I was always taught that “on time” means five minutes early. By my father’s standards, you’re late.

[ Lightly, almost sing-song, lifting himself on the tips of his toes to kiss him. Tim’s taking this seriously, but he doesn’t want it to feel serious, he wants it to feel so sweet and easy and unlike anything that’s ever happened with the regent that the monster of a man isn’t thought about at all. He feels the weight of whatever you want, the implication in the invitation that it doesn’t necessarily have to be sweet and easy, but the excited little smile on his face doesn’t imply it’ll be anything but.

His hands slide up and down Quentin’s chest, as if it’s his to touch whenever he pleases, and then catch on the hem of his shirt, giving it a little tug. ]

Take that off and get comfortable for me, alright? I’ll be right back.