No, no, I'm also burning a single unscented candle for it, don't you worry.
(No, she's absolutely not. It's just to keep the conversation and the banter alive, but it'd just be super weird if they were... What, suddenly soft? Affectionate aside from the times they allow each other to be? God, no. It'd probably make both of them run to separate hills as fast as they can manage.)
Oh, you are not touching my Animal Crossing. You'll ruin my hard work and chase away all my villagers.
(They would not love Quentin Quire's aesthetic choices.
But she's also realizing that he's much more communicative outside his room, and she was unsure whether that was a good thing until he asked her... Well, what literally everyone asks her back home. The facepalm, the eyeroll that ensues, oh God.
Okay. Fine. She hates him, but fine. He can steal the fries, she's stealing a nugget before she hands him the remaining ones to grab her burger.)
You think I can talk about a guy for two hours?
(Stalling.)
He's a guy I met on Summoner's who kept my sanity in place when I left the hivemind. No idea of personal details or what he looks like, but we talked pretty much all day every day before I got here.
[Well, he wasn't planning on touching her Animal Crossing village until now. See, Sophie made the fatal error of telling him not to do something. Which means he now has a physical need to do that thing.
But that's for later. Right now he's got an apparent internet boyfriend(???) to interrogate her about.]
I dunno, you could probably talk about me for two hours. Not that I'm expecting you to talk about this dude for that long.
[She hands him the fries in favor of her burger, which of course means he's going to lean in front of her and grab her wrist holding the hamburger, holding it still while he helps himself to a bite of it. Satisfied with his burger theft, he lets go of her hand and moves back to his seat.]
Wow, your ego is out of control. What do you even think I'd talk about for two hours when it comes to you?
(How he's probably going to make her grow her first grey hairs? Annoying? Irritating? Her dearest insignificant other?
Two hours is a lot, interruptedly? Maybe forty-five minutes, no breaks, word vomit style.
She would definitely have denied him the bite for the audacity if she had seen it coming, but it's unexpected and it makes her laugh — but revenge comes as his nuggets and shake dance in the air above them.
God, what a question. If she likes the snarky, cynical, bitchy and talk-back-y mutant who was her rock in the weirdest time of her life? Yeah, absolutely. He won her on talking alone, and she's crazy about him without a shred of doubt. But it's been... Months.
Yeah. She does. It's... Gone cold. Fondness rather than anything else it is now, and she reads his messages every now and then for comfort. But also, no, maybe she's not into him the same way anymore.
Why is Quentin asking her those type of questions again?)
[Quentin's eyebrows quirk oddly at her answer. It probably would make more sense for him to feel... glad? Relieved?? That she isn't holding a candle for some other guy. But instead something about how she says "not the same way anymore" makes his chest feel weirdly hollow.
He's not going to ask if the change in her feelings is because of him. For one thing because no matter the answer, he wouldn't expect her to answer honestly. Sophie talks about her genuine feelings as little as physically possible, so usually just when he actively squeezes it out of her. But he's also not going to ask because even if she said yes, he wouldn't want to hear it.
Quentin... likes Sophie. Not the way he did when he was a stupid teenager, but he likes her a decent amount. He likes sleeping with her, both how he can make her feel and how she makes him feel. He likes making her blush and laugh and cringe. He likes pushing her to be better like she says she's trying to do. But is he into her? Debatable. Again, not like he used to be. Not like he was into Phoebe or Idie or even Gwen. She's... fun. Everything beyond that is held strictly behind the wall of their "rules," and for good reason.
Quentin plucks a nugget out of the container floating over his head.]
Tell me about him. For less than two hours, obviously. I don't have that kind of patience.
(Does she like Quentin? Yes. He wouldn't be able to pull half this shit if she didn't. None of this is usual Sophie Cuckoo bullshit — there's no girlboss, gatekeep, gaslight, mansplain, manipulate out of her in here. Just, well, her, as honest as she can be without short-circuiting, allowing a smidge of vulnerability to be seen.
Does she want him to like her more than he does? Debatable. If she had actual proof that he can be non-clingy and weird, then it's a huge maybe, but why mess with something that works? No need. Fine as it is. As for tarnishedmoodring, distance and time equal cooling off. Nothing she can do about that one. She never had any claim on him, anyway. It's not like she can be hoping he'll be there when she's out of this damn place, God knows when that will be. Doesn't even know if he liked her back. Way easier to think about it later, let it go for now.
Not that she is sharing any, absolutely any of that with Quentin. It's already uncomfortable as is, with him asking her so many questions that don't pertain to him, or so she thinks. Not answering makes it worse, so she has to take a moment to think.)
Mhm. Mutant, obviously, but I have no idea what his mutation is, anyway, I'm assuming it has something to do with empathy and colors, considering his username, but beats me. He's... Fun, I guess. Cynical, super bitchy, sarcastic as hell, and doesn't ever let me win without rematches, that I end up losing anyway, so I rematch, then I win, rinse and repeat. Hence why my rank is absurd. Alt-rock, hipster shit, and I guess that's all I'm saying. 40 seconds good enough for you?
[He doesn't miss the fact that her description is remarkably similar to him, minus all the stuff about gaming, but he'll let it go for now. Sophie's been a good enough sport about his intrusive bullshit, so she'll get some mercy.
This time.
Quentin shrugs and yoinks the last nugget from the floating container.]
I'm just going to take your rush to move on from that topic as a sign you're impatient to—what was it? Climb me like a tree?
[You know, since she isn't going to let him prod her for miscellaneous information that isn't his business.]
(Or so she hopes. She thinks? Come on. They literally fuck their problems away because when they tried talking about it, she nearly popped a vein, or choked, or kicked him out of her brain for literally breathing near her.
Why have that massive, sexy, high-speed brain if he doesn't use it? What a damn waste. She's not paying attention to his thoughts to know that he did, except just not in a way that is beneficial to her, but alas. Monkey paw curling, as it is.)
Well, I guess I could paint your nails, or some other beauty shit, it's literally the only thing I have in this room that might interest you. Or, well, you better put me in a coma for this schedule slip. Don't know if you can make me pass out for 10 hours, but there's a challenge.
[Quentin raises an eyebrow and glances at his hands when she mentions his nails. It's not... a bad idea, honestly. Well, in general. He'll add that to the list of things he intends to do when he's unsupervised in all this clutter, but he isn't overly interested in letting her handle that task...
Until she says the word "challenge".
And now it's on.]
Seriously? [He holds a hand dramatically against his chest.]
You're giving me a challenge? Pfft.
[Quentin folds his arms, his lip curling stubbornly as he sits back against the couch seat.]
I'm half-tempted to let you paint my nails after all, just to prove that not only can I make you pass out for 10 hours, but I can do it without using my hands. Please. Don't insult me.
(Of course it is. She's no different, if he were the one to pose a challenge to her, it'd be equally on. Now, question is, there's banter to be had, which of course is really half what gets her going — but just how bitchy she wants to be is to be seen and felt.
To be decided. Right now, she's just smiling like she's won something here, an almost unnoticeable little dance ensues from the way she moves her shoulders.)
Wow, 'half-tempted'? Guess we'll never know for sure, what a shame.
[Oh she did not. Quentin narrows his eyes, twists his mouth to the side irritably for a moment... and finally grins fiendishly. He holds up one hand with the palm facing him and wiggles his fingers demonstrably.]
Tell you what. I'll let you try to paint my nails, with designs of my choosing. And I'll distract you. If you mess up, you lose. Between you and me, I bet you won't get past the first hand.
(Oh, she definitely did. He's not the only one who's baffling — and she had a quip that dies because she catches sight of that stupid, stupid face. Asshole, existing and stuff. Okay, challenge accepted, now for the terms.
Losing means consequences in her world, and so does winning. At least she's done eating, her limbs stretching in front of her, proving once more that when a girl is comfortable with a guy, she really just becomes a cat.
Okay. Okay, okay.)
And if you win, then what? What is at stake here, aside from pride, which I'm pretty sure both of us have very little to gamble with to begin with in here.
Ah, see, there's where you're wrong. Pride's the only currency that truly matters here.
[Quentin, on the other hand, is a cat all the time. He turns his upper body towards her, leaning his elbow on the back of her sofa with his head propped against his head. His free hand, meanwhile, makes all his customary dramatic gestures to illustrate the no-doubt brilliant points in whatever he's saying.]
When I win—which I will—then I'm gonna prove I can get you off without touching you. So that's pride for me: check. That'll be #1 for the evening, by the way. And I still get one free hand for #2 through... I dunno, however long you last. Until coma, I guess.
I really need to go harder on you, take you down a peg. I've definitely been too soft if you think you're going to win on the first hand. "Which I will", right.
(Her stupid monkey brain, man. This competitive bullshit is already doing its job, and she's pretty sure he knows that at this point. She's actually not considering just how much exposure she's going to go through with this, it hasn't crossed her mind yet — if he's not touching her, then he can look way too closely, but that's a problem that she her brain is literally not seeing with how stupid this horny Olympics is getting.
She's also planning to distract him from distracting her, so if anything, this is going to be either really scary, or absolutely stupid. She's only considering the latter.)
I want extra points if you go into a coma. I have my own shelf of accomplishments in my head.
(If he hasn't noticed the last times they've been there.)
[Quentin rolls his eyes, stretching his arms above his head and turning to lean his back against the sofa again.]
Hey, I'm not the one who said "you'd better put me into a coma." That was aaaall you.
[He folds his hands behind his head smugly.]
Anyway, you're missing the point. Which is, of course, that I won't just win because I'm good—even though we both know I am. I'm going to win because you're going to let me win.
And in what universe am I going to make that easy for you now with all that attitude you're giving me.
(Ugh, she likes that smug vibe he has going on. Does it make her want to throw hands with him immediately? Yes, without a shred of doubt. It makes her want to not give him shit. But also. Mind your business.
Her own eyes roll, and she comes closer, thighs touching as she puts her hand on his for a second, her turn to shift her position to face him.)
[He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as she scoots closer and touches his hand. It's a familiar enough routine by now. She pulls,he pushes, she pushes back, he retreats, and she chases. You'd think it'd get boring, but no. Not so far, at least. Quentin smirks back at her.]
Oh, zip it. Not even in this universe, and you're accounting for all of them?
(Not that telling him to shut up has ever done anything, but ugh. It's true, she'd be urged by herselt to jump him immediately as soon as he started the whole telepathic bullshit while she's busy trying to get his nails as perfect as hers.
Which would make him an automatic winner, because she's not a very patient person. It's a rigged game, and they are all aware. She'd absolutely prefer both his hands on her, thank you very much, but also shut up.)
This is just me postponing this for the sake of schedule efficiency. You haven't won shit, before you dare to think you have.
(She releases the hand because if she doesn't take off their glasses, she can't give him the brain-melting, slow kiss that ensues.)
[Does it count as winning when there's no real loser here? Yes, yes it does. And Quentin is 100% counting this as a win. She can die mad about it. Even though she absolutely, unquestionably will be doing nothing of the sort.
She kisses him, and he kisses back, moving his arms to loop around her waist and tug her closer. Not pulling her into his lap, because today? Today is about going slow.]
/Why don't you come see what I'm thinking?/
[And if she does? Slow is what she'll find there too. She wanted to kill time, and she wanted a coma, and he plans on doing both tonight.]
(There's a smile she has to fight for the sake of not breaking the kiss she's enjoying. It's sensual, the bite to it ever so subtle as her hand travels to his shoulder and chest before it settles on his collarbone.
It doesn't startle her one bit to have his voice bouncing in her mind — telepaths, after all, and she slides into his brain to see where he is at.
Interesting. It's not what they usually do, but she sees no reason to deny it. It means she slows down the kiss, plays with a button of his shirt as she replies in the same vein.)
[No, it's not what they usually do. But she also doesn't usually tell him specifically that she wants to sleep for 10 hours. Plus there's, well. His other plans, which he doesn't let slip through their telepathic connection. That's a surprise for later.]
/After you./
He slips one hand ever so slightly under her shirt at her waist, just enough to rub his thumb and forefinger on her bare skin. Which is, of course, not exactly likely to make her be in much hurry to get off the couch and move to the bed, particularly since he's still very much kissing her. But then, not being in a hurry is the whole point.]
(Her days tend to be decently organized for someone who enjoys doing whatever the fuck comes to mind. She works, if one could count running NYX as such, considering there is no monetary reward, which means that if she wakes up too early? She's going to have a tough day ahead. Being in his company at this time is totally her scheduling mishap, but she's not complaining one bit, as he knows.
Sophie gets bored so easily, and she can positively say this is not something that happens here, even when they have a routine. There's always something new, or something stupid that they haven't previously bickered about, or something idiotic that could very much be normal, whereas they take it to another level of goofy, all tied prettily with the fact that he always looks at her with that smug grin like he's winning whatever the fuck... Well, those things make it impossible for her to feel blasé.
He says that, but moves not an inch, lips still against hers and fingers touching on her waist. It might not make her want to run to bed, but it does make her break the kiss to beam at him for a quick second, the nose crinkle very much apparent.)
Soon.
(And she dives again back to the kiss, her hand moving to caress the shaved hair on the back of his head. Slow it is, huh? For someone whose brain is that fast, she might want to give him a little hand. She's slowed down his perception of time once before, this time, she syncs it with her own. There's no sneaky business either, it's very clear that this is her doing — it might hold until his brain readjusts, but until then, profit.)
[Quentin hums against her mouth when she runs her hand over the fuzz on the back of his head, but then he feels her messing with his brain and... hmm. No. While he normally more or less matches his perception of time to the average person's, it's different somehow when she syncs her time to his. Feels... duller somehow? So instead, he pulls her to his perception. Part of having a brain that processes as quickly as his is an insane attention to detail, and that's what he shares with her. Every twitch, every hitched breath, every minutia of reaction is in crisp detail, noted and catalogued in his mind.
His hand moves from her waist to her thigh, sliding up to push the leg of her shorts up a little, and he breaks away from the kiss to smirk at her.]
How soon is soon?
[Sure, he said slow. And proceeded to dawdle as much as possible. But he's allowed to be a little petulant and feign impatience if he wants to.]
Got anything you want to share with the class?
[He kisses her neck to give her a chance to reply. And since so far he's the only one of them who's shared with her his plans for their evening, he slides into her mind to sift through any and all ideas she's had related to this couch. Sophie's always had a pretty active imagination when it comes to this sort of thing. Surely she's got something interesting somewhere in there.]
(Ah, to be a clone whose skeleton was crafted for storing gigantic quantities of data. Her brain is not as fast-paced as his, but she can handle his perception in the way filtered way he shares it with her. Sophie is not a faker — which means every single reaction he pulls from her, he earns, and now she realizes why he likes to see and hear as much as possible. The glow in her eyes means she's rewiring what she is getting from him to the nanotech, so she can take full advantage of this new way of seeing things without it overwhelming her too quickly. She told him she's been practicing getting some stability with her powers as a single brain, so look at that.
This is going to be interesting, and it starts being so when she can feel his fingerprint on his thigh, because something so small feels just so intense when she can feel it to its fullest, and it robs a small noise from her into his mouth before he pulls away. Thank fuck the theme today is slow and steady, because holy fuck.
She knows he's not serious, she's learned there's a huge difference between what he says and what he does, so instead of a serious answer in tandem, it gets a happy giggle that she could categorize as gross from her.)
2520 seconds at most, you can count it.
(Nah, probably not. Especially not when he kisses her neck, it's a weakness of hers wherever he lands, and she tilts her head to the opposite side so he has more space. The hand on the back of his head caresses the scalp as further encouragement, as a long, longing exhale follows.
They want to kill time, it's a slow, lazy day until second notice. Sophie's borrowing his brain's detailed perception. He's given her that face several times today, and she, unfortunately for all of them, enjoys it dearly, and he's really earned that kind of selfless attention throughout the months. She never blocks her thoughts when they're together, a small token of trust, but the first thing that she thinks of doing is a very suggestive image of her kissing down his chest in a very clear path before the image goes dark. She just remembered that's vetoed right after she thought it.
[He's glad she appreciates the way he sees the world, and he kisses her neck again as a reward, adding just the faintest scrape of teeth. You know, since she's enjoying the hyper-detailed world he lives in every day so much. And just to be a little shit, he adds a countdown timer starting with 42:00 to her field of vision while he starts rummaging through her thoughts and—oh.
This is the polar opposite of almost everything he planned for today. She requested coma, he didn't. Which obviously means that the focus should be on her pleasure more than his. And she's already moving on from that idea, but.... His brain picks up the image where hers left off until he can imagine her looking up at him from between his legs, and it doesn't... make him recoil like it used to. Maybe it's because Sophie (at least in his imagination) looks at him like she wants him. Like she's overwhelmed with desire for him, not for his devotion or his vulnerability or anything like that. Just... him.
She has access to his brain and therefore can easily see his thought process, feel his body's reaction to her mental image, but it never hurts to have verbal confirmation. Quentin moves his mouth away from her neck, the timer in her eyes fading until it's barely visible, and shrugs nonchalantly.]
(How does he manage all this shit without losing his mind is currently beyond her, even though the answer is the most obvious "he's used to it", while she isn't. It brings out a breathy moan from her so stupidly easy that it morphs into a chuckle once he adds the timer. Idiot.
She's listening to him, because of course she is, and while there's a slight pang of discomfort from him knowing this shit, the thing is? He's not incorrect, not a single bit. Her attraction to him is not tethered to anything other than him — there's nothing else that she desires out of him. No devotion, not his potential, not his power, just this arrogant, cocky, stupid, silly dumbass whose face is on her neck. At least he gets confirmation that it isn't just in his head, so good for him, don't ask or point it out ever again.
Her face is all shades of pink, and she thanks the universe that he is busy not looking at her until... Well, he does, and ugh, at least she, too, doesn't recoil anymore. She won't ask if he's sure, if he said it, then he is, and she has to trust that he'll let her know if it suddenly isn't.)
Okay, cool.
(And she dives for the kiss again. Listen, it's the middle of the afternoon, they have more than enough time for a little bit of everything, and she moves to undo the first button of his shirt.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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No, no, I'm also burning a single unscented candle for it, don't you worry.
(No, she's absolutely not. It's just to keep the conversation and the banter alive, but it'd just be super weird if they were... What, suddenly soft? Affectionate aside from the times they allow each other to be? God, no. It'd probably make both of them run to separate hills as fast as they can manage.)
Oh, you are not touching my Animal Crossing. You'll ruin my hard work and chase away all my villagers.
(They would not love Quentin Quire's aesthetic choices.
But she's also realizing that he's much more communicative outside his room, and she was unsure whether that was a good thing until he asked her... Well, what literally everyone asks her back home. The facepalm, the eyeroll that ensues, oh God.
Okay. Fine. She hates him, but fine. He can steal the fries, she's stealing a nugget before she hands him the remaining ones to grab her burger.)
You think I can talk about a guy for two hours?
(Stalling.)
He's a guy I met on Summoner's who kept my sanity in place when I left the hivemind. No idea of personal details or what he looks like, but we talked pretty much all day every day before I got here.
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But that's for later. Right now he's got an apparent internet boyfriend(???) to interrogate her about.]
I dunno, you could probably talk about me for two hours. Not that I'm expecting you to talk about this dude for that long.
[She hands him the fries in favor of her burger, which of course means he's going to lean in front of her and grab her wrist holding the hamburger, holding it still while he helps himself to a bite of it. Satisfied with his burger theft, he lets go of her hand and moves back to his seat.]
So. You into him?
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(How he's probably going to make her grow her first grey hairs? Annoying? Irritating? Her dearest insignificant other?
Two hours is a lot, interruptedly? Maybe forty-five minutes, no breaks, word vomit style.
She would definitely have denied him the bite for the audacity if she had seen it coming, but it's unexpected and it makes her laugh — but revenge comes as his nuggets and shake dance in the air above them.
God, what a question. If she likes the snarky, cynical, bitchy and talk-back-y mutant who was her rock in the weirdest time of her life? Yeah, absolutely. He won her on talking alone, and she's crazy about him without a shred of doubt. But it's been... Months.
Yeah. She does. It's... Gone cold. Fondness rather than anything else it is now, and she reads his messages every now and then for comfort. But also, no, maybe she's not into him the same way anymore.
Why is Quentin asking her those type of questions again?)
I — ugh, kill me.
(Gag. Feeling talk. Gag. Gross.)
Yeah, but not... The same way anymore. Shut up.
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He's not going to ask if the change in her feelings is because of him. For one thing because no matter the answer, he wouldn't expect her to answer honestly. Sophie talks about her genuine feelings as little as physically possible, so usually just when he actively squeezes it out of her. But he's also not going to ask because even if she said yes, he wouldn't want to hear it.
Quentin... likes Sophie. Not the way he did when he was a stupid teenager, but he likes her a decent amount. He likes sleeping with her, both how he can make her feel and how she makes him feel. He likes making her blush and laugh and cringe. He likes pushing her to be better like she says she's trying to do. But is he into her? Debatable. Again, not like he used to be. Not like he was into Phoebe or Idie or even Gwen. She's... fun. Everything beyond that is held strictly behind the wall of their "rules," and for good reason.
Quentin plucks a nugget out of the container floating over his head.]
Tell me about him. For less than two hours, obviously. I don't have that kind of patience.
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Does she want him to like her more than he does? Debatable. If she had actual proof that he can be non-clingy and weird, then it's a huge maybe, but why mess with something that works? No need. Fine as it is. As for tarnishedmoodring, distance and time equal cooling off. Nothing she can do about that one. She never had any claim on him, anyway. It's not like she can be hoping he'll be there when she's out of this damn place, God knows when that will be. Doesn't even know if he liked her back. Way easier to think about it later, let it go for now.
Not that she is sharing any, absolutely any of that with Quentin. It's already uncomfortable as is, with him asking her so many questions that don't pertain to him, or so she thinks. Not answering makes it worse, so she has to take a moment to think.)
Mhm. Mutant, obviously, but I have no idea what his mutation is, anyway, I'm assuming it has something to do with empathy and colors, considering his username, but beats me. He's... Fun, I guess. Cynical, super bitchy, sarcastic as hell, and doesn't ever let me win without rematches, that I end up losing anyway, so I rematch, then I win, rinse and repeat. Hence why my rank is absurd. Alt-rock, hipster shit, and I guess that's all I'm saying. 40 seconds good enough for you?
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[He doesn't miss the fact that her description is remarkably similar to him, minus all the stuff about gaming, but he'll let it go for now. Sophie's been a good enough sport about his intrusive bullshit, so she'll get some mercy.
This time.
Quentin shrugs and yoinks the last nugget from the floating container.]
I'm just going to take your rush to move on from that topic as a sign you're impatient to—what was it? Climb me like a tree?
[You know, since she isn't going to let him prod her for miscellaneous information that isn't his business.]
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(Or so she hopes. She thinks? Come on. They literally fuck their problems away because when they tried talking about it, she nearly popped a vein, or choked, or kicked him out of her brain for literally breathing near her.
Why have that massive, sexy, high-speed brain if he doesn't use it? What a damn waste. She's not paying attention to his thoughts to know that he did, except just not in a way that is beneficial to her, but alas. Monkey paw curling, as it is.)
Well, I guess I could paint your nails, or some other beauty shit, it's literally the only thing I have in this room that might interest you. Or, well, you better put me in a coma for this schedule slip. Don't know if you can make me pass out for 10 hours, but there's a challenge.
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Until she says the word "challenge".
And now it's on.]
Seriously? [He holds a hand dramatically against his chest.]
You're giving me a challenge? Pfft.
[Quentin folds his arms, his lip curling stubbornly as he sits back against the couch seat.]
I'm half-tempted to let you paint my nails after all, just to prove that not only can I make you pass out for 10 hours, but I can do it without using my hands. Please. Don't insult me.
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To be decided. Right now, she's just smiling like she's won something here, an almost unnoticeable little dance ensues from the way she moves her shoulders.)
Wow, 'half-tempted'? Guess we'll never know for sure, what a shame.
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Tell you what. I'll let you try to paint my nails, with designs of my choosing. And I'll distract you. If you mess up, you lose. Between you and me, I bet you won't get past the first hand.
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Losing means consequences in her world, and so does winning. At least she's done eating, her limbs stretching in front of her, proving once more that when a girl is comfortable with a guy, she really just becomes a cat.
Okay. Okay, okay.)
And if you win, then what? What is at stake here, aside from pride, which I'm pretty sure both of us have very little to gamble with to begin with in here.
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[Quentin, on the other hand, is a cat all the time. He turns his upper body towards her, leaning his elbow on the back of her sofa with his head propped against his head. His free hand, meanwhile, makes all his customary dramatic gestures to illustrate the no-doubt brilliant points in whatever he's saying.]
When I win—which I will—then I'm gonna prove I can get you off without touching you. So that's pride for me: check. That'll be #1 for the evening, by the way. And I still get one free hand for #2 through... I dunno, however long you last. Until coma, I guess.
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(Her stupid monkey brain, man. This competitive bullshit is already doing its job, and she's pretty sure he knows that at this point. She's actually not considering just how much exposure she's going to go through with this, it hasn't crossed her mind yet — if he's not touching her, then he can look way too closely, but that's a problem that she her brain is literally not seeing with how stupid this horny Olympics is getting.
She's also planning to distract him from distracting her, so if anything, this is going to be either really scary, or absolutely stupid. She's only considering the latter.)
I want extra points if you go into a coma. I have my own shelf of accomplishments in my head.
(If he hasn't noticed the last times they've been there.)
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Hey, I'm not the one who said "you'd better put me into a coma." That was aaaall you.
[He folds his hands behind his head smugly.]
Anyway, you're missing the point. Which is, of course, that I won't just win because I'm good—even though we both know I am. I'm going to win because you're going to let me win.
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(Ugh, she likes that smug vibe he has going on. Does it make her want to throw hands with him immediately? Yes, without a shred of doubt. It makes her want to not give him shit. But also. Mind your business.
Her own eyes roll, and she comes closer, thighs touching as she puts her hand on his for a second, her turn to shift her position to face him.)
What, you think I'll give up halfway?
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[He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as she scoots closer and touches his hand. It's a familiar enough routine by now. She pulls,he pushes, she pushes back, he retreats, and she chases. You'd think it'd get boring, but no. Not so far, at least. Quentin smirks back at her.]
I think you'd rather I have both hands free.
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(Not that telling him to shut up has ever done anything, but ugh. It's true, she'd be urged by herselt to jump him immediately as soon as he started the whole telepathic bullshit while she's busy trying to get his nails as perfect as hers.
Which would make him an automatic winner, because she's not a very patient person. It's a rigged game, and they are all aware. She'd absolutely prefer both his hands on her, thank you very much, but also shut up.)
This is just me postponing this for the sake of schedule efficiency. You haven't won shit, before you dare to think you have.
(She releases the hand because if she doesn't take off their glasses, she can't give him the brain-melting, slow kiss that ensues.)
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She kisses him, and he kisses back, moving his arms to loop around her waist and tug her closer. Not pulling her into his lap, because today? Today is about going slow.]
/Why don't you come see what I'm thinking?/
[And if she does? Slow is what she'll find there too. She wanted to kill time, and she wanted a coma, and he plans on doing both tonight.]
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It doesn't startle her one bit to have his voice bouncing in her mind — telepaths, after all, and she slides into his brain to see where he is at.
Interesting. It's not what they usually do, but she sees no reason to deny it. It means she slows down the kiss, plays with a button of his shirt as she replies in the same vein.)
/Scandalously kinky. I'm in. Bed?/
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/After you./
He slips one hand ever so slightly under her shirt at her waist, just enough to rub his thumb and forefinger on her bare skin. Which is, of course, not exactly likely to make her be in much hurry to get off the couch and move to the bed, particularly since he's still very much kissing her. But then, not being in a hurry is the whole point.]
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Sophie gets bored so easily, and she can positively say this is not something that happens here, even when they have a routine. There's always something new, or something stupid that they haven't previously bickered about, or something idiotic that could very much be normal, whereas they take it to another level of goofy, all tied prettily with the fact that he always looks at her with that smug grin like he's winning whatever the fuck... Well, those things make it impossible for her to feel blasé.
He says that, but moves not an inch, lips still against hers and fingers touching on her waist. It might not make her want to run to bed, but it does make her break the kiss to beam at him for a quick second, the nose crinkle very much apparent.)
Soon.
(And she dives again back to the kiss, her hand moving to caress the shaved hair on the back of his head. Slow it is, huh? For someone whose brain is that fast, she might want to give him a little hand. She's slowed down his perception of time once before, this time, she syncs it with her own. There's no sneaky business either, it's very clear that this is her doing — it might hold until his brain readjusts, but until then, profit.)
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His hand moves from her waist to her thigh, sliding up to push the leg of her shorts up a little, and he breaks away from the kiss to smirk at her.]
How soon is soon?
[Sure, he said slow. And proceeded to dawdle as much as possible. But he's allowed to be a little petulant and feign impatience if he wants to.]
Got anything you want to share with the class?
[He kisses her neck to give her a chance to reply. And since so far he's the only one of them who's shared with her his plans for their evening, he slides into her mind to sift through any and all ideas she's had related to this couch. Sophie's always had a pretty active imagination when it comes to this sort of thing. Surely she's got something interesting somewhere in there.]
nsfw from here on out
This is going to be interesting, and it starts being so when she can feel his fingerprint on his thigh, because something so small feels just so intense when she can feel it to its fullest, and it robs a small noise from her into his mouth before he pulls away. Thank fuck the theme today is slow and steady, because holy fuck.
She knows he's not serious, she's learned there's a huge difference between what he says and what he does, so instead of a serious answer in tandem, it gets a happy giggle that she could categorize as gross from her.)
2520 seconds at most, you can count it.
(Nah, probably not. Especially not when he kisses her neck, it's a weakness of hers wherever he lands, and she tilts her head to the opposite side so he has more space. The hand on the back of his head caresses the scalp as further encouragement, as a long, longing exhale follows.
They want to kill time, it's a slow, lazy day until second notice. Sophie's borrowing his brain's detailed perception. He's given her that face several times today, and she, unfortunately for all of them, enjoys it dearly, and he's really earned that kind of selfless attention throughout the months. She never blocks her thoughts when they're together, a small token of trust, but the first thing that she thinks of doing is a very suggestive image of her kissing down his chest in a very clear path before the image goes dark. She just remembered that's vetoed right after she thought it.
Goddamnit. Her bad, her bad.)
I'll figure out something else.
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This is the polar opposite of almost everything he planned for today. She requested coma, he didn't. Which obviously means that the focus should be on her pleasure more than his. And she's already moving on from that idea, but.... His brain picks up the image where hers left off until he can imagine her looking up at him from between his legs, and it doesn't... make him recoil like it used to. Maybe it's because Sophie (at least in his imagination) looks at him like she wants him. Like she's overwhelmed with desire for him, not for his devotion or his vulnerability or anything like that. Just... him.
She has access to his brain and therefore can easily see his thought process, feel his body's reaction to her mental image, but it never hurts to have verbal confirmation. Quentin moves his mouth away from her neck, the timer in her eyes fading until it's barely visible, and shrugs nonchalantly.]
Eh. Go for it.
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She's listening to him, because of course she is, and while there's a slight pang of discomfort from him knowing this shit, the thing is? He's not incorrect, not a single bit. Her attraction to him is not tethered to anything other than him — there's nothing else that she desires out of him. No devotion, not his potential, not his power, just this arrogant, cocky, stupid, silly dumbass whose face is on her neck. At least he gets confirmation that it isn't just in his head, so good for him, don't ask or point it out ever again.
Her face is all shades of pink, and she thanks the universe that he is busy not looking at her until... Well, he does, and ugh, at least she, too, doesn't recoil anymore. She won't ask if he's sure, if he said it, then he is, and she has to trust that he'll let her know if it suddenly isn't.)
Okay, cool.
(And she dives for the kiss again. Listen, it's the middle of the afternoon, they have more than enough time for a little bit of everything, and she moves to undo the first button of his shirt.)
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