[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.]
In light of new events, that timer is no longer valid, unless you mean I get to stall you for 32 minutes.
(Look, she knows what the timer was for, but she was offering a new one, okay.
She's making so many mental notes, which will most definitely come in handy in the future. He can pat himself on the back for giving her this newfound perception, when it still pays off long after it's gone. The kisses do descend eventually, the mental image almost true as she presses the kisses to his collarbone, the second button no longer closed, giving her more access.
Sophie's so ridiculously sensitive. The right touch just melts her brain into a puddle, kisses cloud her best judgement, and the way her entire body tenses and her breath shakes from the intensity of just a single touch gets sent straight to his brain, front seat, the way the aurosal makes her skin tingle in slow motion so he can enjoy it fully.
This slow shit is going to kill her. Physically, emotionally, she hates when he's right.)
[She may hate when he's right, but Quentin? Quentin can't get enough of being right. Is it his biggest turn-on? It might be. That probably means there's something deeply and fundamentally wrong with him. But honestly? Who cares. Not like Sophie is a beacon of humility over here.]
Pfft. You wanna edit the timer? Be my guest.
Quentin leans his head back with a smug little grin as she works her way further down to his collarbone and lower. She'll find that his chest is also not especially sensitive, though that doesn't make attention paid to it any less pleasing. But that's more of a "soothing his wounded insecurities" type of thing. Which, to be honest, is what a lot of this whole "relationship" is about, at least on his end. Is that his second biggest turn on? Apparently.
He finds a nice place along the side of her torso to rest his hand, just lightly moving his fingers across her skin. He'll decide how much he feels like distracting her when she answers his question about the timer.]
If Sophie were asked what this whole thing is about, she wouldn't really know how to answer. She doesn't think about these things, God forbid that both of them stop to think — she knows for a fact that she likes it, and that's all the thinking about this "relationship" she is willing to do.
The timer gets a second line, counting 5 whole minutes, copied and pasted to his sight. Clothes are currently annoying her, so she takes a second from her descent to rid herself of her top so he has more space to roam. It's not verbal confirmation, but it should suffice.
The rest of the buttons receive a similar treatment, some fumbling, kisses that intensify if she catches any reaction that she likes. Pants should be the next thing.)
[His reactions get more intense the lower she gets because, well. Proximity, obviously. And any time a particularly loud thought crosses her mind about desiring him? That makes his pulse race. He doesn't particularly understand what she sees in his thin, undermuscled frame, but damn if it doesn't make him horny as hell.]
Dare I ask what the timer is for?
[She's pretty close to her goal is all he's saying. Close enough that he takes a break from touching her to raise his hips a bit and shimmy his pants and boxers down over his ass. She can figure out how to get them the rest of the way off herself, since she's taken it upon herself to be on clothing removal duty. He sure as hell hopes she doesn't plan to spend five minutes hovering at his naval, because despite the whole "slow" routine they agreed on he's pretty sure they would both go insane. Neither of them are especially patient people in general, and the anticipation burning in his brain is making his patience start to fray.]
(Look. It's a lot of stuff that brings her here, to a place where she genuinely wants to do this with him. It's that smug, idiotic face that he makes, or the laughter that he can pull from her without even trying, the way he looks at her when they're allowed to look at each other abnormally, and how his skin feels, how he sounds, the fucking asshole. Look, what can she do, she wants him, she has him, in what world doesn't she appreciate that and him as she can, doesn't find the entire package an annoying, relentless combo, but also attractive as hell? Let her live.
Which, well, again, very unCuckoo-like. She could ruin him. Make him so impossibly impatient that he melts in her hands. Beg, want her more and more with each touch, because that's what she's perfectly good at. Puddle him. It's not what she does, nor something that ever crosses her mind when she's with him.
With his question, there's a smile that comes to her face that tells him that, no, he daren't. He'll see. It's how long she'll take this slow routine for with him in her mouth, so she begins. Experimental, slow, and yet so incredibly thorough, her mind attuned to the detailing and to his own, seeing what works for him best and what doesn't, because she's going to hone it.)
[Quentin drops his head back against the couch with a strained noise and closes his eyes for a second or two to get his breathing under control, his hand moving to the top of her head. He's not putting any pressure on her, just grounding himself for now.]
Hold on—just... let me—
[This slow shit is excruciating, but at least it's helping him keep his mind more or less clear, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't bother cuing her—she's connected to his mind, which means she's fully capable of finding that delicious sweet spot between "too much" and "not enough" without his guidance. Maybe at some point during the next five minutes he'll want more direct involvement, but for now he's fine letting her steer.]
(The only reason why Sophie's holding off (for now) on more telepathic bullshit is just because he asked her to.
She likes doing it, although she's blocking the pleasure sharing specifically so not to get distracted from her own bubble of enjoyment. He feels too damn much, which is often great, but right now she wants to work in the perfect window she found him asking for.
When he's more stable? What she sends him is what she feels, one of those moments where she feels comfortable letting him know something with enough plausibility to her thoughts. It's more of what she had confirmed before she started — how much she enjoys him without conditions, expectations, or need for power or control, how the sound of his breathing is almost making her foresake the timer, impatience and desire raw, wordless, but more than anything, genuine.
She knows he likes knowing, hearing straight from her — hence why he asks her to talk. She can open a single exception for today only and tell him without the need of making him go through a rollercoaster of her being difficult.
[To be fair, she has a perfectly valid excuse for not telling him verbally the way he usually wants. She feels fucking incredible, and when the desire from her end of their telepathic connection washes over him, he has to curl his fingers in her hair and grip the end of the couch to stop himself from bucking his hips.]
Shit—fuck—yeah, that.
[Sophie's being a team player and letting him feel how much she wants him without making him work for it, so he'll do her the favor of forcing her to acknowledge what he wants. She's getting away with just a "that" this time. You're welcome, Sophie.
He tilts his head down again and pulls her hair away from her face so he can make eye contact as she's working him with her mouth. The visual is exquisite, but even better is the hunger in her expression.]
(Without his overdetailed pleasure bouncing in her brain, she has the opportunity to pay attention to a series of events that wouldn't be available to her on a different occasion. From the way his thoughts run through her spine, and how fast she can flood his mind with her feelings. How she does something just right that he's having to put effort not to instinctively thrust, the heavy breathing. She has a feeling that if she were to not listen and speed up, he'd be overwhelmed very quickly — not what she wants. Two minutes left on the clock.
Months ago, everything about them today would be unimaginable, she assumes for both of them. The honesty on her end, the lifting of vetoes on his, the idea of giving just because, well, yes.
His hand on her hair does bring her eyes to his, accurate in perception, but it also comes with a small smile hiding on the corners of her lips before she descends fully.
[It's both the longest and shortest four minutes of Quentin's entire stupid life. Probably. Well, probably not. He's had a weird life. But right now it's the longest and shortest he can remember. Which isn't really all that impressive, because he's looking Sophie in the eye as she takes him entirely into her mouth, and that admittedly is occupying a lot of his brainpower at the moment. He'd wondered briefly before if she intended this to be an elaborate warm up, but that smile tells him all he needs to know—she wants him to finish like this. Which means as the timer ticks over to the last minute, things are about to ramp up.
He tightens his fingers in her hair ever so slightly, nudges his hips gently upward, and looks down at her questioningly. Not that he's completely sold on the option he's presenting. If she prefers to drive him over the edge completely unassisted, that's fine with him too.]
(He's correct in his assumptions, she's keeping a very close eye on his thought process — new territory, previously vetoed, so she just has to know. One minute means she's going to abandon the slowness and replace it with something fiercer. She's got a deadline, after all, and since he didn't complain in any shape or form about it, she's just presuming that's fine with him.
She also senses the uncertainty on his end over his actions — it's fine. If he keeps it mindful as he currently is, she has no qualms about it, which she easily sends to his brain as confirmation. Who would have thought that sex fixed their communication issues, look at that? Quentin might be the person (hivemind aside) she's communicated with most her entire freaking life, what in the actual fuck. Didn't she use to loathe him? How things change.
Sophie knows he's close, which makes the way he puts it bring a smile to the corners of her lips again. Obviously, she is unable to reply to him in the same vein.)
/Your call./
(Read: she really doesn't care. Efficiency and ease means she just swallows, there's no place to spit, anywhere else makes a mess, but, really, whatever happens happens. She's fine with the alternatives.)
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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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)
no subject
/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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(Look, she knows what the timer was for, but she was offering a new one, okay.
She's making so many mental notes, which will most definitely come in handy in the future. He can pat himself on the back for giving her this newfound perception, when it still pays off long after it's gone. The kisses do descend eventually, the mental image almost true as she presses the kisses to his collarbone, the second button no longer closed, giving her more access.
Sophie's so ridiculously sensitive. The right touch just melts her brain into a puddle, kisses cloud her best judgement, and the way her entire body tenses and her breath shakes from the intensity of just a single touch gets sent straight to his brain, front seat, the way the aurosal makes her skin tingle in slow motion so he can enjoy it fully.
This slow shit is going to kill her. Physically, emotionally, she hates when he's right.)
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Pfft. You wanna edit the timer? Be my guest.
Quentin leans his head back with a smug little grin as she works her way further down to his collarbone and lower. She'll find that his chest is also not especially sensitive, though that doesn't make attention paid to it any less pleasing. But that's more of a "soothing his wounded insecurities" type of thing. Which, to be honest, is what a lot of this whole "relationship" is about, at least on his end. Is that his second biggest turn on? Apparently.
He finds a nice place along the side of her torso to rest his hand, just lightly moving his fingers across her skin. He'll decide how much he feels like distracting her when she answers his question about the timer.]
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If Sophie were asked what this whole thing is about, she wouldn't really know how to answer. She doesn't think about these things, God forbid that both of them stop to think — she knows for a fact that she likes it, and that's all the thinking about this "relationship" she is willing to do.
The timer gets a second line, counting 5 whole minutes, copied and pasted to his sight. Clothes are currently annoying her, so she takes a second from her descent to rid herself of her top so he has more space to roam. It's not verbal confirmation, but it should suffice.
The rest of the buttons receive a similar treatment, some fumbling, kisses that intensify if she catches any reaction that she likes. Pants should be the next thing.)
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Dare I ask what the timer is for?
[She's pretty close to her goal is all he's saying. Close enough that he takes a break from touching her to raise his hips a bit and shimmy his pants and boxers down over his ass. She can figure out how to get them the rest of the way off herself, since she's taken it upon herself to be on clothing removal duty. He sure as hell hopes she doesn't plan to spend five minutes hovering at his naval, because despite the whole "slow" routine they agreed on he's pretty sure they would both go insane. Neither of them are especially patient people in general, and the anticipation burning in his brain is making his patience start to fray.]
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Which, well, again, very unCuckoo-like. She could ruin him. Make him so impossibly impatient that he melts in her hands. Beg, want her more and more with each touch, because that's what she's perfectly good at. Puddle him. It's not what she does, nor something that ever crosses her mind when she's with him.
With his question, there's a smile that comes to her face that tells him that, no, he daren't. He'll see. It's how long she'll take this slow routine for with him in her mouth, so she begins. Experimental, slow, and yet so incredibly thorough, her mind attuned to the detailing and to his own, seeing what works for him best and what doesn't, because she's going to hone it.)
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Oh, fuck.
[Quentin drops his head back against the couch with a strained noise and closes his eyes for a second or two to get his breathing under control, his hand moving to the top of her head. He's not putting any pressure on her, just grounding himself for now.]
Hold on—just... let me—
[This slow shit is excruciating, but at least it's helping him keep his mind more or less clear, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't bother cuing her—she's connected to his mind, which means she's fully capable of finding that delicious sweet spot between "too much" and "not enough" without his guidance. Maybe at some point during the next five minutes he'll want more direct involvement, but for now he's fine letting her steer.]
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She likes doing it, although she's blocking the pleasure sharing specifically so not to get distracted from her own bubble of enjoyment. He feels too damn much, which is often great, but right now she wants to work in the perfect window she found him asking for.
When he's more stable? What she sends him is what she feels, one of those moments where she feels comfortable letting him know something with enough plausibility to her thoughts. It's more of what she had confirmed before she started — how much she enjoys him without conditions, expectations, or need for power or control, how the sound of his breathing is almost making her foresake the timer, impatience and desire raw, wordless, but more than anything, genuine.
She knows he likes knowing, hearing straight from her — hence why he asks her to talk. She can open a single exception for today only and tell him without the need of making him go through a rollercoaster of her being difficult.
Just today.)
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Shit—fuck—yeah, that.
[Sophie's being a team player and letting him feel how much she wants him without making him work for it, so he'll do her the favor of forcing her to acknowledge what he wants. She's getting away with just a "that" this time. You're welcome, Sophie.
He tilts his head down again and pulls her hair away from her face so he can make eye contact as she's working him with her mouth. The visual is exquisite, but even better is the hunger in her expression.]
Keep doing that. Stay slow. Slow's good.
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Months ago, everything about them today would be unimaginable, she assumes for both of them. The honesty on her end, the lifting of vetoes on his, the idea of giving just because, well, yes.
His hand on her hair does bring her eyes to his, accurate in perception, but it also comes with a small smile hiding on the corners of her lips before she descends fully.
One minute.)
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He tightens his fingers in her hair ever so slightly, nudges his hips gently upward, and looks down at her questioningly. Not that he's completely sold on the option he's presenting. If she prefers to drive him over the edge completely unassisted, that's fine with him too.]
Home, ah—home stretch. Yeah? How do you...?
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She also senses the uncertainty on his end over his actions — it's fine. If he keeps it mindful as he currently is, she has no qualms about it, which she easily sends to his brain as confirmation. Who would have thought that sex fixed their communication issues, look at that? Quentin might be the person (hivemind aside) she's communicated with most her entire freaking life, what in the actual fuck. Didn't she use to loathe him? How things change.
Sophie knows he's close, which makes the way he puts it bring a smile to the corners of her lips again. Obviously, she is unable to reply to him in the same vein.)
/Your call./
(Read: she really doesn't care. Efficiency and ease means she just swallows, there's no place to spit, anywhere else makes a mess, but, really, whatever happens happens. She's fine with the alternatives.)
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