[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.
(That too, we all know it, and should say it. That was even preferable to what he ended up saying, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as a dramatic inhale invades her lungs.
And exits with a kick to him under the blankets. If he falls on his ass, he deserved it, not sorry.)
The mini-event 'Sophie Cuckoo says something nice' has now expired. Try again in 4640 minutes.
(She's still trying to kick him again, mind him, but he's too far now, and since this is a break, she's saving energy. Eventually, she does pipe down, her face sinking on the pillow to leave only her rolling eyes visible.)
And you called me impossible. What makes you even think I'm reopening it?
(But hey, her nose is doing the thing behind fabric, so.)
Because you're doing that thing where you crinkle your nose and hope I won't notice.
[He looks down and over at her, tilting his head in a knowing expression that dares her to deny it.]
Besides. I don't think you'd still be hanging out in my room unless you were planning on reopening a couple of things.
[Said smugly, of course, but also with an almost playful tone. He's finishing off the second chocolate bar (and talking with his mouth full, because who needs manners, really) and the color is coming back to his face.
This whole arrangement of theirs is shaping up to be a loop just their previous interactions, but the difference is this loop is way, way more fun. No complaints, honestly. He reaches out with his mind and gently caresses her inner thigh with his TK, just higher than her knee, so not terribly scandalous—yet.]
(Baffled. Her blue eyes, the only visible part of her face, are plenty expressive on their own. They close as her eyebrows lift, because excuse her, untrue. It's an unconscious act, alright!!! She's not denying it, but she is not giving it any further reaction. Also, sir, where is your class? There's a lady on your bed? Hello? God, what has she done.)
Were you raised in a barn?
(Oddly, though, this? She's not regretting one bit of it, even through all his attempts to drive her straight into insanity. It's just that she has never not been resentful and grudging of him, and for the first time, she isn't. Instead, she wants to be here with Quentin, and she is having fun. Stupid, immature, petty, and petulant fun. Unfortunately, she likes it. Except — she would much rather be down in the ground again for the next five years than to express it herself, and if he hears it, that's on him for being nosy. She distanced herself from his brain for a reason, so she didn't have to suffer!!!)
You pass out inside of me, you will not ever hear the end of it. Ever.
(Because he's roasting her, she's definitely not going to let the gasp that threatens to leave her throat reach the air when he touches one of her favorite spots. She will be impossible on purpose, because two can play this game, although she already hates that she is.
Instead, she'll gently run her nails on the side of her leg, reopening the connection abruptly.)
[He was raised in the same barn as she was, and he's just about to say so when she moves on to a topic that interests him far, far more.]
Mm. Well, ignoring the biological impossibility of that [low blood sugar=major turn off] I think you've got a point. Guess I should conserve my energy, huh?
[He scoots back over next to her and lies down facing her, one arm pillowing his head and the other resting on the sheets in the narrow space between them.]
How about you do most of the warm-up this time, eh? You can touch me or yourself.
[Spoken like he has any authority here, any ability to give her permission. He doesn't, but that doesn't matter. He knows she likes it when he's assertive, even if it's that pile of shit she doesn't want to admit. Quentin is confident he'll get some variation on what he wants.]
(He's ridiculous, he knows that, right? At least, he looks okay, and now that she's back in his mind, sync established, she has the confirmation. For just one tiny second, she watches his expression, the edge of her lips curling.
Interesting, but not just for today. She'll gladly play along this time around, fingers running across his torso until they're back on the waistband, face coming close enough that lips brush, but not yet kiss.)
Great to know you're into it. Next time, I'll open with that.
(Also readable as: she'll choose a time at random that has no rhyme or reason and just flood him with her own pleasure. There's also the very real implication that there is going to be a next time, but, oof, what can she do.
No time for him to reply to, at least verbally, as her lips meet his again and her hand slips into his pants to stroke him.)
[There's a lot he could reply to, wants to say verbally. Or at all. Talking is what Quentin does, and nobody shuts him up.
Except apparently Sophie with her hand in his pants and her lips on his, which shuts up his brain too, at least to some extent. He moans into her mouth, his hips jerking reflexively into her hand. He assumes that's plenty encouragement for her to continue and doesn't bother trying to verbalize his feelings on the matter. Besides, she has open access to his brain, and this time he actually highlights for her what he likes—how precisely to stroke him, the sensitive places on his chest and neck that haven't been ruined by baggage, how he wants to be kissed.
And most importantly? The control he needs to feel. Not necessarily over her but of his own body. What he gave up before for someone he thought was the love of his life. Sophie decidedly isn't that, but she's done a great job at feeding his newly acquired craving to take instead of just give. As long as she keeps making him feel sexy for being bossy? She can do just about whatever the hell she wants as far as he's concerned. Within reason.
... Or, you know, he may just have a praise kink and some trauma. Whichever.
He holds the back of her neck and deepens the kiss, demanding in contrast to the way after the initial reaction his hips only gently rock against her hand. She offered to do most of the work, after all. To make him feel good. Which means he's not doing her the favor of thrusting into her hand just yet. Nope, she gets to work him up on her own, work them both up, honestly. And then eventually they'll reach a breaking point, and he'll push her down, press his chest to her back, or maybe sling her legs over his shoulders, or any number of other equally satisfying positions. Either way they're fucking the living daylights out of each other for the second time today.]
(It's only fair, right? He knows too much already, and he recoiled once she tried to figure him out herself. There were many possibilities that could explain it, and the two that she felt were the most likely were that maybe, he didn't trust her to see it — hurtful, but ugh, she hadn't really done a whole lot to earn it, so. The second one was that he probably didn't want her to stumble into forbidden knowledge, and thus they ruin everything they've been building here. That one felt more accurate.
One of the crucial differences is that Sophie doesn't care for control, neither does she care for power. Even with the gaze of a distant looker, she knows how much Quentin changed for what he figured was love. She wouldn't want that. Look, if she didn't like Quentin's stupidity and his annoying quips, larger-than-life attitude, and his twink-self as is, she wouldn't be here, taking mental note of how to break his brain, and applying it with every movement of her hand.
For them, who are so complex and complicated, suddenly they've become something easy in her brain. Whether they actually end up having feelings for each other is something she's sure neither will want to look at closely — it is making her happy, and that's more than enough for her. It's something good, new, and fun — both are aware of the risks, both are here willingly, both want it. No need to want or think of anything further, really.
The difference between Quentin when she first climbed into bed with him and how he got now is also palpable, and due to the fact they both happen to be little shits, well. Guess it works both ways, with how he's feeding info that she can use to mess with him later. The intensity of the kiss is reciprocated, her mind reaching to intensify just how soft her lips are against his, how reddened they'll be after they separate again, and just how much she enjoys kissing him being gently placed there as a treat.
She's not borrowing his sensory nerves, though. She's busy paying attention, and she doesn't want to be distracted from everything he's giving her. Look at that, a telepath not being selfish.
[She's not being selfish, but that's because he is. Quentin's not shoving his pleasure into her head, just enjoying it, and if she doesn't want to piggyback any more than telepathy without shields already necessitates? That's on her. He will, however, share with her his ideas for the various exciting positions to try whenever she decides to move on—and in the future, since she promised him a "next time"—in all the carnal detail he can imagine. Which is a lot. He has a very good imagination, a trait he has a funny feeling she shares.
He pulls away from her mouth, and yes, she does indeed look utterly debauched. He makes sure she can see it through his eyes. For fun.]
How's the wrist?
[Look. Her hand is great. Really. It should be, considering he's handing her the step-by-step guide to world's best jerk off. But honestly? The more hot and bothered he gets, the more he just misses being inside her.]
Sure would hate to give you carpal tunnel on account of little ole me.
[He lightly brushes mental fingers through her mind, checking her own level of arousal. Sure, he hasn't been paying much attention to her this time around, but also? She's just as much a degenerate as he is. Surely she can manage to make herself horny.]
(Look, she's already sensitive as hell as a person with the right touch at the right time making her entire body melt, this is a second round of two stupidly creative telepaths, and he's letting her get to know him. Emotional bullshit aside, it's ammunition for her — since they're fucking on top of their baggage to shut it before it overflows, it might as well be overwhelmingly exhilarating at every turn. Sophie's paying attention, committing it to mind with every nugget of information he gives her.
Or, well, she was, until those nuggets turned into a series of images that made her blood boil in lust. Expectations and promises work just as much as physical touch in her mind, her heart skipping several beats, which, obviously, she takes it out on him, kissing more fiercely, a quicker turn of stroking until this asshole stops kissing her to send her the image of herself panting, blushing for fuck's sake, and the hand that isn't busy covers his eyes so it cuts the transmission for a second.)
I'm going to start blindfolding.
(Half-joking. Hahaha. Unless? No, but honestly, her pride is suffering with him reminding her that she is into him. Though, actually? At this goddamn point? What fucking pride. She's already reluctantly accepted this isn't the last time she's gonna find herself in this obnoxiously pink room, making out with this obnoxious pink man, and giving him obnoxious smiles because she unfortunately, likes his obnoxious dumb bullshit.
Fine, whatever. He wants to pester her with these petty reminders, she'll just be petty back. It's not like... Ugh, she won't have the chance to. Anyway.
Lie detected. She's pretty sure he'd be glad to point out where she got it.)
My wrist is fine, but instead of having your fingers up my head, you could just take off my clothes and find out yourself. I'm just saying.
[See? He knew he could count on her to be thirsty. All of the images he's pouring into her mind are having the intended effect of making her as desperate for his body as he is for hers, and right now he wouldn't have it any other way. His hips are still rocking into her hand, keeping his own stimulation at a steady but not unmanageable incline.
When her hand moves over his eyes, he takes her wrist in one hand and reclaims control over his senses before kissing the inside of her palm.]
Or maybe I blindfold you.
[Since she keeps trying to take away his eyes and all. In fact, that's what he's going to do. Block her optic nerves, then slide his free hand into her shorts and limit her vision entirely to the view of what he sees when he touches her with his actual physical hand for the first time and easily slips his fingers inside her.]
(Consistency is key for a healthy whatever-the-fuck-situationship, if they can ignore the fact they are absolutely not healthy, they're nailing this. Her eyebrows lift in surprise with the kiss, a charmed crinkle on the bridge of her nose showing in reaction before... She just needs to stop being consistent; that's what gets her in this particularly peculiar mess. She is definitely down for the blindfolding, but he mirrors her in expectations.
She's still overstimulated, so the sound she makes is the loudest she has given him so far, inhaling hard as the hand he had taken moves to the nape of his neck for some semblance of stability.
Also, not to be vain on main, but... Strangely, as weird as it feels to look at her face in scarlet tones, her straight, golden hair messy and unruly, and her lips plump from all the kissing with a curl to the edges, she still looks pretty? It's more the blushing and that smile she promptly tries to get rid of that she finds issues with. She doesn't blush. Fuck you and your uncanny skills of making her look like that, Quire. What was it? Not a 'man-eating Barbie'?
But, hey, he has two hands, and so does she. They're still very dressed for two people who want to rip their clothes off, so first, his pants are the easiest. She'll get them down halfway, he can deal with the rest. Next up are those shorts, which take a little more maneuvering due to the whole being unable to fully focus on it and the lack of space, but once she's just in his shirt, it all becomes so much easier. Her leg hooks around his hip, which allows for better reach for his fingers, if he has the willpower to not take the invitation as it is.)
[Willpower? What's that? Sounds fake tbh. Especially after he dragged that noise out of her.
His pants? Gone. Nobody in history has gotten pants off faster, even using TK, which Quentin did. Their hands do regrettably have to leave each other's bodies, but it's a worthy sacrifice when the reward is him lining himself up, grabbing the thigh she so kindly presented to him, and snapping their hips together as strongly as he can considering the position they apparently picked this time around. He lets out an absolutely wrecked gasp that unlike Sophie, he's not embarrassed to have made.
Speaking of. She's still telepathically "blindfolded" with her vision linked to his whenever he has ammunition to use against her pride since she clearly gets off on that. So naturally, he shows her every detailed reaction she has to him entering her again, as well as when he stays there without moving for a moment, his breathing still in shambles but of course not preventing him from talking.]
Hate to break it to you. But I think you may have a teeny tiny. Humiliation kink.
[And of course, if he's right, pointing that out will prove itself.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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And exits with a kick to him under the blankets. If he falls on his ass, he deserved it, not sorry.)
The mini-event 'Sophie Cuckoo says something nice' has now expired. Try again in 4640 minutes.
(Nerd.)
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Oh, I intend to try again much sooner than 3 days, 5 hours, and 19 minutes. [It's been a minute since she said that, so he's subtracting.]
Just about as soon as I get my blood sugar stabilized, in fact.
[It's getting there. He's finished one chocolate bar and is making short work of the second.]
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And you called me impossible. What makes you even think I'm reopening it?
(But hey, her nose is doing the thing behind fabric, so.)
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[He looks down and over at her, tilting his head in a knowing expression that dares her to deny it.]
Besides. I don't think you'd still be hanging out in my room unless you were planning on reopening a couple of things.
[Said smugly, of course, but also with an almost playful tone. He's finishing off the second chocolate bar (and talking with his mouth full, because who needs manners, really) and the color is coming back to his face.
This whole arrangement of theirs is shaping up to be a loop just their previous interactions, but the difference is this loop is way, way more fun. No complaints, honestly. He reaches out with his mind and gently caresses her inner thigh with his TK, just higher than her knee, so not terribly scandalous—yet.]
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Were you raised in a barn?
(Oddly, though, this? She's not regretting one bit of it, even through all his attempts to drive her straight into insanity. It's just that she has never not been resentful and grudging of him, and for the first time, she isn't. Instead, she wants to be here with Quentin, and she is having fun. Stupid, immature, petty, and petulant fun. Unfortunately, she likes it. Except — she would much rather be down in the ground again for the next five years than to express it herself, and if he hears it, that's on him for being nosy. She distanced herself from his brain for a reason, so she didn't have to suffer!!!)
You pass out inside of me, you will not ever hear the end of it. Ever.
(Because he's roasting her, she's definitely not going to let the gasp that threatens to leave her throat reach the air when he touches one of her favorite spots. She will be impossible on purpose, because two can play this game, although she already hates that she is.
Instead, she'll gently run her nails on the side of her leg, reopening the connection abruptly.)
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Mm. Well, ignoring the biological impossibility of that [low blood sugar=major turn off] I think you've got a point. Guess I should conserve my energy, huh?
[He scoots back over next to her and lies down facing her, one arm pillowing his head and the other resting on the sheets in the narrow space between them.]
How about you do most of the warm-up this time, eh? You can touch me or yourself.
[Spoken like he has any authority here, any ability to give her permission. He doesn't, but that doesn't matter. He knows she likes it when he's assertive, even if it's that pile of shit she doesn't want to admit. Quentin is confident he'll get some variation on what he wants.]
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(He's ridiculous, he knows that, right? At least, he looks okay, and now that she's back in his mind, sync established, she has the confirmation. For just one tiny second, she watches his expression, the edge of her lips curling.
Interesting, but not just for today. She'll gladly play along this time around, fingers running across his torso until they're back on the waistband, face coming close enough that lips brush, but not yet kiss.)
Great to know you're into it. Next time, I'll open with that.
(Also readable as: she'll choose a time at random that has no rhyme or reason and just flood him with her own pleasure. There's also the very real implication that there is going to be a next time, but, oof, what can she do.
No time for him to reply to, at least verbally, as her lips meet his again and her hand slips into his pants to stroke him.)
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Except apparently Sophie with her hand in his pants and her lips on his, which shuts up his brain too, at least to some extent. He moans into her mouth, his hips jerking reflexively into her hand. He assumes that's plenty encouragement for her to continue and doesn't bother trying to verbalize his feelings on the matter. Besides, she has open access to his brain, and this time he actually highlights for her what he likes—how precisely to stroke him, the sensitive places on his chest and neck that haven't been ruined by baggage, how he wants to be kissed.
And most importantly? The control he needs to feel. Not necessarily over her but of his own body. What he gave up before for someone he thought was the love of his life. Sophie decidedly isn't that, but she's done a great job at feeding his newly acquired craving to take instead of just give. As long as she keeps making him feel sexy for being bossy? She can do just about whatever the hell she wants as far as he's concerned. Within reason.
... Or, you know, he may just have a praise kink and some trauma. Whichever.
He holds the back of her neck and deepens the kiss, demanding in contrast to the way after the initial reaction his hips only gently rock against her hand. She offered to do most of the work, after all. To make him feel good. Which means he's not doing her the favor of thrusting into her hand just yet. Nope, she gets to work him up on her own, work them both up, honestly. And then eventually they'll reach a breaking point, and he'll push her down, press his chest to her back, or maybe sling her legs over his shoulders, or any number of other equally satisfying positions. Either way they're fucking the living daylights out of each other for the second time today.]
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One of the crucial differences is that Sophie doesn't care for control, neither does she care for power. Even with the gaze of a distant looker, she knows how much Quentin changed for what he figured was love. She wouldn't want that. Look, if she didn't like Quentin's stupidity and his annoying quips, larger-than-life attitude, and his twink-self as is, she wouldn't be here, taking mental note of how to break his brain, and applying it with every movement of her hand.
For them, who are so complex and complicated, suddenly they've become something easy in her brain. Whether they actually end up having feelings for each other is something she's sure neither will want to look at closely — it is making her happy, and that's more than enough for her. It's something good, new, and fun — both are aware of the risks, both are here willingly, both want it. No need to want or think of anything further, really.
The difference between Quentin when she first climbed into bed with him and how he got now is also palpable, and due to the fact they both happen to be little shits, well. Guess it works both ways, with how he's feeding info that she can use to mess with him later. The intensity of the kiss is reciprocated, her mind reaching to intensify just how soft her lips are against his, how reddened they'll be after they separate again, and just how much she enjoys kissing him being gently placed there as a treat.
She's not borrowing his sensory nerves, though. She's busy paying attention, and she doesn't want to be distracted from everything he's giving her. Look at that, a telepath not being selfish.
Breaking news.)
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He pulls away from her mouth, and yes, she does indeed look utterly debauched. He makes sure she can see it through his eyes. For fun.]
How's the wrist?
[Look. Her hand is great. Really. It should be, considering he's handing her the step-by-step guide to world's best jerk off. But honestly? The more hot and bothered he gets, the more he just misses being inside her.]
Sure would hate to give you carpal tunnel on account of little ole me.
[He lightly brushes mental fingers through her mind, checking her own level of arousal. Sure, he hasn't been paying much attention to her this time around, but also? She's just as much a degenerate as he is. Surely she can manage to make herself horny.]
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Or, well, she was, until those nuggets turned into a series of images that made her blood boil in lust. Expectations and promises work just as much as physical touch in her mind, her heart skipping several beats, which, obviously, she takes it out on him, kissing more fiercely, a quicker turn of stroking until this asshole stops kissing her to send her the image of herself panting, blushing for fuck's sake, and the hand that isn't busy covers his eyes so it cuts the transmission for a second.)
I'm going to start blindfolding.
(Half-joking. Hahaha. Unless? No, but honestly, her pride is suffering with him reminding her that she is into him. Though, actually? At this goddamn point? What fucking pride. She's already reluctantly accepted this isn't the last time she's gonna find herself in this obnoxiously pink room, making out with this obnoxious pink man, and giving him obnoxious smiles because she unfortunately, likes his obnoxious dumb bullshit.
Fine, whatever. He wants to pester her with these petty reminders, she'll just be petty back. It's not like... Ugh, she won't have the chance to. Anyway.
Lie detected. She's pretty sure he'd be glad to point out where she got it.)
My wrist is fine, but instead of having your fingers up my head, you could just take off my clothes and find out yourself. I'm just saying.
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When her hand moves over his eyes, he takes her wrist in one hand and reclaims control over his senses before kissing the inside of her palm.]
Or maybe I blindfold you.
[Since she keeps trying to take away his eyes and all. In fact, that's what he's going to do. Block her optic nerves, then slide his free hand into her shorts and limit her vision entirely to the view of what he sees when he touches her with his actual physical hand for the first time and easily slips his fingers inside her.]
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She's still overstimulated, so the sound she makes is the loudest she has given him so far, inhaling hard as the hand he had taken moves to the nape of his neck for some semblance of stability.
Also, not to be vain on main, but... Strangely, as weird as it feels to look at her face in scarlet tones, her straight, golden hair messy and unruly, and her lips plump from all the kissing with a curl to the edges, she still looks pretty? It's more the blushing and that smile she promptly tries to get rid of that she finds issues with. She doesn't blush. Fuck you and your uncanny skills of making her look like that, Quire. What was it? Not a 'man-eating Barbie'?
But, hey, he has two hands, and so does she. They're still very dressed for two people who want to rip their clothes off, so first, his pants are the easiest. She'll get them down halfway, he can deal with the rest. Next up are those shorts, which take a little more maneuvering due to the whole being unable to fully focus on it and the lack of space, but once she's just in his shirt, it all becomes so much easier. Her leg hooks around his hip, which allows for better reach for his fingers, if he has the willpower to not take the invitation as it is.)
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His pants? Gone. Nobody in history has gotten pants off faster, even using TK, which Quentin did. Their hands do regrettably have to leave each other's bodies, but it's a worthy sacrifice when the reward is him lining himself up, grabbing the thigh she so kindly presented to him, and snapping their hips together as strongly as he can considering the position they apparently picked this time around. He lets out an absolutely wrecked gasp that unlike Sophie, he's not embarrassed to have made.
Speaking of. She's still telepathically "blindfolded" with her vision linked to his whenever he has ammunition to use against her pride since she clearly gets off on that. So naturally, he shows her every detailed reaction she has to him entering her again, as well as when he stays there without moving for a moment, his breathing still in shambles but of course not preventing him from talking.]
Hate to break it to you. But I think you may have a teeny tiny. Humiliation kink.
[And of course, if he's right, pointing that out will prove itself.]
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