[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 subject
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.]