[ tim's spine straightens suddenly when he reads the text - dean s. the electrifying knowledge that yes, between the reference of the stars, the boy telling a story, and the dean?
hawkins fuller rests on the other side of the screen.
it's unfair how he aches suddenly to hear the rich, warm notes of his voice giving him instructions. to hear how his voice goes husky or hoarse with want. he knows too well hawk won't be seen on camera of course, but a yearning has made the fire burn low and hot in his belly all over again.
all the more reason to begin working the sweater up slowly, letting it ruck the shirt enough to show a dusting of fine hair down his abs to the happy little trail leading to his shorts. he wriggles out of the sweater, tossing it aside on a little sigh before he arches is back to start on one button, then two. ]
... Professor? [ does he even dare? is it worth acknowledging the way his voice hitched earlier when reading the name dean s.? yes. ] Should I put my glasses on for you?
[ it's a small offering - the plaintive, tentative little request for direction, but also an acknowledgement. he knows. he knows that now on the other side sits the one man he's wanted to tune in for all this time and it does make the tent in his school shorts show.
he doesn't wait for an answer when he reaches for them, letting them slide into view and then out of frame. he starts back on the shirt, undoing and fumbling with buttons until it opens all the way, revealing pretty, pink nipples already well at attention, the fair trail of hair on his chest, the tone of his muscles as he flexes to get the shirt off.
usually, he'd lay on his side - let the man see the long line of his body and just what he can do with those hips. but instead, he rises up on his knees and shifts down onto the bed after adjusting the camera. there's one strong arm, then the reveal of a shoulder, and soon? in view on the camera is the freckled, sun-kissed face of timothy laughlin, glasses perched upon flushed cheeks, hair a little mussed from removing his sweater.
he swipes his pencil, biting the eraser, scrunching his nose as he looks at the papers before him. there's an easy sigh, and next he speaks? the voice changer has gone altogether. there's no need for it. ]
I want to earn it, Professor. [ his hips wriggle behind him, where hawk can see the curve of his ass before he kicks his feet up, revealing the long socks, and crossing his ankles behind him. ]
I hope you aren't replacing your boy with that other sweet boy. I'll do anything to make it to the top of your roster. Tell me how you want it - how I can earn it. I'm very good at taking directions, Professor Fuller.
no subject
hawkins fuller rests on the other side of the screen.
it's unfair how he aches suddenly to hear the rich, warm notes of his voice giving him instructions. to hear how his voice goes husky or hoarse with want. he knows too well hawk won't be seen on camera of course, but a yearning has made the fire burn low and hot in his belly all over again.
all the more reason to begin working the sweater up slowly, letting it ruck the shirt enough to show a dusting of fine hair down his abs to the happy little trail leading to his shorts. he wriggles out of the sweater, tossing it aside on a little sigh before he arches is back to start on one button, then two. ]
... Professor? [ does he even dare? is it worth acknowledging the way his voice hitched earlier when reading the name dean s.? yes. ] Should I put my glasses on for you?
[ it's a small offering - the plaintive, tentative little request for direction, but also an acknowledgement. he knows. he knows that now on the other side sits the one man he's wanted to tune in for all this time and it does make the tent in his school shorts show.
he doesn't wait for an answer when he reaches for them, letting them slide into view and then out of frame. he starts back on the shirt, undoing and fumbling with buttons until it opens all the way, revealing pretty, pink nipples already well at attention, the fair trail of hair on his chest, the tone of his muscles as he flexes to get the shirt off.
usually, he'd lay on his side - let the man see the long line of his body and just what he can do with those hips. but instead, he rises up on his knees and shifts down onto the bed after adjusting the camera. there's one strong arm, then the reveal of a shoulder, and soon? in view on the camera is the freckled, sun-kissed face of timothy laughlin, glasses perched upon flushed cheeks, hair a little mussed from removing his sweater.
he swipes his pencil, biting the eraser, scrunching his nose as he looks at the papers before him. there's an easy sigh, and next he speaks? the voice changer has gone altogether. there's no need for it. ]
I want to earn it, Professor. [ his hips wriggle behind him, where hawk can see the curve of his ass before he kicks his feet up, revealing the long socks, and crossing his ankles behind him. ]
I hope you aren't replacing your boy with that other sweet boy. I'll do anything to make it to the top of your roster. Tell me how you want it - how I can earn it. I'm very good at taking directions, Professor Fuller.