(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.]
(This is probably going to be much lazier than the first one, because who the fuck has the energy? They're telepaths, the body is not invincible or tiredless, everything is up in the mind. She cannot manage not to touch him, so one hand is on his cheek, the other on his shoulder, and for someone who would most likely tell him to move, she doesn't look quite as impatient as she would be. To the contrary, she's just clenching as hard as she can, as to feel as much as possible, and she reopens the connection between them before her eyes do a full trip around her lids. Biggest eyeroll in the history of eyerolls.
She can see it. It was glorious.)
Rude and incorrect.
(Where is his damn off-button and where are his stupid interpretation skills!!! She's just feeling shy because she's lacking at least ten layers of armor here, and there's the horrifying ordeal of being known knocking right on her front door. He's got his shit, she's got hers.
Well, at least she can move where she lives really quickly. Glitchy powers means that he might have to ground her, and as she said, ignore the fact that she is accidentally raising his body temperature a little and giving him some brain static when she moves them back to his brain. This is where it began, might as well take it for a spin. Against a shelf they are, and she jumps on him to give him a brain-melting kiss.)
[Lazier out in the physical plane is absolutely fine. He rolls them so he's on his back with her on top. Not his preferred position for... reasons, but perfectly suitable leisurely grinding while most of his attention is diverted by her pulling them back into his head. Also cleaning up the mess her jacked up powers made of his physiology and the crackly feeling in his skull. But she set up the scenario for him to fuck her against the bookshelves in his brain with her legs around his waist, so she's forgiven. Sure, it's a bit of a reminder that he can't do this in the physical world, but also? Who needs the stupid "real world" anyway. Quentin is... very average physically, but mentally? Mentally he's one of the strongest there is. The complete opposite of most of the smooth-brains he has to interact with every day.
Case in point, it's virtually no effort at all for him to hold her up, run his hands along her thighs, and kiss her hungrily, all while rocking into her, slow and deep. And because they're in his brain, where he makes the rules, he decides that everything he's doing is the most toe-curling, scratching-the-itch-she-didn't-know-she-had shit she can possibly imagine. You know, for fun. The one downside is it's not quite so fun to get her to make noises and bully her into talking out loud. Oh well, guess it's back to telepathy, not that he's complaining that he can talk while kissing again. Though considering where they are, telepathy means his voice echoing through the "room" instead of just her head.]
(To be very fair, neither could she for too long, when her legs would have to keep track of her weight. Once her body has a moment to process, her legs are going to be jelly, and her lower back is going to thoroughly curse her life decisions, so, no judgments here. Telepaths are a whole different type of people, after all, and he's dealing with her twice, two different planes at once.
She's not kissing him on the physical plane, because the noises she's making have to come out somehow. She's finally gotten loud, holding onto him for dear life as she moves her hips with him in the same rhythm. It's less frantic, much more relaxed than the first time, but it is working perhaps even better for her — whether it's due to his telepathy or because she found a pace she particularly likes, or even both? It's probably both.
With her weakened powers, she can't properly rewire all to him when it'd completely break her, but a watered-down version of something that is making her head spin and her mind light all the buildings in New York together gotta still be amazing, right? Her laugh echoes the walls of his brain, and in her body, her smile reveals itself again.)
What, you thought it was for your winning personality?
Oo, ouch. Keep that up, and you might just hurt my feelings.
[Quentin pulls the bulk of her awareness to his mindscape. He can split his processing power between the two locations better than she can, particularly with her powers on the fritz, and he'd rather she focus on the place where he's putting in more effort. The physical plane is where he'll get to enjoy the noises she's making.]
You're getting pretty loud, by the way. Guess I'm working for it after all.
[There's only one problem with the current arrangement, and it's, ironically, the lack of a problem. He's no stranger to sex in the astral plane, but due to, uh. Circumstances. He's never been in charge the way he's been enjoying with Sophie. As much as he'd never admit it, he's self-aware enough to know his... confidence, for lack of a better word, has grown since she arrived in his room, and with that has come a newfound spark to his imagination. He has Ideas, many of which he's shared with her. But in the physical world, he's limited not just by their own physiological capabilities, but also logistics. Moving locations, changing positions, fumbling with clothes. His imagination is leashed by the bounds of what's realistic.
In his mind? Not the case. And realizing that is... honestly the most overwhelming feeling he's had this whole time. The unhurried pace of their hips meeting each other doesn't change. He's happy with that. For now, at least. But the location? Arrangement of their bodies? As her pleasure bleeds in him, his focus is starting to show some cracks. Hairline cracks, but cracks nonetheless. His and her fantasies, wild or otherwise, occasionally blip into the perceived reality of his mindscape. Not the worst thing ever, but well... it's probably a touch disorienting to find yourself suddenly in an entirely different position and/or location.]
(What leaves her is a snort. As if. Don't worry, she's bewildered too.
With her being mostly in the astral plane, that means her body is moving majorly out of reactions, free from her own blocks — means he gets the sounds of pleasure she's doing, the beaming from her smile so intense it might light up the room on its own, all that good stuff she's been gatekeeping if he actually cares to look.
Though, in here? He can feel her every emotion, and what he will feel is that, although there's an eyeroll specially wrapped as a gift for him, he's not wrong. He's earned her at the most honest she can muster, so he should probably pat himself on the back for that one.
Likewise, she can feel it, too — the overwhelming feeling of choice paralysis and how they end up on the floor of a whole different room, his breath on her back, even with her own arched against his chest, her palms holding on to her body to keep herself steady. His imagination is running, huh? It's not a deal-breaker, naturally, but if they can not just blink into a whole new thing, that'd be best.
Powerless grounding, because that's what she has: her hand moving to caress his hair as she turns her face to give him a peck to the lips.)
Hey, Omega? I'm not going anywhere, so we'll have time and plenty of opportunity to check out that wishlist. (She knows, she's surprised too—) Just be here with me.
[Eugh, that's embarrassing. Getting so excited and impatient you semi-accidentally shift perceived reality to fuck a girl the way you wouldn't shut up about fucking her? Kinda cringe. F in chat.
At least she's not giving him shit about it. And her attempts to ground him do... actually work, funnily enough. Her hand in his hair, telling him to be here, calling him Omega? Yep, that gets him to focus up.
Not that he's going to reward her nice with his nice. That's not how this works, and he can feel that pathological urge to unconditionally dote on every girl who gives him positive attention creeping at the corners of his mind. He pushes it down and with it pushes her shoulders to the floor, the bottom half of her body propped up on her knees.]
Aww, see, you can be nice sometimes.
[He drapes his body over her back, and puts his hands on top of hers, threading his fingers between her own to pin her to the floor. His hips keep that same slow roll that they both like, though, and he lightly kisses the back of her shoulder. So that's nice.]
I won't complain if you call me Omega in bed more, though. And from me that's a generous offer.
(Look at her, the Omega-level telepath whisperer. Sophie couldn't throw hands with his unconsciousness even if she really wanted to, but she doesn't. It happens, you know. The mysteries of the mind, free-flowing, open, it's not a big deal, see? She truly can be nice sometimes, which is something he earned through the past few hours they've been, well, fighting and fucking, pretty much, since he managed to chip away at the bulkiest outer layer walls she puts up.
It's probably a very nice view he gets, her tiny waist and curved back as she moves against him, this position actually helps her do some of the work and she squirms a little at the lack at something to hold so she can not lose it as quickly.)
How long until you make me regret it?
(Bitchy for the sake of bitchy, only. No malicious intent, especially when he gives her exactly what she needs to keep herself focused. Her hands squeeze his, and she tilts her head to give him better access to her neck if he wants it. It is exceptionally sensitive, though, so if he goes for it, the end of this might be on the horizon.)
I'm certain you'll find something else to complain about — shit, you're making it hard to think. I'll kindly consider it.
[He hums against her neck briefly but ultimately decides to lift his head and deprive her of that extra stimulation for now. He doesn't want this to end so soon. The downside is that with their current position, every breath and word out of his mouth can be felt directly in her ear. And considering they don't actually have to breathe in here? The asshole is doing it on purpose.]
Please, I always find something to complain about. It's my special talent.
["Talent", yes. That's a word for it.]
Not to say you aren't making it hard, though. Pun intended.
[He chuckles in her ear at his own joke. Still, he's not lying. Even Quentin Quire is having a difficult time finding something to complain about right now. His brain is naturally wired to handle a vast amount of sensory information at all times, which is the only reason he's able to keep the composure he can, because it's a lot.
He still has part of his mind in the physical world, enjoying all those reactions she's giving him now that her body is unrestrained by her filters, and he shows her a snapshot of his view there every so often, when she lets out a particularly wanton noise. But for the most part he wants to keep her attention here in his mind. He's mostly just showing her so she knows he didn't want this position to avoid seeing her face. That's, well... he can't deny there's a factor of that. But it's more about recontextualizing an identical body to one he knows all too well. Not just trying to make something he's done before feel different because of the way they both behave. Something actually different. Something exclusively Sophie.
He pants into her ear and for a moment just... feels her. It doesn't matter that this a psychic approximation of her physical form and not technically "real". Her back is soft against his chest, her fingers curled around his, her hair tickling his cheek, her hips meeting his and body clenching around him so nicely. And most importantly, he has no mental image in his head of a different blonde bombshell under him like this he could compare to even if he wanted to do so. It's like a whole damn mountain's been lifted off his shoulders.]
You ready to admit I was right?
[About this position, he means. She can look into his mind for hints if she needs to.]
(How is it that he manages to be so incredibly ridiculous, and still draw out the most honest laughter from her lungs? It's not even that it's funny, because doy, they're fucking, the word "hard" gots to be considered low-hanging fruit for comedy, but it's much more about the fact that he doesn't pull back from taking it. They've changed through this, she can tell, many doors have opened and thoughts were overridden as they navigate it, and yet, it still feels exactly like them.
Funnily enough, communicating now feels so much lighter than it had been in the past months. She can recognize what he's doing with those images, telling her he's paying attention, committing her to memory, and she doesn't recoil from it for once. Good that he can see the smile on her lips, then. She's not mad about it. She's not sure the word that could describe her feeling, but relieved comes close enough and she can feel that he is too. Like the baggage has lost a bit of its weight.
The same way he takes a second, she is, too. She can see herself coming closer, especially after all that psychic insanity they had been doing, but likewise, she doesn't want it to end so soon either. Heavy breathing, sounds, the way his heart is pounding against her, and how the skin of his hand feels once she runs her thumb against it, as a smirk forms on her lips. She presses it on his arm in the shape of a kiss, really the only thing she can reach easily.)
Quentin Quire is right are words I will never say.
(She admits it in her mind, very clearly, he can hear it.)
[He snickers triumphantly and lightly kisses the side of her neck under her ear.]
Hmm, what was that? I stopped listening after the fourth word.
[He replays those first four words she made the horrendous mistake of stringing together in that specific order: "Quentin Quire is right."]
I'm just going to assume the rest was "and that's very sexy and cool of him."
[He can feel himself getting closer too, and he lets go of one of her hands so he can pull her up a bit and lightly turn her head so he can kiss her. The angle is awkward, but hey, e for effort. At least she has a hand free now, so she can help if she wants. He just needs some kind of outlet for the desire he's feeling that makes a part of him want to rush for the end when the rest of him really, really doesn't. He's determined to let this build gradually, savor it. Not because it could be the last time they do this. She already promised him multiple next times. It just feels good, and in the kind of shit life inherent to every poor bastard with a goddamn X-gene, "good" is something you hang onto.]
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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.)
no subject
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.)
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.]
no subject
(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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She can see it. It was glorious.)
Rude and incorrect.
(Where is his damn off-button and where are his stupid interpretation skills!!! She's just feeling shy because she's lacking at least ten layers of armor here, and there's the horrifying ordeal of being known knocking right on her front door. He's got his shit, she's got hers.
Well, at least she can move where she lives really quickly. Glitchy powers means that he might have to ground her, and as she said, ignore the fact that she is accidentally raising his body temperature a little and giving him some brain static when she moves them back to his brain. This is where it began, might as well take it for a spin. Against a shelf they are, and she jumps on him to give him a brain-melting kiss.)
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Case in point, it's virtually no effort at all for him to hold her up, run his hands along her thighs, and kiss her hungrily, all while rocking into her, slow and deep. And because they're in his brain, where he makes the rules, he decides that everything he's doing is the most toe-curling, scratching-the-itch-she-didn't-know-she-had shit she can possibly imagine. You know, for fun. The one downside is it's not quite so fun to get her to make noises and bully her into talking out loud. Oh well, guess it's back to telepathy, not that he's complaining that he can talk while kissing again. Though considering where they are, telepathy means his voice echoing through the "room" instead of just her head.]
See, told ya. You just like me for my big brain.
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She's not kissing him on the physical plane, because the noises she's making have to come out somehow. She's finally gotten loud, holding onto him for dear life as she moves her hips with him in the same rhythm. It's less frantic, much more relaxed than the first time, but it is working perhaps even better for her — whether it's due to his telepathy or because she found a pace she particularly likes, or even both? It's probably both.
With her weakened powers, she can't properly rewire all to him when it'd completely break her, but a watered-down version of something that is making her head spin and her mind light all the buildings in New York together gotta still be amazing, right? Her laugh echoes the walls of his brain, and in her body, her smile reveals itself again.)
What, you thought it was for your winning personality?
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[Quentin pulls the bulk of her awareness to his mindscape. He can split his processing power between the two locations better than she can, particularly with her powers on the fritz, and he'd rather she focus on the place where he's putting in more effort. The physical plane is where he'll get to enjoy the noises she's making.]
You're getting pretty loud, by the way. Guess I'm working for it after all.
[There's only one problem with the current arrangement, and it's, ironically, the lack of a problem. He's no stranger to sex in the astral plane, but due to, uh. Circumstances. He's never been in charge the way he's been enjoying with Sophie. As much as he'd never admit it, he's self-aware enough to know his... confidence, for lack of a better word, has grown since she arrived in his room, and with that has come a newfound spark to his imagination. He has Ideas, many of which he's shared with her. But in the physical world, he's limited not just by their own physiological capabilities, but also logistics. Moving locations, changing positions, fumbling with clothes. His imagination is leashed by the bounds of what's realistic.
In his mind? Not the case. And realizing that is... honestly the most overwhelming feeling he's had this whole time. The unhurried pace of their hips meeting each other doesn't change. He's happy with that. For now, at least. But the location? Arrangement of their bodies? As her pleasure bleeds in him, his focus is starting to show some cracks. Hairline cracks, but cracks nonetheless. His and her fantasies, wild or otherwise, occasionally blip into the perceived reality of his mindscape. Not the worst thing ever, but well... it's probably a touch disorienting to find yourself suddenly in an entirely different position and/or location.]
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With her being mostly in the astral plane, that means her body is moving majorly out of reactions, free from her own blocks — means he gets the sounds of pleasure she's doing, the beaming from her smile so intense it might light up the room on its own, all that good stuff she's been gatekeeping if he actually cares to look.
Though, in here? He can feel her every emotion, and what he will feel is that, although there's an eyeroll specially wrapped as a gift for him, he's not wrong. He's earned her at the most honest she can muster, so he should probably pat himself on the back for that one.
Likewise, she can feel it, too — the overwhelming feeling of choice paralysis and how they end up on the floor of a whole different room, his breath on her back, even with her own arched against his chest, her palms holding on to her body to keep herself steady. His imagination is running, huh? It's not a deal-breaker, naturally, but if they can not just blink into a whole new thing, that'd be best.
Powerless grounding, because that's what she has: her hand moving to caress his hair as she turns her face to give him a peck to the lips.)
Hey, Omega? I'm not going anywhere, so we'll have time and plenty of opportunity to check out that wishlist. (She knows, she's surprised too—) Just be here with me.
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At least she's not giving him shit about it. And her attempts to ground him do... actually work, funnily enough. Her hand in his hair, telling him to be here, calling him Omega? Yep, that gets him to focus up.
Not that he's going to reward her nice with his nice. That's not how this works, and he can feel that pathological urge to unconditionally dote on every girl who gives him positive attention creeping at the corners of his mind. He pushes it down and with it pushes her shoulders to the floor, the bottom half of her body propped up on her knees.]
Aww, see, you can be nice sometimes.
[He drapes his body over her back, and puts his hands on top of hers, threading his fingers between her own to pin her to the floor. His hips keep that same slow roll that they both like, though, and he lightly kisses the back of her shoulder. So that's nice.]
I won't complain if you call me Omega in bed more, though. And from me that's a generous offer.
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It's probably a very nice view he gets, her tiny waist and curved back as she moves against him, this position actually helps her do some of the work and she squirms a little at the lack at something to hold so she can not lose it as quickly.)
How long until you make me regret it?
(Bitchy for the sake of bitchy, only. No malicious intent, especially when he gives her exactly what she needs to keep herself focused. Her hands squeeze his, and she tilts her head to give him better access to her neck if he wants it. It is exceptionally sensitive, though, so if he goes for it, the end of this might be on the horizon.)
I'm certain you'll find something else to complain about — shit, you're making it hard to think. I'll kindly consider it.
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Please, I always find something to complain about. It's my special talent.
["Talent", yes. That's a word for it.]
Not to say you aren't making it hard, though. Pun intended.
[He chuckles in her ear at his own joke. Still, he's not lying. Even Quentin Quire is having a difficult time finding something to complain about right now. His brain is naturally wired to handle a vast amount of sensory information at all times, which is the only reason he's able to keep the composure he can, because it's a lot.
He still has part of his mind in the physical world, enjoying all those reactions she's giving him now that her body is unrestrained by her filters, and he shows her a snapshot of his view there every so often, when she lets out a particularly wanton noise. But for the most part he wants to keep her attention here in his mind. He's mostly just showing her so she knows he didn't want this position to avoid seeing her face. That's, well... he can't deny there's a factor of that. But it's more about recontextualizing an identical body to one he knows all too well. Not just trying to make something he's done before feel different because of the way they both behave. Something actually different. Something exclusively Sophie.
He pants into her ear and for a moment just... feels her. It doesn't matter that this a psychic approximation of her physical form and not technically "real". Her back is soft against his chest, her fingers curled around his, her hair tickling his cheek, her hips meeting his and body clenching around him so nicely. And most importantly, he has no mental image in his head of a different blonde bombshell under him like this he could compare to even if he wanted to do so. It's like a whole damn mountain's been lifted off his shoulders.]
You ready to admit I was right?
[About this position, he means. She can look into his mind for hints if she needs to.]
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Funnily enough, communicating now feels so much lighter than it had been in the past months. She can recognize what he's doing with those images, telling her he's paying attention, committing her to memory, and she doesn't recoil from it for once. Good that he can see the smile on her lips, then. She's not mad about it. She's not sure the word that could describe her feeling, but relieved comes close enough and she can feel that he is too. Like the baggage has lost a bit of its weight.
The same way he takes a second, she is, too. She can see herself coming closer, especially after all that psychic insanity they had been doing, but likewise, she doesn't want it to end so soon either. Heavy breathing, sounds, the way his heart is pounding against her, and how the skin of his hand feels once she runs her thumb against it, as a smirk forms on her lips. She presses it on his arm in the shape of a kiss, really the only thing she can reach easily.)
Quentin Quire is right are words I will never say.
(She admits it in her mind, very clearly, he can hear it.)
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Hmm, what was that? I stopped listening after the fourth word.
[He replays those first four words she made the horrendous mistake of stringing together in that specific order: "Quentin Quire is right."]
I'm just going to assume the rest was "and that's very sexy and cool of him."
[He can feel himself getting closer too, and he lets go of one of her hands so he can pull her up a bit and lightly turn her head so he can kiss her. The angle is awkward, but hey, e for effort. At least she has a hand free now, so she can help if she wants. He just needs some kind of outlet for the desire he's feeling that makes a part of him want to rush for the end when the rest of him really, really doesn't. He's determined to let this build gradually, savor it. Not because it could be the last time they do this. She already promised him multiple next times. It just feels good, and in the kind of shit life inherent to every poor bastard with a goddamn X-gene, "good" is something you hang onto.]
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