(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./
(She's trying so hard not to smile, fighting it and failing, which he can probably feel against his lips, because you know? This is actually fun, but he hasn't earned the not-bitch Sophie she gets just yet, hence why she's still trying her best to not let him see it.
Failing, mostly, but by God, she is giving 100% effort. One thing he will realize is that she likes having her waist held, the weight on the curve of it is pleasing like a slot that finds connection, and of course, with how they're linked, he's going to feel it too.
The push is noted, she'll back off, although... Yeah, he's not incorrect, but that doesn't mean she's not going to care about him, too. Come on.)
[She's trying not to smile, which of course means Quentin is even more intent on getting her to. That's what he does: push people's buttons, with telepathy but often without, say all the right things to elicit emotions they don't want to show, and apply pressure until they crack. He's done it for years, though admittedly the vast majority of that time has been making people mad. And he tries not to do that so much anymore. But this? This is a worthy application of that particular skillset. Sophie doesn't stand a goddamn chance.
It's definitely convenient that she likes having her waist held, because that means he can keep his hands there in perpetuity, enjoying the way his hands feel on her skin from both sides of the psychic connection. That's the tricky thing about hooking up with someone who has a body identical to one you're very, very familiar with. Hard not to rely on experience. But that's why he's not doing this the way he normally would. Or the way he would with... She Who Must Not Be Named.]
/Hmm, yeah, but it's more fun for me if you say it./
(Thankfully, he'll realize soon enough that Sophie and She Who Must Not Be Named are very different when it comes to these things. She likes being held, grabbed, a bit worshipped, because, well, she's spoiled, and she doesn't care about control a third as much. Emotionally, different story; she can build walls that can touch the moon, but that's not what they're aiming for here, anyway.
With the hand that was set on his shoulder, her nails roaming down his chest ever so gently as she dims the rest of his sensory capacities temporarily aside from the coldness of her nails, so that it stands out more. It stops at his waistband, curling around his shirt before she rolls her eyes, still playful.)
/Quentin. Just pin me down and fuck the mean girl out of me. Now, exactly how you're gonna do that, that's on you to figure out./
[Oh? He can't say he was entirely expecting that response.
Well... Fine. Fine. Quentin Quire doesn't back down from a challenge. Not now, not ever. And it's well past time they amp this up a little bit.
But accepting a challenge doesn't necessarily mean taking the obvious route. And he's always been a contrarian at heart. He does, however, shudder and gasp as her hand move down to his waistband, and he pulls away briefly to catch his breath.]
Yeah, sorry, not specific enough.
[He nudges her into sitting in his lap for ease of kissing and also for the sake of specifically not giving her what she asked. But at least he can use the hands on her waist to lazily grind against her, so you know. There's that.]
/Like I said, it's more fun for me if you say it. You could at least show me. You know, like this./
[He reaches into her mind, searching for any ideas or fantasies that she associates with that particular request, picks one at random, and for two full seconds, he makes her feel it. And with the connection between them, he feels it too and groans louder into her mouth. That's good shit, right there. Top notch fantasies, Sophie.]
(He's not actively trying to make her smile at this time, which is why she stops opposing it for now, allows him to feel the curve of a grin against his lips, because if there is one thing Quentin is, that's evidently consistent, even here. She knew what she was getting into, didn't she? Finally, the push and pull they keep engaging in does something for her. Apparently, she likes the bickering here, too, because who has ever had the nerve?
No way she doesn't feel the shudder herself, a little smirk of satisfaction on her lips once he distances.)
It deliberately wasn't.
(But she'll be a sport, climb onto his lap as she was nudged, hands on his shoulders for support and... Well, perhaps he doesn't even need to look into her brain much further, because the hands on her waist having her grind activate several small fireworks in her neural pathways.
And because that's where her brain is, that's what he will get. The lust she feels with having her waist grabbed, her ass squeezed, body pulled and held, kisses peppered on her chest, desire so hard to manage that it overrides good reason.
God, she fucking loves telepathy, the groan he gives synched with her dulcet moan as every hair on her body stand with the goosebumps that it brings.)
/Well, you asked./
(Not illusioning perse, she's still very much here, but she's sending him sensory bits of how good she finds to have hands gripping on her hips, bringing her closer with each thrust, the way her lungs beg for some air and she doesn't even care with free-flowing pleasure, heightened and undiluted.)
[This isn't precisely how Quentin planned for this to go, what little plan he had. He wanted to sit back, use his mind to make her squirm and moan and—preferably—scream as long as he could before they were both couldn't think of anything else but how their bodies would feel moving against each other. Turns out that just took a lot less time than he originally considered. He doesn't know what that says about them, and for the aforementioned reason he is not remotely in a headspace to bother with pondering it. Nope, his brain has other priorities right now, like pumping his body full of feel-good hormones that make him need her like oxygen.
His hips buck roughly up when the imaginary version of himself she's conjuring delivers a particularly nice thrust, and the only thing between them and that reality is some stupid fabric. The hands on her waist slide downward inside the waistband of her lingerie shorts and over her ass in a facsimile of her fantasy, and it would be so, so easy to just tear off their clothes and do exactly what she wants. He did ask her to tell him. Well, demand, more like. Sophie seems to like it when he demands.
It would be so easy, and he knows it would be so damn good, but it also just doesn't... feel right. He pulls away from her mouth again to talk out loud, voice shaky and out of breath but firm. Confident. Or at least as confident as he's gonna get.]
Clothes off. Lie down. [Quentin hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.] On your stomach.
[He's going off script here, as well as kind of throwing away all his insistence that she tell him what she wants. Oh well. He's doing what he wants, and somehow he doesn't think Sophie is going to have too many complaints.]
Huge reason why she's here. They are both aware of the catastrophic risks of it all going to shit, but considering it was shit already, is there any place to go if not up? Whatever it is, she likes it. No bullshit, and in a really weird way, it's finally something new, or progressing to be. It won't solve all overnight, because nothing would, but it's a start. If anything, it's better than everything they've attempted, because she actually isn't preparing for a war, puffing her chest, pulling away, or feeling any of the nasty emotions that tend to bubble to the surface whenever they interact.
Not what's happening now, she actually is enjoying being here with him. Right now, her mind cannot convey a single negative thing to say about it, busy with how his lips feel against hers, with the feeling of tightness in her stomach as she gets worked up, and how she can't help the moan that leaves her when he thrusts against her, creating friction.
It's interesting, isn't it? Didn't he just ask her? Well. Fine. She has no complaints about it either.)
Deal. Don't pull my hair, other than that, I'm game.
(Her hands are gonna busy themselves with removing his shirt, a smile as she presses her lips to his neck.)
[Quentin definitely meant for her to take off her clothes, so he kinda... freezes for a split second when her hands go to remove his shirt. Which is stupid. Like she wouldn't know he's skinny until his shirt came off? She has eyes, Quire. Get out of your head about it, idiot.
He shakes it off and—only somewhat awkwardly—helps her get his shirt off, making a pleased humming noise when she kisses his neck. In fact, he's feeling needy bold enough to tilt his head to the side as an invitation. Encouragement. Sometimes self-care is letting a hot blonde do salacious things with her mouth. Treat yoself.]
No hair pulling, got it. I can work with that.
[Since Sophie apparently has the shirt stuff covered (he just decided right now), he starts making a half-assed attempt to shimmy her pajama bottoms down. Half-assed only because he's chosen to do it while heavily distracted and with only one hand, since he's sliding the other down the front of her shorts to give her more of the friction that made her moan. It was a good noise, and he'd like another, please and thank you.]
(The thing is, Sophie genuinely prefers him as he is. There's nothing more, or even less that she could want than what she has, what he is, or what even she is. Strangely enough, she's perfectly comfortable, even if she's not going to look into the feeling that currently sits at the furthest back of her mind, hopefully it stays there lest he makes her laugh again.
She's not going to address it, it can go in the long pile of shit they're making the wise, or horrible decision to not look at. Instead, she can focus on how those annoying pieces of fabric are finally leaving, hands searching for warmth on his waist as her lips quirk a little, a LITTLE against bare skin. It was a nice noise, after all. Hope he's at least shielding for sound, actually, now that she thinks about it.
She has to move, unfortunately, lift her hips so he can actually pull her shorts down, although there is not a moment to mourn the fact she's no longer in a grinding position when he distracts her. Thing he'll notice pretty soon, she's very sensitive, and the sound that escapes her is both sweet and breathy too damn close to his ear, the pleasure looped right back at him.
She's going to have to change positions, she can't hold onto him for support when she's not sitting down, be delightfully distracted, and work on his pants when she's literally on the way, so she just lets him know with a feeling before she slides off back to his side. Her shirt's off, thrown God knows where, and her hand sits on top of length to stroke over fabric.)
[Quentin pouts a bit at Sophie leaving his lap, particularly since it means he can't keep touching her, but hey, that's what telepathy is for. He knows exactly what made her make that noise in his ear, and he starts by feeding that into her brain, and when he senses her pleasure build, he adds in the feeling of fingers slipping inside her, rubbing her, and moving in all the ways her mind tells him are the right ones. The feedback loop of lighting up her nerve endings, receiving pleasure through the connection of their minds, and subsequently adding to it just makes her actual real hand touching him through his pants feel like being struck by a lightning bolt, and he jerks his hips into her touch with a loud groan.]
Fuck. Okay, okay, no more pants, I got the message. Gimme a sec.
[He hastily shuffles out of his pajama pants and boxers—which are, of course, black with pink omega symbols—and tosses them who-the-fuck-cares-where. Quentin reclines next to her, leaning on one arm while he uses his other hand to hold the back of her neck and pull her into a demanding kiss.]
/And yes, noise shielding is on./
[He pulls away, breathing hard but smirking at her. Honestly? He just wants to say this aloud. For reasons.]
(She fucking loves telepathy. How do flatscans do it? How do any non-telepaths do it, sounds bland, dull, like a wonderfully plated dish with no seasoning or flavor. Surely it comes with downsides, like listening to something you don't wanna hear, or letting a particularly unpleasant thought escape, but listen. Occupational hazard. The occupation is just fine.
Thing is, she isn't kissing him at the moment, or holding anything when he starts the mindfuckery all over again, so she has nothing but the sheets to curl her hand around to recenter herself as her breath becomes harder to manage with her little sounds of pleasure in between, her toes curling as she finds a little revenge on amplyifing when it comes back to him. Two can play this game, in case he forgot, but the hit she receives from it along with hardness bucking against her hand reminds her that, well, no. The moan she leaves is synched to his, because of course it is, and her eyes roll once he speaks again.)
Talking to me or to yourself?
(She's going to take the opportunity to get those pesky shorts off of her, too, but.
Sir, why do you have fucking Omega boxers. Trust, anyone who gets to see it is very aware, Kid Omega. Remember when she thought that at least he was consistent? Too consistent. Skill issue on her part if she was expecting a black or pink one, but God. Mood unaffected, mood unaffected, especially now that they're kissing again and there's skin to skin, no layers to separate them, warmth and her hand is free to properly roam without boundaries, so she teases it on his hip, nails ever so gently moving across his side before he breaks the kiss to speak.)
Guess we'll see. I'm not loud, so you gotta work for it.
[Sophie, it's called brand recognition. It's very important!]
Psh, I make you scream at me all the time. It's not that hard.
[Completely nonsensical and totally obnoxious false equivalency? Check. Sorry, Sophie, you let Quentin have too much power by laughing at this shit.
His eyes flick toward her hand moving up his side, not because it doesn't feel good—it feels incredible and makes him shiver—but because it's too... almost familiar. He's very distinctly not thinking the P-word, but the name and memories attached to her are floating at the edges of his mind, threatening to encroach where they're not welcome. Ugh. No.
Focus. There's a reason he chose the position he did for the "main event".]
Ready whenever you are.
[Of course, it'd probably be a lot easier for her to cooperate if he didn't start up again with his mental hand between her legs, wouldn't it? If he wasn't purposefully and doggedly working her up more and more. Oh, and in case she has any ideas about turning it back on him? He's shielding himself juuuust enough to not feel as overwhelmed as he's trying to make her. Good luck trying to strong-arm an omega who's trying to turn your brain to mush, Sophie. What an asshole.]
(Fuck, no!!! The laugh that leaves her is frustratingly honest, soulful, and she has to conceal it in the crook of his neck, her hand doing a weak punch to his chest because fuck you, Quire, stop humanizing her. She's got at least some reputation she wants to uphold, and you're ruining it.)
Not even in the same vicinity of concept!
(Well, she feels the resistance, how could she not? Her hand pulls back almost immediately. She knows she can't blame him for it — for all their differences, they're still remarkably alike, not to mention identical appearance-wise. She's gotta block him for a second there for the world's biggest mental sigh. She's not... Phoebe, for fuck's sake, and thank her stupid clone anatomy for nanotech bullshit that allows her to think through this fast enough not to make a dent on anything. They're still going to take a bit to completely leave this out the door, aren't they? That's why they're doing this, after all. Neither are going to be okay... Just like that, right? She isn't. She can't blame him if he isn't, either.
A nanosecond later, and the thought is far from her mind, reopened now that she regrounded, guess what, seems like being (or attempting to be) a better person means she thinks twice before pointing fingers that she can point at herself, too.
She was about to reply and say something, however the thought completely ran out of her mind before she even formed it with the overstimulation he's bringing her, which only brings her closer to him to the point they glue as she tries to focus.
... This motherfucker, she senses the block right as she was redirecting it. She's going to strong-arm him, knowing fully she will lose, but she will go down swinging. If he's going to fuck with her sense of touch and block her from fucking with his, then she just has to get creative and find a whole other sense to play with. Lights out — a temporary block of his vision, and an increase to all the other senses he didn't block. Her heartbeat, quick and impatient banging in her chest, her breath that comes with the sweetest gasps from the stimulation, the perfume she found in Etraya that smells of daisies, the softness of the sheets, the hormones in his veins...
She knows he won't let it slide, but alas. At least, she's going swinging.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
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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Failing, mostly, but by God, she is giving 100% effort. One thing he will realize is that she likes having her waist held, the weight on the curve of it is pleasing like a slot that finds connection, and of course, with how they're linked, he's going to feel it too.
The push is noted, she'll back off, although... Yeah, he's not incorrect, but that doesn't mean she's not going to care about him, too. Come on.)
/You're a telepath, you figure it out./
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It's definitely convenient that she likes having her waist held, because that means he can keep his hands there in perpetuity, enjoying the way his hands feel on her skin from both sides of the psychic connection. That's the tricky thing about hooking up with someone who has a body identical to one you're very, very familiar with. Hard not to rely on experience. But that's why he's not doing this the way he normally would. Or the way he would with... She Who Must Not Be Named.]
/Hmm, yeah, but it's more fun for me if you say it./
[She did want to know what he enjoys, right?]
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With the hand that was set on his shoulder, her nails roaming down his chest ever so gently as she dims the rest of his sensory capacities temporarily aside from the coldness of her nails, so that it stands out more. It stops at his waistband, curling around his shirt before she rolls her eyes, still playful.)
/Quentin. Just pin me down and fuck the mean girl out of me. Now, exactly how you're gonna do that, that's on you to figure out./
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Well... Fine. Fine. Quentin Quire doesn't back down from a challenge. Not now, not ever. And it's well past time they amp this up a little bit.
But accepting a challenge doesn't necessarily mean taking the obvious route. And he's always been a contrarian at heart. He does, however, shudder and gasp as her hand move down to his waistband, and he pulls away briefly to catch his breath.]
Yeah, sorry, not specific enough.
[He nudges her into sitting in his lap for ease of kissing and also for the sake of specifically not giving her what she asked. But at least he can use the hands on her waist to lazily grind against her, so you know. There's that.]
/Like I said, it's more fun for me if you say it. You could at least show me. You know, like this./
[He reaches into her mind, searching for any ideas or fantasies that she associates with that particular request, picks one at random, and for two full seconds, he makes her feel it. And with the connection between them, he feels it too and groans louder into her mouth. That's good shit, right there. Top notch fantasies, Sophie.]
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No way she doesn't feel the shudder herself, a little smirk of satisfaction on her lips once he distances.)
It deliberately wasn't.
(But she'll be a sport, climb onto his lap as she was nudged, hands on his shoulders for support and... Well, perhaps he doesn't even need to look into her brain much further, because the hands on her waist having her grind activate several small fireworks in her neural pathways.
And because that's where her brain is, that's what he will get. The lust she feels with having her waist grabbed, her ass squeezed, body pulled and held, kisses peppered on her chest, desire so hard to manage that it overrides good reason.
God, she fucking loves telepathy, the groan he gives synched with her dulcet moan as every hair on her body stand with the goosebumps that it brings.)
/Well, you asked./
(Not illusioning perse, she's still very much here, but she's sending him sensory bits of how good she finds to have hands gripping on her hips, bringing her closer with each thrust, the way her lungs beg for some air and she doesn't even care with free-flowing pleasure, heightened and undiluted.)
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His hips buck roughly up when the imaginary version of himself she's conjuring delivers a particularly nice thrust, and the only thing between them and that reality is some stupid fabric. The hands on her waist slide downward inside the waistband of her lingerie shorts and over her ass in a facsimile of her fantasy, and it would be so, so easy to just tear off their clothes and do exactly what she wants. He did ask her to tell him. Well, demand, more like. Sophie seems to like it when he demands.
It would be so easy, and he knows it would be so damn good, but it also just doesn't... feel right. He pulls away from her mouth again to talk out loud, voice shaky and out of breath but firm. Confident. Or at least as confident as he's gonna get.]
Clothes off. Lie down. [Quentin hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.] On your stomach.
[He's going off script here, as well as kind of throwing away all his insistence that she tell him what she wants. Oh well. He's doing what he wants, and somehow he doesn't think Sophie is going to have too many complaints.]
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Huge reason why she's here. They are both aware of the catastrophic risks of it all going to shit, but considering it was shit already, is there any place to go if not up? Whatever it is, she likes it. No bullshit, and in a really weird way, it's finally something new, or progressing to be. It won't solve all overnight, because nothing would, but it's a start. If anything, it's better than everything they've attempted, because she actually isn't preparing for a war, puffing her chest, pulling away, or feeling any of the nasty emotions that tend to bubble to the surface whenever they interact.
Not what's happening now, she actually is enjoying being here with him. Right now, her mind cannot convey a single negative thing to say about it, busy with how his lips feel against hers, with the feeling of tightness in her stomach as she gets worked up, and how she can't help the moan that leaves her when he thrusts against her, creating friction.
It's interesting, isn't it? Didn't he just ask her? Well. Fine. She has no complaints about it either.)
Deal. Don't pull my hair, other than that, I'm game.
(Her hands are gonna busy themselves with removing his shirt, a smile as she presses her lips to his neck.)
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He shakes it off and—only somewhat awkwardly—helps her get his shirt off, making a pleased humming noise when she kisses his neck. In fact, he's feeling
needybold enough to tilt his head to the side as an invitation. Encouragement. Sometimes self-care is letting a hot blonde do salacious things with her mouth. Treat yoself.]No hair pulling, got it. I can work with that.
[Since Sophie apparently has the shirt stuff covered (he just decided right now), he starts making a half-assed attempt to shimmy her pajama bottoms down. Half-assed only because he's chosen to do it while heavily distracted and with only one hand, since he's sliding the other down the front of her shorts to give her more of the friction that made her moan. It was a good noise, and he'd like another, please and thank you.]
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She's not going to address it, it can go in the long pile of shit they're making the wise, or horrible decision to not look at. Instead, she can focus on how those annoying pieces of fabric are finally leaving, hands searching for warmth on his waist as her lips quirk a little, a LITTLE against bare skin. It was a nice noise, after all. Hope he's at least shielding for sound, actually, now that she thinks about it.
She has to move, unfortunately, lift her hips so he can actually pull her shorts down, although there is not a moment to mourn the fact she's no longer in a grinding position when he distracts her. Thing he'll notice pretty soon, she's very sensitive, and the sound that escapes her is both sweet and breathy too damn close to his ear, the pleasure looped right back at him.
She's going to have to change positions, she can't hold onto him for support when she's not sitting down, be delightfully distracted, and work on his pants when she's literally on the way, so she just lets him know with a feeling before she slides off back to his side. Her shirt's off, thrown God knows where, and her hand sits on top of length to stroke over fabric.)
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Fuck. Okay, okay, no more pants, I got the message. Gimme a sec.
[He hastily shuffles out of his pajama pants and boxers—which are, of course, black with pink omega symbols—and tosses them who-the-fuck-cares-where. Quentin reclines next to her, leaning on one arm while he uses his other hand to hold the back of her neck and pull her into a demanding kiss.]
/And yes, noise shielding is on./
[He pulls away, breathing hard but smirking at her. Honestly? He just wants to say this aloud. For reasons.]
Kinda was planning on you needing it.
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Thing is, she isn't kissing him at the moment, or holding anything when he starts the mindfuckery all over again, so she has nothing but the sheets to curl her hand around to recenter herself as her breath becomes harder to manage with her little sounds of pleasure in between, her toes curling as she finds a little revenge on amplyifing when it comes back to him. Two can play this game, in case he forgot, but the hit she receives from it along with hardness bucking against her hand reminds her that, well, no. The moan she leaves is synched to his, because of course it is, and her eyes roll once he speaks again.)
Talking to me or to yourself?
(She's going to take the opportunity to get those pesky shorts off of her, too, but.
Sir, why do you have fucking Omega boxers. Trust, anyone who gets to see it is very aware, Kid Omega. Remember when she thought that at least he was consistent? Too consistent. Skill issue on her part if she was expecting a black or pink one, but God. Mood unaffected, mood unaffected, especially now that they're kissing again and there's skin to skin, no layers to separate them, warmth and her hand is free to properly roam without boundaries, so she teases it on his hip, nails ever so gently moving across his side before he breaks the kiss to speak.)
Guess we'll see. I'm not loud, so you gotta work for it.
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Psh, I make you scream at me all the time. It's not that hard.
[Completely nonsensical and totally obnoxious false equivalency? Check. Sorry, Sophie, you let Quentin have too much power by laughing at this shit.
His eyes flick toward her hand moving up his side, not because it doesn't feel good—it feels incredible and makes him shiver—but because it's too... almost familiar. He's very distinctly not thinking the P-word, but the name and memories attached to her are floating at the edges of his mind, threatening to encroach where they're not welcome. Ugh. No.
Focus. There's a reason he chose the position he did for the "main event".]
Ready whenever you are.
[Of course, it'd probably be a lot easier for her to cooperate if he didn't start up again with his mental hand between her legs, wouldn't it? If he wasn't purposefully and doggedly working her up more and more. Oh, and in case she has any ideas about turning it back on him? He's shielding himself juuuust enough to not feel as overwhelmed as he's trying to make her. Good luck trying to strong-arm an omega who's trying to turn your brain to mush, Sophie. What an asshole.]
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Not even in the same vicinity of concept!
(Well, she feels the resistance, how could she not? Her hand pulls back almost immediately. She knows she can't blame him for it — for all their differences, they're still remarkably alike, not to mention identical appearance-wise. She's gotta block him for a second there for the world's biggest mental sigh. She's not... Phoebe, for fuck's sake, and thank her stupid clone anatomy for nanotech bullshit that allows her to think through this fast enough not to make a dent on anything. They're still going to take a bit to completely leave this out the door, aren't they? That's why they're doing this, after all. Neither are going to be okay... Just like that, right? She isn't. She can't blame him if he isn't, either.
A nanosecond later, and the thought is far from her mind, reopened now that she regrounded, guess what, seems like being (or attempting to be) a better person means she thinks twice before pointing fingers that she can point at herself, too.
She was about to reply and say something, however the thought completely ran out of her mind before she even formed it with the overstimulation he's bringing her, which only brings her closer to him to the point they glue as she tries to focus.
... This motherfucker, she senses the block right as she was redirecting it. She's going to strong-arm him, knowing fully she will lose, but she will go down swinging. If he's going to fuck with her sense of touch and block her from fucking with his, then she just has to get creative and find a whole other sense to play with. Lights out — a temporary block of his vision, and an increase to all the other senses he didn't block. Her heartbeat, quick and impatient banging in her chest, her breath that comes with the sweetest gasps from the stimulation, the perfume she found in Etraya that smells of daisies, the softness of the sheets, the hormones in his veins...
She knows he won't let it slide, but alas. At least, she's going swinging.)
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