Chapter Text
Trump slammed the locker shut, the echo reverberating through the empty hallways of XYZ College. The lunch bell had rung minutes ago, and the scent of overcooked meatloaf wafted from the cafeteria. His stomach growled, but his wallet remained stubbornly empty. He had spent his last dime on a pack of gum to mask the stench of his morning coffee.
With a heavy sigh, he trudged towards Biden's classroom, the only place he knew he might find refuge. He had heard whispers of Biden's kind heart and how he often took students under his wing—literally, if the rumors were true. The thought made him blush. Perhaps today, of all days, he could charm his way into a free meal.
Biden was a stern teacher, known for his meticulous approach to pronouns. He had a reputation for transforming even the most rebellious students into woke aficionados. His classroom was a bastion of order amidst the chaos of college life.
As Trump sauntered in, his eyes scanned the room for any sign of the man himself. The chalkboard was filled with sentences, each one meticulously set on about xe/xer and what not. Trump never paid attention in this class to begin with, though. He thinks woke people and colored people are aliens.
The door creaked shut behind him, and the room went silent. All eyes turned to the interloper, and Biden looked up from his podium, a furrow of annoyance creasing his brow. "What do you want?" he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.
Trump leaned against the desk at the front of the room, trying to ooze charm. "Just looking for a little... assistance, Professor." He gave a wink that he hoped was seductive.
Biden's eyes narrowed, and the room grew tense. "This isn't the place for that kind of behavior, young man," he scolded, slamming a textbook shut. "Now, if you're here for the lesson, sit down. If not, leave."
Trump's smile didn't waver. "But, Professor," he purred VERY seductively. Almost enough for the whole room to stop and turn to him, even with no one there. That shit was creamier than a certain liquid blush from sephora, "you're the one who said we should all help each other out. And I'm just so hungry."
Biden's face turned a shade of red that would put a ripe tomato to shame. "Get out!" he roared, his voice bouncing off the walls. The power in his voice was something you'd expect from a man who could bench press a small car. Or at least, a man who thought he could bench press a small car. "This is a classroom, not a food bank you biggie!”
Trump's smile faded, and he looked down at his scuffed shoes, feigned innocence plastered on his face. He knew when he was being rejected, but he also knew when to push a little harder. "But, Professor," he said, his voice dropping to a whine, "I'm just trying to learn. Pwease wont you teach me?… I’ve been a good boy..”
Biden's grip on the podium tightened, his knuckles turning white. "Out," he said, pointing to the door.
Trump sighed dramatically and sauntered out, the sound of his footsteps trailing behind him. His mind raced, trying to come up with a new plan to fill his growling stomach. As he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling of Biden's eyes on him, even though the door was firmly closed. It was a mix of anger and something else—something that made his heart flutter in a way he hadn't felt before. It filled his racist little soul… it really did.
The next class was pronouns with Biden, and Trump decided to give his charm another shot. He breezed in, trying to ignore the snickers of his classmates as he took his seat. Biden's lecture was as dry as a 90 year old womans cooch, but today, Trump found himself hanging on every word, hoping for a glimpse of that hidden softness he thought he'd seen earlier.
But as the class progressed, it became clear that Biden wasn't going to make it easy for him. He called on Trump repeatedly, asking him to identify the correct pronouns for woke no gender people with bright green, buzzed hair, his tone a mix of challenge and annoyance. Trump squirmed in his seat, sweat beading on his forehead, as he stumbled over the answers. Each time he got it wrong, the room erupted in laughter, and Biden's gaze bore into him like a hot poker.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, Trump leapt to his feet. "Fine! You want to play it tough, huh?" he shouted, his face flushing with anger. "Let's go to the roof, then. Just you and me. No pronouns, no bullshit, just... talk for fucks sake.”
The classroom fell silent, the only sound the rustling of paper and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. Biden's eyes locked onto Trump's, and for a moment, it seemed as if the air was charged with something electric. Then, with a slow nod, Biden turned and strode out of the classroom.
Trump's heart raced as he followed the teacher through the empty halls, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on his back, but he didn't care. This was his chance, his moment to prove that he wasn't just some hungry, desperate college kid.
The stairs to the roof felt like a never-ending climb. The sun beat down on them as they emerged into the open air, the heat making their skin sticky with anticipation. Biden stopped and turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Trump took a step closer, his chest heaving with excitement. "I want... I need... I crave," he said, his voice thick with desire. "I want you to know that I'm more than just a lost cause, Professor. I can be more for you..”
Biden's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward, closing the gap between them. "What are you saying?" His voice was a low, gruff growl that sent shivers down Trump's spine.
Trump's heart pounded in his chest as he took another step closer, his breaths shallow. "I'm saying," he whispered, "that I know what you really want." He reached out a tentative hand, brushing his fingertips against Biden's chest.
Biden's eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then, with a snarl, he grabbed Trump's wrist and pinned him against the chain-link fence surrounding the roof. "You think you know me?" he spat, his grip tightening. "You think you can just waltz in here and play games?"
Trump's eyes shone with a mix of fear and exhilaration as he felt Biden's body press against his. "I know you want me, Professor," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the city. "You can't hide it anymore."
Biden's gaze bore into Trump's, his breathing heavy. His grip on the fence tightened, and for a second, it looked like he might just push the student away and end the charade. But then, something in his expression softened, and his hand moved from the fence to cup Trump's cheek. "You're a bad boy," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
Their eyes remained locked, the tension palpable, as Biden leaned in. The air was thick with the scent of their desire, and Trump's heart raced as their lips met in a kiss that was as passionate as it was unexpected. It was like nothing he had ever felt before—like a wildfire in Cali spreading through him, consuming his very being.
The kiss grew more intense, and Biden's hands began to roam down Trump's body. Trump's own hands found purchase on Biden's shirt, pulling him closer, as if trying to meld their bodies into one. They were lost in each other, the world around them fading away into nothingness. It was as if they had been starving for this connection, and now that they had found it, they couldn't get enough.
But reality had a way of crashing back down, and it came in the form of Mr. Smith, the band director, who stumbled upon the pair on the roof. His eyes went wide, and his cheeks flushed as he took in the scene before him. "What in the holy...?" he sputtered, his eyes darting back and forth between Trump and Biden.
The two men broke apart, breathless and guilty. Biden's eyes were wild, a mix of shock and arousal that hadn't fully dissipated. "Mr. Smith," Trump stammered, trying to straighten his rumpled shirt. "It's not what it looks like."
Mr. Smith's expression shifted from shock to anger. "Save it," he snarled, stepping closer. "You think you can just flaunt your... relationships in public like that?" His fists clenched at his sides. "You're engaged to me, you know! You said you changed!”
Trump's stomach twisted into a knot. He had hoped to keep his arrangement with Mr. Smith a secret, but apparently, the cat was out of the bag. "It's not like that," he protested weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Biden, on the other hand, looked as if he had seen a ghost. "What... what are you talking about?" he asked, his voice shaking.
Mr. Smith's fists clenched even tighter. "Don't play dumb with me, you little shit!" he shouted. "You know exactly what I'm talking about! You're mine, not his! I claimed you as MY omega!”
Trump's heart sank as Biden's expression shifted from confusion to understanding. "You're... you're with Mr. Smith?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The betrayal in his eyes was like a knife to the gut.
Mr. Smith sneered, his face red with fury. "That's right, you self-righteous prick," he spat. "He's promised to me. You think you can just come along and take what's not yours?"
Biden's grip on the fence tightened until his knuckles were white. "You're with Mr. Smith?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief and anger. "You're engaged to him?"
Trump’s breathing slowly starts to escalate, to the point of nearly hypervenalating. He finally snaps, his eyes building with tears that threaten to fall against his porous skin. “Stop it! This isn’t like you! You would never put your hands on someone… let alone me! you’re better than this. This isn’t you…”
Biden’s rage seems to dissipate like a cloud in the wind, his eyes widening with realization and guilt. He drops his hand from Trump’s cheek as if it had been scalded, taking a step back. “What have I done?” he whispers, his voice cracking.
Mr. Smith, witnessing the heartbreak unfold before him, feels his own anger dissolve into despair. The tears that had been threatening to spill over now stream down his cheeks. He stumbles forward, his hands outstretched, and pulls both Biden and Trump into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs, his words muffled against their shoulders. “I didn’t mean to cause this. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I just wanted to protect him, to give him what he needed.”
Biden's arms wrap around Mr. Smith in a fierce grip, his own tears falling onto the older man's shirt. “Protect him?” he says incredulously. “You’ve been using him! He’s just a kid!”
Trump, sandwiched between the two, feels a mix of confusion and pain. He's never seen this side of Mr. Smith before, the anger and possessiveness. He thought they had something special, something beyond the transactional nature of their relationship. But now, he's not sure what to believe.
Biden's hand slides down to Trump's waist, and before he knows it, the teacher's lips are on his again, kissing him with a fervor that leaves him breathless. And, to his shock, Mr. Smith's arms are around both of them, his mouth finding Trump's neck, kissing and nipping gently. It's a whirlwind of emotions, a tornado of passion that he never saw coming.
Trump's hands are in Biden's hair, pulling him closer, as Mr. Smith's hands wander over his body, setting his skin alight. The three of them are a tangle of limbs and desire, each man trying to claim the others in a silent battle of passion. The rooftop becomes a stage for their desperation, the only audience the pigeons that watch with disinterest.
Mr. Smith's hands slide down to Trump's ass, giving it a firm squeeze, as Biden's tongue traces the shell of his ear. The sensation sends shivers down Trump's spine, and he gasps, his body betraying his conflicted emotions. This isn't right, he thinks, but it feels so good. So, so good.
The next few days pass in a blur of guilt and longing. Trump avoids both Biden and Mr. Smith, his heart feeling like it's been torn in two. He throws himself into his studies, hoping to drown out the memories of that steamy rooftop encounter. But every time he looks up from his textbook, he sees the same judgmental stares from his classmates, the whispers that follow him like a bad odor.
Then, one fateful afternoon, his phone buzzes with an unknown number. He swipes to answer, expecting it to be yet another bill collector or a spam call about enlarging his nonexistent penis. But the voice on the other end is one he never expected to hear again. "Trump," it says, and he knows immediately it's Biden, his voice strained and pained.
"Biden?" he answers, his heart skipping a beat.
"Yeah, it's me," Biden says, his voice thick with emotion. "Look, I can only say this on the phone. Im dying… there wont be enough time to meet up, I’ll already be gone. I’m sorry.”
Trump's heart stops, his hand tightening around the phone so much he's surprised it doesn't shatter. "What? No, you can't be," he croaks, his voice barely audible.
"It's true," Biden says, his voice filled with a sadness so deep it feels like it could swallow the world whole. "I had a... a heart condition. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't want to be a burden."