Academic Misconduct

Javier blinked against the fluorescent glare overhead, the kind of institutional lighting that made everyone look a little sick and everything feel a little more pointless. The lecture hall was a cavern of old plastic seats, bolted in rows so steep they felt like stadium bleachers. The air smelled like pencil shavings, burnt coffee, and the faint chemical tang of too many bodies sealed inside too small a space. Modern political theory buzzed from the front of the room in the professor’s monotone. A voice so flat Javier occasionally wondered if the man was secretly an AI prototype that had given up halfway through development. The projector hummed. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beam of light slicing across the room. Javier rubbed at the bridge of his nose, jaw cracking around a yawn he didn’t bother hiding. He was running on two hours of sleep and an energy drink that tasted like liquefied regret. He shouldn’t have stayed up so late outlining chapters, rewriting flashcards, and convincing himself the caffeine crash wouldn’t hit mid-lecture. But here he was, eyelids heavy, spine softening, brain melting into a comfortable, useless mush. He let his gaze drift. Two rows down, a girl typed with the aggressive intensity of someone who thought speed equaled comprehension. To his left, a guy in a hoodie was scrolling his phone under the desk with the subtlety of a raccoon rifling through garbage. Someone near the back was snoring, faint but steady, like a warning siren for the future Javier was hurtling toward. Nobody cared. Nobody was paying attention. Not to the lecture, not to each other, certainly not to him. He slumped a little lower in his seat, his backpack wedged under his knees, the cracked vinyl squeaking under his weight. The room felt warm, too warm, the kind of soft heat that coaxed you into surrender. His pulse slowed. His head felt pleasantly weightless. Just a second, he told himself. Just a quick rest. Nobody will notice. His cheek brushed his forearm. The fabric was cool at first, then warm as he settled. The professor’s voice blurred, words dissolving into indistinct sound waves. Javier let out a slow breath, eyelids dipping, the room softening at the edges. The lights dimmed and the hum of the projector stretched, deepened. Maybe it was his mind, maybe it was actually happening. The air thickened, sweet and metallic, like sweat and burnt sugar.

The dream always started the same way, with the weight of their eyes on him. Rafael knew he was dreaming the moment the air thickened, heavy with the scent of sweat and something darker, like burnt sugar and iron. The room was both familiar and not. The peeling walls of some half-remembered motel, the bed too wide, the sheets slick beneath him. But the men—oh, the men were real in a way dreams rarely allowed. Their presence pressed against his skin, their breath hot on his neck, their hands already mapping the curves of his body before he could even gasp. He was on his knees, ass presented to the room like an offering, his dark brown skin gleaming under the harsh overhead light. His cock, thick and cut, hung heavy between his thighs, already leaking in anticipation. He didn’t need to turn to know who was behind him. Dante, broad-shouldered and inked. His olive skin slick with sweat as he gripped Rafael’s hips, thumbs digging into the dimples above his ass. And in front of him, Malik, all sharp angles and honey-gold eyes, his deep umber skin flushed with heat as he guided his cock to Rafael’s waiting mouth. But it wasn’t his mouth they wanted. Not yet. A hand—Dante’s—slid between Rafael’s cheeks, fingers slick with lube, circling his hole with deliberate slowness. Rafael arched, a shameless whimper escaping him as the pad of Dante’s thumb pressed in, just enough to tease. The stretch was immediate, a burn that flared into pleasure as his body gave way, hungry for more. “Look at you,” Malik murmured, his voice rough, his accent lacing the words with something almost like reverence. “Already so fucking eager.” Rafael couldn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he pushed back, forcing Dante’s finger deeper, his own cock twitching at the obscene wet sound it made. The men around the bed—Javier with his ropey arms and the scar through his eyebrow, Elias with his pale, freckled skin and the way his hand moved lazily over his own cock—watched with dark, hungry eyes. They weren’t just spectators. They were participants, their own needs secondary to the main event but no less urgent. Javier’s free hand traced the dip of Rafael’s spine, his calloused fingers leaving trails of fire. Dante’s finger was joined by another, scissoring him open, stretching him with a slow, relentless pressure that had Rafael’s toes curling into the mattress. He could feel the way his hole clung, the way his muscles fluttered around the intrusion, his body already begging for more. “Please,” he managed, his voice rough. Dante chuckled, low and dark. “Since you asked so nicely.” The first cock—Malik’s—pressed against him, thick and veined, the head breaching him with a slow, inexorable push. Rafael’s breath hitched as his body resisted, then surrendered, the burn of the stretch morphing into something deeper, something better. He could feel every ridge, every pulse of blood beneath the skin as Malik sank into him, inch by delicious inch. “Fuck,” Rafael gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets. “More.” Dante didn’t make him wait. The second cock, heavier, thicker, pressed against him, and Rafael bore down, his body opening like a sinner before absolution. The stretch was everything. A white-hot ache that radiated through his hips, his thighs, and his cock. He could feel them both inside him, filling him in a way that should have been impossible, their cocks sliding against each other through the thin wall of his ass. The sensation was obscene, filthy, and Rafael loved it. He loved the way his body took them, the way his ass clenched around their lengths, the way his own cock dripped onto the bed beneath him. The men around them groaned in unison. Elias’ hand moved faster over his cock, his breath coming in sharp, needy pants. Javier bit his lip, his own length twitching as he watched Rafael take them. “You were made for this,” Malik growled, his hips finally flush against Rafael’s ass. The words sent a thrill through him, because in this dream, they were true. They moved in tandem, a rhythm that was almost too much—Malik’s cock dragging against that spot inside him that made his vision blur, Dante’s thrusts deep and punishing, their balls slapping against him with every snap of their hips. Rafael could feel the way his ass stretched around them, the way his hole gripped and released, milking them even as they fucked him senseless. “Touch yourself,” Dante commanded, his voice a rasp. Rafael didn’t hesitate. His hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking in time with their thrusts, his precome slicking his fingers. The room was a symphony of sound—wet flesh slapping against wet flesh, the groan of the bedspring, the ragged breaths of the men jerking off as they watched him get railed. Someone—Elias—moaned his name like a prayer, and Rafael could feel the man’s gaze on him, could hear the slick slide of his palm over his cock. “Gonna come just from watching you,” Javier admitted, his voice strained. “Don’t,” Rafael panted. “Not yet.” He wanted to draw it out. Wanted to feel the way his ass burned, the way his cock ached, the way his body was nothing but pleasure and need. He wanted to savor it. Malik’s hand tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make Rafael’s back arch, changing the angle so that every thrust hit that perfect, ruinous spot inside him. His own strokes turned frantic, his balls drawing up tight, his orgasm coiling low in his gut. “Not yet,” Dante growled, his hips stuttering as he fought his own release. “Not until we say.” Rafael whined, his body trembling on the edge. He could feel it—the way his ass clenched around them, the way his cock throbbed in his grip, the way his entire world had narrowed to the point where their cocks filled him, where their hands marked him, where their voices urged him on. “Now,” Malik snarled, and Rafael obeyed. His orgasm crashed over him, his cock spurting in thick ropes over his fingers, his ass clenching around the cocks buried inside him. The other men followed. Malik first, his release hot and deep within Rafael, then Dante, his groan raw as he emptied himself. The room spun, the dream fracturing at the edges as pleasure consumed him. He could still hear them. The wet sounds of their releases, the ragged breaths, the way Javier’s come hit his back in hot stripes, but it was distant, drowned out by the roar of his own pulse.

Javier came back hard. Too hard. His moan tore out of him before he could stop it, a low, throaty sound that did not belong in a classroom. His whole body jerked, legs kicking against the underside of the desk. He snapped upright, gasping, drool slick on his forearm and a line of warmth still throbbing through him from the tail end of the dream. For half a second he didn’t know where he was. Then the fluorescent lights stabbed him in the eyes. The smell of pencil shavings punched through the haze. And silence settled over the lecture hall. Awful. Absolute. Every head was turned toward him. Every face staring. Mouths slightly open. Eyes wide. Even the guy who had been snoring was awake now. Javier’s heart free-fell straight into his stomach. He wiped at his mouth, trying to play it off, but the drool just smeared. His throat worked around a swallow. His jeans felt too tight. Way too tight. Heat crawled up his neck, blooming across his ears. The professor stood at the front of the room, marker frozen mid-sentence on the whiteboard. Dante. Not dream Dante, all sweat and ink and filthy promises. Professor Dante Morales, modern politics, devastating jawline, and the kind of forearms that should be illegal in educational settings. He was watching Javier with a look that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite neutral. Just a subtle, knowing curve of the mouth. Like he had heard the sound Javier made. Like he knew exactly what kind of dream dragged that noise out of him. “Everything alright, Mr. Silva?” Dante asked, voice smooth enough to pour over ice. Javier’s brain flatlined. His mouth opened. No words came out. Only a helpless, strangled noise that made several people bite their lips to keep from laughing. Dante’s grin, barely there but unmistakable, nudged a fraction higher. “Good,” he said lightly, tapping the marker against the board as if nothing had happened at all. “Please try to stay awake. We’ve only got twenty minutes left.” Javier wanted to melt through the floor, dissolve into the foundation, and haunt the building as a cautionary tale. Instead he nodded, cheeks burning, and hoped to God his notebook was high enough to hide the situation happening in his lap. And as Dante turned back to the board, Javier could have sworn he heard the man murmur, just loud enough for him to catch. “Hell of a dream, huh?”