(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.)
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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.)