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Summary
Quentin doesn’t have to. He could just stop. He could, he’s a fucking adult, he can make choices with his brain, not with his dick. All Alice can do is scream at him, after all, and it’s not like he isn’t used to parts of his mind screaming at him that he’s pathetic and worthless. He can weather that. He knows all this.
Which is why he knows, as he moves his fingers into the sequence of Popper five to conjure a handful of lube, that this is him making yet another utterly fucked up choice.
