[what should he do? he should tell hawk this is too far. he should ask him to stop, coax him into remembering all the reasons why he's held off so long in the first place. he should sit up straighter and pull away from the heat of hawk's hands, collect his things, unlock the door and not come back until their tie has officially been severed. and he absolutely should not let hawk hear the real timothy laughlin in the hitch of his breath, the deep note of want in his voice that isn't the skippy he's been spending hours during the nights listening to and pretending would be a decent substitute for hearing it in the flesh. now that he's heard the real thing, how could he ever go back to anything else? how could he stop himself from wanting more? for a moment, even though he's clearly thinking with one head over another (and it certainly isn't the one on his shoulders) - the idea that none of it fucking matters anyway for badly he wants tim and would give this office, this salary and this opportunity up for more clouds him wholeheartedly.
there's a heavy inhale as hawk lets his nose drag almost imperceptibly along tim's hair, smelling the mixture of his shampoo and the unmistakeable bite of fall air against it. his hand tightens over tim's wrist, slipping down to splay across the back of his palm and form over where he has it clutching at the bulge under his unzipped fly with a light squeeze and uttering an absently mindless grunt for the weight of it he isn't directly touching, enticing him almost agonizingly.]
Don't you dare turn around, you hear? You stay where you are, you look at your paper and you keep looking over - the parts that aren't perfect.
[there's a harsh breath against the shell of his ear, hawk's fingers tightening at the back of the chair as his lips brush like butterfly flutters against the skin with the last vestiges of his restraint. his tone is low, gruff - so close to losing control. heady with the obvious want that tim must know, the kind that weakens him for how close to snapping altogether he is.]
You want a good grade...take yourself out. [hawk waits for him to comply, practically salivating at the way he wishes he could see every inch of the body he's studied in an extremely subpar approximation of 4d.]
I'm not grading on what you've written. I'm grading on your concentration tonight. I'm grading on how well you take my orders, you got that, Skippy?
[his own face angles, tipping in to nose along his jaw and up his cheek bone with the side of his nose.]
no subject
there's a heavy inhale as hawk lets his nose drag almost imperceptibly along tim's hair, smelling the mixture of his shampoo and the unmistakeable bite of fall air against it. his hand tightens over tim's wrist, slipping down to splay across the back of his palm and form over where he has it clutching at the bulge under his unzipped fly with a light squeeze and uttering an absently mindless grunt for the weight of it he isn't directly touching, enticing him almost agonizingly.]
Don't you dare turn around, you hear? You stay where you are, you look at your paper and you keep looking over - the parts that aren't perfect.
[there's a harsh breath against the shell of his ear, hawk's fingers tightening at the back of the chair as his lips brush like butterfly flutters against the skin with the last vestiges of his restraint. his tone is low, gruff - so close to losing control. heady with the obvious want that tim must know, the kind that weakens him for how close to snapping altogether he is.]
You want a good grade...take yourself out. [hawk waits for him to comply, practically salivating at the way he wishes he could see every inch of the body he's studied in an extremely subpar approximation of 4d.]
I'm not grading on what you've written. I'm grading on your concentration tonight. I'm grading on how well you take my orders, you got that, Skippy?
[his own face angles, tipping in to nose along his jaw and up his cheek bone with the side of his nose.]
Yes or no. Tell me, right now.
[tell me you want this. tell me it's okay.]