[there is something more intoxicating than any tumbler of scotch or top shelf liquor at the bar could ever provide in watching tim rove through the crowd and disappear up that elegant staircase - to play this entire audience save the few men and women he can count on one hand that are decent for fools by ditching this stuffy soirée to go hopefully get this handsome, intelligent boy off while state secrets and scandals are exchanged. how long has he been hunting tim? since the moment he saw him in that library - bent over in the book stacks, mouthing around his pen and huffing while taking his no doubt exceptionally thorough notes. since he watched him stutter around an apology for nearly spilling milk on his ferragamo oxfords - cheeks and ears nearly flushed to the tips.
so yeah, the idea of him not turning up? not walking into the lion's den as the embodiment of the lion about to eat a good goddamn meal after too long?
un-fucking-likely.
hawk angles his jaw in against tim, enough that he can drink in every little nuance, every expression and the nerves he clearly tries to steel up close. enough that he could swoop in and steal his lips - but he won't, not yet. not until he gets some sort of confirmation this is alright, even if tim's body has already told him the answer plainly. but now that tim is cornered with expensive wood older than the both of them up firm against his back - it's hard not to be intrigued to see how he'll handle himself, because if nothing else, tim has been quite resourceful in that way when it comes to standing his ground. to biting back with a surprising amount of edge that belies the otherwise naïve innocence that's inherent to his big bambi eyes and the flop of his hair - to his youth among the rest of these old windbags, christ.
knowing lonigan, the coast is clear. that man is probably face down in tits right now, barely in the limo on his way to a hotel that taxpayers shouldn't be footing but are stuck with anyway. so maybe tim is stalling for time, or maybe he's just trying to hold onto the last vestiges of control he has over the situation before hawk swoops in and plucks it out of his long, nimble fingers. he pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, brows lifting with a soft oh that's part mockingly pulling his leg, part agreement.]
I'm sure you did. He'll run you ragged if you let him, but I can tell you're a smart boy, Mr. Laughlin.
[his breath comes out in a soft exhale, close enough now that tim could inhale it like his own. the brush of his nose has hawk nuzzling it slightly, angling in impossibly closer but still not capturing his lips just yet.]
I can tell you've got the endurance to be put through your paces, too. Call it a hunch, but I've got a pretty good knack for this kind of thing.
[one hand shifts along tim's waist, palm flat to slide past it and down along his wrist, brushing past his fingers to grip the glass of milk and set it at the far end of the table, out of the way in anticipation for what's next. i think i've decided - and that's enough of a yes for him - not to kiss him at first, but to let his hands grip around tim's waist fully this tim, to heft him up with an easy display of strength and set his ass against the top of the heavy oak table. that gives him enough room to slide between tim's splayed legs, watching for any signs of surprise, listening for any protest as both palms settle on his thighs and squeeze with the heat of a brand before he surges up and steals tim's lips in a hungry press of his own.
fuck, it's been too long since he did this with anyone - longer still since it was with someone that actually intrigued him to such a degree. but timothy laughlin seems like the whole damn package, and that might be rarer than working for a man like senator smith.
dangerous, even.
hard to care when tim's lips are quite so plush, thighs more supple than he imagined beneath the scratch of cheap wool under his fingertips.]
[ they're balancing on a tightrope, a delicate sway back and forth as they all but circle one another. hawk nuzzles in just a fraction of an inch closer and tim laughlin finds himself utterly overwhelmed. it's not the first time he's slipped away from some obligation or event to indulge in baser, messier wants, but it's the first time he feels like an utterly caged animal, the way hawk's body angles in, the way he can smell his cologne and the scotch on his breath from moments before.
(what does it taste like on his tongue? it's an obscene though, but it makes tim's eyes flutter down to the curve of hawk's lips as he speaks). ]
I've got a good knack for enduring, you're right, Mr. Fuller.
[ the glass of milk hits the table with a satisfying little plunk and by the time tim's eyes raise to meet the heated, wanting blue of hawk's? he's being hauled up onto the table with broad palms he wishes had stayed against the bare skin of his wrist a moment longer, so that the heat and tingle of it could bite and sting and burn, like a brand.
but hawk's mouth is hotter than that, and a low hum of surprise leaves his own throat as his ass comes to settle on the table, as his thighs open willingly to accept the breadth of the man between them. tim arches his back, bringing him into the kiss and his hands instinctively shift, the one at hawk's elbow rising to grip his shoulder and slide into the crook at his neck, the other against hawk's chest, fingers pressing hard against the fabric of his expensive tie where it sits just off his collarbone.
he parts his lips, and with a hungry sort of eagerness licks hungry and needy into hawk's mouth, searching out the taste of scotch he'd wondered about before. it's foolish how he's already starting to feel his cock stir, how the strong hands at his thighs and the heft up onto the desk have sent his blood to the hot south. tim's thighs flex, muscles rippling under his palms as he bumps his knees in against hawk's hips. inviting, maybe, but more like dragging him in. ]
It's good you locked the door.
[ it's a weak, bad joke when he parts for air before diving in to kiss him again, the hand at his neck sliding to his nape and into his hair. ]
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so yeah, the idea of him not turning up? not walking into the lion's den as the embodiment of the lion about to eat a good goddamn meal after too long?
un-fucking-likely.
hawk angles his jaw in against tim, enough that he can drink in every little nuance, every expression and the nerves he clearly tries to steel up close. enough that he could swoop in and steal his lips - but he won't, not yet. not until he gets some sort of confirmation this is alright, even if tim's body has already told him the answer plainly. but now that tim is cornered with expensive wood older than the both of them up firm against his back - it's hard not to be intrigued to see how he'll handle himself, because if nothing else, tim has been quite resourceful in that way when it comes to standing his ground. to biting back with a surprising amount of edge that belies the otherwise naïve innocence that's inherent to his big bambi eyes and the flop of his hair - to his youth among the rest of these old windbags, christ.
knowing lonigan, the coast is clear. that man is probably face down in tits right now, barely in the limo on his way to a hotel that taxpayers shouldn't be footing but are stuck with anyway. so maybe tim is stalling for time, or maybe he's just trying to hold onto the last vestiges of control he has over the situation before hawk swoops in and plucks it out of his long, nimble fingers. he pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, brows lifting with a soft oh that's part mockingly pulling his leg, part agreement.]
I'm sure you did. He'll run you ragged if you let him, but I can tell you're a smart boy, Mr. Laughlin.
[his breath comes out in a soft exhale, close enough now that tim could inhale it like his own. the brush of his nose has hawk nuzzling it slightly, angling in impossibly closer but still not capturing his lips just yet.]
I can tell you've got the endurance to be put through your paces, too. Call it a hunch, but I've got a pretty good knack for this kind of thing.
[one hand shifts along tim's waist, palm flat to slide past it and down along his wrist, brushing past his fingers to grip the glass of milk and set it at the far end of the table, out of the way in anticipation for what's next. i think i've decided - and that's enough of a yes for him - not to kiss him at first, but to let his hands grip around tim's waist fully this tim, to heft him up with an easy display of strength and set his ass against the top of the heavy oak table. that gives him enough room to slide between tim's splayed legs, watching for any signs of surprise, listening for any protest as both palms settle on his thighs and squeeze with the heat of a brand before he surges up and steals tim's lips in a hungry press of his own.
fuck, it's been too long since he did this with anyone - longer still since it was with someone that actually intrigued him to such a degree. but timothy laughlin seems like the whole damn package, and that might be rarer than working for a man like senator smith.
dangerous, even.
hard to care when tim's lips are quite so plush, thighs more supple than he imagined beneath the scratch of cheap wool under his fingertips.]
no subject
(what does it taste like on his tongue? it's an obscene though, but it makes tim's eyes flutter down to the curve of hawk's lips as he speaks). ]
I've got a good knack for enduring, you're right, Mr. Fuller.
[ the glass of milk hits the table with a satisfying little plunk and by the time tim's eyes raise to meet the heated, wanting blue of hawk's? he's being hauled up onto the table with broad palms he wishes had stayed against the bare skin of his wrist a moment longer, so that the heat and tingle of it could bite and sting and burn, like a brand.
but hawk's mouth is hotter than that, and a low hum of surprise leaves his own throat as his ass comes to settle on the table, as his thighs open willingly to accept the breadth of the man between them. tim arches his back, bringing him into the kiss and his hands instinctively shift, the one at hawk's elbow rising to grip his shoulder and slide into the crook at his neck, the other against hawk's chest, fingers pressing hard against the fabric of his expensive tie where it sits just off his collarbone.
he parts his lips, and with a hungry sort of eagerness licks hungry and needy into hawk's mouth, searching out the taste of scotch he'd wondered about before. it's foolish how he's already starting to feel his cock stir, how the strong hands at his thighs and the heft up onto the desk have sent his blood to the hot south. tim's thighs flex, muscles rippling under his palms as he bumps his knees in against hawk's hips. inviting, maybe, but more like dragging him in. ]
It's good you locked the door.
[ it's a weak, bad joke when he parts for air before diving in to kiss him again, the hand at his neck sliding to his nape and into his hair. ]