[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.
[Quentin lifts his head to give her an incredulously look when he can feel those wheels turning in her head. She didn't... Okay. Whatever. He's in much too good of a mood to bother being annoyed that she's so clueless, particularly when her lack of self-awareness... kind of led to him being frustrated enough to say yolo and make that first suggestive comment.
So yeah, he does heartily agree that this was the best possible outcome.]
Well, I'd say you definitely achieved that, at least, soooo. Task failed successfully?
[He breathes deeply, feeling her head and hand rise and fall with his chest. The post coital sleepiness is starting to sink in, and his eyes are drifting shut, so he lazily waves a hand to telekinetically pull a blanket over both of their bodies. She doesn't seem like she's going anywhere in a hurry, so eh. He's a restless sleeper and tends to starfish, though, so hope she enjoys that.]
(He can give her shit later, alright. Right now, she wants to enjoy this melted, endearing version of him while her eyes still manage to stay open, with the full knowledge she won't last awake for long, and neither will he. The laugh he manages to pull from her is weak, stained by fatigue.)
Eh. Sounds about right for us, I guess.
(The blanket is more than welcome, and it reminds her — from the same drawer that she found the chocolate earlier, she'll bring two more to whatever surface is closest to him with her own telekinesis so he has something when he undoubtedly wakes up needing them. It's a small way to care, but it is care nonetheless.
That said, cuddling is a bit too much for her, too, she could definitely use some space. She leaves his chest to press another sweet, lingering kiss to his lips before a similar one is pressed to his cheek.)
[Quentin does not sleep for very long in general. In fact, the five and a half hours he spends dead to the world is longer than he's usually asleep. So hey, Sophie can pat herself in the back for that achievement.
By the time she wakes up, he's dressed, eaten the snacks she retrieved for him, and apparently taken up origami within the past couple of hours, judging by the hoard of paper cranes littering the floor and every available surface nearby him. He doesn't even bother looking up at her when he senses her stirring. He's busy.]
(Can't get him to shut up while he's awake, but by God, she can get him to sleep longer.
Sophie hates waking up with a passion. The rays caress her face, and she glares right at them with the strength of a thousand suns, before her hand taps around the bed to see if she can find the owner of this atrocity of a room. Ah. He's already left it. He's... Speaking, already.
Very confusing morning for Sophie Cuckoo. The room is a slap of stimuli to her senses, the feeling that a truck ran her over with how achy her legs and back are, not to mention her face from all the silly smiling she had been doing. Yet, she's still flooded by all those pesky feel-good hormones that are basically holding her down like a club bouncer and keeping her from throwing hands with the sun itself.
Very slowly, so as not to give an opening for her muscles to punish her, she sits up, hands rubbing on her face before she looks over. Paper cranes. A lotta paper cranes.
[He glances over when he sees her pat the bed where he was. Looking for him? Okay. Not sure why, but okay. Quentin also notes with a slight tilt of his head how stiffly she's moving. Huh. Guess he's in better shape than he thought. Sure, he's a bit sore, mostly abs, thighs, lower back, but nothing debilitating or as bad as what she seems to be suffering. Makes sense, he supposes. X-Men shit isn't exactly leisure, though Quentin certainly doesn't go out of his way to work out or anything. That's for shmucks.
Well. He's just going to use it to feed his ego. What's she going to do? Try to tell him the reason she can barely move isn't how good he fucked her? Obviously not.]
Nine hours and 13 minutes. Give or take. I was asleep for some of that so. Harder to keep track.
[Shit, what do you even do when the girl you had sex with because it was literally the only thing you could agree on is drowsily waking up in your bed and calling you nicknames? Fuck if Quentin knows. He's never done this kinda thing before. But what he does know is he refuses to let this be awkward. Or at least, no more awkward than it absolutely has to be.
Look. If he can manage to not, you know. Be a pathetic sap when he's butt-naked, surely he can manage it now. Get it together, Quire.]
Not to be a buzzkill, but the nickname thing isn't really helping with... whatever this is. Just so you know.
You try getting fucked three times, Quentin. See what that does to your legs and back. Good thing she had no plans today, just shower, get in her bed with a game, and die. Sounds pretty good, actually. There's an inherent laziness in the way she searches for clothes, as if her synapses in her brain are still rewiring to the beat of awareness. The shirt she stole from him yesterday is within reach, so she puts it on again, and TK brings her shorts to her, and she can at least cross 'getting dressed' off her very short to-do list.
Also, shit. That was a coma. Applauses to her exhaustion, because with how he sleeps, not waking up to take back blankets or kick him over a little so she has some space is a feat.)
... Holy shit. Okay, yeah, that tracks.
(His brain is concerned with awkwardness, but from Sophie? There's none. It's just Quentin, and she's just Sophie. Perhaps it's the grumpiness of being awake that hinders her from feeling anything weird, or perhaps it's the fact that she doesn't think it's weird at all. They did what they did, and even now that she's no longer so horny that her brain isn't functioning, there's not a shred of regret within her. She remains...
Ugh, happy, she supposes. Whatever the fuck. Look, the way she sees it? That's more than enough. Names, titles, quantifiers, certitude, those things are wholly unnecessary. All she wants is for is equality between them, and that they're satisfied with what they have, whatever that may be.
That said, God, she's too sleepy for this. He could give her some grace and 20 minutes at least to shake up her neurons before he called it, but of course not.)
I'll make sure to call you by your full name next time.
(God forbid. Why are there so many damn 'Q's?
With some difficulty, because her lower back is murdering her, she'll shift her position to face him, a hooked finger still rubbing on her face to see if that helps her wake up. She looks positively adorable, kinda like a very precious cat who shows you their belly, all cute and all, but if you come too close, it will claw you. Mornings, etc.
Her system is rebooting, so several firewalls are down — meaning she can show a shred of person before she hates it.)
It's not a buzzkill, you're okay. If you wanna talk, we can talk, if you don't, that's fine, too. Up to you.
[He's very certain hearing that name is going to be like a bucket of ice water on her head, but look. The Phoebe in the room was gonna need addressing sooner or later. Sex is a no-Phoebe zone, but that's it. That's a rule that he's just decided, and she hasn't pushed back on any of his established rules as of yet, so.
That said, he's going to give her a break by rambling a bit for levity's sake, letting his tone smooth back into pretentious nonchalance, waving one hand around lazily. It's funny. This whole shtick is both familiar as his usual behavior but also oddly foreign in this context. Like putting on shoes before taking a shower. Weird.]
"Quentin" is fine. "Quire," sure. Eh. If you call me Quintavius I will find your least favorite song and play it on loop over the telepathic airways until either it's stuck in either your or Deadpool's heads. And it's hard to say which is worse.
[Okay, that feels... a little more "normal" Quentin Quire Snark. Probably a bit more standoffish than what he's going for, though. He doesn't dislike having Sophie here, and he certainly doesn't have any regrets about sleeping with her. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Nor is he all that concerned with defining what they are so much as drawing lines about what they aren't. Thus.. Phoebe namedrop.
Fine, he'll be... nice. A little. He can manage that without becoming a complete puddle. He looks back at her and offers her a crooked half-smile.]
Nothing against talking, though. Just cool it on nicknames. Yeah?
(Yesterday, she would most certainly have yelled at him to no end about the comparison. She's not Phoebe. The shittiest part of it all. It's not either of their faults that the Stepford Cuckoos are identical clones, so whatever she says, even if it's her saying it? It will remind him, and in turn, remind her.
To be fair, he did tell her he wasn't going to do anything that fell into that category, aside from, well. Sophie herself. She can't just be herself without stepping on an eggshell, but that's the agreement they reached, and she'll honor it. Sophie's resigned, and she won't make a big deal of it. They chose this, didn't they? She doesn't regret it for a second, either. It's fine.
Instead of dwelling, she gets out of bed in slow-motion, careful where she steps because again, what the fuck, tiptoeing around the paper. Good thing she's Barbie-coded, her feet can withstand her weight pretty easily, this is not a difficult task.)
I'll make it easy for you. It's that stupid 'If You Like Piña Colada' song. Go for it, I'd love to get everyone on my side on how moronic it is. Catchy doesn't make for good storytelling, and that story is whack.
(... Okay, that's reasonable, and it's... Easier to swallow than the first thing he said.
Cute smile, though. A crinkle of her nose is what he gets for it.
Wait, nope, no. Don't use boyish charms when she's vulnerable, man. Conduct unapproved by Corporate. Wait until she's a little more awake so she can roll her eyes at him. Her hand extends as if it were an agreement, mostly playful and more so she can tell him she's on the same page.)
Ugh, that song's probably already playing nonstop in Wilson's construction zone porta-potty of a brain.
[He grimaces, lip curling in disgust. Sure, it seems like the Deadpool here maybe isn't the one from their universe? Possibly? But honestly, one Deadpool is basically the same as any other. They're all trash.
Anyway. He sees her pick her way through the origami he's scattered around on the floor and waves his hand, pink TK picking up the numerous paper cranes and flying them away into a neat little stack on the other side of the room. That completed, he looks back at her to see the crinkle in her nose and sense that sentiment of "cute smile," which... does make his expression fade ever so slightly. But at least she also seems to be rejecting that. So that's nice. The sooner they find a nice even balance of low-level bitchiness that doesn't involve tearing each other's throats out, the better.
Quentin does take Sophie's hand when she offers it, though he rolls his eyes at her facetiously formal demonstration, and he nods his head at the chair opposite him at the table to indicate she can sit if she so desires.]
See? Point made, but pretty sure his brain loops 'That's The Way I Like It'. Not sure what's worse.
(The face of sheer dismay she makes, and Quentin gets to hear her wondering how the hell those two songs would probably be in his brain and trying to put those two together, only to her further dissatisfaction. God, how does Wade even do it? There's a very good reason why she takes a whiff of his brain and shoves it far, far away from her awareness. Ugh. Gross.
She does catch sight of the eyeroll, thank God, and her shoulders raise in a shrug. Roll your eyes all you want, at least they're agreeing. This is new ground, and she isn't sure whether the whole full connection is needed. That said, she will keep her brain pretty open for him to pick up from if he wants to as she sits.)
It takes me a good two to three hours to person, so just slap some cortisol here and there, and I think I'll be okay.
[Quentin doesn't typically hang out in other people's heads, preferring to rely occasionally on "vibe checks" if needed. Most of that is due to a long history of getting his ass kicked by people who didn't want him snooping around upstairs, but these days he just doesn't see the point of it as much as he used to. He's got enough shit in his head without everyone else's, thanks. All that to say, a full connection between his and Sophie's minds is largely unnecessary, at least on his end. Having Sophie camping out in his brain gets, well. A little claustrophobic, if he's being honest. But for now she's not being as clingy, so that's nice.]
Got it. One cortisol shot to the brain, coming up.
[He puts his fingers to his temple—an entirely unnecessary visual indicator for a process she's fully capable of feeling for herself but nonetheless is habit for him by this point—and gently nudges her cortisol levels higher. Not enough to give her a jolt or feel unnatural, just speedrunning her usual experience of getting to an alert state.]
(She doesn't really need it anymore, to be honest. It had been a frustrating, discouraging uphill battle with him up until this point, and they just couldn't talk. Right now, she feels the opposite. If anything, they're finally... Okay-ish? She can listen to what he has to say without her negative bias coloring every other word, almost like she's finally ready to.
She's a little sorry it took a while.
Sophie knows she's impossible, for all that she likes calling him that. With the waking up work on the way, she gives her face a last rub and a few very light pats to the cheeks.
[He's not listening to every single thing running through her head, but he can still feel that the undercurrent of tension that was running behind her thoughts previously is gone now. It's disappeared for him too. Well, mostly, but what's left is mainly related to her sister. Sophie... tried. In a way Phoebe never did. She made him feel confidence coursing through his veins, made him feel—ugh, cheesy and trite it may be—desirable. Wanted. For who he is, not who he could be. She soothed an ancient wound—which yeah, she played a part in creating, though she was certainly not the only contributor—and that's... pretty cool of her, actually. You know, for a Cuckoo.
The weirdest thing about all of this is he doesn't feel... indebted to her. Well, "indebted" isn't the right word. Loyalty? They don't owe each other. Anything. They both got what they wanted from each other. An exchange of mutually beneficial services between largely self-serving assholes, both clutching to a few crumbs of selflessness.
Quentin ponders for a moment before deciding that apparently he starts.]
Guess the first thing is to decide if we want to do it again.
[A beat, and he quickly adds, putting his hand up.]
Not right now, I mean. In general.
[Yes, she said they'd do it again last night, but she was on round two and three of mind-blowing sex that was at the time happening on two different planes of reality so. She'd be forgiven if her head wasn't exactly in the clearest state at the time.]
(Isn't that the funniest thing? For someone who manages to get her blood boiling in milliseconds, she doesn't want anything other than him as is. He's the most aggravating, challenging, complicated, baffling person she's ever met, and yet, she wouldn't want him in any other way other than himself. It's a little fucked up, really, but no one said she's normal.
Maybe she's just as fucking insane as he is. It happens, who knew? Not her. This whole free-falling, unthetered Sophie is still learning about herself. Individuality arrived at the Cuckoos when she was buried under the ground, she's navigating it the best she can.
It's a very fair question, though. She's on the same page as him, she owes him nothing, and he owes her probably even less than that. What's important to her is that they're together in this, the rest? It will fall into place.)
Wow, the jumpscare you gave my lower back.
(Just for the sake of levity. There's a moment she pauses there, as if she was thinking on how to construct her thoughts. She's not about to lie to him, pretty sure they're past that stage, but honesty without her brain connected to another is still pretty new.)
If it's up to me, yeah. I meant everything, even if you made it very hard to think things through, but now that I have, my answer doesn't change. How about you?
[Quentin huffs a chuckle out through his nose at her joke.]
Don't worry, your lower back is safe this time.
[Which answers his side of the question well enough, but just in case it doesn't:]
It's the only thing we've ever done where we haven't hated each other's guts and was pretty damn incredible to boot, so yeah. I'm down. As long as it's just, you know. Fun. For both of us. And, uh, speaking of.
[Aaand now comes the less easy stuff. Quentin sighs and adjusts his glasses. What he has to say is going to be unpleasant. For both of them. As all Phoebe-related matters are. It also occurs to him that, being a hivemind, Sophie may already know what Phoebe's end of what he's about to say, but. Whatever. Sophie wants to be treated like an individual, right? Well here goes.]
When Phoebe dumped me [no point in using any euphemisms here] she said—more or less—that I cared too much. I saw a future with her. She didn't. Which, you know. Happens. C'est la vie, right?
[He shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself. God, Quire, keep simping to the girl you just slept with about her sister you still have feelings for, why don't you? That's not super weird or pathetic or anything.]
Whatever. Point is, I need you to stop that from happening again. Stop me. From... caring too much or whatever.
[He cringes at himself briefly but soldiers on. Too late to turn back now. Quentin squares his jaw stubbornly and makes eye contact with her for this last bit.]
Means no corny shit, okay? Nicknames, holding hands, cute dates, all that baloney. We fuck when we wanna, but when we're not, we're... normal. Just without hating each other's guts. Yeah?
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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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So yeah, he does heartily agree that this was the best possible outcome.]
Well, I'd say you definitely achieved that, at least, soooo. Task failed successfully?
[He breathes deeply, feeling her head and hand rise and fall with his chest. The post coital sleepiness is starting to sink in, and his eyes are drifting shut, so he lazily waves a hand to telekinetically pull a blanket over both of their bodies. She doesn't seem like she's going anywhere in a hurry, so eh. He's a restless sleeper and tends to starfish, though, so hope she enjoys that.]
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Eh. Sounds about right for us, I guess.
(The blanket is more than welcome, and it reminds her — from the same drawer that she found the chocolate earlier, she'll bring two more to whatever surface is closest to him with her own telekinesis so he has something when he undoubtedly wakes up needing them. It's a small way to care, but it is care nonetheless.
That said, cuddling is a bit too much for her, too, she could definitely use some space. She leaves his chest to press another sweet, lingering kiss to his lips before a similar one is pressed to his cheek.)
'Night, Quire.
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By the time she wakes up, he's dressed, eaten the snacks she retrieved for him, and apparently taken up origami within the past couple of hours, judging by the hoard of paper cranes littering the floor and every available surface nearby him. He doesn't even bother looking up at her when he senses her stirring. He's busy.]
Good, you're awake. I was really bored.
[Clearly.]
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Sophie hates waking up with a passion. The rays caress her face, and she glares right at them with the strength of a thousand suns, before her hand taps around the bed to see if she can find the owner of this atrocity of a room. Ah. He's already left it. He's... Speaking, already.
Very confusing morning for Sophie Cuckoo. The room is a slap of stimuli to her senses, the feeling that a truck ran her over with how achy her legs and back are, not to mention her face from all the silly smiling she had been doing. Yet, she's still flooded by all those pesky feel-good hormones that are basically holding her down like a club bouncer and keeping her from throwing hands with the sun itself.
Very slowly, so as not to give an opening for her muscles to punish her, she sits up, hands rubbing on her face before she looks over. Paper cranes. A lotta paper cranes.
What the fuck is happening
Nerd
What)
Good morning to you, too, Q. How long was I out?
(A good 9 hours, probably.)
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Well. He's just going to use it to feed his ego. What's she going to do? Try to tell him the reason she can barely move isn't how good he fucked her? Obviously not.]
Nine hours and 13 minutes. Give or take. I was asleep for some of that so. Harder to keep track.
[Shit, what do you even do when the girl you had sex with because it was literally the only thing you could agree on is drowsily waking up in your bed and calling you nicknames? Fuck if Quentin knows. He's never done this kinda thing before. But what he does know is he refuses to let this be awkward. Or at least, no more awkward than it absolutely has to be.
Look. If he can manage to not, you know. Be a pathetic sap when he's butt-naked, surely he can manage it now. Get it together, Quire.]
Not to be a buzzkill, but the nickname thing isn't really helping with... whatever this is. Just so you know.
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No comment.
You try getting fucked three times, Quentin. See what that does to your legs and back. Good thing she had no plans today, just shower, get in her bed with a game, and die. Sounds pretty good, actually. There's an inherent laziness in the way she searches for clothes, as if her synapses in her brain are still rewiring to the beat of awareness. The shirt she stole from him yesterday is within reach, so she puts it on again, and TK brings her shorts to her, and she can at least cross 'getting dressed' off her very short to-do list.
Also, shit. That was a coma. Applauses to her exhaustion, because with how he sleeps, not waking up to take back blankets or kick him over a little so she has some space is a feat.)
... Holy shit. Okay, yeah, that tracks.
(His brain is concerned with awkwardness, but from Sophie? There's none. It's just Quentin, and she's just Sophie. Perhaps it's the grumpiness of being awake that hinders her from feeling anything weird, or perhaps it's the fact that she doesn't think it's weird at all. They did what they did, and even now that she's no longer so horny that her brain isn't functioning, there's not a shred of regret within her. She remains...
Ugh, happy, she supposes. Whatever the fuck. Look, the way she sees it? That's more than enough. Names, titles, quantifiers, certitude, those things are wholly unnecessary. All she wants is for is equality between them, and that they're satisfied with what they have, whatever that may be.
That said, God, she's too sleepy for this. He could give her some grace and 20 minutes at least to shake up her neurons before he called it, but of course not.)
I'll make sure to call you by your full name next time.
(God forbid. Why are there so many damn 'Q's?
With some difficulty, because her lower back is murdering her, she'll shift her position to face him, a hooked finger still rubbing on her face to see if that helps her wake up. She looks positively adorable, kinda like a very precious cat who shows you their belly, all cute and all, but if you come too close, it will claw you. Mornings, etc.
Her system is rebooting, so several firewalls are down — meaning she can show a shred of person before she hates it.)
It's not a buzzkill, you're okay. If you wanna talk, we can talk, if you don't, that's fine, too. Up to you.
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[He's very certain hearing that name is going to be like a bucket of ice water on her head, but look. The Phoebe in the room was gonna need addressing sooner or later. Sex is a no-Phoebe zone, but that's it. That's a rule that he's just decided, and she hasn't pushed back on any of his established rules as of yet, so.
That said, he's going to give her a break by rambling a bit for levity's sake, letting his tone smooth back into pretentious nonchalance, waving one hand around lazily. It's funny. This whole shtick is both familiar as his usual behavior but also oddly foreign in this context. Like putting on shoes before taking a shower. Weird.]
"Quentin" is fine. "Quire," sure. Eh. If you call me Quintavius I will find your least favorite song and play it on loop over the telepathic airways until either it's stuck in either your or Deadpool's heads. And it's hard to say which is worse.
[Okay, that feels... a little more "normal" Quentin Quire Snark. Probably a bit more standoffish than what he's going for, though. He doesn't dislike having Sophie here, and he certainly doesn't have any regrets about sleeping with her. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Nor is he all that concerned with defining what they are so much as drawing lines about what they aren't. Thus.. Phoebe namedrop.
Fine, he'll be... nice. A little. He can manage that without becoming a complete puddle. He looks back at her and offers her a crooked half-smile.]
Nothing against talking, though. Just cool it on nicknames. Yeah?
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To be fair, he did tell her he wasn't going to do anything that fell into that category, aside from, well. Sophie herself. She can't just be herself without stepping on an eggshell, but that's the agreement they reached, and she'll honor it. Sophie's resigned, and she won't make a big deal of it. They chose this, didn't they? She doesn't regret it for a second, either. It's fine.
Instead of dwelling, she gets out of bed in slow-motion, careful where she steps because again, what the fuck, tiptoeing around the paper. Good thing she's Barbie-coded, her feet can withstand her weight pretty easily, this is not a difficult task.)
I'll make it easy for you. It's that stupid 'If You Like Piña Colada' song. Go for it, I'd love to get everyone on my side on how moronic it is. Catchy doesn't make for good storytelling, and that story is whack.
(... Okay, that's reasonable, and it's... Easier to swallow than the first thing he said.
Cute smile, though. A crinkle of her nose is what he gets for it.
Wait, nope, no. Don't use boyish charms when she's vulnerable, man. Conduct unapproved by Corporate. Wait until she's a little more awake so she can roll her eyes at him. Her hand extends as if it were an agreement, mostly playful and more so she can tell him she's on the same page.)
Yeah.
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[He grimaces, lip curling in disgust. Sure, it seems like the Deadpool here maybe isn't the one from their universe? Possibly? But honestly, one Deadpool is basically the same as any other. They're all trash.
Anyway. He sees her pick her way through the origami he's scattered around on the floor and waves his hand, pink TK picking up the numerous paper cranes and flying them away into a neat little stack on the other side of the room. That completed, he looks back at her to see the crinkle in her nose and sense that sentiment of "cute smile," which... does make his expression fade ever so slightly. But at least she also seems to be rejecting that. So that's nice. The sooner they find a nice even balance of low-level bitchiness that doesn't involve tearing each other's throats out, the better.
Quentin does take Sophie's hand when she offers it, though he rolls his eyes at her facetiously formal demonstration, and he nods his head at the chair opposite him at the table to indicate she can sit if she so desires.]
You need a minute? To wake up.
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(The face of sheer dismay she makes, and Quentin gets to hear her wondering how the hell those two songs would probably be in his brain and trying to put those two together, only to her further dissatisfaction. God, how does Wade even do it? There's a very good reason why she takes a whiff of his brain and shoves it far, far away from her awareness. Ugh. Gross.
She does catch sight of the eyeroll, thank God, and her shoulders raise in a shrug. Roll your eyes all you want, at least they're agreeing. This is new ground, and she isn't sure whether the whole full connection is needed. That said, she will keep her brain pretty open for him to pick up from if he wants to as she sits.)
It takes me a good two to three hours to person, so just slap some cortisol here and there, and I think I'll be okay.
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Got it. One cortisol shot to the brain, coming up.
[He puts his fingers to his temple—an entirely unnecessary visual indicator for a process she's fully capable of feeling for herself but nonetheless is habit for him by this point—and gently nudges her cortisol levels higher. Not enough to give her a jolt or feel unnatural, just speedrunning her usual experience of getting to an alert state.]
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She's a little sorry it took a while.
Sophie knows she's impossible, for all that she likes calling him that. With the waking up work on the way, she gives her face a last rub and a few very light pats to the cheeks.
Okay.)
Alright. I'm... Good enough.
(Talking, right? Where do they even begin?)
... You start or I start?
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The weirdest thing about all of this is he doesn't feel... indebted to her. Well, "indebted" isn't the right word. Loyalty? They don't owe each other. Anything. They both got what they wanted from each other. An exchange of mutually beneficial services between largely self-serving assholes, both clutching to a few crumbs of selflessness.
Quentin ponders for a moment before deciding that apparently he starts.]
Guess the first thing is to decide if we want to do it again.
[A beat, and he quickly adds, putting his hand up.]
Not right now, I mean. In general.
[Yes, she said they'd do it again last night, but she was on round two and three of mind-blowing sex that was at the time happening on two different planes of reality so. She'd be forgiven if her head wasn't exactly in the clearest state at the time.]
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Maybe she's just as fucking insane as he is. It happens, who knew? Not her. This whole free-falling, unthetered Sophie is still learning about herself. Individuality arrived at the Cuckoos when she was buried under the ground, she's navigating it the best she can.
It's a very fair question, though. She's on the same page as him, she owes him nothing, and he owes her probably even less than that. What's important to her is that they're together in this, the rest? It will fall into place.)
Wow, the jumpscare you gave my lower back.
(Just for the sake of levity. There's a moment she pauses there, as if she was thinking on how to construct her thoughts. She's not about to lie to him, pretty sure they're past that stage, but honesty without her brain connected to another is still pretty new.)
If it's up to me, yeah. I meant everything, even if you made it very hard to think things through, but now that I have, my answer doesn't change. How about you?
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Don't worry, your lower back is safe this time.
[Which answers his side of the question well enough, but just in case it doesn't:]
It's the only thing we've ever done where we haven't hated each other's guts and was pretty damn incredible to boot, so yeah. I'm down. As long as it's just, you know. Fun. For both of us. And, uh, speaking of.
[Aaand now comes the less easy stuff. Quentin sighs and adjusts his glasses. What he has to say is going to be unpleasant. For both of them. As all Phoebe-related matters are. It also occurs to him that, being a hivemind, Sophie may already know what Phoebe's end of what he's about to say, but. Whatever. Sophie wants to be treated like an individual, right? Well here goes.]
When Phoebe dumped me [no point in using any euphemisms here] she said—more or less—that I cared too much. I saw a future with her. She didn't. Which, you know. Happens. C'est la vie, right?
[He shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself. God, Quire, keep simping to the girl you just slept with about her sister you still have feelings for, why don't you? That's not super weird or pathetic or anything.]
Whatever. Point is, I need you to stop that from happening again. Stop me. From... caring too much or whatever.
[He cringes at himself briefly but soldiers on. Too late to turn back now. Quentin squares his jaw stubbornly and makes eye contact with her for this last bit.]
Means no corny shit, okay? Nicknames, holding hands, cute dates, all that baloney. We fuck when we wanna, but when we're not, we're... normal. Just without hating each other's guts. Yeah?
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