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[homosexuals]

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[homosexuals]

Jesus, August - fuck -

[where is he right now? some addled part of his brain wants to ask if he's really still at the airport, or if he's already gotten a sleek, partitioned car and has the privacy to play this game with him. only it doesn't feel like a game - it feels important, an inexplicable tether that they have to complete, that he has to obey and see through to the end. why wouldn't he when pleasure is the only thing flooding him right now? if he thinks about it hard enough, it almost feels distant - like his own hand isn't the one doing the work, like august is right here murmuring in his ear and fisting around him.

hawk groans into the receiver, head tipping back against the headrest of the chair and letting his eyes squeeze hard as he keeps working at it - ]

- 'm close. Real close - you gonna - can I -?

[why he's asking permission is beyond him. it barely even registers.]

covers timestamp

[dwelt]

[god, he really had to start this now, didn't he, all hot and bothered in the airport, itching to blow his load for hawk's sake. to struggle with thinking about how to time it, phone pressed between cheek and shoulder, trying not to fumble to grab the singular vial he keeps for this reason. a shuddering breath, hips rolling up into his own hand, pumping, closer– he has to be close. if anything is a weakness of august it's the urge to gain power or favor with a willing assistant. a friend, even. but hawk knew the surface of august and not the dark underbelly that keeps him afloat.]

Hawk– [with his next words rasped in latin,] give yourself to me freely. [and he'll recognize those words, too. he's said them with hawk on his knees, august bent to feed him with his hands on his face, tongue over tongue, spit and come and sweat exchanged to be swallowed. instinctively, august swallows, conditioned by his past and hungry with a sexual appetite rearing with an open maw.] Come for me.

[another hitch of his breath as heat pools below his stomach and his cock throbs, slick messy sounds the phone barely picks up. he'll come when hawk does, god knows how he times it perfectly, but he does. he can hear hawk's breath, trained and perfect for him, and knows exactly when the orgasm hits.]

shhhh there is no timeline 2 continue the garbage

[homosexuals]

Shit - ! Oh shit, yeah, yeah -

[it's strange the way he feels like even if his body weren't already so close, so needy just from the sound of august's voice on the other end of the line - that somehow this rush of his orgasm would be plucked out of him anyway, pulled out of his body as if by hand. by august's hand, long fingers, stripping away each wisp of defense and shame and decorum against giving into this. it's not that he's been a saint since kenny's death, but the urge for sex just isn't there when he sees pretty faces and tight bodies - flirtations that are subtle and overt.

but somehow this: giving himself as if by sacrifice...this he can trust more than anything else in that moment. it all goes white behind his eyes, the slick noises and words in his ear, suddenly sounding as if they are here with him, that he can feel august in the room and that the hand milking him dry isn't his own. fuck, he wishes - ]

Jesus -

[was that latin? it crosses his mind so briefly he wonders if he dreamt it, breath ragged and fist slick with the spurt of his own cum, thick and somehow wasted in the way it's not been used for something else.

...what the fuck?

it's the distance, he decides. there's a low chuckle as he arches back and lets out a relieved exhale.]

Christ, Aug. Didn't have afternoon delight on my agenda today, but I'm sure glad you called.

[get here soon, he wants to say, to beg almost, but he swallows it down, feeling too needy already.]