[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.)
[For all of it, apparently. He smirks, even if it's a little lopsided and breathless. Cool.
He uses the hand in her hair to push her head down at the same time as he rocks his hips, the movement experimental and mindful of her comfort. Then he repeats it a few more times, trying to find a rhythm, but... Hmm. Sure, he groans openly every time she takes him fully, but it's not enough, and he makes a frustrated noise. Forty seconds.
There have been plenty of times where what he prefers is to be selfish, to take his pleasure with her just along for the ride. But this? This only happened because she wanted it. Wanted him. No sex is ever really selfless for telepaths, but this is about as close as anyone could get to that: she gets off on him getting off, and he gets off on her wanting to get him off, and also a blowjob is involved there somewhere.
He looks down at her, thinks, and... lets go of her hair. Moves his hand to the couch.]
Changed my mind. [He tries to shrug nonchalantly. And fails. Whatever.]
(... Is he sure? He has got to know that her worst is, well, insane. It's who she is, and considering who he is and how his hyperdetailed world is like, he might die, but fine. There's a first time for everything, and as far as first times go, this is actually good.
Okay. First things first is to intensify what is already intense — his perception, but she'll filter it to dim everything else that isn't coming from her so there's no stimuli that could shift his focus. Secondly, a gentle edging. Everytime she descends, he's closer to a moving goalpost that moves just an inch away from him. Third is physical, amping up speed and intensity with each time she takes him.
Ten seconds. Then she lets go of the second item on her list. He's free.)
[He knew what he was asking for, and she doesn't disappoint. After all that slow build up, the sudden jump in intensity is welcome. Almost a relief in a way. Even the edging he can feel her doing feels more like scratching an itch than the psuedo-torture it's probably meant to be. His hands grip the couch cushions instinctively, though with her sensory bullshit he's barely aware of it, and he tries to keep his eyes on her and force his hips to remain still, both with moderate success. He can also dimly hear himself rambling miscellaneous praise and encouragement, which is a little embarrassing but whatever. What's she going to do, judge him? Not likely.
She takes him again and again, faster and faster, and the instant she allows him to release he does. But the bonus of asking for this? Of the timer? It means he has enough spare brainpower set aside so he can shove his pleasure into her brain. They almost always go together, after all, so it's only fair that she get at least an echo of the spectacular orgasm she gave him.]
(Not judging him for it, no worries, she judges him enough for enough outside of sex, and at this point she's very used to how he sounds and talks in it. They fuck way too often for her not to be.
Holy shit, at least it was an echo. She blocked his pleasure receptors from their telepathic synch for two reasons — one, because piggybacking on it was not the point of it. It was, you know, for her, and for him, different sources of delight that were not tied to physical pleasure on her end. Second, because holy shit, she knew it would distract her, her hand moving to squeeze the nearest cushion so she can swallow in peace and ride it out, her breathing hitched and her brain a little fried from the sudden release of dopamine it wasn't expecting.
And she's back up, trying to fix her breathing before looking at him again, trying not to laugh in joy because... Wow.)
[Quentin slumps back into the couch, trying to get his breathing and heart rate under control. Damn... And look, he fried her brain a little bit too, which he counts as a bonus win. When she speaks, he lifts his head briefly to look at her with a lazy, pleased expression and drops his head back again.]
Pretty sure I am, yeah.
[He pries his fingers out of the death grip they had on the couch cushions, flexing the stiffness out of his joints, and then stretches his arms up languidly. When he can move without wanting to die, he kicks off his pants and pulls up his boxers.]
Just thinking about how I'm gonna return the favor.
(She'd be much more melted mush than this after a round, right now she's at a 30% mush rate, since she attacked him. The kiss she presses to his temple is brief before she fishes back her cardigan, not bothering with the top.
Oh, right, she has to return his brain to normalcy. Sorry, someone distracted her, there he goes. With an eye roll and a smile, she gives him a little kick with no strength to it whatsoever — he doesn't have to. There was plenty of enrichment for her, too.
Since the plan today is to chill for fucking once, she's not concerned about the timer that still runs. Let him rest a little, it's not like guys work like girls anyway. She knows he's gonna need to breathe for a while.)
[Oh, he's not in a big hurry. Quentin waves off the offer of coffee, even though he yawns immediately after.]
Well, the obvious is out. [Despite his "evolving" stance on receiving, giving is an entirely different can of worms. She's vetoed that one herself too.]
There's always my first idea.
[He taps his temple with a sly look before folding his arms behind his head and turning back to look at the ceiling.]
Gotta say, I don't like that the score's not even. I wanna fix that before I'm back to full functionality, so to speak.
(Maybe one day she'll feel secure enough for it. Things change here in the little bubble they quietly inhabit, but as for now? It's still too uncomfortable a thought for her to backtrack on, and she's sure it is for him, too.
His first idea being their stupid horny Olympics, she assumes. It's not a bad one, and it's better than just sitting around idly until male biology cooperates with them. He doesn't have his niche little hobbies in her room, and he isn't so fond of games to truly appreciate the wonders she has in her drawers.
Interesting, though? The comatose she requested for the scheduling mishap does seem reachable if they keep at it.)
So, back to trying to distract me. It isn't the worst idea you've had. I just got a little distracted.
(Not like she's going to let him live through it either.)
Okay. Let's fix the score, you're on. Get to the desk while I find my nail polish.
(She's already waving in dismissal the very likely quip about finding something in the mess that is her room.)
[She gets up, and Quentin grabs her wrist to stop her.]
Not that first idea. Unless you wanna add another hour to that timer before I can use both of my hands properly. I meant my other first idea. You know.
[He gently strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist and reaches into her mind to light up every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. And yes, he does look impossibly smug. As usual.]
The one where I get you off like this. Then we'll be even.
(Maybe enumerate your ideas better next time. Just saying.
Technically, the sentiment is similar — giving, to put it broadly, although his initiative comes with score-settling to back it up. That feels... Much, much more comfortable for her to put that physical distance between them, it allows her more freedom to play around right back at him and distract him if he gets way too damn close. It's an acceptable loophole, and she'll figure out how she feels as they go.
There's never any real defense or pushback that isn't petty, expected foreplay from her when he reaches, and this time is no different. Free-flowing, she feels the warmth travel from her spine down, eyes closing so she can let out an exhale.
If she was ever on the fence before, that smug grin pulls her right back into action. Unsure whether he knows that works for her, or if that's just him in general, but either way.)
Deal.
(Once she's sitting back where she had been, she's just diving for a heated kiss so she can wipe the smug off his lips.)
[She should know better than to think she can wipe the smug off Quentin Quire. His smug is eternal. Unstoppable. You wipe the smug look off his face but he has a second smaller smug look under it. Omega level smugness.
He returns the kiss, but doesn't touch her aside from the hand still on her wrist. She's allowed to touch him all she wants, he's arbitrarily decided, but he only gets the wrist. Every game needs rules, even if they're ones he just made up. The challenge here isn't how he can touch her, it's how he can make her feel him touching her without actually doing it. Like the invisible kiss to the sensitive part of her neck. Or the hands that aren't there sliding down her back, sending more of that warmth down her spine.]
(Yeah, she knows it's impossible, but she's no quitter. Go down fighting, or else what is the fun in anything?
He doesn't need to state the rules; she's already understood them from the fact that his hands aren't perfectly locked in the curve of her waist, not on her thighs, nor anywhere but the wrist he took. That's fine by her, actually. If he had forgone kissing, then she'd be in trouble, but he didn't — it means she gets to enjoy it in addition to the very real (to her) touches he's giving her, a smile forming against his lips as she lets out a sigh.
He knows she loves telepathy. Knows this works for her perfectly, but she just has to be a little difficult even if her spare hand on his cheek caresses skin, and she fights the grin from widening as she continues the kiss.)
/Jury's still out./
(Nope, jury likes it. The jury approves. She knows he knows.)
[There are several erogenous zones on the human body, the stimulation of which induces arousal in the brain. And today, Quentin has decided that the inner wrist of Sophie's hand is one of them. Or it will be, once he finishes nudging around a few things in her head. Don't worry, he'll put everything back where he found it when he's done! And yes, the invisible hands and lips touching her are meant to distract her while he's working on that. Classic sleight of hand. Or uh, sleight of... brain. Whatever.]
/What if I've got additional evidence to submit?/
[Not how court works, but he doesn't expect her to nitpick the logic of stupid banter. Especially when he lightly rubs his pointer finger over the back of her wrist, which should—if he's as amazing as he thinks he is, and let's face it, he is—give her a nice teasing little jolt down her spine. And, more importantly, a really entertaining reaction for him to enjoy.]
(Ah, to trust. Surely not with everything or without a lot of work to pull it out of her, she's not insane, but with telepathic bullshit, there is not an ounce of suspicion or uncertainty. She knows he's in there, she feels him in her head and the kisses and touches he's making her feel, but whatever the additional fuck he's doing, she's not particularly worried about it.
Wait, is he the defense or prosecution — this is so stupid that it finally makes her give in the chuckle she was fighting before, thus breaking the kiss.)
Seriously, you gotta stop making me laugh, I can't kiss and laugh and talk.
(Do not though, that's honestly one of the top tier things she enjoys.
Oh. That's what the additional fuck he was doing. Rewiring nerves. Unexpected, it pulls a small breathy moan from her, still close enough that he can enjoy the microexpressions of 'I like this, but also fuck you'. It includes the nose crinkle.)
[It's very convenient that him making her laugh is one of her favorite things, since trolling her is one of his favorite things. So nice when things like that work out.
Anyway, speaking of things working out, he just has one or two more nerves to patch into aaaand there. Done. The little breathy noise she made is good, but he can (and has) gotten much, much better sounds out of her.]
Sneaky? No idea what you're talking about. Well, unless you mean this.
[Psychic hands slot on her waist the way his real ones have a dozen other times that they've done this, and while there's no actual hands pulling her against anything, no actual grinding happening, the way he presses his thumb to the underside of her wrist should theoretically come with a similarly pleasant type of friction. Theoretically because, well... how's he supposed to know what any of this shit is going to feel like to her until he tries it? None of this is an exact science or anything. Just a lot of experimentation. Sexy experimentation.]
(The only reason why she doesn't answer with the most mature rebuttal of 'you're a skill issue' is because that's a very, very dangerous thing to say to a man who has direct control of your nerves and a mission he's very dedicated to.
An eye roll has got to suffice.
They're different when it comes to telepathy. Sophie's approach is much more traditional, but even before she knew she was an Emma Frost clone, she had been learning under her — which means that illusioning, pulling out desires and wants to use, and more sensual, sensory, and psychological approaches of how to use one's mind are her usual go-to. Which, well, it's all fine, but it is very contrasting with Quentin's more analytical, computer-like thought process. Of course he's moving her nerves around, restructuring her pathways so he could use her wrist as a pleasure joystick. Because of course he is.
If anything, she can't ever say she's gotten bored with him. Irritated, annoyed, baffled, fond, occasionally mushy, and detrimental to the brand — yeah, sure, whatever. Bored is kind of impossible.
It works, yes, not like he isn't going to know by the fact she attempts to ground the sudden surge by kissing him again, a louder noise muffled. She's too fucking sensitive, like he doesn't know, and the hand that rested on his cheek is now to his shoulder, because she needs a place to hold.)
[Too sensitive? He'll be the judge of that. Maybe he thinks she's not quite sensitive enough, hmm? What then?
He's thankful for the residual lazy, heavy feeling in his limbs, because without that it'd probably be a lot more tempting to actually touch her with his free hand. But as it is? He's perfectly happy to let her muffle her moans with his mouth and hold onto his shoulder while he plays with her brain. And play he does, continuing to rub her wrist with his thumb as he moves her hand up and into a convenient place to tangle into his hair if she's so inclined. That's just a treat for him, honestly. Is it cheating a little? Yes, but he made up the rules so who cares.]
/Ouch. And I'm being so nice, too! You're not gonna make me have to get mean, are you?/
[Oh, right, and that whole sensitive thing? Well, the invisible hands grip her waist just the way she likes it, and he adds a bit of firm psychic pressure between her legs. But not the feeling of fingers there—no, no, that's amateur shit. What he gives her is pure stimulation, a sensation that's strengthened by any movement of her hips, which the hands at her waist as well as a bit of (very not hidden or sneaky) telepathic suggestion encourages. The nerves he rewired to her wrist are a more general spark of "good" throughout the most sensitive parts of her body. Add in what he's doing downstairs, and he expects her to be putty quite soon.]
(Haha. Remember when touching his hair was a limited offer thing? That was months ago; she always has her fingers in his curls lately. It's also good grounding and enrichment for her — she's never keen on being a pillow princess, just existing there being her gorgeous self, without interaction or mutual connection. Which means that, yeah, gladly she's let her nails scratch the scalp before she pulls gently on the strands.
Also, this position is starting to get uncomfortable. She just breaks the kiss to climb to his lap, forehead to forehead as she smirks at the comment he sends her mind.)
Just remember I'm horribly vindictive.
(Welp. What a place she decided to be when he does all the telepathic bullshit he is. It's not the suggestion that makes her move, it's the chasing of feeling that she does instinctively when it first happens.
Congratulations, she's loud again, hiding her face on his neck to press her lips to it in kisses, the hand in his hair pulling a little stronger. Give her two minutes, give or take, but just because she can? She'll send an echo of what she is feeling straight to his brain.)
[He grunts uncomfortably when she moves to his lap, and when she sends him that wave of sensation, he breaks his one rule to nudge her further back towards his knees.]
Easy there. Trust me, I'd be just as hot and bothered as you if biology would let me.
[For a brief moment, his hand moves from her thigh to slip his fingers just below her the waistband of her shorts, but... No. Too easy. And she said that whole thing about being vindictive and blah blah blah. His hand returns to the couch, but now he's got a nasty little idea brewing in his nasty little skull.]
Sorry the real thing isn't available yet. Guess you'll have to make do.
[See, they've done this more than enough times for him to know what it feels like on her end when he's inside her. So that's what he adds next, psychic "thrusts" automatically syncing to whatever pace she's setting with her own movement. Overkill? Almost certainly. But hey, he warned her. Kind of.]
Just kidding, no, she'd possibly be overstimulated too. She tends to be after, they usually don't give each other much of a break. Hence why there are breaks, and naps, and stupidity between rounds. How they manage to be this horny is proof that the spirit is truly unbreakable.
She didn't really climb to his lap to bring him into this mess, at least not completely — but for positioning, thank her later for saving their neck from being too sore, but whatever. Not enough brainpower to fall down into that stupid argument.
The movement of her hips are soft, slow, mostly because otherwise he's going to kill her. It's way too familar, and she's already plotting her revenge for another day as she senses herself come closer. It's when she knows she's about to that she leaves his neck to place a gentle kiss to his lips, letting the sound of pleasure vibrate against the skin before...
She's beaming, a little shaky and spasmy as the pleasure runs through her every nerve, her hand on his shoulder gripping as she rides it.
The attempt to breathe is obvious, and what comes out in chuckles is, well, a fucking lie.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[For all of it, apparently. He smirks, even if it's a little lopsided and breathless. Cool.
He uses the hand in her hair to push her head down at the same time as he rocks his hips, the movement experimental and mindful of her comfort. Then he repeats it a few more times, trying to find a rhythm, but... Hmm. Sure, he groans openly every time she takes him fully, but it's not enough, and he makes a frustrated noise. Forty seconds.
There have been plenty of times where what he prefers is to be selfish, to take his pleasure with her just along for the ride. But this? This only happened because she wanted it. Wanted him. No sex is ever really selfless for telepaths, but this is about as close as anyone could get to that: she gets off on him getting off, and he gets off on her wanting to get him off, and also a blowjob is involved there somewhere.
He looks down at her, thinks, and... lets go of her hair. Moves his hand to the couch.]
Changed my mind. [He tries to shrug nonchalantly. And fails. Whatever.]
Do your worst.
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Okay. First things first is to intensify what is already intense — his perception, but she'll filter it to dim everything else that isn't coming from her so there's no stimuli that could shift his focus. Secondly, a gentle edging. Everytime she descends, he's closer to a moving goalpost that moves just an inch away from him. Third is physical, amping up speed and intensity with each time she takes him.
Ten seconds. Then she lets go of the second item on her list. He's free.)
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She takes him again and again, faster and faster, and the instant she allows him to release he does. But the bonus of asking for this? Of the timer? It means he has enough spare brainpower set aside so he can shove his pleasure into her brain. They almost always go together, after all, so it's only fair that she get at least an echo of the spectacular orgasm she gave him.]
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Holy shit, at least it was an echo. She blocked his pleasure receptors from their telepathic synch for two reasons — one, because piggybacking on it was not the point of it. It was, you know, for her, and for him, different sources of delight that were not tied to physical pleasure on her end. Second, because holy shit, she knew it would distract her, her hand moving to squeeze the nearest cushion so she can swallow in peace and ride it out, her breathing hitched and her brain a little fried from the sudden release of dopamine it wasn't expecting.
And she's back up, trying to fix her breathing before looking at him again, trying not to laugh in joy because... Wow.)
Hey. Alive?
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Pretty sure I am, yeah.
[He pries his fingers out of the death grip they had on the couch cushions, flexing the stiffness out of his joints, and then stretches his arms up languidly. When he can move without wanting to die, he kicks off his pants and pulls up his boxers.]
Just thinking about how I'm gonna return the favor.
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(She'd be much more melted mush than this after a round, right now she's at a 30% mush rate, since she attacked him. The kiss she presses to his temple is brief before she fishes back her cardigan, not bothering with the top.
Oh, right, she has to return his brain to normalcy. Sorry, someone distracted her, there he goes. With an eye roll and a smile, she gives him a little kick with no strength to it whatsoever — he doesn't have to. There was plenty of enrichment for her, too.
Since the plan today is to chill for fucking once, she's not concerned about the timer that still runs. Let him rest a little, it's not like guys work like girls anyway. She knows he's gonna need to breathe for a while.)
Share with the class. You want some coffee?
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Well, the obvious is out. [Despite his "evolving" stance on receiving, giving is an entirely different can of worms. She's vetoed that one herself too.]
There's always my first idea.
[He taps his temple with a sly look before folding his arms behind his head and turning back to look at the ceiling.]
Gotta say, I don't like that the score's not even. I wanna fix that before I'm back to full functionality, so to speak.
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(Maybe one day she'll feel secure enough for it. Things change here in the little bubble they quietly inhabit, but as for now? It's still too uncomfortable a thought for her to backtrack on, and she's sure it is for him, too.
His first idea being their stupid horny Olympics, she assumes. It's not a bad one, and it's better than just sitting around idly until male biology cooperates with them. He doesn't have his niche little hobbies in her room, and he isn't so fond of games to truly appreciate the wonders she has in her drawers.
Interesting, though? The comatose she requested for the scheduling mishap does seem reachable if they keep at it.)
So, back to trying to distract me. It isn't the worst idea you've had. I just got a little distracted.
(Not like she's going to let him live through it either.)
Okay. Let's fix the score, you're on. Get to the desk while I find my nail polish.
(She's already waving in dismissal the very likely quip about finding something in the mess that is her room.)
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[She gets up, and Quentin grabs her wrist to stop her.]
Not that first idea. Unless you wanna add another hour to that timer before I can use both of my hands properly. I meant my other first idea. You know.
[He gently strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist and reaches into her mind to light up every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. And yes, he does look impossibly smug. As usual.]
The one where I get you off like this. Then we'll be even.
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Technically, the sentiment is similar — giving, to put it broadly, although his initiative comes with score-settling to back it up. That feels... Much, much more comfortable for her to put that physical distance between them, it allows her more freedom to play around right back at him and distract him if he gets way too damn close. It's an acceptable loophole, and she'll figure out how she feels as they go.
There's never any real defense or pushback that isn't petty, expected foreplay from her when he reaches, and this time is no different. Free-flowing, she feels the warmth travel from her spine down, eyes closing so she can let out an exhale.
If she was ever on the fence before, that smug grin pulls her right back into action. Unsure whether he knows that works for her, or if that's just him in general, but either way.)
Deal.
(Once she's sitting back where she had been, she's just diving for a heated kiss so she can wipe the smug off his lips.)
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He returns the kiss, but doesn't touch her aside from the hand still on her wrist. She's allowed to touch him all she wants, he's arbitrarily decided, but he only gets the wrist. Every game needs rules, even if they're ones he just made up. The challenge here isn't how he can touch her, it's how he can make her feel him touching her without actually doing it. Like the invisible kiss to the sensitive part of her neck. Or the hands that aren't there sliding down her back, sending more of that warmth down her spine.]
/How's that?/
[As if he doesn't know.]
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He doesn't need to state the rules; she's already understood them from the fact that his hands aren't perfectly locked in the curve of her waist, not on her thighs, nor anywhere but the wrist he took. That's fine by her, actually. If he had forgone kissing, then she'd be in trouble, but he didn't — it means she gets to enjoy it in addition to the very real (to her) touches he's giving her, a smile forming against his lips as she lets out a sigh.
He knows she loves telepathy. Knows this works for her perfectly, but she just has to be a little difficult even if her spare hand on his cheek caresses skin, and she fights the grin from widening as she continues the kiss.)
/Jury's still out./
(Nope, jury likes it. The jury approves. She knows he knows.)
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/What if I've got additional evidence to submit?/
[Not how court works, but he doesn't expect her to nitpick the logic of stupid banter. Especially when he lightly rubs his pointer finger over the back of her wrist, which should—if he's as amazing as he thinks he is, and let's face it, he is—give her a nice teasing little jolt down her spine. And, more importantly, a really entertaining reaction for him to enjoy.]
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Wait, is he the defense or prosecution — this is so stupid that it finally makes her give in the chuckle she was fighting before, thus breaking the kiss.)
Seriously, you gotta stop making me laugh, I can't kiss and laugh and talk.
(Do not though, that's honestly one of the top tier things she enjoys.
Oh. That's what the additional fuck he was doing. Rewiring nerves. Unexpected, it pulls a small breathy moan from her, still close enough that he can enjoy the microexpressions of 'I like this, but also fuck you'. It includes the nose crinkle.)
... Sneaky.
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[It's very convenient that him making her laugh is one of her favorite things, since trolling her is one of his favorite things. So nice when things like that work out.
Anyway, speaking of things working out, he just has one or two more nerves to patch into aaaand there. Done. The little breathy noise she made is good, but he can (and has) gotten much, much better sounds out of her.]
Sneaky? No idea what you're talking about. Well, unless you mean this.
[Psychic hands slot on her waist the way his real ones have a dozen other times that they've done this, and while there's no actual hands pulling her against anything, no actual grinding happening, the way he presses his thumb to the underside of her wrist should theoretically come with a similarly pleasant type of friction. Theoretically because, well... how's he supposed to know what any of this shit is going to feel like to her until he tries it? None of this is an exact science or anything. Just a lot of experimentation. Sexy experimentation.]
You mean that?
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(The only reason why she doesn't answer with the most mature rebuttal of 'you're a skill issue' is because that's a very, very dangerous thing to say to a man who has direct control of your nerves and a mission he's very dedicated to.
An eye roll has got to suffice.
They're different when it comes to telepathy. Sophie's approach is much more traditional, but even before she knew she was an Emma Frost clone, she had been learning under her — which means that illusioning, pulling out desires and wants to use, and more sensual, sensory, and psychological approaches of how to use one's mind are her usual go-to. Which, well, it's all fine, but it is very contrasting with Quentin's more analytical, computer-like thought process. Of course he's moving her nerves around, restructuring her pathways so he could use her wrist as a pleasure joystick. Because of course he is.
If anything, she can't ever say she's gotten bored with him. Irritated, annoyed, baffled, fond, occasionally mushy, and detrimental to the brand — yeah, sure, whatever. Bored is kind of impossible.
It works, yes, not like he isn't going to know by the fact she attempts to ground the sudden surge by kissing him again, a louder noise muffled. She's too fucking sensitive, like he doesn't know, and the hand that rested on his cheek is now to his shoulder, because she needs a place to hold.)
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He's thankful for the residual lazy, heavy feeling in his limbs, because without that it'd probably be a lot more tempting to actually touch her with his free hand. But as it is? He's perfectly happy to let her muffle her moans with his mouth and hold onto his shoulder while he plays with her brain. And play he does, continuing to rub her wrist with his thumb as he moves her hand up and into a convenient place to tangle into his hair if she's so inclined. That's just a treat for him, honestly. Is it cheating a little? Yes, but he made up the rules so who cares.]
/Ouch. And I'm being so nice, too! You're not gonna make me have to get mean, are you?/
[Oh, right, and that whole sensitive thing? Well, the invisible hands grip her waist just the way she likes it, and he adds a bit of firm psychic pressure between her legs. But not the feeling of fingers there—no, no, that's amateur shit. What he gives her is pure stimulation, a sensation that's strengthened by any movement of her hips, which the hands at her waist as well as a bit of (very not hidden or sneaky) telepathic suggestion encourages. The nerves he rewired to her wrist are a more general spark of "good" throughout the most sensitive parts of her body. Add in what he's doing downstairs, and he expects her to be putty quite soon.]
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Also, this position is starting to get uncomfortable. She just breaks the kiss to climb to his lap, forehead to forehead as she smirks at the comment he sends her mind.)
Just remember I'm horribly vindictive.
(Welp. What a place she decided to be when he does all the telepathic bullshit he is. It's not the suggestion that makes her move, it's the chasing of feeling that she does instinctively when it first happens.
Congratulations, she's loud again, hiding her face on his neck to press her lips to it in kisses, the hand in his hair pulling a little stronger. Give her two minutes, give or take, but just because she can? She'll send an echo of what she is feeling straight to his brain.)
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Easy there. Trust me, I'd be just as hot and bothered as you if biology would let me.
[For a brief moment, his hand moves from her thigh to slip his fingers just below her the waistband of her shorts, but... No. Too easy. And she said that whole thing about being vindictive and blah blah blah. His hand returns to the couch, but now he's got a nasty little idea brewing in his nasty little skull.]
Sorry the real thing isn't available yet. Guess you'll have to make do.
[See, they've done this more than enough times for him to know what it feels like on her end when he's inside her. So that's what he adds next, psychic "thrusts" automatically syncing to whatever pace she's setting with her own movement. Overkill? Almost certainly. But hey, he warned her. Kind of.]
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(Women rock, see, she'd be fine.
Just kidding, no, she'd possibly be overstimulated too. She tends to be after, they usually don't give each other much of a break. Hence why there are breaks, and naps, and stupidity between rounds. How they manage to be this horny is proof that the spirit is truly unbreakable.
She didn't really climb to his lap to bring him into this mess, at least not completely — but for positioning, thank her later for saving their neck from being too sore, but whatever. Not enough brainpower to fall down into that stupid argument.
The movement of her hips are soft, slow, mostly because otherwise he's going to kill her. It's way too familar, and she's already plotting her revenge for another day as she senses herself come closer. It's when she knows she's about to that she leaves his neck to place a gentle kiss to his lips, letting the sound of pleasure vibrate against the skin before...
She's beaming, a little shaky and spasmy as the pleasure runs through her every nerve, her hand on his shoulder gripping as she rides it.
The attempt to breathe is obvious, and what comes out in chuckles is, well, a fucking lie.)
God, I hate you so much.