[ there's a husky, airy sort of confidence to it in the way his voice drops back into a low, lazy rumble. the aftereffects of his orgasm have left him feeling absolutely fluid, and even the way he shifts to make some room for himself on the bed is lazy and slow, near feline in the way he stretches out. if he could somehow dispel some of the fiery heat that writhes beneath his skin, he would, and it shows in the curl of his toes, the twist of his fingers in the sheets.
and this is where it all comes to an end, usually. the fantasy shatters by the ring of a notification of payment, brought on by a screen going black and the room going strangely quiet. so he doesn't look at the screen when he hears the first notification. it will be the money, a goodbye.
but then another, and another. his head tips, eyes fluttering open and when he looks at the screen he feels suddenly, strangely overwhelmed. he swallows hard, sucks in a breath, and though it might look like he's just caught up in the throes of an afterglow, tim knows better.
he hums, softly. ]
It was.
Intense.
[ but that You alright, Skip? - a shortening even of the pet name he's earned, the concern. the careful care. he stares at the screen for a long time, the hand on his abdomen sliding up his chest, but the motion is absent in the way he reaches for his own chin, tacky fingers lingering there, as though caught in sudden thought. ]
I'm good. Ah. Great.
[ and he is. tim just breathes for a second, and in the dim light, there might be the faintest peek of a quirk at the corner of his lips. wry, maybe. a little self-surprised. but he's coming down, slowly, from the high of it all - from the burning thing the last hour has been, and somehow, here alone in his dorm room, even when the knowledge that he's been looked after on the other side of the screen - he feels strangely alone. ]
You?
I guess that's silly. Of course you're alright.
[ a soft huff, embarrassed at himself. what else can he even say? this crosses the lines he never thought existed, that he never wondered about.
i wish you were here. i wish you would stay. i wish you were real. i wish you cared for me like it seems. i wish someone did. ]
Hope I wore you out enough to get some good, good sleep. Coming up on the holidays, like you said. [ and there's a small pause, consideration for what he should say, how he should end this, if he should end this. ]
They better not work my man too hard. Try not to let them. For your boy's sake.
[ a bit of the fantasy, the playacting, the return from a place he's unfamiliar with, but he's doing a bad job at finding the tone, the notes to hit. instead, he sounds soft (too soft) and sincere. god, is this why he's always calling him sweet?
and where he'd use the name milton in the past, where he'd trust that the man had monogrammed stationery or clothes with the letter M scrawled beautifully across them? he doesn't now. no. ]
no subject
[ there's a husky, airy sort of confidence to it in the way his voice drops back into a low, lazy rumble. the aftereffects of his orgasm have left him feeling absolutely fluid, and even the way he shifts to make some room for himself on the bed is lazy and slow, near feline in the way he stretches out. if he could somehow dispel some of the fiery heat that writhes beneath his skin, he would, and it shows in the curl of his toes, the twist of his fingers in the sheets.
and this is where it all comes to an end, usually. the fantasy shatters by the ring of a notification of payment, brought on by a screen going black and the room going strangely quiet. so he doesn't look at the screen when he hears the first notification. it will be the money, a goodbye.
but then another, and another. his head tips, eyes fluttering open and when he looks at the screen he feels suddenly, strangely overwhelmed. he swallows hard, sucks in a breath, and though it might look like he's just caught up in the throes of an afterglow, tim knows better.
he hums, softly. ]
It was.
Intense.
[ but that You alright, Skip? - a shortening even of the pet name he's earned, the concern. the careful care. he stares at the screen for a long time, the hand on his abdomen sliding up his chest, but the motion is absent in the way he reaches for his own chin, tacky fingers lingering there, as though caught in sudden thought. ]
I'm good. Ah. Great.
[ and he is. tim just breathes for a second, and in the dim light, there might be the faintest peek of a quirk at the corner of his lips. wry, maybe. a little self-surprised. but he's coming down, slowly, from the high of it all - from the burning thing the last hour has been, and somehow, here alone in his dorm room, even when the knowledge that he's been looked after on the other side of the screen - he feels strangely alone. ]
You?
I guess that's silly. Of course you're alright.
[ a soft huff, embarrassed at himself. what else can he even say? this crosses the lines he never thought existed, that he never wondered about.
i wish you were here. i wish you would stay. i wish you were real. i wish you cared for me like it seems. i wish someone did.]Hope I wore you out enough to get some good, good sleep. Coming up on the holidays, like you said. [ and there's a small pause, consideration for what he should say, how he should end this, if he should end this. ]
They better not work my man too hard. Try not to let them. For your boy's sake.
[ a bit of the fantasy, the playacting, the return from a place he's unfamiliar with, but he's doing a bad job at finding the tone, the notes to hit. instead, he sounds soft (too soft) and sincere. god, is this why he's always calling him sweet?
and where he'd use the name milton in the past, where he'd trust that the man had monogrammed stationery or clothes with the letter M scrawled beautifully across them? he doesn't now. no. ]
Sweet dreams, mister.