[ 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. ]
no subject
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.