πππ ππππ "πππ π" π£. ππππππ (![[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
[ 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.]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.]