A/N- so basically this is a chapter that has some non-con and violence in it (also a tid-bit of language), and I'd like to keep the story going as easily as possible. During my winter break the updates will be quicker, and I hope to abuse the time I have to write. I hope this is to everyone's liking and I'd really love some reviews. Have a great Christmas everyone.

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 campus bullies, could result in being fired due to a lawsuit by their fathers. Eames mostly hated knowing that his Arthur was bullied because of his intelligence and angelically good looks. Whenever he saw the young American hunched over at his lunch table (alongside Dominic Cobb, Ariadne Platt and Yusef Antal) he longed to strangle the life from the damned men who caused him that pain.

Eames glanced at his watch halfway through the day and sighed; his appointment with Principal Miles Cobb (Dominic Cobb's father) was in eleven minutes. It was his lunch break but he hadn't been able to eat—thoughts of Arthur flooded his mind every time he opened his mouth. It was sick, he knew that, but it was so hard to not imagine sucking Arthur's manhood up against his desk. And today after school Arthur was going to be alone in his room, and it was all his doing. He shouldn't have done that. Shaking these thoughts from his mind, Eames packed his lunch up and left his room—headed towards the main office building.

Arthur swallowed once more and opened the stall door. Standing there were Saito and Fischer, and three of their lackeys—each as plain as the next.

"Hi Saito. Fischer." Arthur nodded at each but kept his eyes on the scuffed tile floor.

"Hey Arthur. Why don't you try looking at us when you talk." Fischer's tone made Arthur flick his eyes up instantly, and just in time to see a fist hurled at his face. He only managed to divert the punch from his nose to his left cheek bone—where he heard a cracking and doubled over in pain.

"Please, stop. Please, guys. I didn't do anything, I swear!" Arthur let three or four tears slide down his cheeks before eyeing the teens in front of him wearily.

"Arthur baby, we know. Maybe we'd be more inclined to stop if you did a little something for us." Saito's eyes lit up intensely when he smirked down at Arthur.

"Wha- What do you want?"

"You, of course." Fischer thrust his fingers into Arthur's luscious black hair and yanked him to his knees. "Really, just one part of you today."

"God, no… I'll…"

"What? Do something else? What the fuck else can you do Arthur?" Saito slapped him hard across the face, and the class ring he wore on his hand sliced a rough cut into his already red cheek. Saito looked at the blood on his ring disapprovingly before rubbing the blood onto Arthur's white polo shirt.

"Just do it fast, second period started a couple of minutes ago." Fischer unzipped his fly while talking and his erection—thick but very average—sprung into his face. Arthur grimaced and swallowed back bile before slowly opening his mouth.

"Remember: no teeth, or else." Saito spat the words dangerously and Arthur believed the ultimatum was serious. When his eyes widened slightly, the three other boys in the room—all on the volleyball team as well—laughed uncomfortably. Arthur cleared his mind of the situation and tried to picture an experience he wouldn't cringe to be in.

Mr. Eames.

The thought surprised Arthur, but as soon as he imagined Mr. Eames standing in front of him—erection at the ready and hand strung in his hair—it wasn't as hard to lean forward and begin sucking. He allowed this illusion to overwhelm him so that he was able to finish the job and swallow every last drop of Fischer's salty cum.

"That was so good; I'd have to imagine you practice." Fischer smirked before zipping himself up and faux-bowing to his friends. "Let's give Saito a turn and then we'll head on out."

"What about us?"

"What about you?"

"We've stood here, we aren't going to tell. Maybe we should get something out of it."

"Next time."

Arthur turned and dropped his jaw when he heard the words. Next time? There was going to be a next time? Before he had a chance to complain Saito's dick was stuffed down his throat. He choked—almost to the point of vomiting—but quickly regained his composure, and his illusion. The mantra Eames, Eames, Eames played in his mind and he finished Saito off in five or six minutes.

Before the group left they slapped Arthur around and kicked him twice, but made him swear he wouldn't reveal who had done this to him. He swore right and left—anything to make them go—and the moment they left he vomited into one of the toilets and washed his mouth out in the sink.

Eames finally made his way into the office, and saw he was several minutes early; so, of course, Principal Cobb was still out to lunch (probably at Donatello's Little Italian Kitchen on Saticoy). He sighed and sat down on one of the uncomfortable tweed chairs lined up outside the Principal and Vice Principal's offices and opposite the nurse's room. That's when he saw Arthur.

Arthur was sitting on the small cot set up against the wall—his cheeks flushed and several cuts adorning the redness. He was bruised and his hair thoroughly disheveled. Eames' fist clenched with anger and, without realizing he had even stood from the chair, marched into the nurse's room and kneeled down in front of Arthur.

"Arthur, are you alright?" Arthur's eyes grew wide when he saw his English teacher kneeling before him.

"I- I'm… sure, I'm fine. I just fell down the stairs after your class was over. That's all. It was really clumsy of me actually—,"

"Mr. Eames, are you here irritating my patient?" Nurse Calhoun stressed the only word she knew that had anything to do with medicine. Really she was just a woman too dull to make it to medical school, and too proud to admit she couldn't.

"No, Ms. Calhoun. I'm simply checking on Arthur. It was after my class he was injured." Eames turned to Arthur and gently moved a stray lock of hair from his face.

"Well thank you, but I need to clean him up. You can check on him next week when he's in your classroom." The disdain was clear in her tone and Eames turned to her crossly before brusquely nodding and returning to his place on the tweed chair across the hall. Arthur glanced up before Eames left and offered an apologetic and thankful smile. Eames heart trembled wildly.

"Ah, Mr. Eames. Right this way, please." Principal Cobb strode down the hallway and into his office—letting Eames follow slowly behind.

"What was it you wanted to discuss, sir?"

"Cut to the chase, I see. Well good for you. See, the thing is, I have received several complaints from parents about the time it takes for you to enter grades into the website. I was hoping you could take on a Teacher's Assistant to help you input grades and perhaps even grade trivial assignments. They would have to be a student, and hopefully one of your more intelligent ones at that. I would recommend you not take on a female student, simply because of how that may appear." Cobb smiled a wide and phony smile before he folded his hands over his desk calendar. "Of course, it is up to you."

"I know just the student. I presume this is all?"

"Yes, quite. Off to your class, time for grading and all that." Cobb stood when he left, but the gesture was all too forged for Eames' taste. The entire encounter had reeked of false friendliness and Eames had come from the meeting with only one good thought—Arthur and I will spend a lot more time together.

Arthur gasped quietly when his blood was wiped away, and clenched his jaw when the rubbing alcohol had been swiped across the cuts. He was soon bandaged and the swelling had gone down, moments later he ran from the office and towards his afternoon classes—he had already missed his second period and lunch half-hour, no need to miss anymore than necessary.

His day droned on miserably; a pop-quiz in AP American History, a silent reading French 3 class and a Chapter 17 Calculus test. All he had to look forward to was his meeting with Mr. Eames after school, and even that was for something he did wrong.

"Hello Arthur, sit down, please."

"Hey, Mr. Eames. I'm sorry again about my phone, it was my fath—,"

"No need to apologize Arthur, I understand that there are circumstances outside your control. Actually I wanted to talk to you about something more important. It's an offer of sorts, if you'd be so inclined to accept it."

"I'm sure I'd love to, Mr. Eames," Arthur beamed internally—Mr. Eames was the most caring and bright man he had ever met, anything he said was wonderful.

"I was hoping you would be my TA. I need a student who is trustworthy enough to grade papers correctly, and organized enough to help me input my grades on-time. Does this sound like something you'd be interested in?" Eames' heart pounded while he waited the several seconds for the answer—a yes and he'd get Arthur to himself for what could be hours a day, a no and he'd be left alone to drink away his embarrassment.

"Of course! That sounds marvelous… of course I would have to ask my father. I assume I would be staying late after school…"

"You would be. Do you need me to talk to your father about this?" Eames' cheeks hurt from smiling as hard as he was, and he wanted to get up and dance when he thought about going to the Harris household. Seeing where his Arthur lived would be a dream come true.

"Oh… I'm not sure…" Arthur's smile faded and he began to twiddle his fingers nervously. Eames almost groaned in pain when he saw how small Arthur became at the mention of his father.

"No, it's fine! I can play up the qualities of it that look good to colleges. In fact, would you like me to give you a ride home? I could talk to him tonight if that would help." The sooner the better, Eames thought to himself. I'll be able to dream about you on your living room couch—in your shower—on your bed—all weekend long.

Arthur suddenly imagined himself in the Silver Volvo he knew Eames drove and no matter how wrong he knew it was, he couldn't say no. Knowing he would be beaten for inviting a strange man into his father's apartment, he still couldn't say no. He would be sitting in Mr. Eames' car; the older man's musk on the seats, and his Starbuck's cup practically touching the leg of his uniform pants.

"I'd love it if you could drive me home. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you."