Smooth
Title: Smooth
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3,167
Summary: Fill for this prompt at Inception kink. College student!Eames gets a bad grade from professor! Arthur. Well that’s just unacceptable.
Eames stared morosely at the graded essay before him. “C-” it read in mocking blue ink across the top right corner. It wasn’t fair; wasn’t right. This abomination of a grade had to be some sort of mistake or joke.
“Fuck,” Eames groaned as his head slipped downward and collided dramatically with his desk.
***
“How’d you do on your history essay?"
Eames leveled a frightening glare at his best friend Yusuf as he smeared butter over a slice of bread.
Yusuf winced, “That bad huh?”
“It’s this fucking professor,” Eames huffed, dropping the cheap, dining hall butter knife and taking a vengeful bite out of his piece of toast, “I’ve asked around and apparently he’s a complete stick in the mud. Gives out maybe one A a semester.”
“Maybe you should drop,” Yusuf suggested, though his words were somewhat distorted by a mouthful of meatloaf.
“I can’t,” Eames said, “I need this class to graduate. And he’s the only one who teaches it so it’s not like I can wait until next semester and hope for someone else. I’m stuck.”
The two chewed thoughtfully for several minutes. Finally Eames’ eyes lit up the way they always did when he had an idea that was completely brilliant (or idiotic as Yusuf preferred to call them).
“I know what to do,” Eames said, a triumphant grin breaking out across his face.
“Study really hard and ask for extra credit?” Yusuf asked, even though he knew it was futile.
“Fuck no,” Eames snorted, as though the very words were preposterous in and of themselves, “I’ve got something better. Something way easier and way more fun.”
Yusuf had a sinking suspicion as to where this conversation was headed.
“I’m going to seduce the bastard.”
And there it was.
“No way I can talk you out of this is there?” Yusuf asked, but his tone was resigned, “No way for me to explain what a terrible, stupid, horrible idea this is.”
“Of course not,” Eames replied, and from the way he smirked and popped the last bite of toast into his mouth you’d think he’d already gotten the A marked down on his transcript, “Besides, who could possibly resist me?”
Yusuf decided to let that one pass.
***
The best part of Eames’ plan was that Professor Cohen (or Arthur as he allowed the students to call him) was undeniably and devastatingly handsome. Really, Eames thought as he sized the man up and pointedly ignored the lecture on African colonialism, with an ass like that it’s a shame he’s such a boring stiff.
Arthur was young, maybe 28 or so, fresh out of graduate school, lean, with neatly gelled black hair and fierce brown eyes that could narrow in on a sleeping student from yards away. Also he had the most wonderfully fitted suits Eames had ever had the pleasure to ogle. His features were sharp and pointed, which matched quite nicely with his tendency to chew unsuspecting students to pieces and spit out the remains without a shred of remorse (okay that might have been Eames exaggerating, but maybe not). Most notably, to Eames at least, was that Arthur had the most lovely, scrumptious, perfectly-formed ass ever to grace the planet. It was a quantifiable fact.
“Eames, anything to contribute?”
Eames’ eyes shot up from Arthur’s backside to meet his intense, irritated gaze.
“Uh, well,” Eames fumbled for something to say, shit what did he know about African colonialism, “I hear Kenya is quite lovely this time of year.”
A trickle of laughter ran through the class. Arthur rolled his eyes behind thin, wire-framed glasses.
“In the future, Eames, please try to stay focused on the matter at hand,” Arthur said, reproachfully, then picked up his lecture where he’d left off.
Within thirty seconds, Eames had zoned out again. He spent the rest of class hammering out the details of the operation. Right, then, he thought to himself, I’m definitely going to need to put the plan in action soon. I’ll just wait for everyone to leave after class and then I’ll make my move. I’ll be so smooth, Arthur won’t know what...
“Eames, are you aware class ended five minutes ago?”
Arthur was standing next to his desk, looking disparagingly down at Eames’ notebook, open but completely void of notes.
“Yes, um yes I did,” Eames said, leaping up and scrambling to throw everything into his bag,
Smooth, Damnit, smooth, his inner voice hissed, and Eames forced himself to stop, to sling his bag casually over his shoulder and raise his eyes slowly to Arthur’s, looking up at him through his lashes.
“I was just wondering,” Eames began, voice pitched half an octave lower than usual, “if we could discuss some things. I have a few questions about my essay.”
Arthur snorted, “You mean that dismal mess you handed in last week?”
Eames glowered, though Arthur didn’t seem to notice.
“Sure, I guess we can talk about it,” he continued, “I’ve got another class right now, but I’ve got office hours at five. Come by then. And bring that piece of cra...I mean your essay.”
With that, Arthur swept out of the room leaving Eames an odd combination of angry at being insulted and aroused by the sight of that glorious ass shifting back and forth in those perfectly-tailored slacks.
***
At precisely 5:05pm Eames knocked on the door of Arthur’s office. He’d chosen to come late so as to not seem too eager. Unfortunately, the office was empty. This put a wrench in Eames’ plan. He was devastated for all of ninety seconds until Arthur arrived, stepping out of the lift with a coffee in one hand and a stack of neatly-organized papers in the other.
“Eames?” Arthur said, eyebrows rising ever so slightly, “You’re here. I have to admit I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
Eames decided to graciously ignore the offhanded comment. Smooth he reminded himself. Be charming.
“Here let me get that,” he said, moving to take the papers out of Arthur’s hand, but Arthur shrugged away.
“Sorry. I don’t like other people touching them when I’ve already got them organized how I like,” Arthur explained, “But my keys are in my left pocket if you want to get the door.”
Arthur turned a bit, giving Eames access to said pocket. To his credit, Eames only hesitated for a second before reaching a hand into Arthur’s pants and pulling out his key ring. Keep calm that same voice whispered. You can’t be smooth if you get a hard-on from sticking a goddamn hand in his pocket.
Eames unlocked the door and stepped to the side so Arthur could go in first and put his things down. The coffee he placed on the corner of his desk, while the papers were tucked into a filing cabinet next to the door. He nudged the door closed with the side of his hip and fixed his attention back on Eames.
“So your paper,” Arthur said, settling himself into his office chair and smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his trousers, “What questions do you have?”
Eames glanced at the rickety wooden chair on the other side of Arthur’s cramped office where he knew he was expected to sit. Instead he leaned against the edge of Arthur’s desk, forcing the other man to look up at him.
“Basically I wanted to talk about my grade,” Eames said, internally congratulating himself for managing to sound so damn smooth.
Arthur, for his part, seemed completely nonplussed.
“Your grade as in ‘why did you get it’ or your grade as in ‘will I change it?’ If it’s the second, my answer is a resounding no, just so we’re clear.”
Instead of replying Eames glanced appraisingly around Arthur’s office.
“This is cozy.”
“It’s barely a closet, if that’s what you mean,” Arthur muttered, “Did you even bring your paper with you?”
Eames slid imperceptibly closer along the edge of the desk, ducking his head down a bit to get more in Arthur’s personal space.
“I thought it might be productive to talk about it on a more personal level,” Eames murmured, voice low and ridiculously cheesy.
Arthur only looked puzzled. Somewhere in the back of Eames’ mind he got the sense that this wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. Smooth. Be smooth.
“What do you mean,” Arthur asked, “Unless you find the enslavement of indigenous peoples to be a personal matter I...”
Oh, fuck smooth.
In one swooping motion, Eames leant forward and crashed his mouth onto Arthur’s. He had a brief second to register the warmth of Arthur’s lips before hands came to push at his shoulders, forcing him away. Eames grabbed at Arthur’s wrists, holding them still and darting forward to reconnect with Arthur’s mouth.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing but...”
“Oh shut up,” Eames murmured against Arthur’s lips.
To his surprise, Arthur let out a quiet gasp. Eames took the opportunity to slide his tongue past Arthur’s lips, licking fiercely at the roof of Arthur’s mouth and the back of his teeth.
“Mmm.”
A quiet moan. More like a gust of air really, but it was all the sign Eames needed. He pulled back and took in the sight of the rumpled man before him. Arthur’s glasses were askew and covering wide, hazy eyes. His wrists were limp in Eames’ strong hold and his chest rose and fell in short, breathy pants. All in all he looked sinfully debauched.
“Why?” Arthur whispered, but it sounded fuzzy and half-formed.
“Why what, darling?”
Arthur fixed him with a plaintive look, and there, that was the man Eames was familiar with.
“Why did you stop?”
A wicked smirk slithered across Eames’ face and he ducked down for a second hungry kiss. Their lips met and parted and met and parted again in a chaotic, pulsing rhythm. It was wet and messy and every bit as wonderful as Eames had ever imagined. Eames’ grip on Arthur’s wrists slackened and suddenly there were fingers curled tightly around his neck and his right bicep. In return Eames tugged Arthur upward and slid his hands down to palm at what he considered to be the world’s most succulent backside.
Arthur let out a choked groan and Eames found himself mirroring the noise before he could stop himself.
“This is so unprofessional,” Arthur mumbled half-heartedly, and every movement of his lips sent shock waves down Eames’ spine.
“Trousers off and get up on the desk,” Eames growled, already hastening to undo the buttons on his oxford.
Eames shifted his attention long enough to shrug his shirt off and undo his belt. By the time he looked up, Arthur was perched on the corner of his desk, cock already half-hard, pants in a pool on the floor, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the wood. Fuck it should be illegal for a man to look this gorgeous.
“Well are you going to just stand there and stare or what?” Arthur bit out.
Eames took two slinking steps forward, settling snugly in between Arthur’s open thighs.
“Aren’t we impatient?” Eames practically leered.
“Just get on with it,” Arthur snapped, but the effect was slightly diminished by the hand that trailed carefully up Eames’ back and the way his legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.
Eames wasn’t one to be told twice (or at least not when it came to ravaging his irritatingly sexy history professor) so he crowded forward and slanted his mouth back over Arthur’s. For several achingly long minutes, all Eames was aware of was the slick press of Arthur’s tongue against his. The man was capable of producing nothing less than acrobatic miracles with it, dipping across Eames’ lower lip and tracing the contours of his mouth.
Without breaking their kiss, Eames leaned forward until Arthur was forced back on his elbows. Eames took a moment to appreciate the sight. The dark wood against Arthur’s light blue dress shirt, still buttoned, maroon tie askance and draped over his desk calendar.
“Please tell me you have something we can use for...”
“In the top drawer,” Arthur interrupted and immediately flushed red, “There’s some lotion in the top drawer, I think.”
Eames fumbled hastily through pens and rubber bands until he found the small bottle of hand cream.
“Condom?” Eames asked.
“I don’t keep things like that in my fucking office!” Arthur cried, going somehow redder still.
Eames decided it was quite a flattering shade for him.
“Think I’ve got one,” Eames said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet.
Mercy of all mercies, there was a single foil packet tucked in between a couple five dollar bills.
“I can’t believe you just carry those around with you everywhere,” Arthur groaned, but Eames thought he sounded relieved.
“Lay back,” Eames commanded, and Arthur complied without anything more than a pointed look, which Eames suspected was mostly for show.
Eames flipped the cap on the bottle of lotion and squeezed a generous amount into his fingers. He leaned down to place distracting kisses across Arthur’s abdomen as he slid the first finger in.
“Shit,” Arthur hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Alright?” Eames asked into the warm skin above Arthur’s belly button.
“Yeah,” Arthur sighed, “Yeah, just...it’s been awhile.”
Eames nodded, gently crooking his finger and massaging it in and out. When most of the tension had seeped out of Arthur’s body, Eames slipped in a second finger. Arthur stilled and went taut again, so Eames licked a broad stripe up the underside of his flagging erection. Arthur released a quiet breath, so Eames did it again, curling his fingers at the same time and carefully spreading them a bit.
“Nng...Eames, that’s...mm...good,” Arthur gasped, and Eames’ cock gave a sudden twitch.
A third finger joined the first two and Arthur’s hips started to cant back and forth in time with Eames sliding them in and out. God Eames hoped Arthur was ready soon, because the slow pace was starting to be too much to handle. Eames twisted his wrist a little to the left and Arthur’s back arched into a lovely curve and he groaned so loudly Eames was sure the entire floor could hear.
“Fuck, Eames enough. ‘S enough,” Arthur rasped breathlessly.
“Okay, just let me...”
Eames reached to remove his pants, but Arthur sat up abruptly, pushing Eames’ hands away.
“Forget the pants,” Arthur said, pulling the waist band of Eames’ boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and red, “Like this is good.”
And really Eames just had to kiss him at that, forcing Arthur down again, ripping open the condom and slipping it on while he pressed open mouth kisses across Arthur’s collarbone and shoulders.
Eames slid in with only slight resistance, and already he could tell this wasn’t going to last long. Arthur was god so tight and burning up around him. Eames stilled, partially to give Arthur a chance to relax and partially to keep himself from coming pathetically soon like some kind of inexperienced teenager.
He didn’t realize he’d screwed his eyes shut until Arthur brushed a hand across his forehead and whispered a forceful “move” into his ear. Eames slid out and back in, establishing a rushed, jerky pace that was almost embarrassing. Arthur didn’t seem to care. When Eames dared to look down, Arthur had his head thrown back in bliss, throat a tight, curved line.
Eames pressed forward with the vague idea of lapping up the beads of sweat along Arthur’s jaw. Apparently the new angle was good though, because Arthur bucked his hips wildly and moaned, long and loud. Eames threw out a hand to keep himself balanced, knocking something (the coffee cup, some remote part of his brain told him) off the edge of the desk and sending it clattering to the floor.
Christ every person in this building must know what’s going on in here Eames thought, and the idea had him rushing towards climax faster than he’d expected. Eames wrapped a hand loosely around Arthur’s cock, giving a few uncoordinated tugs.
For a few brief moments, their gasps and moans seemed to align, ringing in stereo in Eames’ ears, and then Arthur was coming and fucking impossibly tight. Eames forced out a few more stuttering thrusts and then he was falling over the edge too, and dropping like a dead weight, and then literally falling off the edge of the desk and onto the floor because Arthur had pushed him.
“Ouch,” Eames muttered softly, but Arthur looked so amazing laid out across his deck, haphazard and wrecked, that Eames couldn’t stay mad for long.
Arthur lay there, panting, while Eames disposed of the condom and slipped back into his shirt.
“Alright there?” he asked, because Arthur still hadn’t said a word and it would really be a shame if he had literally fucked the brains out of his gorgeous history professor.
“Shit,” Arthur mumbled, mostly to himself, but Eames grinned lecherously anyway and said, “Didn’t feel like shit to me.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur groaned, but even Eames could tell that he didn’t mean it (not mostly at least).
Ten minutes later Arthur had cleaned and redressed himself and looked as if he was having a fierce internal debate about what to do next. Eames, for his part, was enjoying himself immensely, finally sitting in the rickety old chair and grinning like the cat that got the cream.
“About your class, sir,” Eames said, just to push Arthur’s buttons, “I just find it so hard to pay attention.”
Arthur glared at Eames and this time he seemed to mostly mean it, but Eames found that he wasn’t very deterred by that.
“I think I’ll have to come to your office hours more often,” he continued, “you know, for private tutoring.”
“If you set foot in this office again during my office hours, I will see to it that you never graduate,” Arthur said, low and threatening and Eames didn’t buy a word of it.
“It’ll have to be at your place then,” Eames smiled, cheerfully.
Arthur stared at him with an incredulous look before deciding that yes, Eames was really that thick.
“Just get out of here,” Arthur sighed, and it sounded like resigned defeat.
Eames stood to exit the office, but Arthur stopped him at the doorway.
“Don’t think for a moment that this means I’m going to raise your grade on that essay,” he said, and the bastard was grading papers and looking so put together in spite of the messy hair and wrinkled slacks, “That was some of the shittiest writing I have ever encountered. You’re going to have to do a lot better than that to get an A in my class.”
And as Eames walked out the front door of the history building, he couldn’t even find it in himself to be upset. Do better next time, huh?
Challenge accepted.
END