[Hawks isn't exactly an early bird, but this morning, he wakes later than usual. While he'd tried to keep a level head at that exhaustingly long party, he'd strayed a little bit past tipsy into buzzed a few times. Lying in a soft, comfortable bed, he fights waking up because he can tell that when he truly wakes, he's going to have to deal with a bit of a hangover - his head feels heavy, which he's sure is going to bloom into a headache, and thankfully that's most of it, since he hadn't really overindulged that badly. No, he'd rather lie in a patch of sunshine in a comfortable bed, curled up on his side, his still slightly singed wings with their awkward feather regrowth folded up neatly against his back, than face a headache.
It's the scent of coffee and the stirring in the bed beside him that finally goads him into shifting and groaning and popping one golden eye open. It turns out that he's facing whoever is in the bed beside him, curled into a loose fetal position, and he pushes up on an elbow, one eye still closed against the vague thrum of pain that starts up in the back of his head when he moves. Usually, Hawks's sexual encounters are discreet and unemotional, and he's expecting for a moment to make his usual lackadaisical excuses and leave, when he realizes that he's pretty sure he didn't actually have sex.]
Fancy that.
[He groans again, softly, sitting up and crossing his legs, stretching out his wings and fluttering them a little bit before tucking them in neatly again, tugging the oh-so-sweetly provided robe over his naked lower half (not that he has much shame about that) and opens both eyes, offering the guy a lazy smile.]
I don't know where we are either, but I'm pretty sure we didn't do anything but sleep. Shame.
[A little chuckle. There's no reason not to flirt a little - Hawks is practically immune to awkwardness, and the guy is pretty with his pale skin and long dark hair and dark eyes. Classical beauty. One of the types of guy Hawks likes to look at.
At the question, he waves a hand.]
Go ahead, so long as you tell me where you got the coffee.
hangover aftercare
It's the scent of coffee and the stirring in the bed beside him that finally goads him into shifting and groaning and popping one golden eye open. It turns out that he's facing whoever is in the bed beside him, curled into a loose fetal position, and he pushes up on an elbow, one eye still closed against the vague thrum of pain that starts up in the back of his head when he moves. Usually, Hawks's sexual encounters are discreet and unemotional, and he's expecting for a moment to make his usual lackadaisical excuses and leave, when he realizes that he's pretty sure he didn't actually have sex.]
Fancy that.
[He groans again, softly, sitting up and crossing his legs, stretching out his wings and fluttering them a little bit before tucking them in neatly again, tugging the oh-so-sweetly provided robe over his naked lower half (not that he has much shame about that) and opens both eyes, offering the guy a lazy smile.]
I don't know where we are either, but I'm pretty sure we didn't do anything but sleep. Shame.
[A little chuckle. There's no reason not to flirt a little - Hawks is practically immune to awkwardness, and the guy is pretty with his pale skin and long dark hair and dark eyes. Classical beauty. One of the types of guy Hawks likes to look at.
At the question, he waves a hand.]
Go ahead, so long as you tell me where you got the coffee.