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Overclocked

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His overclocked hard drive isn’t the only thing that’s droning on; Mallek keeps up a steady stream of commentary and nonsense even as you tune him out.

“Reactor cores.... central plains.... drones...” His eyes droop and close. Could this be it? Can you finally sneak him to his coon for a moment of respite?

But just as soon as you finish your thought, his eyes snap open again. “Should be rerouting by the end of the dim-season.”

“I’m not listening to anything you say unless it’s ‘take me to bed,’“ you reply. He huffs; it’s the best approximation of laughter that you’re getting from him tonight.

“Gonna have to convince me,” he says, voice distracted as his fingers suddenly fly across his keys. You have to suppress a sigh; the metaphorical ball (his sleep schedule) is in your metaphorical hands. Or, however that expression goes. Maybe you’re getting tired, too.

“Didn’t catch that,” you smirk. Slowly, you rise from the couch. “What do you want me to do to you?”

He mutters something about a deadline.

“Only deadline that I know about is the moons set about three hours ago and you haven’t stopped typing since they set the night before.”

“So you are listening to me,” you finally reach his chair, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and roll him back and forth with you in a stilted, unbalanced mimicry of slow-dancing. “That’s why I’m the brains of this relationship. When I set a commitment, I stick to it.” He sits up straight, effectively lifting you from the ground as you shriek and tighten your arms around his shoulders. 

You’re the brains?” You laugh. “No way. You’re the bulge-head of this relationship. Come to bed with me.”

He reaches behind him to grab you from under your arms. With his feet planted firmly on the ground, he flips you over the back of his chair and places you solidly in his lap. You have no idea where he’s getting this strength from; maybe there really is something to be said for the merits of gamer fuel.

“If I’m the bulge-head, you’re a bulge kisser,” he says, finally looking down at you. Though there’s a smile in his eyes, it’s darkened by the bags that weigh it down. His fingers tap and tickle your belly in a way that suggests that he’s been typing for so long that he can no longer stop.

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck. You kiss him on his cheekbone. “Fine by me.” By the time you pull away, his eyes are closed again and his hand has found your hair. Truth be told, the chair can barely hold the two of you. It’s not comfortable, but-

“Ten more minutes,” he says, eyes still closed and voice low as if not to disturb the tentative comfort he’s found in your embrace. “Maybe fifteen. Let me finish, then we'll see if you can convince me.” Just fifteen more minutes. You can handle that.

He tucks you against his shoulder, hand smoothing down your hair and the back of your head as he breathes you in. Breathes out, breath cool behind your ear. Gives a great, shuddering sigh.

Soon enough, the one hand still typing starts to slow, then stops completely. He barely finishes wrapping his other arm around you before his even breathing turns to snores. The chair is rapidly growing less and less comfortable.

Damn, if only you’d started convincing him sooner.