[ it's thrilling how hawk knows too well what he wants and can put a name to the very needs thrumming under his skin. a performance worth of many low murmurings of praise. marks requiring reward. a gentle hand when the gravel on the road forces him to slip. after all, it had been hawk he turned to when he received the poor mark in the first place, fiery and confused and hurt.
he remains leaned against the desk, body angled in a way that there's no doubt the way the rosy buds of his nipples ache that hawk won't see the faint indents in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. the game is all well and good until hawk lays down the rules, and something about this command makes a tiny lick of ice course through the center of his chest.
tim will go to class, and anything outside of those four classroom walls will now be off limits.
a punishment, in a way, isn't it? and maybe hawk simply thinks that the restraint will be tantalizing and electric, but tim can't shake the uncertainty that rises at the back of his throat. his free time is spent here, and even though it does not always end in palpable heat, it is usually spent in good company.
the class is 90 minutes, three times a week. 90 minutes where he will be able to learn and listen and feel for a moment that he is seen and acknowledged. but the times outside when he can breathe and feel like tim laughlin the person, and not tim laughlin the utterly dutiful student, will fade away. the campus is lonely at its busiest times, and to be robbed of the most precious, coveted human contact he has in this place?
it's dread, he feels, he realizes.
a passing grade from professor craig level, who won't even allow him to eke out the whole of his name when he calls for attendance. the bar has been set punishingly high, of course. he knew it would be, but a small, irrational part of timothy laughlin almost dares to whimper the thought - cruel.
hawk may know the level of his friendships here on campus from that dizzying, drugged night, but tim hadn't talked about it since. maybe it was obvious in the way he hung around the office doorway a little longer, the way he'd visit even when they hadn't had class, or the way he'd glow when they'd change the scenery for their talks well into the late afternoon or early evening.
a passing grade. he knows he can do it, but he also knows just how long it may truly take. hawk doesn't understand.
he looks away then, eyes falling to the bruises on his knees then easily back up at the delicate arch of hawk's back, the roll of the hips required to settle in the movement and even he can't help the way he absently wets his lips. there's no denying what waits behind the delicate zip of his slacks. ]
What are your metrics for a passing grade, sir? Tell me how hard I have to work, and I'll surprise you. I can take it - all of it. [ he dares himself to find the confidence from before, to meet the man's eyes with a fiery intensity that seems to lack some of the roaring fire from earlier. it's dimmed, just slightly, whether he means for it to be that way or not. but he can always weather the game and he tilts his head to one side, an angle he knows the man likes from their many days on the screen together. he leans his hip enough so that his thigh can hike up, just enough to lift his foot off the ground and prominently display one of the darker bruises across his knee cap.
he looks away again, fingers massaging the tender flesh as if in contemplation.
instead, he's trying desperately to quarantine the cold, creeping thing working its way through him. ]
And when I do take it all - when I do surpass all of your expectations - will your boy be rewarded, sir? I'll be sure to get the cream - slather it on this one, particularly. It's sore, but I hope you won't be upset with me, mister, if I tell you that these hands and lips have already prayed for you.
[ he drops his leg down, pushes from the desk and shakes his head to adjust the hair around his forehead. the fingers once on his knee raise and push his glasses higher on his face.
how long will it be before he gets to speak with him again privately, in the four walls that feel safer than even the confines of his own mind? he lets out a little breath and his lips pull into an easy smile. in spite of the cold, it reaches his eyes - the fire turning to something sparkling and bright.
how can it not? this man is nothing else if not the brightest, warmest thing in tim's orbit. ]
More than twice. I'll recite them for you one day, sir. I've been told I am very good with my mouth.
no subject
[ it's thrilling how hawk knows too well what he wants and can put a name to the very needs thrumming under his skin. a performance worth of many low murmurings of praise. marks requiring reward. a gentle hand when the gravel on the road forces him to slip. after all, it had been hawk he turned to when he received the poor mark in the first place, fiery and confused and hurt.
he remains leaned against the desk, body angled in a way that there's no doubt the way the rosy buds of his nipples ache that hawk won't see the faint indents in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. the game is all well and good until hawk lays down the rules, and something about this command makes a tiny lick of ice course through the center of his chest.
tim will go to class, and anything outside of those four classroom walls will now be off limits.
a punishment, in a way, isn't it? and maybe hawk simply thinks that the restraint will be tantalizing and electric, but tim can't shake the uncertainty that rises at the back of his throat. his free time is spent here, and even though it does not always end in palpable heat, it is usually spent in good company.
the class is 90 minutes, three times a week. 90 minutes where he will be able to learn and listen and feel for a moment that he is seen and acknowledged. but the times outside when he can breathe and feel like tim laughlin the person, and not tim laughlin the utterly dutiful student, will fade away. the campus is lonely at its busiest times, and to be robbed of the most precious, coveted human contact he has in this place?
it's dread, he feels, he realizes.
a passing grade from professor craig level, who won't even allow him to eke out the whole of his name when he calls for attendance. the bar has been set punishingly high, of course. he knew it would be, but a small, irrational part of timothy laughlin almost dares to whimper the thought - cruel.
hawk may know the level of his friendships here on campus from that dizzying, drugged night, but tim hadn't talked about it since. maybe it was obvious in the way he hung around the office doorway a little longer, the way he'd visit even when they hadn't had class, or the way he'd glow when they'd change the scenery for their talks well into the late afternoon or early evening.
a passing grade. he knows he can do it, but he also knows just how long it may truly take. hawk doesn't understand.
he looks away then, eyes falling to the bruises on his knees then easily back up at the delicate arch of hawk's back, the roll of the hips required to settle in the movement and even he can't help the way he absently wets his lips. there's no denying what waits behind the delicate zip of his slacks. ]
What are your metrics for a passing grade, sir? Tell me how hard I have to work, and I'll surprise you. I can take it - all of it. [ he dares himself to find the confidence from before, to meet the man's eyes with a fiery intensity that seems to lack some of the roaring fire from earlier. it's dimmed, just slightly, whether he means for it to be that way or not. but he can always weather the game and he tilts his head to one side, an angle he knows the man likes from their many days on the screen together. he leans his hip enough so that his thigh can hike up, just enough to lift his foot off the ground and prominently display one of the darker bruises across his knee cap.
he looks away again, fingers massaging the tender flesh as if in contemplation.
instead, he's trying desperately to quarantine the cold, creeping thing working its way through him. ]
And when I do take it all - when I do surpass all of your expectations - will your boy be rewarded, sir? I'll be sure to get the cream - slather it on this one, particularly. It's sore, but I hope you won't be upset with me, mister, if I tell you that these hands and lips have already prayed for you.
[ he drops his leg down, pushes from the desk and shakes his head to adjust the hair around his forehead. the fingers once on his knee raise and push his glasses higher on his face.
how long will it be before he gets to speak with him again privately, in the four walls that feel safer than even the confines of his own mind? he lets out a little breath and his lips pull into an easy smile. in spite of the cold, it reaches his eyes - the fire turning to something sparkling and bright.
how can it not? this man is nothing else if not the brightest, warmest thing in tim's orbit. ]
More than twice. I'll recite them for you one day, sir. I've been told I am very good with my mouth.