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But I can't--I can't turn it down or something, it's-- [ For a second, his failure turns into a spike of panic. All he can feel is the pain. But Harlan didn't say to adjust the volume. He said to adjust the pitch. The fuck does that mean? How the fuck does that feel?
[ Something slots into place. It doesn't hurt less, but the feeling slides along his nerves differently. Quentin reaches back out with surprise, anxiety. ]
Harlan.
[ Something slots into place. It doesn't hurt less, but the feeling slides along his nerves differently. Quentin reaches back out with surprise, anxiety. ]
Harlan.
So she curls her hand back, fingers on his taint and thumb massaging his balls in the crook of her hand. "Only if they like it," she says, turning her head to kiss his ear hard enough for her lips to smack. "I'm gonna go home and think about this. I'm gonna send you a picture of me thinking about it."
"I like it," He laughs, fingers winding around Joan's wrist where it dips between his legs. "And I'm good. I'm okay. Holy shit, Joan." That's enough, time to stop, please and thank you. He's not ready to unwind that far tonight. His other hand stretches to wipe his spend off on the grass. "I can give you something else to think about."
Joan thinks about pushing it-- specifically, making Quentin lick his own spunk off her fingers-- but she's already been enough of a creep today. She removes her hand from between his legs, bringing it up to pat his cheek. "You're eager to please. I said I'm good. Maybe next time."
But when she gets home, she does send him a few seconds of video on mental relay, her choking out his name while she touches herself in front of the mirror. She doesn't respond after that; she likes the idea of leaving him hanging too much.
But when she gets home, she does send him a few seconds of video on mental relay, her choking out his name while she touches herself in front of the mirror. She doesn't respond after that; she likes the idea of leaving him hanging too much.
[ In twenty minutes, Stephen will see him there. Quentin slides up to the bar as if he was built to fit, elbows square against the surface. He puts down his first drink quick, as if to prove that this is the reason for his being here. The worry is plain on his face, but the first beer washes it down. Temporarily at least.
[ Businesslike, Quentin tucks his chin and stretches his fingers before opening: ] Stephen. I trust you. I'm not gonna fight you on this. I'm not gonna...mope. But--in case.
I know I'm not gifted like you. But you taught me anyway. I know I'm not...smart. Or easy all the time. Or wise, or... [ His mouth shakes, and he presses his lips tight to shake the feeling away. He plods on. ] You're one of the only people here that's been--honest with me. Really honest, good and bad and ugly. You don't--quit when things go wrong. You don't coddle me. You don't torture me. You treat me like what I think matters.
[ Another wave of feeling twists from the cleft up his lip and up into his nose, and his hand knot together involuntarily, nail tip of one thumb digging against the nail bed of the other. He has to clear his throat, and it still comes out froggy: ]
I don't think of you--like that. But--but you're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong. [ Fuck, fucking christ. A steeling sniff, and he turns his wet, determined gaze on Stephen wholly. ] I'm not gonna be okay. Alright? So--so do it right.
[ Businesslike, Quentin tucks his chin and stretches his fingers before opening: ] Stephen. I trust you. I'm not gonna fight you on this. I'm not gonna...mope. But--in case.
I know I'm not gifted like you. But you taught me anyway. I know I'm not...smart. Or easy all the time. Or wise, or... [ His mouth shakes, and he presses his lips tight to shake the feeling away. He plods on. ] You're one of the only people here that's been--honest with me. Really honest, good and bad and ugly. You don't--quit when things go wrong. You don't coddle me. You don't torture me. You treat me like what I think matters.
[ Another wave of feeling twists from the cleft up his lip and up into his nose, and his hand knot together involuntarily, nail tip of one thumb digging against the nail bed of the other. He has to clear his throat, and it still comes out froggy: ]
I don't think of you--like that. But--but you're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong. [ Fuck, fucking christ. A steeling sniff, and he turns his wet, determined gaze on Stephen wholly. ] I'm not gonna be okay. Alright? So--so do it right.
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