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Just for anyone who may be interested in (at least) the whole 'try before you buy' approach.  LJ have a free 2 week trial on offer.  Have at, people.


Date: 2011-03-02 11:28 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilovetakahana.livejournal.com
What happens after the trial period expires? Do we lose the extra icon space etc?

Date: 2011-03-02 12:58 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] we-reflamingos.livejournal.com
I assume so. I suppose it's them letting you know juust how good those extra icons can make you feel and how you want them all the time and will then pay to have them always.

I reposted it because I spent months wondering if I should or shouldn't go financial on my lj account. I like some of the extras. But then I don't use some of the basic stuff I could without a paid account, so I guess it's all about how you'd use it. This is just two weeks free to explore how you might (or might not) use it. Most useful if you were thinking about it anyway, I guess.

Date: 2011-03-02 01:00 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilovetakahana.livejournal.com
Guess I'll skip it, then; I've been on LJ, on and off, for the better part of five years and never really had the inclination to go for the paid stuff. :)

Date: 2011-03-02 01:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] we-reflamingos.livejournal.com
In that case you know how you'd use it and are missing nothing. :D

Date: 2011-03-09 06:59 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] veritas-nescio.livejournal.com

I'm not sure what day it is where you're at, but I just wanted to say Happy Birthday for the 9th, and I hope you have a lovely day :)

Date: 2011-03-09 12:23 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] we-reflamingos.livejournal.com
Thank you so much, that's so sweet. It's still my birthday here, so your timing's great. Also, I was born on the other side of the planet - I like to use it as an excuse to extend the festivities anyway. ;)

Date: 2011-03-10 06:05 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] veritas-nescio.livejournal.com
I do that too! I will milk parental guilt for all the presents I can get my hands on *g*

Hope you had an awesome day :)
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
It starts out innocently enough with the usual bickering that comes during the planning of jobs. Everyone thinks they know better than everyone else, and so they’re squabbling over things as trivial as curtains and the lingerie Eames, as their forger should wear to lure their mark.

The environment isn’t helping their short tempers either; the warehouse is basically a tiny tin shed in the outskirts of Brisbane that Dom had chosen because he thought it had character that would allow them to probe deeper into their Australian Mark’s subconscious.

Dom is a fucking nutter sometimes. Arthur is just grateful that he had enough sense to make sure their warehouse had air conditioning.

Dom’s looking cross and ridiculous in short shorts that Eames had claimed were the only clothes in the local shop (Dom's never prepared clothes-wise for jobs), Ariadne has her customary scarf tied around her backpack because she’ll be damned if she goes anywhere without one of her lucky scarves, and Arthur has been forced to forgo his customary three piece suits in favour of summer business clothes that his tailor had assured him would be comfortable to wear in Australia.

It’s still too fucking hot.

Eames is the only one who’s taken to the heat, wearing a tank top and threadbare jeans and flexing his muscles when he thinks Arthur is looking.

Now, Dom is acting like a toddler and sulking in his office because the three of them had all (mostly politely) shot down one of his more risky, inane suggestions, Arthur is doing excessive research on his laptop because he doesn’t want to have another argument about lingerie, and even Ariadne is about to pull her hair out and snap, and she’s the most laidback person Arthur knows.

For his part, Eames is being almost insufferable, lounging on a chair in ridiculous sprawl that can’t possibly be comfortable and teasing Arthur and Ariadne about being control freaks.

Which is entirely unfair because if that were true, then Arthur would not have let Eames leave his (their) apartment in the ghastly tank he’s wearing right now. It’s an eyesore. And he would have also taped Eames’ mouth shut, or put his lips to use in a much more useful (if not appropriate) manner.

Arthur runs his hands through his hair in frustration just once before he catches himself, but Eames has already seen through his poker face. He leans forward with a dark and dangerous amused glint in his eyes and says –

Well, in the future, when he looks back on this, Arthur doesn’t even remember what the particular wording was.

The point is though, that Eames bets that Arthur can’t let things be without trying to control a situation for a whole day.

Arthur contemplates this for a moment.

He doesn’t have to look after his godchildren or any family members, Ariadne has already said Dom’s driving her home so she doesn’t need a ride home tonight, and Dom will still be sulking for the rest of the day.

The bet is accomplishable.

“If you win, I’ll be your devoted slave for a week, starting tomorrow,” Eames says, fluttering his eyelashes in that slutty, coquettish way that makes Arthur want to punch him or maybe fuck him in the back of the warehouse. “And if I win, then you’ll be my slave.”

Oh, yes. This is just too good. Arthur looks at the pages and pages of research on his desk and the piles he needs to sort through and all the work he has to get done.

And then he thinks about a week in which Eames doesn’t make awkward sexual insinuations and suggestions and work, doesn’t try to trip Arthur or laugh at him, or wear stupid fucking clothes just to piss Arthur off, and most important of all, does what Arthur tells him to.

Arthur has a ninety nine percent chance of winning this bet, which is why he smirks and says, “You’re on”, and doesn’t even care when Eames smirks lewdly and makes him shake on it.

This is going to be a piece of cake, and then next week will be like heaven on Earth.
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
The only thing is, Arthur forgets that while Eames is an honourable man in most senses of the word, when it comes to gambling, he always plays to win.

Which is why two hours later, when Arthur hears a yelp from the kitchen and runs in to find the coffee machine on fire – wait, the fucking coffee machine is on fucking fire – and Eames running his right hand under the sink while frantically and ineffectually batting a tea towel at the inferno that has consumed their coffee machine, Arthur goes into disaster-mode pointman and has the fire out and is on his knees, carefully inspecting Eames’ hand before he even knows it.

“You’re such a BAMF,” Ariadne says admiringly from her position lounging against the door, where she’d been watching the situation with a sort of detached amusement. Then she swoons a little bit into Dom’s arms, muttering something about the heat and needing to lie down and she’s actually pretty convincing. Arthur is grudgingly impressed.

Dom casts one pained glance at their coffee machine before their tricky, pretty diminutive architect has him wrapped around her little finger, just barely managing to hide a mischievous smile. Eames has been a Very Bad Influence on her.

“You idiot,” Arthur snaps, his gentle hands completely at odds with his tone. “This whole place could have gone up, you could have been hurt. Can’t you take care of yourself for five seconds without me supervising you?”

Eames doesn’t say, I didn’t mean to, in that sulky tone he sometimes uses, and he doesn’t bat his hand away, embarrassed, and say, I’m fine, leave me alone. No, when Arthur looks up, Eames is positively grinning.

And Arthur is suddenly aware that he is on his knees in his expensive, new pants, checking Eames for injuries after putting out a fire that – it dawns on him in the slow, horrible way that most revelations do – was most likely intentionally started by Eames with the express purpose of making Arthur lose their bet.

“You FUCK,” Arthur starts. Eames’ grin only grows wider.

“You agreed to this, darling,” Eames says and brushes his hand (miraculously uninjured) tenderly against Arthur’s cheek.

“I’m going to make you so sorry,” Arthur promises darkly and Eames just chuckles.

“I’m sure you will,” he says smugly. “But as of tomorrow, for a week, you’re all mine, and you can’t do anything about it.”

“I heard yelling,” Dom says, concerned, and returned before Arthur can kill Eames slowly and painfully. Ariadne has tucked herself under Dom’s arm and she looks half-crazed and frustrated. There’s an expression of murder in her eyes when she looks at Arthur and Eames.

“Eames blew up our coffee machine on purpose,” Arthur snaps and brushes past all of them so he can hide at his desk and pretend that today will never, ever, ever end and tomorrow will never, ever, ever come.

“You’re paying for a new one,” Ariadne says to Eames before Dom can say anything and then says, “Dom, I need to go over my models with you.”

“Sure,” Dom says absently and then looks very confused, but not perturbed, when she takes his hand and leads him to her work area.

Ariadne is about three times less subtle than Mal was, but Arthur is willing to bet that it’ll still be two months before Dom catches on that Ariadne is infatuated with him and maybe another month before he realises that regardless of what he thinks is best, she’s going to get whatever she wants.

Or at least, he would have been willing to bet that before today, before Eames had gone and ruined gambling and Arthur’s life forever.
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
Eames insists their team go to a nearby pub for dinner and drinks to celebrate Arthur’s last day as a free man. He buys a few rounds and Arthur doesn’t even care that he’s being plied with alcohol from all his teammates because they have this thing about wanting to see him drunk, and he doesn’t do that very often, because he’s too busy trying to form a plan of how to get out of this mess.

Arthur knows these things already: Eames will not be swayed by threats, vague promises, sexual favours, bribes, torture, the cold shoulder, arguing, or peer pressure (not that Ariadne, Dom or Yusuf would help him out, anyway). And Eames knows that for all Arthur is a criminal, he’s an honourable man. There is no conceivable way that Arthur can back out of this without losing face and self respect.

“Fuck,” he says eventually.

Ariadne pats his shoulder sympathetically and leaves the lemon wedge she’s just sucked on around her tequila on the table in front of him so she can follow Dom to the bar.

Eames laughs and rests a hand on his thigh under the table, squeezing reassuringly. “Don’t worry, pet. I’m sure you’ll take to it like a fish to water.”

Arthur glares at him and when no one is looking, stabs the lemon wedge, vainly wishing it were a Voodoo doll of his team. Hah, voodoo dolls. Put a bandaid on its mouth and get Eames to shut up. Stab it twice and see how Cobb likes his kneecaps being shot out. Drop it into a cup of water and see how Yusuf likes being doused, nearly drowned when he’s trying to concentrate on a delicate mission. Arthur is maybe a little drunk, but he’s usually not this morbid and vindictive and murderous drunk.

Drunk is supposed to be happy time, not my boyfriend is an evil bastard time. Arthur says as much and Eames laughs again.

“Darling, it can’t possible be as bad as you think it will be. You might even find that you enjoy it,” Eames winks.


Contrary to Eames’ belief, Arthur does not take to his enforced slavery to a fish to water and he doesn’t enjoy it at all. And it his nothing to do with Arthur being a contrary, uncooperative ‘slave’, or being at all unwilling to follow through and finish what he’s started, though he does make mistakes.

The first is when Eames rolls over in bed the next morning and bats vainly at the bright, hot sunlight shining through the window.

“C’rtain,” he mumbles.

“You’re cl’ser,” Arthur argues and shoves his head under his pillow.

They’ve had this same argument six times since starting to work in Australia, and each time before, Eames has bitched and moaned and Arthur has ignored him until Eames has gotten the curtain himself.

Eames sighs, annoyed, before Arthur feels the shape of a smile against his flung-out arm. “Get the curtain, Arthur.”

“You have two legs, get it yourself.” Arthur says and then realises that he has to. “I hate this bet. This was a stupid bet.”

“You’re only saying that because you lost it,” Eames says and then looks smug when Arthur doesn’t have a response other than viciously tugging the curtains closed. He’s about to crawl back into bed and try to sleep as much of this week away as he possibly can, but Eames pokes him gently.

“Make me breakfast,”

Arthur might – no, Arthur definitely will kill him before the week is out.

“Hop to,” Eames grins. “Look happy about it, Arthur!”

When Eames comes into the kitchen for breakfast, he blinks at the poached eggs and baked beans and potatoes and tomatoes and bacon and sausages on his plate and then Arthur and his stained apron.

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he says. “But cereal would have been fine.”

And this is what Arthur meant about it not being his fault; Arthur is perfectly able and willing to complete the conditions of his bet. He is Eames’ to do as he wishes for an entire week, and he might not be happy about it, he might drag his feet a little, but he’s going to do as he said he would.

The reason that Arthur doesn’t take to it or enjoy it at all is because Eames often gives orders without being specific and this results in miscommunication and confusion and Arthur desperately craving those voodoo dolls.
Edited Date: 2011-03-09 10:09 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
(More tomorrow. Intentionally. 0_0. To make birthday be spread out and more yayful. Honest)

On Monday, it’s the breakfast thing.

On Tuesday, after work, Eames drags him into their bedroom by his tie and breathlessly orders him, “Fuck me,” while he sucks and bites Arthur’s neck. Arthur complies immediately because this is an order he doesn’t mind following in the least, and works himself open efficiently whilst he gives as good as he gets, ignoring that he’s probably going to have beard-burn later. There’s a strange expression of confusion on Eames’ face when Arthur slicks him up and rolls a condom onto Eames' cock, but it’s gone when he sinks onto Eames quickly, ignoring the slight discomfort and the way his breath still catches in his throat.

Eames rocks up into him and Arthur figures he probably wants to be in charge, so he rolls them over and tries not to make a face when he puts his wrists over his head so Eames can pin them with one hand and fuck into him.

There’s this awkward moment where Eames hesitates and Arthur hesitates and they both look at each other, confused. Then Eames shrugs and grins and pins Arthur’s wrists in one strong hand effortlessly, fucking into him at the same time.

The headboard bangs and Arthur’s heart is in his throat because splayed out like this across their bed, his hands above him and knees around his forger’s waist, he feels much smaller than Eames, who’s leaning over him and all around him, everywhere.

Arthur licks the inked line of a tattoo on Eames’ arm and shudders when he hits his prostate over and over again, wanting to reach down and touch himself, but unable to.

He doesn’t realise he’s cursing at Eames in three different languages for the love of God, fuck, Eames, you bastard, touch me until he grins and shakes his head (the hand that’s not restraining Arthur is balancing him), but leans down a little so that his stomach rubs against Arthur’s cock with every stroke.

It’s not enough; it’s maddening, and it’s not enough to bring Arthur off. At least not until Eames swats his backside (Arthur will kill him) and the shock of Eames even daring to do that without Arthur’s express permission (they’ve done it before but it’s the principle of the matter! You don’t slap a man’s arse without asking him first) along with the relentless pounding Eames is giving him makes him cry out and shoot up his and Eames’ stomachs.

Eames follows almost immediately and then slumps on top of Arthur because he can do whatever he wants now without worrying about the consequences, and he knows how much Arthur hates his space being invaded.

“I meant. Fuck. Me. Not. You.” he pants.

Well. That explains the awkwardness.


On Wednesday, Eames walks in to their tiny workshop to find that Arthur is refusing to come out of Dom’s office (he’s locked the door) because Ariadne, Cobb and Yusuf have been taking advantage of Arthur’s misfortune to make him fetch coffee and do other menial work far below his pay grade, but today they’ve taken it a step too far. Today, Ariadne had pointed at a pair of Cobb’s short shorts and told him to wear them, giggling so much she could barely breathe, let alone talk.

“Arthur?” Eames asks through the door. “What the fuck is going on?”

“-remorselessly torture you until you bleed and scream and cry for your own mother,” is the faint reply. “No pity.”

It takes him half an hour to sort out what’s going on.

Then Eames yells at Ariadne, Cobb and Yusuf and tells them to win their own bets and get their own point men and not to bother Arthur any more. Arthur emerges from Dom’s office and glares at the other three until they look a little wary.

When they get home, Arthur yells at Eames for not making it clear that he didn’t have to follow his colleagues’ orders, too.

“-were going to make me dye my hair pink. Pink!” he yells and Eames shuts him up the only way he knows how.
From: [identity profile] we-reflamingos.livejournal.com
♥__♥ *__* ♥__♥

I'd key-smash, but I'm too busy flailing. XD

Okay, I do have to take you to task for one thing: "POINTLESS BIRTHDAY FIC"

Fic is never pointless when it's your birthday.
Fic is never pointless when it's unexpected.
Fic is never pointless when it's made your evening.
Fic is never pointless when it's better than cake.*
Fic is never pointless when it's Inception fic.**
Fic is never pointless when it's got a lost-a-bet-slave.
Fic is never pointless when it's got Arthur - that's a built in Point. ;)
Fic is never pointless when it's got Arthur and Eames fucking. And, I might need to say this one again,
Fic is never pointless when it's got Arthur and Eames fucking!

I mean it, when I got to Arthur opening himself up I started laughing so hard my dog got out of bed and came in to see what was wrong with me.

I like to think Eames got Cobb long socks to go with his short shorts. Or a footy jersey.

\o/ Yay, Aussie fic.

Also, \o/ \o/ \o/ for spread out birthday joy.

I want to hug you and squish you and pet you and bring you internet cookies of love. :chinhands:

*Yes, really, it was just a chocolate sponge. The good cake's coming on the weekend with my sister. Still, doubt it'll beat this. XD
**Well, there is pointless Inception fic, but as you can actually write, so it doesn't apply to you.
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
I'm glad you're enjoying it so far, darling!! Sorry it's not finished yet :( There's this thing they make me do that I don't enjoy and I think it's called work and it takes me away from writing not-so=pointless-after-all fic :D

Hope you had an amazing day and that your Cake II is better!!

Well, you see, I work at the airport and am often blinded by men (usually Kiwis, bless their funny little souls :P) wearing those tiny pants. I'm like OMG MY EYES. Haha I've got this idea of Bogan!Cobb in footy shorts and thigh/knee high socks and thongs now. And him thinking all the Australians that are complimenting his thongs are implying he's wearing ladies' lingerie and going all squinty bitch face and saying I HATE THIS PLACE.
From: [identity profile] we-reflamingos.livejournal.com
D: Fret ye not at it's finishedness. I too know the grrr of working (something about food and shelter and blah, blah, blah). Why won't anyone just pay me well for hanging out on the Internet?

And bogan!Cobb. And the thongs! Ahahhahhahahahahaha :wipes tears: Considering LDC's supposed to be coming over to do Luhrmann's Great Gatsby, who do you think we'd have to bribe to get him into that outfit when he gets here?? XD
Edited Date: 2011-03-10 10:17 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
Bribe to get him into that outfit? You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling. I say we bribe someone to kidnap him for us instead <3 :P
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
(OMG I SUCK. I'M SORRY. I tried to make it extra good to make up for it's lateness. There was a 10 hr shift and a bastard on the highway who tried to kill me and. Oh I got a puppy. She bites my toes when I don't give her attention.)

By Thursday, Eames has stopped using manners and is just tapping things or saying, “Get me this” or “Give me that”, or whistling for Arthur’s immediate attention. Arthur grits his teeth and bears it and promises himself he’s never going to bet against Eames or grant him sexual favours (unless they get Arthur off, too) ever again.

Arthur’s strategy is to avoid Eames as much as possible by running errands.

“Does any one want anything from the stationary store?” Arthur asks on his way out.

“I think you know what I need,” Eames drawls and leans back in his chair, legs spread obscenely in his chair. As if that’s not enough, he helpfully points at his crotch, uncaring if their teammates happen to see.

Arthur levels his best condescending do-not-fuck-with-me ice-cold glare at him and stalks out without hearing Ariadne’s request for highlighters and post its.

Later, Eames says play-sulkily, “It was a genuine order,”

“Your penchant for exhibitionism is not mine, Mr. Eames,” Arthur demurs honestly.

He reasons that it’s not exhibitionism if there’s no one else there in the public space you’re fucking in.

Thursday night, Eames takes things a step too far when after their usual routine of come home, eat dinner, fuck, shower, maybe fuck again, instead of going to sleep, he rolls over and opens his arms. His expression makes it clear that it’s an order, not an invitation.

And it’s not that Arthur has a problem with intimacy or affection; it’s just that he’s being forced into this, and he has no choice. So he grumbles, and Eames laughs at him for it, but he rolls into Eames’ arms, anyway.

Eames’ skin is soft and warm and cuddling (for the lack of a better word) with him is a little bit like being smothered by a huge, bulky, overly-amorous teddy bear. Arthur will never admit it … but truthfully, it’s rather nice.


On Friday, Eames makes it perfectly clear that he has no idea what he’s doing when Arthur forgets his place and snaps, “Give me the paper,” and he hands it over without a second thought.

Which, of course, makes Arthur regret not pushing the limits to start off with. At work, he ignores Eames’ requests for tea and coffee, glares witheringly when Eames makes sexually suggestive cracks and connotations, flirts with Ariadne a little bit (Eames looks up and glares and glares and glares, in a snit for the rest of the morning), and sashays a little on his way out for lunch.

“We’re taking the afternoon off,” he hears Eames growl and tries desperately to hide a smile before turning back to see Eames follow him.

“You. Manipulative. Little. Shit.” Eames hisses and squeezes his wrist punishingly, pulling him to the car.

Eames drives and blasts the aircon and flips off a discourteous motorist and curses about the weather and the wildlife (there had been a snake dozing outside their tin shed that morning) and how he hates this fucking place.

Arthur doesn’t respond. He just smiles and watches the scenery as they speed down the motorway.

When they get to their apartment, Eames slams him against the front door and ignores Arthur’s complaints. He kisses him – except, it’s not really a kiss, it’s more of a possessive domination thing, there’s very little tenderness involved – and ignores the neighbours, who are for the most part, ignoring them, anyway.

He grabs Arthur by his expensive tie and manhandles him inside, making sure the door is closed behind them (“fucking snakes”) and pushes Arthur down the corridor to their bedroom.

“Don’t push me,” Arthur hisses.

“I can do whatever I like to you,” Eames growls back, and proceeds to do exactly that.
From: [identity profile] scarlet-starlet.livejournal.com
(Haha, oh Australian slang. I hadn't even heard of half of these. Feeling vaguely inadequate now. More tomorrow/tonight (might be going clubbing, sorry) :) ALSO, FUCKING FORMATTING. Sorry for all the edits.)

“This is an order,” Eames says quietly, dangerously, after. Arthur is fucked out and lying in the curve of Eames’ arm and to be frank, a little impressed and very surprised that Eames managed to finally pull it off well. “Never flirt with Ariadne again.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

In Arthur-speak, that means, I have no interest in her; I only have eyes for you.

“Twat,” Eames replies. Arthur’s not entirely certain, but he believes that’s an exasperated endearment.


“Let’s keep the apartment,” Eames says when Arthur is trying to do last minute reconnaissance because they had to return to the shed in a mad rush for some vitally important details on Saturday, which is supposed to be their day off.

They hadn’t expected the mark to have a New Zealand (“Keee-weee,” Ariadne had insisted) mistress and this has caused Dom to go off the deep end and start wearing knee high socks and sandals and growing a ponytail and saying “Bro” to get into her mindset as well, because he doesn’t understand that that’s just a stereotype and not at all how all New Zealanders act.

Eames had been planning to visit the zoo, so he’s very disappointed and also being of no use at all. Rather than helping so that they can get out of there and go to the zoo, he’s just bitching that he wants to go to the zoo. It’s not productive in the least.

“Why?” he asks absently and pretends he isn’t at all aware of how he’s practically performing fellatio on his highlighter. He can be a cocktease, too. “You said you hate Australia.”

“I was venting my frustrations regarding my flirtatious adulterous boyfriend on Australia,” Eames says. “It’s not Australia’s fault. Australia is warm and lovely and sunshine-y and has cute fluffy koalas and wallabies and I want to snuggle them forever. My boyfriend on the other hand, is cold and mean and icy, and tries to break my arm every time I snuggle him.”

“You do know the Kangaroos can kill someone and the koalas smell to high heaven, don’t you?”

“Stop hating on Australia! I'm not trying to spit the dummy or have a blue with you, but I reckon you're wrong!” Eames yells, ridiculously overly emotional and somehow suddenly attached to this place. Arthur thinks perhaps he’s been spending way too much time researching their Mark’s son (Eames will be forging him for the job) if he’s picking up slang.

There’s also clearly something very potent in Yusuf’s Somnacin.

“Calm down. Of course we can keep the apartment if you want it,”

“You beaut!” Eames whoops. “Cheers!”

Arthur eyes him strangely. "Australia does some to suit you."

Eames puffs out his chest and flexes his muscles a bit. "I know, right? The blokes down at the gym said I was built like a brick shit house."

"Er. Too right. She'll be right?" Arthur tries. Eames rolls his eyes.

"Mate, you've got kangaroos loose in the top paddock."

"Eames? Shut the fuck up."

"Yeah, bro," Cobb sneers from across the shed.

In addition to his sandals and high socks, he's now also wearing sunglasses slung on the back of his neck and a stupid cap with a flat brim. He'd nearly had a conniption when they'd gone down to the pub for lunch and the waitress had dubiously complimented his neon pink 'thongs', and had immediately denied wearing ladies lingerie. Arthur was trying not too think about whether he'd denied it too quickly.

Eames kindly does shut up. And when the Somnacin wears off, he's back to British slang, thank God.

Cobb, on the other hand, is a lost cause.
Edited Date: 2011-03-12 05:00 am (UTC)


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