[ hawk's eyes burn through him and even though that broad palm wraps around his hand, thumb pressing at his pulse and sliding along his skin with an expert ease, tim finds himself unable to blink as he meets the man's gaze. it takes the air out of his lungs, makes the blood warm and move faster beneath his skin, makes the fly of his jeans grow a hair more taut and he's sure he could burst into flames here.
hawk eats the cake with little show, but it's the tension between them, the connection of electricity unseen between the flutter of their lashes. when hawk speaks, he lets out the breath he hadn't meant to hold, finds himself absolutely shaken by how fixed he'd been in that moment, trapped in the quick sand of want and need and heady desire, bottomless and vast - laid out cleanly on a silver-tined fork. ]
Not yet.
[ not yet, hawk says and suddenly the world shifts somehow. it'd stared with no, never, can't to this. to not yet, not now, maybe, one day. the crevasse that lies between them is vast, yes, but not daunting. hawkins fuller wants him, desires timothy laughlin - not skippy. that alone is a fucking prize tonight. ]
You should have some first.
[ and in a little hint of cheeky defiance, he reaches to set the used fork across the small dessert plate before hawk, leaning enough that when he slides back, he lets his fingers trail over his forearm again, to his wrist, to tangle idly with his fingers like before.
cheeky, bold, wanting in a way he shouldn't, but at the very least he knows he can have this. and with his free hand he takes up the clean fork, stabs a bite from the remainder of the cake and pops it to his lips, all the while his fingers trace a tiny little pattern against his palm.
the honeyed brown of his own eyes raises then behind the thick rims of his glasses and he hums, thoughtful, nose scrunching in at the corners, eyes crinkling. ]
We'll have to look for cassiopeia later, when we leave. It's dark out - clear. We should be able to see her in the sky if we look hard enough on the drive back. It's said she holds the brightest star in the night sky.
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hawk eats the cake with little show, but it's the tension between them, the connection of electricity unseen between the flutter of their lashes. when hawk speaks, he lets out the breath he hadn't meant to hold, finds himself absolutely shaken by how fixed he'd been in that moment, trapped in the quick sand of want and need and heady desire, bottomless and vast - laid out cleanly on a silver-tined fork. ]
Not yet.
[ not yet, hawk says and suddenly the world shifts somehow. it'd stared with no, never, can't to this. to not yet, not now, maybe, one day. the crevasse that lies between them is vast, yes, but not daunting. hawkins fuller wants him, desires timothy laughlin - not skippy. that alone is a fucking prize tonight. ]
You should have some first.
[ and in a little hint of cheeky defiance, he reaches to set the used fork across the small dessert plate before hawk, leaning enough that when he slides back, he lets his fingers trail over his forearm again, to his wrist, to tangle idly with his fingers like before.
cheeky, bold, wanting in a way he shouldn't, but at the very least he knows he can have this. and with his free hand he takes up the clean fork, stabs a bite from the remainder of the cake and pops it to his lips, all the while his fingers trace a tiny little pattern against his palm.
the honeyed brown of his own eyes raises then behind the thick rims of his glasses and he hums, thoughtful, nose scrunching in at the corners, eyes crinkling. ]
We'll have to look for cassiopeia later, when we leave. It's dark out - clear. We should be able to see her in the sky if we look hard enough on the drive back. It's said she holds the brightest star in the night sky.