[ a pause to think on it. he tips back on his cult regulation bed. takes a second to push his messy curls from his face. hovers his thumb over the keyboard. then, ]
listen
[ because he is a little shy, cheek caught between his teeth, and that feels easier than the vulnerability of showing your face, with how tender and fragile everything seems right now.
when he hits the call button, he huffs a half-laugh half-breath into the speaker first. more disbelief than humour. nerves and absurdity and excitement hitting him all at once. it’s not that he doesn’t do this, just that he hasn’t in a while. mostly pulling guys in clubs, back in malaysia. then keeping to himself, after his face hit the news alongside the other avengers. ]
— What am I supposed to be busy doing with my hands again?
[ his voice is deeper than one would assume, maybe. scratchy, like it’s abrading his throat. at odds with the softness of his features. ]
[hawk waits until the second ring to pick up, a light tease, easily picturing bob on the other end in all his excitement and seeming eagerness to please. and while he certainly wishes he were watching it - or better yet - living it and cozied up next to that solid body of beauty, he can respect starting slow. taking his time, letting bob get comfortable with the idea of things.
there's a smirk audible in his voice, a low and rumbling purr.]
That's better.
You comfortable, handsome? If not, get there. Lie back, preferably, and tell me exactly what you're wearing.
I got a cigarette in one hand, but the other one is free and clear. Might start wandering. Any idea where I should take it? [a low chuckle, like he's in on his own joke.]
[ light rustling on the other line, as he scoots up the bed. drags a heel up the sheet for balance, one hand rapping knuckles against his clothed knee, the other still clutching the phone at his cheek. not yet switching to speaker because it feels more intimate in his ear than echoing around the room. ]
I’m lying back. [ handsome, he says, smooth in an old school kind of way. it makes him feel — fizzy. ] On my bed. Took my shirt off for that picture of yours. Made to order.
[ not that he has any thirst traps prepared. that’s all adrian. ]
Still wearing my pants — not the cult slacks, for the record. [ his corduroys, something like personhood in as small a thing as fabric chosen, not assigned. ] But they’re feeling a little tight. [ a sharp inhale. ] Might wanna check yourself for the same problem, Hawk.
[ thinking about the picture, already wondering whether hawk’s built the way he seems beneath the smart attire. he holds himself differently than bob does, back straight and head high. he’d seemed impressive at the vote. put together, in some essential way. not at all the kind of guy who looks at bob normally. ]
Bet you look real nice all spread out - and cleaned up. Those cult clothes weren't doing anyone any favors - but it sure is a mighty nice surprise to see what's underneath.
[music to his goddamn ears. shit. bob makes it real easy to forget about all his fuckups this week, too soft and earnest apparently to have checked all the external drama on the anon post or danny's little fuck you. hawk sucks in an inhale of his cigarette, audible in the way it crackles and his breath comes out steady and easy before there's a rustle on his end too, getting comfortable and splaying out his own legs.]
Right on the money, Bobby boy. Got the same problem over here. Coming on quick and hard - real hard.
[a low hum, like he's considering.]
Think you should slide a hand under and check on what not-so little problem, huh?
[more movement, the unmistakeable snick of a zipper pulled open before silence: and then a ping on his phone will signify another photo following for bob's perusal.]
Open that.
[hawk's slacks gone, muscled legs planted easy at the foot of the cots they're calling beds and an obvious bulge in his navy striped boxers. in case it wasn't obvious, the veins along weathered hands are clenching around it.]
[ bob’s fumbling with his belt when his phone pings, and he stops everything to check it for the simple reason hawk asked him to. one hand still at work on his trousers. failing to undo his button once, then popping it on the second attempt. fingers caught on the waistband of his boxers as he blinks into the blue light. ]
Shit. [ without meaning to, he keeps talking, awe rounding out his syllables — ] You’re really hot.
[ the way he looks, definitely, now seared into his brain as inspiration for fifty other things they could get up to together, if he doesn’t blow this (if they don’t die horribly—). but it’s more than that. it’s the way he talks, so slick and sure. the accent that he can’t quite place (something of bucky’s time in it, he’ll realise later). the compliments that should sound like bullshit instead have him flushing from his chest to cheeks, anyway.
he licks the flat of his palm and slides his hand down slow, breath stuttering as he touches himself. ]
Think I’m, uh, right there with you.
[ the photo he sends back confirms it. bare legs as tight and toned as the rest of him, taut with anticipation. made to order, he’d joked, but he’s surely built for more than he lets on. pale blue boxers slung low, the defined divots of his hipbones angle toward where he’s tenting the fabric, thumb pressing into that track. ahead of hawk in how quickly he’s keyed up, on account of being young and oh so eager. ]
[there's a soft smile, private to himself at how goddamn precious bob is. as if he doesn't even have the wherewithal to consider something like manipulation or anything but the truth slipping honey-sweet out of his mouth.]
Takes one to know one. Christ - look at you. Lucky I'm not there, I don't think I'd be able to keep my hands to myself. You know what I wanna do right about now, Bob?
[a heavy sigh, like he's put upon by the distance suddenly, dreamily painting a picture for them both. the sound of slick spit in the receiver has him pulsing hot in his boxers, just about full to bursting now.]
I'd like to get my mouth on you. All those nice little dips and divots - like someone spent hours chiseling you fucking outta stone. Figure out what makes you squirm, which parts get you real worked up and loud.
[as an afterthought, hand reaching down to circle around his own cock and give it a nice long stroke.]
Don't hold back on me - by the way. No biting a pillow, no stifling any noises, you hear me?
[there's another ping, a photo of hawk with his boxers off now, a white undershirt still on, the barest hint of his jaw and the salt and pepper stubble that's cropped up on account of the lack of facilities.]
[ you know what i wanna do? he asks, like he has as many fantasies as bob does, brain running out ahead of his mouth. those definitely capable hands on him, that filthy-smart mouth working down his chest. pretty sure just about anything would get him going, get him loud, if hawk were the one doing it. maybe, as untouchable as he is, he’ll be more even sensitive now than he was before — aware of every sound and movement, tracking the beads of sweat at his nape, the tongue he imagines above his navel, or the scratch of stubble against skin. he grasps the base of his cock, squeezing, grounding before he strokes himself and groans into the mic. ]
Fuck, I wish you were touching me.
[ boxers shoved down. whine caught in his teeth as he thumbs over the head of cock, pearling with need. ]
Yessir. [ in the matter of stifling himself, which is fine — except he has a million stupid things to say. i run hot, i get wet, i’m never quiet. ] Won’t shut up until I get your dick in my mouth.
[ next time. please let there be a next time because this is already rewiring his goddamn brain, like that second encounter with embry. a relief to think of anything but what’s going on, to pretend to be anywhere but here.
on opening the photo, he curses under his breath. really, really hot and talking him through it, for some reason. right. ]
Yeah — Yeah, I am.
[ breathy as he adjusts, sheets rustling once more. he shoots the picture from his chest, angled down to catch his hard and glistening cock, still in his other hand, curved slightly toward his bent knee. ]
[there, out in the open, the confirmation for him that yes, this can be a repeat performance for the small price of taking it like a good boy and following hawk's instructions. so far so good - better, maybe, because it's taking the edge off all his fuckups this past week, reminding him that he's still got it and some people are more appreciative of it than others, namely this walking wet dream that looks like he's straight outta one of the skin mags hidden in his desk.
yessir gets his blood pumping and sends a low rumble vibrating against the speaker directly in bob's ear. there's some more shuffling, hawk finally kicking off his boxers and circling around his heavy cock, gripping the base and slapping it against his lower stomach like a goddamn dog whistle.]
You hear that? [another soft smack of it.]
That's what I got for you to take. And I bet you would - nice and deep. All the way to the back of your throat, and you'd swallow for me, huh? Like a good boy. Not a drop going to waste.
[hawk spits into his hand, making it audible to paint a picture without wasting the energy to send another one right now. there's a low hiss when it wraps around his own aching dick, stroking it firm and slow so he doesn't blow his load early.]
Christ, look at you, leaking all over yourself like that. You're a needy thing, aren't you Bobby? I think right now you need to take it nice and easy, stroking steady for me - twist up at the wrist when you get to the tip. Go on and spread it all over yourself, yeah?
[ that next time isn’t just a balm for his nerves, it’s something to look forward to. a calendar date beyond the deaths and votes and machinations. a date-date in the sense of intimacy, connection, not being so fucking alone in this hellhole. he looses another fuck at the sound of hawk through the line, at the thought of the obvious heft of his cock in his mouth. he figured hawk was the type to take the lead — based on the flirtation, the call — but bob hasn’t had time to imagine the specifics laid out before him now. a firm hand in his hair, holding him down until his thoughts finally splinter and scatter. (or working him open, getting him ready for a fucking he won’t be able to forget — ) ]
Not a drop. [ voice strained, at the thought of it. phantom salt on his tongue. he runs his other hand down his sternum, knuckles dragging heat trails down his skin. ] Wouldn’t stop until you told me to. [ since that reaction to his slurry deference has pointed him toward a button or two. the authority of it all. ]
[ he gives up on holding the fucking phone, even though the tinny speaker adds a layer of embarrassment. maybe it’s the illusion of exposure or the very real fact of being listened to intently. all slick sounds. obvious enough that hawk seems to twig the eager jack of his hand and prompts him to change his pace because of it. the arrow-tipped observation of his neediness has him stuttering, then whining as he slows down. ]
All wet for you. [ emphasis not quite in the right places, because it’s obviously working. a soft, punched sound with that twist of his wrist. breath quickening as he works himself over, easier than before. wet like hawk said. needy like hawk said. ] Needy for — for you, definitely. [ not in general, though maybe that’s true. ] There’s no way I’m gonna last with you talking like that.
[ when hawk is so good looking, so good at this, he keeps stepping outside himself to think oh my god. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
listen
[ because he is a little shy, cheek caught between his teeth, and that feels easier than the vulnerability of showing your face, with how tender and fragile everything seems right now.
when he hits the call button, he huffs a half-laugh half-breath into the speaker first. more disbelief than humour. nerves and absurdity and excitement hitting him all at once. it’s not that he doesn’t do this, just that he hasn’t in a while. mostly pulling guys in clubs, back in malaysia. then keeping to himself, after his face hit the news alongside the other avengers. ]
— What am I supposed to be busy doing with my hands again?
[ his voice is deeper than one would assume, maybe. scratchy, like it’s abrading his throat. at odds with the softness of his features. ]
no subject
there's a smirk audible in his voice, a low and rumbling purr.]
That's better.
You comfortable, handsome? If not, get there. Lie back, preferably, and tell me exactly what you're wearing.
I got a cigarette in one hand, but the other one is free and clear. Might start wandering. Any idea where I should take it? [a low chuckle, like he's in on his own joke.]
I got some thoughts for you.
no subject
I’m lying back. [ handsome, he says, smooth in an old school kind of way. it makes him feel — fizzy. ] On my bed. Took my shirt off for that picture of yours. Made to order.
[ not that he has any thirst traps prepared. that’s all adrian. ]
Still wearing my pants — not the cult slacks, for the record. [ his corduroys, something like personhood in as small a thing as fabric chosen, not assigned. ] But they’re feeling a little tight. [ a sharp inhale. ] Might wanna check yourself for the same problem, Hawk.
[ thinking about the picture, already wondering whether hawk’s built the way he seems beneath the smart attire. he holds himself differently than bob does, back straight and head high. he’d seemed impressive at the vote. put together, in some essential way. not at all the kind of guy who looks at bob normally. ]
no subject
[music to his goddamn ears. shit. bob makes it real easy to forget about all his fuckups this week, too soft and earnest apparently to have checked all the external drama on the anon post or danny's little fuck you. hawk sucks in an inhale of his cigarette, audible in the way it crackles and his breath comes out steady and easy before there's a rustle on his end too, getting comfortable and splaying out his own legs.]
Right on the money, Bobby boy. Got the same problem over here. Coming on quick and hard - real hard.
[a low hum, like he's considering.]
Think you should slide a hand under and check on what not-so little problem, huh?
[more movement, the unmistakeable snick of a zipper pulled open before silence: and then a ping on his phone will signify another photo following for bob's perusal.]
Open that.
[hawk's slacks gone, muscled legs planted easy at the foot of the cots they're calling beds and an obvious bulge in his navy striped boxers. in case it wasn't obvious, the veins along weathered hands are clenching around it.]
Show me what you're working with, sweetheart.
no subject
[ bob’s fumbling with his belt when his phone pings, and he stops everything to check it for the simple reason hawk asked him to. one hand still at work on his trousers. failing to undo his button once, then popping it on the second attempt. fingers caught on the waistband of his boxers as he blinks into the blue light. ]
Shit. [ without meaning to, he keeps talking, awe rounding out his syllables — ] You’re really hot.
[ the way he looks, definitely, now seared into his brain as inspiration for fifty other things they could get up to together, if he doesn’t blow this (if they don’t die horribly—). but it’s more than that. it’s the way he talks, so slick and sure. the accent that he can’t quite place (something of bucky’s time in it, he’ll realise later). the compliments that should sound like bullshit instead have him flushing from his chest to cheeks, anyway.
he licks the flat of his palm and slides his hand down slow, breath stuttering as he touches himself. ]
Think I’m, uh, right there with you.
[ the photo he sends back confirms it. bare legs as tight and toned as the rest of him, taut with anticipation. made to order, he’d joked, but he’s surely built for more than he lets on. pale blue boxers slung low, the defined divots of his hipbones angle toward where he’s tenting the fabric, thumb pressing into that track. ahead of hawk in how quickly he’s keyed up, on account of being young and oh so eager. ]
no subject
Takes one to know one. Christ - look at you. Lucky I'm not there, I don't think I'd be able to keep my hands to myself. You know what I wanna do right about now, Bob?
[a heavy sigh, like he's put upon by the distance suddenly, dreamily painting a picture for them both. the sound of slick spit in the receiver has him pulsing hot in his boxers, just about full to bursting now.]
I'd like to get my mouth on you. All those nice little dips and divots - like someone spent hours chiseling you fucking outta stone. Figure out what makes you squirm, which parts get you real worked up and loud.
[as an afterthought, hand reaching down to circle around his own cock and give it a nice long stroke.]
Don't hold back on me - by the way. No biting a pillow, no stifling any noises, you hear me?
[there's another ping, a photo of hawk with his boxers off now, a white undershirt still on, the barest hint of his jaw and the salt and pepper stubble that's cropped up on account of the lack of facilities.]
Lemme see everything. You wet for me yet?
no subject
Fuck, I wish you were touching me.
[ boxers shoved down. whine caught in his teeth as he thumbs over the head of cock, pearling with need. ]
Yessir. [ in the matter of stifling himself, which is fine — except he has a million stupid things to say. i run hot, i get wet, i’m never quiet. ] Won’t shut up until I get your dick in my mouth.
[ next time. please let there be a next time because this is already rewiring his goddamn brain, like that second encounter with embry. a relief to think of anything but what’s going on, to pretend to be anywhere but here.
on opening the photo, he curses under his breath. really, really hot and talking him through it, for some reason. right. ]
Yeah — Yeah, I am.
[ breathy as he adjusts, sheets rustling once more. he shoots the picture from his chest, angled down to catch his hard and glistening cock, still in his other hand, curved slightly toward his bent knee. ]
no subject
[there, out in the open, the confirmation for him that yes, this can be a repeat performance for the small price of taking it like a good boy and following hawk's instructions. so far so good - better, maybe, because it's taking the edge off all his fuckups this past week, reminding him that he's still got it and some people are more appreciative of it than others, namely this walking wet dream that looks like he's straight outta one of the skin mags hidden in his desk.
yessir gets his blood pumping and sends a low rumble vibrating against the speaker directly in bob's ear. there's some more shuffling, hawk finally kicking off his boxers and circling around his heavy cock, gripping the base and slapping it against his lower stomach like a goddamn dog whistle.]
You hear that? [another soft smack of it.]
That's what I got for you to take. And I bet you would - nice and deep. All the way to the back of your throat, and you'd swallow for me, huh? Like a good boy. Not a drop going to waste.
[hawk spits into his hand, making it audible to paint a picture without wasting the energy to send another one right now. there's a low hiss when it wraps around his own aching dick, stroking it firm and slow so he doesn't blow his load early.]
Christ, look at you, leaking all over yourself like that. You're a needy thing, aren't you Bobby? I think right now you need to take it nice and easy, stroking steady for me - twist up at the wrist when you get to the tip. Go on and spread it all over yourself, yeah?
no subject
Not a drop. [ voice strained, at the thought of it. phantom salt on his tongue. he runs his other hand down his sternum, knuckles dragging heat trails down his skin. ] Wouldn’t stop until you told me to. [ since that reaction to his slurry deference has pointed him toward a button or two. the authority of it all. ]
[ he gives up on holding the fucking phone, even though the tinny speaker adds a layer of embarrassment. maybe it’s the illusion of exposure or the very real fact of being listened to intently. all slick sounds. obvious enough that hawk seems to twig the eager jack of his hand and prompts him to change his pace because of it. the arrow-tipped observation of his neediness has him stuttering, then whining as he slows down. ]
All wet for you. [ emphasis not quite in the right places, because it’s obviously working. a soft, punched sound with that twist of his wrist. breath quickening as he works himself over, easier than before. wet like hawk said. needy like hawk said. ] Needy for — for you, definitely. [ not in general, though maybe that’s true. ] There’s no way I’m gonna last with you talking like that.
[ when hawk is so good looking, so good at this, he keeps stepping outside himself to think oh my god. ]