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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
I do. One at home, one at work. Private office. It's quiet after hours. You'd fit right in.
My boy wants to remember what my hand is like gripping hard around his neck, huh? My fingers in his hair, scalp prickling the rest of the night?
Go home with the smell of me lingering under his nose and on his lips, making everyone wonder what he's been up to even though he looks so goddamn innocent?
You wanna feel the ache in your knees from hours of putting in your time, keeping yourself full of me?
[fuck, his breath comes out in a hard rush and his fingers squeeze tight around the base of his own throbbing dick at the idea of it, and those sounds are encouragement enough that he can almost pretend he feels that sweet mouth instead of the rough palm of his hand, marred by callouses from years of pen-holding and tennis backhands.
and then skippy splays himself out - the natural trajectory this would go if it were real. hawk would keep him on his knees, patient and sitting pretty with his own militant control on the situation even if he'd want to fuck him raw until tears were streaming down his cheeks. long enough until he yanked him back up and bent him over solid wood before laying claim to that untouched little wink of pink beckoning to be stretched out over his spit-slick cock.]
Don't ask questions you know the answer to already, Skippy.
'Course I would.
Your hand won't even come close, but you don't have to take my word for it.
[he's not the sort of man who needs to brag about what's in his pants, but he gets the sense his boy won't mistake it with insecurity as opposed to a statement of fact. knowing he's the first one tonight - maybe even today from just how empty he is makes a swell of pride and possession flare up, warm in his chest and all the way down to his belly.]
Show me how good you can take it. One at a time - just your fingers.
And you don't dare touch anything else until I say so, you got that?
I own you.
[at least for the next thirteen minutes and counting.]
Tell me who you belong to.
Whose hole is that?
Whose cock are you begging for?
no subject
maybe he's created the fantasy out of some need to make this whole gig be something more than just lewd, sweaty dollars delivered to his bank account. if he has, then it's a nice one to exist in.
he sways his hips, rocking his weight from one knee to the other as he continues to suck on his fingers, his eyes drifting shut as he imagines what this could be, were it not now, were it not him, were it not only fans and paywalls with expectations.
when he opens his eyes, he thumbs at his phone. if hawk is keen enough, he might notice the timer disappears. it's dangerous, getting emotional with things like this, getting caught up in the feigned romance. tim will always be a romantic, and will always, always dream of starry skies and gods with more favor in their eyes than malice.
he can't help it. ]
I want to be reminded that you own me by my existence alone.
My hair, my mouth, my knees, my neck -
scalded like Icarus, clinging to his Sun.
[ he sighs again, and there's a thump when he drops his phone and leans so that milton can see the muscled plane of his back, the way his waist nips in and curves to the swell of his ass as he's perched on his knees, letting them splay wider, parking the pert globes that are on display.
he uses a chair draped in black fabric to prop himself up, enough to keep his head from view but still display the arch of his neck and breadth of his shoulders. his hand comes to view next, spit-slicked fingers reaching first to trace a line down one ass cheek.
it's good he has a mic, and it's good he has a filter on it so that it pitches his voice a little higher than his actual voice. it makes it so that when he can't type, and his hands are busy? well. he can be a little more eager when he reads the responses from the other side.
and so when he speaks, he's already a little breathless, almost hazily wanton in the way he forms his words: ]
I'm your boy.
[ he slides his knees wider, so that when his hand reaches to dip between the cleft of his ass, it's easier to find that exposed pucker, circling first with his index finger to slick it all before beginning to slowly press inside. it makes his ass clech, his back tighten and he hums at the pleasant intrusion. ]
It's your hole.
[ down to the second knuckle with the first finger. and if milton on the other side isn't too preoccupied, he might even be able to see the heavy hang of his balls and the sway of his hardened dick between muscled thighs.
the first finger in, to the hilt. ]
I need your cock, sir. So bad. Please let me add another. Not enough. I need more.
Just wanna be your boy as long as you'll let me.
[ his hips squirm absently - it's not meant to be part of the show at all, just an impatient, reflexive response to the finger he's pressed into himself, hole fluttering around it in the anticipation of more. ]
Please, sir. More.
no subject
if he were of more sound mind, he might give his boy a lecture about no freebies, but he certainly doesn't wanna look like he's got a complaint in mind over it. another gift, another realization that maybe this is more mutual than he initially ever planned. fuck. well he's still milton - and shit, maybe this kid is all the way in san francisco or switzerland for all he knows.
don't get sentimental now, fuller.]
I'd remind you every fucking day. Maybe twice in one, what do you think about that?
Well unlike the Sun, I respect your ambition, Skippy. So maybe I'd soothe those burns and mend your wings.
[and there goes the phone. something about this session is so much more raw than the others, not least of all because it's the first time he's hearing him this open. it's just like what the approximation of heaven must be, filling him with the sudden lackadaisical slowing of his body and better sense like he's drunk another double of whiskey. god, he sounds wrecked already. and so does hawk, even if no one else can hear him in the privacy of his study, accompanied by the ever-growing noises of slickness as his he twists his wrist just right under the drooling head, chest heaving and toes digging into the plus carpet under his feet.]
Oh, yeah. That's right. All of it belongs to me - your body, your mind, your pleasure. Don't ever forget it.
'Cept I know you won't. You're a good boy and good boys get rewarded. Go on, another finger then.
And then another, if you can manage.
[of course he can.]
Fuck, Skippy. I'm taking my time over here too, you know. Had to slow it down so I didn't blow my load at the sight of you.
Or the sound.
Thanks for that, by the way.
[he's not really sure what possesses him to say any of that. normally this is all about the one-sided control, the demands for skippy to enact what he wants to see with the pretense that it's what hawk would do to him not so much as with him. but something in the keening noises, the sweet slur in his voice - it makes hawk decide to share for once. it's not like he's broken some invisible barrier, still just some faceless guy jerking off on the other side the internet, pretending he's got ownership over this beautiful boy for a now-undetermined sliver of time he can tuck away as something existing outside this grimy space.]
no subject
but for now, with milton on the other end watching him, praising him? he can believe those wings could be mended.
and with that little dream, he slowly begins to add the second finger, humming lowly at the faint but pleasant stretch. he pumps two fingers in and out for a moment, careful and deliberate, both for his own pleasure but also for milton's. and only at the fourth slide does he add the third, pressing pressing pressing until he's buried to the hilt. ]
I belong to you. Thank you, sir.
[ another sigh and he scissors his fingers, moaning this time at the divine pressure. a little farther and he could find that sensitive little spot to be certain he'd fall apart, but he stops short. this isn't just about him, here. he doesn't want it to be. ]
It's the least I could do to let you hear me. A gift for a gift - early, for the holidays.
[ he sounds breathless, and there's already a sheen of sweat beginning to diamond his back, the stress of balancing himself up so the camera can have its view and the fire starting up under his skin doing all the work. ]
I want you to - [ a little gasp as he moves three fingers in and out, slow, to work himself open. ] - hear me.
Mister - ah, sir - I wanna add another for you.
[ four fingers, a stretch but not impossible. he feels like he needs the sharp bite of something else. ]
Don't cum without me. [ and when he turns to peer over his shoulder, there's the jaw again, and a pout of his bottom lip, intentional or otherwise. a huff, almost like a self-embarrassed laugh, then: ]
Sorry. Please let me cum with you, Milton. I want to.
no subject
See you too, how good you are for me. Look how nice you take it.
But be honest - it's not full enough, is it?
And it's a hell of a lot harder doing it all by yourself, yeah?
[but christ if he doesn't just look exquisite in his exertion - the sweat glistening in the dim light along the tight planes of his back, the flex of the toned muscles reaching behind to let his hole suck those prying fingers right up into the pert curve of his ass. a veritable work of art, the kind that's been molded as if from flesh to meet his every desire somehow. that's the part he can't get over - because god knows he's fucked his way through plenty of whiny twinks and dumb bucks who are willing and warm, but definitely don't stir anything more than a few brutal thrusts of his hips before he's finding the fastest escape route. skippy's got the kind of body hawk would do more than just a quick pump and dump - he'd spend hours teasing him, working him up, hell: he even wants to hear what he'd sound like wholly undone with hawk's mouth around his most sensitive parts.]
Four? Well alright, let's see how you manage.
Bet you'd take my whole fist if I told you to. You'd be so full you might even sob - one twist and I'd make you see the sun and the stars.
[don't cum without me.
his fingers hesitate over the keyboard, fist tightening on impulse and stilling. not because he's obeying an order, hell no. normally that would earn a firm hand - a slap, a tug, a brutal reminder who's the one in charge lest anyone think it's more than just no strings. but there's something so painfully earnest about it, like he just can't help himself. like his pleasure is wholly dependent on hawk's.
there it is again. sweet.]
I won't.
[there's a pause as hawk lets what is basically an admission of surrender sink in, before quickly recovering.]
But - one more thing.
Just keep calling me sir.
[why did he give that stupid name anyway? it's not what he wants to hear moaned out as skippy gets closer and closer to that precipice where it'll be too much. but it can't be hawk - so this is what he'll have to settle for.]
Arch your back and show me how bad you need me, sweetheart.
[he wants to see the heavy swell of his balls, the peek of his flushed dick. is he dripping?]
no subject
[ tim can only keep his eyes closed tight as he begins to add the fourth finger, the stretch almost too much and too sharp, making little stars burst behind his eyes. if this were the hard, hot heat of a man behind him, would he feel the same? or would the stars burst with even more light and color and light him up from head to toe?
he takes his time, wiggling his fingers to try and make a little more room for each little press of his little finger. ]
I'd take whatever you told me. Need whatever you'd give me. Only if I can see... Cassiopeiae with how hard you fuck me.
[ the farthest star one may see with a naked eye.
he half expects another order, or even a scolding for demanding something, but as he presspresspresses fingers deeper into his wanting hole, he all but pauses.
I won't.
fire lights up under his skin, and it's evident in the dim light that he is, indeed, a full-body flusher. it creeps up his back, his neck. these sessions are not meant to be a give and take - tim is supposed to wiggle prettily in front of the camera and give whatever the other asks, to answer the beck and call of those little words across the screen.
but why is it he suddenly wishes he felt the press of a broad back against his own? a hand along his flank. breath on his nape. but he won't. he never will.
he arches his back as he's told, angling his ass further up toward the screen, and there in the vee of his legs he is all but dripping wet, his cock leaving a slick mess on the sheets beneath his bent knees. ]
Sir - right. Sorry, sir.
[ his fingers begin to move with more confidence, beginning a slow but steady rhythm in and out, curling to maximize the stretch. ]
Oh, God - it's - it's harder on my own. Without you.
[ and it's ridiculous really, how the movement of his fingers have already gotten him worked up, hips wriggling to deepen the press of his fingers, back arching and only better revealing the flared, flushed head of his dick, the way he leaks heavy again, the white sheets showing an old, floral pattern on the mattress beneath it.
he lets out a whine, higher pitched and utterly needy when he catches that soft, sweet spot inside of him. ]
I need you, sir. Please - tell me when I can -
[ he swallows hard and gasps as he pulls those fingers out, then back in, the motion a little inelegant at this angle but he would do anything this man told him now, if that's what it took. ]
I'll be your good boy. Your sweetheart. The best - I'll wait, just -
[ another groan, a needy buck of his hips and he slows his own hand, afraid he might push himself over the edge without permission. ]
no subject
there's a single drop of sweat he can feel trickling down his temple, breath coming in heavy pants as his fist ratchets up the speed once more as he watches skippy take what he's been given. four looks like a tight squeeze, and with the additional instructions he's been following it makes hawk's mouth water at the idea that he's more than a little bendy if he can twist himself to and fro with only a minimal strain. if he wanted to take it easy on the poor boy he knows there's a whole smorgasbord of dildos and vibrators and shit that looks like it originated from aliens on whatever the hell cassiopeia is. and sure, maybe some men like it to keep going and going and going with battery-powered assistance, but to hawk? nothing beats the feel of real manhood and a good pounding. so no, no shortcuts here.]
Mm, you're doing a hell of a job. If I was there, I'd still be enjoying the show.
[there's nothing to suggest that's a real invitation - just more of the generic dirty talk to heighten the fantasy. but if he was there, he'd have long since ripped away skippy's hand and bent him in half to finish the job. still wouldn't let him touch his cock, though, not that it seems to need much help with how pretty it's drenching his mattress - and, are those flowers? definitely not what he expected. and utterly not the point, as he rocks his hips up and fucks into his own fist, typing coming in with more urgency even as he fights to keep his spelling clear.]
You got me, Skippy. I'm right here, watching e very move.
You wanna cum yeah? You close ?
[hawk watches his hips roll, bewitched by the sight of him staving off his own needs like a good boy, and fuck if that doesn't just set him alight from within. his eyes slip shut for a brief moment, head tossed back as he feels himself hurtling towards his own climax.]
Keep fucking your fingers then. Pretend its me, putting you in your place and giving my boy what he needs.
Do it. Im here.
Jesus - fuck
[that's all he can manage before he crashes into his own orgasm, cock spurting over his fist between obscene, filthy noises of rutting into his own palm and creaking leather from his chair. but he never takes his eyes off the pretty thing on screen - and he's not done, not as he watches every tremble and twitch and the pearly white liquid he'd steal a lick of from skippy's sorely untouched cock. after an orgasm like that, anyone would be sensitive. too sensitive, even. his own breathing hasn't even begun to come down, and he's reaching absently for a kleenex when he shoots over:]
Did you think I was done with you? Not a chance.
I wasn't fair tonight. Not entirely.
Go ahead - stroke yourself off now.
no subject
god, he wishes he could hear his voice, at the very least.
(he'll wake up tomorrow with insurmountable shame - the desperation for real, human connection so far gone that a man on the other side of a paid, pornographic chat has become his comfort for the night. his shield in the storm.) ]
I wanna cum. Please - sir, please... I promise, I'll -
[ but he sees the words do it and it's with one last press and curl of his fingers that he falls apart, his voice coming out in a spray of shit, fuck, i'm gonna - it's - oh jesus - the music in his room isn't loud enough for this - to cover the choking wail that comes out of his mouth, the way his jaw becomes visible again, mouth dropped open and wide as he groans. his body clenches, hips squirm and the wiry muscles in his thigh twitch visibly.
on the bed between his thighs he comes hard and heavy, strings of pearly white spreading across the fabric, blotting and dampening it. he can hear nothing but thunder in his ears for a moment, and when he comes to, his hand sliding from his sore, fluttering hole, he heaves in breaths that make his whole body shudder and shake.
he opens his eyes, and when he's met with the screen once more and not the warm hand in his hair or smoothing down along his sweaty back, his stomach drops a little.
he's such an idiot. ]
I...
[ he's so sensitive, all nerve endings on fire and he almost wants to beg for the man to take it back. to not ask him to touch himself now until he has a second to recoup, to quiet the fire coursing through his blood. but alas. ]
How much did I make you cum? I'm your boy - and I want to be the best boy you've had.
[ his voice is quiet, hoarse as he pants through the burning afterglow of his climax. but he obeys, just like the perfect good little pet he is. the same hand, spit slicked and sweaty, reaches down between his legs for his aching, weeping cock. he stays like that a moment, so that the man can see the spoils of their passion - hole flared and red, fluttering still as his body spasms and jolts from his orgasm.
he doesn't let the view last long. turning to fall onto one hip in the frame so that milton (no, tim decides, that is not his name) can see everything. his chest, flushed pink and sweaty, nipples hard, and hand curled perfectly around a ripened, hard cock, beginning to stroke slowly.
but every movement causes him to jump a little, like little static shocks, and he's sloppy - the camera shows all of his chin, his mouth, but nothing more. enough that hawk can undoubtedly see the way he bites hard on his bottom lip. ]
I never want you to be done with me. You're so good. I haven't earned it.
[ thus, the blistering punishment that is stroking himself off after such a wild and frenzied rush. it's already getting him worked up again, however, stroking himself. he pauses a moment to catch his breath, arching his back as he presses his thumb to his egregiously weeping slit, much like the man had said he'd do before. ]
I'm losing my mind. [ it tumbles out in an urgent whine as his hand moves again, stuttering. ]
Is your hand bigger than mine? Would you go faster? Slower? Play with my balls or just edge me here until I'm begging to be your boy, your sweetheart, your princess if I had to be?
Jesus Christ -
[ another little gasp, a whimper, and he tosses his head back, revealing the heavy bob of his adam's apple when he swallows hard around a moan. ]
no subject
[what he wouldn't give to be able to murmur husky encouragement against his neck or licking hot against the shell of his hear. maybe he'd lift an arm and bury himself in the musky scent of sweat and sex and the pheromones that make skippy uniquely irresistible. hawk's never been one for any form of aftercare - god no, but watching him come down makes something pull in his chest and break loose inexplicably. that same urge to run his hands through his hair, to caress a cheek and tell him what a good boy he was over and over until his breathing stilled and he settled into a sweet slumber. in fact - ]
A lot. Best one I've had since I saw you last. And you are - don't second guess yourself, Skippy.
[why is he doing this? feeding into it? fuck. hawk finally pauses to wipe off his hands and dig through the drawer in his desk for the half-empty pack of cigarettes, fishing out a spare lighter while his other one is across the room in his folded slacks. the first inhale burns against his throat and lungs, a burst of flavor as he tips his head back and exhales back into control. tempting as it is, he's not gonna go for another round. this is about leaving skippy boneless and unofficially making his mark. skippy wants to be his best boy? well, maybe hawk wants to be the best - interaction he's got on this hellsite.
he tips his chair back, chin up appraisingly as he takes another drag and watches a plume of smoke caress against the screen - parting almost as nicely as the way his boy's reddened, not-nearly-abused-enough hole winks at him from however many miles away.]
Aren't you a sight for sore eyes.
Tell me how it feels, and don't skimp on the details. Too much? Is your dick as sensitive as I know your chest is when you get like this?
[it's gotta be at least sixty-five percent post-nut clarity, as the kids these days say that has hawk shifting only slightly uncomfortably at the endearment of skippy's admission. i never want you to be done with me. if this was anyone he ever followed home, he'd have his zipper up and hat pulled down before the cum even dried.
but one look at that pretty mouth, glisten of sweat across abs that look like they were fucking carved out of stone - yeah, he's a goner. what the hell, it's not the same thing. not a real commitment.]
Lotta questions out of you tonight. This an interrogation I didn't know about?
But fine - it's bigger. I'd alternate between the two until you were teetering on the edge, balls ready to burst. You'd be begging me, delirious with it - say anything I want.
[that's what he'd do. normally. inhale. exhale. bright orange glimmer and a wash of gray in front of so much flushed skin. hawk feels like he's burning up from the inside out watching him, wanting him in a way that hasn't felt this intense since - things he won't revisit.]
And you wanna know a secret, Skippy?
You wouldn't really have to beg.
Watching you fall apart is the highlight of my day. Maybe even my whole goddamn year.
no subject
the consistency of this man - faceless and as distant as anything. but somehow, feeling raw and uncertain and vulnerable right now feels right. it shouldn't.
god, he'll regret this.
"Don't second guess yourself, Skippy." god, is it sad that a stranger believes in him more than anyone in his real life? it is.
tim huffs again, a little bemused laugh that is only swallowed back down into a low groan. ]
My body's on fire. Everything I touch feels like I'm touching live wire. Heat from my toes to my head. My dick hurts so much for wanting your hand on it, because mine's not enough. It's not. I feel empty all over again and - God -
[ he chokes a little when his thumb mistakenly catches against his frenulum, sensitive and raw, making another pearly bead gather at the slit. he lets out a shuddering breath, loosens his hand and slides it down briefly to fondle the heavy weight of his sack for a moment, a reprieve from the hypersensitivity everywhere else. ]
Too many questions for you, sir. Sorry. S'why I don't talk on here. Get carried away.
[ he grins a little, knowing the man can see it and he brings his hand back to circle his dick, alternating back and forth just as the man said he'd do. but it's unfair that this faceless man makes such a confession.
you wouldn't really have to beg. ]
Tell me how you want me to fall apart, sir. Your Skippy aims to please.
[ but he's already squirming with every stroke and touch, his breathing quickening, his voice pitching up just so, the edge of near hysteria setting in as his dick hardens cruelly in his palm. ]
I feel like - I'm going to burst. I can't - [ he's panting, his free hand fumbling wildly for something to seek purchase upon, and he merely ends up with a fistful of the blankets from the bed he's debauched. the muscles in his thighs strain, his heels dig into the plush mattress, his hips begin to buck into his own hand as he writhes, almost like a caged thing, unable to control itself. ]
Tell me what to - I need it - again - I'll... [ he bites his own lip again as another loud, heady moan begins to work its way from his throat. he is seeing the stars, and among them, he's sure, is the faint outline of of Cassiopeia, stars aligned to paint a picture of the ancient queen herself, bound to her throne, made only to experience life from far, far, away, in punishment.
how apt. ]
no subject
the hand with his cigarette has temporarily stilled, ash building up as he considers the next move, drinks in every honest admission that spills from his boy's lips as he pushes him through the ringer. it's only when a chunk of it falls on his desk does he stop his gaze from boring into his screen - fixed on the flash of pearly white teeth and that tantalizing jawline all the way down to the cherry red head of his now tortured, overwrought cock. even now he obeys, making hawk feel like he's right in the room with him and watching his delicious suffering on a knife's edge between pleasure and discomfort.]
It won't be enough. I knew that the moment I told you to do this, but I couldn't help myself.
Wanted to see what you'd do with it, and you're really shooting for the moon here. All the stars too.
[the apology falls a bit on deaf ears - for he'd known from the beginning there was no malice in his asking. a kneejerk reaction from years of prying questions into his comings and goings from his father and faculty and especially the nosy administrators with everyone else's skeletons in their own closets to pluck out ad nauseam for their gossiping brownie points. don't let it happen again - he should say, but instead his fingers move of their own volition and type out something else instead.]
Carried away looks good on you. My boy's a curious one, isn't he?
And you trust me.
You'd do anything I asked.
[not a question, a statement of fact. something has shifted in the course of this session, whether he likes it or not, but strangely it makes him want to press forward on this new thread of excitement and possession. skippy's body is struggling to hold on, thighs trembling and feet flexing against his ruined mattress, a pleasing chorus of moans and panting that hawk will tuck away when it's just him and his hand for weeks to come and skippy's not online.]
Keep stroking - faster, and twist your wrist at the tip. Use your hips and fuck up into your fist.
That's it - yeah. Does it hurt? How long do you think you could keep it up? All night? You'd do it for me, too, just like I said.
But good boys get what they deserve.
You can let go now, Skippy.
Cum for me.
[hawk leans back again in the chair, stubbing out his cigarette against baccarat crystal - a gift from dean smith for his 5th year at georgetown - and puts his whole focus on the boy in front of him. his own breathing has long since returned to normal, only now it feels like its escaped him entirely, held in until skippy gets his second release and final release of the night.]
no subject
[ his voice has long since lost all of its flighty color, now nothing more than a hoarse, low rumble as his hand continues to work as he'd been told. it's making every nerve-ending in his body light up, flashing danger and warning signs every time he closes his eyes. but the man keeps typing and tim keeps reading.
And you trust me.
You'd do anything I asked.
he sighs at the words - a statement of fact. an understanding made somewhere between them between their first interaction to now. tim doesn't remember shaking hands with him over it, but it's true. he trusts the faceless man on the other side of these words, and he absolutely would do anything he possibly asked.
it's dangerous. ]
Do you like me curious, sir?
[ there's a bit more of that playful tone mixed in with the husky exertion. a tease for a tease, a little bite for a bite, to prove he's not all pliable innocence and gullible sweetness.
(he is, really, both of those things. he knows that. but he's sharp - and this is a game he can play. it's no different than chess, really - pieces moving carefully to create a winning strategy and formation on the board. it just so happens the man on the other end plays a better game than he can). ]
I'm curious about - a lot of things. How you'd keep me still on your cock while I do this. How much it would stretch me open. How many times you'd cum in me before you'd let me cum. How long I'd - oh, God -
[ another thrust of his hips, just as he'd been told. angling into his fist that twists at his tip then sinks back down. his voice and music can't mask the slick, quick sounds of himself stroking. ]
Please, sir. I could keep it - hours, if I had -
[ and yet he doesn't even get to finish his statement before he sees the words cum for me and that's all it takes. one stroke and he's spilling hard over his hand, unable to even stroke himself through it for how sensitive and sore he is. he comes hard, sticky strings of white all but making a mess of his stomach, his abs, his legs twitching and his fingers fisting hard into the sheets as he cries out, louder than before and strained.
it takes longer to come down from this one, to settle, his body feeling molten and loose, his mind foggy, his dick still twitching, laying heavy on his stomach through the aftermath and throbbing from the abuse. ]
Thank you, sir.
[ the jaw on the screen works, he swallows hard and lets out a little gasp as he tries to catch his breath. a hand falls to lazily swipe at the mess on his stomach, before his hand rises to rest against his ribs. ]
I hope your boy made you proud.
[ and he always says something like this at the end, a little reward, but he never says it out loud. always types. he can't be bothered to reach for his phone. ]
no subject
[and maybe it's the note of flirtatiousness in skippy's voice, the slightly lower pitched inquiry that proves his boy isn't just some naΓ―ve little sycophant that's gonna tell him what he's paying to hear. as long as he keeps asking questions like that - the kind that get him hot in the collar and already half-hard, considering another go on his own, not the personal ones that extend beyond what belongs in a bedroom or a chatbox.]
I wouldn't keep you still, Skippy. I'd fuck you through it - and it'd be tempting to go as fast and hard as I want your hand to keep moving, but variety is the spice of life.
Think I'd go nice and slow, hitting the one place that'd make you scream even louder.
You'd be a goner in my arms, and I'd tell you what a good boy you are the whole way through, right against your ear, nice and low.
Because you are, and it's just for me, isn't that right?
[watching the rest of this unfold is like a train without the emergency breaks, wheels off the track and moving on inertia alone. hawk turns up his volume, exhaling slowly as the filthy noises of slickness and hot flesh working itself against each other mingle with skippy's cries of strained bliss. fucking beautiful, just gorgeous - he wants to type, but is that too intimate? an overstep into the kinds of compliments he gives the dean's secretary, or lucy when she's in town. besides, he thinks skippy will much more appreciate a succinct:]
That's my boy.
Well done.
[part of him wishes he were there to get a taste of that mess - to lave the flat of his tongue against the line of his abdomen and trace it all the way up, or drag a finger through it and suck. but he'll have to settle for watching the heave of his chest, listen to the way his breathing is still audible between little gasps as the aftershocks work their way through him.
and this is where he'd agree. thank him for his time, send him another tip and then log off. all good things come to an end, and he's never had a reason to drag out his goodbyes. until -]
Always.
You were something else tonight, sweetheart.
[there's a hesitation, wondering if skippy will end it and get back to - whatever it is he does after these. it's late, christ, somehow having skipped just shy of midnight, which means he's gone well over his initial thirty minutes. losing track of time like that was much too easy to do. dangerous, again. he should just leave him to it, but...]
That was intense.
You alright, Skip?
[something tells him skippy will appreciate the extra care, the extended goodbye. and he'll definitely appreciate the second payment of $250 hawk is going to send over - except, he gets the sense it might cheapen the whole thing if he does it now. so he doesn't. not yet.]
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[ there's a husky, airy sort of confidence to it in the way his voice drops back into a low, lazy rumble. the aftereffects of his orgasm have left him feeling absolutely fluid, and even the way he shifts to make some room for himself on the bed is lazy and slow, near feline in the way he stretches out. if he could somehow dispel some of the fiery heat that writhes beneath his skin, he would, and it shows in the curl of his toes, the twist of his fingers in the sheets.
and this is where it all comes to an end, usually. the fantasy shatters by the ring of a notification of payment, brought on by a screen going black and the room going strangely quiet. so he doesn't look at the screen when he hears the first notification. it will be the money, a goodbye.
but then another, and another. his head tips, eyes fluttering open and when he looks at the screen he feels suddenly, strangely overwhelmed. he swallows hard, sucks in a breath, and though it might look like he's just caught up in the throes of an afterglow, tim knows better.
he hums, softly. ]
It was.
Intense.
[ but that You alright, Skip? - a shortening even of the pet name he's earned, the concern. the careful care. he stares at the screen for a long time, the hand on his abdomen sliding up his chest, but the motion is absent in the way he reaches for his own chin, tacky fingers lingering there, as though caught in sudden thought. ]
I'm good. Ah. Great.
[ and he is. tim just breathes for a second, and in the dim light, there might be the faintest peek of a quirk at the corner of his lips. wry, maybe. a little self-surprised. but he's coming down, slowly, from the high of it all - from the burning thing the last hour has been, and somehow, here alone in his dorm room, even when the knowledge that he's been looked after on the other side of the screen - he feels strangely alone. ]
You?
I guess that's silly. Of course you're alright.
[ a soft huff, embarrassed at himself. what else can he even say? this crosses the lines he never thought existed, that he never wondered about.
i wish you were here. i wish you would stay. i wish you were real. i wish you cared for me like it seems. i wish someone did.]Hope I wore you out enough to get some good, good sleep. Coming up on the holidays, like you said. [ and there's a small pause, consideration for what he should say, how he should end this, if he should end this. ]
They better not work my man too hard. Try not to let them. For your boy's sake.
[ a bit of the fantasy, the playacting, the return from a place he's unfamiliar with, but he's doing a bad job at finding the tone, the notes to hit. instead, he sounds soft (too soft) and sincere. god, is this why he's always calling him sweet?
and where he'd use the name milton in the past, where he'd trust that the man had monogrammed stationery or clothes with the letter M scrawled beautifully across them? he doesn't now. no. ]
Sweet dreams, mister.
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hawk doesn't feel lonely, even if the awkwardness is starting to settle in just a little. he's never done pillowtalk before, and he wasn't really planning to start. his own cock has since settled, and he's more than ready to jump in the shower and get another good round in before crashing into bed himself. and he's absolutely not thinking about what it would be like to come back out to a warm body - skippy's languid limbs stretched out on cream sheets and a navy duvet kicked down and loose around his legs. that would just be stupid - part of the fantasy he'll never have, so why start thinking about it now?]
Yeah? Me too. Great.
[skippy must be on the same wavelength then, and yeah, there's the sweetness he's always making a point to mention. it makes his lips twitch upward with a smile, ducking his head too and staring at the keyboard for a few more moments.]
You did. But that goes double for you - try and take it easy and enjoy them.
[he's not always around on the app - which is only on his desktop for obvious reasons, but he does know the frequency that he typically gets skippy's notifications on his throwaway email account. and besides, the holidays should be a time for family in any normal circumstance, just not his own - the kid deserves a break where he's not performing to a bunch of married, miserable old bastards.
better not work my man too hard.
it should earn a firm reply, another wall - the typical boundary that comes with every bit of baggage in hawkins fuller.
i'm my own man.
i don't belong to anybody.
i like my freedom, thanks.
but it doesn't come, because there's something in the haze of his soft, almost tender declaration that makes hawk's throat burn and chest clench with an emotion he won't let himself feel beyond this desk.]
I'll do what I can. Wouldn't want to worry my boy when he should be enjoying his holidays.
Get some rest.
Night, Skippy.
[it's only after he's closed out the chat does the other tip go through - five minutes after he hopes the boy has logged off and won't have to think about until the light of day reminds him that it was all just the dream of a fantasy anyway.]