oedipusrat | TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

[several months after this initial interaction]

Rachette doesn't kick in the door. She's not a barbarian. But the door is definitely opened in a manner that is heavier and harder than strictly necessary. Being The Warden was pain enough; being a warden is...irritating.

"He talks too much."

That's a possibly very petty thing to complain to the mage (who has explained to her that he is not a mage, but she remains not entirely convinced of this) about his...companion? Compatriot? Person from his same world. But talking to her inmate, a man who seems to prefer the name Silva to any of the other potential names he could be going by, is as frustrating as talking to Sten sometimes. Roundabout. Never to the point. Why does nobody ever just say what they mean?

The dwarf huffs and blows a few strands of silver hair from her face. "He uses too many words in strange ways. Would it kill him to just talk like a normal person instead of blathering on? Before I kill him."

She won't. That's not what she's here for, and he hasn't given enough reason to make her want to. But by the Stone and all of the Ancestors, he makes her job so difficult. Fighting a mob of darkspawn sometimes seems preferable.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Fortunately, it's not too far to his room and for some strange reason, there's a problem far on the other side of the ship that has most people's attention. Why is the music in the bar set to play "What's New Pussycat?" on repeat? We may never know, but it clearly requires many people to try and stop it.

"Have I?" He sounds surprised. On the whole, his mind isn't all the different from the norm. Perhaps a couple, small, almost inconsequential differences, but surely that's not what Silva is interested in? "I will admit some partiality to your hands. And I really would like to feel a bit of stretch when I straddle you."

Good thighs. Ten of ten.

Of course the mind. Even without all of this electronic nonsense going on, Q's had a curious mind.

But if they're going for physical qualities, well. "You will most certainly feel some stretch. I could tie you down, if you'd like, for that grounding feeling. Or up. up is also good. Would you like some marks? You already cover yourself up for sake of modesty; surely leaving some gifts on your skin is nothing at all."

"Marks are fine. Held down is lovely, tied up or down less so." Ostensibly responsible adults talking about boundaries and preferences before they engage in bad-idea saucy times. Truly, it's a Barge-based miracle.

Speaking of miracles, as they approach Q's door, the faintest strains of "It's Not Unusual" can be heard drifting down the hallway. There may be cheering or shouting in the background.

"I like traffic lights. Red, yellow, green. I most likely won't say 'no', but if I do, don't fret unless I break out the colours. I can get a bit lost at times."

Responsible is such a strong word, but in this case...

"No bindings but for my own hands." There was a time when his own pleasure mattered a good deal more than someone else's. Severine didn't complain as much as she really should have. "Here is hoping I'll hear much more 'yes' than 'no', hm?"

Mental note: ask about the music later. There's a Story there, and he's sure it's Q's fault. Perhaps be thankful Silva isn't pulling up more of his own music.

"Try to keep inside your own head unless otherwise agreed." The idea of, perhaps, down the line, sharing in their pleasure is...worth putting a pin in. But doesn't help with grounding Q within himself.

As the door swings open, Q sways in relief at being home. He's been trying to keep it together, to keep his hands in relatively appropriate places, and now he doesn't need to. Now, he can tug at Silva's shoulder and drag him into the room.

"If I start to wander or bleed through, tell me and we can pull back. And tell me what you need, what you want." It's important to Q. He likes to treat his partners as well as he can.

"What I need is to get my hands all over you."

Silva has reflexes, strength, though he's not as young and limber as Q. Still, it's quick of him to take Q by the arm, to take him in his arms and spin them about until Q's back is pressed to the door. Pressed in close, bring the space between them as close to a nice round zero as possible. Lips on Q's, lips and teeth, and hands down to hips.

"Fucking finally." Demanding little shit that he is, Q arches his back, pressing as much of his body up against Silva as he can. He loves the heat and strength, that he's held in place, and can't think about a damn thing else except the man in front of him.

He whines and tugs at Silva's shirt, working his get his hands up and under, onto his skin.

Demanding, needy little shits are fun sometimes, he knows this well. He meets the scrabbling at his shirt with a breathy laugh between kisses until he pulls just enough away to pull it over his head and deposit it he doesn't give a shit where. Whatever of Q's top still is on him also needs to go. Bye.

"Stunning." There's still the hint remaining of that pleasant static shocking sensation. The nip-kissing resumes, this time along Q's jaw. "Gorgeous." Ravaging his neck. "Beautiful."

Q's shirt could be unzipped all the way, but that's too much effort. He squirms in place, wriggling until he can get it up over his head and tosses it aside. Yes, yes, yes, finally. Skin to skin.

He can feel the buzz beneath his skin and everywhere there's a nip, a circuit sparks blue and glows. "You too, you feel incredible, too."

An amused huff against the crook of Q's neck. "So articulate."

Now this feels a bit more familiar, the way Silva slots a thigh between legs. Roaming hands, tracing up the curve of spine, skimming around ports.

There's a very articulate moan as Q rocks and ruts himself against Silva's thigh. He is even more erudite when his ports are touched. Each one is like a little shocking spark right into his nervous system. It hurts. But not really? Or not in a bad way?

"Careful, careful, not too sure what happens with those." You know, if he's not plugging directly into a screened powersource.

"We can find out."

He gives a pleased hum against Q's skin, through lips against his throat. Hands get more careful. But only just a bit. What's careful in a sense is when he picks one port, lower down, traces a bare fingertip along the outside edge where skin puckers into sleek metal. Traces the inner edge, then, along grooves that would lock a plug into place.

Leaning against Silva, Q shivers and mouths at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He's trying to smother the soft sounds he'd otherwise be making. It feels strange.

At some point in his exploration, Silva must trip across a particularly sensitive circuit. Q gasps and clutches, his nails scratching at Silva's back. He has to hold on, because that was almost enough to make his legs give out. "The hell was that!?"

Silva hisses at the sudden sharpness, revels for a moment in the sensation. He doesn't pull away, but doesn't continue, let Q sort out his feelings, sensations.

"You tell me. I'll have to remember that one." Not even a yellow, much less a red, so it must not have hurt. (Or at least not too much.)

His other hand runs along hip, lower, taps behind a thigh. "You won't break my back. Up."

TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

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