Work Text:
Henry has been a professor in the Gender & Sexuality Studies department at NYU for nearly five years now. This semester, he’s teaching three elective courses predominantly filled with juniors and seniors; his ideal set-up. By then, most of the students are familiar with the department as many of them are majoring or minoring in the field. Henry knows the majority of them personally, having taught them in other courses, and it creates a much more relaxed and enjoyable class environment.
Usually, that’s a good thing. On most days really. Today though, he walks into his ‘History of Gender & Sexuality in the Media’ elective to see 90% of his class circled around each other’s desks and gossiping loudly as they flip through something on their phones.
Henry scrunches his brows but goes about unloading his bag, removing his laptop and hooking it up to the projector.
They’re still on their phones.
“A’hem,” he coughs, leaning back against the front of his desk. Emily, a senior writing her thesis on the effect of messaging towards girls in sports and the corresponding dropout rate, is the only person to look up.
“Sorry,” she apologizes sheepishly, but doesn’t set down her phone. If anything, she grips it more tightly. He tries to be a more relaxed professor, allowing them to leave their phone on their desks if it does not provide a distraction, but he would also like to be able to start class on time.
“What could be so interesting that none of you seem able to part with your precious mobile devices?” Henry prompts, crossing his arms.
“Sorry, Henry, but have you seen them?” All of his students refer to him by his first name.
“Seen what?” A couple of giggles.
“The new Calvin Klein campaign with Alex Claremont-Diaz. It needs to receive its proper attention, professor.” His eyebrows rise; Henry’s interest is piqued.
Alex Claremont-Diaz, or ACD as so many of his fans call him, is pretty much the male model these days. He does everything. High-fashion runways with his signature walk, close-up editorials that make people weep over the length of his eyelashes, and now underwear campaigns that no doubt flash his toned stomach and just enough package to make people question if it’s fake. It’s not.
Henry has seen the beach pictures that went viral last summer. There was a whole album of paparazzi shots taken from a boat while Alex relaxed between takes for a swimsuit photoshoot. He was unposed and warmed by the sun with a combination of salt water and sweat dripping from his signature curls. To put it bluntly, the Speedo was far too tightly cut for anything underneath it to be considered fake and the resulting ads were far more censored in style. It was real.
“I’m sure, but it will still be there in 75 minutes when this class is over,” Henry remarks. He has most of the class' attention now, but there are still a couple of phones out in hands.
“But Henry, it fits right into the course’s syllabus. We have a whole unit about using sex as a method of product advertisement, and, well, this is an advertisement and ACD is selling sex,” Sarah, another one of his students pleads.
Henry scoffs. “Yes, we do, but that unit doesn’t start for another week. We’re still discussing gendered archetypes within television, so nice try, but phones away.”
Sarah, along with the guy sitting on her desk, slump, but give in. Jackson returns to his seat, and she slides her phone into her bag.
“Thank you. I’d like to start by going over this weekend’s reading.”
When Henry wraps up his class, he makes a beeline for his office. He takes the stairs a floor up, closing the door behind him as he enters, and tossing his bag onto the sofa by his bookshelf. Flopping down at his desk, he whips out his laptop, goes to Twitter, and immediately clicks on the trending topics. The man on his mind occupies the top two spots.
- Alex Claremont-Diaz
- Calvin Klein
Henry clicks on the first and is flooded with content. Photo after photo of Alex standing on a roof, in front of a white background, prone suggestively across a small couch. Some in black and white and others in full color. In just briefs, wearing dark-wash jeans, in the midst of undressing, playing with the cut of his muscle tank, leaning down to tie his shoe, and even toying with the button of the denim. Henry salivates.
One in particular has him gulping, his trousers tightening. Jesus fuck. It’s in monochrome and Alex is posed in front of a plain, white backdrop in nothing but black briefs. His right hand is tugging down the edge of the sinfully tight garment and they’re just low enough to hint at the curve of his ass below the deep v-cut funneling into the underwear. It’s frankly rude of him to look this good and muscular. His bicep is slightly flexed with the position of his hand and a single vein is protruding out, just begging to be traced by Henry’s tongue. What a fucking tease.
He’d zoomed in on the man’s arm for more careful examination but quickly tracks over to Alex’s face. There’s a breath of a smirk present, the edge of his lip barely curling up naughtily, and his eyes are narrowed slightly; a smolder if Henry’s ever seen one. The man knows he’s hot shit. No question.
His inappropriately long eyelashes are highlighted by the black-and-white shooting style and a single dark curl flops delicately over his forehead just above his right eyebrow. Henry’s hand itches with the desire to run his fingers through Alex’s riot of curls. Christ, this man oozes sex.
It’s wholly unfair for someone to look so downright fuckable. His nipples just hanging out there for the public to see.
Drawing his gaze down Alex’s body, his throat catches on the dusting of hair beneath his belly button that trails down sharply into a branded waistband. It’s dark and just a little curly. Groomed slightly, but still quite natural. The man’s dick is tucked snuggly into the fabric and Henry lets loose an embarrassing whimper.
Thank god, no one is around to hear it.
By this point, Henry’s almost completely hard, his trousers struggling to contain him, a wet spot likely forming within his own briefs. He hasn’t even clicked over to any other photo yet, too obsessed with the casual, near vulgarity of this one.
There’s a reason he has a unit dedicated to the use of sex in advertising. It’s a well-known fact that sex sells, and this right here, is exactly how. Every straight woman or gay man will want to fuck him, and anyone else will just want to be him. Honestly though, he could probably turn the eye of almost anyone with a pulse. He looks that good and he’s nailing the job because whoever they are, they’ll buy the briefs and go to the gym and try to emulate this sexuality, convinced purchasing a product will make them just as desirable. It won’t. Calvin Klein will make a fortune, the calendar will flip to another day, and the cycle will repeat itself.
Finally closing out of this picture, he furthers his perusal of the trending topic and checks out the other photos. All together he spends nearly an hour scrolling through image after image.
That night, after heating up the pasta he’d made the day before, he pulls up Twitter on his phone. Going back to the same trend, Henry chokes on his meal, coughing up bits of sauce.
There’s a video. A bloody video.
He feels a pang in his gut and promptly tosses his phone across the table. Nope, not right now. He’ll end up dying alone in his brownstone if he watches that while eating. Henry has enough self-control to wait a couple of minutes. Maybe. Barely. Sue him for rushing through his meal and dishes before stripping off his clothes and tripping onto his bed.
Once settled, he pulls back up the blessed app and goes directly to the video he’d bookmarked. Henry hasn’t even seen the video and he already knows he’ll be revisiting it. Alex Claremont-Diaz has that much of a pull on him. He should feel embarrassed, but in reality, he has no qualms about it given the whole world appears to be thirsting over the man like the last glass of lemonade on a hot summer day.
He hits play.
A whore. Alex is a whore. The video is a minute long and practically porn. He’s shrugging out of his white tank, stripping out of his athletic shorts, and prancing around on a rooftop in disgustingly tight, white briefs.
Henry watches the video four times and his hand sneaks under his blanket on the fifth runthrough. He’s achingly hard from the pulsing beat of the song and the sultry way Alex gazes at the camera. Intermixed are shots of him swinging on a pull-up bar, climbing a ladder, and looking out onto the city.
There are close-ups of his ass as he scrambles up onto a platform and Henry may or may not open up the video in Youtube so he can properly slow it down and watch the way his cock bounces ever so slightly.
At one point, Alex is contrasted against the blue sky, his skin bronzed in the sunlight as his abs flex and strain with his movement. The hair across his chest stands out more clearly here, the sun playing tricks with the shadows across his body.
Another shot is zoomed in on the man’s face, his brown eyes twinkling beneath heavy brows. It’s slowed down—Henry can tell by the way his curls bounce as Alex moves toward the camera.
Using his left hand, he presses play for the sixth time on the video, his right hand starting to move beneath the sheets. He squeezes tightly, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.
Lost in the visuals and alluring beat of the song, he gets himself off. Henry’s been pent up since he first looked over these images back in his office and he nears the edge rather quickly.
A clip of Alex reaching up to pull himself onto the burnt orange sofa has him moaning, thumb massaging the skin just beneath the head of his cock. This man is everything; an erotic package teasing the audience. Pulling them in with bitten lips and tempting them with his erotic gaze.
By the ninth replay of the video, Henry’s barely watching it anymore. His vision has begun to blur out, but the images still play like a slutty flick on the inside of his eyelids.
His hand speeds up, pre-cum lubing the movement as tingles start running down his spine. A second later, he’s gasping out and coming hard onto his chest. He tosses the phone aside, video still playing, and continues to stroke himself through the high, easing up on the pressure as he does.
Once Henry’s breathing evens out, he pries open his eyes and takes in the mess he’s made. Worth it. Always.
After a quick trip to the bathroom to clean up, he finds his phone on the carpeted floor and unlocks it to the now-paused video. Henry can only shake his head as he closes out of it and plugs in his phone for the night. He’s out solid within fifteen minutes.
Two weeks after what Henry is now affectionately calling ‘CK Day,’ he’s once again in his Media lecture, though this time they are discussing the long-subscribed to methods of using sex to sell products. Class has just started and he’s rounding his desk to pull up some slides he’d prepared with examples of such ads when the back door is thrown open.
Henry, and likely everyone else too, looks up at the disturbance. In walks, no, saunters, a man who is definitely not a student of his. He turns more completely after realizing who it is, having been facing the whiteboard at the front of the class when the man had entered.
“What’s up, baby?” the man says. Henry can feel the blush rising up his cheeks, no doubt starting to match the pink of his sweater. He’s frozen, staring at the man as he makes his way between the desks, closing in on the front of the classroom.
“I…I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow,” Henry stammers out in confusion.
“Got done with the shoot early and thought I would come surprise my favorite professor.”
Henry feels himself nod. The man is nearly toe-to-toe with him now, his arms open as he pulls him in. Then, whispered into his ear, “God, I’ve missed the way your ass looks in these pants. We'll be headed straight to your office after this—three weeks is far too long to go without it.”
His breath catches at the insinuation, the man giving him a too brief hug and warm peck on the cheek. For a college professor with his PhD, he’s sure lost his ability to function.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” someone says exasperatedly, pulling Henry out of his haze. The slightly taller man has turned around to face the class and Henry takes a second to smooth out his wrinkleless sweater.
“Hen, you let them speak like that in class? I definitely would have gone to college if I knew cursing was allowed.”
“No, it is most definitely not appropriate for this setting. Please, Sasha,” he scolds, identifying the voice. “You know better.”
“Prof, c’mon. You can’t expect us to be chill when the Alex Claremont-Diaz prances into class looking like that and kisses you on the cheek,” another student argues. Alex is wearing slightly scuffed jeans and a black leather jacket over a white tee. Henry has to agree, it’s a sinful look that has him wanting to do not very publicly appropriate things to the man.
But he remembers where he is and who he’s with and tells himself they have hours to address those thoughts later. “Yes, well, I rather like to keep my private life to myself, but I guess the cat is out of the bag.”
“More like the husband is out of the closet,” Alex jokes and Jesus Christ, of course, he’s just going to throw that out there too. His husband is looking over at him with an innocent smile, but Henry knows, oh, he knows, there is nothing innocent about that man.
He responds with a weak glare that Alex shrugs off before pulling over a chair and gracefully falling onto it backward, arms crossed atop the back of the seat.
“So I heard y’all are in the middle of a unit on sex and advertising. Do you have any questions?”
“Alex!”
“Yes, sweetheart? Don’t you think it would be an excellent learning experience for your students to talk with someone who directly works in the industry you’re discussing?” Henry just rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue.
He loves teaching and he loves his students. Alex knows this too—it’s why he said what he did. They both know he’s not going to deny his students such a unique opportunity, so he just motions forward with his hand before sitting down in his own seat.
“Very well. Does anyone have any questions for Alex?” Hands shoot up around the classroom and Henry can practically hear the proud smirk that is crossing his husband’s face. The fucking ego that man has can barely fit in the room.
“Of course you all do. Let’s start with Matthew and go from there.” A smile splits the student’s face and he leans forward in his chair to ask the first question.
“First of all, I have to start by saying that if you were my husband, I would be telling anyone and anything with ears. You would never hear me shut up about it. Trust.” He looks at Henry pointedly before returning his eyes to Alex. “Secondly, what’s it like going into a photoshoot like the one you did with Calvin Klein where you’re, for lack of a better term, used like a prop? We’ve discussed the nearly dehumanizing way with which we rotate in body after body just for the sake of selling a product with little regard for the person behind the photo, so I would love to know more about your experience with that.”
That bloody shoot was going to haunt him in his grave.
The lecture proceeds from there into an in-depth question and answer session with his husband while Henry mostly observes from the side. Occasionally he’ll chime in when something is directly relevant to their coursework in an attempt to catch Alex up, but he’s mostly able to hold his own. He’s not unfamiliar with Henry’s chosen field and has actually read many of the books on his varied syllabi, but he leads a busy life, so Henry tries to assist when he can.
Class runs twenty minutes over and after hundreds of selfies taken by his students with his husband, he finally shoos the last person out the door.
Alex is on him instantly, pushing him up against the wall, fingers sneaking up under the edge of his sweater. “I should visit your class more often. This whole vibe is making me hot for the teacher,” he says, laying it on thick with his accent.
“Not here, Alex. At least let me get back to my office first,” Henry admonishes, trying to get around his husband to collect his things. Alex’s hands tighten around his waist and he pushes their groins closer together.
“Just one kiss. Please, I’m dying out here. I was so respectful all class when all I wanted to do was bend you over that little desk of yours and fuck you stupid. I’ve been good. I think I deserve a reward.”
Henry rolls his eyes at his husband’s antics but leans up to connect their lips. It’s been too long and he’s missed the way their tongues slide together. Alex draws them in closer, canting his head slightly to go at him from another angle.
A tension he hadn’t known he was holding releases as he returns to orbit around the person who holds his heart. Things fall into place and he leans in closer, fingers tangling with the curls at the nape of his neck.
Alex pulls back first. “Fuck, I missed this.”
“Me too.”
They stay there for a moment, foreheads resting against each other, just enjoying the other’s presence. Basking in the feeling of home and love and safety.
Eventually, they move apart and Henry gathers up his things. The peace they’d found as they parted doesn’t last long though. Three steps up the staircase and Alex is slapping his ass.
“Hey! I work here,” he reacts, turning around to glare at the man.
“Please, no one saw anything and it’s been far too many days since I was last inside you. Your ass was practically begging to be slapped.”
Henry scoffs and continues up the stairs. He loves this man, but sometimes he really tries his patience. Alex knows exactly where his limits are though and carefully skirts them in a way that always has his toes curling and eyes rolling back into his head.
He may also have the smallest bit of an exhibitionist kink. But that was between him and his husband.
In his office, the door locked, Alex tugs him down onto his lap, his hands already roaming the expanse of his back and attempting to pull his sweater off.
When they leave the room an hour later, Henry’s hair is askew and his face is flushed. Hands intertwined, his husband follows after him, a literal million-dollar smile splitting his too attractive face. Christ, Henry really does love the man.