[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.]
That's news, he never really lets her do that kinda shit. If she were Quentin, with her track record? She'd not want that either. Not that she's thinking hard about it, aside from noticing that he's open, and taking the invitation. She'll unpack whatever the hell that means later, this is not the time nor the place and honestly, the kiss and being pulled always rewires her entire thought process anyway, driving her to glue their bodies together and hold on to him as she lets out a pleased groan. She's easy, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Between them, it tends to be a blessing.
She thought he had burned quite a lot of fuel on their first round, but apparently not nearly as much. What comes most to mind is that delectable possessiveness that he pushed into her brain, and if that's what he felt and it helped and coincidentally, what she likes, she sees absolutely no reason not to capitalize on it. Like the first time, his inner turmoil is moved gradually towards lust and pleasure, so there's no whiplash, but the second thing she does is to add an idea alongside it, because she's not just going to do whatever the fuck. If there is one thing they communicate well is kink, so here it is.
Cravings. It just feels fitting. Make him overlook everything that's pulling him down because he is entirely busy physically and psychologically needing more in addition to that dominating brain he gets on his own, and she gets, well. Look, whatever, she knows their rules by heart, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't love loopholes.)
[It's... tricky, what he's offered her. An invitation to mess around in his mind, steer his desire in certain directions. It's limited, what he's allowing her to do, because of course it is. Limited and monitored. Not just because he doesn't fully trust her—which he doesn't, and he knows she understands—but because, well. Telepathy sex, while amazing, isn't the greatest for figuring out one's own personal preferences. Feeling everything your partner feels is a double-edged sword when it means having no clue if you're into something because you're into it or they're into it. Or... does it even matter? It seems like it does. But does it? Hell if he knows.
Point is, there's a fine line between letting Sophie have some input on how hard they're going to fuck and letting Sophie adjust him until he fucks her the way she likes. That idea she puts in his brain? About cravings? The thing is he knows a lot more about Sophie's—and Phoebe's, for that matter—kinks than he knows about his own. He can feel his head getting fuzzy with lust, but when he tries to get his mind to populate ideas for her it's just sputterings and half-thoughts he's pretty sure have a different point of origin than his own brain. Which is frustrating, honestly. Here he is just trying to live his life, vent some stress by indulging a senseless, mildly chauvinistic need for sexual dominance, and she wants, what? Specifics? For how he wants to do that??? Harsh, unreasonable, impossible, and unfair.
He makes an indignant noise against her mouth and considers saying to hell with it and rolling them so that he's on top and she's under him and just, you know. Getting to business. But no. She's going through the trouble of trying something new, so... fine. He'll engage. Or try to. He replays in his mind—and hers, just for the sake of it—the first round of the day, on the table. When he pulled up her leg, restricting her movement but letting him thrust into her better, made her beg for him, and he was rewarded with her coming not once but twice? Fuck, it made that possessive part of his brain sing. That's what he wants, and that's what he feeds into Sophie's brain. Is it more abstract than she was thinking? Probably. But look, she's an Emma Frost clone. If she doesn't know how to work with that, he sure as hell doesn't know who would be able to.]
(You know. At least she's here with the full knowledge that they're probably two of the most complicated people she knows, and that's bound to be apparent some time or another, on either side.
It's obviously not her intention to play build-a-man; she's done that before, albeit not to him, and that's not... Them. It's weird to even think of them as a 'them' sometimes, but alas, they kind of are. Instead, she is engaged in finding that fine line between something that's going to allow him to get rid of all that earthquake of worries for the time being, because there won't be any space for them there, and that she's going to find extremely enjoyable in the process. A win-win situation, as one might put it.
Naturally, she can tell he broke a little mentally, all the thoughts he halts in the middle, half-formed and confused, and maybe it's a good thing because, ugh, empathy, gross, but she cares for it and gets it. It's not like what he is proposing disagrees with her in the slightest, after all, she did come twice, and she felt so wanted.
She's a Cuckoo. People tend to want her, to varying degrees. She can hear it and loves hearing it, she can't help but love attention — this is a little different, though. So, she isn't really pushing her feelings into his brain as she would, but she's letting him take them instead if he wants to. Fits the narrative. How it was his wanting of her that made her cross the edge twice, how excruciatingly hot it felt, how her neurons felt like they were sparkling and malfunctioning with how much pleasure ran through her. If he wants to see more, she's inviting it, too.
And, well, she encourages him to go on top, too. Middle ground.)
Well, him being on top was a given. At least to him. Letting her be on top when she's already made it abundantly clear she wants that possessive side of him? Unlikely.
Ugh, he needs to do something. Clear his head. Quentin fumbles with undoing the towel, hikes up her leg with his hand under her knee, and slides inside her with a sigh. Good. That's good. Then he rolls them so she's on her back, groaning at the sensation. Better.
Maybe doing an approximate recreation of that moment that made his brain light up like Times Square will help him dissect what specifically he liked. You know, other than just "monkey brain go brrrr". That's the logic, at least. Evidence, analysis, etc.
But yes, he does seek out in Sophie's brain what she's feeling on her end. For reasons.]
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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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That's news, he never really lets her do that kinda shit. If she were Quentin, with her track record? She'd not want that either. Not that she's thinking hard about it, aside from noticing that he's open, and taking the invitation. She'll unpack whatever the hell that means later, this is not the time nor the place and honestly, the kiss and being pulled always rewires her entire thought process anyway, driving her to glue their bodies together and hold on to him as she lets out a pleased groan. She's easy, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Between them, it tends to be a blessing.
She thought he had burned quite a lot of fuel on their first round, but apparently not nearly as much. What comes most to mind is that delectable possessiveness that he pushed into her brain, and if that's what he felt and it helped and coincidentally, what she likes, she sees absolutely no reason not to capitalize on it. Like the first time, his inner turmoil is moved gradually towards lust and pleasure, so there's no whiplash, but the second thing she does is to add an idea alongside it, because she's not just going to do whatever the fuck. If there is one thing they communicate well is kink, so here it is.
Cravings. It just feels fitting. Make him overlook everything that's pulling him down because he is entirely busy physically and psychologically needing more in addition to that dominating brain he gets on his own, and she gets, well. Look, whatever, she knows their rules by heart, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't love loopholes.)
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Point is, there's a fine line between letting Sophie have some input on how hard they're going to fuck and letting Sophie adjust him until he fucks her the way she likes. That idea she puts in his brain? About cravings? The thing is he knows a lot more about Sophie's—and Phoebe's, for that matter—kinks than he knows about his own. He can feel his head getting fuzzy with lust, but when he tries to get his mind to populate ideas for her it's just sputterings and half-thoughts he's pretty sure have a different point of origin than his own brain. Which is frustrating, honestly. Here he is just trying to live his life, vent some stress by indulging a senseless, mildly chauvinistic need for sexual dominance, and she wants, what? Specifics? For how he wants to do that??? Harsh, unreasonable, impossible, and unfair.
He makes an indignant noise against her mouth and considers saying to hell with it and rolling them so that he's on top and she's under him and just, you know. Getting to business. But no. She's going through the trouble of trying something new, so... fine. He'll engage. Or try to. He replays in his mind—and hers, just for the sake of it—the first round of the day, on the table. When he pulled up her leg, restricting her movement but letting him thrust into her better, made her beg for him, and he was rewarded with her coming not once but twice? Fuck, it made that possessive part of his brain sing. That's what he wants, and that's what he feeds into Sophie's brain. Is it more abstract than she was thinking? Probably. But look, she's an Emma Frost clone. If she doesn't know how to work with that, he sure as hell doesn't know who would be able to.]
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It's obviously not her intention to play build-a-man; she's done that before, albeit not to him, and that's not... Them. It's weird to even think of them as a 'them' sometimes, but alas, they kind of are. Instead, she is engaged in finding that fine line between something that's going to allow him to get rid of all that earthquake of worries for the time being, because there won't be any space for them there, and that she's going to find extremely enjoyable in the process. A win-win situation, as one might put it.
Naturally, she can tell he broke a little mentally, all the thoughts he halts in the middle, half-formed and confused, and maybe it's a good thing because, ugh, empathy, gross, but she cares for it and gets it. It's not like what he is proposing disagrees with her in the slightest, after all, she did come twice, and she felt so wanted.
She's a Cuckoo. People tend to want her, to varying degrees. She can hear it and loves hearing it, she can't help but love attention — this is a little different, though. So, she isn't really pushing her feelings into his brain as she would, but she's letting him take them instead if he wants to. Fits the narrative. How it was his wanting of her that made her cross the edge twice, how excruciatingly hot it felt, how her neurons felt like they were sparkling and malfunctioning with how much pleasure ran through her. If he wants to see more, she's inviting it, too.
And, well, she encourages him to go on top, too. Middle ground.)
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Well, him being on top was a given. At least to him. Letting her be on top when she's already made it abundantly clear she wants that possessive side of him? Unlikely.
Ugh, he needs to do something. Clear his head. Quentin fumbles with undoing the towel, hikes up her leg with his hand under her knee, and slides inside her with a sigh. Good. That's good. Then he rolls them so she's on her back, groaning at the sensation. Better.
Maybe doing an approximate recreation of that moment that made his brain light up like Times Square will help him dissect what specifically he liked. You know, other than just "monkey brain go brrrr". That's the logic, at least. Evidence, analysis, etc.
But yes, he does seek out in Sophie's brain what she's feeling on her end. For reasons.]
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1/2
2/3 i lied
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