(To each, whatever they need to do. For Sophie, that's connection, linking, synchrony, because under normal circumstances, she wouldn't be one. He busies himself with his scan, she moves her focus to his hypothalamus — breathing, synched, heart rate, synched, and her focus is on how it all flows. That's her grounding, her eyes closed as she just listens to it and lets it calm her nerves for a second.
She's not perfect. This is hard, and she crosses a leg on top of the other to really pay attention... Until he speaks and disturbs it. Not mad at all, actually, instead, it pulls an extraordinarily genuine laugh out of her, before her nose wrinkles in embarrassment and her eyes shut close as she tries to fight the...
Blush?)
I know... I've never done this shit before, it's all very new, okay? Fucking is less intimate than this, leave me alone.
[He can hear her laugh, feel her cheeks heat up—much to her chagrin—and it's all so idiotic that the side of his mouth quirks up into a crooked smile entirely outside of his control. His hands drop from his eyes, but he stays slumped forward, resting his forearms against his thighs with his hands hanging between his knees.]
That's because you only fuck himbos.
[Look. No shade to Nate. Or Cable, he supposes. Quentin never really knew the kid, but he seemed nice enough. Himbos are totally valid and respected, we stan, blah blah blah.
But they're both so totally himbos. And Sophie knows it.]
(Where's her pillow, so she can hide her red face in for a hot moment. God, it burns, make it stop, she hates it, she doesn't blush, what the FUCK kill it with a thousand fires she hates it
With her face buried on the fabric, one finger and a black nail stand as she goes through this torture of going through an out of this, even through people she had a fleeting thing with. She wouldn't call them himbos, thank you very much, they're just... Hot, okay. Cable, well. Dork. Pretty hot, though. Proudstar, well, that was a weird time. Nate's just a bit clueless, not on him, though. Julian... It's the jock energy, okay.
She doesn't know what tarnishedmoodring looks like. He doesn't sound like himbo material, he's... Something else, but she doesn't know, does she? Snarky dumbass that won't stay down in Summoner's — ugh, she misses him. If Quentin wondered why she won't leave her phone alone even if it has no service, well, this is why.
[Great, yeah, a list of every himbo Sophie's ever thought was hot. Including a few Quentin didn't know about until now! Love that for him.
Oh well, at least he gets to watch her absolutely crash out over the fact that she somehow never realized she has a type. And that her type is himbo. Which it obviously is. Quentin lifts his head slightly, looking at her over the frames of his glasses with a raised eyebrow.]
Nobody said fucking himbos is bad. [He shrugs loosely.] I'm just saying, not exactly a wellspring of profundity.
(Hope he's enjoying talking to the golden strands of hair because she's not giving him the satisfaction of being the first person who managed to make her blush, even if she knows he knows her face is degrees hotter than it should.
She's not even looking at him, thank you, and fuck you.)
[Oh, he knows, alright. He knows exactly how flushed her face feels right now, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't entertained. Quentin's quite certain any of the Cuckoos getting flustered like this is rare, and her mind readily confirms that hypothesis. He never saw this from Phoebe, either. It's... kinda fun, actually. In like a mild schadenfreude kind of way. He looks down at his hands again and raises one to adjust his glasses.]
Eh.
[That's a yes. And then, an intrusive thought. That he absolutely should not say because it is not even remotely the time or place.
Of course he's enjoying this, and if the roles were swapped, she'd be having a damn blast right back. God, karma is a bitch, and she just wants to talk to Her for one moment, maybe to show Sophie some mercy.
But it's the intrusive thought that he chooses to turn into an outside thought that proves to her that karma does not give shit about her feelings.
Un. Beliveable. She's dead again, pretty sure.
Any other time, any other place, this is a normal Tuesday. Right now, with her face already in pins and needles with the fluster she feels, all the rollercoaster of emotions they decided to ride, this only makes her skin reach the limit of how red it can go. The pillow is thrown at him with no care, her eyes squinting immediately in her indignation.)
What exactly in the last months, including the last hour, tells you that us is a good idea?
[The irony is if she threw a pillow at him in the outside world? All but guaranteed it'd smack him in the face, and she would be rewarded with some kind of squawk or otherwise ungraceful noise and fumbling and such. Unfortunately, Sophie chose to throw something at an Omega level telepath while in someone's mind. Doesn't matter if it's her own mindscape. Brains? That's his bread and butter. He catches the pillow easily and gestures vaguely with it in a shrug, not nearly as expressive or casual as his usual body language, but recognizable as a version of it.]
You're the one who said fucking was less intimate.
[He sticks the pillow between his back and the chair and leans against it. Now you don't have a pillow to hide your blushing into, Sophie. So nyeh.]
By your logic it'd be an improvement on this dumpster fire.
(Bitch. She's gonna have to throw a pillow at him out of her brain at some point. There's no mentally fighting Quentin for her, especially when she's just one, but out of here, she's going to kick him. She's very determined, because not only did he catch it with ease, but he also takes it.
Hope he enjoys a pink-colored Sophie, contrasting with the ocean blueness of her glaring eyes.
Don't bring logic into her brain.)
Logic aside from the very reasonable statement due to the fact you're literally hearing my every unfiltered thought and so am I for you, we already argue like a bitter divorced couple who can't decide on the terms and we've never even had a thing. If that weren't the case, sure, whatever, but it is, so nope.
[There's a difference. He's assuming she knows that, based on the way they got into this topic. And the latter? Out of the question. They can't communicate for shit even when literally crawling in each other's heads, and that's even if he had any interest in a sequel to The Phoebe Debacle. The former? Well, it's never really appealed to Quentin before but... hm. Whatever. He holds his hands up in surrender.]
Look, I'm not arguing. Like I said, us? Dumpster fire. No matter how you slice it. No reason to think there'd be any exceptions.
[... That said, her face is still very, very pink. And he kinda wants to know if it can get pinker. You know. For science. Or something. He looks up, watching her intently, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.]
... Or, you know. You're just scared you'd like it.
(Listen, they are neither fucking nor dating and it's already bad. The joke is hardly a joke, they jumped over literally every stage and landed on DIVORCE. The bombastic side-eye intensifies at the mental comparison, because excuse her, she is not Phoebe, in case he hasn't noticed. Phoebe is Esme light, and Sophie is exactly on the opposite end of that scale. Sophie doesn't care about power — not a bone in her gives a fuck about Quentin's nor Nate's Omega-level bullshit, Phoenix capabilities, titles, or any of that shit. If anything, the fact she genuinely likes a man she met through a dumb videogame so much to the point shit goes down and she doesn't look up from her phone — personality and texting only.
Phoebe... Well. He said it himself. The funniest part of all this to her is that she truly prefers Quentin like this, over Krakoa. She actually had honest-to-God fun with him on that dance floor, their date-not-date, and at that arcade. The thing is that reaching that is pure hell, like she has to go through a nation-wide landmine of eggshells. Okay, fine, she does that to him too, she GUESSES. This is why they suck. God, they suck so much.
At least he sees it too. Dumpster fire and all that.
Thing is, Quentin, she is very well aware that she would probably enjoy it. She has heard more than he would want to know that she has. Her face has already reached the limit on how red it can go, and it is slowly creeping towards it again because... This is idiotic.
It's stupid. It's a very nice break from how much she wants to ghost, but listen.
It's dumb.
She hates she's considering it. Maybe fucking gives them something else to focus rather than whatever the FUCK they are.)
I'm not scared of shit, thank you very much. If anything, I'm concerned it's gonna make you even more insufferable after.
(Defense mechanism, blablablabla.)
If. If we do this. I'm not saying we are. I'm saying if. That's all it is, and we agree it can't make this shit worse.
[Quentin both watches and feels the cogs turning in her head and realizes with mild surprise that she is genuinely considering it.
Oh.
Well.
Okay, sure. Why not. He can roll with that, considering he's discovered this new interesting thing where he can make her squirm in a decidedly un-Cuckoo-like way, and that's very fun. Sure, he'll have to grapple with the Phoebe in the room at some point considering the whole clone, "they have the same face/body" thing, but that's a problem for later. For now he just focuses on how this is the first goddamn time any of this has felt like it's not being dragged down with too many years of stupid baggage. He lets the smirk pull at the side of his mouth more and leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his face.]
Well, I will absolutely be more insufferable. Buuut it kinda seems like you might be into that, otherwise you would've shoved me out of your head a while ago. As for "this shit," [he does the air quotes, because of course he does] it's already a disaster of Biblical proportions, so how much worse could it get?
[Okay, that's a bad question. Experience has shown that with Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, there is always further down to go. He gives her a quick look like "yeah, I know" and rolls his eyes.]
Look. You like attention, right? I like showing off. We're both telepaths. Surely not even we can fuck that combo up. If we do this, we go with that. It's just, you know. For fun. That's all.
(They, they will have, because honestly, she also doesn't love that part of it all, but listen. It was not the pitch of fucking non-himbos that does it for her, because she does not agree with his assessment for like, half of the people she has interest in. It was more the fact that... Hey. If they are already in the Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo showdown like they're exes fighting for their lives without ever having talked properly, might as well get something out of it. At best, they'll solve it and it's something better, at worst, at least they'll have something tangible to be pissed about.
Although, probably, it's going to be halfway pending towards the latter. She knows them.)
Oh, shut up, I'm not into it. I'm taking a well-deserved break.
(Ugh. She hates it when Quentin Quire is right. They have been trying, and peace lasts at most 48 hours, but at the comment, she gets ready to tell him 'tremendously', before he confirms he knows it.
She has doubts that they can't screw this up. She's pretty sure they can. But, alas. At least this mistake, they're both on board with. That's a fucking first.)
[This? This is a very weird day. Not the weirdest he's ever had, not by a long shot. But it's up there. In the top, say, 25 or so. Probably.
The weirdest thing is that it's not bad weird, honestly. This is... so entirely different than the start of any other relationship he's ever had—he highly, highly doubts this is how he and Phoebe got together—and this isn't even a relationship. Well. Technically speaking it is. By definition. But it's not a relationship relationship. That's the point. It's different and weird and somehow that feels... good. He's negotiating the terms and conditions of fucking Sophie Cuckoo, and somehow his head feels clearer than it did when she asked him to dance. Or go to the arcade. Or when he made her some goddamn eggs.
Huh.]
Great. Also you are so into it. Just sayin'.
[Cool. Good talk.]
Soooo, time? Place? What're we thinking? Logistics-wise.
(She does like it a LITTLE BIT. A smidge. A speck. Only because Quentin is cynical and bitchy, and guess who too is? Mindlessly bickering with him is fun, and as soon as she thinks it, she regrets it, because that stupid idea of keeping their mind free-flowing to each other is still on, she realizes while he too realizes this isn't going bad.
She's realizing that, too, and her eyes roll almost too dramatically.)
Hmm, okay, but if you're more than 15 minutes late I'm legally allowed to leave.
[Alright, not his best work in the reference humor department, but whatever. They can't all be winners, and as previously mentioned, this is a very surreal kind of day. He's allowed to have a couple of one-liners that aren't bangers. Whatever.]
Don't keep me waiting.
[Quentin gives her a little salute and vanishes. He'll just be in his room, sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard and wearing his PJs.]
(With rolling eyes, she clicks her tongue at the joke, although it lacks a characteristic bite from her, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Once he's gone from her brain, so is she — physical body only, and she sighs in a bit of relief because holy shit, what is her life lately. With the free flow cut, she has a moment to recenter, check herself in the mirror, and well. She's not going to change, looking cute and feeling cute makes her so incredibly happy, so the white lacy extra loungewear she is already wearing seems more than fine.
She's not late, probably perfectly in time once she opens his door, not bothering to knock because it's not like he doesn't know she's coming over... And God, it's pink, it's extra, it's so extra that it pulls a laugh out of her as she makes her way to sit on the bed next to him, eyes busy looking around at the explosion of pink.)
Not exactly, but also exactly what I was expecting out of your room, how do you sleep here?
(So much stimuli, but look, she came, her shoulder gently bumping on his, playful.)
[Quentin gives her an appreciative once-over when she enters and again when she sits next to him since, you know, different angle. He promised her attention, and that's what she's going to get.]
I'm used to a few billion minds in my head. This is basically my "sad millennial beige."
[He looks around the room, opening his mind up to her so she can feel that the loud and bright and the extra does in fact calm him. It's like white noise, a constant cacophony that evens out to a pleasant hum.
Quentin also notably doesn't bump his shoulder back into hers, and that's because of the next topic. Might as well get it out of the way early. He leans his head back against the headboard and looks at the ceiling for a moment, then rolls his neck to the side to meet her eyes.]
Right, yeah, probably goes without saying, but I'm not doing shit that reminds me of Phoebe. I assume you don't have a problem with that.
(Very interesting to look at it through his eyes (literally). To her, well, she prefers more of a soft pink, gentle pastels, golden details, expensive crystals over the modern lightning and the harsher tones, but with how his brain reacts to it... She can get it, and besides, what about Quentin Quire isn't obnoxiously loud, anyway?
She was a bit distracted, admittedly, listening to hum in his mind like a quiet background noise until he starts talking again. Dark blue irises move to meet his, eyebrows raised for a second because...
Doy.)
None from me, I don't want to remind you or me of Phoebe, so I'm more than fine leaving that far, far from us.
[And that's all he's saying on it. All that needs to be said. This is supposed to be fun, and Phoebe-related anything? Not fun.
Ugh. Okay, moving on. Quentin gives her a sly look and rolls his head to face forward again, putting his hands behind his neck.]
Then you should kiss me.
[Apparently not being reminded of Phoebe means him being bossy and unbearably smug. This should be a surprise to absolutely nobody who knows either of them.]
(Oh, she hates the smug, she hates it so much, even if he did say he was gonna get insufferable. It was a given, and yet, it pulls such an eyeroll from her because hello, you have Sophie Cuckoo nearly naked on your bed, and you're putting her to do work, Quentin???
Absurd. The first thing she does is reestablish the connection, although much less on the thoughts, and much more on the sensory aspect of the exchange. For a tiny moment, she just looks at him, trying to figure out whether this is actually... Okay, but the conclusion she finds is that she doesn't actually care. She wants this, go figure, who gets it, not her. Long fingers remove his glasses, and in full knowledge that he's probably going to drive her crazy by the end of the day, her lips press against his.)
[He squints his eyes and blinks when she takes off his glasses, adjusting briefly to the lack of the yellow tint. But that's okay, his eyes aren't open much longer once she leans in.
Quentin is a talented telepath, and the first thing he does with that talent is set up a psychic "looping hallway camera" trick, not hiding the locations of their psi-signatures, but disguising their activities. Much less noticeable to other psychics around, particularly a certain two who could take notes. Cough.
The second thing is after he moves his hands from behind his head to either side of her face, reaching into her mind to pluck at a few particularly delightful synapses.]
/Are you calling yourself impossible? Because if so I agree./
[Get it? Because she said he was "fucking impossible"???? Do you get the joke???????]
(She has to wonder just how blind he is without the glasses if it makes that much difference, but that's not here nor now. Right now, she's busy first feeling out what he's doing, because, okay, smart, she is taking notes, will use. There's an understanding within her that this is going to fuck her powers up so bad, considering the telepathy mindfuckery they just did, and the one they are about to do, so she's just going to trust him on the, ugh, logistics.
Her hand moves to his shoulder, a bit of support for her as she is busy kissing him, nails digging in a little with a soft sigh once he starts moving stuff around in her brain... And, shit, she shouldn't have given him any power, because her face burns again, and she cuts the kiss for a second because it brings out a laugh from her, her nose crinkling.
Fuck, fine, she likes it. There, happy, Quentin?)
/Excuse me, pot, kettle./
(No bite, though. Not today, not right now. Instead, her arms wrap around his neck as she leans in again, pulling him close as she too starts doing her routine pathway check for whatever he might enjoy most.
To her comment, though, Quentin just drops a nugget of information directly into her brain. A dictionary definition, in fact.
double entendre [ noun ] ˈdüb-ᵊl-äⁿ-ˈtäⁿz; ˈdə-bəl-än-ˈtän-drəz linguistics : a word or expression capable of two interpretations with one usually risqué
He hopes Sophie enjoys that. Which, of course, she will, and not just because he's still poking around in her head. She leans closer, and he shifts his hands to her waist, and hey, why not amp up those nerve endings a bit just for funsies.
When she starts checking for what he likes, though, he resists, not a full block but enough to be noticeable.]
/I show off, you get attention, remember? Tell me what you want. Bonus points for flattery, obviously./
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
She's not perfect. This is hard, and she crosses a leg on top of the other to really pay attention... Until he speaks and disturbs it. Not mad at all, actually, instead, it pulls an extraordinarily genuine laugh out of her, before her nose wrinkles in embarrassment and her eyes shut close as she tries to fight the...
Blush?)
I know... I've never done this shit before, it's all very new, okay? Fucking is less intimate than this, leave me alone.
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That's because you only fuck himbos.
[Look. No shade to Nate. Or Cable, he supposes. Quentin never really knew the kid, but he seemed nice enough. Himbos are totally valid and respected, we stan, blah blah blah.
But they're both so totally himbos. And Sophie knows it.]
1/2
With her face buried on the fabric, one finger and a black nail stand as she goes through this torture of going through an out of this, even through people she had a fleeting thing with. She wouldn't call them himbos, thank you very much, they're just... Hot, okay. Cable, well. Dork. Pretty hot, though. Proudstar, well, that was a weird time. Nate's just a bit clueless, not on him, though. Julian... It's the jock energy, okay.
She doesn't know what tarnishedmoodring looks like. He doesn't sound like himbo material, he's... Something else, but she doesn't know, does she? Snarky dumbass that won't stay down in Summoner's — ugh, she misses him. If Quentin wondered why she won't leave her phone alone even if it has no service, well, this is why.
Shit.)
...
2/2
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Oh well, at least he gets to watch her absolutely crash out over the fact that she somehow never realized she has a type. And that her type is himbo. Which it obviously is. Quentin lifts his head slightly, looking at her over the frames of his glasses with a raised eyebrow.]
Nobody said fucking himbos is bad. [He shrugs loosely.] I'm just saying, not exactly a wellspring of profundity.
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She's not even looking at him, thank you, and fuck you.)
... You think I only care about looks.
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Eh.
[That's a yes. And then, an intrusive thought. That he absolutely should not say because it is not even remotely the time or place.
And yet.]
I know how you can prove me wrong.
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Of course he's enjoying this, and if the roles were swapped, she'd be having a damn blast right back. God, karma is a bitch, and she just wants to talk to Her for one moment, maybe to show Sophie some mercy.
But it's the intrusive thought that he chooses to turn into an outside thought that proves to her that karma does not give shit about her feelings.
Un. Beliveable. She's dead again, pretty sure.
Any other time, any other place, this is a normal Tuesday. Right now, with her face already in pins and needles with the fluster she feels, all the rollercoaster of emotions they decided to ride, this only makes her skin reach the limit of how red it can go. The pillow is thrown at him with no care, her eyes squinting immediately in her indignation.)
What exactly in the last months, including the last hour, tells you that us is a good idea?
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You're the one who said fucking was less intimate.
[He sticks the pillow between his back and the chair and leans against it. Now you don't have a pillow to hide your blushing into, Sophie. So nyeh.]
By your logic it'd be an improvement on this dumpster fire.
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Hope he enjoys a pink-colored Sophie, contrasting with the ocean blueness of her glaring eyes.
Don't bring logic into her brain.)
Logic aside from the very reasonable statement due to the fact you're literally hearing my every unfiltered thought and so am I for you, we already argue like a bitter divorced couple who can't decide on the terms and we've never even had a thing. If that weren't the case, sure, whatever, but it is, so nope.
no subject
[There's a difference. He's assuming she knows that, based on the way they got into this topic. And the latter? Out of the question. They can't communicate for shit even when literally crawling in each other's heads, and that's even if he had any interest in a sequel to The Phoebe Debacle. The former? Well, it's never really appealed to Quentin before but... hm. Whatever. He holds his hands up in surrender.]
Look, I'm not arguing. Like I said, us? Dumpster fire. No matter how you slice it. No reason to think there'd be any exceptions.
[... That said, her face is still very, very pink. And he kinda wants to know if it can get pinker. You know. For science. Or something. He looks up, watching her intently, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.]
... Or, you know. You're just scared you'd like it.
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Phoebe... Well. He said it himself. The funniest part of all this to her is that she truly prefers Quentin like this, over Krakoa. She actually had honest-to-God fun with him on that dance floor, their date-not-date, and at that arcade. The thing is that reaching that is pure hell, like she has to go through a nation-wide landmine of eggshells. Okay, fine, she does that to him too, she GUESSES. This is why they suck. God, they suck so much.
At least he sees it too. Dumpster fire and all that.
Thing is, Quentin, she is very well aware that she would probably enjoy it. She has heard more than he would want to know that she has. Her face has already reached the limit on how red it can go, and it is slowly creeping towards it again because... This is idiotic.
It's stupid. It's a very nice break from how much she wants to ghost, but listen.
It's dumb.
She hates she's considering it. Maybe fucking gives them something else to focus rather than whatever the FUCK they are.)
I'm not scared of shit, thank you very much. If anything, I'm concerned it's gonna make you even more insufferable after.
(Defense mechanism, blablablabla.)
If. If we do this. I'm not saying we are. I'm saying if. That's all it is, and we agree it can't make this shit worse.
no subject
Oh.
Well.
Okay, sure. Why not. He can roll with that, considering he's discovered this new interesting thing where he can make her squirm in a decidedly un-Cuckoo-like way, and that's very fun. Sure, he'll have to grapple with the Phoebe in the room at some point considering the whole clone, "they have the same face/body" thing, but that's a problem for later. For now he just focuses on how this is the first goddamn time any of this has felt like it's not being dragged down with too many years of stupid baggage. He lets the smirk pull at the side of his mouth more and leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his face.]
Well, I will absolutely be more insufferable. Buuut it kinda seems like you might be into that, otherwise you would've shoved me out of your head a while ago. As for "this shit," [he does the air quotes, because of course he does] it's already a disaster of Biblical proportions, so how much worse could it get?
[Okay, that's a bad question. Experience has shown that with Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, there is always further down to go. He gives her a quick look like "yeah, I know" and rolls his eyes.]
Look. You like attention, right? I like showing off. We're both telepaths. Surely not even we can fuck that combo up. If we do this, we go with that. It's just, you know. For fun. That's all.
no subject
Although, probably, it's going to be halfway pending towards the latter. She knows them.)
Oh, shut up, I'm not into it. I'm taking a well-deserved break.
(Ugh. She hates it when Quentin Quire is right. They have been trying, and peace lasts at most 48 hours, but at the comment, she gets ready to tell him 'tremendously', before he confirms he knows it.
She has doubts that they can't screw this up. She's pretty sure they can. But, alas. At least this mistake, they're both on board with. That's a fucking first.)
Fine. You know what, fine. Let's do it.
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The weirdest thing is that it's not bad weird, honestly. This is... so entirely different than the start of any other relationship he's ever had—he highly, highly doubts this is how he and Phoebe got together—and this isn't even a relationship. Well. Technically speaking it is. By definition. But it's not a relationship relationship. That's the point. It's different and weird and somehow that feels... good. He's negotiating the terms and conditions of fucking Sophie Cuckoo, and somehow his head feels clearer than it did when she asked him to dance. Or go to the arcade. Or when he made her some goddamn eggs.
Huh.]
Great. Also you are so into it. Just sayin'.
[Cool. Good talk.]
Soooo, time? Place? What're we thinking? Logistics-wise.
no subject
She's realizing that, too, and her eyes roll almost too dramatically.)
2 minutes, your room?
no subject
[Alright, not his best work in the reference humor department, but whatever. They can't all be winners, and as previously mentioned, this is a very surreal kind of day. He's allowed to have a couple of one-liners that aren't bangers. Whatever.]
Don't keep me waiting.
[Quentin gives her a little salute and vanishes. He'll just be in his room, sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard and wearing his PJs.]
no subject
(With rolling eyes, she clicks her tongue at the joke, although it lacks a characteristic bite from her, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Once he's gone from her brain, so is she — physical body only, and she sighs in a bit of relief because holy shit, what is her life lately. With the free flow cut, she has a moment to recenter, check herself in the mirror, and well. She's not going to change, looking cute and feeling cute makes her so incredibly happy, so the white lacy extra loungewear she is already wearing seems more than fine.
She's not late, probably perfectly in time once she opens his door, not bothering to knock because it's not like he doesn't know she's coming over... And God, it's pink, it's extra, it's so extra that it pulls a laugh out of her as she makes her way to sit on the bed next to him, eyes busy looking around at the explosion of pink.)
Not exactly, but also exactly what I was expecting out of your room, how do you sleep here?
(So much stimuli, but look, she came, her shoulder gently bumping on his, playful.)
Hey.
no subject
[Quentin gives her an appreciative once-over when she enters and again when she sits next to him since, you know, different angle. He promised her attention, and that's what she's going to get.]
I'm used to a few billion minds in my head. This is basically my "sad millennial beige."
[He looks around the room, opening his mind up to her so she can feel that the loud and bright and the extra does in fact calm him. It's like white noise, a constant cacophony that evens out to a pleasant hum.
Quentin also notably doesn't bump his shoulder back into hers, and that's because of the next topic. Might as well get it out of the way early. He leans his head back against the headboard and looks at the ceiling for a moment, then rolls his neck to the side to meet her eyes.]
Right, yeah, probably goes without saying, but I'm not doing shit that reminds me of Phoebe. I assume you don't have a problem with that.
no subject
She was a bit distracted, admittedly, listening to hum in his mind like a quiet background noise until he starts talking again. Dark blue irises move to meet his, eyebrows raised for a second because...
Doy.)
None from me, I don't want to remind you or me of Phoebe, so I'm more than fine leaving that far, far from us.
(Mad, remember?)
no subject
[And that's all he's saying on it. All that needs to be said. This is supposed to be fun, and Phoebe-related anything? Not fun.
Ugh. Okay, moving on. Quentin gives her a sly look and rolls his head to face forward again, putting his hands behind his neck.]
Then you should kiss me.
[Apparently not being reminded of Phoebe means him being bossy and unbearably smug. This should be a surprise to absolutely nobody who knows either of them.]
nsfw from here on out
(Oh, she hates the smug, she hates it so much, even if he did say he was gonna get insufferable. It was a given, and yet, it pulls such an eyeroll from her because hello, you have Sophie Cuckoo nearly naked on your bed, and you're putting her to do work, Quentin???
Absurd. The first thing she does is reestablish the connection, although much less on the thoughts, and much more on the sensory aspect of the exchange. For a tiny moment, she just looks at him, trying to figure out whether this is actually... Okay, but the conclusion she finds is that she doesn't actually care. She wants this, go figure, who gets it, not her. Long fingers remove his glasses, and in full knowledge that he's probably going to drive her crazy by the end of the day, her lips press against his.)
rip
Quentin is a talented telepath, and the first thing he does with that talent is set up a psychic "looping hallway camera" trick, not hiding the locations of their psi-signatures, but disguising their activities. Much less noticeable to other psychics around, particularly a certain two who could take notes. Cough.
The second thing is after he moves his hands from behind his head to either side of her face, reaching into her mind to pluck at a few particularly delightful synapses.]
/Are you calling yourself impossible? Because if so I agree./
[Get it? Because she said he was "fucking impossible"???? Do you get the joke???????]
how is this her life
Her hand moves to his shoulder, a bit of support for her as she is busy kissing him, nails digging in a little with a soft sigh once he starts moving stuff around in her brain... And, shit, she shouldn't have given him any power, because her face burns again, and she cuts the kiss for a second because it brings out a laugh from her, her nose crinkling.
Fuck, fine, she likes it. There, happy, Quentin?)
/Excuse me, pot, kettle./
(No bite, though. Not today, not right now. Instead, her arms wrap around his neck as she leans in again, pulling him close as she too starts doing her routine pathway check for whatever he might enjoy most.
As one does.)
it's what she deserves
To her comment, though, Quentin just drops a nugget of information directly into her brain. A dictionary definition, in fact.
double entendre [ noun ]
ˈdüb-ᵊl-äⁿ-ˈtäⁿz; ˈdə-bəl-än-ˈtän-drəz
linguistics : a word or expression capable of two interpretations with one usually risqué
He hopes Sophie enjoys that. Which, of course, she will, and not just because he's still poking around in her head. She leans closer, and he shifts his hands to her waist, and hey, why not amp up those nerve endings a bit just for funsies.
When she starts checking for what he likes, though, he resists, not a full block but enough to be noticeable.]
/I show off, you get attention, remember? Tell me what you want. Bonus points for flattery, obviously./
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