[ A familiar demand, in an unfamiliar voice. It's not that he can't name the source, or that it feels like it's coming from someone else, but it's usually so much warmer, sweets or sweet man or the 'm' at the end of his name trailing off into a cozy, gentle hum. Now, Quentin's colder, harder, despite the laughter. It's strange, but it's good. Tim's own needs in this moment aside, it's a side of him he hasn't gotten to see. He wonders how much of it is really in him, and how much is simply put on for Tim's sake, a generous performance to sate his neuroses and confusing desires.
Well, he doesn't wonder too much. He's distracted from the sting in his scalp, the acceleration in his pulse at the way he's denied the usual words of praise he's come to associate with Quentin. Tim's practiced enough in this to recognize it as a tactic, a screwdriver loosening something in his brain so that he'll scramble to put it back, to earn those fond words again, but that doesn't make it any less effective. ]
You don't think I can be patient?
[ Obedient, but still mouthy, talking back as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it, undershirt foregone because he knew this would happen, belt and pants to follow, pushed down and stepped out of, as long as he hands on him will allow. ]
no subject
Well, he doesn't wonder too much. He's distracted from the sting in his scalp, the acceleration in his pulse at the way he's denied the usual words of praise he's come to associate with Quentin. Tim's practiced enough in this to recognize it as a tactic, a screwdriver loosening something in his brain so that he'll scramble to put it back, to earn those fond words again, but that doesn't make it any less effective. ]
You don't think I can be patient?
[ Obedient, but still mouthy, talking back as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it, undershirt foregone because he knew this would happen, belt and pants to follow, pushed down and stepped out of, as long as he hands on him will allow. ]