Owner	Pose
Kid Omega	Quentin and Wicked have been spending less time around places of education. Because school is boring and Quentin doesn't have anything else he needs to learn. Because it requires getting up in the morning and doing what you're told and all that boring crap that comes with 'adults' thinking that teenagers should obey their whims just because they have a few extra rings in the tree trunk. But Q has become bored with the game. He's tried being a superhero and, sure, he's fabulous at it, but it's just not very personally fulfilling. People always needing help and crying cause their shit gone blown up, when Quentin would much rather be getting a milkshake and smoking a blunt. He's reached a decision and today he's going to tell his girlfriend about it. He's seated in the private area, the club closed during the daytime hours. He actually falls asleep here sometimes, although this time he came in fresh, his hair gelled and his duds clean. He's got a canary yellow blazer on over a neon pink t-shirt with the words ASK ME ABOUT MY WIENER on the front.
Wicked	Wicked spends much of her time with Quentin, as he's been a very stabilizing addition to her life. He gives her the freedom to be who she is without judging her for her eccentricities -- he actually praises her for them -- and is as patient as anyone has ever been when it comes to her mental health struggles. He doesn't try to make her fix herself -- which is different from what others have always tried to do. He does it *for* her, subtly, only when necessary, without her really noticing...and without changing who she is, at her core; without robbing her of her experiences and the scars they've left behind -- things that mark her as the survivor she is, however broken she might be.     When Quentin bought the club, it quickly became a place for the two of them to stay, where they weren't bothered by others, save those few Quentin (and, to a lesser degree, Wicked) deemed worthwhile of their collective time. But, today, it's just the two of them. For now. Quentin, lounging in the private area, Wicked went to get something from another room...she has "something to show him."     When she trips back into the room, her Frighteners (and probably Q) keeping her from actually falling on her face, Wicked is clutching in her bony little arms...a lightweight, super-thin laptop -- decorated with cute gothy stickers that are just her style -- that QQ gifted her with not so long ago. She has a bright, slightly manic smile on her pretty face, her twin pigtails pulled high and tight, today. She's dressed in a super loose black tank-top, emblazoned with a white sigil of Baphomet at its center. The thing looks more like it was ripped into existence rather than sewn, and it hangs off her frail frame almost like it would off of a clothes hanger. To preserve her modesty, she's also wearing a tight little black sports bra beneath it. Her leggings, black and white striped, are ripped here and there, and she's got on a pair of thicc-heeled Vans.     She smells like incense and spice as she collapses on the seat next to him, grinning to herself as she snuggles against him. "Babe," she breathes in a sing-song-y, whispery sort of voice, looking down at the laptop against her chest. The black of her outfit and the laptop sharply contrast with her pale skin...and, the fresh white bandages on her arms. Did she actually cut this time, or did Quentin only let her -think- she did? It's not clear, but she seems content, and that's what matters. "How's your wiener, today?" she asks with a scandalized giggle, letting a sharply pointed nail tap his shirt's slogan?
Kid Omega	Quentin Quire slides an arm around Wicked's shoulder, laying her head against him as he gives her a squeeze. Quentin doesn't care about very much at all, most especially other people, but Wicked is the exception to that particular rule. Q's never been very big on rules anyway. "Plump and skinless, thanks to the doctor when I was born. Someday, I'll hunt him down and see how he likes being scalped," he murmurs. His eyes are a bit dilated as he's probably buzzing from something, his bloodstream a noxious slurry of his own chemical concoctions, all of which make life more meaningful and fun and just...not boring. He does so hate being bored. "What's all this, my haunted honey?" he says, gesturing to the laptop. "Don't make me pluck it out of your head, spill it, use your mouth, the way I taught you," he grins. He thinks he feels someone approaching for a moment, but they seem to veer off. Probably a devoted fan.
Wicked	Wicked eats up that affection, from one who would begrudge even a smile to others, like the starving waif she is -- zero calories! (In fact, one of QQ's tactics to get her to eat is to 'convince' her that the food is calorie-free. It helps a lot. The times he catches her inducing in the bathroom are fewer and farther between, with the methods he's cultivated since making her his own.)     She giggles at the reply. It wasn't the first time she's asked him about his wiener, either. He always has a unique and amusing reply, and it never fails to make her smile and laugh. "What if he's dead, bae?" she whispers. "Then, I could help you with your 'vengin'!" she says in a delighted little voice, tight with excitement.     At his question, though, she gives her head a little toss. What was it? What did she...what was she doing? She looks up questioningly to one of her Frighteners and there's a susurrus that Quentin can perceive, but not make out the meaning of. "Ohhhhh," she says, nodding against his chest. "Right, right, right, right. Right. Right, right. Right," she says, nodding. "The club, darling. It really..." she pauses. "It's stale. Like those cigarettes I left outside and then I tried to smoke one because I was out and it was bad and made me vomit for like two or four hours... And I kept them because it was good for purging but you found 'em and burned 'em up so I couldn't anymore? 'Member that?" she asks, totally getting sidetracked.
Kid Omega	"Precisely, my whimsical waif. We could try and scalp his ghost. Do ghosts have hair? I imagine some of them do, although I suppose it's more of a memory of hair congealed in the ectoplasm of their netherness. I don't know if that'a a word, but I'm going to make it one now." "And yes, I remember, all too well," he says. "You don't have my tolerance or metabolism because you're such a little thing and I'm such a horrendous drug monster. But I agree, the Club's not dank enough, not now enough, not...Omega enough. I definitely need to redecorate," he says. "Speaking of new beginnings, I...think it's time we drop out of Xavier's officially, don't you? We don't really belong there."
Wicked	Asking Wicked about ghosts is like asking an accountant who really loves his job about tax law. "Yes!" she replies. "Ghosts can and do have hair, and they can experience some kind of torment having it removed, though it's not exactly the same as experiencing real pain in life," she says, sounding more cogent than she normally does. "But, it's a more lingering, sometimes-permanent form of suffering, so maybe it's even better than the transient nature of physical, living pain," she babbles cutely, using words and phrases that seem so out-of-her-grasp on a more regular basis.     "Well, I thought they were mines, I mean," she says, sounding momentarily confused. "But, maybe they were yours. I dunno. Point issssss," she draws out the sibilance, mostly because she's semi-lost track, again. But, she finds her place, again. "Yes! I've been PINNING things," she says with an exuberance that is characteristic of her. "And, I thought maybe you might like some of this stuff," she says, opening the light-weight, razor-thin laptop on her lap and putting her hand on its trackpad to unlock it, the way Quentin had shown her to do. She then begins pulling up images of other bars she found noteworthy -- all very edgy, with lots of darkness mixed with neons.     To Quentin's revelation and subsequent question, she goes quiet. His psychic snooping can just hear those ol' gears cranking away in her head. "But...won't we get in trouble? What would we do? Just, this?" she asks. The thought of doing this with him every day makes her feel like she's floating! She quite likes it! But, the thought of making the X-people mad does make her feel uneasy. Not scared. Just not that comfortable.
Kid Omega	Quentin Quire flicks his eyes over her pins, casually taking over the computer. He doesn't have to shove her out of the way, he just manipulates the trackpad with his TK, scrolling thorugh the various pages and pictures with a rapidity that would test the wifi if he hadn't already boosted the wifi to mega-levels well beyond anything commercially available. "Looks pretty sweet. Not that. Not that. But this is good. This one's shit. More like this. I'll order twelve of these," he says. He strokes a hand over her hair, like he's soothing a skittish animal, "We might. Nothing I can't handle. It would be better if we had someone strong to stand with us, so we're not totally on our own. I'm thinking we might join the Brotherhood. Don't get much stronger than Magneto. But no more teachers, no more books."
Wicked	There is a lot of material for Quentin to sort through, of varying styles and content -- everything from design ideas to the kind of alcohol glasses used for serving drinks -- to keep him entertained and stimulated. It's sort of a way for her to show her devotion to him, to try to please him, because he's the source of so much 'good' in her life.     It's for that reason that she's immediately open to what he has to say, in any situation. "The Brotherhood? Magneto?" she asks in a tiny voice, seeming slightly dazed. "Aren't they the 'bad guys'?" she asks, curling her bony fingers in the air-quotes. "We're s'posed to be learning how to protect the world from people like that. So, that means...if we joined 'em...the X-people would be teaching/learning how to protect the world from...people like us?" she tries to follow the 'complicated' line of thought.
Kid Omega	Quentin Quire laughs a little bit, reaching out and selecting his cigarette case, drawing one of his own cigarettes out and dangling his lighter up to ignite it, "I mean, I guess, sort of? Like, you ad I have talked about this, good and bad are mostly just bullshit terms people use to figure out who they agree with and disagree with. It's all a matter of perspective. And I've always tended to favor Magneto's philosophy over Xavier's - neither you nor I are particularly good at turning the other cheek. Well, not that cheek anyway." "The Brotherhood's about standing up for yourself and not letting us be pushed around, especially not by flatscan normies who mostly just hate us out of jealousy anyway. I'm not saying we start blowing shit up willy nilly - well, not this week anyway - but I think it's closer to our chaotic neutral alignment than the X-men are."
Wicked	Wicked nods her head emphatically. Yes. On many occasions, Quentin has had long conversations with her about the nature of 'right' and 'wrong,' and how most (if not all) societal mores are bullshit. He always knew the right thing to say to help her understand. Just like now. "If you think it's a better fit, babe, then you're right. You're always right," she finally says with a big, shimmering, glossy-black smile. Her small, thin little hand closes the laptop and shoves it to the seat beside her. Then, it slides up Quentin's torso and rests on his chest. "What do we do, then? Will the X-crowd think we've been kidnapped and brainwashed by the Brotherhood?" she asks. "That'd be a lovely gift," she laughs. "'Hey, we're here to join you and we brought a gift: the X-Men, mad and confused!'" Unexpectedly, one of her Frighteners grabs an ashtray and lifts it to catch ash from QQ's smoke before it can fall on Wicked. As though Quentin would've let that happen. Still, they like to look out for her, regardless.
Kid Omega	Quentin Quire takes a long drag, exhaling plumes of smoke through his nostrils, telekinetically forming perfect little omegas in the exhalation. "If they think anyone could brainwash me, they haven't been paying attention. My mind's filthy and it's going to stay that way," he says. "I'll write, like, a note or something. I dunno, put a post-it on Baldy's wheelchair WE OUTTIE GOING TO JOIN BRO HOOD PEACE OUT X-DAWG. "Plus, we gotta see if Magneto and his merry band are accepting defectors at the moment. He might have his ass up Chuckie's butt at the moment and be all nice or something. It happens. I think they're bipolor or something. Maybe I should try slipping them medication..."
Wicked	Wicked tries capturing the smomegas -- a term she's coined for the smoke omegas -- in her hand, lazily, letting the bass of Quentin's voice vibrate and tickle her ear as it rests on his chest. She gets sort of lost in that -- the sensation of it, the beautiful music that his voice is to her ears and soul -- as she is wont to do, and probably also because she's still stoned from vaping, earlier.     "The kind of dirty where the water never cleans off the clothes, baby," she agrees dreamily, shivering a little as her Frighteners comb through and play with her hair, enhancing her good-feels. "Well, wherever you go, I'll follow. As long as you'll have me," she says warmly, with genuine, worshipful love. "It'd be good if we could get out clean without hurting feelings and stuff, but people don't always understand," she says with a sad-but-detached note in her voice. "Not like you do," she says, tilting her head back so she can look up into her boyfriend's beautiful face.
Kid Omega	Quentin Quire leans down and kisses the tip of her nose, grinning in his own mischievous fashion, "Sometime hurting feelings is fun, but I know you're more sensitive about that sort of thing than I am. I wouldn't mind seeing a few tears streaming down cheeks in the rear view. But that's okay. I can be civil. Mostly. Probably. I'll try it. We'l see." He squeezes at her shoulders, "And you know I'd never go anywhere without you. We're a package deal, I in my cellphane and you in your vintage ribbons."
Wicked	Wicked leans into the nose-kiss and clasps weakly at his neck with her free hand, for more kisses. She can never get enough, really. So hungry for affection, the poor girl. She gives up, feeling the energy leave her before she even really gets a chance to start, and goes slack. Her cheek squished a bit makes her words a little mushy, "It's not that I don't wanna hurt feelings, though I would prefer them to not be sad 'cause they were mostly nice to me and tried to be good... But, I don't wanna start a mess for ourselves," she exhales, reaching for her vape pen. Can't. Reach. Nnf. She goes limp, again.     "Sometimes," her voice is soft and slow, dreamy. Detached. "I dream that you're gone. Something happens and I'm alone with the Frighteners, again. And, I get this horrible lump in my throat, and I swallow and swallow, but I can't get it to go away. I cry and I eat, and I purge, and I languish...but, the lump stays. And, feels like it gets bigger the harder I try to get rid of it. Finally, I cut my own throat, to let it out. Only then do I feel better," she says in a monotone sort of way, a slow drone of the words, with no emotion... It's definitely rooted in her fear of being without him, but she can't understand that. She doesn't realize it. "I have that dream a lot." She's told him variations on the same theme many times before.
Kid Omega	Quentin Quire uses his TK to float the pen into her reach, laying it against her lips so she doesn't even have to hold it up. In the background, there's a soft clatter and she'll realize he's still going through the pinterest, a part of his mind partitioned off and focusing only on that, absorbing the limited intake of his peripheral vision and translating it significantly enough for him to do as he pleases with the information she's provided. "Well, I have no desire for you to cut your throat, Wicked. And I wouldn't leave you behind, you should know that by now. I've put so much work into you, after all, it would be a terrible waste. I'm pretty fond of you, as I suppose you might know, although apparently not since you keep dreaming I'm going to leave you behind. I've told you, I'm not like those others who failed you. I don't fail. I'm Quentin fucking Quire."
Wicked	Wicked inhales obediently from the vape pen held to her lips -- as though she might have been trained to inhale if it were pressed there, though she wasn't. Was she? She doesn't really even think -to- think about it. She breathes in deep and exhales a long, brilliant white plume of vapor in a slow fashion, letting the clatter of Quentin's multitasking be the background music for her staticky brain.     "Baby, I do know. There's no way you'd keep me around if you didn't. But, I'm a mess," she says in that small, hitched voice that always precedes tears. As much work as he's done, she is -- to her core -- a broken dolly, and to take that away from her would make her someone else, someone more boring, and infinitely less interesting to him. Probably. "I'm chains around your neck. Anyone lesser than you -- which is everyone -- would drown under the weight of me. I'm..." her lips tremble, transferring black gloss to his jacket's label, her tears transferring black liner and mascara as well... She had to mention weight, too, which now has her anorexia nervosa going strong. "I wouldn't blame you if you did leave me behind, babe," she finally sniffles, her eyes rolling back in her head a bit. A vision threatening...but, she's recently dosed, and it eases the pain of it, makes it harder for them to dig their hooks into her brain. She groans, brokenly, "That's all I meant."
Kid Omega	He provides his own sort of psychic relief. He keys into her brain, having learned all the backdoors and created quite a few of the pathways with his own mental hands. He triggers endorphins, dopamine, a soothing flow of steady relaxation to help soothe her jangled, ragged nerves. The way she treated herself, her body was often not in the best of condition and he had to remind her, sometimes whether she liked it or not, to take care of herself. He doesn't care about make-up on his clothes, he can always get more. "You're the only person whom I'd ever allow to talk about you that way and even so, I'm not particularly fond of it. I understand, though. I want to keep helping you to love yourself, because you're awfully enjoyable. Of course, right now I -do- have you all to myself, which is rather nice. I'd hate for you to outgrow me."
Wicked	Wicked relaxes, entirely, as Quentin does his doctoring. She exhales and feels the relief flood her system. She knows she was just very sad, but talking about it with Quentin always makes her feel better. "I will never outgrow you," she says very earnestly. "I'm worried about becoming too boring for you, but I can guarantee I'll never be bored of you," she smiles, the damp, dark streaks of her tears staining her pretty porcelain face.     She slides her arms around him more fully and crawls atop him, sitting astride his lap. She presses her forehead to his and thinks really hard at him...all her emotions for him. It's probably overwhelming -- she's a bit mad, after all, and deeply in love with him. She wraps her arms around his neck and nuzzles her nose against his as she does this psychic loveletter. "Babe," is all she can whisper, against his lips, her lipstick smeared and her lips salty with her own tears.