And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand
"Oh, an exuberant court member," he says with a degree of eyeroll that doesn't quite make a good showing of a flutter or all the whites of his eyes. "Not that I don't appreciate the eagerness, and a king needs his court after all, but there are some boundaries. I don't want to wake up and find another little weirdo jerking off at the foot of my bed again." Not uninvited, at least. This, of course, about his stalkers, for which he is very glad Danta is not. Perhaps the one redeeming quality to the Theocrat only knowing him as that Writer Guy.
Sighing with all the hefty weight of fame's crown upon his head, Quentin slips neatly back upon his stool. "That's what gave me the idea for the werefiends though. Lemons and lemonade, as they say," he sniffs, pulling the martini towards him from where it sweats near the paper. "Pity," he laments Danta's schedule, sipping on the edge of his glass as the Maverick descends like the itsy bitsy spider to a seat on his side of the curtain. On the paper beside them, several strikes of dark ink blot out the latest passage he'd just added. With a habit too frequent to even register anymore, one of his hands sweeps through his hair, pulling back into form whatever bits had fallen out of place with his demonstration.
With renewed interest in the poorly read ancient, Quentin's brows lift up in unison at the described fiance. "No, I should think not if he's made it to the fiancé stage. Wet growlers don't seem the sort to find a longterm romance in my experience." Case in point, Gary. "I happen to be rather attached to my head, so let's not do anything that will end in its removal," Quentin decides with all the neat attention one might afford their attire for the day. "However your husband-to-be sounds like a delightfully possessive and jealous type. It's always an inspiring sort for stories such as this. Do you think he'd let me keep my head if it was the two of you together on this lounge?"
Sighing with all the hefty weight of fame's crown upon his head, Quentin slips neatly back upon his stool. "That's what gave me the idea for the werefiends though. Lemons and lemonade, as they say," he sniffs, pulling the martini towards him from where it sweats near the paper. "Pity," he laments Danta's schedule, sipping on the edge of his glass as the Maverick descends like the itsy bitsy spider to a seat on his side of the curtain. On the paper beside them, several strikes of dark ink blot out the latest passage he'd just added. With a habit too frequent to even register anymore, one of his hands sweeps through his hair, pulling back into form whatever bits had fallen out of place with his demonstration.
With renewed interest in the poorly read ancient, Quentin's brows lift up in unison at the described fiance. "No, I should think not if he's made it to the fiancé stage. Wet growlers don't seem the sort to find a longterm romance in my experience." Case in point, Gary. "I happen to be rather attached to my head, so let's not do anything that will end in its removal," Quentin decides with all the neat attention one might afford their attire for the day. "However your husband-to-be sounds like a delightfully possessive and jealous type. It's always an inspiring sort for stories such as this. Do you think he'd let me keep my head if it was the two of you together on this lounge?"
Quentin
