[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.]
(There are crucial points that ought to be considered when examining this situation. Sophie isn't, and if he is as intelligent as he claims to be, he should follow her lead and never look into this critically when their neurons aren't firing at full capacity.
Point A. The Cuckoos, Sophie not an exception to it whatsoever, she's problem number one in chronological order, have pushed Quentin as far as he could go, and Quentin has always let them, some way or another. As a Cuckoo, yes, delightful. As Sophie? It's not something she wants around her. She likes to see him stand up to her, challenge and show teeth because, well. He has a certain track record, and so does she, and there's nothing in this world that is hotter from him to her than teeth. Show her different and all.
Point B. There's something about passion that she just can't put her finger on naturally, that little part of her monkey brain that thrives on attention and being wanted deliriously. It's just new the way they're dealing with things today, and to find that she trusts him enough to navigate this shit with her? Groundbreaking news. She thought she was here helping him, but apparently, they're both figuring some shit out. Hot point, weirdly so.
Point C. Look. Conditions and terms apply to her too, just as much as they do him. It's the fact that those conditions and terms are so firmly there that she can let go of her bullshit and just relish this for a moment, because, well she likes him. Occasionally. A little. Conditions and Terms apply, so, there's also the same feeling of 'mine, situational' from her. 50/50, somehow, which is a whole pleasant area.
All this to say, holy fuck, she's spending tomorrow here too, because there is no likelihood she recovers from this so soon, with a jolt of pleasure striking her as soon as she feels that snap from his head. First of all, nice, second of all, there are not enough swear words in her repertoire to express how turned on she is right now, because all A, B, C? They all combine. The sound that she escapes her? Unholy, almost sinful with how she discovers that her maximum volume is not, indeed, her maximum volume, and she gives it to him without conscious thought — he actually makes her.
Her back can't arch any more than it already is, her eyes shutting close as she follows each and every thrust, at times pushing harder against him so she, too, can make sure he's filling her completely. Her brain no longer works, and honestly? She's not going to last much longer than this.)
[Quentin Quire is not easily silenced, and his brain even less so. But fuck if this shit isn't getting pretty damn close. Though, well. "Silenced" is a strong word for what's happening in his head right now. Sure, his critical thinking skills and ability to conceive of any reality that isn't fucking Sophie into oblivion is completely shot, but on the other hand, the part of his brain that is concerned with oblivion-fucking has never been as alive as it is now. Not that any of their previous nights together have been unsatisfying, because they haven't. Not by any metric whatsoever. But it's never been this intense, this raw and needy and visceral. It's a damn shame they likely won't be able to muster the right combination of pent-up shit and unresolved trauma to do this every time they're together from now on, but whatever. Variety is the spice of life or something. He guesses.
Needless to say, her reaction more than satisfies his demand for "louder," and he lets her know by giving her mind a caress of his approval, gentle in comparison to the wild clash of their hips against each other. If he had enough brainpower to consider such a thing, he would wonder if Sophie has a praise kink and whether or not that would turn her on, but a) he doesn't have the brainpower and b) he's not sure if she's physically capable of being more aroused than she currently is. Probably not. A thought which, by the way, sends a shiver of pride and triumph straight down his spine. And like everything else today, fuels a craving for more. So he pants hotly into her ear and keeps talking, letting his words echo in her mind to make sure she can hear it over the racket she's making.]
That—that's better.
[So here's the thing: with this pace and her losing her goddamn mind under him and every cell in his body hungry for more and more and more etc, he's close. Like really close. Letting things progress how they are, he probably won't outlast her. But also? He wants—no, he needs—to make her orgasm twice again. She's so goddamn overstimulated already, and what few thoughts are still bouncing around in his head that don't revolve around how good she feels right now are very, very preoccupied with how good she'd feel if he pushed her even further. He'll be haunted forever if he doesn't! Probably. Maybe. Most likely not, but whatever.
Still. What does one Quentin Q. Quire do when faced with nearly impossible odds stacked up between him and his goal? He cheats, of course.]
Now how about—fuck—you do me a favor... [He thrusts into her and forces himself to stop, buried as deep as he can and grinding feverishly to maintain plenty of friction for her. And of course, she's welcome to push back against him as much as she pleases. He encourages it, in fact. Don't worry, she won't be left hanging for long.] and come for me?
[It's phrased as a question, but she doesn't get a choice. He's pushing her over the edge, pausing his movements solely to keep himself from losing it. He'll join her for her second, no question, but he wants to feel her come apart under and around him first.]
(It's unlikely that it will happen again so soon, and she, too, would agree that it's a shame, but it just happened with the specific set of circumstances that were presented to them. No fucking for way too long (Sophie Standards) for one, his anxiety brain soup for two, her actually figuring out that she cares for it for three and taking a step to solve it without fucking it all up for four, her trauma and grievances for five... The list just keeps going, like a scroll that unrolls down to the floor. Not to mention the processing times, and honestly? Their squishy telepath bodies cannot handle this too frequently.
That said, it is also similarly unlikely that things will stay the same, whatever shape or form that their sex life and general dynamics might take after this. He just learned too much, about himself and about her, and she has done the same. Certainly she'll be more careful — there are cycles to break and things to explore on both sides that require a little more tact. Perhaps the biggest change she is experiencing through this is the fact she isn't scared of any of this anymore. She won't want to hide once they're done, no stern, nagging voice in her head with a pleading to get it together, and underneath all the billion layers of absolutely overstimulating, mind-melding, head-spinning, and inexpressible pleasure, there's comfort. The fact that he reaches into her mind to offer gentleness only drives that home.
Not that, well, she can perceive that right now. Truth be told, she can't really think of anything. Her entire focus is on the maddening pace of their hips with her own mirroring, the tension on her back, the fucking noises he's making right next to her ear, which he has got to know is sensitive as hell at this point. All that, paired with the feeling of him inside her, and the noises barely soothe the need for grounding? She is nearly begging to have some relief on her damn own without any extra nudging from him, because she is so damn close again that she can almost taste sweet, sweet relief.
And then he does that. He can probably hear her mind scrambling to fix the fact that he stopped, her first thought to move her hand between her legs, but before she can even contemplate the fact she has no mobility for that, his telepathic fingers move her right towards it. It's way too damn intense, and there's no hiding that with how her hands finally grip on his as she lets out the most relieved and satisfied groan her body could produce, her clenching (good luck with that one, Quentin) as much as she can so she can ride it, and breathing? Hearing without the presence of a loud ringing? Those two things are completely foreign concepts to her right now.
[Holy shit, it is way, way more difficult to not lose it this time. He would've thought being more prepared for it would help, since last time he just kinda... kept going, but turns out stopping only made him feel the waves of pleasure coming from her mind and god, how tightly she's clenching around him. It's too fucking much, and simultaneously not enough. Every stupid plan to prove some bullshit by giving his own goddamn self blue balls is officially the dumbest thought to ever exist in his head, he's decided, and he frantically bucks his hips into her to correct this terrible, idiotic mistake and come inside her as soon as physically possible. Which, considering how close he was before and how delirious he is now, takes both no time at all and also an eternity.
He has no idea if she's going to have a second orgasm like he wanted. He'll worry about that when his own has passed, and his vision is no longer just flashes of light. And when it finally does?
Jesus.
He's dead. He's officially dead. Quentin slumps across her back with a loud and tired yet utterly pleased groan. Sorry, Sophie, he's not moving unless you literally tell him to.]
(Were this a normal thing, she'd be so pleased with herself. Really, it'd go to her own little mural of victories in her mindscape, and she'd give him the smugest look her face can make as soon as she saw his.
This is not a normal thing. She's still riding her own pleasure, and maybe, just maybe his own sends an aftershock of joy through her spine, short spasms to her muscles, and perhaps that could technically under some categories be considered a smaller climax, but also, who can say, not her, she can't really say much.
At least they're both dead, so there's that silver lining, because she still hasn't been able to breathe properly, so he gets a few seconds of grace before she taps him.)
I ——— out.
(She doesn't even mean to be rude, she doesn't want to, it's just that brain goes brrrrr, and this is really the best she can come up with right now. He understands.)
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no subject
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.]
no subject
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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Point A. The Cuckoos, Sophie not an exception to it whatsoever, she's problem number one in chronological order, have pushed Quentin as far as he could go, and Quentin has always let them, some way or another. As a Cuckoo, yes, delightful. As Sophie? It's not something she wants around her. She likes to see him stand up to her, challenge and show teeth because, well. He has a certain track record, and so does she, and there's nothing in this world that is hotter from him to her than teeth. Show her different and all.
Point B. There's something about passion that she just can't put her finger on naturally, that little part of her monkey brain that thrives on attention and being wanted deliriously. It's just new the way they're dealing with things today, and to find that she trusts him enough to navigate this shit with her? Groundbreaking news. She thought she was here helping him, but apparently, they're both figuring some shit out. Hot point, weirdly so.
Point C. Look. Conditions and terms apply to her too, just as much as they do him. It's the fact that those conditions and terms are so firmly there that she can let go of her bullshit and just relish this for a moment, because, well she likes him. Occasionally. A little. Conditions and Terms apply, so, there's also the same feeling of 'mine, situational' from her. 50/50, somehow, which is a whole pleasant area.
All this to say, holy fuck, she's spending tomorrow here too, because there is no likelihood she recovers from this so soon, with a jolt of pleasure striking her as soon as she feels that snap from his head. First of all, nice, second of all, there are not enough swear words in her repertoire to express how turned on she is right now, because all A, B, C? They all combine. The sound that she escapes her? Unholy, almost sinful with how she discovers that her maximum volume is not, indeed, her maximum volume, and she gives it to him without conscious thought — he actually makes her.
Her back can't arch any more than it already is, her eyes shutting close as she follows each and every thrust, at times pushing harder against him so she, too, can make sure he's filling her completely. Her brain no longer works, and honestly? She's not going to last much longer than this.)
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Needless to say, her reaction more than satisfies his demand for "louder," and he lets her know by giving her mind a caress of his approval, gentle in comparison to the wild clash of their hips against each other. If he had enough brainpower to consider such a thing, he would wonder if Sophie has a praise kink and whether or not that would turn her on, but a) he doesn't have the brainpower and b) he's not sure if she's physically capable of being more aroused than she currently is. Probably not. A thought which, by the way, sends a shiver of pride and triumph straight down his spine. And like everything else today, fuels a craving for more. So he pants hotly into her ear and keeps talking, letting his words echo in her mind to make sure she can hear it over the racket she's making.]
That—that's better.
[So here's the thing: with this pace and her losing her goddamn mind under him and every cell in his body hungry for more and more and more etc, he's close. Like really close. Letting things progress how they are, he probably won't outlast her. But also? He wants—no, he needs—to make her orgasm twice again. She's so goddamn overstimulated already, and what few thoughts are still bouncing around in his head that don't revolve around how good she feels right now are very, very preoccupied with how good she'd feel if he pushed her even further. He'll be haunted forever if he doesn't! Probably. Maybe. Most likely not, but whatever.
Still. What does one Quentin Q. Quire do when faced with nearly impossible odds stacked up between him and his goal? He cheats, of course.]
Now how about—fuck—you do me a favor... [He thrusts into her and forces himself to stop, buried as deep as he can and grinding feverishly to maintain plenty of friction for her. And of course, she's welcome to push back against him as much as she pleases. He encourages it, in fact. Don't worry, she won't be left hanging for long.] and come for me?
[It's phrased as a question, but she doesn't get a choice. He's pushing her over the edge, pausing his movements solely to keep himself from losing it. He'll join her for her second, no question, but he wants to feel her come apart under and around him first.]
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That said, it is also similarly unlikely that things will stay the same, whatever shape or form that their sex life and general dynamics might take after this. He just learned too much, about himself and about her, and she has done the same. Certainly she'll be more careful — there are cycles to break and things to explore on both sides that require a little more tact. Perhaps the biggest change she is experiencing through this is the fact she isn't scared of any of this anymore. She won't want to hide once they're done, no stern, nagging voice in her head with a pleading to get it together, and underneath all the billion layers of absolutely overstimulating, mind-melding, head-spinning, and inexpressible pleasure, there's comfort. The fact that he reaches into her mind to offer gentleness only drives that home.
Not that, well, she can perceive that right now. Truth be told, she can't really think of anything. Her entire focus is on the maddening pace of their hips with her own mirroring, the tension on her back, the fucking noises he's making right next to her ear, which he has got to know is sensitive as hell at this point. All that, paired with the feeling of him inside her, and the noises barely soothe the need for grounding? She is nearly begging to have some relief on her damn own without any extra nudging from him, because she is so damn close again that she can almost taste sweet, sweet relief.
And then he does that. He can probably hear her mind scrambling to fix the fact that he stopped, her first thought to move her hand between her legs, but before she can even contemplate the fact she has no mobility for that, his telepathic fingers move her right towards it. It's way too damn intense, and there's no hiding that with how her hands finally grip on his as she lets out the most relieved and satisfied groan her body could produce, her clenching (good luck with that one, Quentin) as much as she can so she can ride it, and breathing? Hearing without the presence of a loud ringing? Those two things are completely foreign concepts to her right now.
Holy shit, the room is spinning.)
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He has no idea if she's going to have a second orgasm like he wanted. He'll worry about that when his own has passed, and his vision is no longer just flashes of light. And when it finally does?
Jesus.
He's dead. He's officially dead. Quentin slumps across her back with a loud and tired yet utterly pleased groan. Sorry, Sophie, he's not moving unless you literally tell him to.]
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This is not a normal thing. She's still riding her own pleasure, and maybe, just maybe his own sends an aftershock of joy through her spine, short spasms to her muscles, and perhaps that could technically under some categories be considered a smaller climax, but also, who can say, not her, she can't really say much.
At least they're both dead, so there's that silver lining, because she still hasn't been able to breathe properly, so he gets a few seconds of grace before she taps him.)
I ——— out.
(She doesn't even mean to be rude, she doesn't want to, it's just that brain goes brrrrr, and this is really the best she can come up with right now. He understands.)