[UNI AU]

[homosexuals]

CAMBOY UNI AU

tell me and i forget, teach me and i remember.

Comments

[homosexuals]

[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.

[just reading. there's nothing wrong with that.]

[apologetics]

[ tim doesn't know what to expect - what his marching orders will be - but the creak of the wood behind him sends a ripple of sparks up his spine. makes him sit straighter, back arched, fingers curling against his thighs for control. he wants him - he wants him terribly, and he tries to obey the best he can.

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... ]

[homosexuals]

Five.

[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.

[apologetics]

[ hawk leans in and tim can feel the heat of him close at his back - it makes the little hairs at his nape rise and stand at attention, makes his whole body flush with heat, the tips of his ears down the line of his throat. he regrets that the paper can't hide his own desire - the fly of his pants growing the barest hint tighter from the anticipation alone.

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. ]

[homosexuals]

[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.]

Yes or no. Tell me, right now.

[tell me you want this. tell me it's okay.]

[apologetics]

I won't turn around.

[ 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.

[homosexuals]

[seeing him like this and refusing to touch - at least anything other than indirectly - is like a fucking gutpunch. hawk hasn't gotten on his knees for anyone since he was a little less than tim's age, and he's never wanted to until this moment. not until the pretty pink flare of his cock gets exposed to the warm light of his office, thick and mouth-wateringly perfect. it's not like he hasn't seen it before, but he hasn't seen the precise shade or the shape of it intimately enough to really make him ache. his own pulses in an angry throb of want under his trousers, behind his boxers that have tightened past uncomfortable even as he resolutely tries to ignore it in favor of acting this out on tim and tim alone.]

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.]

[apologetics]

[ good boy said out loud and warm against his near makes tim moan unexpectedly, his head tipping back as his bites his lip to prevent the sound from getting too loud. it's nothing of the played at, wanton sounds he makes for the tippers in his chats, and even more raw than those hawk coaxed out of him in their private sessions.

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. ]