[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?
(These moments are the closest thing they have to a couple's normalcy; they're almost like a bubble that separates them from all the sarcasm, acidity, and irreverence that they share. Not that she doesn't like that too, that's exactly what moves her to this point, but, well. It's an unspoken agreement for sweetness they don't allow each other to have, and that's why she doesn't fight the snorted giggle that comes out of her with his response.
Probably sounded pretty damn stupid, but whatever. Another great part of it? She doesn't register the embarrassment that he heard it in the first place. When he pulls these things out of her outside of their established mushy moment, she yearns for her grave, horrified and distressed, but with hormones calming her down? Being brought to his chest is the most pleasant thing, and she places a lingering kiss on it, one of her hands resting against it with a thumb caress while the other wraps around him in a lazy hug as she nuzzles a bit.
And then he says that, and it brings out yet another one.)
Oh, yeah, game of the year should be incoming, but lucky for you, you put me in an awfully good mood. I'll be generous.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.]
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
... 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.]
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
Probably sounded pretty damn stupid, but whatever. Another great part of it? She doesn't register the embarrassment that he heard it in the first place. When he pulls these things out of her outside of their established mushy moment, she yearns for her grave, horrified and distressed, but with hormones calming her down? Being brought to his chest is the most pleasant thing, and she places a lingering kiss on it, one of her hands resting against it with a thumb caress while the other wraps around him in a lazy hug as she nuzzles a bit.
And then he says that, and it brings out yet another one.)
Oh, yeah, game of the year should be incoming, but lucky for you, you put me in an awfully good mood. I'll be generous.