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Damon taps his foot impatiently as he watches his students file out of the classroom. There aren’t as many as there should be, but he can’t blame them - attendance always dwindles around finals. He’ll see many of the deserters in the coming week during office hours and in his email inbox, begging for a chance at extra credit or a deadline extension on account of their dying grandmothers. He hasn’t been known to accommodate these requests because his coursework is generally easy in the first place, but he thinks he might be persuaded to entertain some pleas this time around. God knows he needs the karmic credit.
He’s mindlessly rearranging papers on his desk when the source of his moral quandaries wanders in.
Graham’s carrying his battered guitar case because he’s going to perform his final assignment for Damon today, a song rewritten from a different perspective. The last time they had spoken, Damon, in a fit of guilt, had offered to give him an A in the class without needing to do the final assignment at all. Graham had just laughed at him, arguing that then he really would just be fucking Damon for grades, and he wasn’t interested in being such a cliché.
Damon had laughed, then, too, overcome with the absurdity of it all. It didn’t help his case that Graham was quick-witted and intelligent, just the kind of person that Damon had always found himself drawn to romantically.
He was fucking beautiful, too; big, pleading eyes and soft, pale skin that had been haunting him for weeks. It was unfortunately harder to push away the improper thoughts now that they had already been acted upon.
They had talked about it, a little bit - a stilted conversation over Damon’s fancy wooden dining table where he had tried his hardest to walk the fence between acknowledging the moral dilemma of their situation and accepting the fact that they were both autonomous adults with desires. Damon didn’t think that any amount of conversation could stop him from laying awake at night, mind ablaze with burning shame.
A dissonant chord pulls Damon out of his thoughts. Graham has pulled up a chair in front of Damon’s desk and tunes his guitar, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Damon hasn’t said anything to him. Christ, he’s making it awkward.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he manages, aiming for casualness as he leans back against his desk. He feels ridiculous, posturing for this kid who’s seen him at his most vulnerable, who holds the ability to destroy Damon’s life in his hands.
The song that Graham plays for him is slow, meandering and romantic. It’s an atmospheric conversation between Losing My Religion and My Sweet Lord, the kind of poignant, thoughtful art that Damon has only come to expect once in a blue moon from his years of teaching. Graham’s singing voice is soft, just like the rest of him. His pale fingers dance across the fretboard with ease, and Damon makes a great effort to not think of those fingers anywhere else.
The song ends before Damon is fully aware of it, the final chord echoing in the empty classroom, and Graham is staring at him when his brain catches up. “That was brilliant,” he says, trying to embed the sincerity he feels into every word. “You’re brilliant.” He leans forward, hands on the edge of the desk behind him. He tries not to let his gaze stick on Graham’s left hand, fingers still gently wrapped around the neck of the guitar.
“Thank you,” Graham breathes, and his eyes dart over Damon’s body, lingering on his belt, his bare forearms where he’s rolled up his sleeves. Damon’s tried telling the department to turn off the heaters in the spring, but they never listen. He prefers to wear long sleeves to work, doesn’t like to expose his aging ink to his students, but Graham seems to be fixated on it, shifting in his chair behind the body of his guitar. Damon’s just as bad, watching Graham’s face as he lets him look, rolling his wrists and revelling in the way Graham swallows when the tendons in his forearms flex.
Graham exhales, making a decision, leaning over to put his guitar back into its case. He stands, dragging his chair back to the front row of seats before making his way back to Damon’s desk. Graham stands in front of him, holding his arms behind his back. “Do you want to- can we go to your office?” He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, nervous.
Damon’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Now?” Despite the heated gazes, he wasn’t expecting Graham to be so forward. A chill runs down his spine at the prospect of having him again, thinking of everything they haven’t done.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Graham says, quiet but growing bolder. “All the time. Please?” His eyes are dark, honing in on the fly of Damon’s slacks. Graham leans forward, his arms still behind his back, stopping himself from reaching out like Damon knows he wants to. Being good.
Damon needs to put an end to this. If he doesn’t, he knows what will happen; there’s a flash in his mind, a pornographic image of Graham bent over the desk, muffling his moans with his sleeve as Damon fucks him roughly from behind. Fuck, he’s going to need to calm down before he walks to his car.
“Not here,” he forces out, though the image stays with him. “Not in my office, either,” he says, when Graham opens his mouth. The younger man furrows his brows, affronted. He looks back down to where Damon’s obviously half-hard in his slacks, looks up at his face.
Damon lets out a breath, burying his face in his hands. God, I’m so easy, he thinks, already preparing for the self-chastisement he’ll receive later. “We can- I’ll take you back to mine.” It’s a miracle that he has any authority over the matter, at all, with the way Graham is looking at him.
It’s only mid-afternoon, so there are still students milling around when they walk to Damon’s car. There was an awkward intermission during which they both had to adjust themselves in their pants, turning towards the wall for a semblance of privacy despite the empty room. Damon’s dick is sensitive where it rubs against his waistband, and he thinks that Graham might be in the same boat based on the unnatural way that he’s walking.
Damon lets out a breath, relieved, once they’re safely in his car and speeding away from campus. When they’re not on school property he can at least pretend that what they’re doing isn’t so bad.
Graham opens up his glove compartment, rifling through his CDs as they drive. “You don’t have anything in here from after I was born,” he jokes, and Damon knows his face is bright red.
They kick off their shoes in the entryway to Damon’s home, Graham not needing instruction to now that he’s been there three times. Damon tries not to think about it.
“D’you want some tea? Hungry?” he asks, unable to ignore his caretaking instincts. Graham is so thin, Damon’s afraid he’s not eating enough, but it’s not his place to ask.
“Maybe later,” Graham murmurs, and then he’s on him, wrapping his arms around Damon’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. It’s sweet, less urgent than the kisses they’ve shared before. Graham makes a happy sound, relaxing into the embrace as Damon slips his tongue between his lips.
They stand there for several seconds or maybe minutes, kisses punctuated with Damon’s hand sliding up Graham’s shirt, Graham’s fingers in Damon’s hair. Damon can feel Graham’s cock pressing insistently against his thigh, knows that Graham feels the same thing.
Damon walks them over to his couch, sitting down so that Graham can climb into his lap. He lets him squirm for a bit, rocking back and forth to get the barest hints of friction against Damon’s stomach. He huffs, frustrated, looking up at Damon with pleading eyes.
“What do you want?” Damon murmurs. He takes hold of Graham’s hips, holding him in place as he thrusts up, erection pressing against Graham’s ass through the fabric of his slacks and Graham’s jeans. Graham whimpers, head falling to rest on Damon’s shoulder. “I want… your hand,” he answers, and Damon obliges, pressing his palm into the stretched crotch of Graham’s jeans. Graham rolls his hips into the warmth, gasping.
Damon’s mesmerized, watching Graham thrust up into his palm again and again, so desperate for contact that he’s nearly shaking with how good it feels.
“So good, love,” Damon coos, the pet name escaping before he has the chance to think about it. Graham lifts his head, connecting their lips in a loose kiss before pulling away. “Yeah?” He looks shy, unaware of his own allure. “Yeah,” Damon affirms. “I can’t stop thinking about you, either.” He leans closer so that his lips are brushing Graham’s ear, curling his fingers around the hardness in Graham’s jeans. “I was thinking about it earlier, too. Wanted to bend you over my desk, have you right there. You’d be quiet for me, yeah? Quiet, and good?”
Graham whines, hips sliding frantically under Damon’s hand. “Yes, yes, I’d be so good.”
A flood of heat surges through Damon’s body and he bears down, pressing harshly into Graham’s jeans with one hand and holding his hip with the other so that he can thrust up against him. Graham’s hips buck, torn between grinding backwards into Damon’s cock or forward into his hand. “Fuck, Damon, I’m going to-”
“You want to come?” Damon can’t believe the sight in front of him, is so hard underneath him that every time Graham grinds down he has to suppress a moan. Graham nods, desperate, his face twisted up in pleasure. “Please, please, ah, ah-” he begs, burying his face in Damon’s shoulder as he writhes. Damon reaches for Graham’s belt, undoing the buckle as fast as he can with Graham’s frantic movements beneath his hands. He pops the button and gets the zipper down, sliding his hand over his boxers, when Graham shudders against him and he feels warm wetness spreading through the thin fabric under his hand.
“Oh, god,” Graham moans, face still buried in Damon’s shoulder. His hips are still twitching, and Damon pets lightly over the wet spot in his boxers until he hisses, pushing Damon’s hand away. “M’ sorry,” he mutters, resisting Damon’s hand as he tries to pull his head back so he can see his face. He finally succeeds, but it takes both hands to pry Graham out from his hiding spot. Graham’s face is completely flushed, the tips of his ears practically cherry-red with embarrassment.
“Don’t be sorry,” Damon soothes, kissing at his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. “Felt good?” Graham nods, sheepish. Damon runs his hands along Graham’s sides, pulling him in for another lingering kiss before asking, “Do you want to go to my room?”
Graham nods again, clambering off of Damon’s lap onto unsteady legs. Damon intercepts him in the hallway, grabbing him by the waist to kiss at his neck, grinding into him from behind. When they reach the bedroom, Graham collapses onto the bed, kicking off his jeans. Damon undoes his belt, pausing when he sees the rapt way that Graham is watching him, eyes locked onto his fingers pulling at the leather. He slows down, keeping the undone belt on as he unzips his slacks, unbuttoning his shirt slowly and deliberately.
He pushes off his slacks and crawls over the bed to where Graham is propped up on his elbows, mouth partially agape. Graham curls a hand into his black undershirt - today it’s an old Dawn of the Dead tee he bought in college - and pulls him down on top of him. Damon protests - “Stop, ‘m heavy-” but Graham holds him there until he relents, leaning down to return his kiss.
Damon finds a wonderful spot in the ridge of Graham’s hip and ruts into it as Graham’s hands card through his hair and run up and down his back. He’s too warm; he sits up, pulling off his button-down and, after a second of pause, his t-shirt. Graham jumps at the opportunity, pushing Damon down onto the mattress so that he can straddle him, hands roaming over his chest as he bends over to kiss him.
Graham’s getting hard, again; Damon can feel it against his stomach, sneaks a hand between them to feel the already-damp fabric stretching over his erection. It’s wrong of him to be with someone young enough to have a ten-minute refractory period - he knows this, and yet in this moment he can’t bring himself to care. He wants to put it to good use.
Blood rushes in his ears at the thought, picturing a sweating Graham on top of him, squirming with the effort to keep himself from coming. It’s the opposite of the classroom fantasy he was entertaining earlier, but now it’s all he can think about.
“Graham,” he blurts, before he can register the word leaving his mouth. “Would you- do you want to fuck me?” The words land clumsily, but he’s too turned on to be eloquent.
Graham looks down at him, eyes wide. He’s nodding before Damon gets the chance to be embarrassed, saying “Yes, that would be- um, I would like that. A lot.” Damon’s so, so grateful that he’s not the only awkward one, here.
Damon leans up on his elbows, prompting Graham to sit back on his thighs. “Have you ever-?” Graham shakes his head no, and Damon hopes that he doesn’t go pale at the admission. Graham waves his hands around, frantic. “I mean, I have! With a girl. But never-”
“Not with a man,” Damon concludes. Graham nods. Thank Christ, because Damon would probably have a heart attack if he found out he was going to be Graham’s first.
He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Do you know how it works?” Graham averts his eyes, shy. “Yeah, I’ve, um… on myself?” Damon thinks about Graham, alone in his room, spread out and desperate on his bed. The image sparks something territorial inside of him, prompting him to ask, “Do you think about me? When you-”
“Yes,” Graham breathes, and his hips jerk involuntarily, pushing their clothed erections together in the space between them. Damon gasps, returning the movement. They gravitate into another kiss, rolling their hips together listlessly, before Damon sits up, bucking Graham off of his lap. Graham whines and leans into Damon’s side, needing contact even as Damon stretches to retrieve lube and condoms from his bedside table. He throws them onto the bed and pulls off the rest of his clothing, gesturing for Graham to do the same.
He leans back into the pillows, partially reclined, and gets Graham to lay over him so that they can kiss while he gets himself ready. He makes short work of it, hastened by the fact that Graham decides to kiss down his chest and suck lazily at his cock while he works himself open.
“I’m ready,” he pants, and Graham pulls off of him, a glistening line of spit connecting his lips to the tip of Damon’s dick, which twitches at the sight. Graham smiles a bit, licking his lips as he unwraps the condom with only slightly-shaking hands, rolling it over himself. Damon rolls over onto his side, trying to coax Graham to lay behind him. “It’s easier this way, at first,” he argues, but Graham pouts, pulling him over onto his back so that they can see each other face-to-face.
Graham’s face is one of pure concentration as he lines himself up, hesitating when he encounters the barest hint of friction as he tries to push in. His eyes flick to Damon’s, worried. “It’ll be tight,” Damon says, cupping his face with his dry hand. “It’s okay. Just go slow.” Graham tries again, pushing in with more force. He gasps when Damon starts to open up, the tight ring of muscle giving way around him.
He’s nearly all the way in when his lip starts to tremble, and Damon pets at his hair, concerned. “Graham, are you alright?” Graham nods, running a hand over his face. He’s sweating at the temples, and Damon runs a thumb through the beads of moisture, entranced.
“Y-yeah, it’s just… a lot.” he manages. His stomach is taut, abs clenched with the effort of staying still. “Is it good? For you?” he asks, voice strained. In lieu of answering, Damon gathers his strength, shifting himself up so that he can sink back down onto Graham’s cock, slow and measured. Graham whines, pitching forward to lean into the pillow next to Damon’s head. “Fuck,” he curses, rolling his hips slowly in and out.
Damon shifts to a new angle, crossing his ankles behind Graham’s back and pulling him in deeper. “Oh my god,” Graham moans, picking up the pace. He’s loud, every thrust punctuated with a breathy, “Ah, ah, ah,” in Damon’s ear. Damon leans up to lick at the sweat gathering on Graham’s neck, biting and sucking around the salty skin there. Graham squirms, moving higher on the bed in an effort to get closer. Damon’s hips tilt upwards and Graham hits his prostate dead-on, eliciting a loud gasp and a shocked “Oh, fuck, Christ, Graham,” from the older man.
Graham leans back, bracing a hand on Damon’s chest as he fucks into him. His entire body is flushed pink, and his hair sticks up in all directions. His glasses slip down his nose and he yanks them off, throwing them onto the carpeted floor. Damon reaches out to grab his waist, amazed by how much of it is covered by his hands. He rubs his thumbs in circles over Graham’s skin, murmuring “You’re so gorgeous, baby,” and “God, yeah, just like that.” He lets his head fall back into the pillows, succumbing to the sensation as waves of pleasure roll over him.
Until it stops. He tilts his head up to watch, bleary-eyed, as Graham pulls out, one hand tight around the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. The sight makes Damon groan, and he feels himself clenching around the sudden emptiness.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Graham apologizes, eyes screwed shut. Damon realizes, too late, how his reaction could have been perceived as disappointment rather than arousal. “No, no, don’t apologize,” he says, soothing. “That means it’s good, yeah? That’s what I want,” He loops a hand around Graham’s neck, pulling him down into a soft kiss as he cools down. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Graham whispers, guiding the head of his cock back to Damon’s entrance. This time, he pushes in with one long, intentional stroke, and they both groan, rolling their hips forward into each other’s bodies. Graham wraps an arm around one of Damon’s thighs, holding it to his side as he pushes in deeper.
Graham’s hips begin to stutter, strokes getting sloppier, and he moves to pull out again, but Damon locks him in place with his thighs. “Damon, I’m going to-” “You’re not,” Damon interrupts. He wants to see how good Graham can be for him.
Graham whimpers, holding himself as still as he can. Damon thinks that he can almost feel his cock pulsing inside of him with how hard he is, how ready he is to come. He shifts, using the leverage of his legs around Graham’s body to slide himself up and down, just a fraction. Graham stiffens, hands clenching in the sheets next to Damon’s head. “Please, please, I can’t, I’m gonna-” he sobs, shoving his face into Damon’s neck. His hips twitch and Damon can tell that he’s nearly there.
Having Graham so desperate and needy above him is almost unbearably hot, and he snakes a hand between their bodies to take hold of himself. His hips buck up, chasing the warmth of his palm, and he starts to move faster, rocking into his hand and back down onto Graham.
Graham bites at his neck, muffling cries that alternate between gibberish and key words like “Fuck,” and “Damon,” and “Please.”
Damon wants to hear him, so he tugs lightly at his hair. Graham’s face is blotchy, wet with fresh tear tracks. “Oh, honey,” Damon can’t stop himself from purring. “You’re doing so good.” Graham whines, rubbing his wet cheek against Damon’s.
He takes pity on him. “Come for me, baby,” he murmurs, and Graham shivers, pulling nearly all the way out before fucking back into Damon in long, hard strokes. It only takes a few before he’s shuddering, crying out Damon’s name, hips stuttering as he comes.
He collapses, breathing heavily, and Damon pets his hands over his back until he’s recovered. He’s still hard as a rock between their stomachs, twitching every time Graham’s breath tickles across the damp skin of his neck.
Graham comes back to himself slowly, pushing himself up so that he can give Damon a lazy, open-mouthed kiss as he reaches between them to take Damon’s cock in his hand. He’s still inside him, not yet fully softened, and he pushes in as much as he can as he strokes Damon. It’s so profoundly intimate that Damon’s caught in a surge of emotions, both threatening to push tears from his eyes and burning hot in his groin.
Graham pulls back and rearranges his grip, moving faster, and all of a sudden Damon is right there, so close that he’s seeing stars. Graham’s face is flushed above him, wide eyes wandering over Damon’s face, his chest, his cock wrapped tight in Graham’s long, elegant fingers. Damon’s gaze follows Graham’s there, and doesn’t even register the sounds he makes as he watches himself come over those fingers, making a mess of Graham’s hand and his own stomach.
He watches, awed, as Graham milks the last of it from him, pulling his hand back and inspecting the vulgar sight of his come dripping through his fingers. Damon whimpers as Graham brings the hand to his mouth, pink tongue licking around the digits with an air of reverence and curiosity.
“You’re gonna kill me,” Damon murmurs when he trusts his voice to come out clearly. He sits up and Graham slides out of him, both of them shuddering at the loss. Graham’s holding his messy hand to the side now, careful to avoid dripping on Damon’s bedsheets. Damon chuckles, reaching to his bedside table to retrieve a tissue to clean him up with.
They don’t discuss if Graham is going to stay, this time. They spend too long in the shower, leaning into each other’s space and enjoying the hot spray of water. When they stumble out, Graham looks tired and a bit dizzy, so Damon insists on finding him something to eat.
It turns out Graham’s thinness is due to lack of access rather than lack of appetite, because he nearly eats through half of Damon’s pantry when given the chance. Damon watches him finish a pack of digestives, sitting across from him at the table; he’s wearing one of Damon’s old shirts, filling out the shoulders in a way that Damon never did. He looks up, sparing Damon a crumby smile and a shy “Thank you,” and Damon’s heart feels one size too big for his chest.
Summer’s just around the corner, he tells himself. Summer, when Graham won’t be his student anymore. Graham taps his foot under the table, pulling him out of his thoughts. Damon looks into his warm brown eyes and thinks, selfishly, maybe we can be something else.