Ever since they started this, she decided to be, you know, "normal". Instead of relying on her telepathy to deal with him at all times, she's been watching with her own two eyes. Some days, his stress is a wholly neglected observation she makes; other days, it's an assertive concern about someone she cares about — but all in all, she knows that he is not at his best. Fidgety. Grumpier. Snappier. Louder. More.
She can't blame him. She isn't, either. Whereas his emotions are high, hers get iced out when she feels they should be, because, hey, feeling sucks. If she can not feel for a while, why would she?
Unfortunately, that's hardly a solution. She eventually has to feel again — here she is, burning with just as much repressed anxiety that she is finally releasing. No complaints, this is exactly what she thinks they both need. If she were thinking any, she'd actually be surprised that he seemed to be.
She's not, though. Instead, she's letting a sound into his mouth, letting a leg hook around him as she pulls on his shirt to let him know she wants it off.)
[At least she's not expecting him to talk. No "are you okay?" Or "can I help?" Or pushing him to express shit he knows for a fact that Sophie Cuckoo won't understand. Their lives, experiences, personalities—they're too different, and unlike Sophie, Quentin doesn't have a handy diamond form to switch off his feelings. He just has to swallow what he can and dump elsewhere what he can't, and he has to do both without causing any international incidents. Fortunately, frenzied horniness works just fine as a dumping ground, and clearly neither of them mind one bit.
He makes a huffy noise of complaint at having to pull his hand out of her shorts so he can start hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt. Hopefully she'll take the opportunity to get rid of her stupid clothes too. Preferably as fast as possible.]
(Luckily for him, she dropped the intrusive helpfulness and pushing him to do shit he doesn't want to months ago, it just didn't do them any good, it wouldn't do any now. There are other ways to speak that involve no talking, no room for misunderstanding, and no petty arguments, as such are the traps they easily fell into the times they did try to talk.
To be helpful in this case is a two-way road — she takes away his stress even if momentarily, and in turn, it helps her out with processing, so what's there to complain about? There's a quick roll of eyes at the noise before her top and cardigan are tossed aside, lips attaching to his neck, one hand on his hair the way she knows for a fact he likes, and the other busies itself with his belt.
And just for an incentive for Quentin to get those buttons opened quicker, or her shorts out of the way faster? He gets to enjoy just how excruciatingly horny she is fed into his brain, and the fun little underlying message that she leaves with it? That it's for him.)
[Quentin's priority at the moment is escape, relief, a little kernel of comfort and control and a way to channel his angst that's actually nice for goddamn once. He's eager to feel instead of think even without her pouring her lust into his head, but it's appreciated nonetheless, and he returns the favor by sending her how unfathomably impatient he is to be inside her. He's more than ready to finally make the part of his brain that's boiling over with anxiety shut the fuck up.
He throws his shirt who the fuck cares where and yanks down her shorts, though she'll have to move her leg to get them fully out of the way. Ugh. And if she also tries to deal with his pants? That'll take, like. Forever. So for the sake of efficiency he shoos her hand away from his belt to work on getting his pants off himself.]
How're we doing this?
[Sure, Quentin is perfectly happy to fuck her right here against the door, except well. He's pretty sure he can't lift her, and he's really not in the mood to try it and find out for sure.]
(At least before coming here, she knew he would be more difficult than usual. Not taking it personally, at least, because he has been (understandably, but no less than) really fucking irritable. Maybe it's a good thing that they don't feel the same — both of them being this pissy would cause an incident, probably.
So, fine, whatever, she'll unhook her leg, take in the information that, well, it's nice to feel herself but it's not like she doesn't know, let him deal with his own pants while she gets her shorts kicked out to fuckwhere.
Her eyes scan for a moment with his question, and since he heard not a word from her, he's going to remain so. Okay, back to kissing him absolutely stupid and hungry it is, backing them up until they're by the table they tend to actually hang out when they do.
She'll sit on it, and it's pretty self-explanatory. This is not something for a bed.)
[He of course voices his displeasure at further delays, but at least he's prevented from actually saying anything by her kissing him like she wants to devour him. That's probably for the best, for both of their sakes. The not letting him talk part, specifically. God knows what kind of stupidity would come out of his mouth when he's this irritable. At least she's not giving him shit about it.
In any case, his pants are absolutely gone by the time they make it to the table, and yes, it's quite self-explanatory from there. He slides inside her and lets out a noise into her mouth that's simultaneously relieved and hungry for more. Man, it's been a while. He doesn't move just yet, instead letting one hand slot into that perfect spot at her hip while the other grips her thigh both to tug her firmly against him and to encourage her to wrap her legs around him. Not like she'll need the suggestion, based on past experiences, but. You know.]
(Shush. Look, there are reasons why she's doing this the way she is, as frantic, spirited, and rushed as it is. For him, she's doing this because he needs to fucking chill, and she knows exactly how mushy and puddly she can get him to be playing her cards right. Oxytocin makes them stupid, even a little affectionate, but in this case, it has the added benefit of making the tsunami of feelings in his brain transform into a quiet lake for a little while.
Maybe she likes him, and it drives her to give a very real shit about his mental stability, or whatever.
As for her side of things, it should all be pretty easy to understand. She hasn't fucked him in a while, and going from several times a week to absolutely nothing doesn't do any good for her hormones, so can't blame a girl for wanting to get off as quickly as possible, with the person she wants to be getting off with. That paired with the knowledge what it was like to be the latest mutant guinea pig, worries about everyone's well-being, melting from all the unfeeling, the fact Quentin got fucked up trying to get her, their decreasing numbers... She's not a worrier nor an overthinker, and those are two things that she has been doing and her brain is overwhelmed by it.
Once he's in, though? The noise she lets out is not filtered at all, her arms pulling him closer while her legs take the hint. They were going to, anyway, but she digs her heel at the small of his back to get him deeper as she shifts her hips for it, too. She also doesn't move, enjoying the feeling for a moment as relief courses through her.
All the anxiety and cortisol he's feeling, though? Well, she can tell he's also moving it around, but this is the telepathic version of the shooing he did to her about his pants. She's got him, numbing the nervousness and anxiety to heighten the lust and pleasure nerves in his synapses.)
[In most cases, he would resist her meddling with his mind the way she is. Just acknowledging the anxiety buzzing in his brain is bad enough, but adjusting it? Rearranging pieces of his mind? In any other circumstance, that would be a hard no. He likes his mind just the way it is, thanks, even if it's a little rough around the edges and well. Fucked up. But... This time? This time he'll allow it. Because honestly, she's not wrong in the assertion that it's what he needs right now. It's the reason for everything they're doing.
The downside is all her poking around in his head has made it intolerable to stay still any longer. He groans hungrily, feeling all the extra arousal flood his system, and he rocks his hips sharply into her. His pace isn't too rushed—not yet—but he's by no means leisurely. On the contrary, he's finding that whatever she's doing in his brain is bringing out some of the possessive urges that spawn from somewhere in his primitive cortex from time to time, and the decrease in his cortisol has made him care less than usual. Convenient! Also convenient? The fact that he knows she kinda likes being manhandled just a little.
His hands on her waist and thigh tighten, pulling her toward him roughly with every unhurried but demanding thrust. Quentin isn't physically strong, but he more than makes up for it psychically, pushing his desire forcefully into her mind. Might as well let her enjoy the fruits of her labor, right?]
(Not only does she think he needs it, but also, there's much more that he could be doing with one less task in his head, see the following examples: fucking, worrying about absolutely nothing for a second, and getting lost with her, because they earned it. Shit show of a month and all that.
Perhaps there is some benefit to being psychically busy, horny as hell, and having so much repressed feelings that are bubbling to the surface — if there is one thing she is not worried about, it is volume. She has to break the kiss, it's getting hard to breathe with how the noises are leaving her with every single time she moves her hips to meet his. God bless his observation skills, too, because she surely does not complain when they are having that rare moment when that particular preference of hers and his need align.
This is definitely going to be quick on her end, although it was never her intention for it to be, but fuck, man. Her legs are practically begging him to keep doing what he's doing, nails threatening to puncture, and once his desire hits her neurons? She has one mission telepathically, which is to break his brain with dopamine, so — he's giving him her own, as intense and increasing as she feels it with his own meshed into it. Added bonus? Just how close she is with each thrust, because she just thinks he deserves to feel her antecipation, as a treat.)
[She breaks the kiss, and he leans his face against her neck to focus on his movements and the responsiveness of her body. It's so rare that he feels this need to "claim" her, to get a little rough and let whatever base animal urges take over, but fuck, whenever he does it drives her absolutely crazy. Not that making her delirious with need has been difficult for him to accomplish for, shit, months at this point. Sophie is remarkably easy to please when you know what buttons to push. But damn if she doesn't go a special kind of wild when he gets bossy like this, the kind that makes him wonder why he doesn't more often. Granted, most of the time he's not really in much of a headspace to pay attention or care about anything but his own needs, and that loss of control unsettles him. Today is a rare exception, but he can't deny it's an interesting change, maybe even a welcome one. Today he actually has the opportunity to really savor her reactions, to feed them wherever he can, to really enjoy her.
He can feel how close she is, but Quentin? Quentin just got the stress in his head replaced by a manic level of lust that he's not ready to let go of yet. But she likes when he takes charge, right? When he gives in to his urge to control? So he edges her, keeping her firmly at that line of close but not close enough. Especially cruel considering he also adjusts his hands to both grab her waist and get better leverage for harder, faster thrusts. But hey, she's the one who encouraged this. It's her own fault, really. And look, he used his observation skills to figure out that she likes it a little rough. Now she gets to use hers. Surely by now she knows how he feels about begging.]
(Months. The Sophie who started this whole arrangement would be sorely embarrassed at the Sophie who is letting her moans echo around his room without a single care about letting him know too much. Sophie comes with walls upon walls of resistance to genuineness, and over time he managed to crack them if he doesn't straight up bulldoze through them, and whether she wants to put in the effort to rebuild depends greatly on the day. Weirdly enough, she feels relatively safe with Quentin, and when he's like this? The walls dissipate entirely, if only for the duration of it.
When he's like this? It feels like he's there with here too, the same situation, the lack of resistance, just to be... And he's correct in his assumption that she likes it a little rough sometimes, lustful and undeniably real.
Observation skills go both ways. From someone who went 'don't touch my hair' to 'please touch my hair', it's a given that it's what she's doing with the amount of force she knows is okay with him, pressing a kiss to his temple as her other hand, well, that one is pressing nails against his skin — which she knows he's going to bitch and moan about being scratched as soon as he's back to baseline grumpy, but alas. Nothing she cannot handle.
It's just a lot — and she needs some grounding, because she's losing it here, to be so damn close, delirious, her breathing erratic, and not be able to reach it. She's absolutely not complaining, as torturous as it is, she wanted it to go for longer, even if it is driving her to lunacy, her hips chasing him just as hard as he chases her.
She will get to the point of begging, no questions about it. She just wants him to get as closer to climax to give it to him.)
[Thinking Sophie could be "his" would be the biggest mistake he'd ever make. Quentin's been down that road and a similar one with a different blonde, and it only leads to heartache. Plus, hell, with the way this stupid place works she'd probably disappear the second he even had the thought. So he doesn't. That's the one rule about this "mode" he's in that can never be broken.
But Quentin is nothing if not gifted at finding loopholes. He can't claim her, but he can claim moments. Abstractions. Her moans, her nails digging in his back, her legs clinging to him, her pleasure for the next however long tonight. Those are all things he can safely declare to be his, and that impulse is what's driving him now. He's greedily taking everything he can from her, and that's the message he pushes into her mind. Maybe knowing precisely what he wants will help ground her, maybe it'll just make her more crazy. Either way it's a win.
One of his hands slides back down to her thigh, pulling it up higher around his waist and groaning at the change in angle. Shit, that's good. Okay, fuck it, he's looping his arm under her leg to rest it in the crook of his elbow. Hopefully she's flexible enough, and he's strong enough to manage it, but look, his lower back and glutes are already gonna be killing him after this so why not add more soreness. Besides, it feels really fucking incredible like this, his pace is starting to get more erratic as he gets closer.]
(It grounds her nothing. To her, that's impossibly hot, and that's what she is letting him know through her mind. It makes this edging bullshit, although appreciated so that they can last longer, a cruel torture that she is no longer signing up for. See, she knew that she was going to end up begging, because there is no way that she can handle this for much longer — not with the thoughts he's giving here, or with the new position that just happens to hit just right, the fact she knows she'll have the reminder in muscle aches and sores long after they're done and it will bring a stupid, smitten smile to her face without her allowing it to.
She's pretty flexible, so at least it's not going to be a problem for her for now, but it does restrict her hip movement a little — which, whatever, it doesn't really stop her from doing it anyway. The end result is a Sophie that pulls his hair a little to get him out of her neck so she can kiss him stupidly, nails sinking more until she can't withstand not getting off anymore in good sanity.
Cannot believe these are the first words she'll give him today.)
/Quentin, fuck, please, let me come... I'm — it's, I — just... Let me come. Please./
[Damn. Well, she's giving him every single thing on both his Christmas and birthday lists, so guess she's earned a reward for that. He moves his hand from her waist to tangle in the hair at the back of her head, because his brain demands that he add this stupid kiss to his list of today's conquests. That accomplished, he finally lets her go.
Her climax, of course, is also something he wants to be "his". Thus the edging and begging and such. Which, honestly, he likes even when he's not in the mood to dom the hell out of her. Sue him. But today? Today he's been going a little further with everything else than he has before. Why stop now? So when she comes, he doesn't. He also doesn't stop. She'll probably be overstimulated as fuck, but you know what? Good. She wanted him like this, and if she didn't know what she was getting herself into that's on her.
In any case, he doesn't last much longer than she did, so small mercies. He grips the back of her head roughly to maintain control over their kiss and thrusts feverishly into her a few more times before he comes, which naturally his mind counts as another "claim" for his growing collection. And, well, he's not saying he went so far as to think the actual word "mine" or anything. That's a step way, way too far. But that possessive desire he shared with her that she thought was so unspeakably hot? That part of his brain is thriving right now and making sure she knows it.]
(Emotionally? Messy. Romantically? Nope. But sexually? They fit so perfectly she finds it unfair to both of them. When it started, she was so certain this was the worst idea they could have ever come up with, but honestly? Being with him was probably the best thing that came out of this place. Not that, well, Sophie is ever going to think it, or even ever say it out loud.
But, it kinda is.
At least that also says that she knows what she is getting to, both with the enabling and with the encouraging. She comes, fucking finally, and it's unashamed just how loud the moan that meets his mouth is. It was so intense that she deems that time stopped for a second, sounds muffled as she does everything in her power to hold. The grip on his hair is a little stronger, but her legs tighten and spasm around him, the nails descend on his skin leaving a trail as she comes down. She has no brain to shove too much into his, but what she can do is to let it be very open in the telepathic airways — he might not want to feel hers, but he definitely is going to hear about it.
Except, well, he isn't stopping, which is a little odd, since they almost always come together, wonders of telepathy and all. She's so sensitive that every thrust feels like a whole new sparkle of joy, even if she is overstimulated, paired with the thing she likes hearing and feeling from him the most. Two orgasms, congratulations, Quire, she can barely fucking breathe, all sparkles and distant sounds in her head and she's pushing that into his as well, once she can.
She needs a moment to calm down, she feels like she has poured a bucket of serotonin in her brain, and then she ran a marathon. So, she breaks the kiss to take her hand on his hair to his cheek in a much gentler caress. She's dead, she looks like a mess, but she's glowing in her beaming smile before she realizes she really didn't put a word in the air towards him.
So, she giggles, before she comes up with the one thing in her brain once there's enough oxygen in it.)
[He feels her climax, clinging to him and moaning in a way he usually misses when they come together, and man, he probably wouldn't have have been able to keep moving if he wasn't holding up her leg, considering how tightly her other heel is digging into his back. But that's the point, isn't it? Taking what he wants? Making her feel whatever he wants her to feel? It's selfish and presumptuous and a little bit cruel, and it clearly gets her off like nothing else. Which is great, because it does a hell of a job getting him off too. With everything she's shoving into his head feeding into the maelstrom of shit he's already got in there, he'll be lucky if he can walk after this.
And speaking of getting off, he didn't miss that second orgasm, despite his own occupying most of his brain space at the time. Safe to say that sends pleased little tingles in every single one of his neurons, and it's definitely going into his mental trophy case of wins. Also? Definitely making a note for the future. Updating his records regarding how much she can handle. You've given him too much power, Sophie. And you probably won't even regret it. Sucker.
Anyway, Quentin now has to work on trying to get back to some version of normal. First is to pull his hand out of her hair and gingerly let her leg drop back to the table. Second is to, I dunno. Figure out how to breathe again? Try to fucking see straight when his eyes refuse to focus on anything? Ugh, god. Sophie may be glowing, but he feels like he got hit by a truck. A really, really good truck, but still. Truck. He blinks owlishly as he processes her suggestion for a second.]
(Naturally, she has her slender psychic hands off his brain by now, so she isn't synching her breathing to his once it reaches some level of stability. She usually does, but thanks to the fact that she is a puddle right now, it doesn't even cross her mind. Mostly because nothing is, she's just buzzing with joy.
By the looks of it though, mission accomplished? Of course, it won't last too long; that's not how hormones and neurons work, but he seems too tired to even consider worrying, so she wins. Her legs unhook, and she moves as to get off the table, making a face at how tight her muscles feel. Oof. Bath is the second best idea she had in this room today, no doubt about it.
Once her hands rub on her face for a few moments as she tries to get some synapses going, the first thing is to get him one of his candy bars, because he probably needs it, hand it to him with a kiss to his shoulder before she's off to run the bath.
If he comes with her, she's mostly quiet, with that little crinkle in her nose and a smile not at all hidden in the corners of her lips as the water fills the tub and when it gets to a reasonable level, she's in.)
[Candy bar is very much appreciated, thanks. He slumps in a chair to eat his snacks and take a breather, so Sophie will have plenty of time to fill his (oversized luxury) bathtub and get comfy before he joins her.
Quentin is less visibly wrecked by the time he gets to the bathroom, but his veins are still thrumming with enough oxytocin to keep his stress levels down. For now, at least.]
Fucking hell.
[Yep, that's it. That's all he's going to say as he eases into the tub on the opposite end from her. And once he's in, he's gonna lean back and just. Relax for a bit.]
(By the time he arrives, she's already on relaxation level 9000, her hair wet and floating in the water as she hears him enter. Her eyes open for a second, but they don't stay so for too long.
There's a quiet exhaled chuckle for the swear that leaves him. Beautiful words, all very touching.
At least he feels... Better, she supposes?)
We're gonna feel this tomorrow for sure.
(When her soul returns to her body, she'll go join his side of the tub. Just. Not now.)
[He arches his back, stretching sore muscles for a moment before sinking down into the water with a sigh. Ah, yes, that's better. Makes him feel alive again. He's sure they'll go another round at some point—it's that kind of day—but until then he's going to enjoy the warm water melting away any residual tension in his body.]
And anyway, you weren't the one standing the whole time.
[Yep, it's back to complaining. At least he's more relaxed now than he has been.]
[Oh, don't you worry, the complaining about the scratches on his back is coming. The only reason he hasn't is, well. It was kinda hot, honestly. He'll see how he feels about it once the endorphins have faded, but right now he's sticking with complaints that are obviously petty and meaningless. You know. So there's no confusion.
He closes his eyes with a vague "hmph" at her sarcastic reply and only cracks one eye open when she leans into his space with a kiss to his jaw. Ah, just grabbing the shampoo. Not his concern. He'll go back to soaking.]
Depends on when you pass out.
[Yes, "you." Not "we". He doesn't go out of his way to emphasize the difference in pronoun, not like he usually would when trolling her. Oh, he's sure she'll pick up on it and take the bait and all that. He just doesn't have it in him to really go ham on the flirty banter challenging bullshit today. That first round took the a lot of the edge off the surly mood he's been in, but he's still not totally his usual self. Probably won't be for a while, honestly. He's only in as good of a mood as he is right now because of the cocktail of post-coital feel-good shit in his system, and that won't last forever.]
(They don't really talk, which is fine. Perhaps now, after all this time, it'd be better than the last times they tried, but talking now is a different can of worms that Sophie doesn't know whether she wants to open, so she doesn't. It doesn't mean they don't communicate; he has said plenty, she has said plenty since she arrived at his room. Besides, she pays attention now — and turns out, she gets more than she thought she would.
Pressure is making him snap left and right. Worry. He's repeated it in his backward way through the weeks — 'I have to do everything'. Talking isn't their thing, but she can take some weight off his shoulders with flooding his brain with hormones so he can have some relief, and taking matters into her own hands, she's got a plan.
Does it make it a little more real that she cares for him if she is taking steps to take care of him in a way she knows will work because she paid attention? Yes. Yes, it does, but it is a little less horrifying to do it at this point, and there are bigger priorities in her mind than to pay attention to the Cuckoo brain that says 'that's not very girlboss gatekeep of you'.
Also, not really subtle bait, but okay, she can play as she cares for the massive amount of hair that she has now.)
Because I'm the one bitching about being sore.
(No bite, actually. She doesn't really take all his bitching into account, and this is one of those moments she's sure they're just arguing recreationally, which good, she had no idea what to say to him after the whole hurricane Sophie ordeal.)
Remind me to get some epsom salts or muscle soreness relief next time I run supplies.
[Epsom salts sound good right now. He adds that to his mental list of errands for when he inevitably wakes up before her.
There's an elephant in the room here: what just happened and why it happened. This wasn't one of their usual little trysts, not by a long shot. And yet here they are doing half-assed banter about being sore and her passing out and his back and just completely avoiding any deeper discussion. And you know what? That's fine with Quentin. Yeah, yeah, he hates when other people do it, but let's be real. He's always been a hypocrite. Why stop now?
And speaking of avoiding shit, he grunts in mild annoyance at her "bitching about being sore" comment. Annoyance because he doesn't have a good quippy comeback for that, of course. Which means changing the subject.]
Why're you doing that? ["That" here meaning washing her hair.] You know we're probably just going to get sweaty again.
(Don't steal her idea, asshole. And, yes, let the elephant be, they can wave at it if they want, but it seems like both of them are more than fine and capable of ignoring it, even if it clearly is a third party in this tub. It's fine.
Sophie is sorely uninterested in even trying to get him to talk to her. It doesn't work that way, and it hasn't in a good while. What she does and is currently doing is walking towards him, and stopping at a comfortable distance. Quentin has to walk the other half, and that's something she doesn't want to have to ask of him. It's not how this works, by her own rule.
She doesn't want to discuss anything either. It's not like getting kidnapped, tortured, studied, seeing people she likes getting fucked over, losing a person, and then seeing him this stressed out isn't self-explanatory. She's not the first mutant that went through this, she will not be the last.)
It's not a 'probably', it's a 'definitely', but I don't like the feeling of dirty roots, and long hair weighs on it.
(Hence why she used just a little bit of shampoo and is only dealing with that part. Once it's rinsed, she takes a glimpse at his, sees the curl pattern already forming even if it's wet, and she just has to take one between her thumb and index to pull very gently and release.
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Ever since they started this, she decided to be, you know, "normal". Instead of relying on her telepathy to deal with him at all times, she's been watching with her own two eyes. Some days, his stress is a wholly neglected observation she makes; other days, it's an assertive concern about someone she cares about — but all in all, she knows that he is not at his best. Fidgety. Grumpier. Snappier. Louder. More.
She can't blame him. She isn't, either. Whereas his emotions are high, hers get iced out when she feels they should be, because, hey, feeling sucks. If she can not feel for a while, why would she?
Unfortunately, that's hardly a solution. She eventually has to feel again — here she is, burning with just as much repressed anxiety that she is finally releasing. No complaints, this is exactly what she thinks they both need. If she were thinking any, she'd actually be surprised that he seemed to be.
She's not, though. Instead, she's letting a sound into his mouth, letting a leg hook around him as she pulls on his shirt to let him know she wants it off.)
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He makes a huffy noise of complaint at having to pull his hand out of her shorts so he can start hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt. Hopefully she'll take the opportunity to get rid of her stupid clothes too. Preferably as fast as possible.]
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To be helpful in this case is a two-way road — she takes away his stress even if momentarily, and in turn, it helps her out with processing, so what's there to complain about? There's a quick roll of eyes at the noise before her top and cardigan are tossed aside, lips attaching to his neck, one hand on his hair the way she knows for a fact he likes, and the other busies itself with his belt.
And just for an incentive for Quentin to get those buttons opened quicker, or her shorts out of the way faster? He gets to enjoy just how excruciatingly horny she is fed into his brain, and the fun little underlying message that she leaves with it? That it's for him.)
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He throws his shirt who the fuck cares where and yanks down her shorts, though she'll have to move her leg to get them fully out of the way. Ugh. And if she also tries to deal with his pants? That'll take, like. Forever. So for the sake of efficiency he shoos her hand away from his belt to work on getting his pants off himself.]
How're we doing this?
[Sure, Quentin is perfectly happy to fuck her right here against the door, except well. He's pretty sure he can't lift her, and he's really not in the mood to try it and find out for sure.]
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So, fine, whatever, she'll unhook her leg, take in the information that, well, it's nice to feel herself but it's not like she doesn't know, let him deal with his own pants while she gets her shorts kicked out to fuckwhere.
Her eyes scan for a moment with his question, and since he heard not a word from her, he's going to remain so. Okay, back to kissing him absolutely stupid and hungry it is, backing them up until they're by the table they tend to actually hang out when they do.
She'll sit on it, and it's pretty self-explanatory. This is not something for a bed.)
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In any case, his pants are absolutely gone by the time they make it to the table, and yes, it's quite self-explanatory from there. He slides inside her and lets out a noise into her mouth that's simultaneously relieved and hungry for more. Man, it's been a while. He doesn't move just yet, instead letting one hand slot into that perfect spot at her hip while the other grips her thigh both to tug her firmly against him and to encourage her to wrap her legs around him. Not like she'll need the suggestion, based on past experiences, but. You know.]
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Maybe she likes him, and it drives her to give a very real shit about his mental stability, or whatever.
As for her side of things, it should all be pretty easy to understand. She hasn't fucked him in a while, and going from several times a week to absolutely nothing doesn't do any good for her hormones, so can't blame a girl for wanting to get off as quickly as possible, with the person she wants to be getting off with. That paired with the knowledge what it was like to be the latest mutant guinea pig, worries about everyone's well-being, melting from all the unfeeling, the fact Quentin got fucked up trying to get her, their decreasing numbers... She's not a worrier nor an overthinker, and those are two things that she has been doing and her brain is overwhelmed by it.
Once he's in, though? The noise she lets out is not filtered at all, her arms pulling him closer while her legs take the hint. They were going to, anyway, but she digs her heel at the small of his back to get him deeper as she shifts her hips for it, too. She also doesn't move, enjoying the feeling for a moment as relief courses through her.
All the anxiety and cortisol he's feeling, though? Well, she can tell he's also moving it around, but this is the telepathic version of the shooing he did to her about his pants. She's got him, numbing the nervousness and anxiety to heighten the lust and pleasure nerves in his synapses.)
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The downside is all her poking around in his head has made it intolerable to stay still any longer. He groans hungrily, feeling all the extra arousal flood his system, and he rocks his hips sharply into her. His pace isn't too rushed—not yet—but he's by no means leisurely. On the contrary, he's finding that whatever she's doing in his brain is bringing out some of the possessive urges that spawn from somewhere in his primitive cortex from time to time, and the decrease in his cortisol has made him care less than usual. Convenient! Also convenient? The fact that he knows she kinda likes being manhandled just a little.
His hands on her waist and thigh tighten, pulling her toward him roughly with every unhurried but demanding thrust. Quentin isn't physically strong, but he more than makes up for it psychically, pushing his desire forcefully into her mind. Might as well let her enjoy the fruits of her labor, right?]
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Perhaps there is some benefit to being psychically busy, horny as hell, and having so much repressed feelings that are bubbling to the surface — if there is one thing she is not worried about, it is volume. She has to break the kiss, it's getting hard to breathe with how the noises are leaving her with every single time she moves her hips to meet his. God bless his observation skills, too, because she surely does not complain when they are having that rare moment when that particular preference of hers and his need align.
This is definitely going to be quick on her end, although it was never her intention for it to be, but fuck, man. Her legs are practically begging him to keep doing what he's doing, nails threatening to puncture, and once his desire hits her neurons? She has one mission telepathically, which is to break his brain with dopamine, so — he's giving him her own, as intense and increasing as she feels it with his own meshed into it. Added bonus? Just how close she is with each thrust, because she just thinks he deserves to feel her antecipation, as a treat.)
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He can feel how close she is, but Quentin? Quentin just got the stress in his head replaced by a manic level of lust that he's not ready to let go of yet. But she likes when he takes charge, right? When he gives in to his urge to control? So he edges her, keeping her firmly at that line of close but not close enough. Especially cruel considering he also adjusts his hands to both grab her waist and get better leverage for harder, faster thrusts. But hey, she's the one who encouraged this. It's her own fault, really. And look, he used his observation skills to figure out that she likes it a little rough. Now she gets to use hers. Surely by now she knows how he feels about begging.]
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When he's like this? It feels like he's there with here too, the same situation, the lack of resistance, just to be... And he's correct in his assumption that she likes it a little rough sometimes, lustful and undeniably real.
Observation skills go both ways. From someone who went 'don't touch my hair' to 'please touch my hair', it's a given that it's what she's doing with the amount of force she knows is okay with him, pressing a kiss to his temple as her other hand, well, that one is pressing nails against his skin — which she knows he's going to bitch and moan about being scratched as soon as he's back to baseline grumpy, but alas. Nothing she cannot handle.
It's just a lot — and she needs some grounding, because she's losing it here, to be so damn close, delirious, her breathing erratic, and not be able to reach it. She's absolutely not complaining, as torturous as it is, she wanted it to go for longer, even if it is driving her to lunacy, her hips chasing him just as hard as he chases her.
She will get to the point of begging, no questions about it. She just wants him to get as closer to climax to give it to him.)
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But Quentin is nothing if not gifted at finding loopholes. He can't claim her, but he can claim moments. Abstractions. Her moans, her nails digging in his back, her legs clinging to him, her pleasure for the next however long tonight. Those are all things he can safely declare to be his, and that impulse is what's driving him now. He's greedily taking everything he can from her, and that's the message he pushes into her mind. Maybe knowing precisely what he wants will help ground her, maybe it'll just make her more crazy. Either way it's a win.
One of his hands slides back down to her thigh, pulling it up higher around his waist and groaning at the change in angle. Shit, that's good. Okay, fuck it, he's looping his arm under her leg to rest it in the crook of his elbow. Hopefully she's flexible enough, and he's strong enough to manage it, but look, his lower back and glutes are already gonna be killing him after this so why not add more soreness. Besides, it feels really fucking incredible like this, his pace is starting to get more erratic as he gets closer.]
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She's pretty flexible, so at least it's not going to be a problem for her for now, but it does restrict her hip movement a little — which, whatever, it doesn't really stop her from doing it anyway. The end result is a Sophie that pulls his hair a little to get him out of her neck so she can kiss him stupidly, nails sinking more until she can't withstand not getting off anymore in good sanity.
Cannot believe these are the first words she'll give him today.)
/Quentin, fuck, please, let me come... I'm — it's, I — just... Let me come. Please./
(Brain broke.)
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Her climax, of course, is also something he wants to be "his". Thus the edging and begging and such. Which, honestly, he likes even when he's not in the mood to dom the hell out of her. Sue him. But today? Today he's been going a little further with everything else than he has before. Why stop now? So when she comes, he doesn't. He also doesn't stop. She'll probably be overstimulated as fuck, but you know what? Good. She wanted him like this, and if she didn't know what she was getting herself into that's on her.
In any case, he doesn't last much longer than she did, so small mercies. He grips the back of her head roughly to maintain control over their kiss and thrusts feverishly into her a few more times before he comes, which naturally his mind counts as another "claim" for his growing collection. And, well, he's not saying he went so far as to think the actual word "mine" or anything. That's a step way, way too far. But that possessive desire he shared with her that she thought was so unspeakably hot? That part of his brain is thriving right now and making sure she knows it.]
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But, it kinda is.
At least that also says that she knows what she is getting to, both with the enabling and with the encouraging. She comes, fucking finally, and it's unashamed just how loud the moan that meets his mouth is. It was so intense that she deems that time stopped for a second, sounds muffled as she does everything in her power to hold. The grip on his hair is a little stronger, but her legs tighten and spasm around him, the nails descend on his skin leaving a trail as she comes down. She has no brain to shove too much into his, but what she can do is to let it be very open in the telepathic airways — he might not want to feel hers, but he definitely is going to hear about it.
Except, well, he isn't stopping, which is a little odd, since they almost always come together, wonders of telepathy and all. She's so sensitive that every thrust feels like a whole new sparkle of joy, even if she is overstimulated, paired with the thing she likes hearing and feeling from him the most. Two orgasms, congratulations, Quire, she can barely fucking breathe, all sparkles and distant sounds in her head and she's pushing that into his as well, once she can.
She needs a moment to calm down, she feels like she has poured a bucket of serotonin in her brain, and then she ran a marathon. So, she breaks the kiss to take her hand on his hair to his cheek in a much gentler caress. She's dead, she looks like a mess, but she's glowing in her beaming smile before she realizes she really didn't put a word in the air towards him.
So, she giggles, before she comes up with the one thing in her brain once there's enough oxygen in it.)
Hey. Bath?
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And speaking of getting off, he didn't miss that second orgasm, despite his own occupying most of his brain space at the time. Safe to say that sends pleased little tingles in every single one of his neurons, and it's definitely going into his mental trophy case of wins. Also? Definitely making a note for the future. Updating his records regarding how much she can handle. You've given him too much power, Sophie. And you probably won't even regret it. Sucker.
Anyway, Quentin now has to work on trying to get back to some version of normal. First is to pull his hand out of her hair and gingerly let her leg drop back to the table. Second is to, I dunno. Figure out how to breathe again? Try to fucking see straight when his eyes refuse to focus on anything? Ugh, god. Sophie may be glowing, but he feels like he got hit by a truck. A really, really good truck, but still. Truck. He blinks owlishly as he processes her suggestion for a second.]
Yeah. Yeah, bath sounds good.
[Assuming he can in fact walk. So far so good.]
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By the looks of it though, mission accomplished? Of course, it won't last too long; that's not how hormones and neurons work, but he seems too tired to even consider worrying, so she wins. Her legs unhook, and she moves as to get off the table, making a face at how tight her muscles feel. Oof. Bath is the second best idea she had in this room today, no doubt about it.
Once her hands rub on her face for a few moments as she tries to get some synapses going, the first thing is to get him one of his candy bars, because he probably needs it, hand it to him with a kiss to his shoulder before she's off to run the bath.
If he comes with her, she's mostly quiet, with that little crinkle in her nose and a smile not at all hidden in the corners of her lips as the water fills the tub and when it gets to a reasonable level, she's in.)
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Quentin is less visibly wrecked by the time he gets to the bathroom, but his veins are still thrumming with enough oxytocin to keep his stress levels down. For now, at least.]
Fucking hell.
[Yep, that's it. That's all he's going to say as he eases into the tub on the opposite end from her. And once he's in, he's gonna lean back and just. Relax for a bit.]
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There's a quiet exhaled chuckle for the swear that leaves him. Beautiful words, all very touching.
At least he feels... Better, she supposes?)
We're gonna feel this tomorrow for sure.
(When her soul returns to her body, she'll go join his side of the tub. Just. Not now.)
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[He arches his back, stretching sore muscles for a moment before sinking down into the water with a sigh. Ah, yes, that's better. Makes him feel alive again. He's sure they'll go another round at some point—it's that kind of day—but until then he's going to enjoy the warm water melting away any residual tension in his body.]
And anyway, you weren't the one standing the whole time.
[Yep, it's back to complaining. At least he's more relaxed now than he has been.]
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But it's normal level complaining that he's engaged with, baseline and something she's used to and doesn't even bat an eye at.)
Ooooh, nooo, too bad we can't take it back. How unfortunate.
(Yeah, they're alive-ish.
Stuff is over at his side, so she moves, pressing a kiss to his jaw since he's in her way before she grabs the shampoo bottle.)
You think your back is gonna make it by the time we pass out?
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He closes his eyes with a vague "hmph" at her sarcastic reply and only cracks one eye open when she leans into his space with a kiss to his jaw. Ah, just grabbing the shampoo. Not his concern. He'll go back to soaking.]
Depends on when you pass out.
[Yes, "you." Not "we". He doesn't go out of his way to emphasize the difference in pronoun, not like he usually would when trolling her. Oh, he's sure she'll pick up on it and take the bait and all that. He just doesn't have it in him to really go ham on the flirty banter challenging bullshit today. That first round took the a lot of the edge off the surly mood he's been in, but he's still not totally his usual self. Probably won't be for a while, honestly. He's only in as good of a mood as he is right now because of the cocktail of post-coital feel-good shit in his system, and that won't last forever.]
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Pressure is making him snap left and right. Worry. He's repeated it in his backward way through the weeks — 'I have to do everything'. Talking isn't their thing, but she can take some weight off his shoulders with flooding his brain with hormones so he can have some relief, and taking matters into her own hands, she's got a plan.
Does it make it a little more real that she cares for him if she is taking steps to take care of him in a way she knows will work because she paid attention? Yes. Yes, it does, but it is a little less horrifying to do it at this point, and there are bigger priorities in her mind than to pay attention to the Cuckoo brain that says 'that's not very girlboss gatekeep of you'.
Also, not really subtle bait, but okay, she can play as she cares for the massive amount of hair that she has now.)
Because I'm the one bitching about being sore.
(No bite, actually. She doesn't really take all his bitching into account, and this is one of those moments she's sure they're just arguing recreationally, which good, she had no idea what to say to him after the whole hurricane Sophie ordeal.)
Remind me to get some epsom salts or muscle soreness relief next time I run supplies.
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There's an elephant in the room here: what just happened and why it happened. This wasn't one of their usual little trysts, not by a long shot. And yet here they are doing half-assed banter about being sore and her passing out and his back and just completely avoiding any deeper discussion. And you know what? That's fine with Quentin. Yeah, yeah, he hates when other people do it, but let's be real. He's always been a hypocrite. Why stop now?
And speaking of avoiding shit, he grunts in mild annoyance at her "bitching about being sore" comment. Annoyance because he doesn't have a good quippy comeback for that, of course. Which means changing the subject.]
Why're you doing that? ["That" here meaning washing her hair.] You know we're probably just going to get sweaty again.
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Sophie is sorely uninterested in even trying to get him to talk to her. It doesn't work that way, and it hasn't in a good while. What she does and is currently doing is walking towards him, and stopping at a comfortable distance. Quentin has to walk the other half, and that's something she doesn't want to have to ask of him. It's not how this works, by her own rule.
She doesn't want to discuss anything either. It's not like getting kidnapped, tortured, studied, seeing people she likes getting fucked over, losing a person, and then seeing him this stressed out isn't self-explanatory. She's not the first mutant that went through this, she will not be the last.)
It's not a 'probably', it's a 'definitely', but I don't like the feeling of dirty roots, and long hair weighs on it.
(Hence why she used just a little bit of shampoo and is only dealing with that part. Once it's rinsed, she takes a glimpse at his, sees the curl pattern already forming even if it's wet, and she just has to take one between her thumb and index to pull very gently and release.
Boing.)
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1/2
2/3 i lied
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