[ he's aware of a few things. one, the fiery drag of hawk's tongue across his palm. two, the fact that hawk hasn't actually left yet, even if he's still fully clothed, still upright, still not sharing the bed. three, that it's an objectively bad idea if hawk does get in bed with him.

in this moment, he doesn't care. tomorrow, he might. ]

For the record — [ his breath huffs out of him as his wet hand wraps around his yearning cock, dark hair disheveled as he squirms erratically on the bed to wiggle his pants just so, freeing himself. ] I'm not listening to you. I was doing this anyway.

[ he is not taking orders from hawkins fucking fuller. in fact, he's not taking orders from anyone ever again, because he'd tried with ash and failed spectacularly. he isn't meant to be anyone's submissive. he isn't meant to be anyone's anything. ash had clocked him with scathing accuracy that night so many years ago in prague. he's sebastian flyte, meant to die drunk and alone. it seemed romantic at the time, and now it just seems sad.

his free hand snakes out, clumsily landing at hawk's hip. the heel of his palm drags down, past the neat folds of his trousers, right to the fork of his thighs, where he confirms his suspicions. ]

You can probably still go find that girl. [ he digs a blunt nail down the seam of hawk's fly, tracing the line of growing hardness he feels there. ] You can't have me.