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perpetual_motionTitle: Unorganized Snapshots of Prep School Life: One Night in Jack's Classroom
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Law & Order
Pairing: [Ed/Lupo, Jack/Mike Cutter, Mike/Connie]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jack, Mike, the lead-up gets a pay off.
Disclaimer: Bullshit. Lies. Free of charge.
Author's Note: As per the usual, some credit for this goes to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amazonqueenkate, who was chatting with me when I laid down the basics. Mike Cutter, in high school, was probably an awkward kid, and the only person who really got him was his mock trial coach, Mr. McCoy. If you're not connecting the dots yet, you may want to get off the trolley. In short: High School AU, because it can be done.
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine
Unorganized Snapshots of Prep School Life: One Night in Jack's Classroom
By Perpetual Motion
Jack takes off his reading glasses when he hits the bottom of his ‘to grade’ quiz pile. He squints at his watch and looks up sharply when there’s a crash in the hallway. He’s halfway to his feet when his classroom door flies open, and he’s face-to-face with Mike Cutter.
“I want to talk to you.”
Mike’s voice is slurred, and Jack’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Mr. Cutter, have you been drinking?”
“My name is Mike.”
Jack’s eyebrows slide just a bit higher. “Okay. Mike, have you been drinking?”
“Just…” Mike trails off and looks around the room. Everything’s just a touch hazy. The corners of everything look softer than they should. “Whiskey. I had whiskey.”
“And where did you get the whiskey?”
“The ceiling.”
Jack’s taken aback for a moment and decides trying to puzzle it out isn’t the important aspect of this odd little meeting. He rounds his desk and watches Mike sway in place. “What brings you here, Mr. Cu-Mike?”
“I kissed Connie.” Mike says it like he has a bad taste in his mouth. “And we’re friends.”
“Did you fight?”
“No,” Mike says, obviously irritated that Jack hasn’t caught on. “We’re friends.”
“Okay,” Jack says because it’s neutral. “So why are you here?”
“I’ve jerked off in your chair.”
There’s a long, hot pause wherein Jack is certain he can feel every bit of his blood angle for his groin. “Mr. Cutter, I think it’s best you go back to your room and sleep off your buzz.” He is surprised to find that his voice is even.
“I’ve jerked off in your chair,” Mike repeats. “And I thought about you walking in and seeing me.” He takes three stumbling steps towards Jack and pauses when the room starts to spin. “You’d lean against the door and watch me.”
Before Jack can say anything in response, Mike takes another step, trips over his feet, and falls against Jack. It’s only the desk at Jack’s back that keeps him from tumbling, and he grabs at Mike’s arms to steady him. “Mr.-“
”It’s Mike.”
And then Mike’s pressing forward and up and before Jack can dodge, Mike’s kissing Jack at the corner of his mouth. It’s messy and awkward, and it makes Jack’s blood flare in his veins. “Mike,” Jack presses out between his teeth. He tries to step away, but Mike is still pressed against him, and Jack stumbles and bumps against his chair. Another push from Mike, and he’s sitting in his chair as Mike climbs onto him and kisses him again. “This-“ it’s as far as Jack gets before Mike kisses him full on the mouth.
It’s been weeks of frustration. Weeks of being so damned proper and in charge. Weeks of Mike running into mock trial, nearly late from swim practice, with damp hair and no undershirt and weeks of Jack trying to remind himself, with every demerit for improper uniform, that this is a very bad idea.
There’s only so much a man can take, Jack decides, as he grips the back of Mike’s head and takes control of the kiss. Mike groans into his mouth, and Jack thrusts his tongue deeper.
Mike wrenches away and looks at Jack, and Jack wonders if he’s lucid at all or if he’s just drunk enough that he’s willing to pretend like he was just a bit more drunk than he actually is. “I…”
Jack tries to unclench his hand from Mike’s hair. He wants to dive back in, take Mike’s mouth, get his other hand to Mike’s waistband and get him out of his pants. But he’s not a bad person, occasional gray moments aside, and he’s ready for Mike to step away and run off and leave him to contemplate how he’ll ever keep a straight face ever again.
And then Mike rubs on Jack like the most obscene cat in the world and bites his bottom lip and digs his fingers into Jack’s shoulders. “Please,” he pants.
“Yes,” Jack hisses and throws back his head when Mike bites at his neck. “Yes,” he says again as he uses his free hand to work Mike’s belt. He can’t get a good grip; Mike keeps sliding and slipping and scraping his teeth at Jack’s neck. The rhythm is driving Jack crazy, and all he can picture is lying down on his bed, Mike above him with the same slick rock of his hips.
“Please,” Mike whispers again, his breath gusting out onto Jack’s neck.
Jack clenches his hand against Mike’s belt as Mike picks up speed and pressure, the tented place on his slacks sliding over Jack’s groin and belly again and again. Jack pulls at Mike’s hair until Mike lifts his head. Mike’s eyes are hazy, and Jack can’t tell if it’s from the booze or the way Mike keeps sliding against him. “Mike-“
“Please.”
“Tell me,” Jack sucks in a breath as Mike stops moving and just presses down, right over Jack’s crotch. “You know what you’re doing,” Jack says as his fingers clench again.
Mike rearranges himself, knees settling more firmly near Jack’s hips, backside pressing tight against Jack’s groin. “Jack,” he whispers. “Give me-“ his hands press into Jack’s sides, and he’s leaning in, mouth half-open, eyes on Jack’s mouth. “I called you Jack.”
“It’s fine,” Jack reassures. “We won’t tell anyone.” And he’s pressing his hips up, trying to get a more of everything. The pressure from Mike’s backside, the warmth of Mike’s front, the feel of Mike’s breath as he makes contact and slides his tongue into Jack’s mouth in a messy, loose kiss that makes Jack pant and grab hard at Mike’s side. “Harder,” he insists around Mike’s tongue. Mike pushes down, and Jack groans. “Yes,” he breathes and finally gets Mike’s belt undone. He pops the button on Mike’s slacks and gets the zipper half down before Mike seems to catch up and bumps into his hand.
“More.”
It’s barely more than a strangled noise, but Jack hears it clearly and gets his hand into Mike’s pants, fingers skimming along Mike’s erection as Mike gasps and kisses Jack harder. Jack kisses back and drops his hand from Mike’s hair to start working him out of his pants. He has them halfway down Mike’s thighs when Mike grits his teeth and yells and comes all over Jack’s hand.
Jack rocks his hips a few more times, holding Mike in place with a hand on his back, and it feels like an eternity of Mike panting in his ear and nuzzling against his neck before Jack gets his own orgasm.
There’s a stretch of silence, save for panting and Jack’s own wild thoughts of special hells and possible disgrace. Then, suddenly, Mike is scrambling off of him, and before Jack can form the right words to keep him in the room until he is at least presentable, Mike is vomiting into his wastebasket.
The whiskey. Right.
Jack forces himself to stand and head for the door. “Stay here,” he says to Mike, but it’s not quite an order. His voice is too shaky for an order. He makes it down the hall to the faculty lounge and fills a coffee cup with water. When he gets back to his room, Mike is still hunched over the wastebasket. Jack hands him the water and finds aspirin in his desk. “Rinse out your mouth. Take the aspirin. Drink the rest of the water.”
Mike obliges silently, and Jack slides down the desk to land in an uncoordinated heap on the floor. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. There’s a chance, slim and ridiculous, that this is all just a very vivid dream.
“Mr. McCoy?”
And there’s a chance Jack really is headed for a very special hell. “I was Jack ten minutes ago.” He opens his eyes and looks at Mike. “Unless that’s too weird now.”
“I think,” Mike pauses to cough and spat into the wastebasket. “I didn’t plan this.”
“Things such as this are very rarely planned, Mr. Cutter.”
“I was Mike ten minutes ago.”
The tone of it, sarcasm and a hint of waspish annoyance, makes Jack smile. “You were.” He closes his eyes again. Not to escape, but to have a moment to order his thoughts. He’s stifled in the attempt by Mike leaning next to him, his arm warm against Jack’s, and his foot pressing against Jack’s leg. “You’re my student.”
“I know.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“Not for much longer.”
“The point stands, Mike.” Jack opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Mike straight on. “The fact that you showed up drunk-“
“Was not.”
It’s a petulant voice that makes Jack even more aware of Mike’s age, of their differences, of the complete and utter stupidity that’s taken over his higher functions. Like thinking. And acting like a goddamned adult. “The point is-“
“I really do like you.” Mike shifts a bit more, maneuvers himself so that Jack’s arm is around his shoulder and his head is resting on Jack’s collarbone. “You treat me like an adult.”
“I should treat you like a student.” Jack watches Mike take small sips of his water. “You’re brilliant. You’re mature. You’re well-spoken and hard to intimidate, and in another few years, people will fall at your feet to do anything you ask.” Jack watches Mike shove a hand through his hair and wonders how many nights that singular image will keep him occupied. “This isn’t right, Mike. Not morally, not ethically, and not legally.”
“Age of consent in New York State is 17.”
“I’m 39, Mike. There’s no argument for affirmative defense.”
“I wanted this,” Mike says angrily, head pressing harder against Jack’s collarbone as Jack tries to get away. “I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and think I made a mistake.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I-“
“I’m still your teacher. You’re still my student. Even if you were 18 the ethical ramifications of this can’t be ignored.” Jack frees his arm from behind Mike and heaves himself off the floor. “This is a serious breach, and I shouldn’t-“
“I wanted it.”
It almost breaks Jack, the cold honesty in Mike’s voice. He looks down at him and has to look away again when he realizes Mike hasn’t done up his pants. “You need to go back to your room and go to bed. Sleep off the rest of the whiskey and make up your mind with a clear head.”
Mike pulls himself off the floor and breathes out hard through his nose. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I like you. I want you to still be here. I-I’m sorry.”
Jack shakes his head and holds up his hands. “Don’t apologize. This is my mistake. This isn’t your fault.”
“This isn’t a mistake.” Mike steps forward and frowns when Jack steps back. “This is just…it’s awkward. It’s bad timing.”
“It’s a violation. I shouldn’t…but you…” Jack takes another step back. “Go back to the dorms, Mike. I can only be so irresponsible in one night, and I’ve already gone above and beyond.”
Mike smiles a little and tries to hide it. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t regret it, do you?” It’s a brazen question, and Mike’s prepared to get hit hard with a put-down that will flay his skin from his bones.
“No,” Jack says quietly. “No, I don’t.”
The resignation in Jack’s voice burns more than any put-down Mike could have imagined. He doesn’t want Jack to hate this, doesn’t want Jack to hate him. Doesn’t want Jack to hate himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” he says in a rush and heads for the door.
Jack listens to his footfalls in the hallway and places his hands on his desk. He considers his options, none of them particularly appealing, and at least one painfully dangerous. He stares at the stack of graded quizzes. He stares at his reading glasses. He stares at his desk chair. He thinks about ethics and responsibilities and professional distance.
He wonders just how hard and far Anita is going to kick his ass when she finds out that she was right to worry all along. He wonders how hard and far he’ll kick it himself before she gets the chance to aim her boot.
The coffee mug is still on the floor. Jack bends down and picks it up and carries it back to the lounge to empty and rinse it. He places it on the drying rack and wipes his hands on his pants and finds himself unable to walk back into his room when he heads back down the hall.
Part Eleven
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Law & Order
Pairing: [Ed/Lupo, Jack/Mike Cutter, Mike/Connie]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jack, Mike, the lead-up gets a pay off.
Disclaimer: Bullshit. Lies. Free of charge.
Author's Note: As per the usual, some credit for this goes to
amazonqueenkate, who was chatting with me when I laid down the basics. Mike Cutter, in high school, was probably an awkward kid, and the only person who really got him was his mock trial coach, Mr. McCoy. If you're not connecting the dots yet, you may want to get off the trolley. In short: High School AU, because it can be done.Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine
Unorganized Snapshots of Prep School Life: One Night in Jack's Classroom
By Perpetual Motion
Jack takes off his reading glasses when he hits the bottom of his ‘to grade’ quiz pile. He squints at his watch and looks up sharply when there’s a crash in the hallway. He’s halfway to his feet when his classroom door flies open, and he’s face-to-face with Mike Cutter.
“I want to talk to you.”
Mike’s voice is slurred, and Jack’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Mr. Cutter, have you been drinking?”
“My name is Mike.”
Jack’s eyebrows slide just a bit higher. “Okay. Mike, have you been drinking?”
“Just…” Mike trails off and looks around the room. Everything’s just a touch hazy. The corners of everything look softer than they should. “Whiskey. I had whiskey.”
“And where did you get the whiskey?”
“The ceiling.”
Jack’s taken aback for a moment and decides trying to puzzle it out isn’t the important aspect of this odd little meeting. He rounds his desk and watches Mike sway in place. “What brings you here, Mr. Cu-Mike?”
“I kissed Connie.” Mike says it like he has a bad taste in his mouth. “And we’re friends.”
“Did you fight?”
“No,” Mike says, obviously irritated that Jack hasn’t caught on. “We’re friends.”
“Okay,” Jack says because it’s neutral. “So why are you here?”
“I’ve jerked off in your chair.”
There’s a long, hot pause wherein Jack is certain he can feel every bit of his blood angle for his groin. “Mr. Cutter, I think it’s best you go back to your room and sleep off your buzz.” He is surprised to find that his voice is even.
“I’ve jerked off in your chair,” Mike repeats. “And I thought about you walking in and seeing me.” He takes three stumbling steps towards Jack and pauses when the room starts to spin. “You’d lean against the door and watch me.”
Before Jack can say anything in response, Mike takes another step, trips over his feet, and falls against Jack. It’s only the desk at Jack’s back that keeps him from tumbling, and he grabs at Mike’s arms to steady him. “Mr.-“
”It’s Mike.”
And then Mike’s pressing forward and up and before Jack can dodge, Mike’s kissing Jack at the corner of his mouth. It’s messy and awkward, and it makes Jack’s blood flare in his veins. “Mike,” Jack presses out between his teeth. He tries to step away, but Mike is still pressed against him, and Jack stumbles and bumps against his chair. Another push from Mike, and he’s sitting in his chair as Mike climbs onto him and kisses him again. “This-“ it’s as far as Jack gets before Mike kisses him full on the mouth.
It’s been weeks of frustration. Weeks of being so damned proper and in charge. Weeks of Mike running into mock trial, nearly late from swim practice, with damp hair and no undershirt and weeks of Jack trying to remind himself, with every demerit for improper uniform, that this is a very bad idea.
There’s only so much a man can take, Jack decides, as he grips the back of Mike’s head and takes control of the kiss. Mike groans into his mouth, and Jack thrusts his tongue deeper.
Mike wrenches away and looks at Jack, and Jack wonders if he’s lucid at all or if he’s just drunk enough that he’s willing to pretend like he was just a bit more drunk than he actually is. “I…”
Jack tries to unclench his hand from Mike’s hair. He wants to dive back in, take Mike’s mouth, get his other hand to Mike’s waistband and get him out of his pants. But he’s not a bad person, occasional gray moments aside, and he’s ready for Mike to step away and run off and leave him to contemplate how he’ll ever keep a straight face ever again.
And then Mike rubs on Jack like the most obscene cat in the world and bites his bottom lip and digs his fingers into Jack’s shoulders. “Please,” he pants.
“Yes,” Jack hisses and throws back his head when Mike bites at his neck. “Yes,” he says again as he uses his free hand to work Mike’s belt. He can’t get a good grip; Mike keeps sliding and slipping and scraping his teeth at Jack’s neck. The rhythm is driving Jack crazy, and all he can picture is lying down on his bed, Mike above him with the same slick rock of his hips.
“Please,” Mike whispers again, his breath gusting out onto Jack’s neck.
Jack clenches his hand against Mike’s belt as Mike picks up speed and pressure, the tented place on his slacks sliding over Jack’s groin and belly again and again. Jack pulls at Mike’s hair until Mike lifts his head. Mike’s eyes are hazy, and Jack can’t tell if it’s from the booze or the way Mike keeps sliding against him. “Mike-“
“Please.”
“Tell me,” Jack sucks in a breath as Mike stops moving and just presses down, right over Jack’s crotch. “You know what you’re doing,” Jack says as his fingers clench again.
Mike rearranges himself, knees settling more firmly near Jack’s hips, backside pressing tight against Jack’s groin. “Jack,” he whispers. “Give me-“ his hands press into Jack’s sides, and he’s leaning in, mouth half-open, eyes on Jack’s mouth. “I called you Jack.”
“It’s fine,” Jack reassures. “We won’t tell anyone.” And he’s pressing his hips up, trying to get a more of everything. The pressure from Mike’s backside, the warmth of Mike’s front, the feel of Mike’s breath as he makes contact and slides his tongue into Jack’s mouth in a messy, loose kiss that makes Jack pant and grab hard at Mike’s side. “Harder,” he insists around Mike’s tongue. Mike pushes down, and Jack groans. “Yes,” he breathes and finally gets Mike’s belt undone. He pops the button on Mike’s slacks and gets the zipper half down before Mike seems to catch up and bumps into his hand.
“More.”
It’s barely more than a strangled noise, but Jack hears it clearly and gets his hand into Mike’s pants, fingers skimming along Mike’s erection as Mike gasps and kisses Jack harder. Jack kisses back and drops his hand from Mike’s hair to start working him out of his pants. He has them halfway down Mike’s thighs when Mike grits his teeth and yells and comes all over Jack’s hand.
Jack rocks his hips a few more times, holding Mike in place with a hand on his back, and it feels like an eternity of Mike panting in his ear and nuzzling against his neck before Jack gets his own orgasm.
There’s a stretch of silence, save for panting and Jack’s own wild thoughts of special hells and possible disgrace. Then, suddenly, Mike is scrambling off of him, and before Jack can form the right words to keep him in the room until he is at least presentable, Mike is vomiting into his wastebasket.
The whiskey. Right.
Jack forces himself to stand and head for the door. “Stay here,” he says to Mike, but it’s not quite an order. His voice is too shaky for an order. He makes it down the hall to the faculty lounge and fills a coffee cup with water. When he gets back to his room, Mike is still hunched over the wastebasket. Jack hands him the water and finds aspirin in his desk. “Rinse out your mouth. Take the aspirin. Drink the rest of the water.”
Mike obliges silently, and Jack slides down the desk to land in an uncoordinated heap on the floor. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. There’s a chance, slim and ridiculous, that this is all just a very vivid dream.
“Mr. McCoy?”
And there’s a chance Jack really is headed for a very special hell. “I was Jack ten minutes ago.” He opens his eyes and looks at Mike. “Unless that’s too weird now.”
“I think,” Mike pauses to cough and spat into the wastebasket. “I didn’t plan this.”
“Things such as this are very rarely planned, Mr. Cutter.”
“I was Mike ten minutes ago.”
The tone of it, sarcasm and a hint of waspish annoyance, makes Jack smile. “You were.” He closes his eyes again. Not to escape, but to have a moment to order his thoughts. He’s stifled in the attempt by Mike leaning next to him, his arm warm against Jack’s, and his foot pressing against Jack’s leg. “You’re my student.”
“I know.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“Not for much longer.”
“The point stands, Mike.” Jack opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Mike straight on. “The fact that you showed up drunk-“
“Was not.”
It’s a petulant voice that makes Jack even more aware of Mike’s age, of their differences, of the complete and utter stupidity that’s taken over his higher functions. Like thinking. And acting like a goddamned adult. “The point is-“
“I really do like you.” Mike shifts a bit more, maneuvers himself so that Jack’s arm is around his shoulder and his head is resting on Jack’s collarbone. “You treat me like an adult.”
“I should treat you like a student.” Jack watches Mike take small sips of his water. “You’re brilliant. You’re mature. You’re well-spoken and hard to intimidate, and in another few years, people will fall at your feet to do anything you ask.” Jack watches Mike shove a hand through his hair and wonders how many nights that singular image will keep him occupied. “This isn’t right, Mike. Not morally, not ethically, and not legally.”
“Age of consent in New York State is 17.”
“I’m 39, Mike. There’s no argument for affirmative defense.”
“I wanted this,” Mike says angrily, head pressing harder against Jack’s collarbone as Jack tries to get away. “I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and think I made a mistake.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I-“
“I’m still your teacher. You’re still my student. Even if you were 18 the ethical ramifications of this can’t be ignored.” Jack frees his arm from behind Mike and heaves himself off the floor. “This is a serious breach, and I shouldn’t-“
“I wanted it.”
It almost breaks Jack, the cold honesty in Mike’s voice. He looks down at him and has to look away again when he realizes Mike hasn’t done up his pants. “You need to go back to your room and go to bed. Sleep off the rest of the whiskey and make up your mind with a clear head.”
Mike pulls himself off the floor and breathes out hard through his nose. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I like you. I want you to still be here. I-I’m sorry.”
Jack shakes his head and holds up his hands. “Don’t apologize. This is my mistake. This isn’t your fault.”
“This isn’t a mistake.” Mike steps forward and frowns when Jack steps back. “This is just…it’s awkward. It’s bad timing.”
“It’s a violation. I shouldn’t…but you…” Jack takes another step back. “Go back to the dorms, Mike. I can only be so irresponsible in one night, and I’ve already gone above and beyond.”
Mike smiles a little and tries to hide it. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t regret it, do you?” It’s a brazen question, and Mike’s prepared to get hit hard with a put-down that will flay his skin from his bones.
“No,” Jack says quietly. “No, I don’t.”
The resignation in Jack’s voice burns more than any put-down Mike could have imagined. He doesn’t want Jack to hate this, doesn’t want Jack to hate him. Doesn’t want Jack to hate himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” he says in a rush and heads for the door.
Jack listens to his footfalls in the hallway and places his hands on his desk. He considers his options, none of them particularly appealing, and at least one painfully dangerous. He stares at the stack of graded quizzes. He stares at his reading glasses. He stares at his desk chair. He thinks about ethics and responsibilities and professional distance.
He wonders just how hard and far Anita is going to kick his ass when she finds out that she was right to worry all along. He wonders how hard and far he’ll kick it himself before she gets the chance to aim her boot.
The coffee mug is still on the floor. Jack bends down and picks it up and carries it back to the lounge to empty and rinse it. He places it on the drying rack and wipes his hands on his pants and finds himself unable to walk back into his room when he heads back down the hall.
Part Eleven
