[ 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. ]
no subject
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.