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Starts out easy (something simple, something sleazy)

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Ariadne sees much more than any of the guys think she does. By which she means she sees way too much.

Here's the set-up: on paper, she's the pretty little receptionist at Morton and James Architecture. In reality, she's their chief and only actual architect, while Messrs Morton and James, who are in all actuality fictional, are jet-setting international dream criminals. She still calls them Arthur and Eames, because that's how they were introduced and that's what they call each other on the infrequent occasions they're both in the same office, let alone the same continent, but she's well aware now that those aren't precisely their real names.

Essentially her job involves lots of highly-paid draughting of plans, a certain amount of answering the telephones in a perky voice, and quite a lot of money-laundering. She likes all that well enough, but her favourite part of the job is the dream architecture, at least partially because when she's dream-designing she gets to actually work with either Arthur or Eames-- or, in a rare case like this one, both.

This is when she sees her 'way too much', and she starts to form some conclusions that aren't quite what she might have thought the first time she met her two partners-in-crime.

The first is, Arthur's the unprofessional one. At least when it comes to ogling.

'Jeez, get your eyes back up off his ass,' she says one day after Eames is out of earshot. Arthur rolls his eyes and turns back to his paperwork without looking at her at all.

'No harm in looking,' he says. 'You should know.'

Which is correct. But she's... still kind of stuck in the student mentality, where you wolf-whistle at your professors if you think they can't see you, and giggle about the TAs behind their backs. And shut in here all day with Arthur and Eames... she'd have to be dead not to look.

'Oh, right,' she says. 'Like your "It was worth a shot," right?'

'Yeah, pretty much the same thing,' he says, with a little smirk.

Actually, they're both very unprofessional.

Ariadne finds this out when she walks into their well-appointed, high-rent, beautifully-carpeted offices and finds Arthur biting Eames's ass.

She doesn't see much else, because she immediately claps her hands over her eyes. 'Guys!' she squeaks, and turns abruptly around. In order to give them privacy, of course. Not at all because she is tempted to peek through her fingers. 'Put a sock on the door handle, at least!'

'Ariadne, it's Saturday,' Eames points out in a tight voice. 'Does the concept of 'day off' mean anything to you?'

'I could say the same for you!' she retorts.

'He's still on Kathmandu time,' Arthur says, his voice muffled. 'He only flew in this morning.'

'That makes no sense,' Ariadne points out.

'It's hard to formulate a watertight logical reason when you've just been spectacularly cockblocked,' Arthur says, and he does sound kind of irritated. Ariadne starts shuffling towards the door again.

'Well, I'm going now,' she calls back. 'Enjoy your second Friday.'

'We will!' Eames says, just as she shuts the door. She doesn't bother to lock it, out of defiance.


One of Ariadne's virtues, or flaws, is her curiosity. She does some digging, and some spying, and some reading-between-the-lines of conversations, and realises a few things about her partners-in-crime, the biggest of which is this: they're not exclusive. They aren't even having a capital-letter 'Thing'. They sometimes have a thing, is how Eames puts it, when Ariadne finally brings it up.

He knocks back his rum and Coke and grins at her more than a little condescendingly. 'Oh, Ariadne. Have we been confusing you?'

'I just like to know whether or not I'm going to have to lend a shoulder for someone to cry on, or pretend to threaten to tear someone's testicles off, is all,' she says, shrugging. 'Y'know, if he breaks your heart or something.'

Eames looks over at the dance floor, where Arthur is spinning a gorgeous thing in a cerise dress around and around to the sound of a live band. 'You think my heart is the one in danger? Most people think it's the other way round.'

'I suppose you could be a, what does James Bond say? A cad,' Ariadne allows, swirling the vodka in her glass, 'but I think he's more of a bastard than you are, deep down. So what, are you friends-with-benefits? Fuck-buddies? Is this a hate-sex thing?'

'It's not really that complicated,' Eames says.

'So tell me how it is, then.'

'Getting our jollies vicariously these days are we, Ariadne? I'm sure there are plenty of personable young men and women in this bar who'd be happy to help you out,' he says. 'After I've vetted them first, of course. Can't have you getting yourself into anything silly.'

'I can vet my own hookups, thank you very much,' she says, trying not to laugh. 'And no, I don't need to 'get my jollies' from you, I just need to understand what's going on. I don't need another Cobb and Mal in my head,' she finishes. Fuck. She shouldn't have said that.

Eames's expression softens. 'Oh, no, nothing like that,' he says. 'We're colleagues.'

'Colleagues who fuck.'

'Colleagues who fuck,' he agrees. 'Colleagues who aren't often in the same city, let alone the same continent, who've known each other a while now, who can pretty much trust that we're not going to knife each other.'

'That's it?' She doesn't know if it's practical or bleak.

'That's it. Sometimes you just need someone. And in our line of work, finding someone who isn't going to sell you out because they know who you are or get themselves killed because they don't and you've unwittingly put someone on their tail is rare. Finding someone you can trust not to get their heart broken over you is rare as well.'

Eames looks out over the dance floor again, and grins. 'Plus, have you seen that arse?'


They get drunk. They get so, so drunk. Arthur does not go home with the pretty thing in the cerise dress - instead, he hauls Eames and Ariadne into a taxi and takes them back to his place, apparently to drink more.

His place is a tiny, tiny apartment in a part of town that looks downright unhygienic. Inside it's cramped, but neat - a bedroom-living room, a teeny kitchenette, and a bathroom. Ariadne immediately colonises the bed, and Eames the chair. This leaves Arthur, who went to get a bottle of-- Midori (Midori? Is he eighteen? Jesus. Ariadne is going to be so sick tomorrow) --with a choice.

He chooses to perch on the arm of Eames's chair rather than fight Ariadne for the mattress she's currently starfished over.

'Midori?' Eames asks, grabbing the bottle nonetheless.

'Shut up, it's the only thing I have,' Arthur says. 'And it was left here by the last tenants.'

'I bet you drink stupidly-named cocktails when you go barhopping on your own,' Ariadne says, staring up at the ceiling. 'I bet you like to ask barmen for a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against A Wall with your poker face on and watch them blush.'

'He's cruel like that,' Eames agrees. 'And I know for a fact he's up for Sex on the Beach.'

'As in you think he actually bought this bottle of Midori, or as in you've got him down and dirty on the shoreline?' Ariadne asks, attempting to waggle her eyebrows at them.

'He prefers the International Bartenders Association recipe,' Eames says. 'Peach schnapps and creme de cassis, not Midori and Chambord. But yes to the second one.'

'You can't get to me like that,' Arthur says. There's a thump, and Ariadne tilts her head up enough to see that Arthur has pushed himself into Eames's lap and is chugging the Midori. He pulls himself off the bottle and then says, 'Sex on the Beach is fine. Long Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against A Wall, tick. Slippery Nipple? Blow Job? Quick Fuck? Screaming Orgasm?'

'What our Arthur is saying,' Eames says, 'is that he is game. Aren't you, Arthur.'

Ariadne pushes herself up onto her elbows. Eames is now drinking from the Midori bottle, and Arthur has his tie off and is pulling his sweater over his head, which is ... yes, ruining both his collar and his hair. Realisation hits her going at the speed of vodka. 'Are you two going to -'

'Yes. You want in?' Arthur asks, matter-of-fact.

'Um -'

'Let's not scare her away, eh?' Eames says, putting the bottle down and pulling Arthur into his lap properly. 'No pressure, Ariadne. But we had a word, and we think -'

'That this could be fun,' Arthur finishes for him.

It's a startling offer, and tempting, and... but Ariadne is very drunk, and they're drunk, and this isn't the sort of thing she needs to wade into with a swimming head. The drink says hell yes, and Ariadne's brain under that says hell no, and her libido comes up with a compromise.

'Would you mind if I just watched?' she asks, and Arthur grins, sharp like a knife, and Eames starts to lick at the edge of Arthur's ear, as if that's an answer.

'No problem,' Arthur says casually. He starts to unbutton his shirt.

Half an hour later, and Ariadne is suddenly much, much more familiar with both of their asses than she had ever expected to be, and this is speaking as someone who once had to dream up a tropical beach resort for Eames to forge the mistress of a CEO in while Arthur masqueraded as the pool boy. She's moved to the chair and let them have the bed.

At the moment Arthur is giving her a repeat performance of the incident she'd walked in on in their offices the other day, while Eames attempts a running commentary, punctuated with the odd strained noise.

'He's good,' Eames is saying. 'You know what he's like with attention to detail.' He gulps as Arthur shoves at the small of his back and does something with his tongue in between the cheeks of Eames's ass.

'It must be like being rimmed by the scientific method,' Ariadne says, but she doesn't mean it. Arthur's competence doesn't mean he's not human. Very human. He has a sense of humour, and a taste for alcohol, and an eye for a good ass, apparently.

'He's like the Large Hadron Collider if the Large Hadron Collider had an oral fixation,' Eames agrees, and gets a smack for his trouble. He moans.

'I don't have to be doing this, you know,' Arthur points out, looking up. 'You aren't the only hot thing in the room any more.'

'You can do whatever you like,' Eames says, suspiciously meekly. He turns his head to regard Ariadne. 'I'm sorry, but if he abandons me for you right now you might have a fight on your hands.'

'He's all yours,' Ariadne says, flapping a hand lazily. 'I'm quite happy to watch.'

'You would be,' Arthur mock-growls. 'And I bet you learn fast.'

'You can quiz me next time,' she says flippantly, and then internally winces, because what if they never want there to be a next time? Aren't they all insisting on things being casual?

Eames, however, grins. 'Hear that?' he asks Arthur. 'She says next time.'

'I heard,' Arthur says, and the look he fixes Ariadne with is downright wicked. 'Now shut up and let's get on with this time.'

'Well, if you insist,' says Eames, followed by a string of, well, Ns and Gs and Hs, from the sound of it. Eventually he's panting, and then Arthur leans back on his heels, looking pleased with himself.

'What do you think?' he asks Ariadne conversationally.

'Excuse me?' She wriggles back up to a proper sitting position, having been slouching further and further down, and toying with both the hem of her skirt and the idea of sliding her hand up under it in equal quantities.

Arthur sees that, of course. 'Go ahead,' he says, nodding at her. 'But give me some advice first.' He runs a hand down Eames's thigh, starting right up at his spine and then gliding down, like he's showing Eames off. Well. He kind of is.

'Oh, because I have so much experience in man-on-man action,' Ariadne says, deciding she doesn't care what he sees and dragging her hand up under her skirt. 'Just … do whatever it is you do.'

'But we have options,' Eames mumbles from the pillows. 'And we do so want you to feel involved.'

'I feel very involved,' Ariadne says, touching herself gently through her panties. 'Don't you worry about me.'

'Maybe Eames should give you a list of the options,' Arthur says, still stroking Eames's side and leg. 'Go on.'

Ariadne tugs her underwear aside and widens the gap between her thighs as Eames rolls his head to face her. He appears to appreciate the view, licks his parted, panting lips, and Ariadne suddenly has an idea.

'Suck him,' she says, surprising herself as much as she surprises the men on the bed. 'You want to know what I want? I want that.'

'I think I do too,' Eames says, and Arthur's stroking hand turns into another smack, a light one that has the forger grinning and rolling his face back into the pillow, moaning theatrically. Arthur's clearly pushy when he's drunk, pushy and sloppy and generous with it, because he shoves Eames over onto his back, pulls him to the edge of the bed, and then clambers and slides down over him to get to the floor, to kneel between his legs. Eames is still lying back making incoherent and somehow smug noises.

Ariadne has a perfect view of Arthur, in three-quarter profile, licking a long stripe up Eames's cock. Eames jerks into a sitting position -- Arthur's hands snap up to grab his knees before Eames manages to injure either of them -- and then Arthur swallows him down.

Ariadne's fingers slip.


The next morning, there's hangover. So much hangover, it fills the world. But when Ariadne manages to peel an eye open it's to see Arthur and Eames tangled together on the bed, and Eames looks distinctly like he's passed out, but Arthur is staring lazily at Ariadne, with his fingers working slow massage-patterns on Eames's thigh, and he mouths 'Next time?' at her, and pats the bed beside him, and winks.

Next time, definitely. But first Ariadne needs to throw up, drink three litres of water, and eat her own weight in Burger King. Then she'll feel human. And then...


Everything is wet.

Or at least, that's what it feels like to Ariadne, whose world has been narrowed down to her fingers sliding down Eames's ass, and the space between her legs, and Arthur's breath in her ear, talking soft and low.

'Don't be shy,' Arthur says, his own fingers drifting up the slickness painting Ariadne's thighs. 'He's done this before, haven't you.'

Eames raises his head from the pillow in order to look back at them where they're huddled together around his rear end. 'A few times,' he says. 'A few times.'

The tips of Ariadne's fingers have found their goal, somehow, despite the fact that she is getting to the point of strung-out and Arthur won't help her except with words, encouraging and breathing and sliding his forefinger into her, as if that isn't the hugest distraction known to humankind. 'Feel how wet he is? How wet you've made him,' Arthur says, the moisture in his breath up against the shell of her ear making a warm, soft place for his words to rest. 'You can get inside him like this, you know you can, just like fingering yourself when you're alone - go on.'

And Eames, Eames arches his back when she starts to push, and makes this noise like purring as she slides in, just one finger, up to the knuckle, and Arthur grins against the skin of her neck when he hears it. 'See? He loves it.'

Arthur's finger slides out, and Ariadne can't help her whimper. He kisses her shoulder, and then presses two back in, making her shudder and open to him.

Eames's voice is muffled when he speaks. 'He won't leave you hanging,' he says, and squirms. 'So if you could extend me the same courtesy?'

Abruptly, Ariadne remembers where she has her hands, and she takes a breath before moving her finger cautiously out a little, then in again. Eames shudders, then pushes back against her.

'Give him another,' Arthur says, like he's daring her to do it. 'Slide it out, and put the other one up close -' She doesn't actually need instructions that explicit, she thinks, she's got a vagina and she worked out what to do with it some time ago, and this isn't that different, but she lets him talk because, well, it’s hot. '- like that, just like that, God, look at him -'

And she does, she lets her gaze widen from where he's clenched around her fingers to the whole of him, pushing incrementally back against her hand, the muscles of his back rippling and shifting as he moves.

So far she's managed to keep this sensible, controlled, like she's just learning another skill set from Arthur, and Eames is just helping her out, letting her work on him, but having someone spread out under your hands is never academic, not like this, and he's biting the pillow, for Chrissake, all because she's in him, working her fingers in and out, and she decides to slide them back to add a third just as Arthur says, 'Go on, he wants more, he's begging for it.'

And he is -- begging with his body, with the shape of him twisted into a plea between one hand tight on the headboard and the other tangled in the sheets, one leg drawn a little up into a perfect question mark so as to spread him wide; a query for her-- how far will you go? How much will you give me? Can I have what I want?-- made by the certainty of him.

Three fingers is tight more than anything else, slick and hot secondarily, but mostly tight. She can feel him against her now - every tense and twitch of him, the texture of him inside, like velvet. Beyond smooth.

As if he's intent on making her feel how Eames feels, Arthur's got three fingers twisting inside her, the ball of his thumb rubbing gently a little higher up, and she bites down on a whine. Her attention was entirely on Eames, but she comes back to her own body with what feels like a crash, an impact of sensation. He's half under her now, lying on his side on the mattress where he can reach her and see what she's doing to Eames at the same time, and she wriggles her legs further apart to give him more space.

'Here,' Arthur says after a while, because apparently Eames drawing himself into tangled lines across the sheets and Ariadne panting hotly as she tries to divide her attention between the heat under her hands and the heat between her legs isn't enough for him. He takes hold of Ariadne's wrist, and draws her hand out, just a little. 'Like this,' he says, adjusting the angle and then pushing her fingers smoothly back in, and Eames makes a noise like his vocal cords have decided to give up. He also starts moving more purposefully, fucking himself back on her fingers properly now, making her move on the mattress. Arthur pulls himself back up to his knees, freeing himself from her entirely (she moans in protest, which earns her a one-armed hug with his sticky-fingered arm), and braces her.

'Eames,' he says warningly, but sounding amused at the edges of it. 'Just take what you're given.'

'Easy for you to say,' Eames says, sounding strained. He hauls himself up a little and takes hold of the headboard with both hands. 'Not all of us were born with your self-control.'

'Maybe I'll show Ariadne how to teach you some self-control later,' Arthur retorts. 'But right now, I want you to stay still,' he adds, and even though he's directing it at Eames, Ariadne can't help the shiver she gets at the sound of his voice when it’s so commanding.

'Yessir,' Eames says. 'I'd salute, but, well.' He shrugs, all and only shoulders, and Arthur grins, and kisses Ariadne again, properly this time. 'Keep moving your fingers,' he says, in between presses of his mouth to hers. 'If he gets pushy, take one out.'

'Or give me another,' Eames suggests, holding himself in tight check as Ariadne moves along the angle Arthur showed her, feeling for his prostate and finding what must be it when he drops his head and makes that wrecked noise again.

'No, that would be giving you what you want,' Arthur disagrees. 'And you only get what you want if you behave.'

'What if Ariadne wants to be generous?' Eames asks, pants really, his voice a gravelled and broken thing in between sucked-in breaths of air.

'No, I know what Ariadne wants,' says Arthur with a dark hint of mischief in his voice, and suddenly Ariadne has to find her way in and out of Eames's body by herself, because Arthur has ducked to lie down and drag her to kneel over his face. 'And I'm going to give it to her, and if you're a good boy, afterwards you can have what you want.'

He pulls her down then, and if she thought the world was wet before, that's nothing to the feel of it now, like she's floating, swimming, drowning in it. She pitches forward, and the motion makes Eames gasp and grind.

'Sorry, sorry,' she says, breathless, and equally breathlessly he tells her not to worry about it.

'Could go for that extra one though,' he adds, and it's not exactly a plea, and certainly not him begging, but she has Arthur's tongue dragging liquid-hot, rough and silky between her legs and right now she's inclined to give everyone everything if only she can have more of that, so she scrabbles for the bottle of lube where it's discarded in the sheets, presses her little finger in with the other three and a fresh coat of wetness to help it along.

Between them, Eames and Ariadne are a joined thing of shuddering, roiling need, a long line of want, and as Arthur pushes up with tongue and his own fingers, it shunts Ariadne further into Eames, and Eames has to hold himself harder against the bedstead.

Eventually, Ariadne starts to feel like she can't, can't take much more of this, this thing where it's too much and unfulfilling at the same time. 'Arthur,' she says, hating the shakiness in her voice, 'Either you fuck me now or I'm rolling Eames over and you can just go jerk off in the bathroom or something.'

Eames laughs, a little breathlessly. 'Now there's a threat if ever I heard one,' he says.

Arthur, with one last lick at where Ariadne's tenderest, pulls himself free, sliding out from under her and crawling back up the bed. 'I've got a better idea,' he says, and God, why does that make Ariadne's skin shiver with anticipation so much?


Arthur's an ideas man.

Arthur's always prepared.

Arthur likes to always have the correct tool for the job at hand (although he's quite capable and willing to improvise. Liking to be prepared doesn't mean he's going to throw a fit if things aren't exactly how he wants them. He's a flexible guy.)

Arthur has a box underneath his bed with all the correct tools for all of the potential jobs he might use his bed for.

And now he's fitting one of them to Ariadne, all straps and buckles, a way for her to get inside Eames like she can't just with fingers. She feels ridiculous, because really, it's like an abseiling equipment store had an illicit affair with a sex shop and this was the unholy baby, but when he's done, when it's snug and secure around her, and he's slicking the thing and leading her by the hand to kneel again behind Eames, and Eames looks back over his shoulder at her and can't even summon a grin, he looks so wrecked, then she gets it.

It moves against her in familiar-unfamiliar ways as much as it moves against Eames, where she's pushing into him with Arthur to guide her, and he opens for her easier than she thinks should be possible, his spine a sweat-slick bow as he curves, pushing his ass towards her and his shoulders down, parting his legs. Panting, like this is an effort, and it probably is.

'C'mon,' he says from under her, and tries to bat Arthur's hand off his hip, where the point man is holding him steady, 'C'mon, Ariadne, you haven't- I need- Soon, alright, I just -'

Ariadne, still shiver-sensitive from Arthur's mouth and now with this thing, this crazy thing he's put on her keeping up the good work, knows how Eames feels.

Arthur, however, flops to his belly and slides up the mattress to kiss Eames. 'You can take it,' he says, his voice as solid as his touch is gentle where he smooths the lines from Eames's forehead and the hair from his face. 'You're ex-SAS, ex-French Foreign Legion, you know how to keep going. C'mon, Eames,' he says when the forger screws his eyes shut and tries to turn his head away. 'Eames,' he says again, harder, and pulls a little on his hair. 'Look at me, Eames.'

'You want me to hang on or not?' Eames says, his voice coming hard through gritted teeth. 'She's ah, Ariadne -'

Ariadne's been working on autopilot, push-pull, the rhythm working her towards the edge, but Eames saying her name has dragged her back to the waking world and she starts a little - it must have changed the angle, because now Eames really is pushing back, rutting, and she has to take hold of his hips in order to keep some control. With every push he touches her, the same way she's touching him, through this intermediary thing, this weird, glorious barrier or, or conduit or... it's between them, but it's connecting them, and somehow it's close and intimate even when it's this extra step between them.

Arthur's come back up now, rubbing a soothing hand between Ariadne's shoulder blades. She closes her eyes, takes a better grip on Eames's hips and guesses at a better angle, just a fraction off what it has been.

Eames's arms give out - he almost gets ploughed into the pillow before she catches herself and lets him recover his balance, keeping him moaning with just little stuttering pushes of her hips, and Arthur's murmuring in her ear again, 'yeah, you're getting it, you're getting the hang of it, let him come back up to meet you, like that-'. He's right. She is getting the hang of it.

She slits her eyes and looks to Arthur, down, down, til she can see how hard he is, how he's straining and naked and his skin is olive and cream, red and pink in patches from heat and pressure and where he's touched her and Eames, leaned against them, sweated with them, and his cock is all untouched, unless he's been at it with his hands while she's been out of it, but no, he's always been touching them. And as if Eames has been having the same thoughts he drags himself back up onto the strong frame of his arms and says, 'Arthur, get over here, I want -', and Arthur goes like he knows exactly what Eames wants with him, Eames's lips all wet and his mouth open a little, just a little, like he can't quite remember how to close it.

The tables are turned then, because up until now Arthur's been the one in control, in control of both of them even though neither Eames nor Ariadne is exactly a pushover. Except apparently all Arthur has to say is 'jump' in that voice of his, and both Eames and Ariadne will ask him how high.

But now, now it's Arthur's face twisted with want and Arthur's eyes slipping closed, his hands cradling Eames's face as the forger takes him in and takes him down with what looks like an ease borne of practice.

Ariadne is really at the end now, getting too sensitive and it's still not enough, she needs something, someone inside, she knows she does, so she drapes herself across Eames's back, buried in him by virtue of Arthur's toy, and just lets her weight and his motion and momentum drive them together.

Her lips are near his ear, she's just noticed. And watching Arthur come slowly apart from Eames's mouth is nice, but she has an idea of her own now.

'Eames,' she says quietly, and gets an 'Mmmm' in response. 'Don't let him come.'


She looks up, tries to gauge whether or not Arthur can hear her. It would seem not, from the way he's leaning back against the bedstead, boneless-looking, his eyes all closed and his head all lolling, filthy humming syllables leaking from his lips.

'I want him in me,' she says, and she does, God, she does, but that's not all she wants.

The rest of her suggestion, whispered hot in Eames's ear, makes his rhythm falter and the smooth muscle of his back under her tense and roll like he's skidding to a halt somehow. He lets Arthur's cock slip out of his mouth and hisses 'Jesus fuck, Ariadne -' but she's not paying attention, dragging herself and that toy out of him, fumbling with straps, until Eames shoves the now rather less coordinated body of Arthur over to her to help.

Arthur barely has time to get the thing off her fully before she's pulling him down to her, down into her. It's glorious, it's perfect. She knows she's not going to last long, and judging from the way Arthur buries his face along the curve of her neck and goes for it like he can't help himself, hips driving like pistons, neither is he.

She manages to open her eyes in time to see Eames position himself behind Arthur, and she smiles.

Arthur's reaction to Eames covering him, sliding down along the cleft of him (and Ariadne stretches a hand round to feel, to touch Eames and feel him move there), is to arch like a stretching cat and grind further against Ariadne. Eames is sliding between Arthur's thighs now, getting those thighs and that ass and Ariadne's fingers all slick with sweat and his own wetness.

The movement of the pair of them together shakes Ariadne a bit, sends heat to her fingers, which tighten against the muscles of Arthur's lower back, and it sets her to clenching, drawing Arthur further into her even as her orgasm hits.

She probably makes a noise - she doesn't remember. What she does remember is Arthur letting go, that indescribable pulsing sensation inside her, and his lips on the beating, racing pulse-point of her throat, and Eames, over Arthur's shoulder, with his jaw slack and his eyes black, pupils dilated all the way like he's drugged in the dark, and the wet, hot drip, slip, slide of his release over her fingers before he tangles his hand with hers, and the way they drag their fingers down, together, just gently, over Arthur's skin and along the wet path Eames's cock has been tracing, and then how with a grunt and a sigh Arthur slumps. A second later, Eames rolls off and to the side, covering his face with his arms and letting out a contented sigh.

Arthur mumbles something into Ariadne's shoulder. 'What?' she asks, nudging him.

'Been thinking,' he says, half-asleep and a little sex-dozy. 'Promotion.'

'Excuse me?'

'To full partner,' Eames clarifies, still with his arms over his head. 'Given you do all the work, y'know. Behind the scenes.'


Their business cards and the sign on the building reads 'Morton, James and May' a week later. Nothing else changes much, least of all Arthur and Eames's schedules, but the next time they happen to be all in town at once, Arthur mysteriously has a larger bed.