Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/163539.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
       Arthur/Eames 
  Character:
      Arthur, Eames
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, First_Time, Anal_Sex, Desk_Sex, Underage_Sex
  Series:
      Part 1 of On_The_Curve
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-01-29 Words: 3431
****** On The Curve ******
by Nellie
Summary
      Arthur is a sixteen year-old academic prodigy. Eames is a professor.
     AU.
Notes
     Another entry in the I WILL PRACTICE MY PORN-FU chronicles. Utterly
     ridiculous self-indulgent porn which combines a penchant for older
     men, jailbait, professors, and Eames in glasses. As always, I will
     blame Lydia until the day I die. SUCH_AN_ENABLER_(NSFW_ART). <3 And
     also thank her for remaining the best beloved beta. ALSO thanks to
     Cesare for giving a sleep deprived Australian a title; no, I can't
     make up my own today obviously.  Crit welcome and encouraged as
     always.

Arthur barely waits to sit down before he opens his mouth. “I want the
Assistant Professor position.”
Eames isn’t surprised. He isn’t surprised by the phrasing either... not “I’m
interested in”, not “I want to talk to you about”. Pure, upfront, I want.
He takes off his glasses and looks across the desk at Arthur. He’s dressed down
today, skinny jeans and a t-shirt, and still manages to carry himself with the
kind of complete self-assurance no sixteen year old should have.
“The ink on your PhD hasn’t even had time to dry yet,” Eames says finally.
Arthur just snorts. “So?” He uncrosses his legs, still just that little bit too
long for his body, and folds them in the opposite direction.
Eames lets his eyes slide along the lean length, practically poured into those
jeans, and for the millionth time wonders when he started noticing the
provocative way Arthur moves, like everything he does is some kind of show.
He wonders if Arthur only ever does it for him.
“So,” Eames continues, brushing the thoughts aside, “you’re not going to get
it.”
“Why not?” The words are petulant, and the tone makes Eames grit his teeth.
“Has nobody ever told you no before, Arthur?”
Arthur shrugs. “You do all the time. But this is bullshit and you know it.”
It’s really not. But Arthur has the kind of smug confidence Eames supposes only
comes from a lifetime of being utterly secure in your own brilliance. He’d
first sat in that chair in front of Eames’s desk as a wide-eyed eleven year
old, his feet barely even reaching the ground. Eames had made the mistake of
thinking the kid was scared.
Of course, then Arthur had opened his mouth and blown that assumption right out
the window. Eames had sworn then he’d never forget that the baby face is
nothing more than a thin shell over adult-sharp wit. But it’s still hard
sometimes, like now, looking at Arthur sprawled comfortably in the antique
armchair. He looks like he belongs in high school. He does belong in high
school, and yet somehow he fits in here better than some of the other students
ever will.
At this rate, he’ll be well on his way to tenure by the time he’s twenty. And
to be honest, that’s almost sexier than the way his arse looks when he’s
leaning over a library table, or the sharp look he gets in his eyes when he’s
feeling piqued.
Arthur’s wearing that sharp look right now.
“Look. Even with the PhD you don’t have the publication or research record.”
Eames taps his glasses against the desk. “Why don’t you just take some time
off. Go on holiday. Get a girlfriend.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “I don’t like girls.”
This is true, and Eames knows it. It just doesn’t do to let himself remember it
too often. “A boyfriend then. Anything. You can come back next semester and
teach.” He stands up and circles the desk, leaning against the edge closest to
Arthur.
Arthur looks up at him, uncrossing his legs and sprawling even deeper in the
chair, knees wide. “I don’t want a holiday, and I don’t want a boyfriend. I
don’t want to take a semester off.”
“What do you want, then? Apart from this job,” Eames amends quickly.
There’s a moment of silence while Arthur drums his fingers against the armrest
of the chair. Then he looks up again and meets Eames’s eyes steadily. “I want
you,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather, like he’s not staring at
Eames with come-hither eyes and licking his bottom lip like some bad porn star.
Eames tightens his grip on the edge of the desk. “What?” he says, even though
he knows exactly what Arthur said.
Arthur shrugs and crosses his legs again. “I had two things I wanted this
semester. The assistant position, and for you to fuck me once you weren’t my
supervisor anymore.”
“Arthur, that’s...” amazing. fantastic. awesome. “wildly inappropriate.”
“Why? You’re not my teacher. I’m legal; in this state anyway.”
Eames is gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to hurt, but it’s not really
helping him focus. “I... Arthur.”
It’s not his most coherent moment, and Arthur just raises an eyebrow. Then he
sighs, and scoops up his bag as he unfolds his legs and stands up. “Sorry.
Forget about it. I thought you wanted to.”
“It’s not that simple,” Eames says, wishing the blood would stop rushing in his
ears long enough for him to think clearly.
“It’s very simple,” Arthur retorts, letting his satchel drop drop to the floor
and taking two steps forward. It puts them close together, toe to toe, and
Eames has a couple of seconds to take a deep breath in before Arthur grabs his
lapels and kisses him hard on the mouth.
“You either want to do me, or you don’t,” Arthur continues when he draws back,
not letting go of Eames’s jacket.
Eames takes a deep, shuddering breath, because he’s not made of stone, and
Arthur is pressed up against him saying things he’s hardly even dared to
imagine before.
He loosens his grip on the desk slowly, watching Arthur’s face as he lifts his
hands to rest lightly on Arthur’s narrow waist, flexing his fingers a little
against the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
That must be all the encouragement Arthur needs, because within seconds he’s
leaning in again, running his tongue along Eames’s bottom lip and god, it’s not
a timid, inexperienced kiss at all. It’s a kiss like Arthur knows the fuck what
he wants and he’s going to get it, dammit, and it’s enough to make the last
frayed strands of Eames’s resolve snap like a dime store rubber band.
He tightens his grip on Arthur's waist, tugging him in close and deepening the
kiss into something filthy and wet that makes Arthur moan.
"If I'd known just saying it would get you to notice me, I would have done it
months ago," Arthur says between kisses, grinding against Eames's thigh.
"I noticed," Eames says. "I was just...." he trails off when Arthur slides his
tongue back into his mouth, and shifts his hands to hands to palm Arthur's arse
instead.
Arthur slips his fingers into Eames's hair and rocks against him, and Eames
wonders vaguely how many boys Arthur has kissed. Wonders what else he might be
good at with his mouth, and that’s a dangerous, dangerous train of thought when
they’re already rubbing against each other and this has already gone far
further than it should have.
He’s about to say no, he really is, but then Arthur kisses along Eames’s jaw,
nuzzling at his earlobe, and whispers “I want you to fuck me.”
Eames groans, burying his nose against Arthur’s hair and breathing deep. It’s
meant to calm him down, something gentle and intimate compared to the frantic
push of their hips and the feel of Arthur’s arse under his hands, but it just
goes straight to his groin. Arthur smells amazing, and it’s sheer force of will
that lets Eames push him back a little. “I can’t,” he says. The words are
almost physically painful to say while Arthur is looking at him with tousled
hair and wet lips and looking like the very epitome of fuckable.
Arthur frowns. “So what, I’m old enough to have a Dr in front of my name, but
not old enough to have sex with you?” He takes one of Eames’s hands and pushes
it away from his arse, dragging it around until Eames’s fingers are resting
lightly over his erection. Eames can feel the heat, the solid weight of it
through the denim, and his fingers itch to press harder.
He doesn’t have to, though, because Arthur rocks his hips forward into the
contact, leaning in to bite gently at Eames’s earlobe. “Come on,” he says,
breath hot against Eames’s skin. “I want you to.”
Eames lets out a shaky breath, counts to three and tries to ignore the fact
that Arthur’s cock is hard under his hand. But he feels too hot, like there’s
pressure building under his skin, and he curls his fingers slightly just to
hear Arthur’s sudden exhale.
“You want me to fuck you,” he says softly, nose still pressed against Arthur’s
hair.
“Yes.” The word sounds strangled
“You want me to...” Eames shifts his grip, grabbing Arthur’s hips again and
turning him round, nudging him against the edge of the desk until he splays his
hands on top of the papers already strewn there. Eames rests his weight against
the curve of Arthur’s spine, feeling his chest heave. “You want me to fuck you,
just like this? You don’t even want me to take you home and screw you into my
mattress?” It takes more willpower than it should not to punctuate the words
with a few hard thrusts against Arthur’s arse.
“I’ve thought about it before,” Arthur says, defiant.
Eames pauses, smoothing his hands down over Arthur’s ribs. The gesture is as
much to soothe himself as it is to reassure Arthur, and he runs his hands down
until they’re resting on his hips once more. “And what, you think I just keep
condoms and lube in my desk drawer?”
“In my bag,” Arthur says.
Of course. Competent Arthur, always prepared Arthur. “You really came in here
expecting this to happen, didn’t you?”
“Well, it’s going to. Isn’t it?” Arthur grinds his arse back against Eames’s
erection as if to make a point.
Eames isn’t sure he likes being so predictable, especially when it comes to
improper attraction to a particular prodigious sixteen year old. But Arthur
feels so good pressed beneath him, arching his spine and rocking his hips back,
breathless, and Eames figures life’s too bloody short to spend worrying what
society might think if they found out.
“You’ll need to be wearing fewer clothes for that,” Eames says, leaning down to
rummage in the satchel Arthur left lying on the floor. By the time he stands up
and puts the bottle and the foil packet down on the edge of the desk, Arthur
has kicked off his jeans.
Eames swallows hard at the sight, long legs slightly spread, the pale curve of
his arse. He touches the back of one thigh experimentally, watches the
goosebumps rise along Arthur’s skin, and reaches for the lube. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Arthur says, spreading his legs a little more and looking back over
his shoulder. “Come on.”
He slicks his fingers and presses his clean hand against the curve of Arthur’s
arse, trying to remind himself that he knows what he’s doing. But for all that
he’s used to seeing Arthur bending over things, benches and tables and
lecterns, it’s an entirely different thing having that arse naked and bent over
for him.
The way Arthur’s thighs are trembling should be answer enough, but Eames asks
anyway. “Has anyone ever touched you here?”
“Just... just me,” Arthur says, hissing when Eames spreads him open and slips
the first finger in. “I’ve got a dildo in my dorm that I... fuck, fuck myself
with sometimes.”
Eames squeezes his eyes shut at the thought, because the image alone of Arthur
naked on his back, legs crooked up and spread wide while he rolls his hips down
onto a slick toy, is almost enough to make him come in his pants. Which would
be ridiculously embarrassing for a man currently riding the wrong edge of
forty.
Instead he focuses on how Arthur feels, tight and hot around his finger, back
arching to try and take him deeper. He wants to bury his cock in that heat,
which won’t happen if he blows it like a teenager. “Do you think about me when
you do it?” Eames says, and barely recognises the raw sound of his own voice.
“All the fucking time.” Arthur’s spine arches into an impossible curve as Eames
works another finger inside him.
Within a minute Arthur is rocking down onto Eames’s fingers. “You’re not going
to break me,” he pants, bucking back hard enough for Eames to feel the jolt
through his wrist. “More.”
Eames braces a hand on the small of Arthur’s back with just enough pressure to
stop him from thrusting. “Shh. Sometimes less,” he curls his fingers
deliberately, and smiles when Arthur cries out, a mixed sound of surprise and
pleasure, “is more.”
He can see the tremors running down Arthur’s back, and rubs his thumb
soothingly across the ridges of his spine while he fucks him slowly with two
fingers. It’s tight, but Arthur’s relaxing like he’s used to the intrusion so
they glide in and out easily. If Arthur didn’t just say as much, Eames wouldn’t
even believe he’s a virgin.
That thought makes his cock jump, and he thrusts in deep and spreads his
fingers wide just to hear the sounds Arthur’s making jump up an octave.
"That... that's... oh fuck."
"Better than your dildo?" Eames murmurs, leaning forward to nuzzle the nape of
Arthur's neck.
"Yes," Arthur says, spine arching even further under Eames's hand.
He doesn't relent, even when Arthur starts writhing, making desperate sounds
that ring loud in the otherwise quiet office. Eames just holds him still and
fingers him harder but just as slowly. If he's going to take Arthur’s virginity
over a desk in his office, he's at least going to make sure it's so fucking
good that Arthur will be feeling it for weeks.
Arthur's slippery and warm around his fingers, nowhere near as tight as before.
Eames adds more lube anyway, watching the way it slides over Arthur's hole and
around his fingers where they're stretching him open. God, his cock is
throbbing, pressing hard against his fly, and he just wants to undo his pants,
thrust in and fuck Arthur face first into the desk until he comes sobbing
Eames's name.
But Eames has more control than that. He bites down on his lower lip and
withdraws his fingers before pushing back in with three, working more lube
inside Arthur, twisting gently until he finds the rhythm that forces the most
attractive sounds from his throat.
"Eames," he pants, fingers clawing uselessly at the hardwood beneath his hands.
"I'm... oh fuck I'm gonna..."
Arthur doesn't have to finish the sentence. Eames can feel the way his inner
muscles are pulsing, can see the violent tremor in his legs. "Not yet," he
whispers, lips brushing the damp skin just behind Arthur's ear. He slows his
thrusts even more, long, languid slides of his fingers all the way out before
easing slowly back in as deep as he can go. "Have you come without touching
your cock before?"
Arthur shakes his head, breathing harsh.
"Don't touch yourself now, alright," Eames instructs and starts picking up
speed. Not a lot, but enough to start putting an already overstimulated sixteen
year old over the edge.
Arhur tenses, every muscle in his body going tight, clenching down hard around
Eames's fingers. Eames lets him rock back a little, not enough to really get
the rhythm he wants, but enough to have him shaking and panting within a few
seconds.
Eames pushes Arthur’s t-shirt up higher, running his free hand down Arthur’s
quivering spine. He wants to push harder... he wants to slow down again, drag
Arthur back and forth from the edge of orgasm until he’s wound so tight he
won’t even know what hit him when he comes. But Eames doesn’t know Arthur’s
limits, can’t read his body well enough to tell for sure how close he is. He
gives it another five seconds before pulling his fingers free and fumbling with
his own fly, shoving his trousers down and reaching for the condom.
“Eames,” Arthur hisses, hips jerking.
“I know, love,” he says, fingers trembling as he rolls the condom on and
strokes Arthur’s thigh. Arthur bucks into the contact and Eames grabs his hips,
holding him still enough to barely, just barely push his cock in. He grits his
teeth, because it’s been far, far too long and he shouldn’t feel as close to
coming as he does. “Ready?”
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Please, just... fuck. Fuck me.”
It’s all the encouragement Eames needs to tighten his grip on Arthur’s hips and
pull him slowly back onto his cock, ignoring the molten feeling in the pit of
his stomach that makes him want to thrust in hard and fast and careless.
“Oh god, fuck, fuck, Eames,” Arthur pants, fast and high pitched like he’s
about to break, even though he takes Eames easily. “Just... fuck.”
Eames leans forward and presses a breathless kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s
okay. I’ve got you.” The words come out more controlled than he feels with
Arthur’s tight heat wrapped around his cock.
“I know,” Arthur says, using his hands on the desk as leverage to push back,
shuddering. “God.”
Eames digs his fingers into Arthur’s hipbones and tries to breathe deep. He
knows he’s fucked, on the verge of coming just from pushing in, but he’s not
about to let this end without Arthur falling apart first.
He slides one hand around, splaying his fingers low on Arthur’s stomach, almost
but not quite touching his cock. The skin is soft and warm, trembling, and
Eames presses down firmly.
Arthur moans, thrusting back hard and Eames doesn’t stop him this time, letting
him take what he needs. It’s only a few seconds before Arthur cries out,
bucking violently between Eames’s hand and cock. He holds Arthur while he
shudders, feeling warm come drip down his fingers.
“That’s it, love,” he murmurs against Arthur’s shoulder, rocking his own hips
forward. Under any other circumstances he’d be embarrassed by how quickly he
comes, a few quick thrusts and he’s done, gasping hard against the crook of
Arthur’s neck.
Arthur’s still slumped forward over the desk and Eames kisses his shoulder
again, the curve of his throat, the nape of his neck, letting his racing pulse
slow to something vaguely resembling normal before straightening up and pulling
out. It’s hard to stand up, muscles in his thighs still shaking, but he peels
off the condom and reaches for the tissue box.
“Here,” Eames says, tucking a few under Arthur’s hand before cleaning himself
up and pulling up his trousers. “Are you okay?” He trails his fingers across
Arthur’s bare lower back, watching the way his skin twitches.
“I’m okay.” Arthur’s voice is hoarse as he straightens up
Eames hesitates, feeling like he should say something else. Arthur seems non-
plussed, though, pragmatically wiping himself down. Eames can’t remember
exactly how he felt after being fucked for the first time, but he’s reasonably
sure he wasn’t as calm as Arthur looks now.
A sudden sinking feeling cuts through the warm, post-orgasm sensation. “This...
doesn’t change anything. You’re not getting that job,” Eames says.
Arthur glares at him, offended, as he bins the tissues and wriggles his jeans
back up over his hips. “I didn’t fucking expect it to. I wanted you to fuck me
because I wanted you to fuck me. That’s it.” He smooths his t-shirt down and
stoops to grab his bag. “I didn’t expect you to fix the job for me and I didn’t
expect you to like me. I’m not stupid.”
Eames blinks. Then, he laughs.
“What?” Arthur says, scowl deepening.
Eames reaches out and brushes a few damp strands of hair away from Arthur’s
face. “Darling, I’ve always liked you.”
His scowl falters, fingers tensing on the strap of his satchel. “Oh.”
Really, the emotion making his chest feel tight is probably a whole lot more
than just ‘like’, but Eames doesn’t say that. He just looks at Arthur, standing
there looking thoroughly fucked and precocious and just a little bit
vulnerable, and smiles softly. “Did you bring your car, or did you catch the
bus?”
“Uh, I drove.”
Eames picks up his glasses and puts them back on. “Give me your hand.”
Arthur looks confused, but obeys. His hand is warm, and Eames can’t help
deliberately tangling their fingers together. Then he picks up a marker from
amongst the scattered stationary on the desk. “I have work to do for another
hour or so,” he says, writing on the back of Arthur’s hand. “But this is my
address. Come over tonight if you like. We can talk.”
“Just talk?” Arthur asks suspiciously, holding up his hand to examine the words
there.
“And more than talk, if you want,” Eames says. “Whatever you want.”
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