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It’s a beautiful morning when the letter arrives. A thick stack of documents printed on fancy paper is stuffed into the envelope. Forms, the planning for the day, a map. Arthur puts them aside carelessly. This will be his eighteenth visit to the Annual Picnic for Sandwich Spreads, so a little marbled paper and a watermark do not impress him anymore. 

As the CEO and head designer of Levine Chocolate Spreads, this is the event that he cannot stand to miss. Every spread and jelly designer will be there, carrying state-of-the-art products in artisanal baskets, picnic blanket alluringly spread out, wearing casual - but expensive - leisure wear. Arthur has been visiting since he was a teenager and still went to the Picnic with his parents. 

He remembers those first years fondly: being cooed over by suit-wearing executives, sneaking jars with new and embargoed spreads into his backpack and running around all day, hopped up on sugar and sometimes clandestine booze. He knows everyone at the Picnic, and everyone knows him. Levine Chocolate Spreads is a famous brand, known for its consistent quality and its reliable product line. And these days, Arthur is Levine’s. From product development to packaging to branding, Arthur has worked on it (and annoyed his colleagues to death). But even though he is somewhat tiring to be around, his people love him, and Arthur loves them right back.  

You’d think it wouldn’t make sense for international sandwich spread companies to have a yearly encounter to meet and mingle. Arthur would, anyway. But it’s tradition, has been for hundreds of years, and there are definitely some advantages to it. People spill all kind of trade secrets over a well-made G&T, and the opportunities for collaboration are plentiful. 

Arthur loves the Picnic. There's good food (sugar, still his kryptonite), beautiful people who share his passion, free cocktails and - last, but not least - a lot of money to be made. 

There is just one drawback: every year, Eames takes it as his personal objective to provoke him and insult his spreads. 

Eames. Figurehead of Kibokoni (such a trendy name), motorcycle owner and all around asshole. He’s been leading Kibokoni for years; under his command, it has grown into one of the biggest and most adventurous chocolate spread companies around. They’ve taken a big chunk out of Levine’s market share and continue to seize more. In spread company circles, Eames is known for his flirtations (asinine, if you ask Arthur) and for not being very distinctive in who he bestows them. Everyone in a four mile range gets flirted at. 

Everyone except Arthur. 

Arthur loathes him. 

It’s not about the flirtations, of course. Arthur does not need to be ogled or mentally undressed. He does not want to go for a spin on Eames’ bike or have him swipe away a spot of chocolate on his cheek and lick it off his fingers, slowly and thoroughly...

Arthur never thinks about that. 

No, the only thing that truly annoys Arthur - and perhaps annoy is too light of a word here, the only thing that eats away at Arthur’s soul - is the fact that Eames is of the (stupid) opinion that the Levine Chocolate Spreads brand (so, by extension, Arthur) is stuffy and ‘vanilla’, whatever that may mean in the context of chocolate spreads. 

“New type of glass for the jars, Arthur?” he said last year. “That must be so exciting for you, what with never changing anything about your entire product line.” 

Or the year before that, when Eames came into the restroom while Arthur was taking a piss and offhandedly remarked that he “really liked the nineties vibe your crunchy dark chocolate spread is giving off, Arthur, truly a blast from the past,” as if Arthur wasn’t still shaking his dick and giving Eames a bewildered stare because he was standing right next to him, goddamnit, give a man some space while you’re insulting his products. 

There’s always something. Remarks about Levine’s advertising (too wholesome), about flavour choices (too predictable), about Arthur’s clothing (could your pants be cut any tighter, Arthur? - but perhaps he’d misheard that one). 

Arthur, of course, does not just let these things slide. In the last few years, he's certainly dealt a few devastating blows to Eames himself. He thinks back with satisfaction to that dig about Kibokoni’s faulty lid batch, and that time he compared their dark chocolate spread to Marmite. He’s got an image to protect - that of unfazed, severe professional - and he will not let those amateur taunts from Eames get him down. 

The thing is: Arthur loves Kibokoni. He has their entire range at home and enjoys a different crazy spread with lunch every day. Caramel-cinnamon, chilli-chocolate and allspice-cardamom-milk chocolate are some of his favorites. He even has the entire set of collectable Kibokoni jars, one of which comes out every year. 

And if he could love a product despite its horrible owner, why can’t Eames? Why can’t he appreciate Arthur’s hard work and the quality of his products? 

Arthur will never admit to any of this. Eames and his wonderful spreads can bite him as far as he cares.

A month later, Arthur has draped himself elegantly on a light yellow blanket, feeling utterly relaxed. This year’s location is a majestic park surrounding a lake, and it’s a big hit. The cherry blossom trees are in full bloom, paper lanterns are hanging in the lanes, the lake is sparkling in the sunlight and the Picnic PR team is handing out the softest blankets in event colours. All in all, it’s a very photogenic day. 

Arthur is glad he decided to forgo a jacket - even in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he’s feeling slightly overheated. The amount of prolonged eye contact he’s getting from both sexes makes it worth it, though. 

So far it has been a successful day: three invitations, a possible lead for new ingredients and no Eames in sight as far as the eye can reach. Life is good, thinks Arthur, and stretches himself out luxuriously. 

He’s just pouring himself and the provocative redhead lounging on his blanket another glass of champagne, as the loud rumbling of a motorcycle drowns out all attempts at conversation. Heads are turning, some people already walking in the direction of the noise, but in between the crowd Arthur can just see glimpses: a helmet being taken off, a broad hand running through short hair, a set of lips no one could miss. Eames has arrived at the scene.

For a few minutes, Arthur can’t see much, on account of 1) vigorously trying not to look and 2) not being able to fucking see through the throng of people that have gathered to greet Eames. When the crowds finally part, he spots Eames, still in leather. He’s walking next to the beautiful representative from Marshmallow Fluff. She’s throwing her head back while laughing alluringly and running her nails along Eames' neck. 

Of course Eames is already picking up. Grinding his teeth, Arthur turns away, only to find his companion smirking at him. 

“Please don’t start, Robin,” he sighs, taking another too-large gulp of champagne, “I will not spend this entire picnic listening to your theories on how I’m actually attracted to Eames and - “

“I hear he swings both ways,” she interrupts cheerfully. “I wouldn’t mind being the filling in that sandwich, if you ever decide to go that route.” She winks, grinning up at him.

Robin,” Arthur hisses, looking around shifty-eyed. “Eames is a vapid dandy who only uses the company capital to travel and be adored on all continents, and I cannot stand the sight of him. Let’s just go back to comparing our target groups and by the way, I really wanted to look at those projections for the next five years - “

“Also,” Robin leers, completely ignoring everything Arthur has said today and also ever, “I hear he has a really big dick.” 

Arthur inhales some of his champagne and ends up coughing all over their blanket, Robin patting his back. 

When he can finally breathe again, he splutters: “How the fuck - I don’t care if Eames has a big dick. What does that even mean?”

“Well,” says Robin, warming up to go into more detail. 

Arthur’s still on the fence between shushing her or waiting for more details, when a shadow falls over their blanket. “Thought I heard my name,” Eames grins pleasantly, his shirt hanging open way too far. Arthur can’t look away from the pecs and the flash of silver it reveals. “Hello Arthur, trying to get inspired to create another surprising chocolate spread?” 

His nipples are pierced, that is so fucking hot, Arthur thinks dimly before he remembers to feel both mortified and enraged. “Mr. Eames,” he bites out, “what a surprise to see you. I thought you were busy trying to fuck your way into the Marshmallow Fluff account.”

“Always up for some multi-tasking, Arthur, much unlike yourself,” Eames smirks, giving Arthur a slow once-over. “Thank god for single-minded people like you, or the world wouldn’t know what bland chocolate tastes like.” 

Arthur is annoyed by the attention Eames is paying to his physique. Is there something on his shirt? 

He scoffs. “You wouldn’t recognize a quality chocolate spread if it hit you in the face. So curious what your new flavor will be called, Tipped Over the Herbs Cabinet and Called it a Day?”

“I could discern sugar crystals in Levine’s Old Fashioned White Chocolate Spread,” Eames volleys back, throwing him a furious look. 

“Your caramel-anise spread tastes like vomit,” says Arthur. 

“I hear Levine’s best cocoa bean supplier is considering working exclusively with Kibokoni,” Eames says loftily, clearly considering this a winning dig. 

Arthur gives him his best die in a fire-look. “Great to hear it. Anything else, Mr. Eames? I’d like to go back to a somewhat more... scintillating conversation, if you catch my drift.” He turns away gracefully to Robin, who snorts and is making an all around spectacle of herself. 

Eames laughs. “Sure, Arthur. How very heterosexual of you. But, in case you were wondering… the rumours are all true.” 

As he walks away, Arthur vows to never talk about Eames or his goddamn dick ever again. 

Thankfully, there are enough people around to distract Arthur from himself. A conversation with Yusuf, his lab technician and best friend, leads to an hour full of napkin-drawn lab setups and wild plans for a phase-shifting spread. (“Yusuf, why the hell would anyone want a chocolate spread that is sometimes randomly a fluid?” “Arthur, my friend, let’s create it first and figure out the boring stuff later.”) 

Arthur could talk to him all day. But he’s also here to work, so he points out the cute sugar technician that has been ogling Yusuf all morning, and leaves to chat with a potential new customer. 


He manages until lunch time to avoid running into Eames again. Arthur doesn’t even see him in the crowd at first. Hungry picnic-goers are flooding the little market place that has been set up. And there’s definitely something for everyone. There’s sweet (unfortunately, the Levine’s and Kibokoni carts are placed next to each other); Arthur also spots honey, marshmallow fluff, jams and jellies and all kinds of nut butter) and savoury (hummus, pindur and more types of sandwich spread than could fit in Arthur’s house). Food carts are set up with all kinds of burgers, bread and bite-sized food.  

Arthur is catching up with his old friend Flora, a former private equity analyst who is currently touring the state with her food truck. He’s just taking a bite of his steamed bun with roast duck, hoisin sauce dripping over his fingers, as he hears a raspy voice behind him.

“No Levine’s for you today, Arthur?” 

Arthur rolls his eyes. He will not deign to react to this level of playground bullying. 

Eames shuffles a little closer, still looking like he had no time to button his shirt today. Arthur’s not peeking. He’s not. 

“I don’t understand why not,” Eames goads, clearly just getting started, “the label clearly states Levine’s Milk Chocolate Spread is an enjoyable treat suitable for every occasion, for children and adults alike! Just perfect for a lovely picnic such as today, don’t you agree?” 

Arthur takes a controlled intake of breath. Verbatim quoting back his own labels is no reason to throw a fit. He will simply walk away. Any minute now. 

“Might it be,” Eames sounds gleeful now, “that the great Arthur Levine actually prefers savoury food?” 

“Might it be,” Arthur says, heating up, “that it’s befitting a refined palette to eat something other than chocolate spread every once in a while?” 

Eames gives him a delighted smile. “Oh Arthur, you’re always so wonderfully eloquent. That must come in handy when writing those label texts.” They’re almost standing nose to nose now. Arthur notices his eyes have little flecks of yellow in them. 

Arthur is seconds from exploding. “At least we have them, instead of those postmodern compilations of random words you call labels,” he snaps. 

Incidentally, the Kibokoni cart is a little busier than the Levine cart right now. Eames looks at them meaningfully. “My jars certainly are looking good today, don’t you think?” 

“If you mean your jars are inducing epileptic seizures, then definitely.” 

Flora is looking between them as if she’s watching a tennis match. “Would you like a roujiamo?” she asks winningly, holding out a lamb burger to Eames. 

Arthur shoots Flora a betrayed look. “You are sustaining him with food whilst he’s insulting me? Whose side are you on?”

“Clearly,” Eames mumbles, mouth full, “she has led you astray from your business with her wonderful food and is now trying the same thing on me. But I won’t fall prey to your nefarious tricks, Ms…?”

“Just Flora,” Flora blushes, and if Arthur rolls his eyes any harder they will fall out of their sockets.

“Pleasure as usual, Flora,” he grunts and flees to check if the Levine’s cart is still fully stocked. 


Some time later, Arthur is closing a deal on yet another blanket as he spots the honey guy sidling up to Eames. Tall and slender, his ear pierced in several spots, he is a sight to behold. Arthur is trying to keep his head in the game, but the interaction going on in front of the blanket is distracting him to the extreme. Arthur can hear the guy purr at Eames’ jokes. He’s bent his shaven head intimately towards Eames, as if their discussion is personal. Thankfully, the seller is telling a long anecdote, so all Arthur has to do is say ‘uhuh’ at the right times. He really doesn’t want to, but finally, he can’t help but look again. The honey guy is now peeking through his lashes seductively and leaning against a tree, apparently trying to present his abs in the most appealing manner. 

Arthur knows this play. He knows it like the back of his hand, because last year he was the person being chased. Would have worked, too, if it weren’t for Eames, that wanker, interrupting just when Arthur was about to get some. Typical. 

“So we can do 600.000 in two years, provided our new hybrids will perform as expected,” Barbara, Arthurs contact, is saying. 

Arthur hums, a little distracted. “That should be fine.” They shake on it. Eames is smiling at the honey guy now, happy and unguarded. He never looks at Arthur like that. Maybe he does also like men? 

Resolutely, he looks away. He doesn’t care who Eames smiles at. In the distance, he sees the sugar technician and Yusuf on a bench, holding hands. Arthur feels a little chagrined. This is turning out to be a profoundly frustrating day and he has no idea why. Maybe a quick dip will do him good. 

After being in the blistering heat for so long, the water is wonderful. Arthur does a few laps and then stretches himself out on the shore for some light reading. 

He’s fully engrossed in some background PDF’s on his new cashew nut source - did you know the cashew is not actually a nut, but a legume? - , as the sound of splashing makes him look up. 

Instantly, his mouth turns dry. Right in front of him, Eames is rising out of the lake in slow motion, like a fragrance commercial come to life. As he slowly pushes himself up on the rocks, droplets are rolling off his pectorals, his powerful arms rigid, veins standing out. 

Neptune would have nothing on his body, Arthur thinks in a daze. Neptune would stab someone with his trident to look like Eames. 

Eames is now walking towards him, and fuck, Arthur really needs to look away, but his eyes decide to slide down, from the wet shine of Eames’ nipple piercings towards Eames’ drenched green swimming trunks that are clinging onto every line of his frame. That are clinging to his massive cock, Arthur corrects himself. And fucking hell - Eames’ words were definitely not in vain. It's swinging freely in his trunks, and Arthur has been looking right at it for a full two seconds now. From this position, it looks gigantic. And just like that, all of the years of animosity veer into something else entirely. Everything is abruptly hot, the warmth a stifling blanket over his body, lust slamming into him as a wave hitting the shore. 

It’s such a base feeling, yet at the same time the least simple thing in the world. Eames despises Arthur, and is his biggest competitor to boot. There is literally zero chance of him ever liking Arthur, let alone wanting him. 

Eames is also looking at him, his eyes burning and gliding all over Arthur’s body again. He probably sees right through Arthur. Time to fucking retreat, right now. Arthur gives Eames a wan smile, mumbles some words that are hopefully in a convincing order and dives into the lake. 

Later, he doesn’t even know why he did it. Why can’t he ever leave Eames be? But he looks over his shoulder, right into Eames’ eyes, arches a defiant eyebrow and starts swimming to the other side of the lake fast. 

He regrets it instantly. All those years of posturing and hiding his feelings, of insulting Eames back and pretending he does not care about their animosity. One look, and everything is lost. Eames will know how he feels and use it against him in every way that he can. Arthur swims, and hates himself a little. 

Behind him, he hears a loud splash. 

For some reason, Eames has decided to give chase. 


Swimming provides an excellent moment to ponder this sudden attraction to your archenemy, Arthur finds. Even to contemplate if said archenemy actually always looked fuckable, and you just had your head up your ass. 

Arthur’s smooth breaststroke is getting more panicky by the second, as he hears Eames’ arms hitting the water behind him. They’re far in the lake now, close to the overgrown island in the middle. 

Arthur’s thoughts keep tormenting him. So Eames has nice arms, whatever. A lot of people have arms. Arthur cannot for the life of him think why he would be attracted to the tattoos. And the face - well. This all must be a passing urge, launched by the sudden and dramatic display of Eames’ cock, big as it is. How hefty it must feel in his hands. How full Arthur would feel - 

- but he’s abruptly yanked back to reality, because Eames has grabbed his ankle. Arthur flails in shock, seeking purchase on something stable, finding nothing. What the hell is happening? Is this a race, or a brawl? 

Eames is gripping him harder and tugging him towards the rocks, but Arthur is not going to go down without a fight. He struggles, he kicks, but Eames has both the surprise advantage and 40 pounds on him. 

“God, you’re a slippery little bugger,” Eames pants, “hold still, c'mon.”

To his own surprise, Arthur does. All of his senses are screaming he’s in danger. He’s still too turned on for his own good, pinned to a rock and now entirely depending on the mercy of his rival.

Eames is holding him steady with his huge hands, his thighs bracketing Arthur on both sides. Everything about him is so strong and so offensive and Arthur just wants to lick him up and down. Ugh. 

It’s quiet here. In the distance, Arthur can still hear people laughing and talking. They’ll never be able to see or hear them, though. He and Eames are almost fully hidden behind the trees now. 

Arthur swallows. Eames is so close, he can smell the intoxicating mix of sweat and musk and whisky, can see the crinkles around his eyes, the nick in his eyebrow. His lips are looking extremely lickable. Oh, how Arthur would like to taste those lips. 

There’s a thick, weird tension hanging in the air that Arthur can’t quite place. Eames is looking at him intently. “You know what they say, don’t you, Arthur?” he says. 

Arthur has no idea where he’s going with this. “What do they say, Mr. Eames?”

“To the victor, the spoils,” says Eames, pushes him up against the rock, and kisses the living daylights out of him. 

At first, it’s all sensation. Arthur’s panting, still full of adrenaline from the chase, from being kissed. Eames is all over him, hands roving Arthur’s body, grabbing onto everything while Arthur’s holding him tight. 

"What are we - "

"Shut up, Arthur, or we will no doubt start fighting again within seconds," growls Eames. 

"Only because you can never resist harping on every detail of my ohh-

- but Eames has put two large hands on his ass, his lips on Arthur’s neck, and he has no choice but to provide access.

He’s an asshole, but he’s an excellent kisser, Arthur thinks, while being kissed excellently. Eames and his plush lips clearly know what they’re doing. Stopping on the corner of his mouth for a kiss, nibbling on his bottom lip, and finally, surely, Eames’ tongue languidly seeking entrance and gliding over Arthur’s. 

Arthur is still not sure what’s going on, but he could stay here all day. He has wrapped his legs around Eames and Eames’ amazing cock is nestled against his ass, constantly reminding him of the fact that he still hasn’t seen it. Arthur wants to see it so bad. 

It’s a good place to be, though. Arthur grinds himself on Eames, his own erection rubbing against Eames’ stomach. Little shocks of pleasure are sparking through his body. 

Unfortunately, Eames is pulling back. “No,” moans Arthur, embedding his nails firmly in Eames’ thick thighs, “god, of course you’d be a jackass about this as well.”

“So bossy,” grins Eames. “Wanna order me around some more while I lick your arse?”

He is so matter-of-factly about it, but his words are still hitting Arthur like a freight train. He blushes so hard that he can feel the heat rising to his face and coming out of the top of his head in a little puff of smoke. 

“You’re adorable,” says Eames and flips him, belly first, onto the rock. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. The effect goes a little lost while he’s on his stomach, but it is still important to have on the record. 

Eames pulls down his swim briefs in one harsh tug, and Arthur realizes that, one way or another, Eames is going to kill him. 

At first, Eames just touches him, clearly relishing it. He’s kneading the globes of Arthur’s ass and rubbing his face all over them, his stubble leaving beard burn all over Arthur’s soft skin. 

“Arthur, you wonderful creature,” he hears muffled behind him. Eames sounds rough, uncontrolled. “I knew you’d be so soft for me, christ. I want to worship your arse, lick it all over.”

Arthur’s shaky with lust now, his hard cock squashed on the unforgiving rock. This may be the most catastrophical idea he’s ever had, but damn it all to hell if he’s not going to take every second that he can get. 

Tomorrow, he’ll deal with the fallout. Tomorrow, they will just have to back to be rivals, getting into altercations at every turn. But today, Arthur can have this. 

When Eames roughly spreads his cheeks, Arthur can’t help but squeak. 

“There we go,” Eames says, satisfied, and licks Arthur’s hole leisurely with the tip of his tongue. The contrast is throwing Arthur for a loop; there is so much stimulation, and all he can do is lie there and be subjected to Eames licking him. 

God, that tongue. 

It’s licking his rim now, so, so softly. Arthur has never been a big fan of rimming. It’s extremely intimate, and besides, he prefers to have some semblance of control during sex. But somehow, by overpowering him, Eames has freed him. This might be the best rimming he’s ever gotten. 

If Eames would ever get fucking started with it, that is. Arthur’s leaning on his forearms, pushing his ass as much as he can in the direction of Eames’ mouth. He just wants more, deeper, faster, for Eames to just take him already. But Eames’ big arms are holding him exactly where he wants and he does just as he likes; Arthur has no say in this at all. 

He has no idea if he can come from this, but he sure as hell feels like it’s possible right now. His cock is harder than it has ever been. Arthur’s trying to rub himself against the rock, which is both painful and divine, but he is so far gone that even the sting is doing it for him. If Eames just gives him a little more, if he just, oh, yes, almost

Eames notices, of course. Arthur’s cock is grabbed at the base, and Eames growls in his ear, “You’ll wait, darling. You’ll only come when I do.” 

Fucker. “Let me come,” begs Arthur. 

“No, Arthur, this is for me,” says Eames, resolute, and continues his onslaught on Arthur’s poor hole. Arthur is being licked so thoroughly that after a few minutes he can only produce sounds. It feels like his hole, cock and balls are all connected, electric shocks running through them. Arthur bites his lips to try and control his nonstop moaning, but it’s no use.

At some point, he tries to turn his head to watch Eames at work. Eames won’t have it, though. He grabs Arthur’s hair and pushes his head down again. 

“Just be good for me and take it, okay?” His tongue goes deep into Arthur’s ass now, fucking in, until he pulls out and licks Arthur’s entire crack and balls with a flat tongue. The smacking sound he makes should put Arthur off, but it only serves to drive him more crazy. 

Then, after what feels like an eternity of rimming, Eames pulls his head away. Arthur is flipped again, and automatically puts his legs around Eames’ waist. 

Eames kisses him. 

Arthur does not even care where that tongue has been. Eames kisses him good and hard and deep, and Arthur is gone. He’s just a tongue, and a cock, and a hole for Eames to play with. 

“Arthur,” Eames grunts, “I really want to blow y-”

“Not fucking happening,” says Arthur. “You’re gonna fuck me and you’re gonna do it right fucking now.” 

That seems to do the trick. He hears the sound of a zipper, and sees Eames ripping open a packet of lube with his teeth. 

“Really?” says Arthur.

“Problem?” says Eames, lifting an eyebrow. 

“Just get on with it,” grumbles Arthur, “before we’re both old men, filled with regret.”

“So I like a bit of foreplay,” Eames says defensively. He pulls his swimming trunks down and takes out his cock. 

And finally - there it is. Arthur can’t help but marvel a little, because damn. Eames has the biggest cock he’s ever seen, and Arthur has taken some big cocks in his life. It’s gonna be a stretch to fit into his ass, pun intended, but fuck it, he will take it or die trying. 

Eames is lubing himself up and messily smearing some of the lube in and around Arthur’s hole. He seems a little out of it himself, the way only pure randiness will do to a person. 

“C’mon Eames, hurry up,” Arthur pants, grinding himself against Eames everywhere he can, trying to rub against that beast of a cock, “c’mon, I need it.”

“I know you fucking need it,” says Eames, inflection downward, and gently slaps his cock against Arthur’s hole. “You’re gonna get it soon. You’ve wanted it for quite some time now, haven’t you.”

“Yes, fuck, alright, just put it in me,” cries Arthur. He’s almost at the point of sobbing now. Eames’ tongue has made him so loose, and all he needs now is to be filled up and have that massive dick inside of him already. 

Eames, however, has other plans. He’s still rubbing his cock over Arthur’s winking hole, pushing against it, but never pushing in. It’s maddening. And then, for some reason, he looks Arthur straight in the eye and says, “You like me. Admit it.” 

Fuck. Arthur’s shocked. At this point, he would say yes to any other question Eames would ask, easy. But this is complicated. 

Of course, Eames is a giant asshole. But he’s also hot as hell, witty, and somehow, Arthur has always hoped Eames could like him. Arthur’s always had a penchant for annoying men. It’s his thing. He loathes the mutual taunting ritual they have going on, so why does his heart always skip a beat when Eames seeks him out again? Is it possible that Eames has noticed something about him that he hasn’t fully realized himself?

He really wants to get fucked by the biggest cock he has ever laid eyes on, though. 

Arthur takes a moment to think and look at Eames. He does not look gleeful or malicious. Actually, he looks a little hopeful, even though it’s not very clear to see through all of this raging lust. 

He hesitates. Eames must notice, because he bends towards him and nuzzles his neck, his slick, lubed up cock prodding Arthur’s hole and Arthur wants it so incredibly, overwhelmingly bad. 

Risk-taking it is. 

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I am extremely turned on by you, all the freaking time, and I love your chocolate spreads, I eat them every day for lunch, and also I might like you a little, even though I have no idea why. You win. Are you happy now?” 

“More than,” Eames purrs in his ear, and grips Arthur’s hips and slowly, slowly starts working him down on his cock. Arthur is very relieved, yet a little apprehensive, because this thing is huge. How is it ever going to fit?

Eames helps him through it. “Just breathe for me, darling,” he mutters. “You’re doing so well, easy does it, that’s it.” 

Arthur feels the burn, now that Eames’ cock is sliding deeper and deeper. He is stroking his fingers around Arthur’s rim. “Almost halfway,” he mumbles distractedly. 

“What the fuck, it’s not even half way in yet,” sobs Arthur. It’s definitely more than he has ever taken before, and it burns. Not even Eames’ kisses can distract him from the feeling. 

Eames pauses. It must take him a lot of effort, but he manages. They stare at each other, panting heavily. Eames smiles, and licks a droplet of water off of Arthur’s forehead. Arthur sneakily continues to wriggle himself down on Eames’ dick. 

Eames tries to stop him. “Wait, Arthur, take it easy, just… let’s take it slow, alright? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Fuck no, I want it all,” breathes Arthur, pushing his heels into Eames’ ass for extra grip and trying to bear down. 

“Arthur, jesus, your magnificent arse,” Eames moans, not fully coherent anymore. Arthur is working himself further down and taking more and more of Eames. Finally, he can feel Eames’ balls resting against his ass. 

Eames gives him a dopey look. 

“I know,” says Arthur. Eames is inside him. Eames is fully inside him, and looking at him like he hung the moon, making tiny movements inside of Arthur. Arthur has his arms around Eames’ neck and just lets himself be bounced softly. He’s still adjusting to the feeling of being filled completely and mercilessly. It’s all really slow and easy; just the feeling of the entire length of Eames inside him and the soft pumping that he’s doing. 

Arthur leans his forehead against Eames. “Hey,” he says, nonsensically. 

Eames smiles at him. “Hey,” he says. 

Strangely, it’s not weird at all, talking to Eames and having his dick buried deep inside of him. Eames twitches inside of him, and it makes Arthur shiver and clench around him in response. And at that, Eames strikes. 

One moment, Arthur is slowly getting used to the new sensation. The next, Eames is pulling out and slamming into him so powerfully that Arthur’s breath is taken away and the water sloshes around them. “God, Eames,” he pants, “don’t hold back.” 

Eames doesn’t reply, just starts fucking him with ruthless, tight strokes, a brutal rhythm that has Arthur screaming and digging his nails in Eames’ skin. Eames is all around him, in him, on him, and all Arthur can do to hold on is grab Eames’ thick neck and dig his heels further into Eames’ ass. He really hopes they’re far enough away, because his screams are getting louder and louder. He can’t help it; Eames is fucking him that good. He’s pumping his cock into him in a smooth cadence, that makes their skin slap against each other. Arthur can feel the sweat drip off his temples. 

Eames kisses him, a bit random. “You take it so good, Arthur,” he breathes, laying Arthur back over the rock and putting his feet on his shoulders. “You look just as I hoped you would.” He’s slowing down now, pulling Arthur over his dick in a more languid pace, still with harsh and pointed strokes that all seem to end right onto Arthur’s prostate. It’s a painful kind of pleasure and Arthur’s just taking it, until he feels Eames speeding up again. Arthur moves to fist his own cock, but Eames slaps his hands away. 

“Arthur - just-” He doesn’t even finish the sentence, but starts jacking Arthur off mercilessly. 

The rock scratching his back, Eames’ hand flying over his cock, Eames fucking him hard - it’s too much, brilliant, amazing. Arthur feels his orgasm building and building and then - “Come,” says Eames, roughly, and Arthur comes all over his stomach and Eames’ hand. Eames fucks into him a few more times, fast and hard strokes, his cock growing even bigger inside Arthur. Then, his hand is painfully clenching Arthur’s thigh, and he stills, coming hard inside Arthur. Eames slumps down, crushing Arthur against the rock. 

Arthur doesn’t mind one bit. 


“So,” says Eames a few minutes later, still panting. 

“So,” agrees Arthur, not in a much better shape. 

“You up for a picnic?”

To his great surprise, Arthur’s famished. Although, all in all, he has been engaging in some pretty vigorous physical activity. Eames has found them a new and fluffy blanket and has spread it out on the grass. Around them, people are roasting all kinds of delicious smelling things on firepits. Twilight is slowly setting in. 

“You’d think we’d get tired of all the food,” Arthur mumbles, while destroying a massive piece of cherry pie. 

Through his steamed bun, Eames gives him a muffled reply that Arthur can’t discern. He’s apparently on a mission to try all the food. Arthur can respect that. 

He shivers. It felt silly putting his shirt back on after the swim, so he’s only in his undershirt, but now that it’s becoming darker, the temperature in the park is rapidly going down. 

“Here, take my sweater.” Eames takes it off and offers it to Arthur. It looks very cozy. Arthur looks at him hesitantly. 

“C’mon, you’re cold,” says Eames. “I know you’re not a fan of my apparel, but I promise you’ll like it.” 

Arthur shrugs it on. Everything smells like Eames now, and Eames himself is smiling at him, the fire reflecting in his eyes. Arthur is feeling inordinately comfortable. The darkness, the fire and Eames’ smiles are making him feel reckless - like he could say anything, and it would be welcomed. 

Painting of Arthur and Eames from Inception sitting on a picnic blanket

“Why did you ask me that?” he says. 

“Ask you what?” says Eames, bun finished, now screwing open a tiny jar of chocolate spread. 

“Why did you ask me if I like you?”

“I think you know why,” says Eames, unfazed. 

“I really don’t,” says Arthur. 

"I'm sure it'll come to you," says Eames. "But for now, I have a more pressing question." He's looking at Arthur with a mischievous look in his eyes. “You like Kibokoni?” 

“I-” Arthur stammers. He knew Eames could not be trusted. 

“You actually like the products we put out?” Eames sounds a little eager to Arthur.

“That was a confession made under duress,” Arthur replies, but he can’t hide his smile. 

Eames is beaming opposite him. “My friends have been blackmailing me for years,” he says. 

“About what?”

“About the fact that I will only have Levine’s on toast for breakfast,” says Eames in a rush, blush creeping up on his cheeks. “It’s just so rich, and smooth, and... mmm.”

“Almost like… it’s an enjoyable treat, suitable for every occasion?” Arthur grins.

“I just really like it,” says Eames, abashed.

“So why do you always mock me?” Arthur asks. “If you like Levine’s so much?”

“Because we’re rivals, Arthur, that’s what I’m supposed to do. And I like to see you flustered.” 

“I do not get flustered,” Arthur says, flustered.

“I also really like your insults,” says Eames. “They're so odd. Extremely weird, yet highly specific. How do you come up with them?” 

“I ad-lib them,” says Arthur, Eames looking at him dubiously. 

“I have a cupboard full of Kibokoni specials,” Arthur blurts out. 

At that, Eames does a double take. “I’d like to see that.” 

Arthur stares at him. “What?”

“I’d like to see your cupboard, Mr. Levine.” 

Arthur blinks. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Take me home, Arthur.”

Two months later

“I really like your take on this classic, darling,” says Eames, his mouth full. 

Arthur smirks. “I figured. That jar was full when I gave it to you yesterday.”

“You’re one to talk, you smell like allspice and cardamom.” 

“I’ve no idea what you mean. By the way, I stole your vanilla supplier and she’s giving me a discount.”

“You’ll pay for that,” Eames breathes, and kisses him senseless.