Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1172281.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Welcome_to_Night_Vale
  Relationship:
      Carlos/Cecil_Palmer
  Character:
      Carlos_(Welcome_to_Night_Vale), Cecil_Palmer
  Additional Tags:
      sexual_content_involving_a_minor, Accidental_Voyeurism, dubious_consent
      due_to_the_type_of_voyeurism, Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-
      High_School
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-07 Words: 1691
****** What Goes on in Our Minds ******
by fairbreeze
Summary
     Carlos does not attempt to do anything interesting with the math.
     Carlos is a scientist and not a mathematician. Carlos does not
     attempt to do anything interesting at all.
     Cecil, on the other hand...
Notes
     I don't really like writing total AUs. I enjoy reading them, and
     RPing in them and hearing about people's ideas for them but, for me,
     as a writer, I like to write in the setting the creators presented,
     and try to tweak and twist things around in interesting ways in that
     setting. I delude myself, in this way, into feeling like what I write
     is an homage, and not gratuitous wish fulfillment, and I don't hold
     much truck with altering all major story elements for a canon JUST to
     wrangle in a particular type of kink, particularly if there are both
     other good canons out there with that kink naturally, or if the kink
     is one that's generally frowned upon.
     However, there was a conversation on tumblr about a Welcome to Night
     Vale AU idea that was really pretty adorable and not really kinky at
     all, and resulted in a super cute little bit of writing, and it got
     some anon-shaming, and something in me went THIS WILL NOT STAND.
     So I MADE it kinky. Because I am like that.
Carlos is not thinking about one Cecil Palmer, head of the school’s journalism
club, first on the scene of every disaster in school, pretty and mysterious and
very, very 17 years old, while he’s trying to grade papers.
The school is quiet, everyone has gone home for the day, everyone but him, and
he’s sitting in his office, looking at science papers, grading them on the
correctness of their science. He is not thinking at all about a young man, a
boy who is twice as alive as anyone he’s ever met and seems to have a
ridiculous crush on him, who seems to know just how to smile and flush and say
things in a voice that belongs in illicitly downloaded videos from the
internet, not coming out of a perfectly shaped mouth across an old black, two-
person desk that some 10th grader probably dissected a frog on last period.
Someone had carved a picture of a sandwich and the word HARLOT into the desk.
He knew this because he had been resolutely looking at the picture and not at
Cecil when he’d said that he was very into science, these days.
But he’s not thinking about that, really, because he’s grading papers, doing
his job. He is doing his job as a teacher and Cecil is his student and Carlos
is probably old enough to be his father, if you do some interesting things with
the math.
Carlos does not attempt to do anything interesting with the math. Carlos is a
scientist and not a mathematician. Carlos does not attempt to do anything
interesting at all. He marks another paper, maybe a little more harshly than he
should have on that last question and moves on to the next one. He’s trying so
hard to not do anything interesting or connected to Cecil at all, that he hears
the soft, furtive footfalls long before they make it to his classroom, hears
them coming down the hall. He frowns, and then clicks the light off on his
desk, the only light on in his office, rising silently up out of his chair.
He knows where just about everything in his tiny office is, even with the
lights off, and it’s a simple matter to start creeping, silently, towards the
door between it and his classroom. It’s probably just some damn fool kid, come
to try to steal the biology department’s skeleton again or something. Maybe
some asshole come to pinch some of the supplies from the chemistry closet to
make meth or bombs or whatever stupid fucked up thing kids thought they could
make out of a chemistry closet these days, when they didn’t even bother to pay
attention in class. If he could catch them in the act, though, maybe he could
scare them away.
He’s almost to door to his office when he realizes that, whoever it is, it’s
not any of the other science rooms they’re after, but his own. Oh really? He’s
pretty sure there’s nothing in here that anyone would want to steal, so much so
that he’s pretty lax about locking the door most nights. What could anyone
possibly want in here? There’s the click of a flashlight and he presses back
into the shadows next to the window slit in the door, unseen, but not before
he’d gotten a really good look at the selfsame Cecil Palmer he was previously
not thinking about.
What in the hell is Cecil doing, sneaking in here late at night. Some kind of
story for the paper? Looking for some kind of evidence? But of what? There
aren’t any rumors about him that he’s aware of, nothing that would make good
reading. He’s almost depressingly boring. What could Cecil be looking for? He
dares to peek back up in the window, for just a moment, and sees him standing
over the slightly larger desk in the front of the classroom that he usually
lectures behind. He’s left his lab coat thrown over the chair behind it, like
usual, and Cecil picks it up, pressing his nose into the fabric for a long
moment. Cecil is smelling his lab coat. His other hand reaches down and
fumbles, blindly, for the flashlight, like he can’t even be bothered to take
his face away from it for long enough to look.
The room plunges back into the realm of sound and shadows.
Carlos has always known that the walls were thin, but he’d never realized how
thin until this moment, when he realizes he can hear Cecil’s breathing, too
loud in the silence of the room, that he can hear… oh god, that he can hear the
sound his belt makes, jangling metal and purring leather as he fumbles with it,
one handed, the clatter and fuss of him either sitting in the chair, or pushing
the chair out of the way. What does he think he’s doing?
No. No. Carlos knows perfectly well what he’s doing, knows so well he can
picture it. He is not picturing it. He is not thinking about Cecil Palmer,
student, his student, with his nose buried in his labcoat and his hand on his
cock. There is another shuffle. He is only staying quiet because, at this
point, he has to. At this point, he has to not move and not say anything and
then go home and drink to forget. And that’s how he can hear Cecil opening
something in the dark and he pretends he doesn’t know what it is, that he
doesn’t know what’s next, that he doesn’t know what’s happening. He pretends
he’s never had sex. He thinks about anything but having sex, he thinks about
anything but what’s happening not ten feet away on his desk at the front of the
room, anything but the wet, unmistakable sound of Cecil stretching himself,
little half-choked moans falling from his mouth until finally, he must have
gotten used to the sensation, and his voice switches to something needfully
quiet, but full throated, resonant,
“Oh yes, Carlos, right there!” Carlos squeezes his eyes shut and does equations
in his head, wonders if he can disassociate entirely from his body, “You feel
so good, so perfect, knew you would, everything about you is perfect, nnh…”
Carlos was right, even if he hadn’t been thinking about it—he has the perfect
voice for porn, just the barest little waver in an otherwise hungry tone. “So
good… wanted to do this since I met you, and then I had you for class and I…
ohh Carlos, more, please…” Cecil degenerates into whimpers and Carlos thinks of
something, anything to avoid calculating out what those words meant, ages and
years and when had he first met Cecil, anyway?
No. No he is not thinking about that. He is thinking about… meadows. He is
thinking about barbed wire fences and birds. He is thinking about any random
nonsense he can think about and he is keeping his hands at his sides, balled
into fists, so he doesn’t do anything with them he’ll regret later.
He is learning what Cecil Palmer sounds like when he cums.
He’s listening to Cecil’s breathing, listening to it slow, and then the furtive
sounds of a flashlight clicking on and then the shaky laugh of someone who
cannot believe what they have just done, what they have just gotten away with.
Cecil’s voice is rough with the noises he’s been making, from holding them
back. Carlos is listening to the crinkly sound of a tissue paper packet
opening, backpack zippers being undone, other zippers behind done up. He is not
thinking of anything. His hands are still in fists at his sides. He is going to
go home and take the coldest shower he can stand and he is never going to think
about this again.
The door to the hall opens, then closes. Carlos waits. He goes through the
Fibonacci sequence, decides those numbers clearly require too much thought for
someone who is a scientist and not a mathematician, and starts listing out pi,
instead, finds that a little easier. He gets lost between the 5th and 6th zero.
He starts again. By the time he’s made it to the 7th, he figures enough time
has passed and he moves back to his desk, clicks on his light. He gathers his
papers calmly, rationally, ignores every impulse currently in his body. He
packs his things with great and deliberate care, puts on his jacket, which he
is currently quite happy reaches down to his mid-thigh, and prepares to get the
hell out of here, like any reasonable adult would have done a long time ago.
He makes the mistake of looking over at the desk at the front of the room, the
chair, the labcoat. He makes the mistake of picking it up. He makes the mistake
of learning that while it’s as pristinely clean as it was 30 minutes ago, it
now smells like Cecil.
He makes it home, but he does not make it to the shower before his resolve
breaks. He is thinking about it. He is thinking about fucking Cecil Palmer on a
desk in the classroom he teaches him AP Science in. He is thinking about how
much better his noises would be, if he was the one causing them, what kind of
filthy things he would say in that pretty voice. He is thinking about what
Cecil would look like in the labcoat and nothing else, pushing his fingers into
himself and writhing for it, what that would have looked like, if he could have
seen…
He cums harder than he can remember since his college days and he vows to
himself that he can never, never think about this again.
He leaves his labcoat every night, now, and goes home early. Some mornings, it
smells like Cecil, some mornings it doesn’t. He tries not to think about it.
Cecil gets a little Happy Birthday bear and a furtive kiss from that boy scout
friend of his, when they think no one is watching. Carlos tries not to think
too hard about that, either.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!