[This isn't precisely how Quentin planned for this to go, what little plan he had. He wanted to sit back, use his mind to make her squirm and moan and—preferably—scream as long as he could before they were both couldn't think of anything else but how their bodies would feel moving against each other. Turns out that just took a lot less time than he originally considered. He doesn't know what that says about them, and for the aforementioned reason he is not remotely in a headspace to bother with pondering it. Nope, his brain has other priorities right now, like pumping his body full of feel-good hormones that make him need her like oxygen.
His hips buck roughly up when the imaginary version of himself she's conjuring delivers a particularly nice thrust, and the only thing between them and that reality is some stupid fabric. The hands on her waist slide downward inside the waistband of her lingerie shorts and over her ass in a facsimile of her fantasy, and it would be so, so easy to just tear off their clothes and do exactly what she wants. He did ask her to tell him. Well, demand, more like. Sophie seems to like it when he demands.
It would be so easy, and he knows it would be so damn good, but it also just doesn't... feel right. He pulls away from her mouth again to talk out loud, voice shaky and out of breath but firm. Confident. Or at least as confident as he's gonna get.]
Clothes off. Lie down. [Quentin hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.] On your stomach.
[He's going off script here, as well as kind of throwing away all his insistence that she tell him what she wants. Oh well. He's doing what he wants, and somehow he doesn't think Sophie is going to have too many complaints.]
Huge reason why she's here. They are both aware of the catastrophic risks of it all going to shit, but considering it was shit already, is there any place to go if not up? Whatever it is, she likes it. No bullshit, and in a really weird way, it's finally something new, or progressing to be. It won't solve all overnight, because nothing would, but it's a start. If anything, it's better than everything they've attempted, because she actually isn't preparing for a war, puffing her chest, pulling away, or feeling any of the nasty emotions that tend to bubble to the surface whenever they interact.
Not what's happening now, she actually is enjoying being here with him. Right now, her mind cannot convey a single negative thing to say about it, busy with how his lips feel against hers, with the feeling of tightness in her stomach as she gets worked up, and how she can't help the moan that leaves her when he thrusts against her, creating friction.
It's interesting, isn't it? Didn't he just ask her? Well. Fine. She has no complaints about it either.)
Deal. Don't pull my hair, other than that, I'm game.
(Her hands are gonna busy themselves with removing his shirt, a smile as she presses her lips to his neck.)
[Quentin definitely meant for her to take off her clothes, so he kinda... freezes for a split second when her hands go to remove his shirt. Which is stupid. Like she wouldn't know he's skinny until his shirt came off? She has eyes, Quire. Get out of your head about it, idiot.
He shakes it off and—only somewhat awkwardly—helps her get his shirt off, making a pleased humming noise when she kisses his neck. In fact, he's feeling needy bold enough to tilt his head to the side as an invitation. Encouragement. Sometimes self-care is letting a hot blonde do salacious things with her mouth. Treat yoself.]
No hair pulling, got it. I can work with that.
[Since Sophie apparently has the shirt stuff covered (he just decided right now), he starts making a half-assed attempt to shimmy her pajama bottoms down. Half-assed only because he's chosen to do it while heavily distracted and with only one hand, since he's sliding the other down the front of her shorts to give her more of the friction that made her moan. It was a good noise, and he'd like another, please and thank you.]
(The thing is, Sophie genuinely prefers him as he is. There's nothing more, or even less that she could want than what she has, what he is, or what even she is. Strangely enough, she's perfectly comfortable, even if she's not going to look into the feeling that currently sits at the furthest back of her mind, hopefully it stays there lest he makes her laugh again.
She's not going to address it, it can go in the long pile of shit they're making the wise, or horrible decision to not look at. Instead, she can focus on how those annoying pieces of fabric are finally leaving, hands searching for warmth on his waist as her lips quirk a little, a LITTLE against bare skin. It was a nice noise, after all. Hope he's at least shielding for sound, actually, now that she thinks about it.
She has to move, unfortunately, lift her hips so he can actually pull her shorts down, although there is not a moment to mourn the fact she's no longer in a grinding position when he distracts her. Thing he'll notice pretty soon, she's very sensitive, and the sound that escapes her is both sweet and breathy too damn close to his ear, the pleasure looped right back at him.
She's going to have to change positions, she can't hold onto him for support when she's not sitting down, be delightfully distracted, and work on his pants when she's literally on the way, so she just lets him know with a feeling before she slides off back to his side. Her shirt's off, thrown God knows where, and her hand sits on top of length to stroke over fabric.)
[Quentin pouts a bit at Sophie leaving his lap, particularly since it means he can't keep touching her, but hey, that's what telepathy is for. He knows exactly what made her make that noise in his ear, and he starts by feeding that into her brain, and when he senses her pleasure build, he adds in the feeling of fingers slipping inside her, rubbing her, and moving in all the ways her mind tells him are the right ones. The feedback loop of lighting up her nerve endings, receiving pleasure through the connection of their minds, and subsequently adding to it just makes her actual real hand touching him through his pants feel like being struck by a lightning bolt, and he jerks his hips into her touch with a loud groan.]
Fuck. Okay, okay, no more pants, I got the message. Gimme a sec.
[He hastily shuffles out of his pajama pants and boxers—which are, of course, black with pink omega symbols—and tosses them who-the-fuck-cares-where. Quentin reclines next to her, leaning on one arm while he uses his other hand to hold the back of her neck and pull her into a demanding kiss.]
/And yes, noise shielding is on./
[He pulls away, breathing hard but smirking at her. Honestly? He just wants to say this aloud. For reasons.]
(She fucking loves telepathy. How do flatscans do it? How do any non-telepaths do it, sounds bland, dull, like a wonderfully plated dish with no seasoning or flavor. Surely it comes with downsides, like listening to something you don't wanna hear, or letting a particularly unpleasant thought escape, but listen. Occupational hazard. The occupation is just fine.
Thing is, she isn't kissing him at the moment, or holding anything when he starts the mindfuckery all over again, so she has nothing but the sheets to curl her hand around to recenter herself as her breath becomes harder to manage with her little sounds of pleasure in between, her toes curling as she finds a little revenge on amplyifing when it comes back to him. Two can play this game, in case he forgot, but the hit she receives from it along with hardness bucking against her hand reminds her that, well, no. The moan she leaves is synched to his, because of course it is, and her eyes roll once he speaks again.)
Talking to me or to yourself?
(She's going to take the opportunity to get those pesky shorts off of her, too, but.
Sir, why do you have fucking Omega boxers. Trust, anyone who gets to see it is very aware, Kid Omega. Remember when she thought that at least he was consistent? Too consistent. Skill issue on her part if she was expecting a black or pink one, but God. Mood unaffected, mood unaffected, especially now that they're kissing again and there's skin to skin, no layers to separate them, warmth and her hand is free to properly roam without boundaries, so she teases it on his hip, nails ever so gently moving across his side before he breaks the kiss to speak.)
Guess we'll see. I'm not loud, so you gotta work for it.
[Sophie, it's called brand recognition. It's very important!]
Psh, I make you scream at me all the time. It's not that hard.
[Completely nonsensical and totally obnoxious false equivalency? Check. Sorry, Sophie, you let Quentin have too much power by laughing at this shit.
His eyes flick toward her hand moving up his side, not because it doesn't feel good—it feels incredible and makes him shiver—but because it's too... almost familiar. He's very distinctly not thinking the P-word, but the name and memories attached to her are floating at the edges of his mind, threatening to encroach where they're not welcome. Ugh. No.
Focus. There's a reason he chose the position he did for the "main event".]
Ready whenever you are.
[Of course, it'd probably be a lot easier for her to cooperate if he didn't start up again with his mental hand between her legs, wouldn't it? If he wasn't purposefully and doggedly working her up more and more. Oh, and in case she has any ideas about turning it back on him? He's shielding himself juuuust enough to not feel as overwhelmed as he's trying to make her. Good luck trying to strong-arm an omega who's trying to turn your brain to mush, Sophie. What an asshole.]
(Fuck, no!!! The laugh that leaves her is frustratingly honest, soulful, and she has to conceal it in the crook of his neck, her hand doing a weak punch to his chest because fuck you, Quire, stop humanizing her. She's got at least some reputation she wants to uphold, and you're ruining it.)
Not even in the same vicinity of concept!
(Well, she feels the resistance, how could she not? Her hand pulls back almost immediately. She knows she can't blame him for it — for all their differences, they're still remarkably alike, not to mention identical appearance-wise. She's gotta block him for a second there for the world's biggest mental sigh. She's not... Phoebe, for fuck's sake, and thank her stupid clone anatomy for nanotech bullshit that allows her to think through this fast enough not to make a dent on anything. They're still going to take a bit to completely leave this out the door, aren't they? That's why they're doing this, after all. Neither are going to be okay... Just like that, right? She isn't. She can't blame him if he isn't, either.
A nanosecond later, and the thought is far from her mind, reopened now that she regrounded, guess what, seems like being (or attempting to be) a better person means she thinks twice before pointing fingers that she can point at herself, too.
She was about to reply and say something, however the thought completely ran out of her mind before she even formed it with the overstimulation he's bringing her, which only brings her closer to him to the point they glue as she tries to focus.
... This motherfucker, she senses the block right as she was redirecting it. She's going to strong-arm him, knowing fully she will lose, but she will go down swinging. If he's going to fuck with her sense of touch and block her from fucking with his, then she just has to get creative and find a whole other sense to play with. Lights out — a temporary block of his vision, and an increase to all the other senses he didn't block. Her heartbeat, quick and impatient banging in her chest, her breath that comes with the sweetest gasps from the stimulation, the perfume she found in Etraya that smells of daisies, the softness of the sheets, the hormones in his veins...
She knows he won't let it slide, but alas. At least, she's going swinging.)
[Aha, another victory in the on-going mission of Operation: Make Sophie Be A Real Girl And Laugh At Stupid Shit. Quentin will savor it.
But the whole trying to fuck with his senses thing? Because she's, what? Jealous of his amazing skills? A sore loser? Rude? Damn right he's not going to let that slide.]
Blocking my optic nerves, huh? Awfully mean of you. I thought you wanted me to, what was it? "Pin you down and fuck the mean girl out of you"?
[He can't see, so he just closes his eyes and rolls with the enhanced senses she forced on him, focusing on her heartbeat. How to make it beat faster. How to make those noises she's making happen more, happen louder. Every decibel gained, he makes a mental note and applies the stimulation that got that result and intensifies it. He still feels some of it, enough to keep his own pulse racing and his breathing heavy as he leans his forehead against hers. But she's bearing the brunt of sensory overload he's pushing onto her...
Until, all at once, he stops. Smirks. Pants out a chuckle.]
That still what you want? Or you want me to keep going?
If you can't do it blind, that's a skill issue on your part.
(None of those, she's the stupidly heroic Cuckoo who fears nothing, but to pick something out of his list? Rude, most likely. Unfortunately, she knows him, and she knows that, once again, she's shooting herself on the damn foot because he's a petulant little shit who's not going to back down from anything. Fun thing, though? Makes two of them.
Once more, proof they deserve each other.
She can't go through this rollercoaster without holding onto something to take it out on, and well, he has a perfectly fine mouth to kiss and sigh into, sounds slowly reaching a more high-pitched sound as he fine-tunes, and by God is she trying to move that fucking shield to turn it against him... Until he stops, the motherfucker, her entire body shivering from the sudden craving he put in her brain.)
[Quentin considers teasing her more, just to be petty about that whole "skill issue" thing. Amping her up again, maybe letting her go over the edge a time or two. Maybe not. Whatever gave him the reactions he was after at the time. He's a bit fickle like that. Progress on coaxing her to be louder is going swimmingly, and there's certainly more to be done there.
Thing is, he's impatient. And she just threatened to kill him. Which he thinks pretty well counts as "mean." In most social circles.
But mostly he's just impatient, and Sophie pressing her body against his and making those desperate noises into his mouth is driving him crazy.]
Guess that's my answer.
[It's not. But he decided it is.
He sits up and seizes back control of his senses, though not forcefully enough to destabilize her still-glitchy powers, and drops into her mind the reminder of his earlier request: clothes off, lie down on your stomach. Step 1 is completed. He gently nudges her motor cortex to move her body where he wants it, easily resistible the same way it was when she puppeteered him for their dance on Aphaia. If she really wants to show how much "bite" she has, she's more than welcome.]
(She's going to be so fucking glitchy after this, she can feel it. Training and reconfiguring her brain and clone bullshit to be one is one thing that she has been doing — strong-arming someone, even if it's not particularly serious, is a whole other deal that she hadn't tried so far. She can feel her control fading, crumbling, and oh, no.)
See. Told ya.
(He can be mean to her, she's just mean back, it's fine. It's kind of what makes this so entertaining, and so goddamn playful. Never has she ever been this stupid with someone, sex to her tends to be much more straightforward, so this is a whole new territory she's discovering. Is anyone truly surprised they're being stupid? No one? Yeah.
Once she finds herself lying on her stomach, not by her own doing, she's taking a look at the puppeteering first. This is breakable, and he's not exactly blocking her, so. Bite it is, because of that edging. Telekinesis tends to be an afterthought for her when she has quite a large list of telepathic options to choose from, but surprise, because that's what she's doing with him, pulling him down to lie back on the bed while she breaks his hold.
He wanted her on her stomach, supposedly not to think too much about how she looks, which, ouch, but fair. She wants revenge for the audacity. Middle ground.
Of course he's going to get what she's thinking before she even moves. She's going to reverse cow-girl the living hell out of him.
[Boy oh boy, he's about to give her the most clever comeback in all of mutant history—and then he's pushed down to his back with an "oof". What? How?? With TK??? Oh, that is so uncool. She said she was game for that position, and now she's not? Rude. It's rude is what it is. Double rude for the TK.
Except then he gets her intention and... eh, you know what? He can live with that. He mostly just was going for a new experience, a position that doesn't come with... memories. Ones that are not allowed to be part of this.
[It's a really stupid retort, and the crooked, devilish grin on his face makes it clear he knows. Low hanging fruit for her own comeback, if she wants to take it. He's giving her the easy win, because she's earned it. Quentin Quire respects gumption. When it suits him, at least.
Besides, there will always be time to get his revenge later.]
His indignation is golden, thank you so much, she did earn it. She figured it would be surprising, and he's not the only one who's got a really fast brain.
Thing is, she doesn't even want to retort at all, because it is a bad comeback, both of them know it. Her nose does the the little crinkle thing it does in several occasions, this one related to being extremely pleased, along with a closed smile once her nose wrinkled.
The unexpected is that she beams, radiant in her victory, unfiltered and unnoticed by her for the moment (God forbid when she does notice it), eyes closing before she moves to press a last kiss to his lips before she taps his chest once.)
Don't worry, you will, I'm on it.
(No further ado, they've waited enough in their distracting, childish dumbassery that she didn't even think she was going to enjoy half as much as she did. As she positions, and then, finally, she slides down, hands searching for his thighs for some support until he's completely in, her breath coming out in a sigh as she reaches for his brain.)
[He lets her enjoy her victory with only an exaggerated eyeroll, because her gloating is immediately followed by her finally sinking down onto him, and his brain is totally fine, thanks, just short-circuiting a tiny bit but don't worry about any of that. His eyes roll for an entirely different reason now, and his hands reflexively grip her hips.]
Holy fuck, that's good. About goddamn time.
[Because he totally wasn't the one edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of just fucking her like a normal person.
Anyway, he's now going to continue to be a petulant little gremlin.]
Now are you just gonna do something or just sit there and make me do all the work?
[Instead of waiting for an answer, he holds her waist and rocks his hips insistently up not unlike the fantasy he dredged up from her mind. He can't get a truly satisfying thrust without actually one of them actually lifting her up, but at least he can alternate between bucking up and grinding roughly against her. And naturally, he feeds all that back into her brain at the same time as he's feeling what she feels.]
(Gripping on her hips makes her brain light up like a Christmas tree, all little bubbles of pleasure bursting immediately. That's definitely what she likes, thank you so much. She's not a top girl, mainly — this is for spoiling someone silly, or teasing into desperation, but she can't deny that it hits her right once she's properly sat.)
/You have yourself to blame for that, though?/
(Again, he WAS totally edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of fucking her like a normal person, and now he's not even giving her a second to enjoy the feeling of fullness within her.
She doesn't have time to comment back, tell him that yeah, go for it, just to be bitchy — but she can also do it silently. If he doesn't block her, she's dimming the perception he has from anything that isn't them. Every noise is distant that isn't what is coming from them, heartbeat, breath, the sheets not all that noticeable anymore beneath him.
She did tell him she's not particularly loud, but that doesn't mean she's quiet, honey-covered moans escaping her as she moves in synch with him, squirming and clenching as hard as she can whenever there's a thrust that hits just right.
She cannot hold this position for too long, but as long as she can, she will.)
[Her dimming trick isn't completely necessary—his focus is already entirely on her, on the way she feels around him, the way she sounds, everything she's dumping back on him—but it's appreciated solely because there are currently so few points of contact between them. He'd wanted to find ways to touch her that didn't come along with baggage, and he still does. He also knows she can't keep this up forever, and for now he certainly doesn't have any complaints.
That said, if she gets a wayward thought or two from his mind about what it would be like to have his chest pressed to her back, his breath in her ear, well. That'd be convenient, wouldn't it?]
I've never done anything wrong in my life, ever.
[Said with all the audacity in the world, obviously.
He moves with her at a pace that's hurried but not desperate (yet), and while his control over his body is average at best, his mind is of course a whole other story. Every time he finds something that makes her clench around him, he notes the synapses that fire in her brain and tweaks them on his next thrust. Cheating? No. Of course not. He's just using his natural advantages to their fullest. And it feels really fucking good when she squeezes him like that. He lets out a groan and grips her hips tighter every time. Otherwise, though? Quentin is, well, never quiet, but his noises are mostly limited to loud pants, gasps, and grunts. The talking, however. That never stops.]
(With how everything is looping, he can feel just how much she wants to kiss him, and it's a catastrophically massive amount, which is going into the list of things she will deny to the end of time, take to her grave, so forth, and the mental image he produces brings a shiver so strong that every hair on her body stands.
... And of course, he makes her laugh, because of course he does, although she tries to suppress it. This is not the time, Quentin, it's not the time!!!)
Not true in any conceivable and — inconceivable universe — fuck, shut up.
(Said with a bit of difficulty, she's having trouble bringing air into her lungs when her whole body is focused on movement and brain-melting pleasure. It's probably cheating, mind him, but that's the fun part of it. They're telepaths, and for all that it can suck, they might as well use it for the greater good, such as getting off.
The final straw for her is the gripping, because you know what? Fuck it. She's jumping into his brain, as naked as she is out of it, to pull him into the most breathtaking, ferocious kiss. The words she gives him, however, come out of her throat.)
[Can't imagine why the most difficult-on-purpose person in the universe would like want her to do something he's intentionally making difficult.
He can feel, of course, how much she wants to kiss him, but her argument doesn't hold as much weight until she appears in his mind and kissed him and holy shit that's incredible. Quentin considers—seriously considers—following her lead and just. Fucking her in both planes, but that would probably make this over embarrassingly quickly. Maybe round two. If there's a round two. Will there be a round two? Or a next time, for that matter? Who knows and who cares. Not Quentin.
Anyway. Kissing.]
Fuck. Fine, fine, okay? You win.
[About facing each other, he means. For kissing purposes. She makes a compelling case, and he'll give her that.]
But I wanna be on top.
[Sure, that means she'll have to move off him temporarily, which low-key sounds like the worst idea ever right now, but such is life. He doesn't stop moving with her by any means, but he (very begrudgingly) slows, just to give her a chance to think. She can decide if kissing him is worth the pause.]
(Fair point, couldn't expect anything different, really, which is why she is going to be difficult back — she'll reward him with what he wants when her brain gets into begging mode. Right now, she's very occupied and taking out all the lust and craving she feels into the mental kiss until she hears the sweetest, most beautiful, most romantic words that Quentin Quire can ever give her.
"You win." Ah, how sweet it sounds. She's so ridiculously pleased.
As for whatever comes out of it, there's not a cell in her brain concerned about it, partly because it is all lit up and very rightfully distracted from anything that isn't the here and now, since someone is barely giving her a break to think. Speaking is hard, as she made him know, but her eyes roll even if he cannot physically see it.)
Two times — in a single day? Would you look at that. Fine, middle — ground.
(Please, he edged her. If he thinks she's not going to make him a little unhappy even if it's a the expense of her happiness, hahaha. Think again.
But also, fuck, she can't illusion him, she realizes. He's going to see just how crimson she is, her cheeks hurting a little from the whole smiling she had been doing.
There are no winners in this, only losers.
It's all going to be very fast, leaving his lap and diving in for a kiss so he has no chance to really see it as she repositions, nudging him to get on top.)
[Oh, he saw it. He most definitely saw it. She claimed his mouth, and he doesn't want to give her an excuse to start talking only through telepathy—he's very much enjoying the little hitches and gasps in her voice that make her sound like a person and not a sentient man-eating Barbie—but he shows her through his eyes what she looked like in that brief moment before she pulled him in for a kiss. You know, flushed and beaming and, dare he say, ravished. All of those things that would absolutely mortify her.
Which is also why when he moves on top of her and settles between her thighs, he breaks the kiss specifically to look at her face as he slides inside her again. She gets to see that expression up close and personal through his eyes, though there is the small mercy that Quentin's a touch far-sighted without his glasses. Once he's in, though, his mouth is back on hers, and this time he does let her (well, both of them) have a moment to just feel him while he figures out his hands, ultimately deciding to use one arm to support his weight and putting the other hand on her hip where she likes it. See? He can take constructive criticism. Sometimes.]
Yeah, well, I'm a pretty reasonable guy.
[Says the least reasonable person on the planet.
When he starts moving, the pace he sets is best described as bossy. Quentin isn't physically all that strong or athletic, but there's an assertiveness to the way he rocks into her, demanding but not rough or possessive. It's a new angle in this position, which means new sets of synapses to go with subtly different sensations, and it's for some reason very important to him that he replicate specific feelings his body is giving her instead of just pinging every pleasant neuron in her nervous system. He's not sparing the time or brainpower to think about that, though, just focusing on every movement that makes her louder, tighter, more desperate. If he can't have the position he wanted, he's going to at least make her either beg or scream, whichever comes first.]
(They're having a bit of a break while they kiss, although the stimulation hasn't really gone down any on her end. She's still needy, hot, but him rewiring the image he had from her face in crimson colors and a beaming smile is unacceptable. No, go back to seeing her as man-eating Barbie, that's much, much easier!! The horrifying ordeal of being known is her one true nightmare, so she's breaking the kiss to squint at him.)
Fake news. Delirious. You're seeing things.
(Her eyes shut as he reenters her, the hand on his shoulder squeezing a bit so she can find some grounding amidst pleasure, the moan that comes out of her now plump and reddened lips almost unholy... And she sees it, this motherfucker. At least, well, no one can say she isn't gorgeous at every damn angle, but she is pushing that into a safe in the back of her mind with five thousand locks. Nope. Nope. Instead, she's making the best decision that she can which is to NOT THINK ABOUT THAT ever again, and wrap her legs around his waist for better positioning.
What she might put in there later is that this? This hits her right where she lives. For all the fucking around they've been doing, this is much, much better than what she previously let him see in terms of expectations. Long ago, she did get mad at him for not being assertive, not having a spine, and this is the exact opposite. Not a moment was she ever bothered by making sounds, but the volume and pitch increase against his mouth as she feels herself getting closer.
Fuck, no, she does not want it to end so soon. Cannot believe she's going to actually fucking ask, distancing herself to breathe and to let out a louder gasp before she can produce any words.)
["Numb me," she says. He can feel how close she is, of course, so he knows why she's asking. He doesn't numb her, but he does slow the movement of his hips, not thrusting as much as just rolling shallowly against her. It's very, very much not what he wishes he was doing, and he drops his forehead against hers, breathing hard. But unfortunately, there's information he needs to know.]
What, you only got one in you?
[Quentin is smirking breathlessly at her, but it's an actual question. If he can push her over that edge more than once, he wants to. He can manage to hold off, even if he has to use every telepathic trick in his arsenal to do so, and he will if it means turning her brain into such absolute mush that she's not capable of being anything but a blissed out, imperfect mess. She did give him a very specific request regarding the "mean girl" act, after all.]
(The more they bicker in bed, the more she pretends she doesn't realize she's exactly on the same precise wavelength of petty that he is, because while she was enjoying the calmer pace and the dopamine release that is flowing through her body, even taking her hand off his shoulder to brush some of the sweaty hair away from his face as to not tickle them, but the moment he speaks again... Oh, boy.
The way she fires up, hot like every cell in her body is bubbling in disbelief, and when she looks at him again, she sees the smugness on his lips.)
Absolutely — not.
(The glitch is coming, she can feel it, but eh. Worth it. Focusing is colossally hard, especially when his slowing doesn't really negate the fact she's very close, so she might boggle — but once more, the petty wins. He can probably feel her little telepathic fingers in his mind, but she's not looking to dim or take. If she manages, she's going to loop her pleasure and his own in gradual amplification, until he's surpassing her in terms of how close he is.)
[He certainly does feel her little psychic fingers in his head, and he can also feel her powers fraying. So it's mutually assured destruction, is it? Fine.
The groan that escapes him is coarse, almost a growl, and he bucks into her, any semblance of rhythm thrown out the window as all his remaining ability to focus is put toward making sure she goes down with him. Every thrust hits all the exact perfect spots, his hand clutching her waist feels better than it ever has before, and a telekinetic hand grabs one of her wrists and pins it to the sheets next to her head. The only thing on her favorites list he neglects is kissing, and that's only because he wants her to cry out.
He hits his peak within seconds, his hips pressed as close to hers as is physically possible, if she lasts longer? It won't be by much. Unless she utterly fries her powers resisting him for some insane reason, he's reaching into her mind and, petty as always, taking her with him, whether she likes it or not.]
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His hips buck roughly up when the imaginary version of himself she's conjuring delivers a particularly nice thrust, and the only thing between them and that reality is some stupid fabric. The hands on her waist slide downward inside the waistband of her lingerie shorts and over her ass in a facsimile of her fantasy, and it would be so, so easy to just tear off their clothes and do exactly what she wants. He did ask her to tell him. Well, demand, more like. Sophie seems to like it when he demands.
It would be so easy, and he knows it would be so damn good, but it also just doesn't... feel right. He pulls away from her mouth again to talk out loud, voice shaky and out of breath but firm. Confident. Or at least as confident as he's gonna get.]
Clothes off. Lie down. [Quentin hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.] On your stomach.
[He's going off script here, as well as kind of throwing away all his insistence that she tell him what she wants. Oh well. He's doing what he wants, and somehow he doesn't think Sophie is going to have too many complaints.]
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Huge reason why she's here. They are both aware of the catastrophic risks of it all going to shit, but considering it was shit already, is there any place to go if not up? Whatever it is, she likes it. No bullshit, and in a really weird way, it's finally something new, or progressing to be. It won't solve all overnight, because nothing would, but it's a start. If anything, it's better than everything they've attempted, because she actually isn't preparing for a war, puffing her chest, pulling away, or feeling any of the nasty emotions that tend to bubble to the surface whenever they interact.
Not what's happening now, she actually is enjoying being here with him. Right now, her mind cannot convey a single negative thing to say about it, busy with how his lips feel against hers, with the feeling of tightness in her stomach as she gets worked up, and how she can't help the moan that leaves her when he thrusts against her, creating friction.
It's interesting, isn't it? Didn't he just ask her? Well. Fine. She has no complaints about it either.)
Deal. Don't pull my hair, other than that, I'm game.
(Her hands are gonna busy themselves with removing his shirt, a smile as she presses her lips to his neck.)
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He shakes it off and—only somewhat awkwardly—helps her get his shirt off, making a pleased humming noise when she kisses his neck. In fact, he's feeling
needybold enough to tilt his head to the side as an invitation. Encouragement. Sometimes self-care is letting a hot blonde do salacious things with her mouth. Treat yoself.]No hair pulling, got it. I can work with that.
[Since Sophie apparently has the shirt stuff covered (he just decided right now), he starts making a half-assed attempt to shimmy her pajama bottoms down. Half-assed only because he's chosen to do it while heavily distracted and with only one hand, since he's sliding the other down the front of her shorts to give her more of the friction that made her moan. It was a good noise, and he'd like another, please and thank you.]
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She's not going to address it, it can go in the long pile of shit they're making the wise, or horrible decision to not look at. Instead, she can focus on how those annoying pieces of fabric are finally leaving, hands searching for warmth on his waist as her lips quirk a little, a LITTLE against bare skin. It was a nice noise, after all. Hope he's at least shielding for sound, actually, now that she thinks about it.
She has to move, unfortunately, lift her hips so he can actually pull her shorts down, although there is not a moment to mourn the fact she's no longer in a grinding position when he distracts her. Thing he'll notice pretty soon, she's very sensitive, and the sound that escapes her is both sweet and breathy too damn close to his ear, the pleasure looped right back at him.
She's going to have to change positions, she can't hold onto him for support when she's not sitting down, be delightfully distracted, and work on his pants when she's literally on the way, so she just lets him know with a feeling before she slides off back to his side. Her shirt's off, thrown God knows where, and her hand sits on top of length to stroke over fabric.)
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Fuck. Okay, okay, no more pants, I got the message. Gimme a sec.
[He hastily shuffles out of his pajama pants and boxers—which are, of course, black with pink omega symbols—and tosses them who-the-fuck-cares-where. Quentin reclines next to her, leaning on one arm while he uses his other hand to hold the back of her neck and pull her into a demanding kiss.]
/And yes, noise shielding is on./
[He pulls away, breathing hard but smirking at her. Honestly? He just wants to say this aloud. For reasons.]
Kinda was planning on you needing it.
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Thing is, she isn't kissing him at the moment, or holding anything when he starts the mindfuckery all over again, so she has nothing but the sheets to curl her hand around to recenter herself as her breath becomes harder to manage with her little sounds of pleasure in between, her toes curling as she finds a little revenge on amplyifing when it comes back to him. Two can play this game, in case he forgot, but the hit she receives from it along with hardness bucking against her hand reminds her that, well, no. The moan she leaves is synched to his, because of course it is, and her eyes roll once he speaks again.)
Talking to me or to yourself?
(She's going to take the opportunity to get those pesky shorts off of her, too, but.
Sir, why do you have fucking Omega boxers. Trust, anyone who gets to see it is very aware, Kid Omega. Remember when she thought that at least he was consistent? Too consistent. Skill issue on her part if she was expecting a black or pink one, but God. Mood unaffected, mood unaffected, especially now that they're kissing again and there's skin to skin, no layers to separate them, warmth and her hand is free to properly roam without boundaries, so she teases it on his hip, nails ever so gently moving across his side before he breaks the kiss to speak.)
Guess we'll see. I'm not loud, so you gotta work for it.
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Psh, I make you scream at me all the time. It's not that hard.
[Completely nonsensical and totally obnoxious false equivalency? Check. Sorry, Sophie, you let Quentin have too much power by laughing at this shit.
His eyes flick toward her hand moving up his side, not because it doesn't feel good—it feels incredible and makes him shiver—but because it's too... almost familiar. He's very distinctly not thinking the P-word, but the name and memories attached to her are floating at the edges of his mind, threatening to encroach where they're not welcome. Ugh. No.
Focus. There's a reason he chose the position he did for the "main event".]
Ready whenever you are.
[Of course, it'd probably be a lot easier for her to cooperate if he didn't start up again with his mental hand between her legs, wouldn't it? If he wasn't purposefully and doggedly working her up more and more. Oh, and in case she has any ideas about turning it back on him? He's shielding himself juuuust enough to not feel as overwhelmed as he's trying to make her. Good luck trying to strong-arm an omega who's trying to turn your brain to mush, Sophie. What an asshole.]
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Not even in the same vicinity of concept!
(Well, she feels the resistance, how could she not? Her hand pulls back almost immediately. She knows she can't blame him for it — for all their differences, they're still remarkably alike, not to mention identical appearance-wise. She's gotta block him for a second there for the world's biggest mental sigh. She's not... Phoebe, for fuck's sake, and thank her stupid clone anatomy for nanotech bullshit that allows her to think through this fast enough not to make a dent on anything. They're still going to take a bit to completely leave this out the door, aren't they? That's why they're doing this, after all. Neither are going to be okay... Just like that, right? She isn't. She can't blame him if he isn't, either.
A nanosecond later, and the thought is far from her mind, reopened now that she regrounded, guess what, seems like being (or attempting to be) a better person means she thinks twice before pointing fingers that she can point at herself, too.
She was about to reply and say something, however the thought completely ran out of her mind before she even formed it with the overstimulation he's bringing her, which only brings her closer to him to the point they glue as she tries to focus.
... This motherfucker, she senses the block right as she was redirecting it. She's going to strong-arm him, knowing fully she will lose, but she will go down swinging. If he's going to fuck with her sense of touch and block her from fucking with his, then she just has to get creative and find a whole other sense to play with. Lights out — a temporary block of his vision, and an increase to all the other senses he didn't block. Her heartbeat, quick and impatient banging in her chest, her breath that comes with the sweetest gasps from the stimulation, the perfume she found in Etraya that smells of daisies, the softness of the sheets, the hormones in his veins...
She knows he won't let it slide, but alas. At least, she's going swinging.)
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But the whole trying to fuck with his senses thing? Because she's, what? Jealous of his amazing skills? A sore loser? Rude? Damn right he's not going to let that slide.]
Blocking my optic nerves, huh? Awfully mean of you. I thought you wanted me to, what was it? "Pin you down and fuck the mean girl out of you"?
[He can't see, so he just closes his eyes and rolls with the enhanced senses she forced on him, focusing on her heartbeat. How to make it beat faster. How to make those noises she's making happen more, happen louder. Every decibel gained, he makes a mental note and applies the stimulation that got that result and intensifies it. He still feels some of it, enough to keep his own pulse racing and his breathing heavy as he leans his forehead against hers. But she's bearing the brunt of sensory overload he's pushing onto her...
Until, all at once, he stops. Smirks. Pants out a chuckle.]
That still what you want? Or you want me to keep going?
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(None of those, she's the stupidly heroic Cuckoo who fears nothing, but to pick something out of his list? Rude, most likely. Unfortunately, she knows him, and she knows that, once again, she's shooting herself on the damn foot because he's a petulant little shit who's not going to back down from anything. Fun thing, though? Makes two of them.
Once more, proof they deserve each other.
She can't go through this rollercoaster without holding onto something to take it out on, and well, he has a perfectly fine mouth to kiss and sigh into, sounds slowly reaching a more high-pitched sound as he fine-tunes, and by God is she trying to move that fucking shield to turn it against him... Until he stops, the motherfucker, her entire body shivering from the sudden craving he put in her brain.)
... I'm going to kill you.
(This one has bite. THIS ONE HAS BITE.)
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Thing is, he's impatient. And she just threatened to kill him. Which he thinks pretty well counts as "mean." In most social circles.
But mostly he's just impatient, and Sophie pressing her body against his and making those desperate noises into his mouth is driving him crazy.]
Guess that's my answer.
[It's not. But he decided it is.
He sits up and seizes back control of his senses, though not forcefully enough to destabilize her still-glitchy powers, and drops into her mind the reminder of his earlier request: clothes off, lie down on your stomach. Step 1 is completed. He gently nudges her motor cortex to move her body where he wants it, easily resistible the same way it was when she puppeteered him for their dance on Aphaia. If she really wants to show how much "bite" she has, she's more than welcome.]
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See. Told ya.
(He can be mean to her, she's just mean back, it's fine. It's kind of what makes this so entertaining, and so goddamn playful. Never has she ever been this stupid with someone, sex to her tends to be much more straightforward, so this is a whole new territory she's discovering. Is anyone truly surprised they're being stupid? No one? Yeah.
Once she finds herself lying on her stomach, not by her own doing, she's taking a look at the puppeteering first. This is breakable, and he's not exactly blocking her, so. Bite it is, because of that edging. Telekinesis tends to be an afterthought for her when she has quite a large list of telepathic options to choose from, but surprise, because that's what she's doing with him, pulling him down to lie back on the bed while she breaks his hold.
He wanted her on her stomach, supposedly not to think too much about how she looks, which, ouch, but fair. She wants revenge for the audacity. Middle ground.
Of course he's going to get what she's thinking before she even moves. She's going to reverse cow-girl the living hell out of him.
Good luck.)
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Except then he gets her intention and... eh, you know what? He can live with that. He mostly just was going for a new experience, a position that doesn't come with... memories. Ones that are not allowed to be part of this.
Oh, right, they're pretending they're fighting, aren't they?]
Fuck you.
[It's a really stupid retort, and the crooked, devilish grin on his face makes it clear he knows. Low hanging fruit for her own comeback, if she wants to take it. He's giving her the easy win, because she's earned it. Quentin Quire respects gumption. When it suits him, at least.
Besides, there will always be time to get his revenge later.]
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His indignation is golden, thank you so much, she did earn it. She figured it would be surprising, and he's not the only one who's got a really fast brain.
Thing is, she doesn't even want to retort at all, because it is a bad comeback, both of them know it. Her nose does the the little crinkle thing it does in several occasions, this one related to being extremely pleased, along with a closed smile once her nose wrinkled.
The unexpected is that she beams, radiant in her victory, unfiltered and unnoticed by her for the moment (God forbid when she does notice it), eyes closing before she moves to press a last kiss to his lips before she taps his chest once.)
Don't worry, you will, I'm on it.
(No further ado, they've waited enough in their distracting, childish dumbassery that she didn't even think she was going to enjoy half as much as she did. As she positions, and then, finally, she slides down, hands searching for his thighs for some support until he's completely in, her breath coming out in a sigh as she reaches for his brain.)
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Holy fuck, that's good. About goddamn time.
[Because he totally wasn't the one edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of just fucking her like a normal person.
Anyway, he's now going to continue to be a petulant little gremlin.]
Now are you just gonna do something or just sit there and make me do all the work?
[Instead of waiting for an answer, he holds her waist and rocks his hips insistently up not unlike the fantasy he dredged up from her mind. He can't get a truly satisfying thrust without actually one of them actually lifting her up, but at least he can alternate between bucking up and grinding roughly against her. And naturally, he feeds all that back into her brain at the same time as he's feeling what she feels.]
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/You have yourself to blame for that, though?/
(Again, he WAS totally edging her and being a petulant little gremlin instead of fucking her like a normal person, and now he's not even giving her a second to enjoy the feeling of fullness within her.
She doesn't have time to comment back, tell him that yeah, go for it, just to be bitchy — but she can also do it silently. If he doesn't block her, she's dimming the perception he has from anything that isn't them. Every noise is distant that isn't what is coming from them, heartbeat, breath, the sheets not all that noticeable anymore beneath him.
She did tell him she's not particularly loud, but that doesn't mean she's quiet, honey-covered moans escaping her as she moves in synch with him, squirming and clenching as hard as she can whenever there's a thrust that hits just right.
She cannot hold this position for too long, but as long as she can, she will.)
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That said, if she gets a wayward thought or two from his mind about what it would be like to have his chest pressed to her back, his breath in her ear, well. That'd be convenient, wouldn't it?]
I've never done anything wrong in my life, ever.
[Said with all the audacity in the world, obviously.
He moves with her at a pace that's hurried but not desperate (yet), and while his control over his body is average at best, his mind is of course a whole other story. Every time he finds something that makes her clench around him, he notes the synapses that fire in her brain and tweaks them on his next thrust. Cheating? No. Of course not. He's just using his natural advantages to their fullest. And it feels really fucking good when she squeezes him like that. He lets out a groan and grips her hips tighter every time. Otherwise, though? Quentin is, well, never quiet, but his noises are mostly limited to loud pants, gasps, and grunts. The talking, however. That never stops.]
Say shit out loud. I like it.
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... And of course, he makes her laugh, because of course he does, although she tries to suppress it. This is not the time, Quentin, it's not the time!!!)
Not true in any conceivable and — inconceivable universe — fuck, shut up.
(Said with a bit of difficulty, she's having trouble bringing air into her lungs when her whole body is focused on movement and brain-melting pleasure. It's probably cheating, mind him, but that's the fun part of it. They're telepaths, and for all that it can suck, they might as well use it for the greater good, such as getting off.
The final straw for her is the gripping, because you know what? Fuck it. She's jumping into his brain, as naked as she is out of it, to pull him into the most breathtaking, ferocious kiss. The words she gives him, however, come out of her throat.)
You're kinda — making it very difficult.
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[Can't imagine why the most difficult-on-purpose person in the universe would like want her to do something he's intentionally making difficult.
He can feel, of course, how much she wants to kiss him, but her argument doesn't hold as much weight until she appears in his mind and kissed him and holy shit that's incredible. Quentin considers—seriously considers—following her lead and just. Fucking her in both planes, but that would probably make this over embarrassingly quickly. Maybe round two. If there's a round two. Will there be a round two? Or a next time, for that matter? Who knows and who cares. Not Quentin.
Anyway. Kissing.]
Fuck. Fine, fine, okay? You win.
[About facing each other, he means. For kissing purposes. She makes a compelling case, and he'll give her that.]
But I wanna be on top.
[Sure, that means she'll have to move off him temporarily, which low-key sounds like the worst idea ever right now, but such is life. He doesn't stop moving with her by any means, but he (very begrudgingly) slows, just to give her a chance to think. She can decide if kissing him is worth the pause.]
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"You win." Ah, how sweet it sounds. She's so ridiculously pleased.
As for whatever comes out of it, there's not a cell in her brain concerned about it, partly because it is all lit up and very rightfully distracted from anything that isn't the here and now, since someone is barely giving her a break to think. Speaking is hard, as she made him know, but her eyes roll even if he cannot physically see it.)
Two times — in a single day? Would you look at that. Fine, middle — ground.
(Please, he edged her. If he thinks she's not going to make him a little unhappy even if it's a the expense of her happiness, hahaha. Think again.
But also, fuck, she can't illusion him, she realizes. He's going to see just how crimson she is, her cheeks hurting a little from the whole smiling she had been doing.
There are no winners in this, only losers.
It's all going to be very fast, leaving his lap and diving in for a kiss so he has no chance to really see it as she repositions, nudging him to get on top.)
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Which is also why when he moves on top of her and settles between her thighs, he breaks the kiss specifically to look at her face as he slides inside her again. She gets to see that expression up close and personal through his eyes, though there is the small mercy that Quentin's a touch far-sighted without his glasses. Once he's in, though, his mouth is back on hers, and this time he does let her (well, both of them) have a moment to just feel him while he figures out his hands, ultimately deciding to use one arm to support his weight and putting the other hand on her hip where she likes it. See? He can take constructive criticism. Sometimes.]
Yeah, well, I'm a pretty reasonable guy.
[Says the least reasonable person on the planet.
When he starts moving, the pace he sets is best described as bossy. Quentin isn't physically all that strong or athletic, but there's an assertiveness to the way he rocks into her, demanding but not rough or possessive. It's a new angle in this position, which means new sets of synapses to go with subtly different sensations, and it's for some reason very important to him that he replicate specific feelings his body is giving her instead of just pinging every pleasant neuron in her nervous system. He's not sparing the time or brainpower to think about that, though, just focusing on every movement that makes her louder, tighter, more desperate. If he can't have the position he wanted, he's going to at least make her either beg or scream, whichever comes first.]
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Fake news. Delirious. You're seeing things.
(Her eyes shut as he reenters her, the hand on his shoulder squeezing a bit so she can find some grounding amidst pleasure, the moan that comes out of her now plump and reddened lips almost unholy... And she sees it, this motherfucker. At least, well, no one can say she isn't gorgeous at every damn angle, but she is pushing that into a safe in the back of her mind with five thousand locks. Nope. Nope. Instead, she's making the best decision that she can which is to NOT THINK ABOUT THAT ever again, and wrap her legs around his waist for better positioning.
What she might put in there later is that this? This hits her right where she lives. For all the fucking around they've been doing, this is much, much better than what she previously let him see in terms of expectations. Long ago, she did get mad at him for not being assertive, not having a spine, and this is the exact opposite. Not a moment was she ever bothered by making sounds, but the volume and pitch increase against his mouth as she feels herself getting closer.
Fuck, no, she does not want it to end so soon. Cannot believe she's going to actually fucking ask, distancing herself to breathe and to let out a louder gasp before she can produce any words.)
Numb me — a little.
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What, you only got one in you?
[Quentin is smirking breathlessly at her, but it's an actual question. If he can push her over that edge more than once, he wants to. He can manage to hold off, even if he has to use every telepathic trick in his arsenal to do so, and he will if it means turning her brain into such absolute mush that she's not capable of being anything but a blissed out, imperfect mess. She did give him a very specific request regarding the "mean girl" act, after all.]
Sounds like a skill issue to me.
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The way she fires up, hot like every cell in her body is bubbling in disbelief, and when she looks at him again, she sees the smugness on his lips.)
Absolutely — not.
(The glitch is coming, she can feel it, but eh. Worth it. Focusing is colossally hard, especially when his slowing doesn't really negate the fact she's very close, so she might boggle — but once more, the petty wins. He can probably feel her little telepathic fingers in his mind, but she's not looking to dim or take. If she manages, she's going to loop her pleasure and his own in gradual amplification, until he's surpassing her in terms of how close he is.)
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The groan that escapes him is coarse, almost a growl, and he bucks into her, any semblance of rhythm thrown out the window as all his remaining ability to focus is put toward making sure she goes down with him. Every thrust hits all the exact perfect spots, his hand clutching her waist feels better than it ever has before, and a telekinetic hand grabs one of her wrists and pins it to the sheets next to her head. The only thing on her favorites list he neglects is kissing, and that's only because he wants her to cry out.
He hits his peak within seconds, his hips pressed as close to hers as is physically possible, if she lasts longer? It won't be by much. Unless she utterly fries her powers resisting him for some insane reason, he's reaching into her mind and, petty as always, taking her with him, whether she likes it or not.]
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