Work Text:
1)
Taking off now love, i’ll let u know when i land
can’t wait to see u
-E
Arthur read the message, smiled, and set his phone on the side table near the window.
Lausanne, Switzerland.
For the first time since the Fischer job, the entire team was working together again. Cobb, Arthur, Eames, Ariadne and Yusuf; all of them flown in from different corners of the world. Saito was the client, and it had cost him an obscene amount of money to convince everyone to work for him again.
The job was easy, no inception this time, but Saito could afford obscene, so he hired the best in the dream market.
The first step was finding a place. They needed an apartment this time, somewhere on a high floor where they could work and live. Most importantly, they needed a vantage point to watch their mark, Mateo, a paranoid businessman with a habit of watching his own shadow.
Arthur delivered, of course.
He’d never set foot in Lausanne before, but that hadn’t stopped him. He found a two‑floor apartment for sale — furnished, spacious, and perfectly positioned. The first floor was an open space with a kitchen and living room; upstairs, five bedrooms and two bathrooms.
The location was ideal. The massive living‑room window overlooked Mateo’s office building, and the kitchen window faced the bar‑restaurant where the man liked to take his breaks. It was almost too convenient.
Was buying property necessary? Not at all. But Saito had said he was willing to spend “whatever it takes” to get the job done in the best possible way; and Arthur didn’t need to be told twice.
Arthur was the first one there, he wanted to make sure he got what he considered the best room — the one at the top of the stairs. From there he could keep an eye on the rest of the apartment if needed, and it also happened to have the largest window. Arthur was a bit claustrophobic; and got very dramatic when he was cornered, Eames said.
Cobb arrived second and chose the room at the very end of the hallway, which, in Arthur’s opinion, was exactly what a sociopath would do.
They had lunch with Yusuf, who was already in Lausanne, at the restaurant their mark frequented. They chatted for a while, it was nice to catch up, and after coffee they headed back to the apartment.
By the afternoon, the point man had already finished unpacking. Most of his things ended up on the window side of the room; the side he always took when he and Eames shared a space. It had become an unspoken rule between them: Arthur got the window, Eames got everything else.
Arthur and Eames had decided to share a room during this job. Six weeks apart on different assignments had been more than enough, and things were calm now. Cobb and Yusuf already knew about their relationship. Ariadne was the only one still in the dark, but only because neither of them had ever thought to say, “Hey Ari, by the way, we’re together.” Only their closest friends and a few relatives knew about them, even though it wasn’t exactly hard to tell they were a couple. By now they were a package deal, clients almost always called them both; after all they were the best forger and the best point man.
Arthur was organizing notes on the desk against the wall facing the bed, lost in thought, when he heard a knock on the door. He paused and checked his phone for new messages, nothing. He opened the door with a frown, “You didn’t text m-” but Arthur stopped short when he saw Ariadne standing on the doorstep.
“Arthur!” Ariadne exclaimed, hugging him with a grin. “I’m glad to see you again! Sorry, I didn’t know I had to text you.”
The point man returned the hug, smiling, “It’s good to see you too, Ari. And don’t worry, I thought you were Eames.”
Ariadne blinked, confused for a moment, then let out a small ‘Oh,’ not really understanding what he meant, but she didn’t dwell on it and simply continued chatting with him.
A few minutes later Ariadne went to claim a room for herself; the one next to Arthur's had already been taken by Yusuf.
A vibration in his pocket let Arthur know that he had a new message:
Just landed, see u soon love
-E
2)
Dinner that evening was easy in a way it hadn’t been the last years they worked together. Chinese takeout spread across the table, everyone relaxed, laughing more than the job technically warranted. They hadn’t been together long enough for new tensions to form; and even though Cobb wasn’t exactly Eames’s favorite human being, the forger was doing an admirable job pretending otherwise. For Arthur’s sake, mostly.
Ariadne was the first to slip away, heading to her room for a face-time call with her parents. The ‘old ones’ lingered at the table with glasses of scotch, trading stories and half‑serious complaints about the mark.
Eventually, the apartment quieted. Cobb retreated to call his kids. Yusuf announced he had a book to read and vanished into his room.
Arthur and Eames ended up in their own room, the forger finishing the last of his unpacking; he didn’t want to start bickering with Arthur on their first night.
“Darling, let me tell you, good job,” Eames said as he hung an orange shirt with a chaotic darker pattern in the wardrobe. Arthur stared at it as if the shirt were causing him physical pain.
Arthur shrugged, he wasn’t unhappy with the result — just not completely satisfied. It could always be better.
“I don’t think you could’ve found a better place for this job.”
The point man told himself that counted as a compliment. No reason to pout; he wasn’t very good at it anyway, so he preferred to change the subject.
“Do you like the room?”
Eames stepped back, giving the space a slow, appreciative once‑over, “Yeah, it’s nice. Quite large.” He stepped into Arthur’s personal space, hands settling on Arthur's hips as Eames gently pushed him toward the desk. “And, darling, the desk is against the wall opposite Yusuf's room.” He kissed smiling lips while unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt.
“And do you think that could be useful for the job?” Arthur asked, looping his arms around the forger’s neck.
“I don’t know and I don’t care about the job right now,” Eames murmured against his lips, the taste of scotch warm on his breath, “but it could be useful for our job, an intimate one, you know.”
Arthur kissed his cheek, “Tell me more, Mr. Eames.”
“I’ve got your attention?” the Brit asked, amused.
“Well-” Arthur began, but his phone vibrated in his pocket. He sighed softly and pulled it out, “Sorry, just a second.”
He was on a job, after all; he had to stay alert and, truthfully, he wanted to. Eames knew that, but still flopped onto the edge of the bed with a put‑upon sigh, “Yeah, sure,” waiting for Arthur.
The message was from Ariadne:
Still awake? I’ve got few questions about the job
Because what else could Arthur do while on a job not started yet?
Sure, go ahead
The point man stepped closer to Eames, who widened his legs to let Athur slide between them, still standing. “It’s Ari,” Arthur said softly, “she has some questions. Let me reply and then I’m all yours.”
He slid a hand into Eames' hair, stroking with a slow, familiar gesture. Eames closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the touch; then he wrapped his arms around Arthur’s thighs, his knees brushing against Arthur’s legs, his cheek resting on Arthur’s stomach.
“You know,” Eames murmured, “I have a few questions about the job myself, darling.”
Arthur glanced down at him with a smile, “Yeah, of course. I can imagine.”
“But I like to pretend I have some question for you,”
“Pretend being the key word”
Eames laughed quietly, “You’re lucky I adore you, darl-”
They heard a knock on the door.
“Arthur?” Ariadne called from the other side.
Eames lifted his head, “She wants to ask in person?”
“Apparently,” Arthur murmured.
In a whisper, Eames added, “Tell her you’re undressing.”
“I’m not telling Ari that,” Arthur said, giving Eames’s shoulder a light smack as he stepped away.
“Coward.”
Arthur’s lips twitched. “Professional.”
“Same thing.”
Arthur let out a quiet laugh and went to the door.
“Arthur sorry to both- …oh. Hi Eames,” Ariadne said, startled as she stepped inside. She ignored Eames entirely and headed straight for the desk.
“Hello, sweetie," he replied, amused. She really was a lot like Arthur when it came to work.
Ariadne spread a few sketches across the desk and launched into her questions. Arthur answered, focused, until Ariadne’s eyes drifted.
Arthur’s suit and tie draped randomly over the chair, the top button of his shirt undone, and, well, Eames on the bed. Shit. Shit. Shit. Her brain short‑circuited, her cheeks red.
She stopped listening altogether, gathered her sketches.
“Oh, okay, I got it, thanks. Bye,” she blurted and, trying to justify her abruptness, hurried out of the room and back to her own.
Both men were a little shocked, staring at the door. Then Eames said, “Darling, I know you like her, but I think she might be a little crazy.”
“It… happens in our line of work, I think.”
3)
Arthur was a light sleeper when he was on a job, which was why his eyes snapped open the moment he thought he heard some kind of…noise? He tensed.
He felt Eames warm behind him, breath soft against the back of his neck.
“Are you awake?” Arthur whispered.
“Yeah,” Eames mumbled, voice thick with sleep as he nuzzled into Arthur’s hair.
“Are you hearing these noises?”
“I think it’s just—” a yawn interrupted him, “Yusuf and Ari. They went out for a drink.”
Listening more carefully, Arthur recognized the sounds as giggles and whispers, sloppy and not subtle at all, mixed with heavy footsteps. Something hitting a wall, something else hitting the floor.
“God,” Arthur muttered, “how old are they?”
“Let the kids have fun,” Eames snorted, “back to sleep, darling.” He moved the hand that had been resting on Arthur’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Arthur closed his eyes, trying to will himself back into sleep. He wanted to. He really did. He curled instinctively closer, fitting himself into Eames’s chest as the other man spooned him from behind. His head rested on Eames’s tattooed bicep, the forger’s arm tucked under him and curving around his neck, the hand settling warm and heavy on Arthur’s shoulder.
The heat of Eames’s body at his back made it easier to pretend he could drift off again.
Damned Cobb at the end of the hallway, in his silence.
“No no no no no, listen to me. Listen. Just… just listen.”
A loud, messy laugh followed. “I’m listening! Care-carefully. Very carefully. Absolutely. Sooo caref’lly”
“Anywayy, mate, this city is way tooooo clean. Mombasa is way better. Bloody perfect. Dirty in all the right places.”
“What do you meean? And I mean mean, not mean... You got it, right? Mean, like… the opposite of… of something. I’ve lost the word, bye-bye word,” another giggle.
“Shhhhh! You’re gonna wake Arthur up and then…DEAD. We’re dead. He’ll kill us with a spoon.”
“Be quiet, shhhh… shhhh.” More giggles. Endless giggles.
Arthur couldn’t even tell which voice belonged to Ariadne and which to Yusuf. Whoever had mentioned the spoon was correct, though. Tomorrow, they were absolutely hearing from him.
Eyes open now, he stared at the wall with the expression of a man reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment. Behind him, Eames murmured something into his hair, “Don’t pay attention to them”, Hell, as if that was possible. Arthur exhaled through his nose. “They’re going to trip over something and die.”
Meanwhile, out in the hallway, voices louder:
“‘S this your rooom?”
“Yesss. This one. This this this one one one. The only.”
“Shhhhh.” Giggles. Always giggles.
A beat of silence.
Then, from behind Arthur, a low, sleepy voice. “Darling… if they get any louder, I’m sedating them myself. And I don’t even have Yusuf’s kit.” Arthur mocked him, “Let the kids have fun”.
“Wait wait wait Yusuf, did you lock the door downstairs?”
“…I locked a door.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… it means… I locked a door.”
“That’s not helpful!”
“I’m VERY helpful.”
Giggles. A thud. Something rolled. Arthur closed his eyes again, defeated. “They’re going to break something.”
“Hopefully themselves,” Eames murmured.
There wasn’t a knock this time; the door simply swung open and the light flicked on. Ariadne and Yusuf stood in the doorway, arms slung over each other’s shoulders just to stay upright.
Arthur pushed himself up on one elbow at the sudden intrusion. Eames loosened the arm he had draped around Arthur and started laughing the moment he heard voices.
“Arthurrrr!” Ariadne beamed, “Are you… are you joining our sleepover?” She was genuinely thrilled by the idea. “We got snacks! No wait, no snacksss. Jus’t vibes and gossip.”
“What’re you doin’ in my room, mate?” Yusuf asked, squinting at Eames as if trying to bring him into focus. “Are you Eames right? You’re Eames-shaped… I think”
“Yusuf, my friend,” Eames chuckled, “this is our room. Yours is the next one.”
Yusuf blinked slowly, then suspiciously inspected the walls. “My room has walls too.”
Ariadne suddenly gasped.
“Wait wait wait WAIT,” she exclaimed, waving her hand wildly before pointing dramatically at them. “Why are you two in Yusuf's room?”
Eames opened his mouth to explain again, but Ariadne beat him to it, “Oh my GOD,” she shrieked, “are you two fuuucking?”
She slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “I said it. I said the word.”
Silence. Except for Yusuf’s uncontrollable giggles, which echoed off the hallway walls and, Arthur hoped, into Cobb’s room too. The point man lay back down and covered his eyes with one hand, refusing to participate in this circus.
Eames, amused, replied, “Yes, we do even that.”
“‘Even’?” Ariadne repeated, scandalized. “Are you two daaating? Like… like real dating? Like… like holding hands in public? Like… sharing… croissants?”
“Mmh, yeah, more or less,” Eames said lazily.
Ariadne turned to Yusuf, triumphant. “See?? I KNEW it, I knew it!” Too much enthusiasm, Arthur thought.
Yusuf nodded sagely. “Well, I knew it too. Officially I mean; and I mean mean, no—”
“Please, shut up.” Arthur cut him off, finally speaking, Eames snorted into his shoulder.
“Why did you know?!” Ariadne demanded, offended.
“Sorry, mate,” Yusuf said, wobbling, “but Eames and I have been friends for years.”
“Why didn’t I notice anything? You left me in the dark, it’s not faaair” Ariadne asked, genuinely distressed.
“Sorry,” Eames said, “Arthur doesn’t allow too many displays of affection at work.”
Ariadne: “Shaaaame.”
Yusuf: “Booooring.”
“We don’t make out out of respect for all of you, you know,” Arthur muttered. “It’s called professionalism.”
Ariadne, cheeks flushed, “Well… let us decide what we wanna see, Mr. Clipboard,” Arthur frowned at… that.
Yusuf raised a finger triumphantly. “Yeah! Maybe we wanna see… stuff. Not respectful stuff, not educational stuff. And not me… but maybe Ari, yeah”
Arthur raised an eyebrow and lifted his head just enough to glare. “You want to ask Cobb if he wants to watch us making out?”
Ariadne froze. Even drunk, she knew the answer. “Well, when he isn’t ther—”
“Please,” Arthur cut in, refusing to listen anymore, “go to your room so we can all sleep.”
Ariadne looked at Yusuf and then at Arthur and Eames, winking exaggeratedly. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Yeah, ‘sleeeep,’ right?”
Yusuf nodded in a very drunken way. “Lots of… sleep. Very… active sleep. So much dynamic sleep.”
Arthur gave up. “For fuck’s sake, go away,” he snapped, pulling the blankets over his head until he disappeared. Eames laughed, resting an arm over the lump that was Arthur.
“Time to go,” he said, “Buddy, take our lady back to her room. Switch off the light and close the door, thanks.”
Ariadne and Yusuf finally staggered backward into the hallway, still clinging to each other. Ariadne grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door shut, too hard. It slammed with a bang that made Arthur flinch. Eames tugged the blanket back down and they settled into their previous position.
“She’s probably going to ask us a few questions,” Eames murmured. Arthur answered with a sound that expressed both physical and emotional pain.
But the chaos outside wasn’t over. They heard shuffling. A thud. A muffled “ow.” Then another door opened down the hallway. Cobb’s voice, low and dangerously tired, “What is going on out here?”
“God.” Arthur whispered—again, physical pain.
Ariadne gasped dramatically. “Cobb! Cobb Cobb. Listen. LISTEN. We discovered something. Something important.”
Yusuf nodded, “Very important. V.I.P., Very Important P-something”
“It’s three in the morning.” Cobb sighed.
Ariadne pointed at him, “Arthur and Eames fuck.”
Arthur covered his face with both hands. Eames laughed.
“Not now!” Ariadne clarified, “Sadly. But in general. They they share croissants, you got it? Croissants!!”
“Very intimate pastry behavior,” Yusuf added.
Cobb exhaled through his nose, the way he did when dealing with dream logic gone wrong.
“I know.”
Ariadne’s jaw dropped. “Why does everyone know except me? It’s not faaair.”
“Maybe,” Yusuf said, patting her shoulder and missing, “maybe you were busy. With architecture.”
Cobb rubbed his eyes. “Go to bed. Both of you.”
Ariadne groaned dramatically. “Fiiine. But I’m filing a complaint in the morning.”
“Please don’t,” Cobb said.
Their footsteps staggered away; one step, stumble, giggle, repeat, until the hallway finally fell silent.
Inside the room, Arthur let out a long, exhausted breath. Eames pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder, smiling into his skin. “Well,” he murmured, “it could be worse.”
Arthur didn’t even open his eyes. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
Eames chuckled softly. “Yes, darling.”
4)
Since that drunken night Ariadne has been trying actively to enter their room, craving for domesticity (and intimacy); approaching that door. Sometimes she knocks, sometimes she forgets, sometimes she hesitates with her hand hovering over the wood. And almost every time she pushes it open. Eames, of course, was amused. Arthur not so much.
—o—
Arthur sat cross‑legged on the bed, laptop balanced on his thighs, the glow of the screen reflecting off his focused expression. He scrolled through the schematics Cobb had sent, fingers tapping absently against the keys. Beside him, Eames was lying sideways across the pillows, one leg dangling off the edge, tossing a stress ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, waiting for Arthur to finish working.
Arthur didn’t look up when he said, calm as ever, “She’s outside the door.”
Eames caught the ball mid-air. “What?”
“Ariadne.”
“Ah.” Eames tossed the ball again, he smirked. “Persistent little architect.”
Arthur sighed. “She’s been pacing for eight minutes.”
Eames tilted his head. “Eight? That’s a new record.”
The pacing stopped. Then resumed. Then stopped again.
Arthur closed his eyes. “She’s trying to decide whether to knock.”
Eames grinned. “She’s going to combust if she doesn’t catch us doing something scandalous.”
“We’re literally working.”
“Scandalous,” Eames repeated, amused.
They heard a knock on the door. Then the door cracked open a few centimeters. Ariadne peeked in, eyes wide, hopeful.
Arthur stared at her. “Yes?”
She blinked. “Oh. You’re working.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re… throwing a ball?”
Eames held it up proudly. “I’m good at it.”
Ariadne deflated. “Okay. Carry on.”
She didn’t leave. She just stood there.
Arthur shut the laptop with a sigh. “Ariadne.”
“Yes?”
“Out.”
She groaned and shuffled away, muttering something about “statistical probability.”
Eames laughed.
—o—
Eames was sprawled on the bed, sketchbook open, drawing a caricature of Arthur with exaggerated cheekbones, impossibly sharp jawline and a tiny tie. He looked far too pleased with himself. Arthur stood at the dresser, buttoning his shirt with precision.
Eames glanced at the door. “She’s back.”
Arthur didn’t even turn. “I know.”
A shadow moved under the doorframe. Then a soft thump. Silence.
Eames grinned. “She’s lying on the floor.”
Arthur froze mid‑button. “What?”
“She’s trying to listen.”
Arthur closed his eyes. “I hate everything.”
Eames laughed quietly. “Should we give her something to hear?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
Arthur finished buttoning his shirt, smoothing the fabric down his chest and walked toward the bed. Eames reached out, catching his wrist, pulling him closer.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Don’t.”
Eames smirked. “She’ll explode.”
Arthur leaned down and kissed him; a soft, brief kiss, then pulled back.
Eames blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s all you get.”
Ariadne chose that exact moment to fall into the room.
She hit the floor with a dramatic thud, scrambled upright, and said, far too quickly, “Oh, sorry, I lost my balance. Apparently the doors in this apartment aren’t… very strong.”
She stared. Arthur was standing. Eames was sitting. Both fully dressed and looking at her.
Eames waved. “Hello, poppet.”
Ariadne squinted. “You two are being boring on purpose.”
Arthur didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
She stayed there. Waiting.
Arthur pointed at the door. “Out.”
She groaned and left again, muttering something about “statistical anomalies”.
Eames laughed. “She’s going to lose her mind.”
“Can’t wait.”
—o—
It was late evening. Arthur and Eames were tucked under the comforter, both in soft cotton pajamas. Arthur in grey, Eames in blue, because Arthur had bought it for him. Arthur’s laptop rested on his knees, playing the next episode of a tv series they’d started together. The room glowed with the soft light of the screen.
Arthur was leaning back against Eames’s chest, Eames’s arms loosely wrapped around him. Every now and then, Eames would press a kiss to Arthur’s temple or nuzzle his hair, and Arthur would pretend not to enjoy it as much as he did. Six weeks apart: too long, never again.
Halfway through the episode, Arthur said quietly. “She’s outside.”
Eames didn’t even look away from the screen. “Of course she is.”
But this time, there were two voices whispering or trying to whisper.
“Yusuf, please. You have more confidence with Eames. He likes you.”
“He tolerates me.”
“Same thing. Just knock.”
“I am knocking.”
He knocked. Once. Twice. Then, without waiting he opened the door. Fast.
Arthur and Eames both were already staring at the door.
Ariadne gasped, triumphant, “Finally!”
Yusuf blinked. “Oh. You two are… cozy.”
Arthur sighed, long-suffering. “We’re watching a tv series.”
“In pajamas,” Ariadne whispered, “In bed. Together.”
Eames laughed, “Yes, darling. It’s a rule: you can’t touch Arthur’s bed unless you’re in pajamas.”
“That’s not a rule, it’s hygiene”
Ariadne stepped inside, taking in every detail— Arthur and Eames details.
Yusuf cleared his throat. “Ari, maybe we should—”
“No,” she said, transfixed. “This counts.”
Arthur groaned. “We’re literally just sitting here.”
“Intimately!” she corrected, pointing at them.
Eames smirked. “She’s not wrong.”
Ariadne didn’t leave. She just stood there. Yusuf awkwardly hovered behind her, unsure whether to intervene or flee.
Arthur finally said, “Ariadne.”
“Yes?”
“Out.”
She sighed dramatically. “Fine. But this is progress.”
5) explicit
Ariadne told herself, firmly, that it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault she had hormones. It wasn’t her fault she happened to be ovulating. Certainly it wasn't her fault that Arthur and Eames were so… so… ahhh, she couldn’t even find a word strong enough.
Again: not her fault.
They were objectively handsome men, everyone knew that. It wasn’t her fault she had eyes or taste; both to appreciate two aesthetically pleasing people being aesthetically pleasing together.
None of this was her fault.
She was stressed, okay? Work was a lot, life was a lot.
Ariadne didn’t want to try so actively to open that door, no. It was just that the damned door was calling her. It was the door’s fault. It whispered: “Open me. Take a look at Arthur, at Eames and at the possibility that they’re both naked, maybe in a compromising position”.
Really, she was a simple, weak girl with good taste and a healthy appreciation for romance.
How could any of this be her fault?
She had tried to restrain herself, truly. Especially after the bedtime tv-series incident. She had told herself she was pleased. Quite pleased. Well… a bit pleased; okay, barely pleased. Despite this, she was actively trying not to open that door.
But when you hear a low sound, a breathless laugh, a muffled voice, and then — the worst of all — a warm, soft laugh from Arthur; honestly, how was anyone supposed to resist a door that sounded like that behind it?
The hallway was dark, everyone else had already retreated to their rooms hours ago, doors closed, lights off. Ariadne stopped in front of Arthur and Eames’s door, staring at it as if it were some moral test. She knew she shouldn’t be here; if anyone caught her standing right there, peeking inside, it would be her death (by Arthur probably; maybe Eames liked an audience).
She took a step closer, more suspiciously pleasant sounds. Ariadne bit her lip, she was a person who respected boundaries, usually. She pressed her ear lightly against the wood, a soft rustle of blankets, low whispers. She hesitated. Then curiosity — terrible, powerful curiosity — won.
Holding her breath, she braced one hand against the wall for balance; her heart biting fast. She prayed the door wouldn’t betray her with a creak, slowly she curled her fingers around the doorknob and turned it a fraction of an inch at a time. When it gave a soft click, she froze, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for someone inside to react. She stayed still. Nothing changed.
Ariadne exhaled silently and leaned forward, slowly; she opened the door at the minimum, just enough to peek inside.
The room was dim, lit only by a soft lamp on the desk. The details were blurred by the low light, but the shapes were unmistakable.
Ariadne held her breath again, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Well, what was she expecting to see?
Arthur and Eames were on the bed, close. Moving. Naked. Their bodies were tangled, unmistakably intimate. They didn’t notice her. She should have left but she didn’t. She stayed there, watching.
“Oh my god.” Was everything she could think.
Eames murmured something low, too soft to catch. Arthur laughed, a quiet laugh against Eames’s lips.
Ariadne was wrong. So wrong.
Eames had seen her the moment the door cracked open. “Darling, Ari is watching us,” he murmured. “Why don’t you let her see how you ride me?” Arthur laughed.
Eames was lying on his back, hands on Arthur’s thighs, squeezing. Arthur was seated on Eames’s lap, hands on his tattooed chest for support, catching his breath.
Arthur leaned over Eames, kissing him with warm lips. The kiss was deep, and Eames’s hands moved from the point man’s thighs to his firm ass.
Arthur straightened up, taking both cocks in one hand, hard and wet again.
“Did she bother you?” Eames asked while caressing Arthur’s side
“No, I just wanna fuck,” Arthur whispered. A grin spread across the other man's face, “You say the most romantic things, darling.”
“Then go on,” Eames sighed, “We want to see you ride me.”
Arthur smirked and lifted his hips, his thigh muscles tensing as he tried to adjust Eames’s cock to his entrance. Then he came down slowly, staying still for a few seconds, feeling every inch deep inside him. A long exhale escaped him. There was no need for lube or foreplay since this was their second round. Again: six weeks apart, too long.
God, Eames loved seeing Arthur just like that: sweaty and messy and sticky. And on him.
The forger settled his hands on Arthur’s hips, and he got the hint. The point man pulled himself up enough to have just the head of Eames’s cock inside, and then the forger pulled him down fast and hard. Again and again.
“Fuck,” they both panthed, heads thrown back.
Arthur leaned back, placing his hands on Eames’s shins and let his head fall back. He started to move in sinuous circles, up and down, left and right—horribly slowly. Eames shut his eyes and opened his mouth, struggling to stay quiet; his grip on Arthur’s thighs strengthened, trying to maintain his hold even though they were both slick.
“Eames,” Arthur whispered. He was enjoying himself, he always did with Eames.
Eames looked back at him. Arthur was moving with a sensuality that was hard to believe. His body was perfect, lean and strong; impossibly more erotic in the dim light. And God, the way he moved his hips. Eames loved having Arthur on him. It was too much.
“Arthur,” Eames moaned, “stop teasing,” he said, taking hold of the point man’s cock.
Arthur smiled but complied and pulled himself up, leaning toward the forger to kiss him again, a messy, violent kiss. Eames’s hands wandered across the back of the other man, scratching, while Arthur bit into Eames’s neck and shoulder, where he could leave marks.
The point man straightened, one hand on Eames’s chest and one on the forger’s neck, his thumb in his mouth. The forger gripped his thighs again.
Eames closed his mouth around that finger, moving his tongue around it, while Arthur frantically fucked himself on his cock. They locked eyes, and Arthur opened his mouth to let out soft whispers.
Arthur moved his thumb. “Do you like that Ariadne is watching you riding my cock, don’t you?” Eames teased.
“Fuck,” Arthur panthed, moving faster, “Eames.”
He was close; Eames could feel how Arthur’s muscles began to tense, chasing his orgasm.
“Come for me darling”. And Arthur came on Eames’s stomach, tightening around him. “God,” he murmured.
It was too much to bear. Eames clasped Arthur’s hips and started to thrust into him as hard as he could. The forger looked at him, a soft wince of pain crossing his face from the oversensitivity. Arthur gripped the arms that held him.
“Eames,” Arthur sighed, “fill me.”
That was absolutely too much. Eames came inside Arthur as deep as he could, thrusting into him even after he had finished, until he was too drained. For a moment they stayed still, catching breath.
Arthur let Eames pull is cock out and laid down on the forger, both stickier than before, but they didn’t mind.
He let an arm rest on Eames’s tattooed chest while Eames wrapped an arm around his waist, kissing a satisfied Arthur softly.
The forger watched the door to their room, now closed again.
“Do you think we have traumatized her?” Eames asked, bemused.
“I don’t care. Her fault.” Arthur replied, snuggling closer to Eames.
Ariadne had seen too much. Far too much.