[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.
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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.