Nope, giving me a baseline to work with is only reasonable, given the undeniable fact I can't do anything remotely similar.
(Mismatched negotiation power, Quire, and given that she isn't swimming in his mind to figure out something he might want, he's gotta help a girl out.
But he extracted a chuckle from the depths of her unwilling lungs, because that's it? Perhaps it does say something that now she trusts him enough to think that's not a horrible idea. 50/50 rules, he'll meet her halfway, as much as she's expecting something idiotic to arrive months (or hours) from now out of it — something that's most likely going to make her roll her eyes deep into her skull with a smidge of wanting to smother him in his sleep, but that's about it.
Her response comes telepathically in cheeky format, an image in the shape of a golden ticket with cursive text that reads 'FAVOR CUPON - SPECIAL OFFER; valid for one favor, to be redeemed by Quintavius "Quentin" Quirinius Quire, nonrefundable and nontransferable; expires in a year'.
And then he says that, and her face breaks a little as the five stages of grief return to her, eyes shutting close as she slowly nods because, yeah, of course, and strangely enough, that's not even the worst thing he could ask her to admit, because she kind of already had once. Sure, not 'how much', that's a whole different deal than saying she likes it, but still. It's not like he doesn't know.
Still, loser.
Or she is the loser, or both of them are losers. Probably the last thing. How the mighty have fallen.)
Scandalous telepathic kink you got there (— says the one who feeds it —), but fine.
(She'll also make it worth his effort, standing only to move from her seat to, well, her other seat, which happens to be his lap. Kisses to his neck come with words in between them. Also so he doesn't look at her, but again, mind your business.)
I really, really do love your massive, high-speed, stupid, sexy brain.
no subject
(Mismatched negotiation power, Quire, and given that she isn't swimming in his mind to figure out something he might want, he's gotta help a girl out.
But he extracted a chuckle from the depths of her unwilling lungs, because that's it? Perhaps it does say something that now she trusts him enough to think that's not a horrible idea. 50/50 rules, he'll meet her halfway, as much as she's expecting something idiotic to arrive months (or hours) from now out of it — something that's most likely going to make her roll her eyes deep into her skull with a smidge of wanting to smother him in his sleep, but that's about it.
Her response comes telepathically in cheeky format, an image in the shape of a golden ticket with cursive text that reads 'FAVOR CUPON - SPECIAL OFFER; valid for one favor, to be redeemed by Quintavius "Quentin" Quirinius Quire, nonrefundable and nontransferable; expires in a year'.
And then he says that, and her face breaks a little as the five stages of grief return to her, eyes shutting close as she slowly nods because, yeah, of course, and strangely enough, that's not even the worst thing he could ask her to admit, because she kind of already had once. Sure, not 'how much', that's a whole different deal than saying she likes it, but still. It's not like he doesn't know.
Still, loser.
Or she is the loser, or both of them are losers. Probably the last thing. How the mighty have fallen.)
Scandalous telepathic kink you got there (— says the one who feeds it —), but fine.
(She'll also make it worth his effort, standing only to move from her seat to, well, her other seat, which happens to be his lap. Kisses to his neck come with words in between them. Also so he doesn't look at her, but again, mind your business.)
I really, really do love your massive, high-speed, stupid, sexy brain.