[ he thought it might be over quickly, that hawk would entertain him for a moment and then put him back in his place. instead, the gravity of the room shifts, his mouth opening to a satin tongue as he hangs suspended in the cradle of hawk's arms. he knows hawk can feel his erection pressing against him through the flimsy fabric of his robe, desperation oiling his movements — he's clawing at hawk's back, his hand clenched damply in his, all of his previous elegance replaced by a rabid want.
it's a struggle to come back up when all he wants is to be horizontal now, but he swings upright only to stagger into hawk, mouths clashing, finally unknotting the front of his robe to allow it to hang open. his hands roam across bare skin, pressing his fingertips into all the lean, hard angles of his body, tracing the sharp cut of his hips and the rough trail leading between his legs.
abruptly, his mind catches up to him like a steel trap snapping shut. he pulls back like hawk's touch physically hurts, pink-cheeked and panting, the distant look in his eyes slowly focusing back onto the objects in the room. the record player. the armchair. the ashtray. hawk. he licks his lips, swallowing. christ, he is not okay.
stay awhile. like hell he will. ]
I've gotta — [ what? find a bottle of gin? jump in front of a goddamn bus? the record's still playing, and it feels like someone's tugging the bow of a violin directly across his nerve endings. ] I'll see you Monday.
no subject
it's a struggle to come back up when all he wants is to be horizontal now, but he swings upright only to stagger into hawk, mouths clashing, finally unknotting the front of his robe to allow it to hang open. his hands roam across bare skin, pressing his fingertips into all the lean, hard angles of his body, tracing the sharp cut of his hips and the rough trail leading between his legs.
abruptly, his mind catches up to him like a steel trap snapping shut. he pulls back like hawk's touch physically hurts, pink-cheeked and panting, the distant look in his eyes slowly focusing back onto the objects in the room. the record player. the armchair. the ashtray. hawk. he licks his lips, swallowing. christ, he is not okay.
stay awhile. like hell he will. ]
I've gotta — [ what? find a bottle of gin? jump in front of a goddamn bus? the record's still playing, and it feels like someone's tugging the bow of a violin directly across his nerve endings. ] I'll see you Monday.