Inception Kink Fest
Welcome to the Inception fandom Kink Fest!
This fandom puts out some seriously amazing fic on a regular basis, but I am of the opinion that there should always always ALWAYS be more kinky porn. You guys, our fandom has guns and bondage and daddy issues and dream forgery. I say it's time to bring on the kink, yes?
♥ Inception Kink Fest ♥You can ( Read more... )
This fandom puts out some seriously amazing fic on a regular basis, but I am of the opinion that there should always always ALWAYS be more kinky porn. You guys, our fandom has guns and bondage and daddy issues and dream forgery. I say it's time to bring on the kink, yes?
♥ Inception Kink Fest ♥You can ( Read more... )
Publications have never been a problem for him, but the pressure to produce is always there. It's the top priority on his list now that he's got a few years of professorship under his belt and age is mostly a moot factor. After all, it's just another job. What it really boils down to is that he's proven himself to be fully capable and he performs his duties well, and nobody can hold that against him.
But despite all that, and despite finals week almost being over, he's sitting in his office, playing video games on the computer and resolutely ignoring the enormous pile of papers he should be reading and reviewing. There's also an Excel spreadsheet hiding somewhere behind the emulator window that he really does not want to look at.
After Mario-in-the-frog-suit dies six times in the same exact spot because of an invincible school of jellyfish, some minute shift in the taskbar draws his attention and he sees that the clock has changed from 9:59 to 10:00 pm. He's contemplating whether or not to give up the ghost and head home when a voice says, "Hello?"
Arthur almost jumps out of his skin. He can't help the, "Holy shit," that slips out.
"I scared you," Eames states from the doorway. One fist is poised to knock on the flimsy wooden door, but he apparently didn't get around to it. "Apologies for that."
"It's fine," Arthur assures, though his heart is now going double-rate for a much more inappropriate reason.
Eames is a junior enrolled in the class. He always sits in the back row, last seat next to the door, and Arthur can still make out the obscene shape of his mouth from the lectern. When he chooses to speak, he makes it showy for the rest of the class, but the bravado is built around pieces of sharp insight. They talk sometimes, after class and at the coffeehouse when they run in to each other.
"I was walking home from the library," Eames says, gesturing in some random direction. "I saw that your office light was on and I thought -- you know what, sorry, I didn't realize how late it was. This was a bad idea, I'll just -- "
He's already turned to leave by the time Arthur stands up. "No, hey, don't worry about it. I always tell everyone I keep an open door policy, so."
"So I guess I'm the first one to really put it to the test," Eames supplies.
"I do keep my word." Arthur smiles and sits down again. "Go ahead, have a seat. Really."
Eames does so, closing the door and putting his backpack at his feet as he settles in to the armchair that probably got donated by a bank or something. The threadbare navy fabric has definitely seen better days.
"What's up?" Arthur asks.
"I was just wondering. Can I talk to you about my final paper?"
"Sure. But I should remind you first that I don't change grades, and I don't round up. All of that is listed in the syllabus, which everyone received at the beginning of the semester." Arthur is trying to be a good sport, he really is, but the truth is that he's exhausted. All he wants to do is go home, make some hot cocoa, and lie in bed.
"Right," is all Eames says. "Right, of course. Well. I mean -- "
"Actually, I seem to remember you receiving an A on that paper," Arthur interrupts suddenly, the moment the thought pops into his head.
"In the class as well," Eames confesses after a beat. He grins crookedly, caught out. "I'm sorry, again. God. I can definitely leave now."
"No, no," Arthur counters. He finds that he's craving water, and reaches for his Nalgene bottle. "Seriously, you are very welcome to stay and chat. I have this -- entire planet full of things I should be doing, so obviously any kind of distraction is appealing to me."
"Obviously," Eames echoes.
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"I'm sure," says Arthur. "Are you excited for summer break?"
"Taking more classes." Eames flaps a hand around. "Which is quite sad, seeing as how I'm an expert at summer vacations."
"Somehow I feel like taking classes wouldn't put a damper on your vacation at all."
Eames laughs. "That might be so. At least this professor doesn't take roll, from what I've heard. Unlike you."
"Come on, attendance points are a gimme. That's me being nice," Arthur points out.
"Then maybe you should explain the sad purple face you have on Rate My Professor."
"Yeah?" Arthur raises his eyebrows, unperturbed. "Is my default picture still the one where it looks like I'm picking my nose?"
"No, unfortunately. This one looks like you're pre-sneeze. One eye is bigger than the other," Eames explains. "And you've got this wonky mouth thing happening, like -- "
He opens his mouth wide and pulls his lower jaw to one side before easing back into a grin. Arthur smiles back, knowing the expression doesn't betray any of the shaky feeling in his legs. After all, he's had years of practice covering up nerves.
"People like to hack into my account and upload all kinds of things." Arthur shrugs.
"And you let them."
"It's easier that way."
"Ah, sod it. I loved your class. They're only envious of the chili pepper you've got beside your name."
Eames flashes another grin before getting up and coming around to Arthur's side of the desk. Arthur makes a small noise, torn between anticipation and the warning bells going off in his head, but it's too late.
"I knew it," Eames crows loudly, catching sight of the 'PAUSED' game screen. He smells like faded aftershave, and something else earthy and familiar that Arthur can't quite put his finger on.
"I told you I needed a distraction," he protests.
"At least you're playing the best one." Eames nods in approval, and they could be two friends procrastinating together during finals week, shooting the shit in someone's dorm room. Instead, Arthur is knee-deep in grading and administrative bullshit while Eames is -- well, he has no idea what Eames, or any other college student for that matter, is up to.
Eames has settled on the edge of the desk, his back toward the computer. This realization filters in very slowly, and after that, the bulk of his body is too much to ignore.
Arthur tries to stare straight ahead. He's in the middle of a late growth spurt and half the pants in his wardrobe end somewhere around his ankles. His legs are long and reedy, but at least his torso has been filling out thanks to the free gym access that comes packaged along with the rent.
Still -- it's laughable to think about how he looks compared to Eames, who is also lean but has noticeable sluices of muscle in his forearms, and his chest looks broad even when he's sitting slightly hunched over as he currently is.
Arthur realizes with a start that it's beer he's been smelling, that Eames is most likely a little drunk. Not messily so, but enough to make him bold enough to head up to Arthur's office without second thought, to pay no heed to the grey area of faculty and student relations. The thought makes him a little dizzy with want.
He may be book-smart, sure, but he's also seventeen years old and that pretty much overrides any logical part of his brain.
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Eames is still sitting on the edge of the desk, legs straight and crossed at the ankle, arms over his chest. He doesn't react.
"I appreciated the break, though. Good to know that Rate My Professor is still ruining my life," Arthur adds lightly.
Apparently Arthur's brain is stuck on a permanent misfiring loop, because instead of taking his stuff and walking around the other side of the desk, his feet are staying firm right where they are.
"Okay," Eames finally says.
Arthur repeats, "Okay."
Neither of them say anything more. In the absence of words, or anything else to occupy him, Arthur can't help it: his eyes drift down to Eames's mouth, to the small dip beneath his lower lip, before snapping back up. Eames raises a single eyebrow almost imperceptibly. If Arthur hadn't been standing so close, it's doubtful that he would have even noticed it.
The office is small, but not nearly so small that Arthur is unable to dodge his way out. He only needs to walk around the other side of the desk. Not difficult at all.
He swallows and tries not to think about the way he's getting hard, just by proximity.
Fuck it. "I'm your professor, Eames," Arthur tries, but his voice is thin, like a frayed thread about to break.
"End of semester was today. And it's," Eames twists around for a brief moment, "12:17 a.m., which means the day is very much officially over. Which means," he says, "you're not my professor anymore."
Arthur is almost fully hard at this point. "You have no idea how much I want to run with that," he says helplessly.
Eames unfolds his arms, curling his fingers around the desk and leaning forward. "Then run," he says, and barely finishes speaking before Arthur is kissing him.
He vaguely registers Eames getting to his feet and walking Arthur backward until his back bumps against the wall. The kiss is messy, desperate, and exactly what Arthur has been imagining for the entire semester. This shouldn't be happening in any capacity, but all that is outweighed by the fact that Arthur wants it so fucking much. It's like he's learning, for the first time, what it is to really want someone, to feel that pull so badly.
When they separate for air, he babbles, "I'm still a member of the faculty -- "
"Do you want me to call you 'sir'? Is that it?" Eames has a mischievous smile, but there's an undercurrent of seriousness, Arthur can feel it.
"No, can you just -- "
Arthur pretends to struggle, and god, it'd be so much easier if he had the willpower to end this thing here and now, because he knows Eames would back off immediately if Arthur really meant for it to stop. As it is, the feeble attempt just ends in him moving his hips against Eames's.
Eames holds one of Arthur's wrists against the wall, down and out to the side, stilling his movements. "Do you want this?" he asks baldly.
How can one word be so difficult to say out loud? "Yes," Arthur says with effort. He tries to rut against Eames again, but stops when Eames's grip tightens.
"I see," Eames says thoughtfully. "Yes. You may be the one standing up there in front of the class, all eyes on you, lecturing about shit-all, but darling, you're still a cocky little teenager when it comes down to it, is that right?"
Some unnameable thing shifts between them as Arthur stiffens under Eames's gaze. The statement was meant to ruffle, that much is clear, but the fact that he's responding comes as a surprise that he goes with.
"Aren't you?" Eames presses, with a ghost of a smirk.
That warm flare in Arthur's gut is the same kind of anger and indignation that has fueled him through countless presentations, interviews, Q and As, chalk talks, and his thesis defense; this is familiar territory to him and he's able to channel it into something bigger, something confident and powerful.
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"I'm the one in control," he reiterates, "and you're the one trying to please me. So show me some respect."
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This is exactly the strangely amazing dynamic I was looking for. You've captured it perfectly. I love the tension and the pushpull that's going on.
I hope you'll be continuing it, y/y? :D
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HI
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HI I LOVE YOU
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Arthur takes a chance. "Get on your knees," he says in a low voice.
There's a pause, a moment where the balance could tip either way, but then Eames is releasing his grip on Arthur's wrist and lowering himself onto his knees.
"You -- " Arthur cuts off when Eames presses his face against Arthur's crotch, one hand loosely wrapped around his knee. Before he knows it, he's palming the back of Eames's skull and pushing forward, practically humping his face.
"Tell me what to do." His voice is muffled against Arthur's pants. Arthur feels each puff of breath, the vibration of the words traveling through his skin.
"Take initiative. You're," Arthur whimpers as Eames starts undoing his pants, "you're a good student, take the initiative."
He can't think; he can barely even remember to breathe. Tonight's plan was to finish inputting grades and start working on paper revisions, maybe get going on an outline for grant applications. Instead there's Eames on his knees in front of him, working his mouth and hand over Arthur's dick.
Eames pulls off with a loud pop and asks, "Is that good?", still moving his hand, mixing the saliva and pre-come, and Arthur feels like he's going to die. He licks at the head of Arthur's cock, then backs off again. "Do you like it? Sir?"
"Grade grubber," Arthur gasps out as Eames pushes his tongue against the slit. He grins like that, and it would look playful if it wasn't the dirtiest thing that Arthur has ever seen.
"Oh, you have no idea."
Eames takes him in once more, but this time all the way, impossibly deep into his throat, and Arthur's bites his fist but he can't quite muffle the sound that comes out. Eames's mouth molds around him, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows once, twice, three times.
"I'm -- I'm going to come," Arthur warns. His hips jerk forward almost right afterward, and Eames -- Eames slides off but stays close and keeps his mouth parted, catching each pulse on his tongue, his lips, as he strokes Arthur through it.
A funny, weightless feeling comes over Arthur, like all the adrenaline is draining out of him at once. He slides down the wall, coming even with Eames, who drags his fingertips over the mess on his chin before licking it off.
Arthur watches in open-mouthed fascination. All his attention has been filtered down to the sight in front of him. He doesn't know how long he sits there, but it dawns on him that Eames is waiting.
"Could you kiss me again?" he asks, and immediately tries not to cringe.
Eames cracks a smile, which he tamps down, but it reappears again as he leans in. Kissing isn't something Arthur really has an affinity for. Mostly it seems like a stepping stone to whatever comes next, but Eames changes his stance on that. There's stubble scraping over Arthur's skin, the wet noises, the perfectly timed breaths, Eames's mouth against his own, and Arthur just wants more.
By the time they break apart, Arthur is almost fully hard again. Eames strokes the back of his knuckles in one long sweep down Arthur's belly. His stomach trembles.
"Can you stand up?" Eames murmurs against his neck, patient as anything.
"Yes," Arthur says, dazed.
They both get to their feet, though it's more like Eames hauls Arthur up. His erection presses against Arthur's hip on the way, and Arthur cups his hand around it.
"Do you need to -- I can -- "
The room jiggles a bit as Eames turns him around. "Lean over. Elbows on the desk."
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"you're a good student, take the initiative." OH PLEASSSSE. Anon does not play fair with my loins. D:<
Is Arthur going to give it up on a desk!? I surely, dearly hope so.
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"Please, professor." Arthur's forehead accidentally hits the desk when Eames reaches around and grips him briefly. "Relax."
He startles when there's a slickness high up on the insides of his thighs. "Where did you even -- what are you doing," he asks, shuddering again when Eames's hand brushes against his balls.
Eames only vaguely answers the second question: "I want to save some things for when there's the luxury of time and a soft surface. Now hold your legs closed."
Disappointment blooms, but it's quickly overtaken by relief and a different, renewed anticipation. This is novel to him, but the motion is familiar enough that it's good just by association. Eames starts thrusting between his thighs, touching him everywhere with warm, sticky hands, and it's good.
Around his office, there are framed diplomas and certificates lining the wall. Arthur gazes at them glassily and remembers how when he read Eames's final paper, he imagined him reading it out loud in that low, easy voice. Arthur hadn't even made it to the shower afterward, just jacked off right there on the couch.
As Eames continues to move, Arthur starts to get the feeling that there's a phantom emptiness in him, a widening desperation that increases every time Eames drives himself in. He starts thinking about what it could feel like if Eames was actually inside, and then has to close his eyes to concentrate on not coming again.
"God, I want you to fuck me," he mumbles. With his ear pressed to the wood of the desk, his voice sounds muffled and dreamlike.
"Touch yourself," Eames breathes into his ear. He takes a fistful of Arthur's hair, right at the crown of his head, and pulls until Arthur's throat is stretched taut. The sharp angle means that each exhale pushes through his windpipe even more loudly than before. "Think about it and jerk yourself off."
"Don't tell me what to do," Arthur bites back, momentarily returning to the role of the contrary teenager, but it's part genuine as well. He flexes his thighs in response, huffing out an involuntary grin when Eames swears against the back of his neck. It fades into a moan as Eames slaps his ass-cheek before squeezing it, hard.
"Every fucking week," Eames pants. "Just watching you up there teaching when all I wanted to do was splay you out over that desk. It was practically masochistic to keep showing up."
"You could have skipped," Arthur chokes out. "Forgone those attendance points."
"But I'm a good student. You said it yourself." Arthur finally takes his dick in hand and starts to stroke himself as Eames keeps talking. "Christ, the things I'm going to do to you. You have absolutely no idea."
Arthur shivers.
For his whole life, everyone has had assumptions about him -- that he's strange, that he's crazy for giving up a normal life to be some kind of anomaly, that he wouldn't be able to hack it in college, or grad school, or teaching. But Eames's assumption that they'll be doing this again, and the assertiveness that he's exhibiting, draws Arthur into a pliancy that he wants nothing more than to sink into completely.
Eames chooses this moment to release Arthur's hair and run a palm down his spine instead. "No fucking idea," he repeats.
And it's that train of thought, the images that flip through his mind's eye one by one of Eames fingering him open, of Eames fucking him, of Eames slotting them together before taking Arthur into his mouth as Arthur does the same to him, of Eames using his tongue on him for hours, that drives Arthur over the edge. He comes with embarrassing, uncontrollable spasms, making a mess of himself and probably the desk drawers and the carpet as well.
"Jesus," Eames says. He pulls away and then Arthur feels come splashing onto his lower back and drizzling down the crease of his ass. His hips automatically twitch again.
They're both breathing hard. Arthur stays still long enough to feel rivulets of come making their way over his legs. "Fuck," he sighs. It seems to be the only word he's capable of. "Fuck, fuck."
there's probably just one more small part after this. thanks so much, everyone! :D
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All of those images that Arthur flicks through are like my wishlist! XD I like how the dynamics between them shifts and changes throughout; Arthur's got more seniority when it comes to his job, but Eames has more experience here and the push and pull (no pun intended! ;)) is lovely.
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"Move your legs," Eames says.
"What?" Arthur asks dumbly.
"Move your -- here, just step out for a second." Eames crouches down -- already dressed again, when did that happen? -- and coaxes Arthur's feet up, freeing his underwear from the tangle on the floor. He uses it to wipe away the mess on Arthur's front and half-heartedly swipes at the desk as well. "The bathrooms are locked," he explains.
"You're sure," Arthur states, still sharply aware of the mess on his legs and ass.
"Yes. I already checked."
Eames seems to be done with cleaning up, as far as he's concerned. He turns Arthur around so they're facing each other and pulls his pants up for him, gets them buttoned and zipped. Arthur doesn't protest. Instead he just stands there, trying to get his bearings and uselessly scritching his nails back and forth over the short-trimmed hairs on the back of Eames's head.
"You checked before you came in here," Arthur clarifies.
The expression on Eames's face is Arthur's favorite -- mischievous, sly, pleased to be called out. "Always came prepared to class, didn't I?"
"Of course you did," Arthur says faintly. He drops his arms to his sides, though Eames keeps a loose grip on his hips.
"I wanted to make sure," Eames begins, but Arthur cuts in: "The open door policy still stands. Anytime."
"Right." Eames slides his hands into his pockets, looking calm, put together, and not at all like he just did something completely illicit. Arthur can't stop staring.
"It's late," he says, forcing himself to gather up his things once more, as if nothing had happened. He loops the strap of the satchel over his head and bites his lip at the way his shirt sticks and pulls with every movement.
Leaving could potentially be the most awkward part, but when Eames nods and says, "Good night, then," a bolt of excitement runs through Arthur, a frisson of something thrilling and dangerous. They'll see each other again. He knows it.
Eames follows him out of the office, picking up his backpack along the way. The door doesn't have a lock, but there's nothing in there worth stealing in the first place. They take the elevator down to the ground floor and Arthur starts walking to the south doors, Eames to the north.
"By the way," Arthur calls over his shoulder once they're about twenty feet apart. With his heart pounding, he says, "I don't think I'm going to shower tonight."
Eames narrows his eyes.
Arthur smiles at him, dazzlingly, with teeth. "Good night, Mr. Eames."
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