(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.)
[It's funny how life works out, isn't it? Sometimes you get a weird crush on a girl, accidentally get her killed, try and fail to resurrect her using a cosmic force, date her clone sister, get dumped, and then somewhere down the line you end up in a pocket universe with her about to go down on you because for some reason she finds you sexy. Quentin can't even begin to understand how he got here, but right now he can't be bothered to care.]
/All the times we've done this shit, and you still turn beet red. I don't know whether to be impressed or flattered./
[They have all the time in the world, so even though she's on a mission he can't help being a pest and a distraction. She still has his hyper-detailed perception, so she'll notice the longer, shakier breath he takes when she starts unbuttoning his shirt, as well as the hand on her leg slowly inching higher. His other hand, meanwhile, abandons subtlety, tangling into the hair at the back of her head and tugging her into deepening the kiss. At least until she inevitably has to move away from his mouth, that is. He's not hindering her, just delaying. To be a troll. It's in his nature. He also pushes his arousal into her mind as an additional distraction, forcing hers to build at the same time as his.]
(Look, okay, it's not the sex itself, alright. She's an Emma Frost clone, and even before that fact was known, sex and telepathy was literally in her school curriculum. By itself, it has no power over the color of her face, the smile that forms on her lips, or the embarrassment she sometimes feels. It's more the shit he manages to pull from the depths of her mind that make her react, but sure, much, much easier to say it's the activity not what comes with it.)
/Preferably you'd be quiet about it, but I don't think you have that feature built in./
(She barely wakes her eyes in the morning and he's already talking like he expects a full dissertation for an answer instead of an incoherent grumble. God, it's been... Months. They've been fucking and sharing a bed for months. They haven't had a real fight in so long. She's so much better about so much, but the blushing hasn't stopped creeping to her face yet.
Bless his heart.
Needless to say that she is more than pleased with how she can retain so much information so quickly, the way his breath changes making a smile form for a second before she's taken to enjoy a deeper kiss that she responds with hunger. It's not rushed, but it is craving, thanks to their synched arousal. He wants to delay it? Be a little shit?
Sure. She'll be one right back, letting her index finger hook on the opening of his shirt to fumble with it a little while her free hand goes to play with the waistband of his boxers, fingers ever so slightly caressing the skin of his hip in the process.)
[Oh, he knows exactly what it is that makes her react. It's the whole reason they started down this path to begin with. She made the fatal mistake of showing Quentin a crack in her facade, he immediately jammed a crowbar into the crack, and the rest is history.]
/There's a reason my name's Quentin Quire and not Quentin Quiet./
[She stops unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes a noise of protest. Did she stop because he was being a little shit? Yes. Does that make it his fault and therefore not something he should complain about? Also yes. But since when has not having a valid reason ever stopped Quentin from complaining? Never, of course.]
/Anyway, weren't you doing something? Don't let me stop you./
[He tilts his hips slightly toward her hand when she starts messing with his waistband, as if she needs a reminder and not, you know, a partner who doesn't deliberately behaves like a pest just for the sake of it.]
(Deep, deep, deep, deep, deep down, she finds his shitty jokes funny, one more thing to the list of unfortunate events, and that's exactly why she has to be a little bitchy at him in turn.)
/Wow, that one was not your best work./
(The reason why she breaks the kiss is to find his neck, her mental map of every spot that makes him squirm in place as she goes for it, taking her time with each one as she enjoys the macrodetail. Soft skin, and she can feel his heartbeat against her lips, and if it quickens? She'll add in the slightest use of teeth.
But hey, don't make her laugh, she's busy.)
Oh, you aren't stopping me one bit. I'm getting there. You want a timer?
[His neck isn't overly sensitive, at least not like hers is. He does, however, tilt his chin up to give her better access, just to make it clear he likes the attention even if his pulse only quickens in a couple of spots under his jaw. Lower down towards his collarbone is where she'll start getting tiny pleased twitches and shivers.
The hand on her thigh, meanwhile, moves to slide up her shirt, searching for her own sensitive spots with soft touches.]
Already got one, remember? Somebody's gotta keep us on schedule.
[The audacity. The unabashed audacity. And the worst thing is he knows she gets a thrill out of it. He raises the opacity on that timer he started before, which yes, is still running. Because he's an asshole. In so, so many ways.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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/All the times we've done this shit, and you still turn beet red. I don't know whether to be impressed or flattered./
[They have all the time in the world, so even though she's on a mission he can't help being a pest and a distraction. She still has his hyper-detailed perception, so she'll notice the longer, shakier breath he takes when she starts unbuttoning his shirt, as well as the hand on her leg slowly inching higher. His other hand, meanwhile, abandons subtlety, tangling into the hair at the back of her head and tugging her into deepening the kiss. At least until she inevitably has to move away from his mouth, that is. He's not hindering her, just delaying. To be a troll. It's in his nature. He also pushes his arousal into her mind as an additional distraction, forcing hers to build at the same time as his.]
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/Preferably you'd be quiet about it, but I don't think you have that feature built in./
(She barely wakes her eyes in the morning and he's already talking like he expects a full dissertation for an answer instead of an incoherent grumble. God, it's been... Months. They've been fucking and sharing a bed for months. They haven't had a real fight in so long. She's so much better about so much, but the blushing hasn't stopped creeping to her face yet.
Bless his heart.
Needless to say that she is more than pleased with how she can retain so much information so quickly, the way his breath changes making a smile form for a second before she's taken to enjoy a deeper kiss that she responds with hunger. It's not rushed, but it is craving, thanks to their synched arousal. He wants to delay it? Be a little shit?
Sure. She'll be one right back, letting her index finger hook on the opening of his shirt to fumble with it a little while her free hand goes to play with the waistband of his boxers, fingers ever so slightly caressing the skin of his hip in the process.)
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/There's a reason my name's Quentin Quire and not Quentin Quiet./
[She stops unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes a noise of protest. Did she stop because he was being a little shit? Yes. Does that make it his fault and therefore not something he should complain about? Also yes. But since when has not having a valid reason ever stopped Quentin from complaining? Never, of course.]
/Anyway, weren't you doing something? Don't let me stop you./
[He tilts his hips slightly toward her hand when she starts messing with his waistband, as if she needs a reminder and not, you know, a partner who doesn't deliberately behaves like a pest just for the sake of it.]
1/2
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/Wow, that one was not your best work./
(The reason why she breaks the kiss is to find his neck, her mental map of every spot that makes him squirm in place as she goes for it, taking her time with each one as she enjoys the macrodetail. Soft skin, and she can feel his heartbeat against her lips, and if it quickens? She'll add in the slightest use of teeth.
But hey, don't make her laugh, she's busy.)
Oh, you aren't stopping me one bit. I'm getting there. You want a timer?
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The hand on her thigh, meanwhile, moves to slide up her shirt, searching for her own sensitive spots with soft touches.]
Already got one, remember? Somebody's gotta keep us on schedule.
[The audacity. The unabashed audacity. And the worst thing is he knows she gets a thrill out of it. He raises the opacity on that timer he started before, which yes, is still running. Because he's an asshole. In so, so many ways.]
Tick tock.
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