Team: ROMANCE ♥
Prompt: Quiet, home
Summary: Kidfic. Bedtime rituals, domestic fluff, sappy porn (with a few props).
Word count: 4500
"Do you want the red stuff or the green stuff?" Arthur's voice drifts out from the bathroom, and Eames changes direction on his way down the hall.
"Good choice, that's my favourite too."
Eames finds them standing at the sink, Arthur squeezing toothpaste onto Simon's brush, then checking his watch with a flourish. "And... go."
Simon starts to brush with all the fury of an overtired four year old, waving when he sees Eames in the mirror. Arthur glances up and gives a lopsided smile.
"Hey, pops," he says, smoothing Simon's hair. "We had a little detour when we had to check the hall closet for giant octopuses."
"They hide in closets," Simon informs him, spraying the mirror with toothpaste foam.
"I know, they're a terrible nuisance to exterminate," Eames says, straight-faced, leaning on the doorframe. Arthur wipes the mirror clean with a facecloth.
"Are you free to stay with him tomorrow afternoon?" Arthur says to Eames, running the water as Simon spits into the sink. "I finished the models for O'Brien, the military base. I have to drive down to LA to meet his team, he wants me to teach it to them as soon as possible."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Eames says, "Si and I have got a Lego city to finish in the den, anyway."
Simon spits again and grins toothily at Eames. "We gotta build it tall so we can smash it."
"He's your son," Arthur tells Eames dryly, then tilts Simon's chin up, "Show me."
Simon bares his teeth to him with a growl.
"Okay, you're good. Toothbrush in the holder, please," Arthur says, before Simon can hop down from his step-stool. Simon obeys, then reaches for Arthur, who lifts him and props him against his hip. He kisses Simon's nose, resting their foreheads together. Eames doesn't think to check his expression until Arthur glances over, and then whispers to Simon, conspiratorially, "Your papa's a sap."
"Your dad's got little room to talk," Eames says, walking over to them and letting Arthur pass Simon over. "Think you can schedule me in for a bedtime story, pigeon?"
Simon nods, leaning his head against Eames' shoulder. "Uh-huh."
"Yeah? We'll let daddy get back to his very important work, and we'll go have fun."
Arthur leans in and kisses Eames, pulling back with one eyebrow raised. "There's a pattern developing in this household."
"Hey, we work smart, not hard," Eames says, his grin widening when Simon echoes, "Smart not hard, daddy."
Arthur rolls his eyes, "You have got to stop teaching him things like that," but he's smiling when he kisses Simon's cheek, smoothing down his unruly curls again. "Night, buddy."
Eames carries Simon down the hall to his bedroom, and sets him down as Simon asks, "Can we check my closet for giant octopuses?"
"I think that would be a wise decision." Eames leads him to his closet and opens the door slowly, shielding Simon from potential sudden danger. "Looks clear to me."
"We gotta check everywhere," Simon tells him, kneeling down to rummage through his toybox, pick up folded shirts on the shelves and peer underneath them.
"About how big are these giant octopuses?" Eames asks.
Simon holds his hand above his head, indicating a distance from the floor as he picks up a plastic cup and squints inside.
"So they're quite compressible, are they?"
"Can you lift me up? I gotta check up top," Simon points to the high shelves above the hanging clothes.
Eames leans down and scoops Simon up to perch on his shoulder so he can pat his hands around on the shelf until he's satisfied.
"None here," he declares, and Eames lets him wriggle back down to the floor. "Can you read me Ferdinand?"
"I would be honoured," Eames says, giving him a nudge toward his bed, "Get comfy, I'll find it."
Eames scans through the titles in Simon's little book collection as Simon asks, "Are you and daddy gonna watch movies?"
"Why d'you ask, pigeon?" Eames pulls The Story of Ferdinand off the shelf.
Simon shrugs, pulling the covers up and snuggling down into the pillows. "Sometimes I wake up and hear the TV, and you and daddy laughing."
"We watch movies sometimes," Eames says, crossing the room and climbing onto the bed above the covers, curling his arm around Simon and letting him settle back against Eames' shoulder. "Sometimes daddy likes to spend all night snuggling on the couch and watching bad movies. Don't tell him I told you that."
"I won't," Simon says solemnly.
"Comfy?" Eames asks. Simon wriggles, then nods.
"Then I think it's story time," Eames says, kissing the top of Simon's head as he opens the book. "Once upon a time in Spain there was a little bull, and his name was Ferdinand..."
Eames' version of the story has grown considerably as Simon has gotten older, due in large part to the fact that it now takes Simon considerably longer to fall to sleep than it used to. Eames does consider his version superior, though -- rather than the ambiguity of "for all I know" at the end, Ferdinand finds a job at a flower shop, and makes good money decorating lavish weddings for football stars. Simon has not yet noticed any discrepancies, nor the fact that Eames spends the last ten minutes of the story on the same page.
By the time Ferdinand has been formally knighted by Her Maj, Simon is an unmoving, warm weight at Eames' side.
"Sleep tight, pigeon," Eames breathes into his curls, kissing him again before gently easing himself off the bed. He replaces himself with Simon's teddy, and creeps out of the room, shutting off all the lights but the dim lamp in the corner.
He hears the clatter of Arthur's keyboard when he steps into the hall, and follows it down to the study.
Arthur glances around as Eames steps over the toddler fence at the door.
"Is he down?"
"Out like a light before Ferdinand even got to marry his true love Geri Halliwell," Eames stands behind Arthur's chair, snaking his arms around Arthur's shoulders. "Did you find out anything else about Locke's offer?"
Arthur runs his hand over his hair, pulling it down into his eyes and sighing heavily. "Not a lot. He wants an answer soon, he'll move on if we can't commit."
Eames hooks his chin over Arthur's shoulder, peering at the screen. "You didn't hear back from your source about the client?"
"I did," Arthur says, bringing up an email,"I don't know. I know I'm being overcautious."
"No such thing," Eames says, "There's no job worth the risk, right?"
That was what they agreed four years ago; there's no payout and no thrill worth putting any of them in danger. Eames thought it might be hard, giving up the spontaneity, but it doesn't really feel like a sacrifice. They still work, they're still far enough over the line of legality that work will never be a discussion topic at the dinner table -- they're just a lot more careful now.
"I think we might have to turn it down," Arthur sounds almost apologetic, and Eames gives him a squeeze, nosing against his cheek.
"It's nothing on me, I've forged enough octogenarians to last me a lifetime," he splays his palm over Arthur's chest, runs it down to his belly, but Arthur is tense. "You've been working too hard, love."
Arthur makes a noncommittal noise, bringing up a spreadsheet written in a shorthand that only he understands, but Eames gently prises his hand from the mouse.
"Take a break," he urges, turning Arthur's chair around and pulling him to his feet. "The spreadsheets'll be there in a few hours, I promise."
"What if they're not? What if it crashes and I lose all of my files and it's your fault because you tore me away before I could back anything up?" Arthur says, letting Eames lead him into the hall.
"I'd like to see the computer that would dare defy you," Eames says, lowering his voice as they approach Simon's door.
Arthur stops there, nudging the door open a few inches to peer in at him. "He sleeps so well now," he whispers.
"He wears himself out, I had no idea so much energy could be contained in such a small space."
"I wonder if that gets easier to handle when they're older," Arthur says, leaning into it as Eames wraps an arm around his chest.
"Yes, I've heard teenagers are a delight," Eames trails his hand down Arthur's arm, lacing their fingers together. "Let's not think about it tonight, yeah?" he tugs Arthur away from Simon's door, down the hall to their bedroom.
Arthur starts to unbutton his shirt as Eames closes and locks the door, but Eames stills his hands, leading him to the bed. He sits and pulls Arthur close to stand between his knees.
"You're wound up," Eames says, running his hands over Arthur's shoulders before starting on his shirt buttons.
"Hmm," Arthur's hand snakes around Eames' neck, fingers raking through his hair. "Are you offering a massage?"
Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's breastbone. "I can do you one better," he says, his mouth finding a nipple, tonguing it until it's taut and Arthur shivers.
"You've got quite an opinion of your own abilities," he says, though there's a quiver in his voice as Eames scrapes his teeth lightly against that peak of sensitive flesh.
Arthur shakes his arms to let his shirt flutter to the floor, fumbles Eames' buttons open and pushes his off too. Eames gets back to his task as soon as they're both shirtless, licking at one nipple and circling the other with his thumb. Arthur bows his head to muffle a moan into Eames' hair.
"Fuck, I shouldn't be this hot already," he breathes, his hand clenching on Eames' neck as Eames scrapes with his teeth again. "I don't even want to think about how long it's been since we last fucked. We've become those people."
Eames doesn't point out that it's only been a few days, and that Arthur would know that if he slept like a human being of flesh and blood. At any rate, every few days does seem a little paltry compared to the days of their exuberant youth.
"You must be dying for it," Eames says, sliding his hand down to squeeze Arthur's ass through his trousers.
"Like you're not," Arthur shoots back, and Eames tilts his head to kiss him, deep and thorough, because it really has been too long since they've done this properly. Arthur follows his lead, bracing himself on Eames' shoulders to climb up and straddle his lap. The kiss is lewd, tongues meeting slick and hot and teeth scraping against lips, and Arthur starts to shift, grinding down against Eames' erection.
Arthur is shuddering in his arms, moaning, and Eames does his best to swallow the sounds, but there's only so much he can muffle. Arthur breaks away, breathing heavily, leaning his forehead against Eames'.
"I know there's a spontaneity factor here, but I can't keep quiet if we're just going to do it like this."
Eames grins, kissing him quickly and running his hand through Arthur's hair. "Don't worry, love. I've got plans for you."
"Plans?" Arthur muses, biting his lip as he rocks in Eames' lap. "That's kinda hot."
Eames snorts, "You would." He nudges Arthur off and arranges him so he's lying on his back on the bed, then pulls open the nightstand drawer, taking out a familiar knotted piece of cloth.
The most effective gags, Eames has learned, actually fill the mouth to muffle all noise, rather than simply obstructing the mouth to make speech more difficult. Eames has become intimately familiar with the mechanics of gags on more than one criminal endeavor gone wrong, but he supposes it's paid off.
Eames tosses the gag on the bed, and Arthur picks it up, dangling it from his fingers idly. It's standard fare for them now, practically vanilla -- if they want to make a night of it without Simon sleeping over at his grandparents', something's going to have to keep Arthur quiet. And Eames has better uses for his hands.
Reaching into the drawer again, Eames hesitates, looking Arthur over.
"You're not too tired, are you? I don't want you checking out on me."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "I have never fallen asleep during sex, I fucking resent that."
"First time for everything," Eames grins, then pulls out another strip of cloth, black and soft. He holds it up, stretched between his hands, for Arthur to see. "And things might get a little dark. If you're up for it."
This is the new part; the gag has always been a thing of necessity, a practical solution to a problem, but it's fascinatingly sexy to watch how the restriction changes Arthur's demeanor. Eames has always wanted to see what the next level might be like.
Arthur reaches out, pulls the cloth from Eames' fingers to examine it himself. "This is from one of your shirts," he muses, licking his lips, his eyes darting up to Eames' face. "You want to blindfold me?"
"If you'd like me to," Eames runs his hand up Arthur's chest, stopping to tap his fingers on Arthur's chest in time with his heartbeat.
"Yeah," Arthur says, voice deep and gravelly, like just the concept is enough, "Let's do it."
Eames pulls the cloth from his hands and drops it next to the gag, tosses the lube onto the bed to join them, then stands to push his pants and boxers down and off.
"Let's get you out of these first," he says, and Arthur's already lifting his hips when Eames goes for his belt.
It's been so long since they had time for anything so complicated as the removal of all clothing, Eames is almost sidetracked by Arthur's body, with so much time tonight to map what he already knows. But before he can get to that -- plans, yes, tonight there's a plan.
He gets on his knees on the bed, pulling Arthur up and turning him to sit on his lap, back to Eames' chest. Eames reaches for the blindfold, holding it in front of Arthur so he can see.
"I'll do this first, see how you like it, yeah?"
"Go ahead," Arthur says, his pulse jumping when Eames trails fingers over his throat.
"I'll take it off if you're not comfortable," Eames says. Arthur casts a smirk over his shoulder.
"Just do it."
Eames folds the piece of fabric once, smaller but thicker to block out the light. He brings it up to Arthur's eyes, wrapping it around to the back of his head. He ties it carefully, gently freeing stray strands of hair that get caught. Arthur tenses against him as he tightens the knot, and then relaxes, pushing out a long breath.
Eames reaches up to pull Arthur's hair out so it hangs loose over the blindfold. He runs his hand down Arthur's belly, and Arthur hums, arching into the touch.
"Talk to me, tell me how it feels," Eames says.
"It's like... I don't know," Arthur says, then swallows. "It feels good. It's really good," he breathes, like Eames has done something amazing.
"Oh, love," Eames says, pressing a kiss to Arthur's nape, trailing his hand down Arthur's thigh, finally reaching to pick up the gag. "Are you okay to keep going?"
Arthur nods, "Yeah, keep going."
It took a while to get this right on purely mechanical and aesthetic grounds. They tried a ball gag -- "I feel ridiculous, Eames," -- then just a standard strip of cloth, which was both ineffective and, "I look ridiculous, Eames," until they finally settled on one of Eames' own making.
"Open up," Eames says, and Arthur does, allowing Eames to push the knots of cloth between his teeth. "Comfortable?" he asks, waiting for Arthur to work his jaw, and finally nod, before he goes on.
The rest of the gag is a loop of material, designed to cover Arthur's mouth and long enough to wrap around and tie at the base of his skull. It's pretty, in Eames' entirely biased opinion -- black cloth stretched in a clean strip over Arthur's lips, now a matched set with another over his eyes.
Arthur relaxes back against him with a muted moan, Eames can feel him go pliant the way he always does when he's gagged, but it's sharper this time, deeper. Eames feels a trickle of wet on his cock smearing against the small of Arthur's back as he tries to fight the urge to do everything at once, to touch Arthur everywhere and make him sing through the gag, make him shatter for Eames' hands and his mouth and his cock.
"Arthur," he moans, trailing his fingers down Arthur's side and watching goosebumps raise in their wake, like he's touch-starved. "I could just wreck you," he says, without thinking. And Eames loves Arthur demanding, knows the response that might have come for that statement -- "So fucking wreck me," -- but he loves this too, is overcome with fascination at seeing Arthur soft and yielding, whimpers caught in his throat as Eames' hands run restlessly over his skin.
Eames reaches for the lube, almost reluctant to take his fingers from where they're stroking up Arthur's inner thigh. "I'm going to get my fingers in you," he says, flipping the cap open, mouthing at Arthur's neck, "I want you open for me, I'll get you good and wet."
He smooths one hand over Arthur's back, about to tell him to lean forward, but the loss of all this skin-on-skin contact doesn't seem worth it. Instead he slicks his fingers and works his hand between them, cupping Arthur's ass, leaving sticky trails of lube over both of them.
It's such an awkward angle, tracing his fingers over Arthur's hole in the tight space between their bodies, feeling him clench like he wants to draw them inside. Eames really does want to wreck him.
"Two at once," he murmurs, pushing two fingers into Arthur's tight heat without giving a pause for him to process it. Eames isn't sure why he's narrating, but there's something appealing about being in control of what Arthur knows, substituting his sight for Eames' voice.
"Just relax for me, that's it," he says as Arthur shudders, tension ratcheting down in increments. His body twitches and soft moans filter through the cloth as Eames spreads his fingers apart to stretch him. "Christ, love, you feel good," Eames' voice is strained, his whole body humming with urgency, though he can't decide exactly what he wants. Pressing his chest to Arthur's back, running his free hand over Arthur's chest and screwing his fingers into Arthur's tight heat, it all feels too important, like he might shake apart from need.
Arthur reaches back, tangling his fingers in Eames' hair. Eames wants to give him everything he needs, sliding a third finger inside without warning, Eames' breath catching as Arthur arches, first away and then toward.
Eames has had him like this enough to recognize what would have been a shout, a moan, a broken whimper, and the sound he hears rumbling through Arthur's throat now is a sob. He imagines, just for himself, that if he touched the cloth over Arthur's eyes, it might be a little damp.
"I want to be inside you," he rasps, startled at how wrung out he sounds. "I want you to let me in, you're so tight, I want you to take it for me."
Arthur's hand clenches hard in Eames' hair and he squirms, shifting the fingers sharply as he grinds against Eames' cock.
"You want it so bad, don't you? You need it."
There's a frustrated sound, a cry, still loud behind the gag. Eames brings his hand up to cover Arthur's mouth, smiling even as he moans.
"I love that you can't help it," he says, and it's true, it's been a source of awe since the first night Arthur tried to hold in those desperate noises and Eames had to cover his mouth, give him fingers to suck on just to keep him quiet.
Eames fumbles for the lube again, and Arthur whines when he hears the cap, again when Eames' fingers leave him. Eames can sympathize, feeling like he'll shatter if he doesn't get inside Arthur soon, just as desperate as he knows Arthur is.
He has to lean back away from Arthur to slick himself, hands shaking, but then he's lifting Arthur's hips, pressing the head of his cock against Arthur's entrance, watching him open up.
"Fuck," he gasps, and Arthur gives an answering whimper, trembling as Eames lowers him. "That's good, love, fuck, let me in."
He hears Arthur trying to swallow his noises, keening. Eames settles him down, flush on Eames' lap, keeping Arthur's hips still, groaning at the heat clenching on him.
"I love that you let me have you like this," Eames whispers, broken up by it, by how pliant and passive Arthur is when he's blinded, so far from helpless but so trusting, so easy, just for Eames. Arthur starts to shake, tightening around Eames' cock, desperate to move.
Muffling his groan in Arthur's shoulder as he lifts him, Eames rolls his hips to thrust back inside. He's never had as much trouble as Arthur, usually able to bite down on his noises and let them out as a few whispered curses, but tonight he might have done with some help too.
It's too much to drag out, a few slow thrusts have Arthur gasping, pressing his fist to his mouth as he moans, like he knows a few knots of cloth aren't going to cut it tonight. Eames feels his own restraint snap, and he tips Arthur forward, moving with him and pressing his face to the pillow, giving a shove of his hips, determined to make good on the promise to wreck him.
He can't speak beyond mindless praise now, slamming in harder every time there's a moan Arthur can't contain, muffled into the pillow. Eames tangles fingers in his hair to force his head back, reckless, latching his teeth onto Arthur's throat just to listen to him try to swallow his sobs.
"I've got you," Eames says, wrapping his hand over Arthur's mouth and feeling a cry vibrate against his palm. "Can you come for me?" he asks, though he knows Arthur can, just from this.
Arthur whines, responding with every twitch and shiver, everything he can't say out loud. Eames grinds in deep, wrapping his arm around Arthur's waist to pull his hips up for the perfect angle.
"You're gonna make me come," Eames says, coaxing, "I'll fill you up, just come for me, love."
He barely has the sense to get his hand on Arthur's cock when he hears him groan, deep and rough, his body tensing. He spills onto Eames' fingers and Eames slicks it down his length, catching it all and stroking him through the shockwaves.
The tremors are too much, too overwhelming, and Eames' orgasm is almost surprising, blindsiding him while he's so focused on Arthur's pleasure. Eames has to bite his shoulder to keep his shout from echoing off the walls, thrusting into Arthur's tight heat as he spills inside him.
It's been years since they were able to fuck and fall asleep without so much as caring where their bodies landed, but lord does Eames want to. Arthur slumps down and Eames follows, heavy on his back. He never wants to move again, but there are some things to take care of, of course.
He grabs his shirt from where it's dangling over the side of the bed, using it to wipe his hand clean while Arthur is conveniently still unable to see what he's doing. Then he sits up, straddling Arthur's hips so he can work loose the knot at the base of his skull.
"Open," Eames says, finally pulling the gag from Arthur's mouth and dropping it over the side of the bed.
"Fuck," Arthur rasps out as soon as he can. Eames waits for more, but Arthur just licks his lips, breathing hard. "Fuck."
Eames leans down, brushing his lips against the corner of Arthur's mouth. "Okay?"
Eames wraps his arm round Arthur's chest, pulling Arthur back with him, up onto his knees again. "Keep your eyes closed," he instructs, mindful of the bright overhead light.
He works the blindfold's knot open, covering Arthur's eyes with his hand when it falls. "Now open them." He slowly moves his hand away, tilting Arthur's chin to the side so he can watch him blink and adjust.
"Hey," Arthur says drowsily.
"Welcome back," Eames says, pressing a kiss to Arthur's jaw.
He lets Arthur go then, lets him slump down onto the bed, rolling onto his back and swiping at Eames' leg in clumsy invitation.
"I'll be right with you," Eames tells him, mustering the energy to stand and drag himself to the bathroom to clean up. Arthur hasn't moved when he emerges, and Eames pauses to appreciate the sight as he pulls on a pair of boxers, raking his eyes over Arthur's splayed legs, his mussed hair, his skin shining with sweat.
"I'm going to unlock the door," Eames says after a moment, and Arthur barely grunts in response. Eames pulls another pair of boxers from the drawer and tosses them to Arthur, who doesn't move. "Door is unlocked now," Eames says in warning, walking over to it. At the click of the lock, Arthur groans, squirming the boxers on feebly. It's been months since Simon climbed into their bed at night, but precaution is warranted.
"I saw the Lego city," Arthur murmurs sleepily as Eames flicks the lights off and climbs into bed, pulling the covers up around them. "How much of that did he do himself?"
"Quite a bit, I'm more the supervisor than anything." He tries to nudge Arthur onto his side, but Arthur is dead weight. "I'm trying to spoon you, and you are not making this easy."
"Think he could be interested in architecture?" Arthur says, rolling with what appears to be considerable effort, letting Eames press up against his back.
"Nah, demolition," Eames breathes into his hair, petting down his side. "I think he's four, and two months ago his life's ambition was to be a giraffe when he grew up. We've got a long way to go before we can bank on his career ambitions."
"Mmm," Arthur takes Eames' hand, presses it flat against his chest. "It's nice to think about it sometimes."
"It is," Eames kisses the nape of Arthur's neck. It's a very good thought.