/Ugh, awful. Okay, whatever, grab me like a dozen wack-nuggies or whatever the fuck. And if by some miracle the ice cream machine is working, I want a chocolate milkshake./
/Yeah, well, sounds like not my problem. Walk faster I guess?
Whatever, fine. How long're you gonna be?/
[Sure, he could track her location, calculate average speed, and do that math but. Okay well since he thought about it for 0.04 seconds he already ran the math. But he's already asked, and he's not un-asking.]
(She's going to eat your fucking WCNuggies, keep yapping.)
/Don't try me.
Taking the train. 10 minutes./
(Hah.
Good estimate on her part, 10 minutes and she arrives at the station, another two for her to arrive at her room in the most Barbie doll outfit she could be wearing. Goodbye, heels, first and foremost, and the second thing is to place the food on the nearest surface as she works to unBarbie.
Also, of course her room is a pandemonium of clothes on surfaces, makeup, jewelry, perfume, gaming apparatus, and just general mess.)
Hey. Get your stuff, I'm just gonna change.
(And add her current jewerly to the pile on the vanity.)
[Quentin meandered over to her room when he felt her get back to the mansion and just kinda... stood around?? In front of her door?? Until she arrived. Look, he's never actually gone to her room. He's also fully dressed with layered shirts, belt, shoes, and all, which he realizes may have been a mistake when Sophie immediately barges into her room and says something about changing clothes. But to be fair, he wouldn't want to lounge and eat fast food garbage wearing that outlandish dress. Ah, well.]
You're two minutes late, by the way.
[He rolls his eyes and follows her into her room, turning his nose up at the chaos of the space. God, it looks like his room did when he was 18. Not that he's telling her that. But still. Yeesh. Quentin fishes his food and his milkshake—which is, yes, very melted, but he's certainly not pointing that out—and plops onto her sofa, propping his feet on her coffee table.]
(No, she likes it. It is much, much better than the robe he decides to wear when she's over. Too bad she doesn't own any t-shirts, or he could have his revenge so, so easily. He also doesn't need to say anything, obviously, his face and his brain express his displeasure at the state of her room — but, look, his own is tidy, but equally chaotic, so does he really have room to bitch?)
Which you knew. I don't control the train, Quire.
(Eh, just to be bitchy back.
Once he's in, the door is closed, and her hands are free, she'll press her usual arrival kiss to his lips before she continues her process. It doesn't take long, the only thing that remains from her outfit (now somewhere unknown in pile A) is the make up. Once she's in her own comfy clothes, her hair is in a bun and her glasses are on her face, she plops next to him and reaches for the fries in the bag.)
Whose genius idea was it to put it in Snake Island, beats me.
Does it surprise you? Nothing in this goddamn place makes any sense.
[Quentin idly watches her get comfy, noting where she obtains her pajamas in the mess.
... Eh, fuck it. He crams a chicken nugget in his mouth and gets up, kicking off his shoes.]
Hey, where are your loosest PJs?
[Look, she comes to his room and wears his shit all the time. Might as well have it go both ways, yeah? Perks of only being a couple inches taller than the girl you're sleeping with.]
Course it does. If Auroura didn't bring it herself, it means someone went "I want a McDonald's knock-off in this island we put a gazillion snakes in", and that's fucked up.
(She isn't even going to have the chance to enjoy him in that nice outfit? Very rude.
With fries between her thumb and index, he circles her hand as she looks around the mess. Luckily for him, it should be in a similarly disorganized drawer, not in the void of the great surroundings.
Sophie send the image of what he should be looking for to him before those fries get dipped in ketchup.)
I'd judge myself, shush. Look around, do you think there is space for a t-shirt?
(No, he doesn't know 'all', okay, there are layers to the shirt thing!! But mostly, a matter of principle that she doesn't have her own.
Which makes her roll her eyes at the comment, but the annoyance is short-lived because she can hear him going to change, and 💡. Very interesting to her, as her brain lit up a little. She isn't looking right now, but she is going to in just a bit.)
[Yeah, that's right, he's calling her out. Deal with it.
That said, he does feel her brain light up when he starts undressing and glances at her curiously. Back in his room, they're usually either getting frisky by the time his clothes start coming off or he changes at the same time as her. It's... Hm.
Quentin finds the pajamas, grumbling some more rude things about the state of her room, and starts unceremoniously shucking off his own clothes.]
All I'm saying is wearing t-shirts is clearly not a problem, so why is buying them such a big deal?
Is this legit the hill you wanna die on today? I'm going to eat your damn nuggets.
(Do they have to have a real talk as to why she likes wearing his shirts? No? Good, because she isn't doing it. It's much more fun and not at all productive or vulnerable or whatever to have this dumb bantering every now and then. Keeps the romance alive, etc.
Also, stop bitching for just one second, she's busy right now. She knows he knows her interest sparked, hello telepathy, and it's not something she would want to hide. Obviously, she's into him, or else she wouldn't be sleeping with him nearly as much as she does, so is there any reason to be coy, really? Absolutely checking him out before she smiles to herself, pleased, averting the gaze solely not to make him uncomfortable.
But, well. Brain is very lit, so thank you.)
My room is not that bad, by the way. Should have seen Emma's.
"It could be worse" isn't the flex you think it is.
[It's still weird to have Sophie Cuckoo of all people openly ogling him. Sure, she sleeps with him, but that's different than finding him, well. Hot. Not that he's complaining. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Quentin replaces his pants with the ones she supplied, but when he gets to the shirt half he hesitates, considers, and passes up her shirt for putting his button-up back on. By the time he returns to the couch to claim his nuggets, he's got it buttoned back up to the third highest button. There. Now he's comfortable.]
I'm just saying there is a genetic component to my laziness.
(Not really, but okay.
She thought what she thought. He just never asked her, probably won't? At least she's not particularly shy on this subject, so hopefully, he doesn't have to wonder too much. On the other hand, she cannot relate. Freaking Sophie Cuckoo, it's a whole part of the brand.
The challenge, really, is letting him see her with her guard down and in gamer gremlin skin, but she's comfortable enough at this point with that part of showing herself. There are even glasses on her face, so. We are all evolving here, somehow.)
Not junk food specifically, I think I just wanted to eat something familiar that I haven't had in a bit, I guess, and these things have a set flavor profile.
(It's probably one of those moments Quire's secondary mutation sucks, because to her, it is releasing enough dopamine to count as the real deal. If it's off, it's probably some detail, she figures? No idea.
Hey, hey, why are you questioning her choices? Don't question her choices. She hates that.)
I guess. I was already going to spend today with you, so since I was getting myself food, might as well bring you some too. And we're here because I know you'd get all grumpy and fucking annoying if I made a mess in your room.
(Honest, it's just one of the little things she likes to do for him quietly. Not that she wants that pointed out, or that she wants him to add it to the list. Shut up.)
[Quentin raises a hand in a half-assed pacifying gesture.]
I'm just saying you do know more people than just me. And I'm also grumpy and fucking annoying anywhere, let's be honest.
[The point, of course, being the "comfortable" thing he mentioned. He has a strong hunch she doesn't exactly sit around in her comfiest loungewear and glasses with a long list of people. And he's feeling sassy enough today to poke at that hunch with a stick.]
The blush that overtakes her cheeks is... Well, she's not sure if it's embarrassment or irritation, but it is certainly creeping to her skin without a shred of her consent, and it's almost like they're back to square one with her being absolutely mortified with being Seen.
Bitch, seriously?)
I know half the planet, and this was a convenience thing. I can take it back, we can go to your room, I'll eat on your bed, how's that?
No, no, here's fine. I already changed clothes, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to change my sheets later, because I am not sleeping on crumbs.
[He's crossing his legs and propping his feet up on the coffee table again. Not going anywhere.]
Anyway, that's not really the point. I was just, you know, making observations. There's a lot of people you could invite over who like junk food. You can't argue with that.
[Quentin shrugs and sips his milkshake.]
Guess you just really wanted me to steal your clothes for once.
(At least he's not making it as bad as he could be, so he gets like, 0.01% of a point for it, since she's significantly pinker at the present moment. Not going to give him praise for it, there's still time, but so far, it's a placeholder point.
Her eyes roll as hard as they can, and she grabs her soda for a sip as she thinks of a rebuttal that never comes, because he says that and she nearly chokes in a laugh, a snort coming out of her as a result while her hand busies itself with hiding her face.
Kill her. Just kill her.)
Yes, that was 100% my biggest dream, now mind your business.
[Says the guy who minds his business almost never and especially not now. The smirk he gives her makes it clear he's not buying any of her bullshit, but he'll be satisfied with making her blush and choke on her soda.
For now.]
So what's the itinerary for today? I mean, since you've accomplished your biggest dream.
(For the smirk, there's that look that she gives him every now and then, of squinted eyes, half a roll, and a quiet smile of appreciation. He's so fucking irritating. Somehow, it works.
Somehow. There's an extremely weak kick that she gives his ankle as the last of what they'll say about it for now.)
Months in the making, I'm finally fulfilled. I do have a plan to climb you like a tree, but other than that? Who knows.
"Climb me like a tree", huh? Wow, and they say romance is dead.
[Quentin scoffs, but there's no actual vitriol whatsoever. Romance is very distinctly not the point of what they do, after all. Quite the opposite, and for very good reason. But look, he's Quentin Quire, and if he's not complaining he's dead.
That said, he also has a plan that involves scandalous activities in bed, but his relies more on the coma Sophie goes into after a particularly good, particularly exhausting round or two. Which is what he intends to give her once, you know, she's arbitrarily decided it's time.]
Well, my options here in the "other than that" category are pretty limited. Guess I could sit on your bed playing video games for two hours, just to mix it up a little. But that sounds a bit boring.
[He shrugs, continuing to wolf down his nuggets and milkshake, as well as steal quite a few of her fries.]
So I think what we should do is eat our junk food while you tell me who "tarnishedmoodring" is.
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/I'm not loving it, personally./
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Also, my room. Not in the mood for you bitching about organization and tidiness today./
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Whatever, fine. How long're you gonna be?/
[Sure, he could track her location, calculate average speed, and do that math but. Okay well since he thought about it for 0.04 seconds he already ran the math. But he's already asked, and he's not un-asking.]
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/Don't try me.
Taking the train. 10 minutes./
(Hah.
Good estimate on her part, 10 minutes and she arrives at the station, another two for her to arrive at her room in the most Barbie doll outfit she could be wearing. Goodbye, heels, first and foremost, and the second thing is to place the food on the nearest surface as she works to unBarbie.
Also, of course her room is a pandemonium of clothes on surfaces, makeup, jewelry, perfume, gaming apparatus, and just general mess.)
Hey. Get your stuff, I'm just gonna change.
(And add her current jewerly to the pile on the vanity.)
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You're two minutes late, by the way.
[He rolls his eyes and follows her into her room, turning his nose up at the chaos of the space. God, it looks like his room did when he was 18. Not that he's telling her that. But still. Yeesh. Quentin fishes his food and his milkshake—which is, yes, very melted, but he's certainly not pointing that out—and plops onto her sofa, propping his feet on her coffee table.]
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Which you knew. I don't control the train, Quire.
(Eh, just to be bitchy back.
Once he's in, the door is closed, and her hands are free, she'll press her usual arrival kiss to his lips before she continues her process. It doesn't take long, the only thing that remains from her outfit (now somewhere unknown in pile A) is the make up. Once she's in her own comfy clothes, her hair is in a bun and her glasses are on her face, she plops next to him and reaches for the fries in the bag.)
Whose genius idea was it to put it in Snake Island, beats me.
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[Quentin idly watches her get comfy, noting where she obtains her pajamas in the mess.
... Eh, fuck it. He crams a chicken nugget in his mouth and gets up, kicking off his shoes.]
Hey, where are your loosest PJs?
[Look, she comes to his room and wears his shit all the time. Might as well have it go both ways, yeah? Perks of only being a couple inches taller than the girl you're sleeping with.]
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(She isn't even going to have the chance to enjoy him in that nice outfit? Very rude.
With fries between her thumb and index, he circles her hand as she looks around the mess. Luckily for him, it should be in a similarly disorganized drawer, not in the void of the great surroundings.
Sophie send the image of what he should be looking for to him before those fries get dipped in ketchup.)
Knock yourself out. I don't own t-shirts, though.
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Believe me, I know all about your T-shirt shortage. You realize you can just buy some, right?
[He pulls off his socks and folds them neatly into his shoes, then walks to the drawers she indicated, starting on undoing his belt.]
I mean, who the hell is gonna judge you? The bots? I'm just saying.
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(No, he doesn't know 'all', okay, there are layers to the shirt thing!! But mostly, a matter of principle that she doesn't have her own.
Which makes her roll her eyes at the comment, but the annoyance is short-lived because she can hear him going to change, and 💡. Very interesting to her, as her brain lit up a little. She isn't looking right now, but she is going to in just a bit.)
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[Yeah, that's right, he's calling her out. Deal with it.
That said, he does feel her brain light up when he starts undressing and glances at her curiously. Back in his room, they're usually either getting frisky by the time his clothes start coming off or he changes at the same time as her. It's... Hm.
Quentin finds the pajamas, grumbling some more rude things about the state of her room, and starts unceremoniously shucking off his own clothes.]
All I'm saying is wearing t-shirts is clearly not a problem, so why is buying them such a big deal?
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(Do they have to have a real talk as to why she likes wearing his shirts? No? Good, because she isn't doing it. It's much more fun and not at all productive or vulnerable or whatever to have this dumb bantering every now and then. Keeps the romance alive, etc.
Also, stop bitching for just one second, she's busy right now. She knows he knows her interest sparked, hello telepathy, and it's not something she would want to hide. Obviously, she's into him, or else she wouldn't be sleeping with him nearly as much as she does, so is there any reason to be coy, really? Absolutely checking him out before she smiles to herself, pleased, averting the gaze solely not to make him uncomfortable.
But, well. Brain is very lit, so thank you.)
My room is not that bad, by the way. Should have seen Emma's.
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[It's still weird to have Sophie Cuckoo of all people openly ogling him. Sure, she sleeps with him, but that's different than finding him, well. Hot. Not that he's complaining. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Quentin replaces his pants with the ones she supplied, but when he gets to the shirt half he hesitates, considers, and passes up her shirt for putting his button-up back on. By the time he returns to the couch to claim his nuggets, he's got it buttoned back up to the third highest button. There. Now he's comfortable.]
So why the sudden craving for fast food?
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(Not really, but okay.
She thought what she thought. He just never asked her, probably won't? At least she's not particularly shy on this subject, so hopefully, he doesn't have to wonder too much. On the other hand, she cannot relate. Freaking Sophie Cuckoo, it's a whole part of the brand.
The challenge, really, is letting him see her with her guard down and in gamer gremlin skin, but she's comfortable enough at this point with that part of showing herself. There are even glasses on her face, so. We are all evolving here, somehow.)
Not junk food specifically, I think I just wanted to eat something familiar that I haven't had in a bit, I guess, and these things have a set flavor profile.
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[Quentin shrugs, shoving a chicken nugget into his mouth.]
Gotta say, it does have a certain... je ne sais quoi.
[He chews thoughtfully and briefly curls his lip.]
The aftertaste is off, though.
[A pause, during which Quentin glances over at her. Specifically, at her choice of attire.]
And I'm guessing you invited me because you didn't want to be alone for this nostalgia trip but also wanted to be comfortable?
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(It's probably one of those moments Quire's secondary mutation sucks, because to her, it is releasing enough dopamine to count as the real deal. If it's off, it's probably some detail, she figures? No idea.
Hey, hey, why are you questioning her choices? Don't question her choices. She hates that.)
I guess. I was already going to spend today with you, so since I was getting myself food, might as well bring you some too. And we're here because I know you'd get all grumpy and fucking annoying if I made a mess in your room.
(Honest, it's just one of the little things she likes to do for him quietly. Not that she wants that pointed out, or that she wants him to add it to the list. Shut up.)
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I'm just saying you do know more people than just me. And I'm also grumpy and fucking annoying anywhere, let's be honest.
[The point, of course, being the "comfortable" thing he mentioned. He has a strong hunch she doesn't exactly sit around in her comfiest loungewear and glasses with a long list of people. And he's feeling sassy enough today to poke at that hunch with a stick.]
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The blush that overtakes her cheeks is... Well, she's not sure if it's embarrassment or irritation, but it is certainly creeping to her skin without a shred of her consent, and it's almost like they're back to square one with her being absolutely mortified with being Seen.
Bitch, seriously?)
I know half the planet, and this was a convenience thing. I can take it back, we can go to your room, I'll eat on your bed, how's that?
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[He's crossing his legs and propping his feet up on the coffee table again. Not going anywhere.]
Anyway, that's not really the point. I was just, you know, making observations. There's a lot of people you could invite over who like junk food. You can't argue with that.
[Quentin shrugs and sips his milkshake.]
Guess you just really wanted me to steal your clothes for once.
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Her eyes roll as hard as they can, and she grabs her soda for a sip as she thinks of a rebuttal that never comes, because he says that and she nearly chokes in a laugh, a snort coming out of her as a result while her hand busies itself with hiding her face.
Kill her. Just kill her.)
Yes, that was 100% my biggest dream, now mind your business.
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[Says the guy who minds his business almost never and especially not now. The smirk he gives her makes it clear he's not buying any of her bullshit, but he'll be satisfied with making her blush and choke on her soda.
For now.]
So what's the itinerary for today? I mean, since you've accomplished your biggest dream.
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(For the smirk, there's that look that she gives him every now and then, of squinted eyes, half a roll, and a quiet smile of appreciation. He's so fucking irritating. Somehow, it works.
Somehow. There's an extremely weak kick that she gives his ankle as the last of what they'll say about it for now.)
Months in the making, I'm finally fulfilled. I do have a plan to climb you like a tree, but other than that? Who knows.
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[Quentin scoffs, but there's no actual vitriol whatsoever. Romance is very distinctly not the point of what they do, after all. Quite the opposite, and for very good reason. But look, he's Quentin Quire, and if he's not complaining he's dead.
That said, he also has a plan that involves scandalous activities in bed, but his relies more on the coma Sophie goes into after a particularly good, particularly exhausting round or two. Which is what he intends to give her once, you know, she's arbitrarily decided it's time.]
Well, my options here in the "other than that" category are pretty limited. Guess I could sit on your bed playing video games for two hours, just to mix it up a little. But that sounds a bit boring.
[He shrugs, continuing to wolf down his nuggets and milkshake, as well as steal quite a few of her fries.]
So I think what we should do is eat our junk food while you tell me who "tarnishedmoodring" is.
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