(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.]
(Can't win them all. Sophie's already won several times today, might as well let him have this one, especially because he, well, was right. Why are telepaths like this? She'd do it too, make a mental frame of it, hang it on the walls, have it play whenever she found convenient. Pot, kettle.
Anything else she might have wanted to add is lost, because while she could talk to him as usual, kissing just shuts her right up in every plane, her body moving to sit up, back to his chest as she continues carefully move not to hit him, but keeping the rhythm they had going all the same. Her hand finds his hair again, a caress as she focuses on the mellowness of their current flow.
Sophie's thinks the same. It's delightful, and they had never even had anything good, so she wants to store it in the corners of her mind, revisit and build up on it for the times to come. She doesn't feel regret, and she is certain she won't feel when they wake from the coma they set themselves up for.
[She sits up and runs her fingers through his hair, and he groans against her mouth. She's touched his hair before and received reactions ranging from uneasy to indifferent. But turns out? Context is everything. Because right now the feeling of her ridiculous manicured nails tangling in his hair sends all kinds of amazing tingles down his spine and makes his hips jerk up sharply on reflex. He breaks away from the kiss.]
Okay. This is a limited-time offer. Today only, but. Touch my hair again.
[He kisses her again to give her less opportunity to tease him, letting his hand idly roam her body for sensitive spots as an additional distraction. Not that he thinks she would be all that merciless, nor is he terribly insecure about his request. That much is clear by the playful tone to his voice. It's just the principle of the matter.]
(Very different indeed. Sophie likes his hair, it's smooth and well-taken care of, and he's got his stupid (charming) curls for her to sink fingers into. She wasn't expecting him to actually like it though, seen as he hadn't particularly cared when she first did it, so the stronger thrust takes her by surprise, an unholy moan coming out of her physical lips. The Sophie that rests on the bed tightens her hold on him with her thighs, heel pushing against the small of his back to tell him to do that again, deeper, not faster.
On the astral plane, though, she lets her fingers enjoy the soft strands they caress, her hand also synched to their rhythm as she tries to postpone her soon arriving climax. She's not even about to mess with him about this?)
Limited offer on - giving me permission or letting me at all? No take backs.
[He sighs with a pleasurable shiver at her fingers stroking his scalp in time with their bodies.]
Both. I like my hair. Don't want you messing it up.
[That moan she lets out in the physical world is so delicious it echoes in his mindscape, and when she encourages the change in his movement, he gladly complies. And in the mental world? He does his best to match that, even with the difference in angle in this position. His arm wraps around her waist for the sake of leverage, both to brace and lift her a bit if needed, so he can shift from a rolling motion to steady, emphatic thrusts, aiming for her to feel as much of him as deeply as possible each stroke. Is that doubtlessly going to hasten the end of this? Yes, yes it is. But consider this: she's making the most lewd noises imaginable and digging her heel into the small of his back in one reality, and in the other she has her hand tangled in his hair and back flush against his chest. And in both realities he's getting a constant live feed from her brain of everything she's thinking and feeling. He's only one guy, okay! His brain may be wired for sensory overload, but he mainly avoids getting overwhelmed by diverting his attention, and that sure as fuck isn't an option here. At this point his priority is keeping this from getting too frenzied.]
I like your hair and I like messing it up. Surely you can make more concessions.
(It's a very particular pleasure to be running fingers through recently shaved hair, hence why Sophie's living her best life now that he has asked for it. His hair must be an unruly mess of unruly curls back in his physical body, now that she thinks of it. She's just one girl, okay, there's only so much she can ignore, rebuke, or repel for the sake of being difficult; her finding it cute easily slips out.
Not that she has a lot of time to dwell on it, with her louder moan filling the room — she said what she said. Her head tilts back in the mindscape, allowing it to rest against his shoulder as she matches the movement, making sure she has all of him with each time he pushes against inside her. With powers all fucky and jacked up, she doesn't want to risk them getting worse by playing too hard, but she still is a telepath — she knows exactly what to think when he's just in her brain as much as she is in his.
Her thoughts flow to pay the most diligent attention to each single pleasurable thing she's feeling. How he's moving exactly how she likes it, hitting all the right spots and focusing on the burst of joy that she feels each time he pushes in. The soreness of her legs, which while annoying, she adores as she holds him close, a reminder as to why they cramp in the first place. The way she can almost taste the edge, her brain melted, and her body nearly imploring her to let go.
[Okay, he's officially decided he can grumble about her messing up his hair later—and he will, don't you worry—but for right now? Right now he has other priorities.
The first round of this ended because they were bickering and trying to one-up each other, which... tracks, considering their personalities. This time, though? This time they have a shared goal. The same priorities. They're in perfect agreement for the first time literally ever, and it's about fucking each other stupid in two planes of reality simultaneously. Go figure.
This second round has been about wish-fulfillment, mostly on his end—though she certainly hasn't had any complaints—and there's one thing on his list he still wants. It's stupid and way, way more cliche than he prefers, but hey, cliches are cliche for a reason. And she doesn't seem like she's in the exact headspace to offer any constructive criticism right now. If it gets him jazzed, chances are very, very high it'll work for her too. Shared goal, right?]
Hey.
[He moves the hand not around her waist to gently rest on her neck. There's no pressure—unless her mind indicates she wants that, of course, he's not judging—but for him it's just the aesthetic that's appealing.]
Beg me. I wanna hear you beg.
[He uses the last shreds of his sanity to reach into her mind and lightly grasp her body's ability to climax. And he makes sure she can feel it, to clear up any potential confusion about what she's begging him for. It's the same as his hand on her throat, though, enough to be felt but easily breakable even without use of her powers. Not that Quentin has any problem with edging. Obviously. But there's a time and place, and they're both way, way too close to the finish line to bother with any of that crap in any serious capacity.]
(See, she did say he would find something to complain about sooner or later. There will be no surprise from her when he whines about her long, pretty fingers on the pink strands when she inevitably does it again.
For now, though, she's temporarily too overwhelmed to continue performing her tough act, which is why she nuzzles against his neck before she kisses it, a speck of... Affection? as she feels her heart nearly beating out of her chest. The hand on her neck is not a problem, since it bears no pressure and it allows him to feel her insanely rapid heartbeat on his fingertips.
Her eyes open once he speaks, and she realizes what he's doing almost immediately as he says it. Did this fucker just edge her twice on the same day? He's so dead. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow. But eventually? He's so dead. It's not on her control how her physical body reacts, hands gripping onto his arms and her hips chasing his like an addiction, which doesn't fucking help, it brings her inches from an orgasm she can't have since he's holding it, and it scrambles her brain to every direction possible.
Motherfucker.)
Fuck, Quentin, you win, let me come for you, please. Please.
(For all the bite and tone, her voice comes out nearly a cry. He did win!)
[When she says his name, the wall in his mindscape cracks loudly, ceiling to floor. And from there every word she says unleashes more destruction. Furniture toppling over, books flying off shelves, the fireplace blazing into an inferno. (The portrait of himself is, of course, unscathed, but that's to be expected.) And when she says "please," the entire mental room shakes violently while somehow doing nothing to disrupt them.
Quentin lets go. He has no choice. Even if he wanted to he couldn't hold on any longer, and he absolutely doesn't want to. She begged him to let her come for him, and there isn't a single cell in his body that objects to that concept. Sophie is spared from any additional stupid comments at least, because all he can do is choke out a breathless and very unsexy "yeah," but... look. The "come for me" or whatever dirty talk bullshit is implied, okay? Just... fill in the blanks or something.
Also? Before she gets all uppity, his last two braincells were reserved for edging himself, so nyeh. He set his orgasm to be triggered only by hers, because he's just a nice guy like that. You're welcome. Which means the instant she climaxes, so does he, thrusting as deeply as he can into both iterations of her body and spilling inside her for the second (and third...??) time today.]
(At least they were destructive (positive), and not destrucive (concerning) this time around. The temperature is close to too much to withstand with the fireplace, the room coming undone doing nothing to hinder the tsunami of ecstasy that she feels once they let go. The only use of her powers is to numb his skin, because she knows she's probably going to scratch the living hell of his arms as to keep herself minimally together as the wave rushes through her every cell with pleasure.
The panting moan she gives out is sweet to the ears as she rides her climax with spasming thigh muscles while she brings her awareness back to herself. Lips reach for a lazy, slow kiss as a means to calm down, thumb caressing his cheekbone before she distances.)
[Quentin closes his eyes in his mind and opens them back in his bedroom, Sophie's flushed and euphoric face in front of him. She kisses him, and he hums contentedly, nuzzling into the hand on his cheek.]
Hey.
[So what if he's almost deliriously happy, grinning like an idiot, and a disheveled mess? Mind your business. Oxytocin and vasopressin are a hell of a chemical cocktail. Anyway, he'll be back to his usual pissy, arrogant, irritating self just as soon as the feel-good hormones clear out of his system. Might as well let her enjoy this mushy, touchy-feely, and frankly adorable Quentin for the next few minutes while he's here.
That said, he's going to roll onto his back beside her. She can do whatever the hell she wants after that.]
I think we can both agree that this was my best worst idea ever.
(She might as well be glowing, honestly, the hormones flowing through her body keeping her from noticing how much her body is going to feel like it has been run over by a truck tomorrow. Yeah, yeah, she knows, logically, but right now, she's got the same goddamn stupid look on her face and, most importantly, she's letting him see it. All the little imperfections, like her visible fatigue, sweat, redness, and messy hair are all there, and she doesn't even think about trying to illusion it otherwise. It's a weird win bestowed upon him, but a win nonetheless.
With him next to her, she rolls on her stomach, propping herself up with her forearms and keeping her face on her hands. Big blue eyes watch him before she snorts, one of the hands settling on his chest as her nose does the thing.
Yeah. Actually, yeah.)
We can, yeah. Not your worst work.
(But wait, the realization, and she has facepalms for a second in her inevitable laughter. It's both surprise and embarrassment, oh my God.)
... Cripes, all this, and I still don't know what dumb game to get you.
(THE WHOLE REASON SHE WAS UP IN HIS BRAIN IN THE FIRST PLACE. Oh, no, her face has to join her hand on his chest as she chuckles.)
[Look, at this point they both have so much embarrassing dirt on each other that to even attempt blackmail would be mutually assured destruction. Not that that's ever stopped them before, but. You know. He barely even registers how wrecked she is aside from a vague sense of pride in his own accomplishments.
It's funny. In about 99% of cases, Sophie resting her hand and face on his chest would annoy or unsettle him. Hell, yesterday the idea would've made him want to crawl out of his own skin. In a few hours, it'll probably feel claustrophobic or too intimate or bring up bad memories blah blah blah. That's a problem for future Quentin. Apparently putting his arm around her is a step too far, though, because he just puts his hands behind his head.]
Oh. Yeah, I'm not really that into gaming.
[Said with utter nonchalance, like that reveal isn't a grand stupid anti-climax on top of the whole hot mess that is their shared existence.]
(It's fine if he doesn't, she wouldn't ask him to, or want him to if that's not what comes to him. Sophie's more than fine with that — whatever she and he are willing to give the other, all good. She prefers it that way.
But, bro. Bro, no. Bro? He can probably feel her mind slowly coming to two realizations: a. he just went with her to the arcade because, well, she asked. b. she's the videogame nerd. Oh, nooo. She hides further for a second before she huffs, returning to her original position once she realizes that being in this bed was probably the best thing they could ever come up with.)
Well, the intention there was to give you something nice.
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no subject
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.)
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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(Can't win them all. Sophie's already won several times today, might as well let him have this one, especially because he, well, was right. Why are telepaths like this? She'd do it too, make a mental frame of it, hang it on the walls, have it play whenever she found convenient. Pot, kettle.
Anything else she might have wanted to add is lost, because while she could talk to him as usual, kissing just shuts her right up in every plane, her body moving to sit up, back to his chest as she continues carefully move not to hit him, but keeping the rhythm they had going all the same. Her hand finds his hair again, a caress as she focuses on the mellowness of their current flow.
Sophie's thinks the same. It's delightful, and they had never even had anything good, so she wants to store it in the corners of her mind, revisit and build up on it for the times to come. She doesn't feel regret, and she is certain she won't feel when they wake from the coma they set themselves up for.
It's good. She's, ugh, happy.)
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Okay. This is a limited-time offer. Today only, but. Touch my hair again.
[He kisses her again to give her less opportunity to tease him, letting his hand idly roam her body for sensitive spots as an additional distraction. Not that he thinks she would be all that merciless, nor is he terribly insecure about his request. That much is clear by the playful tone to his voice. It's just the principle of the matter.]
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On the astral plane, though, she lets her fingers enjoy the soft strands they caress, her hand also synched to their rhythm as she tries to postpone her soon arriving climax. She's not even about to mess with him about this?)
Limited offer on - giving me permission or letting me at all? No take backs.
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Both. I like my hair. Don't want you messing it up.
[That moan she lets out in the physical world is so delicious it echoes in his mindscape, and when she encourages the change in his movement, he gladly complies. And in the mental world? He does his best to match that, even with the difference in angle in this position. His arm wraps around her waist for the sake of leverage, both to brace and lift her a bit if needed, so he can shift from a rolling motion to steady, emphatic thrusts, aiming for her to feel as much of him as deeply as possible each stroke. Is that doubtlessly going to hasten the end of this? Yes, yes it is. But consider this: she's making the most lewd noises imaginable and digging her heel into the small of his back in one reality, and in the other she has her hand tangled in his hair and back flush against his chest. And in both realities he's getting a constant live feed from her brain of everything she's thinking and feeling. He's only one guy, okay! His brain may be wired for sensory overload, but he mainly avoids getting overwhelmed by diverting his attention, and that sure as fuck isn't an option here. At this point his priority is keeping this from getting too frenzied.]
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(It's a very particular pleasure to be running fingers through recently shaved hair, hence why Sophie's living her best life now that he has asked for it. His hair must be an unruly mess of unruly curls back in his physical body, now that she thinks of it. She's just one girl, okay, there's only so much she can ignore, rebuke, or repel for the sake of being difficult; her finding it cute easily slips out.
Not that she has a lot of time to dwell on it, with her louder moan filling the room — she said what she said. Her head tilts back in the mindscape, allowing it to rest against his shoulder as she matches the movement, making sure she has all of him with each time he pushes against inside her. With powers all fucky and jacked up, she doesn't want to risk them getting worse by playing too hard, but she still is a telepath — she knows exactly what to think when he's just in her brain as much as she is in his.
Her thoughts flow to pay the most diligent attention to each single pleasurable thing she's feeling. How he's moving exactly how she likes it, hitting all the right spots and focusing on the burst of joy that she feels each time he pushes in. The soreness of her legs, which while annoying, she adores as she holds him close, a reminder as to why they cramp in the first place. The way she can almost taste the edge, her brain melted, and her body nearly imploring her to let go.
Ah, the joys of telepathy.)
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The first round of this ended because they were bickering and trying to one-up each other, which... tracks, considering their personalities. This time, though? This time they have a shared goal. The same priorities. They're in perfect agreement for the first time literally ever, and it's about fucking each other stupid in two planes of reality simultaneously. Go figure.
This second round has been about wish-fulfillment, mostly on his end—though she certainly hasn't had any complaints—and there's one thing on his list he still wants. It's stupid and way, way more cliche than he prefers, but hey, cliches are cliche for a reason. And she doesn't seem like she's in the exact headspace to offer any constructive criticism right now. If it gets him jazzed, chances are very, very high it'll work for her too. Shared goal, right?]
Hey.
[He moves the hand not around her waist to gently rest on her neck. There's no pressure—unless her mind indicates she wants that, of course, he's not judging—but for him it's just the aesthetic that's appealing.]
Beg me. I wanna hear you beg.
[He uses the last shreds of his sanity to reach into her mind and lightly grasp her body's ability to climax. And he makes sure she can feel it, to clear up any potential confusion about what she's begging him for. It's the same as his hand on her throat, though, enough to be felt but easily breakable even without use of her powers. Not that Quentin has any problem with edging. Obviously. But there's a time and place, and they're both way, way too close to the finish line to bother with any of that crap in any serious capacity.]
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For now, though, she's temporarily too overwhelmed to continue performing her tough act, which is why she nuzzles against his neck before she kisses it, a speck of... Affection? as she feels her heart nearly beating out of her chest. The hand on her neck is not a problem, since it bears no pressure and it allows him to feel her insanely rapid heartbeat on his fingertips.
Her eyes open once he speaks, and she realizes what he's doing almost immediately as he says it. Did this fucker just edge her twice on the same day? He's so dead. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow. But eventually? He's so dead. It's not on her control how her physical body reacts, hands gripping onto his arms and her hips chasing his like an addiction, which doesn't fucking help, it brings her inches from an orgasm she can't have since he's holding it, and it scrambles her brain to every direction possible.
Motherfucker.)
Fuck, Quentin, you win, let me come for you, please. Please.
(For all the bite and tone, her voice comes out nearly a cry. He did win!)
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Quentin lets go. He has no choice. Even if he wanted to he couldn't hold on any longer, and he absolutely doesn't want to. She begged him to let her come for him, and there isn't a single cell in his body that objects to that concept. Sophie is spared from any additional stupid comments at least, because all he can do is choke out a breathless and very unsexy "yeah," but... look. The "come for me" or whatever dirty talk bullshit is implied, okay? Just... fill in the blanks or something.
Also? Before she gets all uppity, his last two braincells were reserved for edging himself, so nyeh. He set his orgasm to be triggered only by hers, because he's just a nice guy like that. You're welcome. Which means the instant she climaxes, so does he, thrusting as deeply as he can into both iterations of her body and spilling inside her for the second (and third...??) time today.]
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The panting moan she gives out is sweet to the ears as she rides her climax with spasming thigh muscles while she brings her awareness back to herself. Lips reach for a lazy, slow kiss as a means to calm down, thumb caressing his cheekbone before she distances.)
... Hey.
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Hey.
[So what if he's almost deliriously happy, grinning like an idiot, and a disheveled mess? Mind your business. Oxytocin and vasopressin are a hell of a chemical cocktail. Anyway, he'll be back to his usual pissy, arrogant, irritating self just as soon as the feel-good hormones clear out of his system. Might as well let her enjoy this mushy, touchy-feely, and frankly adorable Quentin for the next few minutes while he's here.
That said, he's going to roll onto his back beside her. She can do whatever the hell she wants after that.]
I think we can both agree that this was my best worst idea ever.
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With him next to her, she rolls on her stomach, propping herself up with her forearms and keeping her face on her hands. Big blue eyes watch him before she snorts, one of the hands settling on his chest as her nose does the thing.
Yeah. Actually, yeah.)
We can, yeah. Not your worst work.
(But wait, the realization, and she has facepalms for a second in her inevitable laughter. It's both surprise and embarrassment, oh my God.)
... Cripes, all this, and I still don't know what dumb game to get you.
(THE WHOLE REASON SHE WAS UP IN HIS BRAIN IN THE FIRST PLACE. Oh, no, her face has to join her hand on his chest as she chuckles.)
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It's funny. In about 99% of cases, Sophie resting her hand and face on his chest would annoy or unsettle him. Hell, yesterday the idea would've made him want to crawl out of his own skin. In a few hours, it'll probably feel claustrophobic or too intimate or bring up bad memories blah blah blah. That's a problem for future Quentin. Apparently putting his arm around her is a step too far, though, because he just puts his hands behind his head.]
Oh. Yeah, I'm not really that into gaming.
[Said with utter nonchalance, like that reveal isn't a grand stupid anti-climax on top of the whole hot mess that is their shared existence.]
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But, bro. Bro, no. Bro? He can probably feel her mind slowly coming to two realizations: a. he just went with her to the arcade because, well, she asked. b. she's the videogame nerd. Oh, nooo. She hides further for a second before she huffs, returning to her original position once she realizes that being in this bed was probably the best thing they could ever come up with.)
Well, the intention there was to give you something nice.
(So, GG?)
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