homosexuals | [UNI AU]

[UNI AU]

CAMBOY UNI AU

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

[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.

Edited 2023-12-23 06:41 (UTC)

[ 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. 😇

[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?

Oh, you like my brain more than anything else?
I'd say someone's lying to me, mister.

[ the public cams are easier, really - he doesn't have any real direct interaction save for a few little tip options. these one on ones can be awkward, difficult, laborious. sitting for even thirty minutes and parading around like a little doll for some of these men makes his stomach churn, but this guy has always been a welcome change. a regular viewer, and lately, a regular one on one. while the sweaty-pawed others usually make him do lewd things with no payoff, this guy always seems to speak the same language as tim, even though there's nothing at all to indicate that. something about the conversation, the texts, the asks.

and so when he sees the words, he can't help the way it makes warmth start up low in his belly. sure, he can get hard and get off on just about anything on cam - he can fake it so easily, too - but this heat is real.

he slides a hand down his front, to the hem of his shirt and slowly, slowly, starts to slide it up. he reveals the happy little jut of his hip bones, the rise of his abs. ]

Slow enough?
You stroking yourself in time with me?
Maybe I should go even slower.

[of course he's lying. that's the sad reality he won't let himself dwell on, the epitome that neatly summarizes the whole of his life - a carefully crafted lie to make things "easier". these days though, he's wondering exactly who it's supposed to be easier for - because it certainly doesn't feel like it's for him.

this chat box might just be the most honest space he has - and if he were to get a little drunker and a little more morose, there's a slew of ideas to unpack around it, like the fact that he tests out certain endearments and sometimes lets himself pretend the boy on the other end is his and his alone. someone to come home to, someone that dangerously has merged with a pretty face and thick black spectacles over pretty brown eyes and floppy brunette hair. it wouldn't be the first student that's caught his eye in a severe lack of professionalism, but it is the one he's let himself get carried away with in the safety of black against white and the unending blink of a cursor.]

To you? Never.

[that much is true. for now. but his attention is drawn elsewhere when thumbs hook against the soft fabric of his worn shirt and tug it up, inch by inch of toned flesh that ratchets up his pulse and has his cock stirring against his palm with ease.]

That'll do.
Sounds like you're a little feisty tonight. Something got you riled up?

[hawk watches the way the dim light shifts over his hips - like a fucking aircraft martial directing his gaze straight to it, making him imagine what the sweat and hot skin would taste like under his tongue.]

You know what's next. Show me what you've got under there tonight - pants off.

[boxers? tighty whities? a jock strap? nothing at all? it's always a delightful surprise - and it's all but guaranteed to make hawk's mouth water.]

Edited 2023-12-26 18:27 (UTC)

[ sometimes with sessions like this, tim closes his eyes and tries to imagine what the man on the other side might look like, what he might sound like, smell like, feel like. this regular is always formal, in a way that makes tim think he's older. of course he's older, though, his viewership almost always appears to be men in their late thirties and upward. but this guy has a sort of charm that he's able to read between the lines somehow.

that, or it's just a fantasy he's made into his reality for these sessions.

he'd like him to be broad, tall, strong, handsome. palms wide enough to fit over his throat or cuff the back of his neck. a voice low and husky, eyes cold and demanding - expecting.

what would it be like to be cared for? taken care of? it makes tim laugh out loud on his side, thankful that for now, he hasn't turned on any audio other than the music. ]

Maybe a little.
I haven't seen you in my chat in a while.
Like I said - I've missed you.

[ the shirt comes up, up, up - revealing perky little nipples, the dusting of hair on his chest, his arms, and he pulls the tee up and off screen, then tosses it into the background.

his hand glide their way back down his own chest, to the button of his denim shorts - they're too short for public eye but he rears up on his knees so that his abdomen and hips are in better view, jutted out for emphasis as he undoes the button, the zip.

there's the waistband of a dark red thong, the staple calvin klein in block print across the fabric, even as he shimmies out of his shorts, letting them slide down his thighs and stay a rucked mess at his knees. there might already be a little wet spot on the crimson fabric, a hint that he's feeling it, too.

he snaps the waistband, and if hawk's listening? the audio is on - the sound audible against his skin. a rare treat. ]

I could change into something else, if you'd like.
Your Skippy wants to please you.

Been busier than usual at work, but now I'm feeling awful neglectful.
I'll let you in on a little secret - I've missed you too, Skippy.
Thinking all about you when and where I shouldn't.

[not entirely a lie either. if it happens to come up when he's at his desk, watching the line of tim laughlin's neck bent over his paper while he scribbles furiously to take notes, or when he catches the taut indent of firm muscle catches his eye across campus and makes his dick throb fleetingly for the hour when the world is dark to his desires, that's no one's business.

skippy can't see the way his throat swallows hard at the reveal of those pretty, pink little nubs, hand lazily dragging against his own woven, silky tom ford boxers. he knows how sensitive they are considering he's made his boy toy with them at length until he was begging for more. but it's the slash of red his eyes narrow in on, wishing he had more than just curved, 34-inch monitor in hd to see all the details he might otherwise be missing. that dark spot, for example - it should be flattering that none of this is faked for show, and it is.

especially when he would have paid extra for that sweet little sting of fabric smacking against supple flesh.]

Not really much I'd like to see you get into right now in the way of clothes. You'd make a hell of a Calvin Klein model, though.

[body like that and hawk assumes he must be raking in the cash. or is he? and frankly: why should he care in the first place? this is why he doesn't do "entanglements", as marcus has kindly dubbed them. his fingers hover over the keyboard before punching in one-handed:]

Lie back and get comfortable, hm?
The best way to please me right now is to get that pretty red nice and wet. Dealer's choice, but I wanna see it clinging to you over every inch - you got that?

Edited 2023-12-27 04:56 (UTC)

I’m sorry work has been so busy.
I could call and complain they’re keeping my man away from me. Make sure they give you plenty of time off so I can take care of you.

[ it’s a nice fantasy, really. an important, handsome boyfriend to play house for. cook and clean, look after him when he’s tired from work, give him foot rubs or back massages. a simple, easy life.

tim wants more than just that, really. wants to do something important, be a part of something. but if he can’t, being cared for might be nice. it doesn’t even have to be love.

he’s not meant for that. ]

Why do I have a sneaking suspicion you’re the real Calvin Klein model here?
But fine, Mr. Model Man. Dealer’s choice?

[ there’s a shift, his body moving for a moment and first he’s turned, on all fours to reveal the pert muscle of his ass showing around the thin sliver of fabric of the thong. he slips from his short jean shorts before he stretches once, showing the planes of his back, and he even lets out a sigh which is now more audible over the music.

there’s some finesse to what he’s doing - keeping his face from the camera as he turns and relaxes back into the plush covers of his bed. he’s propped up enough for his chest to stay on display, to show the wide splay of his legs and the burgeoning hard on in his underwear.

he has a nondescript phone in one hand, for the chat. the other hand toys idly with one nipple, enough that it makes his hips squirm. ]

I wanna take my time for you - so ignore the clock, sir.

[ that he’s doing this for money to pay for school is something he should be ashamed of. he doesn’t make riches, but it’s enough to pay for housing and classes each semester. extra meal credits if he’s lucky, maybe some spending money for smaller items.

his scholarship just isn’t enough.

his free hand travels to his chest, stomach, and he gives one rub over his dick. ]

I want to know what you wanna see.
A gift for your return home.

That's real sweet. But don't you worry - the holidays are coming up and I'll have plenty of free time to spoil my boy for a few weeks.

[which reveals a lot more than maybe hawk means to, what with the absence of family and more time than usual for a holiday break, which isn't something that comes with the typical 9 to 5 corporate job. he doubts a camboy is diving into the particulars and thinking much about who he is outside the other side of the screen, but still. can never be too careful.

and yeah, maybe it'd be nice to come to home to someone willing to give him all of that. but that's about where it ends, because most people don't like to play pretend and stay hidden like a dirty little secret when the person they're fucking isn't fully out. won't commit beyond a couple late night romps and trips out of town if he can even fit that in. love certainly isn't on the table. hell, it's not even in the same building.

but it's hard to care when skippy is giving him everything he wants to see anyway without the strings. the arch of his beautifully muscled back, the peek of red covering that tight pink hole he'll have split open by the time his thirty minutes are up. of course it's not a two way camera, but hawk leans forward anyway, licking his lips absently and slowly teasing along the sudden swell of his dick a with a little more firmness.]

I'll pay double if it runs over.

[actually he'd pay more than that, but he's not about to shortchange anyone - and while the cynic in him wants to believe it could just be a marketing ploy to invest a couple more dollars into the charade, skippy seems a little too sincere from their past interactions. again - sweet.

hawk's eyes drag over that little shift of hips, the pinch of one of his puffy nipples and his own fingers twitch with the urge to want to be there and do it to him too.]

Christ, just look at you.
Now - normally I'd make you earn it, but I'm feeling generous on account of missing you.
Show me where you want my hand. I'd drag my thumb across that pretty head a few times to see just how eager you are to start.

I'll have to dig out my best Christmas suit for you, then.
I have to spoil you, too. Especially if you finally get a break.

[ it isn't that uncommon for people to take time off during the holidays - businesses that aren't directly connected to retail wind down, he's sure, and so whatever this faceless stranger does for a living must lend itself to a quiet holiday. he doesn't think too much more on it, because after all, it's convenient for tim, too. the winter break does mean he'll be able to be on cam more, which means more money.

it helps he's staying through the winter in his dorm instead of going home, for once.

all that aside, he turns his attention back to the screen, lets his hand wander down his abdomen, to the waistband of his underwear. he considers slipping his hand underneath, but he wasn't lying - he wants to take his time tonight.

and so he rubs down past it with index and middle finger, pressing against the outline of his hard-on, gripping himself over the fabric, and letting his thumb fall to the plush head of his cock. and its with the pad of his thumb he gives a few, slow swipes.

tim sighs, maybe a little too loud (actually on accident, but that hawk can hear him now adds to the electricity of it all). ]

I want your hand here.

[ another swipe at the head, a third. it spreads another pearly bead beneath, making that little damp spot grow just so.

he squeezes his dick once, then grinds his palm against himself, tilting his hand so that he may even cup the weight of his sack and give another squeeze. ]

Here.

[ his hips arch, giving a little squirm as he reacts to the pleasure of his own hand. he traces the line of muscle at his thighs, then back up to the forgotten puffy, pink nipple and gives it a flick. ]

Here.

[ and there's a moment of hesitation, a moment of consideration that, though hawk can't see his expression, may be evident in the way he idly rubs at his areola, then slides up to his throat, and faintly, because he's feeling brave (and he's got something to cover his eyes and the rest of his face should he need it), lets his jaw fall into the image, and the plump swell of his bottom lip as he sucks both fingers in once, tongue peeking between them before his head tips out of view again, and the fingers fall, glistening, to his adam's apple. ]

And here.
Am I being too greedy?

Not to be a cliché, but I'm hoping it's your birthday suit. Or wrapped in a bow. Gotta be a way we can arrange that.

I'll pencil you in, then. And if you behave - you can expect a nice big package to go along with it.

[of the monetary and the physical kind. he knows there's a wishlist with his mystery man's presumed name on it, and a po box any of his overzealous fans won't be able to track. hawk's never endeavored to buy anything off it just yet, but they're coming up on nearly six months of this game - seems as good a time as any to celebrate. call it holiday cheer, or at least the hope for a very white christmas.

speaking of: his gaze is all but hooked to skippy's palm, nimble fingers truly dragging this out just like he asked. fuck, what he'd give to replace it with his own - to swipe mercilessly across the tip and under the sensitive frenulum until he was wet like a girl, leaking and needy. his boy wants him everywhere it seems, cock, balls, nipples - all the things hawk would usually bypass for a quick fuck and rutting into some tight ass and barely getting them both off. looking at someone perfect like this almost makes him want to reconsider sometime.

there's a soft vibration from the speaker, more than just the music flowing on the other end and hawk turns it up, more grateful than ever not to live in a condo anymore and instead a respectable walkup. the last little bit of that soft sigh makes hawk lean forward again, wishing he had a hand free to pull at a cigarette and talk back, all low gravel and domineering encouragement. but that'd be too invasive, wouldn't it?]

There's a good boy. Keep at it - let me hear you.

[still an overstep? he'll find out. but then comes another surprise - the line of the camera moves, or more accurately skippy moves in it. he's never seen anything above the taut muscle of firm shoulders and a delectable looking neck. today he gets the reward of a plush lower lip, the strong curve of a jaw and the little tease of tongue as he pulls his fingers inside before drawing them back down around his neck.]

Mm, maybe I like you greedy. And maybe I might have to fuck the cheek out of you, put you back in your place.
That's one way to get my hand around your throat - holding you down, making you beg for what I'd give you while my other one worked you up.
Think you could cum just by me playing with your nipples till they were sore? Because I do.

[there's a pause, hawk unsure if he's crossing some invisible line. he's never second guessed himself here and frankly he doesn't want to start now. so eventually he types back:]

But that's not what I want to see tonight. Put your fingers back in your mouth and suck for me. You're gonna need it.

Edited 2023-12-28 06:30 (UTC)

You'll just have to wait and see what I decide to wear then.
I'd slip in under your tree if I could.

[ but the innuendo of a big package isn't lost on tim - he gets plenty of gifts from his wish list from the viewers that frequent his lives. most are gaudy little outfits, toys, accessories, but he has a few gift cards on there, too. the options of subscriptions and premier tiers, too, go a long way to insuring he has some meager regular income.

but a part of him wonders what this viewer in particular would do if a door between them could be opened.

tim sighs again, the sound a lilting little thing that ends with a low little giggle, something almost genuine when he reads the man's messages. ]

Maybe I want you to fuck me back into place.
I can still beg, too. I'm very good at that.

[ the pause has his hands idling at his throat, wet fingers sliding back to one of his peaked nipples to toy with it at the very suggestion that the man would make him cum just by playing with them alone. (he could - he absolutely could - he's sensitive there).

but his fingers pause at the little command. a warm flush works its way up his chest to his neck, and he's sure if anyone could see the rise of his cheekbones they'd be tinged a pretty pink. but he'll do what he's told - he always does what this man tells him to do.

shifting again so that he's even closer to the camera, he carefully tips his head, revealing again the jawline, the pink pout of his lips. this close, hawk can absolutely hear the stutter of his breathing, even the hard swallow as his adam's apple bobs. ]

Yes, sir.

[ and he brings his fingers back to his lips, where the other man will have full view. it's dangerous - but he's not recognizable this way still, but it's new territory, and the revelation alone makes electricity sing up his spine. he presses his fingers into his mouth and sucks loudly, lapping at each bend of a knuckle so that the other man may see the way his tongue works round each digit.

his lips glisten in the dim light, and he moans, sucking and swirling his tongue around his fingers as though there's something completely different in his mouth altogether. ]

Is this good?

Guess I can check you off my Christmas list. But we both know I'd be the one sliding down your chimney.

[he's not a regular subscriber in the sense of a monthly reoccurring charge - because that's a commitment he's not about to tie himself down with, but there's bound to be a big tip for tim come christmas morning. and if he had it his way? that'd mean more than one thing. is he even old enough to know the lyrics to santa baby? hawk doubts he's that much older, but christmas traditions with an old fashioned family and a man who never left the fucked up ideals of the 50s and 60s will do that to a person.

his father is absolutely the last thing he wants to think of while he's halfway to pulling his cock out though, so instead he drinks in that breathy little noise, the giggle that sounds downright infectious and has the corners of his lips tugging upward like a fool, like skippy could see him and know it's reciprocated just by the sheer authenticity of it. that's what can't be replicated - the obvious eagerness to please, the genuine emotion behind all of it, the time and care and devotion skippy offers up willingly, not at all like simpering influencers who will say whatever god damn thing to rake in money or manipulate someone into putting their heart and soul into an empty vessel. not that he'd be stupid enough to do it in the first place, but skippy doesn't know he makes hawk think twice.

fuck, just look at him. no questions asked, no worry, no hesitation even if it's more intimate than they've ever been before with this new revelation. and what a reveal it is - even if he's only got his fingers to do this with for now when it'd be so much better served around something else. maybe it's the light, but skippy looks like a full body blusher too, and the idea that it's making him just as hot as hawk has his hand slipping under the waistband and palming himself hard and fast with a low growl that's drowned out by the noise of slickness and skippy's soft moans.]

Perfect - yeah, just like that.

[is it good? it's fucking glorious, is what, enough that hawk lets himself full wrap a hand around the thickness of his shaft, pumping slowly and setting up a rhythm he'll be able to maintain for awhile. the shows only just begun, after all. his responses come a little slower - one handed typing is a little awkward when he's got bigger things to focus on.]

Mouth like that and it's like you were born for my cock, Skippy.
Is that what you want? To take me all the way down until you're drooling around me?
Or maybe you're feeling a little empty down there, under all that mess you made.
Let's have a look. Take it off.

[as an afterthought:]

And keep sucking.

[ in the beginning, he’d been one of those simpering influencer wannabes. he’d had to be - in order to get any traction he had to build a social media presence, build a profile on only fans that would draw any wandering eye deep in the front page. it had been difficult at first to find just what groove he belonged in, but he’d found it. virginal looking twinks have a chokehold on the sex working community, after all.

how many faceless men comment on his waist, comment on his slender wrists, his sleight frame, the way he moves. it’s all there - young and sporty but with the edge of something a little less polished.

but these one on ones make him want to try harder, make him want to please milton, if that’s his real name. and maybe he’s never truly been to bed with anything more than a toy or his own fingers, but part of him thinks he could take it if it were this man.

but it’s a trick of the text, no doubt. he’s always been stupidly idealistic - after all, hadn’t mr. fuller just told him that after class? a promise of a failing grade if he kept it up on the next few assignments.

his cock throbs at the thought, and for a moment he actually feels guilty for letting his mind slip elsewhere. ]

I want to suck down your cock so that I still feel you on the back of my throat tomorrow.
Taste you well into the weekend.
I could sit pretty under your desk, if you have one. Keep you warm on those snowy nights.

[ there’s the next command though and tim whimpers a little around his own fingers, adding a third merely for show, and maybe the promise of what he’ll need later. he sets the phone down and all the while rises up to his knees. it takes the pretty line of his jaw out of the viewfinder but the lewd slurping sounds get louder - his mic, suspended above his set up. this close and he’s sure the man can hear him breathing, all but panting as his free hand falls to his hip.

the front of his thong is ruined - dampened with precum and sticking to the hard outline of his dick. he palms himself once which elicits a high pitched hiss around his wet fingers, before he begins to peel the fabric away.

there’s the faintest - oh, christ - when his dick springs free and he turns, shimmying so that hawk can see him carefully tug the thin slip of fabric from between his toned cheeks.

slowly it comes free, and he carefully maneuvers to slip it from one leg, letting it hang damp around his knee, but just so hawk can get a peek of that waiting little pucker - untouched. he’d been hoping he’d show. ]

Empty. Waiting for you.
I’ve been an awful good boy.
I wish you were here.

Would you like to be? Here?
Tell me how you’d have me.
How well I’m made to take your cock.
I want to be filled by you.
My hand won’t be enough.

[it's not good to wonder what else that enticing jawline has going on above it - definitely not good to let his own thoughts wander and substitute the face of tim laughlin with all his eager naïveté and unflinching conviction for the ideals he believes in. the ideals that hawk was a little sorry to have to fail him for, even if he respects the passion behind it. and that's the kind of passion he sees in skippy too, desperate to please - desperate to serve the way hawk likes. offering himself like some sacrificial lamb on his knees, disappearing from view only to renew the mantra of his soft moans like its directly live-wired straight to hawk's own dick as he pumps a little harder and resists the urge to tip his head back and close his eyes to get lost in that fantasy.]

I do. One at home, one at work. Private office. It's quiet after hours. You'd fit right in.
My boy wants to remember what my hand is like gripping hard around his neck, huh? My fingers in his hair, scalp prickling the rest of the night?
Go home with the smell of me lingering under his nose and on his lips, making everyone wonder what he's been up to even though he looks so goddamn innocent?
You wanna feel the ache in your knees from hours of putting in your time, keeping yourself full of me?

[fuck, his breath comes out in a hard rush and his fingers squeeze tight around the base of his own throbbing dick at the idea of it, and those sounds are encouragement enough that he can almost pretend he feels that sweet mouth instead of the rough palm of his hand, marred by callouses from years of pen-holding and tennis backhands.

and then skippy splays himself out - the natural trajectory this would go if it were real. hawk would keep him on his knees, patient and sitting pretty with his own militant control on the situation even if he'd want to fuck him raw until tears were streaming down his cheeks. long enough until he yanked him back up and bent him over solid wood before laying claim to that untouched little wink of pink beckoning to be stretched out over his spit-slick cock.]

Don't ask questions you know the answer to already, Skippy.
'Course I would.
Your hand won't even come close, but you don't have to take my word for it.

[he's not the sort of man who needs to brag about what's in his pants, but he gets the sense his boy won't mistake it with insecurity as opposed to a statement of fact. knowing he's the first one tonight - maybe even today from just how empty he is makes a swell of pride and possession flare up, warm in his chest and all the way down to his belly.]

Show me how good you can take it. One at a time - just your fingers.
And you don't dare touch anything else until I say so, you got that?
I own you.

[at least for the next thirteen minutes and counting.]

Tell me who you belong to.
Whose hole is that?
Whose cock are you begging for?

[ what would it be like to have someone to go to when the day is done, who wants you wholly and desperately enough to spend hours touching and worshipping and devouring you? tim likes to imagine that in these little sessions that he now knows he never gets enough of. how can one man behind texts on a screen still make him feel seen, wanted, even knowing all the strings attached to this little session.

maybe he's created the fantasy out of some need to make this whole gig be something more than just lewd, sweaty dollars delivered to his bank account. if he has, then it's a nice one to exist in.

he sways his hips, rocking his weight from one knee to the other as he continues to suck on his fingers, his eyes drifting shut as he imagines what this could be, were it not now, were it not him, were it not only fans and paywalls with expectations.

when he opens his eyes, he thumbs at his phone. if hawk is keen enough, he might notice the timer disappears. it's dangerous, getting emotional with things like this, getting caught up in the feigned romance. tim will always be a romantic, and will always, always dream of starry skies and gods with more favor in their eyes than malice.

he can't help it. ]

I want to be reminded that you own me by my existence alone.
My hair, my mouth, my knees, my neck -

scalded like Icarus, clinging to his Sun.

[ he sighs again, and there's a thump when he drops his phone and leans so that milton can see the muscled plane of his back, the way his waist nips in and curves to the swell of his ass as he's perched on his knees, letting them splay wider, parking the pert globes that are on display.

he uses a chair draped in black fabric to prop himself up, enough to keep his head from view but still display the arch of his neck and breadth of his shoulders. his hand comes to view next, spit-slicked fingers reaching first to trace a line down one ass cheek.

it's good he has a mic, and it's good he has a filter on it so that it pitches his voice a little higher than his actual voice. it makes it so that when he can't type, and his hands are busy? well. he can be a little more eager when he reads the responses from the other side.

and so when he speaks, he's already a little breathless, almost hazily wanton in the way he forms his words: ]

I'm your boy.

[ he slides his knees wider, so that when his hand reaches to dip between the cleft of his ass, it's easier to find that exposed pucker, circling first with his index finger to slick it all before beginning to slowly press inside. it makes his ass clech, his back tighten and he hums at the pleasant intrusion. ]

It's your hole.

[ down to the second knuckle with the first finger. and if milton on the other side isn't too preoccupied, he might even be able to see the heavy hang of his balls and the sway of his hardened dick between muscled thighs.

the first finger in, to the hilt. ]

I need your cock, sir. So bad. Please let me add another. Not enough. I need more.

Just wanna be your boy as long as you'll let me.

[ his hips squirm absently - it's not meant to be part of the show at all, just an impatient, reflexive response to the finger he's pressed into himself, hole fluttering around it in the anticipation of more. ]

Please, sir. More.

Edited 2023-12-29 22:12 (UTC)

[it's just words, just a few things anyone would utter when they're hard as all get out and desperate to get off - that's what he tries to tell himself when skippy is still typing his responses out. must be getting harder though, even if he takes time to let hawk know exactly what he wants - the way it aligns almost too fucking perfectly with what he'd let himself want too. ticking all those boxes, drawing him deeper and deeper into this fantasy and yet still managing to surprise him when he pulls out a literary reference that might go over one of those other slobbering, grubby bastard's heads he wastes his time with for pennies on the dollar. but not his perfectly coiffed hair, even it's starting to bead with sweat at the exertion it's taking to back off the imminent build of arousal, the pressure behind his groin. he's just as wet as skippy now, leaking precum and forced to slow his fist even as his attention glances to where the timer has mysteriously disappeared.

if he were of more sound mind, he might give his boy a lecture about no freebies, but he certainly doesn't wanna look like he's got a complaint in mind over it. another gift, another realization that maybe this is more mutual than he initially ever planned. fuck. well he's still milton - and shit, maybe this kid is all the way in san francisco or switzerland for all he knows.

don't get sentimental now, fuller.]

I'd remind you every fucking day. Maybe twice in one, what do you think about that?
Well unlike the Sun, I respect your ambition, Skippy. So maybe I'd soothe those burns and mend your wings.

[and there goes the phone. something about this session is so much more raw than the others, not least of all because it's the first time he's hearing him this open. it's just like what the approximation of heaven must be, filling him with the sudden lackadaisical slowing of his body and better sense like he's drunk another double of whiskey. god, he sounds wrecked already. and so does hawk, even if no one else can hear him in the privacy of his study, accompanied by the ever-growing noises of slickness as his he twists his wrist just right under the drooling head, chest heaving and toes digging into the plus carpet under his feet.]

Oh, yeah. That's right. All of it belongs to me - your body, your mind, your pleasure. Don't ever forget it.
'Cept I know you won't. You're a good boy and good boys get rewarded. Go on, another finger then.
And then another, if you can manage.

[of course he can.]

Fuck, Skippy. I'm taking my time over here too, you know. Had to slow it down so I didn't blow my load at the sight of you.
Or the sound.
Thanks for that, by the way.

[he's not really sure what possesses him to say any of that. normally this is all about the one-sided control, the demands for skippy to enact what he wants to see with the pretense that it's what hawk would do to him not so much as with him. but something in the keening noises, the sweet slur in his voice - it makes hawk decide to share for once. it's not like he's broken some invisible barrier, still just some faceless guy jerking off on the other side the internet, pretending he's got ownership over this beautiful boy for a now-undetermined sliver of time he can tuck away as something existing outside this grimy space.]

[ no one can mend the invisible wings he carries around on his back, feathers missing and shorn, tattered from too long a journey, unready and too weak for flight. they haven't melted against the sun, haven't worn thin from days soaring in the sky, no. people have followed behind him and plucked each one from his back too quick for him to retreat. every turn of the sun brings new, greedy hands at the wait.

but for now, with milton on the other end watching him, praising him? he can believe those wings could be mended.

and with that little dream, he slowly begins to add the second finger, humming lowly at the faint but pleasant stretch. he pumps two fingers in and out for a moment, careful and deliberate, both for his own pleasure but also for milton's. and only at the fourth slide does he add the third, pressing pressing pressing until he's buried to the hilt. ]

I belong to you. Thank you, sir.

[ another sigh and he scissors his fingers, moaning this time at the divine pressure. a little farther and he could find that sensitive little spot to be certain he'd fall apart, but he stops short. this isn't just about him, here. he doesn't want it to be. ]

It's the least I could do to let you hear me. A gift for a gift - early, for the holidays.

[ he sounds breathless, and there's already a sheen of sweat beginning to diamond his back, the stress of balancing himself up so the camera can have its view and the fire starting up under his skin doing all the work. ]

I want you to - [ a little gasp as he moves three fingers in and out, slow, to work himself open. ] - hear me.

Mister - ah, sir - I wanna add another for you.

[ four fingers, a stretch but not impossible. he feels like he needs the sharp bite of something else. ]

Don't cum without me. [ and when he turns to peer over his shoulder, there's the jaw again, and a pout of his bottom lip, intentional or otherwise. a huff, almost like a self-embarrassed laugh, then: ]

Sorry. Please let me cum with you, Milton. I want to.

I hear you, loud and clear.
See you too, how good you are for me. Look how nice you take it.
But be honest - it's not full enough, is it?
And it's a hell of a lot harder doing it all by yourself, yeah?

[but christ if he doesn't just look exquisite in his exertion - the sweat glistening in the dim light along the tight planes of his back, the flex of the toned muscles reaching behind to let his hole suck those prying fingers right up into the pert curve of his ass. a veritable work of art, the kind that's been molded as if from flesh to meet his every desire somehow. that's the part he can't get over - because god knows he's fucked his way through plenty of whiny twinks and dumb bucks who are willing and warm, but definitely don't stir anything more than a few brutal thrusts of his hips before he's finding the fastest escape route. skippy's got the kind of body hawk would do more than just a quick pump and dump - he'd spend hours teasing him, working him up, hell: he even wants to hear what he'd sound like wholly undone with hawk's mouth around his most sensitive parts.]

Four? Well alright, let's see how you manage.
Bet you'd take my whole fist if I told you to. You'd be so full you might even sob - one twist and I'd make you see the sun and the stars.

[don't cum without me.

his fingers hesitate over the keyboard, fist tightening on impulse and stilling. not because he's obeying an order, hell no. normally that would earn a firm hand - a slap, a tug, a brutal reminder who's the one in charge lest anyone think it's more than just no strings. but there's something so painfully earnest about it, like he just can't help himself. like his pleasure is wholly dependent on hawk's.

there it is again. sweet.]

I won't.

[there's a pause as hawk lets what is basically an admission of surrender sink in, before quickly recovering.]

But - one more thing.
Just keep calling me sir.

[why did he give that stupid name anyway? it's not what he wants to hear moaned out as skippy gets closer and closer to that precipice where it'll be too much. but it can't be hawk - so this is what he'll have to settle for.]

Arch your back and show me how bad you need me, sweetheart.

[he wants to see the heavy swell of his balls, the peek of his flushed dick. is he dripping?]

I want more, yeah. If you were here, maybe...

[ tim can only keep his eyes closed tight as he begins to add the fourth finger, the stretch almost too much and too sharp, making little stars burst behind his eyes. if this were the hard, hot heat of a man behind him, would he feel the same? or would the stars burst with even more light and color and light him up from head to toe?

he takes his time, wiggling his fingers to try and make a little more room for each little press of his little finger. ]

I'd take whatever you told me. Need whatever you'd give me. Only if I can see... Cassiopeiae with how hard you fuck me.

[ the farthest star one may see with a naked eye.

he half expects another order, or even a scolding for demanding something, but as he presspresspresses fingers deeper into his wanting hole, he all but pauses.

I won't.

fire lights up under his skin, and it's evident in the dim light that he is, indeed, a full-body flusher. it creeps up his back, his neck. these sessions are not meant to be a give and take - tim is supposed to wiggle prettily in front of the camera and give whatever the other asks, to answer the beck and call of those little words across the screen.

but why is it he suddenly wishes he felt the press of a broad back against his own? a hand along his flank. breath on his nape. but he won't. he never will.

he arches his back as he's told, angling his ass further up toward the screen, and there in the vee of his legs he is all but dripping wet, his cock leaving a slick mess on the sheets beneath his bent knees. ]

Sir - right. Sorry, sir.

[ his fingers begin to move with more confidence, beginning a slow but steady rhythm in and out, curling to maximize the stretch. ]

Oh, God - it's - it's harder on my own. Without you.

[ and it's ridiculous really, how the movement of his fingers have already gotten him worked up, hips wriggling to deepen the press of his fingers, back arching and only better revealing the flared, flushed head of his dick, the way he leaks heavy again, the white sheets showing an old, floral pattern on the mattress beneath it.

he lets out a whine, higher pitched and utterly needy when he catches that soft, sweet spot inside of him. ]

I need you, sir. Please - tell me when I can -

[ he swallows hard and gasps as he pulls those fingers out, then back in, the motion a little inelegant at this angle but he would do anything this man told him now, if that's what it took. ]

I'll be your good boy. Your sweetheart. The best - I'll wait, just -

[ another groan, a needy buck of his hips and he slows his own hand, afraid he might push himself over the edge without permission. ]

[hawk is absolutely not about to stop and google whatever the fuck cassiopeia is - presumably some sort of star or extraterrestrial body. astronomy was something he managed to avoid when he was busy stacking his schedule with polisci, econ, and criminal justice back in the day. there's a good sense skippy is something of a dreamer, and a well read one at that. maybe part of him likes the little things he can surmise from this alone, filling in the blanks on a profile he's only been half given when it doesn't seem that far from the truth.

there's a single drop of sweat he can feel trickling down his temple, breath coming in heavy pants as his fist ratchets up the speed once more as he watches skippy take what he's been given. four looks like a tight squeeze, and with the additional instructions he's been following it makes hawk's mouth water at the idea that he's more than a little bendy if he can twist himself to and fro with only a minimal strain. if he wanted to take it easy on the poor boy he knows there's a whole smorgasbord of dildos and vibrators and shit that looks like it originated from aliens on whatever the hell cassiopeia is. and sure, maybe some men like it to keep going and going and going with battery-powered assistance, but to hawk? nothing beats the feel of real manhood and a good pounding. so no, no shortcuts here.]

Mm, you're doing a hell of a job. If I was there, I'd still be enjoying the show.

[there's nothing to suggest that's a real invitation - just more of the generic dirty talk to heighten the fantasy. but if he was there, he'd have long since ripped away skippy's hand and bent him in half to finish the job. still wouldn't let him touch his cock, though, not that it seems to need much help with how pretty it's drenching his mattress - and, are those flowers? definitely not what he expected. and utterly not the point, as he rocks his hips up and fucks into his own fist, typing coming in with more urgency even as he fights to keep his spelling clear.]

You got me, Skippy. I'm right here, watching e very move.
You wanna cum yeah? You close ?

[hawk watches his hips roll, bewitched by the sight of him staving off his own needs like a good boy, and fuck if that doesn't just set him alight from within. his eyes slip shut for a brief moment, head tossed back as he feels himself hurtling towards his own climax.]

Keep fucking your fingers then. Pretend its me, putting you in your place and giving my boy what he needs.

Do it. Im here.

Jesus - fuck

[that's all he can manage before he crashes into his own orgasm, cock spurting over his fist between obscene, filthy noises of rutting into his own palm and creaking leather from his chair. but he never takes his eyes off the pretty thing on screen - and he's not done, not as he watches every tremble and twitch and the pearly white liquid he'd steal a lick of from skippy's sorely untouched cock. after an orgasm like that, anyone would be sensitive. too sensitive, even. his own breathing hasn't even begun to come down, and he's reaching absently for a kleenex when he shoots over:]

Did you think I was done with you? Not a chance.
I wasn't fair tonight. Not entirely.
Go ahead - stroke yourself off now.

[ his vision blurs enough with the exertion, with the desperate hold he has on the last shred of control he has. if he lets himself fall into the pleasure, he'll finger himself to completion and that's not the goal here, is it? instead, he tries to keep focused on the words on the screen.

god, he wishes he could hear his voice, at the very least.

(he'll wake up tomorrow with insurmountable shame - the desperation for real, human connection so far gone that a man on the other side of a paid, pornographic chat has become his comfort for the night. his shield in the storm.) ]

I wanna cum. Please - sir, please... I promise, I'll -

[ but he sees the words do it and it's with one last press and curl of his fingers that he falls apart, his voice coming out in a spray of shit, fuck, i'm gonna - it's - oh jesus - the music in his room isn't loud enough for this - to cover the choking wail that comes out of his mouth, the way his jaw becomes visible again, mouth dropped open and wide as he groans. his body clenches, hips squirm and the wiry muscles in his thigh twitch visibly.

on the bed between his thighs he comes hard and heavy, strings of pearly white spreading across the fabric, blotting and dampening it. he can hear nothing but thunder in his ears for a moment, and when he comes to, his hand sliding from his sore, fluttering hole, he heaves in breaths that make his whole body shudder and shake.

he opens his eyes, and when he's met with the screen once more and not the warm hand in his hair or smoothing down along his sweaty back, his stomach drops a little.

he's such an idiot. ]

I...

[ he's so sensitive, all nerve endings on fire and he almost wants to beg for the man to take it back. to not ask him to touch himself now until he has a second to recoup, to quiet the fire coursing through his blood. but alas. ]

How much did I make you cum? I'm your boy - and I want to be the best boy you've had.

[ his voice is quiet, hoarse as he pants through the burning afterglow of his climax. but he obeys, just like the perfect good little pet he is. the same hand, spit slicked and sweaty, reaches down between his legs for his aching, weeping cock. he stays like that a moment, so that the man can see the spoils of their passion - hole flared and red, fluttering still as his body spasms and jolts from his orgasm.

he doesn't let the view last long. turning to fall onto one hip in the frame so that milton (no, tim decides, that is not his name) can see everything. his chest, flushed pink and sweaty, nipples hard, and hand curled perfectly around a ripened, hard cock, beginning to stroke slowly.

but every movement causes him to jump a little, like little static shocks, and he's sloppy - the camera shows all of his chin, his mouth, but nothing more. enough that hawk can undoubtedly see the way he bites hard on his bottom lip. ]

I never want you to be done with me. You're so good. I haven't earned it.

[ thus, the blistering punishment that is stroking himself off after such a wild and frenzied rush. it's already getting him worked up again, however, stroking himself. he pauses a moment to catch his breath, arching his back as he presses his thumb to his egregiously weeping slit, much like the man had said he'd do before. ]

I'm losing my mind. [ it tumbles out in an urgent whine as his hand moves again, stuttering. ]

Is your hand bigger than mine? Would you go faster? Slower? Play with my balls or just edge me here until I'm begging to be your boy, your sweetheart, your princess if I had to be?

Jesus Christ -

[ another little gasp, a whimper, and he tosses his head back, revealing the heavy bob of his adam's apple when he swallows hard around a moan. ]

Yeah, come on - that's it. Oh, look at you. Shit.

[what he wouldn't give to be able to murmur husky encouragement against his neck or licking hot against the shell of his hear. maybe he'd lift an arm and bury himself in the musky scent of sweat and sex and the pheromones that make skippy uniquely irresistible. hawk's never been one for any form of aftercare - god no, but watching him come down makes something pull in his chest and break loose inexplicably. that same urge to run his hands through his hair, to caress a cheek and tell him what a good boy he was over and over until his breathing stilled and he settled into a sweet slumber. in fact - ]

A lot. Best one I've had since I saw you last. And you are - don't second guess yourself, Skippy.

[why is he doing this? feeding into it? fuck. hawk finally pauses to wipe off his hands and dig through the drawer in his desk for the half-empty pack of cigarettes, fishing out a spare lighter while his other one is across the room in his folded slacks. the first inhale burns against his throat and lungs, a burst of flavor as he tips his head back and exhales back into control. tempting as it is, he's not gonna go for another round. this is about leaving skippy boneless and unofficially making his mark. skippy wants to be his best boy? well, maybe hawk wants to be the best - interaction he's got on this hellsite.

he tips his chair back, chin up appraisingly as he takes another drag and watches a plume of smoke caress against the screen - parting almost as nicely as the way his boy's reddened, not-nearly-abused-enough hole winks at him from however many miles away.]

Aren't you a sight for sore eyes.
Tell me how it feels, and don't skimp on the details. Too much? Is your dick as sensitive as I know your chest is when you get like this?

[it's gotta be at least sixty-five percent post-nut clarity, as the kids these days say that has hawk shifting only slightly uncomfortably at the endearment of skippy's admission. i never want you to be done with me. if this was anyone he ever followed home, he'd have his zipper up and hat pulled down before the cum even dried.

but one look at that pretty mouth, glisten of sweat across abs that look like they were fucking carved out of stone - yeah, he's a goner. what the hell, it's not the same thing. not a real commitment.]

Lotta questions out of you tonight. This an interrogation I didn't know about?
But fine - it's bigger. I'd alternate between the two until you were teetering on the edge, balls ready to burst. You'd be begging me, delirious with it - say anything I want.

[that's what he'd do. normally. inhale. exhale. bright orange glimmer and a wash of gray in front of so much flushed skin. hawk feels like he's burning up from the inside out watching him, wanting him in a way that hasn't felt this intense since - things he won't revisit.]

And you wanna know a secret, Skippy?
You wouldn't really have to beg.
Watching you fall apart is the highlight of my day. Maybe even my whole goddamn year.

[ with the holidays around the corner it's easy for tim to feel morose, to feel the pull of longing for something that will never come to pass. he will never have a truly happy home to return to - he will never have the peace that others know, a safe place, a respite, a landing pad. he has his dorm, the consistency of schoolwork, the stress of survival, and what? this job?

the consistency of this man - faceless and as distant as anything. but somehow, feeling raw and uncertain and vulnerable right now feels right. it shouldn't.

god, he'll regret this.

"Don't second guess yourself, Skippy." god, is it sad that a stranger believes in him more than anyone in his real life? it is.

tim huffs again, a little bemused laugh that is only swallowed back down into a low groan. ]

My body's on fire. Everything I touch feels like I'm touching live wire. Heat from my toes to my head. My dick hurts so much for wanting your hand on it, because mine's not enough. It's not. I feel empty all over again and - God -

[ he chokes a little when his thumb mistakenly catches against his frenulum, sensitive and raw, making another pearly bead gather at the slit. he lets out a shuddering breath, loosens his hand and slides it down briefly to fondle the heavy weight of his sack for a moment, a reprieve from the hypersensitivity everywhere else. ]

Too many questions for you, sir. Sorry. S'why I don't talk on here. Get carried away.

[ he grins a little, knowing the man can see it and he brings his hand back to circle his dick, alternating back and forth just as the man said he'd do. but it's unfair that this faceless man makes such a confession.

you wouldn't really have to beg. ]

Tell me how you want me to fall apart, sir. Your Skippy aims to please.

[ but he's already squirming with every stroke and touch, his breathing quickening, his voice pitching up just so, the edge of near hysteria setting in as his dick hardens cruelly in his palm. ]

I feel like - I'm going to burst. I can't - [ he's panting, his free hand fumbling wildly for something to seek purchase upon, and he merely ends up with a fistful of the blankets from the bed he's debauched. the muscles in his thighs strain, his heels dig into the plush mattress, his hips begin to buck into his own hand as he writhes, almost like a caged thing, unable to control itself. ]

Tell me what to - I need it - again - I'll... [ he bites his own lip again as another loud, heady moan begins to work its way from his throat. he is seeing the stars, and among them, he's sure, is the faint outline of of Cassiopeia, stars aligned to paint a picture of the ancient queen herself, bound to her throne, made only to experience life from far, far, away, in punishment.

how apt. ]

Edited (words) 2023-12-30 19:07 (UTC)

[if skippy's internal struggle was something he could read, hawk might second guess himself. might be torn between never logging back into this account again, running away from any emotional intimacy and connection - distant as it is - or soothing his boy that it's gonna be fine. he's young (presumably), and whatever he's going through will work itself out. but maybe that's the teacher in him, the one that wants to shape the idealistic and unsound souls into something strong and confident and ready to address the world of washington with their heads screwed on straight before walking into the lion's den. it makes him think of tim again, struggling between the realities of a cruel world and probably looking for the same type of clarity and guidance skippy needs from soft hands and encouraging words.

the hand with his cigarette has temporarily stilled, ash building up as he considers the next move, drinks in every honest admission that spills from his boy's lips as he pushes him through the ringer. it's only when a chunk of it falls on his desk does he stop his gaze from boring into his screen - fixed on the flash of pearly white teeth and that tantalizing jawline all the way down to the cherry red head of his now tortured, overwrought cock. even now he obeys, making hawk feel like he's right in the room with him and watching his delicious suffering on a knife's edge between pleasure and discomfort.]

It won't be enough. I knew that the moment I told you to do this, but I couldn't help myself.
Wanted to see what you'd do with it, and you're really shooting for the moon here. All the stars too.

[the apology falls a bit on deaf ears - for he'd known from the beginning there was no malice in his asking. a kneejerk reaction from years of prying questions into his comings and goings from his father and faculty and especially the nosy administrators with everyone else's skeletons in their own closets to pluck out ad nauseam for their gossiping brownie points. don't let it happen again - he should say, but instead his fingers move of their own volition and type out something else instead.]

Carried away looks good on you. My boy's a curious one, isn't he?
And you trust me.
You'd do anything I asked.

[not a question, a statement of fact. something has shifted in the course of this session, whether he likes it or not, but strangely it makes him want to press forward on this new thread of excitement and possession. skippy's body is struggling to hold on, thighs trembling and feet flexing against his ruined mattress, a pleasing chorus of moans and panting that hawk will tuck away when it's just him and his hand for weeks to come and skippy's not online.]

Keep stroking - faster, and twist your wrist at the tip. Use your hips and fuck up into your fist.
That's it - yeah. Does it hurt? How long do you think you could keep it up? All night? You'd do it for me, too, just like I said.
But good boys get what they deserve.
You can let go now, Skippy.
Cum for me.

[hawk leans back again in the chair, stubbing out his cigarette against baccarat crystal - a gift from dean smith for his 5th year at georgetown - and puts his whole focus on the boy in front of him. his own breathing has long since returned to normal, only now it feels like its escaped him entirely, held in until skippy gets his second release and final release of the night.]

Of course you knew.

[ his voice has long since lost all of its flighty color, now nothing more than a hoarse, low rumble as his hand continues to work as he'd been told. it's making every nerve-ending in his body light up, flashing danger and warning signs every time he closes his eyes. but the man keeps typing and tim keeps reading.

And you trust me.
You'd do anything I asked.

he sighs at the words - a statement of fact. an understanding made somewhere between them between their first interaction to now. tim doesn't remember shaking hands with him over it, but it's true. he trusts the faceless man on the other side of these words, and he absolutely would do anything he possibly asked.

it's dangerous. ]

Do you like me curious, sir?

[ there's a bit more of that playful tone mixed in with the husky exertion. a tease for a tease, a little bite for a bite, to prove he's not all pliable innocence and gullible sweetness.

(he is, really, both of those things. he knows that. but he's sharp - and this is a game he can play. it's no different than chess, really - pieces moving carefully to create a winning strategy and formation on the board. it just so happens the man on the other end plays a better game than he can). ]

I'm curious about - a lot of things. How you'd keep me still on your cock while I do this. How much it would stretch me open. How many times you'd cum in me before you'd let me cum. How long I'd - oh, God -

[ another thrust of his hips, just as he'd been told. angling into his fist that twists at his tip then sinks back down. his voice and music can't mask the slick, quick sounds of himself stroking. ]

Please, sir. I could keep it - hours, if I had -

[ and yet he doesn't even get to finish his statement before he sees the words cum for me and that's all it takes. one stroke and he's spilling hard over his hand, unable to even stroke himself through it for how sensitive and sore he is. he comes hard, sticky strings of white all but making a mess of his stomach, his abs, his legs twitching and his fingers fisting hard into the sheets as he cries out, louder than before and strained.

it takes longer to come down from this one, to settle, his body feeling molten and loose, his mind foggy, his dick still twitching, laying heavy on his stomach through the aftermath and throbbing from the abuse. ]

Thank you, sir.

[ the jaw on the screen works, he swallows hard and lets out a little gasp as he tries to catch his breath. a hand falls to lazily swipe at the mess on his stomach, before his hand rises to rest against his ribs. ]

I hope your boy made you proud.

[ and he always says something like this at the end, a little reward, but he never says it out loud. always types. he can't be bothered to reach for his phone. ]

I like when you're curious about that, sure.

[and maybe it's the note of flirtatiousness in skippy's voice, the slightly lower pitched inquiry that proves his boy isn't just some naïve little sycophant that's gonna tell him what he's paying to hear. as long as he keeps asking questions like that - the kind that get him hot in the collar and already half-hard, considering another go on his own, not the personal ones that extend beyond what belongs in a bedroom or a chatbox.]

I wouldn't keep you still, Skippy. I'd fuck you through it - and it'd be tempting to go as fast and hard as I want your hand to keep moving, but variety is the spice of life.
Think I'd go nice and slow, hitting the one place that'd make you scream even louder.
You'd be a goner in my arms, and I'd tell you what a good boy you are the whole way through, right against your ear, nice and low.
Because you are, and it's just for me, isn't that right?

[watching the rest of this unfold is like a train without the emergency breaks, wheels off the track and moving on inertia alone. hawk turns up his volume, exhaling slowly as the filthy noises of slickness and hot flesh working itself against each other mingle with skippy's cries of strained bliss. fucking beautiful, just gorgeous - he wants to type, but is that too intimate? an overstep into the kinds of compliments he gives the dean's secretary, or lucy when she's in town. besides, he thinks skippy will much more appreciate a succinct:]

That's my boy.
Well done.

[part of him wishes he were there to get a taste of that mess - to lave the flat of his tongue against the line of his abdomen and trace it all the way up, or drag a finger through it and suck. but he'll have to settle for watching the heave of his chest, listen to the way his breathing is still audible between little gasps as the aftershocks work their way through him.

and this is where he'd agree. thank him for his time, send him another tip and then log off. all good things come to an end, and he's never had a reason to drag out his goodbyes. until -]

Always.
You were something else tonight, sweetheart.

[there's a hesitation, wondering if skippy will end it and get back to - whatever it is he does after these. it's late, christ, somehow having skipped just shy of midnight, which means he's gone well over his initial thirty minutes. losing track of time like that was much too easy to do. dangerous, again. he should just leave him to it, but...]

That was intense.
You alright, Skip?

[something tells him skippy will appreciate the extra care, the extended goodbye. and he'll definitely appreciate the second payment of $250 hawk is going to send over - except, he gets the sense it might cheapen the whole thing if he does it now. so he doesn't. not yet.]

I really am your good boy. Just for you.

[ there's a husky, airy sort of confidence to it in the way his voice drops back into a low, lazy rumble. the aftereffects of his orgasm have left him feeling absolutely fluid, and even the way he shifts to make some room for himself on the bed is lazy and slow, near feline in the way he stretches out. if he could somehow dispel some of the fiery heat that writhes beneath his skin, he would, and it shows in the curl of his toes, the twist of his fingers in the sheets.

and this is where it all comes to an end, usually. the fantasy shatters by the ring of a notification of payment, brought on by a screen going black and the room going strangely quiet. so he doesn't look at the screen when he hears the first notification. it will be the money, a goodbye.

but then another, and another. his head tips, eyes fluttering open and when he looks at the screen he feels suddenly, strangely overwhelmed. he swallows hard, sucks in a breath, and though it might look like he's just caught up in the throes of an afterglow, tim knows better.

he hums, softly. ]

It was.

Intense.

[ but that You alright, Skip? - a shortening even of the pet name he's earned, the concern. the careful care. he stares at the screen for a long time, the hand on his abdomen sliding up his chest, but the motion is absent in the way he reaches for his own chin, tacky fingers lingering there, as though caught in sudden thought. ]

I'm good. Ah. Great.

[ and he is. tim just breathes for a second, and in the dim light, there might be the faintest peek of a quirk at the corner of his lips. wry, maybe. a little self-surprised. but he's coming down, slowly, from the high of it all - from the burning thing the last hour has been, and somehow, here alone in his dorm room, even when the knowledge that he's been looked after on the other side of the screen - he feels strangely alone. ]

You?

I guess that's silly. Of course you're alright.

[ a soft huff, embarrassed at himself. what else can he even say? this crosses the lines he never thought existed, that he never wondered about.

~~i wish you were here. i wish you would stay. i wish you were real. i wish you cared for me like it seems. i wish someone did.~~ ]

Hope I wore you out enough to get some good, good sleep. Coming up on the holidays, like you said. [ and there's a small pause, consideration for what he should say, how he should end this, if he should end this. ]

They better not work my man too hard. Try not to let them. For your boy's sake.

[ a bit of the fantasy, the playacting, the return from a place he's unfamiliar with, but he's doing a bad job at finding the tone, the notes to hit. instead, he sounds soft (too soft) and sincere. god, is this why he's always calling him sweet?

and where he'd use the name milton in the past, where he'd trust that the man had monogrammed stationery or clothes with the letter M scrawled beautifully across them? he doesn't now. no. ]

Sweet dreams, mister.

Edited 2023-12-31 02:18 (UTC)

[there's a few moments where it's hard to read the tone on the other end - wondering if it's just the lazy satisfaction of coming back down to earth, dropping from the high of a climax that must have wrung him out and exhausted him down to his bones. hawk would bet money, if he were a betting man that is, on skippy sleeping nice and deep tonight. or is it a discomfort? was hawk the one reading too much into these little slips of a more intimate side of skippy? the voice chats, the unadulterated pleasure, the way he obeyed every single command, wanted to please him? maybe he has misread after all, and maybe his little tagline is the signal to get gone, both of them coming back down to reality that this is at its very core just a transactional exchange. there's a distance he can't pinpoint even if it feels like it isn't necessarily towards him.

hawk doesn't feel lonely, even if the awkwardness is starting to settle in just a little. he's never done pillowtalk before, and he wasn't really planning to start. his own cock has since settled, and he's more than ready to jump in the shower and get another good round in before crashing into bed himself. and he's absolutely not thinking about what it would be like to come back out to a warm body - skippy's languid limbs stretched out on cream sheets and a navy duvet kicked down and loose around his legs. that would just be stupid - part of the fantasy he'll never have, so why start thinking about it now?]

Yeah? Me too. Great.

[skippy must be on the same wavelength then, and yeah, there's the sweetness he's always making a point to mention. it makes his lips twitch upward with a smile, ducking his head too and staring at the keyboard for a few more moments.]

You did. But that goes double for you - try and take it easy and enjoy them.

[he's not always around on the app - which is only on his desktop for obvious reasons, but he does know the frequency that he typically gets skippy's notifications on his throwaway email account. and besides, the holidays should be a time for family in any normal circumstance, just not his own - the kid deserves a break where he's not performing to a bunch of married, miserable old bastards.

better not work my man too hard.

it should earn a firm reply, another wall - the typical boundary that comes with every bit of baggage in hawkins fuller.

i'm my own man.

i don't belong to anybody.

i like my freedom, thanks.

but it doesn't come, because there's something in the haze of his soft, almost tender declaration that makes hawk's throat burn and chest clench with an emotion he won't let himself feel beyond this desk.]

I'll do what I can. Wouldn't want to worry my boy when he should be enjoying his holidays.

Get some rest.

Night, Skippy.

[it's only after he's closed out the chat does the other tip go through - five minutes after he hopes the boy has logged off and won't have to think about until the light of day reminds him that it was all just the dream of a fantasy anyway.]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2023-12-31 03:03 (UTC)

[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?

Edited 2023-12-31 04:27 (UTC)

[ 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.

Not likely.

[his subscribers are going to have a field day with this new roll-out, or so he assumes. hell, he's surprised the vip is even still available - though that brings up another question, which is just how many of these "meet-and-greets" is he intending on doling out.

even more pertinent: why is he fucking considering it?]

Right. Does this meet-and-greet have a time limit? Any qualifications? Leave it open-ended like that, and you might get more than you bargained for.

But if it depends on who's asking...me. I'm asking.

[hawk is not about to offer up where he's at, nor is he about to ask skippy something that invasive, even if it's conducive to facilitating...whatever this is going to be. and just when he thinks maybe his boy is in over his head, hawk gets the tables totally turned on him - and it actually makes him chuckle out loud.

well i'll be damned. touché, skippy.]

Well well, aren't you clever.
Got a full tank of gas last night. Mileage isn't what it used to be, but I've got about two-hundred or so to burn in the Mid-Atlantic region of the East Coast in the good old US of A.
Sorry to say, but the last place I'd plan to be this time of year is an aiport. I'm sure you can guess why.

[it'll be a fucking nightmare to navigate, for one. and for another - he promised the dean he'd drop by a christmas eve soireé with lucy and leonard in town to celebrate. but if it weren't for that - would he hop on a plane?

maybe.]

Since this is strictly hypothetical, and you're my boy - how much interest have you drummed up with this? Gotta be a line around the block by now.

Edited 2023-12-31 05:33 (UTC)

Open-ended means I can ask all the questions myself, and not be held accountable for fine print later.
I know I'm sweet, but I'm not dumb, sir.

But since you're the one asking, hypothetically...

[ there's a pause, three little dots indicating he's typing. he deletes and retypes, considering. he even gets interrupted by a library clerk who brings him a book he'd been waiting a few weeks on. but finally: ]

24 hours. A day. We meet somewhere nice and open, public. At least at first.
Where we go and what we do after that can be a little more adventurous.
I'm a curious boy, remember?

[ he tries to be a little flirty, of course, but his heart is pounding in his chest. he feels the itch of both nerves and excitement welling up all at once. this man is actually interested? willing?

he swallows hard. nevermind his preening at being called clever. ]

You're the first to ask.
No lines around the block, either.
On your boy's honor.

Mm. Interesting.
And I know you're not. But when it comes to this - I don't think you can be too careful.

[there's enough of a delay - and the type keeps disappearing enough that he wonders if his pulse is quickening for no good reason, that skippy is somewhere out of reach and he's entertained this at all like a fucking idiot. but he comes back with his - frankly lofty demands, and hawk again wonders if he has any idea what 99.9% of his clientele is really going to be like behind the screen. one hour in and he might be ready to scream and head for the hills.

(he's the .01%. obviously.)

How could I forget?

[his answers are short, distant, while he tries to talk himself out of this. skippy didn't even acknowledge the distance, but he also didn't write it off, which could mean he's in the right range. and that makes him wonder - is he a city boy, struggling to make ends meet in some big metropolitan wonderland? or is he the boy next door, small town reality with big dreams and trying to make it out in one piece? could be either when it comes to the money.

speaking of:]

Really.
I know you're telling the truth, but I'm finding that hard to believe.

[is that a sign? coincidence? no such thing.]

Hypothetically, I've been looking to blow off some steam before Christmas kicks up.
You're sure about this?

[hawk's not. this could be a fucking disaster. but then again - skippy's just another stranger, isn't he? it's not breaking any of his rules if he happens to be primed on what hawk likes. before he even answers, hawk stubs out his cigarette and sends off another reply.]

Public meeting first, and we can discuss the timeline later. December 22nd. And just so you know: I don't do sleepovers.
Give me a place and I'll book it.

It's easier to believe than you think.

[ he knows that everything about this reeks of danger for him. that this guy could show up and be the absolute opposite of everything he's made himself out to be online. but even showing his concern, expressing he can't be too careful? well. there's a glimmer of the guy he thinks he might be meeting. ]

Why do you think I messaged you this morning? It wasn't because I was questioning myself.
But if you're not interested...

[ he knows the guy is. there's no way they wouldn't be talking details like this if he wasn't, and he can't help the way his face goes hot, waiting to see what he types next.

this is so, so stupid. the dumbest thing a guy like tim could do and yet if the money can come attached to a marginally familiar, kind stranger interested in a little more than video play? no less a guy that, at least in writing, has some how managed to snare a heart string of his or two?

again. stupid, laughlin. stupid. making all of this messy, breaking his own rules. ]

I don't do sleepovers, either. In case that wasn't obvious.

[ is it? it's not. ]

Emissary.
Corner of 21st and P Street.
Washington, DC.

Close enough for your drive?

Oh. So this was a special invite?
I'm flattered.

[24 hours, but doesn't do sleepovers. sure. he knows his boy isn't dumb, but...]

Didn't have you pegged for a DC boy.

[that's a hop, skip, and a jump from campus. 2 miles too close, and only 7 minutes away from his office on a good day without traffic. he should say no, suggest someplace well clear of georgetown and foggy bottom to be safe. or frankly, he should run the other way entirely.

but it's the holidays. majority of his students are on break - already flown home to the four corners of the rest of the country and probably already spent at least one night getting shitfaced to celebrate the end of the semester.

fuck. he should say no. apologize and tell him it's too out of the way, they'll have to settle for another one on one as a consolation prize.]

10:30am. Don't be late.

VIP Meet & Greet
🔒 DEPOSIT FOR $600

🔥💲💳 600 TIP SENT ✅

See you soon, Skippy.

[it's a terrible fucking idea, and hawk doesn't even have the excuse of scotch or a hard on clouding his judgment. december 22nd is three days from the initial exchange, and the distraction of finishing all the exams and submitting grades isn't enough to keep him from periodically popping back into the app to reread what he's set in stone. it's not a matter of losing his nerve - though he does hover over a cancellation text several times over the next 72 hours. but something holds him back every time, whether it's the memory of what skippy looks like glistening with sweat and arched across a mattress or the earnest it's easier to believe than you think mixed with the fact that he all but requested hawk for this.

at the end of the day, he's still a stranger. that's what he keeps reminding himself, at least up until the moment he steps into emissary at 10:25 on the dot. his hair is slicked back in its usual coif, the last vestiges of a cigarette clinging to his scarf and charcoal wool stroller jacket. underneath he's got on a black cashmere turtleneck, tucked neatly into slim black trousers and an italian leather belt he's held onto since a foreign exchange adventure his senior year. there are aviators covering his eyes, and he strategically maneuvers himself in front of the empty cash register to order an espresso and act like he's just another patron trying to wake himself up - not here to meet some twink off the internet to take him to a hotel room and fuck his brains out for the next however many hours they can stand each other in person.

he waits with his hands in his pockets, using the cover of his glasses to glance around the perimeter of natural lighting flooding the brick-walled large alcove. and of course, the barista calls his name right when his eyes land on - fuck.

none other than tim laughlin, curled into one of the cozy corners with his head in a book.

what are the fucking chances?

hawk pulls out his phone, discreetly firing off a message to skippy, because the dots haven't fully connected, and he just thinks this is some shitty twist of fate.]

You're not here yet, are you?

[ usually, tim would spend the days leading up to something even remotely like this worrying and stressing himself in circles. but with finals and the last dregs of his assignments, he doesn't have much time to consider december 22 to be anything of import save for a day following the end of the term. almost all of his classmates have gone away - the dorms quiet save for a few foreign exchange students and poorer students like himself who are given subsidy to stay.

but at 7 am on the morning of december 22nd, tim laughlin wakes and cannot shake the itch of nerves under his skin. he paces his room, checks his phone, rifles through his wardrobe. he should have taken some of that deposit and used it toward something nicer to wear, but too late. 10:30 AM will rear its head soon enough.

he showers, scrubs his skin until its clean and pink, and takes good care of any and all places that this mysterious man's mouth or hands may wander. he's nervous, but it doesn't stop the strange swoop of warmth in his stomach at the very thought. he shouldn't be excited. he's sold an image of himself online for money, but this? his body, his virginity no less? but how could this guy know that?

he won't.

it's better he never finds out. tim can fake a myriad of things, after all, and faking his proficiency in bed? it won't be that hard in the dark. because as much as he'd like to think a little coffee shop meet up is what's in store? he knows better.

he knows much, much better.

tim arrives far too early - too nervous about missing buses or late buses, and plops down with an oversized mug of chamomile tea and a book from one of the stuffed shelves in the back. (the iliad - because of course). he'd be stupid to bring much of his own personally identifying things - text books, writing, laptop. so he simply has a cross body bag that looks like any other commuter's bag, but it's contents? far more salacious.

he's otherwise unremarkable in the comings and goings of those in the cafe. black, slim jeans, cuffed at his slender ankles. brown leather boots, stylishly worn and faded at the toe. a slim heather grey t-shirt with a loose v-neck. a deep green cardigan over that. there's a thin, gold chain around his neck that falls into the neckline of his shirt. maybe he should have dressed up more.

he checks his watch periodically, orders another tea, and he's just to a moment when achilles has learned of his father's death when he hears a name called out in the din of the shop. tipping his head up, he blinks around the room, noting almost immediately the man retrieving his coffee. in his surprise, he misses the buzz from his phone, and instead rises a little, to get the man's attention.

god, he shouldn't. who knows when the mysterious guy could walk in. who knows who he could be. he could be here already, watching and waiting the same way tim has been. ]

Professor Fuller?

[ odd, to see him out, but it is christmas break. it's even more odd for tim to have left campus even this far, but he can chock it up to the same - the break. ]

I didn't know you came here. Or - I mean - I thought most of the faculty would be off or vacationing now. Dean Smith acted like it'd be a ghost town for a while.

[ a small, nervous smile. almost sheepish. he admires this man beyond reason, really. the challenge of his class, the sharpness of his wit, the complete and utter unashamed way he presses him to do better, to learn more, to advance. ]

Happy Holidays, by the way. Since I didn't get to tell you after I got my thesis proposal back. I really appreciate your help with that this semester.

Edited 2023-12-31 08:18 (UTC)

[shit. any other time he'd be more than happy to have a chat with tim - to let him draw out a twinkle to his eyes and a wry smirk curving at the corner of his mouth with the enthusiasm and vivid colour he brings to each and every one of this thoughts. hell, he'd even be happy to sit and have a cup of coffee with him and dive into his thesis proposal early if this weren't quite possibly the most dire time for him to materialize. then again, this is almost exactly the type of place he'd imagine someone like tim might spend his time on aesthetic and energy alone. so it makes more than enough sense he'd be here enjoying his first day of freedom before heading off campus to visit family. which is what he'll lead with, keeping his aviators on and turning to tim with a not entirely inauthentic, politely professional smile before he takes a sip of his espresso.]

Small world. Thought you'd be on a ferry to Staten Island by now.

[he remembers tim mentioning it offhand - backing up one of his debates about the poor and downtrodden and what policies would best serve the underrepresented communities he'd grown up around. if the world was a perfect place and washington wasn't full of stuck up pricks only worried about padding their wallet, anyway. he lifts his cup, logo facing tim as if hawk can't quite get enough of it. the lies come easy, just like they have for years when it comes to protecting his preferences.]

They know what they're doing around here. Trying to muscle through the last few grades I owe, let everyone start their holiday without waiting around worrying if they passed. They can't all be like you, anyway.

[it's odd his phone hasn't pinged back. is skippy standing him up? or maybe he's running late - which would be great if it meant he could find a place up the street to move their rendez-vous to. but he doesn't want to leave tim hanging, and there's an eagerness that makes him soften slightly, shoulders relaxing as he finally takes off his aviators.]

First one I read, you know. I'm looking forward to seeing what you do with it in the next course, since you're stuck with me a little while longer.

[there's a hint of amusement in the soft blue of his eyes, fixed on tim, and up this close - he realizes there's something familiar about that same softness in his student's smile. a jawline he thought he was imagining - trying to force into one fantasy. no. it's the nerves - messing him up, the burst of energy from the drink.

no such thing as coincidence.

his gaze drops to the book tim has temporarily abandoned on the table, spine facing downwards and covers spread apart. the iliad. greek classics. icarus. and just like that, the pit of his stomach plummets and his jaw tightens as the daunting, terrible realization sinks in.

shit. fuck. goddamnit.

did he manifest this? that's not what he wanted at all.

absently he puts a hand on tim's shoulder and squeezes.]

Listen, I've got to run. Enjoy the holidays and see you next year, Tim.

[he doesn't wait for a response before he turns on his heel, shoving his aviators on and ducking his head down to keep a low profile. he pushes open the door, reaching into his pocket and pulling up the app once he's safely outside with the icy chill chapping against his face, already missing the comforting lull of the coffee shop and what was supposed to be easy banter and a body warming up the rest of his skin. he pulls his phone out again, noting there's no response from skippy still - of course there wouldn't be, because skippy aka tim laughlin was busy chatting up his fucking professor in broad daylight. the idea that skippy's money woes are actually tim's and that he's been doing this in between rising to star pupil among the department is...something he'll have to unpack later.

as soon as he gets home, deletes his account, and gets the fuck out of town to let this all blow over.

he punches in a quick message again before shooting off the rest of the money out of - well, some sense of fucked up responsibility, he supposes.]

Nevermind. Something came up. Sorry to leave you hanging - hopefully this makes up for it.

Edited 2023-12-31 08:57 (UTC)

Oh, no. I stay over holiday breaks. It's - ah - it's more convenient that way.

[ even admitting out loud that he can't afford to move out, go home, and move back in. he can barely afford to even attend georgetown, but he's made it this far, and he's unwilling to give up just now. but there's a little bit of warmth rising up into his cheeks that his professor has listened so intently enough to pick up where he'd be heading back to. ]

But it's not a bad place to spend a holiday, really. And no one can be stuck in your classes - they're already very difficult to get into. I got lucky to get into next semester's.

[ if the bursar will hold his seat after today - if they will accept a late payment. he just has to meet this stranger, make the day out to be whatever it is going to be, and go home. then, and only then, can he dream about his thesis or classes or anything for the upcoming four months.

he opens his mouth to speak again when the man's hand lands on his shoulder and his brow furrows, a little confused and a little embarrassed all at once. it's only then he clocks the buzz of his phone - the sound of a reminder - a message still left unread.

shit. ]

Oh. Right - sorry, holidays. I'm keeping you. See you next year.

[ and the moment the man leaves, tim turns to his phone next, seeing the missed message. the gap of time between the first, and he raises his head, blinking and looking around the shop. he doesn't see anyone new, doesn't see anyone on their phone. but there's the second message.

something like dread crawls its way up the back of his neck. just as his professor left, the message comes in. his head swivels for a moment in disbelief, and when he sees the man through the fogged window panes of the shop out on the street, with his phone in his hand?

no.

no, it can't be.

(but could it? could it be? would he be upset? is milton actually professor fuller? what would that mean in the grand scheme of things?)

he quickly fumbles a text in panic as he scoops up his bag and the black, worn peacoat he's had for years. he leaves the iliad left on the table, the pages worn, and the last passage highlighted by someone long, long before him.

The proud heart feels not terror nor turns to run and it is his own courage that kills him. ]

Did I miss you? I'm here. I'll wait outside for you.

[ too desperate? too much?

tim fumbles his way outside into the blistering cold, his coat under his arm and bag haphazardly slung on one shoulder. he can see professor fuller's back in relief against the morning sun, and he doesn't know what comes over him when he looks back at his app and presses the call button.

it rings on his end once, waits for connection, and then he hears it.

professor fuller's phone. ]

Professor Fuller! Wait, please!

[ a step forward, then another, and he's hurrying after him, breathless and confused. ]

[up until today, this app never lived on his phone. there's no way he'd be that fucking stupid - one missed flick of the silent button, a notification at the wrong time, someone recognizing the sound - christ, he's seen colleagues get outed by their grindr pings before back in the day. in fact, he's in the middle of trying to figure out how to delete it when he gets a response finally from skippy. always so sincerely eager, still trying to make it work because he hasn't figured out his own professor has been jerking it to his nightly shows on what should be a much broader pool on the world wide web. and if hawk can help it, he never will.

except the universe apparently wants to torture him with the reality settling in - don't turn around, you already know the answer. he's far enough up the block that a quick sip and a casual shift of his head confirm what he indeed already guessed, and there's tim looking frazzled and flushed in the cold without his coat even pulled on yet. this would be a good time to duck into one of the stores - get off the street and disappear on the off chance he has any kind of sneaking suspicion. tim's intelligent enough - skippy definitely is - and god, it's already feeling uncomfortable having to reconcile the fact that they're one in the same. of course they are, how could he have overlooked it? the barrier of professionalism in his day to day kept him from piecing it together, from daring to think about the similarities down to the goddamn bone structure.

the fact that he's seen skippy, his boy - tim laughlin covered in his own cum, breathless and begging for his cock - fuck. this is bad. his brain is already rolling over into crisis mode. the first step is making sure tim doesn't put two and two together. and he just about thinks he's managed it with the head start of at least a block and a half...until his phone starts buzzing loudly in his hand with something that definitely isn't his standard ringtone. shit, shit, shit. he nearly drops it in a fumbling attempt to get it to shut up, terminating the call with an aggressive slam of his thumb.

it's not enough, because of fucking course it isn't. there goes tim calling after him from the distance between them as he keeps moving quick enough to put a plausible amount that he might not be able to hear him anymore, but not so quick as to imply his guilt. yeah, guilt. not for his preferences, not for being a consenting adult, but for agreeing to this stupid endeavor in the first place. if he had just kept it virtual, stuck to the plan - he'd be miles away from foggy bottom right now and still keep his weekday trysts.

and not to mention - there goes his tenure, christ.

not that he thinks laughlin would do something like reporting him, hard up for cash or not.

tim's getting closer and closer, and he shoves his phone back in his pocket, stepping off to the side and plastering on another placid smile with the espresso he doesn't even want to finish now still held aloft in his hand.]

Tim - everything alright? Did you forget something?

[his brows lift marginally behind his glasses, and he's grateful they're blocking most of his expression.]

Like I said, I really need to get going. I'm heading out of town for a few days, and well - you know how it is with DC traffic.

[it barely registered until this part of the conversation that tim is staying here the entire duration of the holiday, that it's a lonely thing when contrasted by the underlying component that he might not be able to afford the time away in the first place.]

Edited 2023-12-31 10:14 (UTC)

[ maybe there's just some wild coincidence in the ringing phones, the message timing, the way professor fuller doesn't turn even though he knows he's calling loud enough to hear. maybe he's making all of this up again, twisting his stupid fucking online fantasy into something real, trying to give shape to something that doesn't exist.

the notification for the money isn't lost on him - three thousand dollars that not only feels unearned, but also stirs something like guilt deep in his gut. regardless of who the faceless man is, he doesn't deserve his money, even if he desperately wants to keep it.

but professor fuller fumbles his phone, and tim knows then. he knows with a sudden, sharp stab of shock that the man he'd planned to meet must have been him. the man on the other side of the screen all this time, praising him, guiding him, encouraging him? had been professor fuller. the professor who, in classes, put up with his long-winded responses and his socratic jabs, willing to play devil's advocate as tim worked through a difficult policy or piece of legislature out loud at the class's expense.

a kind man. who knows he lives in staten island, who knows more about him now than tim is comfortable with, considering.

and yet, he knows he's safe here, too, even though things seem tipped and tilted in away they shouldn't be. the man on the other side of the screen, who coveted and desired him, is professor hawkins fuller.

he comes to a stop just in front of him as the man pauses to regard him and he breathes a little heavily, winded, breaths coming out in puffs. it's so cold - his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips bitten a berry color from the whip of the cool winter air, the mousy brown of his hair flopping over the rim of his dark glasses. ]

It was you.

[ he tries to keep his voice down but there's no hiding the excitability in him, even in situations that are meant to be uncomfortable. ]

Your phone - I heard it. I called him - it's - I'm -

[ a few days from now, tim will look back on this moment with such embarrassment and shame that he didn't realize hawkins fuller had been running from him, in a sense. escaping the reality that the little slip of a thing he'd planned to meet was never meant to be a student.

but he straightens a little, shivering, but seemingly otherwise unaffected by the cold with how determined he is. his voice lowers, and there's no doubt hawk will hear the similar notes from their one on one - the pitch shifter from his setup doing its job enough if you don't know what to look for: ]

I'm Skippy. Your boy.

[ a hand goes to his chest, as if the words aren't enough, as if the way he blinks up at the man with wide, eager eyes and a surprised little grin isn't it enough. ]

You - you have the right place. I just - I had no idea it would be you. Honest, I didn't, but I guess it's -

[ he goes quiet when someone passes by them, starkly and sheepishly aware of the city street around them. ]

I'm so relieved.

[fuck, this is bad. of course tim would barrel into this without any consideration for the optics - harnessing that same boundless enthusiasm like it's another of his assignments to tackle. the fact that he's not utterly horrified at the reality of this situation - that a man he's supposed to be able to trust, rely on, and look up to for guidance through the initial burgeoning foundation of his eventual career - has been on the other end watching him wreck himself multiple times this semester alone, memorizing every inch of skin underneath cozy sweaters and well-worn boots. and not just that, but he'd let himself get closer than he ever initially intended - revealing plenty about his own desires and obviously his overall preference. my boy. you trust me. you'd do anything i asked. somehow knowing it was tim laughlin doesn't immediately make him feel like any of that is no longer true.

in fact: looking at his bright eyes, the maddening sweep of his hair hawkins wants to brush back from his forehead, and the reddened blotches on his cheeks from cold air kissing across his skin and exertion from dashing here to catch up - yeah, it's everything he imagined his boy would be and more. if they were just two strangers, truly, there's no doubt in his mind he'd make the most of the full 24 hours he'd initially scoffed at as blind optimism. and worse, he might have let himself fall under a spell he'd tamped down for decades, ever since he'd had to go to italy to escape from his father's rage and the an icy disappointment for his proclivities that cut to the bone deeper than any winter breeze.

tim somehow manages to see right through him anyway - pinning him down with his earnestness and clearly bulldozing right past every red flag imaginable, as if this could ever proceed the way it was meant to. and there's that blind optimism, the sweetness and naïveté hawk's been slowly trying to coax him away from the last four months.

it doesn't change anything for him. it can't.

(not even when he pitches his voice low, melding the two personalities together forever and making him wonder how he could have ever missed it before: i'm skippy. your boy. fuck if that doesn't just send a white hot jolt straight through him, and it sure as hell isn't made of panic.)

tim shivers, bringing back to the stark reality of this. he can start with the easy way out.]

Christ, Tim - it's freezing out here. [he reaches for the peacoat tucked under his arm flapping it out once from where its been crumpled up in the rush to wrap it around his shoulders. the sincerity there is real, even if it's also a moment of deflection for him to steady himself.]

You'll catch your death like that.

[and then he tips his head as if the rest has just settled in, mouth quirking slightly in practiced confusion.]

Sorry, what? Who's Skippy?

[tim can't see the way his pulse is racing, eyes flickering behind his glasses to drink in every detail of his face. later, when the shock subsides, he'll think about how elated tim looked in this moment. he'll remember biting his tongue so he didn't press him on that declaration of relief. hawk glances off to the side, watching passerbys who seem preoccupied with their last minute christmas shopping or walking their dogs, grateful they haven't attracted any undue extra attention.]

Were you...meeting someone back there?

I'm fine, really.

[ tim has little time to reach as hawk reaches for his coat, flaps it out, and reaches to drape it around him. he shuffles almost sheepishly closer to better aid the effort, and it takes a second for his mind to catch up - hawkins fuller, the man behind the screen, putting his coat around him like in some stupid romcom. so he accepts the coat, even awkwardly reaches to pull at his own lapels to tug it closer around him. it does nothing to calm the highspeed ticking of his heart. ]

Sorry, you were leaving and I didn't want to miss you.

[ there was no thought put into this, into the exit from the shop to this moment where he stands a little too close to hawk for the sake of polite society, but not so close to make anyone think twice.

he's about to open his mouth to speak again when hawk's face seems to change - the quirk of his lips, the faintest furrow of his brow over the glasses - he can barely see the blue of his eyes through the dark, reflective lenses. something even colder than the bitter air sinks deep into his belly and his eyes widen a little, breathing coming in quick, shallow breaths from the exertion of running the block or two.

he heard the phone ring - he saw hawk fumbling. he wasn't imagining it. he couldn't have - who else had been on the block when he came out of the shop?

tim glances around them once, back behind them and then leaning to one side to peer even up the street from hawk. no one but a few people who've exited shops or who are walking dogs. he turns his gaze back on hawk then, brow pinched, voice quieter. ]

Skippy. Your Skippy. I was supposed to meet -

[ wait, did he really get this wrong? his mind races, trying to put together all the pieces, trying to somehow stitch together everything to this moment. what had he gotten wrong? or had he simply been hoping the mysterious man behind the screen would always have been someone like hawkins fuller? had he truly created a fantasy now, and tied up the only person who has shown a modicum of care in it. ]

It was you. It had to be you. I saw you, missed the first message. But when you left, you were on your phone and -

[ tim looks stricken, like hawk reached out and struck him across the face instead of politely gathered him into his own coat. tim fumbles for a moment for his phone, fingers working too quickly and he opens the app, sees the myriad of messages they have sent.

if he's wrong, here...

but why would professor fuller lie? why would he do anything like that when everything up to now he has been nothing but honest, even when it had been harsh and difficult. when it had cost him a failing grade, even. a stern hand, but a gentle one. his hand drops to his side, phone in his palm and he looks up at the man then, the flush in his cheeks warming now to something furiously embarrassed, the pink even climbing to the tips of his ears.

his free hand rises to furiously push his hair out of his face, but with the wind, it just sweeps it up, feather light, and makes it a tousled mess atop his head. ]

I, um. Yeah. Sorry, I thought maybe - I just heard - I'm really tired after finals and all, that's all and got confused. I don't want to keep you.

Edited 2023-12-31 20:04 (UTC)

[the guilt that floods him as tim talks himself through the stages - denial and grief, at least, in some modicum - yeah, that hurts hawk too. but he's got at least a decade's worth of defense mechanisms and carefully curated masking to protect himself with, to never once let it slip that he's anything but the confused professor with a happenstance run-in with his student. like he hasn't seen tim knuckle-deep in his own asshole, wanton moaning filling what he now realizes must be his dorm room (the music, of course - ) and begging for hawk's hand to be the one edging him closer and closer to the toe-curling release of at least one orgasm, if not more. for all intents and purposes, he's been sexting with tim laughlin all semester long. fucking his student in everything but the flesh - the one line he'd never cross. sure, there have been a pretty face every once in awhile that have caught his attention in passing. a poignant essay here, a surprisingly nuanced comment in class there. but even there tim stands a head above the rest - truly, his favorite in all things. body, mind, and -

kill it. now. don't you dare finish that thought.

hawk takes off his sunglasses again, wanting to wholly impart his "sincerity" to tim. his voice lowers too, and he leans in enough to show some discretion and avoid any passerby from overhearing on the off chance they care. thank god they still don't, because he's keenly aware that if it was anyone but strangers off campus...it might be a much different story.]

Is this - "Skippy" - a friend of yours? Have you met them before or was this -

[he points to tim's phone, then back to tim as if he's trying to piece together something, like some incompetent boomer trying to open a fucking pdf.]

An online date?

[he shakes his head, stepping back and putting up a hand as if in surrender.]

You know what - nevermind, it's really none of my business. I'm sure the last thing you want is me razzing you during your time off.

[hawk offers a conspiratorial smirk, again ignoring the churning in his gut and the uncontrollable urge radiating through his fingers to brush down his hair from the mop it's turned into, strands swaying lightly in the chilly air around them. tim's expression is nothing short of crushed, eyes wide and glassy from both the icy atmosphere and the cold rebuff from hawk, maybe, and what he wouldn't do to smooth away the furrow of his brows with a soft brush of thumb, a kiss to the temple. a muscle in his jaw flexes tightly again, even as he offers a playful nudge to the shoulder of his student in understanding.]

We're all a little worn out. Don't worry about it.

[his eyes soften again as he desperately tries to suppressing the crushing sensation that feels like it's squeezing around his chest, the very real moment sinking in that he's letting down Skippy - Tim - his boy the most gentle way he possibly can and escaping from this whole fucking mess. this lesson should have been hard earned years ago, and somehow he still - ]

Enjoy your break, Laughlin.

[he turns to get back on the path of the sidewalk, stopping again like he can't quite help himself before angling his head to the side and calling over his shoulder.]

Be safe, okay?

Edited 2023-12-31 21:40 (UTC)

[ it's in this moment, tim can see exactly why professor fuller constantly warns him against his idealism, against his bright-eyed, bushy-eyed view of the world. how had he taken months of explicit texts on a screen and turned them into an image of someone shaped like the man before him? how had he created a world in which the man he met here would touch his cheek, brush his hair back, tug him into a warm chest and welcome him instead of use his body dry? how he let the lines blur, let the story turn over and over into something so far from reality, he can't guess.

maybe a life in politics isn't for him.

suddenly, he feels the uncomfortable itch that he should go to confession.

even though he knows hawk has removed his glasses, he can't quite make himself look up. he keeps his eyes on his cold fingers, one hand still gripped tightly around the lapel of his coat to keep it seated properly on his shoulders. the other still gripping his phone at his side. he huffs, gives a shrug of one shoulder, and tries to brush it all off. ]

Ah, yeah, it was nothing. Just - tinder, you know? Crazy world we live in. Got stood up, I guess. No surprise there.

[ the playful nudge rocks him on his feet and he glances up then, seeing the softening of the man's eyes and he feels so incredibly small. so incredibly stupid, and it takes all his energy to even offer the barest quirk of his lips.

worn out. tired. stressed. embarrassed. defeated.

confused. still so confused. he was sure. ]

Oh, right. You as well. Happy Holidays.

[ he stays rooted in his place at first, letting the cold settle into his bones and watch as hawk walks away.

be safe, okay?

and he almost turns then to walk away. almost concedes and folds, laying his cards face down on the table. but his phone burns hot in his hand, feels impossibly heavy. he turns it in his palm and looks at the messages, the money sent.

he's not sure why this whole thing sits wrong with him, why he feels both ashamed and guilty, but also... what? disappointed? surprised? angry?

wait.

angry. betrayed. the numbers don't add, no matter how he tries to make them work. the equations fail every time and it's why his thumb presses the little phone icon again on the app, but this time? he lets it ring. it takes a few seconds, and hawk is further up the sidewalk now, but he won't give him the satisfaction of running after him if he hears it.

one second. two.

the ring. the phone ringing loud and clear, and where tim felt icy shame and disgust at himself there's now warmth. ]

Professor Fuller!

[ a shout, loud enough the man can hear and so that it will draw attention, if need be. remember, hawk, tim can be clever, maybe a little stupid. maybe a little naive. maybe a little idealistic. but he's sharp. and he stands on the pavement where he'd been left shivering and confused, now with his jaw set, brow furrowed in a triumphant recognition. ]

Did you remember to fill up your tank? To, what? Two-hundred or so?

[just when he thinks he's pulled off the impossible - managing a clean getaway by the skin of his teeth (though it's at the expense of tim morphing into the living embodiment of a kicked puppy that he's been stood up) - that ringtone betrays yet again, an absolute thorn in his side that has him nearly cursing out loud at the timing. except now he's definitely not far enough away to go unnoticed if he stops to fish it out of his pocket, and hawk is considering throwing it into the potomac, buying a replacement, and never taking it off silent again. so he lets it ring. what's the likelihood anyone is going to recognize a generic, happy little ringtone amid christmas music, bells jingling, and polite chatter anyway? he just has to keep moving, has to put enough distance between him and tim and never open that goddamn app again. never think about the way skippy all but invited him with open arms to be the one to spend a full day taking of his body in the first place. and definitely never wrap a hand around his cock and let himself fully give in to the complete picture of tim spread out, cherry red lips flushed and bitten with his head thrown back in ecstasy as he begged to be hawkins fuller's good boy.

but of course tim wouldn't let it go - a wind-up toy chasing after its prize on an unreachable string. of course he'd keep calling, trying to find out why the change of heart, what he'd done wrong, if there was a miscommunication. of course he'd blindly try and still make it work, even when it's spelled out clear as day in black and white. frankly, if it was anyone else, he'd think they'd be fucking delighted to have scored three grand without having to lie on their back or waste a few hours small talking a stranger. if it was anyone else they'd be long gone, but not tim. god, he can just imagine the principled stand - the idea that it wasn't earned that has him frantically trying to salvage the botched meeting.

because hawk can't think about what it would mean if skippy, tim, was really actually there out of some fucked up sense that he wanted it for the sake of connection. isn't that what they all say? part of the act, because the loneliness on the screen usually only goes one way, and the other is laughing all the way to the bank. but not tim.

he's just about made it to the corner of o street where he can turn off and get to his car, out of tim's line of sight, when his name is shouted loud and clear across the way. and it's with a tone that makes his stomach plummet, that draws the look of a few passerby wondering what the need for the disturbance is. hawk offers tight smiles to them, as if to say - what can you do? kids these days, before steeling his shoulders and turning around with a stony expression. there is no mistaking the look on his face because it's the same look hawk has watched bloom to life on his face at the end of a successful debate or the realization of some complex political intrigue in one of their class' many example scenarios. a look hawk has delighted to be at the other end of, encouraged to flourish. he dips his head down again, aviators tucked into his inner pocket, and finally does himself the favour of binning the espresso in his hand that he wasn't going to finish anyway as he walks back over slowly and carefully to tim.]

I did mention I was going out of town.

[his voice is low, a little bit of that rough gravel to it as if to counteract the interruption tim made to everyone else around them. but his eyes have hardened, fixed on tim with a mixture of - pride, strangely, that he figured it out anyway, and resolute conviction that this cannot go anywhere else.]

Look, whatever you thought was going to happen today - it's not. It can't.

[his head tilts again, eyes dropping down to where tim is still shivering, coat still only draped over his shoulders before he snaps them back up to meet his gaze and take on the firm tone he does when his student is edging too far into la la land.]

Go back to your dorm, see some friends, forget about your "date", and we'll see each other over break. To discuss your thesis.

[so much goes unsaid. to discuss your thesis - because that's the only kind of relationship we have and are going to keep having with each other.]

[ where tim finds his courage when he least expects it, he doesn't know. any other confrontation like this, any other kind of conflict, he might find a way to diplomatically remove himself to avoid trouble, to avoid an argument that can't be stopped. but timothy laughlin has always been much like a freight train, in some respect. idle when in the station, waiting marching orders, and thunderously charging ahead when seeking out a destination. it's no different now, his heels cemented to the concrete, jaw jutted out, not quite defiant but expectant.

the ringtone follows hawk as he makes the slow walk back toward him, but tim hears nothing but static for a moment, coupled with the rush of his blood thumping in his ears and in his chest. it's stopped by the time they're close enough to speak, and his own phone has been deposited back into the pocket of his slim jeans, ignored. ]

You did. But not for at least twenty-four hours.

[ like chess, he moves his pieces, putting hawk into an unspoken check.

quiet, low to match professor fuller's, but there's an intensity burning in his eyes that he knows will belie his utter cool. it's white-hot in comparison to the cold, stony thing making up the older man's face. gone is the warmth and the affection he'd seen moments before, a mentor overlooking his pupil, a man showing concern and care for another human being and replaced instead with high walls, a stony tower. ]

Why?

[ it's not soft, not hurt - direct and simple. not unlike the amount of times professor fuller himself has pried tim to dig deeper, to extrapolate more where there had seemingly appeared to be nothing. ]

We're both consenting adults. It's to be kept utterly private. Besides, you've submitted payment at this rate without the offer of goods in return. But it isn't about the money, I don't think. Not for either of us.

[ it had been, at the outset. everything tim has done on that little site had been originally for the goal of making money. and in many ways, it still is with all others but the man standing across from him now. somehow, in the blip of a message and the face connected with it? all of that has changed. ]

Trying to lie to me, too. I know that I am... naive, maybe. Idealistic. Those are your words, mind you. I'd hoped by now that you have learned that I'm not an idiot. Convincing me that I'd made all of this up somehow, that I was just making wild conjectures.

[ a sigh and he shifts his weight finally, inching closer still, and his voice does begin to come back up to its normal timbre, hitching with the passion the other man has no doubt seen in classes when tim gets carried away in the heat of a good debate. ]

Before all of this, I'd never imagined you'd be the type to even look at me. To pass a second glance. But now that I know it's been you this whole time - which, I didn't know, by the way. I wasn't trying to trick you. Never. I'm glad it's you. All of this - if you want this - we can draw whatever rules or lines you want.

[ he lets out a breath, shaking his head. ] And if not, you need to take your money back either way. I don't have friends back at the dorm, nor do I even have a date now. But I'll go, but only if you take it back. I don't want hush money. Whatever we do or don't do, there's nothing to hush.

[there's a disbelieving noise, close enough to a scoff when tim asks why, and he can't...honestly be that unrealistic about this situation can he? can't understand what a fucking bomb has been dropped in both of their laps with a timer ticking down until next semester? because there's a terrible though that worms it's way into hawk's head involuntarily - he's technically not your student for the next two weeks, is he? no, no - fuck, goddamnit. and tim is yet again standing on the principle of the thing, treating it as if it's just another party-line to negotiate, a threshold he can debate himself across. like it's as simple as another day in hawk's classroom when this is a serious violation of both their boundaries. through no fault of anyone's own, but that certainly wouldn't be much excuse to someone like the ethics board. dean smith?]

You aren't seriously asking me that, are you? You know exactly why.

[his lips press into a thin line as tim....well, accuses him of doing exactly what he did, which is try to lie his way out of it first. and why the hell shouldn't he? it would have been better for them both if tim had stayed there, nose buried in his book and just waited for a man that was never going to walk through that door. if hawk hadn't bypassed all his own carefully constructed speed bumps and ignored every single red flag - well he wouldn't be in this sticky of a situation. he's got nobody to blame but himself, even if he isn't going to blame himself for having needs or preferences or interacting on only fans safely and discreetly like he has. all of this comes down to an awful mistake, an overstep he should have had his head on straight to know to politely decline in the first place.]

Jesus, Laughlin. Call it a Christmas present for our friend Skippy and leave it alone. It's not about the money - and it's not about the goods either.

[he breathes out a noise harshly through his nose, reaching out to grab one of tim's arms and drag him further into a small side area with a few benches and decorative plants strung up with christmas lights. and then he dips into the pocket that doesn't have his phone, tugging out the same pack of half empty cigarettes and forcefully shoving one into his mouth in clear frustration while fishing around for his gold lighter. he murmurs around it, cigarette bouncing up and down between his lips as he cups his hands and ignites it, annoyed he's had to pull one out this early in the first place. he's usually a little more regimented than that.]

Yeah, I lied. Not because I think you're an idiot or wanted you to feel crazy, but do you really think I want both of us to be stuck in the situation we're in now?

[he exhales over his shoulder, away from the determination on tim's face that's practically taunting him to come up with a better excuse for any of this. but then he says the one thing that makes hawk nearly double take in disbelief, following it up with what may as well be a gut punch with each utterance. tim is glad it's him. tim thinks he's - what, undesirable? he remembers skippy saying it was more believable than hawk might think about a lack of interest, but he couldn't really imagine anyone doing what he did most nights really struggling with a body and sense of humour and captivating as that. or maybe this is just further proof how far he's slipped, how much of a fucking idiot he is now for falling susceptible to this in the first place. he takes another long pull, exhaling hard and shaking his head as if to dispel every element of tim's argument by gesture alone.]

Listen to me, Tim. You're a good kid. You've got a promising future in Washington, and you're the best student in my class, okay? But that's all you can be. A student. And I don't fuck my students.

[a pause to let that sink in, the most obvious root of the matter that he frankly can't believe he has to impart at all.]

Especially when I don't know what they're up to outside of class. And I definitely don't want them knowing what I'm up to either. No one's saying anything about hush money. But I'm willing to bet it means a whole lot more to you than it does to me, so I'm not taking no for an answer.

[his gaze has softened again, unintentionally, clear blue shifting back and forth across his face even as they grow glassy from the cold and the smoke billowing up from the cigarette still in his hand.]

Tell me you understand all of it.

[he doesn't mean to give it to him in the husky note of an order, but it seems that's something that seeps into both hawk's regular life and his online proclivities anyway.]

[ tim stumbles a little when professor fuller grabs him by the arm, but he follows along in tow, a little perplexed and surprised by the sudden movement. strangely, it unmoors him, especially when he sees the older man immediately light up a cigarette. the smell burns his own nostrils and he has to adjust the coat on his shoulders. is it foolish that the exposed skin on his forearm almost burns from the contact? he hadn't been rough or unkind, just insistent, and yet something about it makes his stomach drop another floor. ]

You tried to gaslight me into thinking I'd been mistaken. I get why, I guess. Whatever situation this is can be delicate and sensitive, but there's nothing wrong with any of it. Not if it's what you want, and not if it's what I want.

[ but he can see the rationale - he is the man's student. a current student, in fact, and with that comes a lot of hangups, a lot of red tape and caution signs. ]

But you could have just said that from the start.

[ especially when i don't know what they're up to outside class

something in that makes tim's blood run cold, makes some of the warmth drain from his face. he's told no one he knows what he does. literally no one has found out how he makes ends meet, how he manages to put himself through school. his family thinks its all on campus work and financial aid and scholarships. his acquaintances just think he's on a full ride.

but something in the way professor fuller says it, makes it feel dirty, what he does. implies that maybe he might not be trustworthy because of that, that him doing what he does might be one of the reasons he can't, beyond it just being a student-teacher problem.

he has a right to think that.

it's a fair judgement. tim accepted a long, long time ago that he will have to answer to all of this later, when he dies and is faced with the questions of his life. purgatory, he figured, at the beginning. but maybe it's changed, now that he's seen professor fuller, knows the kind of things he wants and does, and still wants it now. yeah, those kinds of sins lead to nowhere good. ]

I don't - this is an anomaly. You and me, here. I don't do these things with people. I stay in my dorm, eat when I am able to, do my homework, do my research and I only do... the rest when I have to. It's not -

[ fun? enjoyable? exciting?

no, it's none of that. not with anyone else. ]

You were different. Or - I thought you were.

[ tim takes a half step back, self conscious and feeling the steam beginning to run its way out of his body. but he keeps himself upright, both hands gripping to the strap of his bag like a lifeline. ]

I don't want your money for all this. I don't care what you think it means to me - it's not right to take it. I don't want your money. I wanted -

[ he sucks in a little breath and shakes his head, though he stills when he's given the order. it makes the hairs on his arm stand up, makes a prickle rise up his nape, and he knows he shouldn't feel that way, but he does. ]

I understand all of it. I understand you're afraid your job might be affected if you fuck me. But it isn't really about that. It's me, of course. If I had been any other face I guess it might have ended differently but yes, I understand, sir.

[ the sir comes out on habit alone, and he doesn't even realize he's said it.

he understands that if he were some other brown-eyed, brown-haired pretty face that this man would have taken him to some hotel room, tucked him away for the day, and treated his boy to everything they have been deprived on camera. the touch, the connection, the murmured words in hair and ears, the hands on his body, around his cock, and -

he takes another half step back, boots dragging on the concrete path. ]

Is there anything else, Professor? I don't want to make you late. DC traffic, remember?

[gaslight. he's heard that word from more of his students in the last few years than he ever did when people like his parents or the actual generations who relied on it as a distinct tool ever wielded it. it makes his eyes roll in frustration as he takes another long pull, the orange embers flickering at the end and drawing closer to his fingertips. he exhales to the side once more before stubbing it out against the edge of one of the planters and flicking it into a trashcan.]

Yeah, I'm sure I could have done a lot of things differently. Like never taking a meetup this close to campus and logging this morning.

There are things about me you don't understand -

[things about me you don't understand, skippy - is what he almost says, before vehemently shaking his head as if to clear the compulsion away by physical force.]

And things I don't ever want anyone within ten feet of Georgetown to ever know. And I realize it's 2023 and there's nothing wrong with anything that may have been discussed between us before all this, but it's not exactly the kind of thing I want plastered in the school bulletin, you get me?

[not that he's accusing tim or suspecting he'd do that, but considering how badly he's apparently already fucked up communicating to him in the way his student jumps to explain his schedule and almost....justify? what it is he's been doing? hawk knows this is all going south faster the nosedive of a plane without landing gear. he runs across his mouth before putting both hands on his hips and leaning in again, voice low with a little more sympathy interjected. this is hard on them both, not just him. if it was anyone else he'd have long since hardened up and shuttered any chance of empathy or any further opportunity for them to make this worse, and he definitely wouldn't have allowed himself to stick his foot in his mouth.]

I'm not judging you, Tim. This doesn't change anything between me and you when it comes to my classroom or my office hours, okay?

Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.

[it doesn't fully register that tim is taking this to mean his actual face is the problem, that hawk is turning him down out of some sense of preference other than what should be a very clear boundary of ethics and professionalism. there's a part of hawk too that can't fathom why tim would be relieved to fuck him either, money or not. it wouldn't be a crime for a 33 year old bachelor and a 20-something to get together in another context, sure. and like he said - if he'd been any other face, hawk would probably have him in his car on the way to get bent in half by now.

but he's not. so this is what has to happen.

even if hearing i understand, sir makes a ripple of heat all the way from the back of his neck shiver down his spine. it makes him straighten up slightly to his full height, taking a step closer, biting back a good boy.]

Then it's settled. You're keeping the money and we're pretending this conversation never happened.

[but there's something so utterly disappointed in tim's voice and the way he looks somehow smaller and trying to pull in on himself that makes hawk hesitate and do yet another foolish thing. add it to a long fucking tally of fuck-ups from today, he supposes. his hand extends, cupping tim's cheek gently and tipping it up to look at him. it's invasive, inappropriate, and he's going to regret knowing precisely what the feel of the soft skin on his pinked cheek feels like under his fingertips.]

Skippy...I'm sorry. It's nothing personal.

I won't. Tell, I mean. Regardless. No one will know this happened.

[ if he sounds hurt? it's because he is.

even the slightest implication that professor fuller may think he will run around and publish this news across the front page of the hoya stings. revealing the man's past-times and late night proclivities will also expose him, and at what cost? that, and tim has morals, has a conscience. no matter how furious, no matter how degrading someone could be to him? blackmail doesn't run through the fabric of who he is.

so tim does exactly what professor hawkins expects of him - stands still, listens, obeys. what else can he do now, with every word leaving his mouth being shot down or turned against him.

Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.

at this point? tim doesn't know what he wants now. doesn't know what to make of the man standing before him in the shaded light of the little, enclosed park, smelling like cigarettes and waffling between something distant and cold to the warm, considerate man he has known in class. ]

Understood, yeah. Nothing has changed.

[ the fight has gone out of him now - the will to buck up and press back at the edges of every one of the man's defenses dissolved. the utter scientist he can be in a debate has fizzled out: there are no loose threads, no fallacies, no twists or turns or wildly unique conventions he can invoke. there are facts, there is reality. there is no grey area between where he can exist. he is the man's student, and professor fuller is his teacher.

(but all he can feel like now is tim laughlin, the failure. the boy who no one truly knows on campus, the boy who is called when his notes or study sessions are needed, the boy who teachers praise and laud but who barely spare a glance beyond his passing grades. the boy who has nothing to his name but a sex-working site, a meal card, a handful of worn handmedown and charity clothes, and a bag full of items from strange men all over the country who will never know him like this).

he releases a breath through his nose, nods his head, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pre-empting the steps he needs to take to turn around. he wants to be able to leave first. to turn his back on the guilt, shame, and disgust he can feel oozing off of him and into the ice and slush at their feet. ]

This conversation never happened.

[ he takes a step back, but when he feels the warmth of the man's palm on his cheek he goes board still. his eyes widen and he wills them not to burn, but there's no doubt that this close, professor fuller can see the shine in them.

it's nothing personal.

how is it that three words can hurt far more than anything else that has been said in all of this? how is it that the carefully crafted thoughts and ideas about what this truly boils down to have been wrecked and decimated in one icy breath, puffed between them on a little cloud.

it was business.

all of this had been business to him.

whatever stupid, lofty, romantic ideas he'd had about what today could be, and what this man might be shatter as easily as the ice atop the little fountain behind them.

skippy, he says. skippy, the boy he is not in this moment but the boy that hawkins fuller actually sought. the boy with the mystery and wonder and intrigue. the boy who listened without question, who called his name and begged for more. the boy who does not have tim laughlin's face. who does not have tim laughlin's pathetic idealism. who does not have hopes and dreams for something more when fucking through a screen on a late school night.

now? he truly does understand. ]

Right. [ he doesn't mean to sound uncertain, doesn't mean to sound shaken the awy he does but his voice comes out hoarse, not fully formed. ]

Of course.

[ he clears his throat, lingers a little overlong against the warmth of the man's palm. how sad is it that this is the most physical contact he's had all year? that the touch is so tender he almost dares to lean his cheek into it, to soak up the last vestiges of kindness that this man would extend to the faceless boy called skippy, but not to tim laughlin.

he backs away, idly rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, fingers pink with cold. ]

Merry Christmas, Professor.

[ it's later that day, several hours after their meeting, that hawk will get a notification from onlyfans. two, in fact:

🔥❌ 💳 600 TIP REFUNDED ✅
🔥❌ 💳 2,400 TIP REFUNDED ✅ ]

Edited 2024-01-01 06:34 (UTC)

🔥 💳 600 TIP SENT ✅
🔥 💳 2,400 SENT ✅

[the first thing hawk does when he gets home is pour himself a stiff drink. the second is to delete that goddamn app off his phone. and the third - is to shake his head and swear when he sees the notifications that both his payments have been refunded. so fourth: he resends both, waiting for the payment to finalize before deactivating his account and logging out of the burner email for...probably ever. and then he reclines back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and swirling the whiskey in his glass as he tries not to think about the wounded look on tim laughlin's face - the glassy eyes, the slight tremor of his lips, and absolutely not the way for the briefest moment he'd shifted closer into hawk's palm as if he couldn't get enough of such a small gesture of contact. this whole thing was just a complete fuck-up - indicative that it was tim's likely first time doing anything in person, and certainly hawk's for getting too damn invested.

look where it got him.

there's another lie to add to his tally, because hawk doesn't end up driving out of town later that day. in fact, he mostly stays home drinking himself to sleep and catching up on lost sleep until the smith's christmas eve party, in which leonard makes a scene and lucy regales them all with her recent trip to italy. hawk invites her to dinner in that nefarious time between actual christmas and new years, then books it out of foggy bottom for one night in alexandria for a quick, empty fuck that meets his modus operandi but leaves him no more satisfied. there are plenty of times on the drive back that he thinks about starting another account, finding someone else to occupy his evenings with and get some form of human connection - but it always goes back to tim. skippy.

he can't let himself miss the routine he'd fallen into. won't.

and if he thought the semester might start off on a decent note, that's apparently a lost cause too. he expects there to be some lingering awkwardness maybe the first few days with tim - a lack of response here, an avoidance as he shuffles past hawk's desk there - but what he didn't expect was an utterly listless tim who's fallen from star pupil to occasional contributor. gone is his fiery questioning of every scenario, his dogged desire to solve each problem that arises in their discussions. there's no more debates, and hawk knows some of the other students are noticing the lack of banter flowing between them, engaging others with their vivaciousness.

but he knows it's really bad when it gets brought up at the first faculty department meeting by a well-meaning mrs. kerr, which triggers a few others to speculate if something happened during break. trouble at home? the lack of presence is noticed to a degree hawk can't remember happening with any other student, and he's put on the spot when dave lonigan, the department chair, turns to him and asks if he knows, seeing as he's had him two semesters in a row now. which makes him partly regret all the praise he'd piled on before, seeing as its left in his hands to have a gentle chat with him for the sake of checking in.

we've been anonymously sexting for months and in a frustrating twist of fate i've rejected his offer to fuck in person probably isn't going to fly.

it's his last period on thursday, and as students file out after receiving their graded first essays of the semester, hawk calls out as one particular blur of brown knitwear tries to beeline for the door.]

Laughlin - before you go, I need a minute.

[his gaze shifts around the class, to the few students still pushing through the doors to the lecture hall and packing up their laptop bags on the way out. hawk clears his throat and stands, gesturing towards the door.]

It's about your thesis. We can chat in my office.

[ walking home from the coffee shop had felt like it had taken years. he hadn't meant to walk so far, only truly intended to head up to the same bus stop from before and hitch into town but by the time he got his wits about him again, he'd made half the trek there in the cold.

returning to the dorms felt like nothing short of a prison - the halls eerily quiet, the lights off, not even a student greeter at the door. just the beep of his badged key and the squeak of the glass door shutting behind him. only a few students remained during the holiday, and most that had didn't even live in his building. so tim perched in his room, coming out only for his sparingly few meals per day, and tried his best to busy himself with reading.

even jumping on cam hadn't been on his mind, though he did it in an attempt to make up some more money to pay for his books, his meal card next semester. he'd even made a call home to wish them a merry christmas - his mother had been happy to hear from him, but his father refused to come onto the phone, as usual. there would be no help from staten island.

and so christmas dinner for tim laughlin had been a cup of ramen, a stained copy of locke's second treatise of government for his thesis, and a glass of water. he heralds in the new year much the same way. it's lonely. and maybe it was lonely before and he'd simply had the tools with which to ignore it - the fantasy. the idealistic, stupid dreams of a boy who can barely survive college, let alone the real world.

he reads the same passage of locke twenty times before he finally throws it across the room.

the isolation of break has settled into his bones, however, and even the bustle of the start of the semester does little to shake it off. arthur ribs him for being boring, mary voices quiet concern but doesn't bother to ask any real questions, and a few members of faculty give him looks. even professor fuller doesn't press him like he used to, and he does his best to keep his head down and take diligent notes for later. he answers when called on, turns assignments in on time, fills the air when his professors look for answers from a dead-eyed class, but otherwise, tim laughlin keeps to himself.

it's no different today, either. professor fuller's class is interesting, engaging, and maybe at some point in the past he'd have piped up to question his flow chart on political and manufacturing consent, but he simply doodles the notes down in his notebook, brow furrowed as he marks questions for himself in the margins. the very same questions he'd have allowed space for in the discussion. instead, he'll spend time in the library later.

he's just gotten his bag packed and started for the door when he hears his name. he pauses for a moment, turning to look at professor fuller, and he cannot help the strange tightness that rises up into his chest. it makes it a little hard to breathe, really, and he has no doubt the apprehension shows on his face.

a few students pass him, glancing back curiously of course. timothy laughlin is never asked to stay after class - not in this way. his hands flex around the strap of his bag and he lets out a little breath before approaching the man who stands, gesturing at the door. ]

I have another class in an hour, and I need to try to head back to the dorm for lunch.

[ a quiet, but polite warning. a note that he cannot stay long, whatever this is. he's out of meals for the week, having been unable to quite cover the cost of the extended meal plan on top of his text books. so ramen or a peanut butter sandwich it is for lunch. it beats nothing.

he falls into line beside professor fuller, though makes certain there is a measured distance between them still. ]

I turned my outline in late, I apologize. It got away from me - had a lot of reading frontloaded in this semester that I tried to get done. I understand if you can't accept it past the deadline.

Understood. This won't take long, I promise.

[of course tim doesn't look thrilled to have been summoned, and he supposes it's doubled by the fact that hawk is the one to have initiated it and that others seem curious about the abnormal circumstances. but hawk ignores them, waiting to fall into place behind tim and lock up the classroom once its emptied out. unfortunately for tim, the comments about lunch back at the dorm fly over his head in the sense that he assumes tim plans to simply eat food at the dorm while attempting to catch up, not that the food in his dorm room is all he has left. if he did, it would have him wonder uncomfortably just how hard up he is for cash - and what that means he's willing to do to get more of it. especially now that he's not getting an extra five-hundred bucks a week from hawk.

an uncomfortable silence envelops them on the walk to his office, even though he prefers to bring everything up with the added privacy of a closed door and no one likely to interrupt unless craig happens to saunter down the hallway and off to the right from the sociology wing. hawk's got a whole corner to himself at the opposite end, and it's not the first time tim has been here by any means, but he can guess with confidence it'll definitely be the most awkward. he holds open the door for his student, waving a hand to usher him inside before closing it behind them and heading towards the solid mahogany desk in front of a wall of books and dc trinkets, gifts from dean smith and accolades from his own time at the university.

he presses his hands together, elbows on the desk and leans forward to listen to tim's apology.]

It's alright. I'm not worried about the outline, and I'll accept it, on one condition.

[his eyes try to seek out what this might be, if he'd gone and fucked it all up with his mistake. is this all his fault?]

You haven't been yourself in class lately. Quiet. Keeping to yourself.

You were - mentioned at our recent department faculty meeting, actually. Everyone's under the impression you've been out of character.

[his lips purse slightly, fingers flexing against each other.]

I imagine I'm the last person you want to hear this from, but are you alright?

[his hands part, palms going flat against the shiny, lacquered surface as he leans in and drops his voice.]

Is this - because of what happened over break?

[what happened between us? is the unspoken implication.]

Talk to me.

Edited 2024-01-01 08:31 (UTC)

[ tim follows in silence alongside professor fuller, keeping his eyes ahead and counting every step he takes to try and keep his breathing and heart rate under control. his palms have already started sweating around the strap of his bag, but he can at least blame that on the heat of the classrooms - the radiators still going at full tilt even though this january is proving to be slightly warmer.

he gives a sheepish nod to some of his other professors in the political science wing as he follows hawk to that corner office he knows well. he's stopped in here many times between classes - most of the time to ask questions about a point in class, or to have him look at a paper before turning it in. other times, simply because he's enjoyed talking to him - needing company in the bustle of the busy day and using a current political event as fodder for that.

but he looks at the door in dread today, stepping inside once he's ushered in and settles in the chair across from the man's desk. he gathers his bag into his lap so as not to remove it from round his torso, but also to have something to hold onto. ]

A condition?

[ he tilts his head, brow furrowing faintly in genuine curiousity. it fades as professor fuller continues to speak and he swallows hard, fingers curling against the worn, near dilapidated faux leather of his satchel. ]

Oh. I'm fine, really.

[ the faculty meet, tim knows that, but how he came to be the topic of one of their department meetings, he doesn't know. he shifts uncomfortably in the chair, wishing suddenly that his answer would be enough, that he could be released so he could get out into the quad and catch his breath. it's so hard to breathe lately. ]

It's not - nothing happened over break. [ good boy, he can almost hear, as though the faceless man might praise him for sticking well to the narrative they built on the snowy sidewalks near the coffee shop. this conversation didn't happen. he lets out a little breath and glances down at his hands, fidgeting before he glances back up, watching as hawk leans in over the fine wood of his desk.

this office once felt a safe haven - shelves of books, old awards hanging on the wall, photographs from older days at georgetown - a place where he has sat cross-legged in this very chair and argued vehemently some point that professor fuller entertained simply out of kindness. he can see that now, zoomed out on everything - how the man puts up with him. how so many people and faculty smile and nod and let him talk himself in circles.

was he always wasting his breath? ]

The break was just a little long, that's all. Difficult, I guess. Sleep schedule is a little messed up, and I got behind on my research. [ he shrugs one shoulder, glancing up at the man and giving a half, small smile. ]

I'm just really trying to focus, take good notes, make sure I take everything in. I... I have a habit of interrupting classes when I shouldn't. I'm not the one with the degree, after all. It may give others the opportunity to... to participate more. That's all.

[ he wants to bolt. never has he felt nervous energy like this in his life, and yet right here, across from hawkins fuller, he feels as though the chair itself is made of lighting. like all that energy is dumping somewhere and it has nowhere to go but into the bends of his ankles, his knees. ]

Really, I'm fine. I'll... I'll make a better effort to speak up in class. Please apologize to them for me. I wasn't trying to be rude. I - ...really should be going.

[christ, tim looks like a caged animal, or more aptly - one of those dogs in an aspca commercial with nervous eyes huddling in on itself from a confined space. the confident boy who would come in here, bag at his side and gesturing animatedly while chatting him up on everything from genocide in palestine to us foreign policy in china is nowhere to be found. that bag might as well be a barricade to protect himself from hawk, and the panicked energy roiling off of him is palpable. it makes hawk's lips twist into a small frown, wondering if the seeming erosion of confidence is also his fault. what else would it be? he's wrongly assumed any of those money problems would have disappeared with the three grand he'd sent back to boot.

i'm fine was the answer he'd been dreading, but predicted in some way. brushing it off, pretending all was well. and he supposes there's no one to blame but himself - considering he did insist they both pretend that nothing at all happened over break. and tim follows suit, enough that it prompts that good boy in his own mind, too, and hawk glances away for a brief moment to wet his lips and will away the inappropriate intrusion.]

You've got a heavy course load this semester, I get it. I'm not trying to add to that.

[he tilts his head slightly, trying to get tim to meet his gaze and see the honest to god compassion in his gaze. it's not any different than he ever was in this context before, because hawkins fuller had always been a teacher first, and frankly a damn good one. one who cares about his students, who would have noticed this change in tim without the faculty meeting or if that disastrous meetup have never happened at all. it's not like he stopped caring from then until now - it's just...complicated. but he has no idea his words have turned tim upside down, the cause for his heartache and retreating back into a shell he didn't know existed.]

If your last essay was anything to go by, you've been taking excellent notes. But try and give yourself a break - get some rest this weekend if you can. Work yourself to the bone and you'll burn out.

[god, everything seems like it's a step too far now, doesn't it? his eyes widen for a moment, hoping tim knows he means work as in simply school work. so he barrels ahead.]

And by the way, you're never interrupting. Those interruptions happen to be the highlight of most of my classes. You got almost half the students involved that day you brought up McCarthyism two months ago, remember that? Last few weeks and I haven't heard a peep from you, even when I brought up Vietnam. Feels a little like I've been left hanging.

[it feels like he's going in a circle again - like tim is reading something between the lines that isn't there. it makes hawk's shoulders sag a little in disappointment, leaning back in his chair and watching tim's desperation to leave.]

Look - none of this is a criticism. We're just concerned about a student that's made a lasting impression on his professors, is all.

Like I said, try and get some rest.

[ tim keeps his eyes glued to his hands, fingers picking idly at some of the leather's facing that has begun to chip and peel. he leaves little brown flecks everywhere he goes these days, but the bag only has to make it one more year. one more year and he'll be able to apply for internships, get out in the world and try to do something more with himself than starve and fuck himself on camera every night.

fuller mentions his paper and his eyes pop up at that, his brow dipping again, his lips pulling. ]

The topic was boring. I copied my notes nearly verbatim and it got me an A.

[ and the first tasks of a semester usually are simpler - a warmup for students coming back after a long stretch away. but the lack of challenge had been infuriating when he's already got so little to bump up against. his course load is no different this semester than last - he can handle the work, the stress, the pressure. but he can't handle everything else. ]

And I'm sorry if you felt I've left you hanging. I wasn't aware I had that sort of responsibility. None of the other students are expected to participate the way that I have - I just...

[ he shakes his head, taking in a slow, deep breath and trying to center himself again. professional. calm. polite. metered and measured and carefully doled out. ]

And Vietnam itself is too broad a topic to engage on in a fifty minute lecture. Why would I waste valuable time broaching that topic when I'd be the only one in the room speaking?

[ professional. calm. polite. he repeats it like a mantra as he takes another breath but something gets away from him when professor fuller insists again on getting rest. what is rest, when one's whole world depends on fundraising to make it to the next semester? every moment is a race, a dash to the finish just to try and make it, when so many of the students around him come from old money and the who-knows-who of academia. ]

And I'll admit I'm frankly surprised you didn't fail this paper as well. I made a point to be as neutral as I could be. No real creative thinking, no out of the box theorizing. Nothing that could be called naive or idealistic - Vietnam would be a bad topic. Too polarizing, especially now that we have technology to look back on our strategies and weaponization.

[ he shrugs again, shifting to the edge of his seat, his knee bouncing absently. he opens up his satchel and draws out his notebook from class, rifling through it until he peels out the essay he'd been handed back today. if hawk peeks, he can see tim's questions blotted in the margins - vietnam circled with bullet points underneath - the old tim written out in ink instead of spoken out loud.

he reaches to set the paper on professor fuller's desk. ]

Your syllabus for this was too vague. If you truly wanted my opinion, I'd have failed this assignment as well. I don't speak up in class because I don't see a need to - it isn't personal, professor. I want to talk about the world I want to see, and maybe that's not realistic. Maybe that's childish, but if this is what you want, then you should keep this.

[ he closes his notebook, his satchel, and rises. ]

I have to go. The shuttle doesn't come to my dorm after lunch, and I have to get back there and up the hill again. I can't be late.

Edited 2024-01-01 09:38 (UTC)

[the well-loved, probably faux leather covering the bag that is clearly on its last leg does not escape hawk's notice, nor does the way it seems to mimic tim's overall existence at the moment. worn out, bone tired, in need of some relief. that's why it surprises him when some semblance of the student he'd been so used to crops back up - the obvious frustration at the topic, the honest criticism of hawk's own syllabus, which isn't that drastically different from last semester's, and the commentary he's clearly been holding back spelled out on stark white. he's still in there, hawk realizes, and thank god - but it's clear there's been damage done both to his confidence and probably his wallet, even if that's an elephant in the room they're both dancing around very carefully.

that doesn't mean he's going soft on his teaching, or that he's going to cut tim more of a break than anyone else - even if he wants to. hawk leans forward again when tim stands, chin tipping up to draw his attention and silently indicate not to leave - not yet.]

You know how much easier my job would be if every student participated like you? Class would be a hell of a lot more engaged.

[he offers a brief, but wry smile, a twinkle in the washed blue sparkling in his eye.]

Look, it's not about Vietnam. And you don't have any responsibility or obligation to me, god no - nor am I looking for you to change any of your opinions overnight. I may have...commented on your leanings in the past, but it's only because the reality of Washington is a whole other beast I have no doubt you'll be in the mouth of someday. I'm not doing you the disservice of letting you walk in like a lamb.

[which is what he feels like he's doing, in essence, by cutting him off from an extra $500 a week he probably desperately needs. hawk rubs at his jaw absently again, watching as tim stuffs his things back into his bag and disperses some of his jittery nerves, clearly ready to leave, even if hawk isn't ready to let him go. he leaves tim's paper on the desk, already knowing he's going to go through it again with a fine-tooth comb and wonder if he was too soft and just trying not to rock the boat. and if he did, then that means he's failed on some level and he won't fucking do that again.

hawk finally stands too, taking a step towards the door to try and block him off from leaving without some kind of resolution.]

Going up the Hill and back is a pretty long way for lunch. I've got some snacks here if it'll save you the trip.

[hawk has never felt the need to explain himself to anyone, to fill awkward silences instead of letting someone else stew in them to a point, but he's stalling in a way, trying to dig deeper into the root of the issue here. the thought of letting tim walk out that door without any resolution makes him feel a steadily growing knot in his chest. he jabs a thumb back towards the door in the direction of the main lobby, where helpful maps and pamphlets and student guides and the administration staff sit.]

Got a new secretary at the front desk this year, and I think she's trying to fatten me up with all this stuff.

Edited 2024-01-01 18:04 (UTC)

I understand that the leanings of Washington are far more difficult, critical, and torrential to navigate. I know that the reality of our government means that our democracy will never be a true democratic republic. We've been far from that notion for the better part of a century, but what's the point of going into all of this if I don't keep sight of the world I want to see.

[ he can't help the way he's getting fired up over it, the way his shoulders hitch up, the way his hands loosen on his bag to gesture. he even backs up a half step when hawk blocks the door, and something about the closeness, the way the man cages him into his office loosens something in him. there's a fire in tim laughlin that he cannot control - a passion he has no gauge for. there's no spigot to turn it on and turn it off, and with it comes great advantages and even greater consequences. ]

I know that I world I want to see will never come to fruition. Honestly, it's better that it doesn't. Extremes on either end are bound to fail - strict dichotomies are already the heart of what's fracturing American politics. But if I go into all of this knowing that it's dark and terrible, and that I have to transmogrify the way I think to fit that mold the moment I fall into the orbit of someone with power, influence - then why am I even trying? I appreciate your concern and your watchful eye, Professor Fuller, and I am sorry that I have not engaged in your classes more this month.

[ he lets out a little breath, shakes his head, and looks back up at the man. there's a fire in tim's eyes, whether he realizes it or not. ]

I want to believe that there's good in people. Even if they don't believe that there's any good in me. Or if that good has a valuation, an expectation attached to it. Do you think that any of those faculty members would ask about me, care about me, if they knew?

[ the word knew sits heavy on the air between them, and color rises up into the high points of his cheeks. ]

I went to the chapel that day and prayed. For a solution, for something different, for anything to change. I have prayed my whole life for a path forward that's clearer, not easier. Forgive me, then, if I have been quiet. I'm doing everything I can to figure out where the ground falls beneath my feet. I've lost your respect, and no matter what either of us wanted then - I never wanted that.

[ it's almost childish to say it out loud - to look professor fuller in the eye and admit to the way he's all but idolized him in his time here. the way he has soaked up the attention and the care, the intellectual battles, the conversations had in this very same doorway.

he swallows hard and looks away then, to the old watch on his wrist. the glass face is dull and worn, the band soft, the clasp tarnished. everything about tim laughlin is well-loved items, handmedowns handled with care, and the careful curation of necessities. ]

My class is in half an hour. It's Dr. Lonigan's class - I can't be late or he won't let me in.

Edited 2024-01-01 18:31 (UTC)

[it's not that he's trying to upset tim or push him into something - it's that he's seen the torrent of fervor in him and a light that shines brighter than he ever did, ever will, and frankly more than any other student he's taught over the last five years. washington has a reputation for chewing up its interns, aides, and the generally pure-hearted up with razor sharp teeth and spitting them back out into a colder, more miserable world - but tim has tenacity, a doggedly fierce will that he thinks can weather the storm. it's why he's never sought to stamp out the ideals he's so determined to implement into this world - moreso just shape them into something a little sharper, able to penetrate the cloud of muck that surrounds government work and the corrupt, jaded, old windbags that make up majority of capitol hill.

and it's why listening to tim even now brings him a glimpse of that raw potential once more, reminds him it's still in there and hasn't been destroyed. well thank christ, because hawk isn't sure he'd be able to live with that fuck up. so he leans back slightly, something like pride blooming in his chest and in the small quirk of his lips upward as he listens to tim practically preaching about democracy and the failed state of a two-party political system.]

I'm not looking for an apology. No one is. But that -

[he points towards tim's chest, towards the way his entire body has been energized with this new fire, the whole of what's been missing for the past few weeks.]

- that's who we've been missing in our classes.

[because the faculty loves him, really. which makes the air feel like it's been sucked out of the room when tim poignantly asks if his goodness and perspective and worth is somehow attached to a purity contest and a question of morality. it makes his face fall, jaw flexing and lips pressing together in a firm line as his brows furrow. the sigh that comes out of him is deep-seated and already seemingly exhausted by what he has to say. of course he knows what tim is getting at. and the reality is: yes. there are assholes in this building probably sitting some forty feet from them who would judge tim laughlin for selling his body on the internet to make ends meet. and hawk doesn't think he needs to hear that from him - or that he's really looking for the answer. but there's one thing he can't abide by, so he stands to his full height and lowers his voice with the kind of conviction that's rare even in his classes, instead preferring to play the neutral and encouraging guide or the sardonic cynic, bringing everyone down to reality.]

There is good in people if you know where to look. Far and few between, and believe me when I say - you're one of the few. And the kind of good you're talking about, that I and other members of this faculty see in you?

That's priceless. Don't you forget it.

[his gaze flickers down to the flush on tim's cheekbones, the way it singes up towards his ears and reminds him immediately and inconveniently of the fact that his whole body does the same under certain circumstances. it makes him think about that day outside the coffee shop again, tim shivering and looking utterly crushed. the kid is struggling with more than just his schoolwork, all these invisible expectations from a god that hawk doesn't believe exist, from the judgment and scorn he thinks he'd earn from his peers and his mentors. it's an overstep to give him the atheist playbook right now, but hawk looks up sharply when tim asks for forgiveness. what forgiveness does he need?

and why does he think hawk has lost respect for him?]

Hey, time out. You'll make it to Lonigan's just fine, but back up a minute.

[a step towards tim, and then another - one closer than he should. but he needs to meet his eyes, to make him understand. his voice is firm and insistent, with the kind of patience he's granted tim as he works through the more complex structures and concepts in their office hours before this whole mess started.]

Look at me.

[and he doesn't continue until tim complies, honeyed brown through those thick lenses so expressive and chin quivering ever so slightly from his ardent declarations moments before.]

You haven't lost my respect.

There's nothing you could do there that would ever make that happen. I don't know what God or Lonigan or anyone else thinks, but that's what you're hearing from me. Nothing has changed between us, do you understand?

Things won't be this difficult forever. That's hard to hear without the evidence - but it will change. Especially for someone like you who is constantly pushing himself to fly.

[icarus with the scalded wings.

the sudden flash of gold catches his attention, and hawk walks back to his desk to pull out some granola bars, chocolates, and some organic energy bites - whatever the fuck those are.]

These aren't winning any awards for the most balanced meal, but here. So you won't be late. I know Lonigan's a hardass about that.

[ that's who we've been missing in our classes, the man says and something in tim's chest feels like it cracks open. maybe it's the weight of getting so much of what he's said out in the open for the first time in two months, maybe it's just the pressure of being cornered by professor fuller here in his office. either way, warmth blooms in his chest, makes his face feel warm, makes his eyes almost threaten to burn.

he feels inexplicably tired, suddenly, even though the fight that he'd thought had run out of him is simply waiting, buzzing and jittering in his chest, making his heart pound heavy still. he opens his mouth to rebut something about goodness, something about a special something that tim supposedly has, but he closes it again. he doesn't believe whatever notion of goodness that is - no one with that kind of goodness turns his back on his family, tries to reconcile god with his life, does the kind of work that he does - but he could spend hours over that.

instead, he's drawn back out to professor fuller approaching, getting closer and closer, until he's all but forced to look up at him. it's a reflex, anyway, to obey him in this way. a command, even with the teacherly patience he's heard semester after semester. he blinks up at him, meeting his gaze, feeling strangely small now with the breadth and height of the man so close to him.

but he stares, silently up at him, shaken to the core by his words - you haven't lost my respect. ]

The way you spoke. Ah - before. [ at the park, in the cold, before christmas... ] Made it sound like you questioned... my free time. Like I was doing more than what you'd already expected to see from me. Worse, maybe.

[ especially when i don't know what they're up to outside of class.

tim shifts his weight, instinctively leaning onto one foot that creates a hint of space between them. but he can feel the heat of professor fuller from here, even smell the rich notes of his undoubtedly expensive aftershave, and he looks away from him then, down at his hands again, then back up because he knows he will be expected to speak to him face to face.

but professor fuller whisks away to this desk, drawing up snacks from somewhere, and tim at first stares for a moment at the pile of things on the lacquered top, then back up to him. tim takes a step toward the desk, closer to hawk. ]

I'm not that. I do what I have to do, and that day - before - was the only time. I know that what I have to do isn't right. That I should have just taken the scholarship I was given for SUNY and been satisfied with that - but I had to try. I want to be here, Professor Fuller. I want to do something good with all of this and I'm trying.

[ his jaw quivers, his throat swells with a hint of emotion but tim tries to suck in a deep breath, to temper the burning, dangerous, desperate little thing trying to crawl its way out from between his ribs. what would there be around his heart if not a lion, desperately clawing its way to the surface, unwilling to back down even when defeat seems imminent. ]

But I keep hearing what you said - over and over. When I saw it was you, I was glad. I trust you, probably more than I trust myself. And I get all of it - why you can't, why you don't want to - it's nothing about that. But I don't know how to reconcile the Tim Laughlin you knew before and the one who is here in front of you.

[ he huffs something like a desperate little noise, finally takes a step back, his hands coming to his hips. ]

I don't run around in my free time. I don't do anything more than what you've already seen. I don't have friends, I don't have family here, I barely survive just trying to pay my tuition every semester and just hope I get it in time to get seats in the classes I know I'll need or to get the right meal plan, or get the right books on time. I have nothing - but this school and these classes.

[ he runs a hand back through his hair, letting out a shaken breath and then furiously wipes at the corner of one eye beneath the dark rims of this glasses. how embarrassing. ]

I'm tired of pushing myself to fly when it never leads me anywhere good. I respect you a great deal, Professor Fuller. I... I want to do right by your classes and learn as much as I can from you while I'm still able to be here, but I'm just going to disappoint you. Because I am that same student, but I'm also the guy in the dark room with a camera who you can't trust.

[ his hands finally fall back to their sides.

there's no point in making lonigan's class. he won't be able to listen, to focus. he'll just have to be diligent in the future - not miss another so as not to drop his grade. ]

It's just the first time I've ever felt ashamed of it. For just trying to make it.

[tim doesn't realize that hawk has played that fateful morning over in his head as if on an old, rickety projector - damn near memorized everything that was exchanged between them before he'd left his student out in the cold - literally and metaphorically. most of his break was spent strategizing, wondering how he was going to mitigate this disaster and frankly expecting that not to be the end of it. not because he didn't trust tim's honesty and principles - but because it's just ingrained, second nature never to trust anyone, especially not with the kind of secrets that get you fired or worse, plastered on front page news. loose lips, as they say. but seeing tim now, the way he hesitates to meet fuller's gaze - there's something more eating at him from the inside out. it's not the rejection, which hawk still doesn't fully understand, it's -

oh. of course.

of course timothy laughlin would worry that hawk thought him to be dishonest in some way, that he was disgusted by the idea of his outside activities. it's been a clear misunderstanding, and hawk shakes his head adamantly even as tim's voice escalates and wavers slightly between these raw, heartfelt confessions. if he felt like the air was sucked out of the room before, now it's downright suffocating. these emotions - aren't what he has ever signed up for. not to say that he hasn't offered a box of tissues to a student going through a mental breakdown, or having unexpectedly lost a family member, but this? this is a whole different ballgame, an intimacy created between them that frankly neither signed up for. something he's never navigated, and hopefully never fucking will long after tim graduates.

but for now, he's not going to let the boy just walk around thinking he's dirty because of it.]

Tim.

[he looks up from his desk, pushing the drawer shut before walking back towards him and slotting in close once more. it's almost too easy the way it feels right to be here, just shy of inappropriate. but they're long since past that now, aren't they? hawk tips his head, glancing downward at where tim's eyes are glassy behind his thick lenses.

it'd be a lie to say he didn't see something of himself in there, from once upon a time. a boy who liked pretty things, sensitive friends, grew too attached to them both and lost all of it, along with his father's respect and whatever foolishly optimistic future he thought he might have back then. instead he'd locked it all away and thrown away the key, barricading himself between easy charm and skin-deep connections. his own journey clawing to the surface was a solitary one too, lonely at times - but the difference between the two of them standing here in his office is that hawk refuses to let himself feel it. it would be much easier to tell tim he doesn't know what he's talking about, to give him a generic note of sympathy that he's struggling in matters both personal and professional, give him the snacks and send him off into that same cold and unforgiving world.

but he's not his father. he's not going to do that.]

That's not what I was implying. I needed you to know that I had no idea it was you the whole time - no reason to suspect. None of this was on purpose.

Do you get that?

[even knowing what he does now - it didn't make his mind wander or fall to the worst case scenarios. he doesn't think tim is whoring himself out, doesn't think he's running with disreputable crowds or letting himself fall down some immoral drain.]

I am sorry I made you feel that way. It wasn't the intention. And even if you can't reconcile both of those people - I can. That's why I said nothing has to change. Nothing is changed in the way I think of you.

[but then again, hawk's best skill is his ability to bifurcate the things he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to feel, and keep moving. it's why he refuses to let himself linger on the why you don't want to part, as if he hasn't already spent a few nights with his hand down his pants thinking about all the what ifs - what if he had thrown caution to the wind, what if he'd taken tim to some motel and decided to keep his boy all semester? he shakes his head slightly, partly to clear his head and mainly to refute tim's declarations yet again, leaning in without realizing.]

Eyes on me.

[another order, but this is the most important part.]

You have nothing to be ashamed of. You're doing the best you can. Surviving, the only way you know how. Nothing disappointing about a boy who wants more for himself and strives to make it happen. Quite frankly, there's nothing I respect more.

[hawk reaches up, fingers hesitating for the barest moment - wanting to swipe at the hint of a glistening tear track left behind along tim's nose. instead he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a kerchief with a navy HF monogrammed in the corner. his voice lowers, into that rich, graveled timbre of sincerity.]

I trust you - [skippy.]

Do you still trust me?

Edited 2024-01-03 02:54 (UTC)

[ i had no idea it was you the whole time

of course he didn't. just like tim had no idea the man behind the screen was hawkins fuller, professor at georgetown. he knows he should accept it for the honest confession it is, and yet tim still can't help but wonder if it had been a different, pretty-faced student - would fuller have slept with him? would they have spent the day in a fierce battle of wills? a man and his boy?

tim thinks it might have been easier to deal with all of this if they had. a fuck and go, where the hotel room door shuts behind them and closes all of this up into one dingy, dark place.

but that's not what they did, and instead tim stands in the middle of hawk's office feeling a little foolish, a little angry, a little hurt. mostly at himself, really, than anything else. that he let himself crack like this under the pressure when he's done so well for the past few years. no one would know that timothy david laughlin, work-a-holic, eager beaver, model student - was struggling. ]

I get it, yeah.

[ but professor fuller closes the distance between them again, just outside the edge of propriety and tim finds he's holding his breath against the intensity of the older man. he's half expecting a raised voice, unearned sternness, or a critique. but there's another command and it is like he was all but born to do everything this man tells him as his eyes track up almost immediately, a little surprised, no doubt that it shows in the faint flush creeping up his neck, to his jaw.

tim wants to close his eyes the moment he sees the man's hand move, imagine the touch he'd felt on his cheek that day in the cold morning air. it's stupid, how much he craves even the smallest hint of affection, and stranger so that he desires it from this man of all people.

instead, he's offered a kerchief, and at first tim doesn't quite know what to do or think of it, stunned instead by the man's words. he glances at the kerchief, but then like a boy realizing his mistake and being caught, his eyes snap back up to hawk and he swallows hard. he's quiet at first - uncomfortable and unsure at first if he truly wants to answer, to reveal one more card in his hand. and yet: ]

I trust you.

[ it's quiet, and the most calm he's sounded throughout this whole conversation. like that little crack he'd discovered in his chest has healed, and the warmth pouring from it feels less like endless despair and fury and more like hope. he reaches for the kerchief, the fabric rich and soft beneath his finger tips and though he knows he should turn away and clear the tear streaks from his face, he can't.

instead, he keeps his eyes on hawk, as he'd been so gently told to do as he removes his glasses and wipes sheepishly at his eyes, the bridge of his nose. only when he's sure the tears have been swept away does he put his glasses back on, then delicately fold the kerchief, and his eyes raise once again to meet the striking blue of fuller's.

(he will think a great deal about how the skin of his cheek bone will smell like the man's cologne - or the way the bridge of his nose will be blushed red from the press of the soft fabric, and the faint scratch of the stitching in that delicate HF. embarrassing). ]

I never stopped trusting you. I'd do whatever you told me to do. [ he offers the kerchief back between them, then, and gives a faint, sheepish smile.

something has changed between them even here, but tim's shoulders feel lighter, his chest more open, his heart slowing. he feels more embarrassed for his outburst now than furiously desperate, but to have said all of it out loud to someone who he knows will keep it as private and safe as it was meant to be in the first place is strangely freeing. no one else here knows his story. and no one ever will. he sighs a little, pinching his lips to one side, his nose wrinkling up, almost admitting to the awkwardness of it all now that they've waded through it. ]

Sorry. [ he says finally, shrugging one shoulder and tearing his eyes away, anywhere but the blue of those eyes. ] I didn't mean to unload on you - that wasn't fair. I really didn't. Break was just really lonely here, and then I guess everything else caught up to me.

[ he looks down now at the snacks from before, the smorgasbord of things he'd offered for him to take to eat on the way to lonigan's class. the clock on the wall in hawk's office tells him that he won't make it - five minutes to run across the other side of the campus isn't worth it, anyway. he shouldn't take the snacks since he's not going to class, and yet he can't help the way he knows how empty his stomach will feel later. and so he reaches for at least the package of energy bites - whatever the hell those are.

he worries the edge of the wrapper between his fingers for a moment before he looks back up at hawk, earnest and sincere, his shoulders shrugging in a way that matches the delicate crinkle of his nose. ]

But, um. Thank you. For not judging me - not unfairly, anyway. And listening. I can... I should get out of your hair.

Edited 2024-01-03 05:05 (UTC)

[the answer is no, he wouldn't. that's a line no face could make him cross, a risk that can't be taken back once it's been completed. the part tim doesn't understand (and hopefully never will), is that this...relationship that was developed without his face? is the longest thing he's had going since he was in high school. and he absolutely shouldn't know that tim is the living embodiment of his physical preferences - sweet-faced, dark hair, big brown eyes, and a body he'd have no qualms committing many, many sins with, regardless of his earnest catholicism. and that's the part that he won't let himself think more about either: that at this point, it's not just tim's body and the raunchy shit he gets up to outside of class for a few bucks to feed himself and stay enrolled here. hawkins fuller noticed him because of his mind, his headstrong nature in between the easy teases and obedience, the desire to do something good both behind and in front of a camera in the world.

his pulse has quickened, inexplicably, while tim's answer hangs in the balance and he's confronted up close by dark lashes against pretty pale skin. god, what he wouldn't give to touch him again, to give himself a reminder of just how soft and supple it was beneath his fingertips even when it was ravaged by the unforgiving cold. somehow it kicks up another notch as he watches tim wordlessly obey every single command, drinking in those three little words: i trust you. he nods, silently, and feels the tension in the room pop as if stabbed by a needle, slowly hissing into something more manageably comfortable. they're going to be alright.]

Good.

[he watches as tim wipes away his tears, putting as much approval as he can muster into the expression along with the softest of smiles - only if someone knows what to look for on the contours of his face, the slight differences in his mouth.

(there is a resolution that he will absolutely not run those words through his head later tonight: i'd do whatever you told me to. surely he knows the implication...?)]

You're alright.

[he looks down at the handkerchief, considering for a few moments before pressing his hand gently over tim's and pushing it back towards him. if his thumb brushes against the back of tim's fist clutched around the woven fabric, there's enough plausible deniability to pretend it's accidental. or just a force of habit.]

Keep it. Just in case things get caught up again.

[but he has a sneaking suspicion they won't - that he's managed to salvage this enough for them both, and he tries to suppress the small swooping sensation in his stomach. a few small steps back, and hawk sits back down with a creak of leather into his high-backed desk chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrests as he watches tim shake off some of the awkwardness and considering the mismatched feast in front of him. hawk follows his gaze to the clock with a mutter of ah, shit, before shaking his head.]

Starts in five, doesn't it? Listen - I'll put in a word with Lonigan. Tell him I kept you late to discuss your thesis. Which we should set a meeting for, by the way.

[it feels almost like business as usual, and he offers one last amused smile in response to to the way tim's nose scrunches.]

You don't have to thank me for doing the decent thing. And - just remember, my door is always open.

[the implication is that it's for anything - not just schoolwork. but vocalizing the idea that tim might still have those bouts of loneliness or struggling would just be rubbing it in at this point, so he's not going to press it any further. they've crossed a bridge today, and that was the best he could hope for. his gaze slips back down to the paper that's been left behind, and then the obnoxious orange from a bag of chips on his desk draws him back before he slides it across the surface towards tim's end.]

Hey - do me a favor and take some more of this with you. Seriously, it'll never get eaten otherwise.

[that, and he knows the boy probably needs it a hell of a lot more than he does.]

[ the bad thing about all of this is that up close, tim is able to see all of the things he imagined the man on the other side of that camera screen would be. firm, tough, domineering when he had to be - and yet there's something in the sharpness of his eyes that belies just how clever he is, how hard he works to build and create and weave his words, laying out everything perfectly and carefully.

this close, he can also see the faintest quirk of his lips, and it only serves to make tim's smile broaden just a little more, make a little more life come back into his eyes, like a flower offered water and sunlight for the first time after days of darkness. maybe he is icarus, tired and scalded by a sun he tried to reach. the sun warned him off, but it's the little kerchief that has his wings fluttering still in flight.

tim curls his hand around the fabric, but it's the press of hawk's broad, warm hand that startles him. it makes the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and his eyes flit up again to watch the man as he rounds back toward his desk.

the moment is broken between them, the distance made and the armistice met. it doesn't change that the flush that had crept up his neck before now easily works its ways to his cheeks - faint and pink, drawing out the little, faded freckles sunkissed into his cheeks from a warmer than usual fall on campus. (it feels like the back of his hand is on fire itself - the wax of his wings dripping, dripping, dripping and scalding him). ]

Thank you.

[ he huffs a little, shaking his head as he carefully raises the flap of his satchel and slides the kerchief in alongside the energy bites. ]

If you don't mind? I know it's not honest, but - I don't think I could focus if I went now, anyway. [ and for once, tim will concede this to the other man - a lie to another faculty member, to protect him. he doesn't accept favors easily, and accepting this one is just an attempt to show his gratitude - to give space where he'd not allowed before. ]

I'll stop by your office hours tomorrow. For the thesis. I actually think I want to include a segment on the degradation of bipartisanship and how our inability to find neutral territory in the Senate and the House is undermining our democratic success, especially since we struggle with two-party politics when the race really is wide open.

[ the words come out with ease, and it's obvious for a moment that the gears are already turning again like they should be - the cogs greased and whirling - tim laughlin brought back to life. his brow furrows, a hand comes up so that his finger can tap idly against his bottom lip all the while he looks up in thought. ]

But I think there's more to unpack there - it's too broad. But it's all so complex it might be just as easy to get lost in the weeds, too. Oh -

[ another peace offering - the bag of chips. tim takes it with little rebuttal, and even opens it as he wanders a step backward, still thinking to himself as he pops a chip into his mouth. (it's also silly how he blinks in surprise and hums at the sharp, cheddar flavor). ]

You're missing out, you know. Maybe we give these out to Congress and all our problems will be solved. Then what would I write about?

[ he heads for the door, eating another chip, but he turns at the last moment, peering over his shoulder at hawk. ]

Thanks again. Honest.

[ a sheepish duck of his chin and he's turning, headed out and into the quad's open air. ]

Edited 2024-01-03 05:57 (UTC)

[ 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?

Edited 2024-01-03 05:34 (UTC)

[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.

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.

It was smart to come here. You did a good thing.

[tim may not absorb any of this. hell, he may not even remember it at all tomorrow depending on what happened and the severe state of fucked up he's in. hawk lets his hand shift upwards from his pulse to the top of his forehead, brushing back some of the hair so he can press the flat of his palm against the skin there. burning up, not that he really thought it'd be any different. there's no objection when tim fists at his forearms, probably trying somehow to steady himself and stop the world from spinning if he's been drinking or worse. his gaze drops, following the path of his hand as it shifts to his chest, and in any other context he'd be politely removing both hands and firmly telling tim goodnight.

but this is bad, whatever it is, and he leans in and speaks slow but firm once more.]

Hey, hey, hey - I'm right here.

[tim's words are slurring, dragging at the end of each as he mentions the pizzeria. at the edge of campus, nothing too special, arcade games - someone took tim on a date? his brows furrow as he wonders precisely how the fuck tim was able to traverse from all that way and end up here in one piece. and then he's tipping to the side almost abruptly, skin going even paler than before as hawk lurches forward to steady him with one arm before reaching blindly for the trash bin on the other side. is he going to throw up? probably wouldn't be a bad thing at this point to get whatever is in his system out - booze or otherwise.

ah.]

Christ, Tim. You're lucky you got out in one piece.

[so it is otherwise, and hawk feels a distinct gratitude for whoever this waitress is and a righteous fury against the man - client who tried to do this to tim. it's not the moment, but a surge of guilt washes over him as he looks away and mutters out a frustrated shit at himself. how can he not feel some semblance of responsibility for it? tim is short on cash by his own admission earlier this semester, and hawk knows how much he was bankrolling before this. he wonders if there have been other meetups - if he's been trying to recoup his losses by doing things altogether more dangerous. jesus, did he even vet these guys? those are questions for another time, and thanks to his stringent compartmentalization he's able to push it down and focus on the important matter here.

even drugged and tim has that same shame again, the one hawk had tried to get him to forget. the one he thought he'd been successful at talking him down from. fuck. if he knew who this man was -

not the time, fuller.

his hand shifts again, patting gently at tim's cheek as if to draw his focus and narrow his attention while everything is still churning inside him. he leans in, enough that if tim wanted to he could flop forward, rest his head against that same broad shoulder and try to feel some sort of steadiness.]

Listen to me. I'm driving you to a hospital - Sibley Memorial.

[he tips his chin up, trying to get tim to lock onto his eyes best as he can, even if he's seeing doubles or triples, so long as he knows what's going to happen next and can keep awake. hawk reaches into his pockets, making sure his keys are in there before tipping tim back against the chair, enough that he won't be at risk of falling forward flat on his face.]

Don't move.

[he grabs his briefcase, tossing in the last of his papers for the weekend and tugging it over his shoulder. and then he's back in front of tim, keys in hand. there's a low hang on, close your eyes before he lightly pulls tim up onto his feet, wholly supporting him with his weight. he tries an experimental step to see if tim can follow it, and finding him still lacking any sort of motor control over his limbs, he exhales sharply and puts an arm around his back and another under his knees before hoisting him up unto his arms.]

Come on, I gotcha.

[ the palm against his forehead feels cool and even, a steady thing to lean into and for a few seconds, tim's eyes flutter closed. yes, he could rest just like this, soaking up the warmth and the musky cologne the man is wearing. nothing would feel safer in the world than that. but he has little chance to truly rest his eyes when professor fuller pats at his cheek, speaks to him so softly and kindly. ]

I am lucky.

[ tim can acknowledge that whatever is happening to him is bad - he's been drunk before, even a little high before, but none of it has ever felt like this. he knows hawkins fuller's office better than almost anyone - he's spent hours in here, perched in this chair, debating and arguing and talking. but the walls seem high and steep, the desk broad and barren, and the way his vision spins he can barely keep up with hawk's movements around the room. ]

I thought he was - it wasn't s'posed to be anything...

[ but there's so much happening. hawk holding him, keeping him upright, looking at him with those annoyingly blue eyes and that frown. he shouldn't have come here. he should have just made his way down toward the dorms and called it done and over with. a wash. his summer classes going down the drain with a creepy older man and some shitty pizzeria drink.

but the word hospital seems to give him a moment of clarity. he holds his hands up, not quite surrender but surprise. ]

I can't... I can't go. Just go to the... the college RN.

[ he huffs a little, shaking his head. ] I can't afford it. It's too much.

[ but there's little he can do in the way of physical rebuttal, and so he sits like he's told, trying his best to stay still even if the room is churning around him. he shakes his head, as though that might clear his vision, and only when hawk is within better reach again does he reach for one arm, a shoulder. ]

Please ... I'll go back to my dorm. S'fine. Gotta get some sleep I bet, that's... that's all. They'll decline my bank card.

[ it's a good thing his reaction time is next to nil right now, as even though he tries to walk, even he can tell that something has changed in the past few minutes. enough that when professor fuller tells him to close his eyes, he does it without hesitation, a slurred yes,sir tumbling from his lips without any filter to hold it back.

and up he goes, enough that tim groans a little at first before he leans heavily into the man's broad chest, head dropping against his shoulder, the outside arm flopping loosely to hold onto the opposite shoulder. he's being carried, he realizes, hanging a little heavy in the man's arms as he keeps his eyes shut, breathing through another wave of nausea. ]

I don't have any money left. I bought pizza with what I had left and I didn't even get to eat it.

[ there's something that hitches in his voice, almost like tears may be threatening at the corners of his eyes. he spent the last of his money on this stupid date, with the anticipation that he'd get the base three thousand regardless, and maybe more if he somehow impressed or performed well. at the very least he should have been able to leave with full stomach. ]

I can't pay you back. Hospitals are so much. Please, don't make me go.

[ but it's obvious it's already far, far too late for negotiations. why he stumbled into this building to find this man is something he'll absolutely have to unpack later. he has no doubt that professor fuller will walk in, make tim get a hospital room and get seen, then be on his way. why wouldn't he?

as much as tim would like to imagine that they have something different, he knows he's not fooling anyone. after all, he is the boy that tried to go on a date with a stranger in hopes of earning enough money to stay on campus a little while longer. a few months at home won't be the death of him, no. he can survive the angry church his father prays to, the strict house rules, being watched carefully.

but leaving behind school? a summer full of classes he gets to take simply for the joy of it? a life without watchful eyes and a little bit of lonely freedom? it feels impossible.

he sighs, burying his face absently against the crook of hawk's neck and shoulder, trying to block out the motion and the light, which makes his head spin even more, makes his stomach churn sickly.

so finally, in defeat: ]

I'm sorry. I... I don't have anyone else.

[ who will get this. who will understand what happened. who will know what to do and take care of him. tim can feel the pull of heavy sleep even more now that he's being gingerly carried. god, he hopes no one else is around to witness this. that would be messy beyond repair. ]

I don't have anyone.

[the college rn. sure, so hawk can pull into a room full of probably equally shitfaced students, girls waiting in line for plan b, and staff that will immediately clock him for a professor with another student who can barely stand straight. yeah, that'll go over just swell. not to mention - even if tim isn't thinking clearly, he is, and a regular hospital will document this on paper in case tim decides to press charges or at the very least get this piece of shit creep banned for life from the site. there are plenty of questions he might ask if the boy in his arms was coherent enough to answer them - did anything else happen? was this the first after christmas? did you get a name? is this all my fault? nothing that will get him anywhere, and frankly - nothing that's officially his business. he gave up his claim to...whatever this was the day he turned on his heel in the middle of dupont circle over break.]

Sorry - the hospital is non-negotiable. And forget about the money right now.

[he knows that's probably impossible for tim to do, so before he can object much more he quickly maneuvers the door open, double checking the hallway and grateful it's past nine, even the most dedicated of workaholics long gone on a friday along with any of the cleaning staff, before booking it to the empty parking lot. he's just about to try and set tim down to wriggle around for his keys when it hits him - the soft mumble of implications that make hawk's stomach churn too for very different reasons. the tremor that passes across his face happens before he can steel it away, and he's grateful tim's eyes are closed. there's that goddamn guilt again - when did he get so soft?]

It's like I said, Tim - I've got you.

So you have me.

[that's one thing he wouldn't mind tim forgetting tomorrow morning, but before either of them can dwell on it, he pulls open his door and takes a minute to assess this. getting into the car is a bit of a struggle, hawk quite literally needing to lift both legs inside as tim all but flops into the seat. he rustles around in his back seat, producing a plastic bag and putting it in his lap just in case. the drive is mostly a blur - moving quickly through relatively no traffic out of campus until he sees the reflection of city lights against tall, wide windows. hawk's spent majority of the ride over glancing over at tim, a reassuring hand on his shoulder when it looks like he might loll forward or slump against the window and quickly coming up with a plausible reason for his involvement here.

fortunately the nurse seems to be charmed that such a handsome "uncle" has a close enough relationship with his "nephew" to have been his knight in shining armor. he tells the nurses as much as he knows, leaving out the circumstances other than a stranger, possibly drugged, a witness he can't coax out of him just yet. tim is in bad enough shape that they admit him right away, laying him out on a gurney and whisking him into a room. that should be hawk's cue to leave - drive home, pour himself a double, and call it a day.

except the first thing he does is step out and talk to his newfound friend at the receptionist, insisting his nephew is a good, studious kid from the poor side of the family. on scholarship, barely any income to speak of. would you mind sending the bill to my address? i don't want to worry the rest of the family until we know what happened. you're a doll.

and then...he waits. plops himself down into one of the chairs in the waiting room, knowing full well there's a chance this could take all night, but replaying tim's plaintive, discouraged words over and over again: i don't have anyone. which he's willing to prove is patently untrue. he'd just gotten him back after their first hurdle at the beginning of the semester, no way in hell he wanted this to be another setback before the summer. hawk hisses out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, rubbing both hands over his face tiredly before planting both feet apart and leaning forward to try and process all of this and pray that no one from campus - faculty or otherwise - has a late night accident and wind up here too. eventually he stops glancing over his shoulder, pulling out his phone and catching up on the news, looking into a few hotels out of town, and watching a frankly dreadful replay of the commanders vs. the jets.

mr. fuller?

his head shoots up immediately, seeing one of the nurses back to give him an update. she pulls him aside and gives him the rundown - vitals are okay - detected a low dosage of ghb in his blood test - more commonly known as the date rape drug - shouldn't be alone - monitor him throughought the night - sleep it off - traumatic for victims - recommend a hotline for him to call tomorrow -

it all comes in a rush, hawk grabbing onto all the immediately important information and realizing all the time he spent thinking about staying here to make sure tim was okay and he hadn't considered how the hell to get him back to his own bed. absolutely not a snowball's chance in hell he'd drive him back and carry him into his dorm, in front of past or present students who would absolutely recognize him and wonder what the hell went on tonight. there's only one other option, then, to which he smiles and thanks her for her time, asking if he can see tim yet to start discharge. the boy looks exhausted, small on the hospital bed - and hawk checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is lingering before leaning down.]

Tim - I need to take you somewhere safe. It can't be the dorms.

[he sucks in a breath, exhaling it in a sigh.]

Do you still trust me?

[ so you have me.

the words ring in his ears and he clings to the small glimmer of hope they give him even as he drifts in and out. he's not unconscious, but he isn't truly awake either, his thoughts drifting and vision swimming. the walk to the car, the car ride, even getting placed on a gurney in the er all blurs together into one wild mashup he likely won't remember much of.

the nurses and doctors begin working around him and there are a few who gently urge him to keep his eyes open, to keep answering questions. his name, his birthdate, what he's studying, where he's going to school, what happened, what happened, what happened.

what happened. he tells them he can't remember, just that he went on a date, but even in the wild haze of whatever this is, he knows he can't say. he knows he can't confess. what would it say about professor fuller who brought him here? it's only then he realizes the man isn't in the room, and he doesn't see him out past the sliding doors of the exam room.

it makes sense, really, that he left.

tim would leave him behind, too, after putting him through so much in one night. he'll regret so much about this evening later, but stumbling his way to the polisci building in desperation will always be one of them.

tim's heart beats fast on the monitor as he thinks about it and a friendly nurse pats is hand, then pets his cheek, trying to guide him through deep breaths. there's an iv placed, medicine given, temperatures and blood pressures and so many, many tests. they take photos, but of what he isn't entire sure, they write things down on a paper he's told he'll have to sign later. when the room does finally go quiet, tim curls up on his side. whatever's in the iv has helped (fluids mainly), and though the room doesn't spin as much and the world feels less unsteady, he's exhausted. his face is wet - when did he cry? - and he rubs at it with the sleeve of his shirt.

he can hear nurses outside saying he'll be discharged, that he'll need to be monitored, that he will just have to sleep everything off. he doesn't even know how he'll get to the dorms, for one. how he'll make it into his bed. how he'll sleep with all the noise.

he closes his eyes against the harsh light of the room and curls in on himself a little more, dragging the thin hospital blanket around him a little closer just as he hears the door open again. must be a nurse. a doctor checking something. but if he pretends to be asleep...

but then it's professor fuller's voice that follows. he blinks up at him, wearily. ]

You're still here?

[ there's a little awe in his voice, of course. a little wonder. he'd been sure that he had watched the man walk out before. he resists the urge to reach out and touch him, to make sure it isn't some drug-induced figment of his imagination, but he doesn't. it's the sigh that stops him in his tracks.

what a burden he's become. ]

I always trust you.

[ his voice comes out a little raspy, dry from all the talking and the crying, from the throat-swelling panic he'd felt earlier. what happened? they'd ask and he realizes now he never came up with any answer for them. ]

I can try to find someone to pick me up. Take me back to the dorms.

[ who? how many people does he have in his phone that have begged him for notes or study sessions? would they answer a call? remember when you copied my entire semester's notes for the geopolitics class? could you pick me up from the hospital, i got drugged but i'm okay now!. ]

I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

[ he doesn't bother to try and sit up though, instead staying tucked into the blanket for a few more seconds, soaking up the warmth. he's not dressed for a cool evening in dc, the summer air turning chilly as a storm sweeps in from far off the east coast somewhere. ]

I can call my suite-mates. Maybe one of them? I... I don't even know what time it is.

[god, tim still looks utterly wrung out, but at least his colouring is slightly improved. and it's probably a good thing he can't tell if the glassiness in his eyes is from the drug or from crying, because he's not sure the tightness in his chest could squeeze any more without feeling complete constriction - and he's not sure he could resist the urge to swipe it away with a thumb and try to offer some comfort that might cross a line. as if this whole situation wasn't already well past the norm - but the thought of tim winding up passed out on campus somewhere or worse - in a room with some stranger in this state...it makes his stomach churn and that invisible hand squeeze over his heart once more. it's the same sensation he felt leaving tim last christmas on the sidewalk, shivering in the cold and left hollowed out with the realization that he was alone in his shame and in a world that he was teetering on the edge of, seeking guidance. and hawk had abandoned him, something he doesn't plan to make the same mistake doing twice.

carefully he settles a hand against the top of the blanket, making an approximation where his shoulder and arm is. the boy looks cold, something he'll have to remedy once he gets him up. can they take this blanket? he should have asked before the nurse left. instead he lets it rub up and down, trying to generate a bit of warmth as well as assure tim that he is in fact still here and isn't a figment of his woozy imagination. if it feels like a piece of him is chipped away by the disbelief evident in his voice, hawk ignores it. he's just doing the decent thing - making sure a student in trouble is safe.

maybe the best thing to do is to just drive him as close as he can to his dorm and give him a coat. maybe he should just stay out of it.

or maybe there's a lot of mistakes he hasn't made all this time, and he's due for a few.]

Yeah, I'm here. I waited outside - wasn't about to just leave you in this state.

[i always trust you, tim says, and the instinct to tell him not to is kneejerk enough that he fights to tamp it down. i let you down once already, didn't i?]

The nurse said someone should watch you overnight. Just in case there's any leftover symptoms.

[he pauses, wondering if any of that is sinking in. tim is the one who said he didn't have anyone - why would he want to rely on suitemates and half-strangers just because they live in the same building? they aren't friends, he's made that clear already. hawk was his only option.

nevermind then, he'll just be blunt.]

I'm taking you back to my place to sleep it off. Nurse says you're going to have a rough morning.

[he pauses, waiting for the weight of it to sink in.]

That okay with you?

[he leans down, mild apprehension still etched in his expression as he tries to meet tim's gaze once again, even if his face is half covered by the scratchy hospital blanket. his hand stills, squeezing lightly at his shoulder.]

I just need you to do one thing for me though -

[and here he cracks a slightly teasing smile, though it's not enough to mask the concern evident in the tension of his neck and the way it doesn't quite match his eyes. he'd bump tim's shoulder if he were upright in a light gesture of friendliness, and maybe it'd be enough to ward off the guilt he's carrying without warrant.]

Stop apologizing for something that isn't your fault.

Edited 2024-01-06 03:04 (UTC)

[ tim sighs softly, the warmth generated by the gentle touch enough to make him think that maybe these chills won't last forever. it's just from the drug in his system, the nurse had warned him. as he begins to go through the waves of it and the fluids they gave him, he'll flip flop from cold to hot. but for now, the shivers seem to take him over as his body starts to come down from it all. ]

Thanks for waiting.

[ why would his professor wait for him? why would he wait for anyone that showed up to his office like tim is now, strung out and drugged, spewing tales of a date gone wrong. it's a miracle the man even believes him.

he turns his face against the blanket for a moment, sniffling softly and wiping at his eyes with the fabric. embarassing - all of this is so embarrassing - even in the haze of the drug he can feel shame wash over him hot and sharp. ]

I couldn't ask you to do that. I don't -

[ ... deserve it. he almost says it out loud and instead closes his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to stop the momentary spin of the room or the hurried ticking of his heart. but he begins to shift anyway, turning onto one side so he can push himself up and away from the backrest of the bed. he needs to swing his feet over, and he manages to turn a little, but his shoes get caught up in the blanket. ]

I just need to... find my phone. I get that and I can find someone.

[ but he knows there will be no one. no one will answer tim laughlin's calls late at night, when most students are out partying or drinking with friends. his use is limited to them, after all, and doesn't include emotional baggage like this.

hindsight? what would he even tell them. would he make up some lie about drinking too much? going to some rager? going to some upper-classman's party? it wouldn't be believable. he hangs his head after a little bit of a struggle, his feet finally coming free and swinging to the side of the bed. he grips the bed hard, knuckles white, and while he doesn't seem like he will fall or sway over, unsteady, like he would have before, he doesn't look great, either. he stares down at his boots, the laces worn, the dark leather cracking, for a long time until slowly, he sucks in a breath. ]

It is my fault. All of this.

[ he pauses a little, biting his lip to help a wave of nausea pass. ] I'll... I'll go with you. No one will answer if I call, anyway.

[ there's nothing self-pitying in it, but there is a sort of clarity in it - a statement of fact so true it may as well be made into a scientific law. he breathes deeply, slowly, like one of the nice nurses had said, when he starts to feel a little dizzy again. his heart's beating fast - anxiety - she'd say, made worse by date-rape drugs like this.

ah, right. ]

I don't know if I can walk. Sor - [ he cuts himself off. ] Maybe if you help me stand up. Or... or whatever you want to do. I don't - um. If anyone sees.

[ he ducks his head a little, suddenly aware that his professor is risking a lot by being here with him, showing his face with someone in the state he's in. if only he could get the room to stop spinning, to get his heart to slow down, to breath deeply and forget everything about the man and -

tim swallows hard and shakes his head. ]

You don't have to thank me either.

[it was the decent thing to do - the safer thing too, wasn't it? he tries to imagine how someone like the dean or lonigan or even craig would have handled this. probably not like this, that's for damn sure. hawk doesn't necessarily think that means it's wrong, even if it isn't "right" by the school handbook. the point is: he's not leaving tim again. and even if circumstances are ideal...he'd like to think dean smith would have his back. is it really so different from a boy back from boarding school, practically shunned by his own family and doing everything to claw his way up into the world, to forget the way he'd earned his father's disgust after years of trying to hide and be the perfect son - to try and forget his trauma of being discovered and outed so he could do it all right and just survive? sometimes hawk has to pretend it was different with leonard - the drinking, the drugs, the drama. he wasn't a good son and he never even tried, that's the only reason he'd earned his father's ire, surely.

hawk lifts his arm, shifting to help untangle the blanket from his shoes and tug it off so he can attempt to sit up. which might have been a mistake, considering the fact that he looks a little green around the gills again. it seems like he's mentally torturing himself by the extraordinary tightness in the way his eyes slip shut, squeezing hard like the white-knuckled grip his fingers have on the bed too. he can tell what's left unsaid at the end of that sentence - i don't deserve it. so what if tim's not some lost lamb in high school, he's an adult but that doesn't make this any less difficult for him. his lips pull downward into a small frown, and even though he wants to chime in, somehow it doesn't seem like his place.]

Here. It's not much, but you look cold.

[hawk's linen blazer - better than nothing.]

Forget about them, they'd probably be about as helpful to you as their contributions to class.

[he's trying to make a joke of it, to subtly let tim know how elevated he is compared to his peers. to get him to stop feeling so low and so fucking guilty when it's hawk who should be taking on that burden. he moves in, one hand pressing against the side of tim's cheek to try and steady him again where it looks like he might start to sway. only because something solid and steadying and surprising might do him some good right now. his voice lowers again, something soft and coaxing like he's working with a wounded animal. this time, he doesn't bother to look over his shoulder.]

Hey - I want you to try something for me.

[should he assume tim will obey? no. but he knows he will all the same, and that's definitely something to shove down and lock away until long after tim is gone and he can think about the s-word freely in the comfort of his own bed.]

Take a deep breath for me and close your eyes.

[hawk mimics it too, an audible inhale.]

Yeah, that's good. Just hold it for a second, and exhale nice and slow.

[in the meantime, hawk kindly omits the fact that he chose sibley because it was off campus and the likelihood of being seen by student or staff was a hell of a lot less for the moment.]

And when you feel ready - open your eyes.

[his fingers shift slightly against the warmth of his cheeks, and when he looks into the wide, dark rings surrounded by warm chocolate, he meets it with a soft and encouraging smile.]

Now - the easiest way is probably for me to carry you again, you think you can manage to hold on until we get to the car?

I can't stop shivering.

[ there's going to be the sound of a cutoff apology at the end of nearly every statement but he's trying his best. after all, if this man tells him to do something or otherwise, he cannot help but listen. maybe it's a bad habit to fall into, but right now, hawkins fuller's voice is the only thing keeping him grounded.

the blazer comes around his shoulders and he seems to relax a tiny bit with the warmth of it around him. it smells of the man's cologne - the very same from that little kerchief he'd been offered before. tugging it a littler closer, he lets out a shaky breath. he looks up just as the man's palm rests against his cheek and he blinks a little wider up at his professor, even though he knows he must look a mess.

and so obey he does, keeping as still as he can beneath the touch. his eyes slip shut slowly, and he follows the instructions to the tee, taking in a deep breath and holding it for a few moments then slowly letting it go. he repeats it a second time, lingering in the warmth of the man's hand, his body almost naturally leaning into the touch even slightly, just as he had before in the wintry dc streets.

slowly, so slowly, he opens his eyes and blinks up at professor fuller again. the world isn't any steadier, but it does something to calm his heart rate, to make his chest stop feeling so impossibly tight. (something deep in him wants the man to lean down and kiss his forehead, or his nose, or his lips - something to feel the heat of him a little closer - but he won't be able to assess that need until later, when he can feel a little shame over it).

but he smiles in return finally, a faint little quirk of his lips. it's the drug in his system that makes him reach a hand to lightly grasp at hawk's forearm, the one with a palm against his cheek. it steadies him, certainly, and he realizes that yes, he would be very warm to be close to. ]

I think I can hold on.

[ he nods a little, letting his own hand drop back to his side. he takes in another deep breath and grips the side of the bed. ]

How can I -

[ he makes a little face again as nausea comes over him, but just as the man showed him, he takes in a deep breath and holds it, then releases slowly. ]

... what do you need me to do?

[ he can remember being carried earlier, sort of - but he doesn't remember much else. just the warmth of hawk's chest, the aftershave against his neck, the safety and all the movement. god, it feels like years ago. he releases the edge of the bed long enough to shift the blazer, sliding his arms into the sleeves. it must look comical on his slight frame - so different from the broad depth of hawk's shoulders. ]

I don't wanna - ... s'pose I want to make it easy. I... sor-... er. Yeah.

[maybe that wasn't the brightest idea on his part, considering tim complies almost immediately and executes his orders to perfection. it doesn't help to see tim wrapped in his jacket, eyes screwed shut as he breathes in and out slowly. hawk realizes quite suddenly his glasses are gone - yet another barrier removed, a vulnerability he's seeing up close where anyone else would overlook it. his fingers flex against the softness of his cheek, somehow now the third time he's had to precisely memorize the sensation of it against his palm. it doesn't go unnoticed that tim seems to lean into it from something other than being off-balanced, but that's the kind of thinking that makes hawk tamp down near immediately lest he fall into the same category of any other man wanting to take advantage. even as his gaze drops ever so briefly to his lips, the dark flutter of lashes against his cheek and knows that's an image he would have paid good money to see before tim walked into his classroom.

but thankfully the nausea seems to subside enough for him to open his eyes and offer a smile, weak as it is. a lot better than watching him fumble with excuses and keep blaming himself. another wave of it comes on, and hawk waits for it to pass politely before nodding in approval that he's repeating the instructions.]

Well, before either of us forget -

[his glasses are perched on one of the rolling bedside tables, stark black blending into the faux-wood and lenses reflecting the unforgiving fluorescent lights that cast an unfortunate, sickly pallor over everyone no matter their current ailments. hawk carefully plucks them up, opening the arms before a quick i'll do the honors to keep tim aware more than anything else before slipping them up onto the bridge of his nose and tucking them behind his ears, knowing tim will probably need to adjust them.]

There.

[another quick smile, and he waits for tim to slide his arms fully into the blazer, unable to help himself from reaching out and tugging the lapels in closer as if that'll make the difference in warmth rather than fabric choice. what an idiot he must look like, fussing over his student like this. but it's too late to back out now, to leave tim stranded when he really needs it most.]

Put both your arms around my neck and I'll do the rest.

[and when he does, hawk will lean in, wrapping one arm around his mid-back and easily sliding the other under his knees. they bend together almost immediately, ankles dangling in a way he can't think of other than downright dainty. princess carry, his brain absently supplies. whatever the fuck that's supposed to make him think about. he waits to make sure tim's adjusted alright from the sudden shift in probably the entire axis of his existence right now, praying he won't get nauseous or worse.]

You can duck your head and close your eyes if you need to. I'm going to walk us out now.

[the only place for him to do that is hawk's neck, which he is resolutely attempting to ignore as he starts the slow, steady trek back out to the parking lot.]

[ it has to be the drug, the alcohol, that makes the sensation of the older man putting on his glasses so eerily intimate. he watches as if in slow motion as professor fuller takes up his glasses. when they're raised to his face, it's shameful the way he looks up at him (like icarus to a sun, he might have said once), letting his eyes flutter closed only when the feels the little ear pieces slide against his temples.

he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held once he feels the plastic against the bridge of his nose. it comes out low and slow, almost like a sigh, before his eyes flutter open again. he's shivering - the cold under his skin unnerving, and yet something blooms warm in his chest and causes a chill of gooseflesh to rise up on his arms, the back of his neck. his color improves as well - a tinge of something peachy in his cheeks. it's the drink and the drug on an empty stomach making him see this man in a different light, that's all. he'll feel differently in the morning. (he won't).

but like any good student he listens to his professor and reaches to wrap his arms round his neck, careful not to pull or tug at him, even as the man lifts him as though he weighs nothing. but the haul is exactly what he didn't need - the room spins and makes his head hurt, makes his eyes sore and he closes them almost immediately to the movement.

not as bad as before, but.

he's already settling his face against hawk's neck as he's warned. he presses his nose in against hawk's pulsepoint, the first place his woozy head landed and when he closes his eyes he can almost imagine the rhythmic beat of his heart falls perfectly in line with his strong stride. ]

Sorry I'm heavy.

[ because what grown-ass man wouldn't be heavy? but he protests little otherwise, getting placed gingerly into the car and taking off.

the car ride feels like a million years with his eyes closed. he keeps up some slurred conversation with the man to prove he's awaking still but otherwise, he wishes he could curl up and settle, could close his eyes and simply be warm and content that way. but he can't. before too long, they're stopped, and they patiently wait five minutes in the car in silence while the world outside seems to calm down.

he's able to stand this time, but of course, out of precaution, hawk carries him up the steps to the little walk-up.

everything inside and out feels expensive. deliberate and modern, clean lines with an old-world elegance. a man like hawkins fuller would live here, he thinks, but again it could be the drinks and more beyond then making everything seem so rosy hued and beautiful. but it's true - even when hawk sets him down on his feet to test his walking and guides him to the restroom, tim knows he will never see a place more rich and fanciful than this.

he tries hard for it not to show even in the restroom, where he's sat on the closed toilet seat and told to wait with that worried but charming looking on his face. so he waits, and out come a set of clothes, a wash cloth.

when tim shuts the door and looks in the mirror, he's horrified. it's hard at first to peel off the blazer, then his own t-shirt. (he'd had a jacket. at the shop. hadn't he? where did it go?) his body is otherwise unmarked, untouched, but he has to grip the counter when he turns to look side to side. it's the mark beneath his ear, the smallest burn of stubble on his jaw.

he washes his face in silence, scrubbing at those marks made by another man. his body has morphed into one that is not at all his own anymore - like the chubby, sweaty palms of that client have somehow heavy irremovable grease marks behind. his eyes are bloodshot, pupils still too wide, cheeks puffy, lips bitten red. he looks like he might as well have gone to a rager at this point.

its with a final sigh he puts on the offered clothing, surprised by the size of the shirt, the way the sweatpants fit but sit low on his hips regardless of what he tries with the drawstring. his clothes get folded and neatly say on the counter for later. he's exhausted by the time he's done and he opens the door to the bathroom, reaching for the door frame and leaning against it. there's enough of a lean that his shirt rides up, presenting a sliver of skin over his hip. tim doesn't notice - thinking only instead of whatever bed awaits him.

never mind that his hair has been wetted and slicked back, which in its own right just exposes the man's foul actions sooner, and yet. here they are. ]

I... I feel so much better. [ there's a faint sway when he steps out himself, only to momentarily reach for the door frame again just in case. ]

Um. I appreciate you caring for me.

[(tim's not as heavy as he thinks he is. that - and he's a comfortable warmth settled against his neck with shallow little breaths.)

once they're out of the hospital and he's successfully buckled into the car, hawk takes a minute to exhale before coming around and getting in his own seat. the ride back lacks all the adrenaline and frantic energy of rushing him to be seen as soon as possible, worrying what had happened to him and how bad it was besides the scar it might leave on his student's psyche. they're not entirely out of the woods yet, and god knows what the morning is going to bring physically or emotionally - but the worst of it is over. christ, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now. absently he notes that it's somehow drawn out just past midnight, and he'd been so worried he hadn't even realized two hours had come and gone in the stark soul-suck of the waiting room. tim chats idly here and there, probably to convince him he's doing alright, but hawk tries not to drag it out and tax him mentally right now for thought-provoking content.

and then...tim laughlin is in his fucking house.

life comes at you fast, he thinks wryly, as he helps the boy support most of his weight with an arm wrapped around his back and the other in front, guiding him towards the bathroom which is a tastefully decked-out mid-century modern with black and white, a walk-in shower nestled next to the free-standing tub that's probably big enough for two that are more than a little comfortable with one another. he knows his entire apartment is the epitome of bachelor pad, but it's worked this long and if it isn't broke...

the toilet is where he deposits tim for now, a quick little stay here a minute before he rifles through one of the dressers that never gets any action in his room - tugging out an old, faded georgetown tee from when he was still attending on the other side of the equation and charcoal sweatpants. on his way back he swipes a clean washcloth out of the hallway closet and steps back in, hoping tim hasn't started to peel out of his clothes yet. it's only when he's confident that tim can stand on his own two feet with a slight wobble instead of utter jello in his legs that he offers an easy: call me if you need anything, i'll be right outside.

smoking is probably still out of the question, so he settles for pouring himself a goddamn drink after he hears running water without any further commotion, collapsing into the chair behind his desk. the desk, his mind so graciously supplies as a reminder, where he's absolutely jacked off to the man currently standing in his bathroom in some degree of unclothed.

well, so much for one drink.

the tiredness starts to sink in a little more, and hawk realizes he'll have to settle for the couch tonight. his back twinges slightly at the thought, but he pushes it away and finds himself unable to focus on little else right now other than the reality that tim laughlin is still in his house. about to be wearing his clothes. after being drugged by some fucking asshole who was supposed to help him pay his bills, because hawk left him high and dry. his drink is set down with a clink against a coaster, still there from last time he was grading papers, and he leans forward onto his elbows to massage at the exhaustion gnawing at his temples. it's only when he hears the door click open up the hall way does get back up, striding over quickly to make sure tim didn't take a tumble or struggle too badly.

he looks a hell of a lot better, that's for sure. seeing him with pants that are slung below his hips because his waist is that much tinier than hawk's, a sliver of pale flesh with water droplets from wet hair and the mark on his neck that may as well be a brand for how it eats under hawk's skin...christ. this was a terrible idea. thank god for his poker face - and he puts on another smile, hoping tim can't smell two tumblers worth of whiskey on his breath.]

Glad to hear it. Let's get you to bed, huh? C'mere.

[there's half a mind to lightly scold tim for thanking him yet again for doing the decent thing, but he doesn't have it in him and instead overlooks it altogether for now. he holds out the crook of his arm as if he's about to escort tim through some debutante ball, enough that he can slowly brace against hawk without getting too close. he can smell the faint aroma of the soap he uses, eyes shifting sideways to glance at how he's holding up and not the way one bead of water drips down the line of his neck. his bedroom is close enough, and hawk carefully guides tim to the edge of it before reaching to pull away a few decorative pillows and tug back the rich navy comforter, soft striped sheets with a sinful thread count waiting below to welcome tim with a cool embrace.]

Here - get in. Are you hot or cold right now?

[ while he doesn't feel nearly as lost at sea as he did a couple of hours ago, he still feels hazy and under water. if he were more himself he'd be stopping to gaze at the apartment, take all of it in and truly get a peek at the man he absolutely idolizes (and wants) in a way most have likely never seen. but instead he wobbles at the door frame from the bathroom, pristine and expensive and tidy, reaching to take hawk's arm when it's offered.

they pass a door ajar, and a swirling glance in shows him the sliver of an office. a beautiful, wood desk. papers. a coaster. a glass. he can smell something on hawk's breath but it doesn't fully materialize into anything he should be worried about. he trusts him. who else in his life can he trust as much as he's relying on this man right now?

as they cross the threshold, he loses a little footing, leaning a little closer to hawk to keep steady. even if it means when he turns his head, a few damp locks sweet over hawk's shoulder, what with the way he sheepishly ducks his head following the mishap - tim tries to recover: ]

Your... your home is beautiful.

[ even laying eyes on the bed makes his body feel inexplicably heavy. the sleep he'd so badly needed earlier now tugging at the edges of his consciousness. he carefully lowers himself to the edge of the bed once the covers and sheets are pulled back and he sighs in relief at being stationary again, letting his eyes drift shut as his vision stills. he doesn't even notice the way the bottom of one glasses lens has fogged from the heat of the water and the flush of his face.

despite that, he can already feel the chills from earlier returning to his bones. he's careful in the way he turns onto the bed, wiggling in beneath the covers. only when he reclines, letting his head hit the pillow that immediately floods his overwhelmed senses with the very scent of professor hawkins fuller does he sigh, something almost turning into a little groan at the end. not quite the sounds made on camera, but were he not coming down off a drugged high in hawk's bed, it might not be too far off center.

but the bed is plush and rich, enveloping him even as he turns onto his side slowly to face hawk. he forgets his glasses, uncaring the way they tilt and skew themselves on his face. ]

M'cold.

[ he's pathetic. he should just ask for a cab and go to his dorm, but the longer he stays wrapped up in the bed, the more he can feel the strain on his body from the day. he fumbles for the sheet, the duvet, but even after he gets them to his shoulders, he hesitates. ]

Your bed is comfortable. [ tired, spoken in a little bit of a sleepy drawl, the drug and exhaustion finally taking its toll. he turns his head a little, the cheek touched earlier against the pillow case so for a moment he can imagine its warmth again. ]

S'big bed. I'll move if you need to sleep, too. S'okay if not. I... I won't be nuisance. I'm just so tired...

Edited 2024-01-06 08:36 (UTC)

Easy there.

[his arm snakes hard around tim's middle, the sudden aroma of soap and something he's grown familiar to recognize as tim wafting by when his hair - which suddenly seems that much longer and boyish when wet - flips slightly behind them from the stumble. his other hand presses against tim's chest to steady him, watching the way he hides his face and mumbles out something utterly unrelated as if in slight embarrassment for his condition. of course he would, and of course it tugs at that piece that's threatened to break loose around his chest all night seeing tim at his most vulnerable - grateful for the care and still sweet when he has every right to be bitter and angry and lash out especially at hawk for being responsible he's in this situation in the first place. the gratitude feels wholly unearned, and it makes him swallow hard and look away again to the bedroom.]

Not a bad place to lay my head every night, yeah. Thanks.

[doubtful tim is taking much of this in with great detail, even though he has a sneaking suspicion the boy would love to get a closer look at some of the stylistic choices and aesthetic and insight into the man that he'd thought he'd known before everything shifted. sometimes that man only exists between these four-and-then-some walls, but no one needs to know that. honestly, it's a miracle tim's eyes don't slip shut the moment his head hits the pillow for the ringer he's been through tonight. and hawk would bet his non-tenured but nothing to sniff at salary that this bed is a miles more comfortable and inviting than whatever small, borderline cardboard crap they've got stuffed in the dorms. maybe they haven't even upgraded them after ten or so years - wouldn't be a shock. it brings a soft smirk to his face, one that is less amused at tim's sudden contentment than it is at what a world of difference it probably is.

what he hadn't fully thought through was what the sight of the star of his late night fantasies suddenly doing look quite snug and blissed out in his bed was going to do to him. not to mention, this might be the first person besides marcus or estelle who's even been in this room let alone the most sacred of his private retreats. there's that damn tightness again - and if he weren't in perfectly good shape save a little too much whiskey and the smoking, he'd think maybe he was developing signs for an early heart attack. his body goes rigid when tim lets out a soft groan, not unlike another kind of context he's heard it in. and it was one thing when it wasn't attached to a face, just a rock-solid body near sinful, but now....

now hawk hums lightly, pushing it down and reaching once more to pluck the glasses half pressed into tim's face off his nose, folding them and setting them down with a soft tap against his nightstand. he pulls up the sheets and the comforter all the way up, past tim's shoulders until it's near his neck and only the soft mop of brown and his eyes are visible, tucking it in slightly around his sides so it'll keep the chill to a minimum. there's a blanket somewhere in his closet, far too thick for breezy summer nights and the humidity creeping up from the south, but he takes that out too where it's folded neatly and perched in a shelf high above rows of pressed shirts and rich leather oxfords and matching suits. everything its place, an empire of streamlined navy and black and grey and white - just the way he tries to live his life. he flaps it out a bit, tossing it up and over the bed on top of tim's body which is looking smaller and smaller underneath it all.]

There, that should help with the cold. Now you just - get some rest. You must be exhausted. I'll be up the hall if you need anything.

[he turns on his heel, but not before tim stops him with an invitation into his own bed. hawk pauses, glancing over his shoulder where he hasn't budged and won't see the look on his face. it is an awful big bed for just one person, but he doesn't have it in him to explain that's intentional, and that it goes double for his student. even one he'd gladly slide in next to and warm with more than just an expensive blanket, or ruffle his hair and try to do away with the blemish on his neck out of some twist of possession he's got no right to feel.

skippy.]

Goodnight, Tim.

[he leaves the door cracked, turning off the hallway and bathroom lights along the way. the initial plan had been to crash on the couch - but it's too far away if tim needs help in the middle of the night. to his office then, where he practically launches himself into his chair and scrubs a hand over his face as the exhaustion he'd expected to finally sink in is nowhere to be found. christ. he's a little too busy thinking about the fact that not six feet away, on the other side of a wall, tim laughlin is in his bed.

what did he need the money for?

that's a slippery slope to start down, one he might not like the answer to, but it doesn't make it any less impossible to stop now that he's started. he tips his head back against the leather of his desk chair, closing his eyes and wondering if he can try and doze off for a few hours before checking on tim again later. the nurse had warned him about alternating from sudden bouts of chill, feverishness, nausea...he might be needed sooner than he thinks.]

[ there's little that tim will remember in the hazy, sleepy moments where hawk pulls the covers up over his shoulders, removes his glasses, and layers another thick blanket on him. he's exhausted beyond belief and it's a miracle he hears anything about up the hall before his eyes flutter shut.

the bed lulls him into a listless sleep, the covers tight around him and the smell of hawk's aftershave on the pillow utterly overwhelms him. if he'd been more awake, more lucid, he might think deeper into the fact that the scent alone takes the tension out of his shoulders, makes him breathe a little easier, helps him relax. but he isn't. and so he drifts into fitful sleep.

at first he dreams of nothing but endless dark - sleeping so deeply that he doesn't even move in the pile of the blankets, simply settles. but it doesn't last long. the chills turn into vicious sweats and the dark void of his sleep turns into a frenzied recollection of memories. it's first his childhood home and the fire and brimstone of his church. the preacher screaming something incoherent, fire in his eyes and hate on his tongue. it all morphs itself into the scene at the pizzeria, the bald client he met somehow morphing into the very face of the preacher himself, with grubby hands and greedy lips, and the last thing he sees is the man dipping in against his neck when he snaps awake.

he feels like his whole body is going to catch on fire and sweat pours from his temples. at first, he moves too quickly and the room spins viciously. it's dark, but there's a faint light from the hallway. it's not his dorm room and that causes another hint of panic at first - tim scrambling from the covers and all but rolling out of the bed. he hits the floor with a soft thump and comes up groaning.

professor fuller.

he's at professor fuller's.

he's caught between feeling miserably ill and dizzy, the heat having utterly done him in. pushing himself up to his feet he wanders to the bathroom attached to the bedroom and stands at the sink for a moment. he looks pale in the mirror, gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes, sweat stippling his brow and he pulls the old tshirt off - it's drenched, and he has little foresight to put it anywhere but the floor, desperate to get it off and cool down.

the world seems to calm down behind his eyes, but it doesn't change the fact that he feels utterly shaken. idly he wonders what god would think if he saw him now, if he could confront him and confess the myriad of sins that got him to this point. how many hours would it take in prayer to make it to the golden gates with some semblance of a chance at a better life?

it makes his blood run cold, makes that pull of panic come back and he stumbles out of the bathroom, away from his own reflection. he's unsteady on his feet when he leaves the bedroom, and he cannot quite remember at first just where the man said he'd be.

it takes a few moments of steadying himself, of that same deep breathing from before, in order to make it to the little office across the hall. at first, he doesn't quite see where the man has ended up, until he catches sight of the chair turned toward the door. there he is, leaned back, and he almost doesn't move any further, letting him stay asleep with no interruption.

but his hands shake, his breathing comes quick, and the idea of going back to that bedroom and being alone makes his stomach churn. so he steps into the office, headed to the chair opposite the desk when he bumps it, knocking some kind of paperweight off his desk. he's sure he hears it crack, whatever it is - but he's too woozy to deal with it. instead, he plops himself down in the chair, grimacing at the way the leather sticks to his sweat-dampened bare back. ]

Professor?

[ he doesn't want to wake him. in fact, he should just go back and get his own clothes and head to the door. go back to campus and pretend this didn't happen.

he's not even sure he can make it home. he closes his eyes and pulls his legs up into the chair, to his bare chest, and lets his head rest against the back for a moment. ]

[sleep comes a lot slower to hawk, but the exhaustion wears in deep and somewhere between realizing he left his bag of papers at work and listening for any sounds of movement up the hall, sleep overtakes him. his neck certainly won't thank him in the morning considering he doesn't even make it over to the elegant, sprawling chaise lounge in the corner that's never seen action a day in its life and is instead tipped against the high-backed leather chair behind his desk with his hands folded over his stomach. thank god his sleep is soundless - no dreams to speak of, because he's not sure he could handle the idea of his fantasies haunting him while the object of them is on the opposite side of the wall in his bed. that, and he absolutely doesn't need to wake up with morning wood.

the thing about living alone for so long is that he's gotten used to the regular creaks here from old wood parquet floors, the occasional icebox deposit from the fridge, and dc traffic quiet but constant and faded into the background outside. he's not a light sleeper by any means - but anything out of the ordinary would startle him awake, which it does when tim takes a mild tumble. it's a louder than expected thump, the kind that has him groggily coming to, sleep still trying to keep his eyes closed even as he fights to claw back into awareness. maybe it was just a bird, something outside - until he realizes there are soft footsteps, a door opening, water running. it pulls at him even further to keep fighting the lull of sleep that threatens to drag him back down. and then the footsteps grow louder, like they're right before him, followed by a cracking noise that may as well be deafening. he doesn't hear tim at first, eyes widening as he shoots up in his seat and grips the edge of his desk with his heartbeat racing and tries to take stock of everything immediately in front of him. pens, a pair of scissors, a letter opener - until he looks at the vintage clock on his desk reading just after 3am and realizes what happened mere hours ago. it's not an intruder, it's -

tim.

only then do his eyes drag up, a quiet exhale of relief when he realizes it's just the boy sitting across from him, cradling himself like he needs to be rocked back to sleep. it's been hours and his hair still looks damp, skin pale and gleaming under the overhead lights he'd forgotten to turn off. hawk rubs a hand over his mouth, blinking a few times and trying to calm the way his heart is fluttering in his chest far too rapidly at the startle.]

Jesus, Tim - are you alright?

[he realizes the mistake almost immediately, that tim had to get out of bed and walk (stumble, more like) all the way over here. he'd put himself just out of arms reach. again. and now he's sitting here looking even smaller than ever, strong arms wrapped around the tops of his knees and head dipped back like he's trying to stop the world from spinning once again. it gives hawk the perfect, inconvenient view of his clavicle - the top of his chest and the beautifully carved muscles he's only gotten glimpses of on a dark computer screen and not even in 4k or hd. this is the real thing.

he licks his lips, pushing up onto his feet and slowly coming around to the seat. his voice is lower than usual with roughness around the consonants, the kind that comes from disuse and early mornings with poor sleep and a much lower register.]

Must have dozed off. I was going to come check on you, but you beat me to it.

[he kneels down next to the chair, knowing it's a stupid question to ask how he's feeling if he had to make the trek over and considering how he looks and what he's been through. two and some hours isn't going to magically fix this. his palm presses against tim's forehead, absently brushing some of his hair back as a frown furrows his brows again.]

Christ, you're burning up. I'll turn up the air, but let's get you back to bed, c'mon.

Let me help you.

I broke something. I'm sorry.

[ it would have been advantageous of himself to grab his glasses as he tumbled out of bed. that would have made the trek here easier, but with the way his vision delays and swims as he turns his head, he's not sure clarity behind the lenses would have helped much. a small part of him wishes he had just tossed himself back onto the bed and waited out the sweats, the dreams - stayed awake staring at the ceiling himself instead of waking this man.

he's obviously tired, if the rough edges of his voice tell him anything. (he'll think about this voice later, when he's alone in his dorm room and on the mend, it will shake him to his very core). but for now, he's opening his own mouth to apologize again when that hand presses against his forehead and he sighs, leaning into the touch once again for the sheer coolness of his palm comparatively.

he doesn't realize the way his eyes nearly flutter closed, either, at the sheer comfort. it's so different from the hands of the man at the pizzeria. so different from any other touch he's been offered by any adult in his life. with it comes compassion, care. nothing more, nothing less. ]

It's okay. You - you should sleep. I can stay here for a minute. Just have this headache -

[ and worse. the dream. the haunting dream that makes his stomach twist, but there's nothing in it to really do anything about. he won't throw up, even if he feels like he might be able to. he's not even sure he can cry anymore - the heat has all but baked the tears out of him. ]

It's your bed. I don't want... [ he can't help but reach for hawk's hand then, idly grabbing and reaching, only catching a forefinger and middle finger to stop him from moving his hand away from his forehead. it's cooler than his own skin. ]

Just don't leave me in there. Or wherever. Not alone. I feel... I feel crazy right now. I can't think... I can't... - move without - my skin crawls because I still think of -

[ feel him there. see the fiery eyes of the pastor. the hateful slander of the church. and he can't help but wonder if, in the dream, he'd have been met with hawk's disapproval. he deserves it from him, doesn't he? more than anyone else.

it's this that makes him let go of hawk's hand, his own fingers falling back to a place atop his knees. needing help to do the simplest things, to simply survive? it feels ludicrous and it just adds another layer to the beginning burn of shame that is starting to well up. a camboy who made a bad deal and ends up on the front step of his professor's home?

that'll make wild headlines.

he closes his eyes tight, tries desperately again to take in a deep, slow breath. maybe, just maybe he can use the technique from before. it's not as effective here, not without the brace of the palms on his cheeks and the insistent instructions. he picks at the knee of the sweats, fingers trembling.]

Even when I close my eyes. I just - I'll... I'll stay in here with you. If... if you're staying here.

I don't care about that right now.

[whatever it is has rolled under his chair or somewhere off on the floor, but he can't be bothered to look for it when tim is the priority. he knows he shouldn't be reaching for him so freely, that there are plenty of stories of professors being fired for far less than a half naked, drugged student in their home with. light touches to their person. but tim wouldn't ever do that to him - he's spent an entire semester keeping hawk's (their) dirty little secret and never bringing it up other than when he desperately needed this help and no one else would understand. because no one else knows. but fuck if he's not wholly encouraged each time he does it - the way tim practically leans into the touch, his eyelids fluttering and pretty dark lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks, that much more stark in comparison against the ruddiness on his skin he sees up close.]

Don't worry about me. I'm not leaving you in here alone, though. Especially not with a headache. Think you can keep down some ibuprofen?

[because stupidly, hawk just sees it for the physical discomfort. the pounding he's probably got in his temples, the night sweats overtaking the freezing chill on his skin, the exhaustion that even sleeping is doing little to abate right now. it's the other part that won't fade so quickly he hasn't even considered - the trauma of being taken advantage of, and god knows whatever he went through besides something resulting in that goddamn mark on his neck. not to mention the guilt and the shame he's been carrying around for god knows how long, the desperation to stay on campus? maybe it runs deeper than just the money, the fear of not being able to make it back. and the moment tim speaks again, reaches to keep his hand there for the way it must feel that much cooler on his skin - shit.

it all sinks in then, even just a fraction of what he's feeling. hawk remembers what it was like when he'd been caught that fateful day - two years of secrecy, gone in a single moment. on his knees, looking over his shoulder at one of the hall checks because they'd be too engrossed in their affection to hear the soft click of heels. the shock, appall, and eventual disgust that was repeated from adult to adult until it landed on the face of his father, summoned in from summer vacation preparations. a humiliation burning under his skin that he'd vowed never to let anyone have power over again. he wishes he could impart some of that to tim without the context - but even he knows the words would just fall flat, like useless encouragements and generic, uplifting ideas. they'd sound hollow, especially coming from him.

he's so distracted thinking of it that he misses the fingertips that rest atop his own, holding his hand there longer than he'd meant to keep it.]

Shhh. You're not crazy. You've been through an ordeal tonight, something you didn't deserve. But the important part is that you got away and you're safe now.

[he pauses when tim removes his hand and lets it drop back to his knees. he can see the rise and fall of his bare chest, counting the seconds and knowing exactly what he's doing - repeating the instructions hawk gave him earlier. because he's so desperately looking for guidance, because he needs something to cling to right now. hawk might regret this, in fact, he's the one who might be earning the headlines, but he does it anyway, fingertips gently brushing from his forehead and down his cheek, along the strong curve of his jawline and stopping when he reaches the mark from before.]

This will never happen to you again. No one will touch you like this, you understand?

[even if tim won't look at him, all he has to do is nod or just answer it with one word. what does he think he's asking for? promise that tim won't go looking for anyone else to do this with? that he'll be safer next time? that he'll save himself for -

no. not that.

his hand slips away, and he stands back up, bracing his hands against the back of the chair.]

I'll stay with you in the room, but you need to be horizontal and I know these chairs aren't as comfortable as that bed. Think you can walk? Or do you want a ride?

[he tries to keep it light, unbothered. but tim might be weak enough that he needs to be carried, and hawk won't mind if it's the case.]

Maybe.

[ but he isn't sure he needs to be putting anything in his stomach. isn't sure that there is anything that will wash away the same and guilt that rest just beneath the surface of the drug. the ghb amplifies everything, makes all these feelings vivid and bright, bringing with them memories and pains like ghosts, hiding patiently in the corners until dark falls.

so he'll take ibuprofen. he'll take anything hawk offers him because it will keep him at his side a moment longer, chase away the whispers and the ghastly fingers of the past. it will keep his eyes open and stave off the dreams that all but wracked him before he stumbled his way in here. stupid that he's so desperately touch-starved, that he's so incredibly lonely, that sitting in the personal office of his professor who turned him down some time ago feels as close to something like connection as he's had in a long time.

he'll see the school counselor, but he can't tell him the truth about anything. he can't face anyone and tell them what it is he has to do every day just to hope he can have enough to make it by. to eat, to buy books, to attend class. he can't tell him about the way that, when the drug wears off, he'll go to the chapel and pray for hours to remove the feeling of hawkins fuller's fingertips in his hair, on his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

his eyes burn, suddenly, when he was sure they would be barren and dry.

you're safe now.

only within these four walls. only so long as his phone is dead somewhere. only so long as he's able to pay for schooling and stay a little while longer. he closes his eyes a moment longer, as professor fuller's fingers graze over that little mark on his neck. his stomach twists sickly and his breath shudders.

you're even prettier in person - the sweaty man's voice against his neck, the brush of stubble, the sharp, sudden nip of teeth. but there are fingertips laying little pricks of fire there instead, warming the little, sore area. he can't help but look up, tilt his head into the touch faintly, seek it out even as the blown-out, glassy brown of his eyes tilts upward to meet professor fuller's eyes.

and then the command.

he swallows hard, and there's no doubt that hawk won't feel the heavy bob of his adam's apple. ]

I understand, sir.

[ quiet, sheepish, lacking all the confidence that skippy on the other side of the screen would have had, and yet the gravity that falls with it seems bigger, somehow.

this will never happen to you again.

a mantra - he's sure he'll repeat it over and over and over.

and then, sounded defeated as he turns in the chair, letting his feet fall to the fine rug of the office: ]

I can't walk. M'shaking too bad.

[ nevermind the soft, quiet sniffle. no tears fall, and it takes a deep, deep breath in to even steady his own breathing. his hands shake, his knees tremble, his heart rattles in his chest -

no one will touch you like this, you understand? ]

I, um... I don't have - the fare, I mean.

[ it's a woozy, slurring attempt at some kind of levity. he wouldn't have the money to pay hawk for the ride back to his bed, nor would he have anything like that for the ride home to the dorms. ]

[oh, that's going to stick with him for a long time. all of it - pretty half-lidded eyes with the same richness he'd find at the center of a dark chocolate truffle, the slight jump under his fingers, impossibly warm, flushed skin - the gentle promise and awe that somehow manifests itself in a simple i understand, sir. it's what skippy would have done, would have trusted him to ask. that's the thing that consumes him with a sudden, swooping realization - he'd spent so long reassuring tim to reconcile with the idea of skippy coexisting in the eager boy spending his afternoons in hawkins fuller's office and knowing that fundamentally nothing had changed, but had he taken a moment to reconcile himself with the patient man doling out orders and praising that same boy for putting said trust in him in the first place?

i'm glad it's you.

maybe he'll regret this. maybe tim won't even remember it in a few hours, let alone when he wakes up tomorrow. his fingertips press into the mark lightly, as if his might replace the feeling of whatever bastard dared lay an unwanted hand (or mouth) on him. as if tim can sink into this part instead if he can hold on - thumb shifting across his skin and into the hollow of his throat as both drag upwards, lingering on his jawline to hold his gaze there while hawk's pins him down. there is no denying the significance that settles between them, filling the air in a way that molds against them both and keeps them apart yet somehow connected through the sheer gravitas of what he murmurs, low and equal measures full of praise.]

Good boy.

[putting the words to a voice to a face. maybe now they're even. and then the moment passes, the electricity sliced apart as hawk's fingers pull away and tim adjusts back into the chair with a weariness that looks bone deep. poor kid, he really is shaking - and hawk lets his hand fall to the back of the chair just as tim lets out that soft sound - the precursor to tears falling, which he doesn't know if he can take right now. his chest rises and falls again with those stabilizing breaths, but he remembers what worked last time and doesn't need to be asked twice. he bends down, one arm slipping underneath his shoulders and down to his waist as the other finds the space behind his knees in as many hours, slowly lifting him up to try and mitigate any dizziness again.]

Put your arms around me - you're smart; you know the drill by now.

[and only when he feels the warmth of tim's arms around his shoulders, chin settling against the crook of his neck does he head out of the office and back to the bedroom. leave it to tim to feel like he owes something for it, and hawk can't help the soft chuckle.]

Mm, well consider this one on the house.

[his sheets have been rucked up from a sleep that didn't end as restful as he'd hoped, but he deposits tim against them once more and wonders if he'll detach as easily as this time. quite frankly, he's getting a little too easy with the realization of how light he feels in his arms.]

I'll be right back - don't move.

[to turn up the air and pull together a cool rag and a glass of water, because he's accepted the fate of dragging over the seat in the corner of his room near the small reading table he has set up to sit at tim's bedside like he's florence fucking nightingale. no more nightmares, no more stumbling around in the dark. no more shivering or sweating and trying to work it out on his own. here, he says, deciding against the ibuprofen for now and offering him the drink to clear out the dryness in his mouth. and when he's done his fingertips lightly graze tim's upon retrieval, setting it down on the nighstand with a soft clink before he's brushing back his hair with the same hand and enhancing the lingering sensation all over again. all so he might try and bring down the fire burning under his skin, bring him back down into the enticing lull of sleep. his palm presses across it, plastering the dampness to his forehead as he leans back with a soft smile and a rumbling whisper.]

That better?

[ it would be better for both of them if the feeling of hawkins fuller's fingertips sliding from the little mark beneath his ear, to the hollow of his throat, up to the curve of his jaw didn't feel like a brand against his skin. it would better for both of them if tim could forget the ripple of chills that climbed up his spine at the simple, low utterance of good boy. but it sends a shockwave through him, one that makes his jaw slacken just slightly against the touch and a soft breath fall from his lips.

while he knows the message went to the account on hawk's phone, a tiny part of him could never truly put together the pieces of the domineering man who guided him to the most intense peaks or who would give him solid, firm instruction with all the praise to follow a job well done. it's as vividly quaking as he'd imagined it would be, pinned down by the cool blue of his eyes, the firm set of his brow, the low and steady gravel of his voice. how many times had he closed his eyes after such written praise and imagined what the man might look like?

it had always been hawkins fuller, somehow. the realization will hit him later that, in all of his fantasies and wild wonderings, the image would have always had the outline of a friendly, challenging professor with an intellect to match his prowess at the front of the lecture hall. all that dominating force and confidence turned down and in a different direction when the lights are on and there isn't a computer screen between them.

before tim can truly come back to his thoughts, he feels the slide of hands and the easy sway as he's carried from the office to the bedroom. it takes effort to release him when his back hits the bed, to not burrow into the warmth of his neck or chest and beg him to wait a moment longer. he doesn't pull the covers up this time, doesn't snuggle in against the warmth of those comforters and sheets - he merely rests his head against the pillows and sighs again, eyes fluttering closed as hawk gives him yet another order. don't move.

he doesn't. instead, he merely presses one hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, at the sticky damp on his forehead. he focuses on the scent of the sheets again - the musky aftershave, the clean linens, everything to remind him he's nowhere but this apartment. there is no church, there is no pizzeria, there is no dorm room. just this place, just this man, and just his own stupid, foolish, drugged out mind.

it helps with the tears - the burning behind them, the way his throat had gone thick and swollen with the thought of everything that had happened. but being held and carried and cared for does something to soothe the confusion and hurt and disbelief. (trauma, he'll read later. trauma).

but he obediently sits up, drinks deeply from the glass offered to him and goes through every motion until there's just the dark, the feeling of fingers brushing his hair back, and the cool press of the cloth against his skin. it's like heaven, the faint burn from fingers still cooler than his skin, and the prickling chill of the cloth. again, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan tumbles from his lips beyond his control. ]

It's better.

[ he doesn't feel like he'll melt into oblivion at this rate - he doesn't feel like something perches, waiting in the corner to eat him alive if he makes the wrong turn. the room has stopped spinning, his heart rate calming, and he's sure he'll be able to get some sleep. it's foolish how he craves more, still. craves reaching for the same hand, gripping fingers or crossing the distance between the chair and the edge of the bed too make some kind of connection. to be sure that when he wakes he isn't left alone again to face whatever lies in the swirl of maddening colors behind his eyelids. ]

M'sorry.

[ a whisper for a whisper, tim's head turning just so to peer at the man in the dim light of the room. ]

I won't get up again.

[ he's not sure he'll be able to, anyway, with the strong pull of sleep making his limbs feel heavy, his eyes even heavier. he doesn't bother with the top sheet, and instead finds himself shifting to get comfortable again, turning slightly onto one hip.

he's not sure how much time has passed when his eyes flutter open again so briefly, but the washcloth has gone lukewarm against his skin. he turns completely onto his side, which angles him against the edge of the bed, nearer and nearer to the comfort and warmth of hawk in the chair so nearby. the cloth itself peels its way free, but tim doesn't notice. with his eyes closed and curled in on himself, sleep overcomes him.

he doesn't dream this time, but he doesn't sleep easily - shifting even moments after he drifts off, body wracked with discomfort. he won't realize that in all of this, he's only sought out the man in the chair, and by no conscious thought of his own as he tosses and turns, does his head fall off the bead, cheek sleepily finding the bend of hawk's knee where he finally settles and stills, drifting, finally, into a deep sleep.

by the time the sun begins to peek between the blinds and curtains in the room, tim has made a mess of the bedclothes - comforter disheveled, sheets tangled around his ankles. even the sweats loaned to him have shifted enough to reveal the calvin klein waistband just straddling the jut of hip bones. he barely registers anything at first as he begins to slowly drift back into hazy consciousness.

he feels like he's been hit by a bus.

slowly, almost feline in the way he stretches, he begins to emerge from sleep, hazy and dizzy, stomach cramping in a way that tells him its otherwise empty and sick all at once. at first, he expects to hear the noises in the suite kitchen outside of his bedroom door. andy from the lacrosse team always turns music on way too loud first thing in the morning, and nick down the hall thunders around with the weight of a thousand soldiers.

but it's quiet.

eerily quiet. save for the breathing of another person in the room.

another person.

his heart rate ticks up slowly, slowly, and when he opens his eyes he blinks against the light. the after shave. the soft, downy sheets. the chair. the bed. the pizzeria. the man. the bus ride to campus and the polisci building. professor fuller

he shoots up, which is his first mistake.

the world spins around him for the swiftness of it and the way his stomach revolts takes the air out of his chest. his glasses are somewhere, and yet when he looks up he sees the man himself, dozing in the chair beside the bed. so close, so real, and as much as he'd like to think all of last night was a fucking awful nightmare?

it's not.

he's sore all over, exhausted. a hangover so bad he's sure he'll swear off drinking for the rest of his life.

but he has to go. he has to get to the bathroom, what with the way his whole body is warning him. the watering of his mouth, the faint stipple of sweat at his brow, the heaving breaths that never seem to fill his lungs with enough air.

it's stupid, the way he fumbles. the way he disentangles his legs from the sheets and toes out of bed. he must look like drunk bambi, what with the way he stumbles past the man in the chair and heads for the bathroom.

there's a tshirt on the floor by the toilet, tossed aside, which he thinks may be odd for someone like professor fuller. a pair of jeans that look like his own and a tshirt that looks like his own dumped behind the door haphazardly, but he doesn't have much time at all to put two and two together before he wretches.

it's not elegant. and nothing comes out. but his body heaves as though it may expel everything from the night before with only the flexion of muscles and a desperate attempt to purge whatever horrid thing is flowing through his blood.

it leaves him with arms folded on the counter top after, fingers white with tension as he presses against its surface, his head buried into the crook of an elbow as he makes every sad attempt to catch his breath. ]

Shit...

[ nothing makes sense. he has puzzle pieces from the day before, with jagged edges that don't fit together enough to make one, cohesive picture. his head pounds behind his eyes, his body aches, his throat feels dry, and his heart won't stop rabbiting in his chest with the panic. he swallows hard around a lump as another dry heave threatens, but dissipates instead into a hollowness that just might be worse. ]

Fuck.

[it's impossible to sleep the whole way through the rest of the night. the chair being better for decor than actual comfort is somehow the least of it, but even if he had to pick the one in his office would stand a better chance of leaving him without a crick in his neck in a few hours when the sun came up to shine. it's the sudden insistence of tim's presence that does him in - the overwhelming sight, sound, and smell of him. even if he probably feels like he's rolled onto death's door, it doesn't stop hawk from stealing a few glances at how peaceful he looks when sleep finally manages to pull him into its sweet embrace. it doesn't stop him from glancing at the last vestiges of a fine sheen of sweat on his bare chest, something he'd temporarily forgotten in the presence of tim's distress - had he left it in the bed somewhere? or is it on the floor and he missed it? he can't say he's too sorry for it to be gone, even if that probably puts a tally on the long list of sins that are going to send him straight to hell, if he believed in that sort of thing.

tim believes in that sort of thing, and it's going to be a hard pill to swallow come morning. that'll be the hardest of it - continuing to convince him this wasn't his fault and he didn't deserve it, all while hawk himself has the emotional availability of a brick wall and little shame. that, and trying to coax out of tim what he needed the money for in the first place. three grand isn't an insignificant amount, but maybe he was trying to prepare for senior year and decided one fell swoop was better than trying to work himself ragged burning both ends of the candle for a few weekly one-on-ones or less lucrative texts. those are the things running through his mind as he tips his head back and tries closing his eyes, tries to ignore the sound of sheets rustling and tim shifting around trying to find the right position.

he must doze at some point, because when his neck twinges with enough soreness that it has him stretching his arms up and yawning, catching a glimpse of sun just starting to peek through the curtains, he realizes it's almost six now, and it's fucking freezing in here. but tim -

tim has somehow curled himself into a small bundle, sheets half kicked off, pillow forgone as if he were crawling on hands and knees atop the mattress just to be near hawk and his warmth and the closest part he could access. it twinges something in him, even in his once again interrupted sleep that he doesn't resent in the slightest. at least the boy is out cold, which means he theoretically won't feel the hand that cards through his hair gently so as not to disturb him. the way he's nearly bent in half can't be comfortable, and for a moment he thinks about just gently lifting him by his shoulders to press him back against the bed into something more resembling a recognizable sleeping position...but he thinks twice and tries shifting his neck into something else so he can catch a few more hours of sleep.

which apparently is a success, because it's not until he hears loud stumbling and the sound of pained dry-heaving that he wakes up for the fourth time in as many hours. it takes him a few moments, thumb and forefinger swiping at his eyes as he shakes his head and rises with a bit of dread to see how bad tim is. the door is open, but he still knocks, resting both arms on the doorframe without fully entering at first to assess the situation. he's stopped attempting to vomit - probably because there isn't anything in his stomach to get out anyway, but he looks wrecked all the same leaning against the countertop and probably feeling twenty times more miserable than he looks.]

Tim? It's Professor Fuller. You might not remember it all from yesterday.

[the consideration that tim might block all of it out hadn't occurred to him, so all he can hope is that the wrong idea of being half-naked in his professor's house and sick as a dog doesn't worm its way into his head. doubtful, considering the amount of blind trust he seems to constantly offer hawk, but still. apparently he can be too careful and that hawkins fuller has thrown caution to the wind.

he takes a tentative step in, reflection visible on the mirror as he gets closer and holds both his hands out like he's about to try and soothe wounded prey more likely to startle and run. does he even remember anything from last night? christ.]

You're safe, but there's a lot for us to catch up on.

[carefully his hand reaches to press against tim's shoulder and back, patting lightly to try and help abate some of the awfulness that is intrinsic to nearly vomiting and probably a pounding headache to boot. this time he opens the cabinet against the wall with his free hand, pulling out the ibuprofen and setting it against the counter for later.]

I can leave, if you want to wait in here for a bit for this to pass. Or I can stay.

Up to you, just say the word.

[ it was only a matter of time before professor fuller woke from his slumber in the chair next to him and sought him out. he hadn't exactly been quiet about his trek to the bathroom and now, with his head bent into his arms, he almost wishes he could will the man away, and with him? the embarrassment and shame he has no doubt flushes its way up his chest, into his neck.

the moment he feels the hand on his back he lets out a soft breath, as if he'd been holding it, wrought with tension and uncertainty. some of the gentleness he remembers in the fog from the night before comes back - a man carrying him, a hospital bed, the smell of expensive aftershave, and warmth.

he raises his head, peering into the mirror at the man at his side. he catches sight of himself - no glasses, dark circles under his eyes, his face both pale and ruddy all at once. he looks horrific, that much he knows. his hair sticks up at a myriad of angles, thanks to the night-sweats and nightmares. no shirt - and when he turns his head is when he catches sight of it - the little mark on his neck.

some of the color leaves his face, and he purposefully pushes up from the counter to stand, keeping one palm flat on the fine, marbled surface. he has to look away from the sight of himself and instead meet the tired face of the man who has obviously cared for him.

he couldn't even suspect hawkins fuller of anything less than honorable if he tried. slowly he takes a breath, trying to swallow around the acrid taste at the back of his throat, to catch up to the wild, racing thoughts he'd had a moment before. he feels awful - like he could sleep for a million years and never sleep again, all rolled into one. leaning against the counter, he realizes the cool top sits on bare skin where the sweats have come down enough, where the jut of his hip bones sits above the disrupted waistband of his clothing.

he's a disaster. he self-consciously pulls the sleep pants up. ]

It's fine - I ... [ what does he even say? he feels like shit. he's sick. he's exhausted. he's scared. he's sad. he's completely defeated. so, so many things. ]

Nothing's - I can't - [ he shakes his head and runs his hand awkwardly through his hair, then scrubbing over his face. he doesn't let go of the counter with the other - just to be safe. his legs feel wobbly, not unlike a baby fawn, and it's better to test them here, anyway. ]

You don't have to leave. It's... it's your house. I should leave. I shouldn't have even... [ he looks down at his own feet then, uncomfortable. another wave of nausea passes through him, and though he doesn't feel he'll be sick, it makes a chill run up his spine, turning the skin on his arms to gooseflesh. ]

Sorry, I don't even know what to say. Or do.

[ does he get his things? the clothes on the floor are his, he now realizes. his dark jeans, the shirt, but with it piled a blazer he doesn't recognize. shit. is that the guy's...?

god, he can't even remember what he might have told professor fuller. he closes his eyes tight and tries hard to think: the pizzeria. the guy. then... what? campus? he definitely went to fuller's office. maybe a doctor. the campus nurse? then here. here that has more memories than his night altogether - here with the smell, the warmth, the traveling fingers, the low voice.

good boy. ]

I didn't... oh, my god, I didn't - did I try to - are you okay?

[ did i try to make a move on you? did i try to show you i want it? did i try to prove something? ]

[the look that meets tim in response is meant to be one that's gentle and without judgment, though he's a hot-blooded american and therefore shouldn't be judged that when tim's hands drop to tug up the pants slung low under slim hipbones in a somewhat futile attempt, in hawk's opinion, considering that impossibly slim waist that manages to house an outline of a perfect abdomen - he can't help but steal a look at the vanishing line of black and white that neatly spells out "calvin klein". he's not ogling his student, he's just taking stock of everything. the clothes on the floor, for example, including his blazer which will need to go to the dry cleaners. the missing shirt, which he must have ripped off in the middle of the night when the sweats settled in. but that doesn't tell a very convincing story to someone who's been through hell and back, and could easily be misconstrued between holes that must exist around a night of interrupted sleep and nightmares and hazy images, if he's even got that go off of.

but it's the way tim sounds that tugs at him more than anything else - afraid, crushed, ashamed. fuck, of course he knew it was coming - he'd just hoped it wouldn't come crashing down so suddenly on his shoulders. that maybe it would come back in small pieces in a way that was somehow easier to digest. but brushing with something that dangerous and seedy and getting fucking drugged by some stranger isn't something to just be swallowed down, not the kind of thing that's simple to just digest like a goddamn six-course meal.

hawk shakes his head even as tim looks away, and he knows from days of looking into his animated face and memorizing every enthusiastic expression, every manic glint in his eye before he strikes gold on some idea - this isn't his finest hour in terms of appearance. but it's not his fault, and he steps in again, hand rubbing lightly against his shoulder in reassurance.]

Betting you've got a lot on your mind right now. I can clear up some of it.

[lightly he shifts his grip, enough that it suggests they head somewhere else besides standing in the bathroom like this. the pile of clothing can wait, though he snags the ibuprofen with a rattle of pills.]

Let's get you some water and take a seat first. Or do you want to lie down again?

[dealer's choice, he almost says before he stops himself, remembering it was something he once said in the middle of that. shit. his hand lifts from tim's shoulder, scubbing over his face once more and trying to push all of that away even though it's very tangential to the situation they're in now. and then tim stops dead and bursts out with - something. hawk's head tilts in confusion, eyes narrowing underneath furrowed brows of disbelief as it takes a few moments to read between the halting spaces that cut off his questions that are both for hawk himself and probably his own recollection.

it's not that he means to be crass about it, but hawk can't help the laugh that bubbles up from his throat at the implication that somehow tim laughlin could force himself or somehow make an unwilling partner out of hawkins fuller. he's not laughing at tim, just the idea of being somehow overpowered or off-put by his admittedly favorite student and secret fantasy.]

Sorry. I'm not - at you. But you're asking if I'm alright after you've been through the ringer? Christ, Laughlin. You're something else.

[the fondness in his tone and the way his face stretches into a smile should sink in enough that that's a good thing, and he pats tim's bare back again lightly with his palm, feeling the ripple of gooseflesh underneath it and knowing he must be hovering between temperatures again.]

Come on, let's see how steady you are on your feet. Hold onto me if you need.

[he extends the crook of his arm again, another motion he'd repeated last night, wondering if tim will remember any of it. it occurs to him partway through tim's first steps that he never really answered any of his stuttered questions though.]

And no, by the way, you didn't.

Edited 2024-01-09 07:40 (UTC)

Sitting his fine.

[ or maybe he should lie down. maybe he should go back to that bed, crawl into it and close his eyes so he can wake up to something else later. wake up to all of this being some wild, fucked up fever dream. but of course it isn't - he knows better. instead he focuses on the feeling of the man's palm at his shoulder, the warmth it spreads beneath his fingertips and he lets out a little shuddered breath.

what he doesn't expect, however, is the laugh.

at first, tim's head snaps up in a sad attempt to assess the laughter - the why. why would any of this be funny? why would anyone laugh about having someone throwing themselves at them and -

oh.

professor fuller's smile is fond and warm and there's the hand on his back again, and suddenly tim feels extremely small. relieved, but small. he didn't do anything to this man - which only means that the flashes of the pizzeria, the bald man (was his name mark?) are all real. it makes his stomach churn again, and with an exhale he nods a little. ]

I... I just didn't want - I would never - [ a breath, then a sigh. ] But you know that.

[ he reaches instinctively for the crook of his arm, carefully hooking his in the other man's, even letting his free hand fall on his forearm to steady himself further as they move out of the bathroom. there's no making up for how this all went down. no changing the past or changing the very picture they're painting.

this was never supposed to go this way.

a few steps in and he can tell already he shouldn't leave the bedroom. maybe it's the anxiety, the panic, the fatigue, the illness - but his vision seems to spot at the edges and his breathing tightens a little. the bed is right there and that is where he knows, for the moment, he should stay.

(he knows, really, he needs to go back to the dorm. he needs to get the hell out of this place and pretend none of this happened. but he also knows that hawkins fuller likely won't let him run off that easily). ]

Actually - can we... just stay here for a second?

[ there's a gesture toward the bed and the chair, where they'd both ended up the night before, and it's only with hawk's help he makes it back to the edge, sitting down slowly. could he walk on his own? sure. he's a little unsteady, but nothing like the sloshing, slurring mess from last night. it's more a mental instability right now than physical - the embodiment of panic, stress, fatigue.

he remembers now how comfortable the bed is, how warm it had been, and he knows too why one cheek had been slightly more pink than the other - from the pressure of sitting upon the knee of a man who doesn't want anything to do with him.

not in that way.

he sheepishly pulls himself further onto the bed, pulling his legs up to sit crosslegged, staring down at his hands in his lap. his head hurts, his body aches, and if this were any other day he'd think he'd have the flu. but no, that's not what this is at all. ]

I'm sorry. For all of this.

[ god, where does he even begin. he can't put the sequence of events in order, but he can tell that had he not ended up here, his evening could have ended up far, far worse. ]

But... I don't - I remember some of it. I just didn't want to... disrespect you. Not after all this.

[ a gesture to mean the care he's been given now, before this, and even before they'd both come to confront that situation they're both tied up in. he runs his hand back through his hair again, and reaches then for his glasses.

the lean is a bad idea though and he catches himself on the edge of the nightstand, closing his eyes and letting the nausea course through him. ]

I know.

[the thought would never cross his mind - hell, it hadn't even when they'd first come face to face in the coffee shop that any of this was an intentional thought to trap him, to force him into an unwanted situation. nevermind that the only unwanted part is the fact that he's a current student - but that's not a fact he's planning on sharing anytime soon. his body slots in close, already preparing for maybe what is the inevitable of tim losing his balance once or his nerve once again. hawk's no mind-reader, but he doesn't think he needs to be to watch the way he's huddling in on himself once more, probably grasping at straws trying to piece everything together and reassure himself that nothing untoward really transpired here. it's still baffling to think his biggest concern would be hawk's comfort, but he supposes that's the same naïveté he's spent weeks trying to hone into something a little sharper and that much wiser.

there's a tremor in him that he senses before tim asks to stop - and they're nearly at the bed when he agrees with a soft of course - go ahead, guiding him to sit at the edge before he pulls himself up into a seated position. which frankly is progress compared to yesterday night, he supposes. hawk settles himself in the chair again, legs spread and back pressed downward so he can rest his elbows on his knees and put himself moreso at tim's level. hands folded between the space in something meant to be casual and encouraging. no desk between them, no schoolwork, and no computer screen. this might be the best chance they've got to have an honest conversation about the whole thing, and it seems like that's what tim wants.

the fact that he doesn't remember...it's not going to be pleasant to be the bearer of bad news, but he has a hunch that if he'd want anyone to do it? it would be hawk, so long as he treads lightly. thank god the hangups he'd had last night about seeing tim in his bed, let alone with a cheek pressed adoringly against his knee have been abated by the stone cold sober realities sinking in during the light of day. they'll sink in again when he's alone, able to absorb the thought of them in a much different context. for now, his gaze shifts upward to where tim looks utterly hollowed out with nothing but rawness left behind.]

Well there's one thing you gotta fix off the bat.

You forgot your promise - no more apologizing. Acknowledging that none of this is your fault.

[that's an easier way of putting it instead of reminding tim he'd agreed to be the good boy the hawk of his classes and his late night activities had come to inspire. it's slow motion the way tim runs a hand through maybe the most serious case of endearing bedhead he's ever seen before he tips against the solid wood of his nightstand and has hawk lunging forward from his seat to keep him from accidentally bashing his head in. his hand steadies agains his arm, the other pressing gently at the bare skin against his ribcage, solid and yet somehow closer to the surface than he would have imagined looking at his torso. must be all the pinching pennies and skipping meals. hawk shifts him back upright with a slight frown, reaching for his glasses and extending them in his hand for tim to take.]

Alright, I think that's enough of that. If you need something for now, ask. You're in no shape for sudden movements, got it?

[he pulls away, crossing his legs and leaning back against the chair with a sigh. one hand drums against the armrest, trying to decide where to start, considering he doesn't even have the full picture either.]

I was in the office late last night. You stumbled in three sheets to the wind, though how you got there in one piece I couldn't tell you.

A date - Pizzeria Paradiso. Do you remember that? Thank god for your guardian angel - the waitress must have known something was off because she kept an eye on you, figured he put something in your drink.

And then I took you to the hospital - Sibley Memorial - less chance of either of us answering questions we'd prefer not to. Nurse said it was GHB and you needed to be monitored. Not a chance I was gonna ship you back to the dorms even in a cab, so I took you here to let you clean up a bit and get some shut-eye.

[that's the gist of it. but that's really not it, is it? his voice softens again, and he reaches tentatively to settle a hand on his student's forearm.]

Tim - what did you need the money for?

[to the tune of about $500 a week, right? because it's my fault - i'm the one that put you here.]

You said it was the first time since we - saw each other during Christmas break.

I'm okay. Really.

[ it's the nausea more than the loss of balance that sends him reeling. it's impossible to deny the dryness of his mouth or the way his stomach twists deep in his gut at anything thought of moving, any thought of doing anything but just sitting still.

he takes the offered glasses, unfolds them, and slides them on. the world comes back into stark clarity, and even here in the dim light of the bedroom he can see that even professor fuller is tired. he knows he kept him up late, for one, but there's a little more added guilt to all of this. but he listens to the man instead, glancing down at his hands in his lap and trying to focus on his breathing as everything sort of melds itself into place.

it's hazy, but there's no forgetting the client. no forgetting the way professor fuller picked him up and carried him to the car, to the hospital. he doesn't remember much there, save for the hands on his cheeks and the breathing. ah, yes. the breathing he's not good at. the smell of the man's aftershave, the feeling of his heart beating in his throat. the warmth of him. and god.

good boy.

he picks at his thumb nail, all the nervous energy falling into his fingers as he sits there, recounting the whole night. it's better, really, that professor fuller doesn't know everything.

his hands still when the man reaches for him and tim's eyes raise suddenly, meeting the cool blue.

a hand on his throat. sliding to his jaw. the command all in the touch instead of in the words. he remembers that, too. but this is different. the gentle touch, the way his voice softens, the way hawk leans forward into his space just so. a man trying to get the information he wants - like he's afraid of startling a jumpy, skittish cat.

tim goes still at the question, staring across at him, his heart beat ticking faster in his ears. the warmth and color from before rise up into his cheeks, down the plane of his neck, a flush of embarrassment. he doesn't want to tell him. doesn't want to admit to anything, and yet what else could he possibly do to repay his kindness? there's nothing more to hide now, anyway. professor fuller knows more about him than anyone should, and while it should be liberating or comforting, it just makes tim sink in on himself a little more.

his lips pull to one side as he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. he mulls over what to say, how much to offer. his eyes drop back to the hand on his arm, strong and warm. manicured in a way that tells him professor fuller lives a physically quiet life. his own hands are picked at, nails back to the quick, some calluses from days working with his father as a boy. ]

School. [ he shrugs one shoulder, a little uncomfortably, voice sounding smaller than he means it to. more defeated, resigned. ] Summer classes. It was due today. But it's fine. I don't need them. I'm on schedule to graduate on time, so it doesn't really matter.

[ but they had been classes he's wanted to take since he'd started there, but couldn't fit in his schedule. (or couldn't afford to add another course). a literature course on anitheroes. a sociology course on culture. one of professor fuller's government courses. another on the poetry of elizabeth bishop.

he can always ask for the syllabi later and do the reading on his own, of course. ]

It would have signed me up, anyway. Secured my dorm. Didn't cover food or anything, but I felt like asking for more would -

[ a higher dollar amount would probably go unanswered. ]

I... I wasn't lying. About it being the first. I... I don't know. It was stupid. The first one was you, and that would have been -

[ fine. safe. good. exactly what he wanted. ]

I just thought maybe this one wouldn't... wouldn't be that bad. But it was. And just... just for stupid classes.

[is any of this shaking loose? he almost asks, but realizes the more he watches tim channel all his nerves into fiddling with his thumb as the colour slowly crawls its way up his bare chest to his neck and all the way up to the tips of his ears. boy wouldn't last a day playing poker, that's for damn sure - but this situation isn't something quite so cavalier. it's through sheer willpower his eyes stay above the neck, partly because tim looks like he'd rather sink through the bed, down the floor and into the earth's dark core than answer this and partly because it's still inappropriate to be filing it away into a mental rolodex. christ, thoughts like that and he's no better than the asshole who put his boy here in the first place.

ah christ. and that - that right there is what he has to stop. tim isn't his boy. wasn't even to begin with. that's the part he left out on purpose, glossing it over with a simple promise, not a verbal command and wordless touches to communicate a demand for obedience. and tim had complied - had taken to that, skippy come to life right in front of his eyes instead of under the dim lighting of smoke and mirrors and careful camouflage of his dorm room. this is exactly the kind of thing that needs to pushed down deep, preferably never to see the light of day again, but only when this ordeal is over and tim is long gone trying to get back to some semblance of normalcy in the brief summer break he's giving himself.

because he'd seen tim's name on his roster - and despite everything, he'd been looking forward to his no doubt favorite student being the center of attention in a class full of hungry, aspiring politicos. it hadn't even registered that's what he was trying to scrape together at the ninth hour. of course someone as diligent as tim didn't need to take it along with whatever else he had planned, but he'd want to, and hawk hopes it's solely because of his dedication and passion for the content. just the content. and selfishly a part of him knew that would probably be the last he'd be seeing of laughlin - onto greener pastures, focusing on his senior year, probably trying to land an internship and dropping by for an update and a recommendation letter request for conquering washington's entry-level opportunities in no time.

in the grand scheme of things it wasn't a make-or-break course. hell, it wasn't even a requirement. but would it have been nice? yeah, it sure would have.

not nice enough to put up with almost getting date raped over three grand. hawk's expression darkens, though it's not directed in any way at tim and rather the idea of the bastard that did this to him. he's no avenging angel, but what he wouldn't do for fifteen minutes in a dark alley with the asshole that's made tim curl up into himself in as many times in the last twelve hours. his hand squeezes without even realizing it, still holding onto tim's forearm reassuringly as he lets it all out.]

For summer classes. My class?

[now he feels doubly responsible. shit. to anyone else, hawkins fuller would delay, deny, and draw doubt from even his toughest critics wanting to suspect him of some wrongdoing or scrutinize his often acerbic wit. analyze his private life, the perceived pull he has with the dean, his youth, his looks, his single status. yeah, he'd have no problem telling them fuck you without saying the words, sending them off with a smile and a firm handshake. but this isn't anyone - this is tim, and if he can't be vulnerable with the boy who's spilled his guts and wound up half dead at his proverbial doorstep, who they hell can he?]

I know that - I trust you.

It wasn't stupid of you to try. You remember what I said in the first few weeks of the semester? That you were doing your best.

[hawk pulls his hand back, leaning forward again and looking at tim with all softness in his gaze sharpened into something quite serious.]

This is on me, Tim.

[he lifts a finger, knowing the way his mind works and the outburst that's coming.]

Don't say what I think you're going to. Five-hundred a week - it adds up. And it damn sure hurts when it's gone, doesn't it?

[his own throat dries right up too, and it makes him reach for the glass at the bedside table and hand it to tim knowing his must be in even worse shape.]

I put you in this position. It's my fault you almost got hurt, and for that - I owe you an apology. All of this? Jesus, it's the least I could do.

[a nod to the glass of water, the bed, the sweatpants - his very presence here.]

But I need you to listen to me. Meeting like that? Too goddamn dangerous. Last night, I told you - you won't do it again.

Promise me right now.

[he sits up straighter, eyes bright with a conviction that only tim draws out of him in their verbal sparring these days.]

You're worth so much more than the risk, do you understand that?

Edited 2024-01-10 06:01 (UTC)

Your class. A few literature courses, a sociology. I considered an astronomy course, but you'd have to pay for the lab hours as well, so I ruled that out.

[ there's a hint of the boy he is - the faint spark of interest and intrigue, the hungry need to learn more and get his hands on any bit of information he can chew on. he'll always be voracious for knowledge. he's been curious since he was a boy, and deeply dedicated to the dogged pursuit of something bigger, better, greater. to know how the world chooses to work is to master it, isn't it?

there's no other chance for rebuttal as hawk speaks, holding his finger up and passing him the glass of water. he presses the cup between his palms for a moment, looks down at the ripples of light on the water before he brings it up for a sip. it helps, but the idea of putting anything in his system makes his stomach flip again. enough that he reaches to set the glass aside, slowly and carefully.

it's the squeeze of a hand around his arm that he misses now - how steadying it felt, how grounding. there's distance between them, and no matter how gentle or soft the man tries to become, tim feels the space between them open up like a void, cold and gaping. ]

It is not your fault.

[ something in tim's voice changes - it doesn't get stronger, but seems to dig heels in, instead. a gravel, a determination he doesn't have the energy for. ]

I made the decision. I decided to make the first post and message you. I wanted you to respond. Specifically you - or. Your account. And maybe I needed the money for this semester but I could have gotten it. Somehow.

[ he blows out a little huff, exhausted and determined to get his words out. ] I am not doing my best. Doing my best would have been accepting I couldn't afford the classes and going home. Instead I made a post. Let a stranger respond. A man I didn't know, but seemed harmless enough. That's on me.

[ he shakes his head again, but this time it makes his eyes squeeze shut, the room spinning a little alongside the lurch of his stomach. ]

I knew - I never expected - the $500 a week. It hurt, yeah. It's the difference in text books and meal plans. But I'm good at making the one daily meal plan stretch. I just - I really wanted to stay here for the summer. I had to have a deposit and then the bursar would set up a payment plan for the rest - I've done it my whole time here. They know I'm good for it.

[ he looks down at his hands again, then back up to hawk. ] It's not your fault, though. It might not have been you at that first meet up. It could have been anyone. It's on me. And even if we had - if you - [ a shake of his head. ] It simply doesn't change the fact that had you fucked me as you intended that day, I wouldn't have accepted any further monies from you, anyway. I just -

[ because i would have wanted it to mean more than cash and checks.

tim keeps the man's gaze, and there's a bit of life coming back into his own eyes, he's sure of it. he can tell by the way his face feels warm, the way he grips his hands in his lap, the way he feels ready to bite back at the faintest challenge and conviction in hawk's eyes.

but god, he's tired. so, so tired.

and he will never be able to resist any order this man gives him.

listen to me and promise me. ]

What that guy did to me... you would have never done. Not - not like that. I know you. I just wanted to stay on campus. That's not my reality anymore - I just refused to accept it. So...

[ and there's a moment where tim considers what to say next, his breath a little shaky as he remembers the way he'd been pawed at, kissed at, held. instead he was rescued by the man across from him now - all warmth and broad chest, all kindness and care. a demanding, domineering man who will accept nothing less than what he's asked for.

a part of tim wants hawkins fuller to know he remembers last night.

and maybe that's not playing fair here. not with this situation, not in this context. but there is an unspoken trust that comes with quiet demands and soft praise. a balance and a perfectly in-tune chord struck at every instance.

so he meets hawk's eyes again, expression resigned and resolute. ]

This will never happen to me again. [ not the pizzeria, not the grubby man, not the money nor the incentive to meet.

a part of him wonders if it means they will never meet like this again - raw at the edges and blown open by the stark reality of the world around them. ]

No one will touch me like that again.

[ there's a flex of a little muscle in his jaw, a tired sign of the defiant student hawk knows so well, even if he is buried under the crumpled, shameful pylon of the boy called tim laughlin. ]

But if I'm going to promise you something, sir. I need you to promise me something.

[ promise your boy something.

it's almost quiet, plaintive in the way he says it, voice turning so that no one could overhear were this conversation happening in public. he sounds tired, still - he can hear it in his own voice, with the gravel at its edges. ]

That you'll never say what happened to me was your fault, ever again. Maybe the circumstances were my fault, but what... what that guy did - it wasn't my fault either. [ he blows out a low, slow breath. ]

Promise me, sir.

Edited 2024-01-10 06:29 (UTC)

[sure, it sounds alright when tim lays it out like that. could have been happenstance, could have been anyone else. but it wasn't, was it? it was hawk on one end, tim one the other, and a loaded gun of desire and detriment between them both waiting for a game of russian roulette. if tim wasn't his student? yeah, he would have taken him back and fucked him within an inch of his life. might have even stayed the whole twenty-four hours. but would he have felt the pull of someone as whip-smart and headstrong and wholly endearing as the tim laughlin he knows now? or would it have just been another pretty face, an extended fuck goodbye? this is why he doesn't linger on the what-ifs, and it's definitely why he's refused to consider any other option in this entire mess. not even the insidious little reminder that tim won't be his student forever, hell, if today is anything to go by - he won't even be his student for another semester.

because those feelings haven't gone away. tucked safely somewhere that won't interfere with their day to day and working relationship? absolutely. but this lingering space between them - this limbo of personal and private and definitely not professional - what constitutes as fair game here? giving tim orders, demanding of him the way he would of skippy - laying ground rules and expectations in every sense but the physical. is that even fair? does tim feel like he has the proper platform to reject it if it isn't?

evidently yes, even if tim has a blind faith in hawk that he doesn't have the heart to break him of. maybe if he had a day in his head, or watched the way he's fucked and discarded plenty of one-night-stands on the stringent insistence of no strings, he'd think twice. feel differently. lose the hero worship, which hawk doesn't think of arrogantly nor unjustifiably. there's something deeper here he won't let go of, but first things first:]

You remember.

[his voice drops into the firm resonance he'd use if they were - ]

Good boy.

[there's no taking it back now, and hawk feels like he's watching vitality pour back into tim with each layer they strip away with each other. further and further into this labyrinth of liability - and yet, he can't deny there's a certain thrill to it either. the money, the bursar, the payment plan - that's all something he's filing away for monday. something to make up for this, to keep the promise it's only fair to offer in return.]

That's right - it wasn't your fault. So I'll promise you - it's not mine either.

[at the very least, he promises he'll never say it like that again. there's a moment of silence he lets sink in, gaze dropping from tim's eyes to the way his jaw twitches slightly with that defiance he's come to know and appreciate a little too dearly. there's a heaviness between them at it, like the magic words to an oath or some fairy tale vow - the way it had lingered last night too. only now there's no mistaking its existence, no waving it away as just a dream. his lips pull upward into a light curve, eyes twinkling before his back sinks against the chair once more, spell breaking.

that still doesn't explain one thing:]

Doing your best is striving for it, never giving up even when it feels insurmountable. And you want to be here, so you work for it. You sacrifice.

But tell me something - which is it?

The pursuit of knowledge and making the world a better place someday?

[that one's obvious - he remembers tim asking if he was being made fun of the first time he'd said something along the lines. the answer: only a little.]

Or avoiding whatever it is you're running from back home?

[it's not that he wants to flay tim utterly bare. but a part of him needs to know before he does the most reckless thing in nearly a decade.]

[ something has changed on the air between them. that cold, december day is long past them and something else has grown into its place. gone is the strained professionalism, the don't-ask-don't-tell ignorance they played about the circumstances of their original meeting. maybe it's just the remaining effects of the drug in his system or the aggressive hangover-induced brain fog but the air feels heavy.

their eyes meet and tim can feel the tiniest bit of heat bloom low in his belly. it's not enough to notice - not with the embarrassment piled on top of it flushing his throat, his chest, his cheeks. the shame and embarrassment alone can be as good a fall guy for the imperceptible shift.

yes, he remembers. maybe to their detriment. maybe it would be better if he hadn't, and yet when hawk speaks again? the low, firm tone of his voice sends a spark shooting down his spine.

good boy.

he hadn't imagined it. maybe bringing up the phrasing he'd been asked - no, told - to use the night before had been a way to make sure tim hadn't imagined it all. that the apparent ghb didn't make up some feverous fantasy and produced the imagined sound of professor fuller's voice saying those words exactly. they're not typed on a screen now - there's no deleting or unsending that can happen once the sound reaches his ears. ]

Then I promise, too. I'll stop blaming myself for this, sir.

[ the sir comes so easily - any student would address their professor politely, formally, and yet there's a dip in his voice when he says it that matches the even rumble of the other man's, a soft, pliant echo to the heavy note of praise.

but the tension breaks just as soon after with professor fuller sliding back in his chair, opening up that space between them again. tim's shoulder's slacken, his heart slows and he has no doubt that the flush has only crept its way further down his chest, just blooming at the top of his pecs. it's embarrassing that his shame and fluster presents itself so physically. there's only hiding when he has clothes on, and even then once the very tips of his ears alight, he's done for.

it keeps tim very, very honest.

honest enough that he doesn't quite anticipate the pointed, question. blindsided, really, is the best way to describe it. from the electrical tension between them, to the easy conversational tone of a mentor and his student, to this. it's not rude, crass, harsh, mean. the tone itself is very much the same, but it's the calculated way tim realizes he's been caught.

a rabbit, unsuspecting of the panther that has laid in wait beneath the brush. moving with calculated slowness, making his body still and careful and small until near enough that the rabbit may not even escape.

his eyes widen, his mind goes blank. somehow the memory of the sweaty, grabby man from the night before is far less traumatic and horrifying in the face of returning home now. he has tried very hard to make light of it - like he goes home often - but professor fuller wouldn't know the difference. or so he thought.

god, he's a terrible liar.

tim's fingers flex, he shifts a little to adjust the angle of one of his legs beneath him. he suddenly wishes he had more clothes he could hide behind, he could burrow into. the vitality that had crept back up beneath his skin and into the brown of his eyes remains, but there's a hard swallow that accompanies it. the rabbit, tail flicking nervously, ears back, pupils blown wide - trying to decide whether running is the best option or accepting the swift, painful death may be.

(the rabbit will always run, won't he? always try and dodge and weave and hope that the brush or other obstacle will be too great for the panther to overcome. it's no use here). ]

I'm not running.

[ and he isn't really. running would be denying the bus ticket home. it would be living on the streets or begging one of his acquaintances for a couch to stay on. starving just to avoid the four walls of his small house in staten island. doing everything but returning. but his duty and pragmatism always outweighs those options.

it's foolish. he can play pretend, keep his mouth shut, smile and nod when he has to. he grew up in it, after all. ]

It's just better for me if I don't go back there. If I don't have to. I've managed it every semester so far. I went back my first Christmas, but I hadn't built up -

[ a huff and he looks away then, a wry sort of pull at the corner of his lips. not a smile, not a grin - just darkly bemused. ] I didn't have the client base to make it make sense, then. But it did for a while - I was able to make it work.

[ he shrugs a shoulder, quiet for a moment as he sorts his thoughts. ]

I want to be here. Yes, of course it's for the pursuit of knowledge - to learn as much as I can before I don't have the open doors and avenues to ask all the questions I have. I know I won't be able to stand in the real world and parse apart arguments at the word-level, dig into the etymologies of our political terms and how we somehow lost our roots in the past three hundred years. That's not realistic.

[ and there's a smile, albeit one that is a touch sad and does not reach his eyes. ]

But I won't stand a chance if I go back there. We live in the south end - near the old farm colony site. Six people in a two bedroom walkup. There's one library in walking distance, and there's one bus that gets you to the ferry. No one there believes in knowledge. Believes in truth or justice. They just believe in a God that is neither benevolent nor just. Who expels even those with the best intentions to Hell for the sake of their mere existence.

[ no one there believes that a man could love a man. that a heart could want many things. that a mind could grow and things can change and the world could be so much better that 60s wallpaper, moldy siding, a screaming preacher on a pulpit and hate employed in the name of righteousness. ]

God made all of us with a plan. And maybe being in D.C. isn't the plan for me. For all the obstacles that have stood in my way, you'd think I'd take it as some divine sign to turn back and be done with all of this. Like in Romans - I consider the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us.

There has to be more out there for me.

[ it's absent that his hand reaches for his chest, fingers drifting along the line of his sternum. ah. his cross. he'd taken it off before his date. it sits on his bedside table in his dorm room, on the worn cover a library book - look homeward, angel. ]

Edited 2024-01-10 16:00 (UTC)

[that's one of the things that has risen on the long list of what he admires about tim laughlin in as much as it is something they'll desperately need to work on coaxing him out of before the time he hits the ground in the capitol. the rabbit could never survive in a den of lions and tigers and bears - oh my - but it wouldn't survive the serpent-tongues that could take even the largest of creatures with gnashing teeth down in a simple flick either. in this context his honesty isn't a bad thing, even if it's betrayed by the beautiful rising flush along his body, and he realizes belatedly that another shirt should have been offered to him sometime ago and that he himself never got around to putting on something more comfortable last night. first things first then - slowly he unbuttons the cuffs at his wrist, rolling them upward across his forearms and just past his elbows as he listens intently to tim's explanation.

of course it wasn't meant to hurt or alarm him, but if his student thinks he hasn't been paying attention and doesn't know how to read an entire book between the lines - he's got another thing coming. or more accurately: it's an unfairly easy glimpse into the environment that has shaped this passionate boy, no lines to read between at all, printed plain as day as if in compliment to look homeward, angel.

staten island has never been on his list of visits from childhood until now, only remembering the vague recollection of the picturesque, primary coloured cyclone and a good old fashioned hot dog from coney island across the way. new yorkers were a mixed bag according to his father, frowning upon any child whose exuberance was not as tempered as his son's, and even then he'd wondered what they'd been doing there at all if reservation was the name of the game. but now he knows about the conservative lean the areas sport - often well-meaning, large families who work hard and don't know what they don't know. but they don't have the fortitude to get the fuck out and see the rest of the world for what it is, confused and offering guilting platitudes to those like tim who would spread their wings and eagerly fly away.

thank christ it isn't anything as dastardly as abuse or neglect - though he's not sure that's entirely accurate either. going back to a place like that means hiding who tim is at his core, more than just his sexual preference or the job he's forced into to make ends meet. it's stifling his creativity, his voracious search for truth and justice in a world designed to shirk it as much as possible. staying there means finding some dead end job to just get by, go through the motions day in and day out without real meaning or substance to his greater purpose. not that hawk would ever recommend that higher purpose has anything to do with god or religion, and he can't help the way his expression turns a little critical at that - a furrow of his brows, the slight pull of his mouth into a thinner line.

christians, catholics, jesuits - doesn't really matter. every last one hypocrites one way or another, hiding behind a shield in pursuit of the same damn thing they all are, only with a insufferable crock of self righteousness to prop themselves up with in the process. that, or it's the symbolism and the signs, the necessary excuses to live life beyond what they think they're limited to following laws written by modern hands and not some holy spirit. but he's not about to get into a theology lecture - it's something he knows is important to tim, who has drawn from it before, who has left office hours at a sprint because he'll be late catching the bus for masses at st. joseph's across town. but it's that same piety that's torturing him, probably is at the root of why he continues to hunch in on himself when he thinks about the things he's deemed himself a failure for, or somehow less than.

all of that is bullshit, so far as he's concerned. why would a benevolent god punish people for love? why would a god who forgives all sins overlook one? and why the hell would a place meant for sinners not celebrate the behaviour that landed them there in the first place?

(he hadn't lasted long with his own youthful foray into the world of religion with that attitude. another early disappointment in the books at the fuller household.)

his gaze follows tim's hands - reaching for something on his chest in a motion that should be mundane, but has hawk swallowing thickly anyway before he drags them back up slowly to his face and keeps them there. right, the shirt.

he pushes up from the chair, stepping over to his tall dresser against the wall and rifling through one of the bottom drawers for another faded tee, this one from the old debate team. standing, he tosses it to tim.]

Catch. You look cold again.

[he doesn't take the chair again, instead letting out a sigh and putting both hands on his hips.]

Look, I don't know about God and what he's got to do with this, but you're barking up the wrong tree with that anyway. Public servants, Putin, populism - I've got you covered there. I only lasted a few weeks in Jesuit school for good reason.

[a wry smile, blink and he might miss it before it drops into something serious again.]

But Tim, you're not going to hear agreement from me if you're looking for a reason to turn back. If you want to believe in signs and miracles and the pre-ordained. And I know that's not what you want.

[hawk takes a step forward, towards the bed, hands falling to his side as he looks down at tim sitting there, looking up at him with those big brown eyes and mussed hair. jesus.]

You're right where you belong. That's all there is to it.

And two years from now, when you're walking through those hallowed halls in your best suit - I want you to think back on this moment, right now, and take a minute to celebrate.

[but that still leaves the immediate questions: what does that mean for summer school? for next year?

he needs divine intervention, is what it means. or just a very stubborn hawkins fuller, pulling a few strings in the wings. he won't know.]

If the deadline was yesterday, what's the plan now?

[he asks it casually enough, overlooking the obvious fact that he'll need to try and keep down food, shower, rest, speak with a counselor, and get through the rest of exams next week.]

[ tim simply can't help the way his eyes flutter to the careful unbuttoning of the shirt cuffs, the way professor fuller rolls them up to the crook of his elbow. he's seen this look dozens of times before, and yet in the close space between them now, the forced intimacy from their rough night together makes the whole thing feel different. he takes in a second longer - the muscles of his forearms, the broad hands he can remember on his skin. he tears his eyes away, back to his own hands once they fall back to his lap, missing his cross.

he barely manages to catch the shirt. the old debate team - the year worn out and faded. there's a sort of wry look on his face as he shakes it out and pulls it on over his head, letting even his glasses pop through the well-loved collar. the fabric itself is soft, but it's the smell. it makes his skin prickle again, but the scent of hawkins fuller won't leave his olfactory memory any time soon. it's rich and warm and safe. ]

Thanks.

[ and because professor fuller himself has drawn his attention to it, he reaches for the comforter then, tugging it up around his shoulders to cocoon himself in. he's exhausted, sick, sore, upset. sleep is exactly what he needs and yet even here he refuses to lie down.

soon, he'll get up, get back into his own clothes, and head back to the dorm. they'll pretend none of this happened, too. there will be no counselors, no follow up, just the quiet understanding that things will have been taken care of. it's not like he'll be able to see a counselor anyway, what with the return to staten island now so imminent. ]

Trust me, I know better than to talk to you about God. [ there's a look there - fiery disbelief that in any other chat they'd be having would have long since turned into the rolling of eyes. it's better for his stomach he doesn't do that. ]

And I don't know that I believe God is on this path with me, anyway. I don't know what to believe anymore. I feel troubled and pray every time I go to mass, but I wake up the next day with the same questions. More questions, even. My father would say it's God's way of punishing me - torturing me until I turn around and go back down the right path. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, et cetera. That poem is flawed, by the way.

[ he sighs, tugging the comforter around him again. he knows he'll have to answer the question eventually. that he'll have to come face to face with the reality that he will be leaving in a week and he's wholly unprepared for it. mentally, physically, financially. there's so much more to do still before he can go home. ]

But yeah, I feel like I am where I should be. [ it's quieter, less bite and conviction, less sarcastic remark. genuine, more than anything. ] That's what I meant - Romans, that is. The struggle is going to be worth whatever the outcome is. I can't afford to believe anything else.

[ he gives in to the temptation to fall back onto the bed, first leaning to his side, then rolling onto his back. he has all but wrapped himself in the blankets now, and no doubt he looks a sight with his wild bed-head and glasses peeking out from behind the expensive fabric. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling first, mulling the question over, then letting out a sigh. ]

It's obvious what's next.

[ the bus ride. home. his family. church.

his skin crawls. ]

I go home. There aren't any more extensions - I'd already asked for one and used it.

[ he grips the covers, closes his eyes in a long blink, then glances back at hawk. ]

I'll do some of my thesis reading. Last time I checked a few books out of the library and just kept them. Took the hit on the fines. Cheaper than buying them. I'll do that. Maybe try to write a few analyses. My father won't let me get a job - he needs help at the Church. They have a significant plot of land, a community garden.

[ his hands ache from the thought already. and he knows he'll have to hide his books, too, lest his father decide they're full of satanic speech. ]

Until then I need to get boxes. Find somewhere to store my stuff until I get back. Get a bus ticket. Study, if I can. Do my exams.

[ he has to feel better, surely, tomorrow? there's no way any of this can linger overlong. he doesn't have time for it. he needs to study, ace his exams, and secure a spot in his senior year. failing isn't an option. he cannot afford to return to school here, for so many reasons.

tim doesn't even look at his immediate needs - food, a shower, sleep. instead he's lying in professor fuller's bed feeling like half a human being, stripped bare and ripped open for the world to see. he's quiet for a long minute, letting his breathing even out a little, his heart to come back down to the pace of someone trying to relax. and then: ]

I'm not looking for the Divine. Signs. Miracles. I wasn't born for all of that anyway. I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other, for now.

[that's one of the many problems with god, he's always thought - punishing those who least deserve it, leaving them without an answer amidst a world that is already cruel enough. there's not a single thing about tim laughlin that's truly flawed or needs to turn around and walk some path of righteousness over one person's arbitrary idea of what's best. obviously he's never met the parents of any student, least of all tim's - but there's already a very distinct idea in hawk's mind that he wouldn't care for them at all, a combination of his least favorite things: small-minded, stifling, and sectarian. they've got a golden egg in their nest, and rather than let it shine they'd sooner rush to hide it away.

though, it's a wonder how tim ever even got into his - business venture in the first place. must have happened in college without any financial support from his family, and scholarships can only get one so far. no library or cafeteria job would even come close to paying what a pound of flesh could earn, and there's few jobs a boy his age could make an honest living working for that kind of need. yet another point in favor of him staying here, keeping the momentum going and working off the inertia of everything else. so many of his suspicions click neatly into place in this moment, and it occurs to hawk that it's probably sad in some ways that this is the closest and most intimately he's known someone else in the last several years save maybe marcus. he knows more about tim laughlin than any other student, any friend or acquaintance or even his own mother. the thought should be unnerving, a blaring warning sign to cut it off and recreate that distance between them - but strangely, it's easy to tune out for a change.

there's a week to fix this. a week of tim being kept in the dark while hawk pulls strings and he thinks he's getting back on that ferry. the thought of him wasting an entire summer - unable to catch up on his finances, limited in what he can study, toiling away in the dirt - and for what?

no. that's not in hawkins fuller's plan. forget about god.

hawk watches the graceful arc of his body flopping back into his bed, cocooning himself away from the rest of the world save for the tufts of messy hair and the glint from the lenses of his glasses. it takes more effort than he wants to admit not to reach out and try to smooth it down, to run a soothing hand through his scalp and tell him it's going to be alright.]

Well, you and your exams have always gotten along like a house on fire. I wouldn't worry about those.

[there's a bit of levity there mixed in with the praise, enough to try and distract him from the laundry list of preparation he must be running through. not good on an empty or exhausted stomach, and definitely not good when he's fighting sluggishness and the lingering effects of the drugs. hawk steps back to the side of the bed, dipping down to meet tim closer at eye level as he watches him try and relax into it once more. the breathing, the sudden stillness in the way he's laying there. good, let him get some more rest. he'll need it.]

I think your feet can take a break for awhile. Mine are going to the kitchen to get you something something small to try and eat. Then you'll sleep some more, and if you can handle it by then - a shower's definitely in order.

Get comfortable.

[there's not much room for protest. hawk stands back up, heading for the door and hesitating at the threshold for a moment, one hand gripping against the white molding along the doorframe. he makes a half glance over his shoulder, somehow unable to face tim head on for this.]

You know, considering all the circumstances you've pulled yourself out of - I'd say you're the goddamn miracle around here.

[the delivery is a little gruff, but it's meant to have a lasting impact. and before tim can object or answer or be the one to expose hawk's vulnerabilities in saying so - he's off to the kitchen as promised, hoping it'll sink in and be done by the time he gets back up the hall. enough time has passed when he returns with a fresh glass of cool ice water, a few slices of toasted bread, an array of crackers, and a banana on a large plate.]

It's no brunch at The Jefferson, but here. Let's see what you can keep down.

I will always worry about my exams.

[ tim offers it as a wry sort of thing, mouth pulling up at one corner and eyes rolling. it's easy to do that now that he's lying down in the bed. there's truth to it, though - tim has always carefully watched his grades, maintaining an outstanding gpa just to keep himself high on the dean's list and make certain nothing slips. his meager scholarship depends on it, for one thing, but his future does in some way, too.

he's letting the warmth of the bed settle him when hawk approaches again, and he finds he wants to reach up out of the blanket and catch his hand, hold it, tell him it isn't food he needs but warm, solid company at his side. even in the chair, it was easy to chase away that haunting, lonely feeling when he'd wake, woozy in the middle of the night. but he does none of that - simply smiles, hums in understanding.

I'd say you're the goddamn miracle around here.

his face burns hot, suddenly. embarrassment, confusion, flattery. he would never describe himself as any sort of miracle or wonder. he's only had to pull himself out of situations he has single-handedly put himself in. there's nothing divine at work here where tim laughlin lies in the bed of his professor. but the sentiment isn't lost on him, the gravity of it. tim smiles in spite of himself and turns onto his side, burrowing into the blankets further.

yes, something has changed between them. and maybe that is the miracle in and of itself.

by the time hawk returns to his bedside, he's nearly nodded off. the pull of the warmth of the bed, the overwhelming scent of hawkins fuller and the exhaustion from the drug enough to coax him back into a hazy, dreamy state. his eyes flutter back open when he hears the movement, trying for a moment to remember why hawk is returning. stifling a yawn behind his hand he shifts to sit up, the blankets falling around his waist. the t-shirt has even slipped, worn and stretched out on broader shoulders than he has, which means the top of his peeks out of the fabric. ]

You didn't have to do that.

[ but he knows the man would have, regardless. he takes the plate, looking down at the offerings and he doesn't want to admit that all of it looks unappealing. his stomach feels sour and angry in his gut, but it's very possible it's from being as empty as it is. sitting the plate in his lap, he picks a piece of the toasted bread first, biting into it. ]

Unless you really just want to see me throw up. I can't imagine that was on your plan for today.

[ was any of this? was tim? no. and so he takes another healthy bite to prevent himself from saying anything more foolish and stupid. he should eat, he realizes, and leave. muster up the energy to fake his way through looking more put together than he knows he looks now. he won't be successful, but the hint of guilt at existing here in this man's space alone just won't dissipate. ]

I don't even know what The Jefferson is. I know like two pizza places and the Dining Hall. I guess there's that weird farmer's market they try to do on campus, but it's always too expensive.

[ he finishes one piece of bread, starts for another. as the food hits his stomach, though, he realizes just how hungry he truly is. it doesn't help that most of the time he's living on meager rations anyway, but right now the plate of food in front of him feels like a feast.

he eats quietly for a moment, starting in on the banana once the bread has been demolished, and its only after he takes one bite of the fruit and finishes it that he pauses. maybe it looks like he's waiting for his stomach to revolt, but actually his mind is turning. well, really? it's his heart aching, strangely enough.

sitting the banana down on the plate, he looks back up to hawk, then. ]

Why are you doing all of this for me?

[ but he knows, doesn't he? he knows. it's written all over the care taken at his office, the hospital, here. wrapped all around the low, firm good boy he's now heard twice within these four walls. tied up in the fact that hawk is letting him sleep here, shower here, feed him, and asking for reasons why and how and saying things like never again ]

Please, tell me the truth.

Not something I pencilled in, no. But humor me - you're probably hungrier than you think. At least drink some more water.

[the shirt slipped off tim's shoulder gives him another point to fix his gaze on - something to think about later the way it exposes the enticing skin around his neck. it hits hawk quite suddenly that after he leaves (whenever that is - he's in no rush) - the scent of tim is going to linger against his pillow, the shirt in the bathroom that's been discarded. there's a pulse in his jaw at the idea of it, a sudden faraway look in his eye until tim adjusts himself and reaches for the plate. as soon as he's certain the boy won't faceplant into it or have another dizzy spell, he finally takes a seat in the chair again and sets down the cool glass, pushing the room temperature one off to the side to be discarded later. he'd rather be in reaching distance of the small trash bin just in case his hunch proves wrong and he needs to push back his hair and rub reassuringly at his back or escort him to the restroom again.

but the bread at least seems to have been a safe choice, and hawk watches the realization hit tim before he digs in a little more and explains his unfortunate, limited experience with local cuisine.]

5-star hotel - up the street from the Big House. I guarantee it puts the farmer's market to shame, and it's probably better sourced than whatever noise those groups are trying to push.

[he's not totally unaware of what happens on campus, including some of the local rabble-rousers and advocate groups - he just choses to distance from himself as much as possible when it comes to separating the personal and the professional. though tim is certainly giving him a run for his money in that regard. when the bread is finished, he lets them lapse into a surprisingly comfortable silence, hands folded on top of his chest. maybe he'll try and shower while tim gets some more rest, or he can try and take a few minutes on the couch and fight off the eventual exhaustion from the hours he's missed. the idea of sending tim home so soon doesn't sit right with him, and hawk has already accepted that most of his saturday will be spent with his student here. he'll get him a cab, and tim will be tucked into his own bed none the wiser of what else is to come in the week to follow.

there's that soft, distant look in his eyes again, and it's why tim's question catches him off guard as much as the sudden attention tim has placed on him.

it's the decent thing to do. anyone in my place would do the same -

is what he should say. but the reality is...the probably wouldn't. the smarter move would have been to call an ambulance, notify a parent - and yet hawk took it upon himself to do all of this and more, to make the choices that have led to tim laughlin sitting half dressed in his bed, which is the entire thing he's been trying to avoid since christmas. christ. there's no answer right away, especially not when tim follows up with his innocent, almost plaintive need for honesty in this moment. hawk looks away, lips tightening for a moment. his fingers itch for a cigarette or a tumbler of scotch - though vodka is probably the closest thing to appropriate this early in the morning. there's still a tension in his shoulders, guard up even as he glances back to tim with something cautious in his gaze. it's all he knows, even with this seeming truce they've found between them, existing in limbo that is too intimate to be considered professional company any longer and yet still too new to break down every wall.]

You're one of the good ones, Laughlin. That's a rare thing from where I'm sitting, and I'd hate to see it get snuffed out over any asshole here or in Staten Island.

[a pause, and he can't help the way his gaze turns fond without even realizing it. tim is more special than anyone he's ever taught, and he deserves to know it. personal feelings and conflict of interest aside...it's been a genuine pleasure.]

You're gonna be just fine.

Now finish that banana so you can get some rest, got it?

[ there are dozens of answers that hawk could give him on the wide, sliding scale of bullshit and reality. he's not sure which he expects, not here with them sitting near one another in professor fuller's bedroom. it's a place he'd never imagined he'd be, anyway. he'd always thought back to their first meeting in december and he'd known that had he been someone else, they would have gone to some distant hotel and spent the night there.

instead, he's now spent the night in the man's bed, dressing his clothes, eating his food and obeying his orders. in another life, all of this might be different. is this what it is like to be cared about? to be intimately known even though their bodies have not crossed that line often enough for it to count? how is it that they are able to stand toe-to-toe like this, soaking in the warmth of the other and dancing around one another and have it come to nothing?

it's better this way, surely.

but something deep in tim's chest aches. in another life, a version of himself must be watching and mourning the loss for whatever this could have been.

he takes another bite of banana, half expecting hawk to put off his question and deflect instead to some kind of caretaking comment. he pauses, however, when hawk speaks. color rises hot into his cheeks, brushing at the tips of his ears again.

there's something in the look on the man's face and the tone of his voice in that you're gonna be just fine that takes him by surprise. he wants to memorize it much in the same way he has stamped the low sound of hawk's good boy into his mind. ]

Thank you.

[ soft, sheepish, and he keeps his eyes turned to the plate where the crackers still sit untouched and the half eaten banana. ]

For everything. Really.

[ how can he even possibly thank this man for what he's done today and for all the times before? hawkins fuller has everything he wants - can buy anything he desires - and to find a way to show his gratitude seems more impossible now than ever.

but, in the tone of all things leading up to this, professor fuller gives him a directive and he huffs softly. ]

Banana and rest. Got it. Yes, sir.

[ he smiles a little an takes the last bite of the banana, leaving the peel on the plate. he sets the plate on the bedside table and with little preamble allows himself to fall back into the bed on a sigh. he's exhausted, and the fact that he's given permission to stay and rest is yet another thing to add to the list of many items for which he owes the man thanks.

he brings the blankets high up under his chin after he deposits his glasses beside the plate, but in the dim light he looks up at the man in the chair beside his bed. he doesn't care if he sees him, doesn't mind if he can tell he's cataloguing this moment - the tired lines of the man's face, the sleepy mussed wave of his hair, the fond eyes, the tight lips that belie so much more.

he almost says something - mouth opening for a moment before he closes it again, hums in thought and shakes his head. ]

Thanks. I mean it.

[ his voice carries the low, tired note of someone just at the brink of sleeping. and when next hawk looks up he'll see just that - tim laughlin with his eyes closed, breathing evened out, lips faintly parted. unaware of the world around him all at once, and finally looking at peace as he rests. ]

["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?

Edited 2024-01-15 03:53 (UTC)

[ 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.

[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.

Mm. A little bit of both.

[ tim reaches for the book, and while he hadn't exactly planned to show off his backside in the denim shorts, he's not completely unaware of their proximity. particularly as his fingers brush professor fuller's as he takes his book back, thumb swiping over a thumb to keep the spot before he takes the book. he briefly examines the pages there, on his knees in the grass, head bowed as he skims a few words. satisfied, he moves one little card with notes on it to the spot and shuts it. ]

It's an interesting read. Desolate, despairing. The landscape itself acts like a breathing, living character, and -

[ ah.

professor fuller won't care about all this. he shrugs one shoulder up, making a face at himself this time as he finishes packing away his things and pushes up onto his feet. it's a shame, really, that they have to into a classroom. the sun is warm, the breeze just cool enough to take off the edge. tim finds himself longing for a beach to press his toes into the sand and listen to the business of new york city somewhere in the distance.

he doesn't long for home, no. but the distance from it that he'd take there - sneaking out into the fields and catching the bus down to the shores.

he falls in line beside hawk, his body humming with the pleasant looseness from his nap, a sleepy sort of fog that leaves him a little less guarded than he might be had he been caught awares and awake moments ago. the sun does this to him - turns him loose and cat-like, yearning to go laze about in the grass and soak up the world around him. ]

Anyway. About those dreams...

[ he huffs a little, looking playfully thoughtful as they walk. he raises fingertips to his lips, tapping the swell of the bottom one having been pinkened by the pout he'd held on a bit too long. he allows the nearness of the that murmur, turning to close the distance again himself, sounding far more mischievous than a boy as good and honest and genuine as tim laughlin deserves to sound. ]

Well, it was the wild, wild west. Not quite like the novel, but there were nefarious cowboys. One of them was you. But I think that's just because I heard your voice in the real world. My subconscious mind trying to tell me to wake up for class.

[ he huffs a little, leaning in a little closer, accidentally bumping their shoulders. ]

You were wearing a cowboy hat - like the old, fringed black ones. I wouldn't recommend it.

[ but there's the hint of a tease there, and if questioned about the rise of color in his cheeks he'll blame it on the afternoon sun. he leans away and lets out a sigh, rolling his head on his shoulders and stretching one arm high over his head, behind his neck. he's very aware this time of how the shirt creeps up - and stays up - after he drops his arm. it's a tiny sliver, nothing obscene. just a boy being a boy, after all. ]

I'm glad you're going to take it easy on me this time, though. But I worry about you - you've never taken it easy on me. Are you sick? I can walk you to the student center if you need to see, uh. What's her face. Enid? Edna?

[ he hops a few steps ahead of hawk so he can turn and walk backwards, and he doesn't realize he practically pouts when he sees the sunglasses on. professor fuller's eyes are the most expressive part of him, he's discovered in the summer semester. the day spent at his apartment had clued him in on it - the look at the door way will haunt him forever. so hawk does get what he secretly asked for - the near boyish scrunched nose, the pull of his lips to one side, making the freckles on the high rise of his cheekbones move. ]

She's really nice - the gap toothed nurse? She's usually the summer one. She has twelve cats. I think she'd like you - would love to meet you.

Edited 2024-01-16 05:22 (UTC)

[of course he cares. well - maybe he doesn't care about the book or the living and breathing scenery and a novel about the grueling realities of border towns back in the day, but he cares what tim has to say, always. it's why his gaze lingers, feet carrying him the way he's memorized towards the building and drinking in the furrow between his brows, the animated way his lips move almost a mile a minute before he really gets going -

and then promptly cuts himself off, as if hawk wouldn't want to listen to more of it. now that just won't do. hawk intentionally stops dead, forcing their rhythm of walking in sync up until now off balance before turning slightly towards tim at full attention.]

And? I was listening.

[there's a lopsided grin before he starts up again, somehow wholly unsurprised yet caught off guard and delighted to know he's snuck his way into tim's subconscious. surely it's just because he was nose-deep into his reading before dozing, because he'd interrupted him - nothing more than that, just like tim said. but he does nothing to deter the growing closeness, the easy camaraderie and conspiratorial way they're practically rubbing shoulders with one another and discussing this as if they were old friends with gentle flirtations - not professor and student. hawk is all too grateful the sunglasses mask his line of vision - focus dropping to the fullness of his bottom lip, worried a darker and all too enticing shade as tim taps against it thoughtfully without the awareness of how much of hawk's interest he commands in the moment. there's a thoughtful hum, amused, and hawk absolutely lets their shoulders brush.]

No fringe, or no cowboy hat? I'll take that into consideration. And dare I ask, what about chaps?

[just an exceptionally good looking boy, embodying every bit his age in the golden rays of a perfect summer's sun - the kiss of chestnut in his hair, the peek of what hawk thinks might be a tan line, christ. tim looks easy and content in a way he doesn't think he's ever seen in the last year and a half, and he'd be lying to try and deny how intoxicating it is - like the sweet center of a flower to a bee, drawing him in closer and closer until he almost misses what tim even says for the way his mind wanders more than inappropriately. he wouldn't call it tension, but there's an intimacy underlying everything from the amount of time they've spent together both on and off campus at this point. and whether he likes it or not, it's more than hawk has ever allowed himself to do with anybody else - sexual or otherwise. the fact that those lines were blurred to begin with makes it even more complicated, as do their apparent proclivities from the get go.

tim spins on his heel, facing him head on with the internal struggle he's not privy to, and then spits out something so unpredictable hawk misses the rhythm again of his steps and barks out a laugh.]

Anna?

Are you - trying to set me up on a date, Laughlin?

[except then the idea flips - and has him wondering why tim knows so much about her in the first place. twelve cats, a gap tooth...those are details that seem more than a little friendly. does he have a crush? does tim go both ways? why is tim seeing a nurse so much anyway, is he sick? struggling? and jesus - where is this all coming from?]

Unless she's already spoken for. You know how many cats she has....that sounds serious.

[his tone stays light, never betraying the sudden streak of something unpleasant worming its way up his chest. get it together, fuller. for fuck's sake.]

But don't worry. If you prefer me being rough, I'll make sure to deliver.

[in class. just class.]

Ooh, chaps. I guess you could have been - it was a very fast dream.

[ but now he knows later at night, when he's reading for school or letting his mind wander he will absolutely picture hawkins fuller as one of the cowboys in dark denim and leather. he may or may not even wonder if the chaps themselves might even be assless...

but there's little time to dwell on it, considering they're heading to class anyway, and even as he walks backwards, he can't help the way he laughs at professor fuller's stutter-step, laughing easily in time with him. he shrugs one shoulder again, holding his hands up in mock defense. ]

Is it actually Anna? Well, I don't know about a date, but you were being nice to me, so I was thinking maybe you might have a cold. Should I check your temperature?

[ ah. there it is - the joke about being spoken for and tim's face burns hot, up to his ears and he rolls his eyes. ]

I only know her because she sends out wellness e-mails in the summer and her picture is in her e-mail signature. I made up the thing about the cats, by the way - but you know her name and knew who I was talking about. [ there's an accusatory point of his finger before he turns and waits, looking over his shoulder with a cheeky sort of expectation - waiting until they fall in line together again before picks up walking and drops his voice low, meant to be quiet but it turns out husky after all the laughing. ] Tell me, Professor Fuller, is it serious?

Inquiring minds need to know.

[ he snorts, stretching his arms again over his head, letting his laced fingers rest at the back of his neck as he walks. he doesn't mind that they're going to class but a part of him wants to skip it and soak up the afternoon a little longer. he knows half their class will be missing on a day like this, anyway - and tim does so much of the talking, it doesn't really matter if they're there or not.

but a lick of white-hot eat slides up his spine - if you prefer me being rough. god. he can only imagine what being rough might look like with a man like hawkins fuller. a broad palm on his neck, over his mouth, around his wrist, against his back, in his hair - a heavenly push and pull, fraught with electric tension.

he swallows hard. ]

I don't think you could take it easy on me if you tried. [ a grin and his hands fall back to his sides. ] Maybe you take it easier on everyone else. But me? I don't know. Something tells me you like being hard on me - why, I don't know. Maybe it's my undying wit and incredible arguments? Is it my top notch essay writing? Or maybe it's just the fact that I've opened my mouth.

[ tim isn't stupid. he knows how all these words can be knitted together to make something provocative, paint a picture in some way or another. how they began this strange little flirtation, he doesn't entirely know, but something in the heat and bite of it all makes it feel like he's approaching something - getting closer to something he's wanted for some time. ]

I'd say you're playing favorites.

Right, on account of my interruption. Consider it inspiration in case it picks up where you left off.

[and before that line of thought can go anywhere else, hawk picks up the pace ever so slightly, forcing tim to do the same if he wants to stay next to him. besides, he's too busy bristling at the idea that a nurse old enough to be tim's mother might have caught his eye. or that he's incapable of being nice, though he supposes at least when they're separated by desks and surrounded by other students, he's a hardass to push him further and further into more sound conclusions. but then he thinks about how sharp tim is, how he manages to somehow turn the tables with the way he's making hawk consider all the ways he could be nice, realizing maybe he's walked right into something like a trap. ah. clever boy.]

Yes it's Anna. I make it a point to learn the names of my colleagues, especially when they're the ones with the inside track on which doctor's notes are authentic and which are a left-handed scribble and a prayer.

[there will probably be a lot of those on a day like today, regardless of who's serious about taking this class. but even here tim still shines brighter than the rest, prompting him to angle his chin so he can drinking in the sight of him just so happy. light, carefree. fuck - it really does a boy good, and hawk finds himself swallowing thickly at the way tim easily turns the banter on him in a voice that absolutely belongs behind his voice changer in another context. sometimes it is still hard to rectify the two - the angelic face behind his thick-rimmed glasses, his easy grin and moppish hair...and everything he knows lie underneath, the way he can remember him on his knees in an instant with every nerve ending alight in pleasure doled out from a distance. hawk edges in closer, enough that he can lean in just shy of improper and murmur low:]

Don't worry, she's not exactly my type.

[it doesn't stop there, even if their footsteps have carried them just up a grassy pathway and within a few feet of the door. everyone is either already inside or they really are skipping out on today, but hawk still stops at both the implication and the accusation. it should be more serious - something he shuts down, creates those professional boundaries and stretches out the distance that should already be there once again. instead he does neither, finally endeavoring to take off his shades with one hand, tucking them inside the pocket of his polo and staring across the way at a triumphant looking tim.]

You're right.

[there's nothing outright in his words. but this low, simmering undercurrent and the lack of shade where they're standing - there he goes, feeling the heat building into something electric between them.]

I give it to you hard because I know you can take it, every time. You'll find a way to come out on top - to put that mouth to good use. Doesn't matter which position you take, or how much I try to bend you out of it.

[there's no smile this time - just a the strong incline of a jaw, a challenging look with the shimmer of bright blue staring him down.]

Who wouldn't want to play more with that?

[ although tim might seem a little naive and innocent, he knows how to navigate games and systems sometimes better than people might know. so if he could know that hawk was thinking of the many ways he might be able to be nice? well, he'd feel boyishly triumphant. the brief look on the man's face alone gives him a hint, and it does nothing to erase the sort of confident tug at the corner of his lips even as they continue.

his summer has been one of the best of his life thus far - spent reading, studying, relaxing. he's taken office hours and lunches with professor fuller, wandered off campus after classes, still in the heat of discussions. he has money enough to pay for senior year already, what with his summer being paid for, and something about that takes so much weight from his shoulders.

never mind the mysterious user who, he suspects, might very well be the man murmuring into his ear just shy of unprofessional. he hums, gives a little nod as if surprised by this news. ]

She didn't seem your type, but what would I know? [ he tilts his head a little bit, picking up the pace until they grow nearer to the door of the building for class. he almost dares to start naming the man's type - brown hair, glasses, freckles, a penchant for government and us politics...

no.

but the charge on the air tells him differently - the lower register of hawk's voice sends something white-hot blooming into his chest and he lets out a little breath, a huff of a laugh. something has changed this summer. maybe it's the lunches, the outdoor chats, all the extra-curricular meetings that somehow start with class and end with late-night discussions.

but the man removes his shades, stands in the afternoon sun and somehow everything about him is the domineering, good boy sort of man he knows he can be. him looks up into the stark blue of his eyes, tilts his head to raise his jaw in the faintest hint of defiance - a challenge. but he chews on his bottom lip a moment before speaking, as if the motion alone will help him think.

it's for another reason altogether. ]

I can take a lot of things. [ diplomatic, and one might think timothy laughlin would do well in the senate or house or even a court room for the way the warm, calm expression never leaves his face. a student speaking to a professor, were it not for the fire behind his eyes, the faint pinch of his brow, the tug at the corner of his lips. ]

And coming out on top is really relative, isn't it? Subjective. The top looks different to a lot of people - especially when you're as flexible and willing as I can be. I like to learn new things, challenge myself - and maybe sometimes I don't mind being bent out of and into new positions.

[ he shrugs again, the tawny brown of his hair feathering across his forehead on the cool summer breeze. ]

I can't exactly fault you for playing the game. Though I don't think you've won just yet. You'll have to give it to me more than hard if you want me to stop. Or just tell me.

[ he smiles, almost boyish and sheepish in the way he shrugs again, one shoulder coming up to the red flush of his ear lobe. his lips twist and for a moment he glances away, to the sun shining on the quad, then back up to him. give me an order, it dares with a renewed confidence, brought on by the summer. the lines between skippy and tim are blurring. dangerous, he knows.

a tiny part of him hopes that the other six people in the class with them have left, what with the delay of their professor and the balmy, summer air. he steps past hawk, reaching for the door, but he pauses and looks over his shoulder at him. ]

People might think you've ditched at this rate - then what good will my mouth be?

A thing or two, I'd say.

[that tim might know about his type, he means. it's a hell of a lot more than that - and in fact it is the brown haired, glasses-wearing, freckled boy with the penchant for government and us politics standing in front of him. what is he even trying to bring up by even toeing the line with the forbidden thread that haunted their second semester together? it's the thing he'd tried to bury deep down and cut off, even if some nights it felt like losing the closest thing he had to any semblance of consistency in his life outside of his profession. all this because of a sliver of skin, a flutter of lashes, carefree looking good on tim - is he really that easy to fall prey to thinking with the head between his legs and not on his shoulders?

no. it's more than that now, because it's not just the way tim looks that appeals to him. there are plenty of nameless, slender yet well-muscled pretty brunettes he's fucked since breaking off their digital tryst, and yet somehow even buried balls deep and grunting his way through a grueling fuck they don't even come close to touching their early sessions - before and after his discovery. but the awareness hits him square in the chest now, enough to knock him over with the sweet summer breeze rifling through tim's floppy strands glinting in the sunshine - those meaningless fucks don't come close to moments like this either. since when did he care about flirtatious banter, mind and body? conversations that creep more and more past the things laid out on the syllabus or just because and still rooted in the core of their working relationship? practically courting him outside of campus - coffee, lunch, scenery - christ.

maybe it's his way of saying an extended goodbye - the needle edging closer and closer to the realization that all this time is coming to an end. tim won't be his student past these last few weeks, suspended in no man's land without the pressure weighing on hawk's shoulders of a regular semester or tim's financial woes dragging him down into desperation just to survive. why shouldn't they enjoy it? they've earned it, and frankly...even if he'll never say it, he's going to miss tim's presence in more than just his class. there will be little reason for him to spend so much time in the polisci building or curled up in frankly mind-boggling positions of alleged comfort in the worn leather chair across from his real desk. maybe he'll get someone else as interested and engaged next semester, sure, but they won't be tim laughlin.

and they certainly won't roll with the double entendre, thinking so nimble and neutral in a way that would stand up against even the most rehearsed of politicians, certainly. they won't look quite so innocent while making hawk's mind whirl down deeper and deeper into a channel of dark desire, itching to pull tim by the arm into an empty classroom, or an abandoned janitor's closet and push him into one of those positions and demand him to yield, to submit to hawk and be his boy. that would be winning this game. and tim gains an upper hand in the delay it takes him to respond back, staring intently with little given away in his expression besides the intensity in his gaze that he wishes might pin him in place and convey everything he's locked away since december.]

Taking them well isn't quite as easy - you've gotten good enough to barely break a sweat.

[he steps in closer, shoulders lifted and raising to his full height even though tim matches him there too.]

Seeing you on top, putting that flexibility to use would give me plenty of joy. Bragging rights, too.

So I don't want you to stop, and I have no plans to either.

[his hand reaches past tim, covering over the hand on the doorknob as an excuse to slot practically against him and murmur low in his ear.]

Not even if you beg me.

[and then he's pulling open the door, shifting back with a pleasant smile like none of this ever happened, like their conversation has been wholly class related. all track of time has been lost, and maybe there's a room full of confused students waiting for him and maybe it's empty. he can't give a damn. especially not when tim gives him eyes like that, like he's waiting for something too that has nothing to do with an assignment or reviewing their assigned reading. hawk has an idea.]

Get inside. Your mouth is going to tell everyone else to stay in their seats while I take my time. Think you can handle that?

Edited 2024-01-19 04:25 (UTC)

[ in the last few weeks, something has irrevocably changed between them. maybe it's just what summer heat does to men, maybe it's just the flare of wills and testosterone as they begin to make their final rounds across from one another in the class room. there will be no more battle of wills, no more noses in text books or long chats in the office.

well, not as many, certainly, but tim relishes in the idea that he's been able to carefully push and pry the last few weeks and make hawk meet him on a different sort of battlefield. one charged with electricity, thick and heavy as it surges between them. even now, simply talking about class (but is it about class?) tim finds himself itching to listen, to want, to obey.

hawk closes the distance, slots up against him, touching his hand on the door and then there's the hot murmur in his ear. tim's blood alights with fire and he huffs something that may be too close to a sigh. sure, professor fuller is touching his hand, but one might think he'd just been touched all over with the way he goes molten, the way his eyes flutter to hawk's face, unmasked in their want for the briefest moment.

the heat turns into an easy smile, the carefree whims of a boy doing college courses in the summer and even as hawk pulls away he gives a nod. he steps into the doorway, but pauses, shoulder squared up to the broad plane of hawk's chest, then looks up at him. he's too close, close enough even that when he tips his head up his nose nearly brushes the man's chin when he speaks, low and quiet: ]

Yes, I can handle it for you, sir. [ a momentary pause - and then he tilts his head away, glancing into the hall. no one in immediate sight. ]

Your boy can handle anything, sir.

[ he doesn't make eye contact with him before he steps inside the building, bounding in like a student late and desperate to not be caught, disappearing round the bend toward the lecture hall.

and their days pass with relatively playfulness that comes and goes - electricity bubbling up and fizzling out between conversations about politics and monuments and assignments. usually, when tim arrives at hawk's office during the summer it's for discussions about class, it's for thoughts on assignments, it's for company on days when the campus is quiet and a boy like tim laughlin is restless.

this time, though, when he knocks on the door, tim's brow is pinched, like he's still confused or thinking over something from before he'd chosen to find hawk's office. he leans in the doorway, looking a little flushed (maybe upset?), lips pulled to one side as he chews on the soft swell of his bottom lip. there's a paper in his hand, several sheets stapled together - and he keeps looking down at the front page. ]

Sir - Professor Fuller? Sorry, if this is a bad time...

[ and as is customary? he doesn't wait before he comes in, pacing up to his desk, the paper held between both of his hands. ]

If it is, I can just leave this here. I wanted your opinion on something - your honest opinion. Could you read this? It's a little long, but I'd really like to know what mark you think I deserve. Ah, here.

[ he steps up to his desk and offers the clean copy out - it's unmarked, ungraded, but atop is the name of the professor - craig lever and SOC302 across the top. ]

[yeah, that sticks with him well past the balmy day and interlude of minimal attendance at class that day - resisting the urge at any given moment to complete their mutual understanding that would end in a low rumble of good boy. this summer is maybe the closest thing to paradise hawk has had in any of his years teaching at georgetown, something he'll remember long past the semester drawing to a close. most especially on the days where hawk lets tim's boyish restless be contagious to him - continuing to toe that line of indecency and secrecy during their shared time. there's always the change of scenery to blame - the fact that it isn't his usual chair tim finds new ways to stuff himself into in an amusing display of uncomfortable positions - and not his usual lecture hall either. it's just a matter of indulging while he can, knowing the electric chemistry between them whether professional or otherwise won't be readily available to him anymore.

he's going to miss tim, and that's the thought he absolutely can't afford to linger on. so instead he throws himself into passionate debates, pushing the envelope with harder discussions, deeper dives into the psyche of american politics and parties and history - giving him and the rest of his advanced students something to really sink their teeth into.

it's also why his door is almost always open, considering tim is most usually the one walking through it. carrying on his thoughts, wordlessly slotting himself into hawk's afternoon to the point that he doesn't even bother posting up his office hours or reminding the rest of the class to take advantage of them - nor does he book anything important during that time either. tim is permanently, proverbially pencilled into his day now, and the absence will eventually eat at him based on previous experience of long nights and wandering hands and avoiding a certain url - but for now he's just letting it happen.

it is unusual, however, to see him looking any form of dismayed rather than determined to prove one his points no matter what the cost. dejection hasn't been a face he's needed to wear under this newfound freedom, so looking up to see it etched into his face as his teeth worry against that tempting fullness of his mouth. there's a wash of color in his cheeks that isn't just the sun or the heat - it looks like he's one wrong move away from having a cry.

(hawk's not expecting the immediate way it makes him sit up straighter, shoulders drawn back - like all that testosterone and the flare of will tim feels is pooling hot under his skin. who did this to my boy?)]

Tim - not a bad time, no. Come on in.

[as if he even needs to say it when tim walks right in anyway, and hawk makes sure his tone stays neutral, placid even as his hands stay folded atop his desk to start. his gaze fixes on the paper in his hand, seeing what must be revisions or drafts that have been compiled together. but it's not any quantity he recognizes, and with no pending assignments of his own - this is someone else's class. frankly, hawk doesn't really think about the other courses tim is taking when it's clear to anyone with two eyes and a set of working ears that this is what keeps him up at night and brings passion blooming to life within him. the thought of tim going into anything besides politics or something that would actively shape the country they stand in is laughable.

he wracks his brain for what tim had said back in his condo some weeks ago - what was it? literature? astronomy? no - he'd decided against that one for the extra expense. psychology?

hawk's gaze draws down to the paper between his fingers before lifting and taking in the way his eyes look. there's confusion there, maybe a little bit of hurt too, which he's unfortunately become familiar with. it makes his own brows furrow, lips pulling together in a tight smile for reasons that he hopes aren't obvious.]

Sure I can. No promises I'll be the expert here, but let's have a look.

[as is also customary, he doesn't bother inviting tim to sit - knowing he'll do it on his own, or find some loose approximation of setting his body down into some shape vaguely resembling it. he reaches for the paper, glancing at the title and the date first before drawing up to the course information and the professor as it all immediately sinks in.

ah.

no, he shouldn't laugh before he reads it over, but hawk almost feels like he doesn't need to in order to get the gist of what's going on here now. craig hadn't named names, but he'd come in here lamenting during the first week of classes that his "sociology of race, ethnicity, and culture" course wasn't going to be the cakewalk he'd been planning. admittedly, his own thoughts had been wandering at the time and trying to suppress the notion that craig was probably the last person who should be teaching much on culture unless it was pointers on properly administering poppers - but he hadn't put two and two together that one of the "know-it-alls" ruining the "vibe" was none other than tim laughlin.

but he reads it over nonetheless - a thoughtful commentary exploring the nature of inequality and the way racism was baked into the foundations of america long before the concept was ever challenged. definitely not his lane, but it's a well-written piece that he'd expect nothing less of from his top student. his fingertips splay across it, sliding it back to tim after a few minutes of perusing the piece in its entirety.]

Well, it's a solid piece in my book. You've made your case and supported it with plenty of examples. I'd certainly give it an A.

[he sucks in a breath, knowing craig would not have seen it remotely the same way, probably rearing back against the idea and considering it "controversial" and "subjective". hawk leans back, putting his hands up behind his head against the leather of his desk chair and kicking his feet up onto the desk in a casual motion.]

So what was the damage?

Edited 2024-01-21 03:04 (UTC)

[ once professor fuller takes up the paper, tim drops his school bag on the floor at the foot of the chair he often occupies in the man's office. he sits in it normally at first, feet even and flat on the ground but grows restless a few moments into the man's reading. he shifts around until he's sitting on his feet, legs and knees tucked under him, leaning heavy one one arm rest.

he watches the man read with great interest, and it's easy to get distracted in the moment, despite his upset. the line of hawk's nose, the way his jaw twitches as he swallows, the way the blue of his eyes moves over the words, even the way he licks a thumb to flip one of the pages over. he is worthy to be among the statues in glorious, grecian museums - all hard muscle and strong bones, with dark hair and skin flawless.

how many nights has he fantasized since he'd first heard good boy uttered in the low rumble of his voice?

he doesn't realize he's nearly chewing his bottom lip purple when hawk speaks again and his eyes dart up, expectant, nervous, uncertain. as though even the man across from him might deliver a condemning grade, something treacherous for the careful way he's crafted his gpa over the last three years. he doesn't realize how tense he is - how his shoulders are arced up to his ears, or how his brows raise, the concern he feels radiating through him until he hears the mark.

an A.

color rises into his cheeks and he lets out a little huff, and the nerves turn into an indignant little fury that makes his brow furrow, his jaw set and a fire light up behind his eyes. ]

He gave me a D-. Couldn't fail me because I actually did the assignment, but he said that I missed the point of the syllabus and that he couldn't grade me fairly because my views were too static, too rigid and unrealistic. I don't feel like my arguments here are at all radical or too flimsy. Mark Bailey - the guy from Civ in sophomore year? That guy who can't string two sentences together passed with flying marks. Professor Lever even read his out loud as an example.

[ he shifts in the chair, turning to slide his feet out from under him, so that his legs are bent to one side and his hip takes most of his weight in the chair. (he forgets the bruises there - the way the cuff of his shorts doesn't hide the smattering of brown and plum there, and he forgets the way the shorts tend to ride up, snugging up around the hard muscle of the middle of his thighs.) ]

He's told me that I am interrupting class by asking questions, too. I've even been mindful to wait and ask in pauses or ask when he asks for our feedback. He rolled his eyes at me. I didn't think I was that much trouble, but he pulled me aside after class today and told me he would have to speak to someone about how disruptive I am in class.

[ he huffs a little, face burning with both anger and embarrassment. ]

I know I talk a lot - I know it can be frustrating and I've tried very hard to be mindful of that when I try to contribute in classes, but whatever I do, he gets upset with me. At the same time, it's difficult to sit through a 90 minute lecture that is surface-deep at best and is simply read from a powerpoint that he built last minute.

[ he shakes his head, clearly flustered. ] If I had known I was going to be read to instead of taught I'd reconsider, but it's too late to change out of the course. Ah -

[ he looks back up at the man, a little sheepish. ]

Sorry. That was rude of me.

A D-?

[it bursts out of him in utter disbelief, more intense than he intended because he'd expecting some level of pettiness from craig. a b+, maybe, to knock tim down a peg for being annoying and asking too many questions or making the assumption there was a pool of content to take a deep dive into when it was really shallower than a puddle. frankly, he knows craig was stuck with this class on account of someone's maternity leave and the other, tenured professors wanting to take a few trips and actually enjoy their summer. that doesn't mean he's qualified to be teaching it, even if he distracts with handing out enough good grades and making things light and fun and establishing the foundations of a perfect blow-off class for the undiscerning.

unfortunately for him, tim is very discerning, and very eager to learn.

of course tim is rightfully indignant about this - at the absolute least, this paper commands an understanding of the subject matter along with his language and his ability to argue his points in a way that's advanced him to the top of the pile in any subject he chooses. his gaze flicks up to meet him as he elaborates on the overall circumstances - letting it all out like he's been harboring this since he set foot in the class, which is what it very much sounds like is happening here. retaliation, shutting a student down and punishing him for seeking more when the reality is more sinister and pulls away a certain insecurity that someone younger knows more than him, the teacher. hawk won't say it, but he knows precisely how vindictive his...acquaintance can be - witnessed it firsthand when they ran in the same crowd together during their years here flitting between fraternities and anyone set their eyes on his conquests. obviously circumstances are vastly different here, but that kind of mindset doesn't change overnight.

there's a groan when hawk utters the name of their former mutual headache.]

Bailey - christ, can't imagine what riveting topic he attempted to illuminate you all with.

[there's no reprimand for how freely tim speaks about his classmate or craig, even if hawk is keeping his cards close to the chest just how well he knows the man.]

There's a difference between disruptive and dynamic. And knowing the material well enough to have a thoughtful conversation beyond the page instead of following along word for word.

[hawk sucks in a breath, letting his hands and feet drop back into place as he rolls his chair forward and hunches slightly towards tim.]

How long has this -

[ - been escalating, he wants to ask, but finds his mouth suddenly dry from the sudden reveal of skin that he knows was absolutely unintentional on tim's part. but the bruising there...some of it is clearly fresh from coloration and others are healing slowly, probably all the more lurid from pale skin that's usually hidden from the light of day. hawk finds he cannot look away for a moment, entire focus reduced to who and what and why and not my boy. there's a shake of his head as he forcibly tears himself away from it, getting back to the matter at hand that tim actually came here for.]

Ah, sorry.

You don't have to apologize for rudeness - it sounds complicated, and your frustrations are warranted. Look, I don't want to tell you what to do and have you rock the boat any more...but I can offer you some advice.

[his eyes flicker again, voice dropping low as he leans in closer across the desk.]

Off the record, of course.

Bailey decided to talk about street culture and grafitti, which had nothing to do with the assignment anyway. I think - not that I want to assume anything bad of any faculty, of course, but I think Professor Level did this on purpose.

[ he huffs again, almost in the very disbelief that anyone might do something as unfair or unjust, no less in an academic setting. but he's not completely foolish or naive - he knows better than to assume the good in everyone, even here.

when he glances back up, he catches the movement of professor fuller's eye - down, briefly, and he's reminded suddenly of the soreness in his kneecaps. he'd done this on purpose - wore clothing revealing enough so that the man across the desk from him would notice - but he's since forgotten in the heat of the sheer audacity of a sociology professor.

he files away the reaction for later - his blood still too heated in a different way to even address the obvious. ]

And I didn't rock the boat! [ pardon him, hawk, for being passionate, but it shows in the way he too leans forward, a little red faced, and the way his voice pitches up uncontrolled. ]

I am someone participating in a class that I have paid for. And while I try very hard not to look at the educational institution as a means of goods and services, but isn't that exactly what it is? I would complain for poor service or a poor product anywhere went should I have paid for it, and -

[ he'd been gesturing with one hand and finally it comes up to his own mouth, fingers pulling at his own chin to stop himself, before they press over his lips, almost sheepish.

cool it, laughlin.

he silently considers hawk from where he sits, breathing a little too fast for someone merely just arguing about a paper, but that's timothy laughlin to a tee - passionate, unbridled, honest. ]

Off the record. [ why does the low tone of the man's voice both soothe and rile him? there's something about it, and the way the man leans forward, that makes his own mouth go dry. it may well be the casual summerwear, too. (has professor fuller been wearing his button downs more opened at the collar on purpose?).

he shifts in the seat finally, moving instead to cross his legs at the knee, which puts a newly formed bruise on display, right at the crown of his kneecap before the dusting of hair on his thigh begins. ]

Should I shut the door so your colleagues don't hear you conspiring against another, or...?

[ there's a bit of a joke, but even his voice has gone low, quiet so that anyone coming round the corner wouldn't be able to make out what they said anyway. ]

Advice would be nice. I... already have a few ideas of my own as well. Please, sir.

[of course he did - bailey and craig. hawk rolls his eyes at the imagined moment, craig probably killing two birds with one stone by elevating a subpar essay to irk tim and make some commentary on what he'd perceive to be smart, insightful commentary on art and culture. what a fucking mess, and even if hawk isn't technically part of it...there is a small sliver of him that feels somewhat responsible somehow, like maybe this runs deeper than he'd anticipated. he's turned down craig's not-so subtle invites for drinks that he's probably hoping will lead one thing to another more than once - and he knows craig has seen them together in his office like this. the question is if he's put anything else together about it, like hawk knowing or that he's talking about hawk's favorite student when he'd given his preliminary venting.

tim bursts out indignantly before he can even try and gather his thoughts on the matter, face and voice clearly heated in a way that brings him no pleasure for how frustrated this has clearly made him, and hawk has to wonder if this was the most severe case or just the final tipping point of something he's been dealing with all semester. he holds up a hand, wordlessly telling tim to dial it down a bit, particularly when it starts down the path of payment and services and goods not received - no need to go down that road again and relive one of their original arguments back at christmas.]

Hey, hey, hey - relax. That wasn't a criticism. I agree with you, but you're in hot water whether you like it or not if these actions are anything to go by. I'm not saying they're right, but think.

[hawk glances at the door too, unaware of where tim's mind has wandered in a similar vein of where his own had been moments before. still is, in between flashes of seeing the fury and the smoke practically coming out of his ears. there's no doubt he'll circle back to the bruises on his knees once this is all sorted, but tim needs him to focus on this very real, very delicate matter first - he won't let his dick take precedence here, regardless of whatever flirtation they've been toying with these last few weeks. there's an amused tug at the corner of his lips, acknowledgment of tim's joke even if it's rooted in the truth. there's no other student he'd do this for - but for his boy?

anything. within reason. for now.]

I'm sure you do. You'll tell me about them after you hear me out.

[please, sir - that one's gonna stick with him for awhile longer today. it's why his murmur is that much lower, tailored around an order that doesn't need to be issued - not really, but only because he can't resist.]

Craig doesn't like the idea of his intelligence or teaching capabilities challenged. You put him on the spot - whether you meant to or not - by wanting more out of it and exceeding his ability to answer.

[he pauses, letting it sink in along with a sympathetic look to let tim know he's still on his side, to just hear him out a little more before he objects. his eyes linger briefly on that bruise, dragging back up to his cherry-bitten lips before they slowly pull back where they belong to meet those big brown bambi eyes he's grown too fond of.]

You've only got one option now. You beat him at his own game.

Is it going to be painful to dumb yourself down for it? Absolutely.

Will it require a certain amount of flattering? Guaranteed.

But you pick your battles. You wait until you've got him cornered, until you've got the upper hand, and then you finish strong.

[hawk exhales audibly, nostrils flaring slightly and eyes glittering with the challenge of it as he tips his jaw towards tim and practically lets the words hang between them, flowing off his tongue like rich, molten heat.]

That's what I'd tell my boy to do.

[ the reality of it all is that failing one class will do nothing to harm his gpa to any great effect - he's far enough along now that a junior level class will hardly make a dent in the weight of it all. but now it all comes down to principle, to the very just-ness of it.

he's never been one to stand idly by when someone isn't playing fair, or abiding by the rules.

he'll have a hard time in the government, he knows, but it's a challenge well worth the taking. ]

That much is obvious.

[ he huffs a little as hawk explains, outlining everything that he's seen in the sociology professor as the days pass in the summer. however, tim has always struggled to act any differently than his gut and heart tell him to. he's genuine to a fault, and even trying to eagerly persuade professor level to relax has somehow dissuaded the strange man.

and now he's being told he has to play nice? to suck up to him? to dumb down everything and sit on his hands, lips pursed?

he finds himself appalled by the suggestion, even if he himself welcomed the advice. but those bambi eyes of his own track the trail of icy-hot blues, from his knee and up, and for a split second, he's certain hawk is looking at his lips.

just as he's priming himself to open his mouth with an indignant rebuttal instead of lingering on the way his throat goes dry or his neck flushes, he's interrupted. the tip of a jaw, the glittering determination of his eyes, the exhale.

fuck, the exhale.

tim doesn't realize he's holding his breath until the man speaks again, when it comes out of him as a low, surprised sound.

my boy.

something white-hot and electric zips up his spine, widens his eyes, and makes even the hair at his nape stand on end. the air between them changes in an instant and there's nothing of the slow, easy ramp-up into flirtation that they've had all summer. oh, no. this?

this is different. and something low in tim's belly churns with a distant, strange sort of wanting. ]

Lay in wait. Play nice and flatter him - but not too far because although he's a little vapid, he's not unintelligent. Wait until the cards fall in my favor and then finish?

[ he tilts his head a little, letting himself fall back easy and relaxed into the seat, sliding just enough that the tight fabric of his t-shirt does indeed ruck itself up - but only for a hair's breadth of skin to show. ]

So, if I'm your boy -

[ he swallows hard, elbow coming to the arm of the chair so that his fingers can drum over his lips. is he taking this too far? is he too caught up in the molten heat and wonder of all this? maybe? ]

Am I? Your boy? Because if I am, well - I will have to listen. If, of course -

[ there's a pause, tim's eyes meeting hawk's the blistering silence, as though he can best determine what he's going to say by waiting to see what's there, then: ] - my mister is the one telling me to. But only him, of course.

I couldn't say no to him.

[at first brush, it probably sounds like hell to someone like tim. caving to childish whims, letting himself to pretend to fall in line under the thumb of someone who would sooner crush him with it than nudge him in the right direction. to swallow not pride and ego - but the sense of honesty and honorability within him that makes tim so special, so unsusceptible to the usual entry level bullshit of georgetown politics and eventually washington's too. there's no way he's used to this kind of subterfuge, of compartmentalizing and knowing when to catch more flies with honey even when it's insincere before switching it back out with the vinegar. but here hawk can teach him - mould him between his hands in a way that won't betray his moral compass or his values and make him think he's gotta run off to confession at st. joseph's.

no - this is a necessary evil. and anyway, hawk wouldn't mind being the one to take his fall if push came to shove.

except he has faith in tim to pull this off. enough that he nods slow, lazily even as his eyes drag in a blatant once over as tim repeats the steps and understanding sinks in more ways than one. this isn't just about craig and conspiracy anymore - it's past decency. and maybe hawk is reminding himself that tim won't be his student much longer, not technically, and this is just...whatever residual, lingering thing between them working itself out. giving tim the inspiration he needs.]

That's right. And keep in mind - he drops the lowest two of your grades. This one, and maybe the next, because it won't happen overnight.

[the door is still ajar, and he knows what an enormous, colossal fucking risk this is. but it's been too gorgeous to be cooped up in here - his class is over, the afternoon is lazy dragging into dusk. no footsteps have echoed down the hall since he's been here besides tim's for the last hour. hawk pushes himself up from his chair, the slow gait of a predator narrowing in on its prey as he keeps one hand atop the desk's surface using it to balance the way the rest of his body swivels around it and slides between the space left by tim's chair and the back of the solid wood. both hands shift down, bracing against the arm rests as he bends at the waist, tipping his head quite clearly into tim's space so there is no pretending around his intent any longer.

(nor is there any way to ignore the way hawk's eyes drift shut for a moment, another soft inhale of sweat and that scent he'd chased on his pillows weeks ago.)

his eyes open again, and up close he can see the hint of a pretty brown beauty mark under tim's jaw, as tempting as a cool glass of water in the sweltering heat of this summer. what he wouldn't give to lower his lips to it, to drag tim up and taste it underneath his tongue.]

You are. And I'm the one telling you.

[his head angles again, tips as his eyes unmistakably lower to tim's lips before dragging back up deliberately.]

So you will.

Say it.

"I'm your boy, sir. I'll do it for you."

[and what happens when he's done with his mission? with the semester?

hawk can't let himself think about that right now. this is bad and tempting enough already, and he pulls back to rest himself in a seated position on the opposite side of the desk, hands bracing against it and legs elongating in front of tim to nudge leather oxfords against the tip of his worn shoes.]

Change is neither quick nor easy.

[ never before has he felt so electrified and alive than he does right now - caught up in the unspoken energy on the air between them. it's only magnified by the way hawk deliberately rakes his eyes over him, and tim idly wonders now if this is what he'd looked like on the other side of the screen those months before. (well, has it been months? tim isn't so sure).

he sits, pinned, gazing across at the man and only when those eyes trip up does he swallow hard, making certain that the bob of his adam's apple is seen moving. he knows all the tricks - how to move his body, how to make the subtlest of movements to broadcast a bigger message.

nothing has ever felt like this.

he must look like a loon the way he watches hawk rise, watches him circle the table. his eyes widen just slightly, but not out of surprise or fear, but intrigue, anticipation. there's a new wildfire burning in the honey brown of his irises - want, excitement, a challenge. but it's difficult to breathe in the midst of it all when hawk invades his space, leans over him and closes his eyes.

tim's body arches without any conscious thought - a light bend in his low back, a tip of his head back just so, so that he may look up at hawk with awe under thick, dark lashes.

you are.

he is hawkins fuller's boy.

tim stays still until hawk leans back on his desk, until the tips of their shoes touch and he's sure now that he has never known how to breathe before this moment. his eyes never leave the sharp blue of the other man's, his lips parted in anticipation and awe. a thrill ripples up his spine.

the order makes his mouth run dry and he can even feel the way his nipples harden, his skin turn to goose flesh for the wanting.

he shifts forward in his seat then, enough that as he slides to the edge, his shoes knocking against hawk's, his own legs shifting so that calves and knees knock. so that his legs are perfectly tucked between the powerful spread of hawk's.

and oh, does he know how to sit pretty, palms resting on the seat of the chair at either side of the cushion, the picture of innocence. again, his eyes never once lose contact. ]

I'm your boy, sir. [ there's a momentary flicker - soft brown eyes dipping to the hard line of the man's lips then back up. ] I'll do it for you.

[ he weighs his options, then. the door is open, and yet even he knows there will be no one else in - it's practically only hawk anyway working in this office this summer, and tim laughlin does something he'd never have done six months before. he stands up, impossibly close to hawk now, encroaching the space between his thighs and the easy lean he takes on the desk. he folds his hands behind his back, prim, proper. even the bruises on his knees are prominent here, up close. ]

May I please have my paper, sir? [ the one on the desk, hidden from view by the elegant lounge of hawk's body. what would it be to reach out and touch him now? to slide his hands along the hard planes of his chest and feel the warmth of him. even here, he can smell the cologne, the after shave. ]

Your boy wants to make you proud.

Something like that.

[the other thing that isn't quick or easy: this. the realization that's bubbled up and come to an outright boil - that he can ignore no longer. something has changed this summer, and with only a few weeks ahead of them, hawk has accepted that it means whatever moral technicalities he was gripping tight to are about to be relinquished. a clean slate. or maybe he's just...trying to give tim the right inspiration. kind words and encouragement can only go so far, and it's not that he's running out of them per se, but all of this is unchartered territory. so maybe that extra push he needs is back and buried where he'd left it all those months ago - the reassurance that hawk has always believed in him, has known all along what he's capable of when he puts his mind to it. that's his boy, his skippy, even if he wouldn't dare call him as much within these walls.

(the idea that that somehow is what's the step too far and not...this, is probably laughable.)

but if tim means to hook him by way of every movement, it's working. there's no missing the ripple of his throat over the bob of his adam's apple, the swallow, the perfect way his back curves like a flower seeking the sunlight before it flourishes, perched perfect and poised for the taking. and christ, those eyes - how they manage to say everything they're both thinking without a single word beneath those pretty, fluttering lashes drawing him down once more to bitten lips. and no, it doesn't escape his gaze that the pretty pink nipples he knows are extraordinarily sensitive have perked up beneath the light colour of his shirt.

fuck. what he wouldn't give to yank him back, make him beg for a kiss and put him on his knees to make the only marks on his body given to him by hawk, claiming his ownership on his boy once and for all. how he's lasted this long is a goddamn miracle. how he'll keep lasting after this is pure insanity when those legs bump innocently against his, when tim restates who he belongs to, who he's going to do this for.]

Good boy. That's what I wanted to hear.

[and foolishly, he expects that to break the tension - to bring them back into the reality of their situation like they have time and time again. but this time another one of those invisible boundaries has been wholly eroded, and tim stands with a courage that he's not sure would have been there after christmas or even before the beginning of this summer semester. he really is that perfect picture of innocence standing there - knobby knees pressed together, hands held at his back like he's waiting to be allowed use of them, for another command to breathe life and purpose into him all over again. to make him proud, like he isn't already every time he sets foot through this door or opens his mouth.

hawk lets an easy smirk pull to one side of his lips, still unbelievably blatant in the way he drinks tim in from head to toe again and doesn't budge from where he's casually splayed against the edge of the desk.]

Yeah. Go on.

[there's no move to reach for it himself.]

Stay right where you are and take it.

[which would require tim to lean in impossibly and inappropriately close, fish for it behind him on the surface of his desk. but hawk's hands remain at his side, brows lifting in an easy dare. but he's selfish, wanting even the barest hint of tim's body against his own and knowing he still can't fully take it. this will have to be enough, and the piercing blue of his eyes has a wavering edge to it - the hope that tim understands enough not to ask any questions and just take what they can for now.]

[ what tim would give for the confidence of the man whose thighs he's perched between now, standing vulnerable and open in the space between them, letting him peruse his body with his eyes. he wonders what he may be thinking about him - here in his goodwill clothing that is worn but carefully tended to, his wind-swept hair, his faintly sunkissed cheeks.

he doesn't need to know. the man's eyes say it all - the movement along his body, from his throat to his chest and down down down to his knees. were this some college fling he'd lean into his chest and kiss him hard and eager and utterly wanton with his need, but he holds perfectly still. he will not budge until the man here - his man - tells him to. so yes, if hawk thinks he's standing so prim and proper for him, he would indeed be correct.

heat creeps up his throat at the praise - good boy - and there's no denying it's said now. no hopes that drugs or sleep would wash away the memory of the low rumble. here it's even more delectable - so purposeful and intentional - tim will remember this later when he's on camera, playing the commanding sound of hawk's voice over and over in his mind.

yeah. go on.

tim's lips quirk a little, the tiniest curve, pleased and relieved and his hands drop from behind his back, to his sides. ]

Thank you, sir.

[ but god, to stay where he is and take it? no circling, no moving, but he can barely see the edge of the pages as it is, and it's settled a little farther back on the desk. for a moment, tim's head tilts as though he's eyeing the distance of the paper, but there's absolutely no mistaking the way he carefully lets his eyes travel from the bend of a knee to the swell of a thigh, up the carved front of him, the broad chest, the throat, the jaw...

tim swallows hard again.

he cannot move his feet, can he? stay right where you are, he'd said. it's easy enough - but what would hawk do if he presses the rules faintly? if he tests the boundaries? only one way to find out. he shuffles one foot forward - for balance, he'll say - just enough that his own knee skims the inside of hawk's thigh, skirting just past his knee. he won't be able to reach without falling, of course!

and tim leans into hawk's space, one arm reaching between the man's side and elbow, but the other? the other comes to press down hard against one of the man's thighs for balance, fingers curling against the hard muscle there as he leans in just before their chests might touch. (though it's close enough that even the very heat coming off of hawk's body makes something flutter deep in his belly - it's unfair how sensitive his nipples are, how this meager closeness is enough to make the flush rise against the bottom of his jaw.

what would it be like if he kissed him here, or sank his teeth into the skin available just above the collar of his shirt, or if he pressed their bodies flush to feel everything about him all at once? would hawk hold him? kiss him? throw him against the desk and - oh, god.

he lets out a little breath, both from the exertion and from the heat of their bodies so close - but his face is all but hovering near the juncture of neck and shoulder, where he can remember nuzzling in for warmth and safety before. his eyes flit to hawk as he turns his head, reaching for the paper on the other side until his finger tips catch it.

and just like that, he looks too much like a spoiled little cat having found the cream. he could take it and back away, could make space and pretend this didn't happen. instead, he drags the paper through the narrow gap at hawk's side and tilts his head, his nose brushing the hinge of his jaw. ]

I have it, sir. I promise the next one I write will receive a higher mark.

[ he huffs softly, the breath no doubt trickling over hawk's skin as he slowly, slowly applies pressure to the man's thigh to right himself. he doesn't remove it yet, instead remaining just ducked enough to meet the man's eyes, playing sheepish. ]

I'll bring it to you for proof.

[it's a little open-ended on purpose, because quite frankly hawk is curious to see what tim will do at this point. there's still a twinge of guilt at how he'd managed to crush his confidence back on the snowy streets of dupont circle some months ago - how much time it had taken to rebuild it with a combination of his own coaxing and tim's fierce will. but both of them have always managed to shy away from this - to take it just to the line of impropriety and take a quick brush against it before settling back into the comfort of their roles - the professor, the warm smile, the open door, and the student, the ingénue, the thinker. hawk knows how many glances he's stolen - how many nights he's laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling and resolutely trying not to let his thoughts wanter to his previous activities with a certain skippy. strange that he never really wondered if tim was doing the exact same thing, or if it was still tied to some misguided need to do the honorable thing and pay him back.

but his boy doesn't back down. doesn't shy away, and if he were playing on a technicality he didn't technically stay, dragging one foot forward and letting his hand press against the meat of hawk's thigh with a touch that may as well be a brand for how hot it feels with an unfair layer of fabric between skin to skin. fuck, what he wouldn't give to do the same - or to snake an arm around his trim waist, to hoist him up and around onto the flat surface of his desk and just...

there's another audible exhale, low and ragged and nearly animalistic for the way it's dragged out of him tinged with sheer want. tim is so fucking close, enough that one wrong inhale and their chests might brush. that he might feel the solidity of his body, and he can absolutely smell the fresh shampoo as those wayward strands of chestnut brush just shy of imperceptible against his cheek and his jaw. the soft, fluttering warmth of tim's shuddering breath against his neck nearly makes him lose all his carefully crafted restraint - and the god he doesn't believe in better fucking help him when his nose brushes at the skin under his jaw.

there's another shuddering breath, hawk glancing down the narrow bridge of his nose to take in how tim looks like this - pleased with himself, because he's managed a reaction out of hawk which is no small feat. or maybe mixed with pleasure at following orders so well, another callback to all their time spent together. part of him always wondered if it was part of the act - a couple of easy answers and simon says to make a quick buck. but this? this cements it once and for all. tim laughlin likes being ordered around.

shit. fuck.

that thought winds its way all the way down into his stomach, pooling hot and sending an aching throb straight through his dick. his thigh presses a little more insistently against tim's knee, hands white-knuckled against the desk like it's a goddamn lifeline.]

That's right.

[hawk leans in, letting the murmur of it come nearly close enough to brush against the shell of tim's ear from his lips.]

You're gonna swallow your pride, get him wrapped around your finger, and then you're going to get what you want.

[except - that sounds an awful lot like -

hawk stands abruptly, nudging tim back by the way his body moves and carefully sidesteps him back to his desk. any longer and he's not sure he could still...]

You can come show it to me when you're underway.

[there's a pause, and hawk drags his chair into the edge of his desk, hands folding atop them again.]

And one more thing.

[not a question, and not optional. his eyes are still filled with that smolder of heat, watching tim across the imposed distance that's for both of their safety now.]

The bruises. Tell me what they're from.

[ every shuddering breath that falls from hawk's lips feels like gold, and there's such heady power in the fact that he was able to do all that himself with only a few small touches. a hand here, mouth hovering there, a nose against and jaw and -

god.

fuck but the feeling of warm breath against his ear coupled with the nearness and the delectable, low rumble of hawk's voice sends something hot and molted southerly for the veritable winter life will be when he's not trapped between hawk's thighs. he doesn't mean to make a noise, but he does - a faint, little whimper let out as he exhales through his nose.

there's little restraint to be had and yet there's something heavily erotic about being so close to the precipice of it all and not crossing the line. he's edged himself before on camera, brought himself to the brink and back dozens upon dozens of times but this feels different and utterly infuriating. he has no doubt that when he goes back to his dorm, sets up his room and turns that camera on that he will be nothing but filthy and wanton for the memory of his. ]

Please, sir - tell me what I want.

[ and anyone may think it's about craig, about the class, about the situation but the way his head tips back so lazily, the way his eyes drag their way to hawk's face say something else. this is a boy who will do anything for the order of the man across from him, who will bask in the praise or the punishment, who relishes in being controlled, wanted, taught, desired.

hawk moves and by instinct he steps back, the backs of his knees knocking the chair and almost setting him into it. he catches himself on the arm, turning his head to watch the way hawk circles to the desk with practiced ease and the prowess of a man whose fingers are delicately woven around the fine threads pulling every string attached to his body.

the air feels cool, but the heat hasn't left. usually, when these little confrontations are broken, the electricity dies with it. instead, something about it intensifies, even with the very way those broad palms press across the desk.

(he already knows he's going to hell, but he's certain there will be a special space for him now that he's wondering what those hands might feel like around his throat, over his mouth, twisted in his hair, or prying his lips apart and silencing him).

there's something about this order that's different and tim pauses when he rises with his bag on his shoulder.

you can come show it to me when you're underway

aha. he can't return until he's started the next paper? is that what he's after? a challenge. ]

Yes, sir. I don't have the topic yet - are your office hours off limits until I begin? What do you want me to do in the meantime?

[ he says it so easily, like student speaking to teacher, but it's all in tim's eyes, isn't it? the fiery challenge, the defiant way his jaw sets to tell hawk he will play the game, and he will follow the rules and oh, he will absolutely obey. the only thing that stops him is the question and he blinks for a moment, almost like the electricity has left his body - like the moment has passed for tim but not hawk. except it's in the pull of his lips - the faint little smile that pulls to one side, the crinkle of his nose as he huffs out a little laugh. ]

Professor Fuller, sir - [ he steps up to the desk, letting his hips hinge over the top to lean in just so - nothing that any teacher would think twice about if they passed. but there's something to be said about the way tim's glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose just a touch in the jostling, and the way dark lashes blink and charged, brown eyes stare him down. ]

I spent all of last night on my knees in prayer. I cried out his name and found pleasure in knowing that he is always with me - I even imagined he was there beside me the whole time, sir.

[ hell.

he'll feel guilty about this later. he'd spent the previous evening on his knees with something thick splitting him open and driving him to the edge with every donation that turned the toy's vibrations up a notch for every dollar over the last. a veritable bidding war for a virtual pound of flesh. but he'd thought of hawk, strangely - thought of the aftershave, the warmth of his neck and the low rumble he'd hear if it were the man himself tell him just how good he can take it.

it had been a religious experience, really. one that has led them here, with tim leaned in, murmuring about prayers and the divine. only, it's the very divine he's sure he stands in front of now. ]

Edited 2024-01-25 04:56 (UTC)

[hawk is not the kind of man that has ever needed to edge himself in a situation like this - opting to take what he wants and when he wants it, to fuck with a punishing pace and satisfy whatever he's after with a ruthless abandon. but then...maybe that's not right either. he spends half the year a slave to his schedule, to late nights and stolen moments away from campus so he can hide away the truth about who he is from everyone he thinks would give a damn. what the hell is any of it for? isn't that holding himself back, edging his own goddamn life in some semblance of the word? so this - this he should be able to handle, even if it feels like the hardest thing he's ever had to do. because the hawkins fuller who teaches in these classes and walks the halls of georgetown with polite, but distant familiarity and the hawk who had gone searching for skippy in the first place - maybe those two haven't been reconciled yet in the way tim finally has.

but he still won't cross that line, and somehow that just ratchets the thrill of it even higher and hotter than before - watching tim still eager to carry this on in a way that anyone walking past wouldn't think twice. had it been this easy all along, to do it right under their noses? no, this is different. summer is their own private paradise in a way, and hawk will take as much advantage of that as he possibly can.

which is why he won't let the moment go just yet, even if he could easily dismiss tim and leave it at this. but where's the fun in that?]

You want to do this. You want to come out on the other side and soak up all the praise for a job well done.

But more than all that?

You want guidance through it all - the right push here, a whisper of advice there - anything to keep you going.

[there's a little smirk, of amusement, brows arching marginally as he leans back slightly in the chair once again.]

How'd I do?

[but frankly no - he hadn't meant for tim to skip office hours until then. except with the way things are going? maybe it's best if he does for a little while. the contents of this session are going to get a lot of mileage in his thoughts, and probably between his sheets - and he's not sure sitting with him for hours at a time alone outside of that is the best move for either of them right now. besides, there's a certain pleasure at the enormous amount of restraint they both have to exhibit for this to happen in the first place.]

Keep coming to class, obviously. You need something, you ask me there - before, during, after - but only there.

You don't come to office hours until you have your first passing grade from him.

[part of him wants to test how well he can really pull this off - will it be the first paper? the second? craig is a wildcard in this scenario - too eager and tim might arouse suspicion, too slow and they're both going to suffer.

but none of that matters as he watches the way tim settles against his desk, the indent of one slim hip against the edge close enough that he could easily yank him down into his lap if he wanted to - which he does. christ almighty if that description doesn't just hit him like a ton of bricks. of course he'd taken a stab at guessing what it was - a clumsy fall, maybe, but the way tim had been so deliberate after awhile in letting them be seen...no, it had to be from hours on them, taking something over and over. he hasn't turned on one of his streams since the day he walked out of the cafe, but fuck if he isn't strongly reconsidering it now. what kinds of new tricks and toys and scenarios has he come up with? it's been seven months - surely he's managed to get even more creative.

god doesn't even factor into this for him, not when the only heaven he can imagine is between tim's thighs.]

Awful lot of time to be bowed in servitude. I imagine they must be sore.

[hawk leans across his desk, arching up in the same way tim did almost moments before, only there's no question who holds the authority in this moment despite their juxtaposed positions.]

Get some arnica cream. And maybe when you're rubbing them down, thinking about all the ways you strive to please him - or the next time you get on your knees - you say a prayer or two for me.

You did exceptionally well, sir. Of course.

[ it's thrilling how hawk knows too well what he wants and can put a name to the very needs thrumming under his skin. a performance worth of many low murmurings of praise. marks requiring reward. a gentle hand when the gravel on the road forces him to slip. after all, it had been hawk he turned to when he received the poor mark in the first place, fiery and confused and hurt.

he remains leaned against the desk, body angled in a way that there's no doubt the way the rosy buds of his nipples ache that hawk won't see the faint indents in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. the game is all well and good until hawk lays down the rules, and something about this command makes a tiny lick of ice course through the center of his chest.

tim will go to class, and anything outside of those four classroom walls will now be off limits.

a punishment, in a way, isn't it? and maybe hawk simply thinks that the restraint will be tantalizing and electric, but tim can't shake the uncertainty that rises at the back of his throat. his free time is spent here, and even though it does not always end in palpable heat, it is usually spent in good company.

the class is 90 minutes, three times a week. 90 minutes where he will be able to learn and listen and feel for a moment that he is seen and acknowledged. but the times outside when he can breathe and feel like tim laughlin the person, and not tim laughlin the utterly dutiful student, will fade away. the campus is lonely at its busiest times, and to be robbed of the most precious, coveted human contact he has in this place?

it's dread, he feels, he realizes.

a passing grade from professor craig level, who won't even allow him to eke out the whole of his name when he calls for attendance. the bar has been set punishingly high, of course. he knew it would be, but a small, irrational part of timothy laughlin almost dares to whimper the thought - cruel.

hawk may know the level of his friendships here on campus from that dizzying, drugged night, but tim hadn't talked about it since. maybe it was obvious in the way he hung around the office doorway a little longer, the way he'd visit even when they hadn't had class, or the way he'd glow when they'd change the scenery for their talks well into the late afternoon or early evening.

a passing grade. he knows he can do it, but he also knows just how long it may truly take. hawk doesn't understand.

he looks away then, eyes falling to the bruises on his knees then easily back up at the delicate arch of hawk's back, the roll of the hips required to settle in the movement and even he can't help the way he absently wets his lips. there's no denying what waits behind the delicate zip of his slacks. ]

What are your metrics for a passing grade, sir? Tell me how hard I have to work, and I'll surprise you. I can take it - all of it. [ he dares himself to find the confidence from before, to meet the man's eyes with a fiery intensity that seems to lack some of the roaring fire from earlier. it's dimmed, just slightly, whether he means for it to be that way or not. but he can always weather the game and he tilts his head to one side, an angle he knows the man likes from their many days on the screen together. he leans his hip enough so that his thigh can hike up, just enough to lift his foot off the ground and prominently display one of the darker bruises across his knee cap.

he looks away again, fingers massaging the tender flesh as if in contemplation.

instead, he's trying desperately to quarantine the cold, creeping thing working its way through him. ]

And when I do take it all - when I do surpass all of your expectations - will your boy be rewarded, sir? I'll be sure to get the cream - slather it on this one, particularly. It's sore, but I hope you won't be upset with me, mister, if I tell you that these hands and lips have already prayed for you.

[ he drops his leg down, pushes from the desk and shakes his head to adjust the hair around his forehead. the fingers once on his knee raise and push his glasses higher on his face.

how long will it be before he gets to speak with him again privately, in the four walls that feel safer than even the confines of his own mind? he lets out a little breath and his lips pull into an easy smile. in spite of the cold, it reaches his eyes - the fire turning to something sparkling and bright.

how can it not? this man is nothing else if not the brightest, warmest thing in tim's orbit. ]

More than twice. I'll recite them for you one day, sir. I've been told I am very good with my mouth.

[fuck. how is he meant to listen to anything coming out of tim's mouth right now when the pointed studs of those perfect nipples are poking against his shirt obscenely? the only thing he can think about is wrapping his lips around them and sucking until tim is sobbing with need, begging him for more. insisting he's a good boy and he'll do whatever hawk asks of him.

it's distracting enough that he even misses the way some of the heat between them chills over, the sudden apprehension tim might have at being restricted from seeing hawk. truth be told, it's the highlight of his day too in all ways - better when it's in the privacy afforded to them by a closed door. but that's the exact same thing that's become a liability right now, a dangerous temptation to do something he can't take back. hawk doesn't know if he can trust himself not to bend tim laughlin over his desk and take and take and take what the boy so desperately has wanted to give all along. this conversation is already the riskiest thing he's had in years - somehow worse than their snowy encounter - literal and physical. and yet there's no move to shut it down, continuing instead to indulge all of this. to give him an order, to watch him obey.

cruelty isn't what he's after. it'll be a challenge, sure - time aware from the carefully crafted cadence they've so easily slipped into this summer. tim stays longer, finds more ridiculous ways to cram himself into the seat across from hawk, and they pass the time together. hours added onto 90 minutes a day, three times a week. what would the combined tally of minutes or even seconds look like? maybe he's an idiot for never having realized just how much this would affect him too - the lack of a constant presence and a vibrance that's unmistakably brightened his days. days that are lonelier than he'd like to admit. yeah, he sees marcus once in awhile. dinner with dean smith, avoiding the topic of lucy in every way that's concrete and matters. his mother for lunch, every other month if he's lucky. but beyond that? tim is the most stable thing that's taken root in his life in a very, very long time.

but it's better this way. it'll give the boy something to strive for, make it all the more convincing to craig. and it'll give hawk enough time not to let his dick convince himself into any headaches and problems he can't reverse before it's too late.

the thing is - he's not wholly unreasonable, either. when he's able to drag his gaze back up from the tight body perched in front of him and back up to tim's face, he realizes there is a falter in the fervor he'd missed earlier - only proving his own point. jesus.]

B- at the very least.

[c+ seems a little too easy.]

Of course you can do it. I know you can - and you will.

[the way he exposes his neck just a little more, it draws hawk forward again like he's pulled on a string. wishing he could taste the salty sweat there, leave his mark and let everyone know this is his boy. and then the bruise - it almost makes him want to reach out and press his finger into it, to watch the color fade temporarily into his skin before it floods back with the vivid rush of blood at the surface into red-edged purple. but touching feels like breaking some invisible barrier, the slippery slope that will lead them both into temptation, with no deliverance from that evil enticement of the flesh.]

Can't imagine being upset about that.

The only thing I'm upset about is not being able to hear it myself. Watch it in the flesh.

[his jaw flickers, tilting tipping to the side and watching something come to life in tim's eyes - beautiful, bright, bold.)]

I'd like to know how many times you can say them in one day, if I'm being honest. Not very godly of me though, is it?

[amusement shimmers, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling with a warmth that offsets ice blue.]

I guess there's only one question left.

[he pauses, voice pitching low again, letting something husky deepen the consonants.]

What does my boy want for his reward?

[(there is sudden thing that strikes him like a bolt to the chest - could he imagine giving any of this up, even if that reward was claimed? that's what he'd have to do, isn't it?)]

Yes, sir. I won't disappoint you.

[ b-

a b- he's meant to try and achieve and already tim knows that while it isn't impossible, the time spent away will be excruciating. he can't help the way his mind races, trying to read between the lines of heated words and touches and glances to figure out why he would create space now.

realistically, sure - tim has gone too far. he pressed and continued and took every challenge. he's not sure how hawk thought he wouldn't rise to and beyond the challenges themselves, and yet here they are, two people who had been chest to chest moments before, and suddenly tim feels as though that some distance has been put between them. and invisible barrier. his fingers reach for the strap of his bag, hands falling there so that it looks only like a student waiting for an answer.

this next paper won't make the cut. it's too soon. the second will be in two weeks, and he'll have time to try and figure out exactly what it is craig wants out of him. silence, probably. it's very simple. to be seen and not heard. to make sure he regurgitates craig's views on paper and deem them good and whole and just. how bland. how boring. it's a challenge he'd have been willing to take, if it didn't mean cutting off everything else.

his dorm room is eerily quiet, the building quieter. there are only a handful of students who occupy this part of campus who aren't commuters. it's too expensive for those who live out of state to stay overlong here. a tiny part of him wants to rebut, to tell hawk that he has no one all over again because it's true. to tell the man that he has become one of his dearest friends on the campus, and the best way to spend his time.

but that's the problem, isn't it? ]

It isn't difficult to say prayers in repetition. How often I close my eyes and count Hail Marys and Our Fathers - I think saying the prayers for you will be easier. Less how many I can, and how many you're willing to give me. I've discovered you can find God in anything, if you look hard enough.

[ he takes a step back, intending to turn for the door but the pause - the husky words, the low rumble of hawk's voice makes him still. his skin ripples again with heat and he laughs a little, surprised that all of it didn't end there. his face flushes with the surprise, the first sign of the soft, doe-eyed boy that hides under the mask of sexual confidence. he's always wondered how both can exist in one body.

he looks up at hawk, his nose crinkling a little, mouth pulling to one side as he thinks. ]

A reward?

[ what would he want as a reward? it's pathetic that he wants to ask for his company. that he wants to ask for all this to change, to turn around, because the next few weeks are bound to be some of the most lonely tim has had in a long, long time. but he can't say that. not here. not now.

while hawk may understand to some degree, tim can't quite bring himself to admit just how pathetic all of this is.

it's easier to play it safe, to play the game, to deny that after this semester he will have no reason to be in this office, to speak to this man, to feel like he can belong somewhere - because won't. he never will. the line is drawn between them now and if he squints he can almost see it shaped the form of a b-.

when he looks back up at hawk, there's undoubtedly something a little off in his eyes. look closely enough, and it might even be a little sad. ]

I'm sure you'll think of something, sir. I should go. Class soon, and all. I'll...

[ see you tomorrow - is what he'd normally say. but he won't. their class isn't tomorrow, and being restricted to speaking to him only before during or immediately after class? well.

he huffs a little, and finally looks away. ]

I'll see you in class. Thank you, sir.

[ tim turns his back, then, starts for the door and heads out of the office. he doesn't look back, and it's for the better. this way, he can say it's the sun that has his eyes burning a little at the edges. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2024-01-27 01:56 (UTC)

[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.

[ 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. ]

Edited 2024-01-28 01:04 (UTC)

[they're not strangers. that's not what he meant - but if he knew how in his own head tim was right now, he wouldn't have made the joke and drawn attention to the fact that for all intents and purposes...for the last two weeks they may as well have been. and while on the surface hawk looks physically flawless - eyes bright, teeth pearly white when they flash in tim's direction with another wry smile, hair perfectly coiffed - it's the unseen that cut deeper. the lack of control he'd felt that day in this office, the impromptu trips both weekends to find an outlet, the way he'd slipped up and couldn't resist accosting tim outside of class - in the quad, the library, finding an excuse and letting it roll off the tongue as easily as any other lie he's told himself since december.

the loneliness was mutual. maybe he'd made a mistake - christ, he doesn't fucking know anymore. all he knows is that they've got a week and a half left of their time together, and he wants to savor it before everything he looks forward to is out of reach for good. which is exactly where it should be, and where it should stay. tim's the one with the dreams that belong in a greek myth - only this one is about the boy on his odyssey who starts from tragedy and manages to impress even the cruelest of gods and earn their favor.

hawk doesn't answer right away, leaning back comfortably into his chair and folding his hands atop his stomach with a slight shrug in response. there's a bit of amusement that seeps into his voice, mostly because this is all semantics and he knows tim will likely have something to say about it not having been made clear, not a proper wager. but maybe he'll see it for what it is: hawk laying himself bare in a way that doesn't overtly display his vulnerability, instead just an implicit understanding of i needed to see you where i could get you.]

The only rules were for you not to come by office hours. Any questions about your work were to be done in class. I didn't say anything about outside in the wild.

[but there he goes anyhow, and hawk can't help but smile because of course tim would never let such a thing slide. and of course - he'd want all of hawk's insight, because the inherent meaning of a job well done on the surface doesn't mean anything if he doesn't see how masterfully tim executed it. there's a cluck of his tongue, a quiet of course as he picks up the paper, casually lapsing into silence while trying not to feel the heat at his neck from the intensity of tim's gaze mixed with the slight distance and challenge in a way that's different than before. changed, somehow - not bad, better. making him feel a little off-footed, if he's honest.

and that's why the heat trickles slowly into an icy cold wash, a ringing in his ears as he starts reading about the pressures that very much are relatable to someone like hawk. to a gay man, older than tim by at least a decade - very much with a similar eye for pretty things. is this tim's way of saying he realizes what a sham hawk has been? what a conflict of interest he's had, crossing lines he never should have? he thought it had been both of them together - a mutual decision in this game they've been tiptoeing around, but there he was again not outlining any clear rules other than i don't fuck my students, as if that isn't riddled with opportunity to work around it. his jaw clenches, mouth thinning out into a hard line as he keeps reading and wondering -

ah. a false alarm. it's not about hawk, it's about craig, because of course it is. and craig was too vain and too stupid to even realize it.

the smile stretches wider again, eyes lifting as hawk flattens the paper against his desk once more to settle them on tim with a warm mixture of pride and relief wrapped up in that mask of confidence.]

Nice touch with the rent boy line.

[so that just leaves...

hawk puts his hands up, head dipping as he shakes it in mock exaggeration. he can bluff a little too, and he's man enough to admit where his cards are in this case now, even if tim is more guarded than he's used to. why wouldn't he be? it's only fair he'd expect the worst.]

Well, far be it from me to eat up any of your newfound freedom. But - if you're amenable - I was going to head out instead of staying cooped up in here all afternoon.

[tim is watching him with such an intent, it makes his own mask slip for just a moment, a softness in his eyes with a smile that's equal measures apprehensive at not knowing the answer and hopeful for them both.]

I'd like to take you to dinner to celebrate.

[it's not a date. not if he brings his paper and hawk brings his briefcase and a pen and they both take notes. it is not a date.]

[ never has tim sat in the chair opposite hawkins fuller's desk and felt even a modicum of power. persuasion? yes. it came in the form of a sliver of stomach, an arched back, an arm reaching for a paper behind him and - ah. the power? the power comes in this - watching hawk read, and he knows the man has to be wondering at first if the paper is about him.

in a way, it is. but in others? absolutely not. is hawk an older man, looking to shack up with some pretty young thing? maybe. is he, tim laughlin, looking for an older man to allow such behavior? maybe. but the whole thing is a smear of the falsities and hipocracy of craig level instead, painting a philosophical picture of him in clown make up.

but god, watching hawk sit beneath the intensity of his gaze and seeing, for the first time, the man squirm a little? if timothy david laughlin looks a little bit too much like the prissy feline who got caught with a paw in the cream, that's because he is. ]

No. Your rules were before class, during, and after. No mention of time in the wild. No office hours. Is your memory starting to slip, Professor Fuller? You must be tired. I don't want to keep you, of course.

[ but god he won't leave - he knows he can't leave now, heady and utterly burning with the slight tug he has on the rope tied between them. it isn't much, but the vulnerability he sees through the cracks makes it soften. can he fault the man for finding him? can he fault him when tim wanted to be found? ]

I missed you, too. So. I appreciate you bending the rules.

[ it's a small reward for reading the paper, for showing even the barest hint of something more beyond the carefully crafted facade. he can see through it, mostly, at this point, but still. it must take incredible effort and energy. ]

And maybe for letting me dig at you a little over it. Your rules are hazy at best, sir, and as your good and only boy I hope maybe you'll let me bend them sometimes, too. I'll always ask nicely.

[ again, it's evident that tim has warmed up to the tiniest bit of control he has - the new form its taken. he sits forward on the edge of the seat, reaching for the graded paper to return it to his bag when the offer comes. he stills, blinking down at his own hands before his head raises.

he'd been promised a reward, of course, but this? this seems excessive, too good to be true. the surprise shines through the defiant heat from moments before, genuine and soft and wanting. a little fearful, too - it seems like an avenue with which he will get hurt later. a dinner with hawkins fuller sounds an awful lot like something else. ]

I'd... I'd like that. Dinner. Are you asking me on...?

[ he doesn't say it - he can't. he almost curses under his breath at himself for even letting half of the question slip. a date. is hawkins fuller asking him out to dinner, on a date, after two weeks of barely any contact? probably. there's a softness in his eyes that already tim knows to be dangerous - he can't resist it. even though he wants to say no, just to wield the power he has newly gained?

he can't. ]

I mean, definitely a study date. I have my exit thesis to start working on for next year, of course, and I'll be in one of Lonegan's classes. I've heard he's awful.

[ there it is. the word, laid bare and vulnerable between them. ]

Even if you aren't, ah. Dinner would be nice. If you're amenable.

[ he doesn't have the spare cash, really, but he has enough to pay for his own and the man's dinner. maybe that's what he'll do when they go - surprise him by putting his card down first. dreaming of a world where the two of them tucked into a little table at a hole in the wall joint could be his. where he could leave school, find some ramshackle place or simply take up harbor in hawk's bed that smells of something masculine and cool and heady.

oh how he will pine and pine and pine later over a memory like this. ]

You'll have to tell me where so I could look at the bus routes.

[having the tables turned looks good on his boy. because it's not just about control and pure dominance - hawk isn't looking for a doormat. there's a part of him that likes having to fight for it, feeling the push and pull and reclaiming his authority, but somehow it's searingly arousing when it's timothy david laughlin doing it - getting a rush of confidence, that slight cockiness in his expression like he was expecting hawk to fall for his switchup in those first few paragraphs. that he wasn't supposed to break the rules he'd set and allow them a loophole to ease the agonizing distance - to show his hand in a way he'd never let himself be susceptible to before. but it really only seems fair now, all things considered. tim showed him plenty - he needed to return the favor, and even better if it let the idea sink in fully that hawkins fuller is in just as deep as he is. has been from the start, even if he wouldn't let it show.

i missed you too sinks in like a rush of nicotine, watching tim relax a little more into something closer resembling that easy intimacy they've built up over these months. it's changed after this distance - but for the better.

but there's something to be said for relishing the way he's taken off guard by the invitation hawk extends too. that doe-eyed gaze lifting, lips parted in surprise and pausing his movements at returning the paper to the safety of his tattered bag. of course he wouldn't have expected it, considering the flirtatious nature the original offer had been extended under - but there's something more meaningful about this. hours of uninterrupted time, somewhere quiet and tucked away that tim likely doesn't know, where the risk of them being noticed or questioned for their roles is almost a zero percent chance. a small way of making up that imposed distance, catching up on all the time they missed in a public setting where hawk won't do something stupid and irreversible to their relationship right now.

(there's still that nagging wonder - what happens when he's not a student anymore? is it worth trying the forbidden fruit, of consummating this wordless thing that's been hanging in the air since december?)

hawk tips his head with a knowing look - the kind that says don't finish that sentence if you know what's good for you, - because it can't be a date. but a study date. definitely that, absolutely.]

A study date. Good boy.

[ah, lonigan again. even if he doesn't really feel like mixing business with pleasure this time, he'll take what he can get.]

I'm amenable. Lonigan, exit thesis, your next assignment from Mr. Lever...we can do some work before we get to play.

I'm amenable.

[it's why he offered after all, though he's starting to wonder if maybe it's too much - if he's throwing all caution to the wind by trying to eagerly push it all to happen now. to impart upon him how lonely these few weeks had been in his seat too.]

I'm sure you've got plenty to do, but we could even go now if you like. You're dressed for it.

[his eyes twinkle with the offered flash of a smile, but it disappears just as quickly when tim suggests, laughable, the idea of taking the bus.]

Except you'll have to drop the absurd notion that you'd be taking the bus anywhere. I'm a gentleman. I'll drive.

[tim had better not dare thinking about paying either - hell would have to freeze over before hawkins fuller let him set down a card or try and take his money when he knows the frequency in which he raids his snack drawer, the struggle it was for him just to be sitting across from him right now and all throughout this semester. but it's not about the fucking money. it's the principle of it - the core notion that this is a date, trussed up like it's for school or not, and this is his chance at charming tim laughlin. skippy. pretending all the other constraints aren't there just for a few hours.]

[ the tip and tilt of hawk's head tells him everything. the word date cannot be a standalone thing here, and yet it's spelled out plainly in the quiet between them. hawkins fuller is asking him out on a date. for dinner. the two of them. and maybe it will all be under the mask of schooling and work, but a date.

thankfully, he has all of his cam work to thank for the cool calm that returns to his face despite the little moment of surprise before. otherwise he'd look stupidly giddy which would only be embarrassing at this point. what college student is giddy about a dinner date. most would be more inclined for a movie or a club, where the dark would hide all other indiscretions.

but no. hawkins fuller is a gentleman. and god the way he says good boy turns something deep in his belly a little molten, liquid fire licking its way up the low rise of his spine. ]

I wore this for lunch with Professor Lever. Didn't unbutton anything until I came here, though.

[ there's a knowing glance over the rim of his glasses, his head bowed just enough to tuck the graded paper back in his bag. but it's true - the top three buttons o his shirt are undone, a peek of chest, and as he leans it's easy to see the thin sliver of gold chain round his neck, the barest hint of a cross peeking up above the neckline. there's a faint dusting of hair there - downy soft, surely, in little wisps and nigh invisible curls.

paper tucked into his bag, he sits back up a little straighter, watching hawk for a moment before he pushes up to his feet. ]

Where should I meet you?

[ hawk's boy knows better than to assume they'll walk to the car together across campus. he knows better than to think that any chance of someone seeing them is out of the question. he adjusts his bag on his shoulder, the move only serving to pull the unbuttoned collar open more to reveal the dip of a collar bone. ]

I don't want to be late, sir. We have so much to go over.

[ they don't. tim has nothing school related to even bring up to this man, and yet he looks over his shoulder at him with the hint of something smoldering behind his eyes. ]

A block up - just past the theater building. There's a church - it's Presbyterian. Has a parking lot in the back? I'll walk.

[ he starts toward the door and pauses briefly, back to the man, before he turns again - and there it is. the simmer from weeks before, but this time burning with a confidence he hadn't had before. ah, that sweetly earned power. his voice stays low when he speaks: ]

I'll say a few prayers for you along the way.

[a date. jesus, hawk can't remember the last time he went on one of those or what they're even supposed to look like. but that's the thing with tim - he's the easiest of company. hell, the time they've spent in this temporary refuge and back in his office at the polisci building feel like more of a connection than anything he's allowed himself to remotely consider since college. giddy isn't the right word for him either, especially not as a grown man - but there's a thrilling feeling at the push and pull they've been teasing one another with, the expectations high and absence making the heart indeed grow fonder.

hawk leans forward slightly, as imperceptible as possible to try and get a closer glimpse at the state of his shirt and what's been unbuttoned - the glint of gold he knows is the crucifix tim dutifully wears, the soft tease of hair against pecs he knows would put the most toned of gq models to shame. knowing what's under there intimately - both on the grainy dimness of a webcam and in person from where it spent several hours perched against his very own pillows makes him run hot again, mind drifting down that dangerous path that leads to him pulling over and letting the teenage urge to ravish him in the backseat of his fucking car take over. christ.

his gaze is drawn up as if a puppet on a string when tim walks to the door, dipping down to the sliver of skin further revealed, then down again to the way the jeans hug his trim waist and curve around the meat of his pert ass with a hunger he doesn't bother to hide as tim looks back one more time. in all that daydreaming, he'd nearly missed the part about where to meet - even if he would have gotten around to directing him somewhere eventually. but that's the pull tim laughlin has on him, has earned after all this time trying and succeeding at taking up space in both heart and mind, even if hawk tries not to let that thought linger. he should be stronger than this, and yet he was always fucked from the minute tim walked though his door, fucked again when he started substituting his face on skippy's in the fantasies that spilled outside of the little black and white textbox, and fucked with utmost thoroughness when the two merged into one for certain on a snowy sidewalk in dupont hill.]

Hard to be stricter than Catholics, but we'd better not linger too long on hallowed ground. I'd hate to get struck by lightning.

[that's a joke at the expense of himself, offered with a wry grin.]

Twenty minutes. I'll be there - navy Mercedes coupe.

[hawk glances behind tim for a split second, voice lowering.]

Undo another button for me, while you're saying them. It's a scorcher out there, today.

[his eyes twinkle with the entendre of it all, toeing the line again and letting tim relish in having earned it along with the easy confidence that looks so damn enticing on him. what's it going to be like next to him for at least thirty minutes on the drive down to alexandria? he certainly knows what he wishes it could be after tim is buckled in and they make their way out of the parking lot: easy touches, teasing, windows down with the breeze blowing through that soft mop of hair. it's singing along to stupid 80s serenades just to see tim toss his head back and laugh. hawk's done his homework leading up to this - remembering the quaint charm of little walk-ups stacked next together with family owned businesses. it's a far cry from the hustle of dc, the tall buildings wrapped in glass and steel rather than the homey feeling of brick and individuality.

trattoria dafranco is wedged in discreetly along the block, one black door hanging open and welcoming them in to a small, intimate room of white tablecloths, roses atop each table, and the fading light of golden hour through the window to their left. hawk pulls out tim's chair for him without a glance around the room - they're far enough away from anyone who would know or care about what this is. study date, date, friendly meeting of minds. they're just two people here tonight among a romantic ambiance, only eyes for each other.

hawk slides in across tim, flipping open the menu and taking a glance at it before pushing it aside and focusing his attention wholly on tim. he leans forward, a hunt of mischief in his eyes as he folds his hands atop the table.]

So. Does this beat your riveting lunch with Craig?

[he nods towards the menu splayed in front of tim as an afterthought.]

I'll order a bottle of red for us. Get whatever you like.

[ as tim leaves hawk's office, he laughs a little, bright and easy. i'd hate to get struck by lightning, hawk says and it's hard not to find it amusing. he figures by now, he'd have been struck down a million times for his behaviors, for his choices. but he chooses not to think of that as he heads out of the building and off campus toward the church.

he thinks about hawkins fuller, the look he'd given him, the way his eyes had all but devoured him from afar. even if nothing comes of any of this, tim can't help but warm at the idea of being wanted so very much. it means that by the time he's in hawk's car, he's a little sweaty - it is a scorcher - cheeks flushed a little pink and two additional buttons undone, bringing the deep v of his shirt down just past his pecs. his sleeves are rolled up at his elbows.

the drive is easy enough, and as they settle into the restaurant, tim is already charmed. it's a small place, but being tucked into the back makes it feel strangely intimate. enough that when hawk pulls out his chair for him his face undoubtedly lights up, settling in his chair and scooting it up further to the table. sitting this way, his collar opens and the crucifix is on clear display, resting between toned muscle and skin that has been tanned slightly and freckled by the sun.

he makes sure when he leans to reach for the menu, hawk has the best view. he opens it, scanning the choices, but he can't focus. they're on a date. he really should get his notebook out like he promised, and pretend like they're here on some school meeting, but until hawk gives him that directive? he's going to live in the fantasy of this as long as he can. his eyes slip up over the menu, meeting the mischievous blue of hawk's. ]

Mm. I don't know. [ he can barely keep a straight face when he says it. ] He was very charming and nice. I bet we talked about something interesting, but I can't remember what it was. You have a lot to live up to.

[ what does he call him here? sir? professor fuller? what are the lines and who are they pretending to be here in the anonymity of the italian restaurant. there's something very cheesy american italian playing - instrumental, and there's the distant sound of cooking from the kitchen in the back. it's romantic, really. dim and quaint, the roses on the table, the promise of a red to drink. ]

But I imagine the company will be better. The food will be better. We'll see how you measure up at the end of the night, Hawk.

[ the name feels foreign on his tongue, but he's heard craig call him that. but it's nice - informal in a way that this little dinner should be. at least in a perfect world. for a few moments he can imagine they aren't bound by the ties of teacher and student. that december never happened, and they'd spent all summer enjoying each other. ]

But it all looks good. [ there's a little quirk of his head, a glance to hawk then back at the menu. the implication of all meaning more than the food. a server comes up - in classic black and white - and lists specials, some drinks, and he smiles, albeit sheepish, when he asks for their drink orders. ]

Sorry, do you have milk? Oh, and maybe some bread? To start, I mean.

[ the waiter pauses, as confused as most are, but of course they have milk here, even if it is unusual. the man takes hawk's order next - the red. he's not had wine like that anywhere outside of church, and there's something thrilling about the thought of having it here, at a dinner date, with this man. ]

I think Craig likes me. I really did do very well for you, you know.

[the notebook can wait. the paper, the thesis - this far removed from campus, and hawk is willing to forego it all entirely at this rate. there's just something so palpable about his excitement, contagious and openly sweet in a way hawk hasn't seen on anyone in a long time. genuine. how can a boy look so goddamn innocent - bright eyes, crucifix nudging against his heart and then look good enough to ruin in the next moment - toned muscle, the glisten of sweat, rosy-cheeked with cherry-bitten lips. what he wouldn't give to tug him by that chain across the table and plant one on him in front of all these fine, good paying customers. he belongs to hawkins fuller. this is my boy. the thought that by the time enough time had passed tim will likely have forgotten him altogether almost dampens the mood for a moment - but he won't let it weigh on him right now.

this is a moment earned for them both. exams are a week away and then...only then, will hawk let the loneliness sink back in.]

You sure you don't mean catty? I can't remember the nice time I heard anything nice come out of his mouth.

[he says it casually, flipping one of the pages and letting his brows raise mildly, tone still light and teasing in the way he knows tim doesn't really mean it and is play-goading him. but it's not hard to think about his eagerness weaponized against a man too dumb to realize what was going on, he earned that a- after all, didn't he? craig probably thought he was eating out of the palm of his hand. idiot.

the sound of his own name coming out of tim's mouth though - that's charming enough that he looks up with a broad stretch of his lips.]

Suppose we will. Think the view's better from where I'm sitting, though.

[he's not talking about the window or the fading tones of gold and pink and perwinkle either. he's talking about sitting across from tim laughlin having that same fantasy - that they drove all the way here for an evening out, fingers laced across the the arm rest and that he can kiss his boy as freely as he wants when they step back outside into a breezy summer night. that he can drive him home, pounce on him the moment they're through the door even if their hands haven't been kept to themselves the entire drive home - push him down onto the bed and give and take of him all night long. what would it be like, to lose himself in a relationship like that?

he gestures for tim to go first, the polite thing to do, taking a moment to drink in his profile and that mouth-watering expanse of his neck and collarbone. enough that he thinks maybe he misheard the order for bread and milk, brows pinching together in confusion he won't voice until after his own order for the house red, bruschetta, and oysters to start is put in.]

Hang on a minute - milk? Is this...a habit of yours?

[not that he looks judgmental about it, just confused. endeared, really, if the tug at his lips is anything to go by and the way his tone drops a little lower.]

Does a body good, they used to say. You must be the poster boy for it to be true.

[the waiter comes back with the milk, bread, and bottle of wine, two glasses set in front of them both which hawk immediately reaches to fill, along with a murmured grazie that's not so bad in the accent department. his pour is generous for them both, and when it's done he sets it off to the side and lifts his glass, nodding for tim to do the same in a mock speech.]

To doing well for me. To getting your reward.

[hawk inclines his head a little, bringing it close enough but not yet clinking it with tim's glass.]

To our date.

Alla nostra salute.

[then he clinks it, lifting it to his lips for an equally generous sip, eyeing tim over the rim as he takes a swallow to see if he'll match it. it's a fine pick to accompany their meal - not too dry or bitter, and he has a sneaking suspicion tim likes things a little sweeter than this.]

[ tim wishes he could take a picture of hawk as he is right now - broad, handsome, relaxed, the sun warming him and turning the strong features of his face to gold. that coupled with the dim of the restaurant, the soft ambience and the anonymity of the whole thing feels something akin to sacred. the last time he felt so truly entranced and peaceful like this had been at church - the chapel windows all stained glass and painting a corporeal heaven across the skin on the back of his hands.

he chooses not to reach for his phone, knowing it won't be received well at all, but he tries very, very hard to commit the image to memory.

it's easy to play make-believe, to imagine that when the waiter brings the milk, the wine, the starters, that this odd smorgasbord is something they entertain once a week together. a quaint little restaurant, a romantic date just the two of them. they'll talk and finish their meal and drive home together, or perhaps drive to one of the outlooks they'd passed and kiss beneath the stars before driving home to kiss some more and make stars of their own.

tim knows this will never be any of that. he knows that they will never be anything more than student and teacher, no matter how they choose to toe the line. but for this next hour, he's willing to believe that hawk is the very god apollo seated next to him, infinite and divine with the fire of the sun in his hair, and he icarus, flying up high to the moon and yearning for his favor.

would that his wings could not melt, just this once. ]

It's not a habit - [ he huffs a little, ears burning red with a sheepish embarrassment as he reaches to tug the glass toward him almost a little defensively. ] I think my parents worried that I would grow up weak. Said it would make me taller, help me work the land better. I just enjoy it, now. You'll have to tell me if you think I'd make the cut for their poster boy. I can't be sure myself.

[ but hawk pours from the bottle, their glasses generously filling with a wash of deep red wine. how apt. their table laid with bread, their glasses with wine, and tim truly believes he could forgo all other churches should this be what his masses look like from now forward.

he takes up his glass opposite hawk, his cheeks burning as he listens to the little toast made. hawk's italian is accented beautifully, not at all open and round like the american attempt at the cheers itself. their glasses clink and he can do nothing but blink, wide-eyed over the rim at hawk, a fire simmering low in his belly. ]

To our date. Salute.

[ oh, there is so much he doesn't know. it's silly, that he keeps his eyes on hawk's as he drinks from the glass, taking from it the same generous sip as the other man. it's sharp and sweet on his tongue, burning at the back of his throat but this, at least, he's used to. he knows nothing about wine, and while this one is at least sweeter than most, it still isn't quite something he'd pick on his own. his nose crinkles faintly at the burn, but he says nothing.

he will drink ever drop before the night is over, so as not to look ungrateful. he sets the glass aside and snags a breadstick for himself, pulling it into halves before his eyes flicker up at hawk again. he takes one bite, chewing and swallowing before he reaches to sip at his milk. it's silly how comforting a cold glass of milk can be, and when he looks back to hawk, there's an easy contentment in his expression.

he fidgets momentarily with the glass, fingers drumming against it before his elbows finally come up to the table, his chin perching on his hands. ]

I have the best view, by the way. [ there's a little one-shouldered shrug. calling back to hawk's comment. bravely, he decides he'll speak again. hawk has sad kind and flattering things to him, but tim cannot truly recall any time he'd given the man a compliment. ] You there, with the sun and the painting against the wall back there. Well. It's just you, really. You're - handsome. [ he clears his throat a little, mouth pulling to one side, his hands dropping to toy with the stem of his wine glass. ]

Beautiful, really. I - I know most men don't like to hear that, but I mean it. I do, Hawk.

[ the name. it feels so special to say out loud. he takes a sip of his wine before he has to put his foot in his mouth. ]

Oh yeah. No doubt about it - you'd be the main attraction. Hard to follow up a specimen as perfect as that.

[much as he'd like his own polaroid of tim - bathed in sunlight, shadows cast across the strong curvature of his face - it can't happen now. he'll do the same thing and commit it to memory, the same way he buried deep every inch of his toned body and striking jawline, the nestle of curls between his thighs and the way his cock flushes pretty pink when he's at his neediest. that never went away, and neither will this. he'll lie at night thinking about how the precise shade of tim's hair has tinges of red to it in the sun, how the golden rays bring out the olive in his delicate irish skin. that there's a beauty mark just under his chin he never noticed before - too small to have caught on camera, tucked just against his jugular as if it were meant for lips to fix around and mark. hawkins fuller was here, he'd want to say, if he could. if this weren't something monumentally foolish already, as if that matters when he's so far gone for his boy.

it's hard not to keep circling back to the idea of what happens after. no one will ever replace him - that chair may as well have his initials stamped against the fading leather like the kerchief he'd lent tim with hf embroidered so many months ago, except it's the sweet curl of "tdl" etched against both the home that his office gives him away from home and his heart. when he graduates what does hawk have to look forward to?

will tim even remember moments like this?

there is something sacred about it, reverent in a way that hawk might allow himself to finally understand the beauty of breaking bread and drinking wine and laying themselves bare in honesty to a higher power - only instead of god, it's the desire they both have for one another. isn't that just another piece of devotion, in a way? his eyes don't leave from the way tim's lips wrap around the glass of red, tipping back and watching the vibrant display of emotions that are all too easy to read. their very own communion, amen to that.

wine probably isn't skippy's thing - or at least, this one isn't, and it should be a warning sign that hawk immediately considers what to try next time until he finds the right one. he'd try every last drop in this place to find the perfect fit, the one that wouldn't make his nose scrunch and force those long, dextrous fingers wrap around the milk instead, even if it's endearing to watch him take a sip all the same. hawk reaches for some bread and dips it in olive oil, dabbing it at the edge before taking a thoughtful bite.

and then tim goes and says that, and it has him quiet while he finishes chewing, swallowing, lifting his own wine glass to his lips in contemplation. it's not that he's unaware of his exceptional good looks by any means - the craigs and miss addisons and the twinks that gravitate to him in the bars outside of washington certainly give him a good idea about it. but coming from tim? it may as well have been uttered from heaven itself, an angel coming down to proclaim it like it really means something. he stares for a moment before his face shifts into a fond smile, open in a way he's never really shared with tim even in their little rendezvous and office hours.]

That's sweet, you know? Really sweet.

I'd only want to hear it from you anyway.

[there's a pause as he lets that sink in, glancing across the table with a sudden shift to the serious - an intensity that's not borne out of lust, but instead something that much more vulnerable to say aloud.]

You've got a pair of angel wings, Skippy. You're a good boy. Not just because of the paper, or the debating, or school - I mean it.

[it's the first time since abandoning him in the cold that he's used the nickname again. it feels more intimate that way - tim is his boy, sure, but skippy? does he even know where it's from?]

[ hawk stays thoughtfully quiet, and tim can feel the word beautiful hanging on the air between them. it doesn't feel wrong, and he isn't apologetic for it but tim knows he walks a delicate line. they went so quickly from being an image on a screen merged with teacher and student, to whatever heated thing they've had lately, to this. he likes it, and if he can do all the right things to have another night like this, even if it's only one, he'll do his best.

he reaches for the milk again, fingers pressing around the glass and turning it a little and busying himself with one of the halves of breadstick again, taking a bite and chewing to make the silence make sense. it doesn't, and then something changes in the man's face. the smile? it's different. open and fond and warm and tim finds his skin prickling with heat, but not in a needy, wanting sort of way.

tim cannot help the thought that hawk truly is beautiful, but most beautiful like that. he feels startled, meeting his eyes and not quite hearing everything he says at first - tim breathing out a little huff of something similar to a nervous laugh, his face flushing hot and pink.

i'd only want to hear it from you anyway.

maybe that's how hawkins fuller woos everyone he takes to dinner, but tim doesn't care. it's so intimate and honest in a way he's never seen the other man and he knows he'll carry that with him like a brand through the end of whatever this is they have. he doesn't care if he ever gets to touch him, kiss him, hold him - he has that. it's likely more than most can say, if he had to guess. ]

I...

[ but hawk calls him an angel and he blinks, hands fumbling around the bread, elbows rising back up to the table, fingers fumbling nervously with the chain of his crucifix.

but there it is, laid plain and simple before him: skippy. he breathes out again. ]

That's really kind of you. But I'm definitely not an angel, not by a long stretch. But that's... it's one of the nicest things I think anyone has said to me, really.

[ it sounds so pathetic when he says it like that, but it's true. he sits up a little straighter in his seat, and it's with an earnest sort of intensity that he reaches for hawk's hand, catching only two fingers to give the faintest squeeze. no one can see here, no one will know who they are or what they're doing. he keeps it brief, even if every part of him wants to hold on for the rest of the night and imagine that picture perfect scene again. the two of them, the starlit night, and whatever this romantic hum around them has become.

it isn't fair to fall in love with hawkins fuller. it isn't fair to feel so strongly, so fully about one person the way he does the man across from him. he has no doubt that it isn't the same for hawk - that their lives are so different, priorities wildly opposite, and yet tim allows the tiniest seed of hope to take root.

he releases the man's fingers, sheepish, making it look as though he was simply reaching for more bread to dip into the oil.

i am not worthy to receive you - he idly thinks. of god, or hawk, he doesn't know. ]

Don't you remember? Icarus. He built the most beautiful wings to fly as high as he could. All the tales are different, but in this one, Icarus flew as far and as high as he could to find greatness for himself, to find purpose. The gods, they were furious. They threatened his family and swore he would never find love.

[ he shrugs a little, his eyes keeping with hawk's, trying to commit every moment of this to memory. ]

The gods turned the fires of the sun on him and his wings began to melt. Icarus fell for days, and just before he was destined to hit the ground, a sunbeam caught him. The gods had roiled the fires of the sun to spite Icarus, but it was the god Apollo, who had loved him for his flight, that saved him. Angry that the gods called on his power to harm him, he carried Icarus into the sky, to the Moon and wrote their names together in the dust.

[ it sounds childish, when he says it, and he can tell his face must be as red as the wine. ah, the wine. he sips at it - a little too deeply, draining a fair amount from nerves alone before he clears his throat. ]

It feels more apt, really. Than angel wings.

I think you should know by now - I'm not the sort of man to say things just because they're kind.

[it's utterly endearing to watch the ebb and flow of tim's confidence - the conviction in which he shares his compliments followed by the fidgeting of his hands, something hawk has noticed he doesn't do as much out of seeming nerves when he's in the safe space afforded by office hours. fiddling with a pencil, scrunching himself into various degrees of comfort, sure - but this is uncharted territory. it draws back to what hawk has always thought of him: he's sweet. genuine, in a way that so many people can't or refuse to be. hell, he's more sincere than hawk even is on a good day. living in his truths, standing up and fighting for the things he believes in, even if they are theoretical for the most part. no wonder that edge of heat surrounded him when he was across a screen - comfortable in his own skin and seeking out connection with a stranger who he thought was just as honest in desire.

that still might be the only open place hawk's really ever been himself, which sounds pretty depressing when he thinks of it that way. not beautiful. not brave or honest - and definitely not the way he's ever wooed anyone else before. there's been no one to do it with, certainly not the men he drags to motels for a few hours of raw physicality and kicks out or abandons before the high has even come down. tim is the first - not even kenny got him like this.

hawk watches the tinge of a blush rise up to his cheeks, spreading red across his ears and faintly down his neck. absently, it occurs to him he's never tested what it is that makes it run full body under less salacious conditions. it's not pathetic watching him react to it, only proving what hawk said to be true by immediately deeming himself not worthy of such a nickname. it's the other part he can believe - that no one else has said as much, and it shouldn't startle him nearly as much when he feels the soft press of fingers against his own hand.

it's intimate in a way that catches him wholly off guard, tamping down hard on the instinct to pull away and glance around at the rest of the patrons here. they're far outside the bounds of campus. just another couple having a romantic dinner, and hawk exhales softly, letting his thumb reach up to stroke over tim's knuckles and squeeze back. strange, the way he feels a pang of regret the moment they pull away and reach again for the bread. hawk smiles, tipping his attention back down to his wine glass while listening to the tale of angry greek gods, a boy with ambition shooting for the sun and landing among the stars instead from the mercy of the one who saw him for what he was.

very apt indeed.]

I'd rather hear it right from you. But you're right - Icarus...it does suit you.

I'm no Apollo, but watching you soar has been one of the greatest privileges of my career. And -

[hawk stares intently at him, that unmistakable fondness softening the line of his mouth and jaw - even his eyes have lost the iciness of ocean blue.]

Now, this is top secret. Doesn't leave this restaurant - you can tuck it away however you like, you got it?

[he picks up his wine again, taking another sip and swallowing thickly before leaning in and dropping his voice to a murmur.]

Tim Laughlin and my sweet Icarus started blending together in my eyes long before Christmas came along and fucked us up.

Edited 2024-02-08 04:49 (UTC)

You're more like a Apollo than you think. A god with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the heat of the sun at his back, the music of the world weaving the path at his feet and a bow with a quiver of arrows - prepared to protect the herd should he have to. He paved the way for new civilizations and foundations to be borne. The sun, incarnate.

[ he sounds so foolish, saying it out loud, but he believes it. when he looks at hawk, he shines bright, burns with an infinite sort of confidence that tim could only hope to have a piece of one day. and maybe there's much playacting to his day-to-day, but how else could a god move through the world, untouched, when one is as coveted as the sun?

but hawk mentions something top secret and tim leans in, eager and surprised, brows raised. there's a softness in hawk now that is utterly alluring - his eyes gentler, the pull of his lips in a sweetness that tim isn't certain he's seen on him before. it's remarkable - breathtaking.

but there it is.

tim would be utterly oblivious and stupid if he hadn't started piecing together the reality of skippy and tim laughlin. if he hadn't realized that hawk had begun to imagine what the face on the lewd cam boy might look like. he'd considered it - what with the heat that has radiated through them this summer, all the way back to the way hawk had started in december.

but to hear it had blended even long before that? well, that's a surprise. the sort of surprise that, should hawk peek into the deep vee of his unbuttoned shirt, he may see that even the skin dusted with downy soft curls between his pecs has flushed. every bit of him feels as though it is consumed by the flames of the sun.

it's foolish, the way he drops the bread and that hand reaches for hawk's again, the skirting of the thumb hadn't been enough before and maybe he's just like icarus now, too bold and headstrong and stubborn, but he clasps the whole of his hand this time, squeezing. ]

We weren't fucked up. [ and he believes it, really. how could something like this be a mistake? sure, there are better circumstances that could have come out of it, but a dinner date like this, with fondness and warmth? tim's heart feels like it might burst for the romance of it all. ]

I... I don't mind this. All of this. I understand it all now better than I did before, and maybe it's stupid to say it, but I'd take a million more of these than anything I thought was going to happen before. In December. [ a huff, sheepish, and the flush burns hotter. he looks away a little, nose wrinkling, mouth pulling to one side. ]

I mean - when I thought it was going to be someone else. I want to be near you. Talk to you. Spend time with you. And maybe it's just in your office or lectures but I don't know. Meeting you and being able to be honest with you is one of the most important things I think I've ever experienced.

[ what would it be like, were he not afraid of holding this man's hand even now, if he could lean over and kiss him? if he could tug him up and insist they spend an evening out under the stars or dancing or... anything? ]

I know maybe it doesn't seem like it, but I really do care. About you.

[flattering, that tim thinks any part of him is as strong as the will of a god, blazing a trail of his own design. there are things he's fought for the freedom of, sure - leaving his family and barely looking back, going into teaching, but at his core? hawk still conforms to what's expected of him in the day to day. he encourages ideals and challenging the status quo in the impressionable young minds of the future, and if tim wants to call it shaping civilizations and foundations then sure. but he doesn't live them himself, and the part of him that isn't jaded and used to living in the realities of the world feels like there's no such thing as living that free - not when you're in this deep. not with the sun beating down on his back every day, the expectations of everyone else perched on his shoulders no matter how far he's run from them. not unless life is to be lived like tim laughlin - fighting for every bit of it, wanting it for his fellow men and women too. no wonder apollo admired him from afar, elevated him where he belonged even if the path wasn't quite so simple.

but tim believes in him, and that means something too - even if he doesn't know the truth about hawk, he's seen more than his own mother in this last year and some change. not even dean smith could comment on the glimpses of hawk he's offered to this boy, and it makes his chest go warm again even as he shrugs lightly.]

I want whatever your future civilization is gonna look like. And if I had a single hand in it, then I've got a lot to be proud of.

[hawkins fuller isn't a humble man, not by any means. but he can't take credit for moulding what was already there - helping him realize his full potential.

but yeah - selfishly he wants to see how that lands on tim, and he isn't disappointed. not by the way that light flush creeps down his strong neck, teases him with the flash of his chest here and there that makes hawk want to leave now and drive off into the fading golden hour, to stretch tim across the hood of his car and see what it looks like under the same sun that seems to wish it might caress icarus without a burn as much as hawk does.

the softness of his palm lands against his own, fingers flexing gently as hawk returns the soft gesture with a stretch of his lips that doesn't quite meet his eyes this time.]

We ended up here, in the end.

Don't know that I'd do any of it differently, if I could - not when I'm sitting with someone I respect more than anyone I've known in the last five years like this.

[hawk's thumb shifts, running lightly over the back of his hand with an easy tenderness as his gaze drops to watch it while tim looks away. god, he shouldn't get used to this. this in and of itself - it's probably a one time thing. not just for the optics, but because tim is destined for the capitol itself. he's going to be rubbing shoulders with washington's elite, stirring them up in a way that's going to draw both ire and admiration from many. but his undeniable sweetness and the feisty way he manages to capture the hearts of everyone, even fucking craig lever - that's what hawk knows will be true.

that's why he knows eventually this will all be a distant memory, a hazy recollection of youthful summers and a stolen moment. hell, maybe he won't even remember any of it someday. and hawk will still be at georgetown, still hiding himself, still living his double life and watching the next generation of minds pass him by. just growing older. doesn't that sound fucking pathetic. his lips drop for a moment, a pulse in his jaw and he considers voicing any of it before immediately pushing that down. he's not going to ruin this moment for tim.]

Won't be the same without you around, you know. One more week and you're wrapping it up, focusing on the last few requirements next year, and then graduation - and then off to the Big House, if I know you.

[he offers a grin that's meant to be conspiratorial, encouraging and warm.]

I know. And Skippy - you should know how much I care about you too. Too fucking much, if we're measuring solely by the Georgetown Code of Conduct.

But we're not in Georgetown right now.

[his hand squeezes again, and if tim looks closely maybe he'll see the note of something raw in hawk's gaze.]

So here I get to tell you there never was and never will be anyone else like you, you got that?

The restaurant, my office, the sessions - all of it.

Edited 2024-02-12 05:45 (UTC)

[ there's a rawness in hawk's eyes that tim has never seen in him before. it makes the hand squeezing around his feel real and heavy, cements this moment into his mind for as long as he can remember. you should know how much i care about you too hawk says and while he's not so naive to think it a declaration of love, it's close enough.

it makes tim blush deeper, makes his fingers curl around hawk's and keep them glued there for a moment. he doesn't care about the food that was brought a little bit ago, he doesn't care about the restaurant or the people or anything eyes. his eyes stay leveled on hawk's. ]

Just because our classes are finishing up doesn't mean I won't see you. Doesn't mean we can't... do this, too. I won't be your student anymore, after all, so I think I might have more time and liberty.

[ he'd take a lifetime of little dinner dates like this, if that's what he could get. ]

Even when I'm finished with school - there won't be Georgetown Codes of Conduct or anything like that. We could go for coffee, lunch, anything I suppose.

[ he lets out a little breath, utterly romanced by the ambience of the place and the way hawk has opened up in a new way before him. ]

You mean a lot to me. And... and there won't ever be anyone else like you, either. I still remember when I walked into your class. I sat in the back because I was afraid in the front you'd see how red I was. And then you started giving your lecture and I think I was done for.

[ tim huffs a little laugh, shrugging one shoulder. with his free hand he nervously swipes his glass to sip from it - the wine is almost gone. he'd not realized he'd practically made it to the bottom of it. ]

But we're not in class, not at Georgetown. We're at a little Italian restaurant. Together. On a date.

[ his nose wrinkles, his smile pulls to one side. he looks utterly besotted with the man across him, invested in a way that, had he had the foresight, he might have stood up then and ran away. instead, he can feel the way his heart swells for the man across him. a couple more weeks and he'd no longer be his student, he could do so much more. ]

I... I would like to keep doing this. At least as time allows. After this week, I mean. Or I'll just come to your office - or... I don't know. Maybe I graduate soon and all, but you're more to me than just classes and office talks. I...

[ he swallows hard, a little embarrassed. ] I just hope you know that.

[there it is - the thing he's been avoiding ever since his lapses in judgment when it came to tim laughlin started drawing further and further stretched out. this here is maybe the most dangerous thing he's ever done in his five years with georgetown. the kicker is it's also the most intoxicating - and what he feels for tim isn't anything a warm body and nameless somebody at a bar has even remotely come close to filling for him. but the idea of tim no longer being his direct student (a semantic, really, seeing as he'd still be a student and off limits by technicality) has weighed on him heavier and heavier with each passing flirtation, every bit of banter and even the way a few teachers have taken to playing delighted audience at how well they verbally spar with each other. sometimes that little office feels more welcoming and filled with all the warmth that tim emanates in a way that screams home, his expensive walk-up not even coming close.

what happens after graduation? it's a possibility he's refused to let himself consider out of fear and obligation - fear that his darling icarus won't get struck down by the sun, he'll shoot so far past it that he'll land somewhere in the stars, adored by everyone and everything he touches. obligation to some conduct a teacher should be exhibiting in not fucking his students - definitely current and probably not former. his tenure had been the most important thing on his radar before last december ground it all to a halt, and while hawk is fully capable of playing his cards right and keeping them close enough to the chest to hide it...it's still a risk no matter how he looks at it.

but that's not what he's looking at right now: tim, a study in the beautiful light of the golden hour, flushed from the heat or the wine or the feelings that this stolen moment has stirred in both of them. whatever happens after they leave the safety of this little table or set foot back on campus - this will have changed them, altered their bond and heightened their infatuation unquestionably. how the hell do you put back pandora's box?

on some level, hawk knew when he did this - spur of the moment or not - that there was no going back. the stakes would only keep raising; the rewards and things that would satisfy would only grow interminably.

it fucking scares him to think there is no mere sliver of his heart that is clutched between tim's hands - it's a significant chunk that same day he stepped past the threshold and hurriedly rushed to the back. the memory of it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile, head tipping back with a soft laugh.]

Didn't stay in the back for long though. Just as well, seeing as you're one of the only ones who could keep up with my lessons. Then and now.

[the empty wine glass is a welcome distraction, and hawk doesn't even think before he picks up the bottle with one hand, twisting it with his wrist to give tim another generous pour and otherwise forgetting that he probably has a low tolerance. it's coming with dinner, even if their appetizers are sitting largely ignored while his fingers lightly run along the underside of tim's palm for a moment in lieu of answer - committing to anything, really.]

We are. On a date.

Listen, Skippy I -

[god, whatever bullshit he was going to say utterly dies in this throat, expression equally and helplessly endeared to the way tim is so open and honest even with his feelings and the look on his face here. christ, how can he give that up? not even taste the forbidden fruit just once in its flesh? fuck.]

I do know that. And believe me, I think about it. All the time.

[he meets tim at a level gaze, eyes bright with a hunger that's not for the feast of seafood or italian spread out in front of them.]

Ever since Christmas - I've played the "what if" game. I don't regret the way it's happened now. Getting to know you like I have...you're right. It is more than just the classes and the office hours and the debates.

[there's an inexplicable lump in his throat he swallows hard around, shaking his head to break the trance momentarily and reach for his wine too.]

It's you I can't stop thinking about. It's you I wanna see at the end of a long day. It's you I wish I was coming home to, curled up in my bed.

I don't know what that means for us after the semester right now.

[it's a bit of a delayed realization that it could sound like a rejection, so hastily he leans in and adds in a lower voice:]

Listen - I'm not writing anything off between us. We'll figure it out - alright? But first we have to get you through summer exams.

[hawk softens again, knowing he shouldn’t - but lifting tim’s hand to graze his lips against the back of his knuckles softly.]

I just wanna do right by my boy.

Edited 2024-02-21 06:06 (UTC)

[ there's something that will haunt tim about the way hawk admits he's been thinking about him for months and months now. it makes him burn a little hot now as it is, makes something roil in his belly uncomfortably, but pleasantly. he is wanted and desired by a man he also wants and desires in a way he's never experienced before. ]

It could be that. One day. If - If you want.

[ tim waiting for him, curled up in his bed after a long day. for a brief moment he allows himself to imagine the life that they might have after he graduates. the apartment he only hazily remembers, warm strong arms, the scent of his aftershave... and the way hawkins fuller is looking at him now - soft and open. whatever happens, he wants to feel as loved as he does right now, for the rest of time.

it all seems like a fairy tale really, the impossible come true.

but there it is - i don't know what that means for us. of course. it's not a rejection, and tim tries to gently remind himself it's being practical, realistic. the reality of their situation is that they can't date like this in the open, they can't do anything more than this simply due to the nature of their meeting. ]

But - right, yes. Sorry, I guess... I've been told I have a way of coming on strong.

[ because timothy laughlin can do nothing in half measures, and even falling in love means he is head first, all in. if that's what this is, anyway. but it feels like something stronger than he's ever felt, and the mere idea that there's the possibility that whatever this is could end in them apart, or separate, or anything not what they're sharing now?

it feels impossible.

but there goes his hand, hawk's lips brushing the back of it and he can't help the soft little gasp that passes by his lips - it's quiet, almost more a soft breath than anything, but his eyes widen, his face burns miserably. ]

You are. You really, really are. I... I know this is all complicated. So complicated. But I'll fly through the exams and it's just one more year. I - I want to do right by you, too. But everything will be easier after graduation. But -

[ he gives hawk's hand a squeeze, eyes falling to where the lips fell against his skin, where it feels like it's utterly burning. ]

I don't have any expectations. I know that... we have to figure things out. If you want to. I just - I don't mind what it is, so long as I can see you.

[ in the future, he'll look back at this and be furious with himself. but for now? he can't help but get wrapped up in the slow, creeping heat of attraction, nerves, and the wine. the wine that hawk refilled.

he absently takes another sip. ]

I hope that's alright.

[none of this is right - all the secrets, the admissions that are spilling out of him as easily as the elegant pour of sweet red right into tim's glass. they should stay buried and locked away, something for him to fantasize over in moments of weakness (and loneliness) while he rides out the rest of his time until tenure on iron willpower and long distance one-night stands. and yet here sits timothy laughlin in front of him - maybe the most earnest, genuine man he's ever known with secrets buried just as deep and no less alluring for it. the boy that's managed to break through every rule, every barricade, every method of protection against his integrity and all his fears combined with a sweet smile and maybe the first person in the history of dc not to have an ulterior motive. there should be a cacophony of alarm bells ringing in his head, anything to tell him to cut this off before he gets in too deep.

(shit, it's too late for that now, isn't it?)

hawk has fallen hard and not even really fast - the slow tension churning since december through a whirlwind of coaxing, trust, and genuine pleasure getting to know his student on an impossibly deeper level. no one has captivated him like this with their values, their intrinsic way of being so goddamn good despite all the bad around them. despite hawk being easily lead astray, judgment clouded by an intimacy that transcends the physical - not that he'd pass up the opportunity on that given the obvious attraction that brought them here in the first place. so yeah, maybe his fantasies alternate between the "one day" tim talks about: thinking about him barefoot and padding through the kitchen in only hawk's button down, smiling into his shoulder every morning when he wakes up, gripping his thigh or holding his hand in the car on the way to a date just like this.

just like this, except without any rules and restraints. one day.]

Yeah, it's complicated.

[he nods in agreement, only for it to turn into a subtle shake of his head like it doesn't even fucking matter to him right now.]

I don't think I'm about to make it any less complicated by telling you this - but I don't think I can go a whole semester without seeing you anymore.

[he exhales like he's just breathed out a confession, and in a way he has - not coming on as strong as tim, but revealing just enough of his own desires that simply can't be ignored by virtue of their intensity now.]

It would be better for us both to wait for graduation, sure.

[hawk's eyes bore into tim's, head tilting and hand squeezing as if it might fully say what's between the lines. it would be better, but i can't wait anymore.]

But it is alright.

[his lips curve up into a slightly more mischievous smile, eyes twinkling as he raises his own almost drained glass in mock salute.]

You may not have expectations...but I have plenty.

[there's something low and promising in that, a heat under his own skin that he hopes tim feels too when his thumb shifts inward, slowly dragging up along the delicate veins and soft pulsepoint for a few electric moments.]

Think we might want to consider eating - at least one bit of hunger we can sate tonight.

[his free hand gestures to the otherwise ignored appetizers and menus that have yet to be collected. but his eyes don't leave that pretty flush on tim's skin, nor do they stop from dropping to his lips briefly and back up again.]

I won't tell anyone.

[ it comes out before he can help himself, the wine making him a little hazy now that it has hit his otherwise empty stomach. he's encouraged by the press of a thumb against his wrist and tim's mouth runs dry, his heart pumps a little faster, and the want he feels is suddenly so stark and so real, it reminds him of the way they'd been leaned over one another weeks ago in hawk's office.

his fingers flex, sliding against hawk's palm to the cuff of his sleeve, catching under it. ]

I don't think I can go two weeks again like that without seeing you, honestly. But I'll wait - I'll do whatever you tell me.

[ because getting even this - the affection and what feels like honest attention - it makes tim bloom with heat, with desire, with hope. he's sharing dinner with a man who is caring, loving, kind, intelligent...

one day his future may just be more of this. or at a shared table in a condo, in an apartment, something that's theirs. or he'd like it to be. they can be more than just this delicate balance of teacher and student. graduation will come, tim will find some job, and then they will simply be two working professionals.

it's a beautiful dream.

his expression lights up, burns hot and pink, when hawk speaks. i have plenty. it makes him wonder just what the car ride home might be. will they hold hands like now? will his hands be allowed to roam, will he be able to sing to the radio or roll the windows down and keep a hand on the man's thigh?

right.

food. dinner. ]

O-oh. Right. Don't want the dinner to get cold.

[ and he regretfully pulls his hand from hawk's, letting his fingers drag over his skin until he pauses, finger tip to finger tip. but it's impossible to ignore the way hawk looks from his mouth and up, and the way that tim's do the same. what would he do if he leaned over now and kissed him. instead, he plucks at hawk's hand, drawing it up, leaning over just enough that he presses his lips against his knuckles once, and then, briefly? where no one may see the soft pass of his lips? the pad of his thumb.

he releases it then and grabs his wine glass, sipping from it before he starts in again on the appetizer.

it's a miracle he's even able to spit his order out when the waiter comes to take their entree orders and collect their menus, for even tim feels the heat of his boldness as he speaks. when she leaves, his eyes flicker back to hawk. ]

Thank you for bringing me here. With you.

[i'll do whatever you tell me sends a rush of blood where it absolutely shouldn't be going right now, and it's hard not to think of all those nights propped up at his desk doing exactly that with "skippy", watching him bend every which way and comply with each of his orders to simple perfection. the thought of doing some of those in person, no distance between them, where he might watch pleasure contort across every smooth angle of tim's face for his leisurely perusal...that's more intoxicating than any wine or malted liquor could ever inspire. it makes him think of the car ride too when he watches the pretty blush that seems reluctant to fade from tim's cheeks - it only hits him just now that he's been making generous pours when the boy is a self-confessed non-frequent drinker. and it means something more than just the endearing realization that he's probably getting tipsy off the energy between them and the wine and the rich italian food they're sharing - it means he trusts hawk to let himself get loose and honest and so goddamn earnest.

it's hard not to feel his chest tighten with abject affection at that. hard not to consider how difficult navigating the ride home is going to be when hawk is already reaching his limit of self-restraint at patience when all he wants to do is lean over and plant one on him, to taste how much better this wine is straight from rosy lips and breathe in the familiar scent of him that had lingered on his pillows and sheets, haunting him for weeks after tim left. god. it'll be in his car now, surely adding pep to his step when gets on campus after letting it linger in the mornings among coffee and a cigarette. it'll be there waiting for him in the parking lot, almost like he can pretend tim is at home doing just the same.

fuck. when did he let himself get into it this bad?]

Thank you for coming. With me.

[the moment dies down just a bit when tim finally pulls his hand back, and hawk thinks that'll be the end of it for now - until those soft lips mimic his earlier motion with a sweet kiss to his lips and then, impossibly, another lick of heat when they graze his thumb. he'd be stupefied if there was a kitten lick to accompany it, and thank fuck there isn't, because he's not sure he wouldn't immediately find himself at half mast. the surprise is evident in the way his brows shoot up for a moment, lips parting before he grins and recovers easily, turning and ordering his own meal with a smooth little interaction with the waiter.

the rest of the meal is rewarding in its own way - learning more about tim's aspirations as if they haven't covered it dozens of times already, yet still always revealing a glimmering pearl of something new that hawk wants to covet for himself. he opens up about his own time at georgetown nearly a decade ago, even an anecdote about craig shitfaced and doing the walk of shame across fraternity grounds to the star spangled banner on veterans day after a hookup gone wrong that made the rounds for weeks after.

the sun has long since set, the warmth now flickering across tim's honeyed gaze from the candles lit at their table and the romantic atmosphere only ticking up a notch. he finds himself sneaking glances as tim eats his meal here and there - to watch his lips wrap around a fork, to savor the flavor of something particularly rich, to offer a twinkling little glance of affection the few times he catches hawk do it.

it's a shame it has to come to an end. but hawk swirls the remnants of his final glass of wine, draining its contents in one elegant swallow before flagging down the waiter again.]

We'd be kicking ourselves if we didn't at least try dessert. Could you bring the menu when you've got a sec? Thanks, boss.

[it's an excuse to drag this out a little longer, and an utterly transparent one at that. if anything he looks a tiny bit sheepish when he shrugs at tim.]

This is going to beat anything in my snack drawer, by the way.

[an idea strikes him, and once it takes niggling hold at the root of his thoughts, there is no avoiding it. there's an amused glint in his eye, and he leans forward conspiratorially.]

How about we split something? Thoughts on strawberry cassata cake?

[ tim could never say no to a man like hawkins fuller, especially not now. even though they're not touching and instead spend the next while eating and talking, it's easy to lose track of time. the sun outside dies down to dark, the stars start peeking out in the dusk, and their conversation keeps him engaged to the point he doesn't even fully acknowledge the food he's eating.

he's sure it's a delicious meal - hawk wouldn't go for anything less - and yet he finds himself dazzled by the man across from him. he looks earnestly into the ice blue of his eyes, memorizes the way he smiles or the way he says his name. he learns about the man's time at georgetown, his younger days, craig. and in turn tim tells hawk about his journey to georgetown, some of his own wild little stints with friends thus far, but there aren't many stories like that. it all turns to the future instead.

he's just finished taking another sip of his (what, second?) glass of wine when the evening begins to wind down. this is the part with the checks, goodbyes, the drive back. everything he's dreading. ]

Dessert?

[ he huffs a little and dumbly reaches for his glass of milk, mostly drained and a replacement brought out when the waiter brings with him the dessert menu. more time purchased by way of cake and sweets. tim's smile brightens a little and he leans forward on the table with both elbows, chin perched atop the back of one wrist, hands folded to one side. ]

I don't know - the snack drawer has been pretty incredible. It's like the lady at the front desk knows me or something like that.

[ there's a playful wrinkle of his nose, and it's evident in the way he says it he knows exactly who stocks that snack drawer now. he scoots forward a little in his seat when hawk leans in, his own brows raising over the dark rims of his glasses. his face flushes again. ]

I don't know what that is, but I like strawberries. And I like you well enough so I guess we can split it.

[ there's a little smile, a shrug of a shoulder. the waiter comes back with the menus and confidently tim shakes his head, holding a polite hand up. ]

Sorry, I think we've already decided. Seems someone knows the menu well here. [ he grins. ] Strawberry cassata cake - just one, please. Two forks, though, if you don't mind? Thank you.

[ and there's a nod of understanding from the waiter and he's off again. tim's heart couldn't feel fuller. ]

This has been really wonderful, Hawk.

[yeah, the food hasn't exactly been the highlight he's focusing on here either, even if it is the top notch meal he'd brought time here to celebrate over. christ, he's even forgotten that's what they were here for in the first place - celebrating his win over craig, because it's all too easy to just melt into what he wishes this was at its core. what it is, even if they have to pretend it's not. to focus instead on everything else - every facet of tim's face in a new light - the way he chews as thoughtfully as his face shifts before spitting out some of the most complicated labor law policies, the excitement in his eyes that seems to only grow brighter with each sip of wine, the heavenly glow on his skin and the beautiful flush on his cheeks that deepens with the nighttime warmth of the atmosphere - it's even more rewarding than the steak that's sizzled to perfection placed before him, or the own flutter of warmth he feels in his chest with each additional sip of wine.

it's why he wants to draw it out just a little longer. that, and to avoid the insurmountable desire to just fucking kiss the boy - and the thought of being in close quarters after such an intimate few hours is almost too much to bear. he's already caved and done the most irresponsible possible thing multiple times: meeting skippy after christmas, letting a drugged tim crash at his home, and now - a dinner date with his top student before he's even out of his class. there's just one last line that he cannot and will not be able to justify by any means, trying steadfastly to refuse its persistent gnawing at the base of his skull where he imagines his baser instincts all lie screaming at him to let go. but then again, what would he know? he's a polisci teacher, not in biology. maybe all the bloodflow really is controlled by his dick, which is also a very possible thing.

his legs shift under the table again when tim leans in, pointed toes of his oxfords knocking against his date's with intention and a grin that plays like he's sheepishly been caught.]

Was wondering when you'd figure that out. It didn't start that way, but you're as regular a fixture in there as my favorite chair so it only seemed right.

[after he'd managed to turn tim's despair around after christmas and figured out how far he was going to save pennies for lunch, that's when it started, even if he'll probably never admit it.

he nods when the waiter takes tim's order, smiling in acknowledgment and thanks. his heart feels caught in his chest - tight with such affection and simultaneously pounding in knowing what he wants to do next.]

Yeah, it has.

[he shouldn't say it, but he finds he can't look that sweet face in the eye and leave it unsaid.]

Best date I've ever been on, actually.

[and tim will know well by now - anything hawk says doesn't come from just being kind or for the sake of it. his brows lift, chin tipping up as their thick cake layered with strawberries and cream arrives and is placed between them both.]

Ah. Here we go - I think you're gonna love this.

[hawk snags both the forks at first before tim can, not wanting to lose either the opportunity or his nerve before the moment is well and truly gone. his gaze grows a little harder, more focused as he slowly sticks the fork through the slightly chilled piece, twisting up a decadent dollop of cream and berries in one before lifting it not towards his own mouth, but extending it very clearly for tim to lean in and take himself.]

Try it for me - open up.

[a beat, voice lowering into something low and stretched out.]

Like a good boy.

Edited 2024-03-11 04:24 (UTC)

The best I've been on. I mean it.

[ he's been on a few dates here and there - once with a girl from church his mother tried to pair him with. second, with a girl from bible school. one other girl in college because he truly thought maybe he could figure himself out without the church involved. but figuring himself out meant a boy with a pretty face named arthur, and that night the timbre of his prayers changed.

it's no different now - sitting across from hawk in the dim light of the restaurant, feeling hazy and warm from the wine. he's had far, far too much at this point, he knows that much. there's no turning back now, but he would drink another bottle if it meant prolonging this little date.

the cake arrives, though, perfectly prompt to his great dismay, but hawk swipes the forks and he blinks up at him, surprised and wide-eyed. he almost opens his mouth to protest, but then -

ah. ]

It looks delicious, sir.

[ tim's mouth has suddenly run dry, his face heating a little more and he leans his chin heavily on his folded hands, watching as hawk cuts the slice, scoops some of the cream, and a slice of fresh strawberry. it moves across the table in slow motion and tim feels as though he stands on the precipice of something - something that should he leap toward and across, there will be no true return. ]

Only for you, mister.

[ tim's voice drops, a little playful, his doe-eyes heavy lidded and cheeks flushed. he looks everything the long-lashed temptress he does when on camera, lips poised into an innocent little pout that reeks of innocent curiosity. his hands drop to the table and he presses up a little, scooting out of his chair enough to lean in. there's no one too close on their side of the restaurant so he decides to milk it, opening plush lips but first extending his tongue, letting it catch the underside of the fork.

it's slow, the way he curls his tongue and lips around the helping of the cake, and it's no accident he lets some smudge at the corner of his mouth. he tips his head back enough to take the bite from the fork itself, to savor the flavor and close his eyes in a low, pleased hum.

he leaves the frosting at the corner, and remains leaned in, lifted just slightly over the dessert between them. the wine makes him bold, brave. but not enough to cross enemy lines just yet. ]

It's so good. How did you know I like strawberries and cream so much? I must have been a very good boy to earn this.

[it occurs to him that he really ought to ask how many dates tim has been on - not for ego's sake (well - maybe a little bit for ego's sake) - but to gauge what that really means. sometimes it's still hard to reconcile the boy on camera who he'd assumed must have men falling for him left and right, dying to spend even just five minutes of time with him in whatever method was allowed. that assumption had extended into the daydreams about real life too - did he have a boyfriend? single? dating around? surely he had his pick of anyone he wanted. but then there's the tim he knows and remembers the slurred words of in the hospital that day, affirming there really wasn't anyone here for him. no friends, certainly no boyfriend, and not even classmates who might think twice other than to copy notes when they'd ditched.

it seems utterly unfathomable to him that it would be that way - that the light he sees in tim that is overwhelmingly vibrant and beautiful and unique would be otherwise unobserved by almost everyone around him. of course there are other teachers who admire his contributions - but they won't remember him the way hawk does, moreso a passing fascination and a novelty that a student is willing to put in so much extra work. that someone is actually thoughtful in their answers, not on auto-pilot to get a great and get out of the class. it's why no one's gone the extra mile to nurture him, to reach in and shape the rough edges of the diamond that's inside into something glittering and spectacular, ready to dazzle the world.

(that's why he knows his own time is limited - because someday everyone else will catch up. they'll see tim for all the kindness and warmth and intelligence he possesses, and they will elevate him to the pedestal he should occupy. they'll adore him, and hawk will be the one fading into the background, irrelevant - just a stepping stone along the way.)

but there's little time to linger on the way his chest twinges with something painful at that idea, instead lining up the first bite of dessert and offering it oh so politely to his date, just like a gentleman should. none of this was going to be chaste, per se - but hawk immediately realizes there's a very solid chance he's completely underestimated tim's ability to set his entire chest ablaze, dick twitching with want as he watches the show unfold. and it really is something of a show - not the finessed, choreographed kind of thing he remembers from earlier streams, but the moment just getting the better of tim and letting him dive headfirst into it, the only way he knows how. he watches him scoot in eagerly, eyes falling half-lidded between a coquettish little declaration that this is all for hawk - his mister, and then he pushes himself up with his back arched the way he might to show off that pretty pink hole hawk knows lies beneath. sticks out his tongue, gleaming under the dim lighting as it wraps around the underside of the fork.

there's no way that cream left at the corner of his mouth is anything but intentional - made to drive him slowly into temptation with no deliverance from the evil of it. fuck, hawk wants to grip him by the collar and drag him in, taste the strawberries and cream from the inside of his mouth and no other way. lick him clean, savor every inch of that velvety warmth and cherish the precise flavor of timothy laughlin. make him moan around it, moreso than he already is over the silvery tines of the fork.

tim should know he has hawkins fuller wrapped around a finger in that moment, rooted to his seat, utterly riveted by what's on display for him. what ultimately, he just can't touch. well - not completely.]

Yeah, fucking delicious.

[he hasn't had a single bite, but that's not what he's talking about anyway. but he leans in anyway, thumb brushing against the corner of tim's mouth where that little peak of white lingers. it's tempting to bring it to his own mouth, but instead he drags it along the seam of tim's lips, waiting for him to open his mouth and suck it inward.]

You've been real good. You want some more?

[ it's the wine making him bold, making him feel the fire under his skin and embrace it instead of being sheepish and shy about it. there's nothing to stop him now from trying for more with hawk, except that it is indeed hawkins fuller on the other side of the table. the invisible lines are drawn between them, but there's a hunger in the man's eyes that tim knows means those lines might bend a little here and there.

it's different still from the boy on the camera, though. he's less lewd, less showy, less pushy, but there's a heat in his own eyes, heavy-lidded, dark lashes fanning against his cheeks at the compliment. ]

It is delicious.

[ he nearly opens his mouth to speak again, but hawk's thumb swipes at the cream, and there's so little hesitance in the way his mouth opens against the pad of his thumb, the way he doesn't just press a kitten lick like might be expected, but instead the way he sucks his thumb in to the first knuckle even, swirling his tongue around the sweet confection there against his skin before tipping his head back with a soft pop.

tim's eyes stay locked on hawk's the whole time, even as he grins, hums a low little teasing sound, all to lead up to that soft, little kitten lick against his thumbprint. just a tiny little chase for something more.

they're tucked into the back, and hawk's broad shoulders no doubt hide most of this from view anyway, tim shifts his weight a little, hips a little better on display over the arch of his back as he waits. ]

Please, sir. [ his heart pounds, the wine makes his blood simmer, and it's easy to forget the rest of the room. he will let hawkins fuller feed him this sweet cake until he chooses he's tired of it. what will it mean when this ends? when the cake has run out and they have to return to the life they had before this? ]

I want anything you're willing to give me, mister.

[it is different from the boy on the camera. better, because this isn't a performance - and it's just for his eyes only. christ, he's fucking stunning this close up. the dark swathe of his lashes against the tops of his rosy cheeks, enlarged by the thick magnification of his lenses. the way he looks loose and pliant and utterly at ease in his own skin for once - not pretending to be something or someone he isn't. hawk knows this is the real tim, the boy he's come to adore over hours in his office for his wit and his naive optimism, his full commitment to the greater good and the betterment of the world. god knows he's made hawk's life a hell of a lot better by mere existence, and certainly by sitting across from him like this and going on the first real date he's been on since maybe his early 20s.

but that mouth, oh jesus - it sends a searing pulse of want straight down to his groin, eyes widening briefly before narrowing in a simmer of self-control. his lips tug to one side in a pleased smirk, thumb flexing lightly in tim's mouth as he feels the soft wetness swirling around the digit. it lasts simultaneously mere seconds and yet time stands still - hawk trying to memorize the little flash of pink retreating, the way his mouth looks held open as he tilts back and releases it like he's doing something else instead. fuck, it shouldn't be this easy to make him feel hot under the collar, a pulsing throb rushing down to his dick. what hawk wouldn't give to drag him by his shirt across the table and taste the cream straight from his mouth, to swirl his own tongue against tim's.

fuck. he can't. this is playing with fire - and he forces himself to steady his breath and keep his shit together. the cold rush of reality is that tim is probably tipsy by now, and anything more than this would make him no better than the man at that pizza parlor months ago. please sir is an unfair testament to his iron will in this moment, that he doesn't do something stupid like nudge his oxford up tim's calf or worse.

still. it's hard not to be endeared much as he is utterly turned on in the moment. hawk's smirk softens into something fond, hand cupping his cheek briefly as he stabs another bite onto his fork and offers it over again.]

Here, have some more.

You make it look good.

[his gaze drops to the way tim is perched up against the table, swallowing thickly and glancing over his shoulder briefly before turning back and lowering his voice anyway.]

Better than what's on this plate, that's for damn sure.

[ how can they go back to civil conversations divided by desks and chairs now, mediated by essays and projects and academia. he wants nothing more than to slide his chair round the side of the table and take up space beside the man, press into his side and breathe in his aftershave again, to let him taste just how delicious the dessert indeed is.

it's filthy, thinking this way. it's nearly filthy what he's doing, leaning over and accepting each healthy forkful. he shouldn't be so obscene in public, shouldn't show this much interest in general, but the wine has made him bold, and the romance of the night even bolder.

so he leans to take the next bite, as slow and sensuous as the one before, but just as he closes his mouth around only half the bite (resulting in icing of course spreading upon his lips), he reaches to catch hawk's wrist as his head pulls away, thumb pressing into his pulsepoint like before as his free hand pries the fork away.

licking his lips, tim turns the fork instead toward hawk - the half bite left on the tines, icing smudged and waiting. ]

But you haven't even tried it. You should. I'll share, sir.

[ he offers the fork out himself to hawk, just as the man had done for him, and tim's cheeks burn with the thought of his own audacity here - the courage he'd never had with any other date before. it doesn't help that the heat has traveled down his chest and has made his cock throb with want in a way he's not experienced.

he wants hawk to want him. and while his coquettish behavior should be punishable by some, he can't help himself. he likes being this boy for hawk, and likes exploring just what this sort of affection can be like when they're far from campus.

it's silly, that a date like this gives him some kind of hope. he's seen movies, tv shows - dates like this end in sex, end in goodbyes, end in shame. but leaning over the table, fork extended, tim's earnestness is genuine and hopeful. ]

I promise you'll love it. What's on the plate, and off.

[really, how can they? hawk doesn't think it's possible, knowing everything between them is forever altered - an undercurrent of heat, the dangerous flirtation and blatant attraction utterly gaping and palpable between them. maybe a part of it always was, letting tim get as close as he has. ushering him in, tending to him in his time of need. would he have done that if it was a student that didn't perform as well? didn't have pretty brown doe eyes and long, nimble fingers tapping away with a face still undeniably handsome even as it scrunched in concentration? a student who hawk hadn't seen get himself off only by filthy words typed out on a screen, begging for release and guidance as easily as he might ask for clarification on an argument against dubai foreign policy.

this would all be a lot harder to justify if they didn't only have finals to get through. and then - on a technicality, he'll be relieved of his duties as tim's professor, instead reverting to a former acquaintance. if he was worth his salt, he'd be nothing but a reference for tim to use on his future burgeoning opportunity at a career in washington - because despite all the lines he's crossing by sitting in this very seat, watching tim suck at his thumb and groan around a fork of cake like a goddamn coquette - hawk wouldn't compromise him like that. and frankly, the sane part of him that still lives somewhere in his head wouldn't do it either.

but it's awfully hard to care when he watches that pretty pink tongue drag creamy white slow across his glistening lips, when his pulse jumps against that gentle press against his wrist. he relinquishes his grip on the fork with interest, tipping his head mildly as he wonders where tim is going with this. he's half expecting him to eat the rest in some other obscene measure, something that will have him utterly throbbing beneath his already rapidly tightening inseam - but instead tim goes and surprises him, utterly thoughtful despite this heated exchange. that's the skippy he knows - never too buried in his books to remember to be sweet, wine-drunk and heady with this anomaly between them, but still focused on offering hawk something too.

there's an affectionate warmth in his eyes, hawk glancing down through his lashes for a moment in consideration before he reaches out to grab tim's wrist in an expert mimic of the motion he'd just slipped past - fingers flexing against the bare skin and using it to pull the fork closer, opening his mouth and taking the bite of it without much pretense or fanfare. he's not the one to put on a show, to make it an indulgence the way tim can - but his gaze is heavy, deliberate in the way he fixes it on tim and maintains eye contact the entire time. there should be no question how deep the ocean of want that roils inside him is for timothy laughlin - it's bottomless, much in the same way it remains almost wholly unexplored.

he pulls back with an absent lick of his own lips, nodding in agreement and stroking lightly up tim's arm for a brief moment before pulling back.]

Pretty damn good. Shame the other one isn't on the menu.

[it doesn't have to be forever. we could - ]

Not yet, anyway.

[there's a conspiratorial grin, hawk extending his hand for the fork again.]

You want some more?

[ hawk's eyes burn through him and even though that broad palm wraps around his hand, thumb pressing at his pulse and sliding along his skin with an expert ease, tim finds himself unable to blink as he meets the man's gaze. it takes the air out of his lungs, makes the blood warm and move faster beneath his skin, makes the fly of his jeans grow a hair more taut and he's sure he could burst into flames here.

hawk eats the cake with little show, but it's the tension between them, the connection of electricity unseen between the flutter of their lashes. when hawk speaks, he lets out the breath he hadn't meant to hold, finds himself absolutely shaken by how fixed he'd been in that moment, trapped in the quick sand of want and need and heady desire, bottomless and vast - laid out cleanly on a silver-tined fork. ]

Not yet.

[ not yet, hawk says and suddenly the world shifts somehow. it'd stared with no, never, can't to this. to not yet, not now, maybe, one day. the crevasse that lies between them is vast, yes, but not daunting. hawkins fuller wants him, desires timothy laughlin - not skippy. that alone is a fucking prize tonight. ]

You should have some first.

[ and in a little hint of cheeky defiance, he reaches to set the used fork across the small dessert plate before hawk, leaning enough that when he slides back, he lets his fingers trail over his forearm again, to his wrist, to tangle idly with his fingers like before.

cheeky, bold, wanting in a way he shouldn't, but at the very least he knows he can have this. and with his free hand he takes up the clean fork, stabs a bite from the remainder of the cake and pops it to his lips, all the while his fingers trace a tiny little pattern against his palm.

the honeyed brown of his own eyes raises then behind the thick rims of his glasses and he hums, thoughtful, nose scrunching in at the corners, eyes crinkling. ]

We'll have to look for cassiopeia later, when we leave. It's dark out - clear. We should be able to see her in the sky if we look hard enough on the drive back. It's said she holds the brightest star in the night sky.

[it's strange to think he's done such a good job burying his desires - because he'll never forget how exposed he felt in broad daylight among christmas festivities and otherwise innocent bystanders amid that coffee shop months ago. like the whole place must have had eyes in the back of their head, that he was on full display with a neon sign spelling out that hawkins fuller was here to fuck a boy he's paid for the company. putting a face to the name and having that name turn out to be tim? of course he'd doubled back, pretended it wasn't real. his first line of defense had been to deny, deny, deny - but the further along it went, the more he knew he'd never be able to keep it that way forever. especially not if it meant watching him wilt away, though he's not so arrogant to think it's his attention alone that brought tim back like a flower moved out of the shadows and back into the sun, ready to bloom once more.

how could he do anything but want? it's practically eletric between them - and it has been ever since he set foot into hawk's classroom, christ.

so maybe it's clouding his judgment from never, can't, no to maybe, one day, soon. because he's been living in this fog the whole time, and having tim in front of him now, wide-eyed and flushed with admiration? it's clearing it up real quick for him.

hawk lets his fingers twine around tim's again, thumb brushing across his knuckles as he watches him pick up the fork and take his own bite this time. he gestures for him with a come hither motion to do it again, to turn it his way so he can open his mouth and have another to savor. it is pretty damn good, after all, and while it's sweet enough that he doubts he'll be able to take a stab at finishing the whole thing - he wants to draw this out as long as he can. before they have to get into close quarters with tim so warm and enticing for an hour and some change. before they have to head back to campus and pretend it's business as usual between them, that this hasn't changed everything for him, left him with a burning fire in his groin and his very soul that wants to consume the pretty thing sitting across from him looking utterly enamored.

but - it's the mention of cassiopeia that has him quirking his brows for a moment before his face smooths out and he tosses his head back and actually laughs. it's a genuine thing, easy and open and when he leans forward again with a little shake from side to side before looking at tim, there's equal measures of fondness and amusement in his eyes.]

You know - the first time you mentioned that, I had no idea what the fuck it was. Went along with it because, well - I was a little preoccupied, and I wasn't about to stop things to ask.

[it's maybe the first time he's acknowledged the reality of those sessions ever since shutting it down. admitting and making the connection between the two halves of their existence - now forever merged.]

You'll have to point her out to me. Not sure she can outshine you, though.

[ tim knows that he shouldn't be eager to devour the sweet confection between them, but he can't help himself. his diet at school isn't the best, and the meal he's been given tonight on so many levels has been more wonderful and rich than anything he's had in years. he takes his own bite, then offers hawk another, nose wrinkling cutely at the little come hither motion.

it's easy to think that this is what their relationship could be - soft and warm and wanting from all directions. hawk's fingers around his, words against his ear, mouth on his knuckles, and they're done. but the acknowledgement of their meeting is a lot, heavy and real between them - the first time you mentioned that. tim curls their fingers together and sets his fork down. yes, there is some cake left, of course, but he won't eat all of it.

even if he wants to. ]

You can ask, you know. I know it's stupid, but I always felt like I could say whatever I wanted with you. During those sessions. Like your intelligence could match or best mine. Interrupt, next time.

[ he shrugs one shoulder, almost sheepish. ]

I think I'd find it hot, anyway. The instructor being instructed, and all. But no, I can't outshine you. That's what I meant.

[ he smiles a little, earnest and honest, before nudging the fork back in hawk's direction. tim keeps his hand in hawk's even as the server comes to inquire about the check, brings them the bill to close out their night. the fact that it has to end at all is enough to make him want to wither and cling and beg for a few minutes more, but he doesn't.

he watches as hawk elegantly signs his name, even as the server brings a little nondescript to-go box to take the remainder of the cake (hawk insisted, of course). but it's the weight of the man's arm around his back that gets him when they rise. the wine seems to hit him a little more as he stands, but it's a pleasant, humming sort of buzz that warms him from head to toe.

he follows hawk out into the cool, night air and sighs a little, keeping one of his own arms at hawk's back, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of his shirt. what is it to touch this man - to be even in his presence like this and be wanted so much but be so out of reach? what would he do, if he tip-toed up and kissed him here in front of the flashing lights of the restaurant's signs? he won't. but the thought is there when he tips his head up, letting his chin plop on hawk's shoulder for a moment so that he can talk a little quieter and stop him just short of the car. ]

If you look up, you can see her, you know. [ he grins a little, boyish and sweet, turning his body at an angle to hawk's, chest to his side as he reaches his free hand and points to one bright star in a cluster of five, forming a faint little w in the sky, blinking brightly down at them. ]

She was said to have unrivaled beauty. But don't read into the myth too much. She's up there as a punishment, really, they say. But I just think that it's beautiful that she has the brightest star in all of the sky, anyway.

[this is the part he's been dreading all night - signing off on that bill like it's closing the door on this frankly fucking magical evening. it means going back to pretending like he wasn't just feeding strawberries and cream to this bright boy, watching him lick it off his lips and imagining what they might look like somewhere else. it means polite and professional and strictly political - at least, where anyone might see them. because what else will tim have to come visit him for once he's done with this course? maybe there are other idiots in the department like lonigan he'll be in the vicinity for, but spending hours with hawkins fuller - that'll be a thing of the past.

which is why it's exceedingly tempting to think about what happens when tim is no longer his student. it's too close a technicality - one he never would have even considered months before, no matter how sweet the scrunch of his nose when he laughed, or how entrancing the way his lips wrapped around pencils in clear evidence of an oral fixation. timothy laughlin would have just been his star pupil - someone he was attracted to in both mind and body - but he wonders if the sex, physical or not, is what really tipped this over the edge. it's hard to say - and seems especially unlikely given the way hawk eagerly slips up behind him as a clearly wine-tipsy, maybe even drunk tim rises to slightly shaky feet and he can't help but slide his hand to the small of his back and guide him like a lover would to the front door.

and once they're out in that perfect summer breeze - he lets it lift to wrap around his shoulders and keep him close as they walk side by side down the sidewalk and up the block to his car.

what might it be like, years from now? will he and tim be more than a fleeting infatuation and do this every other night? or will they be too gone on each other to do more than race home to get into bed with each other and stay there until hunger reminds them takeout is the only thing still open at such an obscene hour? or...worse, will they simply fade apart and peter out like everything else in hawk's life? it's hard not to consider it - to be reminded again no matter how much he tries to think around it, that tim is the one that's going to have options. his dreams are going to catapult him skyward, higher maybe even than the smattering of stars in a brilliant array spread out above them.

it'd be punishment for hawk, no one else. maybe he deserves it.]

I see her. She's nice and bright, but she's got nothing on you.

[hawk nudges tim's hip lightly in a tease, still not making any moves to guide them back towards the car. a little longer and he can pretend this is how it'll be.]

Why'd she end up being punished anyway? What was it you said - instructing the instructor?

Go on, Professor Laughlin.

[hawk turns, grin stretching his lips and pressing against the shell of his hear. it's audible in the teasing tone, the way he sounds near almost childish giggling.]

Hawkins Z. Fuller - present for class. I'm listening. But I hope there's no quiz later.

[ it must be the wine that has him so easily charmed by everything hawkins fuller says to him, and yet even the simplest joke about a star, bright and high in the sky, turned compliment makes him snort a little laugh, blushing heavy and hot in the cool summer air.

he sways a tiny bit with the bump of a hip, letting his fingers grip against hawk's side where his arm has come to rest, slung low round his back and broad palm on his side. he's warm, sturdy, and the lips against the shell of his ear send heat white-hot and whip-fast shooting down down down south making the black, slender jeans feel all the tighter at their seams. but hawk sounds delighted, giddy even and something about that makes his heart skip a beat in his chest.

when he turns his head to speak to hawk, he realizes how close they are, nose bumping the man's, but it doesn't stop him from speaking as they walk. ]

It's really not romantic. I've been told I'm a terrible liar, or I'd just make something up that was much more interesting. But the tale's told that she boasted about her beauty - that she was even more beautiful than the Nereids. Poseidon was furious with this, and it's said he made her sacrifice her daughter to the sea and he sent her to sit in the throne she felt she deserved, but in the sky. Upside down, so no one could ever truly behold her beauty.

[ he huffs a little, sheepish, shrugging one shoulder as he finishes the tale, glancing away from hawk and up the street. two blocks more to the car, and then the dream will shatter beneath their feet. the pavement turned to glass, the carriage into pumpkins, and all the magic will wash away.

he tilts his head back up then to hawk, nose crinkled, brow pinched in thought. ]

And maybe I shine bright, but I don't think there's anyone on this whole Earth so beautiful as you. It's probably better she's way up there - there would be no competition.

I hope you took excellent notes, Mr. Fuller. I can't promise there won't be a quiz later - divulging that to you would go against my code of conduct. Lips sealed, alright?

[ and it's so brief, so faint and light, the way he boyishly lets his lips catch the corner of hawk's mouth after his own nose bumps against hawk's cheek, the way it's fleeting and shy like a doe spooked at the coming of dawn, and tim tilts his head a little surprised by his own boldness but a youthful, burning pride in it, too. his eyes are turned again on the sidewalk. ]

[god, it takes every shred of willpower not to focus on the way tim looks with a flush of inebriation - to try and force himself to listen to his tragic tale, to learn something that isn't the way his eyes look like honey under a twinkling sky or his lips glisten enticingly with every word uttered. the only quiz he's interested in is the kind that requires a hands-on approach: the precise measurement of tim's body slotted against his own, the press of his hip and how it might feel if it were turned to fit precisely on top of his front in a tangle of limbs. he feels like a fucking teenager ready to lose himself - one wrong word or move away from just fucking snapping and dragging tim to the car, driving him somewhere quiet and otherwise forgotten except for poseidon and whoever else wanted to fucking see real beauty still walking the earth.

but tim's definitely tipsy enough to think twice - even if there wasn't the matter of finals next week and the end of another semester to contend with. even if he doesn't question the idea that tim wouldn't turn him down and that it's nowhere near the same as watching him stumble into his office after getting drugged by some creep - it wouldn't sit well with him to let their first time be something cramped and desperate that has room for error and regret. tim deserves more than that - to have that impossibly toned body laid out and worshipped from head to toe. the thought clouds over rational thought enough that he barely catches the last part - the compliment, the sweetness that's too genuine to be considered flattery he can brush off.

hawk laughs lightly, shaking his head in protest.]

Well, I was about to say maybe you need to get out more - but it's a little hard to go visit -

[he waves his hand with a twist of his wrist, as if to say he won't even bother trying to pronounce cassiopeia and embarrass himself.]

Everything I need to know is up here. I couldn't forget anything about a night like tonight.

[he taps at his temple, glancing down at tim's lips like a fucking pavlovian response when he has the audacity to mention them directly and torture hawk. he doesn't think his boy is sly enough to have done it intentionally, but it's enough to distract him from the witty response on the tip of his tongue as tim darts forward unexpectedly and presses an utterly sweet, chaste little kiss to the corner of his mouth. and there comes the final lesson: how ridiculously soft his lips are, how the wine smells mingled with his breath as he drags away with the little brush of his nose.

he should ignore it - should just smile and escort him over to the car that's just up the street, in easy view. so fucking close and yet so far.

except, hawk does neither of those things. no, he takes a beat to look at the way tim's expression is torn between wonder at his own courage in the moment and the fear of having crossed a line they've both been skirting since december. instead, he presses both hands to tim's cheeks and cups them, trying to force his gaze up by the abruptness of it, to make sure he sees it coming and can try and stop him moments before he surges forward and seals his lips against him in a heated kiss that's well overdue. christ, how long has he been dreaming of this?]

[ the mythologies of the world and the stars high above their heads suddenly mean nothing to timothy laughlin, who stands beneath them tucked into the warmth of hawkins fuller's side. this day, from start to finish, has been something he will never truly be able to remove from his memory, to take off of his heart, even he tried. the shy kiss to his lips would be enough, he's sure, to have hawk moving him toward the car, ushering them away to school to put a close on whatever this is.

tim knows better than to think he can get away with it, than to think that toeing across the line that the man has clearly drawn for him is a good idea. he'll blame it on the wine later which, true, he's feeling, but not enough to cloud his judgement. it gives him a hint of courage and that's all a boy like timothy laughlin needs.

the sound he makes when hawk's hands leave his shoulders and cradle his face, forcing his gaze up to the searing blue he's been memorizing all night, all the air leaves his chest. he thinks, at first, he's about to be scolded - told firmly that he must adhere to the limitations set for them even as far back as december, and yet -

his body acts on its own when the man's lips seal over his and his free hand comes instinctively to hawk's chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. he leans up into the kiss, hard and wanting, gasping a sound of surprised against the pressure as his eyes slip closed and his mouth parts, easy and pliable and so desperately wanting of this.

what must he taste like - all strawberry cream and wine and heady spice? will time stop passing for them in this moment where his stomach both flips giddily and churns with desperate need?

it's not fully conscious the way he closes the space between their bodies - nothing lewd or untoward, just removing air and any sign of interruption in a desperate bit for closeness. should hawk let him deepen the kiss, he will - and lick hot into his mouth on a quiet little hum even as his hand leaves hawk's chest to slide up against his shoulder and hold him a little tighter. ]

One more. Please?

[ it's a mumbled little bid, a pouting sort of demand, as he parts briefly for a breath and kisses him again, with no hesitation this time, no question as to where they are or who might see because in this brief moment. it doesn't matter, anyway - there's nothing but he and hawk here, and the stars above them. anyone else will see two lovers in the dim lamplight and move on by. ]

Edited 2024-04-03 16:20 (UTC)

[nothing else matters right now. not any of the passerby, not the fact that the drive is probably going to be shorter on the way in with traffic dying down, and certainly not anything other than the taste of tim's lips and the way his hands feel against his chest nor the radiating warmth from how close he's standing. christ, how long has he been dreaming of this? it's undeniably dangerous to let himself know what he tastes like with strawberries and cream and sweet red and know how his breath feels this close, or to let his hand slide and grip firm at the back of his neck where he can tip it back and both control the deepness of it and give tim some leeway to set just how much more he'd like. the groan that slips out of him doesn't even register as his own when he lets his tongue slip inside, twining against tim's with a hunger that no steak or dessert could ever fill.

the first thing he ought to do when he pulls back is cease all contact, step back like tim might scald him as if he'd left his hand too long on a hot iron. he should apologize for the overstep, tell him to forget it just like he did in december.

but they're not the same people they were last december, are they? too much has passed between them - and certainly, tonight is a step forward that he doesn't want to take back. so hawk lets his grip shift again lightly to tim's cheeks, eyes opening slowly as if he might keep the dream of this moment a little longer. tim's a vision up close - hazy in the tilt of his head, impossibly sweet the way he asks as if he's merely wanting another forkful of cake. there's something that tugs at his chest with it, how endeared he is - fucking gone, really, because the thought of saying no doesn't even cross his mind again.]

Mhm. Another one, only because you asked so sweet.

[there's a soft tug of his lips into a smile before he leans forward again, trying to keep it a gentle press of his mouth so he isn't tempted to stand here all night and memorize the smell, taste, and feel of him. to count down the days until he can feel it even closer and at their own leisure.

shit. of course he knows it won't be enough right now.]

[ the way his body fits against hawk's feels divine - like he was meant to fold into his chest and kiss him like this. he can remember, hazily, how it had felt when the man had carried him from campus to the hospital and back - how he just slotted against him like he was meant to be there. it feels like that now, pressed up to him and kissing him, the heavy weight of hawk's hand at his neck.

although he's just about as tall as hawk is, he feels himself needing to tip-toe up for the way he could melt right now, nudging into their fiery kiss with a yearning reach for more, more, more. but it will always feel like this - passing moments together from this instance on. it will drive him mad.

tim grins up at hawk, letting their noses brush together softly as hawk comes in for the next kiss graciously granted. it's soft, a simple, gentle press of his mouth and it's pathetic how he sighs into it, the hand at hawk's shoulder sliding so that his arm hooks round his neck and keeps him close. it was meant to be a simple little kiss, he's sure, but tim parts his lips and instead of the fierce, hungry thing from a few moments earlier, it's slow - a soft and languid twine of his tongue past soft lips, so that when he does pull back for air, he's flushed hot and left awed by him. ]

Please don't make me let go of you right now.

[ he wants to stay close, wants to hold him like this could be their forever, even as he tilts his head and presses his mouth against the corner of hawk's lips again, nosing at his cheek when his lips press one final kiss to his jawline. ]

Does this have to end?

[ there's the wine talking a little, voice whispered between them as tim all but asks the question against hawk's mouth, his eyes flitting to look up at hawk under dark lashes. he worries the corner of his own mouth between his teeth after he asks the question, heart pounding in his chest. his fingers have slid into the hair at his nape, the blunt of his nails soft against his scalp. ]

[it's funny how time can stand still and speed up so much in the span of a mere minute. tim presses up against him onto his toes, seeking it out in a physical manifestation that none of this is quite enough. and now that he's gone and broken one of his own cardinal rules - hawk suspects it never will be again, not when there's a soft nuzzle of tim's nose against his own, a butterfly kiss on top of the chaste one he's trying to place here so they can part and try not to think more on it. but it's a foolish endeavor from the start - hawk knowing when tim sighs into it that simply letting go isn't an option. it didn't work in december, and it sure as hell won't work now - now that he knows how tim feels pressed against his body so willingly.

fuck. it's not a filthy kiss this time, even if it wasn't the first, but there is a slow build to it, the kind of hunger and passion that's barely masked even though hawk's desperately trying to contain the bulk of it behind one of his already cracked facades. his lips pull back even if his body refuses to let go of tim right now - pressing his forehead against the other man's and exhales sharply against his lips with a slight shake of his head.]

Couldn't even if I wanted to.

[and that's the fucking truth. it's a heavy, vulnerable thing to admit - but the thought of letting tim down when he looks up through heavy lidded doe-eyes makes it all but impossible to stop. hawk inhales for a moment, holding it in and thinking about all the merits of willpower and his career on the line before making the decision in a split second. one hand falls to slip between tim's with a soft squeeze against his palm, and he pulls away to glance both ways before tugging him towards the car in the short distance.]

C'mere.

[i can't let this end either, he wants to say. but instead he practically drags tim back to the car, opening his door and letting him slide in before coming round the driver's side with measured intention and shutting his own. there's a pause, considering that he could shove his key in and start the ignition - get on the road before he does anything stupid. instead, he turns at the waist, both hands reaching for tim's cheeks again as he drags him in with all the ferocity he's been holding back behind the added privacy of dim street lights and darkened windows. there's a hunger in the way he groans against his lips, like he might devour tim whole if he were afforded the opportunity the way his jaw works and his tongue slips inside that plush mouth.]

[ there's no denying the way his heart sinks when hawk pulls away finally even after the languorous kiss. of course they can't stand in the street kissing like lovesick fools all night - reality has to come knocking and as hawk pulls away, tim knows that their night is coming to an end. he squeezes the man's hand as they part, blinking up at him a little dazed still. ]

Right. Okay.

[ he tries to take a deep breath, to steady the wild rhythm of his heart as the man tugs him along the half block to the car. it feels hurried in a way that tim can't clock, and he settles into the passenger side feeling as though the world is spinning around him. his lips still burn, his chest warm, and already he misses how safe he'd felt pressed against hawkins fuller in the middle of the lamplight.

he tracks hawk's movement, watches him as he gets in and out of habit reaches for his own seatbelt once hawk's door closes. right. it has to end. reality is here and they will leave the lovey haze of this date (this reward, he reminds himself), and return to whence they came. so there's little to prepare him for the way hawk reaches for him, grabs at him and kisses him with a fervor that makes tim groan loudly into the kiss.

he uses once hand to brace himself on the center console but the other reaches blindly for hawk, fingers fisting in his shirt and pulling him even closer. tim leans much the same way he had at the dinner table, tilting his head to deepen the kiss further and let his tongue match hawk's, sliding and yearning and seeking as though tim is nothing more than a man drowning.

the noise that tumbles into the kiss is akin to something hawk has undoubtedly heard on one of their private video sessions. a moan, almost musical in the way it rumbles between their lips and the noise of their shared kiss, coupled with the tightening of fingers in hawk's shirt, knuckles pressed hard into the muscle above his heart. ]

[there's no reason to linger on the way tim sounds so disappointed by the revelation, the knowledge that this has to come to its inevitable conclusion. that they'll be forced to go back to the boundary that's been broken all the same - separated by desks and dissertations even if the time spent together has a new thrum of heat and an added layer or familiarity they can never share on georgetown campus. hawk has to let himself push forward, to just get to the car before his resolve breaks and he considers the fantasy of what they can't have just yet.

it takes a moment to steel himself in the car too, to pretend he doesn't see the way tim is almost pouting with disappointment and reaching to secure himself when they have precious little space to begin with. it's why he all but launches himself over the middle console, encouraging tim to twist and lean forward for something that much more ardent. hawk can't remember the last time he kissed someone, let alone made out with them at his own leisure. it doesn't usually come up unless it's a precursor to getting them face down and fucked out.

but tim makes him want to take his time, to explore the velvety insides of his mouth and let their tongues twist and slide against each other with a need that borders on desperation. one arm drops to snake around tim's shoulders best as he can from this angle, the other hand slipping to let his fingers press hard around tim's jaw and keep directing him into kiss after heated kiss. anything to feel the vibrations of his groans, to let those keening noises find their way into his own mouth and possess them forever.

now his restraint teeters on the dangerous reality of keeping his hands above the waist, even if his own inseam is uncomfortably tight and he'd like to see if tim's mirrors it. he recognizes those tempting little tidbits smattered between kisses - and he wants to know if the rest of them would materialize from stimulation torn straight from the transcripts of their late night chats that feel like a fucking age ago.

hawk nips hungrily at his lips in quick succession, pulling away and breathing hard against his mouth.]

Christ, Skippy - could keep at this all night. You've got no idea how long I've been wanting to do that.

[they can't, but he doesn't feel the need to vocalize it when he could just dive back in and kiss him again.]

[ it would be so easy to stay like this, leaning across the center arm rest, letting the older man pull him in and in and in, over and over again. the hand against his jaw directs him back for kiss after kiss, the silence of the car punctuated instead by the wet slide of their tongues, the huffs of little breaths between, and the low groans shared between them.

if this where anywhere else he might consider more - might consider dragging hawk's hand lower, encouraging him to touch and feel and grab and move him to the backseat and make this night something different altogether. but as they pull away, hawk nipping at his lips, tim finds himself breathless, nosing against the man and pressing little fluttering kisses against his lips ]

You've got no idea how long I've wanted you to do that.

[ he smiles, a little dopey and sweet for all the fire that is burning between them right now. his own jeans are impossibly tight, and what would it be like to grab the man's hand and drag it down where he can grab it, feel it, rut into it and get some more base relief. but no, instead he stays leaned up on the center, turned so that one knee is tucked under him. he's sure in the dim light it would be obvious to see how his jeans are straining now.

he tilts his head a little, letting his tongue swipe at the swell of hawk's bottom lip, a kittenish lick before turning his head and licking the pad of hawk's thumb once again, like they had in the restaurant. it's brief, the way his free hand grabs at hawk's wrist and tugs it free from his face. he lets his mouth trail to his palm, the tip of his tongue tracing the lifeline there once before he presses a kiss to it, then to his wrist.

then, and only then, does he lean back just slightly. the hand over hawk's heart loosens, presses flat to the broad chest there, petting slowly and smoothing out his shirt. ]

I want more. I... I want you. [ he only meets hawk's eyes when he finishes the statement, and he noses into his hand he's holding, dragging his palm to his cheek and holding it there. ]

But only when you... when you won't regret it. I don't want to break all of your rules. I... tonight has been wonderful. The best night of my life, because it was with you. I'm your boy, through and through, and even a boy's gotta protect his mister sometimes. Even if I don't want to.

[ the hand on his chest slides up, wandering to hawk's throat, his neck, letting his fingers lightly rest at the soft lobe of his ear, thumb pressing a soft little circle against it, pressed between it and a forefinger. he huffs a little sigh and leans in one last time and kiss him softly, lingering, all wanting and desperate but impossibly gentle. he keeps their noses brushed close, his lips over hawk's as he speaks, a near whisper: ]

Please tell me we can do this again one day.

Edited (added an ear lobe line bc i was just randomly struck that i hadn't done this yet) 2024-04-05 20:13 (UTC)

[it's obvious - just like the way it's obvious hawk desperately wants more, more, more from his boy, his own trousers practically a vice trapping him down where he wishes he might guide tim's hand to feel even more tangible proof of how much he's wanted, or christ, even take that hand at his nape and slowly help him lower to feel the way plush lips feel hot around his mouth as he sinks down on his cock. it makes his kisses that much hungrier, lips nipping in between panted breaths and noises that are much too intimate for a mere makeout. all of this holds an intensity hawk doesn't think he's ever been struck by - not even kenny, back when it was young love and felt like his whole world. there's something utterly contradictory in the way that being with tim feels both utterly grounded and as if he might float away at any moment with the whelm of desire and being desired by someone so genuine and rooted in his emotions.

there's a hard exhale against his mouth as tim pulls away, hawk pressing another open-mouthed kiss against the corner of his mouth before glancing over at him and letting the reality of his choice fully sink in. his heart feels as if it pounds all the way up to his ears, a dull roar of white noise rushing as he watching tim's tongue slip out to lick at his thumb and kiss lightly against his palm, his wrist. it's so tender it almost makes his heart wrench at the innocence of it, undercut only by the dull throb between his legs that he wishes he could alleviate the pressure off of and relieve for tim too, because a quick glance down confirms it's mutual. hawk hums with encouragement, leaning in to nuzzle against tim's cheek with his nose and let his lips trail absent, feathery kisses against his skin wherever they may land.]

Shit. I want you too, Christ almighty.

[he nearly dives forward to take his mouth in another kiss, if only to keep himself from saying anything that he can't walk back, and from making another mistake in escalating the tension and the sheer desperation he feels of need. but tim's palm is warm and firm and guides him back rather than closer - distance widening in a way that pulls him out of his own haze that's a different kind of drunkness than the wine flushing tim's cheeks.

ah. fuck.

how can he do anything but laugh and shake his head lightly?]

Jesus. You're right. Much as I'd like to, I'm not breaking that one rule. I can't, and you're a good boy for reminding me.

[there's a shiver when tim's fingers trace against his earlobe, further igniting the roiling burst of heat that feels like it's under his skin. he's surprisingly sensitive there, something to hold onto for another time. another night when they can do this properly - without guilt, without worrying tim might change his mind from too much wine, and without being crammed into his car miles away from a warm bed.

hawk lets both hands rest against his cheek again, smiling softly with a wistful gratitude in his eyes - because he's supposed to be the more sensible adult here, and instead tim is the one saving him from making a mistake that could fuck them both up irreparably. he leans forward - not for another kiss to his lips, but a soft promise planted against his forehead for enough of a moment that he can commit it to memory, to instill a vow.]

One day, yeah. We will, Skip - promise.

[hawk wants to imagine it could be every day, really. it's torture to pull away, but he does it and tries to let it feel authentic to let wryness work its way back into his tone as he straightens out tim's collar, patting him on the shoulder and shifting back into his seat.]

Let's get back to campus.

[ shit. i want you too.

the validation there makes his blood sing with warmth and the fact that they have to end this is almost crushing. what would they be like, messy and tossed in the car, or what would the tension rise to if this car took him anywhere other than the georgetown campus dorms?

hawk's mouth trails along his cheek and jaw and tim arches toward him instinctively, sighing in a way that could only fall just short of a moan. hawk's mouth on him, his hands - the vision is everything he thought it would be when he laid in his dorm room on camera for this man. but he knows that can't be their reality - not right now. and he tells himself it's temporary, even though the reality of hawk rejecting him again after this, going back to strictly business, is very real. ]

I didn't want to take advantage.

[ funny, considering he's the one buzzing still with warmth from the wine, though he feels he has more clarity now than ever, even as hawk's lips find his forehead. his eyes flutter closed and he smiles, the gesture scrunching his nose as he nods softly and moves to sit back into his seat, pulling his seatbelt on.

it doesn't stop him from perching in the seat like he would were they in the privacy of hawk's office - heels coming up to catch the seat's edge, knees peeking up over the car door to the window. the car purrs to life when hawk starts it, and only when they're safely moving again does he reach for one of hawk's hands, delicately lacing their fingers and bringing their joined palms to rest over one of his knees.

it's not kissing, it's not the desperate touches and wanting, but a quiet little reminder that the tension on the air isn't all sexual and carnal. tim traces little patterns against the top of hawk's knuckles as the car moves on the road, the radio low in the background. ]

I like it when you call me Skippy, you know. [ he shrugs, grinning almost sheepishly over at him, leaning to prop his chin almost boyishly against their joined hands. ]

And good boy, of course. But Skippy, mostly. I don't have any inventive names for you, I'm sorry. Mister and sir - they're not very original, huh? [ and then, to add to the wry little mood hawk tries for? ]

I could call you Milton. Milty? Milt? Mr. M? [ he hums, knowing too well how this will go over. ]

Hey, that's supposed to be my line.

[there's a light tease to his words, the acknowledgment that once again in this evening the student is teaching the teacher - but as he puts his hands on the steering wheel and reluctantly turns on the engine, a purring hum as it rumbles to life - he turns to look at tim and nudge him with an elbow to earn his gaze back.]

I mean it. I care about you and your future.

[another pause has he reaches for the shifter, reversing smoothly and pulling away from the quaint little road that's been their private hideaway for the last few hours.]

I care about what it means for both of us, you know that - right?

[his focus is on the road until he sees tim shifting, glancing over at a stoplight and smiling privately to himself at the boy's inability to do anything but curl up and crunch himself into small spaces - more than making up for it in the way his wit and charm and knowledge and personality eventually widen it. yeah, hawk could watch him do that all day. it's hard not to get lost to the daydream of it with lights whirring past in pretty streaked blurs of color, distracted enough by the differing scenery that he doesn't notice tim reaching for his hand until he feels it warmly enveloping his own, strong and soft despite the rough parts like callouses on his fingers from gripping his pens and doing the garden work his parents put on him in the summer. there's a light squeeze against tim's knee, affectionate more than untoward before he lets his hand rest and strokes a thumb along the side of his wrist.]

Yeah? It's what drew me to you, you know. Never told you this, but there was a show on the radio when I was a kid. Well - Mom listened to it sometimes, when Dad wasn't around. I'd sneak it in the mornings before school. Can't remember the name, but I remember Skippy.

Practically an angel, just like you.

[another soft squeeze as tim draws it upward, hawk tipping his head to offer a lingering quirk of his lips upward.]

It suits you.

[but it drops just as quickly in mock disgust, hawk shaking his head.]

Dunno what I was thinking. "Call me Uncle Milty?" It's a wonder you didn't log off on me the second I got you in one of those chats.

[there's a pause, hawk flexing his fingers again and letting his voice drop even as he keeps his line of sight straight forward, watching them navigate onto the exit back to dc.]

But I'll be your man. Like the sound of that.

[ tim isn't sure that a more perfect date and evening could even exist after this. the little suburbs pass them by as they drive, the car humming and the lights outside flickering by. the weight of hawk's hand on his knee and in his own hand are so comforting that he could be content to sit here like this for hours if they were allowed. the only way this night could be better would be if he could go home with him, pretend that this could be their life, that this could be his future.

maybe. one day.

tim squeezes the hand there softly, his head tilting so that it's his cheek that presses against their joined hands on his knee. he smiles a little, almost boyish and sheepish in the way that he flushes. ]

You will? I mean - [ a little embarrassed huff, then: ] I'm glad. That you'll be my man. I don't think I'd want any other man, anyway.

[ but there's the name - skippy - and tim just listens to the story of hawk's parents, the show, the sound. he can imagine that it must be a fond memory indeed, if the way hawk speaks is anything to go by. he's not blind to the implication that the show was only listened to when his father wasn't around - that's something tim knows very well. they have more in common in seems than even he had realized. ]

But I'm no angel. I think I'm fine with just being your boy - that's heavenly on its own, I think. I know that maybe things will be different - that there's a lot we both have to be careful of, of course. But I know you care. I know that better than anyone, I think.

[ he shrugs a little and leans back, keeping their hands tangled atop his knee, desperate for the touch and the connection. he dips his head one final time to press his lips against hawk's knuckles before his head tips back and his eyes drift over to the man in the dark of the car.

how is it he's handsome even here? ]

It's why I forgive you for the Uncle Milty line. I like Hawk, Hawkins, my man better. This night? This night has been beyond perfect.

Well that works out perfectly for me - I don't want any other boy.

[that's exactly what an angel would say - , he almost argues back, because in the passing lights that streak across tim's face as quaint suburbia transitions once more into city highway - he looks an awful lot like one. there's something so youthful and innocent about him despite what hawk has been a rapt audience participant for, and there's a part of him that still can't believe someone so perfectly dichotomous exists within his reach, let alone wants to be firmly held within its grasp. it's going to be torture waiting for more, but everything about tim makes it worthwhile.

one hand rests firmly on the wheel, the sky darkening above them as evening gives way to the outright cover of night, but hawk steals glances at how sweet his student looks curled up in his seat, catlike almost in the way he thinks he might drift away at any moment into the warm embrace of an evening doze in the passenger seat. there's something juvenile about the way all of this feels - thrilling rather than immature, even if deep down hawk knows it's reckless for both of them now that they've heightened their a connection to a level that might be easier to spot. might be harder to tamp down when they're spending time across from each other in his office, or passing the halls with intention in their gaze that's visibly magnetic to anyone within its range.

hawk hums when those lips brush against the tops of his knuckles, wishing they were somewhere else now that his own tingle with the phantom sensation of their kisses already much too far behind them.]

See, overlooking that might be your most angelic act yet.

[he's teasing, of course. but his fingers squeeze again, eyes fixed on the road so tim can't see the way sincerity and an emotion of vulnerability wells up that he's loathe to let be so easily read. still. he should know this:]

Best date I've ever been on. We'll get to more of them, one day - but I've got plenty of expectations for us.

[of course the drive has to come to an end eventually, hawk pulling into a parking lot that's further in campus, behind the sciences building and more secluded under the darkness and a few broken lights. there's a quick scan, ensuring no prying eyes before he turns to tim, unable to hide the longing and affection this time. his fingers untangle, lifting to shift tim's chin towards him and curve along his jaw.]

Thank you, Skippy. This won't be the last of us - I promise.

[there's a pause, hawk tentatively sucking in a breath.]

Would you let me kiss you goodnight?

I like expectations.

[ the warmth of the wine coursing through his veins and the balmy summer air lulls tim into a sense of relaxation, an ease that rounds his shoulders and lets his head tip back against the seat as they drive. it's not too long a drive, not when he's allowed to hold hawk's hand like this, pressed against his knee. he tugs it up closer sometimes, perched higher on his thigh or up against his chest as they listen to the music and the sounds of the road outside.

but he starts to recognize the city more and more as they approach, even through his sleepy, half-lidded eyes. there's no denying that he feels as though he's floating in some vivid, loving dream. his grip on hawk's hand never falters, but only as they reach familiar sights does he tug their joined fingers below the line of the window - where they can't be seen, should anyone spot them. he knows they've talked along the way home - idle chatter about politics here and there, what's coming next, tim offering ideas for their next date - because of course, they both agree there will be one.

the campus signs light up in the dark of the evening. the sciences building is a bit of a walk from his dorm, but he won't confess that. he doesn't want to ruin the moment, even if there are closer, sneakier places they could tuck themselves away for a goodbye. the car stops, idles, and tim lets out a slow, deep breath. ]

I promise it won't be, either.

[ he undoes his seatbelt with a click and turns to speak just as hawk does, and tim blinks, mouth half open in surprise. he'd wanted the same - wanted to ask the same, and here it is, laid before him by the man himself.

he smiles in a way that crinkles his nose, tugs his mouth to one side boyishly, and he shrugs a shoulder, leaning his face into the warmth of hawk's palm. ] I was going to ask the same thing.

[ there's no hesitation this time when he leans across the arm rest, a hand reaching to press to hawk's chest, but he nudges their noses together first, a little eskimo kiss before he huffs a sheepish laugh. leaning in, he presses their lips together, firm and slow, letting the kiss linger. it's nothing of the filthy, desperate things from before - but firm, a promise of more, hope.

when he pulls away, he keeps his hand on his chest for a few seconds longer. ]

Have a great night, Hawk. [ not sir, mr. fuller, professor, none of that. his hand slides up slowly, and his thumb skirts the hint of skin at an unbuttoned collar. ] Don't stay up too late. Thank you again, for tonight.

[ it's hard to pull away - to resist - but slowly he leans back, opens the car door, scoops the strap of his bag in one hand, and slips out into the parking lot. ]

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

Edited 2024-02-05 00:40 (UTC)

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

Should I be worried?

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

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.

You're pulling my leg.

What in the hell did he want?

Time for a new receptionist, by the way.

Edited 2024-02-05 01:56 (UTC)

Hawk, I'm a bad liar, you know that.

Wanted to take me to lunch today. "For old time's sake". Said Dean Smith mentioned I was doing well for myself and he wanted to see for himself.

Invited me to dinner Friday. I think it might be the same gala you and Lucy are going to.

And yes, Mary is already dealing with her receptionist.

Lying over text is entry level, Skippy. But I know.

Tell me you turned him down. On both counts.

He's fishing for something. This wasn't a coincidence.

Then you shouldn't call me Skippy in writing, Mr. Fuller.

[ seriously, hawk? ]

I turned him down for lunch, but he saw my calendar open before I could say no to Friday.

Who knows what will happen, but I think I'm feeling a cold coming on, anyway.

The peanut butter. Your lunches. Force of habit.

[sure jan.]

Can't imagine what kind of trouble he's looking to get up to. Or why he's inviting a former student to a faculty only event.

What else did he say? How long did he drop by?

I don’t know what he’s trying to get at. He needs a plus one, and considering he spoke to Dean Smith, it’s my guess he’s wanting to use me to get brownie points. 🙄

Parade me around now that I have a job with a senator. He was very proud he was a small part of my “journey”.

He was here for half an hour. “Catching up.” Said he missed our lunch conversations- asked if I wanted to pass any message on to you, since you work together.

I told him I hadn’t seen you since the award ceremony, but to send my regards of course.

He’s gross.

Well, it's obvious what he wants. Either a rise out of you, attention from me, or both of the above.

We're not giving it to him.

As if he had shit to do with your journey. More like a roadblock.

I'm sure he'll turn up at my office tomorrow with something to say. Try not wait up with bated breath.

[hawk doesn't use emojis, but if he did he knows there's a stank face that suits this conversation.]

He wanted to be a roadblock alright. He knows I reported him to the Dean, but yeah. I think he wants to get at you.

He can’t have you, anyway. If I have to find another way to humble him I will.

But he’ll tell you we’re going on some fancy brunch date or something. We’re not. If he thinks I believe his weird act and am actually into him, he’s dumber than I thought.

Again. Gross.

Don't think he knows much else. Even if it is awful timing.

He's like a pebble in your shoes - gotta shake him out and forget about it.

You're not even his type. No offense - but I've seen who he hooked up with in college.

Very.

Of course not. You're his type, it's obvious. Tall, dark, handsom, and extremely demanding.

He doesn't have a spine and he's all claws and teeth with a bad bite.

I took him down with very little before. It wouldn't be hard to do it again if he tried something. But he's slimy. He doesn't care at all that you're uninterested.

I'm just curious to see what he thinks I can win him.

I'm not looking to make the same mistake twice.

But since you mentioned it, I could think of a few demands I'm interested in.

Look - I mean it. Just ignore him. Don't engage. If he doesn't get the attention he's looking for he'll buzz off.

You're not a student anymore - that means he doesn't have to play fair.

You know I can't say no to you or your demands, so think away, and come home with your notes ready.

I'm ignoring him, though. I promise. Here's to hoping he does back off. He's dumb enough to not see it for what it is, thankfully.

But you're right, I guess. I don't think one conversation could hurt - I might be able to figure out what he's after that way. Well. What he's trying to get at you for.

Well - if you give me carte blanche like that, it's gonna be a long list of 'em. Hope you're ready.

Stick to ignoring. Promise me. You only got a taste of it when he tried failing you, but I've seen his vindictive side.

He's like flypaper. I don't care and neither should you.

More interested in seeing if Mary will let you out early for a weekend getaway, actually.

I'll make sure to take detailed notes, Mr. Fuller.

But fine - I'll do my best. We both know he can be pushy and he really wants me to go to this gala.

Early? You mean today? Where are we going? I've got a lot to finish up.

So tell him no. You're busy working. You've got a date. Come on, I know you can come up with something good.

Today, yeah. Was hoping it'd be a surprise, but if it'll get you there...I found another bed and breakfast. This one's in Maryland - it's right on a harbor. Nice views, the beach, sailing - practically get the whole place to ourselves, this time of year.

I'll think of something.

Right now? Hawk, you know I can't just run out like that without some notice. Mary has that huge meeting next week and then there's some video to shoot for her campaign. I can ask her, but I don't feel great about it.

I'll ask. I don't have the kind of freedom you do, you know that.

Well not right this second. I just meant later this afternoon.

If you don't want to do it on a workday then we can wait until tonight. Tomorrow morning if you want to work late.

Just thought it might be nice. But I get it.

No, no I want to go. Sorry.

It's just been a strange day, that's all.

Is it a long drive?

[ why can't we just stay close is what he wants to say, but doesn't. ]

It sounds nice. I'll tell Mary something came up. I can do some work in the car, maybe.

Even more reason she should let you take the day.

It's about an hour if we can beat traffic.

I think you're gonna love it once we get there. I don't want you getting carsick, but there's a balcony you can work off of later too.

Yeah, well, work doesn't always ebb and flow with life. You know that. I don't want to seem like I'm running out the door on her. I really want to make a good impression.

I don't get carsick! If we're going somewhere nice, I want to enjoy it the whole time I'm there with you.

There's other work to be done on the balcony later, anyway.

I guarantee you have. Mary - I mean, that Senator Johnson - she seems like she runs a tight ship and recognizes talent when it's in front of her. You'll be fine.

I'm leaving my grading home too. It can wait.

And by work on the balcony - I'm really hoping you mean giving our neighbors a show in between looking at the stars. It's clearer down there.

She runs a very tight ship, which is why I worry about leaving early. I just really, really don't want to mess this up. Someone here told me the other day that I try too hard, that I need to lay off the gas.

I don't want to go back to how things were, is all.

[ multiple jobs, carefully minding bills and groceries. this job pays, at least in a way that his ramshackle apartment looks a little more like his, and its cabinets can stay stocked. ]

I'll ask, okay? I'll try. I promise.

Either way, I'll go. For the weekend. I can leave my work at home, finish it when we get back, since you are. It'll be fine. And then we can figure out what the balcony will be good for.

I'd like to look at the stars with you, though. If you don't think that's cheesy. I guess it is. Cliché, right? Sorry.

Who told you that? Why didn't you tell me? They're probably threatened by you putting in more work if they're sitting around on their ass.

It's not gonna go back to that. You're doing good work here, Skippy. I'm proud of you.

Listen - don't push it. It's fine, we can go after you get out. Just don't work too late, yeah?

That makes me the cheesy, cliché then. I'm the one who suggested it. Can't promise I won't spend most of the time looking at you, though.

I'm not telling you their name - I know how you are. It's fine, Hawk. I don't care if they're jealous. They can work harder themselves and not have to worry about it.

I won't work too late. I promise. And you know I want to go with you, right? To the bead and breakfast. It's not that I don't.

I want to look at stars beside you, even if you're not really looking at them.

Then you know I'm not about to do anything. I'd just like to hear it. For reference - that's all.

I know. Relax - it's alright. Work comes first, and it should right now for you. We've got plenty of time to make it out there after. So you just keep your head down, get busy, and I'll start packing.

Good. Then we've both got something to look forward to.

I know I said I don't want to hurt my chances at this job, but the reality is I don't want to disappoint you, either. You work so hard and you've helped me so much - I'm grateful, and I want to go on this trip with you. I promise.

Mary said I can leave by 2. Is that enough time? I'm sorry, I didn't want to push, but I asked. Like you asked me to.

You didn't answer my question, you know.

But you're never going to disappoint me, Tim. I didn't do anything but see what was already there - that's all. Remember that.

2 is fine.

And stop apologizing.

What question?

[ yes, he's playing dumb. he knows what hawk means. ]

But I know. It's not just about work - I mean. Disappointing you when you want to take trips or go on dates. They're just so far away sometimes, and I want to do all of them. I want to do anything with you, I just didn't want you to think I wasn't interested. I am. Trust me.

[ he didn't want hawk to take his disinterest personally, to get mad and push him away, to shut down and not offer dates or other affections.

it's so, so stupid how much he wants that man to love him. or at least act like he does. ]

Sorry, I won't
Do we have to go so far away?
Why does it have to be an hour?
Can we do a bed and breakfast here?
Do you think
What is it about me that
I'm so stupid I'm
Do you remember the summer before
Will you ever love

I know, I know. I will. It's a bad habit. I'll get out of here as soon as I can. Promise!

Where should I meet you?

Timothy Laughlin. Give me a name.

I don't want you thinking I'm disappointed. I promise I'm not - and believe me, I get what the job means to you.

It's time away, and that's a luxury we don't always have. But we can try.

[is hawk dancing around the notion that there would be less time wasted if they stayed close? yes. kind of.]

You can come round my place. Or I can pick you up from yours so you don't have to lug a duffel. Tell me what's better.

Connor Smith. He's one of Mary's aides, but it was just a comment in passing. It's not a big deal, honest.

[ tim knows the limits of one hawkins fuller very well at this point, and he tries not to complain. that they're traveling an hour to sit in a bed and breakfast when they could very much the same close to home? ]

If you pick me up then there's no chance anyone will see me walking to yours. Or I can meet you somewhere else?

I think I can sneak out a little early.

Connor Smith. Next time he gives you lip, you might want to ask him if his Dad's still getting knocks on his door from the IRS. Just friendly concern, of course.

I'll pick you up. Don't want you having to lift a finger to haul a suitcase - do you still think I wouldn't send an Uber?

Just say when. I'll be there.

Hawk. I'm never telling you a name again. I won't say that, and you'd better not, either. I'm serious.

If an uber is easier, that's fine. Honest. But maybe I'd really like it if it could be you driving the car this time? I know I'll still have to uber sometimes, I get it but I thought maybe if it's going to be a special weekend, maybe this can be an exception?

I'd really like it.

Sorry.

I know I shouldn't have asked - you'll offer when you can. When it makes sense, I mean. For work and

Optics.

An uber is fine. Makes more sense than you coming out

Well anyone coming here when we're leaving from there. Or wherever.

I can do that - I'll order one to wherever. The alley behind your building? Soonest it can get be there is 2, if I leave soon.

I don't need to say anything. The circles in DC are worse than a bunch of old ladies playing Bingo on Wednesday nights. It's a fucking miracle he got a job around that much funding in the first place.

Tim. I said I'd be picking you up - me. My car. I'm driving. I want as much time as I can get with you, that's the whole point of this, remember?

Are you alright? All this, seems like something's been on your mind.

I just meant...I wouldn't make you walk all that way if you were coming out here. Least I could do, yeah?

Take your time. I'll be there at 1:30.

No, no I’m fine. I’m distracted with work and it’s been a weird day. Trying to hurry up and finish so I can get home in time.

We haven’t had a weekend together in a long time. Especially with Lucy lately.

I really want to be there with you, that’s all. I want to do everything by the book so we can leave and be together as fast as we can. I want to see you smile when you pull up. Don’t want to give you a reason not to. Just crossing my Ts and dotting my Is.

I’m excited, Hawk. Honest. The rest doesn’t matter. Not when I get to see you soon - and for a whole weekend.

I’d walk there and back for it, if that’s what you wanted. Just for the time with you.

Edited 2024-04-03 08:27 (UTC)

[fuck. there it is - the "l" word.]

We haven't. And I'm sorry for that - but look, you know this won't be forever right? I hate doing it. To you, christ, even to her - sometimes it doesn't feel worth it.

But this weekend is all about us. Going somewhere that no one knows or cares what our names are, what we do for a living, or why we're only checking into a room with a single bed.

I never want you to have to do any of that. It kills me sometimes, but it's necessary. Just have to keep reminding ourselves it's temporary.

And some day - we won't have to do a goddamn thing by the books. Fuck wherever we want, hold hands when we feel like it, go to dinner anywhere in DC.

[ temporary. it's temporary. that's what he tells himself over and over, but none of it feels temporary anymore. ]

I know you do - I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up. I know all of this is temporary. It's worth it if you get your tenure, I suppose. If that's what it takes.

But we have the weekend to do all of those things - fuck where we want, hold hands, go to dinner. No one will know the difference there. I'd do whatever you asked me to do if it meant time together, that's all.

That's all I want.

[ but tim sits at his desk with his phone and finds himself crying, strangely. he's thankful for the cubicle walls that hide him from the office. ]

Well. Anyway.

It's all temporary. I know that. I promise.

Means I don't have to look over my shoulder when the Craigs of the world show up unannounced at your office. Means I get you to myself without worrying it's gonna fuck up our careers.

That's what I want too, Skippy. I promise you.

[hawk assumes he's fine - that he understands the way this has to work. that it isn't upsetting because they're both communicating and honest about what's real here.]

Can't wait to see you. It's gonna be good - maybe not as good as graduation, but pretty damn close.

I want that for you - that peace of mind. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize it. I hope you know that.

[ but what is a life of hiding behind smoke and mirrors if the better part of the last year has been nothing but hiding? the creeping sensation that none of this is actually temporary has taken root in his bones.

at least he's prepared for it - for when it becomes reality. ]

I'm excited to see you. I've missed you, Hawk. Every day I get with you is better than graduation, you know that, right?

Know what could top it? Take me dancing. Nothing crazy, just - I don't know. You like jazz music. Maybe a bar like that? Somewhere dark, but the music's slow.

One day, anyway. It doesn't have to be this weekend. Just one day. I might have two left feet, though.

I know. And I appreciate it, Skip, really.

Missed you too. It's been a long week - but being with you always makes up for it. Graduation wasn't even the start, was it?

Dancing, huh? I'll think about it. See if I can find a place or two for us. I've only got one left foot, but then that's three - something we gotta watch out for. Or maybe I'll get you liquored up so I can whisper sweet nothings in your ear while we sway slow.

Sounds nice. It'll be soon either way.

Graduation wasn't even the start, no. I'd say all that Italian was. It was pretty romantic. Hard to top that.

[ and it had branded hawkins fuller to his heart in a mere instant. ]

You know you don't have to get me liquored up to sway slow with you. We can dance anywhere and I'd be happy. The kitchen. The living room. The bathroom, if you really want. It just sounds nice.

So yeah, soon. I'll see you soon.

[ 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. ]

Edited 2024-04-06 23:45 (UTC)

[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?

[ although tim can't be sure that hawk will be tuning in or not, he can't help but feel a little warm under the collar at the very thought of his own brazenness. perhaps it's the date that's made him bold - the way his mouth wrapped around hawk's finger, the fork, or the kissing on the sidewalk, in the car. he's thought about that night many times since returning, perching in hawk's office still like none of it happened. well, at least as much as he can.

tim's responding to chat, striking poses, running hands along his chest and thighs when asked to. it's all mundane, boring things. the occasional tip to say someone's name in that playful little purr, or the way he can wiggle his hips just so to make the school shorts seem tighter around his hips. it's his usual fare, really - but it pays. and this little stint has been lucrative. (he chooses not to think about the whys).

a name pops up in the viewing list though that sparks his eye - he remembers it. he'd specifically gone back to look at the heft donation made for his summer classes and committed the username to memory. he'd half expected hawk to delete it, but seeing that name pop back up makes him sit up a little straighter, makes him a little more attentive to how he looks on camera, or the way he sighs when one of his hands roams over a sensitive nipple beneath the sweater vest.

and then there it is - the donation. the message.

it's early enough in his stream that it won't hurt to move to a private. he's got footage thankfully he can stream on the back end so that those watching? well, they won't know the difference unless they're a regular viewer. thankfully he doesn't have to worry much about that.

the camera feed switches and tim hums, almost like a pouty little whine as he gets settled. ]

I don't think I know how to play that, mister. Wanna teach me?

[ tim slides the papers and pencil to the side, leaning forward on his palms so that the light accentuates the muscle of his forearms, and even reveals a loose button beneath his tie, where his adam's apple bobs. ]

That's a mighty big tip you gave me already - but it still didn't help me with my homework. I'm sorry, I'm not a very good boy tonight.

[ he can't be 100% sure that it's hawk, of course, but something in his gut tells him that it is. and it doesn't stop him from wanting it to be him. in fact, he's willing to take a little risk with this one - it's nice to think it could be hawk. that it could be his man on the other side of that screen, and he can almost imagine the way it felt to have his arms around him and his lips kiss-swollen. ]

How can I make it up to you, mister?

[it had occurred to him that maybe he should just close this account down, delete it into the ether just like the first one. but maybe deep down he'd always known he couldn't keep away forever - and considering he's already tossed a hell of a lot of caution to the wind in the form of candlelit dinner and stolen kisses across the seats of his car, what's a little bit of faceless fun with plausible deniability still attached? it should be ironic that tim is the one that's trying hard to be a good catholic boy and yet hawk feels like he's the one facing temptation down head on and failing - thanking christ he doesn't believe in the pits of hell or serpents winding around his ankles while he takes a bite of forbidden flesh. maybe that's the ironic part instead - that for all his temptation, he's still keeping his hands to himself in all of this. his moral code might have been bent for one timothy david laughlin, but it's still intact, and that's gotta count for something.

hawk lights up a cigarette, keeping it in his mouth as he adjusts and enlarges tim's video feed to take up his entire screen the way it used to be muscle memory. he's not that rusty with this after all, and while he's still got both hands unoccupied it's the perfect time to get all the foreplay and teasing on the books. hawk exhales through his lips, smoke curling around the screen and washing tim in greyish and blue hues. that's the one bad thing about this, as the little whine echoes through his speakers as a poor substitute for the real thing now that he's felt it against his own lips - he wishes he could see his face in this.

there's a way he could negotiate that, he's sure, but it means lifting the veil from his own end, and it feels so early in this game to admit to caving. the part that echoes in his mind, that hawk remembers almost more viscerally than the kisses and the way his pretty pink lips looked wrapped around a fork as poor substitute for something else - were tim's words that night in the car before he'd nearly made that single mistake that could change - and ruin - everything: even a boy's gotta protect his mister sometimes.

well, sometimes a mister doesn't want to let his boy down either by succumbing too quickly to his baser instincts.

once they're settled in the privacy of their own room, hawk lets his fingers do the walking and slips into his own role here with ease.]

Got something else big for you to work on tonight, but we'll get to that.

I'll be your Professor this evening, how 'bout it? You call me Professor or sir, and I'll help you ace your homework if you follow all my instructions.

Can you do that for me like a good boy?

[it's gauche, maybe, but hawk's dick is already thickening at the idea of tim on his knees calling him professor in this get up, playing into the very real relationship they have outside of this screen.]

[ tim knows that he should think of himself sad and pathetic for hoping that every anonymous tipper, that every one-on-one could be hawk at the other end of the text. there's no telling, not really. sure, he could look up names and donation histories and do some detective work, but a small part of him doesn't want to be disappointed.

the date had been wonderful - something he calls back to when he remembers that his schooling is coming to an end, and very possibly his... relationship? with the man may be, too. he lets all that fall to the wayside when the first messages pop up and tim hums, letting his knees splay wide with the way he sits on his heels, lets his body shift forward a little more so that the trim line of his waist is exaggerated on camera. ]

You think I can handle such a big project, Professor? That really means a lot to me.

[ there's a tilt of his head and if hawk pays enough attention he can see the faintest move of a muscle in his jaw - tim is worrying the plump swell of his bottom lip between his teeth. ]

Of course I can follow all of your instructions, Professor. After all, this is your class. I want you to teach me how to be a good boy for you - I really need this grade. I'll do whatever you tell me, sir.

[ he sits back on his bottom a little more, palms resting on his own thighs, which makes the hem of his shorts ride up just a little. ]

Please, Professor. Guide me. Tell me how you want me - I'll be your best student.

[it's not. in fact - it's probably a hell of a lot sadder for hawk to be here at all, hoping for the slip of a mention about him. he'd like to think he's not really as arrogant or condescending as he acts for the sake of posturing sometimes, but this whole setup tonight feels awfully point - if not outright catered - to him specifically. maybe they're both feeling the bite of loneliness, handling it the best way they can without breaking any rules or letting themselves give in to that magnetic pull of physicality and fall into a bed, against a wall, the floor...fuck, he'd take tim anywhere he could get him if it meant more of those fiery kisses, the splay of his palm and the warmth of his tight body pressed against hawk. for now though it just means miles apart, filling in all the blanks and relying on muscle memory from that night.

god, he fucking wants to see him. that's the one thing he's been denied - watching his face as he falls apart, curled with pleasure. to see the flush that he's positive starts at the tips of his ears and carries all the way down into that full body blush he's mastered the art of inflicting on him and devours every time.

of course - there's an easy way to do it. but that means losing his plausible deniability, and frankly - there's a bit of a thrill to this cat and mouse bit that he's certain his student must feel too. if this is to be their current channel of flirtation and stolen moments, of keeping the fantasy alive until this is all over and they can throw themselves into the real thing - they might as well make the most of it. and honestly, he should do this while he's got both hands, opening up a google window and typing in his best stab of a guess at how to spell this shit, doing halfway decent with a grin around his cigarette.]

Oh, I know you can take it. I can see it on you - even in the way you're sitting so fucking pretty for me.

[his gaze drops to those hands he knows from experience now have a callouses beyond where he grips his pen and scribbles away at his notes, still nimble in the way they traipse and press against skin. to the thighs that look firm and thick from the way they're bent underneath him right now, straining against those shorts he wishes he could rip right off the body below that belongs in museum for how finely carved it is.]

Yeah, I'll bet you do. You've been distracted lately - like you've got something on your mind. I want your full attention on me, and I promise you'll be rising right to the top of the class in no time.

[his fingers hesitate for a moment, and then he decides to simply fuck it all, punching in the keys and pressing enter before he can think twice.]

You follow my instructions, you'll be the brightest. Brighter than even Cassiopeia up there in the sky.

[what would be the chances of someone bringing that up? hawk had never even heard of it before tim typed it out in their chat, telling him the story. but maybe there's some other horny guy out there deeply into astronomy and birth charts and whatever the hell else the kids these days seem to get tangled up in. he's just got to hope tim takes a leap of faith here.]

I don't mean to be distracted, Professor. But I can't stop looking at your mouth in class, and your lectures are so interesting.

[ he shifts his weight just a little, letting his thighs spread just a few inches further so that the hard press of his slowly thickening dick can be seen against the fabric, waiting for attention.

otherwise, he preens a little at being told he's sitting so well and there's a little huff. ]

You've always had my full attention, sir. I'd like -

[ ... cassiopeia. there's a pause that he covers a fraction of a second later with some movement, letting his hands press up to his sweater vest and give it a little tug.

it can't be. he suspected, of course, with the user name and the history, but there's no telling. he wishes he could see a camera to the other side suddenly, could peer into the room hawkins fuller is sitting and see if he wants him now just as much as he did tucked away in that car.

he does, doesn't he? want him? or will it always be behind these screens with stolen and fleeting kisses from afar?

either way, even that would be enough, wouldn't it? ]

I didn't know you liked astronomy sir. Greek myths. God, you're the one distracting me now.

[ and there's a little coy laugh, light and a little baffled, but he bows his head enough so that the camera can see his jaw, the lobe of his ear - and how flushed they've become. ]

I'm listening, professor. For your instructions. I'll be good, I promise. Teach me what you want - teach me how to be the perfect boy for you. I'm a fast learner. How can I prove it to you?

You know what else must be awfully distracting? Those goddamn shorts. Starting to look a little tight - and I know it's hot in that room of yours. You'd think Dean S. could shell out on a better wall unit for the students, huh?

[another little hint sprinkled in. if skippy doesn't get it now, he's either playing coy on purpose or he's keeping it extra safe, which hawk couldn't possibly blame him for. he's given an inch with the expectation of taking a mile - no way in hell he'd hop on a camera in this scenario, exquisite date or not. audio? probably not, even if his dick twitches at the idea of tim getting to hear the praise he deserves heaped onto him. speaking of which, he stubs out his cigarette into his ashtray and reaches down to palm himself slow and easy just the way tim is toying with the hem of his sweater.]

Take the sweater off and unbutton your shirt. Get comfortable - one less distraction for you.

I dunno about full attention - not yet, it looks like.

[a clear tease about the strain in his shorts that's still roomy enough based on his extensive experience watching tim's cock bloom to life under his coaxing words. it's not often hawk finds himself practically salivating at the idea of someone like that, let alone has the obscene desire to press his mouth against their crotch and suck them off. he hasn't thought about anything like that since -

nope. not gonna let that derail this little performance. especially since if he didn't know any better, it feels tailored specifically for him.]

Mm, I'm no expert. Sweet boy told me her story recently - something tragic, only I was too busy drinking him in and committing the moment to memory to remember all the details.

Oh, you look nice and flushed. Get moving on that sweater, and then I want you to lie down on your stomach with your homework.

But Skippy? Don't you dare think about humping the bed.

Not until I give you permission, anyway. But you gotta earn it.

[ tim's spine straightens suddenly when he reads the text - dean s. the electrifying knowledge that yes, between the reference of the stars, the boy telling a story, and the dean?

hawkins fuller rests on the other side of the screen.

it's unfair how he aches suddenly to hear the rich, warm notes of his voice giving him instructions. to hear how his voice goes husky or hoarse with want. he knows too well hawk won't be seen on camera of course, but a yearning has made the fire burn low and hot in his belly all over again.

all the more reason to begin working the sweater up slowly, letting it ruck the shirt enough to show a dusting of fine hair down his abs to the happy little trail leading to his shorts. he wriggles out of the sweater, tossing it aside on a little sigh before he arches is back to start on one button, then two. ]

... Professor? [ does he even dare? is it worth acknowledging the way his voice hitched earlier when reading the name dean s.? yes. ] Should I put my glasses on for you?

[ it's a small offering - the plaintive, tentative little request for direction, but also an acknowledgement. he knows. he knows that now on the other side sits the one man he's wanted to tune in for all this time and it does make the tent in his school shorts show.

he doesn't wait for an answer when he reaches for them, letting them slide into view and then out of frame. he starts back on the shirt, undoing and fumbling with buttons until it opens all the way, revealing pretty, pink nipples already well at attention, the fair trail of hair on his chest, the tone of his muscles as he flexes to get the shirt off.

usually, he'd lay on his side - let the man see the long line of his body and just what he can do with those hips. but instead, he rises up on his knees and shifts down onto the bed after adjusting the camera. there's one strong arm, then the reveal of a shoulder, and soon? in view on the camera is the freckled, sun-kissed face of timothy laughlin, glasses perched upon flushed cheeks, hair a little mussed from removing his sweater.

he swipes his pencil, biting the eraser, scrunching his nose as he looks at the papers before him. there's an easy sigh, and next he speaks? the voice changer has gone altogether. there's no need for it. ]

I want to earn it, Professor. [ his hips wriggle behind him, where hawk can see the curve of his ass before he kicks his feet up, revealing the long socks, and crossing his ankles behind him. ]

I hope you aren't replacing your boy with that other sweet boy. I'll do anything to make it to the top of your roster. Tell me how you want it - how I can earn it. I'm very good at taking directions, Professor Fuller.

Yeah, Skippy. You should do that.

[hawk's heart rabbits up a notch at the insinuation - because the only way he'd know if tim obliged him is if he were to scoot that camera down and share the face of a boy he knows scrunches up in concentration. a face that's bloomed with an easy summer tan, surprising him considering he'd expected the delicate irish skin to burn before it would deepen pretty olive undertones. a face he's substituted into dozens of his fantasies leading up to this moment, pretending it was tim anyway. surely his hints have been enough, and tim's not so oblivious anymore to his intentions or his desires. maybe he doesn't know how had it's been for hawk to stay away, but he's here now, because fuck the rules and fuck the way he shouldn't. he should have never met skippy for coffee on a blustery december day that close to his business, but here they are.

they found each other all the same, didn't they?

his mouth goes dry, cock thickening underneath his slacks as hawk easily starts undoing his fly and letting his palm brush over the seam in a slow squeeze. is this a bad idea? is it dangerous? of fucking course it is, and hearing his own name as tim settles into position looking every bit the angelic school boy with a side of something feisty and begging to be debauched should send a chill down his spine at how fast and loose he's playing. how vulnerable he is in this moment even if tim's the one on camera letting his guard down and putting those big brown eyes into view. but instead, it just makes him throb harder, want even deeper, sinking into this clandestine thing they've entirely unspoken until dinner - and even then, this wasn't the part they talked about. tim's voice rings loud and clear, the familiar timbre of it that he's heard animatedly across his desk, mumbled around his fingertips as he taps them deep in thought. that's his boy, alright.

god, he almost regrets telling him to lay down that way, watching the hard studs of his nipples and the light dusting of hair along his tight, toned body. the ripple of his abdomen, the strain of the shirt as it catches along his biceps. fuck, what hawk wouldn't give to drag his lips along every inch of it right now - something he should probably share.]

Shame I'm not there. I'd kiss my way down your spine, take my time along every muscle you've got. All the way down to that pert ass of yours - pulling you open and -

Shit.

You're here because you need a good grade.

Well, you're gonna earn it with me, sweetheart. I'd like to see you on top, alright. But your concentration is lacking, and now it's affecting my performance.

I know what you keep in that box of yours in front of the bed.

[the small toy chest, the one stuffed with gifts from hungry, hopeful subscribers.]

Pull out a good one and get it nice and wet. Keep your mouth full for a minute - keep it from distracting me.

[ if tim could close his eyes, he has no doubt he could imagine what hawkins fuller's lips might feel like down his spine, the way his hands would travel his body. he would take anything this man happens to want to offer him, he realizes, even if he's never quite done some of these things in real life. it's easy to play pretend on the screen - but there's a level of reality here that adds to his boyish, studently charm.

no, he doesn't know what it feels like to be pulled open and devoured but suddenly he wants to, which contributes to the little, rumbling whine that leaves his throat. ]

I do need a good grade. Do whatever you want, Professor - but make sure you grade me fairly. Hard.

[ he huffs, airy and wanton already now that he knows for certain that the professor he croons to is the man he sits opposite of on campus almost daily. he can almost picture himself splayed out on hawk's desk, and just how small and weightless he would feel beneath the pressure of a man as domineering and perfect as hawk.

tim pouts a little at the camera - a little wrinkle of his nose and a hint of that defiance hawk can see in him in the classroom. a student doing what he's told, even if it's not what he wants. ]

Yes, sir. I'm sorry my mouth is distracting - I thought you liked it.

[ he pushes up from his front, letting his legs splay easily behind him, displaying how flexible he is, with his thighs spread wide and the burgeoning bulge of his shorts grinding into the mattress. he leans sideways to the little chest, revealing the muscles of his side, his chest, and from it draws out what looks like a large plug - shiny and blue, the length of tim's palm from base to tip. ]

Professor, is this what you were thinking?

[ he sprawls back on his belly again, sitting up and arching enough so that the puffy pink of his nipples can be seen. he reaches with one strong arm off camera - and there's a look in the honey brown of his eyes behind those glasses - a sort of knowing - as the chat sends a link.

whatever tim has in his hands? it can be controlled via the website.

he slides back into place, and with no preamble, gets to work. first, a kittenish lick at the tip of it, then he wastes no time sinking his mouth around it, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as he might were he between hawk's thighs just now. god, what he would do to be doing just that. ]

I hope you like my first assignment, Professor.

[ said on a gasp, just as he comes up from one bob, before his mouth gets busy once again, eyes focused on the camera. ]

[jesus - fuck. it's a wonder hawk doesn't just blow his entire goddamn load on the spot. tim is so good at this, and suddenly he wants to fucking strangle every asshole who's seen him like this with his bare hands. because he had to learn this from someone, didn't he? hawk can't fathom a world where tim is this good and well practiced from anything other than experience. he'd said he doesn't have many friends here on campus, and it's true for some reason he also can't fathom, no one ever seems to look his way other than to grumble or roll their eyes when he gets too enthusiastic at class. i mean, christ - are they all blind to the fucking adonis that's right in front of them? but then he's grateful, because it means he doesn't have to bite his tongue and feel guilty for lusting after his own student who should absolutely be sewing his wild oats or whatever the fuck fathers are supposed to tell their sons before they go off to college, and he'd feel guilty for keeping tim from something that would unquestionably be the better and more normal experience for him to have.

all this talk, knowing tim knows it's him on the other side - it makes all of this that much more heated, knowing he's probably going to have a semi the next time tim calls him professor to his face or mentions getting a good grade and handing in an assignment. all he's gonna think of are the little noises tim's making, the stretch of taut muscle and slightly tanned skin. the peek of freckles in secret places and the way his eyes never leave the camera, burning with a determination that makes hawk feel himself already leaking in his boxers and throbbing with an ache that his palm barely even satisfies.]

That's exactly what I was thinking. Now, you know I like when your mouth gets to talking a mile a minute - but sometimes a good boy's gotta learn when to keep it busy.

Just like that honey. Fuck. Looks nice and wide. And you - well, we'd be here all night if I told you what I thought about how goddamn irresistible you look.

[hawk watches him - well, like a hawk, aptly so - blue eyes scanning every inch of the screen as he watches tim's cheeks hollow around the length and take all of it with ease. a part of him wonders if he'd take cock just as easily, and when the hell he managed to get rid of his gag reflex which circles back into that hot thrum of jealousy that he feels childish even as much as it makes his blood rush with possession that one day might actually have the opportunity to be acted on.]

Yeah - see how nice you take that. Good boy.

[when the link comes through though, that's when hawk utterly freezes. if he were on camera, tim could absolutely see the moment it registers on his face, jaw and lips slackening with realization. eyes widening and pupils dilated like fucking saucers, mouth wet and tongue dragging across his lips in a hungry lick. he's gonna be the one calling the shots. but that also means - ]

The wonders of technology never cease, huh? Mighty fine present you got for me here. But you know...my hands are gonna be a bit busy. One taking care of my boy, and one for - well, you're smart enough to figure it out.

[what he's offering, it's risky. as if this isn't already partway down the rabbit hole anyway. the dots on tim's side of the chat take a little longer than usual, and it isn't because hawk is nervous. god no - he's good at this part. it's just, this is unchartered territory for them both. admitting to something they've pretended to overlook for some time, taking another step into crossing the boundary that they are playing fast and loose with. but fuck if he doesn't want it. jesus, he wants it more than he thinks he's ever wanted anything in the last decade, let alone his whole goddamn life.]

I was thinking maybe you'd want me to tell you exactly what to do. To hear me praise you and get that good feedback to finish your assignment, yeah?

But it's only if you want it, sweetheart. And if not, that's alright too.

Jesus, I could watch you like this all day.

[ coming up on a little gasp from the toy, tim's eyes lift to the camera again and he pauses, licking his bottom lip as they all but shimmer slick in the camera lighting. they've gone rosy red for the stretch and movement and he's sure to show it in the way his bottom lip pouts just so as he catches a breath. ]

Tell me everything you want to, Professor, please. I only take it this nice for you. No one else.

[ just as he dips his head back down to take the toy, he arches his back, spreads his thighs a little so that hawk can see the way the muscle strains the rigid fabric. one sock rolls a little in the movement, and he licks one long stripe up the toy as he reads what hawk offers next.

if he looks surprised, he can't help it - brows jumping a tiny bit over the frames of his glasses, a pretty flush lighting up under his cheeks and creeping down his neck. it looks like it might well make even his chest go rosy and pink. one hand for the toy - one hand for -

oh, to be that sweet, divine hand.

he almost misses the offer - the little risk that his man is making and he tilts his head a little and it's an accident the way he utterly moans around the toy on the way up. ]

Please. I - I want it. To hear you - to take anything you want to give me, Professor. I'll do anything to earn it.

[ and maybe there's something a little to genuine in it, a little too honest, but it's true. to hear hawkins fuller - listen to the man coo his name and praise him, to hear the rumble of his voice with the sounds of skippy on his tongue?

it will never be as good as kissing him in the lamplight outside the restaurant. it will never beat the romance of their date, the sizzle on the air between them. how badly tim wants to be his now more than ever. even if it's through a screen, where they can't touch, they can't kiss. where hawk is still anonymous and safe, and tim rips open his chest for him. ]

I know I can do a good job for you, Hawk - Professor. Let me show you - prove it to you. Please, let me hear everything you need from me.

[ ah. he's nearly forgotten the toy and he bashfully sort of ducks his head, shrugs one freckled shoulder before he dips back down and takes the toy all the way to the back of his throat and he sits there, lingering, waiting for a few seconds before he comes back up, face tinged and warm, and the brown of his eyes imploring the camera. ]

I'll be the best boy you've ever taught.

[ 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.

[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?

You're sure this isn't a bad time?

[ he ducks his head sheepishly, flushing a little at the compliment on his original pitch - it had been a good investigation on political ethics and their role in propaganda, but he's come up with something else along the way, diving into a different topic in the middle of the first one.

he steps in and shuts the door behind him out of habit, dropping his bag beside his chair (his chair - it has his outline in it in a way, doesn't it?) and dragging it closer to hawk's desk. he tugs off his scarf - threadbare and worn out but colorful and handmade - tossing it aside. he digs out the two papers he's written, but pauses to rub some warmth back into his finger tips, speaking animated and growing more and more passionate as he speaks. ]

I was writing the first one - on propaganda and how it's shaped the ethics and direction of our governmental policies but then kind of started digging a little more into the ethical process of our senate and supreme court and how they're fundamentally flawed as decision makers, the checks and balances are inequitable between all branches because of the way we deploy information to the public. It's all rooted in dirty money, from both directions.

[ he takes a breath, blushing from his ears, his cheeks, down his throat. ]

Sorry. I - you should probably just... read them.

[ he rises then, stepping up to the desk and holding them out for hawk to look at, flustered, his sweater rucked up even more from the way he'd been curled against the chair. ]

[it is a bad time. a fucking terrible time. it's partly his own damn fault - mind racing between the possibility that tim really is just here for some advice on his paper or that he's here because his own resolve is crumbling. but they're so close to that tentative finish line, to christmas and freedom, even if it comes with its own new set of constraints. but it means no more looking without being able to touch - spending nights together, of kissing tim breathless and getting to feel the way he trembles with every touch that come from hawk's hands instead of his own under makeshift instruction. it's just one more goddamn paper about a topic that tonight he can't bring himself to care much about, frustration prickling under his skin as he lifts a hand to press his thumb and forefinger over both eyes briefly as tim stakes claim over the space that is universally known now as his.

behind the shield of his own skin dragging across his eyelids, he can glance fleetingly at the way tim's eyes light up, the determination and dogged insistence even as he's trying to warm himself up with his own physical touch. it makes hawk ache to reach out and kiss each fingertip, to tell him to forget about all of that and just be here in the warmth with an invitation to just...be. for once in his life he doesn't give a shit about policy or propaganda, he wants to forego every excuse they've had to use to be close this entire semester.

but he can't do that, quiet as he listens to the explanation and wills himself to ignore the flash of skin and the way he can practically feel tim's nervous energy emanating across his desk as he reaches for both papers. his eyes skim across the original - a fine piece of work on its own, solid critiques and well-justified arguments. but he can see where it takes a detour, and he doesn't finish it before swapping over to the second and skimming the change in tone: the tongue-lashing, fiery takedown that would have even some of his most liberal counterparts uneasy for how far he's plowed past into near conspiracy theory.

hawk sets them both down, one hand holding them flat against the desk as he reaches for a pen without looking up at tim.]

Sit back down.

[there's something slightly forceful in the way he says it, flipping the cap off and letting it drag red mark after red mark across the page in deep silence.]

Do you remember what I said you to when you walked into this classroom after the first two weeks and turned in that paper on foreign policies shaped by American socioeconomics?

[don't be so naive, don't get carried away, stay rooted in the facts - all along those lines as he watched an overzealous tim make the first impressions of an intelligent, formidable student in his classroom. but he'd needed shaping around the edges - smoothing out the parts that tended to let him get dragged down into the depths of something deeper and more difficult to articulate. hawk pushes his chair back, sliding the paper across the desk for tim to take and read as he gets up and circles around the wood tabletop slowly. there's something measured in his steps, deliberate as he comes round and stands directly behind tim in his seat. his hands drop to the back of the chair, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from tim's body. to press his own up against it if he chose - but he doesn't yet.]

Tell me.

[ tim clocks hawk's body language first - the rub of his eyes between his fingers, the pinch at the bridge of his nose. at first he thinks maybe the man is bothered that he's there - annoyed, even, at his presence. it ratchets the nerves a little higher even as he hands over the papers.

even tired and tense, hawk's handsome - the cut of his jaw, the severity of his eyes. he stands at the edge of the desk, watching as hawk looks over the papers, but - the command. yes, definitely a command. something sings hot through his blood, up his spine, burning at his cheeks as he blinks a little dumbly even as his body reacts, does exactly what he knows a good boy should do.

the red pen scratching along the pages takes the wind out of his sails, but he tries hard not to show it. instead finding his whole body rigid at attention from the order, eyes focusing on the elegant movements of hawk's hand. what would happen, he wonders, if he moved. if he got up and made to crawl across his desk, to his lap, to kiss him and -

no. no, that can't happen. he's been told so many times, and yet - to hear that tone of voice here, now, in person makes his heart beat tick up a little faster. ]

I... it was a long time ago, but -

[ his words die in his throat as hawk stands, tim's head tilted to follow his movement, tension rising in his chest, and it's embarrassing that something about the way the man prowls from behind his desk goes straight to his dick, tim feeling it thicken beneath his jeans. he reaches for the paper, glancing down at it.

he doesn't turn, doesn't move, but there's the faintest gasp when hawk leans on his chair, when he feels the warmth of him, the breath against his nape. tim's fingers tighten in his lap, knuckles white. he looks straight ahead, unmoving. ]

Yes, sir. [ quiet but firm, voice a rich purr masked in the air of a nervous sigh. he waits, swallowing hard and all the muscle memory comes to life - his back arching prettily, just like hawk likes it, his head tilting to one side as he reads, nose crinkled in concentration. ]

Stay rooted in the facts. Don't get carried away. Don't be so naive. Keep your head on straight and you'll do fine, Laughlin.

[ a little breath, sitting the paper in his lap, smoothing palms over the pages, over his own thighs. ]

Is that - is that right, Professor?

[he shouldn't do this. he should tell tim to recite the mantra hawk had tried for multiple semesters to instill in him, take his paper with it's fine collection of critiques, and leave so he can rewrite it from the safety of his dorm. keeping him here like this is playing with fire, watching him comply and let his body move pliant like molten liquid and stoke the heat of hawk's desire that he's come to associate with a screen. seeing it in front of his already worn down restraint is like a final blow, untethering him from every piece of morality and ethics he's tried clinging to for nearly a year. but the overwhelming scent and presence and desire that's consuming him is too much to bear now that it's in front of him like this, begging for him to do something.

hawk keeps his hands at the back of the chair, tight enough that the worn wood creaks from the force of it even as tim stays facing straight ahead or into his lap, smoothing over the paper and hiding the one thing that will give away whether he's as affected as hawk is in this moment.

he tips at the waist, breath hot over the shell of tim's ear even as he refuses to touch now.]

That's right, exactly in one.

[so he did remember. part of him wonders - did tim do this as an excuse to come down here and rile him up? or did he get so carried away in the last hurrah of it all, so eager he really did mean to rewrite this in earnest? so few students would ever take the extra work and flesh out two almost full papers when the assignment was one. but right now he doesn't give a shit about any of it, just watching the way he'll respond - if he'll shudder at the tickle of hawk's words washing over his skin, voice low and domineering.]

Put the paper back. And then - I want you to get up and -

[leave. it's on the tip of his tongue, mind screaming at him to just say it once and for all and overcome this intoxication that's rendered him senseless in the moment.]

Lock the door. And when you're done, you sit down with your hands flat on the desk and you read, starting from paragraph five.

[just reading. there's nothing wrong with that.]

[ tim doesn't know what to expect - what his marching orders will be - but the creak of the wood behind him sends a ripple of sparks up his spine. makes him sit straighter, back arched, fingers curling against his thighs for control. he wants him - he wants him terribly, and he tries to obey the best he can.

lock the door.

it's true that he's wanted this for a long time, but also true that he'd come here in an excited frenzy, buzzing with worry and curiosity. now, though - the temperature of the room has changed, his sweater somehow feeling impossibly warm. but he listens, gives a little nod. ]

Yes, Mr. Fuller.

[ a good boy with nothing but obedience built into him after many, many nights of screens and requests. slowly he rises, moves to lock the door but doesn't make eye contact with hawk, not yet. he returns to his seat, shifting a little to lay the paper out, to press his palms to the surface like he'd been old. ]

Five, sir?

[ he takes in a deep breath, then begins to read. it's slow, meticulous, carefully forming the words with a practiced elegance. he wants to look back - wants to see where hawk is, what he's doing, where his hands are. but he doesn't, continues to read and read and read... ]

Five.

[sir hits his dick like the jolt a live wire, a gut punch accentuated only by the click of the lock and the realization that no one can really interrupt them now. the immediate danger has been removed, which means the guardrails are off too, and his restraint is a hair's breadth from all out snapping right in half. watching tim obey him word for word is that much more impossibly intoxicating to witness in person - from the arch of his back, the perfect flat of his palms, the pretty profile as he tips his heads down and starts to read. the words don't matter, just a careful drone for him to pretend to care about the content which isn't bad, but it's not his best. sloppy, he'd even wager to say for his prize student.

his place stays unchanged, directly behind tim with his hands on the back of the chair and his fingers brushing up against his back - they feel hot enough from where he's gripping hard that tim should feel it even through his worn sweater. maybe he doesn't feel it at all, voice mostly steady despite an airiness he knows doesn't otherwise happen in class. paragraph five and six pass without event, and it's not until three-quarters through paragraph seven that hawk tips his head down enough to get a whiff of what he knows is convenience store shampoo and soap, mixing with the kiss of fireplace smoke from the campus union and the unmistakable homey scent of winter underlined by everything he remembers on his pillow that is uniquely tim laughlin almost a year ago. maybe the inhale is audible, maybe he can feel the flutter of hawk's warm breath against the top of his head - maybe he has no idea what the hell is happening right now.

but his voice is ragged when he speaks, closer than ever to the shell of tim's ear.]

The last sentence - go back. Read it again, slower.

[slower, like the lift of his own hand as if bewitched in the way it smooths down tim's extended arm and stops short of the palm resting against mahogany, wrapping instead around his wrist and guiding it up and off the desk.]

Keep going.

[keep going, as he drags tim's limp hand down the front of his sweater, past the peek of skin and against the easy splay of his thighs to cup between the seam and fly at the middle of his legs. not touching, not technically - just suggesting what he do next. there's a low noise, a hum of interest before he gives another command.]

Unzip that.

[ hawk leans in and tim can feel the heat of him close at his back - it makes the little hairs at his nape rise and stand at attention, makes his whole body flush with heat, the tips of his ears down the line of his throat. he regrets that the paper can't hide his own desire - the fly of his pants growing the barest hint tighter from the anticipation alone.

he repeats the last sentence, slowing his words and enunciating each one, but his voice wavers when the heat of hawk's breath sits so close to his ear. he can't help the little gasp, the way his spine straightens. he bites his lip to keep anything else from slipping between his lips.

only when ordered does he start back up, voice stuttering again when hawk guides his hand down his chest, to the press of his thighs. his fingers flex against the fabric, along the line of his dick, just the way he knows hawk likes to see. it's dexterous enough to undo the button, to unzip his jeans, but he pauses.

his hand stays rested over his fly, the words of the paper forgotten as he reaches the end of them. ]

Sir? [ a little breathless, wanting. ] What should I do next?

[ he wants instruction, wants to do whatever hawk tells him, and so his hand rests idle, bending only enough for hawk to feel it where he holds him, the man's hand like a brand on his skin. ]

I want to - I want to make sure I get a good grade. [ it doesnt have the voice of the boy on the camera - pandering and cheesy, but instead it's a little husky, pleading, wanting in as much as it is dirty talk. there's no doubt he'll do well on his paper - he knows better than that. ]

[what should he do? he should tell hawk this is too far. he should ask him to stop, coax him into remembering all the reasons why he's held off so long in the first place. he should sit up straighter and pull away from the heat of hawk's hands, collect his things, unlock the door and not come back until their tie has officially been severed. and he absolutely should not let hawk hear the real timothy laughlin in the hitch of his breath, the deep note of want in his voice that isn't the skippy he's been spending hours during the nights listening to and pretending would be a decent substitute for hearing it in the flesh. now that he's heard the real thing, how could he ever go back to anything else? how could he stop himself from wanting more? for a moment, even though he's clearly thinking with one head over another (and it certainly isn't the one on his shoulders) - the idea that none of it fucking matters anyway for badly he wants tim and would give this office, this salary and this opportunity up for more clouds him wholeheartedly.

there's a heavy inhale as hawk lets his nose drag almost imperceptibly along tim's hair, smelling the mixture of his shampoo and the unmistakeable bite of fall air against it. his hand tightens over tim's wrist, slipping down to splay across the back of his palm and form over where he has it clutching at the bulge under his unzipped fly with a light squeeze and uttering an absently mindless grunt for the weight of it he isn't directly touching, enticing him almost agonizingly.]

Don't you dare turn around, you hear? You stay where you are, you look at your paper and you keep looking over - the parts that aren't perfect.

[there's a harsh breath against the shell of his ear, hawk's fingers tightening at the back of the chair as his lips brush like butterfly flutters against the skin with the last vestiges of his restraint. his tone is low, gruff - so close to losing control. heady with the obvious want that tim must know, the kind that weakens him for how close to snapping altogether he is.]

You want a good grade...take yourself out. [hawk waits for him to comply, practically salivating at the way he wishes he could see every inch of the body he's studied in an extremely subpar approximation of 4d.]

I'm not grading on what you've written. I'm grading on your concentration tonight. I'm grading on how well you take my orders, you got that, Skippy?

[his own face angles, tipping in to nose along his jaw and up his cheek bone with the side of his nose.]

Yes or no. Tell me, right now.

[tell me you want this. tell me it's okay.]

I won't turn around.

[ the heat of hawk at his back, the weight of him there makes his skin alight with fire. makes his whole body come to life in a new way that leaves him stricken and wanting in a way he's never felt before. the cameras can't do anything on this - the internet sessions and the voice calls - nothing can hold a candle to it. hawk's lips ghost his skin and he sighs, his hips shifting just so.

he squeezes himself beneath his jeans, lets out a little, quiet moan when he feels hawk's hand palm over his, squeeze in tandem. what would it be to feel his hand directly? to have hawk devour him here just as he's told he would do night after night after night. but just like their sessions he does as he's told - ever the obedient boy, but even more so for this man that has completely captured him. he slowly moves his fingers, draws out the aching line of his prick past the underwear, the zipper, the denim. the cool air makes him hiss softly. ]

Like this, sir?

[ but god another order, another clarification, and the sweet drag of hawk's nose along his jaw, his cheek - he wants to be kissed so bad. remembers how it feels to have his arms around him, to taste hawk on his tongue, to sit across his lap and want. ]

Yes. Yes, I understand. Yes, please. I -

[ he bites his lip hard, trying to contain himself, trying to be the picture perfect boy. he doesn't want to be cast away now. not for the paper. not for saying the wrong thing again, not for his body, any of it. ]

Yes, Hawk.

Edited (had to buy icons whoops) 2024-11-11 04:59 (UTC)

[seeing him like this and refusing to touch - at least anything other than indirectly - is like a fucking gutpunch. hawk hasn't gotten on his knees for anyone since he was a little less than tim's age, and he's never wanted to until this moment. not until the pretty pink flare of his cock gets exposed to the warm light of his office, thick and mouth-wateringly perfect. it's not like he hasn't seen it before, but he hasn't seen the precise shade or the shape of it intimately enough to really make him ache. his own pulses in an angry throb of want under his trousers, behind his boxers that have tightened past uncomfortable even as he resolutely tries to ignore it in favor of acting this out on tim and tim alone.]

Yeah. Just like that.

[hawk wants to kiss him equally badly, but he won't give in to it much like he won't give in to his own needs right now. instead, he shifts his hand across tim's to guide it in a loose grip around the base of his pretty cock, lifting his fingers in the approximation of a light stroke to the tip and back down again.]

Good boy.

[it's whispered against him, rough and ragged despite the initial ease of his pace.]

It's yes, sir or yes, professor right now - understood?

[there's a low hum, hawk pressing his chin against tim's shoulder and letting his cheek tip against tim's too - soft skin against one another so he can get a better view at what he's making his student do for him in unspoken commands.]

You get what I give you, if you want to do well. And - don't even think about finishing until it's time.

[another light stroke, hawk shifting tim's fingers in a twist of his palm up at the tip in a lazy moment of indulgence.]

[ good boy said out loud and warm against his near makes tim moan unexpectedly, his head tipping back as his bites his lip to prevent the sound from getting too loud. it's nothing of the played at, wanton sounds he makes for the tippers in his chats, and even more raw than those hawk coaxed out of him in their private sessions.

he nods his head a little, eyes fluttering as the man's broad hand guides his own over his hardening cock. ]

Yes, sir.

[ hawk's weight at his back and side, the tip of their cheeks to touching is enough to make him begin to flush, his face burning hot, the color creeping down his neck past the collar of his sweater. the squeeze of their joined hands around the tip of his cock makes him hum quiet and needy. the muscles of his thighs jump visibly, resisting the urge to thrust into the press of their hands. ]

Yes, professor. I want to do well - I'll do whatever you tell me to do, professor. I want to be your good boy.

[ tim's voice has turned into a wavering, airy little thing - not the practiced purr of the student on the other side of the screen but the genuine stripping back of walls, the raw nerve of his desire exposed. ]

Please, professor.

[ he doesn't know what he's asking for, his mind blank and bursting with stars at the touches. ]

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.

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.

I'm used to it! New York is much colder than this and I've had to walk a few miles and back there for school before.

But your bed is very warm. I hope it's okay but I was a little cold so I grabbed the sweatshirt you were wearing last night.

[ before he absolutely took it off and they did other things to warm up in bed. ]

I’m in a car. I’ll get there twice as quick, snow or not. Besides - the storm isn’t even here yet. Though, you’d look awfully cute in this with a red little nose and movie snow. That’s what I used to call it when I was a kid.

…Just the sweatshirt?

Christ, I’ll step on it.

Movie snow? Why do you call it that?

[ it's endearing to learn more things about hawk when he was younger, the way he saw the world then and now. tim smiles reading it and does tip toe out to open the blinds, watching the big, fat flakes falling lazily from the sky.

he returns to the bed, bundling up. ]

I don't know, you'll have to wait and see when you get home, Hawk. But no speeding! It's icy out - you could slide around.

Because it doesn’t stick and it looks pretty. Used to call it that because of the latter, but now the cynicism in me thinks ironically the former fits too.

Am I gonna come home to my smell all over you? That would really drive a guy wild, storm or no.

I’ll be careful.

I like when it sticks to the ground and everything turns glittering and white.

Winter nights are always so quiet, like the whole world is peeking out of their windows to see it.

I didn't shower because you told me to stay in bed, you know. I'm not enjoying the snow like everyone else, so I smell like last night and you. If I lay on my side just right I can still feel the stretch.

Picture perfect, huh.

Well, it won’t be quiet when I get back - I’m gonna make sure of it. I don’t think I was really all that prepared for how loud you get. I love it.

What, you wanna go out and make snow angels? Don’t let me stop you. If I follow the speed limit you’ve got at least twenty minutes to kill.

Or you could sit and tell me how it feels. As good as you wanted it to be?

I had to be quiet before and I especially had to be quiet in your office. It was a little embarrassing the first time - I didn't know what to expect and it just felt so incredible.

Like it does now. That empty feeling but the stretch of you. My body remembers, but it's not as good as the real thing you know.

Also if I'm going to make a snow angel then I'm waiting - and we have to do it together. I know that's not very sexy to say when I'm feeling every ache of you, but. It could be fun. I used to love making them when I was little.

Guess I should have been considering it a blessing you’ve got a single. But I didn’t know what I was missing out on either.

…You’re sure it was alright like that? Still pretty floored that was your first. I would have - well, I just hope you know I don’t take that lightly.

Now that we’ve opened Pandora’s Box though you’re right. I doubt anything is gonna beat the real thing.

I knew I’d put that little excuse for a yard to good use someday, even without a pet. Snow angels when I get back, and then maybe I get the fire going and fuck you on the rug in front of it to warm back up.

Hawk, it was perfect. Better than I imagined it really and definitely better than everyone else makes it out to be. I'm glad it was you - I wanted it to be you. I like feeling you even when you're not here.

[ it will make going to class eventually following one of these nights distracting and difficult. even now when he squirms he can feel the dull ache. ]

I'll be greedy for once, like you always say I should. I want more of you. However you want - you know there's not a lot that will scare me away. Not with you. Never with you.

But maybe no fucking in the snow, I'll draw the line there. [ he's already grinning and maybe even giggling like a schoolboy. ] But I think we can come to an agreement on the rug. It's very soft.

I'll have to keep that in mind when class starts up again. Now that you're not one of my students - well, I hope you'll still be stopping by.

[he's not going to wax poetic about it, but there is a certain thrill to having been the first. the only - a voice inside him supplies unhelpfully, treading into a territory he's still not sure he should broach. ever, not with tim's whole future still ahead of him.]

Okay, shoot then. Be as greedy as you like. Nothing off limits.

After the snow angels and the fireplace, what's next? Radio is saying we might get as many as twelve inches overnight. I might swing by the store on the way home too, just in case.

A foot of snow? I'll cook for us if you get some staples!

But before cooking, I think we'll make some snow angels, warm up by the fireplace. I think I'll warm up even more by sitting in your lap. It might help warm you up, too. I wouldn't want you to get a chill from all the snow.

You a good cook, Skippy? I can whip up a decent meal now and then, but I’m no expert.

Perfect.

You know at this rate - we might be snowed in all week. Even up to Christmas Eve. Did you - have plans?

I like to think I am. I had to cook for my family a lot. We shared the load and my mother taught me a bit before I left.

[ he misses her. her and his sister. ]

What? Is it really sticking the way they say it will? I usually stay on campus, but no plans. Can I

Can I stay with you?

You all seem close. Is it hard? Not always going back for the holidays?

Looks like it, yeah.

As long as you haven’t got a better offer I don’t know about. Sure, you can stay.

[hawk just about winces, realizing that looks pretty callous in black and white. without the teasing note in his tone. so quick he tacks on:]

I mean - yeah. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot, Skippy. Don’t usually do more than hunker down, drink, and try to call my mother in between family dinners I don’t attend.

You like eggnog?

I miss them of course. But going home is difficult. My family doesn’t always agree on politics and social values.

I try to stay on campus for the winter break if I can make the money for it, that’s all. It’s easier.

[ and a little lonely, but he won’t say that out loud. it sounds pathetic. especially considering a year ago the way he had found out hawkins fuller was his contact.

hawks right the first message stings and tim begins to wonder if he should be making plans to get out of his plush bed until the next messages come through. ]

Eggnog is good. Especially after being out in the cold.

I’m making cocoa for you - or starting it up. It’s so cold outside.

[ he has to earn his keep, after all. ]

Yeah? Is that the first battleground for your impeccable debate skills? I'll bet you could hold your own. Except against your sister - she sounds... a little scary.

[hawk hates the idea of money being a factor in any of it. he hates the idea that tim is entertaining equally lonely strangers in the solitude of his room during the holidays just to get by when he should be with his family, or in the arms of someone who really appreciates what he's offering. it twists uncomfortably in his chest, almost like the heat of jealousy. a very bad, very dangerous thing.]

Add some peppermint for me, would you? I've got a few squares - middle shelf in the pantry.

You know...it's a nice change to have someone waiting for me. Could get used to it.

[hawk's lonely too.]

My sister isn't scary but she knows what she wants. She doesn't shy away from what she feels. I really respect her for it.

[ and he's been grateful for it when it's protected him from the harsher views his family might have. ]

Peppermint, of course. It'll be ready for you when you get in. It's the least I can do, but I like taking care of people. You cook for the people you care about. To me there's no better way to show that.

How far out are you? The roads aren't too dangerous, are they?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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all aboard the gaslight express!

toot toot bitch

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