[ It’s not because of vanity that Tim knows he likes what he sees, even when he’s turned away so that he can’t see his expression. It’s because of faith. Harry has been nothing but sweet and adoring towards him, seen him vulnerable and angry and now whorish, and had nothing but tenderness in response. He’s sure not changing his mind over an eyeful of his ass, which even Tim can’t be so modest as not to admit it’s a nice one.
He settles in, grinning, one arm under the pillow to prop up his head and the other around Harry’s middle, tracing lazy patterns on his back with his fingertips. ]
You can say anything. [ Softly, big doe eyes of his warm and content, the hunger faded but something needy in them, still. ] You can say...this feels good. Or you’d like to see me again, soon. Or...my chest looks like a cozy pillow.
[ Or when feelings are hard to describe, there's always yapping. ]
...I had a friend that used to sing this song. Back home. At a club. Oh, um... [ Puckering his lips, exaggerated, trying to recall the phrase. ] You would have called it a molly house, I think?
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He settles in, grinning, one arm under the pillow to prop up his head and the other around Harry’s middle, tracing lazy patterns on his back with his fingertips. ]
You can say anything. [ Softly, big doe eyes of his warm and content, the hunger faded but something needy in them, still. ] You can say...this feels good. Or you’d like to see me again, soon. Or...my chest looks like a cozy pillow.
[ Or when feelings are hard to describe, there's always yapping. ]
...I had a friend that used to sing this song. Back home. At a club. Oh, um... [ Puckering his lips, exaggerated, trying to recall the phrase. ] You would have called it a molly house, I think?