[ It’s not the casual bedroom clothes that makes him blush when Quentin arrives, though they do make his tired eyes linger a second too long. It’s not knowing what’s underneath them, or the memories of last night, or the way he confidently saunters as if he does not know or care that it’s completely inappropriate. It’s the damn cinnamon roll, still warm and soft and slathered in sticky-sweet icing when Quentin presses it to his lips.
Wildly inappropriate.
He takes the miniature pastry from Quentin, their fingers brushing together as he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, licking the bit of frosting from his lip. ]
Okay, I’m eating. [ Putting it in his mouth. See? He’s a very good boy. He follows directions. ] We can talk in the hallway.
[ Head gesturing towards Hawk, thankfully still asleep. Let’s keep it that way. ]
no subject
Wildly inappropriate.
He takes the miniature pastry from Quentin, their fingers brushing together as he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, licking the bit of frosting from his lip. ]
Okay, I’m eating. [ Putting it in his mouth. See? He’s a very good boy. He follows directions. ] We can talk in the hallway.
[ Head gesturing towards Hawk, thankfully still asleep. Let’s keep it that way. ]