Arthur has an elegant neck. She'd love to try and recreate it in some way this next time she Dreams (the flow of muscle connecting the hinge of his jaw and his collarbone, the gentle dip beneath his throat), and hopes she'll remember the fall of lines and shadows after the Somnalin kicks in. Of course she's got more important things to worry about finishing precisely, they have a job to do that she's loath to jeopardize in any way, but maybe one building somewhere, where its edifice might rise above a portion of her skyline...not conspicuous, and maybe even understated off to the side of a couple more prominent structures. There if you look for it. Something to be admired, perhaps from a distance.

(she lays kiss after kiss upon his throat, and delights in the moans they draw from him)

A line leads from her wrist, the hair-thin needle slipped like water under her skin; Ariadne barely feels it going in anymore. Dreaming through the Pasiv's become something like second nature by this point (she shouldn't be so proud of it but it's hard to help herself, really), and fuzzily she thinks that it's a good thing she'd never harbored a fear of injections as a child.

She feels his fingers on her wrist, checking the connection before he puts himself under with her. The last thing she does before the sedative hijacks her thoughts is fit her fingers around the bishop in her pocket, just to be sure it's there. Though, sometimes, she isn't really sure if it anchors her to anything. (if she doesn't know what she's feeling, it's possible she isn't feeling at all) It's still possible, she thinks, that this is all just a very exciting night's sleep. But at least it's a comfort she remembers how she got here.

(Arthur kisses her hair, and carries her to bed)