(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?/
/Yeah, I guess thinking I'm hot is a fairly good redeeming quality./
[Quentin makes an exaggerated oof noise at her punch, letting it push him back far more than the amount of force she used would imply. It breaks their kiss again, but this time he smirks at her and tilts his head to the side, sending her the sensory memory of her kissing his neck in all his favorite places. You know. Just a suggestion. It's a free country.]
Otherwise? She's pretty mean. Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
[And while he's busy talking all kinds of shit about her weirdly in the third person for no other reason than to be obnoxious, he also takes a peek into her head to judge whether or not he's good to start sliding down her shorts. He's the one who suggested a "quickie"—since a part of him is eager to show off his constructed game world—but... look, they usually take their time a little more. And sure, bitching at each other definitely counts as foreplay for the type of freak they both are, but still. Quentin's not gonna be That Guy, okay?]
(Oh, how her eyes roll so dramatically, even if they're closed as she kisses him. At this point, they just do it automatically, triggered by whatever cornball shit he says, even if this one wasn't half as bad as the one before. He's cute about her feeble punch though, and he gets a reward of a quiet laugh before she receives the map again. She can't even joke that he's too easy, because she probably surpasses it. Kisses and holding her right melt her brain to mush, so.
But, hey, he'll get his kisses in just one second, this very dopey conversation is entertaining, and it is working for her. Why is she like this? No idea. Was she always like this? Irrelevant.)
You ever heard the shit you say? I'm sure it's on you, and she's a peach.
(He knows what he is doing, and luckily for her, she doesn't have to do the same. She's literally sitting on it, the joys of straddling a man. He is right, though, their foreplay tends to be way longer, layered with telepathic bullshit and stupider banter left and right, so it's pretty valid that he's checking.
Which does open the door for her to do one better. He wanted to know how she's feeling, so she's going to sync his arousal to hers with zero warning. The tightness in her chest, the warmth in her skin, the way she definitely wants him to use those hands on her waist to move her down as he grinds up, and her slight brain fog. All that as she finally moves to kiss his neck, right where she knows would get him to make a noise.
Is it 100% horny-wants-to-jump-his-bones? Not yet. It's a good 70%, though.)
Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
[She does get rewarded with the noise she wanted, a long, low groan he pretends to stifle for the sake of, you know. A challenge. She needs enrichment. And he has a hunch she'd probably get off on this particular game as much as he does, even if his side is decidedly more for show than hers.]
Who, me? I'm a goddamn delight, I'll have you know. I'm practically overflowing with rizz.
[And since she did him the favor of syncing up horny levels, he'll know just how much that godawful line turned her on. Not that he'd need telepathy to tell, since he's been saying shit like that since before she even decided to get in bed with him. But the instant, undeniable gratification is always nice. He also takes her cue and as he's talking starts pressing her down against him at the same time as he grinds up. And then he just recycles one of his favorite tricks: every time he finds a movement that sparks a good nerve ending for her, he plucks that synapse every time. It's all the joys of exploration with none of the inefficient clumsiness of stupid physical bodies. Just rocking against her is doing plenty for him, and that's not even counting the fact that he feels everything she does.
70%? Rookie numbers. Let's see how fast he can fix that.]
(Hope he feels the pang of embarrassment and longing for her grave over the word 'rizz'. Cringe is a very physical feeling, okay, and she goes through it along the stages of grief she felt earlier, except acceptance is more in the middle, and anger and bargaining come in last. Bargaining mostly with herself not to commit murder so early in the day, because he's managing to distract her by doing exactly what wanted, the fucking asshole, right after coming dangerously close to losing 10 points in her horny scale.
Remember the brain fog? Well, it is making it very difficult to come up with a rebuttal, especially when there's telepathy involved in making her irritated brain light up. For fuck's sake.)
You've got two minutes to convince me not to change my mind.
[Look. This is basically their version of BDSM, except instead of whips and chains it's Quentin saying the worst, most insufferable garbage imaginable. 50 Shades of Cringe.]
The fact that you haven't yet means I already won.
[He's grinning, but he drops most of the overly obnoxious stuff. For now, at least. 50/50 is their rule, which means he'll honor her "two minutes" despite the snarky commentary.
Quentin kisses her again, and when he does a timer appears in the top left of her vision that stays if her eyes close. 2:00... 1:59... 1:58... She gave him two minutes, and he is nothing if not precise and excessively literal when it means being a pest. But at least his pest nature is being used for good, because he continues with his telepathic nonsense and rolling their hips together and then ups the ante by moving one hand up her back to press her closer and the other hand down her thigh to grip there.
In bed he prefers to be on top in whatever position they end up choosing, but in a chair? Chair feels different somehow. And since Quentin has never once in his life not gone full ham when accepting a challenge, he supplies her with some curated mental images and sensory imaginings that all come with the same suggestion: if she's ever wondered what it would like to ride him for once, now's the time.
He restarts the kiss, and the moment her eyes close, she sees the timer, and she can't help it, okay, she breaks it immediately because a remarkably honest, and maybe a little loud, chuckle leaves her — this is goofy, and she should have expected it, but she didn't. Now she wants to kiss him a whole lot more, so she has to fight off the smile muscles for the breath-taking kiss she is about to give him, a more decisive roll of her hips as further reward.
Especially because hello, he unlocked the achievement of finding out himself that she likes being gripped and drawn, not just held, especially when it's hip to hip. Extra touch of desperate horny craving in there that she happens to enjoy greately, so look at that. The noise she awards him with is pretty priceless with how sugary and wanting it sounds, good for him.
Riding sounds interesting, but it just happens not to match the approach she takes to it, pampering or taking do not sound very 50/50 of them. She's going to need him steering, and she lets that thought roam through them, which she finds he won't have any qualms with.
Yeah, he won. With the timer and by gripping her at the right time. What the fuck. She replicates the timer, although whatever time it showed, it shows a zero as she moves a little to unbotton his pants.)
[Ah, yes. Another fine addition to his collection of victories. The neat thing about whatever this is he's got going on with Sophie is it's often just as much fun to do what she wants as it is to annoy her. Convenient!
Quentin grins against her lips, and yep, he's definitely making note of all those things she likes. Not just because the noises she's making are extremely satisfying, or because her desire is feeding into his brain and setting it on fire, but because honestly? This is a case when the same action just happens to scratch a particular itch in both of them. Funny thing is, Quentin's not a possessive type of guy. Never really has been. But gripping Sophie and taking charge the way she likes it? That shit makes something in his monkey brain very, very pleased, and he is not going to bother questioning why any time soon. It's not like it's made him feel weird or anything when they're not fucking, so who cares.
Needless to say, no, he doesn't have a single issue with what she's proposing. In fact, she gets rewarded with his hand grabbing her thigh more firmly and tugging her body insistently against his as he lets out a pleased sigh. It feels so damn good that he repeats it a few more times before deciding they should probably get a little less clothed first. He reluctantly lets go of her—for now—to pull her shorts down and leave her room to get up and remove them if she wants. After she's done with his pants, of course, since that's apparently her top priority. Not that he's stopping her.]
As of late, she doesn't crawl into his brain uninvited, but they both know that the moment they start getting bothered, she just does it automatically. Sharing is so normal to her, she enjoys feeling the speed of his heart, the arousal pumping through his veins, letting him know how furious she is at their stupid clothes, and the lightning of delight that races through her spine when she hears that sigh coupled with how he's holding her.
She's glad he likes it, though. Considering the embarrassing, impatient whine she releases against his lips, it definitely was worth it to let him know. Not even mad about the sound she made, she said what she said. Don't worry about it. She's not even nervous about not knowing how to navigate riding like a normal person — pretty sure they're going to figure it out soon enough.
He did say quickie, so she's not going to bother taking off more clothes than needed at the moment. He wants to see her naked, by all means, she's just (his) shirt away from it, but she'll bother with whatever she'll want off of him when the annoyance comes. So, she'll manage to pull down his pants till the middle of his thighs, leaving him just to get those shorts away from her as quickly as she can before she's back to attacking his neck and giving him a few strokes, solely because, well, yeah. Why not.
Patience is definitely not her virtue. It takes very little time before she's positioning and sliding down on him, hands on his shoulders for support — but from here, he's up with steering the initial dynamic.)
[Naked is not necessary, because yeah, he said quickie and meant it. Also? This is when he starts appreciating her in nothing but his shirt. Though maybe that's just because he's so turned on that she could be wearing just about anything, and it'd be hot. He barely even gives a shit that his pants aren't all the way off, and he gives even less of a shit once she climbs back in his lap. Her mouth latches onto his neck, and her hand strokes him, and he makes a noise that's both hungry and exhilarated. That said, he's equally as impatient as she is, and her rushing to get "down to business," as it were, isn't getting any objections from him.
His hand goes to her thigh again at fucking lightspeed, gripping her and pulling her down onto him.]
Fuck, yeah.
[Okay, taking a second to just. Breathe. Jesus. Telepath sex, man. Insane every time. Quentin uses the hand not grasping onto her thigh first to pull her in for a brain-melting kiss and second to, well. Take one of her hands and cram it into his hair. Fuck it, he likes the way it feels when she grabs it a little, okay? Sue him.
Alright, next. Time to pick up where they left off, yes? One of his arms goes around her waist to hold her tightly against him, rocking his hips while doing his best to demandingly tug her body to meet his.
It's... weird, kinda. Their minds are still connected. He can feel everything she does, can see in her mind exactly what she wants, exactly what feels best for her. But while he's not ignoring any of the sensory feedback coming from her brain, he finds himself paying less attention to it and instead chasing what's making his own brain churn out oxytocin and adrenaline like a machine. Fortunately he's pretty sure whatever he's doing is working just fine for her too.]
(Honestly, he should suggest quickies more often, this is exactly how she most likes to feel — starved, needy, and a little desperate. She does sense the appreciation, finally, and while she knows that the horny brain isn't very picky about outfits, it's nice to feel either way, even if it's short-lived. Any thoughts about quipping dissolve just as quickly as the speed of his hand pulling down on her.
He might have gotten her to make the loudest sound yet, out of all the times they've done it. It's been a battle for her to feel comfortable with Quentin witnessing certain things, the blush that overtakes her cheeks when she's annoyed and yet fond of him, the beaming that would be all over her lips if they weren't busy kissing him stupid, and the sounds that she would deny him at first. She has always had a certain reputation to uphold, and individuality is not something she has had much experience with. Letting Quentin see Sophie is a process; being known and seen is vulnerable, and she isn't great at dealing with the prospects of it. Now, at least, she's in a place where removing a brick or two from her mental walls isn't as mortifying, and he's worked for it, it was well-earned to get to this point. Of course she will still deny it if he points it out anywhere that isn't when they're all over each other, just on principle.
Still, though.
The prize just happens to be her unfiltered moans and cries, and the bliss she feels when he pushes her down on him, her hips gladly complying with the rhythm and giving him a bit of a challenge now and then to pull on her a bit harder. Not to mention the fact that she loves having her hands in his hair. The pull she gives the strands is gentle, but she runs the palm of her hand against the sides of his head for the sensory pleasure of the short hair against her skin. It's so damn satisfying, and her nails pick up caressing his scalp as a means to ground herself.
[Later Quentin will be kicking himself for missing the... well, the everything about what she's doing right now. Tearing apart her mental walls piece by piece until she has no choice but to show him the genuine person behind them is one of his favorite parts about doing this with her, after all. It's when he most gets to see Sophie and not just a Cuckoo. And right now? The Cuckoo has left the building. It's all Sophie who's making those noises into his mouth because she physically can't hold them in, scratching his scalp and gently tugging on his hair the exact way he wanted her to, moving with him like she needs his body to survive. He's vaguely aware, of course. He's never not aware of every single detail all the time. Thanks, secondary mutation. But the part of his brain that's steering right now is the part that's more concerned with what she's taking than what she's giving.
Then again, he's also probably going to be a little weirded out later at himself for whatever's come over him.
Quentin isn't a possessive or controlling type of guy. He's a powerful telepath with the ability to manipulate just about any mind in existence, with varying degrees of effort, of course. Even Sophie he's sure he could overpower if he really wanted to, though he has no desire to actually do so. At least, not outside of the little playful ways they mess with each other in bed. Which is what makes this... Fantasy? Kink? Whatever it is so ironic, because really this is probably the least he's ever meddled with her head during sex. But his stupid little primitive monkey brain is going brrrrr like he's actually, what? Owning her? Being some kind of macho dominant sex god? All 5'8", 130 pounds of him? He's resorted to using a bit of TK to make it easier to push and pull her onto him more forcefully, for fuck's sake.
Whatever, it's kinky shit. Not like it's supposed to make sense. If it makes his monkey brain happy, and she clearly isn't complaining, then who cares. He pushes thoughts into her head that somehow sound like commands but lack any shred of actual psychic power behind them. Asking her to feed this fantasy of his even more. Tell him how much she wants him, beg for him, do whatever she's gotta do to make sure she's as close as he is. Because he's pretty damn close, and it'd be awfully embarrassing if he somehow finished without her because he was too busy with his own crap.
Congratulations, Sophie, you finally found what gets Quentin Quire to shut up. Temporarily, at least.]
(Interestingly enough, she isn't meddling with his brain either other than the usual telepath sensory connection crap. She's got a whole arsenal of tricks that she could use and does use with him, she's a Frost and a Cuckoo, she's nothing if not horny and resourceful, but right now, she's more than satisfied with the simpler things. Perhaps that's the reason she likes this so much.
Sophie is fully aware that she's difficult. Impossible, hardly the empathetic type, attitude-filled and unrepentant. Her own monkey brain registers this as being challenged, and she enjoys the audacity greatly. Cuckoo law dictates that she does what he wants, and that's that, who cares about anything else? Sophie likes attempts to get her to take it down a notch, and in Quentin's case right now, he's managing to do it perfectly. There are no successful attempts to conceal anything from her end, nor does she consciously want to, speeding up the pace of her bouncing since, fuck, she just wants to come so bad.
Her mind is pretty empty, no resistance from anything, just thoughts of praise and general horny desperation, until she hears him in it. Requests, not laced with good ol' telepathic commandering, and you know? Corporate approves his submission without a second of hesitation. Only for today, since the bricks that she took down from her wall are especially the Cuckoo irreverence and the need to be guarded with Sophie.
God, talking when she's doing all this exercise is so hard, though. Sophie breaks the kiss, the hand on his hair moving to his cheek as she allows him to look at her flushed face, the smile on her lips, and her hair all over the place.)
All I need — is for you to come in me. I'll — be right there with you.
[When Sophie breaks away, Quentin blinks owlishly at her for a second, the haze over his mind making it difficult to focus on anything else. But... it does help ground him some. Not so much snap him out of whatever fugue state he was in but give clarity to it. Keep him from spiraling away into the stratosphere in his own head. So that's nice. It takes another second for him to register what she said, but when he does the sound that comes out of him is a brand new one, something halfway between a choked groan and a growl.
... And then he follows it by gasping out one of the lamest things he could possibly say in this situation.]
Fuck, that was really hot. Okay. Yeah. I gotcha.
[Hoo boy. Well, at least he's not in any danger of becoming a normie bro or anything awful like that. Small mercies.
His hands move to her hips, his fingers gripping her feverishly, and every time she lifts up he pulls her down as hard as either of their bodies can realistically handle. It's a greedy, inelegant way to do this, foregoing trying to thrust up into her as much in favor of just manhandling her body, especially since he doesn't go back in to kiss her again. But right now he wants to keep looking at her, even if his eyes keep threatening to roll back in his head. Because she—fuck—she told him that if he came in her (which he has all the other times they've done this without her specifying, it's not new, so why does it feel different this time) that it would push her over too. Which is just. Indescribably hot for reasons he cannot even hope to unpack right now. Or possibly ever. He'll review his memories later and see if he feels like dealing with any of this shit.
Right now he just wants to see it. See her come apart with no extra telepathic push, no sensory sharing besides the baseline. Just from feeling him fill her. He yanks her down two more times before he comes, his eyes flickering as he does his best to keep watching her face.]
(She has unlocked something here; she can tell by the delicious debut of a whole new sound. Seems like no matter how many times they do this, something always pops up, like a whole rollercoaster of self-discovery. You know, things that might just happen when they are sharing a bed with their problems. For her, it's individuality that she finds, which she tends to try and conceal all for herself, and snarl at him for looking when she happens to let him — whole ordeal, but hey. They both knew what they were getting into and just how complicated the other could be.
And suppose that's where they are at, because this has been completely different from what she is used to being on top. Spoiling him, yeah, a little bit, but not remotely intentional — she's just being honest, without being repelled by it about it for fucking once. It won't last forever or even hold out throughout the rest of their day, it' a given that she rebuilds her wall as soon as the plausible deniability of hormones can no longer serve as an excuse.
Sophie doesn't roll her eyes, doesn't make a snarky comment with his words. She smiles with her little crinkle, because it's an awkward line that would not have been had he stopped at the compliment, and well, she's not fucking some dude bro who would pull that off perfectly. She's fucking Quentin, and it's kinda part of the package, and as her brain starts to melt, look, she can find it pathetically endearing. Shut up, she already gives him enough shit on the daily for eighty percent of what he says, let her have this.
This is pretty perfect, though, and she doesn't even have many brain cells left to think about kissing him, she's so busy trying to match the rhythm he's drawing her into while she sees stars every time her hips meet his, noises unrestricted and, God, embarrassingly loud, her cheeks as rosy as they can get. He wants to look at her, she doesn't even register declining it; her surviving neurons are employed in slowing down his perception of time so that he can enjoy it to the fullest. You're welcome, it was very difficult to focus on it, because as soon as he climaxes, she's a goner too.
It was so intense that she's lightheaded, her hearing distant as she holds onto him for dear life as she tries to command some air into her lungs. She even had a quip stored to pull his leg with, but what quip, she doesn't even remember what about, her forehead resting against his before she presses a kiss to his cheek.
[He'll realize in about 20 objective seconds his perception slowing is her doing, but his own brain picks up the cue from her prodding and automatically adjusts his subjective experience to match previously assigned settings. His brain processes everything 15 faster than average. With his subjective perception of time slowed to 15 times the normal rate, his mind doesn't race, and the sensory input is no longer overwhelming but being able to process every single thing he's feeling doesn't make them any less good. He can feel the muscles in his arms contracting as he grinds their hips desperately together through his climax, his pants hanging down at his ankles from the frankly absurd amount of moving he was trying to do in this position, his heart beating wildly like it's about to burst out of his chest. She's crying out and clutching him and god he wishes they'd taken shirts off before they did this because the fabric feels like sandpaper on his overly sensitive skin but then it doesn't matter because just like she promised she comes apart around him.
With his mind more focused, he can slip inside hers, watch her face contort at the same time as her brain is overwhelmed with pleasure and her body clenches tightly around him. He rides the wave of her orgasm to prolong his own until eventually, eventually his sense of time catches back up with the real world, and she's gently kissing his cheek as they both come down.
Holy shit is right. Quentin pants harshly, trying to catch his breath, and looks down at his hands in a daze, stiffly loosening his grip on her hips but keeping them there for now. His brain is all scrambled, and he's just gonna... take a minute and slump backwards, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling and try to make recalibrate the mess in his head.]
Some—[Damn, he can't breathe. Is he dying? Is this what it feels like to get fucked to death? Not the worst way he's kicked the bucket by far, so if so he'll take it.] Some quickie, huh? Jesus.
(Under his fingertips, he can feel her thighs' gentle spasms as they're looping the pleasure through their synapses. Her legs are going to be so sore later, not to mention that her knees are going to be alarmingly weak once she has to walk but this time, she's not going to bitch about it. She really can't, her entire brain has melted, and her body is struggling to bring her back to some form of stability — she can certify that she, too, is dying.
Her forehead does not rest against his shoulder to hide from his view, but so she can rest for a second as she at least manages to get the air in her lungs more consistently, and she'll do him the solid of syncing it perfectly to his so they can calm the fuck down for a second. All the effort in the world is then put in moving so he can slide out of her, hands squeezing his shoulders for support, and he could use the opportunity to bring his pants back up if his brain considers it. Other than that, this is the most she can do at this precise moment.
It's only when he quips that Sophie finds some strength to distance, a weak laugh accompanied by the brightest beam, even if she looks, well, very messy. She's not even going to bother running her hands through her hair to smooth it out, she's just got different priorities right now, which are whatever her puddled, dopamine-filled, sparkling, elated brain wants out of her.)
Right? I knew the shirt thing would end up growing on you.
[His brain does consider the pants, and he reluctantly pulls them back up with shaky hands. Fuck, every cell in his body is burning and overly sensitive, and he's still working on bringing his systems back to normalcy.
Quentin registers her return quip almost in slow motion, but he wheezes a soft laugh in response.]
You still can't keep them.
[He's still rebooting, which means they're in that window where affection is allowable, where it doesn't ruin everything and eat him from the inside like a cancer. So Quentin wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. She'll get up soon, probably, but while they're both fuzzy and squishy from dopamine and oxytocin he's going to hold her close. Also? Means he doesn't have to think about whatever the fuck worm crawled into his brain for the past few minutes. Not yet, at least. And that's plenty good enough for now.]
Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a pretty sick game to follow that. Kinda screwed myself with that one, didn't I?
(These moments are the closest thing they have to a couple's normalcy; they're almost like a bubble that separates them from all the sarcasm, acidity, and irreverence that they share. Not that she doesn't like that too, that's exactly what moves her to this point, but, well. It's an unspoken agreement for sweetness they don't allow each other to have, and that's why she doesn't fight the snorted giggle that comes out of her with his response.
Probably sounded pretty damn stupid, but whatever. Another great part of it? She doesn't register the embarrassment that he heard it in the first place. When he pulls these things out of her outside of their established mushy moment, she yearns for her grave, horrified and distressed, but with hormones calming her down? Being brought to his chest is the most pleasant thing, and she places a lingering kiss on it, one of her hands resting against it with a thumb caress while the other wraps around him in a lazy hug as she nuzzles a bit.
And then he says that, and it brings out yet another one.)
Oh, yeah, game of the year should be incoming, but lucky for you, you put me in an awfully good mood. I'll be generous.
(Just so there's proof of the pillow that flies from Sophie's face to QQ's. Telekinetically. Before she goes back to thinking about Usual Cuckoo Joy. Perfume. Money. Money. Party. Joy. Lipstick. NSYNC. Pretty lingerie. Rosé Dom Pérignon by David Lynch. Sunbathing.
Anything to get that OFF OF HER, and then, back to her game, just listening idly... Until Quentin goes ahead and offers Jayce how to kick her out, and he's squinting at him for it.
Yyyyyeah, time to get off of bed. Her hair is braided, which still makes it a bit messy, and since he wasn't out or anything like that, it's her own loungewear. Miracles are real.)
... Quentin. Why, pray tell, are you teaching the flatscan our business again?
[Jayce is making his first pathetic attempt at psychic defense, and Quentin is hella petty, so he's giving the guy some time to gain a nice false sense of security before Quentin tears it away from him. Constructively, of course! But that means he needs to occupy himself in the meantime. And that means chatting with Sophie, since apparently she's clearly not understanding the Vision here.]
She doesn't even block him at this point, so of course he knows the rollercoaster that is happening in her brain. One, she's very into the pettiness and the bitchness, but that is the very bottom of an iceberg of annoyance.
He's literally teaching the flatscan dumbass how to fight her. Seriously? And it's not even working. She's still there.)
Ah, yes. Your winning personality definitely outshines mine, certainly.
[Quentin eyes her, and yeah, he can tell she's got mixed feelings. His, on the other hand? This stopped being about messing with Sophie and became about damage control after that first old familiar line: "get out of my fucking head". He shrugs nonchalantly.]
I mean, in terms of making telepaths look good, yeah. Relax, I've got it handled.
(So that he knows. Besides, he fucks her up and she glitches? Oof. Clearly, using her as a guinea pig for anti-telepathic measures, how can she not be mad at him?)
[Quentin considers leaving it at that. Doesn't seem like Sophie's going to fight him on this, and well. It's not like she obviously thought about any of the shit that's currently running through his head. Which is its own level of intensely frustrating, but... ugh. Fine.]
You bleed on my pillowcase, you're washing them. I'm helping us.
[And since he knows she won't connect those dots, he helpfully does so for her. And it's only mostly patronizing, so... You're welcome.]
You really wanna keep giving this guy a reason to invent psychic shielding?
(She's pretty, not stupid, Quire. She got what he meant when he said PR, but it doesn't mean she has to be happy about how he is going at it.
Sophie is bitchy, and Jayce knew it from the moment he first met her, and she's done nothing more than what he expects out of her. Quentin just going in there and making it worse? Not his best bit. He can be right all he wants, but the way he's helping is definitely going to anger Jayce way more than Sophie Cuckoo being Sophie Cuckoo.
Not to mention that, yes, love when a guy she likes on occasion throws her under the bus for a massive migraine and glitchiness that he isn't going to help care for, and will most likely say she deserved it. Just great.)
Like you're doing, antagonizing a stranger five times worse than I was, considering he's met me? Being right doesn't make you not wrong.
[Being right doesn't make you not wrong? Sure, he gets the sentiment in concept, but in this situation he's definitely not wrong.
Probably.
... Yeah no he's definitely not wrong. Sorry not sorry.
Quentin rolls his eyes.]
Please, you know this doesn't even count as "antagonizing" by my standards. Besides, I'm helping him. You heard how he changed his tune when I offered something he wanted. That's how this shit works. We help them, they need us, they don't build sentinels. It's the whole X-Men shtick.
(Meaning: not everyone can handle QQ light. He is a lot, even on a good day. She can handle it, random dude he is talking to? X for doubt.)
You mean when you shook him to tell you something you wanted to hear first, and when it disappointed you, you kept shaking him until some change fell out of his pocket? Fine, help the flatscan, I get what you're doing, that part is fine. I'm just saying you look as bad as me right now, even if you're helping.
Yeah, I'm helping. Instead of just going "all your brain are belong to me" until he got freaked out enough to throw some annoying shit at you in self-defense.
[Why is he not surprised she doesn't get this? Sigh.]
You scared him, Sophie. You cornered a dog, and he bit you.
[Quentin shrugs.]
I'm an asshole, but I'm not an asshole that's scaring him.
(His saving grace for hearing all about how she did nothing much is... Kamala Khan. As it usually is. She did gently tell Sophie off before over the same shit, because Sophie just can't understand how to be normal, and if Kamala and Quentin are saying the same shit, it means... Ugh, he's right.
Fucking hell.)
Fine, heard and understood.
(Apologize? No. Maybe. Needed? Not sure. Apologize??? She's bad at it. Maybe it's implicit enough that she doesn't have to do it herself.
[Watching her process "empathy" would be funny if it wasn't making more work for him. And... okay, fine, at least she seems to kinda get it now. A little.
And then she... apologizes? Is that what that was? Quentin squints his eyes quizzically.]
Why're you telling me?
[Whatever, not important. He waves it off dismissively.]
Honestly, you should be thanking me. As should he, for that matter. Ungrateful little freak you found yourself. And not as interesting as I hoped, tragically.
(Someone explain to her how is this man so intelligent and yet so fucking stupid. She's apologizing exactly because she made work for him.
Cripes, she sometimes just wants to shake him.
But he wants to dismiss it, and wave it off, then fine. She's not talking, her eyes rolling and her arms crossing not for the words he gives, but fine, for that, too.)
Welcome to the flatscans of Etraya. Let me know when he's ready to give me a whammy.
(Yeah, she's out of that chair right now, not to kill him.
Fucking idiot. Not a day goes by that she doesn't want to shake him into oblivion. Instead, it's to her side of the bed she returns to, to be pissy on her own. By not leaving his room. Because this is normal.)
He's basically this huge nerd scientist who's really hot and kinda charismatic, so this chick pushed him into, you know, taking over a high political spot he definitely shouldn't hold. So, yeah, he has guards. I'm going back to my game now.
Right, right, yeah, okay, that's boring, though. Politics on some fuck-off other universe with some-bastard and what's-her-face, who gives a shit. I wanted intellectual stimulation, not himbo-in-disguise who's also a simp for magic bullshit.
[He waves his hands emphatically at her, as though she is clearly on the same wavelength as him and fully agrees. Which he knows is not true, but you know.
This is what you get when you decide to spend your free time around Quentin Quire.]
Anyway, he's not completely hopeless, at least. His psychic defenses are hot garbage unless he's pissed off, though. You should help him with that, since you're so invested in his life or whatever.
[~*~says it sarcastically but actually means it~*~]
(She was so ready to drop this conversation, she's already so annoyed, but he keeps going on. Cannot believe this bitch is making her look up from her portable, only to roll her eyes at him.)
That's on you for being nosy; it's got nothing to do with me.
(Says she, who started this by being nosy, but look, she didn't promise Quire shit??? He just went in???)
Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll help him, alright? Make him work for it and everything.
(He is having his enrichment, she isn't murdering him, but instead, letting him humble her, so APPRECIATE IT, hoe.
Her eyes roll, although that means very little considering they're glowing white and she's off doing this stupid bit. Like she promised, she'll even make the fucking flatscan work for it.
Jayce doesn't manage a nosebleed out of her, but a relentless migraine and tinnitus? Granted, and she winces from pain in her spot on the bed before hiding her head under the pillows. In this disco ball of a room. Too much, too much.)
I fucking hate you so fucking much, Quire, holy shit.
(Muffled from under the pillow, she's gonna need a hot minute. This sucks.)
[Ah, yes, he is very enriched now. And very much not unbearably smug.]
Psh, I'm helping you. This shit builds character.
[Yes. Character building. Which she definitely asked for.
If she was close enough, he'd pat her on the back in a facetious show of comfort. But that requires getting up, and he's too lazy to do that. So she just gets the psychic impression of the concept of him comforting her or whatever. That's close enough, right?]
(She needs just a hot minute, and there he is, there-there-ing her in her brain. If she sucks, he sucks too, he better not forget it, and she gives him the equivalent of a wave of dismissal. Bitch. If you wanna comfort her, you have two very functional legs that you can use to walk over here yourself, Quire. 1 for Effort.
Very slowly, she sits back again, fingers pressed against her temples in a futile attempt to soothe her headache.)
There are other ways to help that don't include a migraine.
/Is anything with telepaths ever really "normal"? That's a rhetorical question. But no, most telepaths I know don't have a lot of precog. Kinda seems like it fucks you up, to be honest.
/Soooo you're having nightmares. About a deep-seated anxiety. Tell me why you think that's some kind of prophetic shit and not just normal-ass fucked up dream shit./
/Look. Do I think it's just a stupid bad dream? Yeah. The world-breaking Omega level psychic version of that nightmare where you go to work without your pants. If you haven't had any precog abilities before, and you're not seeing any of us in your visions, they're probably not anything to get your panties in a twist about.
Nate thinks he can just show up, sprinkle a little trauma around, then clam up the second Quentin starts trying to talk about it? To help? And not just clam up, but slam a psychic block in his face?? Nope. No way. Think again, bub.
Quentin cracks his psychic knuckles and pushes against that wall. Not a true attempt at breaking it, but certainly enough that Nate'll feel it. Which is, of course, what Quentin wants. He's not trying to invade Nate's boundaries, not really. He's making a point. And that point is "hey, asshole, you're not getting rid of me that easily."]
( Oh he feels it alright. So much that Quentin might feel a flicker of annoyance through the connection they share. He doesn't unlock the door — doesn't even open it up a crack. Instead, he speaks from behind it. )
Go away. Or do you want to laugh some more at my stupid dream?
[Oh, a flicker of annoyance? Nah, we can do better than that. If Quentin Quire wants a reaction, he's getting a reaction. It's his specialty. Nate's out here trying to act like he's being oh-so-open-and-honest while blocking him out and has the audacity to accuse Quentin of mocking him? Nope. That's like fifteen different layers of inauthentic bullshit. Quentin may not be the same stupid kid who stole Slick's disguise and forced all those asshole world leaders to confess their secrets, but his tolerance for evasive garbage like Nate's pulling? It's low.
Quentin stubbornly refuses to reply in words, instead responding with a hard, pointed shove against the psychic block. Sorry, Nate, he's not having any damn conversations with anyone through locked fucking doors.]
( Wow. Does this guy not know how to take a hint or something?
He feels the shove that comes after his words — knows that it's harder than the last one was and his left eye glows bright and gold for a moment. He's upset, that much is clear. Thought that Quentin might have some insight in to precognition and if it was something omegas like them are capable of instead of it all just being in his head... in not the usual way it is for a telepath... and the guy had just figured it was a stupid dream when he's here trying not to count down the days he has until he just doesn't exist anymore because thanks Sinister.
He knows that Quentin is his friend and has been someone, more or less, that's been there for him when he's needed him but he just... felt as if his concerns were simply being brushed aside — not taken seriously. Quentin's told him he's come back to life how many times? But that doesn't mean he will whenever that happens. Quentin doesn't have a code written in his DNA to make sure he doesn't live past a certain age. So maybe he's a little more touchy about it than he should be.
So it's why when he flings open the telepathic door there, it's all dramatics as it should be for a Grey-Summers kid and he's eyeing him with that left eye still glowing gold. )
[Quentin can take a hint. He just chooses not to when it suits him. Like now, for example. And look, you can't say he doesn't get results. Nate's dramatics notwithstanding, the fact that he opened the door at all means Quentin won, so ha.]
Or what, Nate? You'll try to kick my ass? I'm quaking.
[He scoffs and plops into an armchair. Yes, there's an armchair here now. Because he's an Omega level psychic, and it's the astral plane, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. And what he wants is to sit himself right here and decidedly not go away. And if Nate has a problem with that then that's on him.]
Now are we going to talk like grown-ups, or are you gonna start a fight you won't win?
( Does Nate have the upper hand in terms of power? Yes. But does he have the upper hand when it comes to skill and experience? No. That’s where his overconfidence in himself has led to him learning the hard way that raw power doesn’t always mean an instant win, but. Whatever.
He folds his arms in front of his chest and stands there, looking away from Quentin. Quiet for a moment, his jaw tightens before he finally looks back over his shoulder to the other telepath. )
It sucks that you’ve died before. I’m glad you came back from it. But I haven’t. ( Died before, he means. ) And I’m going to someday in the next few years because of some asshole from my world. So maybe it’s no big deal to you that I have these nightmares, but they scare me because it’s not fair.
[It's a step in the right direction, at least. E for effort. However, unfortunately, Nate said that thing about "we both know I could beat you," which admittedly kinda undercuts Quentin's desire to be empathetic. He wrinkles his nose snidely.]
Okay, first of all, we don't know shit.
[He rolls his eyes, clearly offended by Nate's assertion, but he'll get back to that in a bit.]
Second, you're not having dreams about dying. You're having dreams about obliterating the rest of us with your big scary brain muscles you can't control worth a damn. Because no matter how many fucking times we all tell you that wouldn't happen, it doesn't seem to sink in. So.
[Quentin crosses his legs, spreading his arms invitingly.]
( He says that in a way that has him frustrated, as if Quentin should get it but he doesn’t. )
I explode because my powers are too much. What do you think happens when someone literally combusts? I just take half the planet with me when I do.
( Eye glowing that bright warm gold, he reels it in and shakes his head as he forces his fingers through his hair, turning away, eyes closing and the gold slowly fading behind them. )
It doesn’t matter if it’s here or not. I have an expiry date written in me. So it’s going to happen.
What do you want me to say, Nate? "Wow, sounds like all your godawful nightmares are totally precognition, and you're gonna blow any second. Sucks for you?"
[It is taking every bit of self-control in Quentin's body to not tell Nate to get in line, everybody takes a dirt nap eventually, quit whining about it. He's already annoyed about this whole thing, and his "burn it all down" urges are bubbling up to the surface. But he holds back his most biting comments and forces himself to be... moderately productive. Fine. If Nate's going to insist on talking about dying, they can talk about dying.]
I've died more times than all the other mutants here combined, and not a single one of those times was fair. I've gone to the future and saw myself die, and that wasn't fair.
[Quentin shrugs dramatically, his lip curled bitterly.]
All I got for you is the future's not set in stone, and guys like us don't stay dead. If you don't wanna listen to me, that's on you.
( He has half a mind to psychically punch Quentin in the nose and right off the astral plane like he did to Xavier. He instead, pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to face Quentin a little more head-on. Frustrated. Upset. Tired. )
I don't care if guys like us don't stay dead, Quentin. I'm scared. Weren't you any of the times you died? Or are you just so used to it by now that you've forgotten what that's like?
( It doesn't matter if they "come back" like he's implying. Doesn't make him want to go through it or feel it or deal with whatever aftermath could possibly come from something like that. Geez, Quentin. )
[He scowls in offended disbelief at that whole "used to it" line. Low blow, Nate.]
And yeah, I was scared. Obviously, I was. I'm still fucking scared, every goddamn time I think about any of that shit. But I didn't think it was the best idea to go trauma-dump on a powerful psychic who can't handle his own fucked-up emotions, much less someone else's.
[One low blow deserves another, and Quentin tilts his chin up defiantly, daring Nate to tell him he's wrong.]
That said, I'm a reasonable guy. If you really want me to show you, I will. But it sure as hell won't help those nightmares of yours.
[Great, he's shutting down again. Like a petulant kid.
And that's the thing, isn't it? Nate is a stupid kid, bubbling over with too many big emotions and trust issues and not enough common fucking sense. Just like Quentin was at his age.]
It's about Sophie and me, isn't it? She said you didn't think I trusted you.
[Quentin glances down to absently inspect his fingernails.]
First of all, I don't really trust, well. Anyone, so it's not a you thing. And in case you're wondering, yes, that includes Sophie. Second, you're a fucking kid. You're still figuring out how to get your shit together, so no, I'm not gonna tell you shit that isn't your business or you're not ready for. That's life, pal. And three—
[He sits up, holding up three fingers.]
I don't have precognition, but what I do have is experience. I've died, I've seen my potential expiration date, I've been used and fucked over by more people than I care to count, and I know what it's like to have more power than you know what to do with. Now are you gonna listen to the guy who knows what it's like to be you better than any of the other chucklefucks here, or am I leaving you to your moping?
( The irony here is not lost on him. Quentin got pissy at the thought of him not trusting the other telepath with the shared connection. But the moment he gets confused or annoyed about not being trusted by Quentin, it's tough shit, deal with it.
This is why he keeps it solo.
But also, the fact that no one can seem to keep their mouths or minds shut about certain things is annoying and he's regretting taking Julian up on that offer to have a room next to him here. Keeping that to himself, of course. Because his mind goes blank then. Nothing to hide. Just a blank sheet of paper with not a single word scribbled on it. Not a single emotion to be felt.
Smile on his lips, he shrugs. )
Big words from a guy who whined to Julian about me and Sophie one time like some jealous guy.
( Again, the irony here. )
But if I'm just a fucking kid, I think you already know the answer then.
( Turning, he gives a wave over his shoulder. )
Good luck.
( With what? He doesn't say. He just disappears from the astral plane they got going on here and if Quentin tries to feel him out? He won't find him. As if he's completely disappeared from Etraya. He hasn't, it's just mind cloaking of the heavy hitter caliber. #telepaththings. )
/Ugh, awful. Okay, whatever, grab me like a dozen wack-nuggies or whatever the fuck. And if by some miracle the ice cream machine is working, I want a chocolate milkshake./
/Yeah, well, sounds like not my problem. Walk faster I guess?
Whatever, fine. How long're you gonna be?/
[Sure, he could track her location, calculate average speed, and do that math but. Okay well since he thought about it for 0.04 seconds he already ran the math. But he's already asked, and he's not un-asking.]
(She's going to eat your fucking WCNuggies, keep yapping.)
/Don't try me.
Taking the train. 10 minutes./
(Hah.
Good estimate on her part, 10 minutes and she arrives at the station, another two for her to arrive at her room in the most Barbie doll outfit she could be wearing. Goodbye, heels, first and foremost, and the second thing is to place the food on the nearest surface as she works to unBarbie.
Also, of course her room is a pandemonium of clothes on surfaces, makeup, jewelry, perfume, gaming apparatus, and just general mess.)
Hey. Get your stuff, I'm just gonna change.
(And add her current jewerly to the pile on the vanity.)
[Quentin meandered over to her room when he felt her get back to the mansion and just kinda... stood around?? In front of her door?? Until she arrived. Look, he's never actually gone to her room. He's also fully dressed with layered shirts, belt, shoes, and all, which he realizes may have been a mistake when Sophie immediately barges into her room and says something about changing clothes. But to be fair, he wouldn't want to lounge and eat fast food garbage wearing that outlandish dress. Ah, well.]
You're two minutes late, by the way.
[He rolls his eyes and follows her into her room, turning his nose up at the chaos of the space. God, it looks like his room did when he was 18. Not that he's telling her that. But still. Yeesh. Quentin fishes his food and his milkshake—which is, yes, very melted, but he's certainly not pointing that out—and plops onto her sofa, propping his feet on her coffee table.]
(No, she likes it. It is much, much better than the robe he decides to wear when she's over. Too bad she doesn't own any t-shirts, or he could have his revenge so, so easily. He also doesn't need to say anything, obviously, his face and his brain express his displeasure at the state of her room — but, look, his own is tidy, but equally chaotic, so does he really have room to bitch?)
Which you knew. I don't control the train, Quire.
(Eh, just to be bitchy back.
Once he's in, the door is closed, and her hands are free, she'll press her usual arrival kiss to his lips before she continues her process. It doesn't take long, the only thing that remains from her outfit (now somewhere unknown in pile A) is the make up. Once she's in her own comfy clothes, her hair is in a bun and her glasses are on her face, she plops next to him and reaches for the fries in the bag.)
Whose genius idea was it to put it in Snake Island, beats me.
Does it surprise you? Nothing in this goddamn place makes any sense.
[Quentin idly watches her get comfy, noting where she obtains her pajamas in the mess.
... Eh, fuck it. He crams a chicken nugget in his mouth and gets up, kicking off his shoes.]
Hey, where are your loosest PJs?
[Look, she comes to his room and wears his shit all the time. Might as well have it go both ways, yeah? Perks of only being a couple inches taller than the girl you're sleeping with.]
Course it does. If Auroura didn't bring it herself, it means someone went "I want a McDonald's knock-off in this island we put a gazillion snakes in", and that's fucked up.
(She isn't even going to have the chance to enjoy him in that nice outfit? Very rude.
With fries between her thumb and index, he circles her hand as she looks around the mess. Luckily for him, it should be in a similarly disorganized drawer, not in the void of the great surroundings.
Sophie send the image of what he should be looking for to him before those fries get dipped in ketchup.)
I'd judge myself, shush. Look around, do you think there is space for a t-shirt?
(No, he doesn't know 'all', okay, there are layers to the shirt thing!! But mostly, a matter of principle that she doesn't have her own.
Which makes her roll her eyes at the comment, but the annoyance is short-lived because she can hear him going to change, and 💡. Very interesting to her, as her brain lit up a little. She isn't looking right now, but she is going to in just a bit.)
[Yeah, that's right, he's calling her out. Deal with it.
That said, he does feel her brain light up when he starts undressing and glances at her curiously. Back in his room, they're usually either getting frisky by the time his clothes start coming off or he changes at the same time as her. It's... Hm.
Quentin finds the pajamas, grumbling some more rude things about the state of her room, and starts unceremoniously shucking off his own clothes.]
All I'm saying is wearing t-shirts is clearly not a problem, so why is buying them such a big deal?
Is this legit the hill you wanna die on today? I'm going to eat your damn nuggets.
(Do they have to have a real talk as to why she likes wearing his shirts? No? Good, because she isn't doing it. It's much more fun and not at all productive or vulnerable or whatever to have this dumb bantering every now and then. Keeps the romance alive, etc.
Also, stop bitching for just one second, she's busy right now. She knows he knows her interest sparked, hello telepathy, and it's not something she would want to hide. Obviously, she's into him, or else she wouldn't be sleeping with him nearly as much as she does, so is there any reason to be coy, really? Absolutely checking him out before she smiles to herself, pleased, averting the gaze solely not to make him uncomfortable.
But, well. Brain is very lit, so thank you.)
My room is not that bad, by the way. Should have seen Emma's.
"It could be worse" isn't the flex you think it is.
[It's still weird to have Sophie Cuckoo of all people openly ogling him. Sure, she sleeps with him, but that's different than finding him, well. Hot. Not that he's complaining. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Quentin replaces his pants with the ones she supplied, but when he gets to the shirt half he hesitates, considers, and passes up her shirt for putting his button-up back on. By the time he returns to the couch to claim his nuggets, he's got it buttoned back up to the third highest button. There. Now he's comfortable.]
I'm just saying there is a genetic component to my laziness.
(Not really, but okay.
She thought what she thought. He just never asked her, probably won't? At least she's not particularly shy on this subject, so hopefully, he doesn't have to wonder too much. On the other hand, she cannot relate. Freaking Sophie Cuckoo, it's a whole part of the brand.
The challenge, really, is letting him see her with her guard down and in gamer gremlin skin, but she's comfortable enough at this point with that part of showing herself. There are even glasses on her face, so. We are all evolving here, somehow.)
Not junk food specifically, I think I just wanted to eat something familiar that I haven't had in a bit, I guess, and these things have a set flavor profile.
(It's probably one of those moments Quire's secondary mutation sucks, because to her, it is releasing enough dopamine to count as the real deal. If it's off, it's probably some detail, she figures? No idea.
Hey, hey, why are you questioning her choices? Don't question her choices. She hates that.)
I guess. I was already going to spend today with you, so since I was getting myself food, might as well bring you some too. And we're here because I know you'd get all grumpy and fucking annoying if I made a mess in your room.
(Honest, it's just one of the little things she likes to do for him quietly. Not that she wants that pointed out, or that she wants him to add it to the list. Shut up.)
[Quentin raises a hand in a half-assed pacifying gesture.]
I'm just saying you do know more people than just me. And I'm also grumpy and fucking annoying anywhere, let's be honest.
[The point, of course, being the "comfortable" thing he mentioned. He has a strong hunch she doesn't exactly sit around in her comfiest loungewear and glasses with a long list of people. And he's feeling sassy enough today to poke at that hunch with a stick.]
The blush that overtakes her cheeks is... Well, she's not sure if it's embarrassment or irritation, but it is certainly creeping to her skin without a shred of her consent, and it's almost like they're back to square one with her being absolutely mortified with being Seen.
Bitch, seriously?)
I know half the planet, and this was a convenience thing. I can take it back, we can go to your room, I'll eat on your bed, how's that?
No, no, here's fine. I already changed clothes, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to change my sheets later, because I am not sleeping on crumbs.
[He's crossing his legs and propping his feet up on the coffee table again. Not going anywhere.]
Anyway, that's not really the point. I was just, you know, making observations. There's a lot of people you could invite over who like junk food. You can't argue with that.
[Quentin shrugs and sips his milkshake.]
Guess you just really wanted me to steal your clothes for once.
(At least he's not making it as bad as he could be, so he gets like, 0.01% of a point for it, since she's significantly pinker at the present moment. Not going to give him praise for it, there's still time, but so far, it's a placeholder point.
Her eyes roll as hard as they can, and she grabs her soda for a sip as she thinks of a rebuttal that never comes, because he says that and she nearly chokes in a laugh, a snort coming out of her as a result while her hand busies itself with hiding her face.
Kill her. Just kill her.)
Yes, that was 100% my biggest dream, now mind your business.
[Says the guy who minds his business almost never and especially not now. The smirk he gives her makes it clear he's not buying any of her bullshit, but he'll be satisfied with making her blush and choke on her soda.
For now.]
So what's the itinerary for today? I mean, since you've accomplished your biggest dream.
(For the smirk, there's that look that she gives him every now and then, of squinted eyes, half a roll, and a quiet smile of appreciation. He's so fucking irritating. Somehow, it works.
Somehow. There's an extremely weak kick that she gives his ankle as the last of what they'll say about it for now.)
Months in the making, I'm finally fulfilled. I do have a plan to climb you like a tree, but other than that? Who knows.
"Climb me like a tree", huh? Wow, and they say romance is dead.
[Quentin scoffs, but there's no actual vitriol whatsoever. Romance is very distinctly not the point of what they do, after all. Quite the opposite, and for very good reason. But look, he's Quentin Quire, and if he's not complaining he's dead.
That said, he also has a plan that involves scandalous activities in bed, but his relies more on the coma Sophie goes into after a particularly good, particularly exhausting round or two. Which is what he intends to give her once, you know, she's arbitrarily decided it's time.]
Well, my options here in the "other than that" category are pretty limited. Guess I could sit on your bed playing video games for two hours, just to mix it up a little. But that sounds a bit boring.
[He shrugs, continuing to wolf down his nuggets and milkshake, as well as steal quite a few of her fries.]
So I think what we should do is eat our junk food while you tell me who "tarnishedmoodring" is.
No, no, I'm also burning a single unscented candle for it, don't you worry.
(No, she's absolutely not. It's just to keep the conversation and the banter alive, but it'd just be super weird if they were... What, suddenly soft? Affectionate aside from the times they allow each other to be? God, no. It'd probably make both of them run to separate hills as fast as they can manage.)
Oh, you are not touching my Animal Crossing. You'll ruin my hard work and chase away all my villagers.
(They would not love Quentin Quire's aesthetic choices.
But she's also realizing that he's much more communicative outside his room, and she was unsure whether that was a good thing until he asked her... Well, what literally everyone asks her back home. The facepalm, the eyeroll that ensues, oh God.
Okay. Fine. She hates him, but fine. He can steal the fries, she's stealing a nugget before she hands him the remaining ones to grab her burger.)
You think I can talk about a guy for two hours?
(Stalling.)
He's a guy I met on Summoner's who kept my sanity in place when I left the hivemind. No idea of personal details or what he looks like, but we talked pretty much all day every day before I got here.
[Well, he wasn't planning on touching her Animal Crossing village until now. See, Sophie made the fatal error of telling him not to do something. Which means he now has a physical need to do that thing.
But that's for later. Right now he's got an apparent internet boyfriend(???) to interrogate her about.]
I dunno, you could probably talk about me for two hours. Not that I'm expecting you to talk about this dude for that long.
[She hands him the fries in favor of her burger, which of course means he's going to lean in front of her and grab her wrist holding the hamburger, holding it still while he helps himself to a bite of it. Satisfied with his burger theft, he lets go of her hand and moves back to his seat.]
Wow, your ego is out of control. What do you even think I'd talk about for two hours when it comes to you?
(How he's probably going to make her grow her first grey hairs? Annoying? Irritating? Her dearest insignificant other?
Two hours is a lot, interruptedly? Maybe forty-five minutes, no breaks, word vomit style.
She would definitely have denied him the bite for the audacity if she had seen it coming, but it's unexpected and it makes her laugh — but revenge comes as his nuggets and shake dance in the air above them.
God, what a question. If she likes the snarky, cynical, bitchy and talk-back-y mutant who was her rock in the weirdest time of her life? Yeah, absolutely. He won her on talking alone, and she's crazy about him without a shred of doubt. But it's been... Months.
Yeah. She does. It's... Gone cold. Fondness rather than anything else it is now, and she reads his messages every now and then for comfort. But also, no, maybe she's not into him the same way anymore.
Why is Quentin asking her those type of questions again?)
[Quentin's eyebrows quirk oddly at her answer. It probably would make more sense for him to feel... glad? Relieved?? That she isn't holding a candle for some other guy. But instead something about how she says "not the same way anymore" makes his chest feel weirdly hollow.
He's not going to ask if the change in her feelings is because of him. For one thing because no matter the answer, he wouldn't expect her to answer honestly. Sophie talks about her genuine feelings as little as physically possible, so usually just when he actively squeezes it out of her. But he's also not going to ask because even if she said yes, he wouldn't want to hear it.
Quentin... likes Sophie. Not the way he did when he was a stupid teenager, but he likes her a decent amount. He likes sleeping with her, both how he can make her feel and how she makes him feel. He likes making her blush and laugh and cringe. He likes pushing her to be better like she says she's trying to do. But is he into her? Debatable. Again, not like he used to be. Not like he was into Phoebe or Idie or even Gwen. She's... fun. Everything beyond that is held strictly behind the wall of their "rules," and for good reason.
Quentin plucks a nugget out of the container floating over his head.]
Tell me about him. For less than two hours, obviously. I don't have that kind of patience.
(Does she like Quentin? Yes. He wouldn't be able to pull half this shit if she didn't. None of this is usual Sophie Cuckoo bullshit — there's no girlboss, gatekeep, gaslight, mansplain, manipulate out of her in here. Just, well, her, as honest as she can be without short-circuiting, allowing a smidge of vulnerability to be seen.
Does she want him to like her more than he does? Debatable. If she had actual proof that he can be non-clingy and weird, then it's a huge maybe, but why mess with something that works? No need. Fine as it is. As for tarnishedmoodring, distance and time equal cooling off. Nothing she can do about that one. She never had any claim on him, anyway. It's not like she can be hoping he'll be there when she's out of this damn place, God knows when that will be. Doesn't even know if he liked her back. Way easier to think about it later, let it go for now.
Not that she is sharing any, absolutely any of that with Quentin. It's already uncomfortable as is, with him asking her so many questions that don't pertain to him, or so she thinks. Not answering makes it worse, so she has to take a moment to think.)
Mhm. Mutant, obviously, but I have no idea what his mutation is, anyway, I'm assuming it has something to do with empathy and colors, considering his username, but beats me. He's... Fun, I guess. Cynical, super bitchy, sarcastic as hell, and doesn't ever let me win without rematches, that I end up losing anyway, so I rematch, then I win, rinse and repeat. Hence why my rank is absurd. Alt-rock, hipster shit, and I guess that's all I'm saying. 40 seconds good enough for you?
[He doesn't miss the fact that her description is remarkably similar to him, minus all the stuff about gaming, but he'll let it go for now. Sophie's been a good enough sport about his intrusive bullshit, so she'll get some mercy.
This time.
Quentin shrugs and yoinks the last nugget from the floating container.]
I'm just going to take your rush to move on from that topic as a sign you're impatient to—what was it? Climb me like a tree?
[You know, since she isn't going to let him prod her for miscellaneous information that isn't his business.]
(Or so she hopes. She thinks? Come on. They literally fuck their problems away because when they tried talking about it, she nearly popped a vein, or choked, or kicked him out of her brain for literally breathing near her.
Why have that massive, sexy, high-speed brain if he doesn't use it? What a damn waste. She's not paying attention to his thoughts to know that he did, except just not in a way that is beneficial to her, but alas. Monkey paw curling, as it is.)
Well, I guess I could paint your nails, or some other beauty shit, it's literally the only thing I have in this room that might interest you. Or, well, you better put me in a coma for this schedule slip. Don't know if you can make me pass out for 10 hours, but there's a challenge.
[Quentin raises an eyebrow and glances at his hands when she mentions his nails. It's not... a bad idea, honestly. Well, in general. He'll add that to the list of things he intends to do when he's unsupervised in all this clutter, but he isn't overly interested in letting her handle that task...
Until she says the word "challenge".
And now it's on.]
Seriously? [He holds a hand dramatically against his chest.]
You're giving me a challenge? Pfft.
[Quentin folds his arms, his lip curling stubbornly as he sits back against the couch seat.]
I'm half-tempted to let you paint my nails after all, just to prove that not only can I make you pass out for 10 hours, but I can do it without using my hands. Please. Don't insult me.
(Of course it is. She's no different, if he were the one to pose a challenge to her, it'd be equally on. Now, question is, there's banter to be had, which of course is really half what gets her going — but just how bitchy she wants to be is to be seen and felt.
To be decided. Right now, she's just smiling like she's won something here, an almost unnoticeable little dance ensues from the way she moves her shoulders.)
Wow, 'half-tempted'? Guess we'll never know for sure, what a shame.
[Oh she did not. Quentin narrows his eyes, twists his mouth to the side irritably for a moment... and finally grins fiendishly. He holds up one hand with the palm facing him and wiggles his fingers demonstrably.]
Tell you what. I'll let you try to paint my nails, with designs of my choosing. And I'll distract you. If you mess up, you lose. Between you and me, I bet you won't get past the first hand.
(Oh, she definitely did. He's not the only one who's baffling — and she had a quip that dies because she catches sight of that stupid, stupid face. Asshole, existing and stuff. Okay, challenge accepted, now for the terms.
Losing means consequences in her world, and so does winning. At least she's done eating, her limbs stretching in front of her, proving once more that when a girl is comfortable with a guy, she really just becomes a cat.
Okay. Okay, okay.)
And if you win, then what? What is at stake here, aside from pride, which I'm pretty sure both of us have very little to gamble with to begin with in here.
Ah, see, there's where you're wrong. Pride's the only currency that truly matters here.
[Quentin, on the other hand, is a cat all the time. He turns his upper body towards her, leaning his elbow on the back of her sofa with his head propped against his head. His free hand, meanwhile, makes all his customary dramatic gestures to illustrate the no-doubt brilliant points in whatever he's saying.]
When I win—which I will—then I'm gonna prove I can get you off without touching you. So that's pride for me: check. That'll be #1 for the evening, by the way. And I still get one free hand for #2 through... I dunno, however long you last. Until coma, I guess.
I really need to go harder on you, take you down a peg. I've definitely been too soft if you think you're going to win on the first hand. "Which I will", right.
(Her stupid monkey brain, man. This competitive bullshit is already doing its job, and she's pretty sure he knows that at this point. She's actually not considering just how much exposure she's going to go through with this, it hasn't crossed her mind yet — if he's not touching her, then he can look way too closely, but that's a problem that she her brain is literally not seeing with how stupid this horny Olympics is getting.
She's also planning to distract him from distracting her, so if anything, this is going to be either really scary, or absolutely stupid. She's only considering the latter.)
I want extra points if you go into a coma. I have my own shelf of accomplishments in my head.
(If he hasn't noticed the last times they've been there.)
[Quentin rolls his eyes, stretching his arms above his head and turning to lean his back against the sofa again.]
Hey, I'm not the one who said "you'd better put me into a coma." That was aaaall you.
[He folds his hands behind his head smugly.]
Anyway, you're missing the point. Which is, of course, that I won't just win because I'm good—even though we both know I am. I'm going to win because you're going to let me win.
And in what universe am I going to make that easy for you now with all that attitude you're giving me.
(Ugh, she likes that smug vibe he has going on. Does it make her want to throw hands with him immediately? Yes, without a shred of doubt. It makes her want to not give him shit. But also. Mind your business.
Her own eyes roll, and she comes closer, thighs touching as she puts her hand on his for a second, her turn to shift her position to face him.)
[He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as she scoots closer and touches his hand. It's a familiar enough routine by now. She pulls,he pushes, she pushes back, he retreats, and she chases. You'd think it'd get boring, but no. Not so far, at least. Quentin smirks back at her.]
Oh, zip it. Not even in this universe, and you're accounting for all of them?
(Not that telling him to shut up has ever done anything, but ugh. It's true, she'd be urged by herselt to jump him immediately as soon as he started the whole telepathic bullshit while she's busy trying to get his nails as perfect as hers.
Which would make him an automatic winner, because she's not a very patient person. It's a rigged game, and they are all aware. She'd absolutely prefer both his hands on her, thank you very much, but also shut up.)
This is just me postponing this for the sake of schedule efficiency. You haven't won shit, before you dare to think you have.
(She releases the hand because if she doesn't take off their glasses, she can't give him the brain-melting, slow kiss that ensues.)
[Does it count as winning when there's no real loser here? Yes, yes it does. And Quentin is 100% counting this as a win. She can die mad about it. Even though she absolutely, unquestionably will be doing nothing of the sort.
She kisses him, and he kisses back, moving his arms to loop around her waist and tug her closer. Not pulling her into his lap, because today? Today is about going slow.]
/Why don't you come see what I'm thinking?/
[And if she does? Slow is what she'll find there too. She wanted to kill time, and she wanted a coma, and he plans on doing both tonight.]
(There's a smile she has to fight for the sake of not breaking the kiss she's enjoying. It's sensual, the bite to it ever so subtle as her hand travels to his shoulder and chest before it settles on his collarbone.
It doesn't startle her one bit to have his voice bouncing in her mind — telepaths, after all, and she slides into his brain to see where he is at.
Interesting. It's not what they usually do, but she sees no reason to deny it. It means she slows down the kiss, plays with a button of his shirt as she replies in the same vein.)
[No, it's not what they usually do. But she also doesn't usually tell him specifically that she wants to sleep for 10 hours. Plus there's, well. His other plans, which he doesn't let slip through their telepathic connection. That's a surprise for later.]
/After you./
He slips one hand ever so slightly under her shirt at her waist, just enough to rub his thumb and forefinger on her bare skin. Which is, of course, not exactly likely to make her be in much hurry to get off the couch and move to the bed, particularly since he's still very much kissing her. But then, not being in a hurry is the whole point.]
(Her days tend to be decently organized for someone who enjoys doing whatever the fuck comes to mind. She works, if one could count running NYX as such, considering there is no monetary reward, which means that if she wakes up too early? She's going to have a tough day ahead. Being in his company at this time is totally her scheduling mishap, but she's not complaining one bit, as he knows.
Sophie gets bored so easily, and she can positively say this is not something that happens here, even when they have a routine. There's always something new, or something stupid that they haven't previously bickered about, or something idiotic that could very much be normal, whereas they take it to another level of goofy, all tied prettily with the fact that he always looks at her with that smug grin like he's winning whatever the fuck... Well, those things make it impossible for her to feel blasé.
He says that, but moves not an inch, lips still against hers and fingers touching on her waist. It might not make her want to run to bed, but it does make her break the kiss to beam at him for a quick second, the nose crinkle very much apparent.)
Soon.
(And she dives again back to the kiss, her hand moving to caress the shaved hair on the back of his head. Slow it is, huh? For someone whose brain is that fast, she might want to give him a little hand. She's slowed down his perception of time once before, this time, she syncs it with her own. There's no sneaky business either, it's very clear that this is her doing — it might hold until his brain readjusts, but until then, profit.)
[Quentin hums against her mouth when she runs her hand over the fuzz on the back of his head, but then he feels her messing with his brain and... hmm. No. While he normally more or less matches his perception of time to the average person's, it's different somehow when she syncs her time to his. Feels... duller somehow? So instead, he pulls her to his perception. Part of having a brain that processes as quickly as his is an insane attention to detail, and that's what he shares with her. Every twitch, every hitched breath, every minutia of reaction is in crisp detail, noted and catalogued in his mind.
His hand moves from her waist to her thigh, sliding up to push the leg of her shorts up a little, and he breaks away from the kiss to smirk at her.]
How soon is soon?
[Sure, he said slow. And proceeded to dawdle as much as possible. But he's allowed to be a little petulant and feign impatience if he wants to.]
Got anything you want to share with the class?
[He kisses her neck to give her a chance to reply. And since so far he's the only one of them who's shared with her his plans for their evening, he slides into her mind to sift through any and all ideas she's had related to this couch. Sophie's always had a pretty active imagination when it comes to this sort of thing. Surely she's got something interesting somewhere in there.]
(Ah, to be a clone whose skeleton was crafted for storing gigantic quantities of data. Her brain is not as fast-paced as his, but she can handle his perception in the way filtered way he shares it with her. Sophie is not a faker — which means every single reaction he pulls from her, he earns, and now she realizes why he likes to see and hear as much as possible. The glow in her eyes means she's rewiring what she is getting from him to the nanotech, so she can take full advantage of this new way of seeing things without it overwhelming her too quickly. She told him she's been practicing getting some stability with her powers as a single brain, so look at that.
This is going to be interesting, and it starts being so when she can feel his fingerprint on his thigh, because something so small feels just so intense when she can feel it to its fullest, and it robs a small noise from her into his mouth before he pulls away. Thank fuck the theme today is slow and steady, because holy fuck.
She knows he's not serious, she's learned there's a huge difference between what he says and what he does, so instead of a serious answer in tandem, it gets a happy giggle that she could categorize as gross from her.)
2520 seconds at most, you can count it.
(Nah, probably not. Especially not when he kisses her neck, it's a weakness of hers wherever he lands, and she tilts her head to the opposite side so he has more space. The hand on the back of his head caresses the scalp as further encouragement, as a long, longing exhale follows.
They want to kill time, it's a slow, lazy day until second notice. Sophie's borrowing his brain's detailed perception. He's given her that face several times today, and she, unfortunately for all of them, enjoys it dearly, and he's really earned that kind of selfless attention throughout the months. She never blocks her thoughts when they're together, a small token of trust, but the first thing that she thinks of doing is a very suggestive image of her kissing down his chest in a very clear path before the image goes dark. She just remembered that's vetoed right after she thought it.
[He's glad she appreciates the way he sees the world, and he kisses her neck again as a reward, adding just the faintest scrape of teeth. You know, since she's enjoying the hyper-detailed world he lives in every day so much. And just to be a little shit, he adds a countdown timer starting with 42:00 to her field of vision while he starts rummaging through her thoughts and—oh.
This is the polar opposite of almost everything he planned for today. She requested coma, he didn't. Which obviously means that the focus should be on her pleasure more than his. And she's already moving on from that idea, but.... His brain picks up the image where hers left off until he can imagine her looking up at him from between his legs, and it doesn't... make him recoil like it used to. Maybe it's because Sophie (at least in his imagination) looks at him like she wants him. Like she's overwhelmed with desire for him, not for his devotion or his vulnerability or anything like that. Just... him.
She has access to his brain and therefore can easily see his thought process, feel his body's reaction to her mental image, but it never hurts to have verbal confirmation. Quentin moves his mouth away from her neck, the timer in her eyes fading until it's barely visible, and shrugs nonchalantly.]
(How does he manage all this shit without losing his mind is currently beyond her, even though the answer is the most obvious "he's used to it", while she isn't. It brings out a breathy moan from her so stupidly easy that it morphs into a chuckle once he adds the timer. Idiot.
She's listening to him, because of course she is, and while there's a slight pang of discomfort from him knowing this shit, the thing is? He's not incorrect, not a single bit. Her attraction to him is not tethered to anything other than him — there's nothing else that she desires out of him. No devotion, not his potential, not his power, just this arrogant, cocky, stupid, silly dumbass whose face is on her neck. At least he gets confirmation that it isn't just in his head, so good for him, don't ask or point it out ever again.
Her face is all shades of pink, and she thanks the universe that he is busy not looking at her until... Well, he does, and ugh, at least she, too, doesn't recoil anymore. She won't ask if he's sure, if he said it, then he is, and she has to trust that he'll let her know if it suddenly isn't.)
Okay, cool.
(And she dives for the kiss again. Listen, it's the middle of the afternoon, they have more than enough time for a little bit of everything, and she moves to undo the first button of his shirt.)
[It's funny how life works out, isn't it? Sometimes you get a weird crush on a girl, accidentally get her killed, try and fail to resurrect her using a cosmic force, date her clone sister, get dumped, and then somewhere down the line you end up in a pocket universe with her about to go down on you because for some reason she finds you sexy. Quentin can't even begin to understand how he got here, but right now he can't be bothered to care.]
/All the times we've done this shit, and you still turn beet red. I don't know whether to be impressed or flattered./
[They have all the time in the world, so even though she's on a mission he can't help being a pest and a distraction. She still has his hyper-detailed perception, so she'll notice the longer, shakier breath he takes when she starts unbuttoning his shirt, as well as the hand on her leg slowly inching higher. His other hand, meanwhile, abandons subtlety, tangling into the hair at the back of her head and tugging her into deepening the kiss. At least until she inevitably has to move away from his mouth, that is. He's not hindering her, just delaying. To be a troll. It's in his nature. He also pushes his arousal into her mind as an additional distraction, forcing hers to build at the same time as his.]
(Look, okay, it's not the sex itself, alright. She's an Emma Frost clone, and even before that fact was known, sex and telepathy was literally in her school curriculum. By itself, it has no power over the color of her face, the smile that forms on her lips, or the embarrassment she sometimes feels. It's more the shit he manages to pull from the depths of her mind that make her react, but sure, much, much easier to say it's the activity not what comes with it.)
/Preferably you'd be quiet about it, but I don't think you have that feature built in./
(She barely wakes her eyes in the morning and he's already talking like he expects a full dissertation for an answer instead of an incoherent grumble. God, it's been... Months. They've been fucking and sharing a bed for months. They haven't had a real fight in so long. She's so much better about so much, but the blushing hasn't stopped creeping to her face yet.
Bless his heart.
Needless to say that she is more than pleased with how she can retain so much information so quickly, the way his breath changes making a smile form for a second before she's taken to enjoy a deeper kiss that she responds with hunger. It's not rushed, but it is craving, thanks to their synched arousal. He wants to delay it? Be a little shit?
Sure. She'll be one right back, letting her index finger hook on the opening of his shirt to fumble with it a little while her free hand goes to play with the waistband of his boxers, fingers ever so slightly caressing the skin of his hip in the process.)
[Oh, he knows exactly what it is that makes her react. It's the whole reason they started down this path to begin with. She made the fatal mistake of showing Quentin a crack in her facade, he immediately jammed a crowbar into the crack, and the rest is history.]
/There's a reason my name's Quentin Quire and not Quentin Quiet./
[She stops unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes a noise of protest. Did she stop because he was being a little shit? Yes. Does that make it his fault and therefore not something he should complain about? Also yes. But since when has not having a valid reason ever stopped Quentin from complaining? Never, of course.]
/Anyway, weren't you doing something? Don't let me stop you./
[He tilts his hips slightly toward her hand when she starts messing with his waistband, as if she needs a reminder and not, you know, a partner who doesn't deliberately behaves like a pest just for the sake of it.]
(Deep, deep, deep, deep, deep down, she finds his shitty jokes funny, one more thing to the list of unfortunate events, and that's exactly why she has to be a little bitchy at him in turn.)
/Wow, that one was not your best work./
(The reason why she breaks the kiss is to find his neck, her mental map of every spot that makes him squirm in place as she goes for it, taking her time with each one as she enjoys the macrodetail. Soft skin, and she can feel his heartbeat against her lips, and if it quickens? She'll add in the slightest use of teeth.
But hey, don't make her laugh, she's busy.)
Oh, you aren't stopping me one bit. I'm getting there. You want a timer?
[His neck isn't overly sensitive, at least not like hers is. He does, however, tilt his chin up to give her better access, just to make it clear he likes the attention even if his pulse only quickens in a couple of spots under his jaw. Lower down towards his collarbone is where she'll start getting tiny pleased twitches and shivers.
The hand on her thigh, meanwhile, moves to slide up her shirt, searching for her own sensitive spots with soft touches.]
Already got one, remember? Somebody's gotta keep us on schedule.
[The audacity. The unabashed audacity. And the worst thing is he knows she gets a thrill out of it. He raises the opacity on that timer he started before, which yes, is still running. Because he's an asshole. In so, so many ways.]
In light of new events, that timer is no longer valid, unless you mean I get to stall you for 32 minutes.
(Look, she knows what the timer was for, but she was offering a new one, okay.
She's making so many mental notes, which will most definitely come in handy in the future. He can pat himself on the back for giving her this newfound perception, when it still pays off long after it's gone. The kisses do descend eventually, the mental image almost true as she presses the kisses to his collarbone, the second button no longer closed, giving her more access.
Sophie's so ridiculously sensitive. The right touch just melts her brain into a puddle, kisses cloud her best judgement, and the way her entire body tenses and her breath shakes from the intensity of just a single touch gets sent straight to his brain, front seat, the way the aurosal makes her skin tingle in slow motion so he can enjoy it fully.
This slow shit is going to kill her. Physically, emotionally, she hates when he's right.)
[She may hate when he's right, but Quentin? Quentin can't get enough of being right. Is it his biggest turn-on? It might be. That probably means there's something deeply and fundamentally wrong with him. But honestly? Who cares. Not like Sophie is a beacon of humility over here.]
Pfft. You wanna edit the timer? Be my guest.
Quentin leans his head back with a smug little grin as she works her way further down to his collarbone and lower. She'll find that his chest is also not especially sensitive, though that doesn't make attention paid to it any less pleasing. But that's more of a "soothing his wounded insecurities" type of thing. Which, to be honest, is what a lot of this whole "relationship" is about, at least on his end. Is that his second biggest turn on? Apparently.
He finds a nice place along the side of her torso to rest his hand, just lightly moving his fingers across her skin. He'll decide how much he feels like distracting her when she answers his question about the timer.]
If Sophie were asked what this whole thing is about, she wouldn't really know how to answer. She doesn't think about these things, God forbid that both of them stop to think — she knows for a fact that she likes it, and that's all the thinking about this "relationship" she is willing to do.
The timer gets a second line, counting 5 whole minutes, copied and pasted to his sight. Clothes are currently annoying her, so she takes a second from her descent to rid herself of her top so he has more space to roam. It's not verbal confirmation, but it should suffice.
The rest of the buttons receive a similar treatment, some fumbling, kisses that intensify if she catches any reaction that she likes. Pants should be the next thing.)
[His reactions get more intense the lower she gets because, well. Proximity, obviously. And any time a particularly loud thought crosses her mind about desiring him? That makes his pulse race. He doesn't particularly understand what she sees in his thin, undermuscled frame, but damn if it doesn't make him horny as hell.]
Dare I ask what the timer is for?
[She's pretty close to her goal is all he's saying. Close enough that he takes a break from touching her to raise his hips a bit and shimmy his pants and boxers down over his ass. She can figure out how to get them the rest of the way off herself, since she's taken it upon herself to be on clothing removal duty. He sure as hell hopes she doesn't plan to spend five minutes hovering at his naval, because despite the whole "slow" routine they agreed on he's pretty sure they would both go insane. Neither of them are especially patient people in general, and the anticipation burning in his brain is making his patience start to fray.]
(Look. It's a lot of stuff that brings her here, to a place where she genuinely wants to do this with him. It's that smug, idiotic face that he makes, or the laughter that he can pull from her without even trying, the way he looks at her when they're allowed to look at each other abnormally, and how his skin feels, how he sounds, the fucking asshole. Look, what can she do, she wants him, she has him, in what world doesn't she appreciate that and him as she can, doesn't find the entire package an annoying, relentless combo, but also attractive as hell? Let her live.
Which, well, again, very unCuckoo-like. She could ruin him. Make him so impossibly impatient that he melts in her hands. Beg, want her more and more with each touch, because that's what she's perfectly good at. Puddle him. It's not what she does, nor something that ever crosses her mind when she's with him.
With his question, there's a smile that comes to her face that tells him that, no, he daren't. He'll see. It's how long she'll take this slow routine for with him in her mouth, so she begins. Experimental, slow, and yet so incredibly thorough, her mind attuned to the detailing and to his own, seeing what works for him best and what doesn't, because she's going to hone it.)
[Quentin drops his head back against the couch with a strained noise and closes his eyes for a second or two to get his breathing under control, his hand moving to the top of her head. He's not putting any pressure on her, just grounding himself for now.]
Hold on—just... let me—
[This slow shit is excruciating, but at least it's helping him keep his mind more or less clear, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't bother cuing her—she's connected to his mind, which means she's fully capable of finding that delicious sweet spot between "too much" and "not enough" without his guidance. Maybe at some point during the next five minutes he'll want more direct involvement, but for now he's fine letting her steer.]
(The only reason why Sophie's holding off (for now) on more telepathic bullshit is just because he asked her to.
She likes doing it, although she's blocking the pleasure sharing specifically so not to get distracted from her own bubble of enjoyment. He feels too damn much, which is often great, but right now she wants to work in the perfect window she found him asking for.
When he's more stable? What she sends him is what she feels, one of those moments where she feels comfortable letting him know something with enough plausibility to her thoughts. It's more of what she had confirmed before she started — how much she enjoys him without conditions, expectations, or need for power or control, how the sound of his breathing is almost making her foresake the timer, impatience and desire raw, wordless, but more than anything, genuine.
She knows he likes knowing, hearing straight from her — hence why he asks her to talk. She can open a single exception for today only and tell him without the need of making him go through a rollercoaster of her being difficult.
[To be fair, she has a perfectly valid excuse for not telling him verbally the way he usually wants. She feels fucking incredible, and when the desire from her end of their telepathic connection washes over him, he has to curl his fingers in her hair and grip the end of the couch to stop himself from bucking his hips.]
Shit—fuck—yeah, that.
[Sophie's being a team player and letting him feel how much she wants him without making him work for it, so he'll do her the favor of forcing her to acknowledge what he wants. She's getting away with just a "that" this time. You're welcome, Sophie.
He tilts his head down again and pulls her hair away from her face so he can make eye contact as she's working him with her mouth. The visual is exquisite, but even better is the hunger in her expression.]
(Without his overdetailed pleasure bouncing in her brain, she has the opportunity to pay attention to a series of events that wouldn't be available to her on a different occasion. From the way his thoughts run through her spine, and how fast she can flood his mind with her feelings. How she does something just right that he's having to put effort not to instinctively thrust, the heavy breathing. She has a feeling that if she were to not listen and speed up, he'd be overwhelmed very quickly — not what she wants. Two minutes left on the clock.
Months ago, everything about them today would be unimaginable, she assumes for both of them. The honesty on her end, the lifting of vetoes on his, the idea of giving just because, well, yes.
His hand on her hair does bring her eyes to his, accurate in perception, but it also comes with a small smile hiding on the corners of her lips before she descends fully.
[It's both the longest and shortest four minutes of Quentin's entire stupid life. Probably. Well, probably not. He's had a weird life. But right now it's the longest and shortest he can remember. Which isn't really all that impressive, because he's looking Sophie in the eye as she takes him entirely into her mouth, and that admittedly is occupying a lot of his brainpower at the moment. He'd wondered briefly before if she intended this to be an elaborate warm up, but that smile tells him all he needs to know—she wants him to finish like this. Which means as the timer ticks over to the last minute, things are about to ramp up.
He tightens his fingers in her hair ever so slightly, nudges his hips gently upward, and looks down at her questioningly. Not that he's completely sold on the option he's presenting. If she prefers to drive him over the edge completely unassisted, that's fine with him too.]
(He's correct in his assumptions, she's keeping a very close eye on his thought process — new territory, previously vetoed, so she just has to know. One minute means she's going to abandon the slowness and replace it with something fiercer. She's got a deadline, after all, and since he didn't complain in any shape or form about it, she's just presuming that's fine with him.
She also senses the uncertainty on his end over his actions — it's fine. If he keeps it mindful as he currently is, she has no qualms about it, which she easily sends to his brain as confirmation. Who would have thought that sex fixed their communication issues, look at that? Quentin might be the person (hivemind aside) she's communicated with most her entire freaking life, what in the actual fuck. Didn't she use to loathe him? How things change.
Sophie knows he's close, which makes the way he puts it bring a smile to the corners of her lips again. Obviously, she is unable to reply to him in the same vein.)
/Your call./
(Read: she really doesn't care. Efficiency and ease means she just swallows, there's no place to spit, anywhere else makes a mess, but, really, whatever happens happens. She's fine with the alternatives.)
[For all of it, apparently. He smirks, even if it's a little lopsided and breathless. Cool.
He uses the hand in her hair to push her head down at the same time as he rocks his hips, the movement experimental and mindful of her comfort. Then he repeats it a few more times, trying to find a rhythm, but... Hmm. Sure, he groans openly every time she takes him fully, but it's not enough, and he makes a frustrated noise. Forty seconds.
There have been plenty of times where what he prefers is to be selfish, to take his pleasure with her just along for the ride. But this? This only happened because she wanted it. Wanted him. No sex is ever really selfless for telepaths, but this is about as close as anyone could get to that: she gets off on him getting off, and he gets off on her wanting to get him off, and also a blowjob is involved there somewhere.
He looks down at her, thinks, and... lets go of her hair. Moves his hand to the couch.]
Changed my mind. [He tries to shrug nonchalantly. And fails. Whatever.]
(... Is he sure? He has got to know that her worst is, well, insane. It's who she is, and considering who he is and how his hyperdetailed world is like, he might die, but fine. There's a first time for everything, and as far as first times go, this is actually good.
Okay. First things first is to intensify what is already intense — his perception, but she'll filter it to dim everything else that isn't coming from her so there's no stimuli that could shift his focus. Secondly, a gentle edging. Everytime she descends, he's closer to a moving goalpost that moves just an inch away from him. Third is physical, amping up speed and intensity with each time she takes him.
Ten seconds. Then she lets go of the second item on her list. He's free.)
[He knew what he was asking for, and she doesn't disappoint. After all that slow build up, the sudden jump in intensity is welcome. Almost a relief in a way. Even the edging he can feel her doing feels more like scratching an itch than the psuedo-torture it's probably meant to be. His hands grip the couch cushions instinctively, though with her sensory bullshit he's barely aware of it, and he tries to keep his eyes on her and force his hips to remain still, both with moderate success. He can also dimly hear himself rambling miscellaneous praise and encouragement, which is a little embarrassing but whatever. What's she going to do, judge him? Not likely.
She takes him again and again, faster and faster, and the instant she allows him to release he does. But the bonus of asking for this? Of the timer? It means he has enough spare brainpower set aside so he can shove his pleasure into her brain. They almost always go together, after all, so it's only fair that she get at least an echo of the spectacular orgasm she gave him.]
(Not judging him for it, no worries, she judges him enough for enough outside of sex, and at this point she's very used to how he sounds and talks in it. They fuck way too often for her not to be.
Holy shit, at least it was an echo. She blocked his pleasure receptors from their telepathic synch for two reasons — one, because piggybacking on it was not the point of it. It was, you know, for her, and for him, different sources of delight that were not tied to physical pleasure on her end. Second, because holy shit, she knew it would distract her, her hand moving to squeeze the nearest cushion so she can swallow in peace and ride it out, her breathing hitched and her brain a little fried from the sudden release of dopamine it wasn't expecting.
And she's back up, trying to fix her breathing before looking at him again, trying not to laugh in joy because... Wow.)
[Quentin slumps back into the couch, trying to get his breathing and heart rate under control. Damn... And look, he fried her brain a little bit too, which he counts as a bonus win. When she speaks, he lifts his head briefly to look at her with a lazy, pleased expression and drops his head back again.]
Pretty sure I am, yeah.
[He pries his fingers out of the death grip they had on the couch cushions, flexing the stiffness out of his joints, and then stretches his arms up languidly. When he can move without wanting to die, he kicks off his pants and pulls up his boxers.]
Just thinking about how I'm gonna return the favor.
(She'd be much more melted mush than this after a round, right now she's at a 30% mush rate, since she attacked him. The kiss she presses to his temple is brief before she fishes back her cardigan, not bothering with the top.
Oh, right, she has to return his brain to normalcy. Sorry, someone distracted her, there he goes. With an eye roll and a smile, she gives him a little kick with no strength to it whatsoever — he doesn't have to. There was plenty of enrichment for her, too.
Since the plan today is to chill for fucking once, she's not concerned about the timer that still runs. Let him rest a little, it's not like guys work like girls anyway. She knows he's gonna need to breathe for a while.)
[Oh, he's not in a big hurry. Quentin waves off the offer of coffee, even though he yawns immediately after.]
Well, the obvious is out. [Despite his "evolving" stance on receiving, giving is an entirely different can of worms. She's vetoed that one herself too.]
There's always my first idea.
[He taps his temple with a sly look before folding his arms behind his head and turning back to look at the ceiling.]
Gotta say, I don't like that the score's not even. I wanna fix that before I'm back to full functionality, so to speak.
(Maybe one day she'll feel secure enough for it. Things change here in the little bubble they quietly inhabit, but as for now? It's still too uncomfortable a thought for her to backtrack on, and she's sure it is for him, too.
His first idea being their stupid horny Olympics, she assumes. It's not a bad one, and it's better than just sitting around idly until male biology cooperates with them. He doesn't have his niche little hobbies in her room, and he isn't so fond of games to truly appreciate the wonders she has in her drawers.
Interesting, though? The comatose she requested for the scheduling mishap does seem reachable if they keep at it.)
So, back to trying to distract me. It isn't the worst idea you've had. I just got a little distracted.
(Not like she's going to let him live through it either.)
Okay. Let's fix the score, you're on. Get to the desk while I find my nail polish.
(She's already waving in dismissal the very likely quip about finding something in the mess that is her room.)
[She gets up, and Quentin grabs her wrist to stop her.]
Not that first idea. Unless you wanna add another hour to that timer before I can use both of my hands properly. I meant my other first idea. You know.
[He gently strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist and reaches into her mind to light up every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. And yes, he does look impossibly smug. As usual.]
The one where I get you off like this. Then we'll be even.
(Maybe enumerate your ideas better next time. Just saying.
Technically, the sentiment is similar — giving, to put it broadly, although his initiative comes with score-settling to back it up. That feels... Much, much more comfortable for her to put that physical distance between them, it allows her more freedom to play around right back at him and distract him if he gets way too damn close. It's an acceptable loophole, and she'll figure out how she feels as they go.
There's never any real defense or pushback that isn't petty, expected foreplay from her when he reaches, and this time is no different. Free-flowing, she feels the warmth travel from her spine down, eyes closing so she can let out an exhale.
If she was ever on the fence before, that smug grin pulls her right back into action. Unsure whether he knows that works for her, or if that's just him in general, but either way.)
Deal.
(Once she's sitting back where she had been, she's just diving for a heated kiss so she can wipe the smug off his lips.)
[She should know better than to think she can wipe the smug off Quentin Quire. His smug is eternal. Unstoppable. You wipe the smug look off his face but he has a second smaller smug look under it. Omega level smugness.
He returns the kiss, but doesn't touch her aside from the hand still on her wrist. She's allowed to touch him all she wants, he's arbitrarily decided, but he only gets the wrist. Every game needs rules, even if they're ones he just made up. The challenge here isn't how he can touch her, it's how he can make her feel him touching her without actually doing it. Like the invisible kiss to the sensitive part of her neck. Or the hands that aren't there sliding down her back, sending more of that warmth down her spine.]
(Yeah, she knows it's impossible, but she's no quitter. Go down fighting, or else what is the fun in anything?
He doesn't need to state the rules; she's already understood them from the fact that his hands aren't perfectly locked in the curve of her waist, not on her thighs, nor anywhere but the wrist he took. That's fine by her, actually. If he had forgone kissing, then she'd be in trouble, but he didn't — it means she gets to enjoy it in addition to the very real (to her) touches he's giving her, a smile forming against his lips as she lets out a sigh.
He knows she loves telepathy. Knows this works for her perfectly, but she just has to be a little difficult even if her spare hand on his cheek caresses skin, and she fights the grin from widening as she continues the kiss.)
/Jury's still out./
(Nope, jury likes it. The jury approves. She knows he knows.)
[There are several erogenous zones on the human body, the stimulation of which induces arousal in the brain. And today, Quentin has decided that the inner wrist of Sophie's hand is one of them. Or it will be, once he finishes nudging around a few things in her head. Don't worry, he'll put everything back where he found it when he's done! And yes, the invisible hands and lips touching her are meant to distract her while he's working on that. Classic sleight of hand. Or uh, sleight of... brain. Whatever.]
/What if I've got additional evidence to submit?/
[Not how court works, but he doesn't expect her to nitpick the logic of stupid banter. Especially when he lightly rubs his pointer finger over the back of her wrist, which should—if he's as amazing as he thinks he is, and let's face it, he is—give her a nice teasing little jolt down her spine. And, more importantly, a really entertaining reaction for him to enjoy.]
(Ah, to trust. Surely not with everything or without a lot of work to pull it out of her, she's not insane, but with telepathic bullshit, there is not an ounce of suspicion or uncertainty. She knows he's in there, she feels him in her head and the kisses and touches he's making her feel, but whatever the additional fuck he's doing, she's not particularly worried about it.
Wait, is he the defense or prosecution — this is so stupid that it finally makes her give in the chuckle she was fighting before, thus breaking the kiss.)
Seriously, you gotta stop making me laugh, I can't kiss and laugh and talk.
(Do not though, that's honestly one of the top tier things she enjoys.
Oh. That's what the additional fuck he was doing. Rewiring nerves. Unexpected, it pulls a small breathy moan from her, still close enough that he can enjoy the microexpressions of 'I like this, but also fuck you'. It includes the nose crinkle.)
[It's very convenient that him making her laugh is one of her favorite things, since trolling her is one of his favorite things. So nice when things like that work out.
Anyway, speaking of things working out, he just has one or two more nerves to patch into aaaand there. Done. The little breathy noise she made is good, but he can (and has) gotten much, much better sounds out of her.]
Sneaky? No idea what you're talking about. Well, unless you mean this.
[Psychic hands slot on her waist the way his real ones have a dozen other times that they've done this, and while there's no actual hands pulling her against anything, no actual grinding happening, the way he presses his thumb to the underside of her wrist should theoretically come with a similarly pleasant type of friction. Theoretically because, well... how's he supposed to know what any of this shit is going to feel like to her until he tries it? None of this is an exact science or anything. Just a lot of experimentation. Sexy experimentation.]
(The only reason why she doesn't answer with the most mature rebuttal of 'you're a skill issue' is because that's a very, very dangerous thing to say to a man who has direct control of your nerves and a mission he's very dedicated to.
An eye roll has got to suffice.
They're different when it comes to telepathy. Sophie's approach is much more traditional, but even before she knew she was an Emma Frost clone, she had been learning under her — which means that illusioning, pulling out desires and wants to use, and more sensual, sensory, and psychological approaches of how to use one's mind are her usual go-to. Which, well, it's all fine, but it is very contrasting with Quentin's more analytical, computer-like thought process. Of course he's moving her nerves around, restructuring her pathways so he could use her wrist as a pleasure joystick. Because of course he is.
If anything, she can't ever say she's gotten bored with him. Irritated, annoyed, baffled, fond, occasionally mushy, and detrimental to the brand — yeah, sure, whatever. Bored is kind of impossible.
It works, yes, not like he isn't going to know by the fact she attempts to ground the sudden surge by kissing him again, a louder noise muffled. She's too fucking sensitive, like he doesn't know, and the hand that rested on his cheek is now to his shoulder, because she needs a place to hold.)
[Too sensitive? He'll be the judge of that. Maybe he thinks she's not quite sensitive enough, hmm? What then?
He's thankful for the residual lazy, heavy feeling in his limbs, because without that it'd probably be a lot more tempting to actually touch her with his free hand. But as it is? He's perfectly happy to let her muffle her moans with his mouth and hold onto his shoulder while he plays with her brain. And play he does, continuing to rub her wrist with his thumb as he moves her hand up and into a convenient place to tangle into his hair if she's so inclined. That's just a treat for him, honestly. Is it cheating a little? Yes, but he made up the rules so who cares.]
/Ouch. And I'm being so nice, too! You're not gonna make me have to get mean, are you?/
[Oh, right, and that whole sensitive thing? Well, the invisible hands grip her waist just the way she likes it, and he adds a bit of firm psychic pressure between her legs. But not the feeling of fingers there—no, no, that's amateur shit. What he gives her is pure stimulation, a sensation that's strengthened by any movement of her hips, which the hands at her waist as well as a bit of (very not hidden or sneaky) telepathic suggestion encourages. The nerves he rewired to her wrist are a more general spark of "good" throughout the most sensitive parts of her body. Add in what he's doing downstairs, and he expects her to be putty quite soon.]
(Haha. Remember when touching his hair was a limited offer thing? That was months ago; she always has her fingers in his curls lately. It's also good grounding and enrichment for her — she's never keen on being a pillow princess, just existing there being her gorgeous self, without interaction or mutual connection. Which means that, yeah, gladly she's let her nails scratch the scalp before she pulls gently on the strands.
Also, this position is starting to get uncomfortable. She just breaks the kiss to climb to his lap, forehead to forehead as she smirks at the comment he sends her mind.)
Just remember I'm horribly vindictive.
(Welp. What a place she decided to be when he does all the telepathic bullshit he is. It's not the suggestion that makes her move, it's the chasing of feeling that she does instinctively when it first happens.
Congratulations, she's loud again, hiding her face on his neck to press her lips to it in kisses, the hand in his hair pulling a little stronger. Give her two minutes, give or take, but just because she can? She'll send an echo of what she is feeling straight to his brain.)
[He grunts uncomfortably when she moves to his lap, and when she sends him that wave of sensation, he breaks his one rule to nudge her further back towards his knees.]
Easy there. Trust me, I'd be just as hot and bothered as you if biology would let me.
[For a brief moment, his hand moves from her thigh to slip his fingers just below her the waistband of her shorts, but... No. Too easy. And she said that whole thing about being vindictive and blah blah blah. His hand returns to the couch, but now he's got a nasty little idea brewing in his nasty little skull.]
Sorry the real thing isn't available yet. Guess you'll have to make do.
[See, they've done this more than enough times for him to know what it feels like on her end when he's inside her. So that's what he adds next, psychic "thrusts" automatically syncing to whatever pace she's setting with her own movement. Overkill? Almost certainly. But hey, he warned her. Kind of.]
Just kidding, no, she'd possibly be overstimulated too. She tends to be after, they usually don't give each other much of a break. Hence why there are breaks, and naps, and stupidity between rounds. How they manage to be this horny is proof that the spirit is truly unbreakable.
She didn't really climb to his lap to bring him into this mess, at least not completely — but for positioning, thank her later for saving their neck from being too sore, but whatever. Not enough brainpower to fall down into that stupid argument.
The movement of her hips are soft, slow, mostly because otherwise he's going to kill her. It's way too familar, and she's already plotting her revenge for another day as she senses herself come closer. It's when she knows she's about to that she leaves his neck to place a gentle kiss to his lips, letting the sound of pleasure vibrate against the skin before...
She's beaming, a little shaky and spasmy as the pleasure runs through her every nerve, her hand on his shoulder gripping as she rides it.
The attempt to breathe is obvious, and what comes out in chuckles is, well, a fucking lie.)
God, I hate you so much.
@jaycetalis | text (timey-wimey date/time) ➞ @kidomega
I'm putting together a contact sheet for those of us with abilities to be able to reach out to each other easier, since we're fairly spread out for this mission. Care to volunteer?
it's branding dude. i don't expect you to understand.
to answer your question: duh. i told you, superheroing is what i do, and this world is like the slightly more boring version of mine. doesn't even have the savage land. damn shame.
wait hold on "those of us"? thought you were a no-powers loser?
hold up you got gravity powers and you went with defender? come on man "gravitas" is right there. get it because you're pretentious and shit??? smh i gotta do everything for you.
whatever. make sure you've got julian keller on your list. hellion. ignore the edgelord codename, he's just like that. telekinetic, tough as hell, good instincts. trust me, you want him on your squad.
as for me, back home on my team i gather intel, run comms, psychic defense, that kinda shit
you're just mad i came up with a better name than you did 💅
great. he'll be a complete dick probably, but if you end up with a team of amateurs you'll be glad to have the asshole around
uh yeah obviously. why'd you think i mentioned it? for my health???? no. just please try to put together a halfway competent squad for me mkay? preciate it
look powers-based codenames are a staple of superhero society. "hey who's that guy with big feathery angel wings?" "oh that's angel" "who's the lady who controls weather?" "oh that's storm"
ok wow?? uncalled for???
[Says the guy who just recommended someone he said was an asshole. But that's different!!]
fine whatever i guess i'll babysit you newbies. but you better not waste my time. you're just lucky i can monitor you nerds from anywhere on the planet so you're welcome. now ask all your dumb questions about my powers so we can work together or whatever. i know you're curious.
Something to be said for going with the obvious choice, I guess. But I'm sticking with Defender.
I can't make any promises for anyone else, but I won't waste your time. I hope you understand that I respect your experience in this field in the way I would respect a professor, and I want to learn how to use my abilities safely and effectively.
When you say monitor us, do you mean you know where we are at all times? Are you able to observe us at all, or know our status? For example, if I'm unconscious, would you know?
Sure they are. Locations and vitals would be helpful, but maybe not all the time. Maybe we let you know when there's something going on, so you don't have to keep tabs on us 24/7.
i run a shared mental network using my brain as a hub, connected to anyone else i decide to add to it. self-sustaining so it doesn't require me to pay much attention to it. auto-filters all the boring crap like surface thoughts, alerts me if there's anything wrong, works as team radio and shared knowledge database as needed. pretty advanced stuff, not to toot my own horn.
[Yeah, so. Funny thing about being the sort of arrogant little shit that Quentin is: he doesn't really get many genuine compliments that aren't buried in layers of qualifications or conditional statements or some other form of backhandedness. His head is big enough as it is.
But also consider this: Quentin doesn't actually know how to accept a genuine compliment???]
And if I had a dollar for every time someone called themself a genius and all they've done is try and reinvent the wheel, I wouldn't have to worry about funding.
I can't imagine how you do all that without burn out.
it's pretty simple really. my mutation is speaking "brain". that includes everything brains do, like all the shit you don't know it's doing. i route stuff through my autonomic nervous system, piggyback off all those background processes but leave them open to move over to manual control if i want. you know, like breathing. or blinking. plus secondary mutation: my brain processes at an accelerated rate.
different priorities. personalities. different areas of expertise.
if i were feeling uncharitable i'd say all the other telepaths i've met are unoriginal hacks who just copy each other's boring, uninspired, derivative methods of using their powers with a few minor yet ultimately negligible differences. my demographic is sadly lacking in freethinkers. the irony is staggering.
my dude she's a clone of a different telepath and (formerly) in a hivemind of 4 other identical telepaths. "unoriginality" isn't a bug it's a feature
and before you get all high and mighty at me i recall you yourself made some disparaging remarks about people reinventing the wheel. now what do you suppose "the wheel" is in a powerset that includes access to and control of any brain? if you had to guess.
ok first of all calm down on the white knighting broski. second she would literally agree with me??? seriously just ask her.
can do. have done. it's the most obvious shit to do with telepathy, and most telepaths don't consider doing anything different. so before you @ me just remember i'm throwing shade at a bunch of assholes who spend their lives getting better at manipulating and being nosy.
I know you're young, but you should be nicer to your girlfriend.
And I'm not asking for moral justification for why you think you're better than them. You proved your point when you described your accomplishments, everything beyond that has been unnecessary.
you asked why i'm the only telepath who does what i do. would you rather i say i'm just smarter than the rest of them? the "unoriginal" thing seemed less mean.
I think anyone would prefer you to just say you're smarter than call them "boring, uninspired, and derivative." There's a way to convey your skill without demeaning others.
fine, i (a true iconoclast, a quintessential recusant) am more perceptive, innovative, and avant-garde than all of my conventionally talented and perfectly average peers.
oh NOW you're questioning my telepathic expertise?? what happened to "oh quentin you're so amazing and impressive, you're the coolest, and i respect you like a PROFESSOR" etc etc etc
i can spy on you manually and waste my valuable time listening to all your thoughts and shit OR i patch you in and let the part of my brain that makes sure my heart's beating keep a metaphorical eye on yours too. your choice.
who said anything about worship? i have a few quintillion minds in my head all the time. sophie doesn't. with that in mind (pun intended) let's review. i can:
a. NOT spy on you at all and have to scan through all the other minds to find you. pros: i'm not in your head. cons: i might miss something that happens to you b. keep a mental eyeball on you at all times. pros: won't miss anything. cons: i gotta listen to your brain constantly?? no thanks c. install telepathic subroutine. pros: i can keep track of you and don't have to listen to your surface thoughts. cons: ?????? there are none
and yes i can remove it but again it's literally just a shortcut for what i can already do all the time
I trust you or I wouldn't agree to this at all! It's just... you know. Messy up there.
[He doesn't know how else to explain it. Installing something implies finding a place to put it, and what if that opens a door to some of his worst thoughts possible? What if it shows Quentin a memory he's tried to bury? What if it shows every imperfection he's tried to hide?]
buddy i've been waltzing through brains since i was prepubescent. why the hell do you think i'm such an asshole? people sucks and their brains suck. i'm sure yours sucks the regular amount.
Quentin generously gives Jayce a full 15 minutes to reply before just using telepathy. He was already humoring the guy by texting him in the first place, and this is precisely why he prefers thoughts. That's 15 valuable minutes of his life wasted!]
(Remember when you gave her shit for going ALL YOUR BRAIN ARE BELONG TO US? Well, this brain asked her to watch him, so she is. Because she somehow, against her own mentality, likes the dumb flastcan. So, naturally, another presence in the brain she has pinned comes through, and...
... Okay.)
/... Ugh. I was here first, you know./
(She's gonna have to scan so much to find this Topside asshole again, but fine. Jayce left Quentin on read? So, all things considered, from her vast experience, Quentin most likely stepped on something Jayce doesn't want to talk about. Jayce did that thing where he ignores it or redirects it, and now Quentin is going to squeeze him for it.
Fun. Good. He needs enrichment. She'll get the tea later, maybe.)
/Just patch me through when whatever the fuck ends./
[He doesn't respond to the thought on purpose, too. Like trying to play dead, except the person in your head knows you're alive and could respond, just choosing not to. He's focusing really hard on thinking absolutely nothing at all, which is much harder than it sounds, because his mind often wanders- but then Sophie's voice-]
/Sophie, wait, come back-/
[And she's gone again. Dammit. Fine. He's giving it up.
He doesn't say yes, still. He just thinks of that kid's face, the look of shock as he spits out blood from the force of Jayce's electric cannon, and the way his body limply falls down and down and down until there's a sickening crunch. The way the child still didn't die from the impact, but only once Jayce was there kneeling next to him did light leave that kid's eyes. Like he wanted to make sure that Jayce knew he did this.
Jayce still doesn't answer, even as that memory replays in his head, as vivid as if it happened yesterday.]
[Man, it's so nice dealing with people who have shit psychic defenses. They just show you stuff without you even having to dig around in their mental sock drawers, which always just feels so... bleh. Distasteful. Anyway.
Quentin ignores Sophie for now and watches the memory. At first he just views it through Jayce's eyes—the kid coughing, falling, wheezing out his final breaths—but when it reaches its conclusion he pauses the scenario, smoothly inserting himself into it and taking the place of... uh, some butch lady with big robot gloves and basically the same haircut as him?? Huh. Okay. Whatever. Quentin crams his hands into his pockets and approaches Jayce as he's kneeling on the floor and looks down at the kid with a sombre sort of detachment.]
/What happened?/
[He doesn't sound judgmental or horrified, at least. More just... tired.]
[It sounds like he wants to be more biting about this than he actually does.]
/This is.../
[He gestures around. Other bodies show up, the chemtanks he fought alongside Vi. They liter the ground behind him, about a dozen of them. The purple glow from the Shimmer tank to their right makes the shadows cast look strange.]
/What happens when Hextech is used wrong./
[His mind's an open book right now. This is one of the only things he tries to keep buried- there's only one other memory that he'd fight hard to stop Quentin from seeing. He remains kneeling in front of the kid and closes their eyes, as he did before.]
[Quentin inspects the scene around him as Jayce helpfully populates it with more dead bodies, these wearing some sort of armor. He makes a noncommittal noise at Jayce's rhetorical question, but that "explanation"? That gets an eye roll.]
/I didn't ask for an ethics lesson. I asked what happened./
[You don't mind him taking a stroll around your traumatic memory doing some CSI shit, do you Jayce? Sure you don't. Moreover, what are you going to do about it? That's right, jack shit.]
/Let's see... Big hammer. Lady with the big fancy robo-fists. Bunch of dead guys, and... I'm assuming the kid wasn't your target, so that means there was collateral damage./
[He pauses briefly, just to see what reaction that "collateral damage" comment gets.]
/Lemme be more specific. If the kid wasn't the target, why was he here?/
["Collateral damage" gets a flinch out of him, as another memory flashes to life within this one, like a four-times-speed projection along a wall. It's of Renni, whispering in his ear:
Awful, isn't it? Losing a loved one.
It sputters out of existence after that line echos throughout the room.]
/He worked here./
[Jayce looks up now, and looking down at both him and Quentin are about three dozen children, mixed in with the adult factory workers.]
[Oh? Skeevy-sounding mystery woman? Interesting. Considering it doesn't seem this kid was anyone Jayce knew... Hm. Well, that's for later. If ever. Depends on what kind of answers Jayce gives Quentin here.
He looks up when Jayce does to see all the workers. Damn it, why's there always a whole gaggle of kids in the way when this kinda shit happens? Every fucking time. Ugh. Okay, so the kid being here wasn't an accident. Quentin walks over to the tank of what could conceivably be the same shit as what's in those armor things, and his nose crinkles in a brief sneer.]
/Kids don't sign up to work at the ominous glowing goo factory because it's a fun weekend. Somebody put these kids here. Who was it?/
[More whispered voices, although these are less like memories, and more of Jayce's own incomplete thoughts, his own internal dialogue but less formed. Don't tell an outsider about our affairs. A voice that sounds like a combination of Vander and Sevika: We don't give up our own. But it's not his own. It's someone he doesn't want to have any claim or connection to. Being from the same world doesn't mean he stands behind all of their crimes. This was wrong, from start to finish, and it doesn't matter if it's one dead kid? There’s hundreds more where he came from.
[Soooo "it's complicated" then. About what Quentin expected, honestly. He gives Jayce a snide look that says "really?" when he gets up and starts getting all huffy. The attitude? Seriously? What's Jayce expecting to do? Bully an Omega level telepath out of his brain by being a little bit rude? Laughable.]
/If I got my answer, I wouldn't still be here./
[He sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes.]
/But I guess you have a point about wasting time. Fine. Let's skip to the good part./
[Quentin waves his hand in a circular motion, and the memory rewinds, flashing rapidly through the events in backwards order until Jayce is... on a train? Seems as good a place as any. Looks to be before any fighting kicks off, at least, and all of Jayce's good little soldiers are motionless in the compartment. Quentin himself is chilling, leaning against the wall next to the door. He takes off his glasses to wipe some smog and crud onto his shirt. God, this place is filthy.]
/Alright, Hammer Time, here's the real question. Say you know what you know now, but you can't change anything. No doing anything different, saving anybody, any of that shit. What do you do?/
[A little dizzying, being thrown about in the memories of his own head, and when Quentin rewinds them, he stumbles a bit before regaining his footing. The enforcers are quiet, still. He blinks and Vi is Quentin again.]
/If I can't save anyone, then what's there to do differently?/
[Quentin groans and looks up at the ceiling in mild exasperation.]
/Okay, okay, guess I didn't explain. I was going somewhere with this back there, but somebody got impatient. Eh, whatever. Let's try this again./
[He jerks a thumb at the door to the train.]
/Only thing you can do differently is not get out. In other words, I'm asking you if you'd do it again. You know, whatever you accomplished in there. Was it worth that kid dying?/
[No hesitation. That's encouraging. Quentin eyes Jayce critically, trying to determine if it's an act or... whatever, copium or something, but a) he's not sure if Jayce is capable of hiding anything from a psychic of Quentin's caliber and b) he seems more the type to wallow in angst if he felt conflicted.]
/Good answer./
[Quentin snaps his fingers, and they're back in that office Jayce visualized way back when he was getting psychic defense lessons. Ah, good times, right? Good memories? Sure they are. Anyway, Quentin has found a table to lean nonchalantly against with his arms crossed.]
/Alright, Catholic Guilt, guess I've tortured you enough for you to have earned an explanation. You want it, or do you want me to fuck off?/
[They return to the Hextech lab, and Jayce sighs a breath of relief. Sanctum. He's still in his Councilor jacket through, from the previous memory, and he starts to shrug it off, even if it's just in his mind.]
/Just tell me./
[Whatever sarcastic comment he could make in return doesn't actually make it to fully formed thought. He doesn't have it in him to be sassy right now.]
[It's almost like people don't enjoy being badgered into revealing one of their worst memories by a rude little shit invading their mind. But... no, that can't possibly be the case. Obviously Jayce is just overreacting. Quentin rolls his eyes and leans casually against a table, idly inspecting his fingernails.]
/Look, mutation? It's a bit of a crapshoot. Sure, you might get the power of being the sexiest guy in every room, but you might also get, I dunno. Fish face. Or... excreting nitroglycerin out of every orifice. Maybe little Timmy's X-Gene just activated at the tender age of 12 and—uh oh!—he just farted and leveled a city block. Enter humanity's response./
[Quentin gestures at the window, where the face of a massive robot appears. A computerized voice says MUTANT DETECTED, and the robot's hand raises to reach for Quentin, but he snaps his fingers, and it freezes. His posture stays as pointedly nonchalant as ever, despite the giant murderbot, but there's an edge of disdain to his voice, and his lip twitches into a faint sneer.]
/I've seen a lot of sick fucks come up with a lot of bullshit to justify hurting kids. I had to know if that was you./
[He wants to act in an accusatory manner- you've been in my head, and you still didn't know? But he did run away instead of answering outright. That's suspicious, admittedly. Even if it's just because he doesn't like facing that part of his past, to someone who's used to being hunted down for who they are, it's a red flag. Jayce half-sits on the anvil in the center of the room, and crosses his arms.]
[Quentin glances at Jayce and makes a vague noise of acknowledgement at his response. That's the worst of me, huh? Not that bad, all things considering.
He could just leave it at that. Let the guy stew in his own brain. Have his little pity party. Dude's clearly feeling not so hot right now, and that's largely Quentin's fault. Which kinda sucks. Not that Quentin regrets putting him through the wringer, but... you know. Also Quentin is just objectively bad at comforting people.
So... Yep. It's decided. He should just leave because he has no connection to this asshole and his stupid sad sack guilt bullshit and even if he did Quentin is not the guy who can make anyone feel better except by saying "it could be worse".]
/Yeah, well, your dead kid bodycount's still lower than mine. And one of mine was Sophie./
[For a long, long moment Quentin lets Nate's statement sit without a verbal response. It's not like it's news to him that Julian and Hope have disappeared off the psychic landscape. He's got the same damn powers as Nate, for fuck's sake. But he's... trying not to be a dick to Nate. Partly because it went oh-so-well last time, but partly because the dude just doesn't deserve to get the brunt of Quentin's stupid angst.
Fortunately, he's got other, more important, shit to talk to Nate about. Certain rumors he's heard about guys with glowing eyes muttering ominous bullshit about "understanding" or showing people "a different perspective."]
/Gone or dead, yeah. I've done a half dozen psychic sweeps of the planet and got nothing. Well, nothing except some freaky psychic influence floating around the telepathic landscape. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?/
/If you must know, one of the assholes whose brainmeat you fried has been pretty chatty about the cool guy with a glowing eye he met who had some funny things to say about free will. You wanna share with the class what you told him?/
Nate's always been moody. Had a wee bit of a god complex, a hefty amount of arrogance. Likes to throw his weight around. All shit you'd expect from a guy who's powerful and never experienced the joy of being knocked down a few pegs by someone better. But this? This feels different. Which means it's probably connected to that whole alignment swapping bullshit that's been going on. Quentin's felt the tickle of it in the back of his head, like that time Scarlet Witch and Dr. Strange fucked up things with Red Skull, but he doesn't think he's been acting oddly. Then again, last time his morality switched it made him nice, so uh. Maybe better not look too closely into that.
Anyway. Yes. Nate. Guy's fucked in the head, and that's bad news for everyone.]
/Alright, fuck it. I'm already bored of this. Let's take a look under the hood, shall we?/
[Is it a good idea to give a heads-up to a morally questionable omega telepath before rappelling into the potentially murky and treacherous depths of his mind? Nope. Good thing Quentin is also a morally questionable omega telepath, huh?]
the moment quentin goes to take a peek, something feels off about the younger psionic. off in the sense of nate's own consciousness divided and yet... not at the same time. two minds as one, one mind as two. there's something else here with them within nate's mind and quentin will discover that's it very much not just the two of them.
like a jigsaw puzzle dropped to the floor, pieces scatter across nate's mindscape and on those pieces, various images— events in time that can be quickly scanned and caught through a glimpse. a prison city, a planet destroyed, a crack within the time stream, the very planet which they find themselves on now, nate wandering the streets and looking towards something approaching. the pieces scatter so quickly it's nearly impossible to grab hold of them, but they all slide towards nate's center, as if being pulled back almost.
and there, coiled up within the center of nate's very soul, the anomaly seeking refuge in the form of attaching itself to the omega psionic. for as bright and as vast as its own existence is, it also feels very young, as if it were a child. a child whose name is there and can be felt by quentin: verity. )
(First day was a quiet one. Unpack all the shit that she had brought from Earth, her room now a nerd's dream of consoles, lights, shelves of games. Quentin's hard work in organizing her room is taken into lightly into consideration while she puts away clothes, jewelry, accessories, lingerie, perfume — she might as well have taken the entirety of the planet with her, so excuse her if she fucks up his VeRy PrIsTine OrgAnizAtion.
It was... Good. Most people don't come with an emotion switch button, but she does, and the longer it's off, the longer it takes for her to come back. For a day, she lets herself feel, get lost in a task as she thaws. It's been a lot, there are many worries floating in her mind, a lot of uncertainties, not to mention the less than pleasant trip in an evil lab she didn't sign up for. Videogames, sleep, sleep, sleep...
Second day, however? She's more herself, which means she knocks on Quentin's door. As soon as he gives an indication she can come in? A hurricane just smashes a kiss to his lips, arms around his neck — no stupid arguing foreplay, no talk, no hours of videogame and idle conversation while they're together and apart.
She's emotional, she's tired, she's stressed, she's a little traumatized, she's goddamn horny, she's missed him and his company a lot, deal with it.)
Not that that's new. It's pretty much been the story of Quentin's whole life since his godforsaken x-gene woke up. Part of the joy of being a mutant. Everything that's happened in the past weeks—losing Julian, stupid cosmic anomaly bullshit, Sophie getting abducted and tortured—it all just sucks, but... Well, that's life. It is what it is. No use losing any sleep over it. Quentin just got this pink hair permanently, and he'd rather it not go gray, thanks.
He answers the door in person when Sophie knocks, mostly because despite his acceptance of the overall suckiness of literally everything, he can't help feeling a vague sense of restlessness. Physically getting up and opening the door is more effort than using TK or just telepathically indicating she can come in, and for whatever reason the extra steps feel... almost comforting, in a way. Normal? Ugh. Sure. But then Sophie is immediately all over him, and he stumbles back a step or two in surprise.
Oh.
Okay.
He lightly touches her mind, and... well. Turns out that faint restlessness was a pile of very dry tinder, and Sophie just tossed a match onto it. The result is a blazing mess of stress and sadness and anxiety that suddenly has an outlet, and he telekinetically slams the door shut and pushes her against it. Since she's not wasting any time, neither is he, sliding his hand down the front of her shorts.]
Ever since they started this, she decided to be, you know, "normal". Instead of relying on her telepathy to deal with him at all times, she's been watching with her own two eyes. Some days, his stress is a wholly neglected observation she makes; other days, it's an assertive concern about someone she cares about — but all in all, she knows that he is not at his best. Fidgety. Grumpier. Snappier. Louder. More.
She can't blame him. She isn't, either. Whereas his emotions are high, hers get iced out when she feels they should be, because, hey, feeling sucks. If she can not feel for a while, why would she?
Unfortunately, that's hardly a solution. She eventually has to feel again — here she is, burning with just as much repressed anxiety that she is finally releasing. No complaints, this is exactly what she thinks they both need. If she were thinking any, she'd actually be surprised that he seemed to be.
She's not, though. Instead, she's letting a sound into his mouth, letting a leg hook around him as she pulls on his shirt to let him know she wants it off.)
[At least she's not expecting him to talk. No "are you okay?" Or "can I help?" Or pushing him to express shit he knows for a fact that Sophie Cuckoo won't understand. Their lives, experiences, personalities—they're too different, and unlike Sophie, Quentin doesn't have a handy diamond form to switch off his feelings. He just has to swallow what he can and dump elsewhere what he can't, and he has to do both without causing any international incidents. Fortunately, frenzied horniness works just fine as a dumping ground, and clearly neither of them mind one bit.
He makes a huffy noise of complaint at having to pull his hand out of her shorts so he can start hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt. Hopefully she'll take the opportunity to get rid of her stupid clothes too. Preferably as fast as possible.]
(Luckily for him, she dropped the intrusive helpfulness and pushing him to do shit he doesn't want to months ago, it just didn't do them any good, it wouldn't do any now. There are other ways to speak that involve no talking, no room for misunderstanding, and no petty arguments, as such are the traps they easily fell into the times they did try to talk.
To be helpful in this case is a two-way road — she takes away his stress even if momentarily, and in turn, it helps her out with processing, so what's there to complain about? There's a quick roll of eyes at the noise before her top and cardigan are tossed aside, lips attaching to his neck, one hand on his hair the way she knows for a fact he likes, and the other busies itself with his belt.
And just for an incentive for Quentin to get those buttons opened quicker, or her shorts out of the way faster? He gets to enjoy just how excruciatingly horny she is fed into his brain, and the fun little underlying message that she leaves with it? That it's for him.)
[Quentin's priority at the moment is escape, relief, a little kernel of comfort and control and a way to channel his angst that's actually nice for goddamn once. He's eager to feel instead of think even without her pouring her lust into his head, but it's appreciated nonetheless, and he returns the favor by sending her how unfathomably impatient he is to be inside her. He's more than ready to finally make the part of his brain that's boiling over with anxiety shut the fuck up.
He throws his shirt who the fuck cares where and yanks down her shorts, though she'll have to move her leg to get them fully out of the way. Ugh. And if she also tries to deal with his pants? That'll take, like. Forever. So for the sake of efficiency he shoos her hand away from his belt to work on getting his pants off himself.]
How're we doing this?
[Sure, Quentin is perfectly happy to fuck her right here against the door, except well. He's pretty sure he can't lift her, and he's really not in the mood to try it and find out for sure.]
(At least before coming here, she knew he would be more difficult than usual. Not taking it personally, at least, because he has been (understandably, but no less than) really fucking irritable. Maybe it's a good thing that they don't feel the same — both of them being this pissy would cause an incident, probably.
So, fine, whatever, she'll unhook her leg, take in the information that, well, it's nice to feel herself but it's not like she doesn't know, let him deal with his own pants while she gets her shorts kicked out to fuckwhere.
Her eyes scan for a moment with his question, and since he heard not a word from her, he's going to remain so. Okay, back to kissing him absolutely stupid and hungry it is, backing them up until they're by the table they tend to actually hang out when they do.
She'll sit on it, and it's pretty self-explanatory. This is not something for a bed.)
[He of course voices his displeasure at further delays, but at least he's prevented from actually saying anything by her kissing him like she wants to devour him. That's probably for the best, for both of their sakes. The not letting him talk part, specifically. God knows what kind of stupidity would come out of his mouth when he's this irritable. At least she's not giving him shit about it.
In any case, his pants are absolutely gone by the time they make it to the table, and yes, it's quite self-explanatory from there. He slides inside her and lets out a noise into her mouth that's simultaneously relieved and hungry for more. Man, it's been a while. He doesn't move just yet, instead letting one hand slot into that perfect spot at her hip while the other grips her thigh both to tug her firmly against him and to encourage her to wrap her legs around him. Not like she'll need the suggestion, based on past experiences, but. You know.]
(Shush. Look, there are reasons why she's doing this the way she is, as frantic, spirited, and rushed as it is. For him, she's doing this because he needs to fucking chill, and she knows exactly how mushy and puddly she can get him to be playing her cards right. Oxytocin makes them stupid, even a little affectionate, but in this case, it has the added benefit of making the tsunami of feelings in his brain transform into a quiet lake for a little while.
Maybe she likes him, and it drives her to give a very real shit about his mental stability, or whatever.
As for her side of things, it should all be pretty easy to understand. She hasn't fucked him in a while, and going from several times a week to absolutely nothing doesn't do any good for her hormones, so can't blame a girl for wanting to get off as quickly as possible, with the person she wants to be getting off with. That paired with the knowledge what it was like to be the latest mutant guinea pig, worries about everyone's well-being, melting from all the unfeeling, the fact Quentin got fucked up trying to get her, their decreasing numbers... She's not a worrier nor an overthinker, and those are two things that she has been doing and her brain is overwhelmed by it.
Once he's in, though? The noise she lets out is not filtered at all, her arms pulling him closer while her legs take the hint. They were going to, anyway, but she digs her heel at the small of his back to get him deeper as she shifts her hips for it, too. She also doesn't move, enjoying the feeling for a moment as relief courses through her.
All the anxiety and cortisol he's feeling, though? Well, she can tell he's also moving it around, but this is the telepathic version of the shooing he did to her about his pants. She's got him, numbing the nervousness and anxiety to heighten the lust and pleasure nerves in his synapses.)
[In most cases, he would resist her meddling with his mind the way she is. Just acknowledging the anxiety buzzing in his brain is bad enough, but adjusting it? Rearranging pieces of his mind? In any other circumstance, that would be a hard no. He likes his mind just the way it is, thanks, even if it's a little rough around the edges and well. Fucked up. But... This time? This time he'll allow it. Because honestly, she's not wrong in the assertion that it's what he needs right now. It's the reason for everything they're doing.
The downside is all her poking around in his head has made it intolerable to stay still any longer. He groans hungrily, feeling all the extra arousal flood his system, and he rocks his hips sharply into her. His pace isn't too rushed—not yet—but he's by no means leisurely. On the contrary, he's finding that whatever she's doing in his brain is bringing out some of the possessive urges that spawn from somewhere in his primitive cortex from time to time, and the decrease in his cortisol has made him care less than usual. Convenient! Also convenient? The fact that he knows she kinda likes being manhandled just a little.
His hands on her waist and thigh tighten, pulling her toward him roughly with every unhurried but demanding thrust. Quentin isn't physically strong, but he more than makes up for it psychically, pushing his desire forcefully into her mind. Might as well let her enjoy the fruits of her labor, right?]
(Not only does she think he needs it, but also, there's much more that he could be doing with one less task in his head, see the following examples: fucking, worrying about absolutely nothing for a second, and getting lost with her, because they earned it. Shit show of a month and all that.
Perhaps there is some benefit to being psychically busy, horny as hell, and having so much repressed feelings that are bubbling to the surface — if there is one thing she is not worried about, it is volume. She has to break the kiss, it's getting hard to breathe with how the noises are leaving her with every single time she moves her hips to meet his. God bless his observation skills, too, because she surely does not complain when they are having that rare moment when that particular preference of hers and his need align.
This is definitely going to be quick on her end, although it was never her intention for it to be, but fuck, man. Her legs are practically begging him to keep doing what he's doing, nails threatening to puncture, and once his desire hits her neurons? She has one mission telepathically, which is to break his brain with dopamine, so — he's giving him her own, as intense and increasing as she feels it with his own meshed into it. Added bonus? Just how close she is with each thrust, because she just thinks he deserves to feel her antecipation, as a treat.)
[She breaks the kiss, and he leans his face against her neck to focus on his movements and the responsiveness of her body. It's so rare that he feels this need to "claim" her, to get a little rough and let whatever base animal urges take over, but fuck, whenever he does it drives her absolutely crazy. Not that making her delirious with need has been difficult for him to accomplish for, shit, months at this point. Sophie is remarkably easy to please when you know what buttons to push. But damn if she doesn't go a special kind of wild when he gets bossy like this, the kind that makes him wonder why he doesn't more often. Granted, most of the time he's not really in much of a headspace to pay attention or care about anything but his own needs, and that loss of control unsettles him. Today is a rare exception, but he can't deny it's an interesting change, maybe even a welcome one. Today he actually has the opportunity to really savor her reactions, to feed them wherever he can, to really enjoy her.
He can feel how close she is, but Quentin? Quentin just got the stress in his head replaced by a manic level of lust that he's not ready to let go of yet. But she likes when he takes charge, right? When he gives in to his urge to control? So he edges her, keeping her firmly at that line of close but not close enough. Especially cruel considering he also adjusts his hands to both grab her waist and get better leverage for harder, faster thrusts. But hey, she's the one who encouraged this. It's her own fault, really. And look, he used his observation skills to figure out that she likes it a little rough. Now she gets to use hers. Surely by now she knows how he feels about begging.]
(Months. The Sophie who started this whole arrangement would be sorely embarrassed at the Sophie who is letting her moans echo around his room without a single care about letting him know too much. Sophie comes with walls upon walls of resistance to genuineness, and over time he managed to crack them if he doesn't straight up bulldoze through them, and whether she wants to put in the effort to rebuild depends greatly on the day. Weirdly enough, she feels relatively safe with Quentin, and when he's like this? The walls dissipate entirely, if only for the duration of it.
When he's like this? It feels like he's there with here too, the same situation, the lack of resistance, just to be... And he's correct in his assumption that she likes it a little rough sometimes, lustful and undeniably real.
Observation skills go both ways. From someone who went 'don't touch my hair' to 'please touch my hair', it's a given that it's what she's doing with the amount of force she knows is okay with him, pressing a kiss to his temple as her other hand, well, that one is pressing nails against his skin — which she knows he's going to bitch and moan about being scratched as soon as he's back to baseline grumpy, but alas. Nothing she cannot handle.
It's just a lot — and she needs some grounding, because she's losing it here, to be so damn close, delirious, her breathing erratic, and not be able to reach it. She's absolutely not complaining, as torturous as it is, she wanted it to go for longer, even if it is driving her to lunacy, her hips chasing him just as hard as he chases her.
She will get to the point of begging, no questions about it. She just wants him to get as closer to climax to give it to him.)
[Thinking Sophie could be "his" would be the biggest mistake he'd ever make. Quentin's been down that road and a similar one with a different blonde, and it only leads to heartache. Plus, hell, with the way this stupid place works she'd probably disappear the second he even had the thought. So he doesn't. That's the one rule about this "mode" he's in that can never be broken.
But Quentin is nothing if not gifted at finding loopholes. He can't claim her, but he can claim moments. Abstractions. Her moans, her nails digging in his back, her legs clinging to him, her pleasure for the next however long tonight. Those are all things he can safely declare to be his, and that impulse is what's driving him now. He's greedily taking everything he can from her, and that's the message he pushes into her mind. Maybe knowing precisely what he wants will help ground her, maybe it'll just make her more crazy. Either way it's a win.
One of his hands slides back down to her thigh, pulling it up higher around his waist and groaning at the change in angle. Shit, that's good. Okay, fuck it, he's looping his arm under her leg to rest it in the crook of his elbow. Hopefully she's flexible enough, and he's strong enough to manage it, but look, his lower back and glutes are already gonna be killing him after this so why not add more soreness. Besides, it feels really fucking incredible like this, his pace is starting to get more erratic as he gets closer.]
(It grounds her nothing. To her, that's impossibly hot, and that's what she is letting him know through her mind. It makes this edging bullshit, although appreciated so that they can last longer, a cruel torture that she is no longer signing up for. See, she knew that she was going to end up begging, because there is no way that she can handle this for much longer — not with the thoughts he's giving here, or with the new position that just happens to hit just right, the fact she knows she'll have the reminder in muscle aches and sores long after they're done and it will bring a stupid, smitten smile to her face without her allowing it to.
She's pretty flexible, so at least it's not going to be a problem for her for now, but it does restrict her hip movement a little — which, whatever, it doesn't really stop her from doing it anyway. The end result is a Sophie that pulls his hair a little to get him out of her neck so she can kiss him stupidly, nails sinking more until she can't withstand not getting off anymore in good sanity.
Cannot believe these are the first words she'll give him today.)
/Quentin, fuck, please, let me come... I'm — it's, I — just... Let me come. Please./
[Damn. Well, she's giving him every single thing on both his Christmas and birthday lists, so guess she's earned a reward for that. He moves his hand from her waist to tangle in the hair at the back of her head, because his brain demands that he add this stupid kiss to his list of today's conquests. That accomplished, he finally lets her go.
Her climax, of course, is also something he wants to be "his". Thus the edging and begging and such. Which, honestly, he likes even when he's not in the mood to dom the hell out of her. Sue him. But today? Today he's been going a little further with everything else than he has before. Why stop now? So when she comes, he doesn't. He also doesn't stop. She'll probably be overstimulated as fuck, but you know what? Good. She wanted him like this, and if she didn't know what she was getting herself into that's on her.
In any case, he doesn't last much longer than she did, so small mercies. He grips the back of her head roughly to maintain control over their kiss and thrusts feverishly into her a few more times before he comes, which naturally his mind counts as another "claim" for his growing collection. And, well, he's not saying he went so far as to think the actual word "mine" or anything. That's a step way, way too far. But that possessive desire he shared with her that she thought was so unspeakably hot? That part of his brain is thriving right now and making sure she knows it.]
(Emotionally? Messy. Romantically? Nope. But sexually? They fit so perfectly she finds it unfair to both of them. When it started, she was so certain this was the worst idea they could have ever come up with, but honestly? Being with him was probably the best thing that came out of this place. Not that, well, Sophie is ever going to think it, or even ever say it out loud.
But, it kinda is.
At least that also says that she knows what she is getting to, both with the enabling and with the encouraging. She comes, fucking finally, and it's unashamed just how loud the moan that meets his mouth is. It was so intense that she deems that time stopped for a second, sounds muffled as she does everything in her power to hold. The grip on his hair is a little stronger, but her legs tighten and spasm around him, the nails descend on his skin leaving a trail as she comes down. She has no brain to shove too much into his, but what she can do is to let it be very open in the telepathic airways — he might not want to feel hers, but he definitely is going to hear about it.
Except, well, he isn't stopping, which is a little odd, since they almost always come together, wonders of telepathy and all. She's so sensitive that every thrust feels like a whole new sparkle of joy, even if she is overstimulated, paired with the thing she likes hearing and feeling from him the most. Two orgasms, congratulations, Quire, she can barely fucking breathe, all sparkles and distant sounds in her head and she's pushing that into his as well, once she can.
She needs a moment to calm down, she feels like she has poured a bucket of serotonin in her brain, and then she ran a marathon. So, she breaks the kiss to take her hand on his hair to his cheek in a much gentler caress. She's dead, she looks like a mess, but she's glowing in her beaming smile before she realizes she really didn't put a word in the air towards him.
So, she giggles, before she comes up with the one thing in her brain once there's enough oxygen in it.)
[He feels her climax, clinging to him and moaning in a way he usually misses when they come together, and man, he probably wouldn't have have been able to keep moving if he wasn't holding up her leg, considering how tightly her other heel is digging into his back. But that's the point, isn't it? Taking what he wants? Making her feel whatever he wants her to feel? It's selfish and presumptuous and a little bit cruel, and it clearly gets her off like nothing else. Which is great, because it does a hell of a job getting him off too. With everything she's shoving into his head feeding into the maelstrom of shit he's already got in there, he'll be lucky if he can walk after this.
And speaking of getting off, he didn't miss that second orgasm, despite his own occupying most of his brain space at the time. Safe to say that sends pleased little tingles in every single one of his neurons, and it's definitely going into his mental trophy case of wins. Also? Definitely making a note for the future. Updating his records regarding how much she can handle. You've given him too much power, Sophie. And you probably won't even regret it. Sucker.
Anyway, Quentin now has to work on trying to get back to some version of normal. First is to pull his hand out of her hair and gingerly let her leg drop back to the table. Second is to, I dunno. Figure out how to breathe again? Try to fucking see straight when his eyes refuse to focus on anything? Ugh, god. Sophie may be glowing, but he feels like he got hit by a truck. A really, really good truck, but still. Truck. He blinks owlishly as he processes her suggestion for a second.]
(Naturally, she has her slender psychic hands off his brain by now, so she isn't synching her breathing to his once it reaches some level of stability. She usually does, but thanks to the fact that she is a puddle right now, it doesn't even cross her mind. Mostly because nothing is, she's just buzzing with joy.
By the looks of it though, mission accomplished? Of course, it won't last too long; that's not how hormones and neurons work, but he seems too tired to even consider worrying, so she wins. Her legs unhook, and she moves as to get off the table, making a face at how tight her muscles feel. Oof. Bath is the second best idea she had in this room today, no doubt about it.
Once her hands rub on her face for a few moments as she tries to get some synapses going, the first thing is to get him one of his candy bars, because he probably needs it, hand it to him with a kiss to his shoulder before she's off to run the bath.
If he comes with her, she's mostly quiet, with that little crinkle in her nose and a smile not at all hidden in the corners of her lips as the water fills the tub and when it gets to a reasonable level, she's in.)
[Candy bar is very much appreciated, thanks. He slumps in a chair to eat his snacks and take a breather, so Sophie will have plenty of time to fill his (oversized luxury) bathtub and get comfy before he joins her.
Quentin is less visibly wrecked by the time he gets to the bathroom, but his veins are still thrumming with enough oxytocin to keep his stress levels down. For now, at least.]
Fucking hell.
[Yep, that's it. That's all he's going to say as he eases into the tub on the opposite end from her. And once he's in, he's gonna lean back and just. Relax for a bit.]
(By the time he arrives, she's already on relaxation level 9000, her hair wet and floating in the water as she hears him enter. Her eyes open for a second, but they don't stay so for too long.
There's a quiet exhaled chuckle for the swear that leaves him. Beautiful words, all very touching.
At least he feels... Better, she supposes?)
We're gonna feel this tomorrow for sure.
(When her soul returns to her body, she'll go join his side of the tub. Just. Not now.)
[He arches his back, stretching sore muscles for a moment before sinking down into the water with a sigh. Ah, yes, that's better. Makes him feel alive again. He's sure they'll go another round at some point—it's that kind of day—but until then he's going to enjoy the warm water melting away any residual tension in his body.]
And anyway, you weren't the one standing the whole time.
[Yep, it's back to complaining. At least he's more relaxed now than he has been.]
[Oh, don't you worry, the complaining about the scratches on his back is coming. The only reason he hasn't is, well. It was kinda hot, honestly. He'll see how he feels about it once the endorphins have faded, but right now he's sticking with complaints that are obviously petty and meaningless. You know. So there's no confusion.
He closes his eyes with a vague "hmph" at her sarcastic reply and only cracks one eye open when she leans into his space with a kiss to his jaw. Ah, just grabbing the shampoo. Not his concern. He'll go back to soaking.]
Depends on when you pass out.
[Yes, "you." Not "we". He doesn't go out of his way to emphasize the difference in pronoun, not like he usually would when trolling her. Oh, he's sure she'll pick up on it and take the bait and all that. He just doesn't have it in him to really go ham on the flirty banter challenging bullshit today. That first round took the a lot of the edge off the surly mood he's been in, but he's still not totally his usual self. Probably won't be for a while, honestly. He's only in as good of a mood as he is right now because of the cocktail of post-coital feel-good shit in his system, and that won't last forever.]
(They don't really talk, which is fine. Perhaps now, after all this time, it'd be better than the last times they tried, but talking now is a different can of worms that Sophie doesn't know whether she wants to open, so she doesn't. It doesn't mean they don't communicate; he has said plenty, she has said plenty since she arrived at his room. Besides, she pays attention now — and turns out, she gets more than she thought she would.
Pressure is making him snap left and right. Worry. He's repeated it in his backward way through the weeks — 'I have to do everything'. Talking isn't their thing, but she can take some weight off his shoulders with flooding his brain with hormones so he can have some relief, and taking matters into her own hands, she's got a plan.
Does it make it a little more real that she cares for him if she is taking steps to take care of him in a way she knows will work because she paid attention? Yes. Yes, it does, but it is a little less horrifying to do it at this point, and there are bigger priorities in her mind than to pay attention to the Cuckoo brain that says 'that's not very girlboss gatekeep of you'.
Also, not really subtle bait, but okay, she can play as she cares for the massive amount of hair that she has now.)
Because I'm the one bitching about being sore.
(No bite, actually. She doesn't really take all his bitching into account, and this is one of those moments she's sure they're just arguing recreationally, which good, she had no idea what to say to him after the whole hurricane Sophie ordeal.)
Remind me to get some epsom salts or muscle soreness relief next time I run supplies.
[Epsom salts sound good right now. He adds that to his mental list of errands for when he inevitably wakes up before her.
There's an elephant in the room here: what just happened and why it happened. This wasn't one of their usual little trysts, not by a long shot. And yet here they are doing half-assed banter about being sore and her passing out and his back and just completely avoiding any deeper discussion. And you know what? That's fine with Quentin. Yeah, yeah, he hates when other people do it, but let's be real. He's always been a hypocrite. Why stop now?
And speaking of avoiding shit, he grunts in mild annoyance at her "bitching about being sore" comment. Annoyance because he doesn't have a good quippy comeback for that, of course. Which means changing the subject.]
Why're you doing that? ["That" here meaning washing her hair.] You know we're probably just going to get sweaty again.
(Don't steal her idea, asshole. And, yes, let the elephant be, they can wave at it if they want, but it seems like both of them are more than fine and capable of ignoring it, even if it clearly is a third party in this tub. It's fine.
Sophie is sorely uninterested in even trying to get him to talk to her. It doesn't work that way, and it hasn't in a good while. What she does and is currently doing is walking towards him, and stopping at a comfortable distance. Quentin has to walk the other half, and that's something she doesn't want to have to ask of him. It's not how this works, by her own rule.
She doesn't want to discuss anything either. It's not like getting kidnapped, tortured, studied, seeing people she likes getting fucked over, losing a person, and then seeing him this stressed out isn't self-explanatory. She's not the first mutant that went through this, she will not be the last.)
It's not a 'probably', it's a 'definitely', but I don't like the feeling of dirty roots, and long hair weighs on it.
(Hence why she used just a little bit of shampoo and is only dealing with that part. Once it's rinsed, she takes a glimpse at his, sees the curl pattern already forming even if it's wet, and she just has to take one between her thumb and index to pull very gently and release.
[Look, if she wanted it to be her idea, maybe she should wake up early enough to stake her claim. Early bird, worm, snoozing and losing, etc.]
I can fix that for you. Snip snip.
[He holds up two fingers and makes a snipping motion to imitate scissors. Then he feels her encroaching on his space and opens one eye in time to see her messing with his hair. He could bitch at her for it, but... eh. He gets it, kinda. His hair's been trashed by bleach for so long it's still a little weird to have his curls back. And obviously they're amazing, so. She's allowed to ogle.]
You know, Irma [No, not using "Mindee" since, well. He knows how she feels about him bringing up other Cuckoos. At least "Irma" implies a level of unfamiliarity that, quite frankly, does truly exist.] had a sick asymmetric bob look going for a while, back in her black hair era. Side shaved clean and everything. Very edgy, very chic. Can't have dirty roots without roots. I'd know.
(The laughter doesn't come from her finding it funny, but out of disbelief. Sir, your hair is like, a fraction of hers, and has none of the same texture. You've seen it without the styling, she does not trust it. Absolutely not.
Also, shut up, it's the boing that makes her want to play with it. Her own doesn't do that without a ridiculous amount of hairspray when she curls it. It's not like she has access to other curls to play with.)
I mean, yeah, I know, I liked it on her, but you know? I ever shave or do something like that, and then I just look like Mindee, because duh, of course I do. I wanted something mine, even Esme had her own hairstyle. I'm thinking about dyeing the inner part lilac or some shit like that, except I have never touched dye, so it's a work-in-progress.
(No Elixir, no do over restart game button. But hey, the Cuckoos did red, black, blonde. None of them did a fun color.)
Right, because you don't look anything like Mindee now.
[Just sayin'. Quentin sits up more and opens his eyes fully, since he's feeling less dead now and apparently they're having a conversation. Or something. About hair. Sure. He messes with his own hair, switching between borrowing her optic nerve and glancing at the mirror across the room to get it back into the orderly-yet-tousled style he prefers.]
Also if that's your way of asking, I'll think about it.
[The part about dying her hair, he means. Obviously. See, he would've been all about it. He got really used to dying hair, and it feels weird to not have to keep track of it anymore. But also? She rejected his offer of cutting her hair. That's very rude, and he's grumpy. So there.]
Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. That's her hairstyle and vibe, not mine. If the point is to be my own person, I don't want to do something already done.
(But she can feel him using her eyes, and that actually makes her laugh. He knows she doesn't mind it, and in fact, it's so familiar that it's comforting, but she was not expecting it.
Also she wasn't asking because she isn't exactly sure what she wants. She can't undo shit now, which is Concerning to her, it has to feel perfect and only hers. She asked Josh for long hair because she could explore length, since she's always had the bob and then do things to it as time went by since she had quite a lot, and then whatever she decided, if it wasn't perfect, he could fix it.
Welp.)
If I ever decide what the hell I wanna do, that is.
Yeah, well, she's the only one who's ever really tried to look like her own person. So maybe if there's one to imitate, it's her. I mean, she made you guys "SPMCE". [Yes, he's doing his best attempt at pronouncing that.] That's pretty ballsy.
[Not mentioned here: the fact that Mindee eventually went back to the standard Cuckoo Look and gave up her little foray into individuality. Despite Quentin very much seeing a parallel to Sophie's own break from the hive mind, that whole thing most definitely goes into the pile of "Conversations We Started Fucking To Avoid Having Ever," where it will remain for all eternity.]
Whatever. The offer's out there, though I do have to insist you let me do some of the cutting. It's the principle of the matter. You understand.
[Does she? Who cares. He gets the last few curls back into place on his head and sits back again, resting his arms on the edges of the tub.]
Alright, your hair's clean and mine's all fixed. When're we gonna make 'em dirty and messy again?
(When he starts talking, he might notice that her thoughts are basically 'who do you think I miss the most since I left'. Sure, Mindee returned to her rightful Cuckoo place and stayed there, hell, she too was a little anti-individuality after that, but she was the one who wanted it first. It'd be an interesting conversation, since Sophie really doesn't want to go back.
Except that thought dies so, so quickly when Quentin turns out to be the first person who ever brought that up to her face, and a snorted laugh comes out before she even notices. For fuck's sake, no, she hates that ugly laugh, fuck off.)
I had a whole point and you made me lose it, so congratulations on killing this conversation.
(At least it comes out through laughs as she pinches the bridge of her nose.)
Fine, whatever, I trust you as long as I don't see you with that buzzer. I'll think it over and let you know.
(She'd actually let him do whatever the hell he wanted, if that didn't give him way too much power, and if it didn't defeat the purpose of it being hers.
But he is getting a kiss to his cheek for it, it's a silent thanks.)
As soon as you get to bed. Go.
(No tub sex, it might be huge, but it is also going to completely obliterate their squishy bodies with position.)
Oh, no, I killed a conversation about which of the Spice Girls has the least boring haircut so I could go have mind-blowing sex, whatever shall I do?
[Still, her little snort-laugh gets an amused quirk upward of his eyebrows. On a normal day, it'd probably earn her a smirk too, but. Bad mood and all.
Anyway, Quentin hoists himself out of the tub and grabs a fluffy (pink, obviously) towel to start drying off. And because he's a gentleman, he telekinetically offers one to her too. But if she decides to get out of the tub and reach for it? He'll put an arm around her waist and pull her in tightly to give her a scorching kiss before just as abruptly letting go and continuing to nonchalantly towel off the rest of his body. Look, she said no tub sex, and he's petty. Even if she is right and should say it.
Regardless, he's not going to wait around for her to dry herself off and will instead secure the towel around his waist and make his way back to the bed.]
And just fyi? I'm a fucking artist with clippers and a razor. You know how hard it is to shave the back of your own head this neatly?
(She hasn't laughed in a while, especially that one, it feels nice. She's not regretting melting the ice surrounding her brain so far, and this second comment doesn't help, but at least it's not the snort when she finds herself laughing again. Idiotic fucking comment, so if there was any wonder about shit she missed from him? This is one of them. Go figure, she just accepted that she likes it and moved on from judging her judgment.
The kiss is not at all unwelcome, but it is surprising, especially with the tightness with which he holds her, and while she has to fight smile muscles, she returns it as feverishly until it's gone, earning him a roll of eyes when she figures out where it came from. She's so, so right, though, and their squishiness is just the tip of the iceberg there.
With a scoffed laugh, she moves out of the tub, watching him go and continuing his yapping routine as she dries in the bathroom, it doesn't take too long for her to follow and get on her side of bed since she's not all that concerned with her hair.)
Obviously I don't, but it's not like I don't believe you, you've had this hair since forever, chill out.
[Does he miss the stupid banter the way she does? Maybe. It's not like it's something he actively tries to do or anything. Just kinda happens. Sure, it gives him a little burst of smugness that she seems to like it despite all efforts to the contrary, but that's because he is in his heart a troll. It does feel a bit good to get closer to his normal way of talking when she comes to visit. The innuendos and raunchy jokes and such. And speaking of, there's an obvious "it's really hard" comeback she set up perfectly for him. How kind of her. And he'll definitely get to it at some point, don't you worry, but right at this moment he has different priorities.
Priorities like shifting from his side of the bed to put his hand under her jaw and kiss her again. Usually he lets her decide when to make the flirt-to-make-out transition. Because usually that's his preference. He likes to take his time, to not rush, and letting her make the first move makes him feel desired. But, well, if practically breaking down his door to kiss the shit out of him while he fucked her on a table doesn't communicate desire, he doesn't know what would. So yeah, he's feeling a little more bold today. She certainly hasn't complained thus far.
She might, however, complain when he breaks away right before either of them would need to catch their breath.]
It's pretty hard. [A beat.] Shaving the back of your head.
(They've been stressed out, so, it's a bit of normalcy that they probably deserve. It's not like they have this type of conversation when they're not alone or telepathically, so, yeah, she's more than happy to jump back to dumb stuff.
Today, everything feels a little different than usual; nothing about this is routine. She doesn't ever show up like she has, they don't fuck that way often, and he doesn't chase, but she's not at all complaining. Just letting things flow is fine, too, instead of sticking to predictability. Of course, she kisses him back, her hand caressing the back of his head before he breaks the kiss...
... And God, he speaks. It's so, so fucking dumb, a little cringe, and she looks at him with big eyes for a second while she processes the incredulity she feels. They were busy and he diverts them to that????
But. Well. She's also an idiot, so once the disbelief and regret morphs into amusement, she finds herself laughing, hiding her face on the curve of his neck to try and focus.)
You idiot.
(First and foremost.)
Just 'pretty'? Thought it'd be way harder when you get to a certain point.
[Okay, that was a pretty worthwhile diversion, if only to watch her go through every stage of grief simultaneously while realizing she thinks he's funny and still wants to fuck him. Bonus: she responded to his dumb innuendo with more dumb innuendo. See, now that's how you make a guy feel appreciated. He's the smuggest he's been all day now, though it still pales in comparison to his normal level of smug. But hey, small wins.]
Hm, maybe! Only one way to find out, I guess.
[Is he still talking about hair? Who knows!
Also, in completely unrelated news, he's still wearing that towel around his waist.
(If he wants to actually get hard with her help in the foreseeable future, he has to stop making her laugh, in case he didn't know.
He keeps this stupidity going longer, and she's got every plan to shut him up, but she's busy chuckling until she can finally press her lips to one of the sensitive spots of his neck to recenter herself, and just because two of them are petty, she's adding a little bit of teeth to it. Sue her and all.
When he talks again, she comes out from her hiding with a whole attitude only to be met with a shred of smugness. It's not the full force loopsided grin that he bears whenever he makes her want to die, but it's something. That bite is replaced as she beams at him for a second — she even had a whole quip, man, about it sounding too hard, he might have to show her, or some other type of bullshit that gets lost in her mind before she realizes that's not really what she wants to do right now.
End result is the same. She kisses him stupid, that's what happens. God, she hates him and herself.)
[The teeth on his neck don't get a noise out of him persay, but his brain does make a nice little ping if she's listening. Actual biting? Well, okay, he's not saying he's not into it, but. Let's just say he associates it with certain previous relationships. Ones that are taboo to bring up in this bed. Alas.
But hey, he's counting everything else as a win. So good for him. And her, he guesses.
That flicker of memory does spur him to kiss her harder, though, putting his arm around her middle back to tug her against him. Luckily the theme of today is all about fucking every miserable thought out of their miserable brains, and the P-word most certainly qualifies. He's grinding that shit up with all the other garbage he doesn't want to think about and using it as fuel. And while he's not letting her in enough to see all the gritty, messy details of the angst swirling in his brain, he opens up his mind for her to do what she did before—redirect his inner turmoil however she pleases. She seemed to like that last time, so why not. Plus it gives her a chance to set the "mood" as it were. You know, decide if she wants him only half-crazed or all the way. Maybe she's after something on the lazier side this round. Unlikely, but you never know.]
That's news, he never really lets her do that kinda shit. If she were Quentin, with her track record? She'd not want that either. Not that she's thinking hard about it, aside from noticing that he's open, and taking the invitation. She'll unpack whatever the hell that means later, this is not the time nor the place and honestly, the kiss and being pulled always rewires her entire thought process anyway, driving her to glue their bodies together and hold on to him as she lets out a pleased groan. She's easy, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Between them, it tends to be a blessing.
She thought he had burned quite a lot of fuel on their first round, but apparently not nearly as much. What comes most to mind is that delectable possessiveness that he pushed into her brain, and if that's what he felt and it helped and coincidentally, what she likes, she sees absolutely no reason not to capitalize on it. Like the first time, his inner turmoil is moved gradually towards lust and pleasure, so there's no whiplash, but the second thing she does is to add an idea alongside it, because she's not just going to do whatever the fuck. If there is one thing they communicate well is kink, so here it is.
Cravings. It just feels fitting. Make him overlook everything that's pulling him down because he is entirely busy physically and psychologically needing more in addition to that dominating brain he gets on his own, and she gets, well. Look, whatever, she knows their rules by heart, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't love loopholes.)
[It's... tricky, what he's offered her. An invitation to mess around in his mind, steer his desire in certain directions. It's limited, what he's allowing her to do, because of course it is. Limited and monitored. Not just because he doesn't fully trust her—which he doesn't, and he knows she understands—but because, well. Telepathy sex, while amazing, isn't the greatest for figuring out one's own personal preferences. Feeling everything your partner feels is a double-edged sword when it means having no clue if you're into something because you're into it or they're into it. Or... does it even matter? It seems like it does. But does it? Hell if he knows.
Point is, there's a fine line between letting Sophie have some input on how hard they're going to fuck and letting Sophie adjust him until he fucks her the way she likes. That idea she puts in his brain? About cravings? The thing is he knows a lot more about Sophie's—and Phoebe's, for that matter—kinks than he knows about his own. He can feel his head getting fuzzy with lust, but when he tries to get his mind to populate ideas for her it's just sputterings and half-thoughts he's pretty sure have a different point of origin than his own brain. Which is frustrating, honestly. Here he is just trying to live his life, vent some stress by indulging a senseless, mildly chauvinistic need for sexual dominance, and she wants, what? Specifics? For how he wants to do that??? Harsh, unreasonable, impossible, and unfair.
He makes an indignant noise against her mouth and considers saying to hell with it and rolling them so that he's on top and she's under him and just, you know. Getting to business. But no. She's going through the trouble of trying something new, so... fine. He'll engage. Or try to. He replays in his mind—and hers, just for the sake of it—the first round of the day, on the table. When he pulled up her leg, restricting her movement but letting him thrust into her better, made her beg for him, and he was rewarded with her coming not once but twice? Fuck, it made that possessive part of his brain sing. That's what he wants, and that's what he feeds into Sophie's brain. Is it more abstract than she was thinking? Probably. But look, she's an Emma Frost clone. If she doesn't know how to work with that, he sure as hell doesn't know who would be able to.]
(You know. At least she's here with the full knowledge that they're probably two of the most complicated people she knows, and that's bound to be apparent some time or another, on either side.
It's obviously not her intention to play build-a-man; she's done that before, albeit not to him, and that's not... Them. It's weird to even think of them as a 'them' sometimes, but alas, they kind of are. Instead, she is engaged in finding that fine line between something that's going to allow him to get rid of all that earthquake of worries for the time being, because there won't be any space for them there, and that she's going to find extremely enjoyable in the process. A win-win situation, as one might put it.
Naturally, she can tell he broke a little mentally, all the thoughts he halts in the middle, half-formed and confused, and maybe it's a good thing because, ugh, empathy, gross, but she cares for it and gets it. It's not like what he is proposing disagrees with her in the slightest, after all, she did come twice, and she felt so wanted.
She's a Cuckoo. People tend to want her, to varying degrees. She can hear it and loves hearing it, she can't help but love attention — this is a little different, though. So, she isn't really pushing her feelings into his brain as she would, but she's letting him take them instead if he wants to. Fits the narrative. How it was his wanting of her that made her cross the edge twice, how excruciatingly hot it felt, how her neurons felt like they were sparkling and malfunctioning with how much pleasure ran through her. If he wants to see more, she's inviting it, too.
And, well, she encourages him to go on top, too. Middle ground.)
Well, him being on top was a given. At least to him. Letting her be on top when she's already made it abundantly clear she wants that possessive side of him? Unlikely.
Ugh, he needs to do something. Clear his head. Quentin fumbles with undoing the towel, hikes up her leg with his hand under her knee, and slides inside her with a sigh. Good. That's good. Then he rolls them so she's on her back, groaning at the sensation. Better.
Maybe doing an approximate recreation of that moment that made his brain light up like Times Square will help him dissect what specifically he liked. You know, other than just "monkey brain go brrrr". That's the logic, at least. Evidence, analysis, etc.
But yes, he does seek out in Sophie's brain what she's feeling on her end. For reasons.]
(It's not that she didn't know how to work with that, because she does, but if she had just given him what he had thought he wanted, then that's part of the problem, isn't it? Telling him, instead of letting him figure that shit out and just steering him away from what she knows has been, uh, influenced by a previous party that may or may not look exactly like Sophie, what a coincidence.
God, she loves assertiveness. Perhaps that's the biggest difference between the two identical blondes, and the fact that this is what is being given to her makes hold onto him as strongly as she can from the rush that races through her spine, a whining moan coming out of her once he's settled on a position. Her legs wrap again, higher than usual, and well.
He wants to dig into her mind, he can, she let him already, although she's directing him a little differently. She's not pushing what she wants to feel, what she likes, but what showing exactly as it is. There's nothing remotely bad — she's embarrassingly horny just from that, again, and shit, she is still missing him. One time was not enough to satiate that; a reflex of how long it had been since she last had it. The pleasure and impatience she feels to come for him again, even if she has to throw away her pride and ask him for it. She wants him, at it turns out, it's pure and simple. He doesn't even have to look into her mind to find indications of that. She is proving it with how hard she's kissing him, how much she's clenching around him, her hand in his hair to focus, her heartbeat against his chest like a drumline.
And trying her best to be responsible with it, too, between her lustful brain and his own.)
[Something's... different. On her end, mostly, but probably on his too. Usually she does her best to make sure he knows what she wants, what she likes. She syncs up their pleasure, pushes into his brain to show him when she's close, showers him in praise and hunger for more of him. She did that earlier today, throwing herself and all her horniness at him and his brain until he snapped in the most delightful way possible. But now she's.... hm. Is "passive" the right word? It doesn't feel right. Certainly not "reserved", not with how she's clinging to him and moaning. She's giving him plenty of feedback, just not expectations.
... He'll feel horrifically mortified at the fact that she accurately clocked the reason for his indecision and responded accordingly later. Or maybe never. Never bringing it up or thinking about it ever again would be great, actually.
Anyway, right now he's much too busy to be thinking about any of that. He sets a pace of even, deep thrusts into her, with that edge of possessiveness they both enjoy so much. The benefit of having that first round is there's "whoops I tripped and now I'm domming" this time. Nope. He may be trying to unravel the mystery of why and what specifically appeals to him about this, but at least he knows very well now that it does. This time he's scratching that itch without hesitation, pushing that "mine"-but-with-like-a-hundred-asterisks into her mind with every rock of his hips.
And speaking of her mind, he skims through the data she's giving him until he pauses at... hand in his hair? To focus? No. No focusing allowed. He grabs her wrist and shoves it down to the bed beside her head. If it's all too much for her without that bit of grounding? Good. He made her come twice before. That means he doesn't need to go easy on her. That's how it works, right? Right.]
(Sophie is different from Quentin in many aspects. Surely both are telepaths, but he's much more analytical, data-based, and Sophie? She's emotions, feelings, thoughts, weaknesses, potential, and strengths, rather than evidence, proof, or results.
... And he's a whole idiot, there's also that, but alas. It means that while he is "skimming through data", she has already concluded some accidental findings, because some shit is not just programming, you see. There are benefits (or curses?) to her being Emma Frost 2.0, and her noticing exactly what she should or shouldn't do without his assistance goes right into it.
Not that she is thinking about it, nor that he will ever hear it from her unless it's something he actively reaches for, which he won't. While they have had more success discussing their relationship-between-thousand-quotation-marks, this is exactly the type of shit they were avoiding with it in the first place. To unpack on her own later, preferably far, far away from him.
Not that Sophie's in any condition to pay any attention to it today, especially not now, with a rhythm she likes and follows, even if rocking with him is challenging with her legs so far up. Her entire neural pathway lights up like it's New Years at midnight with that ownership (but not really) response that he is giving her, but what really gets the most reaction it's the fact she no longer has her hand to hold onto him. It helps her take out some of edge of anticipation, and it makes her break the kiss to let out a pleased, but needy whine now that she does not have enough ways to calm herself down and ride the pleasure more consistently.
If Quentin ever wondered how much noise she can make, well. He doesn't have to wonder anymore. They're still sweet, breathy, but she's not holding them back at all, and every now and then? She gets louder, because that's really all she has for physical focus.
She's probably waking up at 2PM tomorrow, and he doesn't get to bitch about it.)
[Sophie's reaction to him pinning her hand to the bed is interesting. "Interesting" here having the meaning of "hope this doesn't awaken something in me" except that it will and already has and he doesn't mind it one bit. See, he chose this position to try and copy what he did earlier. Reverse engineer some kind of sexual self-discovery or whatever bullshit. Plus, kissing gives him an additional outlet for his possessiveness, and he generally can't get enough of how desperately she tends to cling to him.
And then he took her hand away, and some of the sexiest noises she's ever made start pouring out of her.
And that gives him Ideas.
She wanted him assertive. For him to explore cravings, and then she gave him space to figure them out. His exploration thus far has netted nothing but extremely enthusiastic approval. He slows his hips, making a mildly disgruntled sound, which he's sure (and hopes) will pale in comparison to her reaction when she realizes he's stopping. But don't worry, it'll be worth it!]
Turn over.
[He begrudgingly pulls out and sits back to make it easier for her to move as requested, taking the opportunity to catch his breath briefly. Assuming she doesn't literally murder him for stopping, he's guessing she won't take too long. And in the unlikely event that she needs the extra motivation, he sends her the knowledge of how eager he is to be back inside her, this time in a position where she won't be able to muffle her noises with kisses or ground herself by gripping his hair or his shoulder or any of that crap. All she'll get to do is feel him. A thought which, by the way, is unbelievably hot to him.
If she wakes up before 1PM tomorrow, he will be severely disappointed.]
Make her have nothing to hold, like her body begs her to.
And then stop. Did he really just stop. He really just stopped. Did he
Is he
Wait, hold up, let her use her brain cells to drag out the information that there is no fucking way that he is not doing this for a good reason. There's literally no way. She might not be literally murdering him, but she really seriously wants to, and she desires it most when he pulls out of her.
It's all very short-lived and very quick in succession, at least. That wave of information coming in does the other half of convincing, her own perception that there are no winners in the current state of affairs did the rest. If it were a month or two ago, with that reasoning? The answer would be absolutely not, how else is she going to filter his knowledge of her like that?
Thankfully, people grow when having mindblowing telepathic sex with their situationship. The fact that she feels more naked now, when she is actually so doesn't feel bad at all? Can't understand it, won't think of it right now. Sophie's... Healthly curious, and surprisingly just as allured by his proposal as he is. Once she sits up, she presses a brief peck to his lips before she so kindly complies.)
[Yep, she's just as pissed as he thought she'd be, and he can literally see her face contort with indignation while her sex-addled brain processes what he wants and why. But in the end, she does move like he asked, and it sends a little thrill down his spine that she's as curious and bewildered as she is horny while she does it. And that, in his opinion? Deserves a reward.
So once she's turned, he nudges her into a position where he can enter her again, giving her brain a little ping from his indicating how pleased he is. And wherever her hands end up? He's grabbing them in both of his and pinning them down as he leans over her to lightly kiss the back of her shoulder, pressing her down into the bed. So far so good. Quentin rolls his hips experimentally and oh fuck yes that tears a brand new, very slightly feral noise out of him—it's ironic that despite this being the very first position he ever suggested when they started this whole... whatever it is, they've never actually done it. Similar stuff here and there, like that first time in the astral plane, but not like this. It's for the best, though, because honestly he probably wouldn't have had the stones to pull it off before. Half-assed weaksauce top!Quentin can't come to the phone right now. Why? 'Cause he's dead (though like all dead Quentins, probably not permanently, alas).
Anyway.]
Holy fucking shit.
[He rocks his hips once, getting as deep as he can before pausing to let them both adjust to the new angle, new sensations, new everything, panting against the back of her neck.]
(Wow, who'd have thought that some emotional safety and trust is sexy? What a shocker, are people aware that this is a thing, or did Sophie just stumble on a scientific breakthrough? That would sound so bogus if she wasn't experiencing it first hand, definitely dismissible as the incoherent babbles of a delirious mind, trust her bro, she's a telepath, she totally knows minds, bro, she's right.
He would be correct. He requested it, and she sort of gave it to him, but emphasis on the sorta. She was still with him on the physical plane, so he was subjected to all her instinctual touching. Look, while she has much more movement freedom, which she intends to use in just a minute, she can't look at him, can't hold him, or tug on him, and can hardly kiss him without them adding neck pain to the mix of sores to be dealt with tomorrow. It's a lot of deprivation of things she uses to stay sane through the sheer absurdity that is fucking another telepath. Gets a little too damn real with her free-flowing like that.
And after (what the fuck) months, she finds that she's okay. She still hasn't died from vulnerability exposure (what the fuck), and she's jittery to see what exactly this whole ordeal is going to end up feeling like, and she's not disappointed in the slightest. He's deeper, hitting things at an angle that she didn't know would feel so maddening, and that sound he makes? She's lucky to have heard it with the loudest one she has departing her in unison, a small kiss onto the skin of his hand to respond to the one he left on her shoulder.
When he rolls his hips, she finds herself grinding along without not even realizing it, taking that little break to try and get her breathing in place. She's not a huge talker, never has been, but.)
... Yeah. That's — that's about right.
(Nailed communication, 1 point to her, but that's not important, because she can roll her own hips so much freely now, so she does, once. It's a request that comes paired with the telepathic statement of how much she's longing to feel him more.)
[Look, her communication is about on par with his at the moment. But hey, that's why telepathy exists, right? Or it would be, if both of their brains weren't actively being fried by pleasure. And speaking of, he feels her starting to move under him and groans, dropping his head down to her shoulder. At least she can see his pink curls out of her peripheral vision even if he's denied her much other connection.
Speaking of, somewhere on the edges of his mind, Quentin can tell she's hesitant to give him this. Something something vulnerability. She's being cut off from everything she normally uses to ground herself. Which is scary and shit he guesses but also duh that's the point?? Anyway, he certainly doesn't intend to leave her with any regrets about doing this so whatever it doesn't even matter. She's also nudging him telepathically for more, and really? After the noise that comes out of her? Who is he to refuse??
He rocks into her and shit, better add biceps and triceps to the list of muscles that are going to be sore tomorrow because he can already tell they're gonna be burning but it'll be so, so worth the pain. It takes a few tries to find a good rhythm, trading out his previous sharp, demanding thrusts for a smoother, deeper rolling motion. Less physically strenuous (bonus) while satisfying as much as—if not more—of his need to claim her thanks to the other logistics of this position. And since he's been kind enough to give her more like she asked, he sends back to her a clear message: louder.]
(You see, if her hands weren't pressed down the mattress, her fingers would be in the curls she still can see, scratching the scalp and lightly tugging at it, but look at that, she can't. Can't reach to kiss his temple, either, and she leaves a whine because fuck, man. It's a loop — the more she wants to, the hotter she finds that she can't, the more stimulated she gets, the more she wants to.
Which also means that whatever hesitation she had, albeit minimal because she works entirely on 'show me yours and I'll show you mine', is out of the window as soon as he finds a tempo to work with. It's not, well, railing, which is more than fine with her — this is hitting her spots just right and whenever there's a thrust that has her neurons sparkling, she copies it to him as a way to let him know that she's, well, fucking losing it, her hips following his and her back arching whenever she leaves out a louder sound. There are this hands in hers too, but, well, she squeezes that, then she actually might hurt him, so. Losing it it is.
The message is loud and clear, and she actually can formulate a response. He has always liked a challenge, and she has already hit her maximum volume levels, so, he wants her louder?
[This pace is absolutely heavenly. It's doing all the right things in both of their brains, and he doesn't even need to read Sophie's mind to know that because she keeps arching her back and pushing back against him oh-so-nicely, and he would be more than happy to just keep going like this forever until—
Hold on.
"Make me"?
"Make"????????? "Me"????????
The noise that comes out of him is the breathy, obscenely horny version of a snarl, her audacity and his indignation suddenly boiling over in his head. See, he decided her pleasure, her noises, all of that shit? That's his (for a limited time, conditions apply). Who is she to say he can't have what belongs to him?
Fine. She wants to be like that? Wants to get railed instead of the nice smoother pace he found? Works for him. He tightens his grip on her hands, draws his hips back and then rocks into her hard, aiming for those angles that have gotten the most uncontrolled, needy responses for her. The whole point of this position was to fill her head with nothing but him, but clearly there's room in there for dumb challenges, and that just won't do. He responds verbally this time, close enough to her ear that she can feel his harsh breathing and hear all his low groans and the slight huskiness in his voice. And of course, every word is punctuated by a rough thrust, followed by a little grind to make sure—make sure—she feels all of him.]
(There are crucial points that ought to be considered when examining this situation. Sophie isn't, and if he is as intelligent as he claims to be, he should follow her lead and never look into this critically when their neurons aren't firing at full capacity.
Point A. The Cuckoos, Sophie not an exception to it whatsoever, she's problem number one in chronological order, have pushed Quentin as far as he could go, and Quentin has always let them, some way or another. As a Cuckoo, yes, delightful. As Sophie? It's not something she wants around her. She likes to see him stand up to her, challenge and show teeth because, well. He has a certain track record, and so does she, and there's nothing in this world that is hotter from him to her than teeth. Show her different and all.
Point B. There's something about passion that she just can't put her finger on naturally, that little part of her monkey brain that thrives on attention and being wanted deliriously. It's just new the way they're dealing with things today, and to find that she trusts him enough to navigate this shit with her? Groundbreaking news. She thought she was here helping him, but apparently, they're both figuring some shit out. Hot point, weirdly so.
Point C. Look. Conditions and terms apply to her too, just as much as they do him. It's the fact that those conditions and terms are so firmly there that she can let go of her bullshit and just relish this for a moment, because, well she likes him. Occasionally. A little. Conditions and Terms apply, so, there's also the same feeling of 'mine, situational' from her. 50/50, somehow, which is a whole pleasant area.
All this to say, holy fuck, she's spending tomorrow here too, because there is no likelihood she recovers from this so soon, with a jolt of pleasure striking her as soon as she feels that snap from his head. First of all, nice, second of all, there are not enough swear words in her repertoire to express how turned on she is right now, because all A, B, C? They all combine. The sound that she escapes her? Unholy, almost sinful with how she discovers that her maximum volume is not, indeed, her maximum volume, and she gives it to him without conscious thought — he actually makes her.
Her back can't arch any more than it already is, her eyes shutting close as she follows each and every thrust, at times pushing harder against him so she, too, can make sure he's filling her completely. Her brain no longer works, and honestly? She's not going to last much longer than this.)
[Quentin Quire is not easily silenced, and his brain even less so. But fuck if this shit isn't getting pretty damn close. Though, well. "Silenced" is a strong word for what's happening in his head right now. Sure, his critical thinking skills and ability to conceive of any reality that isn't fucking Sophie into oblivion is completely shot, but on the other hand, the part of his brain that is concerned with oblivion-fucking has never been as alive as it is now. Not that any of their previous nights together have been unsatisfying, because they haven't. Not by any metric whatsoever. But it's never been this intense, this raw and needy and visceral. It's a damn shame they likely won't be able to muster the right combination of pent-up shit and unresolved trauma to do this every time they're together from now on, but whatever. Variety is the spice of life or something. He guesses.
Needless to say, her reaction more than satisfies his demand for "louder," and he lets her know by giving her mind a caress of his approval, gentle in comparison to the wild clash of their hips against each other. If he had enough brainpower to consider such a thing, he would wonder if Sophie has a praise kink and whether or not that would turn her on, but a) he doesn't have the brainpower and b) he's not sure if she's physically capable of being more aroused than she currently is. Probably not. A thought which, by the way, sends a shiver of pride and triumph straight down his spine. And like everything else today, fuels a craving for more. So he pants hotly into her ear and keeps talking, letting his words echo in her mind to make sure she can hear it over the racket she's making.]
That—that's better.
[So here's the thing: with this pace and her losing her goddamn mind under him and every cell in his body hungry for more and more and more etc, he's close. Like really close. Letting things progress how they are, he probably won't outlast her. But also? He wants—no, he needs—to make her orgasm twice again. She's so goddamn overstimulated already, and what few thoughts are still bouncing around in his head that don't revolve around how good she feels right now are very, very preoccupied with how good she'd feel if he pushed her even further. He'll be haunted forever if he doesn't! Probably. Maybe. Most likely not, but whatever.
Still. What does one Quentin Q. Quire do when faced with nearly impossible odds stacked up between him and his goal? He cheats, of course.]
Now how about—fuck—you do me a favor... [He thrusts into her and forces himself to stop, buried as deep as he can and grinding feverishly to maintain plenty of friction for her. And of course, she's welcome to push back against him as much as she pleases. He encourages it, in fact. Don't worry, she won't be left hanging for long.] and come for me?
[It's phrased as a question, but she doesn't get a choice. He's pushing her over the edge, pausing his movements solely to keep himself from losing it. He'll join her for her second, no question, but he wants to feel her come apart under and around him first.]
(It's unlikely that it will happen again so soon, and she, too, would agree that it's a shame, but it just happened with the specific set of circumstances that were presented to them. No fucking for way too long (Sophie Standards) for one, his anxiety brain soup for two, her actually figuring out that she cares for it for three and taking a step to solve it without fucking it all up for four, her trauma and grievances for five... The list just keeps going, like a scroll that unrolls down to the floor. Not to mention the processing times, and honestly? Their squishy telepath bodies cannot handle this too frequently.
That said, it is also similarly unlikely that things will stay the same, whatever shape or form that their sex life and general dynamics might take after this. He just learned too much, about himself and about her, and she has done the same. Certainly she'll be more careful — there are cycles to break and things to explore on both sides that require a little more tact. Perhaps the biggest change she is experiencing through this is the fact she isn't scared of any of this anymore. She won't want to hide once they're done, no stern, nagging voice in her head with a pleading to get it together, and underneath all the billion layers of absolutely overstimulating, mind-melding, head-spinning, and inexpressible pleasure, there's comfort. The fact that he reaches into her mind to offer gentleness only drives that home.
Not that, well, she can perceive that right now. Truth be told, she can't really think of anything. Her entire focus is on the maddening pace of their hips with her own mirroring, the tension on her back, the fucking noises he's making right next to her ear, which he has got to know is sensitive as hell at this point. All that, paired with the feeling of him inside her, and the noises barely soothe the need for grounding? She is nearly begging to have some relief on her damn own without any extra nudging from him, because she is so damn close again that she can almost taste sweet, sweet relief.
And then he does that. He can probably hear her mind scrambling to fix the fact that he stopped, her first thought to move her hand between her legs, but before she can even contemplate the fact she has no mobility for that, his telepathic fingers move her right towards it. It's way too damn intense, and there's no hiding that with how her hands finally grip on his as she lets out the most relieved and satisfied groan her body could produce, her clenching (good luck with that one, Quentin) as much as she can so she can ride it, and breathing? Hearing without the presence of a loud ringing? Those two things are completely foreign concepts to her right now.
[Holy shit, it is way, way more difficult to not lose it this time. He would've thought being more prepared for it would help, since last time he just kinda... kept going, but turns out stopping only made him feel the waves of pleasure coming from her mind and god, how tightly she's clenching around him. It's too fucking much, and simultaneously not enough. Every stupid plan to prove some bullshit by giving his own goddamn self blue balls is officially the dumbest thought to ever exist in his head, he's decided, and he frantically bucks his hips into her to correct this terrible, idiotic mistake and come inside her as soon as physically possible. Which, considering how close he was before and how delirious he is now, takes both no time at all and also an eternity.
He has no idea if she's going to have a second orgasm like he wanted. He'll worry about that when his own has passed, and his vision is no longer just flashes of light. And when it finally does?
Jesus.
He's dead. He's officially dead. Quentin slumps across her back with a loud and tired yet utterly pleased groan. Sorry, Sophie, he's not moving unless you literally tell him to.]
(Were this a normal thing, she'd be so pleased with herself. Really, it'd go to her own little mural of victories in her mindscape, and she'd give him the smugest look her face can make as soon as she saw his.
This is not a normal thing. She's still riding her own pleasure, and maybe, just maybe his own sends an aftershock of joy through her spine, short spasms to her muscles, and perhaps that could technically under some categories be considered a smaller climax, but also, who can say, not her, she can't really say much.
At least they're both dead, so there's that silver lining, because she still hasn't been able to breathe properly, so he gets a few seconds of grace before she taps him.)
I ——— out.
(She doesn't even mean to be rude, she doesn't want to, it's just that brain goes brrrrr, and this is really the best she can come up with right now. He understands.)
[Illyana has been at a consistent, low level of grumpiness since officially arriving in Etraya. Her stepping disks are out of commission, which is more than annoying, but she's also been cut off from Limbo, and that's... Well, it should be good. Great, even. She's spent most of her adult life trying to figure out ways to distance herself from it in one way or another, but being cut off completely is making her uncomfortable in ways she doesn't want to examine. And, considering she has no immediate, dangerous problems to throw herself into, she's desperately looking for other distractions.
Namely, annoying Quentin.
One upside - she doesn't just force open the door. Instead, she practically pounds on it. He knows it's her, so why announce herself?]
[Okay, real talk? Hand-to-his-chest honest no cap? Quentin is glad Magik is here. She's a valuable teammate, tough as hell (ha), and someone he trusts to watch his back without question. And after Keller saw fit to abandon him to protect this freakshow of newbies and overzealous idiots all by his lonesome? It's really, really nice to have someone like Illyana around.
But here's the thing: Illyana is weird. And not just like "well, duh, all of us are weird" weird. She's like... oddly chipper? And outgoing? But also withdrawn and crusty and broody and crap. It's a lot of conflicting shit. Also she seems to enjoy bullying him, but in a "picking on my charmingly irritating kid brother" way, and he can't quite tell if he should take that as a compliment or an insult. Maybe both.
... Probably both.
Anyway, she's banging on his fucking door for some goddamn reason, even though he's doing very important stuff, like, um. Stuff.]
Okay, okay, Jesus, I'm not deaf.
[He opens the door telekinetically, because he's busy. With what? Model-making, of course. Like the kind with little ships or Gundams. Exactly that kind, in fact. He put a robot on a sailboat is what I'm saying. It's very avant garde.
[Wow, he doesn't even get up to open the door himself? Well, alright, that's expected, but she still sighs as though put out as she steps in. She rocks up onto her tiptoes, trying to get a better look at what he's doing.]
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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?/
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[Quentin makes an exaggerated oof noise at her punch, letting it push him back far more than the amount of force she used would imply. It breaks their kiss again, but this time he smirks at her and tilts his head to the side, sending her the sensory memory of her kissing his neck in all his favorite places. You know. Just a suggestion. It's a free country.]
Otherwise? She's pretty mean. Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
[And while he's busy talking all kinds of shit about her weirdly in the third person for no other reason than to be obnoxious, he also takes a peek into her head to judge whether or not he's good to start sliding down her shorts. He's the one who suggested a "quickie"—since a part of him is eager to show off his constructed game world—but... look, they usually take their time a little more. And sure, bitching at each other definitely counts as foreplay for the type of freak they both are, but still. Quentin's not gonna be That Guy, okay?]
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(Oh, how her eyes roll so dramatically, even if they're closed as she kisses him. At this point, they just do it automatically, triggered by whatever cornball shit he says, even if this one wasn't half as bad as the one before. He's cute about her feeble punch though, and he gets a reward of a quiet laugh before she receives the map again. She can't even joke that he's too easy, because she probably surpasses it. Kisses and holding her right melt her brain to mush, so.
But, hey, he'll get his kisses in just one second, this very dopey conversation is entertaining, and it is working for her. Why is she like this? No idea. Was she always like this? Irrelevant.)
You ever heard the shit you say? I'm sure it's on you, and she's a peach.
(He knows what he is doing, and luckily for her, she doesn't have to do the same. She's literally sitting on it, the joys of straddling a man. He is right, though, their foreplay tends to be way longer, layered with telepathic bullshit and stupider banter left and right, so it's pretty valid that he's checking.
Which does open the door for her to do one better. He wanted to know how she's feeling, so she's going to sync his arousal to hers with zero warning. The tightness in her chest, the warmth in her skin, the way she definitely wants him to use those hands on her waist to move her down as he grinds up, and her slight brain fog. All that as she finally moves to kiss his neck, right where she knows would get him to make a noise.
Is it 100% horny-wants-to-jump-his-bones? Not yet. It's a good 70%, though.)
Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
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Who, me? I'm a goddamn delight, I'll have you know. I'm practically overflowing with rizz.
[And since she did him the favor of syncing up horny levels, he'll know just how much that godawful line turned her on. Not that he'd need telepathy to tell, since he's been saying shit like that since before she even decided to get in bed with him. But the instant, undeniable gratification is always nice. He also takes her cue and as he's talking starts pressing her down against him at the same time as he grinds up. And then he just recycles one of his favorite tricks: every time he finds a movement that sparks a good nerve ending for her, he plucks that synapse every time. It's all the joys of exploration with none of the inefficient clumsiness of stupid physical bodies. Just rocking against her is doing plenty for him, and that's not even counting the fact that he feels everything she does.
70%? Rookie numbers. Let's see how fast he can fix that.]
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Remember the brain fog? Well, it is making it very difficult to come up with a rebuttal, especially when there's telepathy involved in making her irritated brain light up. For fuck's sake.)
You've got two minutes to convince me not to change my mind.
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The fact that you haven't yet means I already won.
[He's grinning, but he drops most of the overly obnoxious stuff. For now, at least. 50/50 is their rule, which means he'll honor her "two minutes" despite the snarky commentary.
Quentin kisses her again, and when he does a timer appears in the top left of her vision that stays if her eyes close. 2:00... 1:59... 1:58... She gave him two minutes, and he is nothing if not precise and excessively literal when it means being a pest. But at least his pest nature is being used for good, because he continues with his telepathic nonsense and rolling their hips together and then ups the ante by moving one hand up her back to press her closer and the other hand down her thigh to grip there.
In bed he prefers to be on top in whatever position they end up choosing, but in a chair? Chair feels different somehow. And since Quentin has never once in his life not gone full ham when accepting a challenge, he supplies her with some curated mental images and sensory imaginings that all come with the same suggestion: if she's ever wondered what it would like to ride him for once, now's the time.
Does he win yet?]
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He restarts the kiss, and the moment her eyes close, she sees the timer, and she can't help it, okay, she breaks it immediately because a remarkably honest, and maybe a little loud, chuckle leaves her — this is goofy, and she should have expected it, but she didn't. Now she wants to kiss him a whole lot more, so she has to fight off the smile muscles for the breath-taking kiss she is about to give him, a more decisive roll of her hips as further reward.
Especially because hello, he unlocked the achievement of finding out himself that she likes being gripped and drawn, not just held, especially when it's hip to hip. Extra touch of desperate horny craving in there that she happens to enjoy greately, so look at that. The noise she awards him with is pretty priceless with how sugary and wanting it sounds, good for him.
Riding sounds interesting, but it just happens not to match the approach she takes to it, pampering or taking do not sound very 50/50 of them. She's going to need him steering, and she lets that thought roam through them, which she finds he won't have any qualms with.
Yeah, he won. With the timer and by gripping her at the right time. What the fuck. She replicates the timer, although whatever time it showed, it shows a zero as she moves a little to unbotton his pants.)
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Quentin grins against her lips, and yep, he's definitely making note of all those things she likes. Not just because the noises she's making are extremely satisfying, or because her desire is feeding into his brain and setting it on fire, but because honestly? This is a case when the same action just happens to scratch a particular itch in both of them. Funny thing is, Quentin's not a possessive type of guy. Never really has been. But gripping Sophie and taking charge the way she likes it? That shit makes something in his monkey brain very, very pleased, and he is not going to bother questioning why any time soon. It's not like it's made him feel weird or anything when they're not fucking, so who cares.
Needless to say, no, he doesn't have a single issue with what she's proposing. In fact, she gets rewarded with his hand grabbing her thigh more firmly and tugging her body insistently against his as he lets out a pleased sigh. It feels so damn good that he repeats it a few more times before deciding they should probably get a little less clothed first. He reluctantly lets go of her—for now—to pull her shorts down and leave her room to get up and remove them if she wants. After she's done with his pants, of course, since that's apparently her top priority. Not that he's stopping her.]
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As of late, she doesn't crawl into his brain uninvited, but they both know that the moment they start getting bothered, she just does it automatically. Sharing is so normal to her, she enjoys feeling the speed of his heart, the arousal pumping through his veins, letting him know how furious she is at their stupid clothes, and the lightning of delight that races through her spine when she hears that sigh coupled with how he's holding her.
She's glad he likes it, though. Considering the embarrassing, impatient whine she releases against his lips, it definitely was worth it to let him know. Not even mad about the sound she made, she said what she said. Don't worry about it. She's not even nervous about not knowing how to navigate riding like a normal person — pretty sure they're going to figure it out soon enough.
He did say quickie, so she's not going to bother taking off more clothes than needed at the moment. He wants to see her naked, by all means, she's just (his) shirt away from it, but she'll bother with whatever she'll want off of him when the annoyance comes. So, she'll manage to pull down his pants till the middle of his thighs, leaving him just to get those shorts away from her as quickly as she can before she's back to attacking his neck and giving him a few strokes, solely because, well, yeah. Why not.
Patience is definitely not her virtue. It takes very little time before she's positioning and sliding down on him, hands on his shoulders for support — but from here, he's up with steering the initial dynamic.)
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His hand goes to her thigh again at fucking lightspeed, gripping her and pulling her down onto him.]
Fuck, yeah.
[Okay, taking a second to just. Breathe. Jesus. Telepath sex, man. Insane every time. Quentin uses the hand not grasping onto her thigh first to pull her in for a brain-melting kiss and second to, well. Take one of her hands and cram it into his hair. Fuck it, he likes the way it feels when she grabs it a little, okay? Sue him.
Alright, next. Time to pick up where they left off, yes? One of his arms goes around her waist to hold her tightly against him, rocking his hips while doing his best to demandingly tug her body to meet his.
It's... weird, kinda. Their minds are still connected. He can feel everything she does, can see in her mind exactly what she wants, exactly what feels best for her. But while he's not ignoring any of the sensory feedback coming from her brain, he finds himself paying less attention to it and instead chasing what's making his own brain churn out oxytocin and adrenaline like a machine. Fortunately he's pretty sure whatever he's doing is working just fine for her too.]
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He might have gotten her to make the loudest sound yet, out of all the times they've done it. It's been a battle for her to feel comfortable with Quentin witnessing certain things, the blush that overtakes her cheeks when she's annoyed and yet fond of him, the beaming that would be all over her lips if they weren't busy kissing him stupid, and the sounds that she would deny him at first. She has always had a certain reputation to uphold, and individuality is not something she has had much experience with. Letting Quentin see Sophie is a process; being known and seen is vulnerable, and she isn't great at dealing with the prospects of it. Now, at least, she's in a place where removing a brick or two from her mental walls isn't as mortifying, and he's worked for it, it was well-earned to get to this point. Of course she will still deny it if he points it out anywhere that isn't when they're all over each other, just on principle.
Still, though.
The prize just happens to be her unfiltered moans and cries, and the bliss she feels when he pushes her down on him, her hips gladly complying with the rhythm and giving him a bit of a challenge now and then to pull on her a bit harder. Not to mention the fact that she loves having her hands in his hair. The pull she gives the strands is gentle, but she runs the palm of her hand against the sides of his head for the sensory pleasure of the short hair against her skin. It's so damn satisfying, and her nails pick up caressing his scalp as a means to ground herself.
Yep, this is going to be quick.)
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Then again, he's also probably going to be a little weirded out later at himself for whatever's come over him.
Quentin isn't a possessive or controlling type of guy. He's a powerful telepath with the ability to manipulate just about any mind in existence, with varying degrees of effort, of course. Even Sophie he's sure he could overpower if he really wanted to, though he has no desire to actually do so. At least, not outside of the little playful ways they mess with each other in bed. Which is what makes this... Fantasy? Kink? Whatever it is so ironic, because really this is probably the least he's ever meddled with her head during sex. But his stupid little primitive monkey brain is going brrrrr like he's actually, what? Owning her? Being some kind of macho dominant sex god? All 5'8", 130 pounds of him? He's resorted to using a bit of TK to make it easier to push and pull her onto him more forcefully, for fuck's sake.
Whatever, it's kinky shit. Not like it's supposed to make sense. If it makes his monkey brain happy, and she clearly isn't complaining, then who cares. He pushes thoughts into her head that somehow sound like commands but lack any shred of actual psychic power behind them. Asking her to feed this fantasy of his even more. Tell him how much she wants him, beg for him, do whatever she's gotta do to make sure she's as close as he is. Because he's pretty damn close, and it'd be awfully embarrassing if he somehow finished without her because he was too busy with his own crap.
Congratulations, Sophie, you finally found what gets Quentin Quire to shut up. Temporarily, at least.]
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Sophie is fully aware that she's difficult. Impossible, hardly the empathetic type, attitude-filled and unrepentant. Her own monkey brain registers this as being challenged, and she enjoys the audacity greatly. Cuckoo law dictates that she does what he wants, and that's that, who cares about anything else? Sophie likes attempts to get her to take it down a notch, and in Quentin's case right now, he's managing to do it perfectly. There are no successful attempts to conceal anything from her end, nor does she consciously want to, speeding up the pace of her bouncing since, fuck, she just wants to come so bad.
Her mind is pretty empty, no resistance from anything, just thoughts of praise and general horny desperation, until she hears him in it. Requests, not laced with good ol' telepathic commandering, and you know? Corporate approves his submission without a second of hesitation. Only for today, since the bricks that she took down from her wall are especially the Cuckoo irreverence and the need to be guarded with Sophie.
God, talking when she's doing all this exercise is so hard, though. Sophie breaks the kiss, the hand on his hair moving to his cheek as she allows him to look at her flushed face, the smile on her lips, and her hair all over the place.)
All I need — is for you to come in me. I'll — be right there with you.
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... And then he follows it by gasping out one of the lamest things he could possibly say in this situation.]
Fuck, that was really hot. Okay. Yeah. I gotcha.
[Hoo boy. Well, at least he's not in any danger of becoming a normie bro or anything awful like that. Small mercies.
His hands move to her hips, his fingers gripping her feverishly, and every time she lifts up he pulls her down as hard as either of their bodies can realistically handle. It's a greedy, inelegant way to do this, foregoing trying to thrust up into her as much in favor of just manhandling her body, especially since he doesn't go back in to kiss her again. But right now he wants to keep looking at her, even if his eyes keep threatening to roll back in his head. Because she—fuck—she told him that if he came in her (which he has all the other times they've done this without her specifying, it's not new, so why does it feel different this time) that it would push her over too. Which is just. Indescribably hot for reasons he cannot even hope to unpack right now. Or possibly ever. He'll review his memories later and see if he feels like dealing with any of this shit.
Right now he just wants to see it. See her come apart with no extra telepathic push, no sensory sharing besides the baseline. Just from feeling him fill her. He yanks her down two more times before he comes, his eyes flickering as he does his best to keep watching her face.]
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And suppose that's where they are at, because this has been completely different from what she is used to being on top. Spoiling him, yeah, a little bit, but not remotely intentional — she's just being honest, without being repelled by it about it for fucking once. It won't last forever or even hold out throughout the rest of their day, it' a given that she rebuilds her wall as soon as the plausible deniability of hormones can no longer serve as an excuse.
Sophie doesn't roll her eyes, doesn't make a snarky comment with his words. She smiles with her little crinkle, because it's an awkward line that would not have been had he stopped at the compliment, and well, she's not fucking some dude bro who would pull that off perfectly. She's fucking Quentin, and it's kinda part of the package, and as her brain starts to melt, look, she can find it pathetically endearing. Shut up, she already gives him enough shit on the daily for eighty percent of what he says, let her have this.
This is pretty perfect, though, and she doesn't even have many brain cells left to think about kissing him, she's so busy trying to match the rhythm he's drawing her into while she sees stars every time her hips meet his, noises unrestricted and, God, embarrassingly loud, her cheeks as rosy as they can get. He wants to look at her, she doesn't even register declining it; her surviving neurons are employed in slowing down his perception of time so that he can enjoy it to the fullest. You're welcome, it was very difficult to focus on it, because as soon as he climaxes, she's a goner too.
It was so intense that she's lightheaded, her hearing distant as she holds onto him for dear life as she tries to command some air into her lungs. She even had a quip stored to pull his leg with, but what quip, she doesn't even remember what about, her forehead resting against his before she presses a kiss to his cheek.
Holy shit.)
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With his mind more focused, he can slip inside hers, watch her face contort at the same time as her brain is overwhelmed with pleasure and her body clenches tightly around him. He rides the wave of her orgasm to prolong his own until eventually, eventually his sense of time catches back up with the real world, and she's gently kissing his cheek as they both come down.
Holy shit is right. Quentin pants harshly, trying to catch his breath, and looks down at his hands in a daze, stiffly loosening his grip on her hips but keeping them there for now. His brain is all scrambled, and he's just gonna... take a minute and slump backwards, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling and try to make recalibrate the mess in his head.]
Some—[Damn, he can't breathe. Is he dying? Is this what it feels like to get fucked to death? Not the worst way he's kicked the bucket by far, so if so he'll take it.] Some quickie, huh? Jesus.
[Good news: his quips are still functional.]
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Her forehead does not rest against his shoulder to hide from his view, but so she can rest for a second as she at least manages to get the air in her lungs more consistently, and she'll do him the solid of syncing it perfectly to his so they can calm the fuck down for a second. All the effort in the world is then put in moving so he can slide out of her, hands squeezing his shoulders for support, and he could use the opportunity to bring his pants back up if his brain considers it. Other than that, this is the most she can do at this precise moment.
It's only when he quips that Sophie finds some strength to distance, a weak laugh accompanied by the brightest beam, even if she looks, well, very messy. She's not even going to bother running her hands through her hair to smooth it out, she's just got different priorities right now, which are whatever her puddled, dopamine-filled, sparkling, elated brain wants out of her.)
Right? I knew the shirt thing would end up growing on you.
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Quentin registers her return quip almost in slow motion, but he wheezes a soft laugh in response.]
You still can't keep them.
[He's still rebooting, which means they're in that window where affection is allowable, where it doesn't ruin everything and eat him from the inside like a cancer. So Quentin wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. She'll get up soon, probably, but while they're both fuzzy and squishy from dopamine and oxytocin he's going to hold her close. Also? Means he doesn't have to think about whatever the fuck worm crawled into his brain for the past few minutes. Not yet, at least. And that's plenty good enough for now.]
Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a pretty sick game to follow that. Kinda screwed myself with that one, didn't I?
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Probably sounded pretty damn stupid, but whatever. Another great part of it? She doesn't register the embarrassment that he heard it in the first place. When he pulls these things out of her outside of their established mushy moment, she yearns for her grave, horrified and distressed, but with hormones calming her down? Being brought to his chest is the most pleasant thing, and she places a lingering kiss on it, one of her hands resting against it with a thumb caress while the other wraps around him in a lazy hug as she nuzzles a bit.
And then he says that, and it brings out yet another one.)
Oh, yeah, game of the year should be incoming, but lucky for you, you put me in an awfully good mood. I'll be generous.
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I thought we were friends.
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/You thought correctly. What's with the question?/
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Why didn't you tell me?
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Expiration dates on food.
( Why?? Is he dying? He might as well be. )
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/What'd you eat, buddy?/
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( Pray for him. Remember him. Etc. )
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[He's judging.]
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( Don’t judge him, expiry dates aren’t a thing in the age of apocalypse!! )
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[Look, he's definitely judging, but also this is kind of funny. Because Quentin is an asshole.]
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( the disgust and confusion in his telepathic voice… )
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Anything to get that OFF OF HER, and then, back to her game, just listening idly... Until Quentin goes ahead and offers Jayce how to kick her out, and he's squinting at him for it.
Yyyyyeah, time to get off of bed. Her hair is braided, which still makes it a bit messy, and since he wasn't out or anything like that, it's her own loungewear. Miracles are real.)
... Quentin. Why, pray tell, are you teaching the flatscan our business again?
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Uh, it's called PR.
[Obviously.]
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She doesn't even block him at this point, so of course he knows the rollercoaster that is happening in her brain. One, she's very into the pettiness and the bitchness, but that is the very bottom of an iceberg of annoyance.
He's literally teaching the flatscan dumbass how to fight her. Seriously? And it's not even working. She's still there.)
Ah, yes. Your winning personality definitely outshines mine, certainly.
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I mean, in terms of making telepaths look good, yeah. Relax, I've got it handled.
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(So that he knows. Besides, he fucks her up and she glitches? Oof. Clearly, using her as a guinea pig for anti-telepathic measures, how can she not be mad at him?)
Yeah, right. Never been calmer.
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You bleed on my pillowcase, you're washing them. I'm helping us.
[And since he knows she won't connect those dots, he helpfully does so for her. And it's only mostly patronizing, so... You're welcome.]
You really wanna keep giving this guy a reason to invent psychic shielding?
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Sophie is bitchy, and Jayce knew it from the moment he first met her, and she's done nothing more than what he expects out of her. Quentin just going in there and making it worse? Not his best bit. He can be right all he wants, but the way he's helping is definitely going to anger Jayce way more than Sophie Cuckoo being Sophie Cuckoo.
Not to mention that, yes, love when a guy she likes on occasion throws her under the bus for a massive migraine and glitchiness that he isn't going to help care for, and will most likely say she deserved it. Just great.)
Like you're doing, antagonizing a stranger five times worse than I was, considering he's met me? Being right doesn't make you not wrong.
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Probably.
... Yeah no he's definitely not wrong. Sorry not sorry.
Quentin rolls his eyes.]
Please, you know this doesn't even count as "antagonizing" by my standards. Besides, I'm helping him. You heard how he changed his tune when I offered something he wanted. That's how this shit works. We help them, they need us, they don't build sentinels. It's the whole X-Men shtick.
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(Meaning: not everyone can handle QQ light. He is a lot, even on a good day. She can handle it, random dude he is talking to? X for doubt.)
You mean when you shook him to tell you something you wanted to hear first, and when it disappointed you, you kept shaking him until some change fell out of his pocket? Fine, help the flatscan, I get what you're doing, that part is fine. I'm just saying you look as bad as me right now, even if you're helping.
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[Why is he not surprised she doesn't get this? Sigh.]
You scared him, Sophie. You cornered a dog, and he bit you.
[Quentin shrugs.]
I'm an asshole, but I'm not an asshole that's scaring him.
1/2
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Fucking hell.)
Fine, heard and understood.
(Apologize? No. Maybe. Needed? Not sure. Apologize??? She's bad at it. Maybe it's implicit enough that she doesn't have to do it herself.
There's a lump on her throat. Goddamnit.)
... My bad.
(Nailed it.)
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And then she... apologizes? Is that what that was? Quentin squints his eyes quizzically.]
Why're you telling me?
[Whatever, not important. He waves it off dismissively.]
Honestly, you should be thanking me. As should he, for that matter. Ungrateful little freak you found yourself. And not as interesting as I hoped, tragically.
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Cripes, she sometimes just wants to shake him.
But he wants to dismiss it, and wave it off, then fine. She's not talking, her eyes rolling and her arms crossing not for the words he gives, but fine, for that, too.)
Welcome to the flatscans of Etraya. Let me know when he's ready to give me a whammy.
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Yeah, yeah. Don't worry, you'll know.
[Slightly ominous? Yes. Yes, it is. Don't worry about it.]
Ugh, you didn't tell me he was some kinda hoity-toity bourgeoisie type. Really? He had guards to escort people out?
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Fucking idiot. Not a day goes by that she doesn't want to shake him into oblivion. Instead, it's to her side of the bed she returns to, to be pissy on her own. By not leaving his room. Because this is normal.)
He's basically this huge nerd scientist who's really hot and kinda charismatic, so this chick pushed him into, you know, taking over a high political spot he definitely shouldn't hold. So, yeah, he has guards. I'm going back to my game now.
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[He waves his hands emphatically at her, as though she is clearly on the same wavelength as him and fully agrees. Which he knows is not true, but you know.
This is what you get when you decide to spend your free time around Quentin Quire.]
Anyway, he's not completely hopeless, at least. His psychic defenses are hot garbage unless he's pissed off, though. You should help him with that, since you're so invested in his life or whatever.
[~*~says it sarcastically but actually means it~*~]
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That's on you for being nosy; it's got nothing to do with me.
(Says she, who started this by being nosy, but look, she didn't promise Quire shit??? He just went in???)
Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll help him, alright? Make him work for it and everything.
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[Yes. Obviously. But he's being smug and patronizing. Because it's enrichment for him. Let him have enrichment, Sophie!!]
Cool, well, you're up. Have fun!
[And now he's making finger guns at her. It's enrichment, Sophie.]
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Her eyes roll, although that means very little considering they're glowing white and she's off doing this stupid bit. Like she promised, she'll even make the fucking flatscan work for it.
Jayce doesn't manage a nosebleed out of her, but a relentless migraine and tinnitus? Granted, and she winces from pain in her spot on the bed before hiding her head under the pillows. In this disco ball of a room. Too much, too much.)
I fucking hate you so fucking much, Quire, holy shit.
(Muffled from under the pillow, she's gonna need a hot minute. This sucks.)
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Psh, I'm helping you. This shit builds character.
[Yes. Character building. Which she definitely asked for.
If she was close enough, he'd pat her on the back in a facetious show of comfort. But that requires getting up, and he's too lazy to do that. So she just gets the psychic impression of the concept of him comforting her or whatever. That's close enough, right?]
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Very slowly, she sits back again, fingers pressed against her temples in a futile attempt to soothe her headache.)
There are other ways to help that don't include a migraine.
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Took you two times getting booted out of Keller's brain before you listened, right?
[And no, he's still not getting up. This is tough love.]
Just saying, kinda seems like migraine is the best way you learn.
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Her index finger points up, the clear sign of 'acshually' before she does, indeed, acshually.)
To be fair, Laura asked me to do it the first time, in what universe do I say 'no' to Laura?
(Hello?????)
... Look, fine, okay. Fine, I deserved this one, too.
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( hi omega bestie. )
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[Sorry, Nate, you have to live with that shame forever.]
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Wait. You really can’t?
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Is it not normally for telepaths?
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/Is anything with telepaths ever really "normal"? That's a rhetorical question. But no, most telepaths I know don't have a lot of precog. Kinda seems like it fucks you up, to be honest.
Why the sudden interest?/
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/Yeah? You gonna share with the class or...?/
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My powers became too much and I went nuclear and took half the planet with me. Sometimes it’s like I’m watching it. Other times, I’m living it.
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( he sighs. )
Never mind. Forget it. I was just asking.
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I thought "don't lie to telepaths" was like, your one rule. What happened to that?/
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But you clearly don't think that, so. Spill./
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( and this is where he does the telepathic version of slamming and locking a door. good talk but he's done now. )
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Nate thinks he can just show up, sprinkle a little trauma around, then clam up the second Quentin starts trying to talk about it? To help? And not just clam up, but slam a psychic block in his face?? Nope. No way. Think again, bub.
Quentin cracks his psychic knuckles and pushes against that wall. Not a true attempt at breaking it, but certainly enough that Nate'll feel it. Which is, of course, what Quentin wants. He's not trying to invade Nate's boundaries, not really. He's making a point. And that point is "hey, asshole, you're not getting rid of me that easily."]
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Go away. Or do you want to laugh some more at my stupid dream?
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Quentin stubbornly refuses to reply in words, instead responding with a hard, pointed shove against the psychic block. Sorry, Nate, he's not having any damn conversations with anyone through locked fucking doors.]
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He feels the shove that comes after his words — knows that it's harder than the last one was and his left eye glows bright and gold for a moment. He's upset, that much is clear. Thought that Quentin might have some insight in to precognition and if it was something omegas like them are capable of instead of it all just being in his head... in not the usual way it is for a telepath... and the guy had just figured it was a stupid dream when he's here trying not to count down the days he has until he just doesn't exist anymore because thanks Sinister.
He knows that Quentin is his friend and has been someone, more or less, that's been there for him when he's needed him but he just... felt as if his concerns were simply being brushed aside — not taken seriously. Quentin's told him he's come back to life how many times? But that doesn't mean he will whenever that happens. Quentin doesn't have a code written in his DNA to make sure he doesn't live past a certain age. So maybe he's a little more touchy about it than he should be.
So it's why when he flings open the telepathic door there, it's all dramatics as it should be for a Grey-Summers kid and he's eyeing him with that left eye still glowing gold. )
I said go away.
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Or what, Nate? You'll try to kick my ass? I'm quaking.
[He scoffs and plops into an armchair. Yes, there's an armchair here now. Because he's an Omega level psychic, and it's the astral plane, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. And what he wants is to sit himself right here and decidedly not go away. And if Nate has a problem with that then that's on him.]
Now are we going to talk like grown-ups, or are you gonna start a fight you won't win?
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( Does Nate have the upper hand in terms of power? Yes. But does he have the upper hand when it comes to skill and experience? No. That’s where his overconfidence in himself has led to him learning the hard way that raw power doesn’t always mean an instant win, but. Whatever.
He folds his arms in front of his chest and stands there, looking away from Quentin. Quiet for a moment, his jaw tightens before he finally looks back over his shoulder to the other telepath. )
It sucks that you’ve died before. I’m glad you came back from it. But I haven’t. ( Died before, he means. ) And I’m going to someday in the next few years because of some asshole from my world. So maybe it’s no big deal to you that I have these nightmares, but they scare me because it’s not fair.
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Okay, first of all, we don't know shit.
[He rolls his eyes, clearly offended by Nate's assertion, but he'll get back to that in a bit.]
Second, you're not having dreams about dying. You're having dreams about obliterating the rest of us with your big scary brain muscles you can't control worth a damn. Because no matter how many fucking times we all tell you that wouldn't happen, it doesn't seem to sink in. So.
[Quentin crosses his legs, spreading his arms invitingly.]
Take your best shot.
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( He says that in a way that has him frustrated, as if Quentin should get it but he doesn’t. )
I explode because my powers are too much. What do you think happens when someone literally combusts? I just take half the planet with me when I do.
( Eye glowing that bright warm gold, he reels it in and shakes his head as he forces his fingers through his hair, turning away, eyes closing and the gold slowly fading behind them. )
It doesn’t matter if it’s here or not. I have an expiry date written in me. So it’s going to happen.
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[It is taking every bit of self-control in Quentin's body to not tell Nate to get in line, everybody takes a dirt nap eventually, quit whining about it. He's already annoyed about this whole thing, and his "burn it all down" urges are bubbling up to the surface. But he holds back his most biting comments and forces himself to be... moderately productive. Fine. If Nate's going to insist on talking about dying, they can talk about dying.]
I've died more times than all the other mutants here combined, and not a single one of those times was fair. I've gone to the future and saw myself die, and that wasn't fair.
[Quentin shrugs dramatically, his lip curled bitterly.]
All I got for you is the future's not set in stone, and guys like us don't stay dead. If you don't wanna listen to me, that's on you.
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I don't care if guys like us don't stay dead, Quentin. I'm scared. Weren't you any of the times you died? Or are you just so used to it by now that you've forgotten what that's like?
( It doesn't matter if they "come back" like he's implying. Doesn't make him want to go through it or feel it or deal with whatever aftermath could possibly come from something like that. Geez, Quentin. )
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[He scowls in offended disbelief at that whole "used to it" line. Low blow, Nate.]
And yeah, I was scared. Obviously, I was. I'm still fucking scared, every goddamn time I think about any of that shit. But I didn't think it was the best idea to go trauma-dump on a powerful psychic who can't handle his own fucked-up emotions, much less someone else's.
[One low blow deserves another, and Quentin tilts his chin up defiantly, daring Nate to tell him he's wrong.]
That said, I'm a reasonable guy. If you really want me to show you, I will. But it sure as hell won't help those nightmares of yours.
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Forget it. Everyone keeps everything to themselves — or keeps it from others. That's just how it is.
( He's just stuck feeling it all unless he shuts himself off. But hey, the life of a telepath, amirite? )
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You got something to say to me, Nate? 'Cause it sure as fuck sounds like this isn't about some nightmares anymore.
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( To which he shrugs. )
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And that's the thing, isn't it? Nate is a stupid kid, bubbling over with too many big emotions and trust issues and not enough common fucking sense. Just like Quentin was at his age.]
It's about Sophie and me, isn't it? She said you didn't think I trusted you.
[Quentin glances down to absently inspect his fingernails.]
First of all, I don't really trust, well. Anyone, so it's not a you thing. And in case you're wondering, yes, that includes Sophie. Second, you're a fucking kid. You're still figuring out how to get your shit together, so no, I'm not gonna tell you shit that isn't your business or you're not ready for. That's life, pal. And three—
[He sits up, holding up three fingers.]
I don't have precognition, but what I do have is experience. I've died, I've seen my potential expiration date, I've been used and fucked over by more people than I care to count, and I know what it's like to have more power than you know what to do with. Now are you gonna listen to the guy who knows what it's like to be you better than any of the other chucklefucks here, or am I leaving you to your moping?
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This is why he keeps it solo.
But also, the fact that no one can seem to keep their mouths or minds shut about certain things is annoying and he's regretting taking Julian up on that offer to have a room next to him here. Keeping that to himself, of course. Because his mind goes blank then. Nothing to hide. Just a blank sheet of paper with not a single word scribbled on it. Not a single emotion to be felt.
Smile on his lips, he shrugs. )
Big words from a guy who whined to Julian about me and Sophie one time like some jealous guy.
( Again, the irony here. )
But if I'm just a fucking kid, I think you already know the answer then.
( Turning, he gives a wave over his shoulder. )
Good luck.
( With what? He doesn't say. He just disappears from the astral plane they got going on here and if Quentin tries to feel him out? He won't find him. As if he's completely disappeared from Etraya. He hasn't, it's just mind cloaking of the heavy hitter caliber. #telepaththings. )
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/I'm not loving it, personally./
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Also, my room. Not in the mood for you bitching about organization and tidiness today./
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Whatever, fine. How long're you gonna be?/
[Sure, he could track her location, calculate average speed, and do that math but. Okay well since he thought about it for 0.04 seconds he already ran the math. But he's already asked, and he's not un-asking.]
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/Don't try me.
Taking the train. 10 minutes./
(Hah.
Good estimate on her part, 10 minutes and she arrives at the station, another two for her to arrive at her room in the most Barbie doll outfit she could be wearing. Goodbye, heels, first and foremost, and the second thing is to place the food on the nearest surface as she works to unBarbie.
Also, of course her room is a pandemonium of clothes on surfaces, makeup, jewelry, perfume, gaming apparatus, and just general mess.)
Hey. Get your stuff, I'm just gonna change.
(And add her current jewerly to the pile on the vanity.)
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You're two minutes late, by the way.
[He rolls his eyes and follows her into her room, turning his nose up at the chaos of the space. God, it looks like his room did when he was 18. Not that he's telling her that. But still. Yeesh. Quentin fishes his food and his milkshake—which is, yes, very melted, but he's certainly not pointing that out—and plops onto her sofa, propping his feet on her coffee table.]
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Which you knew. I don't control the train, Quire.
(Eh, just to be bitchy back.
Once he's in, the door is closed, and her hands are free, she'll press her usual arrival kiss to his lips before she continues her process. It doesn't take long, the only thing that remains from her outfit (now somewhere unknown in pile A) is the make up. Once she's in her own comfy clothes, her hair is in a bun and her glasses are on her face, she plops next to him and reaches for the fries in the bag.)
Whose genius idea was it to put it in Snake Island, beats me.
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[Quentin idly watches her get comfy, noting where she obtains her pajamas in the mess.
... Eh, fuck it. He crams a chicken nugget in his mouth and gets up, kicking off his shoes.]
Hey, where are your loosest PJs?
[Look, she comes to his room and wears his shit all the time. Might as well have it go both ways, yeah? Perks of only being a couple inches taller than the girl you're sleeping with.]
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(She isn't even going to have the chance to enjoy him in that nice outfit? Very rude.
With fries between her thumb and index, he circles her hand as she looks around the mess. Luckily for him, it should be in a similarly disorganized drawer, not in the void of the great surroundings.
Sophie send the image of what he should be looking for to him before those fries get dipped in ketchup.)
Knock yourself out. I don't own t-shirts, though.
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Believe me, I know all about your T-shirt shortage. You realize you can just buy some, right?
[He pulls off his socks and folds them neatly into his shoes, then walks to the drawers she indicated, starting on undoing his belt.]
I mean, who the hell is gonna judge you? The bots? I'm just saying.
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(No, he doesn't know 'all', okay, there are layers to the shirt thing!! But mostly, a matter of principle that she doesn't have her own.
Which makes her roll her eyes at the comment, but the annoyance is short-lived because she can hear him going to change, and 💡. Very interesting to her, as her brain lit up a little. She isn't looking right now, but she is going to in just a bit.)
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[Yeah, that's right, he's calling her out. Deal with it.
That said, he does feel her brain light up when he starts undressing and glances at her curiously. Back in his room, they're usually either getting frisky by the time his clothes start coming off or he changes at the same time as her. It's... Hm.
Quentin finds the pajamas, grumbling some more rude things about the state of her room, and starts unceremoniously shucking off his own clothes.]
All I'm saying is wearing t-shirts is clearly not a problem, so why is buying them such a big deal?
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(Do they have to have a real talk as to why she likes wearing his shirts? No? Good, because she isn't doing it. It's much more fun and not at all productive or vulnerable or whatever to have this dumb bantering every now and then. Keeps the romance alive, etc.
Also, stop bitching for just one second, she's busy right now. She knows he knows her interest sparked, hello telepathy, and it's not something she would want to hide. Obviously, she's into him, or else she wouldn't be sleeping with him nearly as much as she does, so is there any reason to be coy, really? Absolutely checking him out before she smiles to herself, pleased, averting the gaze solely not to make him uncomfortable.
But, well. Brain is very lit, so thank you.)
My room is not that bad, by the way. Should have seen Emma's.
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[It's still weird to have Sophie Cuckoo of all people openly ogling him. Sure, she sleeps with him, but that's different than finding him, well. Hot. Not that he's complaining. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Quentin replaces his pants with the ones she supplied, but when he gets to the shirt half he hesitates, considers, and passes up her shirt for putting his button-up back on. By the time he returns to the couch to claim his nuggets, he's got it buttoned back up to the third highest button. There. Now he's comfortable.]
So why the sudden craving for fast food?
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(Not really, but okay.
She thought what she thought. He just never asked her, probably won't? At least she's not particularly shy on this subject, so hopefully, he doesn't have to wonder too much. On the other hand, she cannot relate. Freaking Sophie Cuckoo, it's a whole part of the brand.
The challenge, really, is letting him see her with her guard down and in gamer gremlin skin, but she's comfortable enough at this point with that part of showing herself. There are even glasses on her face, so. We are all evolving here, somehow.)
Not junk food specifically, I think I just wanted to eat something familiar that I haven't had in a bit, I guess, and these things have a set flavor profile.
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[Quentin shrugs, shoving a chicken nugget into his mouth.]
Gotta say, it does have a certain... je ne sais quoi.
[He chews thoughtfully and briefly curls his lip.]
The aftertaste is off, though.
[A pause, during which Quentin glances over at her. Specifically, at her choice of attire.]
And I'm guessing you invited me because you didn't want to be alone for this nostalgia trip but also wanted to be comfortable?
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(It's probably one of those moments Quire's secondary mutation sucks, because to her, it is releasing enough dopamine to count as the real deal. If it's off, it's probably some detail, she figures? No idea.
Hey, hey, why are you questioning her choices? Don't question her choices. She hates that.)
I guess. I was already going to spend today with you, so since I was getting myself food, might as well bring you some too. And we're here because I know you'd get all grumpy and fucking annoying if I made a mess in your room.
(Honest, it's just one of the little things she likes to do for him quietly. Not that she wants that pointed out, or that she wants him to add it to the list. Shut up.)
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I'm just saying you do know more people than just me. And I'm also grumpy and fucking annoying anywhere, let's be honest.
[The point, of course, being the "comfortable" thing he mentioned. He has a strong hunch she doesn't exactly sit around in her comfiest loungewear and glasses with a long list of people. And he's feeling sassy enough today to poke at that hunch with a stick.]
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The blush that overtakes her cheeks is... Well, she's not sure if it's embarrassment or irritation, but it is certainly creeping to her skin without a shred of her consent, and it's almost like they're back to square one with her being absolutely mortified with being Seen.
Bitch, seriously?)
I know half the planet, and this was a convenience thing. I can take it back, we can go to your room, I'll eat on your bed, how's that?
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[He's crossing his legs and propping his feet up on the coffee table again. Not going anywhere.]
Anyway, that's not really the point. I was just, you know, making observations. There's a lot of people you could invite over who like junk food. You can't argue with that.
[Quentin shrugs and sips his milkshake.]
Guess you just really wanted me to steal your clothes for once.
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Her eyes roll as hard as they can, and she grabs her soda for a sip as she thinks of a rebuttal that never comes, because he says that and she nearly chokes in a laugh, a snort coming out of her as a result while her hand busies itself with hiding her face.
Kill her. Just kill her.)
Yes, that was 100% my biggest dream, now mind your business.
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[Says the guy who minds his business almost never and especially not now. The smirk he gives her makes it clear he's not buying any of her bullshit, but he'll be satisfied with making her blush and choke on her soda.
For now.]
So what's the itinerary for today? I mean, since you've accomplished your biggest dream.
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(For the smirk, there's that look that she gives him every now and then, of squinted eyes, half a roll, and a quiet smile of appreciation. He's so fucking irritating. Somehow, it works.
Somehow. There's an extremely weak kick that she gives his ankle as the last of what they'll say about it for now.)
Months in the making, I'm finally fulfilled. I do have a plan to climb you like a tree, but other than that? Who knows.
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[Quentin scoffs, but there's no actual vitriol whatsoever. Romance is very distinctly not the point of what they do, after all. Quite the opposite, and for very good reason. But look, he's Quentin Quire, and if he's not complaining he's dead.
That said, he also has a plan that involves scandalous activities in bed, but his relies more on the coma Sophie goes into after a particularly good, particularly exhausting round or two. Which is what he intends to give her once, you know, she's arbitrarily decided it's time.]
Well, my options here in the "other than that" category are pretty limited. Guess I could sit on your bed playing video games for two hours, just to mix it up a little. But that sounds a bit boring.
[He shrugs, continuing to wolf down his nuggets and milkshake, as well as steal quite a few of her fries.]
So I think what we should do is eat our junk food while you tell me who "tarnishedmoodring" is.
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No, no, I'm also burning a single unscented candle for it, don't you worry.
(No, she's absolutely not. It's just to keep the conversation and the banter alive, but it'd just be super weird if they were... What, suddenly soft? Affectionate aside from the times they allow each other to be? God, no. It'd probably make both of them run to separate hills as fast as they can manage.)
Oh, you are not touching my Animal Crossing. You'll ruin my hard work and chase away all my villagers.
(They would not love Quentin Quire's aesthetic choices.
But she's also realizing that he's much more communicative outside his room, and she was unsure whether that was a good thing until he asked her... Well, what literally everyone asks her back home. The facepalm, the eyeroll that ensues, oh God.
Okay. Fine. She hates him, but fine. He can steal the fries, she's stealing a nugget before she hands him the remaining ones to grab her burger.)
You think I can talk about a guy for two hours?
(Stalling.)
He's a guy I met on Summoner's who kept my sanity in place when I left the hivemind. No idea of personal details or what he looks like, but we talked pretty much all day every day before I got here.
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But that's for later. Right now he's got an apparent internet boyfriend(???) to interrogate her about.]
I dunno, you could probably talk about me for two hours. Not that I'm expecting you to talk about this dude for that long.
[She hands him the fries in favor of her burger, which of course means he's going to lean in front of her and grab her wrist holding the hamburger, holding it still while he helps himself to a bite of it. Satisfied with his burger theft, he lets go of her hand and moves back to his seat.]
So. You into him?
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(How he's probably going to make her grow her first grey hairs? Annoying? Irritating? Her dearest insignificant other?
Two hours is a lot, interruptedly? Maybe forty-five minutes, no breaks, word vomit style.
She would definitely have denied him the bite for the audacity if she had seen it coming, but it's unexpected and it makes her laugh — but revenge comes as his nuggets and shake dance in the air above them.
God, what a question. If she likes the snarky, cynical, bitchy and talk-back-y mutant who was her rock in the weirdest time of her life? Yeah, absolutely. He won her on talking alone, and she's crazy about him without a shred of doubt. But it's been... Months.
Yeah. She does. It's... Gone cold. Fondness rather than anything else it is now, and she reads his messages every now and then for comfort. But also, no, maybe she's not into him the same way anymore.
Why is Quentin asking her those type of questions again?)
I — ugh, kill me.
(Gag. Feeling talk. Gag. Gross.)
Yeah, but not... The same way anymore. Shut up.
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He's not going to ask if the change in her feelings is because of him. For one thing because no matter the answer, he wouldn't expect her to answer honestly. Sophie talks about her genuine feelings as little as physically possible, so usually just when he actively squeezes it out of her. But he's also not going to ask because even if she said yes, he wouldn't want to hear it.
Quentin... likes Sophie. Not the way he did when he was a stupid teenager, but he likes her a decent amount. He likes sleeping with her, both how he can make her feel and how she makes him feel. He likes making her blush and laugh and cringe. He likes pushing her to be better like she says she's trying to do. But is he into her? Debatable. Again, not like he used to be. Not like he was into Phoebe or Idie or even Gwen. She's... fun. Everything beyond that is held strictly behind the wall of their "rules," and for good reason.
Quentin plucks a nugget out of the container floating over his head.]
Tell me about him. For less than two hours, obviously. I don't have that kind of patience.
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Does she want him to like her more than he does? Debatable. If she had actual proof that he can be non-clingy and weird, then it's a huge maybe, but why mess with something that works? No need. Fine as it is. As for tarnishedmoodring, distance and time equal cooling off. Nothing she can do about that one. She never had any claim on him, anyway. It's not like she can be hoping he'll be there when she's out of this damn place, God knows when that will be. Doesn't even know if he liked her back. Way easier to think about it later, let it go for now.
Not that she is sharing any, absolutely any of that with Quentin. It's already uncomfortable as is, with him asking her so many questions that don't pertain to him, or so she thinks. Not answering makes it worse, so she has to take a moment to think.)
Mhm. Mutant, obviously, but I have no idea what his mutation is, anyway, I'm assuming it has something to do with empathy and colors, considering his username, but beats me. He's... Fun, I guess. Cynical, super bitchy, sarcastic as hell, and doesn't ever let me win without rematches, that I end up losing anyway, so I rematch, then I win, rinse and repeat. Hence why my rank is absurd. Alt-rock, hipster shit, and I guess that's all I'm saying. 40 seconds good enough for you?
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[He doesn't miss the fact that her description is remarkably similar to him, minus all the stuff about gaming, but he'll let it go for now. Sophie's been a good enough sport about his intrusive bullshit, so she'll get some mercy.
This time.
Quentin shrugs and yoinks the last nugget from the floating container.]
I'm just going to take your rush to move on from that topic as a sign you're impatient to—what was it? Climb me like a tree?
[You know, since she isn't going to let him prod her for miscellaneous information that isn't his business.]
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(Or so she hopes. She thinks? Come on. They literally fuck their problems away because when they tried talking about it, she nearly popped a vein, or choked, or kicked him out of her brain for literally breathing near her.
Why have that massive, sexy, high-speed brain if he doesn't use it? What a damn waste. She's not paying attention to his thoughts to know that he did, except just not in a way that is beneficial to her, but alas. Monkey paw curling, as it is.)
Well, I guess I could paint your nails, or some other beauty shit, it's literally the only thing I have in this room that might interest you. Or, well, you better put me in a coma for this schedule slip. Don't know if you can make me pass out for 10 hours, but there's a challenge.
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Until she says the word "challenge".
And now it's on.]
Seriously? [He holds a hand dramatically against his chest.]
You're giving me a challenge? Pfft.
[Quentin folds his arms, his lip curling stubbornly as he sits back against the couch seat.]
I'm half-tempted to let you paint my nails after all, just to prove that not only can I make you pass out for 10 hours, but I can do it without using my hands. Please. Don't insult me.
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To be decided. Right now, she's just smiling like she's won something here, an almost unnoticeable little dance ensues from the way she moves her shoulders.)
Wow, 'half-tempted'? Guess we'll never know for sure, what a shame.
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Tell you what. I'll let you try to paint my nails, with designs of my choosing. And I'll distract you. If you mess up, you lose. Between you and me, I bet you won't get past the first hand.
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Losing means consequences in her world, and so does winning. At least she's done eating, her limbs stretching in front of her, proving once more that when a girl is comfortable with a guy, she really just becomes a cat.
Okay. Okay, okay.)
And if you win, then what? What is at stake here, aside from pride, which I'm pretty sure both of us have very little to gamble with to begin with in here.
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[Quentin, on the other hand, is a cat all the time. He turns his upper body towards her, leaning his elbow on the back of her sofa with his head propped against his head. His free hand, meanwhile, makes all his customary dramatic gestures to illustrate the no-doubt brilliant points in whatever he's saying.]
When I win—which I will—then I'm gonna prove I can get you off without touching you. So that's pride for me: check. That'll be #1 for the evening, by the way. And I still get one free hand for #2 through... I dunno, however long you last. Until coma, I guess.
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(Her stupid monkey brain, man. This competitive bullshit is already doing its job, and she's pretty sure he knows that at this point. She's actually not considering just how much exposure she's going to go through with this, it hasn't crossed her mind yet — if he's not touching her, then he can look way too closely, but that's a problem that she her brain is literally not seeing with how stupid this horny Olympics is getting.
She's also planning to distract him from distracting her, so if anything, this is going to be either really scary, or absolutely stupid. She's only considering the latter.)
I want extra points if you go into a coma. I have my own shelf of accomplishments in my head.
(If he hasn't noticed the last times they've been there.)
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Hey, I'm not the one who said "you'd better put me into a coma." That was aaaall you.
[He folds his hands behind his head smugly.]
Anyway, you're missing the point. Which is, of course, that I won't just win because I'm good—even though we both know I am. I'm going to win because you're going to let me win.
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(Ugh, she likes that smug vibe he has going on. Does it make her want to throw hands with him immediately? Yes, without a shred of doubt. It makes her want to not give him shit. But also. Mind your business.
Her own eyes roll, and she comes closer, thighs touching as she puts her hand on his for a second, her turn to shift her position to face him.)
What, you think I'll give up halfway?
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[He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as she scoots closer and touches his hand. It's a familiar enough routine by now. She pulls,he pushes, she pushes back, he retreats, and she chases. You'd think it'd get boring, but no. Not so far, at least. Quentin smirks back at her.]
I think you'd rather I have both hands free.
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(Not that telling him to shut up has ever done anything, but ugh. It's true, she'd be urged by herselt to jump him immediately as soon as he started the whole telepathic bullshit while she's busy trying to get his nails as perfect as hers.
Which would make him an automatic winner, because she's not a very patient person. It's a rigged game, and they are all aware. She'd absolutely prefer both his hands on her, thank you very much, but also shut up.)
This is just me postponing this for the sake of schedule efficiency. You haven't won shit, before you dare to think you have.
(She releases the hand because if she doesn't take off their glasses, she can't give him the brain-melting, slow kiss that ensues.)
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She kisses him, and he kisses back, moving his arms to loop around her waist and tug her closer. Not pulling her into his lap, because today? Today is about going slow.]
/Why don't you come see what I'm thinking?/
[And if she does? Slow is what she'll find there too. She wanted to kill time, and she wanted a coma, and he plans on doing both tonight.]
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It doesn't startle her one bit to have his voice bouncing in her mind — telepaths, after all, and she slides into his brain to see where he is at.
Interesting. It's not what they usually do, but she sees no reason to deny it. It means she slows down the kiss, plays with a button of his shirt as she replies in the same vein.)
/Scandalously kinky. I'm in. Bed?/
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/After you./
He slips one hand ever so slightly under her shirt at her waist, just enough to rub his thumb and forefinger on her bare skin. Which is, of course, not exactly likely to make her be in much hurry to get off the couch and move to the bed, particularly since he's still very much kissing her. But then, not being in a hurry is the whole point.]
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Sophie gets bored so easily, and she can positively say this is not something that happens here, even when they have a routine. There's always something new, or something stupid that they haven't previously bickered about, or something idiotic that could very much be normal, whereas they take it to another level of goofy, all tied prettily with the fact that he always looks at her with that smug grin like he's winning whatever the fuck... Well, those things make it impossible for her to feel blasé.
He says that, but moves not an inch, lips still against hers and fingers touching on her waist. It might not make her want to run to bed, but it does make her break the kiss to beam at him for a quick second, the nose crinkle very much apparent.)
Soon.
(And she dives again back to the kiss, her hand moving to caress the shaved hair on the back of his head. Slow it is, huh? For someone whose brain is that fast, she might want to give him a little hand. She's slowed down his perception of time once before, this time, she syncs it with her own. There's no sneaky business either, it's very clear that this is her doing — it might hold until his brain readjusts, but until then, profit.)
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His hand moves from her waist to her thigh, sliding up to push the leg of her shorts up a little, and he breaks away from the kiss to smirk at her.]
How soon is soon?
[Sure, he said slow. And proceeded to dawdle as much as possible. But he's allowed to be a little petulant and feign impatience if he wants to.]
Got anything you want to share with the class?
[He kisses her neck to give her a chance to reply. And since so far he's the only one of them who's shared with her his plans for their evening, he slides into her mind to sift through any and all ideas she's had related to this couch. Sophie's always had a pretty active imagination when it comes to this sort of thing. Surely she's got something interesting somewhere in there.]
nsfw from here on out
This is going to be interesting, and it starts being so when she can feel his fingerprint on his thigh, because something so small feels just so intense when she can feel it to its fullest, and it robs a small noise from her into his mouth before he pulls away. Thank fuck the theme today is slow and steady, because holy fuck.
She knows he's not serious, she's learned there's a huge difference between what he says and what he does, so instead of a serious answer in tandem, it gets a happy giggle that she could categorize as gross from her.)
2520 seconds at most, you can count it.
(Nah, probably not. Especially not when he kisses her neck, it's a weakness of hers wherever he lands, and she tilts her head to the opposite side so he has more space. The hand on the back of his head caresses the scalp as further encouragement, as a long, longing exhale follows.
They want to kill time, it's a slow, lazy day until second notice. Sophie's borrowing his brain's detailed perception. He's given her that face several times today, and she, unfortunately for all of them, enjoys it dearly, and he's really earned that kind of selfless attention throughout the months. She never blocks her thoughts when they're together, a small token of trust, but the first thing that she thinks of doing is a very suggestive image of her kissing down his chest in a very clear path before the image goes dark. She just remembered that's vetoed right after she thought it.
Goddamnit. Her bad, her bad.)
I'll figure out something else.
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This is the polar opposite of almost everything he planned for today. She requested coma, he didn't. Which obviously means that the focus should be on her pleasure more than his. And she's already moving on from that idea, but.... His brain picks up the image where hers left off until he can imagine her looking up at him from between his legs, and it doesn't... make him recoil like it used to. Maybe it's because Sophie (at least in his imagination) looks at him like she wants him. Like she's overwhelmed with desire for him, not for his devotion or his vulnerability or anything like that. Just... him.
She has access to his brain and therefore can easily see his thought process, feel his body's reaction to her mental image, but it never hurts to have verbal confirmation. Quentin moves his mouth away from her neck, the timer in her eyes fading until it's barely visible, and shrugs nonchalantly.]
Eh. Go for it.
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She's listening to him, because of course she is, and while there's a slight pang of discomfort from him knowing this shit, the thing is? He's not incorrect, not a single bit. Her attraction to him is not tethered to anything other than him — there's nothing else that she desires out of him. No devotion, not his potential, not his power, just this arrogant, cocky, stupid, silly dumbass whose face is on her neck. At least he gets confirmation that it isn't just in his head, so good for him, don't ask or point it out ever again.
Her face is all shades of pink, and she thanks the universe that he is busy not looking at her until... Well, he does, and ugh, at least she, too, doesn't recoil anymore. She won't ask if he's sure, if he said it, then he is, and she has to trust that he'll let her know if it suddenly isn't.)
Okay, cool.
(And she dives for the kiss again. Listen, it's the middle of the afternoon, they have more than enough time for a little bit of everything, and she moves to undo the first button of his shirt.)
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/All the times we've done this shit, and you still turn beet red. I don't know whether to be impressed or flattered./
[They have all the time in the world, so even though she's on a mission he can't help being a pest and a distraction. She still has his hyper-detailed perception, so she'll notice the longer, shakier breath he takes when she starts unbuttoning his shirt, as well as the hand on her leg slowly inching higher. His other hand, meanwhile, abandons subtlety, tangling into the hair at the back of her head and tugging her into deepening the kiss. At least until she inevitably has to move away from his mouth, that is. He's not hindering her, just delaying. To be a troll. It's in his nature. He also pushes his arousal into her mind as an additional distraction, forcing hers to build at the same time as his.]
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/Preferably you'd be quiet about it, but I don't think you have that feature built in./
(She barely wakes her eyes in the morning and he's already talking like he expects a full dissertation for an answer instead of an incoherent grumble. God, it's been... Months. They've been fucking and sharing a bed for months. They haven't had a real fight in so long. She's so much better about so much, but the blushing hasn't stopped creeping to her face yet.
Bless his heart.
Needless to say that she is more than pleased with how she can retain so much information so quickly, the way his breath changes making a smile form for a second before she's taken to enjoy a deeper kiss that she responds with hunger. It's not rushed, but it is craving, thanks to their synched arousal. He wants to delay it? Be a little shit?
Sure. She'll be one right back, letting her index finger hook on the opening of his shirt to fumble with it a little while her free hand goes to play with the waistband of his boxers, fingers ever so slightly caressing the skin of his hip in the process.)
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/There's a reason my name's Quentin Quire and not Quentin Quiet./
[She stops unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes a noise of protest. Did she stop because he was being a little shit? Yes. Does that make it his fault and therefore not something he should complain about? Also yes. But since when has not having a valid reason ever stopped Quentin from complaining? Never, of course.]
/Anyway, weren't you doing something? Don't let me stop you./
[He tilts his hips slightly toward her hand when she starts messing with his waistband, as if she needs a reminder and not, you know, a partner who doesn't deliberately behaves like a pest just for the sake of it.]
1/2
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/Wow, that one was not your best work./
(The reason why she breaks the kiss is to find his neck, her mental map of every spot that makes him squirm in place as she goes for it, taking her time with each one as she enjoys the macrodetail. Soft skin, and she can feel his heartbeat against her lips, and if it quickens? She'll add in the slightest use of teeth.
But hey, don't make her laugh, she's busy.)
Oh, you aren't stopping me one bit. I'm getting there. You want a timer?
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The hand on her thigh, meanwhile, moves to slide up her shirt, searching for her own sensitive spots with soft touches.]
Already got one, remember? Somebody's gotta keep us on schedule.
[The audacity. The unabashed audacity. And the worst thing is he knows she gets a thrill out of it. He raises the opacity on that timer he started before, which yes, is still running. Because he's an asshole. In so, so many ways.]
Tick tock.
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(Look, she knows what the timer was for, but she was offering a new one, okay.
She's making so many mental notes, which will most definitely come in handy in the future. He can pat himself on the back for giving her this newfound perception, when it still pays off long after it's gone. The kisses do descend eventually, the mental image almost true as she presses the kisses to his collarbone, the second button no longer closed, giving her more access.
Sophie's so ridiculously sensitive. The right touch just melts her brain into a puddle, kisses cloud her best judgement, and the way her entire body tenses and her breath shakes from the intensity of just a single touch gets sent straight to his brain, front seat, the way the aurosal makes her skin tingle in slow motion so he can enjoy it fully.
This slow shit is going to kill her. Physically, emotionally, she hates when he's right.)
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Pfft. You wanna edit the timer? Be my guest.
Quentin leans his head back with a smug little grin as she works her way further down to his collarbone and lower. She'll find that his chest is also not especially sensitive, though that doesn't make attention paid to it any less pleasing. But that's more of a "soothing his wounded insecurities" type of thing. Which, to be honest, is what a lot of this whole "relationship" is about, at least on his end. Is that his second biggest turn on? Apparently.
He finds a nice place along the side of her torso to rest his hand, just lightly moving his fingers across her skin. He'll decide how much he feels like distracting her when she answers his question about the timer.]
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If Sophie were asked what this whole thing is about, she wouldn't really know how to answer. She doesn't think about these things, God forbid that both of them stop to think — she knows for a fact that she likes it, and that's all the thinking about this "relationship" she is willing to do.
The timer gets a second line, counting 5 whole minutes, copied and pasted to his sight. Clothes are currently annoying her, so she takes a second from her descent to rid herself of her top so he has more space to roam. It's not verbal confirmation, but it should suffice.
The rest of the buttons receive a similar treatment, some fumbling, kisses that intensify if she catches any reaction that she likes. Pants should be the next thing.)
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Dare I ask what the timer is for?
[She's pretty close to her goal is all he's saying. Close enough that he takes a break from touching her to raise his hips a bit and shimmy his pants and boxers down over his ass. She can figure out how to get them the rest of the way off herself, since she's taken it upon herself to be on clothing removal duty. He sure as hell hopes she doesn't plan to spend five minutes hovering at his naval, because despite the whole "slow" routine they agreed on he's pretty sure they would both go insane. Neither of them are especially patient people in general, and the anticipation burning in his brain is making his patience start to fray.]
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Which, well, again, very unCuckoo-like. She could ruin him. Make him so impossibly impatient that he melts in her hands. Beg, want her more and more with each touch, because that's what she's perfectly good at. Puddle him. It's not what she does, nor something that ever crosses her mind when she's with him.
With his question, there's a smile that comes to her face that tells him that, no, he daren't. He'll see. It's how long she'll take this slow routine for with him in her mouth, so she begins. Experimental, slow, and yet so incredibly thorough, her mind attuned to the detailing and to his own, seeing what works for him best and what doesn't, because she's going to hone it.)
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Oh, fuck.
[Quentin drops his head back against the couch with a strained noise and closes his eyes for a second or two to get his breathing under control, his hand moving to the top of her head. He's not putting any pressure on her, just grounding himself for now.]
Hold on—just... let me—
[This slow shit is excruciating, but at least it's helping him keep his mind more or less clear, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't bother cuing her—she's connected to his mind, which means she's fully capable of finding that delicious sweet spot between "too much" and "not enough" without his guidance. Maybe at some point during the next five minutes he'll want more direct involvement, but for now he's fine letting her steer.]
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She likes doing it, although she's blocking the pleasure sharing specifically so not to get distracted from her own bubble of enjoyment. He feels too damn much, which is often great, but right now she wants to work in the perfect window she found him asking for.
When he's more stable? What she sends him is what she feels, one of those moments where she feels comfortable letting him know something with enough plausibility to her thoughts. It's more of what she had confirmed before she started — how much she enjoys him without conditions, expectations, or need for power or control, how the sound of his breathing is almost making her foresake the timer, impatience and desire raw, wordless, but more than anything, genuine.
She knows he likes knowing, hearing straight from her — hence why he asks her to talk. She can open a single exception for today only and tell him without the need of making him go through a rollercoaster of her being difficult.
Just today.)
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Shit—fuck—yeah, that.
[Sophie's being a team player and letting him feel how much she wants him without making him work for it, so he'll do her the favor of forcing her to acknowledge what he wants. She's getting away with just a "that" this time. You're welcome, Sophie.
He tilts his head down again and pulls her hair away from her face so he can make eye contact as she's working him with her mouth. The visual is exquisite, but even better is the hunger in her expression.]
Keep doing that. Stay slow. Slow's good.
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Months ago, everything about them today would be unimaginable, she assumes for both of them. The honesty on her end, the lifting of vetoes on his, the idea of giving just because, well, yes.
His hand on her hair does bring her eyes to his, accurate in perception, but it also comes with a small smile hiding on the corners of her lips before she descends fully.
One minute.)
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He tightens his fingers in her hair ever so slightly, nudges his hips gently upward, and looks down at her questioningly. Not that he's completely sold on the option he's presenting. If she prefers to drive him over the edge completely unassisted, that's fine with him too.]
Home, ah—home stretch. Yeah? How do you...?
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She also senses the uncertainty on his end over his actions — it's fine. If he keeps it mindful as he currently is, she has no qualms about it, which she easily sends to his brain as confirmation. Who would have thought that sex fixed their communication issues, look at that? Quentin might be the person (hivemind aside) she's communicated with most her entire freaking life, what in the actual fuck. Didn't she use to loathe him? How things change.
Sophie knows he's close, which makes the way he puts it bring a smile to the corners of her lips again. Obviously, she is unable to reply to him in the same vein.)
/Your call./
(Read: she really doesn't care. Efficiency and ease means she just swallows, there's no place to spit, anywhere else makes a mess, but, really, whatever happens happens. She's fine with the alternatives.)
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[For all of it, apparently. He smirks, even if it's a little lopsided and breathless. Cool.
He uses the hand in her hair to push her head down at the same time as he rocks his hips, the movement experimental and mindful of her comfort. Then he repeats it a few more times, trying to find a rhythm, but... Hmm. Sure, he groans openly every time she takes him fully, but it's not enough, and he makes a frustrated noise. Forty seconds.
There have been plenty of times where what he prefers is to be selfish, to take his pleasure with her just along for the ride. But this? This only happened because she wanted it. Wanted him. No sex is ever really selfless for telepaths, but this is about as close as anyone could get to that: she gets off on him getting off, and he gets off on her wanting to get him off, and also a blowjob is involved there somewhere.
He looks down at her, thinks, and... lets go of her hair. Moves his hand to the couch.]
Changed my mind. [He tries to shrug nonchalantly. And fails. Whatever.]
Do your worst.
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Okay. First things first is to intensify what is already intense — his perception, but she'll filter it to dim everything else that isn't coming from her so there's no stimuli that could shift his focus. Secondly, a gentle edging. Everytime she descends, he's closer to a moving goalpost that moves just an inch away from him. Third is physical, amping up speed and intensity with each time she takes him.
Ten seconds. Then she lets go of the second item on her list. He's free.)
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She takes him again and again, faster and faster, and the instant she allows him to release he does. But the bonus of asking for this? Of the timer? It means he has enough spare brainpower set aside so he can shove his pleasure into her brain. They almost always go together, after all, so it's only fair that she get at least an echo of the spectacular orgasm she gave him.]
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Holy shit, at least it was an echo. She blocked his pleasure receptors from their telepathic synch for two reasons — one, because piggybacking on it was not the point of it. It was, you know, for her, and for him, different sources of delight that were not tied to physical pleasure on her end. Second, because holy shit, she knew it would distract her, her hand moving to squeeze the nearest cushion so she can swallow in peace and ride it out, her breathing hitched and her brain a little fried from the sudden release of dopamine it wasn't expecting.
And she's back up, trying to fix her breathing before looking at him again, trying not to laugh in joy because... Wow.)
Hey. Alive?
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Pretty sure I am, yeah.
[He pries his fingers out of the death grip they had on the couch cushions, flexing the stiffness out of his joints, and then stretches his arms up languidly. When he can move without wanting to die, he kicks off his pants and pulls up his boxers.]
Just thinking about how I'm gonna return the favor.
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(She'd be much more melted mush than this after a round, right now she's at a 30% mush rate, since she attacked him. The kiss she presses to his temple is brief before she fishes back her cardigan, not bothering with the top.
Oh, right, she has to return his brain to normalcy. Sorry, someone distracted her, there he goes. With an eye roll and a smile, she gives him a little kick with no strength to it whatsoever — he doesn't have to. There was plenty of enrichment for her, too.
Since the plan today is to chill for fucking once, she's not concerned about the timer that still runs. Let him rest a little, it's not like guys work like girls anyway. She knows he's gonna need to breathe for a while.)
Share with the class. You want some coffee?
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Well, the obvious is out. [Despite his "evolving" stance on receiving, giving is an entirely different can of worms. She's vetoed that one herself too.]
There's always my first idea.
[He taps his temple with a sly look before folding his arms behind his head and turning back to look at the ceiling.]
Gotta say, I don't like that the score's not even. I wanna fix that before I'm back to full functionality, so to speak.
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(Maybe one day she'll feel secure enough for it. Things change here in the little bubble they quietly inhabit, but as for now? It's still too uncomfortable a thought for her to backtrack on, and she's sure it is for him, too.
His first idea being their stupid horny Olympics, she assumes. It's not a bad one, and it's better than just sitting around idly until male biology cooperates with them. He doesn't have his niche little hobbies in her room, and he isn't so fond of games to truly appreciate the wonders she has in her drawers.
Interesting, though? The comatose she requested for the scheduling mishap does seem reachable if they keep at it.)
So, back to trying to distract me. It isn't the worst idea you've had. I just got a little distracted.
(Not like she's going to let him live through it either.)
Okay. Let's fix the score, you're on. Get to the desk while I find my nail polish.
(She's already waving in dismissal the very likely quip about finding something in the mess that is her room.)
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[She gets up, and Quentin grabs her wrist to stop her.]
Not that first idea. Unless you wanna add another hour to that timer before I can use both of my hands properly. I meant my other first idea. You know.
[He gently strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist and reaches into her mind to light up every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. And yes, he does look impossibly smug. As usual.]
The one where I get you off like this. Then we'll be even.
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Technically, the sentiment is similar — giving, to put it broadly, although his initiative comes with score-settling to back it up. That feels... Much, much more comfortable for her to put that physical distance between them, it allows her more freedom to play around right back at him and distract him if he gets way too damn close. It's an acceptable loophole, and she'll figure out how she feels as they go.
There's never any real defense or pushback that isn't petty, expected foreplay from her when he reaches, and this time is no different. Free-flowing, she feels the warmth travel from her spine down, eyes closing so she can let out an exhale.
If she was ever on the fence before, that smug grin pulls her right back into action. Unsure whether he knows that works for her, or if that's just him in general, but either way.)
Deal.
(Once she's sitting back where she had been, she's just diving for a heated kiss so she can wipe the smug off his lips.)
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He returns the kiss, but doesn't touch her aside from the hand still on her wrist. She's allowed to touch him all she wants, he's arbitrarily decided, but he only gets the wrist. Every game needs rules, even if they're ones he just made up. The challenge here isn't how he can touch her, it's how he can make her feel him touching her without actually doing it. Like the invisible kiss to the sensitive part of her neck. Or the hands that aren't there sliding down her back, sending more of that warmth down her spine.]
/How's that?/
[As if he doesn't know.]
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He doesn't need to state the rules; she's already understood them from the fact that his hands aren't perfectly locked in the curve of her waist, not on her thighs, nor anywhere but the wrist he took. That's fine by her, actually. If he had forgone kissing, then she'd be in trouble, but he didn't — it means she gets to enjoy it in addition to the very real (to her) touches he's giving her, a smile forming against his lips as she lets out a sigh.
He knows she loves telepathy. Knows this works for her perfectly, but she just has to be a little difficult even if her spare hand on his cheek caresses skin, and she fights the grin from widening as she continues the kiss.)
/Jury's still out./
(Nope, jury likes it. The jury approves. She knows he knows.)
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/What if I've got additional evidence to submit?/
[Not how court works, but he doesn't expect her to nitpick the logic of stupid banter. Especially when he lightly rubs his pointer finger over the back of her wrist, which should—if he's as amazing as he thinks he is, and let's face it, he is—give her a nice teasing little jolt down her spine. And, more importantly, a really entertaining reaction for him to enjoy.]
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Wait, is he the defense or prosecution — this is so stupid that it finally makes her give in the chuckle she was fighting before, thus breaking the kiss.)
Seriously, you gotta stop making me laugh, I can't kiss and laugh and talk.
(Do not though, that's honestly one of the top tier things she enjoys.
Oh. That's what the additional fuck he was doing. Rewiring nerves. Unexpected, it pulls a small breathy moan from her, still close enough that he can enjoy the microexpressions of 'I like this, but also fuck you'. It includes the nose crinkle.)
... Sneaky.
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[It's very convenient that him making her laugh is one of her favorite things, since trolling her is one of his favorite things. So nice when things like that work out.
Anyway, speaking of things working out, he just has one or two more nerves to patch into aaaand there. Done. The little breathy noise she made is good, but he can (and has) gotten much, much better sounds out of her.]
Sneaky? No idea what you're talking about. Well, unless you mean this.
[Psychic hands slot on her waist the way his real ones have a dozen other times that they've done this, and while there's no actual hands pulling her against anything, no actual grinding happening, the way he presses his thumb to the underside of her wrist should theoretically come with a similarly pleasant type of friction. Theoretically because, well... how's he supposed to know what any of this shit is going to feel like to her until he tries it? None of this is an exact science or anything. Just a lot of experimentation. Sexy experimentation.]
You mean that?
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(The only reason why she doesn't answer with the most mature rebuttal of 'you're a skill issue' is because that's a very, very dangerous thing to say to a man who has direct control of your nerves and a mission he's very dedicated to.
An eye roll has got to suffice.
They're different when it comes to telepathy. Sophie's approach is much more traditional, but even before she knew she was an Emma Frost clone, she had been learning under her — which means that illusioning, pulling out desires and wants to use, and more sensual, sensory, and psychological approaches of how to use one's mind are her usual go-to. Which, well, it's all fine, but it is very contrasting with Quentin's more analytical, computer-like thought process. Of course he's moving her nerves around, restructuring her pathways so he could use her wrist as a pleasure joystick. Because of course he is.
If anything, she can't ever say she's gotten bored with him. Irritated, annoyed, baffled, fond, occasionally mushy, and detrimental to the brand — yeah, sure, whatever. Bored is kind of impossible.
It works, yes, not like he isn't going to know by the fact she attempts to ground the sudden surge by kissing him again, a louder noise muffled. She's too fucking sensitive, like he doesn't know, and the hand that rested on his cheek is now to his shoulder, because she needs a place to hold.)
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He's thankful for the residual lazy, heavy feeling in his limbs, because without that it'd probably be a lot more tempting to actually touch her with his free hand. But as it is? He's perfectly happy to let her muffle her moans with his mouth and hold onto his shoulder while he plays with her brain. And play he does, continuing to rub her wrist with his thumb as he moves her hand up and into a convenient place to tangle into his hair if she's so inclined. That's just a treat for him, honestly. Is it cheating a little? Yes, but he made up the rules so who cares.]
/Ouch. And I'm being so nice, too! You're not gonna make me have to get mean, are you?/
[Oh, right, and that whole sensitive thing? Well, the invisible hands grip her waist just the way she likes it, and he adds a bit of firm psychic pressure between her legs. But not the feeling of fingers there—no, no, that's amateur shit. What he gives her is pure stimulation, a sensation that's strengthened by any movement of her hips, which the hands at her waist as well as a bit of (very not hidden or sneaky) telepathic suggestion encourages. The nerves he rewired to her wrist are a more general spark of "good" throughout the most sensitive parts of her body. Add in what he's doing downstairs, and he expects her to be putty quite soon.]
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Also, this position is starting to get uncomfortable. She just breaks the kiss to climb to his lap, forehead to forehead as she smirks at the comment he sends her mind.)
Just remember I'm horribly vindictive.
(Welp. What a place she decided to be when he does all the telepathic bullshit he is. It's not the suggestion that makes her move, it's the chasing of feeling that she does instinctively when it first happens.
Congratulations, she's loud again, hiding her face on his neck to press her lips to it in kisses, the hand in his hair pulling a little stronger. Give her two minutes, give or take, but just because she can? She'll send an echo of what she is feeling straight to his brain.)
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Easy there. Trust me, I'd be just as hot and bothered as you if biology would let me.
[For a brief moment, his hand moves from her thigh to slip his fingers just below her the waistband of her shorts, but... No. Too easy. And she said that whole thing about being vindictive and blah blah blah. His hand returns to the couch, but now he's got a nasty little idea brewing in his nasty little skull.]
Sorry the real thing isn't available yet. Guess you'll have to make do.
[See, they've done this more than enough times for him to know what it feels like on her end when he's inside her. So that's what he adds next, psychic "thrusts" automatically syncing to whatever pace she's setting with her own movement. Overkill? Almost certainly. But hey, he warned her. Kind of.]
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(Women rock, see, she'd be fine.
Just kidding, no, she'd possibly be overstimulated too. She tends to be after, they usually don't give each other much of a break. Hence why there are breaks, and naps, and stupidity between rounds. How they manage to be this horny is proof that the spirit is truly unbreakable.
She didn't really climb to his lap to bring him into this mess, at least not completely — but for positioning, thank her later for saving their neck from being too sore, but whatever. Not enough brainpower to fall down into that stupid argument.
The movement of her hips are soft, slow, mostly because otherwise he's going to kill her. It's way too familar, and she's already plotting her revenge for another day as she senses herself come closer. It's when she knows she's about to that she leaves his neck to place a gentle kiss to his lips, letting the sound of pleasure vibrate against the skin before...
She's beaming, a little shaky and spasmy as the pleasure runs through her every nerve, her hand on his shoulder gripping as she rides it.
The attempt to breathe is obvious, and what comes out in chuckles is, well, a fucking lie.)
God, I hate you so much.
@jaycetalis | text (timey-wimey date/time) ➞ @kidomega
I'm putting together a contact sheet for those of us with abilities to be able to reach out to each other easier, since we're fairly spread out for this mission. Care to volunteer?
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to answer your question: duh. i told you, superheroing is what i do, and this world is like the slightly more boring version of mine. doesn't even have the savage land. damn shame.
wait hold on "those of us"? thought you were a no-powers loser?
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Looks like this "boring" version of Earth decided to give me some.
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i traded the arctic dinosaur island for you getting powers? lame.
okay fine, what powers did you get? and who's on your roster?
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I'm still figuring them out, but I can manipulate my own gravity and the way I interact with inertia. Somewhat.
Roster's still "up in the air."
[It's a pun. Because gravity. He's going to be insufferable about this.]
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whatever. make sure you've got julian keller on your list. hellion. ignore the edgelord codename, he's just like that. telekinetic, tough as hell, good instincts. trust me, you want him on your squad.
as for me, back home on my team i gather intel, run comms, psychic defense, that kinda shit
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Alright, noted. I'll send him a message next.
Something I hope you'd be willing to do here?
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great. he'll be a complete dick probably, but if you end up with a team of amateurs you'll be glad to have the asshole around
uh yeah obviously. why'd you think i mentioned it? for my health???? no. just please try to put together a halfway competent squad for me mkay? preciate it
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[He does like puns but now he has to pretend he doesn't just for this conversation.]
As long as he's providing results, I don't care if he has an attitude. See: you.
Given that at least half of the people who came here from Etraya are likely "no-powers losers" like you said, there's going to be a learning curve.
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ok wow?? uncalled for???
[Says the guy who just recommended someone he said was an asshole. But that's different!!]
fine whatever i guess i'll babysit you newbies. but you better not waste my time. you're just lucky i can monitor you nerds from anywhere on the planet so you're welcome. now ask all your dumb questions about my powers so we can work together or whatever. i know you're curious.
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I can't make any promises for anyone else, but I won't waste your time. I hope you understand that I respect your experience in this field in the way I would respect a professor, and I want to learn how to use my abilities safely and effectively.
When you say monitor us, do you mean you know where we are at all times? Are you able to observe us at all, or know our status? For example, if I'm unconscious, would you know?
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it means i can sense just about every brain on this planet. you want me to track locations, vitals, etc?
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[He doesn't agree. He's been trying to be a superhero his entire life. Also distracted from answering Quentin's question;]
That's... a lot. Just, all the time? How do you hear yourself think?
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[Because it's so obvious what that means.]
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i run a shared mental network using my brain as a hub, connected to anyone else i decide to add to it. self-sustaining so it doesn't require me to pay much attention to it. auto-filters all the boring crap like surface thoughts, alerts me if there's anything wrong, works as team radio and shared knowledge database as needed. pretty advanced stuff, not to toot my own horn.
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[And he means it, genuinely.]
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But also consider this: Quentin doesn't actually know how to accept a genuine compliment???]
yeah
i mean obviously
i told you. genius.
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I can't imagine how you do all that without burn out.
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it's pretty simple really. my mutation is speaking "brain". that includes everything brains do, like all the shit you don't know it's doing. i route stuff through my autonomic nervous system, piggyback off all those background processes but leave them open to move over to manual control if i want. you know, like breathing. or blinking. plus secondary mutation: my brain processes at an accelerated rate.
in other words i'm built different
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couldn't be me
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if i were feeling uncharitable i'd say all the other telepaths i've met are unoriginal hacks who just copy each other's boring, uninspired, derivative methods of using their powers with a few minor yet ultimately negligible differences. my demographic is sadly lacking in freethinkers. the irony is staggering.
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[Buddy.]
Are you including Sophie in that?
[Aren't you friends??]
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my dude she's a clone of a different telepath and (formerly) in a hivemind of 4 other identical telepaths. "unoriginality" isn't a bug it's a feature
and before you get all high and mighty at me i recall you yourself made some disparaging remarks about people reinventing the wheel. now what do you suppose "the wheel" is in a powerset that includes access to and control of any brain? if you had to guess.
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Reading minds and influencing thoughts. Creating illusions, hallucinations, mind-control. All things you can do, I'm assuming.
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can do. have done. it's the most obvious shit to do with telepathy, and most telepaths don't consider doing anything different. so before you @ me just remember i'm throwing shade at a bunch of assholes who spend their lives getting better at manipulating and being nosy.
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And I'm not asking for moral justification for why you think you're better than them. You proved your point when you described your accomplishments, everything beyond that has been unnecessary.
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you asked why i'm the only telepath who does what i do. would you rather i say i'm just smarter than the rest of them? the "unoriginal" thing seemed less mean.
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girlfriend.*I think anyone would prefer you to just say you're smarter than call them "boring, uninspired, and derivative." There's a way to convey your skill without demeaning others.
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fine, i (a true iconoclast, a quintessential recusant) am more perceptive, innovative, and avant-garde than all of my conventionally talented and perfectly average peers.
better?
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okay well i was being sarcastic but you know what i'll take it. as long as we can agree that i'm amazing.
so am i installing this subroutine in your brain or what
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[His distaste for Quentin's manners is entirely separate for his appreciation of his skill.
...Wait, what?]
I didn't know I needed to have anything put in me.
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[Yes, he realizes Jayce very likely has never seen Alien. Does he care? Nope.]
how the hell did you think i was going to passively monitor you? i gotta patch you into my network
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Sophie can find me without doing that.
[You can practically hear the pouting.]
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i can spy on you manually and waste my valuable time listening to all your thoughts and shit OR i patch you in and let the part of my brain that makes sure my heart's beating keep a metaphorical eye on yours too. your choice.
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Can you remove it? Once this is over?
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a. NOT spy on you at all and have to scan through all the other minds to find you. pros: i'm not in your head. cons: i might miss something that happens to you
b. keep a mental eyeball on you at all times. pros: won't miss anything. cons: i gotta listen to your brain constantly?? no thanks
c. install telepathic subroutine. pros: i can keep track of you and don't have to listen to your surface thoughts. cons: ?????? there are none
and yes i can remove it but again it's literally just a shortcut for what i can already do all the time
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[Look, Jayce, you hurt his feelings!! Don't you feel bad???]
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[He doesn't know how else to explain it. Installing something implies finding a place to put it, and what if that opens a door to some of his worst thoughts possible? What if it shows Quentin a memory he's tried to bury? What if it shows every imperfection he's tried to hide?]
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buddy i've been waltzing through brains since i was prepubescent. why the hell do you think i'm such an asshole? people sucks and their brains suck. i'm sure yours sucks the regular amount.
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Don't get nosy. That's all.
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you ever hurt any kids?
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What makes you say that?
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you gonna answer the question or not?
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Quentin generously gives Jayce a full 15 minutes to reply before just using telepathy. He was already humoring the guy by texting him in the first place, and this is precisely why he prefers thoughts. That's 15 valuable minutes of his life wasted!]
/Word of advice: don't leave a telepath on read./
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... Okay.)
/... Ugh. I was here first, you know./
(She's gonna have to scan so much to find this Topside asshole again, but fine. Jayce left Quentin on read? So, all things considered, from her vast experience, Quentin most likely stepped on something Jayce doesn't want to talk about. Jayce did that thing where he ignores it or redirects it, and now Quentin is going to squeeze him for it.
Fun. Good. He needs enrichment. She'll get the tea later, maybe.)
/Just patch me through when whatever the fuck ends./
cw: child murder
/Sophie, wait, come back-/
[And she's gone again. Dammit. Fine. He's giving it up.
He doesn't say yes, still. He just thinks of that kid's face, the look of shock as he spits out blood from the force of Jayce's electric cannon, and the way his body limply falls down and down and down until there's a sickening crunch. The way the child still didn't die from the impact, but only once Jayce was there kneeling next to him did light leave that kid's eyes. Like he wanted to make sure that Jayce knew he did this.
Jayce still doesn't answer, even as that memory replays in his head, as vivid as if it happened yesterday.]
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Quentin ignores Sophie for now and watches the memory. At first he just views it through Jayce's eyes—the kid coughing, falling, wheezing out his final breaths—but when it reaches its conclusion he pauses the scenario, smoothly inserting himself into it and taking the place of... uh, some butch lady with big robot gloves and basically the same haircut as him?? Huh. Okay. Whatever. Quentin crams his hands into his pockets and approaches Jayce as he's kneeling on the floor and looks down at the kid with a sombre sort of detachment.]
/What happened?/
[He doesn't sound judgmental or horrified, at least. More just... tired.]
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[It sounds like he wants to be more biting about this than he actually does.]
/This is.../
[He gestures around. Other bodies show up, the chemtanks he fought alongside Vi. They liter the ground behind him, about a dozen of them. The purple glow from the Shimmer tank to their right makes the shadows cast look strange.]
/What happens when Hextech is used wrong./
[His mind's an open book right now. This is one of the only things he tries to keep buried- there's only one other memory that he'd fight hard to stop Quentin from seeing. He remains kneeling in front of the kid and closes their eyes, as he did before.]
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/I didn't ask for an ethics lesson. I asked what happened./
[You don't mind him taking a stroll around your traumatic memory doing some CSI shit, do you Jayce? Sure you don't. Moreover, what are you going to do about it? That's right, jack shit.]
/Let's see... Big hammer. Lady with the big fancy robo-fists. Bunch of dead guys, and... I'm assuming the kid wasn't your target, so that means there was collateral damage./
[He pauses briefly, just to see what reaction that "collateral damage" comment gets.]
/Lemme be more specific. If the kid wasn't the target, why was he here?/
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Awful, isn't it? Losing a loved one.
It sputters out of existence after that line echos throughout the room.]
/He worked here./
[Jayce looks up now, and looking down at both him and Quentin are about three dozen children, mixed in with the adult factory workers.]
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He looks up when Jayce does to see all the workers. Damn it, why's there always a whole gaggle of kids in the way when this kinda shit happens? Every fucking time. Ugh. Okay, so the kid being here wasn't an accident. Quentin walks over to the tank of what could conceivably be the same shit as what's in those armor things, and his nose crinkles in a brief sneer.]
/Kids don't sign up to work at the ominous glowing goo factory because it's a fun weekend. Somebody put these kids here. Who was it?/
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Jayce gets to his feet.]
/Does it matter? You got your answer. I did./
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/If I got my answer, I wouldn't still be here./
[He sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes.]
/But I guess you have a point about wasting time. Fine. Let's skip to the good part./
[Quentin waves his hand in a circular motion, and the memory rewinds, flashing rapidly through the events in backwards order until Jayce is... on a train? Seems as good a place as any. Looks to be before any fighting kicks off, at least, and all of Jayce's good little soldiers are motionless in the compartment. Quentin himself is chilling, leaning against the wall next to the door. He takes off his glasses to wipe some smog and crud onto his shirt. God, this place is filthy.]
/Alright, Hammer Time, here's the real question. Say you know what you know now, but you can't change anything. No doing anything different, saving anybody, any of that shit. What do you do?/
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/If I can't save anyone, then what's there to do differently?/
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/Okay, okay, guess I didn't explain. I was going somewhere with this back there, but somebody got impatient. Eh, whatever. Let's try this again./
[He jerks a thumb at the door to the train.]
/Only thing you can do differently is not get out. In other words, I'm asking you if you'd do it again. You know, whatever you accomplished in there. Was it worth that kid dying?/
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[He looks over at Quentin, with a slow shake of his head.]
/Not even a little bit. If I knew any of this would have happened, I would have had this train take us right back up./
[Vi would have been furious if he did that, but she wasn't going to be happy until Silco was dead.]
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/Good answer./
[Quentin snaps his fingers, and they're back in that office Jayce visualized way back when he was getting psychic defense lessons. Ah, good times, right? Good memories? Sure they are. Anyway, Quentin has found a table to lean nonchalantly against with his arms crossed.]
/Alright, Catholic Guilt, guess I've tortured you enough for you to have earned an explanation. You want it, or do you want me to fuck off?/
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/Just tell me./
[Whatever sarcastic comment he could make in return doesn't actually make it to fully formed thought. He doesn't have it in him to be sassy right now.]
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[It's almost like people don't enjoy being badgered into revealing one of their worst memories by a rude little shit invading their mind. But... no, that can't possibly be the case. Obviously Jayce is just overreacting. Quentin rolls his eyes and leans casually against a table, idly inspecting his fingernails.]
/Look, mutation? It's a bit of a crapshoot. Sure, you might get the power of being the sexiest guy in every room, but you might also get, I dunno. Fish face. Or... excreting nitroglycerin out of every orifice. Maybe little Timmy's X-Gene just activated at the tender age of 12 and—uh oh!—he just farted and leveled a city block. Enter humanity's response./
[Quentin gestures at the window, where the face of a massive robot appears. A computerized voice says MUTANT DETECTED, and the robot's hand raises to reach for Quentin, but he snaps his fingers, and it freezes. His posture stays as pointedly nonchalant as ever, despite the giant murderbot, but there's an edge of disdain to his voice, and his lip twitches into a faint sneer.]
/I've seen a lot of sick fucks come up with a lot of bullshit to justify hurting kids. I had to know if that was you./
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/Well, now you know. That's the worst of me./
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He could just leave it at that. Let the guy stew in his own brain. Have his little pity party. Dude's clearly feeling not so hot right now, and that's largely Quentin's fault. Which kinda sucks. Not that Quentin regrets putting him through the wringer, but... you know. Also Quentin is just objectively bad at comforting people.
So... Yep. It's decided. He should just leave because he has no connection to this asshole and his stupid sad sack guilt bullshit and even if he did Quentin is not the guy who can make anyone feel better except by saying "it could be worse".]
/Yeah, well, your dead kid bodycount's still lower than mine. And one of mine was Sophie./
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Hope and Julian are gone.
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Fortunately, he's got other, more important, shit to talk to Nate about. Certain rumors he's heard about guys with glowing eyes muttering ominous bullshit about "understanding" or showing people "a different perspective."]
/Gone or dead, yeah. I've done a half dozen psychic sweeps of the planet and got nothing. Well, nothing except some freaky psychic influence floating around the telepathic landscape. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?/
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( telepaths and all. never mind omegas. )
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Sigh.]
/Look, man, I know you've been fucking around in people's heads. You gonna tell me why, or are we doing this the hard way?/
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/If you must know, one of the assholes whose brainmeat you fried has been pretty chatty about the cool guy with a glowing eye he met who had some funny things to say about free will. You wanna share with the class what you told him?/
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( telepaths. )
You mean you don't already know? I find that hard to believe.
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Nate's always been moody. Had a wee bit of a god complex, a hefty amount of arrogance. Likes to throw his weight around. All shit you'd expect from a guy who's powerful and never experienced the joy of being knocked down a few pegs by someone better. But this? This feels different. Which means it's probably connected to that whole alignment swapping bullshit that's been going on. Quentin's felt the tickle of it in the back of his head, like that time Scarlet Witch and Dr. Strange fucked up things with Red Skull, but he doesn't think he's been acting oddly. Then again, last time his morality switched it made him nice, so uh. Maybe better not look too closely into that.
Anyway. Yes. Nate. Guy's fucked in the head, and that's bad news for everyone.]
/Alright, fuck it. I'm already bored of this. Let's take a look under the hood, shall we?/
[Is it a good idea to give a heads-up to a morally questionable omega telepath before rappelling into the potentially murky and treacherous depths of his mind? Nope. Good thing Quentin is also a morally questionable omega telepath, huh?]
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the moment quentin goes to take a peek, something feels off about the younger psionic. off in the sense of nate's own consciousness divided and yet... not at the same time. two minds as one, one mind as two. there's something else here with them within nate's mind and quentin will discover that's it very much not just the two of them.
like a jigsaw puzzle dropped to the floor, pieces scatter across nate's mindscape and on those pieces, various images— events in time that can be quickly scanned and caught through a glimpse. a prison city, a planet destroyed, a crack within the time stream, the very planet which they find themselves on now, nate wandering the streets and looking towards something approaching. the pieces scatter so quickly it's nearly impossible to grab hold of them, but they all slide towards nate's center, as if being pulled back almost.
and there, coiled up within the center of nate's very soul, the anomaly seeking refuge in the form of attaching itself to the omega psionic. for as bright and as vast as its own existence is, it also feels very young, as if it were a child. a child whose name is there and can be felt by quentin: verity. )
nsfw. it is what it is
It was... Good. Most people don't come with an emotion switch button, but she does, and the longer it's off, the longer it takes for her to come back. For a day, she lets herself feel, get lost in a task as she thaws. It's been a lot, there are many worries floating in her mind, a lot of uncertainties, not to mention the less than pleasant trip in an evil lab she didn't sign up for. Videogames, sleep, sleep, sleep...
Second day, however? She's more herself, which means she knocks on Quentin's door. As soon as he gives an indication she can come in? A hurricane just smashes a kiss to his lips, arms around his neck — no stupid arguing foreplay, no talk, no hours of videogame and idle conversation while they're together and apart.
She's emotional, she's tired, she's stressed, she's a little traumatized, she's goddamn horny, she's missed him and his company a lot, deal with it.)
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Not that that's new. It's pretty much been the story of Quentin's whole life since his godforsaken x-gene woke up. Part of the joy of being a mutant. Everything that's happened in the past weeks—losing Julian, stupid cosmic anomaly bullshit, Sophie getting abducted and tortured—it all just sucks, but... Well, that's life. It is what it is. No use losing any sleep over it. Quentin just got this pink hair permanently, and he'd rather it not go gray, thanks.
He answers the door in person when Sophie knocks, mostly because despite his acceptance of the overall suckiness of literally everything, he can't help feeling a vague sense of restlessness. Physically getting up and opening the door is more effort than using TK or just telepathically indicating she can come in, and for whatever reason the extra steps feel... almost comforting, in a way. Normal? Ugh. Sure. But then Sophie is immediately all over him, and he stumbles back a step or two in surprise.
Oh.
Okay.
He lightly touches her mind, and... well. Turns out that faint restlessness was a pile of very dry tinder, and Sophie just tossed a match onto it. The result is a blazing mess of stress and sadness and anxiety that suddenly has an outlet, and he telekinetically slams the door shut and pushes her against it. Since she's not wasting any time, neither is he, sliding his hand down the front of her shorts.]
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Ever since they started this, she decided to be, you know, "normal". Instead of relying on her telepathy to deal with him at all times, she's been watching with her own two eyes. Some days, his stress is a wholly neglected observation she makes; other days, it's an assertive concern about someone she cares about — but all in all, she knows that he is not at his best. Fidgety. Grumpier. Snappier. Louder. More.
She can't blame him. She isn't, either. Whereas his emotions are high, hers get iced out when she feels they should be, because, hey, feeling sucks. If she can not feel for a while, why would she?
Unfortunately, that's hardly a solution. She eventually has to feel again — here she is, burning with just as much repressed anxiety that she is finally releasing. No complaints, this is exactly what she thinks they both need. If she were thinking any, she'd actually be surprised that he seemed to be.
She's not, though. Instead, she's letting a sound into his mouth, letting a leg hook around him as she pulls on his shirt to let him know she wants it off.)
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He makes a huffy noise of complaint at having to pull his hand out of her shorts so he can start hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt. Hopefully she'll take the opportunity to get rid of her stupid clothes too. Preferably as fast as possible.]
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To be helpful in this case is a two-way road — she takes away his stress even if momentarily, and in turn, it helps her out with processing, so what's there to complain about? There's a quick roll of eyes at the noise before her top and cardigan are tossed aside, lips attaching to his neck, one hand on his hair the way she knows for a fact he likes, and the other busies itself with his belt.
And just for an incentive for Quentin to get those buttons opened quicker, or her shorts out of the way faster? He gets to enjoy just how excruciatingly horny she is fed into his brain, and the fun little underlying message that she leaves with it? That it's for him.)
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He throws his shirt who the fuck cares where and yanks down her shorts, though she'll have to move her leg to get them fully out of the way. Ugh. And if she also tries to deal with his pants? That'll take, like. Forever. So for the sake of efficiency he shoos her hand away from his belt to work on getting his pants off himself.]
How're we doing this?
[Sure, Quentin is perfectly happy to fuck her right here against the door, except well. He's pretty sure he can't lift her, and he's really not in the mood to try it and find out for sure.]
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So, fine, whatever, she'll unhook her leg, take in the information that, well, it's nice to feel herself but it's not like she doesn't know, let him deal with his own pants while she gets her shorts kicked out to fuckwhere.
Her eyes scan for a moment with his question, and since he heard not a word from her, he's going to remain so. Okay, back to kissing him absolutely stupid and hungry it is, backing them up until they're by the table they tend to actually hang out when they do.
She'll sit on it, and it's pretty self-explanatory. This is not something for a bed.)
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In any case, his pants are absolutely gone by the time they make it to the table, and yes, it's quite self-explanatory from there. He slides inside her and lets out a noise into her mouth that's simultaneously relieved and hungry for more. Man, it's been a while. He doesn't move just yet, instead letting one hand slot into that perfect spot at her hip while the other grips her thigh both to tug her firmly against him and to encourage her to wrap her legs around him. Not like she'll need the suggestion, based on past experiences, but. You know.]
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Maybe she likes him, and it drives her to give a very real shit about his mental stability, or whatever.
As for her side of things, it should all be pretty easy to understand. She hasn't fucked him in a while, and going from several times a week to absolutely nothing doesn't do any good for her hormones, so can't blame a girl for wanting to get off as quickly as possible, with the person she wants to be getting off with. That paired with the knowledge what it was like to be the latest mutant guinea pig, worries about everyone's well-being, melting from all the unfeeling, the fact Quentin got fucked up trying to get her, their decreasing numbers... She's not a worrier nor an overthinker, and those are two things that she has been doing and her brain is overwhelmed by it.
Once he's in, though? The noise she lets out is not filtered at all, her arms pulling him closer while her legs take the hint. They were going to, anyway, but she digs her heel at the small of his back to get him deeper as she shifts her hips for it, too. She also doesn't move, enjoying the feeling for a moment as relief courses through her.
All the anxiety and cortisol he's feeling, though? Well, she can tell he's also moving it around, but this is the telepathic version of the shooing he did to her about his pants. She's got him, numbing the nervousness and anxiety to heighten the lust and pleasure nerves in his synapses.)
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The downside is all her poking around in his head has made it intolerable to stay still any longer. He groans hungrily, feeling all the extra arousal flood his system, and he rocks his hips sharply into her. His pace isn't too rushed—not yet—but he's by no means leisurely. On the contrary, he's finding that whatever she's doing in his brain is bringing out some of the possessive urges that spawn from somewhere in his primitive cortex from time to time, and the decrease in his cortisol has made him care less than usual. Convenient! Also convenient? The fact that he knows she kinda likes being manhandled just a little.
His hands on her waist and thigh tighten, pulling her toward him roughly with every unhurried but demanding thrust. Quentin isn't physically strong, but he more than makes up for it psychically, pushing his desire forcefully into her mind. Might as well let her enjoy the fruits of her labor, right?]
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Perhaps there is some benefit to being psychically busy, horny as hell, and having so much repressed feelings that are bubbling to the surface — if there is one thing she is not worried about, it is volume. She has to break the kiss, it's getting hard to breathe with how the noises are leaving her with every single time she moves her hips to meet his. God bless his observation skills, too, because she surely does not complain when they are having that rare moment when that particular preference of hers and his need align.
This is definitely going to be quick on her end, although it was never her intention for it to be, but fuck, man. Her legs are practically begging him to keep doing what he's doing, nails threatening to puncture, and once his desire hits her neurons? She has one mission telepathically, which is to break his brain with dopamine, so — he's giving him her own, as intense and increasing as she feels it with his own meshed into it. Added bonus? Just how close she is with each thrust, because she just thinks he deserves to feel her antecipation, as a treat.)
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He can feel how close she is, but Quentin? Quentin just got the stress in his head replaced by a manic level of lust that he's not ready to let go of yet. But she likes when he takes charge, right? When he gives in to his urge to control? So he edges her, keeping her firmly at that line of close but not close enough. Especially cruel considering he also adjusts his hands to both grab her waist and get better leverage for harder, faster thrusts. But hey, she's the one who encouraged this. It's her own fault, really. And look, he used his observation skills to figure out that she likes it a little rough. Now she gets to use hers. Surely by now she knows how he feels about begging.]
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When he's like this? It feels like he's there with here too, the same situation, the lack of resistance, just to be... And he's correct in his assumption that she likes it a little rough sometimes, lustful and undeniably real.
Observation skills go both ways. From someone who went 'don't touch my hair' to 'please touch my hair', it's a given that it's what she's doing with the amount of force she knows is okay with him, pressing a kiss to his temple as her other hand, well, that one is pressing nails against his skin — which she knows he's going to bitch and moan about being scratched as soon as he's back to baseline grumpy, but alas. Nothing she cannot handle.
It's just a lot — and she needs some grounding, because she's losing it here, to be so damn close, delirious, her breathing erratic, and not be able to reach it. She's absolutely not complaining, as torturous as it is, she wanted it to go for longer, even if it is driving her to lunacy, her hips chasing him just as hard as he chases her.
She will get to the point of begging, no questions about it. She just wants him to get as closer to climax to give it to him.)
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But Quentin is nothing if not gifted at finding loopholes. He can't claim her, but he can claim moments. Abstractions. Her moans, her nails digging in his back, her legs clinging to him, her pleasure for the next however long tonight. Those are all things he can safely declare to be his, and that impulse is what's driving him now. He's greedily taking everything he can from her, and that's the message he pushes into her mind. Maybe knowing precisely what he wants will help ground her, maybe it'll just make her more crazy. Either way it's a win.
One of his hands slides back down to her thigh, pulling it up higher around his waist and groaning at the change in angle. Shit, that's good. Okay, fuck it, he's looping his arm under her leg to rest it in the crook of his elbow. Hopefully she's flexible enough, and he's strong enough to manage it, but look, his lower back and glutes are already gonna be killing him after this so why not add more soreness. Besides, it feels really fucking incredible like this, his pace is starting to get more erratic as he gets closer.]
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She's pretty flexible, so at least it's not going to be a problem for her for now, but it does restrict her hip movement a little — which, whatever, it doesn't really stop her from doing it anyway. The end result is a Sophie that pulls his hair a little to get him out of her neck so she can kiss him stupidly, nails sinking more until she can't withstand not getting off anymore in good sanity.
Cannot believe these are the first words she'll give him today.)
/Quentin, fuck, please, let me come... I'm — it's, I — just... Let me come. Please./
(Brain broke.)
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Her climax, of course, is also something he wants to be "his". Thus the edging and begging and such. Which, honestly, he likes even when he's not in the mood to dom the hell out of her. Sue him. But today? Today he's been going a little further with everything else than he has before. Why stop now? So when she comes, he doesn't. He also doesn't stop. She'll probably be overstimulated as fuck, but you know what? Good. She wanted him like this, and if she didn't know what she was getting herself into that's on her.
In any case, he doesn't last much longer than she did, so small mercies. He grips the back of her head roughly to maintain control over their kiss and thrusts feverishly into her a few more times before he comes, which naturally his mind counts as another "claim" for his growing collection. And, well, he's not saying he went so far as to think the actual word "mine" or anything. That's a step way, way too far. But that possessive desire he shared with her that she thought was so unspeakably hot? That part of his brain is thriving right now and making sure she knows it.]
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But, it kinda is.
At least that also says that she knows what she is getting to, both with the enabling and with the encouraging. She comes, fucking finally, and it's unashamed just how loud the moan that meets his mouth is. It was so intense that she deems that time stopped for a second, sounds muffled as she does everything in her power to hold. The grip on his hair is a little stronger, but her legs tighten and spasm around him, the nails descend on his skin leaving a trail as she comes down. She has no brain to shove too much into his, but what she can do is to let it be very open in the telepathic airways — he might not want to feel hers, but he definitely is going to hear about it.
Except, well, he isn't stopping, which is a little odd, since they almost always come together, wonders of telepathy and all. She's so sensitive that every thrust feels like a whole new sparkle of joy, even if she is overstimulated, paired with the thing she likes hearing and feeling from him the most. Two orgasms, congratulations, Quire, she can barely fucking breathe, all sparkles and distant sounds in her head and she's pushing that into his as well, once she can.
She needs a moment to calm down, she feels like she has poured a bucket of serotonin in her brain, and then she ran a marathon. So, she breaks the kiss to take her hand on his hair to his cheek in a much gentler caress. She's dead, she looks like a mess, but she's glowing in her beaming smile before she realizes she really didn't put a word in the air towards him.
So, she giggles, before she comes up with the one thing in her brain once there's enough oxygen in it.)
Hey. Bath?
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And speaking of getting off, he didn't miss that second orgasm, despite his own occupying most of his brain space at the time. Safe to say that sends pleased little tingles in every single one of his neurons, and it's definitely going into his mental trophy case of wins. Also? Definitely making a note for the future. Updating his records regarding how much she can handle. You've given him too much power, Sophie. And you probably won't even regret it. Sucker.
Anyway, Quentin now has to work on trying to get back to some version of normal. First is to pull his hand out of her hair and gingerly let her leg drop back to the table. Second is to, I dunno. Figure out how to breathe again? Try to fucking see straight when his eyes refuse to focus on anything? Ugh, god. Sophie may be glowing, but he feels like he got hit by a truck. A really, really good truck, but still. Truck. He blinks owlishly as he processes her suggestion for a second.]
Yeah. Yeah, bath sounds good.
[Assuming he can in fact walk. So far so good.]
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By the looks of it though, mission accomplished? Of course, it won't last too long; that's not how hormones and neurons work, but he seems too tired to even consider worrying, so she wins. Her legs unhook, and she moves as to get off the table, making a face at how tight her muscles feel. Oof. Bath is the second best idea she had in this room today, no doubt about it.
Once her hands rub on her face for a few moments as she tries to get some synapses going, the first thing is to get him one of his candy bars, because he probably needs it, hand it to him with a kiss to his shoulder before she's off to run the bath.
If he comes with her, she's mostly quiet, with that little crinkle in her nose and a smile not at all hidden in the corners of her lips as the water fills the tub and when it gets to a reasonable level, she's in.)
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Quentin is less visibly wrecked by the time he gets to the bathroom, but his veins are still thrumming with enough oxytocin to keep his stress levels down. For now, at least.]
Fucking hell.
[Yep, that's it. That's all he's going to say as he eases into the tub on the opposite end from her. And once he's in, he's gonna lean back and just. Relax for a bit.]
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There's a quiet exhaled chuckle for the swear that leaves him. Beautiful words, all very touching.
At least he feels... Better, she supposes?)
We're gonna feel this tomorrow for sure.
(When her soul returns to her body, she'll go join his side of the tub. Just. Not now.)
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[He arches his back, stretching sore muscles for a moment before sinking down into the water with a sigh. Ah, yes, that's better. Makes him feel alive again. He's sure they'll go another round at some point—it's that kind of day—but until then he's going to enjoy the warm water melting away any residual tension in his body.]
And anyway, you weren't the one standing the whole time.
[Yep, it's back to complaining. At least he's more relaxed now than he has been.]
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But it's normal level complaining that he's engaged with, baseline and something she's used to and doesn't even bat an eye at.)
Ooooh, nooo, too bad we can't take it back. How unfortunate.
(Yeah, they're alive-ish.
Stuff is over at his side, so she moves, pressing a kiss to his jaw since he's in her way before she grabs the shampoo bottle.)
You think your back is gonna make it by the time we pass out?
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He closes his eyes with a vague "hmph" at her sarcastic reply and only cracks one eye open when she leans into his space with a kiss to his jaw. Ah, just grabbing the shampoo. Not his concern. He'll go back to soaking.]
Depends on when you pass out.
[Yes, "you." Not "we". He doesn't go out of his way to emphasize the difference in pronoun, not like he usually would when trolling her. Oh, he's sure she'll pick up on it and take the bait and all that. He just doesn't have it in him to really go ham on the flirty banter challenging bullshit today. That first round took the a lot of the edge off the surly mood he's been in, but he's still not totally his usual self. Probably won't be for a while, honestly. He's only in as good of a mood as he is right now because of the cocktail of post-coital feel-good shit in his system, and that won't last forever.]
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Pressure is making him snap left and right. Worry. He's repeated it in his backward way through the weeks — 'I have to do everything'. Talking isn't their thing, but she can take some weight off his shoulders with flooding his brain with hormones so he can have some relief, and taking matters into her own hands, she's got a plan.
Does it make it a little more real that she cares for him if she is taking steps to take care of him in a way she knows will work because she paid attention? Yes. Yes, it does, but it is a little less horrifying to do it at this point, and there are bigger priorities in her mind than to pay attention to the Cuckoo brain that says 'that's not very girlboss gatekeep of you'.
Also, not really subtle bait, but okay, she can play as she cares for the massive amount of hair that she has now.)
Because I'm the one bitching about being sore.
(No bite, actually. She doesn't really take all his bitching into account, and this is one of those moments she's sure they're just arguing recreationally, which good, she had no idea what to say to him after the whole hurricane Sophie ordeal.)
Remind me to get some epsom salts or muscle soreness relief next time I run supplies.
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There's an elephant in the room here: what just happened and why it happened. This wasn't one of their usual little trysts, not by a long shot. And yet here they are doing half-assed banter about being sore and her passing out and his back and just completely avoiding any deeper discussion. And you know what? That's fine with Quentin. Yeah, yeah, he hates when other people do it, but let's be real. He's always been a hypocrite. Why stop now?
And speaking of avoiding shit, he grunts in mild annoyance at her "bitching about being sore" comment. Annoyance because he doesn't have a good quippy comeback for that, of course. Which means changing the subject.]
Why're you doing that? ["That" here meaning washing her hair.] You know we're probably just going to get sweaty again.
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Sophie is sorely uninterested in even trying to get him to talk to her. It doesn't work that way, and it hasn't in a good while. What she does and is currently doing is walking towards him, and stopping at a comfortable distance. Quentin has to walk the other half, and that's something she doesn't want to have to ask of him. It's not how this works, by her own rule.
She doesn't want to discuss anything either. It's not like getting kidnapped, tortured, studied, seeing people she likes getting fucked over, losing a person, and then seeing him this stressed out isn't self-explanatory. She's not the first mutant that went through this, she will not be the last.)
It's not a 'probably', it's a 'definitely', but I don't like the feeling of dirty roots, and long hair weighs on it.
(Hence why she used just a little bit of shampoo and is only dealing with that part. Once it's rinsed, she takes a glimpse at his, sees the curl pattern already forming even if it's wet, and she just has to take one between her thumb and index to pull very gently and release.
Boing.)
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I can fix that for you. Snip snip.
[He holds up two fingers and makes a snipping motion to imitate scissors. Then he feels her encroaching on his space and opens one eye in time to see her messing with his hair. He could bitch at her for it, but... eh. He gets it, kinda. His hair's been trashed by bleach for so long it's still a little weird to have his curls back. And obviously they're amazing, so. She's allowed to ogle.]
You know, Irma [No, not using "Mindee" since, well. He knows how she feels about him bringing up other Cuckoos. At least "Irma" implies a level of unfamiliarity that, quite frankly, does truly exist.] had a sick asymmetric bob look going for a while, back in her black hair era. Side shaved clean and everything. Very edgy, very chic. Can't have dirty roots without roots. I'd know.
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(The laughter doesn't come from her finding it funny, but out of disbelief. Sir, your hair is like, a fraction of hers, and has none of the same texture. You've seen it without the styling, she does not trust it. Absolutely not.
Also, shut up, it's the boing that makes her want to play with it. Her own doesn't do that without a ridiculous amount of hairspray when she curls it. It's not like she has access to other curls to play with.)
I mean, yeah, I know, I liked it on her, but you know? I ever shave or do something like that, and then I just look like Mindee, because duh, of course I do. I wanted something mine, even Esme had her own hairstyle. I'm thinking about dyeing the inner part lilac or some shit like that, except I have never touched dye, so it's a work-in-progress.
(No Elixir, no do over restart game button. But hey, the Cuckoos did red, black, blonde. None of them did a fun color.)
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[Just sayin'. Quentin sits up more and opens his eyes fully, since he's feeling less dead now and apparently they're having a conversation. Or something. About hair. Sure. He messes with his own hair, switching between borrowing her optic nerve and glancing at the mirror across the room to get it back into the orderly-yet-tousled style he prefers.]
Also if that's your way of asking, I'll think about it.
[The part about dying her hair, he means. Obviously. See, he would've been all about it. He got really used to dying hair, and it feels weird to not have to keep track of it anymore. But also? She rejected his offer of cutting her hair. That's very rude, and he's grumpy. So there.]
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(But she can feel him using her eyes, and that actually makes her laugh. He knows she doesn't mind it, and in fact, it's so familiar that it's comforting, but she was not expecting it.
Also she wasn't asking because she isn't exactly sure what she wants. She can't undo shit now, which is Concerning to her, it has to feel perfect and only hers. She asked Josh for long hair because she could explore length, since she's always had the bob and then do things to it as time went by since she had quite a lot, and then whatever she decided, if it wasn't perfect, he could fix it.
Welp.)
If I ever decide what the hell I wanna do, that is.
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[Not mentioned here: the fact that Mindee eventually went back to the standard Cuckoo Look and gave up her little foray into individuality. Despite Quentin very much seeing a parallel to Sophie's own break from the hive mind, that whole thing most definitely goes into the pile of "Conversations We Started Fucking To Avoid Having Ever," where it will remain for all eternity.]
Whatever. The offer's out there, though I do have to insist you let me do some of the cutting. It's the principle of the matter. You understand.
[Does she? Who cares. He gets the last few curls back into place on his head and sits back again, resting his arms on the edges of the tub.]
Alright, your hair's clean and mine's all fixed. When're we gonna make 'em dirty and messy again?
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Except that thought dies so, so quickly when Quentin turns out to be the first person who ever brought that up to her face, and a snorted laugh comes out before she even notices. For fuck's sake, no, she hates that ugly laugh, fuck off.)
I had a whole point and you made me lose it, so congratulations on killing this conversation.
(At least it comes out through laughs as she pinches the bridge of her nose.)
Fine, whatever, I trust you as long as I don't see you with that buzzer. I'll think it over and let you know.
(She'd actually let him do whatever the hell he wanted, if that didn't give him way too much power, and if it didn't defeat the purpose of it being hers.
But he is getting a kiss to his cheek for it, it's a silent thanks.)
As soon as you get to bed. Go.
(No tub sex, it might be huge, but it is also going to completely obliterate their squishy bodies with position.)
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[Still, her little snort-laugh gets an amused quirk upward of his eyebrows. On a normal day, it'd probably earn her a smirk too, but. Bad mood and all.
Anyway, Quentin hoists himself out of the tub and grabs a fluffy (pink, obviously) towel to start drying off. And because he's a gentleman, he telekinetically offers one to her too. But if she decides to get out of the tub and reach for it? He'll put an arm around her waist and pull her in tightly to give her a scorching kiss before just as abruptly letting go and continuing to nonchalantly towel off the rest of his body. Look, she said no tub sex, and he's petty. Even if she is right and should say it.
Regardless, he's not going to wait around for her to dry herself off and will instead secure the towel around his waist and make his way back to the bed.]
And just fyi? I'm a fucking artist with clippers and a razor. You know how hard it is to shave the back of your own head this neatly?
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The kiss is not at all unwelcome, but it is surprising, especially with the tightness with which he holds her, and while she has to fight smile muscles, she returns it as feverishly until it's gone, earning him a roll of eyes when she figures out where it came from. She's so, so right, though, and their squishiness is just the tip of the iceberg there.
With a scoffed laugh, she moves out of the tub, watching him go and continuing his yapping routine as she dries in the bathroom, it doesn't take too long for her to follow and get on her side of bed since she's not all that concerned with her hair.)
Obviously I don't, but it's not like I don't believe you, you've had this hair since forever, chill out.
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Priorities like shifting from his side of the bed to put his hand under her jaw and kiss her again. Usually he lets her decide when to make the flirt-to-make-out transition. Because usually that's his preference. He likes to take his time, to not rush, and letting her make the first move makes him feel desired. But, well, if practically breaking down his door to kiss the shit out of him while he fucked her on a table doesn't communicate desire, he doesn't know what would. So yeah, he's feeling a little more bold today. She certainly hasn't complained thus far.
She might, however, complain when he breaks away right before either of them would need to catch their breath.]
It's pretty hard. [A beat.] Shaving the back of your head.
[See, he said he'd get back to it.]
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Today, everything feels a little different than usual; nothing about this is routine. She doesn't ever show up like she has, they don't fuck that way often, and he doesn't chase, but she's not at all complaining. Just letting things flow is fine, too, instead of sticking to predictability. Of course, she kisses him back, her hand caressing the back of his head before he breaks the kiss...
... And God, he speaks. It's so, so fucking dumb, a little cringe, and she looks at him with big eyes for a second while she processes the incredulity she feels. They were busy and he diverts them to that????
But. Well. She's also an idiot, so once the disbelief and regret morphs into amusement, she finds herself laughing, hiding her face on the curve of his neck to try and focus.)
You idiot.
(First and foremost.)
Just 'pretty'? Thought it'd be way harder when you get to a certain point.
(Idiot.)
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Hm, maybe! Only one way to find out, I guess.
[Is he still talking about hair? Who knows!
Also, in completely unrelated news, he's still wearing that towel around his waist.
(Spoilers: no. The answer is no.)]
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He keeps this stupidity going longer, and she's got every plan to shut him up, but she's busy chuckling until she can finally press her lips to one of the sensitive spots of his neck to recenter herself, and just because two of them are petty, she's adding a little bit of teeth to it. Sue her and all.
When he talks again, she comes out from her hiding with a whole attitude only to be met with a shred of smugness. It's not the full force loopsided grin that he bears whenever he makes her want to die, but it's something. That bite is replaced as she beams at him for a second — she even had a whole quip, man, about it sounding too hard, he might have to show her, or some other type of bullshit that gets lost in her mind before she realizes that's not really what she wants to do right now.
End result is the same. She kisses him stupid, that's what happens. God, she hates him and herself.)
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But hey, he's counting everything else as a win. So good for him. And her, he guesses.
That flicker of memory does spur him to kiss her harder, though, putting his arm around her middle back to tug her against him. Luckily the theme of today is all about fucking every miserable thought out of their miserable brains, and the P-word most certainly qualifies. He's grinding that shit up with all the other garbage he doesn't want to think about and using it as fuel. And while he's not letting her in enough to see all the gritty, messy details of the angst swirling in his brain, he opens up his mind for her to do what she did before—redirect his inner turmoil however she pleases. She seemed to like that last time, so why not. Plus it gives her a chance to set the "mood" as it were. You know, decide if she wants him only half-crazed or all the way. Maybe she's after something on the lazier side this round. Unlikely, but you never know.]
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That's news, he never really lets her do that kinda shit. If she were Quentin, with her track record? She'd not want that either. Not that she's thinking hard about it, aside from noticing that he's open, and taking the invitation. She'll unpack whatever the hell that means later, this is not the time nor the place and honestly, the kiss and being pulled always rewires her entire thought process anyway, driving her to glue their bodies together and hold on to him as she lets out a pleased groan. She's easy, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Between them, it tends to be a blessing.
She thought he had burned quite a lot of fuel on their first round, but apparently not nearly as much. What comes most to mind is that delectable possessiveness that he pushed into her brain, and if that's what he felt and it helped and coincidentally, what she likes, she sees absolutely no reason not to capitalize on it. Like the first time, his inner turmoil is moved gradually towards lust and pleasure, so there's no whiplash, but the second thing she does is to add an idea alongside it, because she's not just going to do whatever the fuck. If there is one thing they communicate well is kink, so here it is.
Cravings. It just feels fitting. Make him overlook everything that's pulling him down because he is entirely busy physically and psychologically needing more in addition to that dominating brain he gets on his own, and she gets, well. Look, whatever, she knows their rules by heart, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't love loopholes.)
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Point is, there's a fine line between letting Sophie have some input on how hard they're going to fuck and letting Sophie adjust him until he fucks her the way she likes. That idea she puts in his brain? About cravings? The thing is he knows a lot more about Sophie's—and Phoebe's, for that matter—kinks than he knows about his own. He can feel his head getting fuzzy with lust, but when he tries to get his mind to populate ideas for her it's just sputterings and half-thoughts he's pretty sure have a different point of origin than his own brain. Which is frustrating, honestly. Here he is just trying to live his life, vent some stress by indulging a senseless, mildly chauvinistic need for sexual dominance, and she wants, what? Specifics? For how he wants to do that??? Harsh, unreasonable, impossible, and unfair.
He makes an indignant noise against her mouth and considers saying to hell with it and rolling them so that he's on top and she's under him and just, you know. Getting to business. But no. She's going through the trouble of trying something new, so... fine. He'll engage. Or try to. He replays in his mind—and hers, just for the sake of it—the first round of the day, on the table. When he pulled up her leg, restricting her movement but letting him thrust into her better, made her beg for him, and he was rewarded with her coming not once but twice? Fuck, it made that possessive part of his brain sing. That's what he wants, and that's what he feeds into Sophie's brain. Is it more abstract than she was thinking? Probably. But look, she's an Emma Frost clone. If she doesn't know how to work with that, he sure as hell doesn't know who would be able to.]
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It's obviously not her intention to play build-a-man; she's done that before, albeit not to him, and that's not... Them. It's weird to even think of them as a 'them' sometimes, but alas, they kind of are. Instead, she is engaged in finding that fine line between something that's going to allow him to get rid of all that earthquake of worries for the time being, because there won't be any space for them there, and that she's going to find extremely enjoyable in the process. A win-win situation, as one might put it.
Naturally, she can tell he broke a little mentally, all the thoughts he halts in the middle, half-formed and confused, and maybe it's a good thing because, ugh, empathy, gross, but she cares for it and gets it. It's not like what he is proposing disagrees with her in the slightest, after all, she did come twice, and she felt so wanted.
She's a Cuckoo. People tend to want her, to varying degrees. She can hear it and loves hearing it, she can't help but love attention — this is a little different, though. So, she isn't really pushing her feelings into his brain as she would, but she's letting him take them instead if he wants to. Fits the narrative. How it was his wanting of her that made her cross the edge twice, how excruciatingly hot it felt, how her neurons felt like they were sparkling and malfunctioning with how much pleasure ran through her. If he wants to see more, she's inviting it, too.
And, well, she encourages him to go on top, too. Middle ground.)
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Well, him being on top was a given. At least to him. Letting her be on top when she's already made it abundantly clear she wants that possessive side of him? Unlikely.
Ugh, he needs to do something. Clear his head. Quentin fumbles with undoing the towel, hikes up her leg with his hand under her knee, and slides inside her with a sigh. Good. That's good. Then he rolls them so she's on her back, groaning at the sensation. Better.
Maybe doing an approximate recreation of that moment that made his brain light up like Times Square will help him dissect what specifically he liked. You know, other than just "monkey brain go brrrr". That's the logic, at least. Evidence, analysis, etc.
But yes, he does seek out in Sophie's brain what she's feeling on her end. For reasons.]
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God, she loves assertiveness. Perhaps that's the biggest difference between the two identical blondes, and the fact that this is what is being given to her makes hold onto him as strongly as she can from the rush that races through her spine, a whining moan coming out of her once he's settled on a position. Her legs wrap again, higher than usual, and well.
He wants to dig into her mind, he can, she let him already, although she's directing him a little differently. She's not pushing what she wants to feel, what she likes, but what showing exactly as it is. There's nothing remotely bad — she's embarrassingly horny just from that, again, and shit, she is still missing him. One time was not enough to satiate that; a reflex of how long it had been since she last had it. The pleasure and impatience she feels to come for him again, even if she has to throw away her pride and ask him for it. She wants him, at it turns out, it's pure and simple. He doesn't even have to look into her mind to find indications of that. She is proving it with how hard she's kissing him, how much she's clenching around him, her hand in his hair to focus, her heartbeat against his chest like a drumline.
And trying her best to be responsible with it, too, between her lustful brain and his own.)
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... He'll feel horrifically mortified at the fact that she accurately clocked the reason for his indecision and responded accordingly later. Or maybe never. Never bringing it up or thinking about it ever again would be great, actually.
Anyway, right now he's much too busy to be thinking about any of that. He sets a pace of even, deep thrusts into her, with that edge of possessiveness they both enjoy so much. The benefit of having that first round is there's "whoops I tripped and now I'm domming" this time. Nope. He may be trying to unravel the mystery of why and what specifically appeals to him about this, but at least he knows very well now that it does. This time he's scratching that itch without hesitation, pushing that "mine"-but-with-like-a-hundred-asterisks into her mind with every rock of his hips.
And speaking of her mind, he skims through the data she's giving him until he pauses at... hand in his hair? To focus? No. No focusing allowed. He grabs her wrist and shoves it down to the bed beside her head. If it's all too much for her without that bit of grounding? Good. He made her come twice before. That means he doesn't need to go easy on her. That's how it works, right? Right.]
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... And he's a whole idiot, there's also that, but alas. It means that while he is "skimming through data", she has already concluded some accidental findings, because some shit is not just programming, you see. There are benefits (or curses?) to her being Emma Frost 2.0, and her noticing exactly what she should or shouldn't do without his assistance goes right into it.
Not that she is thinking about it, nor that he will ever hear it from her unless it's something he actively reaches for, which he won't. While they have had more success discussing their relationship-between-thousand-quotation-marks, this is exactly the type of shit they were avoiding with it in the first place. To unpack on her own later, preferably far, far away from him.
Not that Sophie's in any condition to pay any attention to it today, especially not now, with a rhythm she likes and follows, even if rocking with him is challenging with her legs so far up. Her entire neural pathway lights up like it's New Years at midnight with that ownership (but not really) response that he is giving her, but what really gets the most reaction it's the fact she no longer has her hand to hold onto him. It helps her take out some of edge of anticipation, and it makes her break the kiss to let out a pleased, but needy whine now that she does not have enough ways to calm herself down and ride the pleasure more consistently.
If Quentin ever wondered how much noise she can make, well. He doesn't have to wonder anymore. They're still sweet, breathy, but she's not holding them back at all, and every now and then? She gets louder, because that's really all she has for physical focus.
She's probably waking up at 2PM tomorrow, and he doesn't get to bitch about it.)
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And then he took her hand away, and some of the sexiest noises she's ever made start pouring out of her.
And that gives him Ideas.
She wanted him assertive. For him to explore cravings, and then she gave him space to figure them out. His exploration thus far has netted nothing but extremely enthusiastic approval. He slows his hips, making a mildly disgruntled sound, which he's sure (and hopes) will pale in comparison to her reaction when she realizes he's stopping. But don't worry, it'll be worth it!]
Turn over.
[He begrudgingly pulls out and sits back to make it easier for her to move as requested, taking the opportunity to catch his breath briefly. Assuming she doesn't literally murder him for stopping, he's guessing she won't take too long. And in the unlikely event that she needs the extra motivation, he sends her the knowledge of how eager he is to be back inside her, this time in a position where she won't be able to muffle her noises with kisses or ground herself by gripping his hair or his shoulder or any of that crap. All she'll get to do is feel him. A thought which, by the way, is unbelievably hot to him.
If she wakes up before 1PM tomorrow, he will be severely disappointed.]
1/2
2/3 i lied
To just.
Make her have nothing to hold, like her body begs her to.
And then stop. Did he really just stop. He really just stopped. Did he
Is he
Wait, hold up, let her use her brain cells to drag out the information that there is no fucking way that he is not doing this for a good reason. There's literally no way. She might not be literally murdering him, but she really seriously wants to, and she desires it most when he pulls out of her.
He better give her a great reason not to.)
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It's all very short-lived and very quick in succession, at least. That wave of information coming in does the other half of convincing, her own perception that there are no winners in the current state of affairs did the rest. If it were a month or two ago, with that reasoning? The answer would be absolutely not, how else is she going to filter his knowledge of her like that?
Thankfully, people grow when having mindblowing telepathic sex with their situationship. The fact that she feels more naked now, when she is actually so doesn't feel bad at all? Can't understand it, won't think of it right now. Sophie's... Healthly curious, and surprisingly just as allured by his proposal as he is. Once she sits up, she presses a brief peck to his lips before she so kindly complies.)
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So once she's turned, he nudges her into a position where he can enter her again, giving her brain a little ping from his indicating how pleased he is. And wherever her hands end up? He's grabbing them in both of his and pinning them down as he leans over her to lightly kiss the back of her shoulder, pressing her down into the bed. So far so good. Quentin rolls his hips experimentally and oh fuck yes that tears a brand new, very slightly feral noise out of him—it's ironic that despite this being the very first position he ever suggested when they started this whole... whatever it is, they've never actually done it. Similar stuff here and there, like that first time in the astral plane, but not like this. It's for the best, though, because honestly he probably wouldn't have had the stones to pull it off before. Half-assed weaksauce top!Quentin can't come to the phone right now. Why? 'Cause he's dead (though like all dead Quentins, probably not permanently, alas).
Anyway.]
Holy fucking shit.
[He rocks his hips once, getting as deep as he can before pausing to let them both adjust to the new angle, new sensations, new everything, panting against the back of her neck.]
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He would be correct. He requested it, and she sort of gave it to him, but emphasis on the sorta. She was still with him on the physical plane, so he was subjected to all her instinctual touching. Look, while she has much more movement freedom, which she intends to use in just a minute, she can't look at him, can't hold him, or tug on him, and can hardly kiss him without them adding neck pain to the mix of sores to be dealt with tomorrow. It's a lot of deprivation of things she uses to stay sane through the sheer absurdity that is fucking another telepath. Gets a little too damn real with her free-flowing like that.
And after (what the fuck) months, she finds that she's okay. She still hasn't died from vulnerability exposure (what the fuck), and she's jittery to see what exactly this whole ordeal is going to end up feeling like, and she's not disappointed in the slightest. He's deeper, hitting things at an angle that she didn't know would feel so maddening, and that sound he makes? She's lucky to have heard it with the loudest one she has departing her in unison, a small kiss onto the skin of his hand to respond to the one he left on her shoulder.
When he rolls his hips, she finds herself grinding along without not even realizing it, taking that little break to try and get her breathing in place. She's not a huge talker, never has been, but.)
... Yeah. That's — that's about right.
(Nailed communication, 1 point to her, but that's not important, because she can roll her own hips so much freely now, so she does, once. It's a request that comes paired with the telepathic statement of how much she's longing to feel him more.)
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Speaking of, somewhere on the edges of his mind, Quentin can tell she's hesitant to give him this. Something something vulnerability. She's being cut off from everything she normally uses to ground herself. Which is scary and shit he guesses but also duh that's the point?? Anyway, he certainly doesn't intend to leave her with any regrets about doing this so whatever it doesn't even matter. She's also nudging him telepathically for more, and really? After the noise that comes out of her? Who is he to refuse??
He rocks into her and shit, better add biceps and triceps to the list of muscles that are going to be sore tomorrow because he can already tell they're gonna be burning but it'll be so, so worth the pain. It takes a few tries to find a good rhythm, trading out his previous sharp, demanding thrusts for a smoother, deeper rolling motion. Less physically strenuous (bonus) while satisfying as much as—if not more—of his need to claim her thanks to the other logistics of this position. And since he's been kind enough to give her more like she asked, he sends back to her a clear message: louder.]
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Which also means that whatever hesitation she had, albeit minimal because she works entirely on 'show me yours and I'll show you mine', is out of the window as soon as he finds a tempo to work with. It's not, well, railing, which is more than fine with her — this is hitting her spots just right and whenever there's a thrust that has her neurons sparkling, she copies it to him as a way to let him know that she's, well, fucking losing it, her hips following his and her back arching whenever she leaves out a louder sound. There are this hands in hers too, but, well, she squeezes that, then she actually might hurt him, so. Losing it it is.
The message is loud and clear, and she actually can formulate a response. He has always liked a challenge, and she has already hit her maximum volume levels, so, he wants her louder?
Make me.)
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Hold on.
"Make me"?
"Make"????????? "Me"????????
The noise that comes out of him is the breathy, obscenely horny version of a snarl, her audacity and his indignation suddenly boiling over in his head. See, he decided her pleasure, her noises, all of that shit? That's his (for a limited time, conditions apply). Who is she to say he can't have what belongs to him?
Fine. She wants to be like that? Wants to get railed instead of the nice smoother pace he found? Works for him. He tightens his grip on her hands, draws his hips back and then rocks into her hard, aiming for those angles that have gotten the most uncontrolled, needy responses for her. The whole point of this position was to fill her head with nothing but him, but clearly there's room in there for dumb challenges, and that just won't do. He responds verbally this time, close enough to her ear that she can feel his harsh breathing and hear all his low groans and the slight huskiness in his voice. And of course, every word is punctuated by a rough thrust, followed by a little grind to make sure—make sure—she feels all of him.]
I said... louder.
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Point A. The Cuckoos, Sophie not an exception to it whatsoever, she's problem number one in chronological order, have pushed Quentin as far as he could go, and Quentin has always let them, some way or another. As a Cuckoo, yes, delightful. As Sophie? It's not something she wants around her. She likes to see him stand up to her, challenge and show teeth because, well. He has a certain track record, and so does she, and there's nothing in this world that is hotter from him to her than teeth. Show her different and all.
Point B. There's something about passion that she just can't put her finger on naturally, that little part of her monkey brain that thrives on attention and being wanted deliriously. It's just new the way they're dealing with things today, and to find that she trusts him enough to navigate this shit with her? Groundbreaking news. She thought she was here helping him, but apparently, they're both figuring some shit out. Hot point, weirdly so.
Point C. Look. Conditions and terms apply to her too, just as much as they do him. It's the fact that those conditions and terms are so firmly there that she can let go of her bullshit and just relish this for a moment, because, well she likes him. Occasionally. A little. Conditions and Terms apply, so, there's also the same feeling of 'mine, situational' from her. 50/50, somehow, which is a whole pleasant area.
All this to say, holy fuck, she's spending tomorrow here too, because there is no likelihood she recovers from this so soon, with a jolt of pleasure striking her as soon as she feels that snap from his head. First of all, nice, second of all, there are not enough swear words in her repertoire to express how turned on she is right now, because all A, B, C? They all combine. The sound that she escapes her? Unholy, almost sinful with how she discovers that her maximum volume is not, indeed, her maximum volume, and she gives it to him without conscious thought — he actually makes her.
Her back can't arch any more than it already is, her eyes shutting close as she follows each and every thrust, at times pushing harder against him so she, too, can make sure he's filling her completely. Her brain no longer works, and honestly? She's not going to last much longer than this.)
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Needless to say, her reaction more than satisfies his demand for "louder," and he lets her know by giving her mind a caress of his approval, gentle in comparison to the wild clash of their hips against each other. If he had enough brainpower to consider such a thing, he would wonder if Sophie has a praise kink and whether or not that would turn her on, but a) he doesn't have the brainpower and b) he's not sure if she's physically capable of being more aroused than she currently is. Probably not. A thought which, by the way, sends a shiver of pride and triumph straight down his spine. And like everything else today, fuels a craving for more. So he pants hotly into her ear and keeps talking, letting his words echo in her mind to make sure she can hear it over the racket she's making.]
That—that's better.
[So here's the thing: with this pace and her losing her goddamn mind under him and every cell in his body hungry for more and more and more etc, he's close. Like really close. Letting things progress how they are, he probably won't outlast her. But also? He wants—no, he needs—to make her orgasm twice again. She's so goddamn overstimulated already, and what few thoughts are still bouncing around in his head that don't revolve around how good she feels right now are very, very preoccupied with how good she'd feel if he pushed her even further. He'll be haunted forever if he doesn't! Probably. Maybe. Most likely not, but whatever.
Still. What does one Quentin Q. Quire do when faced with nearly impossible odds stacked up between him and his goal? He cheats, of course.]
Now how about—fuck—you do me a favor... [He thrusts into her and forces himself to stop, buried as deep as he can and grinding feverishly to maintain plenty of friction for her. And of course, she's welcome to push back against him as much as she pleases. He encourages it, in fact. Don't worry, she won't be left hanging for long.] and come for me?
[It's phrased as a question, but she doesn't get a choice. He's pushing her over the edge, pausing his movements solely to keep himself from losing it. He'll join her for her second, no question, but he wants to feel her come apart under and around him first.]
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That said, it is also similarly unlikely that things will stay the same, whatever shape or form that their sex life and general dynamics might take after this. He just learned too much, about himself and about her, and she has done the same. Certainly she'll be more careful — there are cycles to break and things to explore on both sides that require a little more tact. Perhaps the biggest change she is experiencing through this is the fact she isn't scared of any of this anymore. She won't want to hide once they're done, no stern, nagging voice in her head with a pleading to get it together, and underneath all the billion layers of absolutely overstimulating, mind-melding, head-spinning, and inexpressible pleasure, there's comfort. The fact that he reaches into her mind to offer gentleness only drives that home.
Not that, well, she can perceive that right now. Truth be told, she can't really think of anything. Her entire focus is on the maddening pace of their hips with her own mirroring, the tension on her back, the fucking noises he's making right next to her ear, which he has got to know is sensitive as hell at this point. All that, paired with the feeling of him inside her, and the noises barely soothe the need for grounding? She is nearly begging to have some relief on her damn own without any extra nudging from him, because she is so damn close again that she can almost taste sweet, sweet relief.
And then he does that. He can probably hear her mind scrambling to fix the fact that he stopped, her first thought to move her hand between her legs, but before she can even contemplate the fact she has no mobility for that, his telepathic fingers move her right towards it. It's way too damn intense, and there's no hiding that with how her hands finally grip on his as she lets out the most relieved and satisfied groan her body could produce, her clenching (good luck with that one, Quentin) as much as she can so she can ride it, and breathing? Hearing without the presence of a loud ringing? Those two things are completely foreign concepts to her right now.
Holy shit, the room is spinning.)
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He has no idea if she's going to have a second orgasm like he wanted. He'll worry about that when his own has passed, and his vision is no longer just flashes of light. And when it finally does?
Jesus.
He's dead. He's officially dead. Quentin slumps across her back with a loud and tired yet utterly pleased groan. Sorry, Sophie, he's not moving unless you literally tell him to.]
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This is not a normal thing. She's still riding her own pleasure, and maybe, just maybe his own sends an aftershock of joy through her spine, short spasms to her muscles, and perhaps that could technically under some categories be considered a smaller climax, but also, who can say, not her, she can't really say much.
At least they're both dead, so there's that silver lining, because she still hasn't been able to breathe properly, so he gets a few seconds of grace before she taps him.)
I ——— out.
(She doesn't even mean to be rude, she doesn't want to, it's just that brain goes brrrrr, and this is really the best she can come up with right now. He understands.)
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Namely, annoying Quentin.
One upside - she doesn't just force open the door. Instead, she practically pounds on it. He knows it's her, so why announce herself?]
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But here's the thing: Illyana is weird. And not just like "well, duh, all of us are weird" weird. She's like... oddly chipper? And outgoing? But also withdrawn and crusty and broody and crap. It's a lot of conflicting shit. Also she seems to enjoy bullying him, but in a "picking on my charmingly irritating kid brother" way, and he can't quite tell if he should take that as a compliment or an insult. Maybe both.
... Probably both.
Anyway, she's banging on his fucking door for some goddamn reason, even though he's doing very important stuff, like, um. Stuff.]
Okay, okay, Jesus, I'm not deaf.
[He opens the door telekinetically, because he's busy. With what? Model-making, of course. Like the kind with little ships or Gundams. Exactly that kind, in fact. He put a robot on a sailboat is what I'm saying. It's very avant garde.
He does not look up.]
What'd'ya want? I'm busy.
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Clearly.
[Everyone needs hobbies. Or something.]
What are those, Transformers?
post event
telepathic image
(She's just trying something, a harmless revenge. Let's see if he picks it up.)