[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.
[Look, if she wanted it to be her idea, maybe she should wake up early enough to stake her claim. Early bird, worm, snoozing and losing, etc.]
I can fix that for you. Snip snip.
[He holds up two fingers and makes a snipping motion to imitate scissors. Then he feels her encroaching on his space and opens one eye in time to see her messing with his hair. He could bitch at her for it, but... eh. He gets it, kinda. His hair's been trashed by bleach for so long it's still a little weird to have his curls back. And obviously they're amazing, so. She's allowed to ogle.]
You know, Irma [No, not using "Mindee" since, well. He knows how she feels about him bringing up other Cuckoos. At least "Irma" implies a level of unfamiliarity that, quite frankly, does truly exist.] had a sick asymmetric bob look going for a while, back in her black hair era. Side shaved clean and everything. Very edgy, very chic. Can't have dirty roots without roots. I'd know.
(The laughter doesn't come from her finding it funny, but out of disbelief. Sir, your hair is like, a fraction of hers, and has none of the same texture. You've seen it without the styling, she does not trust it. Absolutely not.
Also, shut up, it's the boing that makes her want to play with it. Her own doesn't do that without a ridiculous amount of hairspray when she curls it. It's not like she has access to other curls to play with.)
I mean, yeah, I know, I liked it on her, but you know? I ever shave or do something like that, and then I just look like Mindee, because duh, of course I do. I wanted something mine, even Esme had her own hairstyle. I'm thinking about dyeing the inner part lilac or some shit like that, except I have never touched dye, so it's a work-in-progress.
(No Elixir, no do over restart game button. But hey, the Cuckoos did red, black, blonde. None of them did a fun color.)
Right, because you don't look anything like Mindee now.
[Just sayin'. Quentin sits up more and opens his eyes fully, since he's feeling less dead now and apparently they're having a conversation. Or something. About hair. Sure. He messes with his own hair, switching between borrowing her optic nerve and glancing at the mirror across the room to get it back into the orderly-yet-tousled style he prefers.]
Also if that's your way of asking, I'll think about it.
[The part about dying her hair, he means. Obviously. See, he would've been all about it. He got really used to dying hair, and it feels weird to not have to keep track of it anymore. But also? She rejected his offer of cutting her hair. That's very rude, and he's grumpy. So there.]
Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. That's her hairstyle and vibe, not mine. If the point is to be my own person, I don't want to do something already done.
(But she can feel him using her eyes, and that actually makes her laugh. He knows she doesn't mind it, and in fact, it's so familiar that it's comforting, but she was not expecting it.
Also she wasn't asking because she isn't exactly sure what she wants. She can't undo shit now, which is Concerning to her, it has to feel perfect and only hers. She asked Josh for long hair because she could explore length, since she's always had the bob and then do things to it as time went by since she had quite a lot, and then whatever she decided, if it wasn't perfect, he could fix it.
Welp.)
If I ever decide what the hell I wanna do, that is.
Yeah, well, she's the only one who's ever really tried to look like her own person. So maybe if there's one to imitate, it's her. I mean, she made you guys "SPMCE". [Yes, he's doing his best attempt at pronouncing that.] That's pretty ballsy.
[Not mentioned here: the fact that Mindee eventually went back to the standard Cuckoo Look and gave up her little foray into individuality. Despite Quentin very much seeing a parallel to Sophie's own break from the hive mind, that whole thing most definitely goes into the pile of "Conversations We Started Fucking To Avoid Having Ever," where it will remain for all eternity.]
Whatever. The offer's out there, though I do have to insist you let me do some of the cutting. It's the principle of the matter. You understand.
[Does she? Who cares. He gets the last few curls back into place on his head and sits back again, resting his arms on the edges of the tub.]
Alright, your hair's clean and mine's all fixed. When're we gonna make 'em dirty and messy again?
(When he starts talking, he might notice that her thoughts are basically 'who do you think I miss the most since I left'. Sure, Mindee returned to her rightful Cuckoo place and stayed there, hell, she too was a little anti-individuality after that, but she was the one who wanted it first. It'd be an interesting conversation, since Sophie really doesn't want to go back.
Except that thought dies so, so quickly when Quentin turns out to be the first person who ever brought that up to her face, and a snorted laugh comes out before she even notices. For fuck's sake, no, she hates that ugly laugh, fuck off.)
I had a whole point and you made me lose it, so congratulations on killing this conversation.
(At least it comes out through laughs as she pinches the bridge of her nose.)
Fine, whatever, I trust you as long as I don't see you with that buzzer. I'll think it over and let you know.
(She'd actually let him do whatever the hell he wanted, if that didn't give him way too much power, and if it didn't defeat the purpose of it being hers.
But he is getting a kiss to his cheek for it, it's a silent thanks.)
As soon as you get to bed. Go.
(No tub sex, it might be huge, but it is also going to completely obliterate their squishy bodies with position.)
Oh, no, I killed a conversation about which of the Spice Girls has the least boring haircut so I could go have mind-blowing sex, whatever shall I do?
[Still, her little snort-laugh gets an amused quirk upward of his eyebrows. On a normal day, it'd probably earn her a smirk too, but. Bad mood and all.
Anyway, Quentin hoists himself out of the tub and grabs a fluffy (pink, obviously) towel to start drying off. And because he's a gentleman, he telekinetically offers one to her too. But if she decides to get out of the tub and reach for it? He'll put an arm around her waist and pull her in tightly to give her a scorching kiss before just as abruptly letting go and continuing to nonchalantly towel off the rest of his body. Look, she said no tub sex, and he's petty. Even if she is right and should say it.
Regardless, he's not going to wait around for her to dry herself off and will instead secure the towel around his waist and make his way back to the bed.]
And just fyi? I'm a fucking artist with clippers and a razor. You know how hard it is to shave the back of your own head this neatly?
(She hasn't laughed in a while, especially that one, it feels nice. She's not regretting melting the ice surrounding her brain so far, and this second comment doesn't help, but at least it's not the snort when she finds herself laughing again. Idiotic fucking comment, so if there was any wonder about shit she missed from him? This is one of them. Go figure, she just accepted that she likes it and moved on from judging her judgment.
The kiss is not at all unwelcome, but it is surprising, especially with the tightness with which he holds her, and while she has to fight smile muscles, she returns it as feverishly until it's gone, earning him a roll of eyes when she figures out where it came from. She's so, so right, though, and their squishiness is just the tip of the iceberg there.
With a scoffed laugh, she moves out of the tub, watching him go and continuing his yapping routine as she dries in the bathroom, it doesn't take too long for her to follow and get on her side of bed since she's not all that concerned with her hair.)
Obviously I don't, but it's not like I don't believe you, you've had this hair since forever, chill out.
[Does he miss the stupid banter the way she does? Maybe. It's not like it's something he actively tries to do or anything. Just kinda happens. Sure, it gives him a little burst of smugness that she seems to like it despite all efforts to the contrary, but that's because he is in his heart a troll. It does feel a bit good to get closer to his normal way of talking when she comes to visit. The innuendos and raunchy jokes and such. And speaking of, there's an obvious "it's really hard" comeback she set up perfectly for him. How kind of her. And he'll definitely get to it at some point, don't you worry, but right at this moment he has different priorities.
Priorities like shifting from his side of the bed to put his hand under her jaw and kiss her again. Usually he lets her decide when to make the flirt-to-make-out transition. Because usually that's his preference. He likes to take his time, to not rush, and letting her make the first move makes him feel desired. But, well, if practically breaking down his door to kiss the shit out of him while he fucked her on a table doesn't communicate desire, he doesn't know what would. So yeah, he's feeling a little more bold today. She certainly hasn't complained thus far.
She might, however, complain when he breaks away right before either of them would need to catch their breath.]
It's pretty hard. [A beat.] Shaving the back of your head.
(They've been stressed out, so, it's a bit of normalcy that they probably deserve. It's not like they have this type of conversation when they're not alone or telepathically, so, yeah, she's more than happy to jump back to dumb stuff.
Today, everything feels a little different than usual; nothing about this is routine. She doesn't ever show up like she has, they don't fuck that way often, and he doesn't chase, but she's not at all complaining. Just letting things flow is fine, too, instead of sticking to predictability. Of course, she kisses him back, her hand caressing the back of his head before he breaks the kiss...
... And God, he speaks. It's so, so fucking dumb, a little cringe, and she looks at him with big eyes for a second while she processes the incredulity she feels. They were busy and he diverts them to that????
But. Well. She's also an idiot, so once the disbelief and regret morphs into amusement, she finds herself laughing, hiding her face on the curve of his neck to try and focus.)
You idiot.
(First and foremost.)
Just 'pretty'? Thought it'd be way harder when you get to a certain point.
[Okay, that was a pretty worthwhile diversion, if only to watch her go through every stage of grief simultaneously while realizing she thinks he's funny and still wants to fuck him. Bonus: she responded to his dumb innuendo with more dumb innuendo. See, now that's how you make a guy feel appreciated. He's the smuggest he's been all day now, though it still pales in comparison to his normal level of smug. But hey, small wins.]
Hm, maybe! Only one way to find out, I guess.
[Is he still talking about hair? Who knows!
Also, in completely unrelated news, he's still wearing that towel around his waist.
(If he wants to actually get hard with her help in the foreseeable future, he has to stop making her laugh, in case he didn't know.
He keeps this stupidity going longer, and she's got every plan to shut him up, but she's busy chuckling until she can finally press her lips to one of the sensitive spots of his neck to recenter herself, and just because two of them are petty, she's adding a little bit of teeth to it. Sue her and all.
When he talks again, she comes out from her hiding with a whole attitude only to be met with a shred of smugness. It's not the full force loopsided grin that he bears whenever he makes her want to die, but it's something. That bite is replaced as she beams at him for a second — she even had a whole quip, man, about it sounding too hard, he might have to show her, or some other type of bullshit that gets lost in her mind before she realizes that's not really what she wants to do right now.
End result is the same. She kisses him stupid, that's what happens. God, she hates him and herself.)
[The teeth on his neck don't get a noise out of him persay, but his brain does make a nice little ping if she's listening. Actual biting? Well, okay, he's not saying he's not into it, but. Let's just say he associates it with certain previous relationships. Ones that are taboo to bring up in this bed. Alas.
But hey, he's counting everything else as a win. So good for him. And her, he guesses.
That flicker of memory does spur him to kiss her harder, though, putting his arm around her middle back to tug her against him. Luckily the theme of today is all about fucking every miserable thought out of their miserable brains, and the P-word most certainly qualifies. He's grinding that shit up with all the other garbage he doesn't want to think about and using it as fuel. And while he's not letting her in enough to see all the gritty, messy details of the angst swirling in his brain, he opens up his mind for her to do what she did before—redirect his inner turmoil however she pleases. She seemed to like that last time, so why not. Plus it gives her a chance to set the "mood" as it were. You know, decide if she wants him only half-crazed or all the way. Maybe she's after something on the lazier side this round. Unlikely, but you never know.]
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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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I can fix that for you. Snip snip.
[He holds up two fingers and makes a snipping motion to imitate scissors. Then he feels her encroaching on his space and opens one eye in time to see her messing with his hair. He could bitch at her for it, but... eh. He gets it, kinda. His hair's been trashed by bleach for so long it's still a little weird to have his curls back. And obviously they're amazing, so. She's allowed to ogle.]
You know, Irma [No, not using "Mindee" since, well. He knows how she feels about him bringing up other Cuckoos. At least "Irma" implies a level of unfamiliarity that, quite frankly, does truly exist.] had a sick asymmetric bob look going for a while, back in her black hair era. Side shaved clean and everything. Very edgy, very chic. Can't have dirty roots without roots. I'd know.
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(The laughter doesn't come from her finding it funny, but out of disbelief. Sir, your hair is like, a fraction of hers, and has none of the same texture. You've seen it without the styling, she does not trust it. Absolutely not.
Also, shut up, it's the boing that makes her want to play with it. Her own doesn't do that without a ridiculous amount of hairspray when she curls it. It's not like she has access to other curls to play with.)
I mean, yeah, I know, I liked it on her, but you know? I ever shave or do something like that, and then I just look like Mindee, because duh, of course I do. I wanted something mine, even Esme had her own hairstyle. I'm thinking about dyeing the inner part lilac or some shit like that, except I have never touched dye, so it's a work-in-progress.
(No Elixir, no do over restart game button. But hey, the Cuckoos did red, black, blonde. None of them did a fun color.)
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[Just sayin'. Quentin sits up more and opens his eyes fully, since he's feeling less dead now and apparently they're having a conversation. Or something. About hair. Sure. He messes with his own hair, switching between borrowing her optic nerve and glancing at the mirror across the room to get it back into the orderly-yet-tousled style he prefers.]
Also if that's your way of asking, I'll think about it.
[The part about dying her hair, he means. Obviously. See, he would've been all about it. He got really used to dying hair, and it feels weird to not have to keep track of it anymore. But also? She rejected his offer of cutting her hair. That's very rude, and he's grumpy. So there.]
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(But she can feel him using her eyes, and that actually makes her laugh. He knows she doesn't mind it, and in fact, it's so familiar that it's comforting, but she was not expecting it.
Also she wasn't asking because she isn't exactly sure what she wants. She can't undo shit now, which is Concerning to her, it has to feel perfect and only hers. She asked Josh for long hair because she could explore length, since she's always had the bob and then do things to it as time went by since she had quite a lot, and then whatever she decided, if it wasn't perfect, he could fix it.
Welp.)
If I ever decide what the hell I wanna do, that is.
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[Not mentioned here: the fact that Mindee eventually went back to the standard Cuckoo Look and gave up her little foray into individuality. Despite Quentin very much seeing a parallel to Sophie's own break from the hive mind, that whole thing most definitely goes into the pile of "Conversations We Started Fucking To Avoid Having Ever," where it will remain for all eternity.]
Whatever. The offer's out there, though I do have to insist you let me do some of the cutting. It's the principle of the matter. You understand.
[Does she? Who cares. He gets the last few curls back into place on his head and sits back again, resting his arms on the edges of the tub.]
Alright, your hair's clean and mine's all fixed. When're we gonna make 'em dirty and messy again?
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Except that thought dies so, so quickly when Quentin turns out to be the first person who ever brought that up to her face, and a snorted laugh comes out before she even notices. For fuck's sake, no, she hates that ugly laugh, fuck off.)
I had a whole point and you made me lose it, so congratulations on killing this conversation.
(At least it comes out through laughs as she pinches the bridge of her nose.)
Fine, whatever, I trust you as long as I don't see you with that buzzer. I'll think it over and let you know.
(She'd actually let him do whatever the hell he wanted, if that didn't give him way too much power, and if it didn't defeat the purpose of it being hers.
But he is getting a kiss to his cheek for it, it's a silent thanks.)
As soon as you get to bed. Go.
(No tub sex, it might be huge, but it is also going to completely obliterate their squishy bodies with position.)
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[Still, her little snort-laugh gets an amused quirk upward of his eyebrows. On a normal day, it'd probably earn her a smirk too, but. Bad mood and all.
Anyway, Quentin hoists himself out of the tub and grabs a fluffy (pink, obviously) towel to start drying off. And because he's a gentleman, he telekinetically offers one to her too. But if she decides to get out of the tub and reach for it? He'll put an arm around her waist and pull her in tightly to give her a scorching kiss before just as abruptly letting go and continuing to nonchalantly towel off the rest of his body. Look, she said no tub sex, and he's petty. Even if she is right and should say it.
Regardless, he's not going to wait around for her to dry herself off and will instead secure the towel around his waist and make his way back to the bed.]
And just fyi? I'm a fucking artist with clippers and a razor. You know how hard it is to shave the back of your own head this neatly?
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The kiss is not at all unwelcome, but it is surprising, especially with the tightness with which he holds her, and while she has to fight smile muscles, she returns it as feverishly until it's gone, earning him a roll of eyes when she figures out where it came from. She's so, so right, though, and their squishiness is just the tip of the iceberg there.
With a scoffed laugh, she moves out of the tub, watching him go and continuing his yapping routine as she dries in the bathroom, it doesn't take too long for her to follow and get on her side of bed since she's not all that concerned with her hair.)
Obviously I don't, but it's not like I don't believe you, you've had this hair since forever, chill out.
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Priorities like shifting from his side of the bed to put his hand under her jaw and kiss her again. Usually he lets her decide when to make the flirt-to-make-out transition. Because usually that's his preference. He likes to take his time, to not rush, and letting her make the first move makes him feel desired. But, well, if practically breaking down his door to kiss the shit out of him while he fucked her on a table doesn't communicate desire, he doesn't know what would. So yeah, he's feeling a little more bold today. She certainly hasn't complained thus far.
She might, however, complain when he breaks away right before either of them would need to catch their breath.]
It's pretty hard. [A beat.] Shaving the back of your head.
[See, he said he'd get back to it.]
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Today, everything feels a little different than usual; nothing about this is routine. She doesn't ever show up like she has, they don't fuck that way often, and he doesn't chase, but she's not at all complaining. Just letting things flow is fine, too, instead of sticking to predictability. Of course, she kisses him back, her hand caressing the back of his head before he breaks the kiss...
... And God, he speaks. It's so, so fucking dumb, a little cringe, and she looks at him with big eyes for a second while she processes the incredulity she feels. They were busy and he diverts them to that????
But. Well. She's also an idiot, so once the disbelief and regret morphs into amusement, she finds herself laughing, hiding her face on the curve of his neck to try and focus.)
You idiot.
(First and foremost.)
Just 'pretty'? Thought it'd be way harder when you get to a certain point.
(Idiot.)
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Hm, maybe! Only one way to find out, I guess.
[Is he still talking about hair? Who knows!
Also, in completely unrelated news, he's still wearing that towel around his waist.
(Spoilers: no. The answer is no.)]
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He keeps this stupidity going longer, and she's got every plan to shut him up, but she's busy chuckling until she can finally press her lips to one of the sensitive spots of his neck to recenter herself, and just because two of them are petty, she's adding a little bit of teeth to it. Sue her and all.
When he talks again, she comes out from her hiding with a whole attitude only to be met with a shred of smugness. It's not the full force loopsided grin that he bears whenever he makes her want to die, but it's something. That bite is replaced as she beams at him for a second — she even had a whole quip, man, about it sounding too hard, he might have to show her, or some other type of bullshit that gets lost in her mind before she realizes that's not really what she wants to do right now.
End result is the same. She kisses him stupid, that's what happens. God, she hates him and herself.)
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But hey, he's counting everything else as a win. So good for him. And her, he guesses.
That flicker of memory does spur him to kiss her harder, though, putting his arm around her middle back to tug her against him. Luckily the theme of today is all about fucking every miserable thought out of their miserable brains, and the P-word most certainly qualifies. He's grinding that shit up with all the other garbage he doesn't want to think about and using it as fuel. And while he's not letting her in enough to see all the gritty, messy details of the angst swirling in his brain, he opens up his mind for her to do what she did before—redirect his inner turmoil however she pleases. She seemed to like that last time, so why not. Plus it gives her a chance to set the "mood" as it were. You know, decide if she wants him only half-crazed or all the way. Maybe she's after something on the lazier side this round. Unlikely, but you never know.]
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1/2
2/3 i lied
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