FIC/ART COLLAB: And A Gunshot For Her Lullaby
Title: And A Gunshot For Her Lullaby
Artist: platina Author: butterflythread
Team: ROMANCE~
Prompt: Bonds
Word count: ~1900
Rating: Fic- NC-17 Art- NSFW
Warnings: Mpreg
A/N: So the other day writing was being a bitch, as it is wont to do, and I got chatting with Yvi about kink bingo and kinks we never thought we'd read or write and such, like tentacles and enemas. Very long story short, this is what that chat ended up inciting. My CHALLENGE ACCEPTED trigger is definitively working. As usual, Lydia helped poke it. <3
After the number of firefights he’s been in, Eames figures he probably shouldn’t find the sound of rifle discharge so familiar and comforting. It’s probably more the fact that he knows it’s Arthur firing it that’s the comforting part, really.
He empties the last two shots from his pistol into the target at the end of the range before putting the gun down on the table and stretching, breathing in afternoon air heavy with a hint of lead and sulphur. It feels good to be outside.
“Should he really be doing that?”
Eames blinks at the sound of Cobb’s voice. “What?”
Cobb tilts his head towards the other end of the table. “Arthur. With that kind of recoil.”
The sound of the rifle report echoes across the range again, as if on cue. Eames glances at Arthur, then back to Cobb with a wry smile. “Feel free to go tell him he shouldn’t be playing with guns. While he’s armed.”
Cobb snorts, but doesn’t argue. “You know, most people just play their unborn children classical music. Or whale noises. I don’t think anyone’s ever considered the effect prolonged exposure to the sound of gunfire could have.”
“Since when have we been like most people?”
“Touché.” He checks his watch. “I told Mal I’d be back by five.”
"Yeah, I'm done. I think he is too," he tilts his head in Arthur's direction, sliding his gun towards Cobb and heading to the other side of the range.
Arthur isn't paying attention, every bit of his focus on the weapon in his hands. He makes a sight, sleeves rolled up, sweater clinging to the swell of his belly, and all of a sudden Eames isn't so sure he disagrees with Cobb afterall. He's learned to choose his battles over the last few months, though, and Arthur's desire to get out of the house and shoot things isn't really something worth arguing over.
Eames watches as he lands another bullet close to the middle of the target before sidling in close behind him. "Your balance is off."
"It is not," Arthur mutters, and Eames feels the muscle shift in his back as he shifts his grip on the gun.
He's right, of course. Arthur's compensating for the shift in his centre of balance perfectly, down to the angle he's got the butt of the rifle settled against his shoulder at. "You should spread your legs a bit more, like this," Eames nudges his knee between Arthur's legs. "Give you a bit more stability."
Arthur shifts his feet a little further apart. "Liar."
"It's true and you know it is." He shouldn't, really, not right now, but Eames curls his hand over the curve of Arthur's stomach anyway. He splays his fingers over the soft wool of the sweater, feeling the warmth just beneath. Once he thought nothing could top the thrill of sucking dark marks on to Arthur's throat above the collar, seeing them later and knowing anyone else who looked would too and know Arthur is his. Eames digs his fingers in just a little. This is a thousand times better, easily.
"I was doing just fine, you know." Arthur leans back a little as he says it.
"I know," Eames concedes, kissing the side of his neck. He slides his hand down to cradle Arthur's bump, and the fierce feeling he gets when he feels that taut curve and thinks this is -mine- will never, ever get old.
Arthur sucks in a breath when Eames scratches gently at his stomach. "I--"
"Jesus Christ, you guys." Cobb calls. "This is a shooting range, not slow dance time at prom."
Eames hides his grin against Arthur's shoulder. "I think you should shoot then," he says, planting his feet and pulling Arthur closer.
"Ready?" Arthur says.
"When am I not."
He feels the instant Arthur fires before the recoil hits, the minute tension running through his back as he pulls the trigger. It slams their shoulders together, vibrating through Arthur's body into his, and he smoothes his hand over Arthur's stomach soothingly. "You're going to be hearing a lot of that, no doubt," he says softly.
"At least she's going to be able to sleep through anything," Arthur says as he lays the rifle down on the table, covering Eames's hand with his own. He lets it rest there for a second, comforting pressure over Eames’s fingers, before lifting it away and turning around. “Are we getting ready to go?”
There’s a light flush to Arthur’s cheeks, from the sun or adrenaline or being pressed up close to Eames, or maybe it’s all three, and it takes Eames a second to respond. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll pack this up.”
Eames looks across at Cobb and sees him standing off to the side, fussing conspicuously with his gun. He takes the moment to grab Arthur’s wrist before he can reach for the rifle and pull him close, feeling the solid press of his stomach between them. It should be awkward, but it just makes Eames want to dig his fingers into Arthur’s hips and kiss him senseless.
He settles for a quick press of lips. “Hurry up,” he whispers, licking at Arthur’s mouth.
Something dark and hungry flashes across Arthur’s face as he turns away. For all that he’s lost some of his usual lithe proficiency, he’s quick to comply.
*
Arthur’s stripping off his sweater before Eames has even clicked the door shut.
“Arthur?”
“I want you to fuck me,” he says, matter-of-fact as he toes his shoes off. “But I need to have a shower first.”
Eames blinks at the curve of his spine as he disappears down the hallway. Then he grins, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. Arthur’s shamelessness has taken on a new edge with pregnancy, coloured with eager desperation that Eames is more than happy to indulge.
The shower’s already running by the time he kicks his pants aside in the bathroom, steam fogging the glass and turning Arthur’s naked form into an indistinct blur. Eames takes a second to appreciate it, licking his lips, before stepping inside.
“Hey!” Arthur yelps when Eames grabs his hips, feeling along the hard jut of bone until his fingers brush the firm swell of his stomach.
“You told me you want to fuck,” Eames says, nosing at the slick skin at the nape of Arthur’s neck where his hair is curling, dark and wet. “Don’t act like you didn’t expect me to follow you in here.”
Arthur snorts, but the way he arches back against Eames is anything but derisive. “Yeah. But you can’t fuck me like this. And the faster we finish, the faster you can have me on my knees.” His voice catches on the words.
“You’re imagining it already, aren’t you?” Eames murmurs, drawing a hand up to rub one hard nipple with his thumb, just to feel the tremor shudder down the length of Arthur’s body. “Your face in the pillows, arse in the air, all wet and open for my cock.”
Arthur moans and grinds back harder. “Fuck, yes.”
Eames swallows hard, thrusting forward just enough to slide his cock between the swell of Arthur’s arse. He bites his lip.
This isn’t going to make it to the bedroom, and he’s okay with that.
He pinches harder at Arthur’s nipple. “You want me to come inside you?”
“Please.” Arthur shudders, reaching out to brace his hands on the tile for balance.
Eames slides his hand from Arthur’s hip up to the middle of his stomach, curling over the firm roundness as he thrusts again. There’s something almost unbearably intimate about the knowledge that it’s his baby nestled inside, beneath such a thin barrier of Arthur’s muscle and skin. It’s a tangible thing binding them together, something Eames can see and touch and feel, something he can press his cheek to at night while Arthur gets comfortable for sleep and something he can cradle in gentle contrast to his thrusts when they fuck.
Eames groans at the thought and sinks his teeth into the taut tendon of Arthur’s neck.
“Fuck,” Arthur hisses, fingers slipping on the tile as he tips his head back against Eames’s shoulder.
“In a minute. Maybe.” Eames laps at the dark indents on Arthur’s neck before shifting down and biting again, harder, sucking at the pale skin until it turns bloody under the pressure of his mouth. He leaves a broken trail of crescent marks down the slope of Arthur’s shoulder, only stopping when Arthur whimpers and reaches for his own cock.
“No,” Eames growls, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and shoving his hand back onto the tile. “No,” he repeats, wrapping one forearm just under the thickest part of Arthur’s waist to help support him before curling his own hand around his cock.
The sound Arthur makes is delicious, a low, throaty moan as he twitches his hips into the pressure of Eames’s hand.
Eames tightens his grip a little. "Like this?"
"Yeah," Arthur bucks, slippery in Eames's grip.
He is unbalanced, awkward with the off-centre weight of his stomach, and Eames nudges him closer to the wall for better support. His forearm slides against the firm curve of Arthur's belly as he works his wrist in a familiar rhythm.
"Yeah," Arthur says again. "Yeah, fuck, Eames."
It's easy to bury his face against the wet curve of Arthur's throat and bite at the skin there, thrusting between the cheeks of Arthur's arse in time with the steady pull of his hand.
Arthur’s quivering under him, every muscle straining, and Eames strokes him faster. It’s too slick and dangerous up against wet tile and glass, so he can’t drag this out like he might want to. Not that it’s hard to make Arthur come, oversensitive and sobbing as he spills over Eames’s hand.
“That’s it,” Eames says shakily, licking the nape of Arthur’s neck and trying to keep at least some of his focus on supporting him while he ruts against his arse. There’s not as much friction as he’d like, orgasm creeping up in a slow build until he comes with a groan, slicking the small of Arthur’s back.
“Asshole,” Arthur pants, leaning forward to support more of his weight against the tile. “I said I wanted you to fuck me.”
Eames leans back a little and slides his fingers through the come streaked across Arthur’s spine, watching as the spray washes it away. “Who says I can’t anyway.” He dips his fingers down to the cleft of his arse. “There’s still a vibrator in the bottom drawer, isn’t there?”
Arthur groans, and if there was even any doubt Eames was going to lay him out on his back and make him come until he’s ready to actually fuck him, it disappears in that instant.
Carefully, Eames turns him around. “You go get that and lie down,” he says, stroking his thumb over the swell of his belly. “I’ll be right with you.”
*
*
Artist: platina Author: butterflythread
Team: ROMANCE~
Prompt: Bonds
Word count: ~1900
Rating: Fic- NC-17 Art- NSFW
Warnings: Mpreg
A/N: So the other day writing was being a bitch, as it is wont to do, and I got chatting with Yvi about kink bingo and kinks we never thought we'd read or write and such, like tentacles and enemas. Very long story short, this is what that chat ended up inciting. My CHALLENGE ACCEPTED trigger is definitively working. As usual, Lydia helped poke it. <3
After the number of firefights he’s been in, Eames figures he probably shouldn’t find the sound of rifle discharge so familiar and comforting. It’s probably more the fact that he knows it’s Arthur firing it that’s the comforting part, really.
He empties the last two shots from his pistol into the target at the end of the range before putting the gun down on the table and stretching, breathing in afternoon air heavy with a hint of lead and sulphur. It feels good to be outside.
“Should he really be doing that?”
Eames blinks at the sound of Cobb’s voice. “What?”
Cobb tilts his head towards the other end of the table. “Arthur. With that kind of recoil.”
The sound of the rifle report echoes across the range again, as if on cue. Eames glances at Arthur, then back to Cobb with a wry smile. “Feel free to go tell him he shouldn’t be playing with guns. While he’s armed.”
Cobb snorts, but doesn’t argue. “You know, most people just play their unborn children classical music. Or whale noises. I don’t think anyone’s ever considered the effect prolonged exposure to the sound of gunfire could have.”
“Since when have we been like most people?”
“Touché.” He checks his watch. “I told Mal I’d be back by five.”
"Yeah, I'm done. I think he is too," he tilts his head in Arthur's direction, sliding his gun towards Cobb and heading to the other side of the range.
Arthur isn't paying attention, every bit of his focus on the weapon in his hands. He makes a sight, sleeves rolled up, sweater clinging to the swell of his belly, and all of a sudden Eames isn't so sure he disagrees with Cobb afterall. He's learned to choose his battles over the last few months, though, and Arthur's desire to get out of the house and shoot things isn't really something worth arguing over.
Eames watches as he lands another bullet close to the middle of the target before sidling in close behind him. "Your balance is off."
"It is not," Arthur mutters, and Eames feels the muscle shift in his back as he shifts his grip on the gun.
He's right, of course. Arthur's compensating for the shift in his centre of balance perfectly, down to the angle he's got the butt of the rifle settled against his shoulder at. "You should spread your legs a bit more, like this," Eames nudges his knee between Arthur's legs. "Give you a bit more stability."
Arthur shifts his feet a little further apart. "Liar."
"It's true and you know it is." He shouldn't, really, not right now, but Eames curls his hand over the curve of Arthur's stomach anyway. He splays his fingers over the soft wool of the sweater, feeling the warmth just beneath. Once he thought nothing could top the thrill of sucking dark marks on to Arthur's throat above the collar, seeing them later and knowing anyone else who looked would too and know Arthur is his. Eames digs his fingers in just a little. This is a thousand times better, easily.
"I was doing just fine, you know." Arthur leans back a little as he says it.
"I know," Eames concedes, kissing the side of his neck. He slides his hand down to cradle Arthur's bump, and the fierce feeling he gets when he feels that taut curve and thinks this is -mine- will never, ever get old.
Arthur sucks in a breath when Eames scratches gently at his stomach. "I--"
"Jesus Christ, you guys." Cobb calls. "This is a shooting range, not slow dance time at prom."
Eames hides his grin against Arthur's shoulder. "I think you should shoot then," he says, planting his feet and pulling Arthur closer.
"Ready?" Arthur says.
"When am I not."
He feels the instant Arthur fires before the recoil hits, the minute tension running through his back as he pulls the trigger. It slams their shoulders together, vibrating through Arthur's body into his, and he smoothes his hand over Arthur's stomach soothingly. "You're going to be hearing a lot of that, no doubt," he says softly.
"At least she's going to be able to sleep through anything," Arthur says as he lays the rifle down on the table, covering Eames's hand with his own. He lets it rest there for a second, comforting pressure over Eames’s fingers, before lifting it away and turning around. “Are we getting ready to go?”
There’s a light flush to Arthur’s cheeks, from the sun or adrenaline or being pressed up close to Eames, or maybe it’s all three, and it takes Eames a second to respond. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll pack this up.”
Eames looks across at Cobb and sees him standing off to the side, fussing conspicuously with his gun. He takes the moment to grab Arthur’s wrist before he can reach for the rifle and pull him close, feeling the solid press of his stomach between them. It should be awkward, but it just makes Eames want to dig his fingers into Arthur’s hips and kiss him senseless.
He settles for a quick press of lips. “Hurry up,” he whispers, licking at Arthur’s mouth.
Something dark and hungry flashes across Arthur’s face as he turns away. For all that he’s lost some of his usual lithe proficiency, he’s quick to comply.
*
Arthur’s stripping off his sweater before Eames has even clicked the door shut.
“Arthur?”
“I want you to fuck me,” he says, matter-of-fact as he toes his shoes off. “But I need to have a shower first.”
Eames blinks at the curve of his spine as he disappears down the hallway. Then he grins, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. Arthur’s shamelessness has taken on a new edge with pregnancy, coloured with eager desperation that Eames is more than happy to indulge.
The shower’s already running by the time he kicks his pants aside in the bathroom, steam fogging the glass and turning Arthur’s naked form into an indistinct blur. Eames takes a second to appreciate it, licking his lips, before stepping inside.
“Hey!” Arthur yelps when Eames grabs his hips, feeling along the hard jut of bone until his fingers brush the firm swell of his stomach.
“You told me you want to fuck,” Eames says, nosing at the slick skin at the nape of Arthur’s neck where his hair is curling, dark and wet. “Don’t act like you didn’t expect me to follow you in here.”
Arthur snorts, but the way he arches back against Eames is anything but derisive. “Yeah. But you can’t fuck me like this. And the faster we finish, the faster you can have me on my knees.” His voice catches on the words.
“You’re imagining it already, aren’t you?” Eames murmurs, drawing a hand up to rub one hard nipple with his thumb, just to feel the tremor shudder down the length of Arthur’s body. “Your face in the pillows, arse in the air, all wet and open for my cock.”
Arthur moans and grinds back harder. “Fuck, yes.”
Eames swallows hard, thrusting forward just enough to slide his cock between the swell of Arthur’s arse. He bites his lip.
This isn’t going to make it to the bedroom, and he’s okay with that.
He pinches harder at Arthur’s nipple. “You want me to come inside you?”
“Please.” Arthur shudders, reaching out to brace his hands on the tile for balance.
Eames slides his hand from Arthur’s hip up to the middle of his stomach, curling over the firm roundness as he thrusts again. There’s something almost unbearably intimate about the knowledge that it’s his baby nestled inside, beneath such a thin barrier of Arthur’s muscle and skin. It’s a tangible thing binding them together, something Eames can see and touch and feel, something he can press his cheek to at night while Arthur gets comfortable for sleep and something he can cradle in gentle contrast to his thrusts when they fuck.
Eames groans at the thought and sinks his teeth into the taut tendon of Arthur’s neck.
“Fuck,” Arthur hisses, fingers slipping on the tile as he tips his head back against Eames’s shoulder.
“In a minute. Maybe.” Eames laps at the dark indents on Arthur’s neck before shifting down and biting again, harder, sucking at the pale skin until it turns bloody under the pressure of his mouth. He leaves a broken trail of crescent marks down the slope of Arthur’s shoulder, only stopping when Arthur whimpers and reaches for his own cock.
“No,” Eames growls, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and shoving his hand back onto the tile. “No,” he repeats, wrapping one forearm just under the thickest part of Arthur’s waist to help support him before curling his own hand around his cock.
The sound Arthur makes is delicious, a low, throaty moan as he twitches his hips into the pressure of Eames’s hand.
Eames tightens his grip a little. "Like this?"
"Yeah," Arthur bucks, slippery in Eames's grip.
He is unbalanced, awkward with the off-centre weight of his stomach, and Eames nudges him closer to the wall for better support. His forearm slides against the firm curve of Arthur's belly as he works his wrist in a familiar rhythm.
"Yeah," Arthur says again. "Yeah, fuck, Eames."
It's easy to bury his face against the wet curve of Arthur's throat and bite at the skin there, thrusting between the cheeks of Arthur's arse in time with the steady pull of his hand.
Arthur’s quivering under him, every muscle straining, and Eames strokes him faster. It’s too slick and dangerous up against wet tile and glass, so he can’t drag this out like he might want to. Not that it’s hard to make Arthur come, oversensitive and sobbing as he spills over Eames’s hand.
“That’s it,” Eames says shakily, licking the nape of Arthur’s neck and trying to keep at least some of his focus on supporting him while he ruts against his arse. There’s not as much friction as he’d like, orgasm creeping up in a slow build until he comes with a groan, slicking the small of Arthur’s back.
“Asshole,” Arthur pants, leaning forward to support more of his weight against the tile. “I said I wanted you to fuck me.”
Eames leans back a little and slides his fingers through the come streaked across Arthur’s spine, watching as the spray washes it away. “Who says I can’t anyway.” He dips his fingers down to the cleft of his arse. “There’s still a vibrator in the bottom drawer, isn’t there?”
Arthur groans, and if there was even any doubt Eames was going to lay him out on his back and make him come until he’s ready to actually fuck him, it disappears in that instant.
Carefully, Eames turns him around. “You go get that and lie down,” he says, stroking his thumb over the swell of his belly. “I’ll be right with you.”
*
*