(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.
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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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