a rape-y priest,” Eames protests. Arthur, for all his talents, can't act. He stands up and moves around behind Arthur. “I know you're angry, Chuck,” he says, in Thorpe's most fatherly voice, “you have every right to be. But consider whether you should be angry with me, or with Bart.”
He squeezes Arthur's shoulder gently. “There are many kinds of revenge, Chuck.”
“You think that Chuck would just, what, drop to his knees and blow Thorpe right there in the conference room? Thorpe wouldn't find that suspicious?”
“Let's just see how it plays out,” Eames says, sneering at Arthur in that charismatic way the client had. Pretty much all of Chuck's expressions had doubled as invitations for sex, actually. “Who says I can't be angry at both of you at once?”
Arthur spins his chair away from the table, and Eames leans over him. “You see, Russell,” he says, breathing hard through his nose, “sometimes I like to fuck the people I hate. And since Daddy Dearest is no longer with us, that means I'm going to fuck you.”
Arthur flinches as Eames drops to his knees, but he doesn't move to stop Eames from unbuckling his belt, from sliding his cock free of his silk boxer shorts. His hands stay on the chair's arms, knuckles white with the strength of his grip.
“It just so happens,” Eames says, “that I give amazing head-- and if you don't believe me, you can ask darling Raina.” Arthur's hard, already, and the warmth of Eames' breath hardens him further. Chuck almost certainly isn't queer, despite his flamboyance, so Eames gives Arthur a straight man's blow job. A little awkward, a little too rough in places and not quite rough enough in others.
Arthur doesn't move to touch him, doesn't protest or encourage him as Eames sucks his dick, gagging a little at the unfamiliar feel of something touching the back of his throat, at the taste of pre-come. He slides his fingers up, underneath, cradling Arthur's balls-- reminding him of the dangers of doing this with an enemy.
Arthur moves then, thrusting once, hard, into Eames' mouth. His hands never leave the chair. His eyes are closed, his mouth a hard line. Eames takes him in a little further, carefully: it's something he doesn't like and Chuck wouldn't have experience with. Arthur sighs and comes, just from that.
Eames swallows, though Chuck wouldn't; it saves the carpets and Arthur's precious suit. He sits back on his heels and waits for Arthur to come down. He pastes Chuck's sneer on his face. When Arthur blinks and focuses his eyes on Eames' face, he stops smiling.
“That's right, Russell,” Eames says. “You don't want the board to think you were enjoying this when they watch the video on YouTube. Because that would be a total confidence breaker.”
“What do I have to do to make this go away?”, Arthur asks woodenly.
Eames gives him Chuck's death's head grin, the one no nineteen year old boy should be capable of. “Just tell me the truth,” he says. “About my father-- and your wife.”
“Christ,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You are seriously scary, Eames.” He tucks himself in and does up his trousers, and passes Eames his handkerchief. “You think it will work?”
Eames considers it. “No. I think it will have to be the daughter after all. Just as well-- I don't fancy Thorpe in the least.” He wipes his mouth and stands up, shaking off Chuck's studied, dramatic movement, putting back on the suit labeled Eames. “You don't suppose--.”
“Thorpe may be a shit,” Arthur says, “but I'm sure even he draws the line at incest.”
“Darling,” Eames protests, with a smirk that is nothing like Chuck Bass's sneer. “As if I would suggest such a thing.”
Summary: Eames has always enjoyed the planning stages of the job most.
(Spoilers for all aired episodes of GG, though I'm not sure it's necessary to have actually seen it. Although it's been pretty awesome lately.)
The client is a nineteen year old billionaire named Charles Bass. Eames almost wishes he could forge him; there's something appealing about Chuck's languid, studied movements. Eames almost wishes he could fuck him. Chuck is as different from Arthur as two men wearing the same six thousand dollar suit can be. It's as impossible to imagine Arthur casually smoking a cigarette in a cigarette holder while wearing an ascot as it is to imagine Chuck firing from the hip as he runs up an endless flight of stairs.
The mark is a Chicago businessman named Russell Thorpe. He claims that Chuck's dead father murdered his missing wife. Eames, examining Thorpe's flashing smile, his steady dark eyes, thinks the man is absolutely a liar.
“Thorpe's daughter, Raina,” Arthur says, offering another photograph. “The one person he might actually love. They're estranged, at the moment, which is something our client arranged. But Thorpe wants very much to win her over--.”
“Which is exactly why he won't tell her the truth,” Eames says. “Next.”
A beautiful blond. “Lily Humphrey. Thorpe's ex, and our client's stepmother, currently on husband number five and possibly considering a sixth. She's just been indicted on unrelated charges.”
Eames recognizes her. Eames slept with her once, when she was in between husbands. “Darling,” he says. “Would you confide in her? She's not exactly--.”
“Okay,” Arthur says. “Bart Bass. Thorpe's former friend and business partner, responsible for greenlighting the arson that killed a security guard and allegedly killed Thorpe's wife. Deceased, which will make him a challenge.”
“Mmm.” Eames considers it. “What if I forged the client? Thorpe's doing this for revenge, right? To destroy Bass Industries and tarnish Bart's legacy and cause his son to self-destruct?”
“So, who better to brag to than Chuck?” Arthur frowns, thinking about it. “You're not just saying this because you want to forge him?”
“Maybe,” Eames admits, leaning forward into Arthur's space a little, the way Bass does. The way you do when you're rich, angry, and deeply fucked up. “Maybe Thorpe's always had a bit of a tendre for me,” he drawls, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “The way he did for my father--.”
“Chuck wouldn't say tendre,” Arthur points out. “He isn't European. He'd say-- thing, probably. And also, really, because that's pretty disturbing.”
“I'm Chuck Bass,” Eames says, working it. “Everyone wants me, even if they're too repressed to admit it to themselves.”
Arthur makes that noise in his throat, the one that means he's turned on.
Eames knows it well. The first thirty or so times he and Arthur had sex, they did it as other people. “Thorpe,” Arthur says, considering. “Thorpe's wife slept with Bart Bass, and then Bass killed her. He's angry. He wants to destroy Chuck, not just financially but emotionally. He'd like to fuck him and then tell him the truth, maybe.”
He and Eames stare at each other across the table. “Chuck,” Arthur says, “there's something in the other room that I need to show you--.”
“You're making him sound like a rape-y priest,” Eames protests. Arthur, for all his talents, can't act. He stands up and moves around behind Arthur. “I know you're angry, Chuck,” he says, in Thorpe's most fatherly voice, “you have every right to be. But consider whether you should be angry with me, or with Bart.”
He squeezes Arthur's shoulder gently. “There are many kinds of revenge, Chuck.”
“You think that Chuck would just, what, drop to his knees and blow Thorpe right there in the conference room? Thorpe wouldn't find that suspicious?”
“Let's just see how it plays out,” Eames says, sneering at Arthur in that charismatic way the client had. Pretty much all of Chuck's expressions had doubled as invitations for sex, actually. “Who says I can't be angry at both of you at once?”
Arthur spins his chair away from the table, and Eames leans over him. “You see, Russell,” he says, breathing hard through his nose, “sometimes I like to fuck the people I hate. And since Daddy Dearest is no longer with us, that means I'm going to fuck you.”
Arthur flinches as Eames drops to his knees, but he doesn't move to stop Eames from unbuckling his belt, from sliding his cock free of his silk boxer shorts. His hands stay on the chair's arms, knuckles white with the strength of his grip.
“It just so happens,” Eames says, “that I give amazing head-- and if you don't believe me, you can ask darling Raina.” Arthur's hard, already, and the warmth of Eames' breath hardens him further. Chuck almost certainly isn't queer, despite his flamboyance, so Eames gives Arthur a straight man's blow job. A little awkward, a little too rough in places and not quite rough enough in others.
Arthur doesn't move to touch him, doesn't protest or encourage him as Eames sucks his dick, gagging a little at the unfamiliar feel of something touching the back of his throat, at the taste of pre-come. He slides his fingers up, underneath, cradling Arthur's balls-- reminding him of the dangers of doing this with an enemy.
Arthur moves then, thrusting once, hard, into Eames' mouth. His hands never leave the chair. His eyes are closed, his mouth a hard line. Eames takes him in a little further, carefully: it's something he doesn't like and Chuck wouldn't have experience with. Arthur sighs and comes, just from that.
Eames swallows, though Chuck wouldn't; it saves the carpets and Arthur's precious suit. He sits back on his heels and waits for Arthur to come down. He pastes Chuck's sneer on his face. When Arthur blinks and focuses his eyes on Eames' face, he stops smiling.
“That's right, Russell,” Eames says. “You don't want the board to think you were enjoying this when they watch the video on YouTube. Because that would be a total confidence breaker.”
“What do I have to do to make this go away?”, Arthur asks woodenly.
Eames gives him Chuck's death's head grin, the one no nineteen year old boy should be capable of. “Just tell me the truth,” he says. “About my father-- and your wife.”
“Christ,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You are seriously scary, Eames.” He tucks himself in and does up his trousers, and passes Eames his handkerchief. “You think it will work?”
Eames considers it. “No. I think it will have to be the daughter after all. Just as well-- I don't fancy Thorpe in the least.” He wipes his mouth and stands up, shaking off Chuck's studied, dramatic movement, putting back on the suit labeled Eames. “You don't suppose--.”
“Thorpe may be a shit,” Arthur says, “but I'm sure even he draws the line at incest.”
“Darling,” Eames protests, with a smirk that is nothing like Chuck Bass's sneer. “As if I would suggest such a thing.”
