[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.]
(When is it ever not? Considering their track record, it just adds to the list of things she isn't surprised about.
At this point, there's not a bit of resistance from her, because fuck, she's melting. Her heel digs into the small of his back, grounding and silently begging him to keep going as he is. The noises she makes are uninhibited, more piercing and louder than any other she had given him — they are honeyed to the ear, but with the heightened volume, they sound nearly profane the more she gives them out. He's doing pretty much everything she likes, it's not like there is any hope for her not to even think about wrestling her climax or Quentin's, for that matter.
So, she relaxes, letting it overtake her with a cry as her entire body reacts to the firework explosion that it is. Her heart is nearly beating out of her chest, stars sparkling in her vision, toes curling, and her mind numbing his skin so she can sink her nails to help her ride it, and she is...
[See? They can get along sometimes. Look at them, both checking off most of each other's wishlists. Him grabbing and holding her the way she likes, and her giving him the unfiltered, raw sounds of sheer pleasure that he's been craving. How courteous.
Quentin stays buried in her until her legs drop from his waist, a sizable chunk of his substantial brain capacity occupied with nothing but their climaxes looping between their minds. And when he does finally have to move, he makes a petulant groaning noise at the loss of her warmth and just. Flops onto his back next to her.]
Holy fucking shit, that was good.
[Best he's had? Almost certainly. But considering the only other point for comparison he's got, well, he would literally rather throw himself into the sun than even consider that right now. Or ever, in fact.
He stretches out any cramped muscles or joints, utterly satisfied and relaxed, folds his hands over his chest, and closes his eyes.]
Wake me up when you're ready for round two.
[He's assuming that's what she meant when she pushes him to release immediately after practically begging him to not let it end. And yeah, he's taking a nap. For 20 minutes, unless she wakes him sooner. He's earned it, okay!]
(It's fine that he stays, because she kind of also, reluctantly, doesn't want him to leave, but such is life, and he has to, and she whines a little when he's no longer inside her. She's a bit at a loss for words, her brain still scattered so all she can reply with is a snort because, yeah. It was wonderful, actually.
The connection is not severed, so she can feel the tiredness of his body, as much as she can feel her sore legs and ragged breathing. Can't even blame him for wanting a nap, her eyes rolling and a hand gently moving his hair so it doesn't stick to his skin. She'd nap too, if she wasn't wired, and if she didn't have to get her powers to give her some fucking grace after all that telepathic bullshit.)
Pffft, fine, fair, I'll go get my shit together.
(But not before bugging him a little bit, placing a kiss right where she noticed he likes on his neck, because she can't let him live, since he can't let her live either. When he wakes, he'll see her with her shorts, one of his shirts because she's too lazy to look for her top, with bright eyes and fluttering fingers as she tries to get her powers to stop being a bitch.)
[That was, of course, Quentin making an undignified noise at Sophie kissing his neck when he wasn't expecting it. He swats her away with a grumble, but there's no bite to it. Cranky for the sake of cranky. But after that she leaves him alone to nap, and he's out like a light almost immediately after. His telepathic alarm wakes him in precisely 20 minutes, as scheduled.
He yawns, stretches, and sits up, narrowing his eyes at her wearing a checkered shirt that is definitely not hers. Eh. At least they can agree that his fashion sense is amazing.]
Still busted?
[He gestures at her, indicating her clearly fiddling with her powers and raising his eyebrows.]
Also, they do not agree on that, thank you, this is just a shirt, Quentin, she moved past some of the atrocities in that closet, pretended not to see, thank you. The hand that isn't wagging fingers for focus and rhythm moves to his head, a slight caress to his scalp so she has something to do with it.
The eyes stop glowing before her gaze drops to him, a shrug ensuing.)
Yup. I've been rearranging and restructuring stuff lately, practicing and all that, but eh, you know how it is.
[He does not "know how it is" in the precise context she means, but eh. Quentin looks up at her hand touching his head, but doesn't flinch or make any attempt to shoo her away. It's... fine.]
(Then, there they have it, get one affection, bitch. It's pretty nice hair, she notes, smooth even if it's still a bit damp, the curls showing a bit more from the contact with the pillow.)
Mostly trying to take advantage of the clone crap in my skeleton for stability, I'm figuring some shit out.
[It is nice hair, yes. He appreciates her acknowledging that fact, and that's why she's allowed to touch it.
That said, all that "clone crap in my skeleton" sounds like a can of worms he'll regret opening. Quentin can feel the urge to ask, offer to help, fall back into the same old pattern. But they're... getting along, if you can call "really great sex" getting along.]
Soooo guess I'm putting on pants.
[He doesn't sound annoyed or disappointed, at least. It just sounds like that's gonna take a while.]
(She never said anything, didn't come from her, never happened — hold up, where the hell are his roots? His hair can't be this smooth if he fries it daily.
On her end of the psychic route, she's relieved that he doesn't. It's something she feels strongly that she has to figure out alone, so she's not taking help for this one. More like, this is a me problem so must have a me solution type of deal.
But his comment gets her to roll her eyes, laying down again so she can face him.)
That depends if you care if I accidentally give you static tinnitus or some other weird shit. Pretty sure you can handle it.
(Oof, the dizziness. Her eyes shut a little to deal with the unexpected circumstance of the room spinning, and she distances herself from him mentally so she isn't suffering with him. First things first is to find him a snack, so she climbs off the bed, picking up his pants on the way. She's sure that whatever drawer she opens will have a stash, so that's where she's aimed.
Back to bed with a few bars of chocolate and his pants, stretching a little as she takes her spot back.)
[Okay, well, he wasn't expecting her to actually get him something to eat. Quentin raises his eyebrows questioningly, but he sits up and takes the chocolate and pants. The pants he shimmies on, mostly because he's cold, and it's weird to be naked when she's not. And with that done, he rips open a chocolate bar and starts, as she says, munching.]
Secondary mutation. My brain burns sugar 15 times faster than normal.
Lazily, Sophie finds herself hugging one of the pillows, letting him get his blood sugar back up in peace this time. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, humming at the realization that, oh. That explains why she likes being in there so much. Saying she can keep up with it is a way too much; she definitely can't, but it's... Pretty nice.)
That... Actually explains why I like waltzing up in there.
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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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At this point, there's not a bit of resistance from her, because fuck, she's melting. Her heel digs into the small of his back, grounding and silently begging him to keep going as he is. The noises she makes are uninhibited, more piercing and louder than any other she had given him — they are honeyed to the ear, but with the heightened volume, they sound nearly profane the more she gives them out. He's doing pretty much everything she likes, it's not like there is any hope for her not to even think about wrestling her climax or Quentin's, for that matter.
So, she relaxes, letting it overtake her with a cry as her entire body reacts to the firework explosion that it is. Her heart is nearly beating out of her chest, stars sparkling in her vision, toes curling, and her mind numbing his skin so she can sink her nails to help her ride it, and she is...
Mush. She's mush.)
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Quentin stays buried in her until her legs drop from his waist, a sizable chunk of his substantial brain capacity occupied with nothing but their climaxes looping between their minds. And when he does finally have to move, he makes a petulant groaning noise at the loss of her warmth and just. Flops onto his back next to her.]
Holy fucking shit, that was good.
[Best he's had? Almost certainly. But considering the only other point for comparison he's got, well, he would literally rather throw himself into the sun than even consider that right now. Or ever, in fact.
He stretches out any cramped muscles or joints, utterly satisfied and relaxed, folds his hands over his chest, and closes his eyes.]
Wake me up when you're ready for round two.
[He's assuming that's what she meant when she pushes him to release immediately after practically begging him to not let it end. And yeah, he's taking a nap. For 20 minutes, unless she wakes him sooner. He's earned it, okay!]
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The connection is not severed, so she can feel the tiredness of his body, as much as she can feel her sore legs and ragged breathing. Can't even blame him for wanting a nap, her eyes rolling and a hand gently moving his hair so it doesn't stick to his skin. She'd nap too, if she wasn't wired, and if she didn't have to get her powers to give her some fucking grace after all that telepathic bullshit.)
Pffft, fine, fair, I'll go get my shit together.
(But not before bugging him a little bit, placing a kiss right where she noticed he likes on his neck, because she can't let him live, since he can't let her live either. When he wakes, he'll see her with her shorts, one of his shirts because she's too lazy to look for her top, with bright eyes and fluttering fingers as she tries to get her powers to stop being a bitch.)
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[That was, of course, Quentin making an undignified noise at Sophie kissing his neck when he wasn't expecting it. He swats her away with a grumble, but there's no bite to it. Cranky for the sake of cranky. But after that she leaves him alone to nap, and he's out like a light almost immediately after. His telepathic alarm wakes him in precisely 20 minutes, as scheduled.
He yawns, stretches, and sits up, narrowing his eyes at her wearing a checkered shirt that is definitely not hers. Eh. At least they can agree that his fashion sense is amazing.]
Still busted?
[He gestures at her, indicating her clearly fiddling with her powers and raising his eyebrows.]
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Also, they do not agree on that, thank you, this is just a shirt, Quentin, she moved past some of the atrocities in that closet, pretended not to see, thank you. The hand that isn't wagging fingers for focus and rhythm moves to his head, a slight caress to his scalp so she has something to do with it.
The eyes stop glowing before her gaze drops to him, a shrug ensuing.)
Yup. I've been rearranging and restructuring stuff lately, practicing and all that, but eh, you know how it is.
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[He does not "know how it is" in the precise context she means, but eh. Quentin looks up at her hand touching his head, but doesn't flinch or make any attempt to shoo her away. It's... fine.]
What stuff.
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Mostly trying to take advantage of the clone crap in my skeleton for stability, I'm figuring some shit out.
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That said, all that "clone crap in my skeleton" sounds like a can of worms he'll regret opening. Quentin can feel the urge to ask, offer to help, fall back into the same old pattern. But they're... getting along, if you can call "really great sex" getting along.]
Soooo guess I'm putting on pants.
[He doesn't sound annoyed or disappointed, at least. It just sounds like that's gonna take a while.]
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On her end of the psychic route, she's relieved that he doesn't. It's something she feels strongly that she has to figure out alone, so she's not taking help for this one. More like, this is a me problem so must have a me solution type of deal.
But his comment gets her to roll her eyes, laying down again so she can face him.)
That depends if you care if I accidentally give you static tinnitus or some other weird shit. Pretty sure you can handle it.
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[He lies back down and—oh, man, yep, that's a blood sugar drop. Quentin squeezes his eyes shut and brings up his hands to rub at his temples.]
Uuuugh. Or it's time for pants and a snack.
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Back to bed with a few bars of chocolate and his pants, stretching a little as she takes her spot back.)
So that's why you're always munching?
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Secondary mutation. My brain burns sugar 15 times faster than normal.
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Lazily, Sophie finds herself hugging one of the pillows, letting him get his blood sugar back up in peace this time. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, humming at the realization that, oh. That explains why she likes being in there so much. Saying she can keep up with it is a way too much; she definitely can't, but it's... Pretty nice.)
That... Actually explains why I like waltzing up in there.
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... So what you're saying is you love my massive brain.
[... Unfortunately the new leaf is also terrible.]
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