[sir hits his dick like the jolt a live wire, a gut punch accentuated only by the click of the lock and the realization that no one can really interrupt them now. the immediate danger has been removed, which means the guardrails are off too, and his restraint is a hair's breadth from all out snapping right in half. watching tim obey him word for word is that much more impossibly intoxicating to witness in person - from the arch of his back, the perfect flat of his palms, the pretty profile as he tips his heads down and starts to read. the words don't matter, just a careful drone for him to pretend to care about the content which isn't bad, but it's not his best. sloppy, he'd even wager to say for his prize student.
his place stays unchanged, directly behind tim with his hands on the back of the chair and his fingers brushing up against his back - they feel hot enough from where he's gripping hard that tim should feel it even through his worn sweater. maybe he doesn't feel it at all, voice mostly steady despite an airiness he knows doesn't otherwise happen in class. paragraph five and six pass without event, and it's not until three-quarters through paragraph seven that hawk tips his head down enough to get a whiff of what he knows is convenience store shampoo and soap, mixing with the kiss of fireplace smoke from the campus union and the unmistakable homey scent of winter underlined by everything he remembers on his pillow that is uniquely tim laughlin almost a year ago. maybe the inhale is audible, maybe he can feel the flutter of hawk's warm breath against the top of his head - maybe he has no idea what the hell is happening right now.
but his voice is ragged when he speaks, closer than ever to the shell of tim's ear.]
The last sentence - go back. Read it again, slower.
[slower, like the lift of his own hand as if bewitched in the way it smooths down tim's extended arm and stops short of the palm resting against mahogany, wrapping instead around his wrist and guiding it up and off the desk.]
Keep going.
[keep going, as he drags tim's limp hand down the front of his sweater, past the peek of skin and against the easy splay of his thighs to cup between the seam and fly at the middle of his legs. not touching, not technically - just suggesting what he do next. there's a low noise, a hum of interest before he gives another command.]
no subject
[sir hits his dick like the jolt a live wire, a gut punch accentuated only by the click of the lock and the realization that no one can really interrupt them now. the immediate danger has been removed, which means the guardrails are off too, and his restraint is a hair's breadth from all out snapping right in half. watching tim obey him word for word is that much more impossibly intoxicating to witness in person - from the arch of his back, the perfect flat of his palms, the pretty profile as he tips his heads down and starts to read. the words don't matter, just a careful drone for him to pretend to care about the content which isn't bad, but it's not his best. sloppy, he'd even wager to say for his prize student.
his place stays unchanged, directly behind tim with his hands on the back of the chair and his fingers brushing up against his back - they feel hot enough from where he's gripping hard that tim should feel it even through his worn sweater. maybe he doesn't feel it at all, voice mostly steady despite an airiness he knows doesn't otherwise happen in class. paragraph five and six pass without event, and it's not until three-quarters through paragraph seven that hawk tips his head down enough to get a whiff of what he knows is convenience store shampoo and soap, mixing with the kiss of fireplace smoke from the campus union and the unmistakable homey scent of winter underlined by everything he remembers on his pillow that is uniquely tim laughlin almost a year ago. maybe the inhale is audible, maybe he can feel the flutter of hawk's warm breath against the top of his head - maybe he has no idea what the hell is happening right now.
but his voice is ragged when he speaks, closer than ever to the shell of tim's ear.]
The last sentence - go back. Read it again, slower.
[slower, like the lift of his own hand as if bewitched in the way it smooths down tim's extended arm and stops short of the palm resting against mahogany, wrapping instead around his wrist and guiding it up and off the desk.]
Keep going.
[keep going, as he drags tim's limp hand down the front of his sweater, past the peek of skin and against the easy splay of his thighs to cup between the seam and fly at the middle of his legs. not touching, not technically - just suggesting what he do next. there's a low noise, a hum of interest before he gives another command.]
Unzip that.