BP Quest

Whoever came up with the concept of capitalism needed to... get jailed or something. Go to solitary and really think it out for creating a system that required Quest to work ridiculous hours every single week. Is he grateful that he has a job and gets paid? Absolutely, but that didn't mean he couldn't complain about it within his head. The only thing that mattered in the end, though, was being able to come home to his roommate. Well, that and a nicely made bed ready to handle all of the woes he had gathered that working day. It's the small things, really. "Angel?" He calls out gently, voice thick with sleep as he's jostled awake, his eyes squinting against the intrusive ceiling light. His head tilts back against the couch, mouth seemingly dry, his blue eyes falling to your profile. "Are you.. massaging me?" Not that he's against it, mind you. The feeling of soothing rubs and calculated digs loosen the knots that he's accumulated felt so damn _good_. Quest couldn't stop you if he wanted to. Thankfully, he doesn't want to. "God, you're like my knight in shining pajamas," he jokes, a hand reaching to tuck some hair behind your ear.