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