Really? You're making me create a whole entire game construct populated by fully functional NPCs, hyper-detailed down to the pixel, weather effects, ray tracing, and I still gotta do your negotiating for you too? Tsk tsk.
[He tuts at her before tapping his finger against his chin thoughtfully.]
Alright, fine. I want... hmm. A favor coupon. To be redeemed at my discretion. And it'll be a doozy, too.
[Quentin cocks his head to one side smugly, thinks for a moment, and then adds:]
Oh! And I want you to tell me how much you love my huge sexy brain.
[Obnoxious? Yes. Very. But he'll make it worth her effort. How often do you get the chance to literally live a game entirely in the shared space between your own and someone else's heads?]
Nope, giving me a baseline to work with is only reasonable, given the undeniable fact I can't do anything remotely similar.
(Mismatched negotiation power, Quire, and given that she isn't swimming in his mind to figure out something he might want, he's gotta help a girl out.
But he extracted a chuckle from the depths of her unwilling lungs, because that's it? Perhaps it does say something that now she trusts him enough to think that's not a horrible idea. 50/50 rules, he'll meet her halfway, as much as she's expecting something idiotic to arrive months (or hours) from now out of it — something that's most likely going to make her roll her eyes deep into her skull with a smidge of wanting to smother him in his sleep, but that's about it.
Her response comes telepathically in cheeky format, an image in the shape of a golden ticket with cursive text that reads 'FAVOR CUPON - SPECIAL OFFER; valid for one favor, to be redeemed by Quintavius "Quentin" Quirinius Quire, nonrefundable and nontransferable; expires in a year'.
And then he says that, and her face breaks a little as the five stages of grief return to her, eyes shutting close as she slowly nods because, yeah, of course, and strangely enough, that's not even the worst thing he could ask her to admit, because she kind of already had once. Sure, not 'how much', that's a whole different deal than saying she likes it, but still. It's not like he doesn't know.
Still, loser.
Or she is the loser, or both of them are losers. Probably the last thing. How the mighty have fallen.)
Scandalous telepathic kink you got there (— says the one who feeds it —), but fine.
(She'll also make it worth his effort, standing only to move from her seat to, well, her other seat, which happens to be his lap. Kisses to his neck come with words in between them. Also so he doesn't look at her, but again, mind your business.)
I really, really do love your massive, high-speed, stupid, sexy brain.
[He could bitch about the whole "expiration date" she's printed on her coupon, but honestly, the likelihood of him not pulling it out within a year? Slim. So whatever. Fine. He'll allow it. This time.
And no, this has nothing to do with her distracting him by sitting in his lap and kissing his neck while fulfilling that second part of his request. Nothing at all.
Okay, maybe a little.]
Hmm, passable first attempt.
["Passable," he says, like she didn't drag a soft, slightly broken-sounding noise unwillingly from his throat as he struggles not to squirm under her. Very unfair of her to pull this shit when she literally just said they weren't doing each other yet. Rude af.]
You know, your body out here is gonna be passed out the whole time you're in my game. Sure I can't talk you into a quickie before I fire it up?
[And if he just happens to lightly set his hands on her waist where he knows she likes it... Well. Wouldn't that be a coincidence? Look, he just needed a place to put them, and this happened to be the most convenient! Honest.
Also no, this doesn't count as the favor. Because he asked instead of telling her what he wanted. Crucial difference in semantics there.]
(Bitch, please, if it isn't redeemed in the next three months, she's going to be really impressed.
She's got a mental map of where in his neck he's most sensitive, because of course she does, she's always connected to his senses when she's in there — if not to borrow, to learn, so that's exactly where her lips go unhurried. Passable, right. As if.
Did she say what she said? Yes, but he is making a very compelling verbal argument against it, as her beauty sleep is granted, and his hands are also doing their part in fitting perfectly on her waist. He convinced her with the noise he gave her alone, but hey, she's also gotta be difficult.)
Talk me into it, not really.
(Which is why her lips meet Quentin's, so he doesn't make use of them. Not that it ever stopped him from talking. Telepaths.)
[Quentin gives up any pretense of coyness as soon as she kisses him, sliding his hands under her (his, actually) shirt to hold her waist skin-to-skin and grinding up against her. Serves the double purpose of supplying some very nice friction and making sure she can feel him. You know, since she implied he'd have to persuade her.
Pretty rude to not finish what she started, right?]
/I can be pretty convincing, you know. I recently got a blank check from some chick for agreeing to do something I was gonna do anyway. Sucker. She's into it, though./
(One day, Quentin might appreciate the inherent allure of a girl wearing nothing but lingerie and a boy's shirt, just saying — not that it is anywhere near the reason why she does it, but still, man.
That first friction and skin contact always drags a little noise from her, a hand resting on his neck as the other has her fingers fishing the waistband of his boxers to play with.
And then he says that, and of course, of fucking course, the aggravation brings out crimson to her cheeks. Incorrect? No. Unnecessary? Absolutely. Kind of always the theme with him, though. She's, ugh, used to it, but it doesn't make her less keen to smother him with a pillow in his sleep; she has ample access and opportunity to achieve. Because she shares a bed with him sometimes.
Cripes. The kiss is broken, although she stays close enough so he can see her eyebrow rise.)
I heard said chick is strongly reconsidering her life choices and taste. Might suck to be you.
(Nah, she ain't. Not moving an inch. Still wants to smother him, though, definitely wants to smother him.)
Probably best for her to increase the difficulty level.
[Oh, sure, he could appreciate the allure of a girl wearing nothing but lingerie and his shirt, but honestly she only has herself to blame. Really kills some of the sexiness when most of the time she's wearing his shirts she's sitting around playing games while they ignore each other. Also? He likes his shirts. On him.
The particular combination of irritated and turned on that he's mastered inducing in Sophie is as satisfying as ever, and Quentin looks every bit the cat who got the canary. Smug as hell, and not getting less smug any time soon. Just like how despite what she says he knows she's not going anywhere.
Sophie breaks the kiss, and Quentin moves forward to restart it. If she's gonna have the audacity to try and shut him up that way, he's going to talk in her head even more just to prove a point. So there.]
/Oo, ominous. Well, just between you and me, I'm not too worried. She thinks I'm like super hot. She told me my brain was really big and sexy earlier./
(To be completely fair, before they even touched, he guaranteed that he was going to be even more insufferable if they did it. Quentin is nothing but a man of his word, and it's not like she didn't know or anything. She knows. At least she has the decency of describing both of them as 'trash', as she has, because she's right here with him and enabling it.
At the end of the day, as vexing, unbelievable, aggravating, headache-inducing, menacing, and challenging as this is? It's pretty funny and so damn stupid. She enjoys it, obviously, or she wouldn't be here giving him a light punch to the shoulder with the side of her fist to distract him from the small laugh that she holds in before he takes her lips again. Which, obviously, his dumb massive brain probably picked up anyway.
And then he says one of the dumbest lines ever, and she goes right back into questioning her life choices — a very useless exercise, because, tragically, she already went through the same song and dance and landed in the same place.
Trash. Both of them, trash.)
/Gotta have at least one redeemable quality, right?/
/Yeah, I guess thinking I'm hot is a fairly good redeeming quality./
[Quentin makes an exaggerated oof noise at her punch, letting it push him back far more than the amount of force she used would imply. It breaks their kiss again, but this time he smirks at her and tilts his head to the side, sending her the sensory memory of her kissing his neck in all his favorite places. You know. Just a suggestion. It's a free country.]
Otherwise? She's pretty mean. Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
[And while he's busy talking all kinds of shit about her weirdly in the third person for no other reason than to be obnoxious, he also takes a peek into her head to judge whether or not he's good to start sliding down her shorts. He's the one who suggested a "quickie"—since a part of him is eager to show off his constructed game world—but... look, they usually take their time a little more. And sure, bitching at each other definitely counts as foreplay for the type of freak they both are, but still. Quentin's not gonna be That Guy, okay?]
(Oh, how her eyes roll so dramatically, even if they're closed as she kisses him. At this point, they just do it automatically, triggered by whatever cornball shit he says, even if this one wasn't half as bad as the one before. He's cute about her feeble punch though, and he gets a reward of a quiet laugh before she receives the map again. She can't even joke that he's too easy, because she probably surpasses it. Kisses and holding her right melt her brain to mush, so.
But, hey, he'll get his kisses in just one second, this very dopey conversation is entertaining, and it is working for her. Why is she like this? No idea. Was she always like this? Irrelevant.)
You ever heard the shit you say? I'm sure it's on you, and she's a peach.
(He knows what he is doing, and luckily for her, she doesn't have to do the same. She's literally sitting on it, the joys of straddling a man. He is right, though, their foreplay tends to be way longer, layered with telepathic bullshit and stupider banter left and right, so it's pretty valid that he's checking.
Which does open the door for her to do one better. He wanted to know how she's feeling, so she's going to sync his arousal to hers with zero warning. The tightness in her chest, the warmth in her skin, the way she definitely wants him to use those hands on her waist to move her down as he grinds up, and her slight brain fog. All that as she finally moves to kiss his neck, right where she knows would get him to make a noise.
Is it 100% horny-wants-to-jump-his-bones? Not yet. It's a good 70%, though.)
Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
[She does get rewarded with the noise she wanted, a long, low groan he pretends to stifle for the sake of, you know. A challenge. She needs enrichment. And he has a hunch she'd probably get off on this particular game as much as he does, even if his side is decidedly more for show than hers.]
Who, me? I'm a goddamn delight, I'll have you know. I'm practically overflowing with rizz.
[And since she did him the favor of syncing up horny levels, he'll know just how much that godawful line turned her on. Not that he'd need telepathy to tell, since he's been saying shit like that since before she even decided to get in bed with him. But the instant, undeniable gratification is always nice. He also takes her cue and as he's talking starts pressing her down against him at the same time as he grinds up. And then he just recycles one of his favorite tricks: every time he finds a movement that sparks a good nerve ending for her, he plucks that synapse every time. It's all the joys of exploration with none of the inefficient clumsiness of stupid physical bodies. Just rocking against her is doing plenty for him, and that's not even counting the fact that he feels everything she does.
70%? Rookie numbers. Let's see how fast he can fix that.]
(Hope he feels the pang of embarrassment and longing for her grave over the word 'rizz'. Cringe is a very physical feeling, okay, and she goes through it along the stages of grief she felt earlier, except acceptance is more in the middle, and anger and bargaining come in last. Bargaining mostly with herself not to commit murder so early in the day, because he's managing to distract her by doing exactly what wanted, the fucking asshole, right after coming dangerously close to losing 10 points in her horny scale.
Remember the brain fog? Well, it is making it very difficult to come up with a rebuttal, especially when there's telepathy involved in making her irritated brain light up. For fuck's sake.)
You've got two minutes to convince me not to change my mind.
[Look. This is basically their version of BDSM, except instead of whips and chains it's Quentin saying the worst, most insufferable garbage imaginable. 50 Shades of Cringe.]
The fact that you haven't yet means I already won.
[He's grinning, but he drops most of the overly obnoxious stuff. For now, at least. 50/50 is their rule, which means he'll honor her "two minutes" despite the snarky commentary.
Quentin kisses her again, and when he does a timer appears in the top left of her vision that stays if her eyes close. 2:00... 1:59... 1:58... She gave him two minutes, and he is nothing if not precise and excessively literal when it means being a pest. But at least his pest nature is being used for good, because he continues with his telepathic nonsense and rolling their hips together and then ups the ante by moving one hand up her back to press her closer and the other hand down her thigh to grip there.
In bed he prefers to be on top in whatever position they end up choosing, but in a chair? Chair feels different somehow. And since Quentin has never once in his life not gone full ham when accepting a challenge, he supplies her with some curated mental images and sensory imaginings that all come with the same suggestion: if she's ever wondered what it would like to ride him for once, now's the time.
He restarts the kiss, and the moment her eyes close, she sees the timer, and she can't help it, okay, she breaks it immediately because a remarkably honest, and maybe a little loud, chuckle leaves her — this is goofy, and she should have expected it, but she didn't. Now she wants to kiss him a whole lot more, so she has to fight off the smile muscles for the breath-taking kiss she is about to give him, a more decisive roll of her hips as further reward.
Especially because hello, he unlocked the achievement of finding out himself that she likes being gripped and drawn, not just held, especially when it's hip to hip. Extra touch of desperate horny craving in there that she happens to enjoy greately, so look at that. The noise she awards him with is pretty priceless with how sugary and wanting it sounds, good for him.
Riding sounds interesting, but it just happens not to match the approach she takes to it, pampering or taking do not sound very 50/50 of them. She's going to need him steering, and she lets that thought roam through them, which she finds he won't have any qualms with.
Yeah, he won. With the timer and by gripping her at the right time. What the fuck. She replicates the timer, although whatever time it showed, it shows a zero as she moves a little to unbotton his pants.)
[Ah, yes. Another fine addition to his collection of victories. The neat thing about whatever this is he's got going on with Sophie is it's often just as much fun to do what she wants as it is to annoy her. Convenient!
Quentin grins against her lips, and yep, he's definitely making note of all those things she likes. Not just because the noises she's making are extremely satisfying, or because her desire is feeding into his brain and setting it on fire, but because honestly? This is a case when the same action just happens to scratch a particular itch in both of them. Funny thing is, Quentin's not a possessive type of guy. Never really has been. But gripping Sophie and taking charge the way she likes it? That shit makes something in his monkey brain very, very pleased, and he is not going to bother questioning why any time soon. It's not like it's made him feel weird or anything when they're not fucking, so who cares.
Needless to say, no, he doesn't have a single issue with what she's proposing. In fact, she gets rewarded with his hand grabbing her thigh more firmly and tugging her body insistently against his as he lets out a pleased sigh. It feels so damn good that he repeats it a few more times before deciding they should probably get a little less clothed first. He reluctantly lets go of her—for now—to pull her shorts down and leave her room to get up and remove them if she wants. After she's done with his pants, of course, since that's apparently her top priority. Not that he's stopping her.]
As of late, she doesn't crawl into his brain uninvited, but they both know that the moment they start getting bothered, she just does it automatically. Sharing is so normal to her, she enjoys feeling the speed of his heart, the arousal pumping through his veins, letting him know how furious she is at their stupid clothes, and the lightning of delight that races through her spine when she hears that sigh coupled with how he's holding her.
She's glad he likes it, though. Considering the embarrassing, impatient whine she releases against his lips, it definitely was worth it to let him know. Not even mad about the sound she made, she said what she said. Don't worry about it. She's not even nervous about not knowing how to navigate riding like a normal person — pretty sure they're going to figure it out soon enough.
He did say quickie, so she's not going to bother taking off more clothes than needed at the moment. He wants to see her naked, by all means, she's just (his) shirt away from it, but she'll bother with whatever she'll want off of him when the annoyance comes. So, she'll manage to pull down his pants till the middle of his thighs, leaving him just to get those shorts away from her as quickly as she can before she's back to attacking his neck and giving him a few strokes, solely because, well, yeah. Why not.
Patience is definitely not her virtue. It takes very little time before she's positioning and sliding down on him, hands on his shoulders for support — but from here, he's up with steering the initial dynamic.)
[Naked is not necessary, because yeah, he said quickie and meant it. Also? This is when he starts appreciating her in nothing but his shirt. Though maybe that's just because he's so turned on that she could be wearing just about anything, and it'd be hot. He barely even gives a shit that his pants aren't all the way off, and he gives even less of a shit once she climbs back in his lap. Her mouth latches onto his neck, and her hand strokes him, and he makes a noise that's both hungry and exhilarated. That said, he's equally as impatient as she is, and her rushing to get "down to business," as it were, isn't getting any objections from him.
His hand goes to her thigh again at fucking lightspeed, gripping her and pulling her down onto him.]
Fuck, yeah.
[Okay, taking a second to just. Breathe. Jesus. Telepath sex, man. Insane every time. Quentin uses the hand not grasping onto her thigh first to pull her in for a brain-melting kiss and second to, well. Take one of her hands and cram it into his hair. Fuck it, he likes the way it feels when she grabs it a little, okay? Sue him.
Alright, next. Time to pick up where they left off, yes? One of his arms goes around her waist to hold her tightly against him, rocking his hips while doing his best to demandingly tug her body to meet his.
It's... weird, kinda. Their minds are still connected. He can feel everything she does, can see in her mind exactly what she wants, exactly what feels best for her. But while he's not ignoring any of the sensory feedback coming from her brain, he finds himself paying less attention to it and instead chasing what's making his own brain churn out oxytocin and adrenaline like a machine. Fortunately he's pretty sure whatever he's doing is working just fine for her too.]
(Honestly, he should suggest quickies more often, this is exactly how she most likes to feel — starved, needy, and a little desperate. She does sense the appreciation, finally, and while she knows that the horny brain isn't very picky about outfits, it's nice to feel either way, even if it's short-lived. Any thoughts about quipping dissolve just as quickly as the speed of his hand pulling down on her.
He might have gotten her to make the loudest sound yet, out of all the times they've done it. It's been a battle for her to feel comfortable with Quentin witnessing certain things, the blush that overtakes her cheeks when she's annoyed and yet fond of him, the beaming that would be all over her lips if they weren't busy kissing him stupid, and the sounds that she would deny him at first. She has always had a certain reputation to uphold, and individuality is not something she has had much experience with. Letting Quentin see Sophie is a process; being known and seen is vulnerable, and she isn't great at dealing with the prospects of it. Now, at least, she's in a place where removing a brick or two from her mental walls isn't as mortifying, and he's worked for it, it was well-earned to get to this point. Of course she will still deny it if he points it out anywhere that isn't when they're all over each other, just on principle.
Still, though.
The prize just happens to be her unfiltered moans and cries, and the bliss she feels when he pushes her down on him, her hips gladly complying with the rhythm and giving him a bit of a challenge now and then to pull on her a bit harder. Not to mention the fact that she loves having her hands in his hair. The pull she gives the strands is gentle, but she runs the palm of her hand against the sides of his head for the sensory pleasure of the short hair against her skin. It's so damn satisfying, and her nails pick up caressing his scalp as a means to ground herself.
[Later Quentin will be kicking himself for missing the... well, the everything about what she's doing right now. Tearing apart her mental walls piece by piece until she has no choice but to show him the genuine person behind them is one of his favorite parts about doing this with her, after all. It's when he most gets to see Sophie and not just a Cuckoo. And right now? The Cuckoo has left the building. It's all Sophie who's making those noises into his mouth because she physically can't hold them in, scratching his scalp and gently tugging on his hair the exact way he wanted her to, moving with him like she needs his body to survive. He's vaguely aware, of course. He's never not aware of every single detail all the time. Thanks, secondary mutation. But the part of his brain that's steering right now is the part that's more concerned with what she's taking than what she's giving.
Then again, he's also probably going to be a little weirded out later at himself for whatever's come over him.
Quentin isn't a possessive or controlling type of guy. He's a powerful telepath with the ability to manipulate just about any mind in existence, with varying degrees of effort, of course. Even Sophie he's sure he could overpower if he really wanted to, though he has no desire to actually do so. At least, not outside of the little playful ways they mess with each other in bed. Which is what makes this... Fantasy? Kink? Whatever it is so ironic, because really this is probably the least he's ever meddled with her head during sex. But his stupid little primitive monkey brain is going brrrrr like he's actually, what? Owning her? Being some kind of macho dominant sex god? All 5'8", 130 pounds of him? He's resorted to using a bit of TK to make it easier to push and pull her onto him more forcefully, for fuck's sake.
Whatever, it's kinky shit. Not like it's supposed to make sense. If it makes his monkey brain happy, and she clearly isn't complaining, then who cares. He pushes thoughts into her head that somehow sound like commands but lack any shred of actual psychic power behind them. Asking her to feed this fantasy of his even more. Tell him how much she wants him, beg for him, do whatever she's gotta do to make sure she's as close as he is. Because he's pretty damn close, and it'd be awfully embarrassing if he somehow finished without her because he was too busy with his own crap.
Congratulations, Sophie, you finally found what gets Quentin Quire to shut up. Temporarily, at least.]
(Interestingly enough, she isn't meddling with his brain either other than the usual telepath sensory connection crap. She's got a whole arsenal of tricks that she could use and does use with him, she's a Frost and a Cuckoo, she's nothing if not horny and resourceful, but right now, she's more than satisfied with the simpler things. Perhaps that's the reason she likes this so much.
Sophie is fully aware that she's difficult. Impossible, hardly the empathetic type, attitude-filled and unrepentant. Her own monkey brain registers this as being challenged, and she enjoys the audacity greatly. Cuckoo law dictates that she does what he wants, and that's that, who cares about anything else? Sophie likes attempts to get her to take it down a notch, and in Quentin's case right now, he's managing to do it perfectly. There are no successful attempts to conceal anything from her end, nor does she consciously want to, speeding up the pace of her bouncing since, fuck, she just wants to come so bad.
Her mind is pretty empty, no resistance from anything, just thoughts of praise and general horny desperation, until she hears him in it. Requests, not laced with good ol' telepathic commandering, and you know? Corporate approves his submission without a second of hesitation. Only for today, since the bricks that she took down from her wall are especially the Cuckoo irreverence and the need to be guarded with Sophie.
God, talking when she's doing all this exercise is so hard, though. Sophie breaks the kiss, the hand on his hair moving to his cheek as she allows him to look at her flushed face, the smile on her lips, and her hair all over the place.)
All I need — is for you to come in me. I'll — be right there with you.
[When Sophie breaks away, Quentin blinks owlishly at her for a second, the haze over his mind making it difficult to focus on anything else. But... it does help ground him some. Not so much snap him out of whatever fugue state he was in but give clarity to it. Keep him from spiraling away into the stratosphere in his own head. So that's nice. It takes another second for him to register what she said, but when he does the sound that comes out of him is a brand new one, something halfway between a choked groan and a growl.
... And then he follows it by gasping out one of the lamest things he could possibly say in this situation.]
Fuck, that was really hot. Okay. Yeah. I gotcha.
[Hoo boy. Well, at least he's not in any danger of becoming a normie bro or anything awful like that. Small mercies.
His hands move to her hips, his fingers gripping her feverishly, and every time she lifts up he pulls her down as hard as either of their bodies can realistically handle. It's a greedy, inelegant way to do this, foregoing trying to thrust up into her as much in favor of just manhandling her body, especially since he doesn't go back in to kiss her again. But right now he wants to keep looking at her, even if his eyes keep threatening to roll back in his head. Because she—fuck—she told him that if he came in her (which he has all the other times they've done this without her specifying, it's not new, so why does it feel different this time) that it would push her over too. Which is just. Indescribably hot for reasons he cannot even hope to unpack right now. Or possibly ever. He'll review his memories later and see if he feels like dealing with any of this shit.
Right now he just wants to see it. See her come apart with no extra telepathic push, no sensory sharing besides the baseline. Just from feeling him fill her. He yanks her down two more times before he comes, his eyes flickering as he does his best to keep watching her face.]
(She has unlocked something here; she can tell by the delicious debut of a whole new sound. Seems like no matter how many times they do this, something always pops up, like a whole rollercoaster of self-discovery. You know, things that might just happen when they are sharing a bed with their problems. For her, it's individuality that she finds, which she tends to try and conceal all for herself, and snarl at him for looking when she happens to let him — whole ordeal, but hey. They both knew what they were getting into and just how complicated the other could be.
And suppose that's where they are at, because this has been completely different from what she is used to being on top. Spoiling him, yeah, a little bit, but not remotely intentional — she's just being honest, without being repelled by it about it for fucking once. It won't last forever or even hold out throughout the rest of their day, it' a given that she rebuilds her wall as soon as the plausible deniability of hormones can no longer serve as an excuse.
Sophie doesn't roll her eyes, doesn't make a snarky comment with his words. She smiles with her little crinkle, because it's an awkward line that would not have been had he stopped at the compliment, and well, she's not fucking some dude bro who would pull that off perfectly. She's fucking Quentin, and it's kinda part of the package, and as her brain starts to melt, look, she can find it pathetically endearing. Shut up, she already gives him enough shit on the daily for eighty percent of what he says, let her have this.
This is pretty perfect, though, and she doesn't even have many brain cells left to think about kissing him, she's so busy trying to match the rhythm he's drawing her into while she sees stars every time her hips meet his, noises unrestricted and, God, embarrassingly loud, her cheeks as rosy as they can get. He wants to look at her, she doesn't even register declining it; her surviving neurons are employed in slowing down his perception of time so that he can enjoy it to the fullest. You're welcome, it was very difficult to focus on it, because as soon as he climaxes, she's a goner too.
It was so intense that she's lightheaded, her hearing distant as she holds onto him for dear life as she tries to command some air into her lungs. She even had a quip stored to pull his leg with, but what quip, she doesn't even remember what about, her forehead resting against his before she presses a kiss to his cheek.
[He'll realize in about 20 objective seconds his perception slowing is her doing, but his own brain picks up the cue from her prodding and automatically adjusts his subjective experience to match previously assigned settings. His brain processes everything 15 faster than average. With his subjective perception of time slowed to 15 times the normal rate, his mind doesn't race, and the sensory input is no longer overwhelming but being able to process every single thing he's feeling doesn't make them any less good. He can feel the muscles in his arms contracting as he grinds their hips desperately together through his climax, his pants hanging down at his ankles from the frankly absurd amount of moving he was trying to do in this position, his heart beating wildly like it's about to burst out of his chest. She's crying out and clutching him and god he wishes they'd taken shirts off before they did this because the fabric feels like sandpaper on his overly sensitive skin but then it doesn't matter because just like she promised she comes apart around him.
With his mind more focused, he can slip inside hers, watch her face contort at the same time as her brain is overwhelmed with pleasure and her body clenches tightly around him. He rides the wave of her orgasm to prolong his own until eventually, eventually his sense of time catches back up with the real world, and she's gently kissing his cheek as they both come down.
Holy shit is right. Quentin pants harshly, trying to catch his breath, and looks down at his hands in a daze, stiffly loosening his grip on her hips but keeping them there for now. His brain is all scrambled, and he's just gonna... take a minute and slump backwards, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling and try to make recalibrate the mess in his head.]
Some—[Damn, he can't breathe. Is he dying? Is this what it feels like to get fucked to death? Not the worst way he's kicked the bucket by far, so if so he'll take it.] Some quickie, huh? Jesus.
(Under his fingertips, he can feel her thighs' gentle spasms as they're looping the pleasure through their synapses. Her legs are going to be so sore later, not to mention that her knees are going to be alarmingly weak once she has to walk but this time, she's not going to bitch about it. She really can't, her entire brain has melted, and her body is struggling to bring her back to some form of stability — she can certify that she, too, is dying.
Her forehead does not rest against his shoulder to hide from his view, but so she can rest for a second as she at least manages to get the air in her lungs more consistently, and she'll do him the solid of syncing it perfectly to his so they can calm the fuck down for a second. All the effort in the world is then put in moving so he can slide out of her, hands squeezing his shoulders for support, and he could use the opportunity to bring his pants back up if his brain considers it. Other than that, this is the most she can do at this precise moment.
It's only when he quips that Sophie finds some strength to distance, a weak laugh accompanied by the brightest beam, even if she looks, well, very messy. She's not even going to bother running her hands through her hair to smooth it out, she's just got different priorities right now, which are whatever her puddled, dopamine-filled, sparkling, elated brain wants out of her.)
Right? I knew the shirt thing would end up growing on you.
[His brain does consider the pants, and he reluctantly pulls them back up with shaky hands. Fuck, every cell in his body is burning and overly sensitive, and he's still working on bringing his systems back to normalcy.
Quentin registers her return quip almost in slow motion, but he wheezes a soft laugh in response.]
You still can't keep them.
[He's still rebooting, which means they're in that window where affection is allowable, where it doesn't ruin everything and eat him from the inside like a cancer. So Quentin wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. She'll get up soon, probably, but while they're both fuzzy and squishy from dopamine and oxytocin he's going to hold her close. Also? Means he doesn't have to think about whatever the fuck worm crawled into his brain for the past few minutes. Not yet, at least. And that's plenty good enough for now.]
Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a pretty sick game to follow that. Kinda screwed myself with that one, didn't I?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[He tuts at her before tapping his finger against his chin thoughtfully.]
Alright, fine. I want... hmm. A favor coupon. To be redeemed at my discretion. And it'll be a doozy, too.
[Quentin cocks his head to one side smugly, thinks for a moment, and then adds:]
Oh! And I want you to tell me how much you love my huge sexy brain.
[Obnoxious? Yes. Very. But he'll make it worth her effort. How often do you get the chance to literally live a game entirely in the shared space between your own and someone else's heads?]
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(Mismatched negotiation power, Quire, and given that she isn't swimming in his mind to figure out something he might want, he's gotta help a girl out.
But he extracted a chuckle from the depths of her unwilling lungs, because that's it? Perhaps it does say something that now she trusts him enough to think that's not a horrible idea. 50/50 rules, he'll meet her halfway, as much as she's expecting something idiotic to arrive months (or hours) from now out of it — something that's most likely going to make her roll her eyes deep into her skull with a smidge of wanting to smother him in his sleep, but that's about it.
Her response comes telepathically in cheeky format, an image in the shape of a golden ticket with cursive text that reads 'FAVOR CUPON - SPECIAL OFFER; valid for one favor, to be redeemed by Quintavius "Quentin" Quirinius Quire, nonrefundable and nontransferable; expires in a year'.
And then he says that, and her face breaks a little as the five stages of grief return to her, eyes shutting close as she slowly nods because, yeah, of course, and strangely enough, that's not even the worst thing he could ask her to admit, because she kind of already had once. Sure, not 'how much', that's a whole different deal than saying she likes it, but still. It's not like he doesn't know.
Still, loser.
Or she is the loser, or both of them are losers. Probably the last thing. How the mighty have fallen.)
Scandalous telepathic kink you got there (— says the one who feeds it —), but fine.
(She'll also make it worth his effort, standing only to move from her seat to, well, her other seat, which happens to be his lap. Kisses to his neck come with words in between them. Also so he doesn't look at her, but again, mind your business.)
I really, really do love your massive, high-speed, stupid, sexy brain.
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And no, this has nothing to do with her distracting him by sitting in his lap and kissing his neck while fulfilling that second part of his request. Nothing at all.
Okay, maybe a little.]
Hmm, passable first attempt.
["Passable," he says, like she didn't drag a soft, slightly broken-sounding noise unwillingly from his throat as he struggles not to squirm under her. Very unfair of her to pull this shit when she literally just said they weren't doing each other yet. Rude af.]
You know, your body out here is gonna be passed out the whole time you're in my game. Sure I can't talk you into a quickie before I fire it up?
[And if he just happens to lightly set his hands on her waist where he knows she likes it... Well. Wouldn't that be a coincidence? Look, he just needed a place to put them, and this happened to be the most convenient! Honest.
Also no, this doesn't count as the favor. Because he asked instead of telling her what he wanted. Crucial difference in semantics there.]
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She's got a mental map of where in his neck he's most sensitive, because of course she does, she's always connected to his senses when she's in there — if not to borrow, to learn, so that's exactly where her lips go unhurried. Passable, right. As if.
Did she say what she said? Yes, but he is making a very compelling verbal argument against it, as her beauty sleep is granted, and his hands are also doing their part in fitting perfectly on her waist. He convinced her with the noise he gave her alone, but hey, she's also gotta be difficult.)
Talk me into it, not really.
(Which is why her lips meet Quentin's, so he doesn't make use of them. Not that it ever stopped him from talking. Telepaths.)
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Pretty rude to not finish what she started, right?]
/I can be pretty convincing, you know. I recently got a blank check from some chick for agreeing to do something I was gonna do anyway. Sucker. She's into it, though./
[Telepaths, indeed.]
cw nsfw
That first friction and skin contact always drags a little noise from her, a hand resting on his neck as the other has her fingers fishing the waistband of his boxers to play with.
And then he says that, and of course, of fucking course, the aggravation brings out crimson to her cheeks. Incorrect? No. Unnecessary? Absolutely. Kind of always the theme with him, though. She's, ugh, used to it, but it doesn't make her less keen to smother him with a pillow in his sleep; she has ample access and opportunity to achieve. Because she shares a bed with him sometimes.
Cripes. The kiss is broken, although she stays close enough so he can see her eyebrow rise.)
I heard said chick is strongly reconsidering her life choices and taste. Might suck to be you.
(Nah, she ain't. Not moving an inch. Still wants to smother him, though, definitely wants to smother him.)
Probably best for her to increase the difficulty level.
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The particular combination of irritated and turned on that he's mastered inducing in Sophie is as satisfying as ever, and Quentin looks every bit the cat who got the canary. Smug as hell, and not getting less smug any time soon. Just like how despite what she says he knows she's not going anywhere.
Sophie breaks the kiss, and Quentin moves forward to restart it. If she's gonna have the audacity to try and shut him up that way, he's going to talk in her head even more just to prove a point. So there.]
/Oo, ominous. Well, just between you and me, I'm not too worried. She thinks I'm like super hot. She told me my brain was really big and sexy earlier./
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At the end of the day, as vexing, unbelievable, aggravating, headache-inducing, menacing, and challenging as this is? It's pretty funny and so damn stupid. She enjoys it, obviously, or she wouldn't be here giving him a light punch to the shoulder with the side of her fist to distract him from the small laugh that she holds in before he takes her lips again. Which, obviously, his dumb massive brain probably picked up anyway.
And then he says one of the dumbest lines ever, and she goes right back into questioning her life choices — a very useless exercise, because, tragically, she already went through the same song and dance and landed in the same place.
Trash. Both of them, trash.)
/Gotta have at least one redeemable quality, right?/
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[Quentin makes an exaggerated oof noise at her punch, letting it push him back far more than the amount of force she used would imply. It breaks their kiss again, but this time he smirks at her and tilts his head to the side, sending her the sensory memory of her kissing his neck in all his favorite places. You know. Just a suggestion. It's a free country.]
Otherwise? She's pretty mean. Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
[And while he's busy talking all kinds of shit about her weirdly in the third person for no other reason than to be obnoxious, he also takes a peek into her head to judge whether or not he's good to start sliding down her shorts. He's the one who suggested a "quickie"—since a part of him is eager to show off his constructed game world—but... look, they usually take their time a little more. And sure, bitching at each other definitely counts as foreplay for the type of freak they both are, but still. Quentin's not gonna be That Guy, okay?]
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(Oh, how her eyes roll so dramatically, even if they're closed as she kisses him. At this point, they just do it automatically, triggered by whatever cornball shit he says, even if this one wasn't half as bad as the one before. He's cute about her feeble punch though, and he gets a reward of a quiet laugh before she receives the map again. She can't even joke that he's too easy, because she probably surpasses it. Kisses and holding her right melt her brain to mush, so.
But, hey, he'll get his kisses in just one second, this very dopey conversation is entertaining, and it is working for her. Why is she like this? No idea. Was she always like this? Irrelevant.)
You ever heard the shit you say? I'm sure it's on you, and she's a peach.
(He knows what he is doing, and luckily for her, she doesn't have to do the same. She's literally sitting on it, the joys of straddling a man. He is right, though, their foreplay tends to be way longer, layered with telepathic bullshit and stupider banter left and right, so it's pretty valid that he's checking.
Which does open the door for her to do one better. He wanted to know how she's feeling, so she's going to sync his arousal to hers with zero warning. The tightness in her chest, the warmth in her skin, the way she definitely wants him to use those hands on her waist to move her down as he grinds up, and her slight brain fog. All that as she finally moves to kiss his neck, right where she knows would get him to make a noise.
Is it 100% horny-wants-to-jump-his-bones? Not yet. It's a good 70%, though.)
Probably could stand to work on that, to be honest.
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Who, me? I'm a goddamn delight, I'll have you know. I'm practically overflowing with rizz.
[And since she did him the favor of syncing up horny levels, he'll know just how much that godawful line turned her on. Not that he'd need telepathy to tell, since he's been saying shit like that since before she even decided to get in bed with him. But the instant, undeniable gratification is always nice. He also takes her cue and as he's talking starts pressing her down against him at the same time as he grinds up. And then he just recycles one of his favorite tricks: every time he finds a movement that sparks a good nerve ending for her, he plucks that synapse every time. It's all the joys of exploration with none of the inefficient clumsiness of stupid physical bodies. Just rocking against her is doing plenty for him, and that's not even counting the fact that he feels everything she does.
70%? Rookie numbers. Let's see how fast he can fix that.]
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Remember the brain fog? Well, it is making it very difficult to come up with a rebuttal, especially when there's telepathy involved in making her irritated brain light up. For fuck's sake.)
You've got two minutes to convince me not to change my mind.
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The fact that you haven't yet means I already won.
[He's grinning, but he drops most of the overly obnoxious stuff. For now, at least. 50/50 is their rule, which means he'll honor her "two minutes" despite the snarky commentary.
Quentin kisses her again, and when he does a timer appears in the top left of her vision that stays if her eyes close. 2:00... 1:59... 1:58... She gave him two minutes, and he is nothing if not precise and excessively literal when it means being a pest. But at least his pest nature is being used for good, because he continues with his telepathic nonsense and rolling their hips together and then ups the ante by moving one hand up her back to press her closer and the other hand down her thigh to grip there.
In bed he prefers to be on top in whatever position they end up choosing, but in a chair? Chair feels different somehow. And since Quentin has never once in his life not gone full ham when accepting a challenge, he supplies her with some curated mental images and sensory imaginings that all come with the same suggestion: if she's ever wondered what it would like to ride him for once, now's the time.
Does he win yet?]
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He restarts the kiss, and the moment her eyes close, she sees the timer, and she can't help it, okay, she breaks it immediately because a remarkably honest, and maybe a little loud, chuckle leaves her — this is goofy, and she should have expected it, but she didn't. Now she wants to kiss him a whole lot more, so she has to fight off the smile muscles for the breath-taking kiss she is about to give him, a more decisive roll of her hips as further reward.
Especially because hello, he unlocked the achievement of finding out himself that she likes being gripped and drawn, not just held, especially when it's hip to hip. Extra touch of desperate horny craving in there that she happens to enjoy greately, so look at that. The noise she awards him with is pretty priceless with how sugary and wanting it sounds, good for him.
Riding sounds interesting, but it just happens not to match the approach she takes to it, pampering or taking do not sound very 50/50 of them. She's going to need him steering, and she lets that thought roam through them, which she finds he won't have any qualms with.
Yeah, he won. With the timer and by gripping her at the right time. What the fuck. She replicates the timer, although whatever time it showed, it shows a zero as she moves a little to unbotton his pants.)
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Quentin grins against her lips, and yep, he's definitely making note of all those things she likes. Not just because the noises she's making are extremely satisfying, or because her desire is feeding into his brain and setting it on fire, but because honestly? This is a case when the same action just happens to scratch a particular itch in both of them. Funny thing is, Quentin's not a possessive type of guy. Never really has been. But gripping Sophie and taking charge the way she likes it? That shit makes something in his monkey brain very, very pleased, and he is not going to bother questioning why any time soon. It's not like it's made him feel weird or anything when they're not fucking, so who cares.
Needless to say, no, he doesn't have a single issue with what she's proposing. In fact, she gets rewarded with his hand grabbing her thigh more firmly and tugging her body insistently against his as he lets out a pleased sigh. It feels so damn good that he repeats it a few more times before deciding they should probably get a little less clothed first. He reluctantly lets go of her—for now—to pull her shorts down and leave her room to get up and remove them if she wants. After she's done with his pants, of course, since that's apparently her top priority. Not that he's stopping her.]
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As of late, she doesn't crawl into his brain uninvited, but they both know that the moment they start getting bothered, she just does it automatically. Sharing is so normal to her, she enjoys feeling the speed of his heart, the arousal pumping through his veins, letting him know how furious she is at their stupid clothes, and the lightning of delight that races through her spine when she hears that sigh coupled with how he's holding her.
She's glad he likes it, though. Considering the embarrassing, impatient whine she releases against his lips, it definitely was worth it to let him know. Not even mad about the sound she made, she said what she said. Don't worry about it. She's not even nervous about not knowing how to navigate riding like a normal person — pretty sure they're going to figure it out soon enough.
He did say quickie, so she's not going to bother taking off more clothes than needed at the moment. He wants to see her naked, by all means, she's just (his) shirt away from it, but she'll bother with whatever she'll want off of him when the annoyance comes. So, she'll manage to pull down his pants till the middle of his thighs, leaving him just to get those shorts away from her as quickly as she can before she's back to attacking his neck and giving him a few strokes, solely because, well, yeah. Why not.
Patience is definitely not her virtue. It takes very little time before she's positioning and sliding down on him, hands on his shoulders for support — but from here, he's up with steering the initial dynamic.)
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His hand goes to her thigh again at fucking lightspeed, gripping her and pulling her down onto him.]
Fuck, yeah.
[Okay, taking a second to just. Breathe. Jesus. Telepath sex, man. Insane every time. Quentin uses the hand not grasping onto her thigh first to pull her in for a brain-melting kiss and second to, well. Take one of her hands and cram it into his hair. Fuck it, he likes the way it feels when she grabs it a little, okay? Sue him.
Alright, next. Time to pick up where they left off, yes? One of his arms goes around her waist to hold her tightly against him, rocking his hips while doing his best to demandingly tug her body to meet his.
It's... weird, kinda. Their minds are still connected. He can feel everything she does, can see in her mind exactly what she wants, exactly what feels best for her. But while he's not ignoring any of the sensory feedback coming from her brain, he finds himself paying less attention to it and instead chasing what's making his own brain churn out oxytocin and adrenaline like a machine. Fortunately he's pretty sure whatever he's doing is working just fine for her too.]
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He might have gotten her to make the loudest sound yet, out of all the times they've done it. It's been a battle for her to feel comfortable with Quentin witnessing certain things, the blush that overtakes her cheeks when she's annoyed and yet fond of him, the beaming that would be all over her lips if they weren't busy kissing him stupid, and the sounds that she would deny him at first. She has always had a certain reputation to uphold, and individuality is not something she has had much experience with. Letting Quentin see Sophie is a process; being known and seen is vulnerable, and she isn't great at dealing with the prospects of it. Now, at least, she's in a place where removing a brick or two from her mental walls isn't as mortifying, and he's worked for it, it was well-earned to get to this point. Of course she will still deny it if he points it out anywhere that isn't when they're all over each other, just on principle.
Still, though.
The prize just happens to be her unfiltered moans and cries, and the bliss she feels when he pushes her down on him, her hips gladly complying with the rhythm and giving him a bit of a challenge now and then to pull on her a bit harder. Not to mention the fact that she loves having her hands in his hair. The pull she gives the strands is gentle, but she runs the palm of her hand against the sides of his head for the sensory pleasure of the short hair against her skin. It's so damn satisfying, and her nails pick up caressing his scalp as a means to ground herself.
Yep, this is going to be quick.)
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Then again, he's also probably going to be a little weirded out later at himself for whatever's come over him.
Quentin isn't a possessive or controlling type of guy. He's a powerful telepath with the ability to manipulate just about any mind in existence, with varying degrees of effort, of course. Even Sophie he's sure he could overpower if he really wanted to, though he has no desire to actually do so. At least, not outside of the little playful ways they mess with each other in bed. Which is what makes this... Fantasy? Kink? Whatever it is so ironic, because really this is probably the least he's ever meddled with her head during sex. But his stupid little primitive monkey brain is going brrrrr like he's actually, what? Owning her? Being some kind of macho dominant sex god? All 5'8", 130 pounds of him? He's resorted to using a bit of TK to make it easier to push and pull her onto him more forcefully, for fuck's sake.
Whatever, it's kinky shit. Not like it's supposed to make sense. If it makes his monkey brain happy, and she clearly isn't complaining, then who cares. He pushes thoughts into her head that somehow sound like commands but lack any shred of actual psychic power behind them. Asking her to feed this fantasy of his even more. Tell him how much she wants him, beg for him, do whatever she's gotta do to make sure she's as close as he is. Because he's pretty damn close, and it'd be awfully embarrassing if he somehow finished without her because he was too busy with his own crap.
Congratulations, Sophie, you finally found what gets Quentin Quire to shut up. Temporarily, at least.]
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Sophie is fully aware that she's difficult. Impossible, hardly the empathetic type, attitude-filled and unrepentant. Her own monkey brain registers this as being challenged, and she enjoys the audacity greatly. Cuckoo law dictates that she does what he wants, and that's that, who cares about anything else? Sophie likes attempts to get her to take it down a notch, and in Quentin's case right now, he's managing to do it perfectly. There are no successful attempts to conceal anything from her end, nor does she consciously want to, speeding up the pace of her bouncing since, fuck, she just wants to come so bad.
Her mind is pretty empty, no resistance from anything, just thoughts of praise and general horny desperation, until she hears him in it. Requests, not laced with good ol' telepathic commandering, and you know? Corporate approves his submission without a second of hesitation. Only for today, since the bricks that she took down from her wall are especially the Cuckoo irreverence and the need to be guarded with Sophie.
God, talking when she's doing all this exercise is so hard, though. Sophie breaks the kiss, the hand on his hair moving to his cheek as she allows him to look at her flushed face, the smile on her lips, and her hair all over the place.)
All I need — is for you to come in me. I'll — be right there with you.
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... And then he follows it by gasping out one of the lamest things he could possibly say in this situation.]
Fuck, that was really hot. Okay. Yeah. I gotcha.
[Hoo boy. Well, at least he's not in any danger of becoming a normie bro or anything awful like that. Small mercies.
His hands move to her hips, his fingers gripping her feverishly, and every time she lifts up he pulls her down as hard as either of their bodies can realistically handle. It's a greedy, inelegant way to do this, foregoing trying to thrust up into her as much in favor of just manhandling her body, especially since he doesn't go back in to kiss her again. But right now he wants to keep looking at her, even if his eyes keep threatening to roll back in his head. Because she—fuck—she told him that if he came in her (which he has all the other times they've done this without her specifying, it's not new, so why does it feel different this time) that it would push her over too. Which is just. Indescribably hot for reasons he cannot even hope to unpack right now. Or possibly ever. He'll review his memories later and see if he feels like dealing with any of this shit.
Right now he just wants to see it. See her come apart with no extra telepathic push, no sensory sharing besides the baseline. Just from feeling him fill her. He yanks her down two more times before he comes, his eyes flickering as he does his best to keep watching her face.]
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And suppose that's where they are at, because this has been completely different from what she is used to being on top. Spoiling him, yeah, a little bit, but not remotely intentional — she's just being honest, without being repelled by it about it for fucking once. It won't last forever or even hold out throughout the rest of their day, it' a given that she rebuilds her wall as soon as the plausible deniability of hormones can no longer serve as an excuse.
Sophie doesn't roll her eyes, doesn't make a snarky comment with his words. She smiles with her little crinkle, because it's an awkward line that would not have been had he stopped at the compliment, and well, she's not fucking some dude bro who would pull that off perfectly. She's fucking Quentin, and it's kinda part of the package, and as her brain starts to melt, look, she can find it pathetically endearing. Shut up, she already gives him enough shit on the daily for eighty percent of what he says, let her have this.
This is pretty perfect, though, and she doesn't even have many brain cells left to think about kissing him, she's so busy trying to match the rhythm he's drawing her into while she sees stars every time her hips meet his, noises unrestricted and, God, embarrassingly loud, her cheeks as rosy as they can get. He wants to look at her, she doesn't even register declining it; her surviving neurons are employed in slowing down his perception of time so that he can enjoy it to the fullest. You're welcome, it was very difficult to focus on it, because as soon as he climaxes, she's a goner too.
It was so intense that she's lightheaded, her hearing distant as she holds onto him for dear life as she tries to command some air into her lungs. She even had a quip stored to pull his leg with, but what quip, she doesn't even remember what about, her forehead resting against his before she presses a kiss to his cheek.
Holy shit.)
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With his mind more focused, he can slip inside hers, watch her face contort at the same time as her brain is overwhelmed with pleasure and her body clenches tightly around him. He rides the wave of her orgasm to prolong his own until eventually, eventually his sense of time catches back up with the real world, and she's gently kissing his cheek as they both come down.
Holy shit is right. Quentin pants harshly, trying to catch his breath, and looks down at his hands in a daze, stiffly loosening his grip on her hips but keeping them there for now. His brain is all scrambled, and he's just gonna... take a minute and slump backwards, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling and try to make recalibrate the mess in his head.]
Some—[Damn, he can't breathe. Is he dying? Is this what it feels like to get fucked to death? Not the worst way he's kicked the bucket by far, so if so he'll take it.] Some quickie, huh? Jesus.
[Good news: his quips are still functional.]
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Her forehead does not rest against his shoulder to hide from his view, but so she can rest for a second as she at least manages to get the air in her lungs more consistently, and she'll do him the solid of syncing it perfectly to his so they can calm the fuck down for a second. All the effort in the world is then put in moving so he can slide out of her, hands squeezing his shoulders for support, and he could use the opportunity to bring his pants back up if his brain considers it. Other than that, this is the most she can do at this precise moment.
It's only when he quips that Sophie finds some strength to distance, a weak laugh accompanied by the brightest beam, even if she looks, well, very messy. She's not even going to bother running her hands through her hair to smooth it out, she's just got different priorities right now, which are whatever her puddled, dopamine-filled, sparkling, elated brain wants out of her.)
Right? I knew the shirt thing would end up growing on you.
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Quentin registers her return quip almost in slow motion, but he wheezes a soft laugh in response.]
You still can't keep them.
[He's still rebooting, which means they're in that window where affection is allowable, where it doesn't ruin everything and eat him from the inside like a cancer. So Quentin wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. She'll get up soon, probably, but while they're both fuzzy and squishy from dopamine and oxytocin he's going to hold her close. Also? Means he doesn't have to think about whatever the fuck worm crawled into his brain for the past few minutes. Not yet, at least. And that's plenty good enough for now.]
Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a pretty sick game to follow that. Kinda screwed myself with that one, didn't I?
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