𝚑𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜 "𝚑𝚊𝚠𝚔" 𝚣. 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm[UNI AU]
CAMBOY UNI AU
tell
me and i forget, teach me and i remember.
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
no subject
it hadn't seemed like a good idea at the time, per se, just slightly better than the very real temptation of bending tim over in the middle of his office or dragging him across his desk, into his lap and fucking him within an inch of his life. that's a mistake he absolutely cannot come back from: just like kissing him like a man starved of sunlight and air, buried underground for decades and coming to the surface to drink it all in. he could have spent hours in that car - could have gotten carried away. but there's still one shred of his dignity and his very, very questionable responsibility here as the adult. part of him knows none of it will ever be fair or right the way it should, an implicit power imbalance that won't ever even out until tim has long graduated and spent time away from him and this campus - and by then, he'd surely know he can do a hell of a lot better than hawkins fuller.
it's selfish. dangerous. but every night he logs on all the same, clicks into his private room and keeps paying tim's bills to see him debauched and desperate at night, demure and determined by day in his class with tongue worrying the tip of his pen and eyes following his every move. there's an electric heat between them he's shocked no one else has managed to pick up on, especially on the hard days like mondays - two days without seeing him in person and spending extra hours tugging his dick nearly raw with want, or fridays - the crisp winds outside growing more beckoning to sequester inside a coffee shop or by a fireplace and invite someone over for a cozy weekend in.
but against all odds: they've both made it. the last week of the semester, one more paper, a final grade...and then freedom. on a technicality, but freedom nonetheless.
his focus has been wandering all damn day - thinking about the way tim sounds when he's bent in half and begging for permission to come. the way he looks with hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, cheeks rosy and lips bitten red with desire and that slight shyness he never loses when hawk asks to really see him, wide open and vulnerable. it's the same look now, somehow when he glances up just in time to catch the sliver of skin and the exquisite details high on his cheekbones and nose and in the tousle of his hair. fuck.
hawk swallows thickly, placing his pen down and folding his hands before nodding towards the door.]
Mr. Laughlin - sure. Come on in.
[maybe the last office hours they'll ever have. just one more. they're so close to the finish line.]
What about the paper? Your initial pitch was solid - are you thinking of changing it?
no subject
[ he ducks his head sheepishly, flushing a little at the compliment on his original pitch - it had been a good investigation on political ethics and their role in propaganda, but he's come up with something else along the way, diving into a different topic in the middle of the first one.
he steps in and shuts the door behind him out of habit, dropping his bag beside his chair (his chair - it has his outline in it in a way, doesn't it?) and dragging it closer to hawk's desk. he tugs off his scarf - threadbare and worn out but colorful and handmade - tossing it aside. he digs out the two papers he's written, but pauses to rub some warmth back into his finger tips, speaking animated and growing more and more passionate as he speaks. ]
I was writing the first one - on propaganda and how it's shaped the ethics and direction of our governmental policies but then kind of started digging a little more into the ethical process of our senate and supreme court and how they're fundamentally flawed as decision makers, the checks and balances are inequitable between all branches because of the way we deploy information to the public. It's all rooted in dirty money, from both directions.
[ he takes a breath, blushing from his ears, his cheeks, down his throat. ]
Sorry. I - you should probably just... read them.
[ he rises then, stepping up to the desk and holding them out for hawk to look at, flustered, his sweater rucked up even more from the way he'd been curled against the chair. ]
no subject
behind the shield of his own skin dragging across his eyelids, he can glance fleetingly at the way tim's eyes light up, the determination and dogged insistence even as he's trying to warm himself up with his own physical touch. it makes hawk ache to reach out and kiss each fingertip, to tell him to forget about all of that and just be here in the warmth with an invitation to just...be. for once in his life he doesn't give a shit about policy or propaganda, he wants to forego every excuse they've had to use to be close this entire semester.
but he can't do that, quiet as he listens to the explanation and wills himself to ignore the flash of skin and the way he can practically feel tim's nervous energy emanating across his desk as he reaches for both papers. his eyes skim across the original - a fine piece of work on its own, solid critiques and well-justified arguments. but he can see where it takes a detour, and he doesn't finish it before swapping over to the second and skimming the change in tone: the tongue-lashing, fiery takedown that would have even some of his most liberal counterparts uneasy for how far he's plowed past into near conspiracy theory.
hawk sets them both down, one hand holding them flat against the desk as he reaches for a pen without looking up at tim.]
Sit back down.
[there's something slightly forceful in the way he says it, flipping the cap off and letting it drag red mark after red mark across the page in deep silence.]
Do you remember what I said you to when you walked into this classroom after the first two weeks and turned in that paper on foreign policies shaped by American socioeconomics?
[don't be so naive, don't get carried away, stay rooted in the facts - all along those lines as he watched an overzealous tim make the first impressions of an intelligent, formidable student in his classroom. but he'd needed shaping around the edges - smoothing out the parts that tended to let him get dragged down into the depths of something deeper and more difficult to articulate. hawk pushes his chair back, sliding the paper across the desk for tim to take and read as he gets up and circles around the wood tabletop slowly. there's something measured in his steps, deliberate as he comes round and stands directly behind tim in his seat. his hands drop to the back of the chair, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from tim's body. to press his own up against it if he chose - but he doesn't yet.]
Tell me.
no subject
even tired and tense, hawk's handsome - the cut of his jaw, the severity of his eyes. he stands at the edge of the desk, watching as hawk looks over the papers, but - the command. yes, definitely a command. something sings hot through his blood, up his spine, burning at his cheeks as he blinks a little dumbly even as his body reacts, does exactly what he knows a good boy should do.
the red pen scratching along the pages takes the wind out of his sails, but he tries hard not to show it. instead finding his whole body rigid at attention from the order, eyes focusing on the elegant movements of hawk's hand. what would happen, he wonders, if he moved. if he got up and made to crawl across his desk, to his lap, to kiss him and -
no. no, that can't happen. he's been told so many times, and yet - to hear that tone of voice here, now, in person makes his heart beat tick up a little faster. ]
I... it was a long time ago, but -
[ his words die in his throat as hawk stands, tim's head tilted to follow his movement, tension rising in his chest, and it's embarrassing that something about the way the man prowls from behind his desk goes straight to his dick, tim feeling it thicken beneath his jeans. he reaches for the paper, glancing down at it.
he doesn't turn, doesn't move, but there's the faintest gasp when hawk leans on his chair, when he feels the warmth of him, the breath against his nape. tim's fingers tighten in his lap, knuckles white. he looks straight ahead, unmoving. ]
Yes, sir. [ quiet but firm, voice a rich purr masked in the air of a nervous sigh. he waits, swallowing hard and all the muscle memory comes to life - his back arching prettily, just like hawk likes it, his head tilting to one side as he reads, nose crinkled in concentration. ]
Stay rooted in the facts. Don't get carried away. Don't be so naive. Keep your head on straight and you'll do fine, Laughlin.
[ a little breath, sitting the paper in his lap, smoothing palms over the pages, over his own thighs. ]
Is that - is that right, Professor?
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.]
no subject
lock the door.
it's true that he's wanted this for a long time, but also true that he'd come here in an excited frenzy, buzzing with worry and curiosity. now, though - the temperature of the room has changed, his sweater somehow feeling impossibly warm. but he listens, gives a little nod. ]
Yes, Mr. Fuller.
[ a good boy with nothing but obedience built into him after many, many nights of screens and requests. slowly he rises, moves to lock the door but doesn't make eye contact with hawk, not yet. he returns to his seat, shifting a little to lay the paper out, to press his palms to the surface like he'd been old. ]
Five, sir?
[ he takes in a deep breath, then begins to read. it's slow, meticulous, carefully forming the words with a practiced elegance. he wants to look back - wants to see where hawk is, what he's doing, where his hands are. but he doesn't, continues to read and read and read... ]
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.
no subject
he repeats the last sentence, slowing his words and enunciating each one, but his voice wavers when the heat of hawk's breath sits so close to his ear. he can't help the little gasp, the way his spine straightens. he bites his lip to keep anything else from slipping between his lips.
only when ordered does he start back up, voice stuttering again when hawk guides his hand down his chest, to the press of his thighs. his fingers flex against the fabric, along the line of his dick, just the way he knows hawk likes to see. it's dexterous enough to undo the button, to unzip his jeans, but he pauses.
his hand stays rested over his fly, the words of the paper forgotten as he reaches the end of them. ]
Sir? [ a little breathless, wanting. ] What should I do next?
[ he wants instruction, wants to do whatever hawk tells him, and so his hand rests idle, bending only enough for hawk to feel it where he holds him, the man's hand like a brand on his skin. ]
I want to - I want to make sure I get a good grade. [ it doesnt have the voice of the boy on the camera - pandering and cheesy, but instead it's a little husky, pleading, wanting in as much as it is dirty talk. there's no doubt he'll do well on his paper - he knows better than that. ]
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.]
no subject
[ the heat of hawk at his back, the weight of him there makes his skin alight with fire. makes his whole body come to life in a new way that leaves him stricken and wanting in a way he's never felt before. the cameras can't do anything on this - the internet sessions and the voice calls - nothing can hold a candle to it. hawk's lips ghost his skin and he sighs, his hips shifting just so.
he squeezes himself beneath his jeans, lets out a little, quiet moan when he feels hawk's hand palm over his, squeeze in tandem. what would it be to feel his hand directly? to have hawk devour him here just as he's told he would do night after night after night. but just like their sessions he does as he's told - ever the obedient boy, but even more so for this man that has completely captured him. he slowly moves his fingers, draws out the aching line of his prick past the underwear, the zipper, the denim. the cool air makes him hiss softly. ]
Like this, sir?
[ but god another order, another clarification, and the sweet drag of hawk's nose along his jaw, his cheek - he wants to be kissed so bad. remembers how it feels to have his arms around him, to taste hawk on his tongue, to sit across his lap and want. ]
Yes. Yes, I understand. Yes, please. I -
[ he bites his lip hard, trying to contain himself, trying to be the picture perfect boy. he doesn't want to be cast away now. not for the paper. not for saying the wrong thing again, not for his body, any of it. ]
Yes, Hawk.
no subject
Yeah. Just like that.
[hawk wants to kiss him equally badly, but he won't give in to it much like he won't give in to his own needs right now. instead, he shifts his hand across tim's to guide it in a loose grip around the base of his pretty cock, lifting his fingers in the approximation of a light stroke to the tip and back down again.]
Good boy.
[it's whispered against him, rough and ragged despite the initial ease of his pace.]
It's yes, sir or yes, professor right now - understood?
[there's a low hum, hawk pressing his chin against tim's shoulder and letting his cheek tip against tim's too - soft skin against one another so he can get a better view at what he's making his student do for him in unspoken commands.]
You get what I give you, if you want to do well. And - don't even think about finishing until it's time.
[another light stroke, hawk shifting tim's fingers in a twist of his palm up at the tip in a lazy moment of indulgence.]
no subject
he nods his head a little, eyes fluttering as the man's broad hand guides his own over his hardening cock. ]
Yes, sir.
[ hawk's weight at his back and side, the tip of their cheeks to touching is enough to make him begin to flush, his face burning hot, the color creeping down his neck past the collar of his sweater. the squeeze of their joined hands around the tip of his cock makes him hum quiet and needy. the muscles of his thighs jump visibly, resisting the urge to thrust into the press of their hands. ]
Yes, professor. I want to do well - I'll do whatever you tell me to do, professor. I want to be your good boy.
[ tim's voice has turned into a wavering, airy little thing - not the practiced purr of the student on the other side of the screen but the genuine stripping back of walls, the raw nerve of his desire exposed. ]
Please, professor.
[ he doesn't know what he's asking for, his mind blank and bursting with stars at the touches. ]