Inception Fanfiction

Warnings: Mentions of violence/non-con/abuse, illegal age relationship, teacher x student, and language (Later chs there might be explicit non-con/violence)

Pairings: ArthurxEames (later chs), ArthurxOC, and possible ArthurxFischer (later chs)

Summary: Arthur is a student at a high school where he is constantly bullied. When he goes home at night he is often beat. One English teacher, Mr. Eames, takes an interest in him and something special blooms between them.

Arthur trembled lightly and turned his head away from Fischer and Saito, the two most popular Juniors at West Valley High. The popular boys had spent the majority of the year leering at Arthur in the locker room, or making snide comments when they passed him in the hallways. It was luck—and Arthur's intelligence—that gave Arthur a schedule full of classes that neither boy had.

"See ya tomorrow, Arthur," the way Fischer drawled his name made Arthur's skin crawl, and the wink that followed every encounter made him want to vomit. What had he ever done to prompt this? He never flirted with either boy, nor had he ever done anything to make them feel animosity towards him. He sighed and left; hair still wet and skin still damp from the industrial shower. The cold December air clung to the water droplets on his body and Arthur gave an inadvertent groan of pain. He hugged his arms close and walked towards the bus stop—having forgotten his jacket at home, he shivered painfully. Sitting down on what he only hoped was a piece of old gum, Arthur hunched into himself and began to mentally repeat lines from "Lord of the Rings" to keep his mind off of the cold.

Twenty minutes later Arthur realized the bus wasn't coming. He sighed heavily and collected his things before making the five mile trek back to his father's apartment on 4th St. If it had been a Wednesday Ariadne, his neighbor, would have been able to drive him home; instead, he had volleyball practice in the dead of winter.

"Wha' the fuck took you so long?" Arthur could smell the alcohol from down the hall, but when he opened the door to 18B, it was overwhelming.

"I missed the bus, dad."

"Fucking fuck up, piece 'o shit."

"Dad—I'm sorry, I had volleyball—," Arthur moved forward; closer to the wall and further from his father, who may have decided to be an angry drunk today.

"That's a fag sport, Arthur."

"Please, just… I'm cold, can I go take a shower?"

"Do whatever the fuck you have to. Just stop getting home late. I had to order in. Don't let it happen again."

"I won't." Arthur shuddered as he padded over to the desk. He had no room—he slept on the couch in the living room, and used a filing cabinet as his dresser. He didn't have much either way, but what Arthur did have was kept pristine. His school uniform was pressed and placed at the top of the drawer labeled A-H.

Arthur ran to the bathroom and instead of shower, a lie he told his father every day, he bolted the door and pulled out a cheap Toshiba laptop his old Chemistry teacher had gifted to him. While on this computer he did his homework and then proceeded to a chatroom. It was embarrassing, but Arthur had made himself an account with a fake age—23—and talked only people he didn't know. Sometimes it was nice to talk to people who didn't judge him by how well he did in school, how poor he was, or how cripplingly-shy he seemed.

Eames had been warned when he joined the staff of West Valley High that every single female student would flock to him because of his "sexy" English accent and rugged good looks. This would be fine and well for a straight 26 year old man, but Eames was as gay as a rainbow, and damn proud of it. Of course, he hadn't told his students, though he assumed many of them had figured that out for themselves by now. The only problem Eames had working with teenagers was Arthur Harris. Arthur was the most intelligent, sweet, handsome and fascinating man Eames had ever met. It was just a cruel twist of fate that Arthur was still 17.

"Mr. Eames?"

"Yes, Jessica?"

"It's four thirty, can we all leave now?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, of course. Everyone: detention dismissed." Eames sighed once the room had emptied out. Today had been a long Thursday. Not only had he had to teach every period of the day, but he had to proctor detention for an hour and a half after school. He booted up his computer and began grading the paragraphs he had assigned his Honors British Literature classes. When he finished reading Arthur's eloquent and well-thought out essay his mind wandered towards the young man…

Arthur had sinewy muscles—the muscles of a volleyball setter—and a delicate smile that only graced his lips on occasion. Every time Eames had made his student smile something fluttered within his stomach and he grinned like an idiot for the rest of the day. Daydreams of Arthur knocking on his classroom door and throwing himself at Eames like a love-sick schoolgirl were a guilty pleasure that Eames allowed himself almost daily. Arthur's pouting lips pressed up against his own was an image too sinful to ever be real.

Eames packed up his things—including three stacks of essays to be graded over the weekend—and began the trek to his car. It was an unusually cold five-thirty in December, and he tugged his woolen scarf tighter around his neck. After putting his things into the trunk of his silver Volvo, Eames saw none other than Arthur sitting alone on a bus-bench. He imagined that he could smell Arthur's sweet musk on the icy wind, and longed to sprint over and pull the shivering boy into his arms. But that was all illegal. It was something a teacher could not do. No matter how much he loved Arthur Harris, it would never be.

He drove out of the lot just in time to see Arthur give up and begin walking down the street. This action alone almost drove Eames over the edge. He was so close to just turning around and throwing the student into his car, but, yet again he resisted.

Arthur hated Fridays. On Friday mornings it was only a matter of seven hours until it was the weekend, and thus a forty-eight hour period in which he had to stay at home with his father. Luckily there was a week left of the volleyball season, and as long as he had to shower at school his father was careful enough not to leave marks. From the time he turned ten—the same year his mother left with some Spanish actor—Arthur's father had consistently and mercilessly beat him. When he was fifteen he was raped by his father. His dad had been insanely drunk and Arthur hadn't made dinner. Arthur didn't know if his father remembered the event, but it had never reoccurred, and he planned to keep it that way.

"Good morning class. I hope you have a great Friday, but I do want you to know that this is going to be a class like any other. We will be doing work. Christmas break isn't for another week, so I expect you to act as such." Mr. Eames had a commanding presence that calmed Arthur instantly. Suddenly all of his worries were gone and he was whisked off into the land of British Literature and British hunks. Dear God! Arthur had just referred to his teacher as a hunk!

Of course, Arthur knew he was gay, that had never come as a shock. But, Arthur had never imagined he'd find an older man attractive in that way… but then again, Mr. Eames was rather attractive.

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Eames. What was the question?"

"I asked which poet you chose for the freewrite I assigned." (Eames already knew who Arthur had picked, but it was so soothing to hear Arthur speak, especially about literature—Arthur would get a glazed look in his brown eyes, and he would smile lightly and subconsciously.)

"I chose the Earl of Rochester: John Wilmot."

"Ah, what an individual he was. Thank you, Mr. Harris. Jessica, who did you pick?"

The rest of the class continued without a hitch, but moments before the end of class Arthur's phone blared from his jacket pocket. He fumbled with it—trying to silence the blasted ringer—but it was still an interruption to the poetry reading Mr. Eames had begun.

"Arthur, would you please come after school. You can keep your phone, but I'd still like to discuss this outburst with you."

"Of course, Mr. Eames." Moments later, the bell rang and Arthur scurried from the room. He ducked into the fourth floor bathroom—the least used bathroom on the entire campus. Once in a stall he dialed his father's number.

"What is it?"

"Dad… I'm going to be a little late tonight…"

"What the fuck is it this time?"

"One of my teachers is keeping me late."

"Great. Just fucking fantastic! I need you to get your ass home the second that douche-bag prick lets you out. 'Kay? I'm having a guest over tonight and you need to make steak."

"Okay, dad. I'll hurry. I swear."

"You'd better." The phone clicked and Arthur was alone again. He hoped his father hadn't invited Mr. Hutchinson over again. Last time his father's boss had eaten at their house, Arthur had sat silently at the table while being eye-fucked by a man well into his fifties, and well into balding.

"Is that Arthur we hear?" Fischer's voice echoed around the cramped room, and Arthur swallowed quietly.

Eames hated knowing that Arthur was bullied, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not at a school where messing with either Saito or Fischer, the biggest bullies, could result in being fired due to a lawsuit by either father.