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Clay's touch feels like the static of electricity, lighting up the nerves in Desmond's skin. Sharp, quick, nails digging in to bare flesh, drawing out gasps of pain and pleasure both. The artificial weight of Clay's body on top of him sits in contrast to the prickle of digital grass under the warmth above and seeping cold below. Desmond can't imagine why the Animus would bother replicating so much detail on the Island, when it was supposed to be saving resources.
"Your brain is filling in the blanks," Clay whispers into his ear, breath warm.
"And you're reading my mind."
"Can't turn it off," Clay huffs, and nips at his neck, sparks kissing the point of contact. "Everything has to get logged for the repair."
"Really good dirty talk there, Clay," Desmond says, and winces when Clay digs his nails in to his shoulders, squeezing like he needs to hold Desmond down.
"Alright, fine. How about I fuck you until you can't think enough for anything to get logged?"
"Eh, almost better. You better make good on that promise though," Desmond laughs.