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The job went smoothly enough that half of the back-up plans Arthur came up with were completely moot. The team starts packing up, making their disappearances in short order, and knowing that Arthur will ensure they’re all paid in a timely manner. He’s very good at what he does, and his reputation is spotless for good reason.
The only person left behind is the one who came up with the job, some guy new to the Dreamscape, but he’s clever enough. Not smarter than Arthur, but good enough to get the job done, which is all anybody can ask of him.
Arthur stops paying attention when the guy starts talking about taking someone out. He’s a Point Man, not an assassin, no matter his reputation, and he’s not particularly interested in this guy’s personal vendetta. (In fact, Arthur doesn’t even like this guy.) He’s almost done packing up his kit, ready to walk the three blocks to get to the nearest train station. He’ll go through the effort of making sure the money reaches everyone’s accounts on the train.
“Not interested,” Arthur tells the guy.
The man pouts, which is an unattractive expression on any grown adult (yes, that includes Eames, and Arthur hates how difficult it is to convince his brain that Eames is not attractive.)
“Well, give it a thought at least?” He tries. “He’s in the business: a Forger named Eames.”
Arthur freezes in the middle of walking out of the door. He carefully shuts the door and turns back to the guy.
“I’m in.”
Getting close to Eames can be a trial, depending on where he’s decided to take his off time. Arthur knows about all his havens (he’s very good at his job), so he knows exactly where in the world Eames is at any given time. (It’s nothing specific to Eames, because he keeps tabs on all the best players in the Dreamscape – at least that’s what Arthur tells himself.)
Fortunately, Eames has decided to set up in his own home country, which is only a short plane ride for Arthur. Also, Eames is less guarded in England, so getting close won’t take but showing up to his favorite pub on the right night.
Arthur considers all the best ways to kill Eames – he’s been thinking about this for a while – and he decides that anything overt might not actually succeed, because Eames is very lucky and crafty. And, because Arthur knows the man is going to die, he has the perfect opportunity to grant himself permission to engage in the one thing he’s always been curious about but never known (what is it like to fuck Eames?)
Arthur won’t say it out loud, and on pain of death, he won’t admit it under any dream situations, (and his mind is trained very well), but the flirting from Eames has been nigh-impossible to resist. Ever since they first met, Eames has flirted (he flirts with everybody) and Arthur has resisted. It’s gotten more and more difficult as time goes on, as he’s been forced into proximity with the man throughout the myriad of jobs they’ve had together.
Still, Arthur has kept his cool, kept wearing his scent blockers, and kept pretending like he’s just a normal beta, going about his daily life. Eames is an out-and-proud alpha, happily seducing every person he comes across like the manwhore he is. (Arthur isn’t jealous.) And because Eames has been trying to get into Arthur’s pants for literal years, Arthur can say with certainty that Eames will take the bait.
Arthur will get Eames alone, will fuck the guy (because he’s curious, based on the sheer number of very satisfied alphas and betas he’s seen leaving Eames’ rooms), and Eames will be dead thanks to omega toxin, which is untraceable. Arthur’s curiosity will be sated and he will no longer have to endure the world’s most (attractive) obnoxious man.
Arthur gets to the pub early, giving Eames the chance to spot him and decide if he’s going to approach or not. (He’s going to come over to flirt, because he can’t help himself.) He gets a drink, not because he needs or wants it (he wants to remember every detail of tonight), but so that he doesn’t look odd, sitting at a bar alone.
“Darling, I must admit I’m surprised to see you in my very own backyard.” Eames slides onto the stool beside Arthur with a (charming) smile. Arthur has honed his reactions to Eames very carefully, fighting back every time he’s felt the urge to respond in order to not encourage such behavior (it hasn’t worked which is both frustrating and sort of attractive, in an odd way). This time, Arthur allows himself to respond to Eames the way he’s always wanted to. After all, the man will be dead in a few hours, so Arthur can afford to be a little lax with himself.
Arthur’s lips quirk up and he glances at Eames out of the corner of his eye, taking a sip of his scotch. He sets the glass down carefully and turns just a bit, looking Eames up and down. He looks (gorgeous) pretty good, wearing a simple forest green button-up with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. (Forearms should not be attractive ever, but Eames is just breaking all the rules.)
Eames blinks, eyes wide in shock. Apparently, all Arthur had to do to shut the man up was smile at him.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur murmurs, returning his focus to his drink. He feels more than sees Eames dig into his pocket, probably fondling the casino chip he has as his totem. (It’s pretty nice, realizing that Eames has dreamt of similar scenarios enough that he wants to ensure this is reality.) Arthur himself has checked to make sure he’s awake three times since sitting at the bar and yes, this is very real.
“Might I ask why you deigned to grace me with your presence?” Eames asks, looking around carefully. Arthur has to admit that he appreciates how paranoid Eames is. He’s very nearly as bad as Arthur himself.
“I’m fresh off a job,” Arthur says. “Decided to celebrate. You’ve talked this place up enough that I figured I’d try it out before leaving town.”
He hasn’t lied. Not really. He’s just… hedging the truth.
Eames doesn’t seem convinced, but he pretends to be, settling his elbows on the bar and looking out over the rest of the pub. (He’s focused entirely on Arthur, and Arthur kind of likes that.)
“I’m touched you remembered,” Eames teases, lightly. He turns a knowing smirk Arthur’s way. “Although, I’m finding it difficult to remember when I ever mentioned this place.”
“You haven’t,” Arthur allows. He shoots Eames a smirk of his own. “I’m very good at my job.”
Eames looks briefly bewildered. Apparently, the sight of an amused Arthur is anathema to his mind. Then, he smiles, the expression bright and fond. “That you are, darling.”
Arthur orders Eames a drink, his favorite, and Eames’ brows furrow in suspicion. “It’s just a drink, Mr. Eames.”
“Are you dying?”
Arthur snickers into his scotch. (He’s always found Eames funny, though he hides it well.) He shoots Eames a smile. “No. I told you: I’m celebrating.”
Eames frowns. “With me?”
Arthur makes a show of looking around. “See anyone else interesting here?”
The expression of shock slapped across Eames’ face is (adorable) hilarious. Arthur tilts his head, regarding Eames carefully.
“I admit that I’ve been very… harsh with you,” he says. He knows Eames will be dead by the end of the night, so being a little forthright isn’t an issue. Besides, he probably owes it to the man he’s about to kill. “But I’ve always liked our banter.”
Eames turns sideways, leaning on the bar hard and staring at Arthur. “You are dying.”
“I’m not dying!” Arthur laughs, shaking his head. He sips his scotch and meets Eames’ gaze. “You’ve never seen me outside a job.”
Eames frowns and takes a swig of his own drink. “Finally letting your hair down, then?”
“Have some drinks with me – find out.” Arthur winks at Eames, making him choke. Well, apparently Arthur just needed to flirt with Eames to get him to stop flirting. (He’s sort of glad he hadn’t figured that out because then Eames would have stopped.)
“In that case, I’d be delighted.” Eames seems to have decided not to argue any longer. He nudges Arthur with his elbow. “If you’re celebrating, why are you drinking the worst scotch known to mankind?”
Arthur frowns down at his glass. “I like it.”
Eames chuckles. “You are adorable, darling.”
Arthur shoots Eames a tiny glower and sips his scotch, making the man laugh.
It takes far more persuading than Arthur anticipated to convince Eames that he’s completely in his right mind and not dying when Arthur suggests moving to a different venue – his hotel room. Honestly, Arthur should have predicted this with how suspicious Eames is. (He’s a little mad that he didn’t.) But eventually, Eames’ curiosity gets the better of him and he follows Arthur into the room.
Arthur has been very careful, drinking enough to get Eames loose but not so much that either of them are impaired. One, he wants to remember this night (in detail) and two, he wants Eames to know that Arthur genuinely wants this. (He doesn’t know why that matters, since the man will be dead shortly.)
Arthur shoves Eames’ back into the door, sliding their bodies together (in the way he’s secretly fantasized about), and nuzzling into Eames’ jaw. He’s not about the kiss the man if Eames is uninterested, but he’s not going to hide his attraction. (Not anymore.)
Eames lets out a soft groan that makes Arthur’s body leap to attention – his cock thickening in his pants while he starts to drip slick. It’s a good thing he’s attracted to Eames, because producing the slick won’t be an issue.
“Darling, are you absolutely certain?” Eames checks, hands settling on Arthur’s hips. Curse the man and his stubborn respect. (It’s far more arousing than it should be.)
“Eames, I’ve been wanting to fuck you since we met,” Arthur confesses. He shouldn’t have said that, but Eames’ll be dead soon so no one else will know.
Eames’ eyebrows climb to his hair. “You have been phenomenally good at hiding that, darling.”
Arthur nips at Eames’ jaw, drawing that groan out again. “I’m good at my job.” He leans back to meet Eames’ gaze, to let him know Arthur’s in his right mind. “If you don’t want to…”
Eames immediately drags Arthur back against him, tearing a pleased moan from Arthur’s chest. “If I ever don’t want to fuck you, it’s a dream and it’s not me.”
Arthur tilts his head, sealing their lips together. Pleasure and color bursts behind his eyelids in an explosion of desire that he’s never experienced before in his life. (He knew Eames would ruin him.) Arthur kisses like he fights – aggressive and demanding. Eames kisses like he forges – teasing and tempting and seducing with every swipe of his tongue, every nip of his teeth.
Arthur fights back his body’s urge to release a flood of slick. He doesn’t want to alert Eames to his secondary, because then Eames will know Arthur’s trying to kill him. Still, he wants to stay there, writhing his body against Eames’, feeling the hard ridge of Eames’ cock against his thigh, kissing the man until they’re both breathless and desperate for more.
The noise of pure, lustful approval from Eames’ chest is enough to drive Arthur wild. He clings to Eames’ shirt, fumbling for the buttons. Eames chuckles, which is aggravating and arousing, and his hands come up to help Arthur out. Arthur’s fingers dig into the chest hair and he fights back the whimper. His omega hindbrain is desperate to just fall back and let this strong, capable alpha take care of him until they’re tied together in the most intimate of ways.
Arthur fights through the waves of arousal, trying to keep himself reasonably calm. Though, since Eames is going to die and this is Arthur’s one and only chance, Arthur’s a little frantic to skip to the best part.
Eames’ hands slide back down to get a firm grip on Arthur’s ass. It’s only sheer dumb luck that Arthur manages to hold back the tide of slick threatening to release. Arthur shoves Eames into the door again, stepping back to contain himself. Eames looks like straight porn, eyes dilated, chest heaving, cock obviously at attention even through his pants. Arthur is briefly distracted by the slew of tattoos across his chest, but doesn’t successfully hide the growl of desire. Eames’ licks his lips, grinning like an absolute fool, and eyes Arthur up and down, lounging against the door like he belongs there.
It takes Arthur a moment to figure out speech. “I have to prepare,” he says, voice surprisingly calm. Eames quirks an eyebrow up.
“I can help with that, darling.”
Arthur almost whimpers. The man is already helping (too much). He leans forward to steal another kiss, which he probably shouldn’t have done, but he’s come to the realization that letting himself off his chain is leading him into the best sensations. (He reminds himself that it doesn’t matter because Eames is going to be dead shortly.)
“Bed,” Arthur orders, forcing himself to step back. “I’ll be right there.”
Eames looks, of all things, pleased that Arthur’s shoving him around. “All right, I’ll behave, darling.”
Arthur quirks an eyebrow up, not believing Eames for a second, which just makes the man laugh. Arthur slips into the bathroom and falls against the door, eyes rolling back in his head. He hears Eames flop onto the bed and lets himself give in. He shudders as the pleasure and lust overwhelms him, body flooding with slick and cock throbbing in desperate need.
He should never have agreed to this. Eames is ruining him, and he hasn’t even done anything. Arthur should sprint from this hotel as fast as humanly possible and avoid Eames for the rest of his miserable life. No one can know how weak Arthur is for Eames (how weak he’s always been for Eames). It’ll destroy his reputation and someone will use Eames as collateral against Arthur, and Arthur has no idea how he’ll handle a situation like that.
Arthur has to make sure Eames dies, because if anyone finds out how powerless Arthur is against Eames, it’ll be the end of them both.
Arthur sniffs at his wrist, making sure his omega scent isn’t overpowering the scent blocker, and makes the mistake of looking in the mirror. He looks debauched. And they’ve only kissed! He decided to wear casual clothes, to let Eames know he’s not here on business, but that seems to have been a mistake. Arthur has always tried to dress up to appear more professional, but with his hair mussed, his sweater almost hanging off his body, and his jeans soaked through, he looks like he’s already been fucked.
Arthur strips off everything, tossing his wet underwear and pants underneath a towel to try to hide the smell, and looks himself over again. Unsurprisingly, he looks just as pathetic as he did with clothes on. His cock aches, his hole dripping, and he fights back the urge to throw the door open and fling himself at Eames.
Arthur puts his palms on the countertop and breathes, long and slow, for a good minute, making sure he’s in complete control so he doesn’t do anything foolish or stupid when he goes out to meet Eames. He reminds himself of his purpose here: to satiate his curiosity about Eames and also kill the man. Two birds, one stone. No evidence left behind. Fuck Eames, let his toxic slick kill the man, sweep the room, and get out of dodge. Easy.
When Arthur feels like he’s in control again, he nods firmly at himself, and opens the door. The overwhelming scent of a highly-aroused alpha wraps around him and his knees buckle. He catches himself on the doorframe and breathes hard. If he can inundate himself with Eames’ scent, it won’t be so distracting.
(It doesn’t work.)
Arthur steels himself and walks into the bedroom proper. Eames is settled on the bed, still clothed, with his hands behind his head, looking completely at ease. Arthur knows it’s a façade, because his scent is desperate. Eames lifts his head and smiles at Arthur (which might actually be worse than the scent). His eyes go a little wild as he takes in Arthur's full nakedness, and his teeth dig into his lower lip. Arthur smirks. At least he’s affecting Eames as strongly as Eames is affecting him.
“I presume you are now ready, darling,” Eames gets out, voice a rough growl. Arthur should never hear Eames speak like this again. And he won’t have to in short order.
“Clothes off,” Arthur demands, crossing his arms. Eames scrambles at his clothes, a little frantic now that he’s got a naked and obviously aroused Arthur standing over him.
Arthur is briefly distracted by Eames’ cock, the inane thought of wanting to suck him dry flitting in the back of his mind. But no, this is not about fulfilling Arthur’s fantasies (the ones he definitely does not have). It’s about finding out what this alpha cock is like and then murdering the man.
Arthur climbs onto the bed, straddling Eames’ hips in one smooth motion. He gets his hands in the man’s hair and kisses him like he’ll never get another chance. Which he won’t.
Eames moans into the contact, hands sliding along Arthur’s bare skin to cup his jaw. Arthur shivers and rocks his hips, dragging their cocks against each other. Eames groans, just letting Arthur do whatever he wants. He lets his hands wander, drawing pure fire over every inch of skin his fingers touch. Arthur has never felt so keyed up, so connected to another person, and he’s no virgin.
“Arthur…”
Fuck. Arthur needs to never hear Eames literally growl his name ever again.
He can’t hide the full-body shudder, nor can he muffle the whimper torn from his chest. He can feel Eames smirk against his lips. Ugh. At least he won’t be alive long enough to abuse this knowledge.
“Arthur…” Eames teases, voice full of gravel despite the sing-song tone.
“Eames,” Arthur replies, letting himself whine the name out.
Eames’ entire body jerks, eyes widening as he comes to the unfortunate realization that he’s as weak for Arthur as Arthur is for him. (Ha! Turnabout is fair play.) Eames’ hands get a firm grip on Arthur’s hips and he ruts upwards, dragging delicious friction along their cocks. Arthur moans, eyes rolling back as he fights the pleasure threatening to make him leak more slick. Now is not the time to lose control.
“Fuck, I want your cock,” Arthur says, both because it’s true and also to see Eames lose his absolute shit.
Eames does not disappoint. He growls, chest vibrating with the rumble, his alpha pheromones spilling out as he jerks his hips upright at the same time he drags Arthur’s hips down. Arthur himself almost loses it in response. He didn’t anticipate how arousing it would be to drive Eames mad.
“Darling, I will do whatever you want,” Eames promises, voice wrecked.
“Fuck me,” Arthur demands.
Eames’ fingers tighten on Arthur’s hip, just this side of painful (which Arthur knows is a personal kink of his, but he tries not to let Eames figure that out), and rolls them over, pinning Arthur to the bed. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, hair mussed and eyes dilated and body trembling. He doesn’t bother asking Arthur if he’s sure, but he does ease inside Arthur, careful not to hurt him. (Like he could. At this point, Arthur is so wet that he’s going to absolutely destroy the bed linens.)
Arthur has killed with his slick before, and he knows the toxin only takes a few minutes to seep into the bloodstream and stop the heart. So, he’s going to wring every ounce of pleasure he can out of Eames before the man dies.
Eames pants hard, eyes crazed while he waits for Arthur to give him the go-ahead. It’s respectful and that’s dangerous because Arthur’s now starting to feel bad that Eames is about to die. (He doesn’t want to feel bad, he wants to feel good.)
Arthur moans, rocking his hips up to encourage Eames. He’s both fucked and been fucked in his life and never has he felt more pleasure than when Eames slowly pulls out before slamming forward as hard as he can. Arthur bites back the veritable scream and clings to Eames, his fingernails digging into those impossibly well-defined biceps (that Arthur has not fantasized about ever in his life).
Eames keeps his pace languid, almost lazy, but he thrusts forward so hard that Arthur sees stars. Arthur throws his head back, wrapping his legs around Eames to keep him close, keep him destroying Arthur with every movement. Ecstasy rips through Arthur, setting every nerve on fire with the electric humming of more, more, more…
Arthur loses all sense of self, all sense of time, just clinging and writhing and whining as Eames thoroughly demolishes every careful barrier Arthur has ever erected between the two of them. Arthur forgets himself, slick all but pouring from him as Eames fills him so thoroughly and completely that Arthur doesn’t know where he begins and Eames ends.
Words spill from Arthur’s lips, pitiful begging that he would never allow under any circumstances but these, because Eames is going to die, so he’ll never be able to repeat how easily Arthur falls apart on his cock. It’s only when he feels Eames shake, losing his rhythm, that Arthur realizes he’s begging in French.
Arthur had no idea how he missed that Eames likes hearing him speak French. They’ve had a myriad of jobs in France and somehow he completely didn’t notice Eames losing his mind.
Eames lets out a whimper when Arthur demands, very succinctly, for more, Eames, harder. Eames’ cock throbs inside and Arthur can feel it – the beginnings of his knot tugging at his hole. The primitive part of his mind wants it, wants Eames’ knot tying them together and filling Arthur so full that he can’t breathe any longer. The practical part of Arthur doesn’t want Eames to die while literally tied to him.
The primitive part wins.
“Arthur, I should…” Eames stutters out, trying to focus past the lust overwhelming him. Arthur slides his hands down to Eames’ ass, dragging him balls deep into Arthur.
“Knot,” Arthur demands. Eames chokes and leans down, stealing every ounce of air from Arthur’s lungs.
“Yes, darling.”
Eames settles back on his heels, thrusting into Arthur in a slow grind – letting his growing knot tease and torment Arthur until he’s insane with need. Pleasure ricochets through Arthur’s body every time the knot pushes into him, every time it pulls free. Arthur cries out when Eames gets a hand on his cock, stroking in time with his hips.
“There’s my pretty Arthur,” Eames murmurs, eyes so intensely focused on Arthur’s face that Arthur feels self-conscious. The praise is nothing new, something Arthur’s never felt particularly attached to. “Moaning like a whore on my cock.”
Arthur’s spine stiffens at the words. How he missed a degradation kink, he has no fucking idea. Eames notices, because his smirk widens.
“Is this what you wanted?” He asks. “To be held down and fucked like a little bitch? To cum all over my cock because you just can’t help yourself?”
Arthur’s going to peak with a scream. He should have known he wouldn’t survive Eames. It’ll be the most embarrassing death ever – the two of their bodies found tied together because Arthur is going to die from pleasure and Eames is going to die from omega toxin.
Eames leans forward, lips brushing Arthur’s ear. “Do you like being a hole for me, Arthur? It feels like you want me to fill you up and then plug you with my knot.”
Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head, pleasure overwhelming every sense he possesses.
“Is that what you want?”
Arthur nods, unable to find speech, and he’s mortified that he so readily agrees.
“You little cumslut.” Eames nips at Arthur’s ear.
Arthur’s orgasm slams into him like a tidal wave, dragging him through and under ecstasy until he can’t see anymore, can only feel Eames’ knot as it swells and catches, tying them together. Arthur thinks he screams, body jerking near-violently through the pleasure. He can hear Eames swear, feel the warmth as he spills into Arthur, and that just makes Arthur shake, moaning in approval as he’s filled to the brim.
It takes far longer than Arthur is willing to admit for his mind to recover from the force of his orgasm. He’s never felt more pleasure in his life, and he’s not entirely sure how his body didn’t just give out on him for forcing it through so much.
When Arthur finally blinks his eyes open (when did he shut them?), he looks up into the dazed and blissful face of Eames. His body trembles over Arthur, trying to keep from squishing Arthur but also fighting through the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“There are not words for how fucking amazing you are, darling.” Eames huffs out a soft laugh, chest heaving.
It’s only then that Arthur realizes that Eames is still alive. He shouldn’t be. Why is he still alive?
“I’m sure you’ll try anyway,” Arthur replies, mind whirling. Eames should be dead. He’s an alpha and he’s been exposed to Arthur’s slick for… long enough that he should be dead.
Eames shifts gingerly until they’re both on their sides, facing each other. It’s not like they can go anywhere, not until his knot dies down, but they can at least be comfortable. Sort of.
“Darling, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Don’t tell me I’m that forgettable,” Eames teases.
“No, I…” Arthur’s brain finally catches up with the facts of the matter: he’s an omega, he fucked an alpha, that alpha is still alive, despite heavy contact with his toxin. There’s only one explanation, and Arthur feels like his gut has dropped out beneath him.
“You’re my mate.”
Eames startles, knot tugging between them. Arthur fights through the pleasure and tries to focus. Eames frowns. Leaning forward, he buries his nose in Arthur’s scent gland. It feels too good and Arthur hates that he knows this now.
“What the fuck?”
Arthur winces as Eames pulls back, eyes wide.
“Darling, you’re an omega?”
Arthur doesn’t deign that with a response. He sees the moment Eames puts all the pieces together.
“You tried to kill me again?”
Arthur huffs out a breath, more embarrassed than anything else.
“Yes.”
Eames bursts out laughing, which is exactly what Arthur expected from the man.
“I think you failed.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
“Failed in a spectacularly orgasmic fashion, but failed nonetheless.”
“Shut up.”
“I have to admit, it’s probably the most pleasurable way of failing. I should take notes.”
Arthur rolls until he’s straddling Eames. “Shut up.”
“I mean, you’re very good at your job, right?”
Arthur calmly reaches under the pillow to grab his gun. As soon as Eames sees the gleam of metal, he holds his hands up in surrender.
“I’m kidding, love! I swear, it’s just a joke, all in good fun!”
Arthur thinks about shooting Eames, just to be done with the man, because he’s going to be insufferable about this for the rest of eternity, and since they’re mates, Arthur will have to hear it for the rest of eternity.
And then the man smiles at him, soft and fond, and Arthur has no place in his life for soft or fond, and yet here he is, willingly putting his gun on the bedside table because Eames is his goddamn mate.
“I swear, one of these days, I’m actually going to kill you,” he mutters, letting himself lazily drape over Eames.
“Whatever you want, love.”
Ugh. Arthur hates that he likes that. (He’s such a liar.)
Eames runs his fingers along Arthur’s skin, easily soothing all the tension in Arthur’s limbs. Arthur should be concerned about how easy he is, but he can’t summon the energy to care.
“So, care to explain why you decided omega toxin was the best way to take me out?” Eames asks, conversationally.
Arthur sighs. “You’re too paranoid for me to get a weapon near you.”
Eames chuckles. “Love, I didn’t even notice the gun under the pillow.”
“Because you were a little preoccupied.”
“A lot preoccupied.” Eames corrects, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s hair. The contact makes Arthur’s stomach flip, warmth suffusing his veins, and he hates that. So he tilts his chin up to steal a proper kiss. Somehow, that doesn’t fix the problem.
“You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?” Arthur mumbles.
“Only every day for the rest of my life,” Eames agrees. His grin is so wide and bright that it hurts Arthur’s face just to look at it (and it’s also disgustingly adorable, which Arthur will never admit). Eames relaxes on the bed with a contented hum. “I can’t believe you kept your secondary from me all this time. I would’ve sworn that you’re a beta.”
“Aside from this one time, I am very good at my job.”
“Of course, love.” Eames steals a kiss.
Arthur hesitates and meets Eames’ gaze. “You don’t mind?”
Eames hums a question.
“That I tried to kill you.”
Eames smirks. “Love, you tried to kill me the first time we met. Besides, you’re my mate. I’ll take living with a mate over being dead after having the best orgasm of my life any day.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. There is no reasoning with his mate.
“Just so you know, I was hired to kill you,” Arthur says, letting his fingers trace along Eames’ tattoos (because he can now, and he will not tell Eames how much he likes the inked lines).
“Hmm. Who wants me dead this time?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Eames tilts his head. “It matters to me, love. Now that I have a mate, staying alive is my top priority.”
Arthur fails to bite back the smile, and Eames grins at the sight of Arthur’s smile, which just makes his smile wider, and Arthur is coming to the unfortunate conclusion that he, too, will be insufferable about this for the rest of his life. He captures Eames’ lips in a kiss designed to make them both breathless. When he pulls back, Eames licks his lips (which is problematic).
“It doesn’t matter because I’m going to kill him.”
Eames’ eyebrows shoot up. “Please tell me you’re not going to try the omega toxin thing again, because I’m a jealous man.”
Arthur chuckles. “No, you’re not. And no, I was just going to shoot him.”
Eames grins. “There’s my violent mate.”
Arthur ignores the warmth in his gut and the way his lips want to curl up in response to the claim, the way he wants to just taste Eames’ grin until he forgets his own name.
“Firstly, he hired me to kill you, and I didn’t do that, so it’ll ruin my reputation if it gets out I failed a job. Secondly, he wants you dead, and you’re my mate, which means I have to make sure that no one gets to you.”
Eames’ smile maintains that stupid softness. “I never took you for a romantic.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and drops back onto Eames’ chest. “Shut up.”
“Yes, love.”
When Ariadne walks into the office space, ready to join Arthur’s next job, her expression is as shocked and baffled as the first time she was in the Dreamscape. Granted, it might have been because Eames is sitting on the floor, leaning against Arthur’s legs while he sketches in his notebook. Or maybe because Arthur is running his fingers through Eames’ hair idly while he puts together a portfolio of their target. Or possibly it could be the mating bites on their necks, visible over their collars (because Eames cannot control himself). Either way, she says nothing about it and just settles her belongings on the desk.
Arthur appreciates being able to work with professionals.
And his mate, because he would never call Eames professional (to his face).