Dinner is a mix of canned chicken and beef stew over instant potatoes—filling and hot. Going to bed is easier after that; Eames watches as Ariadne banks both fires, explaining about what she's doing and why it's important. He's not sure he can do it himself, but that's all right; Ariadne's got it.
Arthur prowls around, closing the shutters and nearly freezing to death as he does, bolting the doors securely before the three of them climb the stairs to the loft. The stairs creak, the wind howls outside, and Eames feels glad that they're not lying on stone floors or thin cots tonight. When they reach the upper level, Ariadne sets the candle down on the dresser, slips off her socks and slithers into the bed.
Eames hesitates, and stepping out of his felt boots, follows her, secretly thrilled to be in the middle for once. Ari clings to his right side, her warmth merging with his. After a moment, the candle goes out and the mattress dips as Arthur slides in on the left with a grunt.
They lay there for long moments, not speaking and then . . . and then . . .
Ariadne giggles. A good snorty giggle; instantly contagious. Eames feels himself start to shake as he tries to suppress his own response, but really, what's the point? Her little body is quivering against his, and every time she tries to settle down, the giggles start up again, a mix of cold and embarrassment and relief.
Finally Arthur rumbles at them. "Jesus, it's like sleeping with a couple of seven-year olds."
Eames can't help himself. "And you know all about that, do you, Darling?"
Ari laughs louder now, her chuckles half-smothered against his shoulder, and Eames feels himself swell with love and lust. She smells delicious, and so does Arthur; it's heavenly being in the middle. Her hand is sliding over his bare chest, and oooh that touch ignites memories of the morning.
"I can't help it," Ariadne half-explains, half-apologizes. "It feels so damned good to be clean and warm and with the two of you."
"A very mutual feeling, pet," Eames assures her, "snug against the storm."
Arthur rolls over and away from them, and for a moment that little rejection hurts, but Eames sighs and turns himself, spooning up against Arthur's spine. God the man smells good. For a moment, he feels Arthur tense, but neither of them say anything. Then Ariadne curls up along Eames' spine and gives a contented sigh.
And giggles once more.
00oo00oo00
Arthur rolls back again in exasperation, because is it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet? Eames however, doesn't turn, and Arthur finds himself beard to beard in the dark. He can't easily see Eames' grin but he can damned near feel it.
"Yes?" Eames drawls, and Arthur is tempted to knee him.
Somewhere deep down inside, Arthur knows it's not because he's actually repulsed by the Englishman; it's because in truth, he's not.
The unbidden, blunt reality he's starting to recognize is that if he ever were to engage in a relationship with a man, it would be with Eames. The forger is by turns witty, infuriating, attractive and annoying, and wears his own multi-layered sexuality like a loosely knotted tie; comfortable and flashy.
"People are trying to sleep," Arthur mutters.
"So sleep," Eames replies comfortingly. "Ari and I will try to keep things quiet, love."
Arthur glares. "Keep what quiet?"
"Nothing, nothing," Eames lies. "You just close your eyes and get some rest, Arthur. We'll wait until you're asleep."
"What? No. You're not going to . . ." Arthur hisses, his hackles—along with other things—up now. Part of the emotion surging through him is a sense of possessiveness about Ariadne, but another part is a strange longing . . . not to be left out.
He tenses at this illogical insight, but Eames doesn't give him much time to contemplate it; the other man slips an arm around him and pulls Arthur up against him, purring. "Is someone feeling unloved?"
"Let go of me, or lose an arm—" Arthur growls, in the panicky position of making threats even while his body savors the shared warmth under the covers. Then Ari leans over Eames' shoulder.
"Arthur," she murmurs, "which one of us should kiss you right now?"
He pauses. That damning little hesitation is enough to make Eames laugh, and Ari slither over the Englishman to brush her mouth against Arthur's lips.
After that, Arthur decides that if he's going to lead, he's damned well going to enjoy it. He kisses Ari in return, leaning over Eames himself to do it, amused at how his weight makes the man grunt happily. Ariadne is eager, and kisses him in return, a delicious tangle of lip and tongue and gasps.
Arthur likes kissing, and considers it a terrific activity all on its own. He reaches up and cups the back of her head; Eames smirks up and watches, his hands running down both of their backs in a lazy caress, slow and strong, each stroke comforting as well as sensual.
Ariadne is giving little happy whimpers and Arthur almost grins because it's clear that both he and Eames are enjoying her arousal. She wriggles, moving as if to climb over the Englishman, but Arthur brings his other hand up to cup one of her breasts, making her gasp against his lips.
"What," he manages to ask with soft urgency, "do you want?"
He knows what he wants, but this is a new game; a different playing field so to speak, and Arthur's determined to err on the side of caution, even as his body leans a little harder on Eames.
Ariadne tosses her hair out of her eyes. She looks a little dazed, but Arthur can see the determined set of her chin. Instead of giving him an answer, she bends down, nips Eames' shoulder and when he laughs, she rolls over him to take the middle.
"I want that spot back, later," Eames warns her sweetly.
They don't talk after that; Arthur feels a little self-conscious making love in front of Eames, but that fades when Ari helps him out of his boxers, her hands sliding all over his body as she kisses him, clings to him, slides her fingers over his sticky cock.
Arthur rolls her over, arching into Ariadne as her lean little thighs wrap around his hips.
He pushes; the slick tight heat of her cleft makes Arthur grunt helplessly because it's been a long fucking time since he's done this, and FUCK this is ARIADNE under him, writhing and digging her nails into his shoulders, telling him she needs more, harder, much harder damn it . . .
Arthur plows into her ruthlessly, close, close, soclose to coming, but not going over, because Eames is RIGHT there, licking his lips, saying nothing, but watching with that hot-eyed gaze of his, and Arthur WANTS to come, but can't . . . quite . . .
Then Eames deliberately runs one wide palm down Arthur's sweat-dampened spine, and the heat of that heavy hand gliding down to his ass does it.
Fuck.
Arthur groans as the white-hot flare of overwhelming pleasure rockets through his prick in sullen, delicious spasms, driving him harder into a gasping Ariadne.
00oo00oo00
She can't breathe; her orgasm surges so fast, tensing every fiber in her body. Ariadne's nipples are so damned hard that they ache and when Eames bends his head to suckle on the nearest one, she shudders with pleasure. Then Arthur drops his mouth to the other one, and Ariadne cries out in wild delight, weakly pushing them away after a moment because it's too much and she's too sensitive now.
Arthur is slumped on her, his damp, lean weight wonderful; Ariadne kisses his temple and at the same time, reaches one hand out to Eames, curling it around his neck to pull him into a kiss.
It's a great kiss. Eames is a nuzzler, and plays with her lips, his tongue tracing them playfully. Ariadne laughs, feeling decidedly decadent at having one man still in her while kissing another, and when she smiles, Eames arches an eyebrow questioningly.
"You're next," she murmurs firmly, shooting back a smutty glance that makes his grin widen.
"Seeing how you've drained our Point Man, I'm not sure whether to be frightened or thrilled, oh terrible pixie," he rumbles softly.
"Terrible, yes," Ariadne assured him, "pixie, no."
With a last kiss to Arthur's cheek, Ariadne shifts from under him, fighting a smirk when she feels his softened prick slide out and leave a trail along her thigh. Arthur gives a sleepy groan of protest, but she strokes his damp forehead.
"We share," she murmurs, feeling a rush of tenderness at the sleepy and contented expression on his face. Arthur is so damned serious so much of the time that seeing him like this-satiated and relaxed, his hair a tousled mess as he grins—makes her heart do flipflops.
"Okay," he murmurs, and she turns to Eames.
He scoops her up and pulls her over his torso, brushing her hair back, touching Ariadne's face and shoulders and breasts, and she savors how gentle he is. That smirking mouth needs to be kissed, so she does, and shifts, pressing against his thick shaft in a teasing lean of weight.
"Someone's a bit bossy in the sack," Eames murmurs, not sounding at all upset about it.
Ariadne lifts her chin. "Be good," she whispers, and shifts herself along his body. Eames catches her hips, and pushes into her, his expression shifting from mirth to hot-eyed lust as he groans.
She gasps a bit too; nothing about Julian Eames is small, and being on top re-affirms that. But he's gentle as well, and slows himself, letting her get used to him deep within her. Ariadne rocks herself, feeling his heat, his need.
He moves under her, murmuring endearments and stroking her spine; Ariadne braces her small hands on his chest for balance, and within minutes, the slow, sweet torque of a second orgasm building makes her move more quickly. Eames is breathing hard himself now, fingers tightening on her hipbones, and she looks towards Arthur, who is on his side, watching, the sheet pooled around his lean, bare hip. Blindly Ariadne reaches one hand for his, catches it, and brings it to her mouth, sucking his index finger, tasting the calluses there.
"Oh you evil minx . . ." Eames growls, watching her lips working over Arthur's finger in lewd imitation of a much more naughty act. It's enough to bring him off, and Eames gasps, thrusting up hard in a series of quick spasms, his entire body one hard, tense slab.
She's barely aware of it though, caught up in her own softer, sweet orgasm, and when Ariadne can breathe, she licks and kisses Arthur's finger lovingly before pulling away and bending to kiss Eames, who lies back against his pillow, exhausted but smiling.
"Goodnight, sweethearts," she murmurs, and slips to the other side, letting Eames take the middle again as she curls against him.
"Thank you," Eames sighs blissfully. Ariadne feels Arthur reach across the Englishman to lightly rub her shoulder.
Gradually, they all drift off to sleep.