[ Trouble does taste good. The thing is, it usually doesn’t. It doesn’t happen often, but Tim has had encounters similar to this one, back where he’s from, it’s the primary way that men like him have to satisfy their urges, since real relationships are highly risky, at best. He can count the number of spur-of-the-moment hookups he’s had, including this one, on one hand, because when he thinks about it, he remembers that this is about the point where it starts to taste sour. People start getting impatient, treating him like just some thing to put their dicks in, pushing his head down before he’s really ready for it. There’s no ‘tell me what you want,’ what he wants has already been assumed by his presence in the situation in the first place. It’s impersonal and perfunctory, not an emotional or even exploratory experience, but a means to an end. It makes him feel dirty and used before it’s even over, it’s the kind of trouble that tastes like sickness, spiritual decay. A rotting molar in the back of his mouth.

But this trouble? ]

‘s good.

[ It’s sweet like summer and salty like sweat, caramel melting in his mouth. Tim’s heart races from the thrill of it instead of the shame. It’s threatening to overwhelm him, but pushing back into Quentin’s hands brings him back, anchors him to safety. Like swimming out too far from shore, only for the tide to gently pull him back. His back arches so he can lean into every touch, pushing his chest into his hand, and his ass into his hand, until he's being held together by him, this gorgeous stranger grinding against him in a public bath. It's alright. He's halfway submerged, anyway. ]

I want more.

[ Higher cognitive function is largely compromised, at the moment. He pants his enthusiastic but non-specific consent against Quentin's head as he mouths at him, kisses against his lips, his neck, his ear, whatever's in reach. Tim's arms wrap around his shoulders, steadying him so he can keep up those slow, consistent movements as his thighs tremble from the steadily building tension. He's got to say something now before he loses the ability completely. ]

Gotta confess something. First.

[ Pulling away just enough to see his eyes, but he doesn't stop moving, relishing the way his hardness feels grinding into the cleft of his ass, eager for how much better it'll feel once he's bare. If Quentin still wants to. ]

I walked over here thinking you were someone else. That I'd been with, before. Figured it out quick. But I'm sorry, if that's too weird.

[ It might be. He wouldn't blame him, if it were, but he had to say it before this goes any further. To hide it would turn this into something cheap and shameful, and Tim would rather not have it at all. ]