(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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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.)