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.]
(It's not that she didn't know how to work with that, because she does, but if she had just given him what he had thought he wanted, then that's part of the problem, isn't it? Telling him, instead of letting him figure that shit out and just steering him away from what she knows has been, uh, influenced by a previous party that may or may not look exactly like Sophie, what a coincidence.
God, she loves assertiveness. Perhaps that's the biggest difference between the two identical blondes, and the fact that this is what is being given to her makes hold onto him as strongly as she can from the rush that races through her spine, a whining moan coming out of her once he's settled on a position. Her legs wrap again, higher than usual, and well.
He wants to dig into her mind, he can, she let him already, although she's directing him a little differently. She's not pushing what she wants to feel, what she likes, but what showing exactly as it is. There's nothing remotely bad — she's embarrassingly horny just from that, again, and shit, she is still missing him. One time was not enough to satiate that; a reflex of how long it had been since she last had it. The pleasure and impatience she feels to come for him again, even if she has to throw away her pride and ask him for it. She wants him, at it turns out, it's pure and simple. He doesn't even have to look into her mind to find indications of that. She is proving it with how hard she's kissing him, how much she's clenching around him, her hand in his hair to focus, her heartbeat against his chest like a drumline.
And trying her best to be responsible with it, too, between her lustful brain and his own.)
[Something's... different. On her end, mostly, but probably on his too. Usually she does her best to make sure he knows what she wants, what she likes. She syncs up their pleasure, pushes into his brain to show him when she's close, showers him in praise and hunger for more of him. She did that earlier today, throwing herself and all her horniness at him and his brain until he snapped in the most delightful way possible. But now she's.... hm. Is "passive" the right word? It doesn't feel right. Certainly not "reserved", not with how she's clinging to him and moaning. She's giving him plenty of feedback, just not expectations.
... He'll feel horrifically mortified at the fact that she accurately clocked the reason for his indecision and responded accordingly later. Or maybe never. Never bringing it up or thinking about it ever again would be great, actually.
Anyway, right now he's much too busy to be thinking about any of that. He sets a pace of even, deep thrusts into her, with that edge of possessiveness they both enjoy so much. The benefit of having that first round is there's "whoops I tripped and now I'm domming" this time. Nope. He may be trying to unravel the mystery of why and what specifically appeals to him about this, but at least he knows very well now that it does. This time he's scratching that itch without hesitation, pushing that "mine"-but-with-like-a-hundred-asterisks into her mind with every rock of his hips.
And speaking of her mind, he skims through the data she's giving him until he pauses at... hand in his hair? To focus? No. No focusing allowed. He grabs her wrist and shoves it down to the bed beside her head. If it's all too much for her without that bit of grounding? Good. He made her come twice before. That means he doesn't need to go easy on her. That's how it works, right? Right.]
(Sophie is different from Quentin in many aspects. Surely both are telepaths, but he's much more analytical, data-based, and Sophie? She's emotions, feelings, thoughts, weaknesses, potential, and strengths, rather than evidence, proof, or results.
... And he's a whole idiot, there's also that, but alas. It means that while he is "skimming through data", she has already concluded some accidental findings, because some shit is not just programming, you see. There are benefits (or curses?) to her being Emma Frost 2.0, and her noticing exactly what she should or shouldn't do without his assistance goes right into it.
Not that she is thinking about it, nor that he will ever hear it from her unless it's something he actively reaches for, which he won't. While they have had more success discussing their relationship-between-thousand-quotation-marks, this is exactly the type of shit they were avoiding with it in the first place. To unpack on her own later, preferably far, far away from him.
Not that Sophie's in any condition to pay any attention to it today, especially not now, with a rhythm she likes and follows, even if rocking with him is challenging with her legs so far up. Her entire neural pathway lights up like it's New Years at midnight with that ownership (but not really) response that he is giving her, but what really gets the most reaction it's the fact she no longer has her hand to hold onto him. It helps her take out some of edge of anticipation, and it makes her break the kiss to let out a pleased, but needy whine now that she does not have enough ways to calm herself down and ride the pleasure more consistently.
If Quentin ever wondered how much noise she can make, well. He doesn't have to wonder anymore. They're still sweet, breathy, but she's not holding them back at all, and every now and then? She gets louder, because that's really all she has for physical focus.
She's probably waking up at 2PM tomorrow, and he doesn't get to bitch about it.)
[Sophie's reaction to him pinning her hand to the bed is interesting. "Interesting" here having the meaning of "hope this doesn't awaken something in me" except that it will and already has and he doesn't mind it one bit. See, he chose this position to try and copy what he did earlier. Reverse engineer some kind of sexual self-discovery or whatever bullshit. Plus, kissing gives him an additional outlet for his possessiveness, and he generally can't get enough of how desperately she tends to cling to him.
And then he took her hand away, and some of the sexiest noises she's ever made start pouring out of her.
And that gives him Ideas.
She wanted him assertive. For him to explore cravings, and then she gave him space to figure them out. His exploration thus far has netted nothing but extremely enthusiastic approval. He slows his hips, making a mildly disgruntled sound, which he's sure (and hopes) will pale in comparison to her reaction when she realizes he's stopping. But don't worry, it'll be worth it!]
Turn over.
[He begrudgingly pulls out and sits back to make it easier for her to move as requested, taking the opportunity to catch his breath briefly. Assuming she doesn't literally murder him for stopping, he's guessing she won't take too long. And in the unlikely event that she needs the extra motivation, he sends her the knowledge of how eager he is to be back inside her, this time in a position where she won't be able to muffle her noises with kisses or ground herself by gripping his hair or his shoulder or any of that crap. All she'll get to do is feel him. A thought which, by the way, is unbelievably hot to him.
If she wakes up before 1PM tomorrow, he will be severely disappointed.]
Make her have nothing to hold, like her body begs her to.
And then stop. Did he really just stop. He really just stopped. Did he
Is he
Wait, hold up, let her use her brain cells to drag out the information that there is no fucking way that he is not doing this for a good reason. There's literally no way. She might not be literally murdering him, but she really seriously wants to, and she desires it most when he pulls out of her.
It's all very short-lived and very quick in succession, at least. That wave of information coming in does the other half of convincing, her own perception that there are no winners in the current state of affairs did the rest. If it were a month or two ago, with that reasoning? The answer would be absolutely not, how else is she going to filter his knowledge of her like that?
Thankfully, people grow when having mindblowing telepathic sex with their situationship. The fact that she feels more naked now, when she is actually so doesn't feel bad at all? Can't understand it, won't think of it right now. Sophie's... Healthly curious, and surprisingly just as allured by his proposal as he is. Once she sits up, she presses a brief peck to his lips before she so kindly complies.)
[Yep, she's just as pissed as he thought she'd be, and he can literally see her face contort with indignation while her sex-addled brain processes what he wants and why. But in the end, she does move like he asked, and it sends a little thrill down his spine that she's as curious and bewildered as she is horny while she does it. And that, in his opinion? Deserves a reward.
So once she's turned, he nudges her into a position where he can enter her again, giving her brain a little ping from his indicating how pleased he is. And wherever her hands end up? He's grabbing them in both of his and pinning them down as he leans over her to lightly kiss the back of her shoulder, pressing her down into the bed. So far so good. Quentin rolls his hips experimentally and oh fuck yes that tears a brand new, very slightly feral noise out of him—it's ironic that despite this being the very first position he ever suggested when they started this whole... whatever it is, they've never actually done it. Similar stuff here and there, like that first time in the astral plane, but not like this. It's for the best, though, because honestly he probably wouldn't have had the stones to pull it off before. Half-assed weaksauce top!Quentin can't come to the phone right now. Why? 'Cause he's dead (though like all dead Quentins, probably not permanently, alas).
Anyway.]
Holy fucking shit.
[He rocks his hips once, getting as deep as he can before pausing to let them both adjust to the new angle, new sensations, new everything, panting against the back of her neck.]
(Wow, who'd have thought that some emotional safety and trust is sexy? What a shocker, are people aware that this is a thing, or did Sophie just stumble on a scientific breakthrough? That would sound so bogus if she wasn't experiencing it first hand, definitely dismissible as the incoherent babbles of a delirious mind, trust her bro, she's a telepath, she totally knows minds, bro, she's right.
He would be correct. He requested it, and she sort of gave it to him, but emphasis on the sorta. She was still with him on the physical plane, so he was subjected to all her instinctual touching. Look, while she has much more movement freedom, which she intends to use in just a minute, she can't look at him, can't hold him, or tug on him, and can hardly kiss him without them adding neck pain to the mix of sores to be dealt with tomorrow. It's a lot of deprivation of things she uses to stay sane through the sheer absurdity that is fucking another telepath. Gets a little too damn real with her free-flowing like that.
And after (what the fuck) months, she finds that she's okay. She still hasn't died from vulnerability exposure (what the fuck), and she's jittery to see what exactly this whole ordeal is going to end up feeling like, and she's not disappointed in the slightest. He's deeper, hitting things at an angle that she didn't know would feel so maddening, and that sound he makes? She's lucky to have heard it with the loudest one she has departing her in unison, a small kiss onto the skin of his hand to respond to the one he left on her shoulder.
When he rolls his hips, she finds herself grinding along without not even realizing it, taking that little break to try and get her breathing in place. She's not a huge talker, never has been, but.)
... Yeah. That's — that's about right.
(Nailed communication, 1 point to her, but that's not important, because she can roll her own hips so much freely now, so she does, once. It's a request that comes paired with the telepathic statement of how much she's longing to feel him more.)
[Look, her communication is about on par with his at the moment. But hey, that's why telepathy exists, right? Or it would be, if both of their brains weren't actively being fried by pleasure. And speaking of, he feels her starting to move under him and groans, dropping his head down to her shoulder. At least she can see his pink curls out of her peripheral vision even if he's denied her much other connection.
Speaking of, somewhere on the edges of his mind, Quentin can tell she's hesitant to give him this. Something something vulnerability. She's being cut off from everything she normally uses to ground herself. Which is scary and shit he guesses but also duh that's the point?? Anyway, he certainly doesn't intend to leave her with any regrets about doing this so whatever it doesn't even matter. She's also nudging him telepathically for more, and really? After the noise that comes out of her? Who is he to refuse??
He rocks into her and shit, better add biceps and triceps to the list of muscles that are going to be sore tomorrow because he can already tell they're gonna be burning but it'll be so, so worth the pain. It takes a few tries to find a good rhythm, trading out his previous sharp, demanding thrusts for a smoother, deeper rolling motion. Less physically strenuous (bonus) while satisfying as much as—if not more—of his need to claim her thanks to the other logistics of this position. And since he's been kind enough to give her more like she asked, he sends back to her a clear message: louder.]
(You see, if her hands weren't pressed down the mattress, her fingers would be in the curls she still can see, scratching the scalp and lightly tugging at it, but look at that, she can't. Can't reach to kiss his temple, either, and she leaves a whine because fuck, man. It's a loop — the more she wants to, the hotter she finds that she can't, the more stimulated she gets, the more she wants to.
Which also means that whatever hesitation she had, albeit minimal because she works entirely on 'show me yours and I'll show you mine', is out of the window as soon as he finds a tempo to work with. It's not, well, railing, which is more than fine with her — this is hitting her spots just right and whenever there's a thrust that has her neurons sparkling, she copies it to him as a way to let him know that she's, well, fucking losing it, her hips following his and her back arching whenever she leaves out a louder sound. There are this hands in hers too, but, well, she squeezes that, then she actually might hurt him, so. Losing it it is.
The message is loud and clear, and she actually can formulate a response. He has always liked a challenge, and she has already hit her maximum volume levels, so, he wants her louder?
[This pace is absolutely heavenly. It's doing all the right things in both of their brains, and he doesn't even need to read Sophie's mind to know that because she keeps arching her back and pushing back against him oh-so-nicely, and he would be more than happy to just keep going like this forever until—
Hold on.
"Make me"?
"Make"????????? "Me"????????
The noise that comes out of him is the breathy, obscenely horny version of a snarl, her audacity and his indignation suddenly boiling over in his head. See, he decided her pleasure, her noises, all of that shit? That's his (for a limited time, conditions apply). Who is she to say he can't have what belongs to him?
Fine. She wants to be like that? Wants to get railed instead of the nice smoother pace he found? Works for him. He tightens his grip on her hands, draws his hips back and then rocks into her hard, aiming for those angles that have gotten the most uncontrolled, needy responses for her. The whole point of this position was to fill her head with nothing but him, but clearly there's room in there for dumb challenges, and that just won't do. He responds verbally this time, close enough to her ear that she can feel his harsh breathing and hear all his low groans and the slight huskiness in his voice. And of course, every word is punctuated by a rough thrust, followed by a little grind to make sure—make sure—she feels all of him.]
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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?
no subject
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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God, she loves assertiveness. Perhaps that's the biggest difference between the two identical blondes, and the fact that this is what is being given to her makes hold onto him as strongly as she can from the rush that races through her spine, a whining moan coming out of her once he's settled on a position. Her legs wrap again, higher than usual, and well.
He wants to dig into her mind, he can, she let him already, although she's directing him a little differently. She's not pushing what she wants to feel, what she likes, but what showing exactly as it is. There's nothing remotely bad — she's embarrassingly horny just from that, again, and shit, she is still missing him. One time was not enough to satiate that; a reflex of how long it had been since she last had it. The pleasure and impatience she feels to come for him again, even if she has to throw away her pride and ask him for it. She wants him, at it turns out, it's pure and simple. He doesn't even have to look into her mind to find indications of that. She is proving it with how hard she's kissing him, how much she's clenching around him, her hand in his hair to focus, her heartbeat against his chest like a drumline.
And trying her best to be responsible with it, too, between her lustful brain and his own.)
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... He'll feel horrifically mortified at the fact that she accurately clocked the reason for his indecision and responded accordingly later. Or maybe never. Never bringing it up or thinking about it ever again would be great, actually.
Anyway, right now he's much too busy to be thinking about any of that. He sets a pace of even, deep thrusts into her, with that edge of possessiveness they both enjoy so much. The benefit of having that first round is there's "whoops I tripped and now I'm domming" this time. Nope. He may be trying to unravel the mystery of why and what specifically appeals to him about this, but at least he knows very well now that it does. This time he's scratching that itch without hesitation, pushing that "mine"-but-with-like-a-hundred-asterisks into her mind with every rock of his hips.
And speaking of her mind, he skims through the data she's giving him until he pauses at... hand in his hair? To focus? No. No focusing allowed. He grabs her wrist and shoves it down to the bed beside her head. If it's all too much for her without that bit of grounding? Good. He made her come twice before. That means he doesn't need to go easy on her. That's how it works, right? Right.]
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... And he's a whole idiot, there's also that, but alas. It means that while he is "skimming through data", she has already concluded some accidental findings, because some shit is not just programming, you see. There are benefits (or curses?) to her being Emma Frost 2.0, and her noticing exactly what she should or shouldn't do without his assistance goes right into it.
Not that she is thinking about it, nor that he will ever hear it from her unless it's something he actively reaches for, which he won't. While they have had more success discussing their relationship-between-thousand-quotation-marks, this is exactly the type of shit they were avoiding with it in the first place. To unpack on her own later, preferably far, far away from him.
Not that Sophie's in any condition to pay any attention to it today, especially not now, with a rhythm she likes and follows, even if rocking with him is challenging with her legs so far up. Her entire neural pathway lights up like it's New Years at midnight with that ownership (but not really) response that he is giving her, but what really gets the most reaction it's the fact she no longer has her hand to hold onto him. It helps her take out some of edge of anticipation, and it makes her break the kiss to let out a pleased, but needy whine now that she does not have enough ways to calm herself down and ride the pleasure more consistently.
If Quentin ever wondered how much noise she can make, well. He doesn't have to wonder anymore. They're still sweet, breathy, but she's not holding them back at all, and every now and then? She gets louder, because that's really all she has for physical focus.
She's probably waking up at 2PM tomorrow, and he doesn't get to bitch about it.)
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And then he took her hand away, and some of the sexiest noises she's ever made start pouring out of her.
And that gives him Ideas.
She wanted him assertive. For him to explore cravings, and then she gave him space to figure them out. His exploration thus far has netted nothing but extremely enthusiastic approval. He slows his hips, making a mildly disgruntled sound, which he's sure (and hopes) will pale in comparison to her reaction when she realizes he's stopping. But don't worry, it'll be worth it!]
Turn over.
[He begrudgingly pulls out and sits back to make it easier for her to move as requested, taking the opportunity to catch his breath briefly. Assuming she doesn't literally murder him for stopping, he's guessing she won't take too long. And in the unlikely event that she needs the extra motivation, he sends her the knowledge of how eager he is to be back inside her, this time in a position where she won't be able to muffle her noises with kisses or ground herself by gripping his hair or his shoulder or any of that crap. All she'll get to do is feel him. A thought which, by the way, is unbelievably hot to him.
If she wakes up before 1PM tomorrow, he will be severely disappointed.]
1/2
2/3 i lied
To just.
Make her have nothing to hold, like her body begs her to.
And then stop. Did he really just stop. He really just stopped. Did he
Is he
Wait, hold up, let her use her brain cells to drag out the information that there is no fucking way that he is not doing this for a good reason. There's literally no way. She might not be literally murdering him, but she really seriously wants to, and she desires it most when he pulls out of her.
He better give her a great reason not to.)
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It's all very short-lived and very quick in succession, at least. That wave of information coming in does the other half of convincing, her own perception that there are no winners in the current state of affairs did the rest. If it were a month or two ago, with that reasoning? The answer would be absolutely not, how else is she going to filter his knowledge of her like that?
Thankfully, people grow when having mindblowing telepathic sex with their situationship. The fact that she feels more naked now, when she is actually so doesn't feel bad at all? Can't understand it, won't think of it right now. Sophie's... Healthly curious, and surprisingly just as allured by his proposal as he is. Once she sits up, she presses a brief peck to his lips before she so kindly complies.)
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So once she's turned, he nudges her into a position where he can enter her again, giving her brain a little ping from his indicating how pleased he is. And wherever her hands end up? He's grabbing them in both of his and pinning them down as he leans over her to lightly kiss the back of her shoulder, pressing her down into the bed. So far so good. Quentin rolls his hips experimentally and oh fuck yes that tears a brand new, very slightly feral noise out of him—it's ironic that despite this being the very first position he ever suggested when they started this whole... whatever it is, they've never actually done it. Similar stuff here and there, like that first time in the astral plane, but not like this. It's for the best, though, because honestly he probably wouldn't have had the stones to pull it off before. Half-assed weaksauce top!Quentin can't come to the phone right now. Why? 'Cause he's dead (though like all dead Quentins, probably not permanently, alas).
Anyway.]
Holy fucking shit.
[He rocks his hips once, getting as deep as he can before pausing to let them both adjust to the new angle, new sensations, new everything, panting against the back of her neck.]
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He would be correct. He requested it, and she sort of gave it to him, but emphasis on the sorta. She was still with him on the physical plane, so he was subjected to all her instinctual touching. Look, while she has much more movement freedom, which she intends to use in just a minute, she can't look at him, can't hold him, or tug on him, and can hardly kiss him without them adding neck pain to the mix of sores to be dealt with tomorrow. It's a lot of deprivation of things she uses to stay sane through the sheer absurdity that is fucking another telepath. Gets a little too damn real with her free-flowing like that.
And after (what the fuck) months, she finds that she's okay. She still hasn't died from vulnerability exposure (what the fuck), and she's jittery to see what exactly this whole ordeal is going to end up feeling like, and she's not disappointed in the slightest. He's deeper, hitting things at an angle that she didn't know would feel so maddening, and that sound he makes? She's lucky to have heard it with the loudest one she has departing her in unison, a small kiss onto the skin of his hand to respond to the one he left on her shoulder.
When he rolls his hips, she finds herself grinding along without not even realizing it, taking that little break to try and get her breathing in place. She's not a huge talker, never has been, but.)
... Yeah. That's — that's about right.
(Nailed communication, 1 point to her, but that's not important, because she can roll her own hips so much freely now, so she does, once. It's a request that comes paired with the telepathic statement of how much she's longing to feel him more.)
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Speaking of, somewhere on the edges of his mind, Quentin can tell she's hesitant to give him this. Something something vulnerability. She's being cut off from everything she normally uses to ground herself. Which is scary and shit he guesses but also duh that's the point?? Anyway, he certainly doesn't intend to leave her with any regrets about doing this so whatever it doesn't even matter. She's also nudging him telepathically for more, and really? After the noise that comes out of her? Who is he to refuse??
He rocks into her and shit, better add biceps and triceps to the list of muscles that are going to be sore tomorrow because he can already tell they're gonna be burning but it'll be so, so worth the pain. It takes a few tries to find a good rhythm, trading out his previous sharp, demanding thrusts for a smoother, deeper rolling motion. Less physically strenuous (bonus) while satisfying as much as—if not more—of his need to claim her thanks to the other logistics of this position. And since he's been kind enough to give her more like she asked, he sends back to her a clear message: louder.]
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Which also means that whatever hesitation she had, albeit minimal because she works entirely on 'show me yours and I'll show you mine', is out of the window as soon as he finds a tempo to work with. It's not, well, railing, which is more than fine with her — this is hitting her spots just right and whenever there's a thrust that has her neurons sparkling, she copies it to him as a way to let him know that she's, well, fucking losing it, her hips following his and her back arching whenever she leaves out a louder sound. There are this hands in hers too, but, well, she squeezes that, then she actually might hurt him, so. Losing it it is.
The message is loud and clear, and she actually can formulate a response. He has always liked a challenge, and she has already hit her maximum volume levels, so, he wants her louder?
Make me.)
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Hold on.
"Make me"?
"Make"????????? "Me"????????
The noise that comes out of him is the breathy, obscenely horny version of a snarl, her audacity and his indignation suddenly boiling over in his head. See, he decided her pleasure, her noises, all of that shit? That's his (for a limited time, conditions apply). Who is she to say he can't have what belongs to him?
Fine. She wants to be like that? Wants to get railed instead of the nice smoother pace he found? Works for him. He tightens his grip on her hands, draws his hips back and then rocks into her hard, aiming for those angles that have gotten the most uncontrolled, needy responses for her. The whole point of this position was to fill her head with nothing but him, but clearly there's room in there for dumb challenges, and that just won't do. He responds verbally this time, close enough to her ear that she can feel his harsh breathing and hear all his low groans and the slight huskiness in his voice. And of course, every word is punctuated by a rough thrust, followed by a little grind to make sure—make sure—she feels all of him.]
I said... louder.
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