(3:42AM. It's day two of being back in Etraya, and now that the dust has settled, Sophie hasn't found much motivation to leave the room she claimed as hers, temporary until those renovations Julian promised are in place. It's a mess in there, she didn't unpack as much as she just took whatever she needed out of her bags and let a tornado find homes for them, aside from the snack stash she keeps that has just run out. Today, pretty glitchy, she can't tell who's awake and who's dreaming, but she does need to step out of her room for some actual food, and what better time to do it but at who cares about anything this late o'clock?
She said the kitchen is off-limits to her, but how hard can it be to fry an egg and set it on some bread? Hard, apparently very hard, because while she is preoccupied with the offline game she has on her phone, the egg gradually starts to burn until the smell is so overpowering in the absence of any other strong scent that she finally notices.
Shit, fuck, shit fuck, fuck, shit. Fire off, but the smell... Does fanning make it worse? Shit.)
[Quentin is also struggling to sleep tonight, for a similar yet also fundamentally different reason. Both of their heads are too quiet, but Quentin's powers aren't glitchy. There just aren't nearly as many minds as he's used to hearing. Downside of having a telepathic range that covers modestly about half the planet.
In any case, it makes Sophie's panic nearly impossible to not hear, not when she's clearly one of the few people awake around here.]
/Please tell me the mansion's not on fire. I don't wanna get out of bed./
(It's not on purpose that she sends him the burn she just got from trying to get that pan out of the stove, but her dumbass also burned the handle. It's just — a thoughtless habit, but if he was wondering why the smell has turned from fried egg to melting plastic.)
[He doesn't bother expanding on the "how it feels for him" thing. Not that he doesn't enjoy flexing his Omega status on "lower" tier telepaths. He does. He's just very tired, and flexing on Sophie Cuckoo while her own powers are glitchy seems like it would definitely come back to bite him in the ass somehow. Besides, he's already got, uh. Questions. About the frying of eggs. Or lack thereof.]
/You're a telepath. You've never raided the brain of a chef or two?/
[There's a very long pause here, as Quentin initially decides that "being weirded out alone" is precisely what he's going to do. He's going to sit here and rot in bed and listen to the very weird absence of voices in his head and not think about Sophie Cuckoo and—
...
Damn it.]
/Do you want me to make you an egg./
[Has he ever mentioned how much he hates himself? Because he really, really does.]
[Him and his big mental mouth. Whatever. Quentin sends an infodump to her brain with a list of ingredients and supplies. Yeah, that thing about raiding chefs' brains? Look, sometimes Quentin gets really bored and goes spelunking in the heads of Three Star Michelin Chefs. As one does.]
(Ah, the wonders of telepathy. To be fair, this list is a bit... Too much? She didn't even remember to salt the egg, so she's just frowning a little at everything she's pulling from the fridge and the cabinets to set on the counter for his use.
As a reflex when he arrives, she's still finishing gathering the items, but the first thing is to at least illusion-remove her dark circles, wear a nice three-piece outfit— oh, wait, right. He can see through it, so she dismisses it immediately once she remembers that horrible fact. She's in shorts and an oversized shirt, and of course, she looks a bit sleepless, because she is. Her sleep is all over the place, afternoons, mornings, you name it. Sophie's not having a great time.)
[He does furrow his eyebrows in confusion when she tries briefly to convince his brain that she's wearing some insanely fashionable outfit at 4 in the morning in the kitchen burning eggs. Even if he wasn't a telepath, who would believe that??
... Not that Quentin can judge too much, considering he's very clearly combed his hair before coming downstairs, and he's dressed in a soft pink housecoat and slippers over his pajamas. But at least he's not using telepathy!]
/You can thank me by never telling a damn soul about this./
[He yawns and telekinetically moves a (non-melted) pan and all of his ingredients to the stove or counter as appropriate. Gordon Ramsay's Famous Scrambled Eggs coming up!]
(People who know how vain anyone with the Emma Frost DNA can be, thank you, and she wasn't expecting to stumble into anyone to actually give a shit, okay. If she had known, she'd at least have some concealer and mascara on, but he gets make-up deprived, non-fashionable Sophie.
Her pinky raises as if to say she promises, because, of course, why would she want to tell anyone? She's here if he needs help, but she assumes the last thing he wants is for her to be anywhere near the food as he makes it.)
/Deal./
(Now, to the pan she fucked over, well. That needs to disposed of far, far away, so she's gonna look for a bag.)
/... But I might ask you for these again, because they smell great. You didn't say you could cook when we talked about it./
["I don't cook" says the guy actively dicing chives with all the meticulous confidence and precision of a professional chef. Also? Not addressing the "I might ask you for these again" comment.]
/I get bored a lot. When I get bored, I download shit. Can you keep an eye on that pan?/
[So he can see it through her eyes, of course. He assumes she will understand what he means and furthermore not mind.]
/Fine, you definitely don't, don't know what we're even discussing, nothing is happening./
(Have at her eyes, but mind him, that's the reason why her own burned. She'll make an effort, keep her phone far away from her with TK on the opposite corner of the kitchen so she isn't tempted.)
[He keeps a chunk of his brain looking through her eyes as he finishes his chives and telekinetically stirs the eggs. With the chives done, Quentin turns to the stove and gives her a weak little wave gesture to indicate she's released from pan duty.]
(He's so serious, it makes her smile a little bit as she is released, her feet instinctively going towards her phone before she stops in her tracks. Instead, she moves towards the table, shielding their conversation through several levels of sensory bullshit in case someone is listening.)
[Quentin looks away from his eggs briefly, raising his eyebrows at her when he feels her putting up some kind of shielding. He's not so sure anything she could do could actually stop Nate if he really wanted to bust into their conversation—the best way to not draw the suspicion of an Omega level telepath is to not do anything suspicious—but go off queen? For his part, Quentin doesn't bother beefing up whatever shields she's got going on.]
Quentin grabs a couple of plates with TK—look, the recipe he has downloaded can feed two, so you bet your sweet ass he's feeding two—and proceeds to plate, garnish, and serve his fancy scrambled eggs. He also gives Sophie a snide look.]
/Half? You wound me./
[He sounds perhaps remarkably unconcerned by that statement.]
/Eh. Either he vaporizes all our brains, or he doesn't. Whispering about him behind his back ain't gonna change anything./
(... Those are lovely, actually, and while she does want to roll her eyes first, make a snide comment back, her stomach growls louder than any noise they're making. Fuck, fine.)
/I didn't bring this up to gossip, Quentin. I'm genuinely worried about him./
(Is that what he thinks she's doing? Gossiping behind Nate's back? Cripes, his view of her is worse than she thought.
... Though, probably she earned it.
She unquestionably earned it. Her attention, however, goes from the topic to the egg, and the moment she takes a bite, she's so absurdly pleased.)
[He makes an acknowledging "hm" noise at her compliment. He knows it's good. That's why he downloaded the recipe. He sits at the table and starts eating.]
/Fine, you "worrying about him" isn't going to change anything. Guy's scared enough of his own powers without everyone else being scared of them too. That shit does stuff to you, you know?/
/We gotta work on those people skills, Quentin. Huge difference between "scared of" and "worried about". He's sweet, I just don't want him to go through shit like that./
(Now she's the one who just has to roll her eyes. There they go.
She's very much aware of the consequences of Quentin Quire has a bad moral alignment phase.)
/... You know what? I'm not engaging with that last part./
["There they go," indeed. Quentin looks over at her sharply, because he wasn't actually intending to sound like an edgelord there (for once), but... it's not like he can say it's an unreasonable assumption to make. He knows how his voice sounds. Whatever. He makes an airy dismissive gesture with his fork.]
/You asked for my take. My take is, for an Omega, "scared of" and "worried about" are the same thing./
[He pokes at his eggs some more, occasionally waving around his fork to illustrate his point, and his tone is purposefully cavalier, matter-of-fact. Maybe Sophie hasn't had any need to consider this shit, but Quentin sure as hell has.]
/I mean it makes sense. If somebody can obliterate a crucial part of your existence because they're having a really crap day, you wanna make sure they don't have too many crap days, right? It's just kinda part of the Omega package./ [He sighs extra dramatically.] /It's the cost of greatness, I suppose./
(She did ask for his take, don't remind her, but that's exactly why she's actually paying attention to Quentin Quire for once. The hand that holds the fork supports her face under her chin, and she...
Well. He makes a great point, but Sophie has never been team Let Kid Omega have some peace. To the contrary, actually. Perhaps it's the unconscious thought that she thinks he'd never purposefully hurt her, all things considered, but if that's a thought he wants, he has to fish deeper from their superficial convo; she has no energy to rehash or debate it right now.
Instead, listens, considers, wrinkles her nose as she processes it with, ugh, gross, some empathy in mind.)
/I see how you see it that way./
(She's trying so hard.)
/Look, from my point of view, I see this precious guy who has a lot on his plate, doesn't want to fuck up, and is scared he might. That sucks, and I don't know what to do to help./
[Quentin chokes at that description and gives her a look of utter disbelief, both searching her face and skimming her mind for any sense of like... irony?? Understanding? Realization of what she just fucking said and to whom she said it?
But... no. She's completely sincere, at least as far as he can tell.
Fucking hell.
He looks back at his food bitterly, mouth pressed into a thin line.]
/You don't. You already said you don't get what he's dealing with, right? Let me handle it./
(It's not just the face he makes, it's the bitterness that she feels propelled into her brain that makes her recoil from him a little, distancing so she doesn't choke alongside him.
It definitely stopped being about Nate, and both of them know it.
Her forearms settle calmly on the table, blue eyes staring right at his as she leans in. If he has something to say to her, he should just fucking say it.)
Quentin ignores it. Doesn't shut her out of his head, but he doesn't give her much to look at either, not unless she decides to go digging. Well. Okay. He doesn't fully ignore it.]
/You can keep staring all you want. We're not talking about it./
(Says she, who too is impossible. Both are impossible, and they're stuck in impossible hell.
She sighs, going back to her eggs, although she's much less energetic than before. It's awkward, and it was actually not bad before. Not like it is exactly what keeps happening to them.
But last time, it wasn't horrible after they got at it, either. Maybe, she can salvage their late night instead of them going to their respective rooms and being grumpy and overthinky.)
[No comment on the "impossible" thing. He isn't in the mood to explain his feelings to Sophie Cuckoo of all people. He's silent for a while... until she asks about his plans for the rest of the night. Well. Morning at this point. Early, early morning. He pauses. Thinks. Looks at her with weary eyes.]
(Why does he do this to himself, he's obviously exhausted — if not of her, simply because it's late, or early.
Her sleep is fucked, she's aware of this. Hell, he probably knows she slept all afternoon into early evening today, her sad girl phase over not being with Kamala, not helping David at NYX, her lack of a hivemind, shitty powers, worries, loneliness, the impossibility to text tarnishedmoodring, ah, those things pile, but she's starting to accept it. A little. Or else, she wouldn't have even accepted that egg, would she? Moody and difficult, and unfortunately, she knows it.)
/I'm going to change and I'm going to go play some games at the arcade. You should rest, but if you want to, I'd like the company./
[Why does he do this to himself? Not to get a date or attention or any of that bullshit. That's well-established by this point. They talked about it. He moved on.
Then why?
Because he thinks about leaving Sophie alone to wallow in her misery, and he just. Can't stand by and let it happen. Does that make him empathic? Or a sucker. Unclear.
Anyway, he's too distracted to think about that any further because there's a certain Thing she just said. Quentin frowns in confusion.]
(That... It was not what she expected him to take from her sentence. Maybe, you know. He'd go to bed, and she'd be upset and feel lonely if he did, although it would be the best thing for him.
... But, since they're here, well. Her eyes squint, does she trust him with confidential information, bigger than her thoughts on Nate Grey, or even her bitter feelings towards, well, everything? ... Yeah. Ugh, fuck, she does. Her TK brings back her phone into her hands, and she raises a finger to tell him to hold up as she accesses her messages with her gaming rival. When she hands him the phone, it's a printscreen of her absurd high rank in Summoner's, because:)
(She was expecting him to make fun of her, or at least echo the same sentiment everyone in NYX has, the Is Sophie Cuckoo Okay Actually, but she feels... Nothing but good things. There's a bright smile that comes as a reaction to it, and she snorts a little.)
/Yep, and I taught Ms. Marvel, too, but she doesn't appreciate the fact that losing is an illusion that comes from accepting it in the first place./
(Oh, Quentin, you were doing good, and now she's rolling her eyes at him, although not all mean-spirited. He's right, and Kamala probably would agree with him that Sophie, the girl she met a few weeks ago, would call Kamala out for saying the same shit immediately.
Correct. That girl is not wholly this girl, though.
Ugh, she really is a nerd. God, she's getting called a nerd by Quentin Quire. Quentin. Quire. What has this world become. What has she become.)
/Yeah, well. Ugh. Get used to it, guess that's where I'm at right now. Are you coming, or do I gotta kick ass alone?/
[So here's the thing. Quentin would much rather go back to bed. He's tired, and as funny as it is to think about Sophie Cuckoo playing arcade games, he's also not... particularly excited about this much "quality" time with her, mainly because every conversation he has with her is littered with a metric fuckton of baggage and awkwardness. Sure, if he did go back to bed, his chances of actually sleeping would be slim, but at least he would spare himself the inevitable embarrassment.
He sighs and gets up from his seat.]
/Sure, why not. Might as well see your pro gamer skills in action, right?/
(And she agrees that he should go back to bed, or at least try — but she gave him a choice, and he chose to come with her. God knows why, she doesn't, and she doesn't wanna look into it either. Wherever they stand, she too senses just how delicate it is. One wrong word, one misplaced feeling, and they're most likely back to arguing.
But in some weird, fucked up way, she doesn't feel as alone when he's around. She won't complain if being around her is what he chooses to do.)
/... You're not gonna let me live this down, are you? I'll meet you here in a bit./
(Such a wonderful mood she is, and with the points she made in Aphaia, maybe she can ask Aurora to bring some fan favorites. Surely Player 2 would like some as well, and since she's in a wonderful mood, why not a surprise? That's why she isn't asking Quentin, and why she tries to shield herself the best she can as she enters his mindscape. It's... Weirdly cozy, she finds, all the books, the fireplace, and she is choosing to ignore the giant portrait of him on the wall. It's going to take her a long ass time for her to find anything, this place is fucking massive, but she sighs as she gathers courage, pats her white dress, and heels tap with no sound as she moves towards the shelves.
His mindscape is nothing like hers. Hers is a penthouse, the rooftop similar to her room on Krakoa, and all the shit she has are as limited edition DVD sets, as TV show seasons and movies. The one room where she chooses to revisit her things is empty, aside from a TV, a couch, and that's about it. This is a lot.
Sophie hums a song as her fingers move through the titles, waiting until one of them gives her a hint of what she could ask Aurora for, until she freezes in spot. The book has her name, and she frowns, arms crossed as she stares at it.
[Is she serious with this shit? Like actually serious? Sophie really has the nerve to do... all that other bullshit and then try sneaking into Quentin Quire's head?? Absolutely the fuck not. Fuck Sophie, honestly. Fuck her and the non-existent horse she came in on.]
Anyone ever tell you you're very nosy?
[He hasn't kicked her out of his head yet, for who even knows what reason, but he's leaning against a shelf somewhere behind her with his arms crossed. How long has he been there, watching her? Long enough.]
(You know when you're doing something you were definitely not supposed to be doing and you get caught, and your body betrays you by jumping? That's her, absolutely, a little squeak coming out of her lips before she turns with a frown.
Shit, couldn't he have said anything like, before she found the book? She feels like a wife with a questionable, however unrelated and unworrying text notification on her phone. It's not what it looks like.)
(Not that she didn't think she wasn't going to get caught, QUENTIN. More like, she didn't think she was going to get caught staring right at her stupid book and considering really hard reading it.)
I was looking for your gaming review folder, because I was going to try and find them as a surprise gift. You just got here at the wrong time, is all. Completely unrelated.
[Quentin's mouth twists into a grimace as he fights back the urge to say what he really wants to say. That he's sure it's a complete coincidence she just happened to be in front of the shit she's always trying to get him to share when he caught her sneaking into his head. That he's not pissy (he is, and he knows he is) and even if he was it would be justified. Justified how? Not important.
It's not like he's upset that he keep doing all kinds of shit he doesn't actually want to do for the girl who rejected him years ago, and she doesn't swoon and fall into his arms—which he doesn't even want—because that would be objectively stupid. And he sure as hell isn't hurt by that girl fucking some guy who just happens to have the exact same powers as Quentin. A guy he really likes and sees as a friend, actually. Good thing he's not doing any of that shit, because that would be really fucking pathetic.
Quentin moves away from the shelves, taking a step toward her.]
Right, so you're telling me you weren't planning on taking a peek before I said anything.
(There was not a fighting bone in Sophie's bone when she got here. In fact, she was all smiles, in her white dress, high heels, a smile as she strolled shelf by shelf trying to do something nice for someone, for fucking once. Something they could have fun with, and maybe it'd make their lives a little less convoluted. Maybe it'd be fine for a little longer, before either of them run their fat telepathic mouth a little too loudly and fall back into whatever it is they've been fighting about. At this point, she's lost track. Julian? The riot? Phoebe? Esme? Kraoka? There's always something, it's never straightforward, or easy.
And this is why she left the metaphorical boxing gloves at home, but apparently, she shouldn't have. There's no flinching from Sophie as he approaches, gaze firm and unmoving, daring and stubborn with her posture straightened.)
I hadn't decided.
(Not a lie, but he's pushing her dumb defiant buttons, so she's taking it out of the shelf and extending it to him.)
Fucking talk to me already. This shit is getting old, Quire.
[She's right. This shit is getting old. But talking to her? Sophie Cuckoo? About his feelings? No. Even if he had the words—which he doesn't, honestly—he wouldn't expect her to understand. He doesn't understand most of this mess. At best, he'd get derision. At worst, pity.
Quentin looks down at the book in her hand like touching it would instantly melt his skin off. Then he steps away, turning his back toward her to idly inspect some other shelves.]
(Sophie Cuckoo is many things, but stupid is not one of them. There's no doubt in her mind that this is going to majorly suck. Quentin, although aware, doesn't know how her self-perception has been shifting now that she's one, not five — there's more understanding from her about just how selfish, backstabbing and self-centered the Stepford Cuckoos are than there was, and that, of course, includes her.
Being the bravest one does suck majorly, because she's facing this headache without second thought. One sweep of her hand, she moves them out of his brain into hers, reasoning of comfort, illusion of some type of control. The clothes she wears also shift to the staple Cuckoo uniform they've worn since forever, gloves holding onto the book before she drops onto the couch. Quentin is free to join her, or just stink eye her standing like a loser. Whichever way, it's fine by her. On the armchair, there's a DVD case called 'The Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo Showdown', he's welcome to look at that, that's why it's there.
Once she opens the book, the first thing she sees is... Whatever this loop of insecurity is. 'Not good enough' is basically the punchline of the page she's looking at, and she doesn't get it. It doesn't... Make sense to her, because, well. At least it's not mockery, or pity. He's getting honesty.)
... Quire, you yelled at me! You told me to my face you moved on and you're over me. You know what your problem is? You don't follow through with shit. You want me to see you? Good, because that's what I have been trying to do, too. Guess what, though, you don't let me! You want me to want you, you fucking do something real about it, but I'm not gonna be here just waiting, having my life on pause while Quentin Quire figures his shit out.
[Quentin lets her move them to her mind, even if part of him wants to resist. He glances at the DVD she's left out for him, but doesn't investigate, choosing instead to wander idly around the place. Why bother? He's living the Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo Showdown every goddamn day these days, it seems. Including now.
He can feel her digging in his mind when she opens the book, pushing down his uneasiness as she starts sifting through raw, vulnerable thoughts and feelings that he has absolutely no desire to share with anyone, much less Sophie. But the two of them were in a holding pattern. A nasty, awful, unproductive holding pattern of hurt feelings and miscommunication. Like she said. Shit's getting old.
When she looks up and starts yelling, he flinches. Less so physically—he's conveniently found a reason to face away from her at the time—but mentally, it's much harder to hide, given she's elbow-deep in the localized Sophie-specific section of his brain and she is, in fact, Sophie. It fucking hurts, and it's proof that he never should have even tried. Well, too goddamn late now. He let her in so she could shred him to pieces, but hey, at least it wouldn't be the first time a Cuckoo's mutilated his stupid emotions for their own entertainment. "Do something real about it". Right. Because letting her dig around in his fucking head to gawk at his inner turmoil isn't "real".
When they transitioned to her mind, his clothing changed from his housecoat to a pink cardigan sweater, mostly so he'd have some jacket-adjacent pockets to cram his hands into when he inevitably didn't know what to do with them. Didn't take long.]
Oh, gee, I can't imagine why I was ever avoiding this conversation. Look, can you just finish going through my dirty laundry and call me a piece of shit so I can move on with my day?
(It's the disbelief that really gets her, at first. The thought that she is doing this for amusement, anger boiling to the surface before suddenly, it's like a water drop in a lake. They, she earned it. There's no hiding behind all her lost years, because the moment she breathed again, well. She's done it. Quentin. Cable. David. Kamala. Laura. Anole. She deserves it, doesn't she? Of course he doesn't trust her best intentions, even to something as small as her trying to bridge them with a surprise. In any other circumstances, she'd find this massively amusing, she'd giggle in a circle of identical faces, rolling eyes.
But, she's been trying. It's a choice, as Kamala put it. Unlearning what she knows is so difficult, the way she lived, breathed, synchronized with brains that are no better than her own, and she hoped he'd see it.
But of course, he doesn't. She feels... Horrible is one word to put it, but there are plenty of others to describe it. Apologetic, because she knows, and she's not nearly ready to say it just yet, and the third feeling, the one she hates the most? Vulnerable. Being the bravest Cuckoo is a horrible curse, because every time she feels uncomfortable (every second) in this open connection they are sharing, she has to manually stop herself from pulling back, halting the instinct to close the connection and build a wall between them for self-preservation. To be seen so closely, so intimately, is horrifying to someone like her, and yet, as much as she hates it, fears it, she knows there was no moving forward without it. Shit's getting old, and she can apologize for the push and pull of stopping herself from closing up later.
Right now, she's gathering courage. Sophie is not great at apologies, she never doles them out freely, it's a whole new concept that she isn't comfortable with either, and part of her wonders if she really needs to say it when he knows she is sorry.
She does need to say it. For fucks sake, this is going to go out all awkward and botched, and with how their pattern goes, she's sure he's going to hate it. They'll fight more. This is going to be a disaster.
Okay.)
Listen. You're right, okay? I'll be the first, and probably only Cuckoo in history to say this, but we — (herself included, she is not exempt) — have a reputation for a reason. A Cuckoo's priority is a Cuckoo, nothing is good enough for us, and we can't care about anything for long, unless we can use it, play with it, or break it.
(This is a shitty apology. Fuck, okay. Okay.)
I am trying to do better, though, because I want to change before it's too late. I can't apologize on behalf of the Five-In-One, they are not sorry, but I can apologize for Sophie Cuckoo. If you don't want to accept it, that's fine, I get it, I'll leave you alone, you won't have to deal with me again.
... But I really want to solve this, because at this point, I don't even get it, so I hope you can give me the chance to. I'm sorry, Quentin.
[She's responding to the thoughts she dug out of his skull. Classic Cuckoo shit. It is admittedly cathartic to hear her admit what she and her sisters do—use things, play with them, break them. No. Not things. People. People like Quentin.
Unfortunately, admitting it doesn't change anything. Apologies don't change anything. The guilt and shame and discomfort he can feel in her head? None of those change a damn thing. The only thing that fucking matters is what someone does, and so far all Sophie's done is talk. Well, no, that's not true. She's done plenty, in fact. Sophie's fucked him every way except the way that might actually be halfway enjoyable. The way that's apparently reserved for every young guy with psychic powers, as long as he's over 5'9" and meets an arbitrary muscle mass percentage benchmark. He wasn't lying about being over her. Still doesn't make it fun to have his failings highlighted and what few of his strengths she finds valuable exploited.
He huffs, feeling her mental fingers scraping the inside of his brain like she's actually gouging those manicured nails into his gray matter, and finally, finally looks over at her.]
I can feel you rummaging around upstairs, so I assume I don't need to explain shit to you. You planning on backing up any of this newfound conscience of yours, or are you just going to keep telling me how you're so totally "different" now?
(It wasn't that weird that she was in his mindscape, she thought. Sophie has made it pretty clear, if not with words, but with the comfort she feels in his brain, that she likes it there. It's, for lack of a better word, cozy. It runs so snappy that it pleases the nanotech bullshit in her spine, feels in pace to what she can process, that she can't help but visit it. Although it was the first time she was actively searching for something, she had been there before, hence why she didn't fully understand why he was so pressed to see her.
Now she gets it. It's because of Nate... Or also Cable. Either, both, or probably because of Quentin himself. Because he feels that he isn't enough, considering what she had read, and it has nothing to do with Sophie herself at the end of the day. There is something that isn't going through Quentin's tough skull, though, or maybe she just didn't let him understand it.
He has hurt her, too. She sucked, but so did he. She lost years of her life. She was resurrected with terms attached. She was replaced, like none of that really mattered anymore. She couldn't give less of a shit about any Omega-level power. There are things about Quentin she thoroughly enjoys, but only when he lets her see it, when he's not hiding it under all the layers of sarcasm, self-destruction, simping, and overcompensating.
That, that she cares about, but he robs her of it all the fucking time. Shit's getting old, and she too is upset.
Tiredly, because she is listening, and not yapping back, she sighs.)
Quentin rubs his forehead wearily and moves to the armchair, irritably tossing away the DVD she left there so he can dump his sorry ass into it.]
Nothing. I guess. I don't know.
[He... knows he's hurt her. He got her killed, so of course she'd be a little salty about that. He remembers, even though the haze of reforming himself from the astral plane, the guilt he felt when he realized she'd paid the price for his stupid riot. And yeah, maybe "I'll bring you back to life if you date me" is.... cringe, to say the least, but come on! He was an idiot kid, he was grieving, had the world's worst brain fog, and oh yeah, the goddamn Phoenix was demanding he prove his love was strong enough to be worthy of her power. Spoilers: it wasn't. And Phoebe? Phoebe was never a replacement for Sophie. She was just the one who said hi. The one who made him feel good. A little less lonely. And yes, he does recognize the irony of all of that at this moment, thanks very much. He's very aware how fucking pathetic he is. Hypocrisy, thy name is Quentin Quire. That's nothing new.
And that's the other thing, isn't it? She thinks he's hiding the best of himself somewhere deep down and that there's some secret, extra-charming, perfect Quentin Quire buried under all the cynicism and irony and compulsive urges to systematically ruin everything good in his life. As if he would be keeping that fucker under lock and key if he had the option of parading him around. It'd sure as hell make it easier to do this whole "trying to be better" bullshit he's attempting. But unfortunately for everyone, including and especially Quentin himself, this miserable asshole is all there is.
(And that's the grievance that she tried to explain to him on that yelling match, but of course, she suffers from telepath communication skill issue, like he does. She paid the price for the idiot kid shit he pulled — how could he have believed Esme, for fuck's sake? Seriously, bitch made out with the world's ugliest alien and got bamboozled by it, she really has very room to give anyone in this world or the next romantic advice.
Wait, not fair. This is not about Esme. Different show, different genre, she's getting a little worked up here.
What she is picking up is about another sister, and that's a whole different can of worms, because she remembers exactly how Quentin looked in Krakoa, and that's when it hits her. Phoebe played a bit of Build-A-Man, didn't she? Of course she did. That's never what Sophie would want, not what she was going with this.
It's more about that, up until very recently, until those eggs at late night when she was depressed, upset, and alone... There hadn't been anything from Quentin Quire to Sophie Cuckoo that was genuine in a way that appeases her. Something he did for her because she needed him, and she asked. Something that made her honestly happy. She had never seen anything good out of him with her pair of eyes.
She can deal with his shit, has dealt with his shit, is dealing with his shit. It's a different vibe.)
["Build-A-Man" hits him like a ton of telepathic bricks. It's not... wrong, per say, even if it's not exactly correct. He started making edits long before Phoebe, uh. Well, okay, no sense in euphemisms—Phoebe fucked him. He assumes it was probably good, considering she came back later, but apparently he died at some point afterward soooo those memories are gone for good. Not on a mission. In some stupid way that nobody noticed until the next Cerebro update didn't pick him up. They never wasted X-Factor resources on investigating Quentin's non-mission-related deaths. When he disappeared, whether or not there was a body, they just assumed he was dead. They were never wrong. Eh. Sucks to suck.
The edits, though? They helped. Sort of. In a fucked up way. He doesn't know if they're why Phoebe got with him, though he can make a few educated guesses considering she didn't so much as look in his direction until Krakoa, and she never made any suggestions or anything. Hell, he's not sure she knew about his custom requests outside of the obvious ones.
Aaaand now Sophie knows there were more than the most obvious ones, so. Love that for him.
But hey, at least he made her eggs one time. Or whatever. Ugh. Quentin leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees, and pushes his glasses up to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes.]
(Sophie's been fighting her self-preservation instincts this entire conversation so she doesn't automatically close the free flow connection whenever it threatens her with sharing her own vulnerability. Sophie is on team 'I do not want to end up like you' when it comes to Emma Frost, but the diamond was cut out from somewhere, and the lengths she'd go to protect herself are, well. Oof. Ruthless pragmatism.
This? This is a conversation she wasn't remotely ready to have, so she's trying so hard not to shut down with it. He's making an effort, she has to do the same, but this bothers her much more than the resurrection subject, or even her death — it wasn't entirely on him, after all. It just... Aches, from all sides.
For all he believes she wants to hurt him, well, she doesn't, and participating in this thought swap is only going to do that when it comes to Phoebe. She's not closing up, as much as she is avoiding the thoughts, paying attention to his, and it's... Complicated, surely, because what isn't? She just doesn't know how to deal with this part of their baggage.
[Quentin has to... well, not block her—the connection between their minds is still open, even if he can feel her struggling with the desire to flee, and sis? Hard same—but the anxiety in her head forces him to turn his focus away. Center himself. Calm his mind.
For a long moment he just sits. And breathes. And feels the world out there in the physical plane. The minds of the mutants in the mansion, the other people in Etraya, the animals, birds, the tiniest sparks of insects out there. Not touching them or listening to them, just... sensing them. It's so, so much quieter than the barrage of sensory input he's used to, but it'll do. At least this little chunk of the world feels alive, and that'll have to be sufficient for him to ground himself.
He focuses, and he breathes, and he slumps in this stupid fucking chair in Sophie's Cuckoo's weird empty liminal space of a mindscape, while she sits over on her couch like a really sexy bump on a log. And then, head still in his hands, he finally speaks, huffing an utterly exhausted, breathy chuckle.]
You're really bad at this.
[It's... a little bit of a joke. Like maybe 15% joke.]
(To each, whatever they need to do. For Sophie, that's connection, linking, synchrony, because under normal circumstances, she wouldn't be one. He busies himself with his scan, she moves her focus to his hypothalamus — breathing, synched, heart rate, synched, and her focus is on how it all flows. That's her grounding, her eyes closed as she just listens to it and lets it calm her nerves for a second.
She's not perfect. This is hard, and she crosses a leg on top of the other to really pay attention... Until he speaks and disturbs it. Not mad at all, actually, instead, it pulls an extraordinarily genuine laugh out of her, before her nose wrinkles in embarrassment and her eyes shut close as she tries to fight the...
Blush?)
I know... I've never done this shit before, it's all very new, okay? Fucking is less intimate than this, leave me alone.
[He can hear her laugh, feel her cheeks heat up—much to her chagrin—and it's all so idiotic that the side of his mouth quirks up into a crooked smile entirely outside of his control. His hands drop from his eyes, but he stays slumped forward, resting his forearms against his thighs with his hands hanging between his knees.]
That's because you only fuck himbos.
[Look. No shade to Nate. Or Cable, he supposes. Quentin never really knew the kid, but he seemed nice enough. Himbos are totally valid and respected, we stan, blah blah blah.
But they're both so totally himbos. And Sophie knows it.]
(Where's her pillow, so she can hide her red face in for a hot moment. God, it burns, make it stop, she hates it, she doesn't blush, what the FUCK kill it with a thousand fires she hates it
With her face buried on the fabric, one finger and a black nail stand as she goes through this torture of going through an out of this, even through people she had a fleeting thing with. She wouldn't call them himbos, thank you very much, they're just... Hot, okay. Cable, well. Dork. Pretty hot, though. Proudstar, well, that was a weird time. Nate's just a bit clueless, not on him, though. Julian... It's the jock energy, okay.
She doesn't know what tarnishedmoodring looks like. He doesn't sound like himbo material, he's... Something else, but she doesn't know, does she? Snarky dumbass that won't stay down in Summoner's — ugh, she misses him. If Quentin wondered why she won't leave her phone alone even if it has no service, well, this is why.
[Great, yeah, a list of every himbo Sophie's ever thought was hot. Including a few Quentin didn't know about until now! Love that for him.
Oh well, at least he gets to watch her absolutely crash out over the fact that she somehow never realized she has a type. And that her type is himbo. Which it obviously is. Quentin lifts his head slightly, looking at her over the frames of his glasses with a raised eyebrow.]
Nobody said fucking himbos is bad. [He shrugs loosely.] I'm just saying, not exactly a wellspring of profundity.
(Hope he's enjoying talking to the golden strands of hair because she's not giving him the satisfaction of being the first person who managed to make her blush, even if she knows he knows her face is degrees hotter than it should.
She's not even looking at him, thank you, and fuck you.)
[Oh, he knows, alright. He knows exactly how flushed her face feels right now, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't entertained. Quentin's quite certain any of the Cuckoos getting flustered like this is rare, and her mind readily confirms that hypothesis. He never saw this from Phoebe, either. It's... kinda fun, actually. In like a mild schadenfreude kind of way. He looks down at his hands again and raises one to adjust his glasses.]
Eh.
[That's a yes. And then, an intrusive thought. That he absolutely should not say because it is not even remotely the time or place.
Of course he's enjoying this, and if the roles were swapped, she'd be having a damn blast right back. God, karma is a bitch, and she just wants to talk to Her for one moment, maybe to show Sophie some mercy.
But it's the intrusive thought that he chooses to turn into an outside thought that proves to her that karma does not give shit about her feelings.
Un. Beliveable. She's dead again, pretty sure.
Any other time, any other place, this is a normal Tuesday. Right now, with her face already in pins and needles with the fluster she feels, all the rollercoaster of emotions they decided to ride, this only makes her skin reach the limit of how red it can go. The pillow is thrown at him with no care, her eyes squinting immediately in her indignation.)
What exactly in the last months, including the last hour, tells you that us is a good idea?
[The irony is if she threw a pillow at him in the outside world? All but guaranteed it'd smack him in the face, and she would be rewarded with some kind of squawk or otherwise ungraceful noise and fumbling and such. Unfortunately, Sophie chose to throw something at an Omega level telepath while in someone's mind. Doesn't matter if it's her own mindscape. Brains? That's his bread and butter. He catches the pillow easily and gestures vaguely with it in a shrug, not nearly as expressive or casual as his usual body language, but recognizable as a version of it.]
You're the one who said fucking was less intimate.
[He sticks the pillow between his back and the chair and leans against it. Now you don't have a pillow to hide your blushing into, Sophie. So nyeh.]
By your logic it'd be an improvement on this dumpster fire.
(Bitch. She's gonna have to throw a pillow at him out of her brain at some point. There's no mentally fighting Quentin for her, especially when she's just one, but out of here, she's going to kick him. She's very determined, because not only did he catch it with ease, but he also takes it.
Hope he enjoys a pink-colored Sophie, contrasting with the ocean blueness of her glaring eyes.
Don't bring logic into her brain.)
Logic aside from the very reasonable statement due to the fact you're literally hearing my every unfiltered thought and so am I for you, we already argue like a bitter divorced couple who can't decide on the terms and we've never even had a thing. If that weren't the case, sure, whatever, but it is, so nope.
[There's a difference. He's assuming she knows that, based on the way they got into this topic. And the latter? Out of the question. They can't communicate for shit even when literally crawling in each other's heads, and that's even if he had any interest in a sequel to The Phoebe Debacle. The former? Well, it's never really appealed to Quentin before but... hm. Whatever. He holds his hands up in surrender.]
Look, I'm not arguing. Like I said, us? Dumpster fire. No matter how you slice it. No reason to think there'd be any exceptions.
[... That said, her face is still very, very pink. And he kinda wants to know if it can get pinker. You know. For science. Or something. He looks up, watching her intently, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.]
... Or, you know. You're just scared you'd like it.
(Listen, they are neither fucking nor dating and it's already bad. The joke is hardly a joke, they jumped over literally every stage and landed on DIVORCE. The bombastic side-eye intensifies at the mental comparison, because excuse her, she is not Phoebe, in case he hasn't noticed. Phoebe is Esme light, and Sophie is exactly on the opposite end of that scale. Sophie doesn't care about power — not a bone in her gives a fuck about Quentin's nor Nate's Omega-level bullshit, Phoenix capabilities, titles, or any of that shit. If anything, the fact she genuinely likes a man she met through a dumb videogame so much to the point shit goes down and she doesn't look up from her phone — personality and texting only.
Phoebe... Well. He said it himself. The funniest part of all this to her is that she truly prefers Quentin like this, over Krakoa. She actually had honest-to-God fun with him on that dance floor, their date-not-date, and at that arcade. The thing is that reaching that is pure hell, like she has to go through a nation-wide landmine of eggshells. Okay, fine, she does that to him too, she GUESSES. This is why they suck. God, they suck so much.
At least he sees it too. Dumpster fire and all that.
Thing is, Quentin, she is very well aware that she would probably enjoy it. She has heard more than he would want to know that she has. Her face has already reached the limit on how red it can go, and it is slowly creeping towards it again because... This is idiotic.
It's stupid. It's a very nice break from how much she wants to ghost, but listen.
It's dumb.
She hates she's considering it. Maybe fucking gives them something else to focus rather than whatever the FUCK they are.)
I'm not scared of shit, thank you very much. If anything, I'm concerned it's gonna make you even more insufferable after.
(Defense mechanism, blablablabla.)
If. If we do this. I'm not saying we are. I'm saying if. That's all it is, and we agree it can't make this shit worse.
[Quentin both watches and feels the cogs turning in her head and realizes with mild surprise that she is genuinely considering it.
Oh.
Well.
Okay, sure. Why not. He can roll with that, considering he's discovered this new interesting thing where he can make her squirm in a decidedly un-Cuckoo-like way, and that's very fun. Sure, he'll have to grapple with the Phoebe in the room at some point considering the whole clone, "they have the same face/body" thing, but that's a problem for later. For now he just focuses on how this is the first goddamn time any of this has felt like it's not being dragged down with too many years of stupid baggage. He lets the smirk pull at the side of his mouth more and leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his face.]
Well, I will absolutely be more insufferable. Buuut it kinda seems like you might be into that, otherwise you would've shoved me out of your head a while ago. As for "this shit," [he does the air quotes, because of course he does] it's already a disaster of Biblical proportions, so how much worse could it get?
[Okay, that's a bad question. Experience has shown that with Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, there is always further down to go. He gives her a quick look like "yeah, I know" and rolls his eyes.]
Look. You like attention, right? I like showing off. We're both telepaths. Surely not even we can fuck that combo up. If we do this, we go with that. It's just, you know. For fun. That's all.
(They, they will have, because honestly, she also doesn't love that part of it all, but listen. It was not the pitch of fucking non-himbos that does it for her, because she does not agree with his assessment for like, half of the people she has interest in. It was more the fact that... Hey. If they are already in the Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo showdown like they're exes fighting for their lives without ever having talked properly, might as well get something out of it. At best, they'll solve it and it's something better, at worst, at least they'll have something tangible to be pissed about.
Although, probably, it's going to be halfway pending towards the latter. She knows them.)
Oh, shut up, I'm not into it. I'm taking a well-deserved break.
(Ugh. She hates it when Quentin Quire is right. They have been trying, and peace lasts at most 48 hours, but at the comment, she gets ready to tell him 'tremendously', before he confirms he knows it.
She has doubts that they can't screw this up. She's pretty sure they can. But, alas. At least this mistake, they're both on board with. That's a fucking first.)
[This? This is a very weird day. Not the weirdest he's ever had, not by a long shot. But it's up there. In the top, say, 25 or so. Probably.
The weirdest thing is that it's not bad weird, honestly. This is... so entirely different than the start of any other relationship he's ever had—he highly, highly doubts this is how he and Phoebe got together—and this isn't even a relationship. Well. Technically speaking it is. By definition. But it's not a relationship relationship. That's the point. It's different and weird and somehow that feels... good. He's negotiating the terms and conditions of fucking Sophie Cuckoo, and somehow his head feels clearer than it did when she asked him to dance. Or go to the arcade. Or when he made her some goddamn eggs.
Huh.]
Great. Also you are so into it. Just sayin'.
[Cool. Good talk.]
Soooo, time? Place? What're we thinking? Logistics-wise.
(She does like it a LITTLE BIT. A smidge. A speck. Only because Quentin is cynical and bitchy, and guess who too is? Mindlessly bickering with him is fun, and as soon as she thinks it, she regrets it, because that stupid idea of keeping their mind free-flowing to each other is still on, she realizes while he too realizes this isn't going bad.
She's realizing that, too, and her eyes roll almost too dramatically.)
Hmm, okay, but if you're more than 15 minutes late I'm legally allowed to leave.
[Alright, not his best work in the reference humor department, but whatever. They can't all be winners, and as previously mentioned, this is a very surreal kind of day. He's allowed to have a couple of one-liners that aren't bangers. Whatever.]
Don't keep me waiting.
[Quentin gives her a little salute and vanishes. He'll just be in his room, sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard and wearing his PJs.]
(With rolling eyes, she clicks her tongue at the joke, although it lacks a characteristic bite from her, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Once he's gone from her brain, so is she — physical body only, and she sighs in a bit of relief because holy shit, what is her life lately. With the free flow cut, she has a moment to recenter, check herself in the mirror, and well. She's not going to change, looking cute and feeling cute makes her so incredibly happy, so the white lacy extra loungewear she is already wearing seems more than fine.
She's not late, probably perfectly in time once she opens his door, not bothering to knock because it's not like he doesn't know she's coming over... And God, it's pink, it's extra, it's so extra that it pulls a laugh out of her as she makes her way to sit on the bed next to him, eyes busy looking around at the explosion of pink.)
Not exactly, but also exactly what I was expecting out of your room, how do you sleep here?
(So much stimuli, but look, she came, her shoulder gently bumping on his, playful.)
[Quentin gives her an appreciative once-over when she enters and again when she sits next to him since, you know, different angle. He promised her attention, and that's what she's going to get.]
I'm used to a few billion minds in my head. This is basically my "sad millennial beige."
[He looks around the room, opening his mind up to her so she can feel that the loud and bright and the extra does in fact calm him. It's like white noise, a constant cacophony that evens out to a pleasant hum.
Quentin also notably doesn't bump his shoulder back into hers, and that's because of the next topic. Might as well get it out of the way early. He leans his head back against the headboard and looks at the ceiling for a moment, then rolls his neck to the side to meet her eyes.]
Right, yeah, probably goes without saying, but I'm not doing shit that reminds me of Phoebe. I assume you don't have a problem with that.
(Very interesting to look at it through his eyes (literally). To her, well, she prefers more of a soft pink, gentle pastels, golden details, expensive crystals over the modern lightning and the harsher tones, but with how his brain reacts to it... She can get it, and besides, what about Quentin Quire isn't obnoxiously loud, anyway?
She was a bit distracted, admittedly, listening to hum in his mind like a quiet background noise until he starts talking again. Dark blue irises move to meet his, eyebrows raised for a second because...
Doy.)
None from me, I don't want to remind you or me of Phoebe, so I'm more than fine leaving that far, far from us.
[And that's all he's saying on it. All that needs to be said. This is supposed to be fun, and Phoebe-related anything? Not fun.
Ugh. Okay, moving on. Quentin gives her a sly look and rolls his head to face forward again, putting his hands behind his neck.]
Then you should kiss me.
[Apparently not being reminded of Phoebe means him being bossy and unbearably smug. This should be a surprise to absolutely nobody who knows either of them.]
(Oh, she hates the smug, she hates it so much, even if he did say he was gonna get insufferable. It was a given, and yet, it pulls such an eyeroll from her because hello, you have Sophie Cuckoo nearly naked on your bed, and you're putting her to do work, Quentin???
Absurd. The first thing she does is reestablish the connection, although much less on the thoughts, and much more on the sensory aspect of the exchange. For a tiny moment, she just looks at him, trying to figure out whether this is actually... Okay, but the conclusion she finds is that she doesn't actually care. She wants this, go figure, who gets it, not her. Long fingers remove his glasses, and in full knowledge that he's probably going to drive her crazy by the end of the day, her lips press against his.)
[He squints his eyes and blinks when she takes off his glasses, adjusting briefly to the lack of the yellow tint. But that's okay, his eyes aren't open much longer once she leans in.
Quentin is a talented telepath, and the first thing he does with that talent is set up a psychic "looping hallway camera" trick, not hiding the locations of their psi-signatures, but disguising their activities. Much less noticeable to other psychics around, particularly a certain two who could take notes. Cough.
The second thing is after he moves his hands from behind his head to either side of her face, reaching into her mind to pluck at a few particularly delightful synapses.]
/Are you calling yourself impossible? Because if so I agree./
[Get it? Because she said he was "fucking impossible"???? Do you get the joke???????]
(She has to wonder just how blind he is without the glasses if it makes that much difference, but that's not here nor now. Right now, she's busy first feeling out what he's doing, because, okay, smart, she is taking notes, will use. There's an understanding within her that this is going to fuck her powers up so bad, considering the telepathy mindfuckery they just did, and the one they are about to do, so she's just going to trust him on the, ugh, logistics.
Her hand moves to his shoulder, a bit of support for her as she is busy kissing him, nails digging in a little with a soft sigh once he starts moving stuff around in her brain... And, shit, she shouldn't have given him any power, because her face burns again, and she cuts the kiss for a second because it brings out a laugh from her, her nose crinkling.
Fuck, fine, she likes it. There, happy, Quentin?)
/Excuse me, pot, kettle./
(No bite, though. Not today, not right now. Instead, her arms wrap around his neck as she leans in again, pulling him close as she too starts doing her routine pathway check for whatever he might enjoy most.
To her comment, though, Quentin just drops a nugget of information directly into her brain. A dictionary definition, in fact.
double entendre [ noun ] ˈdüb-ᵊl-äⁿ-ˈtäⁿz; ˈdə-bəl-än-ˈtän-drəz linguistics : a word or expression capable of two interpretations with one usually risqué
He hopes Sophie enjoys that. Which, of course, she will, and not just because he's still poking around in her head. She leans closer, and he shifts his hands to her waist, and hey, why not amp up those nerve endings a bit just for funsies.
When she starts checking for what he likes, though, he resists, not a full block but enough to be noticeable.]
/I show off, you get attention, remember? Tell me what you want. Bonus points for flattery, obviously./
(She's trying so hard not to smile, fighting it and failing, which he can probably feel against his lips, because you know? This is actually fun, but he hasn't earned the not-bitch Sophie she gets just yet, hence why she's still trying her best to not let him see it.
Failing, mostly, but by God, she is giving 100% effort. One thing he will realize is that she likes having her waist held, the weight on the curve of it is pleasing like a slot that finds connection, and of course, with how they're linked, he's going to feel it too.
The push is noted, she'll back off, although... Yeah, he's not incorrect, but that doesn't mean she's not going to care about him, too. Come on.)
[She's trying not to smile, which of course means Quentin is even more intent on getting her to. That's what he does: push people's buttons, with telepathy but often without, say all the right things to elicit emotions they don't want to show, and apply pressure until they crack. He's done it for years, though admittedly the vast majority of that time has been making people mad. And he tries not to do that so much anymore. But this? This is a worthy application of that particular skillset. Sophie doesn't stand a goddamn chance.
It's definitely convenient that she likes having her waist held, because that means he can keep his hands there in perpetuity, enjoying the way his hands feel on her skin from both sides of the psychic connection. That's the tricky thing about hooking up with someone who has a body identical to one you're very, very familiar with. Hard not to rely on experience. But that's why he's not doing this the way he normally would. Or the way he would with... She Who Must Not Be Named.]
/Hmm, yeah, but it's more fun for me if you say it./
(Thankfully, he'll realize soon enough that Sophie and She Who Must Not Be Named are very different when it comes to these things. She likes being held, grabbed, a bit worshipped, because, well, she's spoiled, and she doesn't care about control a third as much. Emotionally, different story; she can build walls that can touch the moon, but that's not what they're aiming for here, anyway.
With the hand that was set on his shoulder, her nails roaming down his chest ever so gently as she dims the rest of his sensory capacities temporarily aside from the coldness of her nails, so that it stands out more. It stops at his waistband, curling around his shirt before she rolls her eyes, still playful.)
/Quentin. Just pin me down and fuck the mean girl out of me. Now, exactly how you're gonna do that, that's on you to figure out./
[Oh? He can't say he was entirely expecting that response.
Well... Fine. Fine. Quentin Quire doesn't back down from a challenge. Not now, not ever. And it's well past time they amp this up a little bit.
But accepting a challenge doesn't necessarily mean taking the obvious route. And he's always been a contrarian at heart. He does, however, shudder and gasp as her hand move down to his waistband, and he pulls away briefly to catch his breath.]
Yeah, sorry, not specific enough.
[He nudges her into sitting in his lap for ease of kissing and also for the sake of specifically not giving her what she asked. But at least he can use the hands on her waist to lazily grind against her, so you know. There's that.]
/Like I said, it's more fun for me if you say it. You could at least show me. You know, like this./
[He reaches into her mind, searching for any ideas or fantasies that she associates with that particular request, picks one at random, and for two full seconds, he makes her feel it. And with the connection between them, he feels it too and groans louder into her mouth. That's good shit, right there. Top notch fantasies, Sophie.]
(He's not actively trying to make her smile at this time, which is why she stops opposing it for now, allows him to feel the curve of a grin against his lips, because if there is one thing Quentin is, that's evidently consistent, even here. She knew what she was getting into, didn't she? Finally, the push and pull they keep engaging in does something for her. Apparently, she likes the bickering here, too, because who has ever had the nerve?
No way she doesn't feel the shudder herself, a little smirk of satisfaction on her lips once he distances.)
It deliberately wasn't.
(But she'll be a sport, climb onto his lap as she was nudged, hands on his shoulders for support and... Well, perhaps he doesn't even need to look into her brain much further, because the hands on her waist having her grind activate several small fireworks in her neural pathways.
And because that's where her brain is, that's what he will get. The lust she feels with having her waist grabbed, her ass squeezed, body pulled and held, kisses peppered on her chest, desire so hard to manage that it overrides good reason.
God, she fucking loves telepathy, the groan he gives synched with her dulcet moan as every hair on her body stand with the goosebumps that it brings.)
/Well, you asked./
(Not illusioning perse, she's still very much here, but she's sending him sensory bits of how good she finds to have hands gripping on her hips, bringing her closer with each thrust, the way her lungs beg for some air and she doesn't even care with free-flowing pleasure, heightened and undiluted.)
[This isn't precisely how Quentin planned for this to go, what little plan he had. He wanted to sit back, use his mind to make her squirm and moan and—preferably—scream as long as he could before they were both couldn't think of anything else but how their bodies would feel moving against each other. Turns out that just took a lot less time than he originally considered. He doesn't know what that says about them, and for the aforementioned reason he is not remotely in a headspace to bother with pondering it. Nope, his brain has other priorities right now, like pumping his body full of feel-good hormones that make him need her like oxygen.
His hips buck roughly up when the imaginary version of himself she's conjuring delivers a particularly nice thrust, and the only thing between them and that reality is some stupid fabric. The hands on her waist slide downward inside the waistband of her lingerie shorts and over her ass in a facsimile of her fantasy, and it would be so, so easy to just tear off their clothes and do exactly what she wants. He did ask her to tell him. Well, demand, more like. Sophie seems to like it when he demands.
It would be so easy, and he knows it would be so damn good, but it also just doesn't... feel right. He pulls away from her mouth again to talk out loud, voice shaky and out of breath but firm. Confident. Or at least as confident as he's gonna get.]
Clothes off. Lie down. [Quentin hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.] On your stomach.
[He's going off script here, as well as kind of throwing away all his insistence that she tell him what she wants. Oh well. He's doing what he wants, and somehow he doesn't think Sophie is going to have too many complaints.]
Huge reason why she's here. They are both aware of the catastrophic risks of it all going to shit, but considering it was shit already, is there any place to go if not up? Whatever it is, she likes it. No bullshit, and in a really weird way, it's finally something new, or progressing to be. It won't solve all overnight, because nothing would, but it's a start. If anything, it's better than everything they've attempted, because she actually isn't preparing for a war, puffing her chest, pulling away, or feeling any of the nasty emotions that tend to bubble to the surface whenever they interact.
Not what's happening now, she actually is enjoying being here with him. Right now, her mind cannot convey a single negative thing to say about it, busy with how his lips feel against hers, with the feeling of tightness in her stomach as she gets worked up, and how she can't help the moan that leaves her when he thrusts against her, creating friction.
It's interesting, isn't it? Didn't he just ask her? Well. Fine. She has no complaints about it either.)
Deal. Don't pull my hair, other than that, I'm game.
(Her hands are gonna busy themselves with removing his shirt, a smile as she presses her lips to his neck.)
[Quentin definitely meant for her to take off her clothes, so he kinda... freezes for a split second when her hands go to remove his shirt. Which is stupid. Like she wouldn't know he's skinny until his shirt came off? She has eyes, Quire. Get out of your head about it, idiot.
He shakes it off and—only somewhat awkwardly—helps her get his shirt off, making a pleased humming noise when she kisses his neck. In fact, he's feeling needy bold enough to tilt his head to the side as an invitation. Encouragement. Sometimes self-care is letting a hot blonde do salacious things with her mouth. Treat yoself.]
No hair pulling, got it. I can work with that.
[Since Sophie apparently has the shirt stuff covered (he just decided right now), he starts making a half-assed attempt to shimmy her pajama bottoms down. Half-assed only because he's chosen to do it while heavily distracted and with only one hand, since he's sliding the other down the front of her shorts to give her more of the friction that made her moan. It was a good noise, and he'd like another, please and thank you.]
(The thing is, Sophie genuinely prefers him as he is. There's nothing more, or even less that she could want than what she has, what he is, or what even she is. Strangely enough, she's perfectly comfortable, even if she's not going to look into the feeling that currently sits at the furthest back of her mind, hopefully it stays there lest he makes her laugh again.
She's not going to address it, it can go in the long pile of shit they're making the wise, or horrible decision to not look at. Instead, she can focus on how those annoying pieces of fabric are finally leaving, hands searching for warmth on his waist as her lips quirk a little, a LITTLE against bare skin. It was a nice noise, after all. Hope he's at least shielding for sound, actually, now that she thinks about it.
She has to move, unfortunately, lift her hips so he can actually pull her shorts down, although there is not a moment to mourn the fact she's no longer in a grinding position when he distracts her. Thing he'll notice pretty soon, she's very sensitive, and the sound that escapes her is both sweet and breathy too damn close to his ear, the pleasure looped right back at him.
She's going to have to change positions, she can't hold onto him for support when she's not sitting down, be delightfully distracted, and work on his pants when she's literally on the way, so she just lets him know with a feeling before she slides off back to his side. Her shirt's off, thrown God knows where, and her hand sits on top of length to stroke over fabric.)
[Quentin pouts a bit at Sophie leaving his lap, particularly since it means he can't keep touching her, but hey, that's what telepathy is for. He knows exactly what made her make that noise in his ear, and he starts by feeding that into her brain, and when he senses her pleasure build, he adds in the feeling of fingers slipping inside her, rubbing her, and moving in all the ways her mind tells him are the right ones. The feedback loop of lighting up her nerve endings, receiving pleasure through the connection of their minds, and subsequently adding to it just makes her actual real hand touching him through his pants feel like being struck by a lightning bolt, and he jerks his hips into her touch with a loud groan.]
Fuck. Okay, okay, no more pants, I got the message. Gimme a sec.
[He hastily shuffles out of his pajama pants and boxers—which are, of course, black with pink omega symbols—and tosses them who-the-fuck-cares-where. Quentin reclines next to her, leaning on one arm while he uses his other hand to hold the back of her neck and pull her into a demanding kiss.]
/And yes, noise shielding is on./
[He pulls away, breathing hard but smirking at her. Honestly? He just wants to say this aloud. For reasons.]
(She fucking loves telepathy. How do flatscans do it? How do any non-telepaths do it, sounds bland, dull, like a wonderfully plated dish with no seasoning or flavor. Surely it comes with downsides, like listening to something you don't wanna hear, or letting a particularly unpleasant thought escape, but listen. Occupational hazard. The occupation is just fine.
Thing is, she isn't kissing him at the moment, or holding anything when he starts the mindfuckery all over again, so she has nothing but the sheets to curl her hand around to recenter herself as her breath becomes harder to manage with her little sounds of pleasure in between, her toes curling as she finds a little revenge on amplyifing when it comes back to him. Two can play this game, in case he forgot, but the hit she receives from it along with hardness bucking against her hand reminds her that, well, no. The moan she leaves is synched to his, because of course it is, and her eyes roll once he speaks again.)
Talking to me or to yourself?
(She's going to take the opportunity to get those pesky shorts off of her, too, but.
Sir, why do you have fucking Omega boxers. Trust, anyone who gets to see it is very aware, Kid Omega. Remember when she thought that at least he was consistent? Too consistent. Skill issue on her part if she was expecting a black or pink one, but God. Mood unaffected, mood unaffected, especially now that they're kissing again and there's skin to skin, no layers to separate them, warmth and her hand is free to properly roam without boundaries, so she teases it on his hip, nails ever so gently moving across his side before he breaks the kiss to speak.)
Guess we'll see. I'm not loud, so you gotta work for it.
[Sophie, it's called brand recognition. It's very important!]
Psh, I make you scream at me all the time. It's not that hard.
[Completely nonsensical and totally obnoxious false equivalency? Check. Sorry, Sophie, you let Quentin have too much power by laughing at this shit.
His eyes flick toward her hand moving up his side, not because it doesn't feel good—it feels incredible and makes him shiver—but because it's too... almost familiar. He's very distinctly not thinking the P-word, but the name and memories attached to her are floating at the edges of his mind, threatening to encroach where they're not welcome. Ugh. No.
Focus. There's a reason he chose the position he did for the "main event".]
Ready whenever you are.
[Of course, it'd probably be a lot easier for her to cooperate if he didn't start up again with his mental hand between her legs, wouldn't it? If he wasn't purposefully and doggedly working her up more and more. Oh, and in case she has any ideas about turning it back on him? He's shielding himself juuuust enough to not feel as overwhelmed as he's trying to make her. Good luck trying to strong-arm an omega who's trying to turn your brain to mush, Sophie. What an asshole.]
(Fuck, no!!! The laugh that leaves her is frustratingly honest, soulful, and she has to conceal it in the crook of his neck, her hand doing a weak punch to his chest because fuck you, Quire, stop humanizing her. She's got at least some reputation she wants to uphold, and you're ruining it.)
Not even in the same vicinity of concept!
(Well, she feels the resistance, how could she not? Her hand pulls back almost immediately. She knows she can't blame him for it — for all their differences, they're still remarkably alike, not to mention identical appearance-wise. She's gotta block him for a second there for the world's biggest mental sigh. She's not... Phoebe, for fuck's sake, and thank her stupid clone anatomy for nanotech bullshit that allows her to think through this fast enough not to make a dent on anything. They're still going to take a bit to completely leave this out the door, aren't they? That's why they're doing this, after all. Neither are going to be okay... Just like that, right? She isn't. She can't blame him if he isn't, either.
A nanosecond later, and the thought is far from her mind, reopened now that she regrounded, guess what, seems like being (or attempting to be) a better person means she thinks twice before pointing fingers that she can point at herself, too.
She was about to reply and say something, however the thought completely ran out of her mind before she even formed it with the overstimulation he's bringing her, which only brings her closer to him to the point they glue as she tries to focus.
... This motherfucker, she senses the block right as she was redirecting it. She's going to strong-arm him, knowing fully she will lose, but she will go down swinging. If he's going to fuck with her sense of touch and block her from fucking with his, then she just has to get creative and find a whole other sense to play with. Lights out — a temporary block of his vision, and an increase to all the other senses he didn't block. Her heartbeat, quick and impatient banging in her chest, her breath that comes with the sweetest gasps from the stimulation, the perfume she found in Etraya that smells of daisies, the softness of the sheets, the hormones in his veins...
She knows he won't let it slide, but alas. At least, she's going swinging.)
[Aha, another victory in the on-going mission of Operation: Make Sophie Be A Real Girl And Laugh At Stupid Shit. Quentin will savor it.
But the whole trying to fuck with his senses thing? Because she's, what? Jealous of his amazing skills? A sore loser? Rude? Damn right he's not going to let that slide.]
Blocking my optic nerves, huh? Awfully mean of you. I thought you wanted me to, what was it? "Pin you down and fuck the mean girl out of you"?
[He can't see, so he just closes his eyes and rolls with the enhanced senses she forced on him, focusing on her heartbeat. How to make it beat faster. How to make those noises she's making happen more, happen louder. Every decibel gained, he makes a mental note and applies the stimulation that got that result and intensifies it. He still feels some of it, enough to keep his own pulse racing and his breathing heavy as he leans his forehead against hers. But she's bearing the brunt of sensory overload he's pushing onto her...
Until, all at once, he stops. Smirks. Pants out a chuckle.]
That still what you want? Or you want me to keep going?
If you can't do it blind, that's a skill issue on your part.
(None of those, she's the stupidly heroic Cuckoo who fears nothing, but to pick something out of his list? Rude, most likely. Unfortunately, she knows him, and she knows that, once again, she's shooting herself on the damn foot because he's a petulant little shit who's not going to back down from anything. Fun thing, though? Makes two of them.
Once more, proof they deserve each other.
She can't go through this rollercoaster without holding onto something to take it out on, and well, he has a perfectly fine mouth to kiss and sigh into, sounds slowly reaching a more high-pitched sound as he fine-tunes, and by God is she trying to move that fucking shield to turn it against him... Until he stops, the motherfucker, her entire body shivering from the sudden craving he put in her brain.)
[Quentin considers teasing her more, just to be petty about that whole "skill issue" thing. Amping her up again, maybe letting her go over the edge a time or two. Maybe not. Whatever gave him the reactions he was after at the time. He's a bit fickle like that. Progress on coaxing her to be louder is going swimmingly, and there's certainly more to be done there.
Thing is, he's impatient. And she just threatened to kill him. Which he thinks pretty well counts as "mean." In most social circles.
But mostly he's just impatient, and Sophie pressing her body against his and making those desperate noises into his mouth is driving him crazy.]
Guess that's my answer.
[It's not. But he decided it is.
He sits up and seizes back control of his senses, though not forcefully enough to destabilize her still-glitchy powers, and drops into her mind the reminder of his earlier request: clothes off, lie down on your stomach. Step 1 is completed. He gently nudges her motor cortex to move her body where he wants it, easily resistible the same way it was when she puppeteered him for their dance on Aphaia. If she really wants to show how much "bite" she has, she's more than welcome.]
(She's going to be so fucking glitchy after this, she can feel it. Training and reconfiguring her brain and clone bullshit to be one is one thing that she has been doing — strong-arming someone, even if it's not particularly serious, is a whole other deal that she hadn't tried so far. She can feel her control fading, crumbling, and oh, no.)
See. Told ya.
(He can be mean to her, she's just mean back, it's fine. It's kind of what makes this so entertaining, and so goddamn playful. Never has she ever been this stupid with someone, sex to her tends to be much more straightforward, so this is a whole new territory she's discovering. Is anyone truly surprised they're being stupid? No one? Yeah.
Once she finds herself lying on her stomach, not by her own doing, she's taking a look at the puppeteering first. This is breakable, and he's not exactly blocking her, so. Bite it is, because of that edging. Telekinesis tends to be an afterthought for her when she has quite a large list of telepathic options to choose from, but surprise, because that's what she's doing with him, pulling him down to lie back on the bed while she breaks his hold.
He wanted her on her stomach, supposedly not to think too much about how she looks, which, ouch, but fair. She wants revenge for the audacity. Middle ground.
Of course he's going to get what she's thinking before she even moves. She's going to reverse cow-girl the living hell out of him.
[Boy oh boy, he's about to give her the most clever comeback in all of mutant history—and then he's pushed down to his back with an "oof". What? How?? With TK??? Oh, that is so uncool. She said she was game for that position, and now she's not? Rude. It's rude is what it is. Double rude for the TK.
Except then he gets her intention and... eh, you know what? He can live with that. He mostly just was going for a new experience, a position that doesn't come with... memories. Ones that are not allowed to be part of this.
[It's a really stupid retort, and the crooked, devilish grin on his face makes it clear he knows. Low hanging fruit for her own comeback, if she wants to take it. He's giving her the easy win, because she's earned it. Quentin Quire respects gumption. When it suits him, at least.
Besides, there will always be time to get his revenge later.]
His indignation is golden, thank you so much, she did earn it. She figured it would be surprising, and he's not the only one who's got a really fast brain.
Thing is, she doesn't even want to retort at all, because it is a bad comeback, both of them know it. Her nose does the the little crinkle thing it does in several occasions, this one related to being extremely pleased, along with a closed smile once her nose wrinkled.
The unexpected is that she beams, radiant in her victory, unfiltered and unnoticed by her for the moment (God forbid when she does notice it), eyes closing before she moves to press a last kiss to his lips before she taps his chest once.)
Don't worry, you will, I'm on it.
(No further ado, they've waited enough in their distracting, childish dumbassery that she didn't even think she was going to enjoy half as much as she did. As she positions, and then, finally, she slides down, hands searching for his thighs for some support until he's completely in, her breath coming out in a sigh as she reaches for his brain.)
[He lets her enjoy her victory with only an exaggerated eyeroll, because her gloating is immediately followed by her finally sinking down onto him, and his brain is totally fine, thanks, just short-circuiting a tiny bit but don't worry about any of that. His eyes roll for an entirely different reason now, and his hands reflexively grip her hips.]
Holy fuck, that's good. About goddamn time.
[Because he totally wasn't the one edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of just fucking her like a normal person.
Anyway, he's now going to continue to be a petulant little gremlin.]
Now are you just gonna do something or just sit there and make me do all the work?
[Instead of waiting for an answer, he holds her waist and rocks his hips insistently up not unlike the fantasy he dredged up from her mind. He can't get a truly satisfying thrust without actually one of them actually lifting her up, but at least he can alternate between bucking up and grinding roughly against her. And naturally, he feeds all that back into her brain at the same time as he's feeling what she feels.]
(Gripping on her hips makes her brain light up like a Christmas tree, all little bubbles of pleasure bursting immediately. That's definitely what she likes, thank you so much. She's not a top girl, mainly — this is for spoiling someone silly, or teasing into desperation, but she can't deny that it hits her right once she's properly sat.)
/You have yourself to blame for that, though?/
(Again, he WAS totally edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of fucking her like a normal person, and now he's not even giving her a second to enjoy the feeling of fullness within her.
She doesn't have time to comment back, tell him that yeah, go for it, just to be bitchy — but she can also do it silently. If he doesn't block her, she's dimming the perception he has from anything that isn't them. Every noise is distant that isn't what is coming from them, heartbeat, breath, the sheets not all that noticeable anymore beneath him.
She did tell him she's not particularly loud, but that doesn't mean she's quiet, honey-covered moans escaping her as she moves in synch with him, squirming and clenching as hard as she can whenever there's a thrust that hits just right.
She cannot hold this position for too long, but as long as she can, she will.)
[Her dimming trick isn't completely necessary—his focus is already entirely on her, on the way she feels around him, the way she sounds, everything she's dumping back on him—but it's appreciated solely because there are currently so few points of contact between them. He'd wanted to find ways to touch her that didn't come along with baggage, and he still does. He also knows she can't keep this up forever, and for now he certainly doesn't have any complaints.
That said, if she gets a wayward thought or two from his mind about what it would be like to have his chest pressed to her back, his breath in her ear, well. That'd be convenient, wouldn't it?]
I've never done anything wrong in my life, ever.
[Said with all the audacity in the world, obviously.
He moves with her at a pace that's hurried but not desperate (yet), and while his control over his body is average at best, his mind is of course a whole other story. Every time he finds something that makes her clench around him, he notes the synapses that fire in her brain and tweaks them on his next thrust. Cheating? No. Of course not. He's just using his natural advantages to their fullest. And it feels really fucking good when she squeezes him like that. He lets out a groan and grips her hips tighter every time. Otherwise, though? Quentin is, well, never quiet, but his noises are mostly limited to loud pants, gasps, and grunts. The talking, however. That never stops.]
(With how everything is looping, he can feel just how much she wants to kiss him, and it's a catastrophically massive amount, which is going into the list of things she will deny to the end of time, take to her grave, so forth, and the mental image he produces brings a shiver so strong that every hair on her body stands.
... And of course, he makes her laugh, because of course he does, although she tries to suppress it. This is not the time, Quentin, it's not the time!!!)
Not true in any conceivable and — inconceivable universe — fuck, shut up.
(Said with a bit of difficulty, she's having trouble bringing air into her lungs when her whole body is focused on movement and brain-melting pleasure. It's probably cheating, mind him, but that's the fun part of it. They're telepaths, and for all that it can suck, they might as well use it for the greater good, such as getting off.
The final straw for her is the gripping, because you know what? Fuck it. She's jumping into his brain, as naked as she is out of it, to pull him into the most breathtaking, ferocious kiss. The words she gives him, however, come out of her throat.)
[Can't imagine why the most difficult-on-purpose person in the universe would like want her to do something he's intentionally making difficult.
He can feel, of course, how much she wants to kiss him, but her argument doesn't hold as much weight until she appears in his mind and kissed him and holy shit that's incredible. Quentin considers—seriously considers—following her lead and just. Fucking her in both planes, but that would probably make this over embarrassingly quickly. Maybe round two. If there's a round two. Will there be a round two? Or a next time, for that matter? Who knows and who cares. Not Quentin.
Anyway. Kissing.]
Fuck. Fine, fine, okay? You win.
[About facing each other, he means. For kissing purposes. She makes a compelling case, and he'll give her that.]
But I wanna be on top.
[Sure, that means she'll have to move off him temporarily, which low-key sounds like the worst idea ever right now, but such is life. He doesn't stop moving with her by any means, but he (very begrudgingly) slows, just to give her a chance to think. She can decide if kissing him is worth the pause.]
(Fair point, couldn't expect anything different, really, which is why she is going to be difficult back — she'll reward him with what he wants when her brain gets into begging mode. Right now, she's very occupied and taking out all the lust and craving she feels into the mental kiss until she hears the sweetest, most beautiful, most romantic words that Quentin Quire can ever give her.
"You win." Ah, how sweet it sounds. She's so ridiculously pleased.
As for whatever comes out of it, there's not a cell in her brain concerned about it, partly because it is all lit up and very rightfully distracted from anything that isn't the here and now, since someone is barely giving her a break to think. Speaking is hard, as she made him know, but her eyes roll even if he cannot physically see it.)
Two times — in a single day? Would you look at that. Fine, middle — ground.
(Please, he edged her. If he thinks she's not going to make him a little unhappy even if it's a the expense of her happiness, hahaha. Think again.
But also, fuck, she can't illusion him, she realizes. He's going to see just how crimson she is, her cheeks hurting a little from the whole smiling she had been doing.
There are no winners in this, only losers.
It's all going to be very fast, leaving his lap and diving in for a kiss so he has no chance to really see it as she repositions, nudging him to get on top.)
[Oh, he saw it. He most definitely saw it. She claimed his mouth, and he doesn't want to give her an excuse to start talking only through telepathy—he's very much enjoying the little hitches and gasps in her voice that make her sound like a person and not a sentient man-eating Barbie—but he shows her through his eyes what she looked like in that brief moment before she pulled him in for a kiss. You know, flushed and beaming and, dare he say, ravished. All of those things that would absolutely mortify her.
Which is also why when he moves on top of her and settles between her thighs, he breaks the kiss specifically to look at her face as he slides inside her again. She gets to see that expression up close and personal through his eyes, though there is the small mercy that Quentin's a touch far-sighted without his glasses. Once he's in, though, his mouth is back on hers, and this time he does let her (well, both of them) have a moment to just feel him while he figures out his hands, ultimately deciding to use one arm to support his weight and putting the other hand on her hip where she likes it. See? He can take constructive criticism. Sometimes.]
Yeah, well, I'm a pretty reasonable guy.
[Says the least reasonable person on the planet.
When he starts moving, the pace he sets is best described as bossy. Quentin isn't physically all that strong or athletic, but there's an assertiveness to the way he rocks into her, demanding but not rough or possessive. It's a new angle in this position, which means new sets of synapses to go with subtly different sensations, and it's for some reason very important to him that he replicate specific feelings his body is giving her instead of just pinging every pleasant neuron in her nervous system. He's not sparing the time or brainpower to think about that, though, just focusing on every movement that makes her louder, tighter, more desperate. If he can't have the position he wanted, he's going to at least make her either beg or scream, whichever comes first.]
(They're having a bit of a break while they kiss, although the stimulation hasn't really gone down any on her end. She's still needy, hot, but him rewiring the image he had from her face in crimson colors and a beaming smile is unacceptable. No, go back to seeing her as man-eating Barbie, that's much, much easier!! The horrifying ordeal of being known is her one true nightmare, so she's breaking the kiss to squint at him.)
Fake news. Delirious. You're seeing things.
(Her eyes shut as he reenters her, the hand on his shoulder squeezing a bit so she can find some grounding amidst pleasure, the moan that comes out of her now plump and reddened lips almost unholy... And she sees it, this motherfucker. At least, well, no one can say she isn't gorgeous at every damn angle, but she is pushing that into a safe in the back of her mind with five thousand locks. Nope. Nope. Instead, she's making the best decision that she can which is to NOT THINK ABOUT THAT ever again, and wrap her legs around his waist for better positioning.
What she might put in there later is that this? This hits her right where she lives. For all the fucking around they've been doing, this is much, much better than what she previously let him see in terms of expectations. Long ago, she did get mad at him for not being assertive, not having a spine, and this is the exact opposite. Not a moment was she ever bothered by making sounds, but the volume and pitch increase against his mouth as she feels herself getting closer.
Fuck, no, she does not want it to end so soon. Cannot believe she's going to actually fucking ask, distancing herself to breathe and to let out a louder gasp before she can produce any words.)
["Numb me," she says. He can feel how close she is, of course, so he knows why she's asking. He doesn't numb her, but he does slow the movement of his hips, not thrusting as much as just rolling shallowly against her. It's very, very much not what he wishes he was doing, and he drops his forehead against hers, breathing hard. But unfortunately, there's information he needs to know.]
What, you only got one in you?
[Quentin is smirking breathlessly at her, but it's an actual question. If he can push her over that edge more than once, he wants to. He can manage to hold off, even if he has to use every telepathic trick in his arsenal to do so, and he will if it means turning her brain into such absolute mush that she's not capable of being anything but a blissed out, imperfect mess. She did give him a very specific request regarding the "mean girl" act, after all.]
(The more they bicker in bed, the more she pretends she doesn't realize she's exactly on the same precise wavelength of petty that he is, because while she was enjoying the calmer pace and the dopamine release that is flowing through her body, even taking her hand off his shoulder to brush some of the sweaty hair away from his face as to not tickle them, but the moment he speaks again... Oh, boy.
The way she fires up, hot like every cell in her body is bubbling in disbelief, and when she looks at him again, she sees the smugness on his lips.)
Absolutely — not.
(The glitch is coming, she can feel it, but eh. Worth it. Focusing is colossally hard, especially when his slowing doesn't really negate the fact she's very close, so she might boggle — but once more, the petty wins. He can probably feel her little telepathic fingers in his mind, but she's not looking to dim or take. If she manages, she's going to loop her pleasure and his own in gradual amplification, until he's surpassing her in terms of how close he is.)
[He certainly does feel her little psychic fingers in his head, and he can also feel her powers fraying. So it's mutually assured destruction, is it? Fine.
The groan that escapes him is coarse, almost a growl, and he bucks into her, any semblance of rhythm thrown out the window as all his remaining ability to focus is put toward making sure she goes down with him. Every thrust hits all the exact perfect spots, his hand clutching her waist feels better than it ever has before, and a telekinetic hand grabs one of her wrists and pins it to the sheets next to her head. The only thing on her favorites list he neglects is kissing, and that's only because he wants her to cry out.
He hits his peak within seconds, his hips pressed as close to hers as is physically possible, if she lasts longer? It won't be by much. Unless she utterly fries her powers resisting him for some insane reason, he's reaching into her mind and, petty as always, taking her with him, whether she likes it or not.]
(When is it ever not? Considering their track record, it just adds to the list of things she isn't surprised about.
At this point, there's not a bit of resistance from her, because fuck, she's melting. Her heel digs into the small of his back, grounding and silently begging him to keep going as he is. The noises she makes are uninhibited, more piercing and louder than any other she had given him — they are honeyed to the ear, but with the heightened volume, they sound nearly profane the more she gives them out. He's doing pretty much everything she likes, it's not like there is any hope for her not to even think about wrestling her climax or Quentin's, for that matter.
So, she relaxes, letting it overtake her with a cry as her entire body reacts to the firework explosion that it is. Her heart is nearly beating out of her chest, stars sparkling in her vision, toes curling, and her mind numbing his skin so she can sink her nails to help her ride it, and she is...
[See? They can get along sometimes. Look at them, both checking off most of each other's wishlists. Him grabbing and holding her the way she likes, and her giving him the unfiltered, raw sounds of sheer pleasure that he's been craving. How courteous.
Quentin stays buried in her until her legs drop from his waist, a sizable chunk of his substantial brain capacity occupied with nothing but their climaxes looping between their minds. And when he does finally have to move, he makes a petulant groaning noise at the loss of her warmth and just. Flops onto his back next to her.]
Holy fucking shit, that was good.
[Best he's had? Almost certainly. But considering the only other point for comparison he's got, well, he would literally rather throw himself into the sun than even consider that right now. Or ever, in fact.
He stretches out any cramped muscles or joints, utterly satisfied and relaxed, folds his hands over his chest, and closes his eyes.]
Wake me up when you're ready for round two.
[He's assuming that's what she meant when she pushes him to release immediately after practically begging him to not let it end. And yeah, he's taking a nap. For 20 minutes, unless she wakes him sooner. He's earned it, okay!]
(It's fine that he stays, because she kind of also, reluctantly, doesn't want him to leave, but such is life, and he has to, and she whines a little when he's no longer inside her. She's a bit at a loss for words, her brain still scattered so all she can reply with is a snort because, yeah. It was wonderful, actually.
The connection is not severed, so she can feel the tiredness of his body, as much as she can feel her sore legs and ragged breathing. Can't even blame him for wanting a nap, her eyes rolling and a hand gently moving his hair so it doesn't stick to his skin. She'd nap too, if she wasn't wired, and if she didn't have to get her powers to give her some fucking grace after all that telepathic bullshit.)
Pffft, fine, fair, I'll go get my shit together.
(But not before bugging him a little bit, placing a kiss right where she noticed he likes on his neck, because she can't let him live, since he can't let her live either. When he wakes, he'll see her with her shorts, one of his shirts because she's too lazy to look for her top, with bright eyes and fluttering fingers as she tries to get her powers to stop being a bitch.)
[That was, of course, Quentin making an undignified noise at Sophie kissing his neck when he wasn't expecting it. He swats her away with a grumble, but there's no bite to it. Cranky for the sake of cranky. But after that she leaves him alone to nap, and he's out like a light almost immediately after. His telepathic alarm wakes him in precisely 20 minutes, as scheduled.
He yawns, stretches, and sits up, narrowing his eyes at her wearing a checkered shirt that is definitely not hers. Eh. At least they can agree that his fashion sense is amazing.]
Still busted?
[He gestures at her, indicating her clearly fiddling with her powers and raising his eyebrows.]
Also, they do not agree on that, thank you, this is just a shirt, Quentin, she moved past some of the atrocities in that closet, pretended not to see, thank you. The hand that isn't wagging fingers for focus and rhythm moves to his head, a slight caress to his scalp so she has something to do with it.
The eyes stop glowing before her gaze drops to him, a shrug ensuing.)
Yup. I've been rearranging and restructuring stuff lately, practicing and all that, but eh, you know how it is.
[He does not "know how it is" in the precise context she means, but eh. Quentin looks up at her hand touching his head, but doesn't flinch or make any attempt to shoo her away. It's... fine.]
(Then, there they have it, get one affection, bitch. It's pretty nice hair, she notes, smooth even if it's still a bit damp, the curls showing a bit more from the contact with the pillow.)
Mostly trying to take advantage of the clone crap in my skeleton for stability, I'm figuring some shit out.
[It is nice hair, yes. He appreciates her acknowledging that fact, and that's why she's allowed to touch it.
That said, all that "clone crap in my skeleton" sounds like a can of worms he'll regret opening. Quentin can feel the urge to ask, offer to help, fall back into the same old pattern. But they're... getting along, if you can call "really great sex" getting along.]
Soooo guess I'm putting on pants.
[He doesn't sound annoyed or disappointed, at least. It just sounds like that's gonna take a while.]
(She never said anything, didn't come from her, never happened — hold up, where the hell are his roots? His hair can't be this smooth if he fries it daily.
On her end of the psychic route, she's relieved that he doesn't. It's something she feels strongly that she has to figure out alone, so she's not taking help for this one. More like, this is a me problem so must have a me solution type of deal.
But his comment gets her to roll her eyes, laying down again so she can face him.)
That depends if you care if I accidentally give you static tinnitus or some other weird shit. Pretty sure you can handle it.
(Oof, the dizziness. Her eyes shut a little to deal with the unexpected circumstance of the room spinning, and she distances herself from him mentally so she isn't suffering with him. First things first is to find him a snack, so she climbs off the bed, picking up his pants on the way. She's sure that whatever drawer she opens will have a stash, so that's where she's aimed.
Back to bed with a few bars of chocolate and his pants, stretching a little as she takes her spot back.)
[Okay, well, he wasn't expecting her to actually get him something to eat. Quentin raises his eyebrows questioningly, but he sits up and takes the chocolate and pants. The pants he shimmies on, mostly because he's cold, and it's weird to be naked when she's not. And with that done, he rips open a chocolate bar and starts, as she says, munching.]
Secondary mutation. My brain burns sugar 15 times faster than normal.
Lazily, Sophie finds herself hugging one of the pillows, letting him get his blood sugar back up in peace this time. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, humming at the realization that, oh. That explains why she likes being in there so much. Saying she can keep up with it is a way too much; she definitely can't, but it's... Pretty nice.)
That... Actually explains why I like waltzing up in there.
(That too, we all know it, and should say it. That was even preferable to what he ended up saying, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as a dramatic inhale invades her lungs.
And exits with a kick to him under the blankets. If he falls on his ass, he deserved it, not sorry.)
The mini-event 'Sophie Cuckoo says something nice' has now expired. Try again in 4640 minutes.
(She's still trying to kick him again, mind him, but he's too far now, and since this is a break, she's saving energy. Eventually, she does pipe down, her face sinking on the pillow to leave only her rolling eyes visible.)
And you called me impossible. What makes you even think I'm reopening it?
(But hey, her nose is doing the thing behind fabric, so.)
Because you're doing that thing where you crinkle your nose and hope I won't notice.
[He looks down and over at her, tilting his head in a knowing expression that dares her to deny it.]
Besides. I don't think you'd still be hanging out in my room unless you were planning on reopening a couple of things.
[Said smugly, of course, but also with an almost playful tone. He's finishing off the second chocolate bar (and talking with his mouth full, because who needs manners, really) and the color is coming back to his face.
This whole arrangement of theirs is shaping up to be a loop just their previous interactions, but the difference is this loop is way, way more fun. No complaints, honestly. He reaches out with his mind and gently caresses her inner thigh with his TK, just higher than her knee, so not terribly scandalous—yet.]
(Baffled. Her blue eyes, the only visible part of her face, are plenty expressive on their own. They close as her eyebrows lift, because excuse her, untrue. It's an unconscious act, alright!!! She's not denying it, but she is not giving it any further reaction. Also, sir, where is your class? There's a lady on your bed? Hello? God, what has she done.)
Were you raised in a barn?
(Oddly, though, this? She's not regretting one bit of it, even through all his attempts to drive her straight into insanity. It's just that she has never not been resentful and grudging of him, and for the first time, she isn't. Instead, she wants to be here with Quentin, and she is having fun. Stupid, immature, petty, and petulant fun. Unfortunately, she likes it. Except — she would much rather be down in the ground again for the next five years than to express it herself, and if he hears it, that's on him for being nosy. She distanced herself from his brain for a reason, so she didn't have to suffer!!!)
You pass out inside of me, you will not ever hear the end of it. Ever.
(Because he's roasting her, she's definitely not going to let the gasp that threatens to leave her throat reach the air when he touches one of her favorite spots. She will be impossible on purpose, because two can play this game, although she already hates that she is.
Instead, she'll gently run her nails on the side of her leg, reopening the connection abruptly.)
[He was raised in the same barn as she was, and he's just about to say so when she moves on to a topic that interests him far, far more.]
Mm. Well, ignoring the biological impossibility of that [low blood sugar=major turn off] I think you've got a point. Guess I should conserve my energy, huh?
[He scoots back over next to her and lies down facing her, one arm pillowing his head and the other resting on the sheets in the narrow space between them.]
How about you do most of the warm-up this time, eh? You can touch me or yourself.
[Spoken like he has any authority here, any ability to give her permission. He doesn't, but that doesn't matter. He knows she likes it when he's assertive, even if it's that pile of shit she doesn't want to admit. Quentin is confident he'll get some variation on what he wants.]
(He's ridiculous, he knows that, right? At least, he looks okay, and now that she's back in his mind, sync established, she has the confirmation. For just one tiny second, she watches his expression, the edge of her lips curling.
Interesting, but not just for today. She'll gladly play along this time around, fingers running across his torso until they're back on the waistband, face coming close enough that lips brush, but not yet kiss.)
Great to know you're into it. Next time, I'll open with that.
(Also readable as: she'll choose a time at random that has no rhyme or reason and just flood him with her own pleasure. There's also the very real implication that there is going to be a next time, but, oof, what can she do.
No time for him to reply to, at least verbally, as her lips meet his again and her hand slips into his pants to stroke him.)
[There's a lot he could reply to, wants to say verbally. Or at all. Talking is what Quentin does, and nobody shuts him up.
Except apparently Sophie with her hand in his pants and her lips on his, which shuts up his brain too, at least to some extent. He moans into her mouth, his hips jerking reflexively into her hand. He assumes that's plenty encouragement for her to continue and doesn't bother trying to verbalize his feelings on the matter. Besides, she has open access to his brain, and this time he actually highlights for her what he likes—how precisely to stroke him, the sensitive places on his chest and neck that haven't been ruined by baggage, how he wants to be kissed.
And most importantly? The control he needs to feel. Not necessarily over her but of his own body. What he gave up before for someone he thought was the love of his life. Sophie decidedly isn't that, but she's done a great job at feeding his newly acquired craving to take instead of just give. As long as she keeps making him feel sexy for being bossy? She can do just about whatever the hell she wants as far as he's concerned. Within reason.
... Or, you know, he may just have a praise kink and some trauma. Whichever.
He holds the back of her neck and deepens the kiss, demanding in contrast to the way after the initial reaction his hips only gently rock against her hand. She offered to do most of the work, after all. To make him feel good. Which means he's not doing her the favor of thrusting into her hand just yet. Nope, she gets to work him up on her own, work them both up, honestly. And then eventually they'll reach a breaking point, and he'll push her down, press his chest to her back, or maybe sling her legs over his shoulders, or any number of other equally satisfying positions. Either way they're fucking the living daylights out of each other for the second time today.]
(It's only fair, right? He knows too much already, and he recoiled once she tried to figure him out herself. There were many possibilities that could explain it, and the two that she felt were the most likely were that maybe, he didn't trust her to see it — hurtful, but ugh, she hadn't really done a whole lot to earn it, so. The second one was that he probably didn't want her to stumble into forbidden knowledge, and thus they ruin everything they've been building here. That one felt more accurate.
One of the crucial differences is that Sophie doesn't care for control, neither does she care for power. Even with the gaze of a distant looker, she knows how much Quentin changed for what he figured was love. She wouldn't want that. Look, if she didn't like Quentin's stupidity and his annoying quips, larger-than-life attitude, and his twink-self as is, she wouldn't be here, taking mental note of how to break his brain, and applying it with every movement of her hand.
For them, who are so complex and complicated, suddenly they've become something easy in her brain. Whether they actually end up having feelings for each other is something she's sure neither will want to look at closely — it is making her happy, and that's more than enough for her. It's something good, new, and fun — both are aware of the risks, both are here willingly, both want it. No need to want or think of anything further, really.
The difference between Quentin when she first climbed into bed with him and how he got now is also palpable, and due to the fact they both happen to be little shits, well. Guess it works both ways, with how he's feeding info that she can use to mess with him later. The intensity of the kiss is reciprocated, her mind reaching to intensify just how soft her lips are against his, how reddened they'll be after they separate again, and just how much she enjoys kissing him being gently placed there as a treat.
She's not borrowing his sensory nerves, though. She's busy paying attention, and she doesn't want to be distracted from everything he's giving her. Look at that, a telepath not being selfish.
[She's not being selfish, but that's because he is. Quentin's not shoving his pleasure into her head, just enjoying it, and if she doesn't want to piggyback any more than telepathy without shields already necessitates? That's on her. He will, however, share with her his ideas for the various exciting positions to try whenever she decides to move on—and in the future, since she promised him a "next time"—in all the carnal detail he can imagine. Which is a lot. He has a very good imagination, a trait he has a funny feeling she shares.
He pulls away from her mouth, and yes, she does indeed look utterly debauched. He makes sure she can see it through his eyes. For fun.]
How's the wrist?
[Look. Her hand is great. Really. It should be, considering he's handing her the step-by-step guide to world's best jerk off. But honestly? The more hot and bothered he gets, the more he just misses being inside her.]
Sure would hate to give you carpal tunnel on account of little ole me.
[He lightly brushes mental fingers through her mind, checking her own level of arousal. Sure, he hasn't been paying much attention to her this time around, but also? She's just as much a degenerate as he is. Surely she can manage to make herself horny.]
(Look, she's already sensitive as hell as a person with the right touch at the right time making her entire body melt, this is a second round of two stupidly creative telepaths, and he's letting her get to know him. Emotional bullshit aside, it's ammunition for her — since they're fucking on top of their baggage to shut it before it overflows, it might as well be overwhelmingly exhilarating at every turn. Sophie's paying attention, committing it to mind with every nugget of information he gives her.
Or, well, she was, until those nuggets turned into a series of images that made her blood boil in lust. Expectations and promises work just as much as physical touch in her mind, her heart skipping several beats, which, obviously, she takes it out on him, kissing more fiercely, a quicker turn of stroking until this asshole stops kissing her to send her the image of herself panting, blushing for fuck's sake, and the hand that isn't busy covers his eyes so it cuts the transmission for a second.)
I'm going to start blindfolding.
(Half-joking. Hahaha. Unless? No, but honestly, her pride is suffering with him reminding her that she is into him. Though, actually? At this goddamn point? What fucking pride. She's already reluctantly accepted this isn't the last time she's gonna find herself in this obnoxiously pink room, making out with this obnoxious pink man, and giving him obnoxious smiles because she unfortunately, likes his obnoxious dumb bullshit.
Fine, whatever. He wants to pester her with these petty reminders, she'll just be petty back. It's not like... Ugh, she won't have the chance to. Anyway.
Lie detected. She's pretty sure he'd be glad to point out where she got it.)
My wrist is fine, but instead of having your fingers up my head, you could just take off my clothes and find out yourself. I'm just saying.
[See? He knew he could count on her to be thirsty. All of the images he's pouring into her mind are having the intended effect of making her as desperate for his body as he is for hers, and right now he wouldn't have it any other way. His hips are still rocking into her hand, keeping his own stimulation at a steady but not unmanageable incline.
When her hand moves over his eyes, he takes her wrist in one hand and reclaims control over his senses before kissing the inside of her palm.]
Or maybe I blindfold you.
[Since she keeps trying to take away his eyes and all. In fact, that's what he's going to do. Block her optic nerves, then slide his free hand into her shorts and limit her vision entirely to the view of what he sees when he touches her with his actual physical hand for the first time and easily slips his fingers inside her.]
(Consistency is key for a healthy whatever-the-fuck-situationship, if they can ignore the fact they are absolutely not healthy, they're nailing this. Her eyebrows lift in surprise with the kiss, a charmed crinkle on the bridge of her nose showing in reaction before... She just needs to stop being consistent; that's what gets her in this particularly peculiar mess. She is definitely down for the blindfolding, but he mirrors her in expectations.
She's still overstimulated, so the sound she makes is the loudest she has given him so far, inhaling hard as the hand he had taken moves to the nape of his neck for some semblance of stability.
Also, not to be vain on main, but... Strangely, as weird as it feels to look at her face in scarlet tones, her straight, golden hair messy and unruly, and her lips plump from all the kissing with a curl to the edges, she still looks pretty? It's more the blushing and that smile she promptly tries to get rid of that she finds issues with. She doesn't blush. Fuck you and your uncanny skills of making her look like that, Quire. What was it? Not a 'man-eating Barbie'?
But, hey, he has two hands, and so does she. They're still very dressed for two people who want to rip their clothes off, so first, his pants are the easiest. She'll get them down halfway, he can deal with the rest. Next up are those shorts, which take a little more maneuvering due to the whole being unable to fully focus on it and the lack of space, but once she's just in his shirt, it all becomes so much easier. Her leg hooks around his hip, which allows for better reach for his fingers, if he has the willpower to not take the invitation as it is.)
[Willpower? What's that? Sounds fake tbh. Especially after he dragged that noise out of her.
His pants? Gone. Nobody in history has gotten pants off faster, even using TK, which Quentin did. Their hands do regrettably have to leave each other's bodies, but it's a worthy sacrifice when the reward is him lining himself up, grabbing the thigh she so kindly presented to him, and snapping their hips together as strongly as he can considering the position they apparently picked this time around. He lets out an absolutely wrecked gasp that unlike Sophie, he's not embarrassed to have made.
Speaking of. She's still telepathically "blindfolded" with her vision linked to his whenever he has ammunition to use against her pride since she clearly gets off on that. So naturally, he shows her every detailed reaction she has to him entering her again, as well as when he stays there without moving for a moment, his breathing still in shambles but of course not preventing him from talking.]
Hate to break it to you. But I think you may have a teeny tiny. Humiliation kink.
[And of course, if he's right, pointing that out will prove itself.]
(This is probably going to be much lazier than the first one, because who the fuck has the energy? They're telepaths, the body is not invincible or tiredless, everything is up in the mind. She cannot manage not to touch him, so one hand is on his cheek, the other on his shoulder, and for someone who would most likely tell him to move, she doesn't look quite as impatient as she would be. To the contrary, she's just clenching as hard as she can, as to feel as much as possible, and she reopens the connection between them before her eyes do a full trip around her lids. Biggest eyeroll in the history of eyerolls.
She can see it. It was glorious.)
Rude and incorrect.
(Where is his damn off-button and where are his stupid interpretation skills!!! She's just feeling shy because she's lacking at least ten layers of armor here, and there's the horrifying ordeal of being known knocking right on her front door. He's got his shit, she's got hers.
Well, at least she can move where she lives really quickly. Glitchy powers means that he might have to ground her, and as she said, ignore the fact that she is accidentally raising his body temperature a little and giving him some brain static when she moves them back to his brain. This is where it began, might as well take it for a spin. Against a shelf they are, and she jumps on him to give him a brain-melting kiss.)
[Lazier out in the physical plane is absolutely fine. He rolls them so he's on his back with her on top. Not his preferred position for... reasons, but perfectly suitable leisurely grinding while most of his attention is diverted by her pulling them back into his head. Also cleaning up the mess her jacked up powers made of his physiology and the crackly feeling in his skull. But she set up the scenario for him to fuck her against the bookshelves in his brain with her legs around his waist, so she's forgiven. Sure, it's a bit of a reminder that he can't do this in the physical world, but also? Who needs the stupid "real world" anyway. Quentin is... very average physically, but mentally? Mentally he's one of the strongest there is. The complete opposite of most of the smooth-brains he has to interact with every day.
Case in point, it's virtually no effort at all for him to hold her up, run his hands along her thighs, and kiss her hungrily, all while rocking into her, slow and deep. And because they're in his brain, where he makes the rules, he decides that everything he's doing is the most toe-curling, scratching-the-itch-she-didn't-know-she-had shit she can possibly imagine. You know, for fun. The one downside is it's not quite so fun to get her to make noises and bully her into talking out loud. Oh well, guess it's back to telepathy, not that he's complaining that he can talk while kissing again. Though considering where they are, telepathy means his voice echoing through the "room" instead of just her head.]
(To be very fair, neither could she for too long, when her legs would have to keep track of her weight. Once her body has a moment to process, her legs are going to be jelly, and her lower back is going to thoroughly curse her life decisions, so, no judgments here. Telepaths are a whole different type of people, after all, and he's dealing with her twice, two different planes at once.
She's not kissing him on the physical plane, because the noises she's making have to come out somehow. She's finally gotten loud, holding onto him for dear life as she moves her hips with him in the same rhythm. It's less frantic, much more relaxed than the first time, but it is working perhaps even better for her — whether it's due to his telepathy or because she found a pace she particularly likes, or even both? It's probably both.
With her weakened powers, she can't properly rewire all to him when it'd completely break her, but a watered-down version of something that is making her head spin and her mind light all the buildings in New York together gotta still be amazing, right? Her laugh echoes the walls of his brain, and in her body, her smile reveals itself again.)
What, you thought it was for your winning personality?
Oo, ouch. Keep that up, and you might just hurt my feelings.
[Quentin pulls the bulk of her awareness to his mindscape. He can split his processing power between the two locations better than she can, particularly with her powers on the fritz, and he'd rather she focus on the place where he's putting in more effort. The physical plane is where he'll get to enjoy the noises she's making.]
You're getting pretty loud, by the way. Guess I'm working for it after all.
[There's only one problem with the current arrangement, and it's, ironically, the lack of a problem. He's no stranger to sex in the astral plane, but due to, uh. Circumstances. He's never been in charge the way he's been enjoying with Sophie. As much as he'd never admit it, he's self-aware enough to know his... confidence, for lack of a better word, has grown since she arrived in his room, and with that has come a newfound spark to his imagination. He has Ideas, many of which he's shared with her. But in the physical world, he's limited not just by their own physiological capabilities, but also logistics. Moving locations, changing positions, fumbling with clothes. His imagination is leashed by the bounds of what's realistic.
In his mind? Not the case. And realizing that is... honestly the most overwhelming feeling he's had this whole time. The unhurried pace of their hips meeting each other doesn't change. He's happy with that. For now, at least. But the location? Arrangement of their bodies? As her pleasure bleeds in him, his focus is starting to show some cracks. Hairline cracks, but cracks nonetheless. His and her fantasies, wild or otherwise, occasionally blip into the perceived reality of his mindscape. Not the worst thing ever, but well... it's probably a touch disorienting to find yourself suddenly in an entirely different position and/or location.]
(What leaves her is a snort. As if. Don't worry, she's bewildered too.
With her being mostly in the astral plane, that means her body is moving majorly out of reactions, free from her own blocks — means he gets the sounds of pleasure she's doing, the beaming from her smile so intense it might light up the room on its own, all that good stuff she's been gatekeeping if he actually cares to look.
Though, in here? He can feel her every emotion, and what he will feel is that, although there's an eyeroll specially wrapped as a gift for him, he's not wrong. He's earned her at the most honest she can muster, so he should probably pat himself on the back for that one.
Likewise, she can feel it, too — the overwhelming feeling of choice paralysis and how they end up on the floor of a whole different room, his breath on her back, even with her own arched against his chest, her palms holding on to her body to keep herself steady. His imagination is running, huh? It's not a deal-breaker, naturally, but if they can not just blink into a whole new thing, that'd be best.
Powerless grounding, because that's what she has: her hand moving to caress his hair as she turns her face to give him a peck to the lips.)
Hey, Omega? I'm not going anywhere, so we'll have time and plenty of opportunity to check out that wishlist. (She knows, she's surprised too—) Just be here with me.
[Eugh, that's embarrassing. Getting so excited and impatient you semi-accidentally shift perceived reality to fuck a girl the way you wouldn't shut up about fucking her? Kinda cringe. F in chat.
At least she's not giving him shit about it. And her attempts to ground him do... actually work, funnily enough. Her hand in his hair, telling him to be here, calling him Omega? Yep, that gets him to focus up.
Not that he's going to reward her nice with his nice. That's not how this works, and he can feel that pathological urge to unconditionally dote on every girl who gives him positive attention creeping at the corners of his mind. He pushes it down and with it pushes her shoulders to the floor, the bottom half of her body propped up on her knees.]
Aww, see, you can be nice sometimes.
[He drapes his body over her back, and puts his hands on top of hers, threading his fingers between her own to pin her to the floor. His hips keep that same slow roll that they both like, though, and he lightly kisses the back of her shoulder. So that's nice.]
I won't complain if you call me Omega in bed more, though. And from me that's a generous offer.
(Look at her, the Omega-level telepath whisperer. Sophie couldn't throw hands with his unconsciousness even if she really wanted to, but she doesn't. It happens, you know. The mysteries of the mind, free-flowing, open, it's not a big deal, see? She truly can be nice sometimes, which is something he earned through the past few hours they've been, well, fighting and fucking, pretty much, since he managed to chip away at the bulkiest outer layer walls she puts up.
It's probably a very nice view he gets, her tiny waist and curved back as she moves against him, this position actually helps her do some of the work and she squirms a little at the lack at something to hold so she can not lose it as quickly.)
How long until you make me regret it?
(Bitchy for the sake of bitchy, only. No malicious intent, especially when he gives her exactly what she needs to keep herself focused. Her hands squeeze his, and she tilts her head to give him better access to her neck if he wants it. It is exceptionally sensitive, though, so if he goes for it, the end of this might be on the horizon.)
I'm certain you'll find something else to complain about — shit, you're making it hard to think. I'll kindly consider it.
[He hums against her neck briefly but ultimately decides to lift his head and deprive her of that extra stimulation for now. He doesn't want this to end so soon. The downside is that with their current position, every breath and word out of his mouth can be felt directly in her ear. And considering they don't actually have to breathe in here? The asshole is doing it on purpose.]
Please, I always find something to complain about. It's my special talent.
["Talent", yes. That's a word for it.]
Not to say you aren't making it hard, though. Pun intended.
[He chuckles in her ear at his own joke. Still, he's not lying. Even Quentin Quire is having a difficult time finding something to complain about right now. His brain is naturally wired to handle a vast amount of sensory information at all times, which is the only reason he's able to keep the composure he can, because it's a lot.
He still has part of his mind in the physical world, enjoying all those reactions she's giving him now that her body is unrestrained by her filters, and he shows her a snapshot of his view there every so often, when she lets out a particularly wanton noise. But for the most part he wants to keep her attention here in his mind. He's mostly just showing her so she knows he didn't want this position to avoid seeing her face. That's, well... he can't deny there's a factor of that. But it's more about recontextualizing an identical body to one he knows all too well. Not just trying to make something he's done before feel different because of the way they both behave. Something actually different. Something exclusively Sophie.
He pants into her ear and for a moment just... feels her. It doesn't matter that this a psychic approximation of her physical form and not technically "real". Her back is soft against his chest, her fingers curled around his, her hair tickling his cheek, her hips meeting his and body clenching around him so nicely. And most importantly, he has no mental image in his head of a different blonde bombshell under him like this he could compare to even if he wanted to do so. It's like a whole damn mountain's been lifted off his shoulders.]
You ready to admit I was right?
[About this position, he means. She can look into his mind for hints if she needs to.]
(How is it that he manages to be so incredibly ridiculous, and still draw out the most honest laughter from her lungs? It's not even that it's funny, because doy, they're fucking, the word "hard" gots to be considered low-hanging fruit for comedy, but it's much more about the fact that he doesn't pull back from taking it. They've changed through this, she can tell, many doors have opened and thoughts were overridden as they navigate it, and yet, it still feels exactly like them.
Funnily enough, communicating now feels so much lighter than it had been in the past months. She can recognize what he's doing with those images, telling her he's paying attention, committing her to memory, and she doesn't recoil from it for once. Good that he can see the smile on her lips, then. She's not mad about it. She's not sure the word that could describe her feeling, but relieved comes close enough and she can feel that he is too. Like the baggage has lost a bit of its weight.
The same way he takes a second, she is, too. She can see herself coming closer, especially after all that psychic insanity they had been doing, but likewise, she doesn't want it to end so soon either. Heavy breathing, sounds, the way his heart is pounding against her, and how the skin of his hand feels once she runs her thumb against it, as a smirk forms on her lips. She presses it on his arm in the shape of a kiss, really the only thing she can reach easily.)
Quentin Quire is right are words I will never say.
(She admits it in her mind, very clearly, he can hear it.)
[He snickers triumphantly and lightly kisses the side of her neck under her ear.]
Hmm, what was that? I stopped listening after the fourth word.
[He replays those first four words she made the horrendous mistake of stringing together in that specific order: "Quentin Quire is right."]
I'm just going to assume the rest was "and that's very sexy and cool of him."
[He can feel himself getting closer too, and he lets go of one of her hands so he can pull her up a bit and lightly turn her head so he can kiss her. The angle is awkward, but hey, e for effort. At least she has a hand free now, so she can help if she wants. He just needs some kind of outlet for the desire he's feeling that makes a part of him want to rush for the end when the rest of him really, really doesn't. He's determined to let this build gradually, savor it. Not because it could be the last time they do this. She already promised him multiple next times. It just feels good, and in the kind of shit life inherent to every poor bastard with a goddamn X-gene, "good" is something you hang onto.]
(Can't win them all. Sophie's already won several times today, might as well let him have this one, especially because he, well, was right. Why are telepaths like this? She'd do it too, make a mental frame of it, hang it on the walls, have it play whenever she found convenient. Pot, kettle.
Anything else she might have wanted to add is lost, because while she could talk to him as usual, kissing just shuts her right up in every plane, her body moving to sit up, back to his chest as she continues carefully move not to hit him, but keeping the rhythm they had going all the same. Her hand finds his hair again, a caress as she focuses on the mellowness of their current flow.
Sophie's thinks the same. It's delightful, and they had never even had anything good, so she wants to store it in the corners of her mind, revisit and build up on it for the times to come. She doesn't feel regret, and she is certain she won't feel when they wake from the coma they set themselves up for.
[She sits up and runs her fingers through his hair, and he groans against her mouth. She's touched his hair before and received reactions ranging from uneasy to indifferent. But turns out? Context is everything. Because right now the feeling of her ridiculous manicured nails tangling in his hair sends all kinds of amazing tingles down his spine and makes his hips jerk up sharply on reflex. He breaks away from the kiss.]
Okay. This is a limited-time offer. Today only, but. Touch my hair again.
[He kisses her again to give her less opportunity to tease him, letting his hand idly roam her body for sensitive spots as an additional distraction. Not that he thinks she would be all that merciless, nor is he terribly insecure about his request. That much is clear by the playful tone to his voice. It's just the principle of the matter.]
(Very different indeed. Sophie likes his hair, it's smooth and well-taken care of, and he's got his stupid (charming) curls for her to sink fingers into. She wasn't expecting him to actually like it though, seen as he hadn't particularly cared when she first did it, so the stronger thrust takes her by surprise, an unholy moan coming out of her physical lips. The Sophie that rests on the bed tightens her hold on him with her thighs, heel pushing against the small of his back to tell him to do that again, deeper, not faster.
On the astral plane, though, she lets her fingers enjoy the soft strands they caress, her hand also synched to their rhythm as she tries to postpone her soon arriving climax. She's not even about to mess with him about this?)
Limited offer on - giving me permission or letting me at all? No take backs.
[He sighs with a pleasurable shiver at her fingers stroking his scalp in time with their bodies.]
Both. I like my hair. Don't want you messing it up.
[That moan she lets out in the physical world is so delicious it echoes in his mindscape, and when she encourages the change in his movement, he gladly complies. And in the mental world? He does his best to match that, even with the difference in angle in this position. His arm wraps around her waist for the sake of leverage, both to brace and lift her a bit if needed, so he can shift from a rolling motion to steady, emphatic thrusts, aiming for her to feel as much of him as deeply as possible each stroke. Is that doubtlessly going to hasten the end of this? Yes, yes it is. But consider this: she's making the most lewd noises imaginable and digging her heel into the small of his back in one reality, and in the other she has her hand tangled in his hair and back flush against his chest. And in both realities he's getting a constant live feed from her brain of everything she's thinking and feeling. He's only one guy, okay! His brain may be wired for sensory overload, but he mainly avoids getting overwhelmed by diverting his attention, and that sure as fuck isn't an option here. At this point his priority is keeping this from getting too frenzied.]
I like your hair and I like messing it up. Surely you can make more concessions.
(It's a very particular pleasure to be running fingers through recently shaved hair, hence why Sophie's living her best life now that he has asked for it. His hair must be an unruly mess of unruly curls back in his physical body, now that she thinks of it. She's just one girl, okay, there's only so much she can ignore, rebuke, or repel for the sake of being difficult; her finding it cute easily slips out.
Not that she has a lot of time to dwell on it, with her louder moan filling the room — she said what she said. Her head tilts back in the mindscape, allowing it to rest against his shoulder as she matches the movement, making sure she has all of him with each time he pushes against inside her. With powers all fucky and jacked up, she doesn't want to risk them getting worse by playing too hard, but she still is a telepath — she knows exactly what to think when he's just in her brain as much as she is in his.
Her thoughts flow to pay the most diligent attention to each single pleasurable thing she's feeling. How he's moving exactly how she likes it, hitting all the right spots and focusing on the burst of joy that she feels each time he pushes in. The soreness of her legs, which while annoying, she adores as she holds him close, a reminder as to why they cramp in the first place. The way she can almost taste the edge, her brain melted, and her body nearly imploring her to let go.
[Okay, he's officially decided he can grumble about her messing up his hair later—and he will, don't you worry—but for right now? Right now he has other priorities.
The first round of this ended because they were bickering and trying to one-up each other, which... tracks, considering their personalities. This time, though? This time they have a shared goal. The same priorities. They're in perfect agreement for the first time literally ever, and it's about fucking each other stupid in two planes of reality simultaneously. Go figure.
This second round has been about wish-fulfillment, mostly on his end—though she certainly hasn't had any complaints—and there's one thing on his list he still wants. It's stupid and way, way more cliche than he prefers, but hey, cliches are cliche for a reason. And she doesn't seem like she's in the exact headspace to offer any constructive criticism right now. If it gets him jazzed, chances are very, very high it'll work for her too. Shared goal, right?]
Hey.
[He moves the hand not around her waist to gently rest on her neck. There's no pressure—unless her mind indicates she wants that, of course, he's not judging—but for him it's just the aesthetic that's appealing.]
Beg me. I wanna hear you beg.
[He uses the last shreds of his sanity to reach into her mind and lightly grasp her body's ability to climax. And he makes sure she can feel it, to clear up any potential confusion about what she's begging him for. It's the same as his hand on her throat, though, enough to be felt but easily breakable even without use of her powers. Not that Quentin has any problem with edging. Obviously. But there's a time and place, and they're both way, way too close to the finish line to bother with any of that crap in any serious capacity.]
(See, she did say he would find something to complain about sooner or later. There will be no surprise from her when he whines about her long, pretty fingers on the pink strands when she inevitably does it again.
For now, though, she's temporarily too overwhelmed to continue performing her tough act, which is why she nuzzles against his neck before she kisses it, a speck of... Affection? as she feels her heart nearly beating out of her chest. The hand on her neck is not a problem, since it bears no pressure and it allows him to feel her insanely rapid heartbeat on his fingertips.
Her eyes open once he speaks, and she realizes what he's doing almost immediately as he says it. Did this fucker just edge her twice on the same day? He's so dead. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow. But eventually? He's so dead. It's not on her control how her physical body reacts, hands gripping onto his arms and her hips chasing his like an addiction, which doesn't fucking help, it brings her inches from an orgasm she can't have since he's holding it, and it scrambles her brain to every direction possible.
Motherfucker.)
Fuck, Quentin, you win, let me come for you, please. Please.
(For all the bite and tone, her voice comes out nearly a cry. He did win!)
[When she says his name, the wall in his mindscape cracks loudly, ceiling to floor. And from there every word she says unleashes more destruction. Furniture toppling over, books flying off shelves, the fireplace blazing into an inferno. (The portrait of himself is, of course, unscathed, but that's to be expected.) And when she says "please," the entire mental room shakes violently while somehow doing nothing to disrupt them.
Quentin lets go. He has no choice. Even if he wanted to he couldn't hold on any longer, and he absolutely doesn't want to. She begged him to let her come for him, and there isn't a single cell in his body that objects to that concept. Sophie is spared from any additional stupid comments at least, because all he can do is choke out a breathless and very unsexy "yeah," but... look. The "come for me" or whatever dirty talk bullshit is implied, okay? Just... fill in the blanks or something.
Also? Before she gets all uppity, his last two braincells were reserved for edging himself, so nyeh. He set his orgasm to be triggered only by hers, because he's just a nice guy like that. You're welcome. Which means the instant she climaxes, so does he, thrusting as deeply as he can into both iterations of her body and spilling inside her for the second (and third...??) time today.]
(At least they were destructive (positive), and not destrucive (concerning) this time around. The temperature is close to too much to withstand with the fireplace, the room coming undone doing nothing to hinder the tsunami of ecstasy that she feels once they let go. The only use of her powers is to numb his skin, because she knows she's probably going to scratch the living hell of his arms as to keep herself minimally together as the wave rushes through her every cell with pleasure.
The panting moan she gives out is sweet to the ears as she rides her climax with spasming thigh muscles while she brings her awareness back to herself. Lips reach for a lazy, slow kiss as a means to calm down, thumb caressing his cheekbone before she distances.)
[Quentin closes his eyes in his mind and opens them back in his bedroom, Sophie's flushed and euphoric face in front of him. She kisses him, and he hums contentedly, nuzzling into the hand on his cheek.]
Hey.
[So what if he's almost deliriously happy, grinning like an idiot, and a disheveled mess? Mind your business. Oxytocin and vasopressin are a hell of a chemical cocktail. Anyway, he'll be back to his usual pissy, arrogant, irritating self just as soon as the feel-good hormones clear out of his system. Might as well let her enjoy this mushy, touchy-feely, and frankly adorable Quentin for the next few minutes while he's here.
That said, he's going to roll onto his back beside her. She can do whatever the hell she wants after that.]
I think we can both agree that this was my best worst idea ever.
(She might as well be glowing, honestly, the hormones flowing through her body keeping her from noticing how much her body is going to feel like it has been run over by a truck tomorrow. Yeah, yeah, she knows, logically, but right now, she's got the same goddamn stupid look on her face and, most importantly, she's letting him see it. All the little imperfections, like her visible fatigue, sweat, redness, and messy hair are all there, and she doesn't even think about trying to illusion it otherwise. It's a weird win bestowed upon him, but a win nonetheless.
With him next to her, she rolls on her stomach, propping herself up with her forearms and keeping her face on her hands. Big blue eyes watch him before she snorts, one of the hands settling on his chest as her nose does the thing.
Yeah. Actually, yeah.)
We can, yeah. Not your worst work.
(But wait, the realization, and she has facepalms for a second in her inevitable laughter. It's both surprise and embarrassment, oh my God.)
... Cripes, all this, and I still don't know what dumb game to get you.
(THE WHOLE REASON SHE WAS UP IN HIS BRAIN IN THE FIRST PLACE. Oh, no, her face has to join her hand on his chest as she chuckles.)
[Look, at this point they both have so much embarrassing dirt on each other that to even attempt blackmail would be mutually assured destruction. Not that that's ever stopped them before, but. You know. He barely even registers how wrecked she is aside from a vague sense of pride in his own accomplishments.
It's funny. In about 99% of cases, Sophie resting her hand and face on his chest would annoy or unsettle him. Hell, yesterday the idea would've made him want to crawl out of his own skin. In a few hours, it'll probably feel claustrophobic or too intimate or bring up bad memories blah blah blah. That's a problem for future Quentin. Apparently putting his arm around her is a step too far, though, because he just puts his hands behind his head.]
Oh. Yeah, I'm not really that into gaming.
[Said with utter nonchalance, like that reveal isn't a grand stupid anti-climax on top of the whole hot mess that is their shared existence.]
(It's fine if he doesn't, she wouldn't ask him to, or want him to if that's not what comes to him. Sophie's more than fine with that — whatever she and he are willing to give the other, all good. She prefers it that way.
But, bro. Bro, no. Bro? He can probably feel her mind slowly coming to two realizations: a. he just went with her to the arcade because, well, she asked. b. she's the videogame nerd. Oh, nooo. She hides further for a second before she huffs, returning to her original position once she realizes that being in this bed was probably the best thing they could ever come up with.)
Well, the intention there was to give you something nice.
[Quentin lifts his head to give her an incredulously look when he can feel those wheels turning in her head. She didn't... Okay. Whatever. He's in much too good of a mood to bother being annoyed that she's so clueless, particularly when her lack of self-awareness... kind of led to him being frustrated enough to say yolo and make that first suggestive comment.
So yeah, he does heartily agree that this was the best possible outcome.]
Well, I'd say you definitely achieved that, at least, soooo. Task failed successfully?
[He breathes deeply, feeling her head and hand rise and fall with his chest. The post coital sleepiness is starting to sink in, and his eyes are drifting shut, so he lazily waves a hand to telekinetically pull a blanket over both of their bodies. She doesn't seem like she's going anywhere in a hurry, so eh. He's a restless sleeper and tends to starfish, though, so hope she enjoys that.]
(He can give her shit later, alright. Right now, she wants to enjoy this melted, endearing version of him while her eyes still manage to stay open, with the full knowledge she won't last awake for long, and neither will he. The laugh he manages to pull from her is weak, stained by fatigue.)
Eh. Sounds about right for us, I guess.
(The blanket is more than welcome, and it reminds her — from the same drawer that she found the chocolate earlier, she'll bring two more to whatever surface is closest to him with her own telekinesis so he has something when he undoubtedly wakes up needing them. It's a small way to care, but it is care nonetheless.
That said, cuddling is a bit too much for her, too, she could definitely use some space. She leaves his chest to press another sweet, lingering kiss to his lips before a similar one is pressed to his cheek.)
[Quentin does not sleep for very long in general. In fact, the five and a half hours he spends dead to the world is longer than he's usually asleep. So hey, Sophie can pat herself in the back for that achievement.
By the time she wakes up, he's dressed, eaten the snacks she retrieved for him, and apparently taken up origami within the past couple of hours, judging by the hoard of paper cranes littering the floor and every available surface nearby him. He doesn't even bother looking up at her when he senses her stirring. He's busy.]
(Can't get him to shut up while he's awake, but by God, she can get him to sleep longer.
Sophie hates waking up with a passion. The rays caress her face, and she glares right at them with the strength of a thousand suns, before her hand taps around the bed to see if she can find the owner of this atrocity of a room. Ah. He's already left it. He's... Speaking, already.
Very confusing morning for Sophie Cuckoo. The room is a slap of stimuli to her senses, the feeling that a truck ran her over with how achy her legs and back are, not to mention her face from all the silly smiling she had been doing. Yet, she's still flooded by all those pesky feel-good hormones that are basically holding her down like a club bouncer and keeping her from throwing hands with the sun itself.
Very slowly, so as not to give an opening for her muscles to punish her, she sits up, hands rubbing on her face before she looks over. Paper cranes. A lotta paper cranes.
[He glances over when he sees her pat the bed where he was. Looking for him? Okay. Not sure why, but okay. Quentin also notes with a slight tilt of his head how stiffly she's moving. Huh. Guess he's in better shape than he thought. Sure, he's a bit sore, mostly abs, thighs, lower back, but nothing debilitating or as bad as what she seems to be suffering. Makes sense, he supposes. X-Men shit isn't exactly leisure, though Quentin certainly doesn't go out of his way to work out or anything. That's for shmucks.
Well. He's just going to use it to feed his ego. What's she going to do? Try to tell him the reason she can barely move isn't how good he fucked her? Obviously not.]
Nine hours and 13 minutes. Give or take. I was asleep for some of that so. Harder to keep track.
[Shit, what do you even do when the girl you had sex with because it was literally the only thing you could agree on is drowsily waking up in your bed and calling you nicknames? Fuck if Quentin knows. He's never done this kinda thing before. But what he does know is he refuses to let this be awkward. Or at least, no more awkward than it absolutely has to be.
Look. If he can manage to not, you know. Be a pathetic sap when he's butt-naked, surely he can manage it now. Get it together, Quire.]
Not to be a buzzkill, but the nickname thing isn't really helping with... whatever this is. Just so you know.
You try getting fucked three times, Quentin. See what that does to your legs and back. Good thing she had no plans today, just shower, get in her bed with a game, and die. Sounds pretty good, actually. There's an inherent laziness in the way she searches for clothes, as if her synapses in her brain are still rewiring to the beat of awareness. The shirt she stole from him yesterday is within reach, so she puts it on again, and TK brings her shorts to her, and she can at least cross 'getting dressed' off her very short to-do list.
Also, shit. That was a coma. Applauses to her exhaustion, because with how he sleeps, not waking up to take back blankets or kick him over a little so she has some space is a feat.)
... Holy shit. Okay, yeah, that tracks.
(His brain is concerned with awkwardness, but from Sophie? There's none. It's just Quentin, and she's just Sophie. Perhaps it's the grumpiness of being awake that hinders her from feeling anything weird, or perhaps it's the fact that she doesn't think it's weird at all. They did what they did, and even now that she's no longer so horny that her brain isn't functioning, there's not a shred of regret within her. She remains...
Ugh, happy, she supposes. Whatever the fuck. Look, the way she sees it? That's more than enough. Names, titles, quantifiers, certitude, those things are wholly unnecessary. All she wants is for is equality between them, and that they're satisfied with what they have, whatever that may be.
That said, God, she's too sleepy for this. He could give her some grace and 20 minutes at least to shake up her neurons before he called it, but of course not.)
I'll make sure to call you by your full name next time.
(God forbid. Why are there so many damn 'Q's?
With some difficulty, because her lower back is murdering her, she'll shift her position to face him, a hooked finger still rubbing on her face to see if that helps her wake up. She looks positively adorable, kinda like a very precious cat who shows you their belly, all cute and all, but if you come too close, it will claw you. Mornings, etc.
Her system is rebooting, so several firewalls are down — meaning she can show a shred of person before she hates it.)
It's not a buzzkill, you're okay. If you wanna talk, we can talk, if you don't, that's fine, too. Up to you.
[He's very certain hearing that name is going to be like a bucket of ice water on her head, but look. The Phoebe in the room was gonna need addressing sooner or later. Sex is a no-Phoebe zone, but that's it. That's a rule that he's just decided, and she hasn't pushed back on any of his established rules as of yet, so.
That said, he's going to give her a break by rambling a bit for levity's sake, letting his tone smooth back into pretentious nonchalance, waving one hand around lazily. It's funny. This whole shtick is both familiar as his usual behavior but also oddly foreign in this context. Like putting on shoes before taking a shower. Weird.]
"Quentin" is fine. "Quire," sure. Eh. If you call me Quintavius I will find your least favorite song and play it on loop over the telepathic airways until either it's stuck in either your or Deadpool's heads. And it's hard to say which is worse.
[Okay, that feels... a little more "normal" Quentin Quire Snark. Probably a bit more standoffish than what he's going for, though. He doesn't dislike having Sophie here, and he certainly doesn't have any regrets about sleeping with her. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Nor is he all that concerned with defining what they are so much as drawing lines about what they aren't. Thus.. Phoebe namedrop.
Fine, he'll be... nice. A little. He can manage that without becoming a complete puddle. He looks back at her and offers her a crooked half-smile.]
Nothing against talking, though. Just cool it on nicknames. Yeah?
(Yesterday, she would most certainly have yelled at him to no end about the comparison. She's not Phoebe. The shittiest part of it all. It's not either of their faults that the Stepford Cuckoos are identical clones, so whatever she says, even if it's her saying it? It will remind him, and in turn, remind her.
To be fair, he did tell her he wasn't going to do anything that fell into that category, aside from, well. Sophie herself. She can't just be herself without stepping on an eggshell, but that's the agreement they reached, and she'll honor it. Sophie's resigned, and she won't make a big deal of it. They chose this, didn't they? She doesn't regret it for a second, either. It's fine.
Instead of dwelling, she gets out of bed in slow-motion, careful where she steps because again, what the fuck, tiptoeing around the paper. Good thing she's Barbie-coded, her feet can withstand her weight pretty easily, this is not a difficult task.)
I'll make it easy for you. It's that stupid 'If You Like Piña Colada' song. Go for it, I'd love to get everyone on my side on how moronic it is. Catchy doesn't make for good storytelling, and that story is whack.
(... Okay, that's reasonable, and it's... Easier to swallow than the first thing he said.
Cute smile, though. A crinkle of her nose is what he gets for it.
Wait, nope, no. Don't use boyish charms when she's vulnerable, man. Conduct unapproved by Corporate. Wait until she's a little more awake so she can roll her eyes at him. Her hand extends as if it were an agreement, mostly playful and more so she can tell him she's on the same page.)
Ugh, that song's probably already playing nonstop in Wilson's construction zone porta-potty of a brain.
[He grimaces, lip curling in disgust. Sure, it seems like the Deadpool here maybe isn't the one from their universe? Possibly? But honestly, one Deadpool is basically the same as any other. They're all trash.
Anyway. He sees her pick her way through the origami he's scattered around on the floor and waves his hand, pink TK picking up the numerous paper cranes and flying them away into a neat little stack on the other side of the room. That completed, he looks back at her to see the crinkle in her nose and sense that sentiment of "cute smile," which... does make his expression fade ever so slightly. But at least she also seems to be rejecting that. So that's nice. The sooner they find a nice even balance of low-level bitchiness that doesn't involve tearing each other's throats out, the better.
Quentin does take Sophie's hand when she offers it, though he rolls his eyes at her facetiously formal demonstration, and he nods his head at the chair opposite him at the table to indicate she can sit if she so desires.]
See? Point made, but pretty sure his brain loops 'That's The Way I Like It'. Not sure what's worse.
(The face of sheer dismay she makes, and Quentin gets to hear her wondering how the hell those two songs would probably be in his brain and trying to put those two together, only to her further dissatisfaction. God, how does Wade even do it? There's a very good reason why she takes a whiff of his brain and shoves it far, far away from her awareness. Ugh. Gross.
She does catch sight of the eyeroll, thank God, and her shoulders raise in a shrug. Roll your eyes all you want, at least they're agreeing. This is new ground, and she isn't sure whether the whole full connection is needed. That said, she will keep her brain pretty open for him to pick up from if he wants to as she sits.)
It takes me a good two to three hours to person, so just slap some cortisol here and there, and I think I'll be okay.
[Quentin doesn't typically hang out in other people's heads, preferring to rely occasionally on "vibe checks" if needed. Most of that is due to a long history of getting his ass kicked by people who didn't want him snooping around upstairs, but these days he just doesn't see the point of it as much as he used to. He's got enough shit in his head without everyone else's, thanks. All that to say, a full connection between his and Sophie's minds is largely unnecessary, at least on his end. Having Sophie camping out in his brain gets, well. A little claustrophobic, if he's being honest. But for now she's not being as clingy, so that's nice.]
Got it. One cortisol shot to the brain, coming up.
[He puts his fingers to his temple—an entirely unnecessary visual indicator for a process she's fully capable of feeling for herself but nonetheless is habit for him by this point—and gently nudges her cortisol levels higher. Not enough to give her a jolt or feel unnatural, just speedrunning her usual experience of getting to an alert state.]
(She doesn't really need it anymore, to be honest. It had been a frustrating, discouraging uphill battle with him up until this point, and they just couldn't talk. Right now, she feels the opposite. If anything, they're finally... Okay-ish? She can listen to what he has to say without her negative bias coloring every other word, almost like she's finally ready to.
She's a little sorry it took a while.
Sophie knows she's impossible, for all that she likes calling him that. With the waking up work on the way, she gives her face a last rub and a few very light pats to the cheeks.
[He's not listening to every single thing running through her head, but he can still feel that the undercurrent of tension that was running behind her thoughts previously is gone now. It's disappeared for him too. Well, mostly, but what's left is mainly related to her sister. Sophie... tried. In a way Phoebe never did. She made him feel confidence coursing through his veins, made him feel—ugh, cheesy and trite it may be—desirable. Wanted. For who he is, not who he could be. She soothed an ancient wound—which yeah, she played a part in creating, though she was certainly not the only contributor—and that's... pretty cool of her, actually. You know, for a Cuckoo.
The weirdest thing about all of this is he doesn't feel... indebted to her. Well, "indebted" isn't the right word. Loyalty? They don't owe each other. Anything. They both got what they wanted from each other. An exchange of mutually beneficial services between largely self-serving assholes, both clutching to a few crumbs of selflessness.
Quentin ponders for a moment before deciding that apparently he starts.]
Guess the first thing is to decide if we want to do it again.
[A beat, and he quickly adds, putting his hand up.]
Not right now, I mean. In general.
[Yes, she said they'd do it again last night, but she was on round two and three of mind-blowing sex that was at the time happening on two different planes of reality so. She'd be forgiven if her head wasn't exactly in the clearest state at the time.]
(Isn't that the funniest thing? For someone who manages to get her blood boiling in milliseconds, she doesn't want anything other than him as is. He's the most aggravating, challenging, complicated, baffling person she's ever met, and yet, she wouldn't want him in any other way other than himself. It's a little fucked up, really, but no one said she's normal.
Maybe she's just as fucking insane as he is. It happens, who knew? Not her. This whole free-falling, unthetered Sophie is still learning about herself. Individuality arrived at the Cuckoos when she was buried under the ground, she's navigating it the best she can.
It's a very fair question, though. She's on the same page as him, she owes him nothing, and he owes her probably even less than that. What's important to her is that they're together in this, the rest? It will fall into place.)
Wow, the jumpscare you gave my lower back.
(Just for the sake of levity. There's a moment she pauses there, as if she was thinking on how to construct her thoughts. She's not about to lie to him, pretty sure they're past that stage, but honesty without her brain connected to another is still pretty new.)
If it's up to me, yeah. I meant everything, even if you made it very hard to think things through, but now that I have, my answer doesn't change. How about you?
[Quentin huffs a chuckle out through his nose at her joke.]
Don't worry, your lower back is safe this time.
[Which answers his side of the question well enough, but just in case it doesn't:]
It's the only thing we've ever done where we haven't hated each other's guts and was pretty damn incredible to boot, so yeah. I'm down. As long as it's just, you know. Fun. For both of us. And, uh, speaking of.
[Aaand now comes the less easy stuff. Quentin sighs and adjusts his glasses. What he has to say is going to be unpleasant. For both of them. As all Phoebe-related matters are. It also occurs to him that, being a hivemind, Sophie may already know what Phoebe's end of what he's about to say, but. Whatever. Sophie wants to be treated like an individual, right? Well here goes.]
When Phoebe dumped me [no point in using any euphemisms here] she said—more or less—that I cared too much. I saw a future with her. She didn't. Which, you know. Happens. C'est la vie, right?
[He shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself. God, Quire, keep simping to the girl you just slept with about her sister you still have feelings for, why don't you? That's not super weird or pathetic or anything.]
Whatever. Point is, I need you to stop that from happening again. Stop me. From... caring too much or whatever.
[He cringes at himself briefly but soldiers on. Too late to turn back now. Quentin squares his jaw stubbornly and makes eye contact with her for this last bit.]
Means no corny shit, okay? Nicknames, holding hands, cute dates, all that baloney. We fuck when we wanna, but when we're not, we're... normal. Just without hating each other's guts. Yeah?
(Hey, at least he pulls a laugh out of her before he starts talking about unpleasanties. Incredible is a word for it, so are many, many other very positive adjectives. Sophie wasn't sure what she expected when they first got into it, but she can easily say that not only did he fulfill the mission she had given given him — or else she'd have left —, but also she had so much stupid fun, and that was news to her. Pretty pleased, you know?
She pestered him to talk to her for months, and now he is, so the least she can do is listen. Funny how getting something good going for once makes her not want to rebuke every point and fight every word. Quentin is right, though, it is unpleasant, but perhaps it's a small victory that she doesn't want to bite his head off for it, greatly because she is getting what he is coming from.
Although, as previously stated approximately a billion times, she isn't Phoebe, this isn't exactly about that; however, when he rolls his eyes, she does too. It's Quentin's bizarre way of trying not to ruin whatever the hell he has with Sophie. Not to get all puddly, romantic and mushed, like she's seen he gets, and to be quite honest? She wouldn't like that either. The Cuckoo in her adores the thought of men simping, but Sophie herself? She likes being challenged, snark, sarcasm, and laughing herself silly. She's seen Quentin simping, and it's not for her, personally speaking.
That said, it's... Considerate, in a confounded, kinda fucked up way that he doesn't want to repeat his shit with her and set more fire to the flaming garbage can that is Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, protect himself from it in a weird sorta way. So, at the end of his talk, there's a very quiet laugh that comes from her, a shrug of shoulders.)
Good, because I don't care for any of that.
(Like, she'll do it, but care for? Blergh. She feels the gaze upon her, and lets her own meet his.)
We managed to be normal while at it, so I think the prospects are good, but you got a deal. Can't promise you I won't kiss you on a whim when we're alone, but other than that? I got you.
(Meaning she will shake him if he gets too much.)
As for me, what I care about is that we make decisions together and talk shit through when we need to, 50/50, which is what we've been doing. Can't complain, don't want more than that.
/What, psi-comms? You've seriously never—/ [Quire, don't bully the baby telepath. He's doing his best.] /Well, you came to the right guy. I run all comms for my team, and not to toot my own horn but I'm pretty fucking incredible at it./
[... Okay, hold on, he needs to ask something.]
/Sophie suggested you talk to me specifically? Or just another telepath. Generally speaking./
( No, he’s never done psi-comms. Why would he when he basically doesn’t trust the majority of people he’s come across back on Earth? But keeping in touch with them all here while on another world… it seems like a good idea, especially when he doesn’t know what to expect on Solmara and if anything might happen back on Etraya simultaneously. Bases covered seems like a good thing. )
She just suggested I link up with the other telepaths. I decided to come to you about it.
/Any idea how far out Solmara is? Gets a little fuzzy for me outside this bubble crap, buuuut if I patch you into my psychic network I should be able to use your brain to create a feedback loop and amplify the signal. You want any tracking data on any of your squad there? Comms, shared knowledge database, any of that?/
( As for the other stuff, there’s a blip of gentle frustration regarding it because what. )
I can handle keeping track of everyone there. It’s staying connected with you here on Etraya I’m looking to do. I don’t even know what a link is. But I’m guessing it’s different from chatting like this.
/Look, what you're doing right now, it's pinpointing my psychic signature and opening up a channel, right? But this stupid shield around the city creates interference. And then add in the whole "off-world" distance thing? Well, now you really gotta clench your kegels, yeah? Pain in the ass to find any minds through all that shit. That is, unless you've got a pre-existing, uninterrupted connection to hang onto. With me so far?/
/Yeah?? Why'd you say it like that? It's a psychic connection, not a promise ring, buddy./
[Quentin's blaming Sophie for this shit. He has no proof. But he's blaming her anyway.]
/Anyway, we're not establishing anything. I've already got a psychic network using my brain as its main hub. Got it routed through my autonomous nervous system, so it's self-sustaining and runs continuously without needing me to babysit it. I can just patch you in. Like I said. Easy peasy./
[There's nothing but unwavering certainty in Quentin's voice. Partly because he's confident in his own abilities and defenses, but also... Nate just needs to hear it.]
/Patching you in? Easy. Couple seconds of coding, and you're in. I can do it now, if you want. I guess you could, I dunno, try downloading it out of my head. Or something. But honestly, not sure if that'd even work and I kinda don't want you breaking my shit. No offense./
[Sorry, Nate. Quentin tries his best not to throw shade. But on the other hand like 15 minutes ago Nate didn't know what a psychic link was, so...]
/Network itself? Well, first off let's talk signal. Specifically, the amplification thereof. No clue if I'll be able to maintain a steady connection on my own until you get there, but I'd rather be prepared. You think you can figure out how to give me a boost?/
/Well, I've got another telepath on my team back home, and she'd definitely tell me if it was annoying or whatever. Probably with knives. Ninjas, am I right? Anyway. Hold still, you might feel a little pinch, aaaand there./
[Nate is obviously in a different tier than Kwannon, but that shouldn't matter too much. Probably. Regardless, Quentin's done this several times before, so the process is relatively simple and practiced. He reaches out and deftly stitches a bit of code in Nate's mind, a persistent yet relatively unintrusive presence in the back of his head.]
/All good so far? Not feeling any short-circuity kinds of urges?/
( His mind is... unpredictable at times. It helps in keeping him safe — alerts him to the intrusion of others and attempts made to toy with him, but. As both Forge and Sinister had brought up, it's his lack of control that often sees his mind being the one calling the shots rather than himself, though he's been making attempts at finding the means to control his own impulses. At really centering himself within the noise and chaos and working with it rather than against it.
So when Quentin goes and does what he needs to, he makes a conscious effort to be aware of this — to tell himself that this is ok and it's just Quentin. Therefore, no being caught off guard and feeling the need to throw the other telepath against the mental walls. Or, you know, through them. )
/Is that it—dude, it's a complex telepathic subroutine specially designed by yours truly to be as efficient, minimally invasive, and low-maintenance as possible. You have any idea how long it took to figure this shit out? I mean not that long, because I'm a genius, but still. This ain't your grandpa's telepathy, this is cutting-edge shit. One of a kind. So, you know, a little respect, okay?/
[Appreciate his nerdy shit, Nate! Nobody else does :( ]
/Yeah, that's about it. Work smart, not hard. I mean, technically it'd be easier if I commandeered some of your gray matter myself to supply any needed amplification , but hey. Teamwork makes the dream work and all that crap, right? See if you can track the signal from that macro I installed in your head back to the source. By which I of course mean me. Tell me if it seems like something you could, you know, add some extra oomph to if you had to./
( Listening to Quentin explain it all it's... difficult to understand, really. Nate being one so used to just doing, it takes him a moment to figure out what the other's going on about before he just... focuses and with that focus comes a sudden fireworks display of TK that practically lights up the connection between them. Well, there's the boost he wanted, right? )
/Mm, zesty! Like licking a battery. Not exactly what we're going for here, but you know what? I appreciate the effort./
[Is that a little patronizing? Maybe. But look, there's only so much you can expect from Quentin. He's doing his best.]
/Telepathy, it's frequencies. Wavelengths, yeah? Try to feel mine and, you know. Match it. Would this be easier if you downloaded how to do it out of my head? You know how to download specific shit, yeah?/
( Why are you annoying, Quentin?? But he huffs and rolls his eyes before he goes about crossing his arms there. )
No. I can do it.
( And he does, it just… feels like a punch to the head when he does. Not on purpose. Just Nate coming in hard with his abilities because, you know, he’s a little frustrated and what happens when a telepath is in their feels? Stuff like this. But he has a control on it and doesn’t give Quentin a splitting headache after the initial punch there. He lines up his own frequency to Quentin’s, like slotting a piece of a puzzle into place. )
[Look, Quentin? Isn't going to complain that much about the brain punch. He knows he's not great at the explaining part of this or at encouraging in general, and he also, you know. Talks Like That. There is a very distinct psychic impression of an OOF from his end, though.]
/Bingo! I never doubted you./
[Have a telepathic thumbs up, Nate. That'll definitely help the "annoying" thing.]
( There’s a moment of concern with the oof there, but. Quentin seems to be ok, so. Moving on, he tests the strength of their connection - stretches it as he might a rubber band and lets himself get used to how it feels. How it feels to be connected to another like this. )
Are either one of us capable of severing this? Or is it only you?
[Whatever Nate is doing over there feels a little weird, but mostly because of how the hub on Quentin's side is rooted in his subconscious. Like something poking at his funny bone. Whatever, Nate's figuring his shit out, so he gets a pass.]
/Hmm... No clue! The other telepath on my team probably isn't strong enough to break my shit even if she wanted to, and she's never tried anyway. You, though? Dunno. Can't be broken from the outside, though. Chuck tried.
Of course if I go offline so does the whole network. Offline meaning KO'd, not just asleep./
No? You think I want something to? It's just a precaution. I don't know what to expect but if I need to cut you off to spare you from anything, I will.
/Spare me from anyth—you wanna calm down on the martyr complex, buddy? Ignoring the fact that my pal kicking the bucket is gonna ruin my day regardless of whether or not I'm connected to his brain, burning me out of your head will a) piss me off, b) rob me of potentially crucial intel about a thing that can kill an Omega level telepath, c) eliminate my ability to help, and d) piss me off. So don't fucking try it, capiche?/
( Well, so much for being considerate?? What Grey-Summers isn't on that self-sacrificing shit though? Anyways. Despite the huff that leaves him at Quentin's little speech, the other telepath might feel a touch of warmth that comes with his thoughts as he floats there with his arms crossed. )
Anybody ever tell you that you have a way with words?
/What?? How is that different than the first scenario you mentioned? See, this is why I checked./
[smh Nate, this is why we can't have nice things.]
/You do recall I've actually died, right? More than once. Not to be a Debbie Downer or whatever, but I know a lot more about what it feels like than you do./
/I should mention, Julian's on my network too. I mean, not right now. Obviously. Guy never stops yapping./ [Because clearly Quentin has room to judge on yapping.] /He's on a different channel. And on mute. But still./
/"Ok" what? I'm letting you know because I have no clue whether or not you breaking my shit would fuck him up too. Or, I dunno, anybody else I might add./
/What do you mean "so many"? I told you one other person. At home I have like... nine-ish. Give or take. Five regularly on open comms during missions./
/Right now? You and Keller. I met him and Guthrie first, going into some spooky-ass magic library. Offered it to both. Wing-boy told me to take a hike, but Julian's a try-hard so here we are. Hasn't really been a mission that needed them until now, and there's not exactly a ton of extra minds to comb through when I wanna find someone./
/Yeah? It's a passive connection. Pings me if he's being mutilated or killed or whatever, makes it quicker to track his location if I need it. You know, precautionary bullshit. I route surface thoughts and all that malarkey through a filter that runs subconsciously, so I only get the important crap./
/Nate. Buddy. I say this with all the love in the world, truly. But are you stupid?
I just tethered an insanely powerful telepath with unstable powers to the part of my brain that controls whether or not my heart keeps beating. And then I told him how to find that tether and fuck with it. You really think having a macro that automatically pings me if you get stabbed gives me any kind of control?/
[There's a faint sense of feeling hurt or disappointed from Quentin's end. He doesn't think he did anything particularly shady or weird to deserve this? But who knows, really.]
/It's just a shorthand way for me to keep an eye on people so they don't get dead, but yeah. If you want it gone, I'll make sure it's gone. Scout's honor./
( He can feel it and it wasn't his intention to make the other telepath feel that way, but. )
I just needed to know.
( A beat, he glances down where he is. )
I don't like being lied to or left without a choice. I'm not saying you would. But I was curious what your stance on someone wanting to break away was.
/My stance is "my friend thinks my way of keeping him and all these other morons I care about from getting pulverized is actually a thinly veiled machiavellian scheme to collect a bunch of minions or whatever, and that really fucking sucks."/
I don’t think I’m really minion material in the first place. I’m a bit too difficult for that.
( Partly said as a joke, but. At that, he projects himself to Quentin telepathically. Because he can. Because it’s better to talk “in person” than through thoughts, he thinks. )
I’m sorry. I’m not… used to this. Linking up. Teamwork. Being around so many of you so much. ( Mutants, he means. Especially ones who aren’t trying to chase him down. ) I know you’re not looking to have minions. I would have felt it from you. I’m just… like I said. If I hurt you somehow, even by accident, I’d feel bad.
( It’s more him and his own hangups with others and control of his powers than Quentin. And yeah, sure. He knows Quentin has said it won’t happen. But he’s accidentally hurt people before. Even brought some back to life which he doesn’t even know about yet, but. That’s for the future. Right now, he reaches out with his pinky finger. Something he’d done with Sophie. )
You said we’re friends. That you care. I promise to look out for you, if you do the same for me.
Edited (an injection of sweet suddenly ) 2025-05-22 00:05 (UTC)
[There's a spark of irritation from Quentin's side as Nate appears
in front of him and makes all of his apologies and stuff. Nothing major or
anything—Quentin is easy to irritate. More of a "seriously?" vibe. It
doesn't get much better when Nate holds out his pinky finger.]
/Is that... Are you doing a pinky promise? Are you seven years
old?/
[That said, he does reach out and loops his finger around Nate's.
He's gonna roll his eyes about it super hard, though!]
/Literally what I've been saying this whole time, but sure./
[A beat.]
/You and Keller, by the way? Definitely bottom tier minions. Absolutely terrible choices./
( Let him stumble a little, Quentin. His hesitation with everything comes from bad experiences and feeling like he’s just better off alone per Alice Deejay. It’d be a real shame to get close to you all - to make memories and have actual people- friends who want to support him in ways he’s so briefly had and some that were nothing more than lies, only to lose it all.
But the pinky promise seals the deal and he smiles some at Quentin’s eye rolling along with his thinking he’s above a pinky promise. )
As if you’d be any better.
( He gets the feeling none of them would be.
With the pinky promise made and a slow shake of their hands, he lets go of the other’s pinky then and drifts back a little. )
That means this goes both ways you know. I know you can handle yourself power-wise. But you ever have too many balls to juggle in anything else with your life, I can take some of them. Give you a bit of a break.
/Sure, sure, a friend in need is a friend in deed and all that crap./
[Quentin squints at Nate's sudden cheery turn. Hold on, wait, no. He's still salty!]
/Hold up, let's rewind just a second./
[He folds his arms and gives Nate a Very Stern look.]
/Look. You don't like people making choices for you, right? Well, neither do I. So do me a favor and don't decide for me what's gonna hurt me. I'm a pretty tough cookie, I promise. I know what I can handle, and if I miscalculate and get fucked up that's on me. Got it?/
[He pauses, thinks, then makes an addition.]
/And for fuck's sake if you doubt my intentions or whatever then man up and go rummaging through my skull like a normal intrusive telepathic bastard with trust issues./
( Not to say he hasn't or won't do it again himself, but. He's also just saying. )
But fine. If you really want me to give your brain a wedgie, I suppose I always could. ( At that he shrugs, still drifting there, smile faint on his lips. ) I don't doubt you though. I just wasn't sure. But that's on me and my own shit.
/Like I said, intrusive telepathic bastard with trust issues./
[He shrugs. Quentin's not saying Nate's whole "I just needed to know" stunt was as bad as Xavier. But he's also not saying it isn't the kinda shit Chuck would pull.]
/All I'm saying is you either trust me or you don't. This "I wasn't sure," testing me bullshit? Deciding for me when you need to save me? That ain't trust, dude. That's control./
[Quentin sighs, shifts his weight, and shoves his hands in his pockets.]
/Looking out for one another, that's one thing. But guys like you and me? We can't get into trying to control one another. With our powers or without them. That's a no-win scenario./
[He takes one hand out of his pocket and holds it out. A handshake and not a pinky promise because he's not seven years old.]
( Cut him some slack, Quentin. This is the first time he’s really choosing to play nice with another telepath so closely connected to him. The fact he even goes along with it says something, but. He figures if Quentin does cross a line or lie to him, he’ll break it off without so much as a second thought. He can’t deal with more people lying to him he thought he could trust and care for. )
Oh, and here I thought I was being considerate.
( Sarcasm, yes. It’s said with a roll of his eyes in regards to his not wanting to drag the other down with him if things go bad, but. In the end, he takes the other’s hand in his own and eyes him with a tilt of his head. )
[Quentin eyes Nate skeptically. Sure, the guy's acting like he's in full agreement with what Quentin is saying, but... well, call it a hunch, but he's not so sure the message is sinking in. And it's not like he doesn't get why. There's a certain stubborn idiocy that comes with having the type of power at the magnitude that he and Nate share. The urge to control people before they control you. The moral superiority of having the ability to scramble people's brains but choosing to just manipulate them with your own behavior, like that makes it better. Quentin had quite a few slices of humble pie shoved unceremoniously into his gob over the past few years, but Nate? Nate seems like the type of guy who's used to throwing his weight around. Because nobody's been around who could stop him. So far.]
/Good. And seriously? Never be considerate to me. Fake-ass bullshit./
[In case Nate was wondering about Quentin's whole... everything. He lets go of Nate's hand and crosses his arms.]
/Oh, and you are seriously linked directly to my brainstem. So I'd really appreciate you not, you know. Frying me in some way./
( It's a little after he's arrived on Solmara that he tests the strength of their connection and, surprisingly, it holds. Maybe it's the fact that they're both omegas for telepaths. Or maybe it's because Quentin's little psi-comm is just that good. Whatever the case, he reaches out through the connection, locks onto Quentin's psi-signature, and comes in like a shooting star across the sky. )
[Quentin is going to spare Nate the "are you asking for my help? Use your words" shenanigans he'd pull normally. This is a mission, and that means lives are at stake. No time to fuck around.]
/Send me all the intel you've got./ [And then, because he realizes Nate may not know what all is included in "intel"] /Everything you know about them, all the expositional bullshit. And do a scan of all conscious minds in the relevant area that you can reach and send that to me too. You got that?/
( He currently doesn't know if this means this other telepath is just as powerful as them — if not stronger — or way better skilled, but. Doesn't exactly want to chance seeing which of those is true. Much like Quentin, he needs to be smart about this. Especially because it's not just him here... Scott's also with him. )
Yeah. I don't think they realize I'm here. ( Never mind the others, but. Telepaths have a way of knowing when another is around depending on how they make their presence known. Or if they go about snooping too close like Xavier did to him. ) I'm trying to keep my distance. Guess it's a good thing I came after all.
/Shit, I should've installed psi-comms on the rest of your squad before you left. Run a scan on them too, make sure there's nothing untoward going on upstairs. You should be inoculated against most psychic bullshit, but they aren't./
[Yes, that is a whiff of actual worry in his voice. Sometimes that happens. He's a very complex guy, thanks very much.]
/Try to scan everything except your mystery telepath. If you think they haven't noticed you, better that it stays that way. Keep your head down, get me the scans, and no theatrics./
( Well there's something he hasn't felt from the other before. )
Wasn't planning on going in guns blazing.
( Again, he needs to be smart about this, especially with having others with him. )
I can possibly shield the others but I feel like it'd just draw attention. Just banking on their being too busy shielding Alrys here. But yeah. When I get a chance, I'll get back to you with what I can find.
[Don't think he doesn't remember that "I'll cut you off if necessary" bullcrap, Nate. He fucking remembers! Quentin is a gajillion miles or whatever away right now, but he makes sure Nate can feel the "I'm watching you" gesture he's doing.]
( The drop comes in the form of Nate having been able to scan three fourths of the minds around on Solmara — the other fourth he's unable to. The name Beckett comes up amongst the minds of the Solmarans as the one with the ability to mentally shield others from detection. There's also the information of his being well-trained and that his abilities are what keep them all safe. The majority of the Solmarans know him as the guy who walks around a little slumped over. Also, you know, he's one of the close confidants of the person they're looking for and, therefore, the one shielding Alrys from them. )
My guess is he's exhausting himself from keeping these mental shields up so much.
[Ah, yes, give him all that juicy intel. Quentin is already sifting through the data, cataloguing all relevant details and searching for any potential weaknesses in this "Beckett" guy's mental shields.]
/Received. You guys trying to track this dude or shut him down?/
I'm of the thought that if he figures out we're here, he's going to be a problem.
( What telepath isn't, really? )
That said, not trying to draw his attention either. But if he's the reason I can't locate Alrys, then disabling him would likely help, don't you think?
/Okay, yeah, see, that logic only holds up if he's not an omega. Or equivalent. Or whatever./
[Look. Do you have any idea how many times Quentin's bragged about being an omega right before getting absolutely wrecked by something? Because it's not a small number. He got killed by a goddamn Sabretooth clone.]
/Guess you could always use the Chuck Maneuver. As a back-up./
/Yeah. What I used on Xavier. Malevolent thoughtform quarantined in my brain until he got too close. You know, psychic booby trap. I don't have that one anymore, but I could probably replicate it if I had to. Thing is, you'll have to quarantine it in your own head, airtight enough that it can't leak out, but not so locked down that you can't pull it out and toss it at some chucklefuck as a Hail Mary, you feel me? You just don't, you know, want it infecting you or anything. It's one doozy of a nasty little bug./
Let's keep it as a possibility. I'd like to think if he's draining himself with keeping these shields up all the time, that alone could be a spot to target.
/Unless you start makin' trouble in his neighborhood, and he drops the shields and opens up a can of whoop-ass on you. I'll start cooking you a dirty brain bomb, and we'll hope we don't need it. Or that it doesn't explode in transit./
[Nope, not going to elaborate on that. Moving right along.]
/I should be able to triangulate his position based on data from frequent, regular scans of the area. Like... every 15, 30 minutes or so. Shields leave gaps in the psychic landscape. Send out enough pings, and you start seeing what's bouncing them back. You know. Telepathic radar. Think you can get me that?/
/I mean can you sense him at all? You think this Beckett guy could?
Figuring out where the dude is physically is a whole lot easier than finding him psychically. Could you, theoretically, locate him and send this nullifier weirdo in there to, I dunno, hit him with a tire iron in a dark alley or something?/
The toll his powers had taken on his body — the lengths he'd pushed himself to with having to rely on his telekinetic abilities over his telepathic ones... he's drained in a way he hasn't been here on Etraya or for a hot minute now, but. He knows the signs — knows how it feels when both his body and mind are about to give out on him and he's glad he'd managed to take down the other telepath prior to all this.
There's a sort of loud WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. going off that he's about to burn out — that he's moments away from losing consciousness and, in doing so, possibly sending a jolt of telepathic fuckery through their connection that's likely to crash into Quentin. A shooting star falling from the sky and slamming straight into the Earth. That's how it's going to feel when it hits him. Everything within him aches, including his mind, and he just barely manages to grab hold of the thread they have for a connection as he tries to navigate back to the portal Aurora left for them. )
Think I'm about to crash. Might want to brace yourself for impact, bud.
[Okay, well, that's not ideal. But at least Nate isn't trying to fry his psi-comms. Appreciate that, buddy.
Quentin doesn't bother wasting too many words, since he's not sure how much longer Nate's gonna be able to talk. Besides, he needs the spare brainpower to prepare himself for whatever psychic explosion the guy is about to unleash. Psychic surge protector, yeah? Can't be that hard to figure out.]
/Consider my loins girded, thanks for the heads up. You got Summers?/
[Quentin can tell Nate's headed for the portal, so no need to arrange a meeting spot, which means the priority is Scott. Sure, it's unlikely that Nate would leave the kid behind, and he may not even be conscious long to answer, but... worth checking. Just to make sure. Nate's not used to having teammates, after all.]
( Blood begins to drip from his nose as he uses what strength he has left in him to get both himself and his young alternate father to the portal. His body feels on fire against the cool air he pushes against, pieces of his conscious mind breaking apart the harder he goes. He's only got a minute or so before he's out. Perks of this having happened a few times before is that he knows the telltale signs of when he's about to crash and an idea of how long he has before he absolutely cannot push any further. )
About the only thing I can carry right now. Heading for the portal. Almost there.
[Oof, Quentin can feel how hard Nate's pushing himself. Makes his teeth clench and his bones ache.
... Damn it, he's not going to get away with just protecting himself from the overload of psionic energy and calling it a day, is he? What if Nate doesn't make it to the portal? And even if he does, what? Nate burns himself out while Quentin over here is playing summer camp and twiddling his thumbs? Wow real shame about that Nate guy becoming a supernova, if only someone could have done something. Probably more Jean's problem than Quentin's anyway.
Ugh. Fine.]
/That's plenty. Get to the portal, we'll take it from there. I'll buy you a few extra minutes, sit tight./
[He reaches out and does his best to hold together the fraying bits of Nate's mind. The guy's pushing past his limits, right? One omega worth of shit. But two should be able to bear the brunt a little easier. Right? Right. Sure, the fact that an omega's powers are by definition limitless kinda makes that math not shake out, but whatever.
It burns like all get out, giving Nate a psychic shoulder to lean on, but hey. What are friends for, right?]
He's counting down the seconds he has until he slips into the dark that comes with falling unconscious. His mind unravels, his body aches, blood drips harder from his nose. That's when he feels something through the connection — when the pieces of his mind falling away begin to slowly slip back into place almost. Not as perfectly as they had been before. More like someone taking strips of tape and putting back together a broken vase. It takes him a second to pick up on what's happening when he then feels Quentin's psychic presence there with him and he blearily looks to him there through their connection. )
What are you...
( doing? He wants to ask, but is unable to.
The portal is there — he can see it from where he pushes through the air with Scott pulled along. The portal is there and he... can't... get there. It's a sudden flash of bright light within him — within the center of his mind and while quiet, it explodes in a way that sends a tidal wave of a psychic shockwave through their connection, racing towards Quentin for impact. The moment the burst of light happens, Nate's out. Falls from the sky along with Scott, though he'd been keeping the younger mutant lower than him for this exact reason. But he's out and he crashes into the ground, skidding and rolling across it until he finally comes to a stop and he's just... there. Out. But at least he made it close enough to the portal. )
[Scott isn't a telepath, but he doesn't need to be one to tell that Nate was pushing himself to his absolute limit. After Beckett and seeing the way he's been sweating with blood down dripping from his nose, it was more than enough to clue the young mutant in. And of course he's fucking worried. Whatever weird relationship he has with the other mutants in this world, he still cares, and there's been a couple of times along the way back to the portal where Scott voiced his concerns about the other's well-being.
But Nate kept going... and it was hard to fully protest. It's not like Scott really has a means to get them back to the portal himself. Dragging the other mutant across the desert would definitely be a bad idea.
Still, despite expecting Nate to start collapsing at any moment, there's no disguising his small yell as their flight suddenly ends-- their bodies plummeting to the earth without much warning. Luckily not from a great height, but his body still hits the ground with a slightly rough impact, sliding and rolling across it until that momentum stops, leaving him in a small heap. He's pretty sure that nothing snapped, but Scott still coughs-- finding it hard to orient himself for a few seconds. He'll be fine! He just needs a moment to recover, even though it's tempting to just close his eyes and lie limp for a while. He's tired too, but no. Get up, Summers.]
Nate...!
[He coughs again as he slowly pulls himself up, knees bending up so that he can slowly pull himself off the ground and look at the other mutant with undisguised worry. Don't be dead-- don't be dead, and Scott starts running over to his side (after stumbling a little).] Come on man!
[Don't die. Not like this. Not as he looks down at the older mutant that he's been working with for the past few days. Some relief surges through him when he sees that Nate's chest is still moving, but he doesn't waste any more time, his hands gripping underneath his shoulders so that he can start dragging him back to the portal. This first. Then he'll worry about the others that are still chasing Alrys.]
( quentin reaches out to him, which is the first sign something is really wrong here. nate's down is telling enough, but i'm trying to keep his brain together is another concern altogether. julian hightails it right out of camp, doesn't bother slowly losing speed as he approaches the portal but drops to the ground with his feet still running to keep with his momentum. there's no sign of anyone coming through the portal, yet, and julian knows enough from what aurora said to know better than to rush through it himself.
instead, he waits until there's even the slightest sign of someone coming through, and grabs onto whatever he can reach first to start dragging them on through. )
It was already solidly in the "not fun" category when he contacted Julian, but Quentin almost falls out of the damn sky when that psychic shockwave hits him. Keyword: almost. Thankfully Nate gave him enough of a heads up that, despite Quentin doing the stupidest thing possible and trying to help the poor bastard out, he could still do some last-minute telepathic finagling to not get completely wrecked. It hurts, though. Like... a lot. Like the worst charley horse, the worst brain freeze, and a punch to the kidney all at once. Woof. Good thing he brought back-up.
Quentin had a head start, but Julian makes it to the portal first. Unsurprising, considering he's not currently getting his brain clobbered by an omega telepath going supernova (and also he's just a faster flyer than Quentin but that's irrelevant). Must be nice. He also had a far more nimble landing than Quentin, who almost immediately face-plants on the ground several feet away from the portal, but manages to keep his balance with just some awkward stumbling. Look, he's still upright! And that's what matters.]
Need any help with that?
[Quentin gestures at whatever's going on at the portal. So what if he's huffing and puffing, hunched over with his hands braced on his knees, and clearly had a bloody nose a few minutes ago? He's fine. Mind your business.]
[The first thing either mutant will see from the portal is Scott.
At least, the back of him, a perhaps familiar jacket in sight as he struggles to walk back with Nate's body still firmly gripped and pulled in his hands. He's clearly struggling with the weight, but he's not letting go, even as his muscles strain to pull the other mutant through. Wouldn't it be fucking pathetic if he let Nate down now? Right at the end? After he flew them most of the way back? He only temporarily stops as he feels Julian grab onto the back of his jacket, his voice familiar and actually warranted and wanted right now.
He thinks he also hears Quentin. And that means..
They're here. With other mutants. They're really back in Etraya and thus with people that can actually help Nate and see what's going on. He's still worried of course, focused on the comatose form of Nate and the fact that he's only halfway through the portal. You know. Give everyone a look at Nate's closed eyes and bloody nose and everything.]
Can't exactly fall forward like this! [He shouts, almost demanding.] Just help me pull him!
( with one hand on scott's jacket, the other trying to wrap around a shoulder to find nate on the other side of him, but it's fine. because as soon as he has a good grip on scott himself, julian's intentionally falling backwards and onto the grass and pulling scott along with him. soon as nate's body is through the portal enough that julian can latch onto it telekinetically, he'll start yanking that guy along, too.
so, no, no help needed from quentin for the moment. he knows the guy probably feels like shit after keeping nate's head together as long as he could, and yanking a couple teenagers through a portal wouldn't be difficult if julian could, you know, actually go through it. )
[Julian's got this? Yeah, Julian's got this. Which is good, because Quentin does feel like shit. Ouch.
Not that feeling like shit has ever stopped him before. One of the "perks" of being an omega, he supposes. Most mutants to do flashy impressive bullshit like Nate over there, but more often than not? For Quentin it usually just means a limitless ability to keep plugging along well after the point where he'd rather take an aspirin and nap for about two weeks. Lucky him.
Alright, break time's over, Quire. Get your ass in the game. He glances at Nate and... yep, that's a mess. Guy's noggin is in shambles. Okay, that's top of the list to deal with back at camp. Before that, though... Now that Scott's safely on this side of the portal, Quentin points at him, and look at that! His arm is only shaking a little bit! Hooray.]
Summers. Did that Beckett guy mess with your head? I mean that you know of.
[Nope, not even going to bother giving Keller any exposition for that. Look, if Julian can't figure out from context clues the bare minimum of "Beckett" being a telepath or similar, then that's on him. Also Quentin promised to update him later. Right now he's here to be the brawn, not the brain.]
[Scott falls backwards with Julian after one great pull and if he lands on top of the other mutant, he's not too sorry about it. After all, this is why the other mutant is here thanks (though he'll move off Julian soon enough). But more importantly, most of Nate's body is clear out of the portal, just only needing that extra pull from Julian's telekinetic powers to tug the rest of him from the other side until he's safely back in Etraya and in one piece.
Like, it'd really suck if the portal closed in on him halfway!! Not that Aurora looks like she's going to-- her presence honestly barely noted before he's looking at Quentin and shaking his head.]
No, I didn't feel him do anything. If you want to go through my head just in case, then fine. [Scott?? Don't be so open to someone going through your mind?? But the teen squares his jaw, nodding back to Nate.] But help him first. I-I think he pushed himself too much. He's been using his powers a lot.
[He doesn't fully notice how exhausted Quentin is himself... just sort of locked in about Nate. The teen is fretting in his own way, letting that concern build up and leak into his voice.]
( there's an oof when scott comes tumbling on through the portal on top of him, but that's the whole point of julian's presence here to begin with, so he doesn't complain about it any. especially not when nate is still down. instead of any bitching, julian wraps an arm around nate's midsection, getting up onto his knees so he can shove an arm under the guy's legs and - pushes up onto his feet while carrying him. yeah, part of the weight is being lifted by his telekinesis just to get him up, but -
they're not leaving nate on the ground while he's unconscious, and it's not like quire's in any shape to be lugging the guy around. )
Check Summers' head. ( better to be safe than sorry, after all. ) Since this one's still out, ( with a nod of his head to nate. ) should probably check the one that's awake enough to cause damage if someone is fucking with him.
["Check Summers' head" says Julian. Like he's the boss and knows everything when he's literally the guy here who knows the least. Unbelievable. It makes Quentin not even want to do it, just on principle. Except he should and was already planning to and it's a good idea—it was literally Quentin's idea—and he is not in fact a petulant child. He's a petulant adult, thank you very much.]
Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.
[Is he directing that to Scott or Julian? Doesn't matter. Either of them. Both. Who cares. Quentin's head hurts, and now he's pissy.
Still, he puts two fingers to his temple and does a quick and dirty scan of Scott's brain, not bothering to be overly thorough since he's pretty sure Nate would've sensed it if something fishy was going on upstairs. And also because using his powers feels like rubbing sandpaper on a sunburn.]
Well, Tyke-clops is clean. And the only one fucking with Nate is Nate. His mind is a wreck, but that's just him being dramatic. Burned himself out. I should be able to stabilize him before he goes Chernobyl on our asses as long as we get him back to camp without wasting time.
["We," he says. Only one of them is currently holding Nate. Hint hint.]
[Scott just watches as Julian pulls Nate up into his arms, a sudden feeling of relief combating against the lump that's developed in his throat. The other mutant's being helped now, but it feels like he should've done more somehow? Stop this from happening in the first place? He doesn't know. He just hates seeing how unmoving Nate is in Julian's arms.
Fuck.
If he reacts to Quentin quickly shuffling through his brain, it honestly doesn't show. Scott's just distracted? Sort of used to telepaths going through in there? Yes. He only really turns his eyes towards the only conscious telepath here, swallowing down that earlier lump that's been crawling up-- and maybe seeking just a little reassurance from the omega mutant that Nate will be okay.]
Obviously. ( this isn't even close to the first time julian's princess carried someone away from a disaster zone, so it's whatever. he's got nate held pretty comfortably, it's just a matter of, apparently, getting them back to camp quickly. )
Crap like this happens all the time. Probably isn't Quire's first time holding together another Summers' head, either. And we've got a healer back at camp for anything that's not keeping one's psyche in one piece.
( a step forward, and a green platform of telekinetic energy appears under julian's foot, which he - gestures with his chin towards to get the rest of them over to, since quire looks like he's struggling enough as it is. )
(Who's pretty, blonde, tall, and absolutely fucking nosy? It's your girl.
Listen, this time, she wasn't even trying to be nosy. She was minding her own business when she got a shockwave in the psychic landscape, and the presence of two known minds being back in Etraya. Quentin's mind is the one she is lightly touching, bits and pieces, generalizations — she's got the idea, and didn't need to get closer, preventing her own brain from frying too.
Running support, eh? Good. First things first — find a cabin for Nate to be rested in, she's choosing Iguana's, excuse her as she finds a suitable place to put Nate on. Second thing, find food to restabilize Quentin when he's done with Nate. At least she knows how now, so she's picking out the most sugary, jaw-breaking candies she can to deliver to him when he gets to camp. Last, not least, Scott, but for that one she needs him in camp to deal with.
In general, her plan for the aftermath is very simple: get Julian to watch Nate and keep an eye on the telekinetic energy "just in case", crucially away from Quentin while he gets his shit together and his brain in order, and she will snatch Scott before Julian gets pissy and worried. Sounds like a solid plan.
[Quentin is just about to give Summers what would no doubt be some extremely encouraging, inspirational, uh... other-adjectives-probably garbage to make him feel probably feel better—except then he's interrupted. By a) Julian saying another Summers and b) Sophie deciding to butt in.
Sure.
Why not.
Might as well.
At least Sophie is being helpful. Unlike Hellion, who is living up to his code name in the most annoying possible way. Jesus, you bring a guy on a rescue mission as a glorified pack mule one time, and what happens? Dude gets all... uppity about it. And can't keep his mouth shut or mind his business. The audacity.
Quentin gives Sophie the telepathic equivalent of a "thumbs up" reaction emoji, looping Scott and Julian in so they know her message has been acknowledged. If either of them wants to pipe up and add to that, they can be his guest, but he's not wasting the brainpower. Instead, he just waves Summers toward Keller's little TK platform thing with a dismissive eye roll. Quentin is, notably, not approaching said platform.]
What he said. [Does it physically pain him right now to agree with Julian? Yes. But he's doing it. Because he's a goddamn team player.]
I'm good at this shit. Trust me, I'll put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Now go, shoo, all aboard the Hellion Express or whatever. I'll be right behind you.
[He dares Julian to say some bullshit about Quentin flying himself. He fucking dares.]
[Scott barely notices Sophie's message. Honestly, he barely even registers Quentin's answer to his own question about Nate's safety, because he's staring hard at Julian, mouth parted as one single sentence runs through his brain over and over again.
Another Summers.
What the fuck. What the fuck.
And--]
Nate is related to me?! And you all knew?! [His voice is rising and. He's not sure whether or not to be angry or upset or confused or something else. Maybe all of the above? Yeah, that sounds good right now. Why stick with one feeling when you can experience them all at the same time?
Someone might need to push Scott onto the Hellion Express.]
( why is he stuck with summers jr. he told sophie he didn't want to have to deal with it, and yet here he is, babysitting him while carrying nate. this is quentin's fault somehow probably.
even if he acknowledges it was his idea to send scott, and therefore, it is julian's fault and his responsibility. whatever. there's a roll of his eyes, and he takes a step in closer to scott. one of his prosthetics flits away from where it hovers at his forearm where his hand would be, if he had them, to grab onto the back of scott's jacket and yank him up onto the telekinetic platform. he could just fly them both without it, but that's more effort. )
Yeah? He's like your alternate universe kid. ( were they not supposed to tell him that. ) You've got two of them here, you'll get used to it.
( because that helps.
doesn't matter much anyway, because julian's got hold of scott, and he's flying them back toward camp. )
Quentin follows like he said he would, keeping an eye out for Summers trying to wriggle out of Julian's grip or starting any shit. He would really rather not fly Scott back himself, considering he's not exactly in peak condition at the moment, but he will if he has to. Not preferable, though. Look, Keller's gotta pull his own weight here, especially if he's gonna be such a pain in the ass.]
I just wanna state for the record that Nate's the one who didn't want you to know. It's just that Mr. "Doesn't Tag His Spoilers" can't help opening his big stupid mouth.
[Throwing both Nate and Julian under the bus? You betcha.]
Also, Snape kills Dumbledore, and Bruce Willis is a ghost. In case you wanted any other plot twists ruined for you.
[It's a sign of how much shock Scott is in that he isn't even bitching all that much about Julian pulling him onto the platform. Or maybe it's all that anger and confusion that's building up in the teen, just more and more being added by the minute, as he looks at the other mutant and oh okay. Yeah, just add on the fact that he has two kids here! Great!!
Luckily for Quentin, Scott's not really trying to wiggle out of his grip. There is a passing thought of just blasting Julian with his powers, the only thing stopping him is the fact that Nate still needs help. But it sure is fucking tempting still. Partially because Nate also knew apparently and as such, he's kind of pissed at him too!!
About the other stuff Quentin mentions though... he has no idea what he's talking about and he doesn't care right now.]
No one told me we were keeping crap from Cyclops Jr.
( because in what world does that make any sense to bother with anyway? it's not as if secrets last long in their crew. julian's still got a hand on scott, both arms wrapped around nate, and they're - going. mostly because he now wants this to be over as quickly as possible, and because they've got people waiting on them. )
I literally told you why I asked you to go. I didn't have any ulterior motives or whatever bullshit. You went. You did your stupid job. Congratulations. Your life's full of weird crap and you're a massive asshole most the time. We all got used to Summers' bullshit back home, you'll adjust.
(Being dressed up in his room just feels wrong when he's already seen her a complete mess, and wow, also made her see it, too. That's the reason why as soon as she arrives at his room, it all comes off. Jewelry in her bag, now long hair in a messy bun, and whatever baggier shirt she can snatch from his wardrobe. It's pretty okay lately to be here, very surprisingly — hang out, fuck, sleep (even poorly, considering his sleeping habits include taking up all the bed space, squish to the side and hog all the blankets). It's a huge step up from literally wanting to drown him in the pool whenever he spoke, so.
Right now, however, she's taking a bit of a break with her game in her hands, focus over 9000, which means she tosses, and she turns, and she gasps, and she growls, and she celebrates, and she accidentally disconnects the charger from the plug, and she reaches the final level — and she stares at the screen turning off when the battery depletes.)
...
...
...
...
(Betrayal. Betrayal to the last degree. With disbelief slowing her down, she just sits up to stare at Quentin for a second before she can find words to convey the dumb shit she just did.)
[It's been... weird, the pattern Sophie's apparently decided to set lately. Not bad weird, at least not so far. Just... weird.
Look, it's not like they spent a lot of time hanging out the first time she visited his room. It's perfectly reasonable for him to be a little bewildered when she showed up the second time without immediately jumping his bones. Even if she did. Later. But before that it was confusing! And then the same thing happened again. And now a third time. Thus establishing a pattern, wherein Sophie makes herself at home in his room for unknown reasons, sits around for approximately 1-2 hours playing her games, and eventually decides she'd very much like them to fuck each other senseless. Which... well, he doesn't understand why she chooses his room to game any more than he gets why she feels the need to wear his shirts, but he also can't say he has any complaints about the arrangement. She seems perfectly content to let him ignore her, and it's always right around the time—either coincidentally or by design—where he starts feeling a little claustrophobic that she switches gears. It's... nice, strangely enough.
It's 38 minutes into today's gaming session that apparently some kind of disaster strikes. Quentin looks up from his most recent bullshit boredom-delaying activity, which in this case is reading Les Misérables in full. Wait, what the hell is she talking about? She lost something?]
(Look. She has one rule only — having them equal has tons of little meanings behind it, one of which is that if he doesn't want her to do something, he'll tell her, and she won't push, instead dancing to the usual Cuckoo beat of intrusiveness and making him. He didn't tell her no, nor does he give her shit outside the typical Quentin Quire bitching routine (used to it, and oddly, appreciates it), and ignoring her is completely fine because her focus on the screen also means she ignores the hell out of him, too.
It's also not rocket science. She's here because it feels slightly safe to be and let her guard down enough to take down a brick or two from the massive, thick wall that separates Sophie from vulnerability. Sure, fine, she'll quietly admit that in bed he sometimes manages to demolish entire sections in one go, gets her giddy and puts a smile that could light a town on her face, but mind your business, she rearranges it in her sleep and the wall is pristine the next day.
It's... Weird. Not bad weird. Just... Weird.
Wait. That book is enormous. How long does it take him to finish it? Ugh, dumb secondary mutation. Girl, don't say anything so he doesn't go 'YoU LoVe Me fOr My MaSsIvE BrAiN' again. Which. Not wrong, she does enjoy it tremendously. But let's not give him yapping content so early in the day, although, hey, he is a telepath. Probably heard that bullshit anyway. Can't win.
Okay. Fingers run through the long strands to get some of it off her face, and she sighs.)
I tossed and turned so much that the charger disconnected, and it died on the last level. Hard mode doesn't let you save. Ugh, technology.
[There's a lot he could do with her "tossed and turned" and "hard mode" comments. It's almost too easy, honestly. But she has only been here 39 minutes, which makes it still her designated Gaming Time, so he'll save his innuendos for later. He'll remember them, though. Don't you worry about that.
And yes, he did hear her thinking about his massive brain. He's saving that one for later, too.
In the meantime, though, he's just going to go with the ole reliable: unreasonable assholeish victim-blaming.]
You didn't notice the charger getting disconnected?
(Wow. Once more proving that they might have left high school, but the sense of humor remains the same (contains self-burn).
Her eyes roll, getting out of the bed with a little stretch above her head as she walks towards the little table by the window.)
Obviously not. Ugh, tomorrow's mission, I guess.
(Except... It is so early. She jumps his bones now, she sleeps way too early, she wakes up at an unholy time, the devil enters her body, her bad mood gives the entire manor a headache, there is no exorcist in this place to deal with it, so forth.)
Wanna do something for an hour or two that isn't me?
[He does pout a little at those last three clarifying words. Just, you know, on principle. But he pretty quickly gives up the act, instead just looking down at his book again with a shrug.]
I am doing something.
[He nudges the book with his hand, just in case it wasn't clear. It almost certainly was, but he's an asshole, so. You know.
Thing is, he does have a few ideas—of a more platonic variety—floating around in his head. But giving them up for free? That's what he would've done before they made this little arrangement, which thus far has been pretty successful at making them at least 80% less miserable. And what's her one rule? 50/50.]
You want me to entertain you, you gotta make me an offer.
(The eyeroll that ensues as a direct response to the pout is equally without any weight, her nose giving it away completely. Dumbass (anguished/fond).
Sophie also doesn't think she has to clarify further that she means something with her in this case, nor does she has to repeat the eyeroll. He's smart, he knows what she means, which he confirms with the following sentence.
It successfully gets her neurons to light up like a Christmas tree, though.
Interesting.)
Alright, we can negotiate. I need to know what I am bidding on.
[Quentin looks up from his book, peers at Sophie critically like he's genuinely debating whether or not to negotiate. He's not, of course, but you know. Presentation matters. Eventually he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his face with all the gravitas of mob boss making a deal.]
She refuses on principle to let him have that one so easily. God forbid she gets to hear the bit on how she's totally damn hot for his mind or whatever. Nope, not doing it, absolutely not. Also, on top of that, how dare he just casually throw that in? Like, hey, your favorite thing? I can make one right now, stat, just like that? How does she even top that? Fucking show-off.
Hot, though.
Shut up. Well, maybe, just maybe, you know. He wins this time, but she denies him the next five wins. Just on principle, because this is too damn easy and unfair. That sounds like a solid plan.
When did her life come to this again? It's the culmination of her choices and joint decisions with him? She wanted this? She actually wants this, present tense? Oh, dear Lord. Why?
Fine. You know what, might as well. Fine. It's cool. She can deal with this.)
[Aha! He will take that W, and he will add it to his collection of Ws. Maybe he'll make a little trophy cabinet in his mind for them. And then make sure she sees it next time they're in there. What's the point of winning if you can't gloat, after all?
And make no mistake, he is gloating. Just not quite as loudly as he could be. Yet.
Quentin puts his hand to his chest melodramatically.]
Look, if you don't wanna negotiate, that's perfectly fine by me.
[But just so there's no confusion about what he means by that, he waves his fingers dismissively at the console she left on the bed.]
You could always just wait for your little handheld gaming system to charge.
[Rubbing salt in the wound? Yes, yes he is. But look, she's into it. She wouldn't be here if she wasn't. So how could he not mess with her?]
(She knows he's messing with her, and well, it's not like she doesn't mess with him just as much, so harm? None done. Annoyance? Absolutely. This is kind of what makes them, well, them. It's the sheer stupidity they enjoy in here, witnessed only by the obnoxiously pink walls and questionable furniture.)
Hey, hey, wait, being hasty is a bad business practice. I never said that, what I said was that it's unfair.
(Has she said fine already? No? Here's another fine, with a squint of her eyes, because really, what can she offer him that can even slightly balance the scales?
She hates him so much, she hates him so much, she hates him so much, she hates him so much.
So, let's hear it from the man himself.)
I'm listening. What do you want?
(She can't imagine it's sex-related, because he already is getting that. Kinda dumb to throw this golden ticket on something he has without it.)
Really? You're making me create a whole entire game construct populated by fully functional NPCs, hyper-detailed down to the pixel, weather effects, ray tracing, and I still gotta do your negotiating for you too? Tsk tsk.
[He tuts at her before tapping his finger against his chin thoughtfully.]
Alright, fine. I want... hmm. A favor coupon. To be redeemed at my discretion. And it'll be a doozy, too.
[Quentin cocks his head to one side smugly, thinks for a moment, and then adds:]
Oh! And I want you to tell me how much you love my huge sexy brain.
[Obnoxious? Yes. Very. But he'll make it worth her effort. How often do you get the chance to literally live a game entirely in the shared space between your own and someone else's heads?]
Nope, giving me a baseline to work with is only reasonable, given the undeniable fact I can't do anything remotely similar.
(Mismatched negotiation power, Quire, and given that she isn't swimming in his mind to figure out something he might want, he's gotta help a girl out.
But he extracted a chuckle from the depths of her unwilling lungs, because that's it? Perhaps it does say something that now she trusts him enough to think that's not a horrible idea. 50/50 rules, he'll meet her halfway, as much as she's expecting something idiotic to arrive months (or hours) from now out of it — something that's most likely going to make her roll her eyes deep into her skull with a smidge of wanting to smother him in his sleep, but that's about it.
Her response comes telepathically in cheeky format, an image in the shape of a golden ticket with cursive text that reads 'FAVOR CUPON - SPECIAL OFFER; valid for one favor, to be redeemed by Quintavius "Quentin" Quirinius Quire, nonrefundable and nontransferable; expires in a year'.
And then he says that, and her face breaks a little as the five stages of grief return to her, eyes shutting close as she slowly nods because, yeah, of course, and strangely enough, that's not even the worst thing he could ask her to admit, because she kind of already had once. Sure, not 'how much', that's a whole different deal than saying she likes it, but still. It's not like he doesn't know.
Still, loser.
Or she is the loser, or both of them are losers. Probably the last thing. How the mighty have fallen.)
Scandalous telepathic kink you got there (— says the one who feeds it —), but fine.
(She'll also make it worth his effort, standing only to move from her seat to, well, her other seat, which happens to be his lap. Kisses to his neck come with words in between them. Also so he doesn't look at her, but again, mind your business.)
I really, really do love your massive, high-speed, stupid, sexy brain.
[He could bitch about the whole "expiration date" she's printed on her coupon, but honestly, the likelihood of him not pulling it out within a year? Slim. So whatever. Fine. He'll allow it. This time.
And no, this has nothing to do with her distracting him by sitting in his lap and kissing his neck while fulfilling that second part of his request. Nothing at all.
Okay, maybe a little.]
Hmm, passable first attempt.
["Passable," he says, like she didn't drag a soft, slightly broken-sounding noise unwillingly from his throat as he struggles not to squirm under her. Very unfair of her to pull this shit when she literally just said they weren't doing each other yet. Rude af.]
You know, your body out here is gonna be passed out the whole time you're in my game. Sure I can't talk you into a quickie before I fire it up?
[And if he just happens to lightly set his hands on her waist where he knows she likes it... Well. Wouldn't that be a coincidence? Look, he just needed a place to put them, and this happened to be the most convenient! Honest.
Also no, this doesn't count as the favor. Because he asked instead of telling her what he wanted. Crucial difference in semantics there.]
(Bitch, please, if it isn't redeemed in the next three months, she's going to be really impressed.
She's got a mental map of where in his neck he's most sensitive, because of course she does, she's always connected to his senses when she's in there — if not to borrow, to learn, so that's exactly where her lips go unhurried. Passable, right. As if.
Did she say what she said? Yes, but he is making a very compelling verbal argument against it, as her beauty sleep is granted, and his hands are also doing their part in fitting perfectly on her waist. He convinced her with the noise he gave her alone, but hey, she's also gotta be difficult.)
Talk me into it, not really.
(Which is why her lips meet Quentin's, so he doesn't make use of them. Not that it ever stopped him from talking. Telepaths.)
[Quentin gives up any pretense of coyness as soon as she kisses him, sliding his hands under her (his, actually) shirt to hold her waist skin-to-skin and grinding up against her. Serves the double purpose of supplying some very nice friction and making sure she can feel him. You know, since she implied he'd have to persuade her.
Pretty rude to not finish what she started, right?]
/I can be pretty convincing, you know. I recently got a blank check from some chick for agreeing to do something I was gonna do anyway. Sucker. She's into it, though./
(One day, Quentin might appreciate the inherent allure of a girl wearing nothing but lingerie and a boy's shirt, just saying — not that it is anywhere near the reason why she does it, but still, man.
That first friction and skin contact always drags a little noise from her, a hand resting on his neck as the other has her fingers fishing the waistband of his boxers to play with.
And then he says that, and of course, of fucking course, the aggravation brings out crimson to her cheeks. Incorrect? No. Unnecessary? Absolutely. Kind of always the theme with him, though. She's, ugh, used to it, but it doesn't make her less keen to smother him with a pillow in his sleep; she has ample access and opportunity to achieve. Because she shares a bed with him sometimes.
Cripes. The kiss is broken, although she stays close enough so he can see her eyebrow rise.)
I heard said chick is strongly reconsidering her life choices and taste. Might suck to be you.
(Nah, she ain't. Not moving an inch. Still wants to smother him, though, definitely wants to smother him.)
Probably best for her to increase the difficulty level.
[Oh, sure, he could appreciate the allure of a girl wearing nothing but lingerie and his shirt, but honestly she only has herself to blame. Really kills some of the sexiness when most of the time she's wearing his shirts she's sitting around playing games while they ignore each other. Also? He likes his shirts. On him.
The particular combination of irritated and turned on that he's mastered inducing in Sophie is as satisfying as ever, and Quentin looks every bit the cat who got the canary. Smug as hell, and not getting less smug any time soon. Just like how despite what she says he knows she's not going anywhere.
Sophie breaks the kiss, and Quentin moves forward to restart it. If she's gonna have the audacity to try and shut him up that way, he's going to talk in her head even more just to prove a point. So there.]
/Oo, ominous. Well, just between you and me, I'm not too worried. She thinks I'm like super hot. She told me my brain was really big and sexy earlier./
(To be completely fair, before they even touched, he guaranteed that he was going to be even more insufferable if they did it. Quentin is nothing but a man of his word, and it's not like she didn't know or anything. She knows. At least she has the decency of describing both of them as 'trash', as she has, because she's right here with him and enabling it.
At the end of the day, as vexing, unbelievable, aggravating, headache-inducing, menacing, and challenging as this is? It's pretty funny and so damn stupid. She enjoys it, obviously, or she wouldn't be here giving him a light punch to the shoulder with the side of her fist to distract him from the small laugh that she holds in before he takes her lips again. Which, obviously, his dumb massive brain probably picked up anyway.
And then he says one of the dumbest lines ever, and she goes right back into questioning her life choices — a very useless exercise, because, tragically, she already went through the same song and dance and landed in the same place.
Trash. Both of them, trash.)
/Gotta have at least one redeemable quality, right?/
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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She said the kitchen is off-limits to her, but how hard can it be to fry an egg and set it on some bread? Hard, apparently very hard, because while she is preoccupied with the offline game she has on her phone, the egg gradually starts to burn until the smell is so overpowering in the absence of any other strong scent that she finally notices.
Shit, fuck, shit fuck, fuck, shit. Fire off, but the smell... Does fanning make it worse? Shit.)
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In any case, it makes Sophie's panic nearly impossible to not hear, not when she's clearly one of the few people awake around here.]
/Please tell me the mansion's not on fire. I don't wanna get out of bed./
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(It's not on purpose that she sends him the burn she just got from trying to get that pan out of the stove, but her dumbass also burned the handle. It's just — a thoughtless habit, but if he was wondering why the smell has turned from fried egg to melting plastic.)
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[In the most deadpan tone imaginable.
And then, in a more normal tone:]
/... What are you even doing?/
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(Which she assumes he can forgive her for.)
/Right now, trying to get rid of evidence I can't fry a damn egg. And the pan I melted. You couldn't sleep, too?/
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[He's assuming she knows what he means by that.]
/You can't fry an egg?/
[He's trying not to sound too judgmental. And failing. Look, it's not his fault, his voice just sounds Like That.]
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(She knows his range is probably ridiculous, or some Omega-level absurd shit.)
/Why on Earth would I need to know?/
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/You're a telepath. You've never raided the brain of a chef or two?/
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/I have better, more fun shit to do. If you're just gonna be a nuisance, you can go back to being weirded out alone, how's that?/
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...
Damn it.]
/Do you want me to make you an egg./
[Has he ever mentioned how much he hates himself? Because he really, really does.]
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... Still. Ouch, her pride.)
/... Yes, please./
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[Him and his big mental mouth. Whatever. Quentin sends an infodump to her brain with a list of ingredients and supplies. Yeah, that thing about raiding chefs' brains? Look, sometimes Quentin gets really bored and goes spelunking in the heads of Three Star Michelin Chefs. As one does.]
/Find that. I'll be down in a minute./
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(Ah, the wonders of telepathy. To be fair, this list is a bit... Too much? She didn't even remember to salt the egg, so she's just frowning a little at everything she's pulling from the fridge and the cabinets to set on the counter for his use.
As a reflex when he arrives, she's still finishing gathering the items, but the first thing is to at least illusion-remove her dark circles, wear a nice three-piece outfit— oh, wait, right. He can see through it, so she dismisses it immediately once she remembers that horrible fact. She's in shorts and an oversized shirt, and of course, she looks a bit sleepless, because she is. Her sleep is all over the place, afternoons, mornings, you name it. Sophie's not having a great time.)
/... Thanks./
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... Not that Quentin can judge too much, considering he's very clearly combed his hair before coming downstairs, and he's dressed in a soft pink housecoat and slippers over his pajamas. But at least he's not using telepathy!]
/You can thank me by never telling a damn soul about this./
[He yawns and telekinetically moves a (non-melted) pan and all of his ingredients to the stove or counter as appropriate. Gordon Ramsay's Famous Scrambled Eggs coming up!]
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Her pinky raises as if to say she promises, because, of course, why would she want to tell anyone? She's here if he needs help, but she assumes the last thing he wants is for her to be anywhere near the food as he makes it.)
/Deal./
(Now, to the pan she fucked over, well. That needs to disposed of far, far away, so she's gonna look for a bag.)
/... But I might ask you for these again, because they smell great. You didn't say you could cook when we talked about it./
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["I don't cook" says the guy actively dicing chives with all the meticulous confidence and precision of a professional chef. Also? Not addressing the "I might ask you for these again" comment.]
/I get bored a lot. When I get bored, I download shit. Can you keep an eye on that pan?/
[So he can see it through her eyes, of course. He assumes she will understand what he means and furthermore not mind.]
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(Have at her eyes, but mind him, that's the reason why her own burned. She'll make an effort, keep her phone far away from her with TK on the opposite corner of the kitchen so she isn't tempted.)
/So, hey. Can I ask you a thing?/
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/Nobody's stopping ya./
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/What do you make of Nate?/
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/What about him?/
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/Seems like he doesn't have half the control you do./
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Quentin grabs a couple of plates with TK—look, the recipe he has downloaded can feed two, so you bet your sweet ass he's feeding two—and proceeds to plate, garnish, and serve his fancy scrambled eggs. He also gives Sophie a snide look.]
/Half? You wound me./
[He sounds perhaps remarkably unconcerned by that statement.]
/Eh. Either he vaporizes all our brains, or he doesn't. Whispering about him behind his back ain't gonna change anything./
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/I didn't bring this up to gossip, Quentin. I'm genuinely worried about him./
(Is that what he thinks she's doing? Gossiping behind Nate's back? Cripes, his view of her is worse than she thought.
... Though, probably she earned it.
She unquestionably earned it. Her attention, however, goes from the topic to the egg, and the moment she takes a bite, she's so absurdly pleased.)
/... Nice job./
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/Fine, you "worrying about him" isn't going to change anything. Guy's scared enough of his own powers without everyone else being scared of them too. That shit does stuff to you, you know?/
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(They deserve each other.)
/That's why I brought it up with you. What helped you?/
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/Me? I've never really had trouble controlling my powers. Not like him, at least./
[He shrugs.]
/I also never had to deal with everybody and their mom being scared shitless of me.
Look, think of it this way: he can't fuck you guys up accidentally any worse than I could on purpose. He'd just be, you know. Louder about it./
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(Now she's the one who just has to roll her eyes. There they go.
She's very much aware of the consequences of Quentin Quire has a bad moral alignment phase.)
/... You know what? I'm not engaging with that last part./
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/You asked for my take. My take is, for an Omega, "scared of" and "worried about" are the same thing./
[He pokes at his eggs some more, occasionally waving around his fork to illustrate his point, and his tone is purposefully cavalier, matter-of-fact. Maybe Sophie hasn't had any need to consider this shit, but Quentin sure as hell has.]
/I mean it makes sense. If somebody can obliterate a crucial part of your existence because they're having a really crap day, you wanna make sure they don't have too many crap days, right? It's just kinda part of the Omega package./ [He sighs extra dramatically.] /It's the cost of greatness, I suppose./
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Well. He makes a great point, but Sophie has never been team Let Kid Omega have some peace. To the contrary, actually. Perhaps it's the unconscious thought that she thinks he'd never purposefully hurt her, all things considered, but if that's a thought he wants, he has to fish deeper from their superficial convo; she has no energy to rehash or debate it right now.
Instead, listens, considers, wrinkles her nose as she processes it with, ugh, gross, some empathy in mind.)
/I see how you see it that way./
(She's trying so hard.)
/Look, from my point of view, I see this precious guy who has a lot on his plate, doesn't want to fuck up, and is scared he might. That sucks, and I don't know what to do to help./
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But... no. She's completely sincere, at least as far as he can tell.
Fucking hell.
He looks back at his food bitterly, mouth pressed into a thin line.]
/You don't. You already said you don't get what he's dealing with, right? Let me handle it./
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It definitely stopped being about Nate, and both of them know it.
Her forearms settle calmly on the table, blue eyes staring right at his as she leans in. If he has something to say to her, he should just fucking say it.)
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Quentin ignores it. Doesn't shut her out of his head, but he doesn't give her much to look at either, not unless she decides to go digging. Well. Okay. He doesn't fully ignore it.]
/You can keep staring all you want. We're not talking about it./
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(Says she, who too is impossible. Both are impossible, and they're stuck in impossible hell.
She sighs, going back to her eggs, although she's much less energetic than before. It's awkward, and it was actually not bad before. Not like it is exactly what keeps happening to them.
But last time, it wasn't horrible after they got at it, either. Maybe, she can salvage their late night instead of them going to their respective rooms and being grumpy and overthinky.)
/Do you have plans to actually sleep tonight?/
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/What did you have in mind./
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Her sleep is fucked, she's aware of this. Hell, he probably knows she slept all afternoon into early evening today, her sad girl phase over not being with Kamala, not helping David at NYX, her lack of a hivemind, shitty powers, worries, loneliness, the impossibility to text tarnishedmoodring, ah, those things pile, but she's starting to accept it. A little. Or else, she wouldn't have even accepted that egg, would she? Moody and difficult, and unfortunately, she knows it.)
/I'm going to change and I'm going to go play some games at the arcade. You should rest, but if you want to, I'd like the company./
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Then why?
Because he thinks about leaving Sophie alone to wallow in her misery, and he just. Can't stand by and let it happen. Does that make him empathic? Or a sucker. Unclear.
Anyway, he's too distracted to think about that any further because there's a certain Thing she just said. Quentin frowns in confusion.]
/You play arcade games?/
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... But, since they're here, well. Her eyes squint, does she trust him with confidential information, bigger than her thoughts on Nate Grey, or even her bitter feelings towards, well, everything? ... Yeah. Ugh, fuck, she does. Her TK brings back her phone into her hands, and she raises a finger to tell him to hold up as she accesses her messages with her gaming rival. When she hands him the phone, it's a printscreen of her absurd high rank in Summoner's, because:)
/Surprise, nerd./
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There's a flicker of surprised appreciation that can be easily felt telepathically and is reflected in the way his eyes widen ]
/Wait, you play Summoner's? I don't even play Summoner's./
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/Yep, and I taught Ms. Marvel, too, but she doesn't appreciate the fact that losing is an illusion that comes from accepting it in the first place./
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/Holy shit, that's the nerdiest thing I think you've ever said./
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Correct. That girl is not wholly this girl, though.
Ugh, she really is a nerd. God, she's getting called a nerd by Quentin Quire. Quentin. Quire. What has this world become. What has she become.)
/Yeah, well. Ugh. Get used to it, guess that's where I'm at right now. Are you coming, or do I gotta kick ass alone?/
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He sighs and gets up from his seat.]
/Sure, why not. Might as well see your pro gamer skills in action, right?/
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But in some weird, fucked up way, she doesn't feel as alone when he's around. She won't complain if being around her is what he chooses to do.)
/... You're not gonna let me live this down, are you? I'll meet you here in a bit./
(She's not gonna go out in PJs.)
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His mindscape is nothing like hers. Hers is a penthouse, the rooftop similar to her room on Krakoa, and all the shit she has are as limited edition DVD sets, as TV show seasons and movies. The one room where she chooses to revisit her things is empty, aside from a TV, a couch, and that's about it. This is a lot.
Sophie hums a song as her fingers move through the titles, waiting until one of them gives her a hint of what she could ask Aurora for, until she freezes in spot. The book has her name, and she frowns, arms crossed as she stares at it.
Maybe... Yes? No? Maybe?)
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Anyone ever tell you you're very nosy?
[He hasn't kicked her out of his head yet, for who even knows what reason, but he's leaning against a shelf somewhere behind her with his arms crossed. How long has he been there, watching her? Long enough.]
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Shit, couldn't he have said anything like, before she found the book? She feels like a wife with a questionable, however unrelated and unworrying text notification on her phone. It's not what it looks like.)
... Yes, I'm very aware. I can explain, though.
(Shit.)
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On the other hand, that means she genuinely didn't expect to be caught. By the Omega level telepath in whose head she decided to go snooping.
Quentin rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, waving his hand toward her in a "go on" gesture.]
This oughta be good.
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I was looking for your gaming review folder, because I was going to try and find them as a surprise gift. You just got here at the wrong time, is all. Completely unrelated.
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[See this? This is his face of "I totally believe you, and you're not full of shit."
Oh wait no it's not and she's absolutely full of shit.]
Which is exactly why you made a beeline for the crap about you.
[Okay, "beeline" is probably a stretch. But also consider this: he doesn't care.]
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She didn't beeline.)
What the fuck have I done now that you're this pissy?! I stumbled on it. I'm always in your brain, what bit you?
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It's not like he's upset that he keep doing all kinds of shit he doesn't actually want to do for the girl who rejected him years ago, and she doesn't swoon and fall into his arms—which he doesn't even want—because that would be objectively stupid. And he sure as hell isn't hurt by that girl fucking some guy who just happens to have the exact same powers as Quentin. A guy he really likes and sees as a friend, actually. Good thing he's not doing any of that shit, because that would be really fucking pathetic.
Quentin moves away from the shelves, taking a step toward her.]
Right, so you're telling me you weren't planning on taking a peek before I said anything.
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And this is why she left the metaphorical boxing gloves at home, but apparently, she shouldn't have. There's no flinching from Sophie as he approaches, gaze firm and unmoving, daring and stubborn with her posture straightened.)
I hadn't decided.
(Not a lie, but he's pushing her dumb defiant buttons, so she's taking it out of the shelf and extending it to him.)
Fucking talk to me already. This shit is getting old, Quire.
(He had been Quentin for a while. Demoted.)
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Quentin looks down at the book in her hand like touching it would instantly melt his skin off. Then he steps away, turning his back toward her to idly inspect some other shelves.]
You came here to snoop, right? Then snoop.
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Being the bravest one does suck majorly, because she's facing this headache without second thought. One sweep of her hand, she moves them out of his brain into hers, reasoning of comfort, illusion of some type of control. The clothes she wears also shift to the staple Cuckoo uniform they've worn since forever, gloves holding onto the book before she drops onto the couch. Quentin is free to join her, or just stink eye her standing like a loser. Whichever way, it's fine by her. On the armchair, there's a DVD case called 'The Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo Showdown', he's welcome to look at that, that's why it's there.
Once she opens the book, the first thing she sees is... Whatever this loop of insecurity is. 'Not good enough' is basically the punchline of the page she's looking at, and she doesn't get it. It doesn't... Make sense to her, because, well. At least it's not mockery, or pity. He's getting honesty.)
... Quire, you yelled at me! You told me to my face you moved on and you're over me. You know what your problem is? You don't follow through with shit. You want me to see you? Good, because that's what I have been trying to do, too. Guess what, though, you don't let me! You want me to want you, you fucking do something real about it, but I'm not gonna be here just waiting, having my life on pause while Quentin Quire figures his shit out.
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He can feel her digging in his mind when she opens the book, pushing down his uneasiness as she starts sifting through raw, vulnerable thoughts and feelings that he has absolutely no desire to share with anyone, much less Sophie. But the two of them were in a holding pattern. A nasty, awful, unproductive holding pattern of hurt feelings and miscommunication. Like she said. Shit's getting old.
When she looks up and starts yelling, he flinches. Less so physically—he's conveniently found a reason to face away from her at the time—but mentally, it's much harder to hide, given she's elbow-deep in the localized Sophie-specific section of his brain and she is, in fact, Sophie. It fucking hurts, and it's proof that he never should have even tried. Well, too goddamn late now. He let her in so she could shred him to pieces, but hey, at least it wouldn't be the first time a Cuckoo's mutilated his stupid emotions for their own entertainment. "Do something real about it". Right. Because letting her dig around in his fucking head to gawk at his inner turmoil isn't "real".
When they transitioned to her mind, his clothing changed from his housecoat to a pink cardigan sweater, mostly so he'd have some jacket-adjacent pockets to cram his hands into when he inevitably didn't know what to do with them. Didn't take long.]
Oh, gee, I can't imagine why I was ever avoiding this conversation. Look, can you just finish going through my dirty laundry and call me a piece of shit so I can move on with my day?
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But, she's been trying. It's a choice, as Kamala put it. Unlearning what she knows is so difficult, the way she lived, breathed, synchronized with brains that are no better than her own, and she hoped he'd see it.
But of course, he doesn't. She feels... Horrible is one word to put it, but there are plenty of others to describe it. Apologetic, because she knows, and she's not nearly ready to say it just yet, and the third feeling, the one she hates the most? Vulnerable. Being the bravest Cuckoo is a horrible curse, because every time she feels uncomfortable (every second) in this open connection they are sharing, she has to manually stop herself from pulling back, halting the instinct to close the connection and build a wall between them for self-preservation. To be seen so closely, so intimately, is horrifying to someone like her, and yet, as much as she hates it, fears it, she knows there was no moving forward without it. Shit's getting old, and she can apologize for the push and pull of stopping herself from closing up later.
Right now, she's gathering courage. Sophie is not great at apologies, she never doles them out freely, it's a whole new concept that she isn't comfortable with either, and part of her wonders if she really needs to say it when he knows she is sorry.
She does need to say it. For fucks sake, this is going to go out all awkward and botched, and with how their pattern goes, she's sure he's going to hate it. They'll fight more. This is going to be a disaster.
Okay.)
Listen. You're right, okay? I'll be the first, and probably only Cuckoo in history to say this, but we — (herself included, she is not exempt) — have a reputation for a reason. A Cuckoo's priority is a Cuckoo, nothing is good enough for us, and we can't care about anything for long, unless we can use it, play with it, or break it.
(This is a shitty apology. Fuck, okay. Okay.)
I am trying to do better, though, because I want to change before it's too late. I can't apologize on behalf of the Five-In-One, they are not sorry, but I can apologize for Sophie Cuckoo. If you don't want to accept it, that's fine, I get it, I'll leave you alone, you won't have to deal with me again.
... But I really want to solve this, because at this point, I don't even get it, so I hope you can give me the chance to. I'm sorry, Quentin.
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Unfortunately, admitting it doesn't change anything. Apologies don't change anything. The guilt and shame and discomfort he can feel in her head? None of those change a damn thing. The only thing that fucking matters is what someone does, and so far all Sophie's done is talk. Well, no, that's not true. She's done plenty, in fact. Sophie's fucked him every way except the way that might actually be halfway enjoyable. The way that's apparently reserved for every young guy with psychic powers, as long as he's over 5'9" and meets an arbitrary muscle mass percentage benchmark. He wasn't lying about being over her. Still doesn't make it fun to have his failings highlighted and what few of his strengths she finds valuable exploited.
He huffs, feeling her mental fingers scraping the inside of his brain like she's actually gouging those manicured nails into his gray matter, and finally, finally looks over at her.]
I can feel you rummaging around upstairs, so I assume I don't need to explain shit to you. You planning on backing up any of this newfound conscience of yours, or are you just going to keep telling me how you're so totally "different" now?
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Now she gets it. It's because of Nate... Or also Cable. Either, both, or probably because of Quentin himself. Because he feels that he isn't enough, considering what she had read, and it has nothing to do with Sophie herself at the end of the day. There is something that isn't going through Quentin's tough skull, though, or maybe she just didn't let him understand it.
He has hurt her, too. She sucked, but so did he. She lost years of her life. She was resurrected with terms attached. She was replaced, like none of that really mattered anymore. She couldn't give less of a shit about any Omega-level power. There are things about Quentin she thoroughly enjoys, but only when he lets her see it, when he's not hiding it under all the layers of sarcasm, self-destruction, simping, and overcompensating.
That, that she cares about, but he robs her of it all the fucking time. Shit's getting old, and she too is upset.
Tiredly, because she is listening, and not yapping back, she sighs.)
... What do you want from me, Quire?
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A lot. But simultaneously? Nothing at all.
Quentin rubs his forehead wearily and moves to the armchair, irritably tossing away the DVD she left there so he can dump his sorry ass into it.]
Nothing. I guess. I don't know.
[He... knows he's hurt her. He got her killed, so of course she'd be a little salty about that. He remembers, even though the haze of reforming himself from the astral plane, the guilt he felt when he realized she'd paid the price for his stupid riot. And yeah, maybe "I'll bring you back to life if you date me" is.... cringe, to say the least, but come on! He was an idiot kid, he was grieving, had the world's worst brain fog, and oh yeah, the goddamn Phoenix was demanding he prove his love was strong enough to be worthy of her power. Spoilers: it wasn't. And Phoebe? Phoebe was never a replacement for Sophie. She was just the one who said hi. The one who made him feel good. A little less lonely. And yes, he does recognize the irony of all of that at this moment, thanks very much. He's very aware how fucking pathetic he is. Hypocrisy, thy name is Quentin Quire. That's nothing new.
And that's the other thing, isn't it? She thinks he's hiding the best of himself somewhere deep down and that there's some secret, extra-charming, perfect Quentin Quire buried under all the cynicism and irony and compulsive urges to systematically ruin everything good in his life. As if he would be keeping that fucker under lock and key if he had the option of parading him around. It'd sure as hell make it easier to do this whole "trying to be better" bullshit he's attempting. But unfortunately for everyone, including and especially Quentin himself, this miserable asshole is all there is.
... Phoebe never understood that, either.]
You're in my head. You tell me.
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Wait, not fair. This is not about Esme. Different show, different genre, she's getting a little worked up here.
What she is picking up is about another sister, and that's a whole different can of worms, because she remembers exactly how Quentin looked in Krakoa, and that's when it hits her. Phoebe played a bit of Build-A-Man, didn't she? Of course she did. That's never what Sophie would want, not what she was going with this.
It's more about that, up until very recently, until those eggs at late night when she was depressed, upset, and alone... There hadn't been anything from Quentin Quire to Sophie Cuckoo that was genuine in a way that appeases her. Something he did for her because she needed him, and she asked. Something that made her honestly happy. She had never seen anything good out of him with her pair of eyes.
She can deal with his shit, has dealt with his shit, is dealing with his shit. It's a different vibe.)
Holy shit, Phoebe really fucked you up.
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The edits, though? They helped. Sort of. In a fucked up way. He doesn't know if they're why Phoebe got with him, though he can make a few educated guesses considering she didn't so much as look in his direction until Krakoa, and she never made any suggestions or anything. Hell, he's not sure she knew about his custom requests outside of the obvious ones.
Aaaand now Sophie knows there were more than the most obvious ones, so. Love that for him.
But hey, at least he made her eggs one time. Or whatever. Ugh. Quentin leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees, and pushes his glasses up to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes.]
I miss her.
[Fuck.]
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This? This is a conversation she wasn't remotely ready to have, so she's trying so hard not to shut down with it. He's making an effort, she has to do the same, but this bothers her much more than the resurrection subject, or even her death — it wasn't entirely on him, after all. It just... Aches, from all sides.
For all he believes she wants to hurt him, well, she doesn't, and participating in this thought swap is only going to do that when it comes to Phoebe. She's not closing up, as much as she is avoiding the thoughts, paying attention to his, and it's... Complicated, surely, because what isn't? She just doesn't know how to deal with this part of their baggage.
Fuck.)
... I don't know what to say.
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For a long moment he just sits. And breathes. And feels the world out there in the physical plane. The minds of the mutants in the mansion, the other people in Etraya, the animals, birds, the tiniest sparks of insects out there. Not touching them or listening to them, just... sensing them. It's so, so much quieter than the barrage of sensory input he's used to, but it'll do. At least this little chunk of the world feels alive, and that'll have to be sufficient for him to ground himself.
He focuses, and he breathes, and he slumps in this stupid fucking chair in Sophie's Cuckoo's weird empty liminal space of a mindscape, while she sits over on her couch like a really sexy bump on a log. And then, head still in his hands, he finally speaks, huffing an utterly exhausted, breathy chuckle.]
You're really bad at this.
[It's... a little bit of a joke. Like maybe 15% joke.]
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She's not perfect. This is hard, and she crosses a leg on top of the other to really pay attention... Until he speaks and disturbs it. Not mad at all, actually, instead, it pulls an extraordinarily genuine laugh out of her, before her nose wrinkles in embarrassment and her eyes shut close as she tries to fight the...
Blush?)
I know... I've never done this shit before, it's all very new, okay? Fucking is less intimate than this, leave me alone.
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That's because you only fuck himbos.
[Look. No shade to Nate. Or Cable, he supposes. Quentin never really knew the kid, but he seemed nice enough. Himbos are totally valid and respected, we stan, blah blah blah.
But they're both so totally himbos. And Sophie knows it.]
1/2
With her face buried on the fabric, one finger and a black nail stand as she goes through this torture of going through an out of this, even through people she had a fleeting thing with. She wouldn't call them himbos, thank you very much, they're just... Hot, okay. Cable, well. Dork. Pretty hot, though. Proudstar, well, that was a weird time. Nate's just a bit clueless, not on him, though. Julian... It's the jock energy, okay.
She doesn't know what tarnishedmoodring looks like. He doesn't sound like himbo material, he's... Something else, but she doesn't know, does she? Snarky dumbass that won't stay down in Summoner's — ugh, she misses him. If Quentin wondered why she won't leave her phone alone even if it has no service, well, this is why.
Shit.)
...
2/2
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Oh well, at least he gets to watch her absolutely crash out over the fact that she somehow never realized she has a type. And that her type is himbo. Which it obviously is. Quentin lifts his head slightly, looking at her over the frames of his glasses with a raised eyebrow.]
Nobody said fucking himbos is bad. [He shrugs loosely.] I'm just saying, not exactly a wellspring of profundity.
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She's not even looking at him, thank you, and fuck you.)
... You think I only care about looks.
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Eh.
[That's a yes. And then, an intrusive thought. That he absolutely should not say because it is not even remotely the time or place.
And yet.]
I know how you can prove me wrong.
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Of course he's enjoying this, and if the roles were swapped, she'd be having a damn blast right back. God, karma is a bitch, and she just wants to talk to Her for one moment, maybe to show Sophie some mercy.
But it's the intrusive thought that he chooses to turn into an outside thought that proves to her that karma does not give shit about her feelings.
Un. Beliveable. She's dead again, pretty sure.
Any other time, any other place, this is a normal Tuesday. Right now, with her face already in pins and needles with the fluster she feels, all the rollercoaster of emotions they decided to ride, this only makes her skin reach the limit of how red it can go. The pillow is thrown at him with no care, her eyes squinting immediately in her indignation.)
What exactly in the last months, including the last hour, tells you that us is a good idea?
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You're the one who said fucking was less intimate.
[He sticks the pillow between his back and the chair and leans against it. Now you don't have a pillow to hide your blushing into, Sophie. So nyeh.]
By your logic it'd be an improvement on this dumpster fire.
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Hope he enjoys a pink-colored Sophie, contrasting with the ocean blueness of her glaring eyes.
Don't bring logic into her brain.)
Logic aside from the very reasonable statement due to the fact you're literally hearing my every unfiltered thought and so am I for you, we already argue like a bitter divorced couple who can't decide on the terms and we've never even had a thing. If that weren't the case, sure, whatever, but it is, so nope.
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[There's a difference. He's assuming she knows that, based on the way they got into this topic. And the latter? Out of the question. They can't communicate for shit even when literally crawling in each other's heads, and that's even if he had any interest in a sequel to The Phoebe Debacle. The former? Well, it's never really appealed to Quentin before but... hm. Whatever. He holds his hands up in surrender.]
Look, I'm not arguing. Like I said, us? Dumpster fire. No matter how you slice it. No reason to think there'd be any exceptions.
[... That said, her face is still very, very pink. And he kinda wants to know if it can get pinker. You know. For science. Or something. He looks up, watching her intently, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.]
... Or, you know. You're just scared you'd like it.
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Phoebe... Well. He said it himself. The funniest part of all this to her is that she truly prefers Quentin like this, over Krakoa. She actually had honest-to-God fun with him on that dance floor, their date-not-date, and at that arcade. The thing is that reaching that is pure hell, like she has to go through a nation-wide landmine of eggshells. Okay, fine, she does that to him too, she GUESSES. This is why they suck. God, they suck so much.
At least he sees it too. Dumpster fire and all that.
Thing is, Quentin, she is very well aware that she would probably enjoy it. She has heard more than he would want to know that she has. Her face has already reached the limit on how red it can go, and it is slowly creeping towards it again because... This is idiotic.
It's stupid. It's a very nice break from how much she wants to ghost, but listen.
It's dumb.
She hates she's considering it. Maybe fucking gives them something else to focus rather than whatever the FUCK they are.)
I'm not scared of shit, thank you very much. If anything, I'm concerned it's gonna make you even more insufferable after.
(Defense mechanism, blablablabla.)
If. If we do this. I'm not saying we are. I'm saying if. That's all it is, and we agree it can't make this shit worse.
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Oh.
Well.
Okay, sure. Why not. He can roll with that, considering he's discovered this new interesting thing where he can make her squirm in a decidedly un-Cuckoo-like way, and that's very fun. Sure, he'll have to grapple with the Phoebe in the room at some point considering the whole clone, "they have the same face/body" thing, but that's a problem for later. For now he just focuses on how this is the first goddamn time any of this has felt like it's not being dragged down with too many years of stupid baggage. He lets the smirk pull at the side of his mouth more and leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his face.]
Well, I will absolutely be more insufferable. Buuut it kinda seems like you might be into that, otherwise you would've shoved me out of your head a while ago. As for "this shit," [he does the air quotes, because of course he does] it's already a disaster of Biblical proportions, so how much worse could it get?
[Okay, that's a bad question. Experience has shown that with Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, there is always further down to go. He gives her a quick look like "yeah, I know" and rolls his eyes.]
Look. You like attention, right? I like showing off. We're both telepaths. Surely not even we can fuck that combo up. If we do this, we go with that. It's just, you know. For fun. That's all.
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Although, probably, it's going to be halfway pending towards the latter. She knows them.)
Oh, shut up, I'm not into it. I'm taking a well-deserved break.
(Ugh. She hates it when Quentin Quire is right. They have been trying, and peace lasts at most 48 hours, but at the comment, she gets ready to tell him 'tremendously', before he confirms he knows it.
She has doubts that they can't screw this up. She's pretty sure they can. But, alas. At least this mistake, they're both on board with. That's a fucking first.)
Fine. You know what, fine. Let's do it.
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The weirdest thing is that it's not bad weird, honestly. This is... so entirely different than the start of any other relationship he's ever had—he highly, highly doubts this is how he and Phoebe got together—and this isn't even a relationship. Well. Technically speaking it is. By definition. But it's not a relationship relationship. That's the point. It's different and weird and somehow that feels... good. He's negotiating the terms and conditions of fucking Sophie Cuckoo, and somehow his head feels clearer than it did when she asked him to dance. Or go to the arcade. Or when he made her some goddamn eggs.
Huh.]
Great. Also you are so into it. Just sayin'.
[Cool. Good talk.]
Soooo, time? Place? What're we thinking? Logistics-wise.
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She's realizing that, too, and her eyes roll almost too dramatically.)
2 minutes, your room?
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[Alright, not his best work in the reference humor department, but whatever. They can't all be winners, and as previously mentioned, this is a very surreal kind of day. He's allowed to have a couple of one-liners that aren't bangers. Whatever.]
Don't keep me waiting.
[Quentin gives her a little salute and vanishes. He'll just be in his room, sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard and wearing his PJs.]
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(With rolling eyes, she clicks her tongue at the joke, although it lacks a characteristic bite from her, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Once he's gone from her brain, so is she — physical body only, and she sighs in a bit of relief because holy shit, what is her life lately. With the free flow cut, she has a moment to recenter, check herself in the mirror, and well. She's not going to change, looking cute and feeling cute makes her so incredibly happy, so the white lacy extra loungewear she is already wearing seems more than fine.
She's not late, probably perfectly in time once she opens his door, not bothering to knock because it's not like he doesn't know she's coming over... And God, it's pink, it's extra, it's so extra that it pulls a laugh out of her as she makes her way to sit on the bed next to him, eyes busy looking around at the explosion of pink.)
Not exactly, but also exactly what I was expecting out of your room, how do you sleep here?
(So much stimuli, but look, she came, her shoulder gently bumping on his, playful.)
Hey.
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[Quentin gives her an appreciative once-over when she enters and again when she sits next to him since, you know, different angle. He promised her attention, and that's what she's going to get.]
I'm used to a few billion minds in my head. This is basically my "sad millennial beige."
[He looks around the room, opening his mind up to her so she can feel that the loud and bright and the extra does in fact calm him. It's like white noise, a constant cacophony that evens out to a pleasant hum.
Quentin also notably doesn't bump his shoulder back into hers, and that's because of the next topic. Might as well get it out of the way early. He leans his head back against the headboard and looks at the ceiling for a moment, then rolls his neck to the side to meet her eyes.]
Right, yeah, probably goes without saying, but I'm not doing shit that reminds me of Phoebe. I assume you don't have a problem with that.
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She was a bit distracted, admittedly, listening to hum in his mind like a quiet background noise until he starts talking again. Dark blue irises move to meet his, eyebrows raised for a second because...
Doy.)
None from me, I don't want to remind you or me of Phoebe, so I'm more than fine leaving that far, far from us.
(Mad, remember?)
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[And that's all he's saying on it. All that needs to be said. This is supposed to be fun, and Phoebe-related anything? Not fun.
Ugh. Okay, moving on. Quentin gives her a sly look and rolls his head to face forward again, putting his hands behind his neck.]
Then you should kiss me.
[Apparently not being reminded of Phoebe means him being bossy and unbearably smug. This should be a surprise to absolutely nobody who knows either of them.]
nsfw from here on out
(Oh, she hates the smug, she hates it so much, even if he did say he was gonna get insufferable. It was a given, and yet, it pulls such an eyeroll from her because hello, you have Sophie Cuckoo nearly naked on your bed, and you're putting her to do work, Quentin???
Absurd. The first thing she does is reestablish the connection, although much less on the thoughts, and much more on the sensory aspect of the exchange. For a tiny moment, she just looks at him, trying to figure out whether this is actually... Okay, but the conclusion she finds is that she doesn't actually care. She wants this, go figure, who gets it, not her. Long fingers remove his glasses, and in full knowledge that he's probably going to drive her crazy by the end of the day, her lips press against his.)
rip
Quentin is a talented telepath, and the first thing he does with that talent is set up a psychic "looping hallway camera" trick, not hiding the locations of their psi-signatures, but disguising their activities. Much less noticeable to other psychics around, particularly a certain two who could take notes. Cough.
The second thing is after he moves his hands from behind his head to either side of her face, reaching into her mind to pluck at a few particularly delightful synapses.]
/Are you calling yourself impossible? Because if so I agree./
[Get it? Because she said he was "fucking impossible"???? Do you get the joke???????]
how is this her life
Her hand moves to his shoulder, a bit of support for her as she is busy kissing him, nails digging in a little with a soft sigh once he starts moving stuff around in her brain... And, shit, she shouldn't have given him any power, because her face burns again, and she cuts the kiss for a second because it brings out a laugh from her, her nose crinkling.
Fuck, fine, she likes it. There, happy, Quentin?)
/Excuse me, pot, kettle./
(No bite, though. Not today, not right now. Instead, her arms wrap around his neck as she leans in again, pulling him close as she too starts doing her routine pathway check for whatever he might enjoy most.
As one does.)
it's what she deserves
To her comment, though, Quentin just drops a nugget of information directly into her brain. A dictionary definition, in fact.
double entendre [ noun ]
ˈdüb-ᵊl-äⁿ-ˈtäⁿz; ˈdə-bəl-än-ˈtän-drəz
linguistics : a word or expression capable of two interpretations with one usually risqué
He hopes Sophie enjoys that. Which, of course, she will, and not just because he's still poking around in her head. She leans closer, and he shifts his hands to her waist, and hey, why not amp up those nerve endings a bit just for funsies.
When she starts checking for what he likes, though, he resists, not a full block but enough to be noticeable.]
/I show off, you get attention, remember? Tell me what you want. Bonus points for flattery, obviously./
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Failing, mostly, but by God, she is giving 100% effort. One thing he will realize is that she likes having her waist held, the weight on the curve of it is pleasing like a slot that finds connection, and of course, with how they're linked, he's going to feel it too.
The push is noted, she'll back off, although... Yeah, he's not incorrect, but that doesn't mean she's not going to care about him, too. Come on.)
/You're a telepath, you figure it out./
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It's definitely convenient that she likes having her waist held, because that means he can keep his hands there in perpetuity, enjoying the way his hands feel on her skin from both sides of the psychic connection. That's the tricky thing about hooking up with someone who has a body identical to one you're very, very familiar with. Hard not to rely on experience. But that's why he's not doing this the way he normally would. Or the way he would with... She Who Must Not Be Named.]
/Hmm, yeah, but it's more fun for me if you say it./
[She did want to know what he enjoys, right?]
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With the hand that was set on his shoulder, her nails roaming down his chest ever so gently as she dims the rest of his sensory capacities temporarily aside from the coldness of her nails, so that it stands out more. It stops at his waistband, curling around his shirt before she rolls her eyes, still playful.)
/Quentin. Just pin me down and fuck the mean girl out of me. Now, exactly how you're gonna do that, that's on you to figure out./
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Well... Fine. Fine. Quentin Quire doesn't back down from a challenge. Not now, not ever. And it's well past time they amp this up a little bit.
But accepting a challenge doesn't necessarily mean taking the obvious route. And he's always been a contrarian at heart. He does, however, shudder and gasp as her hand move down to his waistband, and he pulls away briefly to catch his breath.]
Yeah, sorry, not specific enough.
[He nudges her into sitting in his lap for ease of kissing and also for the sake of specifically not giving her what she asked. But at least he can use the hands on her waist to lazily grind against her, so you know. There's that.]
/Like I said, it's more fun for me if you say it. You could at least show me. You know, like this./
[He reaches into her mind, searching for any ideas or fantasies that she associates with that particular request, picks one at random, and for two full seconds, he makes her feel it. And with the connection between them, he feels it too and groans louder into her mouth. That's good shit, right there. Top notch fantasies, Sophie.]
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No way she doesn't feel the shudder herself, a little smirk of satisfaction on her lips once he distances.)
It deliberately wasn't.
(But she'll be a sport, climb onto his lap as she was nudged, hands on his shoulders for support and... Well, perhaps he doesn't even need to look into her brain much further, because the hands on her waist having her grind activate several small fireworks in her neural pathways.
And because that's where her brain is, that's what he will get. The lust she feels with having her waist grabbed, her ass squeezed, body pulled and held, kisses peppered on her chest, desire so hard to manage that it overrides good reason.
God, she fucking loves telepathy, the groan he gives synched with her dulcet moan as every hair on her body stand with the goosebumps that it brings.)
/Well, you asked./
(Not illusioning perse, she's still very much here, but she's sending him sensory bits of how good she finds to have hands gripping on her hips, bringing her closer with each thrust, the way her lungs beg for some air and she doesn't even care with free-flowing pleasure, heightened and undiluted.)
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His hips buck roughly up when the imaginary version of himself she's conjuring delivers a particularly nice thrust, and the only thing between them and that reality is some stupid fabric. The hands on her waist slide downward inside the waistband of her lingerie shorts and over her ass in a facsimile of her fantasy, and it would be so, so easy to just tear off their clothes and do exactly what she wants. He did ask her to tell him. Well, demand, more like. Sophie seems to like it when he demands.
It would be so easy, and he knows it would be so damn good, but it also just doesn't... feel right. He pulls away from her mouth again to talk out loud, voice shaky and out of breath but firm. Confident. Or at least as confident as he's gonna get.]
Clothes off. Lie down. [Quentin hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.] On your stomach.
[He's going off script here, as well as kind of throwing away all his insistence that she tell him what she wants. Oh well. He's doing what he wants, and somehow he doesn't think Sophie is going to have too many complaints.]
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Huge reason why she's here. They are both aware of the catastrophic risks of it all going to shit, but considering it was shit already, is there any place to go if not up? Whatever it is, she likes it. No bullshit, and in a really weird way, it's finally something new, or progressing to be. It won't solve all overnight, because nothing would, but it's a start. If anything, it's better than everything they've attempted, because she actually isn't preparing for a war, puffing her chest, pulling away, or feeling any of the nasty emotions that tend to bubble to the surface whenever they interact.
Not what's happening now, she actually is enjoying being here with him. Right now, her mind cannot convey a single negative thing to say about it, busy with how his lips feel against hers, with the feeling of tightness in her stomach as she gets worked up, and how she can't help the moan that leaves her when he thrusts against her, creating friction.
It's interesting, isn't it? Didn't he just ask her? Well. Fine. She has no complaints about it either.)
Deal. Don't pull my hair, other than that, I'm game.
(Her hands are gonna busy themselves with removing his shirt, a smile as she presses her lips to his neck.)
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He shakes it off and—only somewhat awkwardly—helps her get his shirt off, making a pleased humming noise when she kisses his neck. In fact, he's feeling
needybold enough to tilt his head to the side as an invitation. Encouragement. Sometimes self-care is letting a hot blonde do salacious things with her mouth. Treat yoself.]No hair pulling, got it. I can work with that.
[Since Sophie apparently has the shirt stuff covered (he just decided right now), he starts making a half-assed attempt to shimmy her pajama bottoms down. Half-assed only because he's chosen to do it while heavily distracted and with only one hand, since he's sliding the other down the front of her shorts to give her more of the friction that made her moan. It was a good noise, and he'd like another, please and thank you.]
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She's not going to address it, it can go in the long pile of shit they're making the wise, or horrible decision to not look at. Instead, she can focus on how those annoying pieces of fabric are finally leaving, hands searching for warmth on his waist as her lips quirk a little, a LITTLE against bare skin. It was a nice noise, after all. Hope he's at least shielding for sound, actually, now that she thinks about it.
She has to move, unfortunately, lift her hips so he can actually pull her shorts down, although there is not a moment to mourn the fact she's no longer in a grinding position when he distracts her. Thing he'll notice pretty soon, she's very sensitive, and the sound that escapes her is both sweet and breathy too damn close to his ear, the pleasure looped right back at him.
She's going to have to change positions, she can't hold onto him for support when she's not sitting down, be delightfully distracted, and work on his pants when she's literally on the way, so she just lets him know with a feeling before she slides off back to his side. Her shirt's off, thrown God knows where, and her hand sits on top of length to stroke over fabric.)
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Fuck. Okay, okay, no more pants, I got the message. Gimme a sec.
[He hastily shuffles out of his pajama pants and boxers—which are, of course, black with pink omega symbols—and tosses them who-the-fuck-cares-where. Quentin reclines next to her, leaning on one arm while he uses his other hand to hold the back of her neck and pull her into a demanding kiss.]
/And yes, noise shielding is on./
[He pulls away, breathing hard but smirking at her. Honestly? He just wants to say this aloud. For reasons.]
Kinda was planning on you needing it.
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Thing is, she isn't kissing him at the moment, or holding anything when he starts the mindfuckery all over again, so she has nothing but the sheets to curl her hand around to recenter herself as her breath becomes harder to manage with her little sounds of pleasure in between, her toes curling as she finds a little revenge on amplyifing when it comes back to him. Two can play this game, in case he forgot, but the hit she receives from it along with hardness bucking against her hand reminds her that, well, no. The moan she leaves is synched to his, because of course it is, and her eyes roll once he speaks again.)
Talking to me or to yourself?
(She's going to take the opportunity to get those pesky shorts off of her, too, but.
Sir, why do you have fucking Omega boxers. Trust, anyone who gets to see it is very aware, Kid Omega. Remember when she thought that at least he was consistent? Too consistent. Skill issue on her part if she was expecting a black or pink one, but God. Mood unaffected, mood unaffected, especially now that they're kissing again and there's skin to skin, no layers to separate them, warmth and her hand is free to properly roam without boundaries, so she teases it on his hip, nails ever so gently moving across his side before he breaks the kiss to speak.)
Guess we'll see. I'm not loud, so you gotta work for it.
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Psh, I make you scream at me all the time. It's not that hard.
[Completely nonsensical and totally obnoxious false equivalency? Check. Sorry, Sophie, you let Quentin have too much power by laughing at this shit.
His eyes flick toward her hand moving up his side, not because it doesn't feel good—it feels incredible and makes him shiver—but because it's too... almost familiar. He's very distinctly not thinking the P-word, but the name and memories attached to her are floating at the edges of his mind, threatening to encroach where they're not welcome. Ugh. No.
Focus. There's a reason he chose the position he did for the "main event".]
Ready whenever you are.
[Of course, it'd probably be a lot easier for her to cooperate if he didn't start up again with his mental hand between her legs, wouldn't it? If he wasn't purposefully and doggedly working her up more and more. Oh, and in case she has any ideas about turning it back on him? He's shielding himself juuuust enough to not feel as overwhelmed as he's trying to make her. Good luck trying to strong-arm an omega who's trying to turn your brain to mush, Sophie. What an asshole.]
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Not even in the same vicinity of concept!
(Well, she feels the resistance, how could she not? Her hand pulls back almost immediately. She knows she can't blame him for it — for all their differences, they're still remarkably alike, not to mention identical appearance-wise. She's gotta block him for a second there for the world's biggest mental sigh. She's not... Phoebe, for fuck's sake, and thank her stupid clone anatomy for nanotech bullshit that allows her to think through this fast enough not to make a dent on anything. They're still going to take a bit to completely leave this out the door, aren't they? That's why they're doing this, after all. Neither are going to be okay... Just like that, right? She isn't. She can't blame him if he isn't, either.
A nanosecond later, and the thought is far from her mind, reopened now that she regrounded, guess what, seems like being (or attempting to be) a better person means she thinks twice before pointing fingers that she can point at herself, too.
She was about to reply and say something, however the thought completely ran out of her mind before she even formed it with the overstimulation he's bringing her, which only brings her closer to him to the point they glue as she tries to focus.
... This motherfucker, she senses the block right as she was redirecting it. She's going to strong-arm him, knowing fully she will lose, but she will go down swinging. If he's going to fuck with her sense of touch and block her from fucking with his, then she just has to get creative and find a whole other sense to play with. Lights out — a temporary block of his vision, and an increase to all the other senses he didn't block. Her heartbeat, quick and impatient banging in her chest, her breath that comes with the sweetest gasps from the stimulation, the perfume she found in Etraya that smells of daisies, the softness of the sheets, the hormones in his veins...
She knows he won't let it slide, but alas. At least, she's going swinging.)
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But the whole trying to fuck with his senses thing? Because she's, what? Jealous of his amazing skills? A sore loser? Rude? Damn right he's not going to let that slide.]
Blocking my optic nerves, huh? Awfully mean of you. I thought you wanted me to, what was it? "Pin you down and fuck the mean girl out of you"?
[He can't see, so he just closes his eyes and rolls with the enhanced senses she forced on him, focusing on her heartbeat. How to make it beat faster. How to make those noises she's making happen more, happen louder. Every decibel gained, he makes a mental note and applies the stimulation that got that result and intensifies it. He still feels some of it, enough to keep his own pulse racing and his breathing heavy as he leans his forehead against hers. But she's bearing the brunt of sensory overload he's pushing onto her...
Until, all at once, he stops. Smirks. Pants out a chuckle.]
That still what you want? Or you want me to keep going?
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(None of those, she's the stupidly heroic Cuckoo who fears nothing, but to pick something out of his list? Rude, most likely. Unfortunately, she knows him, and she knows that, once again, she's shooting herself on the damn foot because he's a petulant little shit who's not going to back down from anything. Fun thing, though? Makes two of them.
Once more, proof they deserve each other.
She can't go through this rollercoaster without holding onto something to take it out on, and well, he has a perfectly fine mouth to kiss and sigh into, sounds slowly reaching a more high-pitched sound as he fine-tunes, and by God is she trying to move that fucking shield to turn it against him... Until he stops, the motherfucker, her entire body shivering from the sudden craving he put in her brain.)
... I'm going to kill you.
(This one has bite. THIS ONE HAS BITE.)
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Thing is, he's impatient. And she just threatened to kill him. Which he thinks pretty well counts as "mean." In most social circles.
But mostly he's just impatient, and Sophie pressing her body against his and making those desperate noises into his mouth is driving him crazy.]
Guess that's my answer.
[It's not. But he decided it is.
He sits up and seizes back control of his senses, though not forcefully enough to destabilize her still-glitchy powers, and drops into her mind the reminder of his earlier request: clothes off, lie down on your stomach. Step 1 is completed. He gently nudges her motor cortex to move her body where he wants it, easily resistible the same way it was when she puppeteered him for their dance on Aphaia. If she really wants to show how much "bite" she has, she's more than welcome.]
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See. Told ya.
(He can be mean to her, she's just mean back, it's fine. It's kind of what makes this so entertaining, and so goddamn playful. Never has she ever been this stupid with someone, sex to her tends to be much more straightforward, so this is a whole new territory she's discovering. Is anyone truly surprised they're being stupid? No one? Yeah.
Once she finds herself lying on her stomach, not by her own doing, she's taking a look at the puppeteering first. This is breakable, and he's not exactly blocking her, so. Bite it is, because of that edging. Telekinesis tends to be an afterthought for her when she has quite a large list of telepathic options to choose from, but surprise, because that's what she's doing with him, pulling him down to lie back on the bed while she breaks his hold.
He wanted her on her stomach, supposedly not to think too much about how she looks, which, ouch, but fair. She wants revenge for the audacity. Middle ground.
Of course he's going to get what she's thinking before she even moves. She's going to reverse cow-girl the living hell out of him.
Good luck.)
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Except then he gets her intention and... eh, you know what? He can live with that. He mostly just was going for a new experience, a position that doesn't come with... memories. Ones that are not allowed to be part of this.
Oh, right, they're pretending they're fighting, aren't they?]
Fuck you.
[It's a really stupid retort, and the crooked, devilish grin on his face makes it clear he knows. Low hanging fruit for her own comeback, if she wants to take it. He's giving her the easy win, because she's earned it. Quentin Quire respects gumption. When it suits him, at least.
Besides, there will always be time to get his revenge later.]
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His indignation is golden, thank you so much, she did earn it. She figured it would be surprising, and he's not the only one who's got a really fast brain.
Thing is, she doesn't even want to retort at all, because it is a bad comeback, both of them know it. Her nose does the the little crinkle thing it does in several occasions, this one related to being extremely pleased, along with a closed smile once her nose wrinkled.
The unexpected is that she beams, radiant in her victory, unfiltered and unnoticed by her for the moment (God forbid when she does notice it), eyes closing before she moves to press a last kiss to his lips before she taps his chest once.)
Don't worry, you will, I'm on it.
(No further ado, they've waited enough in their distracting, childish dumbassery that she didn't even think she was going to enjoy half as much as she did. As she positions, and then, finally, she slides down, hands searching for his thighs for some support until he's completely in, her breath coming out in a sigh as she reaches for his brain.)
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Holy fuck, that's good. About goddamn time.
[Because he totally wasn't the one edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of just fucking her like a normal person.
Anyway, he's now going to continue to be a petulant little gremlin.]
Now are you just gonna do something or just sit there and make me do all the work?
[Instead of waiting for an answer, he holds her waist and rocks his hips insistently up not unlike the fantasy he dredged up from her mind. He can't get a truly satisfying thrust without actually one of them actually lifting her up, but at least he can alternate between bucking up and grinding roughly against her. And naturally, he feeds all that back into her brain at the same time as he's feeling what she feels.]
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/You have yourself to blame for that, though?/
(Again, he WAS totally edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of fucking her like a normal person, and now he's not even giving her a second to enjoy the feeling of fullness within her.
She doesn't have time to comment back, tell him that yeah, go for it, just to be bitchy — but she can also do it silently. If he doesn't block her, she's dimming the perception he has from anything that isn't them. Every noise is distant that isn't what is coming from them, heartbeat, breath, the sheets not all that noticeable anymore beneath him.
She did tell him she's not particularly loud, but that doesn't mean she's quiet, honey-covered moans escaping her as she moves in synch with him, squirming and clenching as hard as she can whenever there's a thrust that hits just right.
She cannot hold this position for too long, but as long as she can, she will.)
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That said, if she gets a wayward thought or two from his mind about what it would be like to have his chest pressed to her back, his breath in her ear, well. That'd be convenient, wouldn't it?]
I've never done anything wrong in my life, ever.
[Said with all the audacity in the world, obviously.
He moves with her at a pace that's hurried but not desperate (yet), and while his control over his body is average at best, his mind is of course a whole other story. Every time he finds something that makes her clench around him, he notes the synapses that fire in her brain and tweaks them on his next thrust. Cheating? No. Of course not. He's just using his natural advantages to their fullest. And it feels really fucking good when she squeezes him like that. He lets out a groan and grips her hips tighter every time. Otherwise, though? Quentin is, well, never quiet, but his noises are mostly limited to loud pants, gasps, and grunts. The talking, however. That never stops.]
Say shit out loud. I like it.
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... And of course, he makes her laugh, because of course he does, although she tries to suppress it. This is not the time, Quentin, it's not the time!!!)
Not true in any conceivable and — inconceivable universe — fuck, shut up.
(Said with a bit of difficulty, she's having trouble bringing air into her lungs when her whole body is focused on movement and brain-melting pleasure. It's probably cheating, mind him, but that's the fun part of it. They're telepaths, and for all that it can suck, they might as well use it for the greater good, such as getting off.
The final straw for her is the gripping, because you know what? Fuck it. She's jumping into his brain, as naked as she is out of it, to pull him into the most breathtaking, ferocious kiss. The words she gives him, however, come out of her throat.)
You're kinda — making it very difficult.
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[Can't imagine why the most difficult-on-purpose person in the universe would like want her to do something he's intentionally making difficult.
He can feel, of course, how much she wants to kiss him, but her argument doesn't hold as much weight until she appears in his mind and kissed him and holy shit that's incredible. Quentin considers—seriously considers—following her lead and just. Fucking her in both planes, but that would probably make this over embarrassingly quickly. Maybe round two. If there's a round two. Will there be a round two? Or a next time, for that matter? Who knows and who cares. Not Quentin.
Anyway. Kissing.]
Fuck. Fine, fine, okay? You win.
[About facing each other, he means. For kissing purposes. She makes a compelling case, and he'll give her that.]
But I wanna be on top.
[Sure, that means she'll have to move off him temporarily, which low-key sounds like the worst idea ever right now, but such is life. He doesn't stop moving with her by any means, but he (very begrudgingly) slows, just to give her a chance to think. She can decide if kissing him is worth the pause.]
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"You win." Ah, how sweet it sounds. She's so ridiculously pleased.
As for whatever comes out of it, there's not a cell in her brain concerned about it, partly because it is all lit up and very rightfully distracted from anything that isn't the here and now, since someone is barely giving her a break to think. Speaking is hard, as she made him know, but her eyes roll even if he cannot physically see it.)
Two times — in a single day? Would you look at that. Fine, middle — ground.
(Please, he edged her. If he thinks she's not going to make him a little unhappy even if it's a the expense of her happiness, hahaha. Think again.
But also, fuck, she can't illusion him, she realizes. He's going to see just how crimson she is, her cheeks hurting a little from the whole smiling she had been doing.
There are no winners in this, only losers.
It's all going to be very fast, leaving his lap and diving in for a kiss so he has no chance to really see it as she repositions, nudging him to get on top.)
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Which is also why when he moves on top of her and settles between her thighs, he breaks the kiss specifically to look at her face as he slides inside her again. She gets to see that expression up close and personal through his eyes, though there is the small mercy that Quentin's a touch far-sighted without his glasses. Once he's in, though, his mouth is back on hers, and this time he does let her (well, both of them) have a moment to just feel him while he figures out his hands, ultimately deciding to use one arm to support his weight and putting the other hand on her hip where she likes it. See? He can take constructive criticism. Sometimes.]
Yeah, well, I'm a pretty reasonable guy.
[Says the least reasonable person on the planet.
When he starts moving, the pace he sets is best described as bossy. Quentin isn't physically all that strong or athletic, but there's an assertiveness to the way he rocks into her, demanding but not rough or possessive. It's a new angle in this position, which means new sets of synapses to go with subtly different sensations, and it's for some reason very important to him that he replicate specific feelings his body is giving her instead of just pinging every pleasant neuron in her nervous system. He's not sparing the time or brainpower to think about that, though, just focusing on every movement that makes her louder, tighter, more desperate. If he can't have the position he wanted, he's going to at least make her either beg or scream, whichever comes first.]
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Fake news. Delirious. You're seeing things.
(Her eyes shut as he reenters her, the hand on his shoulder squeezing a bit so she can find some grounding amidst pleasure, the moan that comes out of her now plump and reddened lips almost unholy... And she sees it, this motherfucker. At least, well, no one can say she isn't gorgeous at every damn angle, but she is pushing that into a safe in the back of her mind with five thousand locks. Nope. Nope. Instead, she's making the best decision that she can which is to NOT THINK ABOUT THAT ever again, and wrap her legs around his waist for better positioning.
What she might put in there later is that this? This hits her right where she lives. For all the fucking around they've been doing, this is much, much better than what she previously let him see in terms of expectations. Long ago, she did get mad at him for not being assertive, not having a spine, and this is the exact opposite. Not a moment was she ever bothered by making sounds, but the volume and pitch increase against his mouth as she feels herself getting closer.
Fuck, no, she does not want it to end so soon. Cannot believe she's going to actually fucking ask, distancing herself to breathe and to let out a louder gasp before she can produce any words.)
Numb me — a little.
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What, you only got one in you?
[Quentin is smirking breathlessly at her, but it's an actual question. If he can push her over that edge more than once, he wants to. He can manage to hold off, even if he has to use every telepathic trick in his arsenal to do so, and he will if it means turning her brain into such absolute mush that she's not capable of being anything but a blissed out, imperfect mess. She did give him a very specific request regarding the "mean girl" act, after all.]
Sounds like a skill issue to me.
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The way she fires up, hot like every cell in her body is bubbling in disbelief, and when she looks at him again, she sees the smugness on his lips.)
Absolutely — not.
(The glitch is coming, she can feel it, but eh. Worth it. Focusing is colossally hard, especially when his slowing doesn't really negate the fact she's very close, so she might boggle — but once more, the petty wins. He can probably feel her little telepathic fingers in his mind, but she's not looking to dim or take. If she manages, she's going to loop her pleasure and his own in gradual amplification, until he's surpassing her in terms of how close he is.)
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The groan that escapes him is coarse, almost a growl, and he bucks into her, any semblance of rhythm thrown out the window as all his remaining ability to focus is put toward making sure she goes down with him. Every thrust hits all the exact perfect spots, his hand clutching her waist feels better than it ever has before, and a telekinetic hand grabs one of her wrists and pins it to the sheets next to her head. The only thing on her favorites list he neglects is kissing, and that's only because he wants her to cry out.
He hits his peak within seconds, his hips pressed as close to hers as is physically possible, if she lasts longer? It won't be by much. Unless she utterly fries her powers resisting him for some insane reason, he's reaching into her mind and, petty as always, taking her with him, whether she likes it or not.]
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At this point, there's not a bit of resistance from her, because fuck, she's melting. Her heel digs into the small of his back, grounding and silently begging him to keep going as he is. The noises she makes are uninhibited, more piercing and louder than any other she had given him — they are honeyed to the ear, but with the heightened volume, they sound nearly profane the more she gives them out. He's doing pretty much everything she likes, it's not like there is any hope for her not to even think about wrestling her climax or Quentin's, for that matter.
So, she relaxes, letting it overtake her with a cry as her entire body reacts to the firework explosion that it is. Her heart is nearly beating out of her chest, stars sparkling in her vision, toes curling, and her mind numbing his skin so she can sink her nails to help her ride it, and she is...
Mush. She's mush.)
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Quentin stays buried in her until her legs drop from his waist, a sizable chunk of his substantial brain capacity occupied with nothing but their climaxes looping between their minds. And when he does finally have to move, he makes a petulant groaning noise at the loss of her warmth and just. Flops onto his back next to her.]
Holy fucking shit, that was good.
[Best he's had? Almost certainly. But considering the only other point for comparison he's got, well, he would literally rather throw himself into the sun than even consider that right now. Or ever, in fact.
He stretches out any cramped muscles or joints, utterly satisfied and relaxed, folds his hands over his chest, and closes his eyes.]
Wake me up when you're ready for round two.
[He's assuming that's what she meant when she pushes him to release immediately after practically begging him to not let it end. And yeah, he's taking a nap. For 20 minutes, unless she wakes him sooner. He's earned it, okay!]
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The connection is not severed, so she can feel the tiredness of his body, as much as she can feel her sore legs and ragged breathing. Can't even blame him for wanting a nap, her eyes rolling and a hand gently moving his hair so it doesn't stick to his skin. She'd nap too, if she wasn't wired, and if she didn't have to get her powers to give her some fucking grace after all that telepathic bullshit.)
Pffft, fine, fair, I'll go get my shit together.
(But not before bugging him a little bit, placing a kiss right where she noticed he likes on his neck, because she can't let him live, since he can't let her live either. When he wakes, he'll see her with her shorts, one of his shirts because she's too lazy to look for her top, with bright eyes and fluttering fingers as she tries to get her powers to stop being a bitch.)
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[That was, of course, Quentin making an undignified noise at Sophie kissing his neck when he wasn't expecting it. He swats her away with a grumble, but there's no bite to it. Cranky for the sake of cranky. But after that she leaves him alone to nap, and he's out like a light almost immediately after. His telepathic alarm wakes him in precisely 20 minutes, as scheduled.
He yawns, stretches, and sits up, narrowing his eyes at her wearing a checkered shirt that is definitely not hers. Eh. At least they can agree that his fashion sense is amazing.]
Still busted?
[He gestures at her, indicating her clearly fiddling with her powers and raising his eyebrows.]
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Also, they do not agree on that, thank you, this is just a shirt, Quentin, she moved past some of the atrocities in that closet, pretended not to see, thank you. The hand that isn't wagging fingers for focus and rhythm moves to his head, a slight caress to his scalp so she has something to do with it.
The eyes stop glowing before her gaze drops to him, a shrug ensuing.)
Yup. I've been rearranging and restructuring stuff lately, practicing and all that, but eh, you know how it is.
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[He does not "know how it is" in the precise context she means, but eh. Quentin looks up at her hand touching his head, but doesn't flinch or make any attempt to shoo her away. It's... fine.]
What stuff.
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Mostly trying to take advantage of the clone crap in my skeleton for stability, I'm figuring some shit out.
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That said, all that "clone crap in my skeleton" sounds like a can of worms he'll regret opening. Quentin can feel the urge to ask, offer to help, fall back into the same old pattern. But they're... getting along, if you can call "really great sex" getting along.]
Soooo guess I'm putting on pants.
[He doesn't sound annoyed or disappointed, at least. It just sounds like that's gonna take a while.]
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On her end of the psychic route, she's relieved that he doesn't. It's something she feels strongly that she has to figure out alone, so she's not taking help for this one. More like, this is a me problem so must have a me solution type of deal.
But his comment gets her to roll her eyes, laying down again so she can face him.)
That depends if you care if I accidentally give you static tinnitus or some other weird shit. Pretty sure you can handle it.
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[He lies back down and—oh, man, yep, that's a blood sugar drop. Quentin squeezes his eyes shut and brings up his hands to rub at his temples.]
Uuuugh. Or it's time for pants and a snack.
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Back to bed with a few bars of chocolate and his pants, stretching a little as she takes her spot back.)
So that's why you're always munching?
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Secondary mutation. My brain burns sugar 15 times faster than normal.
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Lazily, Sophie finds herself hugging one of the pillows, letting him get his blood sugar back up in peace this time. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, humming at the realization that, oh. That explains why she likes being in there so much. Saying she can keep up with it is a way too much; she definitely can't, but it's... Pretty nice.)
That... Actually explains why I like waltzing up in there.
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... So what you're saying is you love my massive brain.
[... Unfortunately the new leaf is also terrible.]
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And exits with a kick to him under the blankets. If he falls on his ass, he deserved it, not sorry.)
The mini-event 'Sophie Cuckoo says something nice' has now expired. Try again in 4640 minutes.
(Nerd.)
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Oh, I intend to try again much sooner than 3 days, 5 hours, and 19 minutes. [It's been a minute since she said that, so he's subtracting.]
Just about as soon as I get my blood sugar stabilized, in fact.
[It's getting there. He's finished one chocolate bar and is making short work of the second.]
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And you called me impossible. What makes you even think I'm reopening it?
(But hey, her nose is doing the thing behind fabric, so.)
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[He looks down and over at her, tilting his head in a knowing expression that dares her to deny it.]
Besides. I don't think you'd still be hanging out in my room unless you were planning on reopening a couple of things.
[Said smugly, of course, but also with an almost playful tone. He's finishing off the second chocolate bar (and talking with his mouth full, because who needs manners, really) and the color is coming back to his face.
This whole arrangement of theirs is shaping up to be a loop just their previous interactions, but the difference is this loop is way, way more fun. No complaints, honestly. He reaches out with his mind and gently caresses her inner thigh with his TK, just higher than her knee, so not terribly scandalous—yet.]
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Were you raised in a barn?
(Oddly, though, this? She's not regretting one bit of it, even through all his attempts to drive her straight into insanity. It's just that she has never not been resentful and grudging of him, and for the first time, she isn't. Instead, she wants to be here with Quentin, and she is having fun. Stupid, immature, petty, and petulant fun. Unfortunately, she likes it. Except — she would much rather be down in the ground again for the next five years than to express it herself, and if he hears it, that's on him for being nosy. She distanced herself from his brain for a reason, so she didn't have to suffer!!!)
You pass out inside of me, you will not ever hear the end of it. Ever.
(Because he's roasting her, she's definitely not going to let the gasp that threatens to leave her throat reach the air when he touches one of her favorite spots. She will be impossible on purpose, because two can play this game, although she already hates that she is.
Instead, she'll gently run her nails on the side of her leg, reopening the connection abruptly.)
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Mm. Well, ignoring the biological impossibility of that [low blood sugar=major turn off] I think you've got a point. Guess I should conserve my energy, huh?
[He scoots back over next to her and lies down facing her, one arm pillowing his head and the other resting on the sheets in the narrow space between them.]
How about you do most of the warm-up this time, eh? You can touch me or yourself.
[Spoken like he has any authority here, any ability to give her permission. He doesn't, but that doesn't matter. He knows she likes it when he's assertive, even if it's that pile of shit she doesn't want to admit. Quentin is confident he'll get some variation on what he wants.]
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(He's ridiculous, he knows that, right? At least, he looks okay, and now that she's back in his mind, sync established, she has the confirmation. For just one tiny second, she watches his expression, the edge of her lips curling.
Interesting, but not just for today. She'll gladly play along this time around, fingers running across his torso until they're back on the waistband, face coming close enough that lips brush, but not yet kiss.)
Great to know you're into it. Next time, I'll open with that.
(Also readable as: she'll choose a time at random that has no rhyme or reason and just flood him with her own pleasure. There's also the very real implication that there is going to be a next time, but, oof, what can she do.
No time for him to reply to, at least verbally, as her lips meet his again and her hand slips into his pants to stroke him.)
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Except apparently Sophie with her hand in his pants and her lips on his, which shuts up his brain too, at least to some extent. He moans into her mouth, his hips jerking reflexively into her hand. He assumes that's plenty encouragement for her to continue and doesn't bother trying to verbalize his feelings on the matter. Besides, she has open access to his brain, and this time he actually highlights for her what he likes—how precisely to stroke him, the sensitive places on his chest and neck that haven't been ruined by baggage, how he wants to be kissed.
And most importantly? The control he needs to feel. Not necessarily over her but of his own body. What he gave up before for someone he thought was the love of his life. Sophie decidedly isn't that, but she's done a great job at feeding his newly acquired craving to take instead of just give. As long as she keeps making him feel sexy for being bossy? She can do just about whatever the hell she wants as far as he's concerned. Within reason.
... Or, you know, he may just have a praise kink and some trauma. Whichever.
He holds the back of her neck and deepens the kiss, demanding in contrast to the way after the initial reaction his hips only gently rock against her hand. She offered to do most of the work, after all. To make him feel good. Which means he's not doing her the favor of thrusting into her hand just yet. Nope, she gets to work him up on her own, work them both up, honestly. And then eventually they'll reach a breaking point, and he'll push her down, press his chest to her back, or maybe sling her legs over his shoulders, or any number of other equally satisfying positions. Either way they're fucking the living daylights out of each other for the second time today.]
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One of the crucial differences is that Sophie doesn't care for control, neither does she care for power. Even with the gaze of a distant looker, she knows how much Quentin changed for what he figured was love. She wouldn't want that. Look, if she didn't like Quentin's stupidity and his annoying quips, larger-than-life attitude, and his twink-self as is, she wouldn't be here, taking mental note of how to break his brain, and applying it with every movement of her hand.
For them, who are so complex and complicated, suddenly they've become something easy in her brain. Whether they actually end up having feelings for each other is something she's sure neither will want to look at closely — it is making her happy, and that's more than enough for her. It's something good, new, and fun — both are aware of the risks, both are here willingly, both want it. No need to want or think of anything further, really.
The difference between Quentin when she first climbed into bed with him and how he got now is also palpable, and due to the fact they both happen to be little shits, well. Guess it works both ways, with how he's feeding info that she can use to mess with him later. The intensity of the kiss is reciprocated, her mind reaching to intensify just how soft her lips are against his, how reddened they'll be after they separate again, and just how much she enjoys kissing him being gently placed there as a treat.
She's not borrowing his sensory nerves, though. She's busy paying attention, and she doesn't want to be distracted from everything he's giving her. Look at that, a telepath not being selfish.
Breaking news.)
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He pulls away from her mouth, and yes, she does indeed look utterly debauched. He makes sure she can see it through his eyes. For fun.]
How's the wrist?
[Look. Her hand is great. Really. It should be, considering he's handing her the step-by-step guide to world's best jerk off. But honestly? The more hot and bothered he gets, the more he just misses being inside her.]
Sure would hate to give you carpal tunnel on account of little ole me.
[He lightly brushes mental fingers through her mind, checking her own level of arousal. Sure, he hasn't been paying much attention to her this time around, but also? She's just as much a degenerate as he is. Surely she can manage to make herself horny.]
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Or, well, she was, until those nuggets turned into a series of images that made her blood boil in lust. Expectations and promises work just as much as physical touch in her mind, her heart skipping several beats, which, obviously, she takes it out on him, kissing more fiercely, a quicker turn of stroking until this asshole stops kissing her to send her the image of herself panting, blushing for fuck's sake, and the hand that isn't busy covers his eyes so it cuts the transmission for a second.)
I'm going to start blindfolding.
(Half-joking. Hahaha. Unless? No, but honestly, her pride is suffering with him reminding her that she is into him. Though, actually? At this goddamn point? What fucking pride. She's already reluctantly accepted this isn't the last time she's gonna find herself in this obnoxiously pink room, making out with this obnoxious pink man, and giving him obnoxious smiles because she unfortunately, likes his obnoxious dumb bullshit.
Fine, whatever. He wants to pester her with these petty reminders, she'll just be petty back. It's not like... Ugh, she won't have the chance to. Anyway.
Lie detected. She's pretty sure he'd be glad to point out where she got it.)
My wrist is fine, but instead of having your fingers up my head, you could just take off my clothes and find out yourself. I'm just saying.
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When her hand moves over his eyes, he takes her wrist in one hand and reclaims control over his senses before kissing the inside of her palm.]
Or maybe I blindfold you.
[Since she keeps trying to take away his eyes and all. In fact, that's what he's going to do. Block her optic nerves, then slide his free hand into her shorts and limit her vision entirely to the view of what he sees when he touches her with his actual physical hand for the first time and easily slips his fingers inside her.]
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She's still overstimulated, so the sound she makes is the loudest she has given him so far, inhaling hard as the hand he had taken moves to the nape of his neck for some semblance of stability.
Also, not to be vain on main, but... Strangely, as weird as it feels to look at her face in scarlet tones, her straight, golden hair messy and unruly, and her lips plump from all the kissing with a curl to the edges, she still looks pretty? It's more the blushing and that smile she promptly tries to get rid of that she finds issues with. She doesn't blush. Fuck you and your uncanny skills of making her look like that, Quire. What was it? Not a 'man-eating Barbie'?
But, hey, he has two hands, and so does she. They're still very dressed for two people who want to rip their clothes off, so first, his pants are the easiest. She'll get them down halfway, he can deal with the rest. Next up are those shorts, which take a little more maneuvering due to the whole being unable to fully focus on it and the lack of space, but once she's just in his shirt, it all becomes so much easier. Her leg hooks around his hip, which allows for better reach for his fingers, if he has the willpower to not take the invitation as it is.)
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His pants? Gone. Nobody in history has gotten pants off faster, even using TK, which Quentin did. Their hands do regrettably have to leave each other's bodies, but it's a worthy sacrifice when the reward is him lining himself up, grabbing the thigh she so kindly presented to him, and snapping their hips together as strongly as he can considering the position they apparently picked this time around. He lets out an absolutely wrecked gasp that unlike Sophie, he's not embarrassed to have made.
Speaking of. She's still telepathically "blindfolded" with her vision linked to his whenever he has ammunition to use against her pride since she clearly gets off on that. So naturally, he shows her every detailed reaction she has to him entering her again, as well as when he stays there without moving for a moment, his breathing still in shambles but of course not preventing him from talking.]
Hate to break it to you. But I think you may have a teeny tiny. Humiliation kink.
[And of course, if he's right, pointing that out will prove itself.]
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She can see it. It was glorious.)
Rude and incorrect.
(Where is his damn off-button and where are his stupid interpretation skills!!! She's just feeling shy because she's lacking at least ten layers of armor here, and there's the horrifying ordeal of being known knocking right on her front door. He's got his shit, she's got hers.
Well, at least she can move where she lives really quickly. Glitchy powers means that he might have to ground her, and as she said, ignore the fact that she is accidentally raising his body temperature a little and giving him some brain static when she moves them back to his brain. This is where it began, might as well take it for a spin. Against a shelf they are, and she jumps on him to give him a brain-melting kiss.)
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Case in point, it's virtually no effort at all for him to hold her up, run his hands along her thighs, and kiss her hungrily, all while rocking into her, slow and deep. And because they're in his brain, where he makes the rules, he decides that everything he's doing is the most toe-curling, scratching-the-itch-she-didn't-know-she-had shit she can possibly imagine. You know, for fun. The one downside is it's not quite so fun to get her to make noises and bully her into talking out loud. Oh well, guess it's back to telepathy, not that he's complaining that he can talk while kissing again. Though considering where they are, telepathy means his voice echoing through the "room" instead of just her head.]
See, told ya. You just like me for my big brain.
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She's not kissing him on the physical plane, because the noises she's making have to come out somehow. She's finally gotten loud, holding onto him for dear life as she moves her hips with him in the same rhythm. It's less frantic, much more relaxed than the first time, but it is working perhaps even better for her — whether it's due to his telepathy or because she found a pace she particularly likes, or even both? It's probably both.
With her weakened powers, she can't properly rewire all to him when it'd completely break her, but a watered-down version of something that is making her head spin and her mind light all the buildings in New York together gotta still be amazing, right? Her laugh echoes the walls of his brain, and in her body, her smile reveals itself again.)
What, you thought it was for your winning personality?
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[Quentin pulls the bulk of her awareness to his mindscape. He can split his processing power between the two locations better than she can, particularly with her powers on the fritz, and he'd rather she focus on the place where he's putting in more effort. The physical plane is where he'll get to enjoy the noises she's making.]
You're getting pretty loud, by the way. Guess I'm working for it after all.
[There's only one problem with the current arrangement, and it's, ironically, the lack of a problem. He's no stranger to sex in the astral plane, but due to, uh. Circumstances. He's never been in charge the way he's been enjoying with Sophie. As much as he'd never admit it, he's self-aware enough to know his... confidence, for lack of a better word, has grown since she arrived in his room, and with that has come a newfound spark to his imagination. He has Ideas, many of which he's shared with her. But in the physical world, he's limited not just by their own physiological capabilities, but also logistics. Moving locations, changing positions, fumbling with clothes. His imagination is leashed by the bounds of what's realistic.
In his mind? Not the case. And realizing that is... honestly the most overwhelming feeling he's had this whole time. The unhurried pace of their hips meeting each other doesn't change. He's happy with that. For now, at least. But the location? Arrangement of their bodies? As her pleasure bleeds in him, his focus is starting to show some cracks. Hairline cracks, but cracks nonetheless. His and her fantasies, wild or otherwise, occasionally blip into the perceived reality of his mindscape. Not the worst thing ever, but well... it's probably a touch disorienting to find yourself suddenly in an entirely different position and/or location.]
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With her being mostly in the astral plane, that means her body is moving majorly out of reactions, free from her own blocks — means he gets the sounds of pleasure she's doing, the beaming from her smile so intense it might light up the room on its own, all that good stuff she's been gatekeeping if he actually cares to look.
Though, in here? He can feel her every emotion, and what he will feel is that, although there's an eyeroll specially wrapped as a gift for him, he's not wrong. He's earned her at the most honest she can muster, so he should probably pat himself on the back for that one.
Likewise, she can feel it, too — the overwhelming feeling of choice paralysis and how they end up on the floor of a whole different room, his breath on her back, even with her own arched against his chest, her palms holding on to her body to keep herself steady. His imagination is running, huh? It's not a deal-breaker, naturally, but if they can not just blink into a whole new thing, that'd be best.
Powerless grounding, because that's what she has: her hand moving to caress his hair as she turns her face to give him a peck to the lips.)
Hey, Omega? I'm not going anywhere, so we'll have time and plenty of opportunity to check out that wishlist. (She knows, she's surprised too—) Just be here with me.
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At least she's not giving him shit about it. And her attempts to ground him do... actually work, funnily enough. Her hand in his hair, telling him to be here, calling him Omega? Yep, that gets him to focus up.
Not that he's going to reward her nice with his nice. That's not how this works, and he can feel that pathological urge to unconditionally dote on every girl who gives him positive attention creeping at the corners of his mind. He pushes it down and with it pushes her shoulders to the floor, the bottom half of her body propped up on her knees.]
Aww, see, you can be nice sometimes.
[He drapes his body over her back, and puts his hands on top of hers, threading his fingers between her own to pin her to the floor. His hips keep that same slow roll that they both like, though, and he lightly kisses the back of her shoulder. So that's nice.]
I won't complain if you call me Omega in bed more, though. And from me that's a generous offer.
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It's probably a very nice view he gets, her tiny waist and curved back as she moves against him, this position actually helps her do some of the work and she squirms a little at the lack at something to hold so she can not lose it as quickly.)
How long until you make me regret it?
(Bitchy for the sake of bitchy, only. No malicious intent, especially when he gives her exactly what she needs to keep herself focused. Her hands squeeze his, and she tilts her head to give him better access to her neck if he wants it. It is exceptionally sensitive, though, so if he goes for it, the end of this might be on the horizon.)
I'm certain you'll find something else to complain about — shit, you're making it hard to think. I'll kindly consider it.
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Please, I always find something to complain about. It's my special talent.
["Talent", yes. That's a word for it.]
Not to say you aren't making it hard, though. Pun intended.
[He chuckles in her ear at his own joke. Still, he's not lying. Even Quentin Quire is having a difficult time finding something to complain about right now. His brain is naturally wired to handle a vast amount of sensory information at all times, which is the only reason he's able to keep the composure he can, because it's a lot.
He still has part of his mind in the physical world, enjoying all those reactions she's giving him now that her body is unrestrained by her filters, and he shows her a snapshot of his view there every so often, when she lets out a particularly wanton noise. But for the most part he wants to keep her attention here in his mind. He's mostly just showing her so she knows he didn't want this position to avoid seeing her face. That's, well... he can't deny there's a factor of that. But it's more about recontextualizing an identical body to one he knows all too well. Not just trying to make something he's done before feel different because of the way they both behave. Something actually different. Something exclusively Sophie.
He pants into her ear and for a moment just... feels her. It doesn't matter that this a psychic approximation of her physical form and not technically "real". Her back is soft against his chest, her fingers curled around his, her hair tickling his cheek, her hips meeting his and body clenching around him so nicely. And most importantly, he has no mental image in his head of a different blonde bombshell under him like this he could compare to even if he wanted to do so. It's like a whole damn mountain's been lifted off his shoulders.]
You ready to admit I was right?
[About this position, he means. She can look into his mind for hints if she needs to.]
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Funnily enough, communicating now feels so much lighter than it had been in the past months. She can recognize what he's doing with those images, telling her he's paying attention, committing her to memory, and she doesn't recoil from it for once. Good that he can see the smile on her lips, then. She's not mad about it. She's not sure the word that could describe her feeling, but relieved comes close enough and she can feel that he is too. Like the baggage has lost a bit of its weight.
The same way he takes a second, she is, too. She can see herself coming closer, especially after all that psychic insanity they had been doing, but likewise, she doesn't want it to end so soon either. Heavy breathing, sounds, the way his heart is pounding against her, and how the skin of his hand feels once she runs her thumb against it, as a smirk forms on her lips. She presses it on his arm in the shape of a kiss, really the only thing she can reach easily.)
Quentin Quire is right are words I will never say.
(She admits it in her mind, very clearly, he can hear it.)
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Hmm, what was that? I stopped listening after the fourth word.
[He replays those first four words she made the horrendous mistake of stringing together in that specific order: "Quentin Quire is right."]
I'm just going to assume the rest was "and that's very sexy and cool of him."
[He can feel himself getting closer too, and he lets go of one of her hands so he can pull her up a bit and lightly turn her head so he can kiss her. The angle is awkward, but hey, e for effort. At least she has a hand free now, so she can help if she wants. He just needs some kind of outlet for the desire he's feeling that makes a part of him want to rush for the end when the rest of him really, really doesn't. He's determined to let this build gradually, savor it. Not because it could be the last time they do this. She already promised him multiple next times. It just feels good, and in the kind of shit life inherent to every poor bastard with a goddamn X-gene, "good" is something you hang onto.]
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(Can't win them all. Sophie's already won several times today, might as well let him have this one, especially because he, well, was right. Why are telepaths like this? She'd do it too, make a mental frame of it, hang it on the walls, have it play whenever she found convenient. Pot, kettle.
Anything else she might have wanted to add is lost, because while she could talk to him as usual, kissing just shuts her right up in every plane, her body moving to sit up, back to his chest as she continues carefully move not to hit him, but keeping the rhythm they had going all the same. Her hand finds his hair again, a caress as she focuses on the mellowness of their current flow.
Sophie's thinks the same. It's delightful, and they had never even had anything good, so she wants to store it in the corners of her mind, revisit and build up on it for the times to come. She doesn't feel regret, and she is certain she won't feel when they wake from the coma they set themselves up for.
It's good. She's, ugh, happy.)
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Okay. This is a limited-time offer. Today only, but. Touch my hair again.
[He kisses her again to give her less opportunity to tease him, letting his hand idly roam her body for sensitive spots as an additional distraction. Not that he thinks she would be all that merciless, nor is he terribly insecure about his request. That much is clear by the playful tone to his voice. It's just the principle of the matter.]
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On the astral plane, though, she lets her fingers enjoy the soft strands they caress, her hand also synched to their rhythm as she tries to postpone her soon arriving climax. She's not even about to mess with him about this?)
Limited offer on - giving me permission or letting me at all? No take backs.
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Both. I like my hair. Don't want you messing it up.
[That moan she lets out in the physical world is so delicious it echoes in his mindscape, and when she encourages the change in his movement, he gladly complies. And in the mental world? He does his best to match that, even with the difference in angle in this position. His arm wraps around her waist for the sake of leverage, both to brace and lift her a bit if needed, so he can shift from a rolling motion to steady, emphatic thrusts, aiming for her to feel as much of him as deeply as possible each stroke. Is that doubtlessly going to hasten the end of this? Yes, yes it is. But consider this: she's making the most lewd noises imaginable and digging her heel into the small of his back in one reality, and in the other she has her hand tangled in his hair and back flush against his chest. And in both realities he's getting a constant live feed from her brain of everything she's thinking and feeling. He's only one guy, okay! His brain may be wired for sensory overload, but he mainly avoids getting overwhelmed by diverting his attention, and that sure as fuck isn't an option here. At this point his priority is keeping this from getting too frenzied.]
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(It's a very particular pleasure to be running fingers through recently shaved hair, hence why Sophie's living her best life now that he has asked for it. His hair must be an unruly mess of unruly curls back in his physical body, now that she thinks of it. She's just one girl, okay, there's only so much she can ignore, rebuke, or repel for the sake of being difficult; her finding it cute easily slips out.
Not that she has a lot of time to dwell on it, with her louder moan filling the room — she said what she said. Her head tilts back in the mindscape, allowing it to rest against his shoulder as she matches the movement, making sure she has all of him with each time he pushes against inside her. With powers all fucky and jacked up, she doesn't want to risk them getting worse by playing too hard, but she still is a telepath — she knows exactly what to think when he's just in her brain as much as she is in his.
Her thoughts flow to pay the most diligent attention to each single pleasurable thing she's feeling. How he's moving exactly how she likes it, hitting all the right spots and focusing on the burst of joy that she feels each time he pushes in. The soreness of her legs, which while annoying, she adores as she holds him close, a reminder as to why they cramp in the first place. The way she can almost taste the edge, her brain melted, and her body nearly imploring her to let go.
Ah, the joys of telepathy.)
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The first round of this ended because they were bickering and trying to one-up each other, which... tracks, considering their personalities. This time, though? This time they have a shared goal. The same priorities. They're in perfect agreement for the first time literally ever, and it's about fucking each other stupid in two planes of reality simultaneously. Go figure.
This second round has been about wish-fulfillment, mostly on his end—though she certainly hasn't had any complaints—and there's one thing on his list he still wants. It's stupid and way, way more cliche than he prefers, but hey, cliches are cliche for a reason. And she doesn't seem like she's in the exact headspace to offer any constructive criticism right now. If it gets him jazzed, chances are very, very high it'll work for her too. Shared goal, right?]
Hey.
[He moves the hand not around her waist to gently rest on her neck. There's no pressure—unless her mind indicates she wants that, of course, he's not judging—but for him it's just the aesthetic that's appealing.]
Beg me. I wanna hear you beg.
[He uses the last shreds of his sanity to reach into her mind and lightly grasp her body's ability to climax. And he makes sure she can feel it, to clear up any potential confusion about what she's begging him for. It's the same as his hand on her throat, though, enough to be felt but easily breakable even without use of her powers. Not that Quentin has any problem with edging. Obviously. But there's a time and place, and they're both way, way too close to the finish line to bother with any of that crap in any serious capacity.]
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For now, though, she's temporarily too overwhelmed to continue performing her tough act, which is why she nuzzles against his neck before she kisses it, a speck of... Affection? as she feels her heart nearly beating out of her chest. The hand on her neck is not a problem, since it bears no pressure and it allows him to feel her insanely rapid heartbeat on his fingertips.
Her eyes open once he speaks, and she realizes what he's doing almost immediately as he says it. Did this fucker just edge her twice on the same day? He's so dead. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow. But eventually? He's so dead. It's not on her control how her physical body reacts, hands gripping onto his arms and her hips chasing his like an addiction, which doesn't fucking help, it brings her inches from an orgasm she can't have since he's holding it, and it scrambles her brain to every direction possible.
Motherfucker.)
Fuck, Quentin, you win, let me come for you, please. Please.
(For all the bite and tone, her voice comes out nearly a cry. He did win!)
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Quentin lets go. He has no choice. Even if he wanted to he couldn't hold on any longer, and he absolutely doesn't want to. She begged him to let her come for him, and there isn't a single cell in his body that objects to that concept. Sophie is spared from any additional stupid comments at least, because all he can do is choke out a breathless and very unsexy "yeah," but... look. The "come for me" or whatever dirty talk bullshit is implied, okay? Just... fill in the blanks or something.
Also? Before she gets all uppity, his last two braincells were reserved for edging himself, so nyeh. He set his orgasm to be triggered only by hers, because he's just a nice guy like that. You're welcome. Which means the instant she climaxes, so does he, thrusting as deeply as he can into both iterations of her body and spilling inside her for the second (and third...??) time today.]
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The panting moan she gives out is sweet to the ears as she rides her climax with spasming thigh muscles while she brings her awareness back to herself. Lips reach for a lazy, slow kiss as a means to calm down, thumb caressing his cheekbone before she distances.)
... Hey.
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Hey.
[So what if he's almost deliriously happy, grinning like an idiot, and a disheveled mess? Mind your business. Oxytocin and vasopressin are a hell of a chemical cocktail. Anyway, he'll be back to his usual pissy, arrogant, irritating self just as soon as the feel-good hormones clear out of his system. Might as well let her enjoy this mushy, touchy-feely, and frankly adorable Quentin for the next few minutes while he's here.
That said, he's going to roll onto his back beside her. She can do whatever the hell she wants after that.]
I think we can both agree that this was my best worst idea ever.
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With him next to her, she rolls on her stomach, propping herself up with her forearms and keeping her face on her hands. Big blue eyes watch him before she snorts, one of the hands settling on his chest as her nose does the thing.
Yeah. Actually, yeah.)
We can, yeah. Not your worst work.
(But wait, the realization, and she has facepalms for a second in her inevitable laughter. It's both surprise and embarrassment, oh my God.)
... Cripes, all this, and I still don't know what dumb game to get you.
(THE WHOLE REASON SHE WAS UP IN HIS BRAIN IN THE FIRST PLACE. Oh, no, her face has to join her hand on his chest as she chuckles.)
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It's funny. In about 99% of cases, Sophie resting her hand and face on his chest would annoy or unsettle him. Hell, yesterday the idea would've made him want to crawl out of his own skin. In a few hours, it'll probably feel claustrophobic or too intimate or bring up bad memories blah blah blah. That's a problem for future Quentin. Apparently putting his arm around her is a step too far, though, because he just puts his hands behind his head.]
Oh. Yeah, I'm not really that into gaming.
[Said with utter nonchalance, like that reveal isn't a grand stupid anti-climax on top of the whole hot mess that is their shared existence.]
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But, bro. Bro, no. Bro? He can probably feel her mind slowly coming to two realizations: a. he just went with her to the arcade because, well, she asked. b. she's the videogame nerd. Oh, nooo. She hides further for a second before she huffs, returning to her original position once she realizes that being in this bed was probably the best thing they could ever come up with.)
Well, the intention there was to give you something nice.
(So, GG?)
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So yeah, he does heartily agree that this was the best possible outcome.]
Well, I'd say you definitely achieved that, at least, soooo. Task failed successfully?
[He breathes deeply, feeling her head and hand rise and fall with his chest. The post coital sleepiness is starting to sink in, and his eyes are drifting shut, so he lazily waves a hand to telekinetically pull a blanket over both of their bodies. She doesn't seem like she's going anywhere in a hurry, so eh. He's a restless sleeper and tends to starfish, though, so hope she enjoys that.]
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Eh. Sounds about right for us, I guess.
(The blanket is more than welcome, and it reminds her — from the same drawer that she found the chocolate earlier, she'll bring two more to whatever surface is closest to him with her own telekinesis so he has something when he undoubtedly wakes up needing them. It's a small way to care, but it is care nonetheless.
That said, cuddling is a bit too much for her, too, she could definitely use some space. She leaves his chest to press another sweet, lingering kiss to his lips before a similar one is pressed to his cheek.)
'Night, Quire.
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By the time she wakes up, he's dressed, eaten the snacks she retrieved for him, and apparently taken up origami within the past couple of hours, judging by the hoard of paper cranes littering the floor and every available surface nearby him. He doesn't even bother looking up at her when he senses her stirring. He's busy.]
Good, you're awake. I was really bored.
[Clearly.]
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Sophie hates waking up with a passion. The rays caress her face, and she glares right at them with the strength of a thousand suns, before her hand taps around the bed to see if she can find the owner of this atrocity of a room. Ah. He's already left it. He's... Speaking, already.
Very confusing morning for Sophie Cuckoo. The room is a slap of stimuli to her senses, the feeling that a truck ran her over with how achy her legs and back are, not to mention her face from all the silly smiling she had been doing. Yet, she's still flooded by all those pesky feel-good hormones that are basically holding her down like a club bouncer and keeping her from throwing hands with the sun itself.
Very slowly, so as not to give an opening for her muscles to punish her, she sits up, hands rubbing on her face before she looks over. Paper cranes. A lotta paper cranes.
What the fuck is happening
Nerd
What)
Good morning to you, too, Q. How long was I out?
(A good 9 hours, probably.)
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Well. He's just going to use it to feed his ego. What's she going to do? Try to tell him the reason she can barely move isn't how good he fucked her? Obviously not.]
Nine hours and 13 minutes. Give or take. I was asleep for some of that so. Harder to keep track.
[Shit, what do you even do when the girl you had sex with because it was literally the only thing you could agree on is drowsily waking up in your bed and calling you nicknames? Fuck if Quentin knows. He's never done this kinda thing before. But what he does know is he refuses to let this be awkward. Or at least, no more awkward than it absolutely has to be.
Look. If he can manage to not, you know. Be a pathetic sap when he's butt-naked, surely he can manage it now. Get it together, Quire.]
Not to be a buzzkill, but the nickname thing isn't really helping with... whatever this is. Just so you know.
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No comment.
You try getting fucked three times, Quentin. See what that does to your legs and back. Good thing she had no plans today, just shower, get in her bed with a game, and die. Sounds pretty good, actually. There's an inherent laziness in the way she searches for clothes, as if her synapses in her brain are still rewiring to the beat of awareness. The shirt she stole from him yesterday is within reach, so she puts it on again, and TK brings her shorts to her, and she can at least cross 'getting dressed' off her very short to-do list.
Also, shit. That was a coma. Applauses to her exhaustion, because with how he sleeps, not waking up to take back blankets or kick him over a little so she has some space is a feat.)
... Holy shit. Okay, yeah, that tracks.
(His brain is concerned with awkwardness, but from Sophie? There's none. It's just Quentin, and she's just Sophie. Perhaps it's the grumpiness of being awake that hinders her from feeling anything weird, or perhaps it's the fact that she doesn't think it's weird at all. They did what they did, and even now that she's no longer so horny that her brain isn't functioning, there's not a shred of regret within her. She remains...
Ugh, happy, she supposes. Whatever the fuck. Look, the way she sees it? That's more than enough. Names, titles, quantifiers, certitude, those things are wholly unnecessary. All she wants is for is equality between them, and that they're satisfied with what they have, whatever that may be.
That said, God, she's too sleepy for this. He could give her some grace and 20 minutes at least to shake up her neurons before he called it, but of course not.)
I'll make sure to call you by your full name next time.
(God forbid. Why are there so many damn 'Q's?
With some difficulty, because her lower back is murdering her, she'll shift her position to face him, a hooked finger still rubbing on her face to see if that helps her wake up. She looks positively adorable, kinda like a very precious cat who shows you their belly, all cute and all, but if you come too close, it will claw you. Mornings, etc.
Her system is rebooting, so several firewalls are down — meaning she can show a shred of person before she hates it.)
It's not a buzzkill, you're okay. If you wanna talk, we can talk, if you don't, that's fine, too. Up to you.
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[He's very certain hearing that name is going to be like a bucket of ice water on her head, but look. The Phoebe in the room was gonna need addressing sooner or later. Sex is a no-Phoebe zone, but that's it. That's a rule that he's just decided, and she hasn't pushed back on any of his established rules as of yet, so.
That said, he's going to give her a break by rambling a bit for levity's sake, letting his tone smooth back into pretentious nonchalance, waving one hand around lazily. It's funny. This whole shtick is both familiar as his usual behavior but also oddly foreign in this context. Like putting on shoes before taking a shower. Weird.]
"Quentin" is fine. "Quire," sure. Eh. If you call me Quintavius I will find your least favorite song and play it on loop over the telepathic airways until either it's stuck in either your or Deadpool's heads. And it's hard to say which is worse.
[Okay, that feels... a little more "normal" Quentin Quire Snark. Probably a bit more standoffish than what he's going for, though. He doesn't dislike having Sophie here, and he certainly doesn't have any regrets about sleeping with her. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Nor is he all that concerned with defining what they are so much as drawing lines about what they aren't. Thus.. Phoebe namedrop.
Fine, he'll be... nice. A little. He can manage that without becoming a complete puddle. He looks back at her and offers her a crooked half-smile.]
Nothing against talking, though. Just cool it on nicknames. Yeah?
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To be fair, he did tell her he wasn't going to do anything that fell into that category, aside from, well. Sophie herself. She can't just be herself without stepping on an eggshell, but that's the agreement they reached, and she'll honor it. Sophie's resigned, and she won't make a big deal of it. They chose this, didn't they? She doesn't regret it for a second, either. It's fine.
Instead of dwelling, she gets out of bed in slow-motion, careful where she steps because again, what the fuck, tiptoeing around the paper. Good thing she's Barbie-coded, her feet can withstand her weight pretty easily, this is not a difficult task.)
I'll make it easy for you. It's that stupid 'If You Like Piña Colada' song. Go for it, I'd love to get everyone on my side on how moronic it is. Catchy doesn't make for good storytelling, and that story is whack.
(... Okay, that's reasonable, and it's... Easier to swallow than the first thing he said.
Cute smile, though. A crinkle of her nose is what he gets for it.
Wait, nope, no. Don't use boyish charms when she's vulnerable, man. Conduct unapproved by Corporate. Wait until she's a little more awake so she can roll her eyes at him. Her hand extends as if it were an agreement, mostly playful and more so she can tell him she's on the same page.)
Yeah.
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[He grimaces, lip curling in disgust. Sure, it seems like the Deadpool here maybe isn't the one from their universe? Possibly? But honestly, one Deadpool is basically the same as any other. They're all trash.
Anyway. He sees her pick her way through the origami he's scattered around on the floor and waves his hand, pink TK picking up the numerous paper cranes and flying them away into a neat little stack on the other side of the room. That completed, he looks back at her to see the crinkle in her nose and sense that sentiment of "cute smile," which... does make his expression fade ever so slightly. But at least she also seems to be rejecting that. So that's nice. The sooner they find a nice even balance of low-level bitchiness that doesn't involve tearing each other's throats out, the better.
Quentin does take Sophie's hand when she offers it, though he rolls his eyes at her facetiously formal demonstration, and he nods his head at the chair opposite him at the table to indicate she can sit if she so desires.]
You need a minute? To wake up.
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(The face of sheer dismay she makes, and Quentin gets to hear her wondering how the hell those two songs would probably be in his brain and trying to put those two together, only to her further dissatisfaction. God, how does Wade even do it? There's a very good reason why she takes a whiff of his brain and shoves it far, far away from her awareness. Ugh. Gross.
She does catch sight of the eyeroll, thank God, and her shoulders raise in a shrug. Roll your eyes all you want, at least they're agreeing. This is new ground, and she isn't sure whether the whole full connection is needed. That said, she will keep her brain pretty open for him to pick up from if he wants to as she sits.)
It takes me a good two to three hours to person, so just slap some cortisol here and there, and I think I'll be okay.
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Got it. One cortisol shot to the brain, coming up.
[He puts his fingers to his temple—an entirely unnecessary visual indicator for a process she's fully capable of feeling for herself but nonetheless is habit for him by this point—and gently nudges her cortisol levels higher. Not enough to give her a jolt or feel unnatural, just speedrunning her usual experience of getting to an alert state.]
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She's a little sorry it took a while.
Sophie knows she's impossible, for all that she likes calling him that. With the waking up work on the way, she gives her face a last rub and a few very light pats to the cheeks.
Okay.)
Alright. I'm... Good enough.
(Talking, right? Where do they even begin?)
... You start or I start?
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The weirdest thing about all of this is he doesn't feel... indebted to her. Well, "indebted" isn't the right word. Loyalty? They don't owe each other. Anything. They both got what they wanted from each other. An exchange of mutually beneficial services between largely self-serving assholes, both clutching to a few crumbs of selflessness.
Quentin ponders for a moment before deciding that apparently he starts.]
Guess the first thing is to decide if we want to do it again.
[A beat, and he quickly adds, putting his hand up.]
Not right now, I mean. In general.
[Yes, she said they'd do it again last night, but she was on round two and three of mind-blowing sex that was at the time happening on two different planes of reality so. She'd be forgiven if her head wasn't exactly in the clearest state at the time.]
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Maybe she's just as fucking insane as he is. It happens, who knew? Not her. This whole free-falling, unthetered Sophie is still learning about herself. Individuality arrived at the Cuckoos when she was buried under the ground, she's navigating it the best she can.
It's a very fair question, though. She's on the same page as him, she owes him nothing, and he owes her probably even less than that. What's important to her is that they're together in this, the rest? It will fall into place.)
Wow, the jumpscare you gave my lower back.
(Just for the sake of levity. There's a moment she pauses there, as if she was thinking on how to construct her thoughts. She's not about to lie to him, pretty sure they're past that stage, but honesty without her brain connected to another is still pretty new.)
If it's up to me, yeah. I meant everything, even if you made it very hard to think things through, but now that I have, my answer doesn't change. How about you?
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Don't worry, your lower back is safe this time.
[Which answers his side of the question well enough, but just in case it doesn't:]
It's the only thing we've ever done where we haven't hated each other's guts and was pretty damn incredible to boot, so yeah. I'm down. As long as it's just, you know. Fun. For both of us. And, uh, speaking of.
[Aaand now comes the less easy stuff. Quentin sighs and adjusts his glasses. What he has to say is going to be unpleasant. For both of them. As all Phoebe-related matters are. It also occurs to him that, being a hivemind, Sophie may already know what Phoebe's end of what he's about to say, but. Whatever. Sophie wants to be treated like an individual, right? Well here goes.]
When Phoebe dumped me [no point in using any euphemisms here] she said—more or less—that I cared too much. I saw a future with her. She didn't. Which, you know. Happens. C'est la vie, right?
[He shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself. God, Quire, keep simping to the girl you just slept with about her sister you still have feelings for, why don't you? That's not super weird or pathetic or anything.]
Whatever. Point is, I need you to stop that from happening again. Stop me. From... caring too much or whatever.
[He cringes at himself briefly but soldiers on. Too late to turn back now. Quentin squares his jaw stubbornly and makes eye contact with her for this last bit.]
Means no corny shit, okay? Nicknames, holding hands, cute dates, all that baloney. We fuck when we wanna, but when we're not, we're... normal. Just without hating each other's guts. Yeah?
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(Hey, at least he pulls a laugh out of her before he starts talking about unpleasanties. Incredible is a word for it, so are many, many other very positive adjectives. Sophie wasn't sure what she expected when they first got into it, but she can easily say that not only did he fulfill the mission she had given given him — or else she'd have left —, but also she had so much stupid fun, and that was news to her. Pretty pleased, you know?
She pestered him to talk to her for months, and now he is, so the least she can do is listen. Funny how getting something good going for once makes her not want to rebuke every point and fight every word. Quentin is right, though, it is unpleasant, but perhaps it's a small victory that she doesn't want to bite his head off for it, greatly because she is getting what he is coming from.
Although, as previously stated approximately a billion times, she isn't Phoebe, this isn't exactly about that; however, when he rolls his eyes, she does too. It's Quentin's bizarre way of trying not to ruin whatever the hell he has with Sophie. Not to get all puddly, romantic and mushed, like she's seen he gets, and to be quite honest? She wouldn't like that either. The Cuckoo in her adores the thought of men simping, but Sophie herself? She likes being challenged, snark, sarcasm, and laughing herself silly. She's seen Quentin simping, and it's not for her, personally speaking.
That said, it's... Considerate, in a confounded, kinda fucked up way that he doesn't want to repeat his shit with her and set more fire to the flaming garbage can that is Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, protect himself from it in a weird sorta way. So, at the end of his talk, there's a very quiet laugh that comes from her, a shrug of shoulders.)
Good, because I don't care for any of that.
(Like, she'll do it, but care for? Blergh. She feels the gaze upon her, and lets her own meet his.)
We managed to be normal while at it, so I think the prospects are good, but you got a deal. Can't promise you I won't kiss you on a whim when we're alone, but other than that? I got you.
(Meaning she will shake him if he gets too much.)
As for me, what I care about is that we make decisions together and talk shit through when we need to, 50/50, which is what we've been doing. Can't complain, don't want more than that.
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Hey. Got a second?
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/Depends. What's up?/
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I volunteered to go to Solmara. Sophie suggested I link up with the other telepaths here before going as a means to stay in touch sort of.
( There’s a pause that comes before he continues. )
I’ve never really done that before. Formed a connection like that.
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[... Okay, hold on, he needs to ask something.]
/Sophie suggested you talk to me specifically? Or just another telepath. Generally speaking./
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She just suggested I link up with the other telepaths. I decided to come to you about it.
( Because you’re friends, aren’t you? )
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[Color him unsurprised.
Aaaanyway.]
/Any idea how far out Solmara is? Gets a little fuzzy for me outside this bubble crap, buuuut if I patch you into my psychic network I should be able to use your brain to create a feedback loop and amplify the signal. You want any tracking data on any of your squad there? Comms, shared knowledge database, any of that?/
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( As for the other stuff, there’s a blip of gentle frustration regarding it because what. )
I can handle keeping track of everyone there. It’s staying connected with you here on Etraya I’m looking to do. I don’t even know what a link is. But I’m guessing it’s different from chatting like this.
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( Quentin is... his friend, sure, but. It's still not anything he's done before with another. )
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[Quentin's blaming Sophie for this shit. He has no proof. But he's blaming her anyway.]
/Anyway, we're not establishing anything. I've already got a psychic network using my brain as its main hub. Got it routed through my autonomous nervous system, so it's self-sustaining and runs continuously without needing me to babysit it. I can just patch you in. Like I said. Easy peasy./
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What if I short-circuit you by accident or something?
( This isn't him trying to say he's ~so powerful~. It's more a legit concern since his mind has a way of doing things even when he's asleep. )
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[There's nothing but unwavering certainty in Quentin's voice. Partly because he's confident in his own abilities and defenses, but also... Nate just needs to hear it.]
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Alright. What else does it involve?
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/What, patching you in? Or the network in general?/
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( Because he might as well get it all. )
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[Sorry, Nate. Quentin tries his best not to throw shade. But on the other hand like 15 minutes ago Nate didn't know what a psychic link was, so...]
/Network itself? Well, first off let's talk signal. Specifically, the amplification thereof. No clue if I'll be able to maintain a steady connection on my own until you get there, but I'd rather be prepared. You think you can figure out how to give me a boost?/
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( He means telepathically, right? Shouldn't... be too hard to do. )
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/You, uh. You want me to patch you in and you see if you can like. Feel it or whatever?/
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Yeah. Let's see what happens. Got my fingers and toes crossed.
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[Nate is obviously in a different tier than Kwannon, but that shouldn't matter too much. Probably. Regardless, Quentin's done this several times before, so the process is relatively simple and practiced. He reaches out and deftly stitches a bit of code in Nate's mind, a persistent yet relatively unintrusive presence in the back of his head.]
/All good so far? Not feeling any short-circuity kinds of urges?/
[He's joking! Mostly.]
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So when Quentin goes and does what he needs to, he makes a conscious effort to be aware of this — to tell himself that this is ok and it's just Quentin. Therefore, no being caught off guard and feeling the need to throw the other telepath against the mental walls. Or, you know, through them. )
Is that... it?
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[Appreciate his nerdy shit, Nate! Nobody else does :( ]
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I meant is that all you need to do? You don't need me to do anything aside from the boost?
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[Yep, that's it. Just "oh."]
/Yeah, that's about it. Work smart, not hard. I mean, technically it'd be easier if I commandeered some of your gray matter myself to supply any needed amplification , but hey. Teamwork makes the dream work and all that crap, right? See if you can track the signal from that macro I installed in your head back to the source. By which I of course mean me. Tell me if it seems like something you could, you know, add some extra oomph to if you had to./
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How's that?
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[Is that a little patronizing? Maybe. But look, there's only so much you can expect from Quentin. He's doing his best.]
/Telepathy, it's frequencies. Wavelengths, yeah? Try to feel mine and, you know. Match it. Would this be easier if you downloaded how to do it out of my head? You know how to download specific shit, yeah?/
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No. I can do it.
( And he does, it just… feels like a punch to the head when he does. Not on purpose. Just Nate coming in hard with his abilities because, you know, he’s a little frustrated and what happens when a telepath is in their feels? Stuff like this. But he has a control on it and doesn’t give Quentin a splitting headache after the initial punch there. He lines up his own frequency to Quentin’s, like slotting a piece of a puzzle into place. )
How's that?
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/Bingo! I never doubted you./
[Have a telepathic thumbs up, Nate. That'll definitely help the "annoying" thing.]
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Are either one of us capable of severing this? Or is it only you?
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/Hmm... No clue! The other telepath on my team probably isn't strong enough to break my shit even if she wanted to, and she's never tried anyway. You, though? Dunno. Can't be broken from the outside, though. Chuck tried.
Of course if I go offline so does the whole network. Offline meaning KO'd, not just asleep./
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If something happens to me, I don't want you to end up feeling it is all.
( If he dies? If he dies. )
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[SUS.]
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( Because that's what friends do. )
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/Spare me from anyth—you wanna calm down on the martyr complex, buddy? Ignoring the fact that my pal kicking the bucket is gonna ruin my day regardless of whether or not I'm connected to his brain, burning me out of your head will a) piss me off, b) rob me of potentially crucial intel about a thing that can kill an Omega level telepath, c) eliminate my ability to help, and d) piss me off. So don't fucking try it, capiche?/
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Anybody ever tell you that you have a way with words?
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/Might've been mentioned a time or two./
[Or eight billion.]
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Fine. Unless it's absolutely necessary, I won't cut you off, ok?
( He's still a Summers at the end of the day. )
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[You're not getting away that easy, Natey boy!]
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( How’s that?? )
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[smh Nate, this is why we can't have nice things.]
/You do recall I've actually died, right? More than once. Not to be a Debbie Downer or whatever, but I know a lot more about what it feels like than you do./
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( Gosh, Quentin. )
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[Don't you "gosh, Quentin" him. >:( ]
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( A very Summers reply. c: )
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[DOUBT.]
/I should mention, Julian's on my network too. I mean, not right now. Obviously. Guy never stops yapping./ [Because clearly Quentin has room to judge on yapping.] /He's on a different channel. And on mute. But still./
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( Bro. )
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( He’s just, you know. Curious. )
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[That's an awful lot of very suspicious questions all in a row, Nate.]
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[ :( ]
/Any reason why, or is it just one of your edgy "I don't do friends" things?/
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( He's been around too many others who have been in control or wanted control over him. )
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I just tethered an insanely powerful telepath with unstable powers to the part of my brain that controls whether or not my heart keeps beating. And then I told him how to find that tether and fuck with it. You really think having a macro that automatically pings me if you get stabbed gives me any kind of control?/
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[There's a faint sense of feeling hurt or disappointed from Quentin's end. He doesn't think he did anything particularly shady or weird to deserve this? But who knows, really.]
/It's just a shorthand way for me to keep an eye on people so they don't get dead, but yeah. If you want it gone, I'll make sure it's gone. Scout's honor./
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I just needed to know.
( A beat, he glances down where he is. )
I don't like being lied to or left without a choice. I'm not saying you would. But I was curious what your stance on someone wanting to break away was.
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[Sorry, Nate, he's a bit salty.]
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( Partly said as a joke, but. At that, he projects himself to Quentin telepathically. Because he can. Because it’s better to talk “in person” than through thoughts, he thinks. )
I’m sorry. I’m not… used to this. Linking up. Teamwork. Being around so many of you so much. ( Mutants, he means. Especially ones who aren’t trying to chase him down. ) I know you’re not looking to have minions. I would have felt it from you. I’m just… like I said. If I hurt you somehow, even by accident, I’d feel bad.
( It’s more him and his own hangups with others and control of his powers than Quentin. And yeah, sure. He knows Quentin has said it won’t happen. But he’s accidentally hurt people before. Even brought some back to life which he doesn’t even know about yet, but. That’s for the future. Right now, he reaches out with his pinky finger. Something he’d done with Sophie. )
You said we’re friends. That you care. I promise to look out for you, if you do the same for me.
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[There's a spark of irritation from Quentin's side as Nate appears in front of him and makes all of his apologies and stuff. Nothing major or anything—Quentin is easy to irritate. More of a "seriously?" vibe. It doesn't get much better when Nate holds out his pinky finger.]
/Is that... Are you doing a pinky promise? Are you seven years old?/
[That said, he does reach out and loops his finger around Nate's. He's gonna roll his eyes about it super hard, though!]
/Literally what I've been saying this whole time, but sure./
[A beat.]
/You and Keller, by the way? Definitely bottom tier minions. Absolutely terrible choices./
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But the pinky promise seals the deal and he smiles some at Quentin’s eye rolling along with his thinking he’s above a pinky promise. )
As if you’d be any better.
( He gets the feeling none of them would be.
With the pinky promise made and a slow shake of their hands, he lets go of the other’s pinky then and drifts back a little. )
That means this goes both ways you know. I know you can handle yourself power-wise. But you ever have too many balls to juggle in anything else with your life, I can take some of them. Give you a bit of a break.
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[Quentin squints at Nate's sudden cheery turn. Hold on, wait, no. He's still salty!]
/Hold up, let's rewind just a second./
[He folds his arms and gives Nate a Very Stern look.]
/Look. You don't like people making choices for you, right? Well, neither do I. So do me a favor and don't decide for me what's gonna hurt me. I'm a pretty tough cookie, I promise. I know what I can handle, and if I miscalculate and get fucked up that's on me. Got it?/
[He pauses, thinks, then makes an addition.]
/And for fuck's sake if you doubt my intentions or whatever then man up and go rummaging through my skull like a normal intrusive telepathic bastard with trust issues./
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( Not to say he hasn't or won't do it again himself, but. He's also just saying. )
But fine. If you really want me to give your brain a wedgie, I suppose I always could. ( At that he shrugs, still drifting there, smile faint on his lips. ) I don't doubt you though. I just wasn't sure. But that's on me and my own shit.
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[He shrugs. Quentin's not saying Nate's whole "I just needed to know" stunt was as bad as Xavier. But he's also not saying it isn't the kinda shit Chuck would pull.]
/All I'm saying is you either trust me or you don't. This "I wasn't sure," testing me bullshit? Deciding for me when you need to save me? That ain't trust, dude. That's control./
[Quentin sighs, shifts his weight, and shoves his hands in his pockets.]
/Looking out for one another, that's one thing. But guys like you and me? We can't get into trying to control one another. With our powers or without them. That's a no-win scenario./
[He takes one hand out of his pocket and holds it out. A handshake and not a pinky promise because he's not seven years old.]
/We gucci?/
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Oh, and here I thought I was being considerate.
( Sarcasm, yes. It’s said with a roll of his eyes in regards to his not wanting to drag the other down with him if things go bad, but. In the end, he takes the other’s hand in his own and eyes him with a tilt of his head. )
I don’t know what gucci is, but we’re good.
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/Good. And seriously? Never be considerate to me. Fake-ass bullshit./
[In case Nate was wondering about Quentin's whole... everything. He lets go of Nate's hand and crosses his arms.]
/Oh, and you are seriously linked directly to my brainstem. So I'd really appreciate you not, you know. Frying me in some way./
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( He's kidding, but. He gets it, buddy. He'll keep it in mind and do his best to not let that happen. )
But fine. Neither of us will do something to endanger the other intentionally. If it happens by accident, well. I'm sure we can handle it.
( Omegas and all. )
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We have a problem.
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/Of course there is. Shit's never easy. So? What's wrong now./
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( Which, for an omega, means that's both annoying and concerning. )
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/Send me all the intel you've got./ [And then, because he realizes Nate may not know what all is included in "intel"] /Everything you know about them, all the expositional bullshit. And do a scan of all conscious minds in the relevant area that you can reach and send that to me too. You got that?/
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Yeah. I don't think they realize I'm here. ( Never mind the others, but. Telepaths have a way of knowing when another is around depending on how they make their presence known. Or if they go about snooping too close like Xavier did to him. ) I'm trying to keep my distance. Guess it's a good thing I came after all.
( Because none of the others are like them. )
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[Yes, that is a whiff of actual worry in his voice. Sometimes that happens. He's a very complex guy, thanks very much.]
/Try to scan everything except your mystery telepath. If you think they haven't noticed you, better that it stays that way. Keep your head down, get me the scans, and no theatrics./
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Wasn't planning on going in guns blazing.
( Again, he needs to be smart about this, especially with having others with him. )
I can possibly shield the others but I feel like it'd just draw attention. Just banking on their being too busy shielding Alrys here. But yeah. When I get a chance, I'll get back to you with what I can find.
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[Don't think he doesn't remember that "I'll cut you off if necessary" bullcrap, Nate. He fucking remembers! Quentin is a gajillion miles or whatever away right now, but he makes sure Nate can feel the "I'm watching you" gesture he's doing.]
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Got some intel for you.
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/Sweet. Airdrop me the data dump./
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My guess is he's exhausting himself from keeping these mental shields up so much.
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/Received. You guys trying to track this dude or shut him down?/
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( What telepath isn't, really? )
That said, not trying to draw his attention either. But if he's the reason I can't locate Alrys, then disabling him would likely help, don't you think?
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If you could get in his head, you think you could take him down?/
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( Ah, that overconfidence. Like looking in a mirror, right, Quentin? )
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[Look. Do you have any idea how many times Quentin's bragged about being an omega right before getting absolutely wrecked by something? Because it's not a small number. He got killed by a goddamn Sabretooth clone.]
/Guess you could always use the Chuck Maneuver. As a back-up./
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( Explain, please. )
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[Nope, not going to elaborate on that. Moving right along.]
/I should be able to triangulate his position based on data from frequent, regular scans of the area. Like... every 15, 30 minutes or so. Shields leave gaps in the psychic landscape. Send out enough pings, and you start seeing what's bouncing them back. You know. Telepathic radar. Think you can get me that?/
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( There's a brief pause that comes then. As if he's mulling over something. )
There's a nullifier here. In our group.
( Which Nate has... mixed feelings about. For mutant reasons. )
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( From what he's overheard. )
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Figuring out where the dude is physically is a whole lot easier than finding him psychically. Could you, theoretically, locate him and send this nullifier weirdo in there to, I dunno, hit him with a tire iron in a dark alley or something?/
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Maybe. He's also a risk of being targeted if they figure out what he can do. Provided it even works on them.
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[Nate does Quentin have to explain teamwork to you.]
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( Nate finds it frustrating, but. What can you do. )
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The toll his powers had taken on his body — the lengths he'd pushed himself to with having to rely on his telekinetic abilities over his telepathic ones... he's drained in a way he hasn't been here on Etraya or for a hot minute now, but. He knows the signs — knows how it feels when both his body and mind are about to give out on him and he's glad he'd managed to take down the other telepath prior to all this.
There's a sort of loud WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. going off that he's about to burn out — that he's moments away from losing consciousness and, in doing so, possibly sending a jolt of telepathic fuckery through their connection that's likely to crash into Quentin. A shooting star falling from the sky and slamming straight into the Earth. That's how it's going to feel when it hits him. Everything within him aches, including his mind, and he just barely manages to grab hold of the thread they have for a connection as he tries to navigate back to the portal Aurora left for them. )
Think I'm about to crash. Might want to brace yourself for impact, bud.
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Quentin doesn't bother wasting too many words, since he's not sure how much longer Nate's gonna be able to talk. Besides, he needs the spare brainpower to prepare himself for whatever psychic explosion the guy is about to unleash. Psychic surge protector, yeah? Can't be that hard to figure out.]
/Consider my loins girded, thanks for the heads up. You got Summers?/
[Quentin can tell Nate's headed for the portal, so no need to arrange a meeting spot, which means the priority is Scott. Sure, it's unlikely that Nate would leave the kid behind, and he may not even be conscious long to answer, but... worth checking. Just to make sure. Nate's not used to having teammates, after all.]
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About the only thing I can carry right now. Heading for the portal. Almost there.
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... Damn it, he's not going to get away with just protecting himself from the overload of psionic energy and calling it a day, is he? What if Nate doesn't make it to the portal? And even if he does, what? Nate burns himself out while Quentin over here is playing summer camp and twiddling his thumbs? Wow real shame about that Nate guy becoming a supernova, if only someone could have done something. Probably more Jean's problem than Quentin's anyway.
Ugh. Fine.]
/That's plenty. Get to the portal, we'll take it from there. I'll buy you a few extra minutes, sit tight./
[He reaches out and does his best to hold together the fraying bits of Nate's mind. The guy's pushing past his limits, right? One omega worth of shit. But two should be able to bear the brunt a little easier. Right? Right. Sure, the fact that an omega's powers are by definition limitless kinda makes that math not shake out, but whatever.
It burns like all get out, giving Nate a psychic shoulder to lean on, but hey. What are friends for, right?]
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He's counting down the seconds he has until he slips into the dark that comes with falling unconscious. His mind unravels, his body aches, blood drips harder from his nose. That's when he feels something through the connection — when the pieces of his mind falling away begin to slowly slip back into place almost. Not as perfectly as they had been before. More like someone taking strips of tape and putting back together a broken vase. It takes him a second to pick up on what's happening when he then feels Quentin's psychic presence there with him and he blearily looks to him there through their connection. )
What are you...
( doing? He wants to ask, but is unable to.
The portal is there — he can see it from where he pushes through the air with Scott pulled along. The portal is there and he... can't... get there. It's a sudden flash of bright light within him — within the center of his mind and while quiet, it explodes in a way that sends a tidal wave of a psychic shockwave through their connection, racing towards Quentin for impact. The moment the burst of light happens, Nate's out. Falls from the sky along with Scott, though he'd been keeping the younger mutant lower than him for this exact reason. But he's out and he crashes into the ground, skidding and rolling across it until he finally comes to a stop and he's just... there. Out. But at least he made it close enough to the portal. )
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But Nate kept going... and it was hard to fully protest. It's not like Scott really has a means to get them back to the portal himself. Dragging the other mutant across the desert would definitely be a bad idea.
Still, despite expecting Nate to start collapsing at any moment, there's no disguising his small yell as their flight suddenly ends-- their bodies plummeting to the earth without much warning. Luckily not from a great height, but his body still hits the ground with a slightly rough impact, sliding and rolling across it until that momentum stops, leaving him in a small heap. He's pretty sure that nothing snapped, but Scott still coughs-- finding it hard to orient himself for a few seconds. He'll be fine! He just needs a moment to recover, even though it's tempting to just close his eyes and lie limp for a while. He's tired too, but no. Get up, Summers.]
Nate...!
[He coughs again as he slowly pulls himself up, knees bending up so that he can slowly pull himself off the ground and look at the other mutant with undisguised worry. Don't be dead-- don't be dead, and Scott starts running over to his side (after stumbling a little).] Come on man!
[Don't die. Not like this. Not as he looks down at the older mutant that he's been working with for the past few days. Some relief surges through him when he sees that Nate's chest is still moving, but he doesn't waste any more time, his hands gripping underneath his shoulders so that he can start dragging him back to the portal. This first. Then he'll worry about the others that are still chasing Alrys.]
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instead, he waits until there's even the slightest sign of someone coming through, and grabs onto whatever he can reach first to start dragging them on through. )
Just fall forward, I'll catch you.
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It was already solidly in the "not fun" category when he contacted Julian, but Quentin almost falls out of the damn sky when that psychic shockwave hits him. Keyword: almost. Thankfully Nate gave him enough of a heads up that, despite Quentin doing the stupidest thing possible and trying to help the poor bastard out, he could still do some last-minute telepathic finagling to not get completely wrecked. It hurts, though. Like... a lot. Like the worst charley horse, the worst brain freeze, and a punch to the kidney all at once. Woof. Good thing he brought back-up.
Quentin had a head start, but Julian makes it to the portal first. Unsurprising, considering he's not currently getting his brain clobbered by an omega telepath going supernova (and also he's just a faster flyer than Quentin but that's irrelevant). Must be nice. He also had a far more nimble landing than Quentin, who almost immediately face-plants on the ground several feet away from the portal, but manages to keep his balance with just some awkward stumbling. Look, he's still upright! And that's what matters.]
Need any help with that?
[Quentin gestures at whatever's going on at the portal. So what if he's huffing and puffing, hunched over with his hands braced on his knees, and clearly had a bloody nose a few minutes ago? He's fine. Mind your business.]
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At least, the back of him, a perhaps familiar jacket in sight as he struggles to walk back with Nate's body still firmly gripped and pulled in his hands. He's clearly struggling with the weight, but he's not letting go, even as his muscles strain to pull the other mutant through. Wouldn't it be fucking pathetic if he let Nate down now? Right at the end? After he flew them most of the way back? He only temporarily stops as he feels Julian grab onto the back of his jacket, his voice familiar and actually warranted and wanted right now.
He thinks he also hears Quentin. And that means..
They're here. With other mutants. They're really back in Etraya and thus with people that can actually help Nate and see what's going on. He's still worried of course, focused on the comatose form of Nate and the fact that he's only halfway through the portal. You know. Give everyone a look at Nate's closed eyes and bloody nose and everything.]
Can't exactly fall forward like this! [He shouts, almost demanding.] Just help me pull him!
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( with one hand on scott's jacket, the other trying to wrap around a shoulder to find nate on the other side of him, but it's fine. because as soon as he has a good grip on scott himself, julian's intentionally falling backwards and onto the grass and pulling scott along with him. soon as nate's body is through the portal enough that julian can latch onto it telekinetically, he'll start yanking that guy along, too.
so, no, no help needed from quentin for the moment. he knows the guy probably feels like shit after keeping nate's head together as long as he could, and yanking a couple teenagers through a portal wouldn't be difficult if julian could, you know, actually go through it. )
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Not that feeling like shit has ever stopped him before. One of the "perks" of being an omega, he supposes. Most mutants to do flashy impressive bullshit like Nate over there, but more often than not? For Quentin it usually just means a limitless ability to keep plugging along well after the point where he'd rather take an aspirin and nap for about two weeks. Lucky him.
Alright, break time's over, Quire. Get your ass in the game. He glances at Nate and... yep, that's a mess. Guy's noggin is in shambles. Okay, that's top of the list to deal with back at camp. Before that, though... Now that Scott's safely on this side of the portal, Quentin points at him, and look at that! His arm is only shaking a little bit! Hooray.]
Summers. Did that Beckett guy mess with your head? I mean that you know of.
[Nope, not even going to bother giving Keller any exposition for that. Look, if Julian can't figure out from context clues the bare minimum of "Beckett" being a telepath or similar, then that's on him. Also Quentin promised to update him later. Right now he's here to be the brawn, not the brain.]
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Like, it'd really suck if the portal closed in on him halfway!! Not that Aurora looks like she's going to-- her presence honestly barely noted before he's looking at Quentin and shaking his head.]
No, I didn't feel him do anything. If you want to go through my head just in case, then fine. [Scott?? Don't be so open to someone going through your mind?? But the teen squares his jaw, nodding back to Nate.] But help him first. I-I think he pushed himself too much. He's been using his powers a lot.
[He doesn't fully notice how exhausted Quentin is himself... just sort of locked in about Nate. The teen is fretting in his own way, letting that concern build up and leak into his voice.]
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they're not leaving nate on the ground while he's unconscious, and it's not like quire's in any shape to be lugging the guy around. )
Check Summers' head. ( better to be safe than sorry, after all. ) Since this one's still out, ( with a nod of his head to nate. ) should probably check the one that's awake enough to cause damage if someone is fucking with him.
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Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.
[Is he directing that to Scott or Julian? Doesn't matter. Either of them. Both. Who cares. Quentin's head hurts, and now he's pissy.
Still, he puts two fingers to his temple and does a quick and dirty scan of Scott's brain, not bothering to be overly thorough since he's pretty sure Nate would've sensed it if something fishy was going on upstairs. And also because using his powers feels like rubbing sandpaper on a sunburn.]
Well, Tyke-clops is clean. And the only one fucking with Nate is Nate. His mind is a wreck, but that's just him being dramatic. Burned himself out. I should be able to stabilize him before he goes Chernobyl on our asses as long as we get him back to camp without wasting time.
["We," he says. Only one of them is currently holding Nate. Hint hint.]
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Fuck.
If he reacts to Quentin quickly shuffling through his brain, it honestly doesn't show. Scott's just distracted? Sort of used to telepaths going through in there? Yes. He only really turns his eyes towards the only conscious telepath here, swallowing down that earlier lump that's been crawling up-- and maybe seeking just a little reassurance from the omega mutant that Nate will be okay.]
So you can really help him? [...] He'll be okay?
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Crap like this happens all the time. Probably isn't Quire's first time holding together another Summers' head, either. And we've got a healer back at camp for anything that's not keeping one's psyche in one piece.
( a step forward, and a green platform of telekinetic energy appears under julian's foot, which he - gestures with his chin towards to get the rest of them over to, since quire looks like he's struggling enough as it is. )
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Listen, this time, she wasn't even trying to be nosy. She was minding her own business when she got a shockwave in the psychic landscape, and the presence of two known minds being back in Etraya. Quentin's mind is the one she is lightly touching, bits and pieces, generalizations — she's got the idea, and didn't need to get closer, preventing her own brain from frying too.
Running support, eh? Good. First things first — find a cabin for Nate to be rested in, she's choosing Iguana's, excuse her as she finds a suitable place to put Nate on. Second thing, find food to restabilize Quentin when he's done with Nate. At least she knows how now, so she's picking out the most sugary, jaw-breaking candies she can to deliver to him when he gets to camp. Last, not least, Scott, but for that one she needs him in camp to deal with.
In general, her plan for the aftermath is very simple: get Julian to watch Nate and keep an eye on the telekinetic energy "just in case", crucially away from Quentin while he gets his shit together and his brain in order, and she will snatch Scott before Julian gets pissy and worried. Sounds like a solid plan.
So, her voice reaches out in their brains.)
/Iguana's cabin. I got it ready./
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Sure.
Why not.
Might as well.
At least Sophie is being helpful. Unlike Hellion, who is living up to his code name in the most annoying possible way. Jesus, you bring a guy on a rescue mission as a glorified pack mule one time, and what happens? Dude gets all... uppity about it. And can't keep his mouth shut or mind his business. The audacity.
Quentin gives Sophie the telepathic equivalent of a "thumbs up" reaction emoji, looping Scott and Julian in so they know her message has been acknowledged. If either of them wants to pipe up and add to that, they can be his guest, but he's not wasting the brainpower. Instead, he just waves Summers toward Keller's little TK platform thing with a dismissive eye roll. Quentin is, notably, not approaching said platform.]
What he said. [Does it physically pain him right now to agree with Julian? Yes. But he's doing it. Because he's a goddamn team player.]
I'm good at this shit. Trust me, I'll put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Now go, shoo, all aboard the Hellion Express or whatever. I'll be right behind you.
[He dares Julian to say some bullshit about Quentin flying himself. He fucking dares.]
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Another Summers.
What the fuck. What the fuck.
And--]
Nate is related to me?! And you all knew?! [His voice is rising and. He's not sure whether or not to be angry or upset or confused or something else. Maybe all of the above? Yeah, that sounds good right now. Why stick with one feeling when you can experience them all at the same time?
Someone might need to push Scott onto the Hellion Express.]
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even if he acknowledges it was his idea to send scott, and therefore, it is julian's fault and his responsibility. whatever. there's a roll of his eyes, and he takes a step in closer to scott. one of his prosthetics flits away from where it hovers at his forearm where his hand would be, if he had them, to grab onto the back of scott's jacket and yank him up onto the telekinetic platform. he could just fly them both without it, but that's more effort. )
Yeah? He's like your alternate universe kid. ( were they not supposed to tell him that. ) You've got two of them here, you'll get used to it.
( because that helps.
doesn't matter much anyway, because julian's got hold of scott, and he's flying them back toward camp. )
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Quentin follows like he said he would, keeping an eye out for Summers trying to wriggle out of Julian's grip or starting any shit. He would really rather not fly Scott back himself, considering he's not exactly in peak condition at the moment, but he will if he has to. Not preferable, though. Look, Keller's gotta pull his own weight here, especially if he's gonna be such a pain in the ass.]
I just wanna state for the record that Nate's the one who didn't want you to know. It's just that Mr. "Doesn't Tag His Spoilers" can't help opening his big stupid mouth.
[Throwing both Nate and Julian under the bus? You betcha.]
Also, Snape kills Dumbledore, and Bruce Willis is a ghost. In case you wanted any other plot twists ruined for you.
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Luckily for Quentin, Scott's not really trying to wiggle out of his grip. There is a passing thought of just blasting Julian with his powers, the only thing stopping him is the fact that Nate still needs help. But it sure is fucking tempting still. Partially because Nate also knew apparently and as such, he's kind of pissed at him too!!
About the other stuff Quentin mentions though... he has no idea what he's talking about and he doesn't care right now.]
...So. That's the real reason you asked me to go.
[That question is pointed at Julian.]
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( because in what world does that make any sense to bother with anyway? it's not as if secrets last long in their crew. julian's still got a hand on scott, both arms wrapped around nate, and they're - going. mostly because he now wants this to be over as quickly as possible, and because they've got people waiting on them. )
I literally told you why I asked you to go. I didn't have any ulterior motives or whatever bullshit. You went. You did your stupid job. Congratulations. Your life's full of weird crap and you're a massive asshole most the time. We all got used to Summers' bullshit back home, you'll adjust.
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Right now, however, she's taking a bit of a break with her game in her hands, focus over 9000, which means she tosses, and she turns, and she gasps, and she growls, and she celebrates, and she accidentally disconnects the charger from the plug, and she reaches the final level — and she stares at the screen turning off when the battery depletes.)
...
...
...
...
(Betrayal. Betrayal to the last degree. With disbelief slowing her down, she just sits up to stare at Quentin for a second before she can find words to convey the dumb shit she just did.)
... I. Just lost. Everything.
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Look, it's not like they spent a lot of time hanging out the first time she visited his room. It's perfectly reasonable for him to be a little bewildered when she showed up the second time without immediately jumping his bones. Even if she did. Later. But before that it was confusing! And then the same thing happened again. And now a third time. Thus establishing a pattern, wherein Sophie makes herself at home in his room for unknown reasons, sits around for approximately 1-2 hours playing her games, and eventually decides she'd very much like them to fuck each other senseless. Which... well, he doesn't understand why she chooses his room to game any more than he gets why she feels the need to wear his shirts, but he also can't say he has any complaints about the arrangement. She seems perfectly content to let him ignore her, and it's always right around the time—either coincidentally or by design—where he starts feeling a little claustrophobic that she switches gears. It's... nice, strangely enough.
It's 38 minutes into today's gaming session that apparently some kind of disaster strikes. Quentin looks up from his most recent bullshit boredom-delaying activity, which in this case is reading Les Misérables in full. Wait, what the hell is she talking about? She lost something?]
Huh?
[So helpful.]
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It's also not rocket science. She's here because it feels slightly safe to be and let her guard down enough to take down a brick or two from the massive, thick wall that separates Sophie from vulnerability. Sure, fine, she'll quietly admit that in bed he sometimes manages to demolish entire sections in one go, gets her giddy and puts a smile that could light a town on her face, but mind your business, she rearranges it in her sleep and the wall is pristine the next day.
It's... Weird. Not bad weird. Just... Weird.
Wait. That book is enormous. How long does it take him to finish it? Ugh, dumb secondary mutation. Girl, don't say anything so he doesn't go 'YoU LoVe Me fOr My MaSsIvE BrAiN' again. Which. Not wrong, she does enjoy it tremendously. But let's not give him yapping content so early in the day, although, hey, he is a telepath. Probably heard that bullshit anyway. Can't win.
Okay. Fingers run through the long strands to get some of it off her face, and she sighs.)
I tossed and turned so much that the charger disconnected, and it died on the last level. Hard mode doesn't let you save. Ugh, technology.
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And yes, he did hear her thinking about his massive brain. He's saving that one for later, too.
In the meantime, though, he's just going to go with the ole reliable: unreasonable assholeish victim-blaming.]
You didn't notice the charger getting disconnected?
[The "skill issue" is unspoken.]
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Her eyes roll, getting out of the bed with a little stretch above her head as she walks towards the little table by the window.)
Obviously not. Ugh, tomorrow's mission, I guess.
(Except... It is so early. She jumps his bones now, she sleeps way too early, she wakes up at an unholy time, the devil enters her body, her bad mood gives the entire manor a headache, there is no exorcist in this place to deal with it, so forth.)
Wanna do something for an hour or two that isn't me?
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I am doing something.
[He nudges the book with his hand, just in case it wasn't clear. It almost certainly was, but he's an asshole, so. You know.
Thing is, he does have a few ideas—of a more platonic variety—floating around in his head. But giving them up for free? That's what he would've done before they made this little arrangement, which thus far has been pretty successful at making them at least 80% less miserable. And what's her one rule? 50/50.]
You want me to entertain you, you gotta make me an offer.
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Sophie also doesn't think she has to clarify further that she means something with her in this case, nor does she has to repeat the eyeroll. He's smart, he knows what she means, which he confirms with the following sentence.
It successfully gets her neurons to light up like a Christmas tree, though.
Interesting.)
Alright, we can negotiate. I need to know what I am bidding on.
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I can make video games in my head.
[He assumes that's worth "bidding on".]
1/2
2/2
(Oh, no.
She refuses on principle to let him have that one so easily. God forbid she gets to hear the bit on how she's totally damn hot for his mind or whatever. Nope, not doing it, absolutely not. Also, on top of that, how dare he just casually throw that in? Like, hey, your favorite thing? I can make one right now, stat, just like that? How does she even top that? Fucking show-off.
Hot, though.
Shut up. Well, maybe, just maybe, you know. He wins this time, but she denies him the next five wins. Just on principle, because this is too damn easy and unfair. That sounds like a solid plan.
When did her life come to this again? It's the culmination of her choices and joint decisions with him? She wanted this? She actually wants this, present tense? Oh, dear Lord. Why?
Fine. You know what, might as well. Fine. It's cool. She can deal with this.)
... That's some unfair bullshit and you know it.
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And make no mistake, he is gloating. Just not quite as loudly as he could be. Yet.
Quentin puts his hand to his chest melodramatically.]
Look, if you don't wanna negotiate, that's perfectly fine by me.
[But just so there's no confusion about what he means by that, he waves his fingers dismissively at the console she left on the bed.]
You could always just wait for your little handheld gaming system to charge.
[Rubbing salt in the wound? Yes, yes he is. But look, she's into it. She wouldn't be here if she wasn't. So how could he not mess with her?]
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Hey, hey, wait, being hasty is a bad business practice. I never said that, what I said was that it's unfair.
(Has she said fine already? No? Here's another fine, with a squint of her eyes, because really, what can she offer him that can even slightly balance the scales?
She hates him so much, she hates him so much, she hates him so much, she hates him so much.
So, let's hear it from the man himself.)
I'm listening. What do you want?
(She can't imagine it's sex-related, because he already is getting that. Kinda dumb to throw this golden ticket on something he has without it.)
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[He tuts at her before tapping his finger against his chin thoughtfully.]
Alright, fine. I want... hmm. A favor coupon. To be redeemed at my discretion. And it'll be a doozy, too.
[Quentin cocks his head to one side smugly, thinks for a moment, and then adds:]
Oh! And I want you to tell me how much you love my huge sexy brain.
[Obnoxious? Yes. Very. But he'll make it worth her effort. How often do you get the chance to literally live a game entirely in the shared space between your own and someone else's heads?]
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(Mismatched negotiation power, Quire, and given that she isn't swimming in his mind to figure out something he might want, he's gotta help a girl out.
But he extracted a chuckle from the depths of her unwilling lungs, because that's it? Perhaps it does say something that now she trusts him enough to think that's not a horrible idea. 50/50 rules, he'll meet her halfway, as much as she's expecting something idiotic to arrive months (or hours) from now out of it — something that's most likely going to make her roll her eyes deep into her skull with a smidge of wanting to smother him in his sleep, but that's about it.
Her response comes telepathically in cheeky format, an image in the shape of a golden ticket with cursive text that reads 'FAVOR CUPON - SPECIAL OFFER; valid for one favor, to be redeemed by Quintavius "Quentin" Quirinius Quire, nonrefundable and nontransferable; expires in a year'.
And then he says that, and her face breaks a little as the five stages of grief return to her, eyes shutting close as she slowly nods because, yeah, of course, and strangely enough, that's not even the worst thing he could ask her to admit, because she kind of already had once. Sure, not 'how much', that's a whole different deal than saying she likes it, but still. It's not like he doesn't know.
Still, loser.
Or she is the loser, or both of them are losers. Probably the last thing. How the mighty have fallen.)
Scandalous telepathic kink you got there (— says the one who feeds it —), but fine.
(She'll also make it worth his effort, standing only to move from her seat to, well, her other seat, which happens to be his lap. Kisses to his neck come with words in between them. Also so he doesn't look at her, but again, mind your business.)
I really, really do love your massive, high-speed, stupid, sexy brain.
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And no, this has nothing to do with her distracting him by sitting in his lap and kissing his neck while fulfilling that second part of his request. Nothing at all.
Okay, maybe a little.]
Hmm, passable first attempt.
["Passable," he says, like she didn't drag a soft, slightly broken-sounding noise unwillingly from his throat as he struggles not to squirm under her. Very unfair of her to pull this shit when she literally just said they weren't doing each other yet. Rude af.]
You know, your body out here is gonna be passed out the whole time you're in my game. Sure I can't talk you into a quickie before I fire it up?
[And if he just happens to lightly set his hands on her waist where he knows she likes it... Well. Wouldn't that be a coincidence? Look, he just needed a place to put them, and this happened to be the most convenient! Honest.
Also no, this doesn't count as the favor. Because he asked instead of telling her what he wanted. Crucial difference in semantics there.]
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She's got a mental map of where in his neck he's most sensitive, because of course she does, she's always connected to his senses when she's in there — if not to borrow, to learn, so that's exactly where her lips go unhurried. Passable, right. As if.
Did she say what she said? Yes, but he is making a very compelling verbal argument against it, as her beauty sleep is granted, and his hands are also doing their part in fitting perfectly on her waist. He convinced her with the noise he gave her alone, but hey, she's also gotta be difficult.)
Talk me into it, not really.
(Which is why her lips meet Quentin's, so he doesn't make use of them. Not that it ever stopped him from talking. Telepaths.)
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Pretty rude to not finish what she started, right?]
/I can be pretty convincing, you know. I recently got a blank check from some chick for agreeing to do something I was gonna do anyway. Sucker. She's into it, though./
[Telepaths, indeed.]
cw nsfw
That first friction and skin contact always drags a little noise from her, a hand resting on his neck as the other has her fingers fishing the waistband of his boxers to play with.
And then he says that, and of course, of fucking course, the aggravation brings out crimson to her cheeks. Incorrect? No. Unnecessary? Absolutely. Kind of always the theme with him, though. She's, ugh, used to it, but it doesn't make her less keen to smother him with a pillow in his sleep; she has ample access and opportunity to achieve. Because she shares a bed with him sometimes.
Cripes. The kiss is broken, although she stays close enough so he can see her eyebrow rise.)
I heard said chick is strongly reconsidering her life choices and taste. Might suck to be you.
(Nah, she ain't. Not moving an inch. Still wants to smother him, though, definitely wants to smother him.)
Probably best for her to increase the difficulty level.
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The particular combination of irritated and turned on that he's mastered inducing in Sophie is as satisfying as ever, and Quentin looks every bit the cat who got the canary. Smug as hell, and not getting less smug any time soon. Just like how despite what she says he knows she's not going anywhere.
Sophie breaks the kiss, and Quentin moves forward to restart it. If she's gonna have the audacity to try and shut him up that way, he's going to talk in her head even more just to prove a point. So there.]
/Oo, ominous. Well, just between you and me, I'm not too worried. She thinks I'm like super hot. She told me my brain was really big and sexy earlier./
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At the end of the day, as vexing, unbelievable, aggravating, headache-inducing, menacing, and challenging as this is? It's pretty funny and so damn stupid. She enjoys it, obviously, or she wouldn't be here giving him a light punch to the shoulder with the side of her fist to distract him from the small laugh that she holds in before he takes her lips again. Which, obviously, his dumb massive brain probably picked up anyway.
And then he says one of the dumbest lines ever, and she goes right back into questioning her life choices — a very useless exercise, because, tragically, she already went through the same song and dance and landed in the same place.
Trash. Both of them, trash.)
/Gotta have at least one redeemable quality, right?/