[he shouldn't do this. he should tell tim to recite the mantra hawk had tried for multiple semesters to instill in him, take his paper with it's fine collection of critiques, and leave so he can rewrite it from the safety of his dorm. keeping him here like this is playing with fire, watching him comply and let his body move pliant like molten liquid and stoke the heat of hawk's desire that he's come to associate with a screen. seeing it in front of his already worn down restraint is like a final blow, untethering him from every piece of morality and ethics he's tried clinging to for nearly a year. but the overwhelming scent and presence and desire that's consuming him is too much to bear now that it's in front of him like this, begging for him to do something.
hawk keeps his hands at the back of the chair, tight enough that the worn wood creaks from the force of it even as tim stays facing straight ahead or into his lap, smoothing over the paper and hiding the one thing that will give away whether he's as affected as hawk is in this moment.
he tips at the waist, breath hot over the shell of tim's ear even as he refuses to touch now.]
That's right, exactly in one.
[so he did remember. part of him wonders - did tim do this as an excuse to come down here and rile him up? or did he get so carried away in the last hurrah of it all, so eager he really did mean to rewrite this in earnest? so few students would ever take the extra work and flesh out two almost full papers when the assignment was one. but right now he doesn't give a shit about any of it, just watching the way he'll respond - if he'll shudder at the tickle of hawk's words washing over his skin, voice low and domineering.]
Put the paper back. And then - I want you to get up and -
[leave. it's on the tip of his tongue, mind screaming at him to just say it once and for all and overcome this intoxication that's rendered him senseless in the moment.]
Lock the door. And when you're done, you sit down with your hands flat on the desk and you read, starting from paragraph five.
no subject
hawk keeps his hands at the back of the chair, tight enough that the worn wood creaks from the force of it even as tim stays facing straight ahead or into his lap, smoothing over the paper and hiding the one thing that will give away whether he's as affected as hawk is in this moment.
he tips at the waist, breath hot over the shell of tim's ear even as he refuses to touch now.]
That's right, exactly in one.
[so he did remember. part of him wonders - did tim do this as an excuse to come down here and rile him up? or did he get so carried away in the last hurrah of it all, so eager he really did mean to rewrite this in earnest? so few students would ever take the extra work and flesh out two almost full papers when the assignment was one. but right now he doesn't give a shit about any of it, just watching the way he'll respond - if he'll shudder at the tickle of hawk's words washing over his skin, voice low and domineering.]
Put the paper back. And then - I want you to get up and -
[leave. it's on the tip of his tongue, mind screaming at him to just say it once and for all and overcome this intoxication that's rendered him senseless in the moment.]
Lock the door. And when you're done, you sit down with your hands flat on the desk and you read, starting from paragraph five.
[just reading. there's nothing wrong with that.]