(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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?]
no subject
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.)
no subject
[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?]
no subject
(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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