[UNI AU]

[homosexuals]

CAMBOY UNI AU

tell me and i forget, teach me and i remember.

Comments

➤ 𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦

[homosexuals]

[there are probably some out there who would call a friday night with a tumbler of whiskey, a stack of ungraded papers, and the intention to rub one (or a few) out talking to a faceless entity on the internet pathetic, but hawkins fuller wouldn't consider himself a member of that faction.

one: a man has needs, of which they should never feel guilty for, and two: he gets exactly what he wants, gets off, and gets out. no hassle, no awkward extrication, no tears or meltdowns when he declines a number, and absolutely no accidentally running into one of his students and semi-outing himself for an entire semester. his nsa rules don't seem to have followed him onto the great expanse of the world wide web, that or he's just happened to stumble on the walking embodiment of earnest obedience with the trimmest waist and tightest ass he could have practically dreamt up. christ, this little dalliance he's picked up is probably the second most consistent thing to the relationship he has with his own mother at this point.

but it's worth every penny and then some, and when the clock ticks past 10:36 and his hand starts wandering south after his second shot - his free hand knows how to let the fingers do the walking.]

30 Minutes
🔒 UNLOCK FOR $200

🔥💲💳 250 TIP SENT ✅

Nice to see you again, Skippy.
Though I hope I'll get to see a whole lot more before we're through tonight.

[apologetics]

[ there are a thousand ways for a college student to spend his nights. studying. homework. sports. out at some frat party he has no right being at.

instead, timothy laughlin’s dorm room has become a veritable sex den with its moody lighting, backdrop lit up in a fuschia that does wonders to accentuate the dips of his hip bones, the muscles in his chest and arms. the door is locked and the music is loud enough to cover any rogue noises.

it’s a tame evening - heavy petting and a little bit of show and tell. no one truly interesting in chat, other than the sweaty no names tipping small amounts to see his ass. and so he complies - on hands and knees for the camera enough to show the swell of his ass in too-short and too-tight shorts.

no tips big enough to do much more until -

ah.

he recognizes the user name. the dollar amounts. the request.

he sits pretty on the camera next, leaned back enough to show the arch of his back, his chest, even the happy little trail that starts just above those shorts. ]

I was wondering where you’d gone to.
I’ve been missing you.
Tell me what you want - can’t let you walk away empty handed after that nice little gift.

But my guess is you’re not exactly empty handed. 😇

[homosexuals]

[it's not like hawk is celibate - god no. it's just easier when he doesn't have to battle the nightmare of dc traffic to get out of town, away from too many familiar faces - time being the luxury he can't always afford. summers are easier for that reason alone, and he gets his fill in between jabs from marcus and reminders from his mother to stop by and see his ailing, son of a bitch father before he kicks the bucket for good this time with the ink dried on a will that doesn't include him.

so maybe it's not the same brutal pounding of some faceless twink bent over a rickety bed or curled in half against a wall, but it takes the edge off and sometimes that's the best he can hope for. he swallows the rest of his whiskey with a flex of his jaw, pushing the tumbler back further onto the desk to avoid any overzealous accidents while the beautiful body in front him and the teasing words bring a smirk to his lips.]

Smart boy.
Might be my favorite thing about you.
If you don't count your neck and the way you bounce so eager when you're calling my name.

Take your shirt off sweetheart. Nice and slow, the way I like it, you know?

➤ 𝑖'𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑝 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟

[apologetics]

[ the days pass following the one on one with relative quiet - the semester is coming to an end and tim doesn't make enough time to get on camera as he should, considering his financial situation. the registrar sends him e-mails once a week reminding him of his balance, and the hold they've put on his classes next semester. it's always the same story, always the same struggle. six months of quiet, and then rush at the end.

he keeps his head down in classes, keeps focused, studies hard and participates. mr. fuller must even see his resolve changing, as he's let up on the dogged, pointed questions he asks him during their class debates.

but really, he spends his time instead planning. he texts with some of his regulars in the app - tips for sexting, for a picture here and there. it's easy, mindless money, and truly the only reason his instagram account exists on top of his only fans. after all, his dms bring in a little extra currency on their own.

there's been a buzz, lately. his regulars seeing the added incentives, the added package options. a video message, a phone call, a few sexting options, a few cam options, but? the most expensive? a vip meet and greet. on the surface, it's nothing special. a meet up, a photo op, even a cute little cameo video. but there's always the hint of something more - something more illicit he can't exactly advertise even there.

$3,000.00 - enough to satisfy the bursar, to get his classes on the schedule so he doesn't have his seat pulled, to get his books, the more deluxe meal plan for next semester. it's not smart, he knows. he knows it's not.

and yet, he also knows there is only one fan who would even consider the cost worth it. or so he hopes.

the added perks go live at 9 AM - the right time for working men to see it and get a little flustered in their day to day.

he's sitting in the dining hall with a half-eaten bowl of cheap, flavorless oatmeal when he decides to open the app. he's not sure what comes over him when he opens the messages from the man formerly known as milton, but: ]

Good morning, mister.
Your boy added a few things I think you might like.

Don't work too hard today.

[ if this was anyone else? he might feel like he's begging for money, tricking them into something for a dollar. and yes, he does need the money. more than anything.

but if the money came with a faceless, kinder stranger behind it?

it's a stupid dream. ]

[homosexuals]

[end of the semester is always a time suck, no matter how prepared hawk has tried to be leading up to it. doesn't help when students are crunching deadlines, turning everything in at the last possible minute like cinderella just before the horse turns into a pumpkin. his policy is never to start his holiday break until finals, the thesis pitches for the students like tim laughlin who are taking the 2.0 immediate follow-up to this class are critiqued, and grades are submitted. everything neat and tidy - practically wrapped up in a bow for everyone, and then he can wipe his hands of another hopefully successful four months under his belt and piling up with the rest of his impressive record - a small nod at the brass ring he'll eventually reach for in the form of tenure with the approval of dean smith. and once it's all done he can eat whatever the hell he wants, take a drive out and spend the holidays fucking through a string of strangers and eking out every bit of stress that's built up on his broad shoulders from fifteen weeks of just his hand and the occasional long weekend.

monday after break starts finds him finished with finals and halfway through proposals, tim's the first one he graded with an a+ virtually stamped and a note on his thesis in the portal: come see me when you're back from the holidays to work out a pinpointed direction. solid start. happy new year, laughlin. he's about to open the next one, something he already knows is gonna be lackluster from the performance he's gotten all semester from this student when his email notification pops up - not the one he uses for school or his personal affairs.

9 am? that's not the usual time range for this kind of thing, what with it being the cold light of day and the time where the head on his shoulders does the thinking instead of the one in his pants. hawk considers ignoring it - already in the groove and well on his way to a waiting duffel bag and a car with a full tank ready to take him somewhere. but the thought of their last session flickers through his mind - the charge, the tension, the rawness that's hard to replicate out in the real world.

fuck it. he'll get these done today, what's a few minutes delay?

besides, skimming across the message he's even got his boy's blessing to take a bit of a break.

though he's not sure what was "added" that's supposed to grab his attention. hawk pulls out a cigarette, holding it between his lips and lighting it before kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back into his seat, mouse shifting into skippy's profile to see if he's upped it to an hour, or wants to offer something holiday themed - fuck if he knows, this isn't his area of expertise, but he knows what his dick might like. some of it is the usual, kid's stuff compared to the kind of thing he's after - photos, basic sexting, phone and video, stuff skippy inadvertently already has offered him and he'd gladly pay extra for if it's gonna be a thing moving forward. the prices are more than fair - low, if you ask hawk, but there's one number that's a distinct departure from the rest.

three grand? the vip treatment.

and yet there's no specifications - a whole lengthy list of headaches hawk already finds himself running through: where is he even located? does he have to pay for travel? accommodations? did skippy even factor that in on top of the $3k? probably not, because it seems too damn low. is he clean? why the faceless camming for months only to offer an in person reveal?

the money. that's gotta be it. he must be gearing up for all the free time, trying to make it fast while he can before he gets back to whatever his day to day is. sometimes hawk hates the way he sees through even the most innocuous of situations, sifting through the bullshit with a practiced ease that comes from decades of watching his own back and carefully curating his image. but at the very least - there doesn't seem to be any malice coming from skippy at this suggestion. it's just...risky, maybe even biting off more than the boy can actually chew. something about that makes him exhale harshly through his nose, the torrent of smoke shifting against the tiers in a way that draws attention to that final one once more.

three grand - for what? a date? no, skippy wouldn't be that naïve.]

Wow. I should say the same for you - someone's been busy.

[it's a little while after skippy messaged him, but hawk considers the best way to stay neutral and address a slew of thoughts running through his mind right now.

not least of all - wouldn't paying a small chunk of change for a fuck he already knows is gonna be good be worth it? technically...it's the first time, and if skippy is halfway across the world - it's still no strings. his fingers tap at his cigarette again, and he sticks it between his mouth to type with both hands.]

Hypothetically speaking, you sure you know what you'd be getting into with this meet-up?
And - still hypothetically speaking, of course - how far are you willing to travel for it?

[apologetics]

[ his week is honestly busier than it should be as he begins to wrap up final assignments, study for the upcoming exams. he's handed in the prelims for his thesis for both of his majors with great anxiety, but with the documents in the hands of his lecturers, there's little else he can do but wait for them to be returned before he can begin a deep-dive on research.

he's not surprised he doesn't get an immediate response - it is 9 AM, and he has no idea where this guy lives, he realizes. and it's then he questions whether the $3,000 had been enough. would the guy expect him to travel? would he come to him? should he let someone come to his home town?

it all reeks of bad ideas and red flags. he's a fucking idiot.

an idiot who desperately, desperately wants to put himself through school and try for something better one day.

he's just finished up one of his history papers when his phone buzzes and he half expects it to be arthur or mary, someone from one of his classes begging for a study session or notes. but it's not.

he sees the little only fans logo and his heart skips a beat, right up into his throat. ]

I don't want to bore anyone, you know.

[ facts. become benign and boring and the money stops. he's learned that a few times the hard way. ]

Hypothetically, yes, I know what I'm getting into. A VIP meet-and-greet. 😇

I could be persuaded to travel a little bit, if I needed to. I guess it would depend on who's asking.

[ shit. yeah, he should have raised his prices. god, he's so dumb. ]

Why? Well, I mean - how far are you willing to travel to meet your best boy?
Hypothetically.

➤ 𝑟𝑢𝑛 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑟𝑢𝑛

[apologetics]

[ there are a thousand bad decisions college students tim's age could make at this point in his academic career, so close to the end of his final semester as a junior. he could go to some pledge party, some rave or rager held by frat boys, run with the campus misfits who break and enter offices and classrooms, or get blitzed in the hidden corners of the dorms with the RAs.

but tim's bad decision came in the form of a prize package (an early summer deal!), and $3,000.

that icy day outside the coffee shop in december cemented the fact that hawkins fuller would no longer be watching his streams, and with that would also go the extra money he'd make weekly from their one on ones or other little trysts. it's a good thing, that he's not getting his professor's money on moral grounds alone, but the income is something he'd planned for.

and so the new package went up, and while he'd expected no takers at first, he'd been deeply surprised when, in the middle of one of his history lectures, his phone at buzzed.

NEW TIP RECIEVED

a username he recognizes faintly - they all start to look the same in his general chat. bigstrongman69 or hard_daddy01. and he foolishly, foolishly messages them.

messages turn to a date and time, which turn to a place, which turn to the reality of him meeting some mystery-faced man at a busy pizzeria just outside of campus. this guy had to travel - a few hours from wherever he'd come from - and it shows in his eagerness when they meet.

tim should have trusted his gut when he saw him. soft middle, buggy eyes, bald head, and a smile that made tim's blood run cold. but he stayed, reminding himself that this money and this meet-up would be the difference in his summer classes. would be the difference in suffering months at home in staten island, disconnected from everyone and everything, or spending a summer on the quiet campus, taking new and exciting classes simply for the thrill of it before entering his senior year.

when the guy slipped something into his drink, he doesn't know. it could have been in the brief moment he'd turned to talk to a waitress who was making worried eyes at him, or even in the thirty seconds he'd needed to dig out his wallet, his phone, something. he can't remember.

he remembers the swimming feeling coming over him first - the head to toe uncomfortable warmth that blossomed under his skin like fever. he can almost remember the feeling of the man's hand on his upper thigh, over the seam of his jeans, and the way his wet lips smacked against his ear as he whispered something into it.

what had he said?

it's the waitress that interrupts - that causes some kind of commotion enough that the man immediately backs away, caught off guard by the sudden attention on him. she says something to tim, but he must be convincing enough that she lets him go once she's sure the older man has long since run off.

his phone buzzes - angry messages on his only fans account. the deposit rescinded, reports made about his false advertising. something like that. but tim just walks - walks out in the warm summer night and fumbles his way miraculously onto a bus that leads back to campus.

the whole ride is a blur, the dc streets looking like nothing but some wild monet painting, colors and shapes all blurring together to make some sort of picture. he can't make out what it is, even as he stumbles off the bus toward campus. "college kids these days, i swear - shameless" he hears one older woman say, and tim huffs to himself.

she can't be talking about him.

but the further he walks up into the quad, the worse he feels. the warmth becoming unbearable, his thoughts swimming, his vision tipping - all of this somehow leading him to the polisci building. there's a couch there. he can sit there. rest his head and close his eyes and take a second to just breathe and get his shit together. as he stumbles in, however, there's a light on at the end of one of the halls.

professor fuller.

professor fuller is in his office and while he'd felt a lazy sort of concern about his own wellbeing at first, seeing the man's name on the little plate in the wall makes panic rise up into his chest. he doesn't entirely remember how he got here, or why his body led him here of all places, but he approaches the doorway and reaches out for it, his back nearly falling off his shoulder as he sways into it. ]

Professor?

[ tim thinks he's holding it together much better than he is. and should hawk look up, he'll find a disheveled tim laughlin at his door - hair mussed from sweaty, heavy palms. cheeks flushed, pupils blown out, the glisten of sweat at his temples. there's a tiny mark at the crook of his jaw, where it meets his earlobe - beard-burn, maybe, or the beginnings of a hickey. even his shirt is rucked up a little revealing a slim line of his midriff where it had slid up on the bus seat and he hadn't noticed. ]

Sorry. It's late. I just... can I come in?

[homosexuals]

[this semester has been a much bigger rollercoaster than hawk ever anticipated, but as with all things - he's ridden it out and ended up almost at a point where he can land smoothly and step out of the ride into a well-earned summer of fucking and floating in the pool of an overpriced hotel to work on a tan. maybe a trip to see his mother, even if he'd rather eat glass than be within twenty feet of the rest of his family and especially his father. but summers have always done him good - given him the proper amount of time to blow off all the steam he's been holding back, to shake off the professional exterior a bit and get to loosen up for a few blissful, student-free weeks.

at least, before summer classes start up again.

there was a point in time last winter when he'd been tensed up at every turn, convinced his faux-pas with tim laughlin was going to send the house of cards he'd carefully built up over decades crashing down. but to his credit, he'd been doing all of this a long time, and tim was quite possibly the best thing to ever walk through his door. there was no way he'd let things lie, not a chance he'd give up on ironing this out into whatever the "new normal" was meant to be for their working relationship. a few hiccups and tim continued his exponential trajectory toward greatness, reclaiming his throne as the class's top debater and star pupil with each insightful essay that hit his desk in between thesis revisions. it had been a long time since hawk was actually proud of the work he was doing, but with tim...it came a little too easy, sometimes.

not to mention, it did come at the expense of his stress relief. sure, keeping an extra five-hunred or so in his pocket was maybe better in the long run for his wallet, but it meant any of his late nights or moments of frustration had a drastically smaller option for an outlet than it did before. and yes, it had occurred to him that it was equally five-hundred dollars tim laughlin needed a lot more than most. but there was no ethical way around it, no turning back time to pretend they'd never accidentally exposed each other for who they were. it's just how things needed to be until - well, until tim walked out on graduation day, and he no longer had to think about the repercussions of this debacle. not to say that he had intentions of picking up any of his habits after - and by then, he sure as hell hopes tim doesn't have to resort to selling himself to keep food in his mouth and a roof over his head.

but that doesn't mean it's not a struggle. he'll never admit it, not wanting to liken himself to one of pavlov's dogs - but sometimes when the sky darkens and the whiskey hits just right, his mind wanders to those sessions and his dick twitches at the thought of what he's missing out on. the account is long since deleted, and for now any of his urges are handled by trips out on long weekends or a few tried and true videos scattered across corners of the internet. the first time it sank in that this was likely to be a problem he forced himself to stay longer at the office - to do his work in a place he absolutely would never dare to do something stupid. and then it just turned into a simple habit, two to maybe three times a week burning the midnight oil and staying on top of his work until late enough in the evening that the temptation would pass.

ironic that it still existed with or without the pesky idea of god or religion. tim would laugh at that, he thinks.

hawk is just considering packing up and heading out for a smoke before calling it a night when he hears...something like a slow commotion up the hall. majority of his colleagues have long since left, and even the janitors are finishing up their shifts. but this doesn't sound like buffing floors or the heavy plod of leather oxfords out to the main entrance. this sounds a lot more like someone off-kilter, lost and stumbling with the squeak of rubber soles and hands grasping at the wall for stability. did someone get drunk and accidentally wander in here? hawk really could care less about underage drinking or someone who needs to sleep it off, so it doesn't immediately make him leap out of his seat to investigate.

until it ends up just outside his door before it swings open and has his head jerking up in concerned surprised.]

Tim - ?

[the last thing he's expecting to see is tim laughlin looking like he's been through the ringer - barely standing in the same spot on his own two feet, eyes like fucking saucers and skin glistening with the kind of sweat that comes when someone has made a very fucking poor decision. at first he thinks maybe the boy is just drunk, letting loose for a change - but he remembers their discussion at the beginning of the semester.

i don't have any friends, i don't go to parties.

tim is too out of it to notice the drag of his gaze from the way his hair is a mess all the way to that sliver of bare skin courtesy of his partially untucked shirt. it makes his stomach churn the way things start to fall into place with a sort of dread. he's on his feet immediately, reaching to close the door behind tim on the off chance that anyone is still here. this is beyond the norm - far past inappropriate, and...something bubbles up in his throat when this close he sees the marks on his neck.

tim looks woozy, like he might trip over air at any moment, and hawk puts a firm hand on his shoulders and guides him towards the chair he usually occupies opposite his desk. one foot hooks under it, dragging it to face parallel to the polished cherrywood, enough so that tim can collapse into it and hawk can kneel in front of him at eye level and try to take stock of anything he missed.

who did this to him? did he - ?

his palms reach up to steady tim's face, gaze flickering across his pupils and the way it threatens to loll back at any moment. two fingers slide down to check his pulse, not surprised to find it completely rabbiting against his jugular.]

Tell me what happened.

Now.

[apologetics]

Sorry, I just - I don't know how I got here, but... I knew I needed to find you.

[ everything seems to happen in both slow motion and high speed, all at once. one instance, he's in professor fuller's doorway and the next he's being crowded and collapsed into the arm chair he spends far too many hours perched in throughout the week. the semester is nearly over, anyway, with exams beginning next week. but it's monday, he has plenty of time to finish his studying and to tidy up his essays.

it's not like he has to prepare for his summer classes now, after all.

when he looks up from the dizzying whirl of motion, he finds himself face to face with the very man he'd come to see. he blinks for a moment, hands fumbling and reaching for hawk's forearms as those hands cup his face. his hands are warm, soft, so different from the other man at the pizzeria, whose hands were meant for sticky grabs and strikes. god, the way he had grabbed his nape earlier... ]

Professor. Sorry.

[ he needs to put his thoughts together a little better and strangely, sitting and being held still does a world of good. tim feels as though he's sitting upright, as though he's got his feet on the ground and he's as put together as someone who has come from a bad, bad date can be. but instead he's instinctively leaning into the palms against his cheeks, his fingers curl into the fabric of hawk's sleeves, and one of his legs is tucked up under him, the other splayed out to one side.

he takes a second, one hand leaving hawk's sleeve to instead perch upon his chest, just at the front of his shoulder. there's nothing intimate or searching in the move - the gesture simply one made out of a desperate need to stabilize himself. hawk is still an solid, unwavering before him and it becomes so easy to focus on him. enough that he almost thinks he gains some clarity out of the blue of his eyes. ]

I went... I had a date. Pizzeria Paradiso. D'you know the place?

[ be cool, tim he tells himself, even though he knows he's not at all. instead, the press of the fingers at his throat to test his pulse only make things feel that much more immediate. he's caught between wanting to run and wanting to cry, but he can't seem to find his footing for either. ]

Sorry, I... just a sec.

[ a wave of nausea comes over him for a moment, and even though he's dazzled with sweat, there's a paleness to his brow, the rise of his cheekbones. he lets his head dip for a moment, hanging so that he can look down at the floor and breath deeply through his nose to try and tamp down the sick, swirling feeling in his gut.

it's with this he seems to come to terms with the fact that he's not well. that what he thought was just the heavy mixed drink hitting him on an empty stomach was something more. it takes a moment for him to resurface from it, nose bumping hawk's palm as he sits up a little too fast. if he could just rest like this for a moment? he might be fine. just let his eyes close and soak up the warmth of the other man across him for a fraction of a second. ]

I think he put something in my drink? Waitress kept asking me. I feel crazy right now.

[ he huffs a little, eyes fluttering shut even as he sits upright, his fingers curling against hawk's chest, trying to find purchase in the taut fabric there. ]

Met this guy. From -

[ he doesn't say it. and it shows in his expression it takes a great deal of restraint to keep that from hawk even now. ]

I think I just need... t'sleep it off. Might just be the drink. It tasted like cherries. I don't really - I never - drink.

[ there's a little huff, like he's disgusted and embarrassed all at once. ] I was nervous.

➤ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔'𝑠 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦

[homosexuals]

["dragon lady", as the bursar's administrative frontrunner is so affectionately dubbed by students and staff alike, is all too happy to have it laid on thick when hawkins fuller sets foot into her office for a pleasantly surprising preamble to her lunch hour. listening to her rattle on about the grandchildren, her husband's awful dinner table etiquette, dancing with the stars...but a the flash of a few smiles, a dry joke here or there and she's eating out of the palm of his hand. enough that when she finally lets him slip through a gap in the conversation, he's able to sling an arm against the counter, leaning against it and nonchalantly asking - edna, would you be a doll and double check one of my students that's been dropped from the roster? now i know it wasn't you, but i think there's been a mistake. yes it's laughlin, tim laughlin. l - a - u - g - h - l - i - n. do me a favor - can you hold out until the end of the week for him? good catholic boy, just like your johnny.

that's monday after he'd shipped off tim in a cab later that evening, feeling his own stomach oddly swooping at the idea of sending him away even though there was no more immediate need for supervision. tidying the bathroom and a shower had been the first order, then papers, and pushing off the inevitable moment where his head hit the pillow in his unwashed, unmade sheets before he turned onto his side and buried his nose against them for the scent of tim. skippy. fuck. none of this made it any easier on either of them, and yet he feels strangely like they've both ended up in a better place after that weekend.

tim will be none the wiser then as he comes to class for exam prep, a few dark circles under his eyes as he's surely scrambling to study in between packing and possibly panicking at the idea of traveling back to staten island in less than a week. that's the part that almost makes him want to cave - to alleviate some of that stress by telling him don't bother, you won't need to soon enough.

because come the early hours of thursday morning that week, hawk finally opens the site he's been avoiding for months - punching in the username that's branded into his mind whether he likes it or not, and avoiding actually looking at any of the upcoming times, the promises of what a new registration will bring. he doesn't even look at the randomly assigned username that's been suggested, a number in the cog of subscribers: user962108 before plugging in a password he'll pretend not to remember and navigating straight to the tip jar. $3,000. the exact amount he'd already paid once before, that he knows after today he won't have to pay again. because tim promised him - because after this, it truly is out of his hands, and tim will be moving on to greener pastures during his senior year and eventually a new campus altogether in the form of washington's hallowed halls.

the final roster comes through a few days after hawk gives tim a completely expected "a+" on his exam, resisting the urge to write see you in a few weeks.

there's two weeks he has to blow off steam, pointedly ignoring craig's suggestion they meet for celebratory drinks at some point and taking a quick trip south for hookups that are neither memorable nor particularly satisfying before he spends the last few days reviewing his lesson plans and already imagining what tim is going to focus in on this semester. there's only sixteen classmates - which means plenty of spotlight and attention on topics he already knows will bring more passion and substance to a class that's usually already more promising than his larger lecture halls.

he doesn't say a damn word about anything else that's happened between them, just tips his head when that familiar mop of brunette hair walks through his door with his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he follows along the instructions for making it to the classroom outside their regular building. good to see you made it, laughlin, is the casual greeting when tim slides into a chair and eagerly gets out his books from a bag that finally looks like it's on its last thread, pen poised above paper and that look in his eye before he hungrily consumes everything out of hawk's mouth.

and so it goes.

the thing about summer school that hawk appreciates most is the lack of eyes on him - no risk of audits, no nosy teachers checking in on what they're doing. the students here are neither remedial nor taking his course out of a requirement, which means it's a hell of a lot more fun and a lot more lax than working out of the polisci building. it also means the weather is too damn gorgeous not to take advantage of, and hawk finds himself rolling up his sleeves, taking his class to one of the many campus greens and courtyards to soak it up and dismissing class a few minutes early when they're all talked out. and then there's office hours - not sitting in the stuffy room that's his office or even the temporary one set up specifically for this summer course only. no, he doesn't have any qualms meeting elsewhere - a park bench, an outdoor cafe, something to shake it up a little for the ones who want to put in the extra time.

tim is always one of them. lunch, coffee, sitting in the shade - it's becoming quite a constant, one that he finds dangerously enjoyable.

but everyone has their moment. which is why hawk is currently standing over the body of said student, splayed out underneath one of the large trees, bookbag askew and a notepad between slackened hands over his stomach. his glasses are crooked, hair slightly mussed - and it gives him a pang of familiarity as he'd watched this same vulnerability in his own bed mere weeks ago.

(it had taken him longer than usual to wash those sheets.)

hawk clears his throat, lacing his hands behind his back and letting a grin seep into his words.]

Is this your way of telling me you're playing hooky this afternoon, Mr. Laughlin?

[apologetics]

[ tim knows he will never forget the night at the pizzeria or the day that followed, hazy and warm under the protection and care of one professor hawkins fuller. the weight of it all carries him through the remainder of his weekend and well on into exam week which, after everything, he'd felt woefully unprepared. he fumbles an essay for one his history courses, struggles with fatigue and brain fog through one of his theory courses, and it's a miracle at all that he managed to finish professor fuller's paper within minutes of the deadline.

that's not to say he didn't end up in his professor's office, wheezing and tired and panicked in a way that no one else would understand. tim laughlin is not the sort of student to fall behind or under perform on any level, even on his worst days. putting himself together for exams and papers had felt impossible.

(but it was never all about the exams was it? it was about the money. the travel home. the packing. the waiting for everything to come crashing down all over some silly, simple mistake). as usual, however, professor fuller was there to calm him and send him on his way with the promise that all would work out. he could talk to a wide variety of those professors, could put a good word in, could give him more time.

it was the encouragement he needed to flourish.

it's in the last day of finals that the money comes through on an unnamed account and tim sits with the notification for a little too long. the amount curious, and no note attached. the timing odd. coincidence?

no. tim knows better than to believe in coincidences. though there are no fingers or signs pointing to professor fuller, something in tim's gut just pulls at the idea. nags long enough that he can't fathom how it could possibly be anyone else. no less on a week that he has otherwise been disconnected from the app. finals makes it impossible, even though he should have been hustling to save while he's unable to work at home.

but the money is there. $3,000. user962108

tim files it away for later, tries to reason with himself and send the money back, but his feet win out. he carries himself foolishly to the bursar, pays with his local bank card and hurriedly signs up for his classes again. he's had to miss out on the literature course, all filled up. but choosing a post-modern literature course instead really does seem better, anyway.

and so it goes.

tim has to move dorms - to a smaller building so the school can renovate, but it's not so bad. the room is more private, closer to campus, and the window overlooks the hill into the city. it's a better move than the one he'd thought he was going to have to make. he won't forget the cries of his mother or the disappointment of his father when he'd told them he didn't need to return after all.

he'll shake the guilt later. maybe. (he won't).

but it brings him to bantering classes, luncheon versions of office hours with professor fuller, and a summer full of reading and simple pleasures. it isn't often that tim laughlin feels freed in a way he does this summer - soaking up classes and knowledge simply because he can, without the duties or pressures of graduation hanging over his head.

it's that same easy freedom that has tim in the grassy areas of campus, tattered bag to one side, a couple of his textbooks out with notes bursting from the seams. he'd been reading for his post-modern course - a fiction piece by cormac mccarthy - all the pretty horses. his fingertips are smudged in ink from writing, a chewed pencil off to another side, and he'd fallen asleep reading about desolate, distant pastures and strife. his notepad, meant for making comments and remarks, has fallen to one side, and the book has long since flopped shut in his hand on his chest. even the soft, tired fabric of his t-shirt has rucked up enough that there's a sliver of toned stomach showing above the button of his shorts.

the summer arm is balmy and warm and it lulls him into an easy sort of sleep before he realizes what has even happened. he barely catches the sound of a clearing throat, or the low rumble of a voice. at first, his dreams morph into the strong outline of professor fuller standing on the very hills he'd read about, thrown into stark relief by the setting, western sun. but the call of his name has his eyes blinking open, his glasses askew and hair feathered out on the worn picnic blanket he'd laid out.

our father, who art in heaven... he thinks for a moment, trying to allow his brain a moment to detach the hazy dream from the washington dc reality standing over him. it hits him, suddenly, just what the man has said and he sits up in a flurry. the notepad falls to one side, the book practically flops at hawk's feet and he presses a hand to his forehead. ]

Professor Fuller. No, no - I don't - you know I don't -

[ ah. the grin. the playful lilt of his voice.

shit, he has to better about that. ]

I fell asleep reading. [ he almost pouts, lips twisted up to one side, nose scrunched. he'd be flushing were his face not already sunkissed and blooming with new freckles brought on by the summer light. ]

How late is it?

[ he tilts to one side, arching his hips enough to dig his phone out of the back pocket of his jean shorts. class time, definitely. shit. he practically rolls onto all fours in order to sit back on his feet and hurriedly pack his back. the strap has been tied into a delicate knot - the leather finally tattered and broken. it's not great, but it's the only one he has. ]

I am so sorry. But I did finish my reading for your class, as well as the assignment, so I hope you'll be kind to me and not enforce your late policy? It won't happen again - well, it shouldn't. No promises.

[ a little smile, an attempt at a little joke. ] But it was a good nap you interrupted.

[homosexuals]

[there's a few moments of interrupted freedom that hawk has to drink in the picture of tim, pliant and loose-limbed like this in a moment of rare peace. that's what he's noticed most about watching his student flourish for the first part of the semester - the energy he brings every day, the unfettered thoughts that come again and again and drive the entire class forward into uncharted territory they might all explore together. but beyond that, he's watching a more refined version of tim: still fervid as ever about his ideals, his politics, his goals - but with clear purpose. the potential for real action, realistic followups, and less a shakeup of seismic proportions than a clearly driven channel. it might be the most confident he's seen the boy in all the time they've spent together, and outside of a professional context...fired up looks good on him, to say the least. just like that tempting sliver of skin, the peek of soft hair all the way down towards his navel past -

that account hasn't been logged into again, but it also hasn't been deleted. and it also doesn't erase any of the things he knows from personal experience prior, from having tim in his own bed to the dimly lit screen revealing everything else and then some. hawk keeps telling himself it's there just in case - some sort of insurance if it looks like skippy - fuck, tim needs something again. and by the looks of his book bag...maybe he does. hm. but there also doesn't seem to be as much of a struggle in tim anymore just to survive, and if he's entering senior year without the pressure of tuition on his back and the means to make money over the summer instead of down in the dirt planting trees for his father's church garden...well, he's done one good thing out of this mess.

maybe he doesn't open his mouth right away, blocking a bit of the sunlight filtering through and highlighting the golden streaks in chestnut hair, the soft smattering of freckles under his lenses from drinking the sun in on his delicate irish skin that's got just a hint of olive to it, enough that he might actually tan instead of burning up like he'd initially thought. there's something utterly decadent about the way he looks like this - worthy of some impressionist painter's park paradise. what would he look like sprawled on a beach in one of those no-name coastal towns hawk drives to when he needs stress relief? does he delight in a good swim? how about bundled up in nothing but a towel, sand between his toes and waiting for someone to haul him up into a motel room to finish with a good old fashioned romp?

and so - maybe hawk also just stands there and enjoys the goddamn view for a change, not beating himself up for an honest mistake made months ago that he never took advantage of.

but all of it seems to sink in, tim murmuring something half sleepily before sitting up in a panic, and hawk can't help the way his lips pull into a genuine smile at the urgency, the realization he's just getting shit for once.]

So I see.

[he says it dryly, crouching down to pick up the book and hold a thumb down to save what he thinks was tim's place. he flips it over, reading the back synopsis in a quick once-over. he stands back up, keeping it in his hand to note a few earmarked pages, notecards and papers stuck in between the papers. classic laughlin. his hand extends for tim to reach up and take it back.]

I'm assuming this is for work, not pleasure. Or is it both?

[his brows lift teasingly, somehow wanting to encourage that plush pout and the way there's something increasingly boyish about tim when his guard is all the way down. hawk would like to think it's just for him. a dangerous thought, but one nonetheless.]

Well, considering I'm standing here and not in much of a rush myself, I think your professor will take it easy on you this time.

[it's not particularly hot today - the breezy, dreamy sort of thing that probably fills whatever other books tim has for his course load this summer. but there's a trickle of sweat that feels like it's forming at his temple and collecting in the hollow of his throat behind the thin, rolled-cuff shirt he has tucked into dark slacks when tim turns over onto his knees in a pair of shorts. surely he's not doing it on purpose, and yet hawk can't help but stare, mouth suddenly dry as he reaches for the sunglasses slung onto the unused handle of his briefcase. he clears his throat and takes a step back, waiting for tim to get back on his feet so he can shuffle alongside so they can walk to class together in an open invitation.

all of tim's rambling apologies are immediately waved off internally, instead all focus lasering in on the joke. hawk takes a quick glance over his shoulder even though he already knows there's no one coming or going. his gaze drops back to tim, and even hidden behind the sunglasses there's no denying the low, conspiratorial tone's murmured maybe a touch too close.]

Oh, do tell. Any sweet dreams you want to share?

Maybe I should let you get back to it, considering you've never missed a day in my classes.

➤ 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒿𝓊𝒹𝑔𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝓈

[apologetics]

[ two and a half weeks is what it takes for the a- to be scrawled across the top of his second paper. he'd gone from a solid c to an a- and while it had been simple, it hadn't exactly felt easy. he'd had to remain silent in class for the first few days, dutifully copying down everything from the power point and only answering when professor level told him to. he'd started making up reasons to attend the man's office hours - perching on a chair there and trying desperately to look interested and engaged.

office hours began to turn into walks to the classroom in the sun, an offered lunch here and there. it started to feel an awful lot like pretending, like lying, and while it was hard for tim to stomach, he had to.

for when he wasn't in classes, he spent almost all of his time alone. no one knew who he was - how could they? he wandered from the library to the quad to the cafeteria. occasionally he would get on the bus and go to the public library to get something a little different - to see something more than just white walls. he'd see hawk in passing, when he'd come up in the library or quad and speak to him, but it had all been carefully scripted.

public eye. everything prim and proper, and even tim kept his mouth shut more than usual. the line had been drawn and although he'd liked the game leading up to it, he's not sure any reward will be worth the strange, cold thing that has taken root in his chest. it feels like freshman year, when he'd waded among the throngs of faceless students and tried to find somewhere to land, somewhere for his feet to fall.

he never did find a real foundation, really. nothing more than the quality of his work and the adoration of his professors. the few students he knows talk to him, but tim isn't naive enough to think they like him. he knows better. particularly when they pry for his notes or beg for study sessions right before a big exam.

it's a good thing to get used to, he realizes at some point before he gets his paper back. when he's out of school, there will be no hawkins fuller who sees every facet of him. he will be back in a sea of faces, trying to jump and make his mark. no one will know him, and no one will care.

but it's worth it, isn't it? to try and make a difference in the world?

it's his last office session with craig - who the man insists on being called since now tim is of course one of his prized students - and by the time he gets up to leave he feels utterly exhausted. paper in hand, he wanders down the halls of the building, to the opposite corner.

hawkins fuller's door is open and tim stops for a long time to stare at it. it feels like an eternity, and a tiny part of him cannot help but wonder if when he walks in, if anything will be the same.

it won't be. he knows this. tim fully expects the easy chatter of a professor and student, no lines crossed, no boundaries. they're only a week out before summer exams and they're off into fall semester. he knows the signs when he sees them - the distance, the quiet, the rules set so that tim is carefully displaced so that the fire that had started to roar between them peters out.

but he has the paper in hand when he approaches the door. he's dressed up a little - only because craig insisted he take him to lunch to discuss his paper (which is much improved. fuller was doing you a disservice). it's not jean shorts this time but grey jeans, fitted, and a white button down, a few buttons on the collar left open, the hint of a gold chain and a cross peeking overtop. the free food had been the only redeeming part. ]

Professor Fuller? Sorry - I don't want to interrupt.

[ tim doesn't invite himself in. doesn't cross the distance and settle comfortably in his chair, make some quip about hawk working hard, so on and so on...

he just hopes the a- will truly be enough. ]

I, ah. Was hoping you'd review this paper?

[ it's incredibly foolish, really, that all he wants right now is to be seen. to be heard. to be looked at and understood. nothing he can get from any other professors, from anyone else.

it's sad, really, that there is only one person in this world right now who genuinely knows him - and it won't be long before he's out of reach altogether. ]

If you're busy, I understand. I can come back during the scheduled office hours. I don't want to be a bother.

[homosexuals]

[two and a half weeks without tim laughlin in his office is hell on earth.

it should scare hawk how easily he'd become a permanent fixture, the highlight of his entire day to see the mop of brunette hair and dark-rimmed glasses over darker eyelashes framing those sweet brown eyes - to watch him contort himself into that chair and balance his pens above his lips or chew at the tips in concentration while debating him on the complex inner workings of the senate, foreign policy, ambassadors, and everything in between. somewhere along the way it became more than that - the conversations turning from strictly business to an easy sort of camaraderie that filled his own otherwise somewhat lonely time on campus and a hole he didn't even realize was there until it was too late.

it hadn't been meant as a punishment for either of them, and yet as the days drag on near ceaselessly hawk wonders if tim is feeling the same way or if this is yet another mark that he's in over his head if he doesn't knock this shit off. there's a part of him that knows this is the way it should be - that he needs to get used to the familiarity of his life without the boy that somehow managed to capture his mind and his attention for the better part of the last two years. there are nights he lays awake during those two weeks wondering why he'd decided to chip away even more time he should be relishing before tim moves on to bigger and better things - knowing he's destined to soar, hoping maybe at least part of what he's done helping him flourish has given the boy the tools to craft wings that won't melt in the sun this time. fighting the temptation, letting it cool between them - that's the smart play.

because whatever that flirtation had been...what would have happened if he'd claimed some sort of reward? the look on tim's face, the near disappointment in his response that day had made hawk think twice. maybe he'd been the one to push it too far if the few attempts at initiating stolen contact were anything to go by - moments in the library where he'd showed up unannounced, or in the quad, embarrassingly stopped in his tracks to see the one person he'd somehow managed to isolate and push away. even then the conversation had been stiff and strictly professional - none of their usual banter, not even a wry smile or a slight entendre. hawk isn't stupid enough to think that all his time spent with craig is what's responsible for this sudden shift in their dynamic - even when the man himself drops by to ask what he's done to put the fear of god into the kid and brag that he's whipping him into shape. if only he fucking knew.

his weekends are spent out of town in a desperate frenzy to pump his dick into a warm body and have quick, brutal fucks that relieve nothing at the root of what keeps him up at night and has him surrendering to his own hand more often than not.

it's better this way. it's the responsible thing to do for them both. they need to get used to it sooner rather than later - hawk and tim together a bright spot in each other's passing journeys, now at the crossroads where tim will exceed him in all ways and hawk will watch it with pleasure. and maybe someday when his student is giving impassioned speeches in the news, or rallying his fellow countrymen in the house chambers - he'll stop and think back fondly on his time at georgetown with a man who encouraged the best in him for one fleeting moment.

exams are a week out and hawk is knee-deep in putting together study guides when there's a voice that stops his pen mid-scribble, has him glancing over at the door wondering why tim doesn't just come in with the good news. it has to be good news if he's here, doesn't it? instead tim looks skittish, a stark callback to the early weeks where his confidence had been crushed and hawk had to coax him back into himself. had craig really crushed his spirit that much? this had been meant to be a fun game of subterfuge, a triumphant moment for tim to conquer a common dislike and privately laugh about it here in hawk's office between warm glances and the verbal praise he'd been happy to start doling out. instead, they feel somehow like - ]

Hey there, stranger. Don't be shy, come on in.

[his own confidence is a practiced piece of the carefully constructed mask, even if doubt itches underneath every inch of his skin. he gestures to the chair, eyes warm and a soft pull of his lips that he hopes are encouraging for tim to at least come back out of his shell. and if he doesn't?

christ.]

I've got all the time in the world for you, Laughlin. Always.

[his hands fold atop the desk as he watches tim slink in, eyes dropping to the paper clutched between his hands. is he laying it on too thick? too distant? it always feels like one step forward, two steps back - and part of him thinks it shouldn't be nearly this complicated to figure out a boy who wears his heart on his sleeve more often than not. but that's what he's been teaching him to forgo, and hawkins fuller does it better than anyone. too good, if this is the result.]

Let's see what you've got, huh?

[he waits for tim to slide the paper over, waiting quietly until he takes in the a- stamped across the top. his gaze drags up slowly, unreadable for a moment before he lets all the pride flood into the dazzling smile and glittering shimmer of his eyes.]

Well, well. Looks like congratulations are in order.

[hawk pauses, searching his face for any hint of that simmer they've both dampened, knowing it should stay that way. that he's playing with fire if he brings it up to a boil again.

and yet - ]

Nice to welcome back my boy. You've been sorely missed.

[apologetics]

[ hey there, stranger.

the comment seems so genial, so friendly, so practiced and perfect that it makes tim's skin crawl. they're not strangers, even now, with two weeks of silence and distance pressed between them. tim had followed the rules - played the game with an expert skill he's sure that hawk won't see the full color of. but it's no matter - being invited in feels a little like he can breathe again, and so he crosses the threshold into the office.

this isn't just about loneliness - that's something tim realized the first week in. it isn't just about company with measured attention and careful consideration. tim cares about the man named hawkins fuller, about the person beneath the carefully constructed mask which, he of course knows now is a very skillful ploy. where he falls in the slippery slope of the game hawk plays? tim doesn't know.

but he hands over the paper, turns to set his bag on the floor beside the chair that even the entirety of the department considers tim's chair and settles into it. he sits proper, both feet on the floor, hands in his lap, watching hawk's reaction like any student might under the scrutiny of faculty, but he's really watching the lines of the man's face. looking for the hint of fraying or dark circles, or anything.

anything to prove that maybe two and a half weeks was hard on him, too. or is tim simply in too deep with idealist dreams and fantasies?

he's bulletproof, his man. or is he? after all, hawk had found him throughout their quarantine - the library, the quad.

tim's face burns with the praise, and burns deeper at the way the man smiles, bright and dazzling, the blue of his eyes glittering. he is something out of a greek myth, out of a sparkling museum of wonders. tim doesn't stand a chance. ]

You didn't play by the rules.

[ and there it is - where the boy from two weeks ago would glow under the praise and simper and press, tim sits back easily in the chair, letting an elbow fall to one of the arms so that he may set his chin in his own hand. there's a little tilt, a set of his jaw, and a burning defiance in his eyes. nothing like the fury from months and months ago, no.

it's that simmer hawk is looking for, but changed. matured, aged. ]

And although you created the game, made the ruleset, I think it's only fair you draw clear, precise lines. I think I deserve more than just congratulations for going above and beyond on both the assignment, and managing you.

[ there's a tiny little smile, despite the intensity of his eyes. he's been lonely - adrift without the man and trying desperately to understand just what everything meant. he'll wonder, still, when he's not drawn in by the undeniable force that is hawkins fuller. he can't say no to him. he can't deny him. even if he wants to, something makes it simply impossible.

he'll address the sadness later. there's plenty of time to think about a world without this. it's his near future, and a part of him doesn't want to waste what little of all this he has left. ]

You didn't even read it. The essay.

[ the positive consequences of negative stereotyping in the academic community - and the essay goes on to detail the stereotypes of youth, homosexuality, and the interplay between that and an academic setting. it even details the pressures of the older generations, the faculty, and all those trapped and conforming to the old world that academia flaunts.

it's a blatant mockery of craig, an older, gay man with eyes for pretty things younger than him. caught up in the ego created by his degree and position in the university. all that, tied up in flowery language that craig may not otherwise catch as subtle digs and? an a- was artfully earned. ]

I would say I missed you, but I saw you just a few days ago in the library, sir.

[ he did miss him. a great deal. it shows in the way he keeps his eyes on hawk's face, watching, even though his body language hasn't changed. ]

➤ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟

[apologetics]

⨳ midnight texting meme - being out past midnight is bad for your health, Hawk...

➤ 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑒𝑟

[apologetics]

You'll never guess who paid a visit to my office this afternoon.
Even Mary seem surprised.

[homosexuals]

Should I be worried?

Tell me who. Or did you really want me to guess?

[apologetics]

It would have been more entertaining if you'd guessed.

Craig Level. Showed up around lunch - said he knew me and the receptionist let him up.

➤ ℎ𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑑

[apologetics]

[ two weeks have passed since their summery, italian date, and with the summer semester coming to a close, tim has been equally hard at work in his schooling and his extra-curricular activities. he still spends an inordinate amount of time in hawk's office, arguing and conversing until even the building feels stuffy with that late summer humidity that eventually drives them out of the political wing altogether.

it's strange to miss someone - to miss the electric, visceral connection that had been encouraged in the dim light of a restaurant and street lamps. maybe it had been pure lust - that's what anyone else would tell him, given the circumstances - but their conversations have changed. charged still with something else, although to the outsider it would be innocent and hidden. it doesn't change the subtle touches that come to pass - fingers across a desk, pencil, arm of a chair. a secret whispered close to an ear or elbows propped on a desk for a long lean.

secrecy. careful cover. hard boundaries that could have been crossed had tim merely pressed over that center console and said fuck it all for once in his life. but tim laughlin is careful, considerate, empathetic. to a fault, of course.

it's not enough to stop the work he must do to fund the upcoming fall semester where one class has already fallen through. he'd sent an email to professor fuller earlier in the evening, detailing the issue - he needs credit hours, needs a course, could take some kind of interdisciplinary course, but why wouldn't he want to spin up a class with the man on deep political theory, political ethics, and the us government system?

it had been a full syllabus, written up and carefully planned by tim himself, but the end of the email had been quick -

I appreciate your consideration, Professor Fuller, and would enjoy the opportunity to challenge myself further in my final semester here at Georgetown, and I can't think of anyone better to do so.

However, I will be busy this evening and next and may not be able to answer any questions until Monday. Sorry - work calls.

it's a hint, of course. hawk has gotten rid of the app, or so he says - but a few new visitors to his chat have stayed oddly quiet. maybe it's just desperate wanting, maybe it's just foolish delusion, but.

his followers get a little notification when he goes live:

SCHOOL'S BACK IN SESSION - WANNA GRADE MY PAPER? 🍎

and should anyone at all come by the stream they will find the same outline of the faceless boy. a white button up shirt, tight fitting to reveal the strong line of his shoulders, a plaid tie, and a gray sweatervest. the navy shorts he wears with him look to be uniform shorts, but a few inches too short, revealing a bare knee, with high navy socks cresting just beneath his knee cap.

he has what appears to be basic math homework spread across his lap, toying idly with a pencil, letting the eraser trace invisible lines along the top of one thigh as some of the tip incentives roll through the chat. dollar amounts listed for every piece of clothing that could be pulled off, activities he could be made to do, and a private session. ]

Math is just so hard.

[ ... and his audio is live. ]

[homosexuals]

[tim's final is the first one he grades out the gate - which is becoming more and more of a habit. but there's a sense of triumph to know that he's made it throughout the last year and some change without breaking his rule: and now they're both free of it. on a technicality, sure, but all those things they'd had to keep reserved for fantasies and the future could be a reality now. to say hawk thinks feverishly about that night across candlelight and under the stars, filled with so much of what could be before he'd succumbed to his baser instincts and cracked under the desire to taste and feel and have tim - that doesn't even seem to come close to what it really is. everything he's forced himself to bury since december has come to a boil, barely contained under the surface. his dreams are both blissfully and torturously plagued by the feeling of tim's succulent lips - replaying the way they felt against his mouth and his body was firm and solid and everything he'd love to pull apart underneath sure hands.

it's no surprise he's had to spend many a morning jacking off or under a cold shower - greeting the day with morning wood and an empty bed that he's practically counting down to having filled. eventually. soon.

the semester draws to close with neither a bang nor a whimper, and hawk feels somewhat of a sinking in his gut when he realizes tim hasn't burst through his door or found some other way to reach out for their - dare he say it, happily ever after. maybe he's got cold feet. maybe he's realized the amount of obligations it's still going to take to make this a reality for another semester, until graduation and even beyond. but the answer comes in the form of an email from tim himself, hawk's blood rushing straight to his ears as he clicks to open it knowing nothing his boy is too smart to send anything untoward with their school emails still attached.

the good news: he'll still be seeing a lot of tim next semester.

the bad news: it won't be exactly the sort of tim he was hoping to get to finally see.

not that he's complaining, and there's something to be said for edging himself for another semester in close quarters entirely with his prized student. there was a certain melancholy that hadn't settled in at the knowledge that his classroom would be a little quieter, a whole lot less intelligent when it started up again in the fall. but this? this all but ensures his own stimulation and energy when it comes to teaching will be fulfilled - quite literally, his cup might runneth over. a full syllabus customized to the advanced level and precision a student like tim needs, and it'll look fucking spectacular on his resume to boot when it comes time to argue his case for an internship in dc.

still. it's the equivalent of balls that are bordering on the kind of crisp blue only found in the arctic. christ.

of course hawk accepts, polite and complimentary with only a few minor adjustments to his proposal. but it's the footnote that catches his eye, and after the last few days of coy back and forth, no real direction - it feels like he's a man in the desert with the promise of water and an oasis dead ahead. no mirage, no need to hide it anymore. two can play at this game, after all. not that he's going to compromise everything he's worked at so far, nor is he going to give tim the satisfaction of letting it be obvious right away. he knows he's being baited, and a part of him is immediately twitching behind his fly at the thought of tim dangling his own power over hawk here, drawing him in like a moth to the pretty flame.

the account he'd used to send the money for tim's summer class is still active, even if it's been idle ever since. but he logs in thinking about the hint of "work" and wonders what he's been missing. maybe he can just pay for an old one, or a few photos to keep as a personal spank bank through the next fifteen weeks.

instead, he gets something so blatant it makes his mouth run dry: tim, ever the perfect little student in a uniform that looks ripped from the pages of some rigid boarding school or private catholic institution. it hugs him in all the right places, youthful despite the obvious work put into his muscles that hawk has only had the briefest hint of lately. fuck. he looks good. he'd look even better if his face were in the picture - he can just picture the pout, the way he'd tongue the eraser or put the pencil over pursed lips.

before he can even think about it, closes out of all his actual work for the day, leaving only the browser with tim's livestream open. he thinks about it for a moment, bypassing the rest of the chat and sending over the amount for a private session. if he's gonna do this - he might as well go big since he's already home.]

Math's not my forte, but I think I can help.

You wanna play hot for teacher?

➤ 𝑖 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑠

[apologetics]

[ it would be a blatant lie if tim denied the fact that hearing hawkins fuller's voice over the camera that night hadn't been electric, hadn't awoken something new that he knew was there between them. but hawk has rules, he's set boundaries, and though tim wants nothing more than to rail against them. prove to hawk that everything they both want is right and it will work.

he doesn't.

instead, he does his assignments, sits pretty in class, performs at night with the cameras on knowing that hawk will be watching sometimes. they've made it so close to the end of the semester, only one final paper between him and the winter holiday. he's stuck between topics, and when he shows up at hawk's door unannounced, he peers in, curious. he's bundled in a tired sweater that's a little too big for his form, little patches sewn into the elbows, a rosy bite to his cheeks from the wind, his lips red from biting on them against the cold air. ]

Professor Fuller?

[ tim knows what he looks like - blushed and red and windswept, tiny waist accented by the way the baggy sweater falls a little short - meant to be longer but washed over time and it sits right at his belt line, a sliver of flushed skin peeking where he's bent to peer in. ]

I have a few questions - if you're free? It's about the paper.

[homosexuals]

[his restraint is hanging on by a fucking thread.

it hadn't seemed like a good idea at the time, per se, just slightly better than the very real temptation of bending tim over in the middle of his office or dragging him across his desk, into his lap and fucking him within an inch of his life. that's a mistake he absolutely cannot come back from: just like kissing him like a man starved of sunlight and air, buried underground for decades and coming to the surface to drink it all in. he could have spent hours in that car - could have gotten carried away. but there's still one shred of his dignity and his very, very questionable responsibility here as the adult. part of him knows none of it will ever be fair or right the way it should, an implicit power imbalance that won't ever even out until tim has long graduated and spent time away from him and this campus - and by then, he'd surely know he can do a hell of a lot better than hawkins fuller.

it's selfish. dangerous. but every night he logs on all the same, clicks into his private room and keeps paying tim's bills to see him debauched and desperate at night, demure and determined by day in his class with tongue worrying the tip of his pen and eyes following his every move. there's an electric heat between them he's shocked no one else has managed to pick up on, especially on the hard days like mondays - two days without seeing him in person and spending extra hours tugging his dick nearly raw with want, or fridays - the crisp winds outside growing more beckoning to sequester inside a coffee shop or by a fireplace and invite someone over for a cozy weekend in.

but against all odds: they've both made it. the last week of the semester, one more paper, a final grade...and then freedom. on a technicality, but freedom nonetheless.

his focus has been wandering all damn day - thinking about the way tim sounds when he's bent in half and begging for permission to come. the way he looks with hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, cheeks rosy and lips bitten red with desire and that slight shyness he never loses when hawk asks to really see him, wide open and vulnerable. it's the same look now, somehow when he glances up just in time to catch the sliver of skin and the exquisite details high on his cheekbones and nose and in the tousle of his hair. fuck.

hawk swallows thickly, placing his pen down and folding his hands before nodding towards the door.]

Mr. Laughlin - sure. Come on in.

[maybe the last office hours they'll ever have. just one more. they're so close to the finish line.]

What about the paper? Your initial pitch was solid - are you thinking of changing it?

nebulous text - maybe sometime over winter break?

[apologetics]

You really shouldn't have gone out.
The news is saying the temperatures are dropping and it's going to freeze over and your office is up a hill on campus, you know.
I could have walked my way there and avoided any of the cars you're going to be dodging.
Never mind the guilt I feel that I'm still in your bed and you're out in the cold getting your briefcase.

[homosexuals]

Read what you just wrote me again, Skippy. Temperatures are dropping, so what kind of asshole would I be sending you on a walk into campus?

You just keep that bed warm for me, yeah? And when I get back you’re gonna forget all about the idea of anything being cold when I’m through with you.