Title: Sarabande Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne/Eames Summary: Arthur decides to let Ariadne go. Eames doesn't let him. Word count: 2319 Disclaimer: Not mine. Prompt: double penetration
Arthur was the one that decided to let her go. He knew that it would have been all too easy to draw Ariadne back in; she was a natural at being an architect and she could have easily become the best in their field. However, when they got off the plane after the Fischer job, Arthur watched her walk away and didn't stop her. It was best that she went back to school. It was best that she put this behind her as some adventurous little rebellion. It was best she forgot about them.
“She won't be able forgot. She'll be back.”
Eames laughed at Arthur. At the end of the day, Eames' and Arthur's jobs weren't so different. They needed to be able to read people incredibly well. They just used their information for different ends. Arthur suspected that Eames knew exactly what he was trying to do, but he ignored it. He wondered if Eames knew that he was echoing Cobb's words.
It bothered him that Cobb's words were more effective against him than Eames'.
Eames wouldn't leave him alone. Arthur was staring at his own work, his back straighter than usual, the point of his pencil stiff against paper as he tried to ignore Eames.
“You can't tell me that it doesn't bother you to think of all those French college boys with her, darling,” Eames smile was pointed. “How do you think she'll act for them? Do you think she'll wear that quietly surprised look when they kiss her? Do you think she'll sigh into their mouths? Or do you think that she'll be the one to take charge? Very controlling, our Ariadne.”
Arthur got up and left the room. Nothing bothered Eames more than a lack of a response, but Arthur wasn't entirely sure that his silence wasn't saying everything anyway.
“Girls want to be won over, Arthur. They want to be chased. Even you can't be that daft.”
He bought a plane ticket to Paris.
It wasn't hard to find Ariadne's apartment. After all, this is what he did for a living. Arthur wound his way through the streets of Paris until he was standing outside of it. The evening was just slightly chilled, the first kiss of autumn after a searing summer.
Arthur headed inside, wove his way to her door and knocked. He waited. He knew that, barring some deviation from her usual behavior, Ariadne should be here. He didn't worry about what he was going to say, because some part of him didn't think it mattered. What mattered was that he was going to be here tonight.
But no one answered. He frowned. He could see the slice of light that cut underneath the door. He knocked again, his knuckles beating out a staccato rhythm.
There was a thump from inside.
Arthur reached for the doorknob. It gave way underneath the twist of his wrist. He knew that he might be violating Ariadne's privacy, but she could worry about that once he was reassured that she was all right.
“Ariadne?” Arthur began to ask as he stepped inside. However, it didn't take him long at all to stop her. She was on her couch, sitting up, looking a little startled. Her hair was down, loose and wavy, and perhaps a just bit more tangled than usual. The red jacket that she had worn the first time he had met her was hooked about her elbows.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” drawled a voice somewhere south of Ariadne. Arthur looked down and was only moderately surprised to see Eames draped across the couch, looking upside down at him. He was wearing an incredibly smug smile.
Arthur felt his stomach clench up; it didn't occur to him for a moment that they had been doing this all along, because he knew Eames too well. He knew that Eames had to have found out and had to have come here to make some kind of point – what that point was, Arthur wasn't entirely sure, but he did suspect that it was intended to irritate him.
“Arthur,” Ariadne started to say. There was a hint of urgency to her voice. She looked down at Eames for a moment, as if everything was starting to fall into place. She licked her lips nervously. Arthur couldn't take it.
He strode across the room, ignoring the fact that she was still straddling Eames to catch the edge of her chin in one of his hands. He kissed her mouth gently, a mimic of the kiss that she had given him during the Fischer job. But then, he was pressing in more insistently, holding her in place as he dragged his tongue across her already swollen lower lip, plunging it inside as if he was trying to erase all traces of Eames' kisses.
Arthur pulled slowly away from her. He ran his thumb gently along the line of her chin and his eyes were still, calm, as if he was observing her. She was practically staring at him, her pupils blown wide.
“What a show,” Eames commented, still sounding far too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” Arthur and Ariadne said in tandem, although Arthur's voice was low and Ariadne's was a little too high-pitched.
Ariadne reached for him then and Arthur couldn't help but be surprised by how tight her hold was. Her hands deftly slipped off his suit jacket, letting it crumple to the floor before her hands fisted into his vest, pulling him closer. No matter how Arthur played it over in his mind – and really, someone as accustomed to zero gravity as him should have better balance – he can't figure out how they all got on the couch. But the next thing he knew, Ariadne's back was flush against Eames' front and he was splayed on both them. Eames looked up at him with wide eyes and suddenly seemed a little loss for what to say. It seemed that even he hadn't calculated this into his evening.
Arthur found that he didn't care. He could let Eames sweat it out a little while longer.
His hands found the smooth dip of Ariadne's waist. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. He kissed her again. Everything was a little slower this time, molten and hot, unfurling inside of both of them. Ariadne gasped into his mouth and Arthur could feel Eames twist a bit.
Ariadne bit gently into Arthur's lower lip, one of her hands tangling into his gelled hair, mussing it out of place. Arthur's fingertips began to pull up the fabric of her shirt just slightly, so that he could feel the soft skin of her stomach. He let his fingertips drag across the skin, finding the little dip of her belly button before moving lower to the button of her jeans.
He thumbed it open. Ariadne huffed out a heavy breath.
“I think you can leave now, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said impassively, looking down at the other man, who was quite pinned to the couch.
“I think it would be all right for him to stay,” Ariadne piped up between them. Arthur looked over at her in surprise. That certainly hadn't been what he had been expecting. There was something coy toying around the edges of Ariadne's mouth.
“I wouldn't think of denying a lady's request,” Eames quipped, but even Arthur could hear the newfound edge to his voice.
They were both looking at him now, waiting for him to agree.
“All right,” Arthur acquiesced. He dragged down the zipper to Ariadne's jeans, appreciating how the denim hugged her form. He left them on her for the time being, but slipped his hand inside; his fingertips encountered cotton before finding the warmth of her body. Ariadne's breathing hitched in the back of her throat and she pressed back against Eames, her fingers tightening in Arthur's vest, wrinkling the fabric.
Arthur pressed his fingers inside of her, stroking and thrusting, loving far too much the way he could feel her beginning to come to pieces beneath his touch. The truth of the matter was that he never wanted to think about anybody else doing this to her. Attachment was dangerous in their line of business. Cobb, as much Arthur respected him, had proven that much. Arthur was wary of making the same mistakes, but more than anything, Arthur refused to lie to himself.
Arthur began to move his fingers more hastily. Ariadne thrust her hips shallowly down into his hand. He ran his thumb deftly over her clit and she let out a moan that sent shivers straight down Arthur's spine. He could see the bob of Eames' Adam's apple as he swallowed unevenly.
“Perhaps it's time to reposition, loves?” Eames suggested.
Ariadne let out a breathy little laugh and nodded. She started to sit up on the couch again. As she did so, she began to hastily take off Arthur's clothing. First went the vest and she neatly undid every little button as they stood up. Off went her jacket and shirt, flung somewhere near her kitchen. When she was just standing in her bra, her jeans undone, her hands went for Arthur's pants. Eames stood up as well, stretching a little as he grinned wolfishly at Arthur from behind Ariadne. Eames reached for the clasp of Ariadne's bra, undoing it before tossing that to the ground as well. He leaned in and brushed a kiss against her shoulder before his hand curled up to encircle one of her breasts, his fingers gently kneading.
“You must be quite pleased with yourself,” Ariadne commented wryly as she pushed Arthur's pants out of the way.
“Always,” Eames returned.
“Don't be too pleased with yourself,” Arthur added dryly.
Ariadne pushed the three of them down to the ground, winding their way along her carpeted floor. It wasn't how Arthur would have chosen for the first to be – but he couldn't deny that it mattered very little in that moment. He sank his face against the smooth expanse of Ariadne's skin, breathing her in. She twisted in his arms so that she was facing Eames.
“We wouldn't want our guest to feel ignored,” Ariadne pointed out with a smile as she began to undo Eames' pants as well.
“No?” Arthur asked as he kissed the nape of her neck and began to slide her jeans off completely, pulling off the red cotton underwear that underneath so that she was bare beneath him. He couldn't help but admire her, to think that she was constructed as perfectly as the landscapes that she spent hours obsessing over.
He kissed her way down her spine, his fingertips tracing their way along her ribs. From behind her, he could see the way her hands were moving. He could hear the way Eames was cursing, sometimes in English and sometimes in languages that Arthur recognized, but was feeling no desire to translate. He watched the slope of her neck change, the way her hair fell into her face as she lowered her head and took the head of Eames' cock into her small mouth. Arthur watched Eames' eyes practically roll up into his head. One of his hands slid forward, practically touching Arthur's as it found the curve of Ariadne's shoulder.
Arthur's hand slipped down, becoming acquainted with her hips again before he carefully pushed himself inside of her in one thrust. He was aware of the way that she moaned beneath him, the sound muffled and reverberating through Eames, but Arthur's whole world had condensed. Everything had gone hot and white and tight, as if her body was suddenly a creation of the sun embodied. A paradox in design.
He was careful, steady, thrusting into her over and over again, although his hands were grasping too tightly at her hips. The plane of her back was arched up and he could see the way that Eames' fingers were leaving indents in her shoulder. He was talking too much, mumbling phrases about how that's the spot, darling and right there, just keep – yes.
Arthur leaned in closer, letting his head coming closer to the bruising stroke of Eames' hand. He shifted so that he could wrap one arm around Ariadne's middle, his other hand going down back to find her clit. It took a simple touch, a brush of his fingertips, and she shuddered, crying out as she orgasmed between the two of them. Red flushed along her back and Arthur kissed the color, finding it devastatingly beautiful. His own thrusts were speeding up, becoming uneven.
He was distantly aware of Eames letting out a guttural groan. Ariadne's body pressed backwards with the forward thrust of Eames' hips, but Arthur lost track of it all as he came as well. He moaned, the sound muffled in against Ariadne's skin.
Later, Eames fell asleep in front of the couch, snoring quietly. Arthur and Ariadne were still unfurled on the floor as well. Arthur had an arm around her and they were both halfheartedly watching a French movie on the television. Arthur's French was not as good as he remembered.
“He said you wouldn't be able to do anything unless you thought you were protecting me from someone,” Ariadne commented, smiling a little up at him from where her head was pillowed on his shoulder.
“And I'm sure he felt it was a great sacrifice to interject himself,” Arthur returned, although, for the moment, he found it quite difficult to work up any genuine irritation.
“It worked, didn't it?” Ariadne answered.
“I suppose it did.” Arthur said, leaning in to kiss her gently.